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commander-diomika · 3 years

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Fear and Faith

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT MY FIRST FIC IN FIVE (???) YEARS! Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~6000 Additional Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trans Male Character, Trans Crowley, Spanking, Restraints, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley, Established Relationship, Pining .

(YES it’s true, they’re established, yes they’re banging, but also somehow still pining at the same time! Read on to find out how I managed that mess.) Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley a little payback for his outburst at the convent. This is a “deleted scene” fic where we pretend that Aziraphale doesn’t spot the book in the backseat, and instead they flow nicely from business to pleasure that evening. "Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another.

They played a different game in private. Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do." Read on Ao3

“Not one single person would say bebop.” Crowley draped himself over the Bentley in what he thought of as an enticing manner. He dangled the topic change like bait.

Aziraphale took it, though in an unexpected direction. “I don’t think that’s really what we ought to be discussing, you know.” Crowley’s eyebrows arched up over the frames of his glasses as Aziraphale came round the car, heading for the door to the bookshop and opening it. With a tiny motion of his head he indicated after you. “Do come in.” There was flat fall at the end of the cadence, almost like an order.

“What ought we be discussing then?” Crowley asked, heading inside, hearing the order and unable to resist biting back. “We can’t contact anyone til the morning, angel, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do about it tonight.”

“No, I completely agree on that front.” They both automatically headed to the back room, treading a well-worn path with both their feet and their words. Crowley took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, before finding a perch on the edge of the couch. There was something expectant in his posture, as though he wasn’t planning on getting comfortable there.

“I think what we ought to be discussing,” Aziraphale said as he hung up his jacket, smoothing creases out of it, “is your little… outburst at the convent today.” He turned and fixed Crowley with a pointed stare.

“Oh,” Crowley said, and despite his lanky frame, he suddenly looked a little smaller under the heat of Aziraphale’s stare. He was in trouble… which meant things were going exactly to plan. He felt a smug throb of self satisfaction.

It was not that angels and demons didn’t have genitalia, as such. It was more than, unless they were thinking of it, the bodies beneath the clothes simply didn’t exist. In the same way that their wings waited, just off this plane, so too did anything not immediately needed to give the appearance of a human. The clothes were the body, for Crowley, willed into existence so that other beings could perceive him.

So until a stimuli brought what was under the clothes into this reality, it usually didn’t exist.

Usually.

That day, Crowley had been painfully, achingly aware of the juncture between his thighs, and the way Aziraphale now looked at him with a dangerous, thrilling intent only intensified that feeling. Perhaps the looming end of the world was playing its part in the heat that Crowley felt dripping from his heart, to stomach, to crotch.

“You seemed so upset for me to have called you nice, my dear boy, and the way you behaved was simply atrocious.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, tilting his head back to reveal the line of his throat, almost daring his angel to go for it.

Aziraphale still hadn’t sat down, and he took a single step closer to the couch, chin drawn slightly down, gaze dark and indulging. He understood perfectly what Crowley was playing at.

“Stand up,” he said, breath popping slightly on the end of the word. This had not so much the air of a command as the earth, fire and water of one.

A taut moment passed, where Crowley deliberated. He could continue being generally insufferable, or he could lean into the energy building in the room, and obey the command given by his oldest friend.

Crowley decided he’d been bratty enough for one day. He swallowed. Unfolding a seemingly endless amount of leg from his perch on the couch, he stood.

“Forward a few steps, there’s a dear,” and Aziraphale’s voice never lost that buttery sweet quality, even though Crowley could hear the knife’s edge of desire underneath.

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, had brought his body, and the ability to feel sexual desire, fully into this reality centuries ago. It had happened in Rome, when he had sat across from Crowley and watched him eat oysters for the first time. Since then, he had inhabited his earthly body to the fullest, draping it with cloth the same way as humans did, hiding his sexuality as Adam and Eve had once learnt to do.

Crowley’s heeled boots gave a series of dull clicks on the wooden floor of the shop, and he stood for Aziraphale’s inspection. He had the air of a naughty schoolboy awaiting a telling off, one hand in a pocket, the other hanging loosely, weight on one foot and hip slightly popped. He licked his lips with a tongue that was looking slightly more split than usual.

Aziraphale took deliberate steps forward, and asking permission with his eyes, reached for Crowley’s glasses. He folded them with care and placed them aside. He might as well have stripped Crowley naked. Well, plenty of time for that later.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another. They played a different game in private.

Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do.

Aziraphale nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the shift in the air. He began a scrutinizing walk around Crowley, a mockery of the what the demon usually subjected him to in public

“Yes. Very… nice.” Now Aziraphale was the one dangling bait. Crowley made a noise like he’d be punched but didn’t move an inch.

“What, no protestations? No manhandling me against a wall in a most undignified fashion?” Aziraphale teased. Crowley shook his head. “It’s almost like you were trying to get a rise out of me in the convent today.” Aziraphale watched, delighted, fascinated, as Crowley ducked his head, mouth twitching one way and then the other, as though the sly smile was trying to fight its way to the surface.

“You truly are an awful man, aren’t you, accosting me in public when you know I’m far too nice to do anything in retribution.�� He wasn’t too nice by half, but he did have an image to upkeep.

Crowley glared down his nose at Aziraphale. “Pfft, don’t you try that with me, angel.” Aziraphale simply stared back with mild reproach, then continued to pace around him slowly.

“What have we here?” Aziraphale said, as he reached the empty space behind Crowley. Though he had his back to him, Crowley could still see Aziraphale, every atom of the angel clear and singing in Crowley’s perception of the world, as it always was.

Aziraphale pressed in, front suddenly flush to Crowley’s back, threading his arms around Crowley’s waist in a possessive gesture. The sudden physical contact was agonisingly intimate. Outside of moments like this, they rarely touched. Crowley’s little stunt at the convent had flouted an unspoken part of the Agreement.

They lived with the fear of being watched from all sides. But the shop was specially warded against such prying eyes. Customers and angels alike could enter the open shop, but once that sign flicked to “Closed”, they were safe. Safe to close that gap, for Aziraphale to hug Crowley to his chest, to turn his cheek and press his face into one lean shoulder.

One hand slid up to curl into the satin of Crowley’s shirt over where his human heart sat, brought into this reality by his aching need to feel the pulse of his own blood.

Aziraphale’s blunt nails scraped Crowley’s chest through the deliciously thin black satin shirt. The other hand moved in a firm slide from Crowley’s navel and down, stuttering slightly over the belt buckle on the too-tight jeans and stopping over Crowley’s fly. Where one might expect to find a bulge.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s single syllable was all feigned surprise and dark delight. “My dear boy,” he began, emphasizing by sliding the hand a little lower, to dip into the vee of Crowley’s thighs. “Does this mean you’re in the mood to be had?”

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gulp and grunt, that if it had to be given form sounded like “Urnghk.” To Aziraphale’s ears, well-practised in translating such noises, it sounded like a cavalcade of words, like yes and please and fuck me, Angel.

“Take off your boots, please.” Aziraphale said as he let go.

Crowley obeyed. This was part of it, the orders, the undressing, the vulnerability of standing in front of his angel, eyes bare and feet resting on the warm wooden floor. “And your shirt and trousers, too.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden at this request, but his gaze remained steady.

Crowley raised one hand to click away the offending items of clothing, a hurried, twitchy energy burning off him, but before he could complete the action Aziraphale caught the hand, firmly.

“The old fashioned way, if you please.”

“Oh come on,” Later, Crowley would deny that this was, undeniably, whiny.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale was warming up to it now, something wicked in his eyes. “You know I like to watch this part.”

Crowley, denied instant gratification, undressed speedily, clothes flung in all directions.

Aziraphale folded his hands, perfectly composed as he watched Crowley’s little display, expression indulgent as a sock hit him square in the face. With a gesture from Aziraphale, all the scattered clothes, the black shirt, the inside-out jeans, socks and tie appeared draped over the back of the couch. Something in their folds seemed apologetic for the mess.

“So you’re allowed to do that and I’m not, is that it?” Crowley challenged, bold despite the fact he was wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. His belligerent tone was betrayed by his naked eyes. His longing was clear in the warm lighting of the bookshop.

Seemingly without taking a single step, suddenly Aziraphale was standing very close to Crowley, almost nose to nose. The small height difference between them was eaten up by the fact that the demon was barefoot, semi naked, and Aziraphale was still dressed, standing tall in his soft leather boots. “That, my dear, is exactly it.” They stared at each other, breath mingling for half a second.

Aziraphale took half a step back and his face softened, something so tender writ clear in the lines between his eyes. “Before we go any further, do you remember the safe word?” he asked.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it.” Crowley murmured. It had been almost five years. Crowley remembered every second of their last tryst, back when he was still fond of playing the role of Nanny Ashtoreth, even in her off hours. He had worn her, but she wasn’t a costume. The only thing Aziraphale had said on Crowley’s presentation was an uncharacteristic enjoyment of the easy access allowed by skirts with no panties.

Time had a way of slipping by when you were 6000 years old.

“Crowley.” There was a soft reprimand in the way he said it. A pleading, a need for them both to be safe

Crowley sighed, acquiescing. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than for Aziraphale to feel safe. “Eden.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, simply reaching out to run his hand gently through Crowley’s hair, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck. The skin there felt cool to touch, and unbearably soft. The provocative energy the demon had been radiating moments ago shifted to something slow and fervent. He blinked, eyes closed for a whole second as if rocked by the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Now, my dear, what is it that you want?”

The question was asked so that Aziraphale could be certain he did not misstep, but he already knew what Crowley wanted. He just liked to hear him say it.

“Want you topunifhshd.” Crowley trailed off to something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully.

“Want you to punish me.” Crowley’s eyes were anywhere but on the angel’s face.

“Why?” Aziraphale lifted a hand, and with a firmness belied by his soft fingers, caught Crowley’s chin. With gentle but inexorable pressure, he turned Crowley’s head until their eyes met.

“Because I’m bad,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Now… we both know that’s not true.” Aziraphale released his grip to slide his hands firmly down Crowley’s arms, and without thinking about it too much, took both of Crowley’s hands in his. “But I will give you want you want, because I am the giving sort.” And because I love you, he thought. It was yet unsaid between them. One didn’t simply go around saying these things to their hereditary enemy. Besides, Aziraphale thought, as he drew Crowley over to the leather ottoman at the foot of the couch… surely he already knew.

“Kneel, please.”

Crowley knelt, quiet and obedient for the moment. Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t last.

Aziraphale settled on the couch as Crowley draped himself over the lavish footstool, acquired sometime around 1855 for this exact purpose. A plush rug, previously elsewhere in the shop, had understood where it was needed without being asked and appeared beneath their feet, giving Crowley’s knees some protection against the wooden floor.

As Crowley settled, he turned his head to face the other way, but Aziraphale had other ideas. With a tug at the hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck, he guided the demon to turn and face Aziraphale. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled the legs of Crowley’s briefs up a little, bunching fabric into the demon’s crotch and revealing the sweet spots of curved buttocks.

Crowley shifted, wiggling a little at the sudden pressure of fabric against his cunt. “You really are a bastard, you know,” he said, half-mumbled into the leather of the ottoman.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Didn’t hear you, my dear.”

“I said, you’re a basta-AHrd!” He yelped into the latter half of the word as Aziraphale planted a firm smack on Crowley’s behind.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale admitted, a little breathlessly. “I suppose I am.”

One hand resting firmly in the dip of Crowley’s lower back, Aziraphale set about spanking him with the other, relaxed and rhythmic. Crowley turned his head to press his damp forehead directly into the firm leather, breathing deeply. He relished each impact, stinging at first then settling into something deeper. A beautiful, slow-growing ache.

Aziraphale savoured it. Each muttered pant, each slight whine, he responded. They barely needed words after all this time, but they still used them, because what was the point of having these amusing human forms if not to wring every possible pleasure out of them?

“You look so perfect, my dear,” he murmured, massaging warm buttocks in his hands. Crowley whined and pressed his head against the leather, each sound saying need and want as clearly as if he were shouting it.

“Not nice,” was all he managed to choke out, arching his back up, begging for the blows to continue. He felt sweaty, and annoyed, and deeply in love.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and resumed.

Angels and demons don’t get tired. They don’t get interrupted by hunger or full bladders or cramped knees, so when they are properly engaged, they can sink into that activity. Time becomes secondary.

Their bodies might not get tired, or interrupted with mere mortal concerns, but they can bruise, especially when their human bodies feel so present and raw. They can feel red welts begin to raise on sensitive skin, or they can see and marvel at the slow rise of blood, deep mottled purple under fair skin.

Aziraphale was murmuring steady praise now, my beautiful demon, my dear, you horrible, wonderful creature. He felt warm from exertion, so lost in the flow that he barely noticed his own arousal, his erection pressed into his trousers. He paused to run gentle hands up Crowley’s spine (which was still blessedly cool to the touch), and was overcome with his own desire.

“My dear,” He spoke more clearly, breaking the spell.

Crowley acknowledged with a wordless mewl, sounding dazed and a little pissed off.

“Would you mind if we took these off?” Aziraphale tapped a finger on the waistband of the black briefs. Crowley gave another muffled grunt and turned to stare up at Aziraphale. His eyes were glassy, the dusky yellow leaking outwards, pupils huge and dark.

Sudden worry seized Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d gone too far. “What is the safe word?”

No reply but for a long, slow groan, and more alarmingly, Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as though to hide from Aziraphale’s concerned gaze.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke sternly.

As if dragged up from a great depth, he opened his eyes and finally replied. “Eden. C’mon angel, I can handle it.”

“Be that as it may, I asked you a question.”

Crowley lifted his head slightly and stared, surprised. He looked flushed, not dissimilar to how he would look after an evening of wine and whiskey. “Eh?”

“Your pants.” Aziraphale repeated, shifting. His worry assuaged, the distraction of taking care of Crowley briefly paused, he shifted part of his awareness back to how hard he was. “May I take them off?”

Crowley gave a lopsided grin, showing all his teeth. If they looked a little more pointed than they might in public, it was not a worry. If his eyes were blown fully wide, now golden right into the corners, it meant only that he felt safe. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale knew the answer, knew the dance well enough by now, but he still had moments like this, where he felt uncertain that it was right to take what Crowley so wantonly gave.

“Yes angel, please, you can do whatever you want with me right now.”

Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat. It was right, and it was hot, and it was sacred. His friend and lover knelt at his feet and offered himself up, this time the same as ever and somehow different.

Aziraphale found his way to the floor, kneeling to one side, running hands delicately down Crowley’s flanks, curling his fingers beneath the waistband and tugging them down over narrow hips. Aziraphale’s hands felt sensitive and tender; even the soft fabric sang against his skin. He deliberately dragged the bunched briefs across the raw flesh of Crowley’s behind, his mouth twitching with the edge of a wicked smile as Crowley gave a soft yelp.

It was awkward to pull the underwear down thighs, helping his demon lift one knee then the other to remove them completely. Ungraceful, but Crowley’s body was so painfully real now, brought so fully into this world by desire and impact. In this moment, to miracle clothes away would have felt sinful.

Crowley settled his naked form heavily back onto the ottoman, sighing. In the soft light of the bookshop, Aziraphale admired the lines and angles of the demon, the hollow dip of his spine leading tantalisingly down to tenderised buttocks, to the wet slit between. The sun would yet rise on one of the last days on this blessed earth, and they would have to deal with what that meant in the light of that penultimate sunrise, but for now, there was this. There was them.

Aziraphale started on his own buttons; Crowley in this state would wait for a time, the impatience literally spanked out of him. So Aziraphale savoured the undressing like he savoured everything, wanting this moment to last forever. It felt like it would, and that time would continue the way it always had. If not for the unpleasant knowledge, looming in the distance, that the clock was ticking for all of them.

Aziraphale swallowed, brushing away the tickle in the back of his mind that this may well be the last time. They would find a way through this. They would.

He let his movements be slow and considered, pausing between each item of clothing to run warm hands over Crowley reverently, across shoulders, down his neck, fanning out over angled shoulder blades to the places where Aziraphale could feel the wings sprouting into the plane just next to them, unreal but ever-present.

Once he was naked, he carefully moved Crowley’s ankles apart, kneeling between them but keeping a polite distance. Massaging the tender, bruise-flecked skin of Crowley’s backside with one hand, he touched himself properly for the first time that evening, relishing the feeling of the hot skin of his cock on a tenderised palm. “My dear, you are beautiful.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a hold of himself and stroking.

Crowley’s response was to exhale through his teeth argumentatively. The rippling arc of his back muscles and slight press back of his hips, cunt needily pressing toward Aziraphale, spoke his true feelings.

Aziraphale smiled with that same fondness. He let his massaging hand stray, thumb slipping between wet lips. “Was this what you wanted, dearest?”

Crowley’s response could only be described as a hiss

Flipping his hand to let four fingers dip between Crowley’s legs, cupping his whole sex, Aziraphale let the full length of his thumb slip inside.

Crowley keened, jamming his hips back hard. If there was a flash of dark wings, spread wide to fill the room, or a ripple of scales down his back, no human eyes could have perceived it.

Aziraphale felt winded for a moment, to feel the wet heat on his hand, to feel the way Crowley consumed the single digit and pressed back for more, looking so perfect, divinely his. Normally never an issue, he felt lost for words and uttered a simple, breathless, “Oh.”

But as much as he enjoyed giving Crowley what he wanted, somehow a little denial first made it all the sweeter. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently, momentarily, pressing down into the sweet spot and rubbing teasing fingers across Crowley’s clit, before drawing the hand back.

“Oh no you bloody don’t-” Crowley lifted one hand from its resting place on the floor and planted it on the ottoman, lifting and twisting his body as if to reach back, movements desperate and unrefined.

Before he could achieve anything with this quick movement, Aziraphale responded. He surged forward and flattened Crowley back down against the leather, strong enough to knock the wind out of the demon. The same amount of measured force Crowley had used to slam Aziraphale into the wall that very afternoon.

There was a puff and a wheezing sound as the air in the cushioned footstool was pressed out. There was also a slight puff and wheezing sound from Crowley, but he was undoubtedly playing it up for dramatic effect.

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley could take. Knew exactly what Crowley would like. And he liked this very much, to be flattened down by Aziraphale’s solid weight, squashed from thighs to neck against the sticky leather. This was the closest they’d been physically in years, and Aziraphale felt all the tension and attitude melt away from the body beneath him.

“Now then,” Aziraphale panted into an ear. “I can’t have you writhing around like that, Crowley. Wouldn’t be proper.”

There was a breath, and two anchor points came into existence. Without taking his weight off Crowley, Aziraphale slid sure hands down Crowley’s arms and guided each wrist to the loops, cream silk ties appearing then binding wrists to the side of the footstool. Crowley was safely secured in this position, kneeling with his arms wrapped and bound to each side of the ottoman. Aziraphale straightened up.

“You absolute cocktease. Give me that right now or I’ll call the whole thing off.” The epithet, despite not being applicable right this very second, still made sense. Crowley did have a cock sometimes, after all. Aziraphale made him beg for it even then.

“Safe word?”

“EDEN!” he yelled, hammering hands on the side of the footstool with as much momentum as the slack would allow him

“Are you using it?”

“No! You- arrghbfr.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Aziraphale leant forward and laid the line of his chest against Crowley’s back again, cock pressed between his stomach and the crack of Crowley’s buttocks, “is that you like me teasing you.”

“For sata- for FUCK sake I- you,” Crowley started about three different sentences before giving up, though he still wiggled between the angel’s weight and the ottoman.

“Say it,” Aziraphale said. He felt dizzy with it, the joy of feeling Crowley’s skin pressed so close to him, their bodies salt-sticky and warm.

“You’re a TEASE.”

“No, say that you like it!” Aziraphale was lost in it now, “Say you like me teasing you.” He wound a hand into Crowley’s hair, pressing him with just enough firmness down into the cushioned leather.

Crowley resisted upwards into the grip. If he wanted to be free, he could be back in his own apartment in the blink of an eye. Or maybe… he couldn’t. They had never tested their powers against each other in this realm. They had never needed nor wanted to. There was a thought, momentary but bright, that maybe Crowley actually couldn’t escape. And that if he tried, he would find himself blocked not just by the heavy body across his back but by the full might of Aziraphale’s heavenly power. Such a concept sent a wave of arousal coursing through him. He was hot, achingly wet, and he couldn’t even rub his thighs together, so firm was he being held, neck down to his knees against the ottoman.

One moment passed in which Crowley pushed his body back up against Aziraphale, but with no way to gain purchase or momentum, he collapsed down in submission.

“Angel… I love you teasing me.”

“Good boy,” he murmured in Crowley’s ear, before moving his hips back just enough for the head of his cock, wet with precum, to skim deliciously first against Crowley’s asshole then finding its way to the entrance of his slick cunt, sliding in to the hilt in one fluid motion.

Aziraphale sighed, and without moving, pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley froze at the tender gesture. His breath, which had felt so present up until that moment, disappeared completely. The love he felt, unspoken and bright, seemed to replace the air in his lungs. If he didn’t say something right now the next words out of his mouth were going to be I love you. And that simply wouldn’t do.

“Angel, if you don’t start fucking, I’m going to discorporate,” he said instead. “I’m serious.”

The only response was a low chuckle. Without taking his weight from Crowley’s back, Aziraphale ground his hips down, eliciting a wet choke from Crowley. “Like that?”

“Sure, if that’s the best you’ve g-“ Crowley stopped at the sensation of another sensual grind, Aziraphale making sure that as much of his fleshy hips were pressed into where Crowley’s skin was most tender. The witty riposte died in his mouth, and he moaned instead, breath returned but that same dazzling feeling in his chest. If not now, when?

The issue of the end of the world and when would be the right time dissipated as Aziraphale straightened back up, to curl assured hands into Crowley’s hips, and start moving.

The pace he set was steady, eyes shut and lips parted. It was Crowley who forced the pace, rutting back. The enthusiasm with which he rocked back, wordlessly begging for more, harder, would have been strong enough to drag the footstool along the floor. But Aziraphale wanted it to remain immovable… so it stayed put like a good footstool would.

Crowley was desperate, little grunts of exertion escaping his lips as he pulled back on his bonds, trying to drive Aziraphale deeper. It was rough and urgent but he felt undeniably gleeful. If Aziraphale just gave him what he wanted, if he didn’t have to wrestle for it, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

Aziraphale was in control. Until he wasn’t.

Without being conscious of the moment he lost the tease, he started to meet Crowley’s needs. He plunged forward as Crowley pushed back, meeting in the middle with a growing urgency. To give Crowley what he wanted was the agreement, after all. When Crowley’s frantic motions slowed just enough to declare his satisfaction with the pace, Aziraphale leant forward to grip Crowley’s shoulder. His hand wrapped all the way round, fingertips brushing a clavicle, pulling Crowley back into each thrust, to give him more.

This was what it was, for an unknowable amount of time. When the moment was right, as was his decision to make, Aziraphale slowed, then paused, untying and guiding a sweaty, mussed demon to the couch. Aziraphale knelt between Crowley’s legs. They looked at each other for what felt like the first time in a long time. Sweat and exertion had ruined Crowley’s careful quiff. Aziraphale brushed a strand off his forehead.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was rough and low. “you look divine.”

Crowley gave a manic half-laugh, half-sob. Without Aziraphale’s cock to distract him, the fear that this was ending, that everything was ending, was about to overwhelm him. He took a shuddering breath to steady himself and came back to the moment. “More?”

Aziraphale huffed out a disbelieving laugh, and without speaking leaned forward and kissed him.

This was divine, thought Crowley, as he turned his face up into the kiss, not allowing Aziraphale to take his mouth away once it was given. Aziraphale navigated by feel and experience to slip his cock into Crowley again.

The energy had shifted. Crowley had taken his punishment, and now it was simply time for mutual reward. Aziraphale could have continued to tease and deny, but he didn’t even break the kiss as Crowley snaked a hand between their bodies to touch himself.

Aziraphale fucked Crowley steadily, body an anchor for Crowley to writhe and squirm against. The angel kept his body forward, letting his weight rest, firm but gentle, on Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale buried his head in Crowley’s neck, and automatically long legs and arms came up to wrap around and pull Azirphale close, both panting with each stroke.

This is what Crowley had wanted all day, had been begging for it. The need had been spoken by twitchy energy and a violent shove and Aziraphale had heard it, had read Crowley like he always did and given it to him. Gave him everything he wanted, except for the words I love you.

For some reason, the sex and the games they played felt safe in a way the words didn’t. Both still held a fear in their otherworldly hearts. The fear that perhaps those words, like a prayer, would be heard above and below, and that the power in them would shatter the wards they had built to keep this space safe. Fucking and love weren’t the same thing after all; it has been clear for hundreds of years now, that this particular activity was no more visible or condemnable than all the eating, drinking, and doing each other’s damned or blessed chores had been.

Aziraphale paused and took a deep breath. They could truly stay in this rhythm forever, but all things had to have an end, didn’t they? Wasn’t that divine will?

Cupping one hand behind Crowley’s neck and winding the other around his waist, Aziraphale lifted and drew Crowley’s body forward on the couch, moving him so his hips practically hung off the edge. All this Aziraphale without separating their connection. This position curled Crowley’s head into the back of the couch, but he was a bendy creature, and quite pliable in his current state.

“Crowley, my dear?”

“Mmrf?”

“Would you like to come for me?” Technically, it should have been impossible for a demon to look so wrecked, but Crowley was unique in that. His only response to the question was to bring his hand back to his clit and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran fingers up and down his wet slit, dipping down to explore around the shaft of Aziraphale’s cock where it entered him, thick and full, stilled for the moment.

This time, Crowley’s wordless response was enough of an answer for Aziraphale. With Crowley more forward on the couch, Aziraphale was able to bring Crowley’s legs up. Delightfully flexible was his demon. From this position he could stroke into Crowley with the full length of his member, deeply, thoroughly. Aziraphale lost himself in giving, enraptured as he watched Crowley circle his fingers over his clit, eyes half closed, incoherent with it all. Together they brought him to an orgasm.

The sound he made was choked back, as it always was, some part of him still scared that somehow, someone would overhear them. Some part of him needed to hold that shining love safe, and protect it. At least in that moment, he was blissfully free of the fear that the world that they so dearly loved, the world that gave them these moments of hedonism and pleasure, was about to end.

Aziraphale ground his hips in Crowley, as deep as he could go. Aziraphale was breathless, delighted as ever to be the one to reduce Crowley, debonair, quiffed and elegant Crowley, to such a state. Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley came around his cock, but the angel was not yet spent. Crowley was floppy, fuck-drunk, pliable and warm on the other side of his orgasm. Aziraphale slid his hands up long thighs to hold the backs of Crowley’s knees, knowing exactly how much weight he could lean there as he finally allowed himself to get lost in the sensations of Crowley’s warmth around him. In his own blissful moment after he came, Aziraphale couldn’t escape the thought that truly, this felt sacred. Perhaps the thought was profane, but he had learned long ago that even the Almighty could not see inside his mind. Or if she did, she did not disapprove.

As they untangled themselves, unfolding Crowley’s long body, the sweat and ejaculate simply disappeared, without thought or action from either of them. The pleasure they shared was indescribable, and it was the marvel of the sweaty, sticky human bodies that made it all possible. But why worry about a clean-up if you didn’t have to? A cosy blanket knew it was needed nearby, and the two of them settled on the couch and pulled the tartan fabric over them, Aziraphale tucking his back against the seatback, and drawing Crowley close to his chest.

Crowley had regained just enough of his faculties to start to feel something akin to nausea as he settled his back to Aziraphale��s chest, firm arms drawing him close. If not now, then when? If he didn’t speak the words that gave shape to the luminescent glow inside him now, would he get another chance?

He knew what Aziraphale would say if he asked something like that. Hold fast, my dear, we’ll sort it out, there won’t be a war, you worry too much, I have faith in the Almighty, pip pip

Crowley felt ill with fear even as he felt all the tension melt out of his body, warm in Aziraphale’s arms. Their bodies somehow fit so perfectly together. Almost as though they had made these forms for each other. He was afraid that perhaps, despite everything, he hadn’t gone fast enough, and that they were both about to run out of time. Overwhelmed from the spanking, the sex, and the safety of the space the two of them created inside of the shop, he closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze out.

Navigating by touch, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth. He wished that he could draw a little of that faith into himself through the pulse there, so he kissed the inside of the wrist. Feeling the gentle throb of Aziraphale’s blood on his lips, he sent out a prayer he feared fell on uncaring, callous ears.

Please Lord… just give us a little more time.

Notes:

*arrives two years late with starbucks* "Why are so many people determined to see Crowley as the top in this dynamic?" I ask my partner. They reply "It's because some people confuse brat energy with top energy. I can see where the mix up comes from."

Hope you enjoyed this piece, the first I've written in about five years. I may write a follow up where they actually DO get their love confessions out, but I couldn't resist the angst of it all.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #crowley #anthony crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #good omens fan fic #trans crowley #reblogs>likes #hank talks #hank writes #aziraphale good omens #crowley IS gender #good omens smut

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

2 bathtub and 9 folklore, sternclay, sfw, please!

Here you go! Barclay's design is based on a blue catfish.

He wanted the bigfoot assignment. Days spent tramping through the chilly forests of the pacific northwest instead of sweating off a pound a day in Louisiana swamps. But no, he’s assigned to the Loup Garou case until further notice, because one mammalian cryptid expert is as good as another.

It’s not like he’s devoted most of his career to bigfoot or anything.

Contrary to popular belief, FBI agents do not spend all their time in suits. As much as Stern aims to emulate Special Agent Dale Cooper, slacks and a suit jacket are not suitable for tromping through the mud and staving off the humidity. Between his outdoor wear and the tranquilizer rifle over his shoulder, he looks like he could be in some shitty seventies Sasquatch hunting movie.

His best lead is the strange, black fur he found near the location of the most recent sighting, and the ranger in the nearby national park assured him it didn’t come from any common wildlife. So it could be a human cursed to transform into a wolf every night. Or it could just be someone’s dog.

Dusk has come and gone before he turns back towards his cabin, rented for it’s proximity to the supposedly-Loup-Garou-harboring swamp and the reviews citing good water pressure and a large tub. Nothing like a nice bath or cold shower to wash off the heat and grime of the day.

A crack in the trees to his right. There’s something moving, paralleling him. He stops, nerves taught as a drawn bow.

The growl starts low, draws his eyes to a dark-furred shape creeping from the brush. It’s definitely canine, definitely bigger than him, and definitely sees him as dinner. Stern holds his ground, raises the rifle, not willing to fire until he’s certain this is his quarry. All doubts evaporate when it stands on its hind legs and howls. Human eyes lock onto him as the monster stalks forward.

Stern fires, hitting the werewolf in the shoulder. It doesn’t so much as stumble.

“Shit” He loads another dart, fires, and gets the exact same result. There’s no chance of outrunning it, and while he has his handgun he doesn’t want to resort to that unless he absolutely has to.

The creature lunges and Stern dodges, slipping into the water as a result. It swipes a claw out, which he keeps from his face by blocking it with the body of the rifle. His brief hope that the creature can’t swim is quashed when it prowls into the water after him. Something huge swim past his legs and he winces; if he dies by alligator instead of werewolf he’ll never hear the end of it.

As the monster surges forward, something huge bursts from the water between them, knocking Stern off balance in the process. His head goes under and when he scrambles up, spluttering, the werewolf is limping as fast as it can into the undergrowth. And floating face-down in front of him is a man, four jagged rips in his side tinting the water around them a sickly red.

“Sir?” Stern rolls the man over and, in spite of all his training, exclaims, “holy shit.”

The man doesn’t have legs. His hips give way to a smooth, grey-blue tail that twitches weakly when Stern touches him. The wound is visible here too, marring tail and torso alike. It doesn’t take a genius to put together what happened. Or that the Loup Garou won’t make it far with the bite the merman delivered. He could catch it. But he doubts the mer in front of him will survive without medical attention.

He loops his arms under a limp body and makes a mental note to never, ever tell Agent Hayes about this.

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

Barclays’ whole side is burning.

“Ow, Aubrey, easy with the healing.” He groans, rolling away from the feeling and immediately bonking his head on something cold and solid. Cracking an eye open reveals a white tub and wooden wall. Cautiously, he glances at his stomach and side and finds it bandaged. When he manages another half-turn, he finds a dark-wood bathroom with a human slumped against the wall. It’s the one he saved, though he’s down to a thin white shirt and what he knows to be boxers. For all the blood there must have been, the room and tub are spotless.

He raises up, hoping for a better look at a handsome face, only to catch his side on the edge of the tub.

“OWfuck!”

The man jolts awake, is by Barclay’s side in an instant, “Thank the lord, I was worried you’d lost too much blood to pull through.” He runs a hand through his black hair, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was trying to monitor you for signs I’d have to give up and call the paramedics. I, um, assumed you didn’t want to just be dragged into a human hospital.”

“Yeah, no, not my fave.” His tail flutters awkwardly, “uh, why did you bring me here, then?”

“Because I wasn’t going to leave you to bleed out in a swamp. I learned field medicine for a reason; it’s nice to use it on someone other than myself. Or, well, not nice, but, um-”

“No, I get it. It’s just that, uh, I have lots of friends in the swamp. One of them probably woulda found me. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble or put me in a tub.”

“Oh.” The human sags a little, his confident smile faltering a moment.

“I mean, I really appreciate it. And it looks like you’re good at, uh, stitches and stuff.” He rubs his arms, “uh, sorry. I’m not used to waking up in unfamiliar guys bathtubs.”

“I’m not in the habit of keeping mermen in my tub so, um, I guess we’re even?” His smile is a little shyer, blue eyes reminding Barclay of a spring sky.

The mer holds out the hand on his uninjured side, “I’m Barclay.”

“Joseph” The man shakes it, “it’s nice to meet you. Is, um, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Is the water alright? I can go get some from the swamp if that would be better.”

“As long as I don’t dry out I’ll be fine. Uh, do you have any food?”

“Some groceries, but if you want something specific I can run into town.”

Barclay weighs his hunger and wooziness against the desire not to reveal too much, and his stomach emerges triumphant, “Does this place have a take-out menu for the South Bank Cafe?”

“I...think so? Let me look” The human stands, walking out into another room on long legs that Barclay wants to loop around his waist, continues speaking as paper rustles, “I didn't know merpeople used take-out.”

“Uh, when they live close to humans they do. As long as some of those humans are willing to pick it up.”

Joseph returns, familiar pink menu in one hand and phone in the other, “What would you like?”

“Three fried oyster po’boys please.”

The human orders four of the sandwiches and some coconut cream pie on Barclay’s suggestion leaves the mer to nap while he goes to retrieve it. Charmingly, he puts all the food onto plates and pours the bottled sweet tea into glasses before arranging it on the bathroom floor.

“Cheers.” Joseph raises his glass. Barclay hesitates, trying to remember which human ritual this is, then clinks his own against it.

They barely talk until the plates are clean and Joseph is luxuriating in a second slice of pie, at which point the human explains what the fuck he was doing looking for a rougarou anyway. Barclay has given up on his desire to study the humans face as he eats and is laying on his back, eyes shut, feeling full and content in spite of the nagging pain in his side. Joseph reluctantly gave him painkillers, explaining he was worried about how human medicine would interact with mer biology. So far, all it’s done is made him drowsy.

“Barclay? Why did you get between me and the Loup Garou?”

“Because I didn’t want you to get killed. Like, for starters, I don’t want people to get hurt, and rougarous are nasty fuckers. But also when someone dies in the swamps, a lot of people blame mers for it. So it’s better if we keep humans from getting eaten on our turf.” He feels around for his tea, finds it when Joseph sets cool glass in his hand. His whole body is heavy.

A soft laugh, “Drugs kicking in?”

“Uh huh.”

A scuff as Joseph stands, “I’ll leave you to get some rest. I’m just in the next room, if you need me.” Two steps, then a pause, “actually, let me drain the tub some and put fresh water in.”

Barclay’s pretty sure he says thank you before he falls asleep.

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

Joseph wakes up at the cursing coming through the walls. Rounding the corner into the bathroom, he finds Barclay clutching his upper tail with one hand, gritting his teeth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Cramp, really fucking bad one, tends to happen when I get injured and can’t swim. Fuck me if I know why.”

“Here” he kneels next to the tub, water splashing onto his white tank top, “let me try rubbing it out. Is this the spot?”

“YeahOWoh, ohhhfuck” Barclay whimpers, “that’s helping, please keep going.”

He moves his fingers down the smooth skin, muscles spasming under his hands before they surrender to relaxation. Gradually Barclay un-tenses, his whimpers giving way to sighs, and Joseph isn’t really tending to his charlie horse anymore; he’s just petting his tail.

“Thanks, Jo-”

A scratch outside freezes them both. Joseph holds up his hand, signalling for Barclay to stay quiet. It’s the window. Something is opening the window. Worse, a count of five later, the cabin groans as something heavy reaches the floor.

His gun is in the other room, because he’s not about to sleep with it on his person. To get to it, he’ll have to put himself right in the path of the intruder dragging themselves across the floor.

The door creaks open, revealing red eyes in the darkness of the cabin.

“Shit.” He starts to stand, keeping himself between the threat and Barclay.

“There you are. Goodness, we were all worried sick.”

Joseph stays still, but Barclay tries to sit up, “Indrid!”

Their visitor slithers into the room, his upper body human but his tail reminding Stern of a Cottonmouth, “We’ve been looking for you all day; Dani found blood at your watch site but not you. I even swam to the park to ask Duck if he’d seen you.”

“Uh huh, I’m sure that was your only reason.”

“Hush.” He turns his alarming gaze on Joseph, “I saw you ending up with this human in many timelines, but I put off following them for fear of being seen. But he’s taking this rather well.”

“I’m an FBI agent with the UP. Handling strange phenomena with grace is basically my job.”

“Intriguing.” Indrid cocks his head, then his face goes blank for a moment. When life returns to it, he coils his tail to settle next to Barclay, “it seems the most positive timelines occur if you continue your convalescence here. In that case, I’ll leave you be and let the others know you’re alright. I’ll stop by again in a few days. And yes, Joseph, since you’re about to ask, I will knock this time.”

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

Barclay spends most of the next three days eating and sleeping, the combination of pain and painkillers making him sluggish. Joseph is better company than he ever could have hoped for, changing his bandages and sharing meals while regaling him with stories of the world beyond the swamps.

The human rises early, so he’s usually gone to work by the time Barclay wakes up. He’s feeling better this morning, so his internal clock wakes him just as the sound of water in the sink fills the room.

Joseph is bent over, naked from the waist up and using a coffee mug to dump water onto his hair. Beside him is a tube labeled, “compact body wipes.”

“Uh, what are you doing?”

The human starts, but then replies, “getting ready for the day. I have to go into town to meet with the sheriff about this case.”

“Can’t you just use the tub? I can make room, it’s big enough for both of us.”

Joseph’s whole torso is going pink, “I, um, assumed you didn’t want me randomly turning up in your space naked.”

He shrugs, “I’m naked right now.”

“Right.” Joseph gingerly sets the mug down, “right. I guess you are. Um. I don’t mean to be rude, since this is mainly a difference in mer and human culture, but would you be willing to close your eyes while I shower?”

Barclay nods, scoots to the far end of the tub while Joseph pulls the plug to keep the bath from overflowing. Then he shuts his eyes, focuses on the splashes up his legs, the change in the tempo of the falling water that signals it hitting a human body. Joseph showers efficiently, turns the steam mint scented with one of the bottles he keeps in the corner of the tub. Then he’s telling Barclay to open his eyes, towel wrapped around his waist and smile on his face.

“I feel much better.”

Barclay doesn’t bother to hide his staring, “Me too.”

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

Joseph hasn’t liked bathtime this much since his uncle gave him that rubber Nessie bath toy when he was five. Barclay is a much more enjoyable companion, even with his eyes closed. Joseph's also taken to wearing swim trunks and just sitting with him in the tub under the pretense of cooling off from the heat.

It’s not like his morning or evening rinse off lacks competition; Barclay is well enough that, through the use of a wheelbarrow, he can take trips to the back porch of the cabin to swim. His strength has weakened as a result of bedrest, but he’s improving quickly, and Joseph will often end up in the water with him to help him with particular stretches.

The first time another mer pops out of the water, he jumps with a combination of joy and alarm. Courtesy of Indrid, all the merfolk in the area know Joseph is trustworthy, which means he has even more people to question for his research. This is especially good because it means he and Barclay can talk about things other than work when they’re together. Barclay’s friends also offer information about the Loup Garou. So much, in fact, that Joseph determines there is something much larger than a single monster at play and is able to convince Hayes to let him continue the investigation indefinitely until he finds his answers.

When he gets the okay from his boss, he and Barclay celebrate with a massive dinner on the deck. As the mer hauls himself up out of the water after his final dip he slips, splashing sideways into a muddy patch. By the time Joseph gets them both inside, their skin and clothes are a mess.

“Here, let me rinse us off before I fill the tub for you.” Joseph turns on the shower, awkwardly straddling Barclay’s tail as he reaches to detach the head. He knows the mer is staring at him, his usually gentle gaze gaining an edge the way it always does when Joseph is down to his underwear or swim trunks. It doesn’t bother him; it seems a fair trade off for all the times he’s admired Barclays back and tail as he swam.

He turns, intending to hand the showerhead to the mer, only to lose his footing to a splotch of mud. It’s a graceless landing on his knees and Barclays’s tail, narrowly missing the fresh scar.

“Shit, that was close.”

“No kidding.” Barclay picks up the showerhead, turning it to a softer setting and rinsing off his tail. A teasing edge enters his rumble, “careful, might think you’re looking for ways to keep me here forever.”

“I guarantee none of them involve hurting you” he shuts his eyes as he lets the mer clean his neck. Then snaps them open when Barclay chuckles.

“That mean you have thought of some.”

“Yes. Not, um, not that I’d ever act on them. As much as I love your company, I don’t want you stuck in my tub forever.”

“You just want me to visit every day?”

“Um-”

“Or take you swimming in the evenings?”

“I-”

“Or let me finally watch you shower with my eyes open?” He flicks his tail playfully.

“I’ll admit all those crossed...my...mind.” Time turns to ice as Barclay leads forward, nuzzling his nose before bringing their lips together.

“Crossed mine too. I was so happy when you said you were staying.” He strokes Joseph’s cheek, “there’s so many fucking things I wanna do with you now that I’m getting better.”

“How many of them involve this tub?” Joseph kisses a teasing line across his cheek.

An adoring growl, “Plenty, babe.”

#sternclay #agent stern/Barclay #taz amnesty #mermay #mermay fills

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olivyh · 3 years

Text

Into Wonderland Chapter 1: Heartslabyul Part One

Mc wakes up to the sound of panicked footsteps running towards them full force, followed by low murmuring. Before they can open their eyes, they're met with a kick to the stomach, which makes them jolt up and cry out.

"What the-" They start, wincing as they hold their hand over their ribs, which are sure to bruise in due time.

"I'm sorry!" A young boy their age scrambles to their side, large rabbit ears drooping down his back in embarrassment. The boy's face is flushed as he fusses over the person he just tripped over, pausing and frantically shuffling his hands around his checkered uniform. Hos dark blue hair is a mess, and the spade that covers one of his eyes is smudged around the edges, with some of it dragging towards the side of his head.

"I-" Mc begins, staring at the boy's ears as they perk up as he swears under his breath.

"Where is it?!" He whisper yells in a panicked frenzy.

"W-wait!" Mc calls out, standing and trying to get the boy attention. "Where am I?" He crawls around the small patch of grass that they lay in, ignoring them and patting the ground until his hand lays on a bronze pocket watch that ticks ominously. He whimpers as he stares at it.

"I-I'm late!" He yells, scrambling and running towards a path that opened in front of them.

"Wait! Late for what?!" Mc yells, chasing after the rabbit boy and swearing when they realize how fast he is compared to them. "Please! Just tell me where I am!" They chase after him, tripping and falling into a large hole in the ground.

They let out a shrill scream, closing their eyes and bracing for an impact that doesn't come. Slowly, they crack open an eye, staring at the objects that float past them.

"Seriously..." They groan. "What is this place...?" They cross their arms and huff, tapping some of the objects that hover in the air, making them spin and click. They finally hit the ground with a soft thud, making them wince as they roll over onto their side, which in reality ends up making them land on their head, which flips to put them back into their feet. They swallow down the nausea that threatens to rise, hearing a familiar voice from down the hall.

"Mr. Rabbit!" They yell, dashing through the checkered hallway when they see the familiar head of navy hair. The boy turns a corner and sprints through a door, slamming it behind him.

"Wait!" They call after him, not stopping in time and slamming their face into the door. They groan and rub their forehead, offering a weak, half-assed, annoyed sob to leave their lips. "Really! The nerve!" They huff.

They grab the handle, screaming when it sneezes as their hand makes contact. "How rude!" The door chides.

"Listen, I'm very, very sorry about grabbing your face but I desperately need to find that rabbit!" They plead. The door huffs, rolling its eyes.

"Why, if you wanted to get through there, you can just shrink!" The knob exclaims. Mc rolls their eyes, catching sight of a small tart that lay on the ground. Reading the tag, which says 'eat me', they decide to take a small bite, savoring the taste as they feel themselves shrink smaller and smaller. They yelp as they drop the treat.

Groaning, they stand and approach the doorknob, placing their hands on their hips expectantly.

"Can I go in now?" They ask.

"You need the key! I'm locked, unfortunately..."

"No, I'm not doing this right now." They wait for the doorknob to explain what it means, then takes the opportunity to leap through it's open mouth.

Landing in a wide sea, they choke and gasp as they reach the surface, waves slamming against the side of their head. In the distance, they spot a small island. They decide to swim towards it, the waves pulling and pushing them to and from their destination. They finally land on the island, soaked to the bone and out of breath.

"Is that all you got?" A voice booms with laughter. Mc looks up to find themselves face to face with a very large, scary, muscular man.

"Keep going, children!" The man yells as a wave blasts the students with... wow, more animal ears, huh.

"Mister Vargas please..." One of the students groans, only to be pushed ahead by another one behind him.

"Nonsense! How else are you supposed to get this swole?!" He's met with tired groans. Mc is pushed into the circle, trying to speak with the man before being hit by another wave of water. Before they can get their feet back on solid ground, they feel a pair of cold hands pull them back into the sea.

"Hey! Wait!" They yell, fighting against their captors. The being just laughs gleefully, pulling them along the current until they get to the shore. The man throws them onto the sand roughly, making them cough and sputter.

"What-" They choke on more sand. "What the hell was that for?!"

The man- peeks out from the water, teal and black hair floating next to him as a long tail splashes behind him.

"Hm? You looked like you were having fun and I wanted to have fun too!" The man giggles again. Another head peeks out of the water, smiling ominously. Mc yelps and jolts back, hitting their head against the rock that was behind them.

"T-there's two!" They yell.

"Fufufu... of course there's two. We're twins." The quieter one comments.

"Mhm! Always have been, always wil be..." The other one laughs again, pulling at Mc's feet.

"I wonder how these work-" He mutters until they squirm out of his grasp, before his claws can dig into their skin.

"That is, unless we get eaten like those poor oysters we saw the other day-" The twin with the hair on the left side of his face comments.

The other twin groans. "That wasn't fair at all! I wanted to get to them first! We were waiting for them to grow up so they'd be more tasty! Impatient walrus..." He huffs, sinking into the water so only his downslanted eyes were staring at the human in front of them. Their golden eyes seem to glow, sending a shiver down the human's spine.

"I really, really need to go- as much as I'd like to hear about oysters." They mutter under their breath.

"Aww," The touchier twin whines. "But it was just getting interesting~"

The other twin chuckles. "Patience Floyd, they'll be back very soon."

Like hell I will, The human thinks, crawling up towards the woods that lined the shore. They walk until they find a small cottage, hearing the same rabbit yelling something.

"Mom?" The rabbit yells, running past Mc on the footpath. "Mom!" He yells again.

"There you are!" Mc tries to grab a hold of him but he ends up being too quick, making them slip and fall. They follow him into the house, praying that there's no police in this weird world.

"Mom! Where'd you go?" The boy continues to yell, walking back out the door and inspecting the garden.

Mc notices a sticky substance on the leg and they look down, jolting when they see red seeping through their light blue clothing.

"Seriously? Now?" The groan, opening their pocket and pulling out the tart, completely forgetting what it had done to them before and taking a bite. This time, they jump as they begin to grow, pushing the furniture that lay around the house out of the way as they struggle to move.

The rabbit boy in the garden turns and screams upon seeing the giant human in his house.

"Help!" He yells, running in the opposite direction. "Help! Monster!"

"Monster?!" Mc exclaims, trying to wriggle out of the house. The boy comes back not too long later, pulling behind him a small cat-raccoon looking animal with flames in his ears.

"Grim, this is the monster I was telling you about..." The boy's voice shakes, as he walks the cat through his gates.

"And I'm the monster..." They groan.

"Hmm... have you tried telling it to leave?" The cat sniffs at Mc's hand, making them twist to try to get away from it.

"No...!? What makes you think that's gonna work?!" The boy yells, fists clenched at his sides.

"Well, we could always set it on fire?" The cat suggests. The boy jumps as it lets out a breath, setting the corner of the house ablaze in a bright blue flame.

"What?! No!" The rabbit boy yells. Mc nods and tries to blow at the fire, hyperventilating a bit as the fore starts to spread dangerously close to their thigh.

"What he said! Stop!" They plead. "I just need to get back to my normal size!"

"Normal...?" The bunny boy repeats, smacking his forehead when something clicks. "You're the person I tripped over this morning!"

"Yes!" Did it really take him that long? They think bitterly. "Now please! Help me shrink again!" The boy panics, looking back to his garden. He sprints to where the carrots lay and throws them towards Mc, many of them smacking them in the fave before falling to the ground.

"Quick! Eat one of these!" The boy yells as the cat continues to fan the flames at the base of the house.

Mc does as told and shrinks, plummeting to the ground, weighed down by the carrot they're still holding. They scream, before landing in a gloved palm.

"Woah..." The boy inspects them, holding them up by their collar and shaking them off the carrot. They grumble and kick, falling flat back onto the boy's palm. "I didn't think that would actually work..."

"Oh..." Mc mumbles. "Well, thank you for that. Now, how do I go home?"

"Home?" The boy repeats, looking as if he forgot something. He yelps and almost drops Mc, making them cling to his pinky as he runs over to the cat. He casts a spell, causing a small raincloud to appear above the fire.

"Hey!" The cat growls. "I was tryin' to help ya, yanno!"

"The monster is gone!" The boy yells, running a hand through his navy blue hair in frustration. In doing so, he knocks Mc off his hand and they fall to the ground, crashing into a large puddle created by the raincloud.

"Rabbit!" They yell before going underwater, swept down the path by the small creek that had been created. "Rabb-" Their words are muffled by water as they're swept onto a small patch of dirt.

"Now what is this?" A voice calls, and Mc feels themselves be picked up by the back of their shirt once again. They yelp, swinging out of the person's grasp, before opening their eyes to see the most beautiful man they had ever seen, wearing a cape made of flower petals.

"Oh! How splendid!" Another flower grabs them from his grasp, holding them at arms length and spinning them around, making them dizzy. "A new addition to our garden!"

"Not quite- they're not much to look at," The other flower states bitterly, lips pursing into a frown.

"I think they're pretty-" Another smaller flower speaks up from behind the mean flower.

"Quiet, Epel."

"Oh! How delightful! This is so exciting!" The tallest flower continues to exclaim, grabbing Mc by the hand and twirling. "What a peculiar scent! And those petals don't look like petals at all!"

That makes the smallest boy tense. "Could they be-"

"A weed!" The beautiful man fumes, face turning a light red. "How disgraceful!"

"Mon dieu!" The man drops them on the ground with a thud. They wince as he backs away to join the other two.

"I am not a weed! I'm a human!" Mc yells. "I don't belong here at all!"

"Oh? You're the one telling us that?" The beautiful flower strides towards them. "You come down here, bringing with you a flood that destroys the careful arrangements we've been working on, then interrupt our chorus practice-" The man pauses and takes a breath, going back to his regal manner. He pushes Mc down the path.

"Gone with you!" He yells. He can hear chides and similar grumblings among the other flowers in the garden as they're pushed out if the garden. When they regain their balance and turn to fave the flowers, they turn to yell at the flowers before one of them is launched at them, exploding in their face.

They stand up straight and sputter, spitting out the pollen that had exploded out of the stem arrow. "How rude!" They yell. A small voice calls out to them from the bushes. They turn to see the smaller flower, his purple hair petals poking out from the dark green leaves.

"I'm sorry about them. I think you're cool- weed or not. I know someone who can help you get back to normal, if you'd like-" Mc nods, rushing towards the boy as he explains of a caterpillar who lives not too far from the garden. They thank him and go on their way, pushing through the thick leaves, only to be met with a puff of smoke to the face.

They cough as a deep voice calls out to them. "Who are you?"

"I-I'm-" They cough out, peeking an eye open to see a man with a large fur coat and split dyed hair, lounging on a mushroom and smoking something out of a pipe. They watch in awe as the smoke forms the shapes of small dogs, yipping and jumping over one another.

"I'm Mc," They announce, and the man look at them suspiciously.

"No, who are you?"The man grumbles, taking another smoke from the pipe.

"I just answered!"

"No, you didn't, little pup." The man chides. He sighs, sitting up straighter and looking down at the scared human with a sadistic smile. "You're a human aren't you?"

"Yes! That's exactly right!" They smile, glad that someone finally understood their situation somewhat.

"You're very lost. That's unfortunate," The man gracefully falls off the mushroom, walking away from the human.

"Wait! Can't you help me?" They call out.

"Help is on the left, pup," The man calls from behind him.

"Left? There's no path here..." They search around them, twisting and craning their neck to find what the caterpillar was talking about.

The man groans in annoyance, turning dramatically and pointing his pipe towards the mushroom. "It's on the left, dear," Their mouth forms an 'o' shape as it clicks in their mind and they smile and nod, making the man's lip quirk up in a smirk. "Good doggy."

With that, the man disappears in a cloud of smoke. Mc stares at the mushroom, yanking a chunk off of it and falling flat to the ground.

"Ow..." They rub their back as they stare at it, taking a small bite. They feel themselves begin to grow again, this time to normal size. They carefully tiptoe through the garden, despite still being annoyed at the flowers for throwing them out. Despite that, they don't want to kill them. After all, the kind purple flower was with them.

They walk along the dirt path, looking around anxiously as they hear someone humming. The voice travels from side to side of the path, until it eventually lands right in their ear. They let out a yelp, jumping back as the boy next to them snickers.

"H-hey!?" They scream, covering their ears and backing away from the catboy.

"Goodbye to you too, dearie~" The boy hums, disappearing before making only his head reappear in a tall tree. His messy purple hair seems to float around him as he stares down at them with a lazy smile.

"What? Okay never mind that part I just- I really, really need to get home and so far nobody has been of any help and-"

"Hmm? Help you say?" The boy hums, tapping his feet in the air behind him.

"Yes! Please!" They exclaim. "How do I get home?!" The cat thinks for a minute, before giggling at their desperation.

"Hmm... methinks mew could find a way. That is, if mewthinks you can survive~" The cat snickers, hanging upside down off the branch.

"S-survive?!" They yelp, a chill running down their spine. "Survive what?"

"Why, the little red tyrant, of course!"

"Little red tyrant...?" Mc repeats, knitting their eyebrows.

"The Queen of Hearts, of course!" The cat howls in laughter, still dangling off the branch.

"How do I get to her?"

"To him."

"To him. Right. Respect pronouns, Mc." They mutter that last part.

"Well just follow this path~!" The cat hums, his tail pointing towards a bright path that points down behind them. "A skip and a jump and a dance later and mew'll find your way!" He giggles, using his tail to tease the human before fading away, a song disappearing on his lips as he vanishes

"Weird..." Mc utters, walking down the path the boy pointed them towards. They can hear things clicking together and loud laughter and singing from a distance. They decide to follow it and find themselves at a small tea party, housing only three people circulating around the long table.

"Happy unbirthday!" The head of the table yells gleefully, snapping a few pictures of the table. The other redhead at the table laughs loudly into his cup, dropping it and opting for a new one.

"It's always a happy unbirthday!" The boy with the heart over his eye wheezes between laughs, making the man with the hat laugh even harder, dropping the tart he'd been eating into his tea. This makes the man howl even louder, clutching his chest as his ginger hair falls out of his large tophat.

The other man at the table sits uncomfortably. Mc looks and recognizes his shaggy blue hair.

"Rabbit!" They yell. The boy sees them and smiles, waving them over. They walk over to him and sit in the seat next to him, wary about the eyes of the other two boys on them.

"I've been trying to escape from them for twenty minutes now! Riddle is going ti have my head!" He whispers in a panic. Mc nods as the other two leap over to their side.

"Is it your unbirthday as well?" The orange haired boy with a diamond under his eye asks, tilting his head and pouring them a cup of tea.

"I- unbirthday?" They ask.

"Do you really not know what an unbirthday is?" The redhead laughs, slamming his hand to his face and smudging the heart on his eye. "Dummy!"

Mc's face lights up a bright red in embarrassment, and the rabbit pats their back comfortingly.

"Be nice Ace!" He yells at the redhead, who sticks his tongue out.

"Stop being such a suck up, Deuce!"

Ignoring the other two's bickering, the ginger sits next to the human, explaining the unbirthday. "You see, the day you're born is your birthday- every other day is your unbirthday!"

"Well, then it's my unbirthday too!" Mc smiles, relaxed by the hatters comforting vibe.

"Thats such a coincidence! It's mine too! I need to tell my followers this! Smile~!" They're blinded for a second by the bright light of a camera before they go back to the two rabbit boys arguing.

"You're always late!" Ace yells at the navy haired boy, whose ears flop against his head as his face flushes a bright red.

"I wouldn't be any more if you didn't break my pocketwatch!" He yells.

"Wait- late for what?" Mc interrupts, cutting off Ace before he can make the situation worse.

"The Queen has a croquet match today!" Deuce says, sighing. "And I was supposed to introduce the opponents-"

#twisted wonderland #ace trappola #deuce spade #riddle rosehearts #twst scenarios #trey clover #jade leech #floyd leech #cater diamond #chenya #twst fanfic #rook hunt #vil schoenheit #epel felmier

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dcbbw · 4 years

Note

Would you ever write a possible intimate scene between Riley & Drake to be interrupted by Liam

@texaskitten30, I see you asking the hard questions! I had to think on this because @ao719 did something similar in her Homecoming story. I also didn’t want to replicate my Commoner’s Wife series where Drake catches Liam and Riley in the act. But I think I twisted my thoughts enough to present something somewhat original. It varies slightly from what you asked, so I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to pre-readers in whole and in part @burnsoslow and @sirbeepsalot

Story below the cut.

This fic is slightly NSFW.

Riley Brooks smiled at the man seated across the table from her. She sipped her wine as he spooned some Portvarian seafood chowder into his mouth. Her eyes fell to her plate, filled with Cordonian chicken salad. She wasn’t happy that the chicken was cubed and not shredded; she was downright displeased that slices of Cordonian Ruby littered the salad. Riley loathed the nation’s signature apple; she found its texture mushy and thought it tasted vinegary.

But her host didn’t know that. No one did. Not her friends, not her husband. Riley was good at adapting to situations.

When in Rome …

She saw the man wince as he reached for a warm, buttered croissant and she looked at him in concern.

“Is it your shoulder?”

The man nodded. “The bullet wound has healed; it only bothers me when it’s cold or about to rain.”

He didn’t elaborate and Riley did not comment. They both knew who he took the bullet for.

Riley smiled. It was a balmy day in the Mediterranean, with bright sunshine and a brilliant blue sky. The pair were sharing lunch on an outdoor patio. “Well, it’s neither cold nor cloudy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you certain the wound is fully healed?”

The man nodded as he bit into his roll. “Doctor gave me a clean bill of health last week.”

Riley ate some chicken salad; she was surprised that the bitterness of the apple complemented the chicken. She nodded in approval and licked her lips before taking a hefty forkful. Greek yogurt, onions, celery, red peppers, and the astringent taste of the apple exploded across her tastebuds

“I didn’t think the apple would pair so well!” she said, her tone surprised.

“The American varieties go well with pork, the ruby is poultry’s best friend.” The man looked up from his chowder filled with clams, shrimp, crabmeat, oysters, and root vegetables. “You haven’t mentioned your husband.”

Riley toyed with her food. “That’s why I’m here. He’s away; traveling for business.”

Her companion looked at her thoughtfully. “When are you going to accept Duchy Valtoria?”

Riley shook her head. “I have enough titles.”

“Accepting the duchy would make things more … convenient.”

“The cabin is fine.”

“I’ll make the arrangements then.”

Riley snickered as she raised an eyebrow. “Make the arrangements?”

The man shrugged. “Hey, it needs a cleaning. We both know that.”

Three days later, Riley and the man were in the bedroom of the cabin. Both were naked. The man hissed at the feel of soft lips on his now-healed wound. His fingers raked through hair before drifting down to ghost shoulder blades.

“I love you.” The words tickled his skin.

He tilted his head down to capture lips in his; stubble scraped his cheek. “I love you more, Drake” Liam breathed when the kiss ended.

It was supposed to be just another ball. Court had just returned from the Engagement Tour, and King Liam was to present his betrothed to Court and crown Lady Riley, the House Beaumont sponsee, the newest Duchess of Valtoria.

Until the bombing. Until the assassins. Countess Madeleine, the Queen-to-Be, had been rushed from the ballroom right before the bomb detonated; Liam had joined the King’s Guard in fending off the attack at the entryway to the ballroom. While security hauled the intruders away, Liam scanned the ballroom.

It was dark, smoke-filled, and filled with chaos as nobles scattered for safety. Amidst the screams and stampeding, he saw Lady Riley standing alone, her champagne glass still in her hand as pandemonium erupted around her. Her ball gown billowed around her as she stared straight ahead; she was frozen in shock.

Liam’s eyes continued to look around.

Where is he?

And then he saw him. Drake was pulling on Riley’s arm, trying to lead her to safety but she was a standing dead weight. Liam rushed over to lead his lover to safety; his eyes widened when he saw the hooded figure in black armed with a gun appear in front of Drake and Riley.

Liam feinted to the right to approach the attacker from the side. He saw the attacker raise his gun, the barrel pointed directly at Riley’s forehead.

“DRAKE!” the King shouted over the din. “Push Riley out of the way and DUCK!”

Drake didn’t look around to find Liam; rather, he followed instructions and pushed Riley backward with all his might. She was knocked into Rashad Domvallier. Drake found himself face to face with the gun’s barrel when the shot rang out. He didn’t even have time to panic. But he felt nothing as Liam sailed in front of him, catching the bullet in his shoulder.

The King was praised a hero for saving the future Queen and his childhood friend. Only Liam and Drake knew the truth of their relationship, until Riley saw them at a Beaumont Bash, groping and kissing desperately in a corner of a deserted room. Feeling her stare, Drake’s eyes opened, and he tore himself away from Liam.

The Lady raised a knowing eyebrow before rejoining her date, Rashad Domvallier.

Life went on: There was a royal wedding, where the both the groom and best man got shit-faced drunk and stumbled off to disappear somewhere. Rashad proposed to Riley, who accepted. On their wedding day, everyone congratulated the businessman and future Duchess.

Rashad packed for a business trip on their wedding night.

It was inevitable that Riley, Drake, and Liam would become close. Liam was stuck in a lifestyle he didn’t want. Riley was stuck was in a marriage of one; she and Rashad had spent a total of eight days together in six months of marriage. Drake had to hide his love. Riley couldn’t share or express hers.

But none of them wanted to cheat.

Liam and Drake belonged to each other, and Riley was in love with her husband. She could not and would not hold resentment over him providing her a lavish lifestyle. The trio began socializing: courtly events, public outings, sitting around getting drunk off liquor and laughing uproariously at jokes.

One afternoon, after seeing Rashad off at the airport yet again, Riley stopped by Drake’s cabin to see if he wanted to go to the Beer Garden for cheeseburgers and brews. She knew Drake never locked his door unless it was dark, or he was away. It was noon and his truck was in the driveway. Riley knocked once and entered. She heard noises in the kitchen and saw the King on his knees, his eyes closed in bliss. Drake’s cock was in his mouth, Drake’s fingers in his hair.

So it hadn’t been a drunken one-off thing.

The Commoner had his back pressed against a wall, his breathing heavy and uneven. His hips bucked against the royal’s face. Riley’s eyes traveled down to Liam’s cock, stiff and erect. She smirked a little to herself.

Crown jewels, indeed.

So caught up in each other, the men didn’t hear Riley’s intrusion. Quietly, she walked over to the kitchen table and sat in a hard, wooden chair and watched the two lovers. Her breath hitched when she heard Drake’s low groans as Liam squeezed his ass. Her fingers drifted across her blouse, pinching her encased nipples when she heard Liam slurp around Drake’s cock, his tongue dragging along the underside of the shaft. Her legs spread when Drake grabbed fistful of Liam’s hair and began face fucking the country’s leader. She moaned when her fingertips edged under the lace of her panties and flicked against her clit.

Drake heard her; his eyes were wide as he pushed Liam away from his groin. “FUCK! BROOKS! What are you doing?”

“Don’t stop.” Riley’s voice was low and aching with need.

Liam grinned up at Drake. “Does the lady want a show, love?”

“The lady wants an orgasm!” Riley said as her fingers continued to play in her pussy.

Riley sat in the chair in the corner of the bedroom, watching the lovers kiss. She pressed the tip of her vibrator against her erect nipples. Liam and Drake paid her no attention as they stretched out on the bed, lips and tongues nipping and kissing exposed skin.

None of them heard the car pull up, nor the vehicle door close.

Outside the cabin, the Queen adjusted her dress and pushed her sunglasses further up on her nose. Every inch of Madeleine was elegance and poise. She was starkly out of place in the rural environment she reluctantly found herself in, but her husband wasn’t answering his phone. The French Prime Minister wanted to speak to the Cordonian King about partnering on a trade agreement. Madeleine offered to speak on her country’s behalf, but the French dignitary insisted that Liam be on the call.

The best Madeleine could do was re-schedule the call. And demand Bastien take her to where her husband was.

She looked around in disdain; why Liam insisted on spending so much time with Drake was beyond her. Her eyebrow raised at Lady Riley’s vehicle parked beside Drake’s truck. Her eyes narrowed. She knew Liam was fond of the future Duchess of Domvallier; the question was: how fond?

There were whispers of the King possibly having an affair with Riley with Drake being their beard.

Standing just a touch taller and straighter, Madeleine headed for the front door.

Today, I find out.

Tagging: @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @katedrakeohd @jovialyouthmusic @hopefulmoonobject @amomentofsinclairity @ao719 @burnsoslow @marietrinmimi @annekebbphotography @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @sanchita012 @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @cinnamonspongecake @lifeaskim @starrystarrytrouble @liamandneca @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight

#kinda long post #slightly ns*w #dcbbw answers #would you ever ask #I am an extra kind of chick #it’s a yes or no ask

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automated-life · 3 years

Text

youtube

TW - s*icide indications, trauma, blood mention

Will it set me free...?

“Lately I've been feeling so ashamed… By these thoughts I'm hiding in my brain”

Sitting alone up top her ship, breeze flowing through her hair and letting it flow through, giving it flight. The null silence engulfs her. Knees up to her chest as a lonesome, ruby eye looks out over the horizon watching the waves sway gently and whistle. The lone girl up top her ship stares blankly, not a single emotion crosses her face as she is left alone with her thoughts and pain.

'Cause I've been holding them down but they twist me violently… I'm hanging by a thread tonight but this time I don't wanna be saved”

Metal arms wrapping the one flesh and one metal knee of the girl, holding them close to her chest and her chin resting upon them as she watches the waves. The sun setting slowly behind her, time ticking by and every moment is a moment alone. The girl sitting alone reliving over and over again in her head, the pain and suffering she has gone through. Letting it empower her mind and not doing a single thing to fight it, letting it take over.

“So let me fall, let me break Under everything unsaid Just let me die 'cause I can't take Living with what's in my head”

Tonight it was one of those nights. Her crew either fast asleep, in the process of getting ready for bed, or doing their own thing. It was the girls turn on look out watch for the night, which never ended up being a good thing. Being left alone with no one but your mind. Letting go of her knees, the girl grabbed the nearby blanket and draped it over her shoulders, wrapping it around her knees as she brought them back up to her chest and held them close with those metal limbs once more.

“If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me Will it set me free?”

Those metal limbs are a constant reminder of the biggest regret the girl had. Letting power hungry men control, abuse and use her to get what they wanted and rip her of rights and the ability to be human. Lifting a hand slowly, she looked at the nooks, crannys and joints that made up the piece before her. Curling her fingers slowly, they creaked a little indicating they needed a little TLC, but the girl was too tired to do so. Opening her hand, she took another look at it. If this was flesh, would she be who she is today? Or would she be someone different? Would she have gone through what she did? And would she be wanting to end it all like she wants to right now?

“What's the point of holding on like this? When no one seems to care if I exist”

The last thing she remembers feeling… the last time she felt texture, firmness, weight.. Was picking up a wrench. It was hefty, top heavy, and cold too. Oh how she longed to be able to feel things again. Wanting to pet a cat and feel how soft their fur was, warm her hands up by a fire with her crew on those cold winter island nights. Holding hands with someone again, feeling the touch of skin, hair and even clothing she missed. Clenching her metal hand, she gripped to the blanket over her shoulders and pulled it over her body more to keep in the heat. Her eye closed as she began to imagine.

“There is no agony like being strong when no one knows you're sick So sick of hearing I should stay when I know I would never be missed”

A cheerful child she was. Bright, bubbly and very optimistic. The world, her oyster and her island allowed her to be who she wanted to be. With some many options and opportunities to be anything she wanted, it was no wonder the girl loved her home. Scientists, mechanics and researchers alike all loved her. The little girl prodigy they called her. Rising star in the world of cybernetics and being the islands first to break the barrier between human and robot technology and create it into one form. It was clear this girl was going to be one of the top, along the likes of Dr Vegapunk and his team.

“So let me fall, let me break Under everything unsaid Just let me die 'cause I can't take Living with what's in my head”

Blood… all she could see was blood. Sprawled out bodies of the ones who meant the most to her. The little girl froze in the moment as she stared at the scene before her… scared, horrified and intimidated, she didn’t know what to do. Out her trance broke the sound of a voice. A voice belonging to her mother. ‘Mama and papa love you Rhea… don’t ever forget’ then a thud. Opening her eye, the raven shuddered, remembering that particular memory. It was a recurring nightmare leaving her with sleepless nights and tearful mornings. The scar across her stomach, a constant reminder of her failure to save them...

“If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me”

If she surrendered now, would they meet her once again? Would they recognise their little girl? The girl didn’t know what to think, would she even want to meet her parents again after all she’s done. Would she even recognise them? The hazy memories she has of their faces and features remained locked up in her mind, never revealing themselves and letting the nightmares keep occurring. If she surrendered, would she be free of this pain she’s experiencing. Would she be finally able to rest and relax? Who knows unless she decides to pull the trigger. On her hip resides her weapon. Was it a good idea to come up here with such a thing within easy reach when feeling like this, who knows at this point.

“If you could see under my skin You'd realize why I hold it in Why it's a fight I don't wanna win Why it's a fight I don't wanna win If you could see all my abuse”

A tear flowing down her cheek as she continued to look out over the horizon. Then another… and another. The silent tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped onto the blanket, soaking it a little. Will these tears stop? Closing her eye once more, this time a different memory engulfed her. She was now inside a laboratory. Four walls encasing her with the exception of one small window attached to the only door to the room. It was locked tight with no room to escape. The girl curled up alone in a corner, shivering and wasting away.

“And spent a day inside my shoes You'd realize why I just wanna lose You'd realize why I just wanna lose Will anyone believe the hell of being me Before I decide to be the dying proof?”

Dragged out by her hair. It was easy, there was nothing of the girl. Skin, bones and metal. No muscle on her, malnourished and weak, she could barely stand without tipping to the side. Her leg had just been removed and replaced with a metal replacement. This wasn’t the first time, but more had been cut off. Are they going to do the same with the other? Drugs, torture and abuse was a daily thing. It was almost a routine in the end. It took the girl months to get out of it once she was freed. It scared her saviour, but did he really care about her? Or was it a ploy to get her to trust again to just throw it aside and use her for profit again.

“So let me fall, let me break Under everything unsaid Just let me die 'cause I can't take Living with what's in my head”

Opening her eye, a few more tears flowed down her cheek, wetting the blanket more. Keeping her gaze out towards the sea, the metal hand grabbed the gun sat upon her hip and held it before her eye. Looking at it with little thought and wondering if she should pull the trigger. Would it be better for everyone if she was gone? One less pirate out there to chase, one less mouth out there to feed… One less person to love. The girl held the gun under her chin, finger hovering over the trigger, but not on it. If this trigger is pulled, her life would be over and she’d be pain free. But if she pulled the trigger, would those she’s helped along the way miss her? That's if they still remember her…

“If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me If I surrender, surrender To the monsters in me”

The sun began to rise. Time had gotten past her, the night time slowly turning to day as she contemplated the last possible move of her life. Hearing a door open and footsteps, the raven looked down and saw blonde hair, a matching eyepatch to hers and a white coat. Her saviour. The man who risked his life to save hers, then nurse her back to health. If she pulled this trigger, his hard work would go to waste. Lowering the gun and placing it back on her hip. Wiping the tear stains off of her cheek. The girl stood up and folded the blanket up and tucked it away before descending the crows nest to head to her quarters. Is her life really worth living? Who knows but her. The past, she cannot change, the future she can. But right now in the present, her life is a gift and she should live it to its fullest. Maybe that man did more than save a life…

"Will it set me free?"

#Will it set me free? - short song story #Rhealyn deals with her trauma #TW - s*icide mentions #TW - Blood mentions #TW - trauma mentions #Song - If I surrender by Citizen Soldier #Youtube

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queenbirbs · 4 years

Text

surrender | Edward Mortemer x f!MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x Elena McTavish

Word count: 7.5k+

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: N*FW

AN: In the words of Kacey Musgraves: I’m alright with a slow burn. But when you want to speed it up a little, that’s what fics are for, right? Takes place pre-chapter nine and also kind of skirts around the very end of chapter eight.

**Re-post due to my dumb ass trying to edit the original on mobile and it wiped the whole damn thing. Cool. Cool cool cool.

“Good evening, Miss McTavish?”

The words aren’t so much of a greeting as a question. It’s silly, then, that her breath catches a little. She hides it with a stretch, raising her arm above her head and letting out a throaty noise of content when her spine lengthens. Dropping back onto her heels, she watches Edward finish his ascent up to the crow’s nest where she stands watch.

“Nothing but sea and sky,” Elena replies.

“Aye, should be more of the same on through ‘til morning.”

He settles at his preferred spot, just a few feet from her. She wouldn’t be surprised if his boots have worn divots into the wood from the amount of time he spends up here.

“I’m no Al Roker, but I’d say the nice weather will continue. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever.” She tips her head to the side and bites down on her lip, trying to pull a script line from her memory. “What’s that saying, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight’?”

“Al Roker?” he repeats the name, his brow furrowed.

“He’s... a person who predicts the weather. Sort of.”

Edward’s gaze flickers from the sea to her, and then back again, huffing out a short laugh.

“It seems that you speak another language, sometimes.”

“Comes with the territory, I suppose.” Elena shrugs. “What with being a twenty-first century transplant and all.”

She doesn’t miss the quick search he does of the ship below, looking out for any wayward pirates with curious ears, but she knows, just as well as he does, that most everyone is tucked away in the galley below deck. The only other soul around is Maggie back at the helm, who makes a show of feigning interest towards the starboard to give them more privacy.

“I hope you don’t find me rude, that I still don’t know what to make of your… claims.”

“No offense taken,” she assures with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “I thought about what I would do if someone suddenly appeared in my house, claiming they were from your time.”

“And what would you do?”

“Call the cops and then threaten to sick my dog on them.”

“The dog wearing the life preserver?” he lifts a single eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Aye, a truly terrifying sight to be sure.”

“Was that a joke?” she asks, her eyes wide as she makes a show of looking him over.

“You didn’t care for the one about falling in battle, so I thought I’d try out another.”

“Not bad. But I wouldn’t give up your day job quite yet.”

Edward hums his agreement and turns his sights on the ocean before them. Elena understands why he enjoys being up here -- she likens him to a king, high in his tower, or a lion, perched atop his rock; all the world is an oyster from such a height.

Tipping her head up, she takes in the night sky’s view. With little to no light pollution, especially this far out at sea, the stars come out in droves. The Milky Way is a cloudy, violet river that commandeers the horizon. It’s almost dizzying, the amount of stars visible, layers upon layers of them blooming across the sky. Elena’s never seen anything like it. Even when she and her sister would skip their Friday classes, drive up to the nearby state park, and spend the weekend up there, pretending they knew how to camp.

She thinks of the text on her phone from Gabby and the plans they were in the process of making for her to come visit Elena in Los Angeles. When she dropped out of college to follow her dream, the few family she remained in contact with ceased their feeble attempts at communication. When she made it to LA (or, rather, to the one-room hovel she could barely afford), Gabby was the only person on the other end of the line, trying her best to cheer her up. The pang of loss strikes her hard, somewhere behind her ribs. Other than her sudden departure from the set, Gabby might be one of the only people that notices her disappearance -- which is kind of sad, when Elena thinks about it, given that her sister still lives back in Austin.

That thought launches a thousand others. How long has she been gone? Is time moving at the same speed in the future? Is she even going to make it back home?

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Edward’s voice jolts her from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she agrees, clearing her throat of the emotions that clog it. The railing is steady below her hands; she clings to it, trying to ground herself as best she can.

“Tis... not the same, where you’re from?”

“Where I live, it’s hard to see this many. I feel like if I could get a little bit higher, I could almost touch them.”

Edward looks back to the east, where the moon hangs low in the sky.

“I don’t see why not,” he murmurs, making a show of leaning close to continue, “if what you say about the moon is true.”

“The stars are a lot farther. And the moon isn’t exactly suitable to live on. At least, not right now. Or,” she pauses, her lips twisting into a grimace, “well, not in my time, it’s not.”

“I’m glad, then, that I’ve made the sea my home.”

If his words are tinged with melancholy, Elena doesn’t mention it. Though she could encourage him to elaborate, she doesn’t want to ruin this peaceful moment. The thought brings with it the memory of their afternoon swim: of his arm wrapped tight around her waist, of the hungry look in his eyes as he took his fill, of the ache in her chest when their moment was broken by the need to surface.

The crystal-clear, turquoise water of the cove brought its own reminder of the summer before her sophomore year of college. It was Gabby’s idea to use their open water diving certifications for something other than taking up space in their wallets. Having spent so much time after her gender affirming surgery entertaining herself with shipwreck documentaries, she booked the trip to the Florida Keys, flights and all, before informing Elena -- in typical Gabby fashion.

“I would never get tired of the views, that’s for sure,” Elena sighs. “Or the constant opportunity to explore whatever island I sailed upon. Like that tiny island we stopped at, I would love to dive there, spend some time exploring underwater.”

Glancing over, she spots Edward’s furrowed brow; she sifts through what little historical knowledge she has of diving. Have those weird, space-age looking suits even been invented yet?

“Sometimes, Miss McTavish, I wonder if I have not happened upon a selkie, with the things you claim.”

“Selkie?” she repeats, rolling the word around in her head, but recognition never comes.

“Aye, a creature of myth, though some people believe they do exist. My mother used to tell me stories when I was little, of the women who came from the sea. Once they reach dry land, they shed their seal skin and transform into a human.”

“So... kinda like a mermaid?”

Edward tips his head in consideration. “In a way. But selkies are usually considered to be gentler. Unless their seal skin is stolen, they favor their time spent among humans. And, when they tire of us, they return to their skin and resume their life under the sea.”

“That sounds sad, in a way. But I promise I went down in a diving suit, not a seal skin.”

“I’ve heard rumors coming out of England, of a man who salvaged sunken ships by trapping himself inside of a barrel. I assume that is not what ye mean, though.”

“No, not in a barrel,” she grins, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I can show you, though, if you’d like to see.”

“Ah, the black box of witchery.”

He moves closer as he speaks, though, clearly interested in taking another look at it. If he was truly frightened of it, she supposes, he could just lob it into the sea. Her grip tightens on the phone at the thought.

Navigating to her photos, she taps at the folder (embarrassingly titled we’re in miami bitch!!) and turns the phone so the images can expand into greater detail.

“Some of these I took with a disposable camera, so they aren’t the best,” she laments, swiping her thumb across the screen every few seconds. “But my sister -- she has this fancy underwater housing, so her pictures are nice and clear. I would message her for more, but I don’t think Verizon has that great of service.”

She can’t help but chuckle at her own bad joke. Edward, it seems, couldn’t care less -- entranced as he is by the colorful images of the coral reefs and the sponges sprouting from the USS Spiegel Grove’s rusted frame.

“These paintings are exquisite.”

“Pictures,” she corrects.

“You say that as if I’m to know what it means,” he counters.

She swipes to a selfie her sister had taken, the image capturing little else but their masks and the blue world around them. The next photo is better: a full-body shot of Elena in her wetsuit and gear, a cloud of bubbles floating above her head. “I suppose this explains you being such a strong swimmer, when you jumped in after Ginny.”

She shrugs at the veiled compliment and returns the phone to her pocket, avoiding his intense look that she can feel burning into the side of her head.

“Well, swimming in thirty-foot waves is a bit different from the calm waters of Key Largo, but thanks.”

Edward reaches down and skims two fingers under her chin. He tips her head up to meet his gaze, his dark eyes flashing with certainty.

“Make no mistake, though: I am to see that you do not perform such a stunt again.”

Elena knocks his hand away; irritation bubbles up inside her, heating her cheeks and neck.

“I wasn’t performing. I’m not the Wonder Twins. And I’d do it again, if Ginny or anyone else went overboard. Even for you.”

His expression sharpens, his mouth twisting into a frown. She crosses her arms across her chest and serves him a look right back. Whatever he’s about to say, she cuts off as she continues, “Just because I haven’t been sailing the high seas or… or crossed swords with some real buccaneers as long as you all have been doesn’t mean I’m not capable. I fought Robert and won -- I even got his fancy-schmancy sword -- and I sailed our ship through a storm, didn’t I? You need to learn to trust me and-- and… why are you smiling?”

The irritation fades from his face in one fell swoop, there and then gone, replaced by a soft smile that he seems to reserve only for her.

“Something you said, Miss McTavish.”

“I said a lot of things,” she points out. Despite the opening she leaves dangling for him, he doesn’t elaborate. She’s not sure why she expected him to; the man is stubborn to a fault. “Okay, fine. You can keep your charming and mysterious act. You certainly have it down pat.”

“As you do with your… turns of phrase.”

The tension between them cools, aided by the winds that blow towards them from the north. Elena settles at his side once more, the railing at her back. He gives a cursory glance over the horizon.

“You know,” she says, “I realized today that I never said thank you.”

“For what?” he returns his sights to her, curiosity warming his eyes.

“For getting me the hell off the Admiral’s ship. I knew he wasn’t a stand-up guy when he shot one of his own men, but knowing what I know now, I’m especially grateful.” She reaches out to touch his wrist, squeezing it for a long beat. Edward brings his other hand up and covers hers. “I know you took a risk, not knowing if I was a navy spy, but you brought me aboard anyway.”

“Even when we made you stand trial to prove such innocence?”

“Do you think I would’ve been given such a chance on his ship?” she asks, her tone thick with sarcasm.

“No, I do not.” Edward’s face darkens for a moment. “A man capable of such depravities would have treated you… terribly, no doubt.”

“Hey, like I said: white dude of high rank in the eighteenth century? He’s got about a two percent chance of not being an awful person.”

“You--” Edward pauses, lowering his voice as he continues, “are things… different, in your time?”

Elena bites at her lip, wondering how much she should divulge about the twenty-first century. Hope works much better if the outcome is still uncertain, and she doesn’t want to dash any he has for his own future.

“Different, sure, but also very much the same. There’s a famous expression: ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ It’s -- let’s just say it’s been accurate more than once or twice.”

“I’ve never heard of such a phrase, but I understand its meaning rather well.”

“And, hey, that’s the second time now that you’ve referred to my ‘situation,’” she marks the term with air quotes. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Edward makes a show of heaving out a sigh. “I am making a valiant effort to do so. Your box certainly helps your case. It -- all of it -- ‘tis still rather wonderful and strange, though.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Edward, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“You’ve read Hamlet?”

“I’m an actor by trade. Of course I’ve read it. And by read it, I mean that Shakespeare’s works were forced on me in every English class in school.”

That gets an exasperated chuckle out of him. She can’t help the smile that forms; she really enjoys the sound of his laughter. For as much as he tries to play up the stoic, unfeeling pirate captain, he seems to lose the battle whenever she’s around. “It’s all right, you know, if you don’t believe me. I know this is kinda crazy.”

The humor on his face is there one second and then gone the next.

“’Tis… not that.”

“Then what is it?”

No answer comes.

“Charlie was right,” she teases, knocking her elbow into his. “You’re really not great at changing the subject.”

That gets her a snort of amusement, but nothing more. Before she can prod, a cold gust of wind sings through the rigging, whipping up past them and sending her hair into disarray. Despite the residual heat of the sun-warmed railing, Elena can’t help but shiver, and hugs herself to conserve what little heat she can. Edward wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, his hand running up and down her back with gentle strokes. Her heartbeat quickens at the gesture, now familiar since he helped pull her up out of the raging waters.

“I apologize, Miss McTavish. I shouldn’t have kept you up here so long. You should go down to the galley -- you missed dinner, after all, while on watch. Can’t have you on a chameleon diet. And you’ll be much warmer down there.”

Elena shakes her head and reaches up, placing a hand on the warm plane of his chest where his shirt parts. His breath catches under her palm.

“No, I’m alright. I’m glad you were the next on lookout duty, actually. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you really think the Admiral cares about getting his property back?” Edward’s body tenses under her touch; she shoves down the wiry ball of nerves in her stomach at the movement. “That lieutenant I ran into, he didn’t mention anything about--”

“Need I remind you of what I promised on our walk from the mayor’s estate?” he interrupts.

Confusion sweeps through her. Elena quirks her head to the side, trying to connect the dots between that conversation and her current fears. “You are no man’s property,” he spits, his voice gone rough from obvious fury. “And for as long as you are here, you are under my protection.”

The wave of realization hits her.

“I was, uh, talking about the compass.”

“Ah.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. The hard line of his shoulders softens. “I… see.”

“But it was interesting, to say the least, to see you puff up like that. I’m sure it would make any other lass swoon. I mean,” she lifts her hand from his chest and holds her thumb and pointer finger inches apart, “I was this close.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Aye, I’d pay top coin to see you swoon.”

“I can think of a few things you could do to make that happen,” she teases.

Edward takes her hand in his and drops a kiss to her knuckles. Before that familiar swell of longing in her chest can rise, though, he shakes his head.

“I will not risk it.”

“You would sail your ship into every storm across the Caribbean, but this,” Elena glances down to their entwined hands, “you won’t take a chance on?”

“That should tell you how serious I am.”

“I can’t follow your line of thinking, Edward. Do you think the Admiral will suddenly know? That he’s some omniscient god, overseeing all that goes on?”

“People are fond of gossip.”

“Who? What people? Because if it’s the crew, I trust them with my life, just like you do, and I don’t--”

“Not them. But anywhere we’d go, we’d have eyes on us -- eyes that could report back to the Admiral. And if we were -- there would be no world where I wouldn’t want to have you by my side.”

“But we--”

“Jealousy is a hideous trait to have, but I’m afraid I would not be able to stop it from affecting my actions. I’ve seen the people at port, the way they flirt with you.” Edward frowns at the dark sea ahead. “You don’t think I wouldn’t challenge anyone who tried to -- to woo you? I would not be able to stand idle while--”

Elena barks out the short laugh she’s been holding in. “What is so humorous?”

“Because you already do all that.”

Self-awareness rushes in like the tide, flooding his brain. His jaw goes slack, as does his hand in hers, before he collects himself. Elena feels pinned under those eyes of his. She watches them drop down to her lips before returning to her gaze.

“May I?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Aye, of course.”

He starts to say more -- probably a long-winded explanation about his gentlemanly values -- but she’s waited too long for this to be delayed another second. Elena leans up and silences him with a kiss. He doesn’t turn and flee, like she expects; when he breaks the kiss for air, she gets but a second to collect her own breath before his lips return to hers. She hums her encouragement when he lets go of her hand to sink his fingers into the loose wave of her hair.

His lips, cold from the ocean breeze, warm under hers. Elena finds that his kisses are exactly like him: brash, and quick, and intoxicating, with the slightest hint of steel. When she draws her tongue against him, she can taste spiced rum and saltwater. He growls from the deep well of his throat when she bites down on his heavy, bottom lip. His arm cinches tight around her waist and hauls her against him; their bodies meet in a delicious roll of pressure.

“Miss -- Miss McTavish--”

“Elena,” she corrects, her hand skating up his back, searching for purchase so she can drag him closer.

“Elena.”

His breath is hot against her skin where his lips trace the line of her jaw. The world dips and sways suddenly, the railing digging into her back. She clings to him when the sensation of weightlessness shoots up her spine.

It takes her a moment to register that it's only the ship underneath them, crossing over a rough wave. Concerned that she’ll end up pitching over to the deck eighty feet below, he picks her up and spins until her back meets the mast. Elena reaches for the lapels of his coat, but he’s faster, and snatches her hands in one of his and pins them above her head.

“I have dreamed of this,” he murmurs, skimming the pads of his callused fingers along her throat, his mouth trailing behind with fervent, open-mouthed kisses.

She swallows back the moan that wants to form. A shiver dances under her skin, now damp from his attention.

“I have too,” she admits with a sigh. “Except mine deserve an NC-17 rating.”

“You know I don’t understand what that--”

“I certainly fuckin’ can!” someone shouts from below.

The wonderful spell they’ve found themselves under shatters. The voice might as well have been a gunshot, with the way Edward leaps back from her. Elena mourns the loss of his mouth on her as she adjusts her waistcoat and smooths down her hair.

Flipping and tumbling their way across the deck, Ada and Ax continue their argument about who can reach the top of the main mast first. Charlie, Jonas, and Ginny trail behind them, wagering their bets. Maggie’s thick accent carries across the ship, telling them off for circusing about, and ordering them to stay away from the rigging.

It’s not as if their tryst could have continued much longer, Elena considers, given that the crow’s nest wasn’t exactly a secluded spot. The twins make a good show of pouting, but eventually head for their quarters, Ginny giggling as Ax twirls her round.

“Maggie deserves a raise,” Elena tells him.

“Because she knows how dangerous ‘tis for them to be climbing about with no light?”

“Because she knows they would’ve caught us up here, making out like a pair of horny teenagers.”

“Ah. You--” his hand lifts in an aborted move towards her before he redirects it through his tousled hair. “--you should get down to the galley. I’m sure Henry is waiting on you, by now.”

“Okay,” she says, because it’s the only thing to say. Swinging down onto the rope ladder, Elena starts to descend but pauses, peeking over the railing to catch his eye. “But don’t think this conversation between us is over.”

“Aye.” A wry grin flickers across his face. “I know much better than to assume that.”

Edward is right -- about the food, at least.

When she makes it down to the galley, Henry sits her down with a covered plate. Well, as covered as it can be with the dirty rag he’s thrown over it. She’s learned not to make a fuss, though, especially to the man cooking the food.

“Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”

“Took ye long enough,” Henry huffs, but makes a show of looking over his shoulder at her. His face, streaked with ash that he sifts with a makeshift poker, makes it easier to spot his sly grin. “Find somethin’ interestin’ up there, hmm?”

“I was distracted by the view.” Which is the truth, although she doesn’t include that Edward’s lips were part of said view.

“Nothin’ beats a clear night at sea, to be sure.” Swinging the stove door shut with a satisfied grunt, he jerks his chin towards a small barrel on the nearby shelf. “Charlie made some punch, if ye want more’n water to wash yer food down.”

She shakes her head; she’d made the mistake once of drinking their ‘punch.’ It put the jungle juice she drank back at college parties to shame. Charlie now called it Caribbean moonshine, thanks to Elena and her fiery round of swearing after taking a sip.

With the comforting noise of Henry’s humming as he cleans up, she takes a seat on the tin-lined floor and eats her dinner. Not for the first time, she notes Maggie’s touch in the confined space. Fitted across the shelves are iron bars to keep the contents from taking a tumble in rough waters. Tied round the necks of bottles with twine, scraps of parchment label each oil and spice in her spidery handwriting.

“I worked up a new dessert for ye to try, if ye’d like.” He produces a bowl of something that might come out the other end of her garbage disposal back home. Elena inspects the concoction with interest. “I boiled some hard tack in a little bit o’ rum and brown sugar, and then boiled mangoes with some sugar to mix in with it.”

“Ooh, like a compote?”

“Aye, sorta.”

In another world, three hundred some-odd years in the future, she could easily imagine Henry with a cafe or food truck, selling ‘deconstructed desserts’ and other kitschy items. Scooping up a sample, she’s surprised at the delicious flavor of it. The enjoyment on her face must be obvious, because a grin appears behind the ash. “Good, init?”

“Really good! Except, and this is going to sound weird, but maybe add a pinch of lime juice? I think it would really bring out the sweetness of the mango more.”

“Yer right, lass. That might do. And then maybe I can finally get the others to try it.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” she promises after sampling another portion. “Unless I die of food-poisoning tonight, and then you’re shit outta luck.”

Henry shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “Edward’d have my head first.”

“Did he at least try it?”

“I doubt he would’ve, if he’d come down for dinner at all. Too busy broodin’ in his cabin, I suspect.”

Elena hands off her empty plate when he motions for it. Curiosity, instead of hunger, gnaws at her insides.

“Can I take this with me?” she gestures to the bowl in her hands.

“Aye, have the rest of it -- and see if ye can convince the cap’n to get in a few bites, hmm?”

She doesn’t bother asking him how he knows where she’s going; the rest of the crew isn’t as blind as Edward claims them to be. “But if ye break it, yer buyin’ me a new one.”

“Deal. Thanks, Henry!”

Elena climbs up to the deck carrying her pilfered bowl.

From where she’s manning the wheel, Charlie throws her a two-fingered salute from the bridge. High overhead, Jonas wishes her goodnight from his post in the crow’s nest. Grateful that she won’t have to try holding onto the bowl while climbing up the rope ladder, she continues on towards the stern.

“What can I do for you, Miss McTavish?” Edward asks before his door is fully open.

“How’d you know it was me?”

He shoots her a deadpan look. Moving aside to allow her entry, he shuts the door behind her.

“No one else would dare bother a captain’s sleep, lest there was an emergency.”

“Henry told me you skipped dinner, so I brought you something to eat.” Elena gestures to the bowl in her hand. Stepping close to give it a thorough once-over, Edward grimaces.

“I will take my chances with starvation.”

“Hey,” she scolds, “it isn’t that bad.”

He does a double-take between her and the food. “You ate it?”

“In college, I once ate stale Wheat Thins drizzled with an expired bottle of honey mustard. And before you say anything,” she holds up a hand to stop the statement she knows is coming, “I know you don’t know what either of those are, but trust me: it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“And this bowl of slop is better than that?”

“If it weren’t, would I be forcing you to eat it?”

He mutters something under his breath, too faint for her to catch, but seems to concede. After a brief hesitation, he takes the bowl and spoon she offers him and shovels in a mouthful of the mixture. His eyebrows pinch down at the initial taste, and then lift in bewilderment.

“Not bad, right?”

“Not… horrible, no.” He sounds just as surprised as he looks. “This is one dessert of Henry’s that I may live to tell the tale of.”

“Good. But that’s not the only reason I came.”

“Aye, would it have anything to do with continuing our conversation from earlier?”

“All that time, Robert was accusing me of being a witch, but here you are, able to read minds.”

Edward gives a soft snort at that, collapsing into his chair. The desk in front of him is littered with maps and parchments and various trinkets. Elena crosses the room and comes round the side of the desk, taking in the starry view from the windows. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the spoon swirl round and round in the gruel as he assesses her.

“Ye would’ve been a good jester, Miss McTavish, in a previous life.”

“It’s just us,” she murmurs. “You can drop the surname.”

“No, I can’t.” The grief in his voice is as clear as a bell. “In another life, yes, but here--”

“--here,” she interrupts, turning at the waist to study him, “in your cabin, alone. Not even then?”

Edward sets the bowl down onto the desk and glares at the floorboards. “We can’t let our emotions cloud our judgement.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she lifts a single brow at his attempt to backtrack.

“Says the man hell-bent on playing cat-and-mouse with an enemy to exact revenge on him for something he clearly feels guilty about? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

His gaze shoots up to her, those dark eyes of his flashing in the candlelight. “That phrase I indeed do know.”

“Then you should know that you can’t kiss me like the world is ending, and then shoe-horn me back into a neat, little box, Captain Mortemer.” Elena doesn’t see it coming, she’ll admit that. She’s too busy ranting at the starry night, too pissed off with the man beside her, too afraid she’ll lose the runaway train of her thoughts if she focuses on him and sees all the emotions he claims to be above, all that longing and heartache and desire, painted across his face. “Since you’re so insistent on using surnames to avoid--”

In the second it takes her to draw a breath, Edward surges out of his chair and crosses to her. In the next, his lips are on hers. That passion she saw the mere beginnings of up in the crow’s nest roars with intensity. He cups her cheek and tilts her head just so, deepening the kiss; she can taste the mango’s sweetness on his tongue.

All at once, he pulls away. She mourns the loss of him with a quiet moan.

“My -- my apologies. I’m--”

Before he can worry himself into the ground with another fit of propriety, Elena holds up a finger to his lips.

“Stop being so polite and kiss me again.”

That familiar grin breaks free, lighting up his face with a naked delight that sends her heart racing.

“As you command.”

His mouth claims hers again. A muscled arm circles her waist, one hand splaying wide across her back to pull her close. She comes easily, readily into his embrace. His shirt twists in her hand where she holds on for dear life, parting for a quick breath of air, before diving back in. His other hand strokes a molten path up from her waist, brushing over the beaded point of her nipple. The moan she releases is louder this time, wanting more than anything for him to do it again.

For all his faults, he’s no fool. Sure, he takes his sweet time with it, dragging his fingertips along her collarbone and up into her hair to push the blonde curtain back, but he eventually makes his way back down. Cupping her breast, his thumb rubs circles against her -- even through the layers of lace and cotton, Elena’s breath catches at the immediate flare of pleasure.

Emboldened by her response, Edward backs her up against the cool, glass panes, his mouth leaving hers to suckle at her throat. Elena tips her head back, her lips parting as his stubble prickles against her skin. His thumb works steadily over her and she’s dizzy with the primal need to have him.

Braced by the window behind her, she hooks a leg up and around his ass. He needs no more encouragement to invade the space she’s created, his hips rocking tentatively against hers. Frustrated with the buffer of all her layers, Edward retreats to the buckle at her waist, his eyes searching hers.

“May I?”

Elena swallows to free the words from her throat, but they won’t come; instead, she nods her permission. The belt hits the floor with a thwack. Her waistcoat comes next, which she tosses off with a flourish. Edward captures her hands and tugs off her gloves. Spotting the gleam in his eye, Elena distracts him with a roll of her hips and frees her hands, chuckling when he mutters a curse at her.

“You’re a cunning lass.”

“I can’t wait around for you to strip me of my garments.” Her fingers making quick work of the corset’s laces. “Besides,” she drawls, “between the two of us, I’m probably the one with more experience taking off a lady’s corset.”

His eyebrow raises in response to her claim. The image of her and another tangled together plagues him; his jaw clenches tight at the thought.

“That may be so,” he growls, reaching down for his own shirt and tearing it off, “but it won’t be their names you’ll be calling soon enough.”

Her blood flash boils at the promise. She grabs the hem of her blouse and yanks it up over her head.

“Jealousy is a good look on you,” she teases, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingernail.

Seizing her hand, he laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to her wrist. Goosebumps raise across her skin as his mouth trails from the tendons in her forearm to the curve of her shoulder. Nudging her bra strap down, Edward continues his trek to the rosy flush blooming across her chest.

Not one to play the passive participant, Elena cards a hand through his shoulder-length locks and nudges him down. He takes the cue and moves further south; she whimpers at the wet heat of his mouth closing over the lace of her bra.

“God, stop teasing and--” her gasp echoes across the cabin at the sharp bite of his teeth closing around her nipple. His tongue darts out, soothing any hurt, and turns to lave at her other breast.

Once she regains motor control, Elena unlatches her bra and flings it to what might possibly be the furthest reaches of the universe -- she doesn’t care, as long as Edward will keep doing wondrous things to her with that mouth of his.

“Miss McTavish,” he rumbles, tilting his head to run his stubble along her naked flesh, enjoying the ragged, little noises she makes. “You are well on your way to looking thoroughly ravished.”

Her wandering hand smooths over the tight curve of his ass and grabs hold. She smirks as he bucks up into her.

“Then get on with it, Captain.”

Deft fingers pop the button on her pants and dip down below the waistband. Elena stretches up and rests her bare shoulders against the glass, tipping her hips up to encourage his exploration. She cries out when he slides two fingers inside of her. He gives her a moment to adjust to the intrusion, nuzzling the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I’ve long wondered,” he murmurs, his tongue skimming across the salty sweat of her skin, “what you taste like.”

At the sudden loss of his hand, Elena opens her eyes to tell him off for his teasing -- but her throat goes dry when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. It’s a long moment before her world centers on its axis once more for her to ask.

“How do I taste?”

“Decadent,” he growls.

Crowding against her, he props himself up with one hand spread wide against the window above her head, while his other draws a wet trail down her belly. A short grunt of pleasure sounds from both of them when he slips back inside her.

Elena reaches a shaky hand up to hook around his arm, her nails digging into the muscles there. Arousal clogs her veins like molasses -- slow and syrupy and sinfully sweet. The movement of her hips turns clumsy and erratic. Sweat beads across her forehead as his fingers work her open, the heel of his hand circling her with delicious pressure.

“Edward -- fuck, I--” she cries out.

“Will you come for me?” he asks, his gaze snapping to hers. Desire clouds his eyes, the brown irises eclipsed by the black of his pupils.

“Please--” he cuts off her begging with a kiss.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” she answers with a gasp.

Covering his hand with her own to guide him exactly where she likes, she stretches up for another kiss and grinds down against his hand. The heat inside of her reaches its critical point, flaring to life and scorching through her bloodstream. Clenching tight around him, her hips convulse as she rides out the quake of her orgasm.

Edward slides his fingers out, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head when she whines with oversensitivity. He brings her into his arms, smoothing a hand over her hair as her body shudders with the last of its tremors.

“Fuck,” she sighs, a delirious sort of giggle bubbling up. “Well, how do I look now?”

“Exquisite.”

Leaning down, he captures her lips with a kiss. She blames the blush from her recent orgasm.

“I think it’s my turn, then, to ravish you.”

“We don’t have to--”

Elena silences his gallant protest with a heady kiss, raking one hand through his hair. Her other runs along his side, where she hooks two fingers into his waistband and yanks him closer. Continuing down, she runs the flat of her palm against the obvious sign of his arousal. Edward groans into her mouth; he ropes an arm around her waist and carries her to the desk. With a wide sweep of his arm, he knocks documents and equipment to the floor before depositing her atop it.

“Careful!”

He jerks back at her yelp, casting a worried eye over her form. “Have I harmed you?”

“No, no -- I promised Henry I wouldn’t break his bowl.”

Edward rolls his eyes and grabs the dinnerware before she can reach for it, then tosses it to the floor.

“I will buy him a new one when we stop at the next-- why are you laughing?”

Elena shakes her head at him, avoiding any explanation by dragging his mouth back onto hers. It’s a rather effective technique, as she’s finding out tonight. Their remaining clothes join the messy pile on the floor. Edward huffs a laugh at her threat of injury if he rips her underwear, but seems to heed her words and takes care to drop them onto the desk. Moving into the space between her thighs, he grabs two handfuls of her ass and drags her closer. The soft giggle that sounds from her delights him; he leans down and savors the taste of it on her lips.

Elena’s hand wanders over his stomach and down the trail of coarse hair to take hold of him. He thrusts into her touch with a grunt, choking on an inhale when she twists her wrist on the next upstroke.

“May I have you?” he manages to rasp.

“You may,” she purrs, and guides him to her entrance.

With a surge of his hips, he plunges into the slick heat of her. At her gasp of encouragement, he slips out and then back inside, grinding his teeth against the clench of her. Pleasure is a ripple on the surface, building into a wave that banks higher and higher as they move together. The world outside slips from its perch, losing what little control it has over the confines of the cabin. There is only the two of them, lost in the frantic rocking of their bodies.

A shameless staccato of moans falls from her lips as he fucks her. Edward wraps a fist around a length of hair and pulls her head back, exposing the long line of her throat; he nips at her pulse point and then at her bottom lip, swallowing her cries of pleasure.

“If you shout any louder, the whole ocean’ll hear you,” he playfully scolds.

Spotting her opening, Elena tightens her legs around his hips and digs her heels into his lower back. Retaliation sings its sweet tune as she jerks him forward on top of her, the both of them crashing back onto the desk.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Nay, I would never.”

Edward props himself up with one hand next to her head, his other clamped firmly around her thigh as he drives into her, the angle somehow that much sweeter. “God, but yer a pretty sight, spread underneath me.”

It’s impossible -- that she’s here, that the desk underneath her is scattered with papers that would be considered treasure in her time, would be framed in a museum and ogled by historians. A quill digs into her spine and she’s certain they’ve spilled a pot of ink, but Elena can’t find it in herself to care. If she’s lost in time, then at least she has Edward to guide her through it; her beacon of light, keeping her adrift, illuminating her way through the confusing, treacherous world she’s been transported to.

“Elena,” he gasps, his chest gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. “Elena.”

His hold slips from her thigh and down to where they’re joined, rubbing quick circles against her bundle of nerves. Whatever he’s asking of her, she gladly surrenders. The wave of her climax rushes over her, flooding her veins and drowning her with euphoria.

The sight of her lost in the throes of pleasure is an anchor; he sinks.

Edward curses with his release, collapsing beside her onto the desk. Their sweat-slick bodies heave as they catch their breath. Something catches flame in Elena’s chest and simmers there when he folds her into his embrace, his palm cradling her head against his chest. His heart thunders against her temple.

She sees no better time than now, lying naked in his arms.

“I have a question.”

He hums with what little strength he can gather for her to continue.

“When we were up in the crow’s nest, after discussing our love of Shakespeare--”

“--as I recall,” he interjects, “I am the only one who willingly read his works.”

Elena makes a waving motion with her hand, which would prove more effective if his fingers weren’t laced with hers.

“Whatever. What I want to know is, when I said that it was okay if you didn’t believe me, why that made you…?”

“Disquieted?” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

She can feel the weight of the sigh that empties out of him.

“Because I do believe you. Your mannerisms, your accent, your magic box with its…?”

“Pictures.”

“Pictures, aye. Everything about you should not fit here. But it does, you do. You’ve adapted remarkably well, given what’s happened to you. You are a strong woman, Elena.”

“I would blush, but I’m too tired from our activities.”

He brushes a kiss against the crown of her head and huffs out a laugh.

“Yet, despite how well you’ve adapted, I know that this is not your home. Your true home, that is. I promise you, once we stop the Admiral, I will do everything in my power to send you back home. But, I confess, I will be… terribly upset to see you go.”

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes; she shuts them against the fading candlelight.

“Me too.”

His palm skims up and down the soft skin of her back, marred here and there by the cuts and scrapes from life aboard his ship.

“Stay.”

For a terrifying moment, Elena isn’t sure what he means -- and is terrified all the more that she isn’t sure if she wants to return home, at least not so soon. Realizing that he’s probably (hopefully) meaning for the night, she musters up a reply.

“The crew will talk.”

Edward scoffs. “They do little else.”

Her shoulders shake from her smothered laughter.

“Is this what passes for pillow talk in the eighteenth century?” she wonders aloud, making a show of stretching and enjoying the noise of interest he makes. “But yeah, okay, I’ll stay. I might even make it worth your while.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

References: an LMFAO song (it was between theirs or Will Smith’s “Miami,” but MC skews younger to me, so I went with the former), a line from Peter Pan, the ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it’ is actually a misquote, but I consider it enough of a ref to list it here. There’s a few slang terms from 17th/18th century and various pirate research sprinkled throughout. The USS Spiegel Grove is a real artificial reef, located off the shore of Key Largo. You can dive it with an OWD certification, though it’s recommended to have an AOWD to properly explore it. ~~the more you know~~

Thanks for reading!

#edward x mc #edward mortemer #distant shores #edward x f!mc #playchoices #f: surrender #Kaila writes things #choices

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wildroseofarran · 3 years

Text

Plans for the Future || Captain Issott

Leslie: Leslie dropped another shell in his pocket. Quite a handful after an hour of strolling the beach. Calves and feet hidden behind perfect white sand. His nose was tender but ignored. Another shell gently cleaned and inspected.

Every offense to Regina Lawson was replayed. It was the little things. Forgetting to eat, dismissive of his own meditation. Irritability from his circumstances causing less than pleasant passes. A sharp look. A sigh. A forced smile. Pebbles became mountains. The man he was, was still the man walking the beach.

'The old me is gone,' people say in these situations. A ridiculous notion. People could improve, worsen, but they were the sum of their parts. He could smile now, sober, with the same kind intentions he was raised by, but Gina would forever carry every part of his sum.

Another shell for his pocket. Better to wait today.

Tristan: "You're gonna have me working like a dog, you know that?"

"Blame the mother-in-law for talking them into five courses!" Gina shook her head and handed Tristan a large bag.

Tristan took it and willed his stomach not to growl at the scent wafting from it. "Oh, I do. Gonna charge her out the ass."

Gina laughed. "So am I. Go on and eat that before it gets cold. I'll email you the purchase order."

"'Kay, thanks. See you soon."

Tristan emerged from the inn and immediately scanned the beach for Leslie, feeling decidedly cheerful despite the long hours of work in his future.

He was going to buy Les so many presents.

Leslie: Leslie was but a blond and blue speck in the distance. Rolled up jeans, shoeless, and nearly shirtless. His blue flannel mostly unbuttoned and arguing with the wind. Certainly not suitable for a luncheon. On purpose, of course, to better drive home how unsuitable he was to be there.

Tristan: Not just any speck; that was his speck. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but Tristan swore his eyes went right to Leslie with almost magical speed and accuracy.

He made his way over, stopping only once to pick up a piece of sea glass.

"Hey, sunshine," he called when Leslie was in earshot.

Leslie: A smile to mimic his namesake was given in greeting.

"I've found you a bounty!" he called. Turned to close the distance between them. Various cockle and murex on offer. More coquina than necessary.

Tristan: God, that smile was a beautiful punch to the gut.

"Look at you!" Leslie was greeted with a kiss the second he was close enough. "My fish tanks are gonna look so good."

Leslie: "How did it go?" he asked. Pocketed his findings and began setting himself to rights.

Tristan: “Got the gig and also a king’s ransom of work. Five course meal for one hundred and fifty people.”

Leslie: "All seafood? Really?" Color him impressed.

Tristan: “Only three of them, unless they decide to put fish in the dessert and the salad.”

Leslie: "Shrimp in a salad is delicious, I'll have you know. Scallops are better." Seafood dessert? The idea put a cringe on his face.

"A customer once tried to convince me shrimp and white chocolate go together."

Tristan: Tristan made a face of pure disgust. "Ew, no. It was a tourist, wasn't it?"

Leslie: "One of the first when I started with Myrtle."

Tristan: He shook his head. "That's some nonsense only someone who didn't grow up eating seafood would like."

Leslie: "I can't say I've heard worse."

Tristan: "I don't think anyone has, honestly." Taste couldn't get much worse than mixing seafood and white chocolate.

He held up the bag. "Hungry, sugar pie?"

Leslie: Leslie looked from the bag to Tristan. "Did you actually eat lunch or ...?"

Tristan: "Nope, got us lunch to go. Baked cod, salad, and some bread."

Leslie: "Tristie." He could just manage to sound disappointed. Baked cod sounded absolutely delicious.

Tristan: "Hey, it still counts as a lunch meeting if lunch is involved in some way. Besides, this way I get to eat with you."

Leslie: That sigh through his nose was of utter disapproval. He would have to make himself scarce next time.

"Where do you want to eat?"

Tristan: A kiss to the cheek was offered in apology. Leslie didn't have to say a word; that sigh said it for him.

"Anywhere you want, sweetheart. I can grab the blanket I've got in my truck and we can have a picnic or we could go home or to the square. The town is your oyster."

Leslie: He felt the kiss for its worth. His mind was made up, but this was no hill to die on.

"Somewhere with good light. I have something to show you on my phone. Preferably a laptop. Home, then?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "Home it is. Your place or mine?"

Leslie: "Yours is closer. Mine is what I want to talk about."

Tristan: “Oh yeah? Well now I’m intrigued,” said Tristan, holding his free hand out to Leslie.

Leslie: The offer was taken and brought to his lips. A few playful bites to follow.

Tristan: He chuckled and tugged Leslie closer to kiss him.

"I better get you fed before you start eating me."

Leslie: "You'll taste like seafood, too. When was the last time you had a land mammal?"

Tristan: "Couple days ago. I was craving a hotdog like you wouldn't believe."

Leslie: "That's not mammal. That's an abomination."

Tristan: "It's beef! The proper hot dog way!"

Leslie: "There's enough sodium to kill a horse - that it's probably made of anyway."

Tristan: “Come on now, don’t ruin hotdogs. They are good wholesome junk food made of cows and not horses.”

Leslie: "Keep telling yourself that, love."

Tristan: "I will." Have another kiss. "All right, baby, let's go home."

Leslie: "I'll drive." Announced while climbing into the driver's seat.

Tristan: “Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” said Tristan, sliding into the passenger’s seat and handing over the keys.

“You know what we need? A hammock.”

Leslie: "Where are we gonna buy one out here?"

Tristan: “That I don’t know. Think Home Depot sells them?”

Leslie: "Are we going to Home Depot?"

Tristan: “Nah, not today. But it’s been on my mind. The weather we’ve been having makes me wanna nap outside with you.”

Leslie: "We'll have to look into it, then."

Tristan: “Hell yeah.”

Tristan spent the ride home sharing more of the details of his meeting with Leslie. It was the biggest contract he’d gotten in a while; enough to put some money where it was needed and have some leftover for a decent bonus.

Leslie: Talk of money with Tristan. Little slaps of reality. Not entirely sure of his decisions. A lingering ailment of his past.

"How many investors do you have?"

Tristan: "Just the one. I've had a few really great years, the Adrianna is in beautiful shape. Business is good."

Leslie: "Would you be uncomfortable with my contributing?"

Tristan: He smiled. "You wanna invest in my fishing business?"

Leslie: "I do, but I don't want any say in what you do."

Tristan: "What percentage would you like?"

Leslie: "This is so much easier on Robinhood."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "You don't want a percentage? Can I tempt you with a small token at the end of my fiscal year?"

Leslie: Leslie put his best effort into a sober tone. One difficult to do in Tristan's presence. Not unlike their first night together. "I don't want you to feel like I have something over you, in the future."

Tristan: "Les, come on. I know that's not who you are. If I thought for a second that you were offering for any reason other than genuinely helping me, I wouldn't accept. And I know you wouldn't offer for any other reason."

Leslie: Softly he sighed. "How about we... we touch base on the subject again after what I have to tell you when we're home."

Tristan: "Okay, baby, that's fine. Kinda making me a little nervous." Was Leslie about to tell him some heavy life-altering thing? Had something awful happened?

Leslie: Tristan's tone told him to take his hand and give a mighty squeeze. "Get out of your head. It's not like that."

Tristan: He squeezed back. "You sure? I'm getting a capital 's' Serious feeling."

Leslie: "You think I'd be holding your hand right now if I planned something like that?"

Tristan: “I don’t know.” He smiled. “You could be about to tell me my face turned blue and ugly in the middle of the night and you’re trying to soften the blow.”

Leslie: "I know I tease, but you should know me better than that. I'd tell you your face is blue immediately," he grinned.

Tristan: “Awww, thank you, babydoll.” He brought Leslie’s hand to his lips. “Did you know I love you?”

Leslie: "No fucking idea! Holy shit, really?"

Tristan: “Really really. Crazy, I know.”

Leslie: "I know there is a balance, and things will happen the way they are meant to, and Fate only has one eye, but I'm still stumped at the two of us."

Tristan: “At how it took us so long and how we managed to end up here?”

Leslie: "Mhm."

Tristan: “Well, things slow down when you’ve only got one eye that you have to share with your sisters.”

Leslie: "Could also just say we're idiots."

Tristan: “Yeah, that too,” he chuckled.

Leslie: Leslie pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Keys tossed between hands as he stared out the window.

Tristan: "Talk to me about what's going on in that head, doll."

Leslie: "Your nervousness has rubbed off on me."

Tristan: "Sorry about that. Mama always said I emoted a lot."

Leslie: "You emote all you want."

Tristan: Tristan leaned over and kissed Leslie's cheek. "Come on, let's have some lunch."

Leslie: "Right." Tristan was helped inside. Locking the truck with the fob before shutting the front door and tossing the keys on the nearest table.

"Where's your laptop?"

Tristan: He set the food down in the kitchen and set about gathering bowls and forks.

"It iiiiiis.....on the bed. Should be charged and ready to go."

Leslie: He returned with the laptop and a lack of shirt. The results of his beach stroll apparent on his shoulders and chest.

"Alright. I'll pull up what I wanted to talk about. I want your honesty. That's all I want."

Tristan: "If honesty is what you want, then I'm here to give it to you." He started plating their meal. "Lay it on me."

Leslie: Pictures were downloaded from his email and minimized. Leslie leaned back in his seat and itched at his burn.

"A lot of love went into my house, but," deep breath, "I'm...thinking about tearing it down and expanding. But the thing is...I..."

Tristan: Tristan walked over, gesturing with a bowl. "Hey, hey, hey, leave that sunburn alone. I'll slather it in aloe here in a bit."

He leaned in to look at the laptop, only to lean back out in surprise. Not any negative surprise either. "You wanna expand? That's great!" He gestured again. "What's that hesitation for? Don't know how big you wanna go?"

Leslie: A song Tristan had sung before. Funny, he couldn't recall Oliver getting similar treatment. Another sign he should have noticed.

"It'll be healed by tomorrow." He could invest a conscious effort, but he simply didn't want to.

"No. Not that. Clive's had some blueprints in mind the moment he saw my place. It's just deciding between them. But...these weren't drawn with anyone else in mind. I don't...know...what kind of future I'm going to have and how many people should be included."

Tristan: That didn’t mean Leslie couldn’t be comfortable until then, but there were bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Very significant and important fish.

Tristan took a seat beside Leslie and reached for one of his hands. “And you want to know if now that we’re here, they should be revisited, right?”

Leslie: Tristan could have one of his hands. The other to fidget beneath the table.

"We've only just started. I don't want you to feel pressured into anything about the house, or why I want this. But the thing is... It feels wrong to move forward without your input. If why I want this, if any of it is too much, I won't - I won't guilt you into being with me. I won't do anything like that. I promise. We have to have the same vision and I don't know if we have the same vision. I'm just... verbal diarrhea right now. Sorry! You know that Charles - my friend you met with the locked chest, that Charles - runs a school for gifted children. Gifted like... me, kind of gifted. But not me. They call themselves mutants. There are these two girls. Ruby and Ester. They... They don't have family..."

Tristan: A soft smile played at Tristan's lips as he listened. He didn't mind the wave of words and thoughts; he wanted to know, wanted to understand, wanted to have the full picture in front of him. He liked to think he and Leslie were open books for each other, and that made conversations like this matter all the more.

"We have only just started, but when you think about it, we also haven't. Yeah it took us a while to get to this exact spot, but we've been with each other for years. I don't know, maybe it's me being a romantic or me being idealistic, but I've let my mind go to that place. To the wedding bells and the house and the kids running around. Not to say I want the bells right the hell now, I would never push that on you or pressure you.

"But I've always been able to see us take those kinds of big steps." He kissed Leslie's knuckles. "The way I grew up made me wanna have kids. My mom made me wanna have kids. For me it was never an if, it was always a when, and I'd like that when to be with you. It feels right that it's you. Right and good.

"Tell me about Ruby and Ester."

Leslie: "It does sound romantic. I love romance, I do, but I also know... this house... " Leslie waved his free hand. "This didn't happen in a day. I remember all the times you went on and on about projects. Here I'm talking about a new house. Children."

Swallowing, determined to push the conversation as Tristan encouraged.

"They're made of rubies and diamonds. They're hungry for knowledge. Not just about what I can do, but everything. Just touching on a subject they don't know, they dive into it. Ruby especially. She's fiercely protective. Ester is nurturing. They've been through so much. I'm... I'm scared. I've wanted to be a father for years, but I don't know how to - where to begin this."

Tristan: Now that took Tristan aback. Not the children themselves, no, it wasn't that.

"Rubies and diamonds? Actual rubies and diamonds that people make jewelry with? And they call that a mutation?" He gave a breathless chuckle and shook his head. "That's so much more. That's something bordering on ethereal and...divine. Two protective and nurturing little girls should know nothing but nurturing and protection.

"And I can't think of anyone better suited for that than you. No one knows how to be a parent until they are one. Mama says she became a parent the day she decided to keep me. I think that once you make that choice, that's it. You're a parent."

Leslie: "Charles is... apprehensive of their learning witchcraft. I tried to explain that a good education is better than delving into something way over their head because they have no one. We all were raised with guidance. If a witch is determined to go down that road, they will, no matter the cleared path in front of them, but -"

Leslie closed his eyes. Well aware of how he must look. His usual confidence, impressive even by his perspective, had receded like a tide.

"The end of the day, they have to want me to be their father. By the time the house is done, they might not. I might just be a novelty to them. And Charles... Charles could say no. He has the final say. I can state my case, but I'm not going to fight him. And also, none of this is going to happen if you don't want it to."

Tristan: "I don't know your friend Charles all that well, but it...surprises me that he can have two kids in his care made of precious stones and be apprehensive of witchcraft. From what you've told me, it's not even something--I don't know, unnatural? that they'd be diving into. It's in them already, in everyone."

While Leslie's eyes were closed, Tristan leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hard to miss that shaky confidence, and even harder to miss the reason.

"Leslie Issott, you could never be just a novelty to anybody. Not to me, not to those kids, not to anyone. I am in this with you. I want this with you. If Charles says no, it'll be to both of us, after we've made our case."

Leslie: That was precisely the point Leslie wanted to make for anyone interested in the craft. And Tristan just said it. Just accepted it. Damn near rendered his witch speechless. Only finding his voice after the press of lips to his skin.

"Y-Yeah. Exactly." Eyes slowly opened. "Are you sure? Tristie, I want you to be sure you mean what you say."

Tristan: Leslie would see a brilliantly smiling Tristan looking back at him. “There is nothing in my life I’ve been more sure of than you. I want to build a home and a family with you.”

Leslie: A deep breath later, Leslie nodded. Something felt off, but he couldn't put his finger on what. This was what he wanted to hear, but something felt missing. What that was, he couldn't see. Beyond a fog and just out of reach.

But he would smile anyway. "Want me to show you the blueprints?"

Tristan: Tristan kissed his witch's cheeks. This was only the first of many conversations they would probably end up having on the subject, he was certain. And that was exactly the way it should be. One conversation simply wasn't enough when you were talking about your future together with someone.

"Show them to me while we eat. Our stomachs and your blood sugar are going to start complaining at us here in a bit."

Leslie: "You mean my blood sugar," he smirked.

Tristan: “That’s what I said, you beautiful man.” Have more kisses to your face. “What do you want to drink?”

Leslie: "Thought you said our," he laughed as he was kissed. "Just water. I think I had the last of the tea."

Tristan: That laugh would never not be absolute music to his ears. It made him want to shower Leslie with more kisses and affection but he'd save that for later.

For now he got both of them some water and settled in to look at blueprints.

"All right, sweetheart, show me your vision."

Leslie: Sometimes all those affectionate names could be overwhelming. He knew they came from a place of honesty. The look in Tristan's eyes, it was impossible to think otherwise. But still, sometimes, he caught himself wondering if this was Callum's work. Leading a man on and dropping him. Those dropped pieces were delicate. He really did not like that druid.

But the witch just smiled, pulling up blueprints for two designs his father had drawn. A larger A-frame than his current model, and something a little more contemporary for the area. Larger ceilings versus a more intimate feel.

Tristan: Tristan took a bite of his salad and took a good look at the design, unaware of Leslie's thoughts and worries. Had he known them, he would've done his best to lay them to rest. The last thing he wanted was for his slew of nicknames to seem like they came from a place of overcompensation or some sort of residual issue. They came purely from fondness.

"I really like all the windows and that it's still an A frame. The upstairs, too. All that storage space."

Leslie: "I could flip a coin and live in either. I'm partial, but no one can beat these designs. I want a large kitchen. Maybe culinary lessons in the future. Private chef will only go so far in this town. So, classes."

Tristan: "I really like the porch on the one with the bigger kitchen, and the part that's screened in."

Tristan smiled. "You'd make a great cooking teacher, and private chef, and caterer. You could do it all."

Leslie: "But which kitchen, which house would best give me that?"

Tristan: “The bigger one that’s not an A frame, I think.”

Leslie: "Can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “Maybe I’m biased because I live somewhere with a screened patio/porch area and I really like it, but yeah. I totally can. And look at that huge deck. You could grow so many magic plants on that deck. And I can get us some Adirondack chairs and we can sit out there in the evenings.”

Leslie: "I'll give it some more thought, but I'll let you know what I choose." Leslie stared at the screen for some time. "But..."

Tristan: “Honestly, whichever you choose will be amazing. They’re both great designs.”

Tristan turned back to Leslie. “...But?” he prompted softly.

Leslie: "Is this supposed to be only my decision? Do you want to live with me? See my craft day in and out? It's more than just herbs and playing with pixies."

Tristan: “I don’t know, yes, and yes.” He set his plate aside. “Part of me thinks that since you bought this house, your opinion holds more weight than mine. I do want to live with you. I want to wake up to you and fall asleep with you and see your magic and learn more about it and about you through it. I want to understand it all, not just the herbs and playing with pixies.

“Do you want to live with me?”

Leslie: "But that would mean," Leslie looked around Tristan's home. "That would mean the end of this, wouldn't it? I feel like one of Peter Pan's lost boys. Asking us to live together means growing up in a way I don't know if I'm ready for."

The laptop was closed.

"I want to live with you. But I think, first, I need to... do some things."

Tristan: Tristan mimicked Leslie and looked around at his furniture and trinkets. “This being my house? It is definitely a grown-up thing to do, moving in with your boyfriend, but it’s not an end. Well, it’s an end to living alone but it’s also a beginning.”

Still, he nodded. “You do what you have to, Les. We’re not on a deadline, there’s no rush. But if it would help, maybe we could do a trial run?”

Leslie: "A trial run, as in, my being here?"

Tristan: “Yeah, or my being at your house. Why don’t we live together for a couple weeks, see how we feel?”

Leslie: Leslie took a breath. "What would you say to, a counteroffer?"

Tristan: “Lay it on me.”

Leslie: "While the house is built, I live with you?"

Tristan: He smiled. “Works for me. Work for you?”

Leslie: "The house with the largest kitchen, can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “I’m already in it putting our chairs on the deck and hanging up those cool backyard string lights like you see in magazines.”

Leslie: "All of your shells, your fish?"

Tristan: “How you do feel about living with fish, shells, nautical antiques, and the occasional rehabilitated hermit crab?”

Leslie: "As well as I hope you'll feel with spell books, dried herbs, and a record player."

Tristan: "I feel pretty good about spell books, herbs, and a record player. Got a ton of records from my mama we can play."

Leslie: His smile bloomed. "Will you have me for however long it takes?"

Tristan: "However long and then some."

Leslie: Leslie brought himself to his feet and into Tristan's arms. "I'll start putting things in storage, then."

Tristan: He was immediately embraced and kissed on his forehead.

“Let me know any way I can help. And also the best place for Opal’s cage.”

Leslie: "Maybe out there?" Tristan's face was held in both hands, given several kisses across the forehead and down the nose.

Tristan: Tristan smiled and closed his eyes, basking in the affection. “Out in the patio? She can have the fish as roommates.”

Leslie: "She might try n'eat the fish. We gotta find a way to keep her out."

Tristan: “The tank out there has a top that goes to it, just have to put it on. And the one by the stairs is covered all the time so the fish should be safe.”

Leslie: "I know I'm gorgeous and irresistible and fun at parties, but do you really, really want me day in and day out for what could be a year?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. “You sure are and I definitely do. I want you in my bed all the time, to fall asleep to you and wake up to you.”

Leslie: Sounds better than a proposal. "I'm whelmed just the right amount right now. Kiss me?"

Tristan: “The perfect amount of whelmed, huh?” Tristan leaned in to kiss those beautiful lips. “I’m glad.”

Leslie: "Just right. Suffocating in happiness. Up to my ears in elation," he grinned.

Tristan: He laughed and kissed all over Leslie's face. "I'm even more glad. Hell, I'm friggin' delighted." One more kiss for good measure.

"Eat your food. Gotta nourish that beautiful body."

Leslie: "But what if I'd rather ravish your body?"

Tristan: "Far be it from me to stop you, but your blood sugar definitely will."

Leslie: "Thirty minutes? I'll survive thirty long luxurious minutes with you."

Tristan: "Okay, thirty minutes. I'm setting a timer though, to keep us both honest."

Leslie: "Timed sex? Sounds sterile."

A knowing smile his only tell, before lifting Tristan into his arms.

"How about that? Hmm?" To hell with a bedroom. The nearest cushioned surface would do.

Tristan: "I'd rather sterile than--oop!" A rather squeaky sound of surprise escaped Tristan as he was scooped up and carried to the couch, followed by an equally surprised laugh.

"You got me! Whatcha gonna do with me, oh mighty sexy witch?"

Leslie: There was something satisfying to carrying the man determined to haul him this where and that for the past months. He would be placed on the couch with a little more care than his lift. A witch between his legs, on his knees. Hands on either side.

"Do you mind if I do whatever I want?"

Tristan: Satisfying for them both. Tristan hummed and stretched as luxuriously as a cat, looking up at Leslie with a soft, adoring smile.

"I don't mind one bit. I'm all yours to do with whatever you will."

Leslie: "Whatever I will?" Tristan's shirt was slowly lifted, revealing a stomach worth kissing. "Are you sure?"

Tristan: He nodded. “I’m sure, baby. I trust you.”

Leslie: Please protect this beautiful body and mind and spirit, whispered against his skin. His prayer was safe and mysterious in Portuguese. His little secret. Kisses roamed from one side to the other. Buttons slowly undone for further blessed exploration.

Tristan: Tristan looked curiously at Leslie, wondering what language he was speaking but loath to interrupt. He could always ask later.

At the moment he was content to be loved on and explored, to let one of his hands play with Leslie's hair.

And if Leslie wanted to slide his jeans down, well Tristan would oblige that, too.

Leslie: He was going to enjoy every stage of undress. Socks, jeans, underwear, all pooled to his side and forgotten. The last was done sacredly, sliding hands underneath Tristan's shirt, slow in their climb over his ribs and encouraging the lift of his arms to do away with the final bit of barrier.

Tristan: He hardly needed any encouragement at all. He happily stretched his arms above his head so Leslie could finish undressing him, all the while growing more and more curious about what his boyfriend planned to do with his naked sailor.

"Want me to take my hair down?" Tristan whispered. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Leslie: "Absolutely down," he smiled. "Do you want me naked?"

Tristan: Tristan reached around to take the various ties out of his hair. "Every hour god sends, baby doll."

Leslie: His hands were taken, brought to the hem of Leslie's shirt. His smile unshakeable.

Tristan: "I get to do it?" Tristan sat up, smile matching Leslie's as he did away with his shirt. "Lucky me."

Leslie: "Luck does many things. Maybe luck brought me to a little fishing town."

But enough of that. Tristan's hands were returned to himself. Just a moment of tease. Keep those hands to yourself while I kiss your swollen needy body.

Tristan: "Maybe it did. And if it did, I'm grateful for it every single day."

Any protest Tristan had at being stopped in the middle of undressing Leslie died on his lips as those kisses touched his skin.

Tristan reached for him, suddenly needy for those kisses everywhere.

Leslie: A gentle protesting noise answered Tristan's wanting touch. He turned his head to find the wandering hand, kissed his palm. "Keep your hands to yourself, Tristie."

Tristan: “Aw, but you’re so pretty and half naked and touchable.”

Leslie: "Tell me more." While I kiss where you want most.

His warm tongue traced the shape, down the length to nuzzle his scrotum.

Tristan: "You're--mmmmm....." Tristan's back arched off the couch in pure pleasure, eyes closing of their own accord as sensation washed over him. He could swear he felt all the blood in his body rushing through his veins to pool between his legs and harden him nearly to the point of ache. It was pure hell not being able to reach for him.

Leslie was perfect, is what he was, and as soon as some of the blood rushed back to Tristan's head, he'd make sure to tell him that.

Leslie: Saying more than words could manage. He took him and swallowed, popped him from his mouth and went again. Down to his scrotum and back for more. This was deliberate sweet torment. An appetizer.

"Lube, baby?"

Tristan: Tristan's back arched again as a ragged moan was torn from somewhere in his chest. Maybe from his soul. He couldn't quite tell when his brain was leaking out his ears. All he knew was that the heat between his legs was spreading throughout his body and making that needy ache better and making it worse all at once.

"Uh...um...." He gestured toward where he thought the bathroom was. "Cabinet."

Leslie: "I want you ready for me by the time I get back." Back on his feet, shedding the last of his clothes for Tristan's viewing pleasure. Slowly and deliberate as his tongue. His briefs were tossed onto Tristan's lap before strolling to the bathroom.

Tristan: Leslie's departure was met with a mighty groan of protest, which was easily soothed as his witch finished getting naked. Viewing pleasure didn't even begin to cover it; it was pure torture of the best kind.

"M'ready for you now," he called after Leslie, tossing the briefs aside and stretching luxuriously. Everything was throbbing and begging for relief. "Come back, baby doll. I miss youuuuuu..."

Leslie: Leslie would be heard laughing from the bathroom. A quick swish of Listerine and a bottle of lube later he returned to straddle Tristan's lap, offering minty lips as he slicked two fingers for prep.

"Are you allowed to say you miss me? Dunno if you should."

Tristan: Tristan greeted Leslie with a slow grin, pulling him in for a kiss the second he was within reach. "Aw, come on. I'm already not allowed to touch you. Have mercy on a poor weak sailor."

Leslie: "Hmm." Lubrication was warmed in his hand, stroked over Tristan's tumescent cock.

"We need more condoms." Not for any other reason than textural pleasure. "Ready for me?"

Tristan: It felt like his whole body breathed a sigh of relief at Leslie's touch, even if it was short-lived. His shaft damn near twitched in a silent plea for more.

"I'm ready," he said with a vigorous nod. They could get condoms later. It was still afternoon right? Was he saying all this out loud? He couldn't tell with his blood roaring in his ears.

Leslie: The air left his lungs as he sank into Tristan's lap. That familiar wave of heat ascending to his chest, leaving a void preventing another breath. His first intake of breath was against Tristan's lips. Holding his face in both hands as he moaned with relief.

Tristan: Tormented relief. That's exactly how it felt being inside Leslie, how it felt having him exactly where he wanted him. He had to take a deep breath while he let himself adjust to the wet heat, tiny panting moans spilling from his lips. No matter how slowly his witch got into position, it was always a shock to his system in the best possible way. Had to be the magic.

"Les...Les...."

Leslie: Fingers pushed into Tristan's luxurious hair. Squeezed and made a bun with the tangles of his fists. Rather than bounce, he rolled himself forward and back, grunting softly cheek-to-cheek.

"Fuck me, Tristie. Touch me now."

Tristan: Tristan's hands were on Leslie before he could finish his sentence. They swept over his witch's body from shoulders to perfect ass and back again, all while his hips began a rolling rhythm of their own.

His lips would be just as busy, lavishing every bit of Leslie they could reach with affection. You'd think Tristan had gone weeks without touching and kissing him instead of a few minutes.

Leslie: Leslie leaned forward, giving Tristan ample freedom to thrust himself upwards at a rhythm worthy enough to jostle his senses. He clung to his head and offered his mouth, his tongue, and his desperate noises to their kiss.

Tristan: Calling his movements a rhythm was perhaps a bit too generous, but what Tristan lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm.

There would be other occasions for savoring, for lingering, for teasing. On this moment on this occasion, all Tristan wanted was more of those gorgeous, needy little noises. Leslie was the center of the universe and the only thing that mattered was bringing him to orgasm; Tristan didn't have the presence of mind for anything else.

Leslie: This was a desperate cling, and he could feel the beginning stages of sweat. He had to let go of that hair and help himself, but he couldn't. Not yet. Just a few more rolls of his hips. One more rise to the very edge and down to the hilt and his sanity.

"Can you jerk me off?" Finally releasing Tristan's hair, he leaned himself back in his living seat. Both hands squeezed Tristan's knees as he braced himself.

Tristan: Leslie didn't have to ask. Tristan was already taking his witch in his hand, lovingly stroking Leslie's cock while his hips continued their desperate pace.

"That feel good, sweetheart? You're so fucking beautiful."

Leslie: A series of expletives escaped his chest. Not with or against his will. His mind too far north to care about fuck filling the room over and over again as he writhed, spilling hot white over his stomach and both their thighs.

And there it was. That post-orgasm laughter tightening his muscles. Head thrown back as he clung his hands to Tristan's knees.

"Cum for me, baby."

Tristan: The word fuck had never sounded better or more poetic.

Tristan gave a rumbling purr in approval, dragging Leslie down to take his lips again. He wanted the flavor of him making his head swim as he gave those final few thrusts and spilled inside him.

Leslie: Leslie shivered in Tristan's arms. Hugged around his neck and nuzzled into his hair. His thighs and cock were spent. Leaning dying weight into his lover's chest.

"I don't... even... remember what we were doing."

Tristan: Having Leslie lean his weight against him was what Tristan lived for. He loved it.

"Um..." He chuckled breathlessly and kissed Leslie's hair. "No fuckin' idea. I smell food though."

Leslie: "I want to eat everything in the house, but I'm so tired," he laughed.

Tristan: "You need to eat everything in the house. Blood sugar."

Leslie: "Five more minutes," he pleaded to those lips.

Tristan: "Three," Tristan countered with a teeny tiny kiss.

Leslie: "We won't know," he purred, eyes closing.

Tristan: "Mmm, you're right. Guess that means you better eat now," he said a grin.

Leslie: "Three minutes." It's already been one.

#Plans for the Future chapter #leslieeissott #tristanseger

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rachelkaser · 4 years

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Stay Golden Sunday: The Engagement

In my continuing efforts to find time to write about things outside of the bounds of my job, I’ve been thinking about some old friends. If I’m going to write about anything in the wreckage of 2020, I want it to be something very close to me, something I know that others remember with as much fondness as I do.

So yeah: Let’s talk about The Golden Girls.

youtube

Thank You For Being a Friend

Given everything that’s happened this year, both to the world and me, I’ve not really been so interested in watching new shows as re-watching some old favorites. And out of those, the closest to my heart is The Golden Girls. It’s the show I watched the most with my late mother -- she and I bonded from my pre-adolescence to my late twenties on this show.

I was at the perfect age to absorb this show’s lessons, even if some of the raunchier humor went over my head when I was a kid. This is the show that taught me about strong friendships, how to love well, tolerance, acceptance, grief, humility, integrity and good humor. There are so many parts of myself I can trace, in some way, to Dorothy, Sophia, Blanche, and Rose -- and through them, my mother.

And I’m far from the only one. According to a report from The New York Times, the show became incredibly popular with 18-to-34 year-olds after it began airing on Lifetime -- the article charmingly refers to us as “The Grandchildren of the Golden Girls.” As you might expect, that’s not the projected demographic for a show starring four women over the age of 50 (yes, Blanche, you really are old enough to have a 16-year-old grandson).

If I had to pick a reason, it’d be a combination of the motherly warmth of the four main characters and the novelty (and reassurance) of a show that tells you life does in fact go on when you’re no longer in the bloom of youth. The NYT article features an interview with a Lifetime exec who theorizes that it’s because the women act in a way we typically associate with youth: “They all dated, they all talked about sex, they didn't care about what people thought about them. Those are all values that younger people share.”

I agree with that sentiment, though I will add an addendum: They act the way younger people want to act. Younger people want to be carefree and fun-loving in the way that the Girls are. More often than not, young people are -- and I say this with all the fondness and self-effacement of someone about to exit their twenties -- comparative basketcases. It’s like Mark Twain said: “Life should begin with age and its privileges and accumulations, and end with youth and its capacity to splendidly enjoy such advantages.”

Of course, there’s an alternate explanation: Golden Girls is really goddamned funny.

So every Sunday, I’ll recap and review an episode from The Golden Girls. Barring extraordinary circumstances, I’ll review every episode in order. Then I’ll give some commentary on the story, highlight any of those devilish inconsistencies, and pick a favorite line. I hope some of my fellow Grandchildren of the Golden Girls enjoy some of my thoughts on the episodes.

Picture it...

With all that being said (and I promise no long intros after this point unless it’s very called for), let’s get started with the pilot episode, “The Engagement,” which originally aired in September 1985.

The show proper opens with Dorothy Zbornak and Rose Nylund asking roommate Blanche Hollingsworth about the man she’s been seeing. Blanche tells them the gallant beau in question, Harry, has proposed -- in spite of the fact that, as Rose points out, they’ve only known each other a week. And Harry wants an answer tonight.

Meanwhile, the doorbell rings, and Dorothy answers to see her mother Sophia Petrillo, who says that her nursing home burned down. As Blanche has to explain to Rose, Sophia’s cutting words are the result of her stroke destroying her inhibitions. Sophia does indeed have the subtlety and diplomacy of a Sherman tank, but she at least thinks gay cook Coco is alright.

Harry arrives and schmoozes all of the ladies, though Sophia is not impressed. After he leaves, Rose has a soliloquy about how glad she was to move in with the other ladies, as otherwise she’d be alone, with her children grown up and her husband dead, and she’s not sure what to do now with herself. Sophia’s suggestion? “Get a poodle.”

Rose and Dorothy are divided on whether or not Blanche will accept Harry’s proposal, with Rose adamant that Blanche can’t be without male attention. Blanche returns, and reveals -- after a brief argument about the movement speed of oysters -- she accepted Harry’s proposal and they’ll be married in a week. When Rose asks where she and Dorothy will live once Blanche, who owns the house, is married, Blanche responds that they can stay for as long as they like.

A week later, Blanche is preparing for her wedding. Rose pulls Dorothy aside and says there’s something about Harry that makes her suspicious, but she’s not sure what. She tries to tell Blanche to call off the wedding, but Dorothy resorts to physical restraint to stop her from ruining Blanche’s happy moment, up to and including throwing Rose into Blanche’s closet.

Harry is late to the wedding, much to the frustration of the minister -- “This is Miami. I’ve got funerals backed up.” When the doorbell rings, however, it’s a police officer (played by a pre-Designing Women Meshach Taylor), who tells Blanche that Harry has been arrested for bigamy. Harry leaves Blanche a note telling her she was special to him.

Three weeks later, Blanche is still upset and refusing to leave her room. Rose and Dorothy discuss what to do, and Sophia’s only input is to ask to be left on the curb next to the trash cans when she goes. Blanche arrives, smiling, and says the girls helped her pull through her grief. The girls all go out to celebrate with dinner, but Sophia declines as she and Coco are going to the dog track.

BLANCHE: Your mother bets?

DOROTHY: No, she rides. She’s a dog jockey.

“It’s Miami in June. Only cats are wearing fur.”

For a pilot, this episode establishes the characters, their biographies, and their dynamics with incredible economy. What you see here is what you’re going to see for the next seven seasons, at least with regards to the four women.

For example, we know the moment she opens her mouth that Dorothy is a teacher -- that teacher, specifically. She’s smart and tough enough to tell her rebellious students to leave. She also complains that “all the single men under 80 are cocaine smugglers,” establishing pretty much all you need to know about the women’s dating lives. We also known from the moment we see Rose that she’s bright, cheerful, and a grief counselor -- she probably couldn’t say a stern or unkind word if her life depended on it.

Blanche, on the other hand, has to bear the first heartbreak of the series -- meaning she’s the first who gets her negative character traits examined as well as her positives. She’s refined, graceful, and sexy on the positive side. Unfortunately, she’s also desperate for romantic affection, so much so that she accepts the proposal of a man she’s only known a week and suffers for it. I don’t think there’s an actress in the world who could have sold this as well as Rue McClanahan did.

That said, I think it’s Sophia that binds the whole episode together. Without her sass, I don’t know if the three women would have held together as well as they do. While the opening moments of the show do have some crackle to them, it’s only when Estelle Getty walks on screen that the show really comes to life. Not only does her sharp tongue pair well with Dorothy’s own witty banter, she’s a great counterpoint to Rose’s bubbleheaded buoyancy and Blanche’s genteel manners.

As is usual for pilots, not everything about this episode stayed for the rest of the show’s run. The biggest example of this is Coco, the gay cook who appears only in this episode, but there are others. For starters, Blanche’s room is in a completely different part of the house, and she’s referred to by the name “Blanche Hollingsworth.” Sophia’s smart mouth is blamed on her stroke, rather than being who she is. The entire house’s furniture, decorations, and color palette would eventually change.

Coco’s a bit of an unusual example, because it feels like even the people who made the show didn’t know what to do with him. He’s given next to nothing to do. He has no stand-out personality traits like the ladies. Even most of the shots are framed in such as way as to exclude him: For example, he’s “on-stage” for the whole kitchen scene at the beginning of the episode, but look how these shots are angled so as not to show him:

That’s bizarre because, according to Golden Girls Forever by Jim Colucci, the “gay houseboy” character was apparently pretty important in the early script treatments. All of the writers apparently wanted to see more gay characters on TV and they thought he would add variety to the cast. But even one of the people who auditioned for the role said he thought the character was cheap and drew attention away from the women. The character was eventually dropped because it didn’t make sense for the women to be living together out of financial necessity and have a live-in domestic.

I didn’t think I was going to see inconsistencies in the very first episode either, but there is at least one: Blanche tells Harry about Sophia’s home burning down, even though Blanche wasn’t in the room when Sophia told Dorothy that. These little continuity errors have become a kind of trivia for Golden Girls fans, as fondly remembered as anything in accepted canon.

Overall, I can see why this script attracted three well-known TV actresses, and why everyone at NBC fell in love with it. I’ll work out a grading system for episodes later, but for now I’ll just say I’m so, so, so pleased for myself and the world in general that they managed to capture this kind of lightning in a bottle.

Favorite part of the episode:

ROSE: I can’t eat anything that moves. DOROTHY: Like what, Rose? Horses? ROSE: Like oysters. COCO: Oysters don’t move. DOROTHY: Coco, they could dance! Who cares?!

#golden girls #stay golden #dorothy rose blanche sophia #dorothy zbornak #sophia petrillo #rose nylund #blanche devereaux #the engagement #stay golden sunday

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alphawolfice1989 · 4 years

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21 Ways Neil Patrick Harris Is Still a Kid at Heart

Whether he’s escaping a room or his real life, the sitcom star and new quiz-show host loves a game—unless it’s Monopoly

https://www.wsj.com/articles/21-ways-neil-patrick-harris-is-still-a-kid-at-heart-1520528275

PLAYER ONE Neil Patrick Harris, the host of the new game show ‘Genius Junior,’ takes a timeout at The Charlie Hotel in Los Angeles.PHOTO: SHAYAN ASGHARNIA FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

Chris Kornelis

March 8, 2018 11:57 am ET

AS PRENATURALLY SMART teen surgeon Doogie Howser, M.D., Neil Patrick Harris occasionally let himself believe he was the “young whippersnapper intellect” he portrayed on TV. He’s under no such delusions as the host of NBC’s “Genius Junior,” a new game show premiering this month that quizzes grade schoolers in categories including math, memory and spelling.

“When I interacted with the kids, I realized that [compared to them] I was really just a puppet reading writers’ lines,” the 44-year-old father of two said. “It doesn’t quite involve the same cerebral cortex.”

Following his 2014 Tony-winning role in Broadway’s “Hedwig and the Angry Inch”; the publishing of his children’s book “The Magic Misfits” last year; and the launching of his Netflix adaptation “A Series of Unfortunate Events,” Mr. Harris said he was inspired to take his turn behind the quiz-show dais by a childhood spent watching “Press Your Luck” and “Sale of the Century.” Another motivator: his love of puzzles and game theory, which recently led him to become an escape-room aficionado.

Though he said he normally takes the time to gauge the dynamic in group situations, Mr. Harris admits that he gets “pretty alpha” if the door is locked and the clock is ticking: “When your singular goal is to escape as quickly as possible, you just talk the loudest and fastest you can.”

Clockwise from top left: ‘The Goonies’; Oculus Rift VR goggles; ‘Black Mirror’; his childhood computer; Stretch Armstrong.

My current obsession is: a smartphone app called “The Room.” As you swipe around and examine a box, you find a little switch that opens a panel to puzzles that unlock more and more of the box. It is extraordinarily well executed and a brilliant time suck.

My favorite toy as a child was: Stretch Armstrong, but I was really just interested in knowing what the liquid was inside that allowed him to stretch, so those got mutilated. I also had every “Star Wars” figure. When we made little short films, we would burn them because burning plastic is cool to watch.

My favorite toy now is: The Oculus Rift VR machine. I can’t stop. I will someday be one of those fallow, gaunt VR players who never see the light of day.

My favorite escape room is: New York’s Paradiso Escape. It’s fantastic. Incredibly cinematic, there are multiple rooms, and it’s fully realized. And we escaped, which is most important. The bomb did not go off.

The first piece of tech I remember getting is: an old school TRS-80 computer my parents bought. We were living in Tiny Town, New Mexico—not its real name—and I felt like we were very technological and impressive.

I’m serious about collecting: Disney theme-park memorabilia. I outbid some heavy hitters to get an original Haunted Mansion stretching portrait of a bearded man, which we display proudly and enormously in our living room. I paid too much, but I felt it was something that would never come around again.

When you visit Vancouver you should definitely: bike Stanley Park. That’s their big Central Park. It’s just exquisite. Nature here is just miraculous. When it’s not raining in the spring and summer everything is just in full bloom—and it’s beautiful.”

The best place for brunch in New York is: Balthazar. It’s a great scene. Fantastic brunch: waffles and oysters.

A podcast I download to get a bit smarter is: NPR’s “Hidden Brain.” Shankar Vedantam interviews all kinds of people on topics relating to the brain, the psyche and our common concerns and goals. It’s scientific, topical, really motivational.

A game I do not recommend: Monopoly with 7-year-olds. I think it teaches bad habits. The whole conceit of Monopoly is to destroy every other competitor and acquire so much wealth that you’re stomping on and bankrupting people left, right and center. But we’re very into Sorry!

A book that I re-read every year is: “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho. It is filled with life-changing ways of thinking. It’s the only book I’ve read where I had to just stop to think about a sentence I read, take some deep breaths, smile and then keep reading.

The best book for a first grader is:“The World’s Worst Children” by David Walliams. It’s stories about horrible children, similar to the worlds created by Roald Dahl. Hilarious and still palatable for kids.

A kids film that I love is: “The Goonies.” When it came out, I bought all the chewing gum packs of Goonies cards, read and acquired every Goonies thing I could and called myself a “Goonie looney.” I coined that phrase and thought it was very funny at the time.

The last show I binged is: Netflix’s “Black Mirror.” All the episodes are effective, chilling and awesome.

My favorite VR game is: “The Invisible Hours.” It’s a murder mystery, which is right up my alley. You’re able to wander this mansion and follow people to see what they are doing. It’s like immersive theater. It’s rad.

The last piece of technology I bought: If I’m being honest, is a second Oculus Rift system, because I missed it so much in New York, I wanted to play it here in Vancouver [where he’s currently shooting the third season of “A Series of Unfortunate Events”].

As a child I listened to: my parents’ records. The Kingston Trio, the Brothers Four. In high school I listened to Billy Joel and the Beach Boys—which was the first CD I ever bought.

If I weren’t an actor: I’d either be a puppeteer or an Imagineer—someone hired by Disney to sign a nondisclosure form, learn all the secrets of how the theme park rides work and use current and future technologies to design attractions for parks.

My favorite bathroom away from home is at: the NoMad Hotel in Los Angeles. It’s in an old bank and they saved the vault for the bathroom’s entrance downstairs. It’s super cool.

The best advice I ever received was: play a long game and not a short game, especially career-wise. Don’t hope that a singular thing—especially if it becomes a success—will define you. Strive for longevity and appreciate that where there are flows there are also ebbs.

The worst advice I’ve received: Fly out of Newark instead of JFK.

—Edited from an interview by Chris Kornelis

#nph #neil patrick harris

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whetstonefires · 5 years

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Earth-3

Characters: Owlman, Talon, Superwoman, Orin of Atlantis, Donna Troy, Garth

Warnings: Dehumanization, vague sleazing at 13yo, brief mention of past eye trauma, villains

Words: ~4,500

For Sheillagh O., who has been very very patient about something that in theory was going to be done by the end of January.

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Talon ducked under his master’s elbow and slid the knife in where it belonged, at the base of Owlman’s spine.

It was one of three blades that slotted invisibly into the armor plates along his torso, to serve as additional rigid protection as long as they were in place and, when necessary, to offer an extra edge.

Not that the Owl ever even looked unarmed, nor would be harmless if he were. But there was a difference between the menace of jet claws, and the sharp point that could be made with five inches of steel.

Talon ducked back out again, lifted the left gauntlet from its stand and waited for the matching hand to be held out, that he might slide it on. This might take some space of seconds, as Owlman was flipping through the day’s reports on an obsidian clipboard, inset with faceted beads of smoky quartz forming the shape of the feather tattoo he gave his fully initiated followers, the footsoldiers of his Court.

(There had been a lecture last month, when the clipboard was delivered, about the choice of materials, and the balance between useful opulence and absurd ostentation. The latter, it seemed, would have been using actual gemstones in the decoration, rather than mere quartz.

Talon was glad it wasn’t set with diamonds. Inevitably one would have fallen out and gotten lost, and Owlman would have been in a temper.)

Without looking up from whatever document was making him frown so thunderously, the Owl extended his left hand. Gauntlet on. Flex, to make sure it had settled correctly. Pass the clipboard into that hand, obsidian impervious to the bite of claws, as Talon circled silently around his back.

It was important not to keep his master waiting, but neither could he distract him with haste and rush. There was a balance in this, as in all things. Perfection must brush the fingertips with every movement, though it might never alight within the palm. This was attainable. He had been well taught.

The old Talons had not been trained as squires. He’d been told that by one of the round white masks, old blood who had known Talons before him, in feathered armor, and trained them too. White circle inset with great dark eyes looking down, thinking little of him, in his ragged grey and scarlet. White mask and the voice that issued from behind it familiar, from times when he had been in error, and required punishment.

But the Court had changed, since the days when Talon wore the armor. And the King who ruled it now preferred the personal touch.

He didn’t need help arming up, of course. The entirety of the royal raiment was very particularly designed to be manageable by the wearer, without assistance, because Owlman felt that trust was a negotiable commodity but not one he preferred ever to have to rely upon.

A second pair of hands saved time and trouble, however, and the more height Talon put on, the more often it was his service that was called for, rather than that of the old man. He could almost reach the top of the Owl’s head now, if he stretched.

Clipboard transferred, the second powerful hand stretched out, and Talon slid the gauntlet onto it. Another flex of claws. Testing articulation. It was unthinkable that this armor could be neglected enough to rust, but something could always have gone wrong. Never assume.

The claws dove toward his neck, and Talon froze. What mistake had he made?

But his throat was not opened. One great knuckle hooked carefully under the edge of his jaw. The armored inner pad of the vast thumb pressed against his lower left bicuspid, through the thin flesh of his face. The very end of the thumb’s black claw pricked at the corner of his mouth.

Firmly, the heavy hand turned his face up, into Owlman’s where he knew better than to look unless instructed. Pale blue eyes punched into his own sharply enough it felt they should have punctured, and oozed down his face blindly. (He hated when that happened. The slime stayed even after he recovered, and blindness in the interim was awful.)

“Talon,” said his king, as softly as he ever said anything that was not a threat. Deep, smooth, and just a step shy of gloating. None of the cool sharp edges of his anger. Talon had done nothing wrong. The band around his heart loosened. “Focus.”

The hand withdrew from his chin, and Talon dipped his head in contrition. How could he always tell, somehow. What carelessness crept into his movements, when his mind began to spin away behind his eyes?

"Good." The Owl reached out and lifted the feathered mantle from its stand himself, swinging its weight around his shoulders to settle there, doubling his already great size and casting shadow over the gleaming-dark surface of his breastplate.

Reached up to draw the mask down over his face, and tipped his chin back as he did, throat bared, so that Talon knew to step close, reach up, and hook carefully along the the gorget the row of fastenings that kept the great cloak in place.

A twitch of broad armored shoulders brought the feathers into line, and they were ready to depart.

The meeting was on an island in international waters. Waters, however, that were within a convenient distance of Gotham by small watercraft, a thing ensured by the simple expedient of Owlman having donated the location to the cause.

Not that he didn't still own it, technically speaking, through a network of shells. (Talon knew vaguely that these were legal entities, but always pictured tiny curling conches and delicate oyster-carapaces strung on chains, swinging with every breeze.) But it was used for only this, and was treated for Society purposes as common ground.

The other members maintained just the narrowest thread of awareness that they were on his territory—enough to incline them to defer, but not enough to make them feel trapped.

It was a careful balance his lord maintained, over these titans of the world. Talon knew the delicate power of it because he was one of the most mobile weights on the scales, but also because he imagined anyone would, watching power flow back and forth amongst the mighty. The unstoppable force of alien or amazon curbed and redirected to a common purpose.

Or was that only anyone who had been watching Owlman all their life. Talon could not say.

The Court had been this restive, once. When Talon was new. Had still required delicacy, though never quite so much, because no one in it had had a fraction of the strength gathered here. Now all the Courtiers had learned to bow their round white faces and avert their staring Tyton eyes, and the King had turned his gaze beyond Gotham, into the greater world.

The waves broke black about them as they raced eastward, leaving the lights of Gotham far behind. It was low in the water, this small vessel, but fast and quiet as the wings of owls in the night air. Owlman steered, very upright in the only seat.

Talon crouched at his left hand, one bare knee steadying him against the inside of the hull. It was cold. Thin steel between him and the ocean’s depth.

He could drown for a very long time, before he stopped waking up again.

Sometimes when the boat was caught by a rise, he jostled against his lord’s knee. The Owl took no notice.

“Listen closely to the others,” he instructed, at length, as the shore of the little island and the tower’s height came into view. As though Talon might have forgotten. “I will be expecting a detailed report at the end of the evening.”

He didn’t glance toward Talon. Verbal confirmation was required. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. I intend to avoid conflict tonight, and in addition to the question of expanded membership, the political situation has expanded the agenda, so we may run late. You may speak to whatever hangers-on the rest have brought as necessary to extract information, but be subtle.”

“…yes, my lord.”

“You have doubts?”

“No, my lord.”

“Obviously they’ll be suspicious if you act out of character.” Yes, exactly. “Don’t.”

Well. That limited the options. A challenge, but the better kind. The more choices he was given, after all, the more likely it was he would make one that was wrong.

Talon tipped his head back a little to catch the flash of the stars. They said you could use them in place of a clock, if you knew them well enough. There would be a clock in the meeting-hall, to time his mission by. Owlman always made sure that business could be conducted according to schedule, so that if it was departed from it would be a conscious decision, and not the careless creep of accidental waste.

There were few worse things than error.

The ocean spoke, and the stars were silent, and he understood neither.

The prince of Atlantis was leaping lightly up onto the dock when they drew alongside it, casting the reins that bound his dolphin mounts aside into the cold March water. He had no need to hitch them in place; they would come when he called.

Careless, artless display of power. All the more effective for its lack of calculation.

"Orin," Owlman inclined his head minutely as he stepped across from vessel to pier. Talon knelt at his heel, lashing the boat in place against the dock—unliving things could not be counted upon to remain obediently where they were left, if something wished to carry them away, nor to come back when called upon, and the ocean did not bow to the Owl-king's will.

"Owl," the prince replied, return nod almost lost in the way he swept his pale hair back, scattering salt droplets against the rising moon, glittering even brighter than the golden scales of his armor. "Lovely night."

"Mm." Disinterested agreement. Claws loose. No offense taken. The embossed patterns of his armor caught the moon in them far more subtly, a spider's web over polished night. "Shall we go up?"

"You take the open sky too much for granted, my good bird," smiled His Highness, voice light as sun on water. "But surely. I sent my squire ahead to ensure the provisions would be suitable, today."

No staff was kept on the secret island, for security reasons, and thus catering was limited. The speedster Dash had been in charge of the food at the previous meeting a month ago, and his contribution had been dozens of cheeseburgers in paper sacks, whose scent had made Talon's idiot mouth water, even though last time he'd eaten anything of the kind (spoils from a target’s home) it had sat in his stomach like stone, until he lost it into a gutter.

Superwoman had been entirely amused by the cheeseburgers, and Ultraman had only gotten annoyed once he saw that Owlman was, and realized his own standards should be higher. Atom, who was the most recent addition to the cohort, had seemed indifferent, as much as the mood of a man six inches high could be read from any distance.

But Hydrolord had almost walked out in offense. Surface dweller food, he said, was suspicious to begin with, fast food was beneath his royal dignity, and cattle were disgusting.

The fact that he'd known what it was at a glance had not gone unnoticed, even by Talon. His Highness went ashore incognito; this was known. Whether he'd eaten Burger King before or only seen it, or watched the advertisements, had mattered less however than the general calumny cast by all upon Dash's entirely unconcerned head. It had been hypnotic, that unconcern. The fragile mortal man with nothing but speed to protect him, surrounded by the most dangerous people on Earth, so sure he could not be touched that a mocking smile played at the corner of his mouth even as Ultraman fumed and Owlman's lip curled in disgust; as Hydrolord made the sea crash against the rocks outside as though it would swallow the fortress whole.

Dash was terribly powerful or very foolish, and either way he was brave.

Perhaps he had given the offense purposely, to show how little he cared for his colleagues’ anger, or perhaps he hadn’t cared enough to concern himself with what they might want. He had simply sat back in his chair at the high council table and eaten cheeseburgers almost too quickly to see the motion of hand to mouth, and yet with no great hurry, and smiled, and let the empty paper wrappers pile up at his elbow.

The meeting had ended early and with everyone but Dash in ill temper, even Superwoman, who’d gotten fed up by then with Atlantean and Kryptonian sulking.

If the Dash had been waging some kind of war that day, Talon thought he might have won.

But this was a new night, and the ocean prince seemed in good spirits as he led the way up the winding gravel path, toward the stone turrets of the refurbished old fort. Pirate-hunters had sailed from this island, once. Never pirates.

The Superwoman intercepted them all in the entry annex. “Orin! Owlman! Just barely on time!” She was wearing a cape today, a great billow of cloth-of-gold that trailed behind her like smoke as she swept forward across black tile, but still fell heavy about her whenever it hung still.

“Diana,” the prince greeted the princess, all careful courtesy. His armor glimmered a slightly paler shade than her mantle. “A fair moon for you?”

“Lovely. I fought some sort of prehistoric flightless dragon in a magical cavern. It was delicious. Have you bested that Kraken yet?”

“It’s learning to fear me.”

She leaned in and patted his cheek, a condescension he accepted with a tight-lipped smile. “Well done,” she said.

“Thank you.” His bow was stiff. “Excuse me.” Prince Orin stalked off toward where his squire was carefully adjusting the placement of silver domes over platters on the long sideboard, his good mood dispelled.

Silver corroded rapidly in seawater. Those domes were not an Atlantean affectation. Talon had seen something similar in Owlman’s home. Wondered if asking about them would be a believable opening to conversation.

“Oh, and you brought your cupbearer again, I see!” Superwoman exclaimed to the King of Owls, the full weight of her attention falling onto Talon, and immediately claiming the whole of his focus. (Not quite the whole; some was still reserved for his king.) “I like this one,” she announced, tapping a thumb against the bronze armor plating along her upper arm with a noise like rain on tin roofing, mouth curling up. “He doesn’t flinch.”

Flinch? Well. No. It wasn't that she wasn't terrifying, of course. Talon simply had very little energy to waste on feelings like fear. He'd been trained better than that.

"Your Highness," he murmured, ducking his head. A hand came down upon it. Not quite as large as Owlman’s, and bare.

"Hm," she hummed. "Courteous little creature you've trained, Bruce. Your way is so dismally slow, though." Long fingers that could crunch bone like dry leaves toyed with his hair.

Owlman's hand clamped down on Talon's shoulder. "But effective."

"I think you'll find my methods are entirely efficacious, thank you." The sharp note in her voice promised pain, but the hand that slipped from his hair, curled down his face and under his chin was merely firm.

Talon's breath threatened to stutter in his chest. He was supposed to defer to her. He was not supposed to allow liberties. How to resolve these dictates. Was this a test.

If Owlman objected to having his right hand pawed at, he would say something. The hand on his shoulder had tightened, but not in threat. Not as a message. There would be claws in that. Talon submitted to the touch.

The Superwoman's skin against his face seemed to burn. As though with perpetual fever. They said she had been created in divine fire. Talon knew his own body temperature was low. A side effect of the electrum in his bones.

Owlman touched him barehanded, sometimes. That was never so hot as this.

She tilted his head up with a firm pressure, and he stared vacantly into her forehead.

"Why the mask?" she murmured.

"That intangible mystique." The Owlman's voice was heavy with impatient sarcasm. "Diana, if you're finished inspecting my possessions..."

Superwoman swiped the pad of her thumb over Talon's lips. The pressure struck like a bolt of lightning, raced up and down his spine, wrenched at his gut and left his whole skin tingling, chilled. He didn't quite manage to suppress all reaction; his master certainly felt the twitch through the hand still clasped tight around his shoulder. It tightened.

"Chapped," she observed. "You should look into an oil or wax for that, boy."

"Diana." Exasperation. There were very few beings in the world Owlman would bother to show exasperation without menace, but the Superwoman was beyond his power to control, or to readily annihilate. He seemed almost a man, with her. Merely mortal.

The Owl would not let the Superwoman take Talon. He would not. It was too great a loss of face. The practical inconvenience of losing him could be weathered, if necessary, but politically—

"Oh, very well." The Superwoman took her hand away. Talon had never been so grateful to belong to Owlman. "Do drop fifty cents on a tube of chapstick for the boy, though; it can't be efficient for his lips to be constantly splitting, no matter how fast they heal, and it's poor aesthetics."

"Thank you," Owlman said, withering. "For your input."

"Always happy to help, Bruce." She winked at Talon. "See you around, pretty boy."

“Isn’t he too young for you?” the Owl grumbled, falling into step with Superwoman and leaving Talon where he stood, the turn of his head and slope of his shoulder indicating absent dismissal. The edges of their capes brushed together, hard sunlight and soft shadow.

“But showing such potential. You do have nice taste, and they’re so delightfully moldable at that age.”

“Must you always interfere with my things.”

“You’re so generous with them. I only trashed your beach house a little, and I took care of the bodies myself. Anyway, I’ll let you play with my next acquisition if you like.”

“I’m not much for games.”

They were out of earshot, then, and approaching the great oval table that took up one whole end of the hall, raised up on a dais with a single beam of light pouring down onto the center, reflecting from the polished surface enough to light the faces seated around it, though the spotlight did not quite reach them.

Ultraman was already in his chair, its high winged back blazoned with the crest of his house on a gilded field. In the smaller chair facing his, Dash sprawled comfortably back against his sigil of lightning.

As he, Superwoman, and Hydrolord all reached their places, Owlman flicked the particular sign of dismissal that meant commence duties toward Talon. At the table, Atom expanded abruptly into being to fill his seat, and in the shadowed hall beyond, Talon fell away toward the lesser table that lay along the far wall.

Where Garth of Atlantis had, in his master’s absence, been cornered by Donna of Themiscyra.

She loomed over him with only a slight advantage in height, and though she seemed unarmed but for the coiled whip stored on one hip, and was smiling, the threat implied in the way she stood far too close for courtesy was very clear.

Prince Orin’s squire was his master’s opposite: stockily built, and thus solid even for an Atlantean, but only half a head taller than Talon despite being the eldest of the three, with ringlets of dark hair and purple eyes, and in place of the broad smile or frothing rage most common on His Highness of the Seas, Garth’s expression alternated between brusque bare-courtesy and poorly hidden resentment.

He seemed a very poor courtier and was a mess of defensive vulnerabilities, but had clearly been selected for his loyalty over all other concerns.

The Superwoman's right hand, in contrast, was her mirror image—"My sister, Donna," she had said absently the first time she brought the girl with her, and the resemblance was strong; stronger than his had ever been to the Owl, and they’d been mistaken for blood relations more than once, the few times he’d been deployed at his master’s side outside of uniform. And yet there were differences, ones Talon had catalogued at once, and watched still for any change.

Her balance was less perfect, and when she lashed out the loss of control was far less calculated, far likelier to leave her vulnerable. The fire in her stare was different, full of sparks and a snapping pride that spoke to doubts which could undoubtedly be targeted, if it came to a fight. Owlman had estimated her age at fourteen, with the caveat that Amazons did not age at the usual human rate.

Talon had spent three meetings with them already, without having been forced to fight. He was sure it was only a matter of time.

Today seemed likely to be the day, by the set of each of their shoulders. He might welcome it—pain was a small sacrifice for the clean certainty of violence, even against those he must not kill without a clear command. Certainly it would be easier than any other interaction.

But in combat he would have no luck subtly extracting information from their conversation. No good. He had a mission to complete. And Owlman planned to avoid conflict tonight.

“Careful, Amazon,” Garth cautioned, as Talon drew near. “To insult me is to insult my master.”

Superwoman’s protégée flicked the long tail of her hair out dismissively. “And I should be scared of your prince? What power does he have, besides the right to go crying to his mommy?”

“He is knight of the seven seas and the prince of Atlantis, who holds the trident of Neptune.”

“And what is that to the Queen of the Cats? Face it, he’s only here to pretend to be relevant outside his goldfish bowl.”

Garth’s hand strayed toward his waist, though there was no visible weapon there. “You insolent—”

His teeth snapped shut on word and possibly tongue as the heel of Donna Troy’s hand slammed up under his chin.

In the disorientation this created she yanked his gut onto her fist with a handful of curls, then flipped the triple human weight of an Atlantean’s dense muscle and bone casually over her shoulder.

He hit the ground on his face and had only time to break the fall before she was on him again, twisting his arm tight against his spine so that any struggle might tear it from its moorings—an even more serious injury for a boy who swam everywhere than it would be on the surface.

She dragged his head back with a loop of silver whip around his throat.

“Insolent,” she said, her face hanging just above the back of his ear, though she spoke loud and clear enough that Talon had no struggle to hear, “is a word for your inferiors. I am no such thing.

“I am the Lady of Ilium, carrying the legacy of the Titans that stand beyond the world. Troy fell because it trusted too well in the guardianship of Poseidon. Learn from them.

“Because if you continue to cross me I will challenge you to a duel of honor, and throw you down again with my lady and the gods to witness, and shackle your will to mine. And do you think your prince will still value your service, if he can’t trust you not to obey me, instead?”

The squire’s short breath and silence were answer enough, and Donna Troy smirked and let him go, standing up and not offering to help him to his feet. The long half-second it took him to rise spoke volumes to those who knew how to look, and the Amazon flicked the long tail of her hair again in scorn.

She flicked her eyes toward Talon with the gesture, and he realized she was gauging his opinion, his reaction to her violence and her successful threat. She wanted his approval? Or his respect. Or his fear.

He didn't fear her. Genuinely. There was...very little she could do that could threaten him, really. Up at the high table, her mistress was smiling sharkishly at his master, looking for a weakness. She would not find it. She would never find it.

Lady Ilium dismissed the squire of Atlantis and tried her own sharkish smile out on Talon, assured of his attention. He showed his teeth in return. It was not a comforting expression, but he didn't think it would be taken as a threat.

Could she break his will, with her magic? What would that be like?

"Anything to say, Birdie-bye?" she asked him.

Perfect. An opening.

He tilted his head. "Your queens don't know about this meeting, do they?" It was a question for both, if Garth wanted to seize the floor.

"Tch." Donna rolled her eyes and looked away, up at the table where the adults were indulging in intrigue. "Hippolyta will come around." She shot him a look. "Anyway it's not as though your government approves."

Owlman owned the city and state governments. The federal was proving a little more challenging. Talon shrugged one shoulder in carefully calculated indifference. It wasn’t the same thing. “My king,” he said, “is here.”

“And you think being the lord of a made-up Court with no realm of his own is somehow of more account than heir to an empire covering two thirds of the world?” Garth demanded.

Talon regarded him without expression, and the Lady Ilium burst into snorting laughter at the sight, and leaned forward to backhand Talon’s arm—a gesture that seemed almost friendly meant, though he felt blood vessels burst at the impact, and immediately begin to mend. “You’re chatty today, aren’t you shorty? Don’t worry about Diana, she knows what’s up. Her mom’s old-fashioned, we just have to work around her for now.

"Lots of Amazons want in on the outside world, letting you men control it just because it would be a huge chore to change things is such a drag.”

She wrapped an arm around Garth’s neck, too quick for him to evade, but rather than choking or cracking his spine she just dragged him sideways, until his head was conveniently positioned to violently tousle his curls. “And don’t worry about Atlantis, gillsy. We’re not gonna mess with your soggy system, that’s what allies is all about. You’re getting us onside, Atalanta’s gonna owe you.”

Donna Troy, Talon decided, was not originally from Themiscyra. Valuable intelligence, if he could support it with evidence. As a first step he would have to find a way to get her to touch him again, and confirm the impression of a hand far too cool to be a thing like her sister-mistress, of earth and holy fire.

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fan-art-ic · 5 years

Photo

THE PRINCIPLES OF BEING AN UNTETHERED ZEALOT by @fan-art-ic

[id under cut]

THE PRINCIPLES OF BEING AN UNTETHERED ZEALOT

if you stopped telling people it's all sorted out after they're dead,

they might try sorting it all out while they're alive.

I grew up in a small room with white walls and grey floors, with plastic tables where I sat, making a cross from craft foam and a glue stick. An older lady named Mrs. K, or Ms. Z would tell the room about a man named Jesus, who died for our seven-year old sins of lying —about if we brushed our teeth— stealing —a french fry off a plate, and cheating —at monopoly.

I grew up in church after church after church, in car rides ten twenty and eighty minutes long, told that something holy exists, and how my mom may have cried out in pain as my head crowned, but there was a man in the sky who created me. I learned to recite words of punishment, the same words that the angels spoke at gomorrah, to earn pieces of candy and pocket-toys.

Until I was ten, I went to church. Then the bed called louder in the early morning hours, so I never went to Sunday school again. For over half of my life, I was told there was something righteous in the air, and something revenant in the water, and if I pried open my feral child heart to let the Lord in, I would not be damned, tortured, and abandoned to eternal agony in death.

II.

I’m not sure exactly, of how to explain this: I don’t believe in God, I believe in GOD in People. I believe in the pain of kneeling before something Bigger. I believe in how sunlight burns my skin like a cherub’s sword. I believe in the community of Same Heart and Faith. I believe in how hair glows like a halo under streetlights. I believe in the ineffability and complexity of a Humanity.

Does this make sense?

Does you witness the way my heart is bruised before you?

The LORD is my SHEPHERD, I shall not want— but I shall need and do need. I need so desperately. I own a gaping, aching need to fill myself with a Truth, a Truth that’s been left unfilled but created from hours of study, hunched over silk-thin paper and imprinting into my child mind the grief of Mary, the faith of Abraham, and the belief of Paul.

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Emmanuel? Carpenter, friend, son, and Son? Whispered to by a man who called Himself “Father”, who ordered young Emmanuel to bleed and strip himself —hanging bone-splintered above his mother and city— humble to save his neighbors, his heroes, his mother and father?

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Job? Faithful, beautiful Job, ever servant to his God, and suffered endlessly and countlessly as a test of his belief. His children dead and friends’ backs turned on him —blaming words like knives under his shoulder blade— now a man with nothing, toyed with by his God, who already knew Job would remain to any length in His name.

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Lucifer? God’s right-hand, most beloved as all? Wings that glimmered and made sinless —for sin was not yet invented— angels shiny with awe? Lucifer Morningstar, named so for being full of light, bright and beautiful as the dawning sun painting color across the brand new sky, who God designed to have the tint of pride, to have thoughts God would not like, and who was destined to burn from curiosity into something dark, twisted, ashen, disturbed?

I cannot believe in God, for He would take my belief and grasp it with both hands and twist and yank and distort me into another story for a seven-year old child to be told in a room with white walls and grey floors.

III.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines religious as: ‘relating to or manifesting faithful devotion to an acknowledged ultimate reality or deity // a religious person // religious attitudes 2 : of, relating to, or devoted to religious beliefs or observances //joined a religious order 3a : scrupulously and conscientiously faithful b : FERVENT, ZEALOUS’

I have faithful devotion to: -Doodling on tests and quizzes and legal documents -Staying up late to read yet another chapter -Finishing shows (unless I get bored mid-episode in which I never finish it) -A love of cats -Respecting my mother -Disrespecting my father (subtly though, I don’t want to get smacked again) -Writing bad poetry -Writing half-bad prose -Ordering the same food every time (because experience has taught me that the familiar is better)

I wouldn’t call myself [SCRUPULOUS] or [CONSCIENTIOUS], but I will accept, defend, and fight for [b: FERVENT, ZEALOUS]. I am this quiet, barren thing, dull as the metal hull of Oppenheimer’s pride. In my third eye I am Powerful and Strong and Shiny new like the metal glint of a knight with armor polished, my sword strung at the hip.

My child heart rests dormant in my chest and feral in my memories. Memories of bashing a head against a church floor, of a heady violent form taking hold of my dirty, grubby fingers.

IV.

The LORD became God when Man forgot to write about how the LORD wept for his Children on the Eighth Day.

I haven’t touched the ground today. I was too busy noticing the angels who sat on the park bench talking about deadlines and soul quotas. The same cigarette touched their not-lips and the one with muddy shoes flicked the doggend onto the sidewalk, grinding it into ash with his heel.

I heard one say that love isn’t Love —I could hear the capital in his voice— and the other snorted, a strange trill echoing from his inhuman fleshy throat. “What’s the difference, then?” he asked. “love is a service, a loan with one-hundred-and-ten interest.” My toes brushed the dirt and the first angel kept talking: “Love is a selfish act mangled and chewed and torn, it hurts worse than a Fall and is worth more than Grace.”

“I don’t get it, both sound fucking awful,” the other angel said.

“It’s called free will.”

They began a new cigarette and I started to walk again. I think I learned something there, in the park, near those angels. I think I saw the ash grey halos and heard human things for ethereal beings, and understood how the wine-dark of the sea crashes so brutally over the cliffs, drawing artists and writers to its beat, begging to be seen in its violent shores.

VI.

When I was twelve, I tried to touch God. I rode in tense silence, ten minutes there, ten minutes back, to a youth group at a big, white church that had a parking lot so big, I would collapse racing kids one end to the other. I stood in the gym where other twelve-year olds threw footballs and frisbees and free advice, before the pastor would give God’s advice after we all stood for five songs of worship to God, blessing him for shelter, food, water, life, for the absence of pain and presence of joy.

My feet ached and my baby soul hurt, wretched from the inability to embrace the Word of God from the mouths of people who preached kindness and then placed me in groups of kids during activities, where I became a specter: a disheveled, nail-chewing, hair band-snapping, too-solid ghost.

I abandoned church at age sixteen. I tried to find God in the evergreens and mountain air and streaking skies. When my counselor asked if everyone in the tent believed in God, I said maybe. I wanted to be honest and brave, knighted in Truth. What I got was an interrogation, a smiting on those wooded hidden paths, with commands of faith poured down my gasping throat and my pinched nose.

God is the name of justification, and I could not find Him for my own Justice.

VII.

When I was a child, I was told of a resolution, solution, dissolution of all worries, fears, trappings of the human sickness. I was told of Something not greater, but Bigger then my whole world —granted, a seven-year old’s world is the size of an oyster, with them as the pearl— that dealt in a hand of cards with each suit a different type of miracle. My mind was imprinted on with the imagery, the shining glory, of angels and wings and chariots, who swept man off his feet to spit Words of Truth, handpiece to God and examples to look up to —but no one ever mentioned how Moses was buried in the sand.

The neural pathways for divine faith have been ordered, constructed, red ribbon cut, all for no crowd to show up. I have an illness that requires an intervention of a LORD on HIGH, but all I have are the echoes of a Man’s God being read to a group of children in a white room with grey floors.

#poetry #religious poetry #queer poets on tumblr #my writing #religious poem #so uh. here's this i suppose #the formatting is a lil wonky but hopefully not too wonky for it to be problem

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katlyn1948 · 5 years

Text

An Unexpected Journey: Part 5

Arya meet with Ser Rednick at dawn. Even with the dim twilight, the harbor of King's Landing was alive with working people. It took a good while for Arya to actually get to Nymeria because of the gathering crowds. She had wanted to get to the ship before the workers started their day, but she had an unfinished conversion with her sister that she needed to address before she left.

It was early, so Arya wasn't sure if Sansa would even be awake, but none the less, she knocked on her chamber doors. She heard a few shuffles and a grunt of what sound like someone hitting their foot on the bed post. After several minutes, Sansa opened the door. She was in her nightgown and a robe covering her round belly.

"Arya? What in seven hells? You are aware that the sun hasn't even broken the horizon. What are you doing up?" Her sister said with a sleepy voice.

"I wanted to bid you a farewell. I'm leaving in just few short hours and I wanted to apologize for my behavior as last night's supper." Arya said.

Sansa eased a bit and small smile grew on her face. "You do not have to apologize. I should not have pushed you. You are a woman grown and you do not have to explain yourself. Just promise you'll be back."

Arya quickly embraced her sister, "Of course I will be back. I cannot miss the birth of this babe."

Sansa gave her sister a tight squeeze. She normally didn't cry, but with the babe in her belly, it made every little thing emotional. "Be safe." She said to her sister before she shut the door behind her.

Arya made haste after her goodbye to her sister. She wanted to get on the sea and be at Storm's End before the the morrow drew to a close. She was anxious and ready to take the voyage south.

Ser Rednick was waiting at the dock where Nymeria was stationed when Arya arrived. He had the sails hoisted and the crew ready for sailing. Arya was truly greatful for the old navigator. He took the reigns when she could not. He had taught her the proper way to sail and run a ship. Without him she would have been truly lost.

"Ser Rednick, how was your stay?" she asked as she boarded the ship.

"Quite well, Lady Stark. I was able to send a raven to my son and let him know of my journey to Storm's End."

"So he is aware of our impending arrival?" Her eyes were quizzical.

He nodded, "Aye, he'll be joinin' us as we dock. He said the weathers ought to be good for an easy sailing." Ser Rednick looked up to the skys. "And I will have to agree with him."

Arya's eyes followed. The skys were clear with not a cloud in sight. The winds were steady and sails were eager.

"Well then, Ser Rednick, let us not waste anymore time. Lift the anchor and set sail for Storm's End."

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

It took two days for them to reach the port of Storm’s End. Two days on her ship did nothing to ease the nerves that she had been feeling ever since she docked at King’s Landing.

She hadn’t seen him in five years. Had not sent a raven to ask about his well-being nor even asked her siblings when she did write. She had absolutely no idea what he had been up to or if he was still the same man she left all those years ago.

Ser Rednick hardly talked about Storm’s End unless it was about his son and she had purposefully avoided talk about the damned place if it was ever brought in conversation.

But standing on the dock with the light drizzle that had ascended upon them she couldn’t be more ecstatic. Her nerves were high, but her excitement was higher and she could scarcely believe that she was finally here.

She has never been to Storm’s End, but she could remember her father’s stories of the seas side castle and how it over looked ocean. The impregnable keep and it’s ability to weather any storm. It truly was a glorious castle. She even dared to think that it was more beautiful than Winterfell.

Ser Rednick had mentioned of it’s magnificent beauty, but one could not truly understand until they looked upon it with their own eyes.

It was slightly shocking to Arya that she never took the time to visit this place. Perhaps if she did, she may have never left Westeros.

The harbor of Storm’s End was just as busy as the one in King’s Landing. The fisherman were reeling in their morning catch and vendors were out and about selling their oysters, clams, and cockles. It was like any other bustling town thriving with common folk and Arya couldn’t help but smile.

When she left Westeros, Storm’s End had been on the brink of mutiny. The locals and bannermen alike were starving and unorganized and she heard that if it wasn’t for the new Lord and his trusted advisor, there would be no more Storm’s End. Perhaps, she thought, he isn’t a stupid bull after all.

Arya’s thoughts were quickly disrupted by sounds of joyous laughter. To her left she could see Ser Rednick and young man that could pass as Ser Rednick’s former self, embrace in a bearly hug. No doubt it was his son that he could not stop talking about.

“Lady Arya,” Ser Rednick motioned her to come. “This is my son, Archibald Rednick III.”

Arya lifted her brow to the navigator. “The third? Your name is Archibald? I thought you said it was Roger.”

“Aye it is. My second name is Roger. I hate Archibald.”

Arya glanced at the young man the back at Ser Rednick. “Then why did you name him that?”

“I have asked him that same question everyday of my life since I could talk.” The young man spoke. He quickly bowed to Arya.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Arya. I’ve heard all I can about you from the few letters my father has sent.”

Arya retuned the bow, “Likewise, Lord Archibald. And please do just call me Arya.”

The young man smiled, “Of course, Arya. But I must also ask you to please call me Archie. I may be a Lord, but the title is new and I do hate all the formalities. However, I cannot say the same for my wife.”

“Ah yes! How is that daughter-in-law of mine doing?” Ser Rednick asked his son.

Archie grabbed a hold of his fathers shoulder and lead him towards the seaside town. Arya was in step with them both as they made their way through the people.

“She is always well, father. She taking quite nicely to being a Lady, although she does not wish to do typical lady things.”

This tickled Arya’s ear. “What do you mean, Archie?”

“Well...she cannot sew to save her life. She hates the way some of the other ladies speak about common folk and she’d much rather spend her times in the stables than to gossip around in a circle. Although, now a days, she is tending to our young children.” Archie spoke freely.

“The stables?” Asked Arya. She was becoming more curious about this Lady Rednick.

“Aye. Her father was the former stable master before he passed. Her brother took up the job, but she does most of the work. Teaches our daughter how to properly care for the horses. Our son is only 4 moons, so all he is interested in is his next meal.” Archie says with a chuckle.

“And you do not mind her working in the stables? With her being a Lady?”

Archie shook his head, “No, not at all. But I wouldn’t be able to stop her if I tried. She gut me like a fish, that one. Her uncle is the swords master and taught her how to properly defend herself if necessary.”

Arya shook her head. She would have to meet this Lady Rednick, for she believed they could be fast friends.

They talked more on their walk through the town. Archie has mentioned that the bannermen of Storm’s End had taken a liking to their new Lord and that he truly cared for his people. Ser Rednick would tell his son about the adventures of the sea and how they encountered more than just islands.

Arya enjoyed seeing the father and son talk. They were close, she could tell and she enjoyed seeing the familiarity between the two. They may been apart for five years, but they conversed as if they had seen each other the day before. It was a familiarity that Arya could not wait to experience. She can only hope that is how it would be once she sees Gendry again. Old friends, picking up where they left off.

They had finally reached the gates of Storm’s End after walking for what seemed like ages. It hadn’t been a difficult trek, but for someone who had been on a boat for the last five years, climbing the hills and rocky terrain had winded Arya. She as glad when they finally saw the guards because that meant they had reached the top.

“Halt! State your business.” One guard said.

“Aye! It is I, Lord Rednick, Of House Rednick. Newly appointed bannerman of House Baratheon.” Archie spoke clearly. “I am here with guests of House Baratheon that have arrived from a long journey.”

The guard nodded to his fellow guardsman and they let the trio pass.

Inside the grounds of Storm’s End was just as busy as the harbor. People were running around doing their daily tasks. The kennel master was training new pups, the swords master was teaching new guards the art of sword play, and the ringing of metal against metal echoed from the forge. It was an all to familiar sound for Arya and she was anxious to see if he’d be in the smithy. Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they were guiding her into the direction of the smithy. But is he in there? Would the Lord of Storm’s End be along side his fellow smiths? She thought. But it would not matter, for a familiar voice broke her thoughts.

“Is that Arya Stark of Winterfell?”

Arya turned to the voice and immediately recognized the old smuggler.

“Aye it is, Ser Davos.” She smiled as she approached him.

She welcomed his embrace, taking in another memory of home.

Her and Ser Davos had not been close, but she would be eternally grateful for the old man, for without him she believed her brother would be dead.

Ser Davos released her from the embrace and she was able to truly see his aging face. Being an advisor to a lord had taken its toll on the smuggler, but he seemed to remain his eager old self.

“How have ye been, my dear?” He asked her.

“Well. I’ve just returned from my travels west and was hoping to see an old friend. Where is our Lord Gendry?” She asked with sudden realization that this was the first time she said his name aloud since she’s gotten back to Westeros.

“He’s out collecting monthly rents. He should be back before supper.” The old smuggler answered. “In the mean time, I’ll have rooms drawn for you lot.”

“No need for us, Ser Davos. My father will be staying with me. As you know, my keep is just a few minutes ride outside of Storm’s End. We will be leaving right after supper.” Archie said.

Ser Davos nodded. “Very well. Please Lady Arya, if you follow me, I can show you to your temporary chambers. Where are your belongings?”

”They are back on my ship at the harbor. I can send for them on the morrow.” Arya hesitated. “And Ser Davos, if it is alright with you, I’d like to explore the castle grounds. Make myself aquatinted.”

”I don’t see why not. I’ll have on of the maids fetch you once supper is ready.” With that Ser Davos turned and headed off to the armory.

Arya smiled and turned to the father/son duo.

“I had no idea you knew the Lord.” Ser Rednick said.

“Yes, he’s an old friend.” She let the old man know.

“Old friend, you say? Is that why you so eagerly agreed to come with me?” He questioned with knowing eyes.

“Mayhaps.” A small smile had creeped onto Arya’s face.

Archie hadn’t acknowledged the interaction between his father and Arya, for he had an eagerness of his own.

“Come father, let us go meet your grandchildren.” And with that, Archie dragged his father in the opposite direction.

Arya was left standing there in the middle of the castle grounds. She didn’t know which direction to go in first. On one side there was the armory, along with the training grounds and stable. The other side looked like it had housed the smithy and the kennels, while straight a head were the kitchens. Everything seemed surreal to Arya. She was actually here and couldn’t quite believe it.

When she was a little girl and her father told her the stories about Storm’s End she always thought that she would hate it but standing here in the middle of the grounds surrounded by hard working, dedicated people that were loyal to their Lord, she came to realize that maybe it wasn’t such a bad place after all, even if it was wet all the time.

Arya decided to take a left and head towards the training groups. It had been a while since she has sparred with anyone of decent skills. Perhaps she could find someone in the stormlands that could take her on. As she made her way to the training grounds a young girl of maybe three namedays ran into her.

The little girl had land on the ground with a thud and tears began to well in her eyes. Arya knelt beside her to make sure she was alright.

“I’m sorry little one, I’ve must have not seen you. Are you alright?” Arya asked. It felt strange to her, to be kind. She hasn’t had much interaction with children, so she wasn’t sure if she was being kind enough. Although this would be good practice she thought.

The little girl hesitated when she looked up at Arya, but nodded.

Arya smiled at her and helped the little girl on her feet. “Well that’s good. What’s your name? Maybe we can find your mother?”

The little girl sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I no have a mother.”

Arya’s heart squeezed with sadness. She, of all people, knew what it felt like not to have a mother.

“Do you have a father?” Arya asked.

The little girl’s eyes lit up in excitement. Her mop brown curls bobbed up and down.

“Really? Where is he then?” She asked. Arya was trying to maintain her patience with the young lass, but trying to get answers out of a child her age was next to impossible.

The child looked around the courtyard frantically, but couldn’t quite place her stare. Perhaps she is to small to see, thought Arya. With one quick movement she lifted the girl into her arms. She had nestled perfectly onto Arya’s hip and held on to her for dear life. Arya began walking around the courtyard for the little girl to see. For several minutes the girl was silent, that is until they made their way to the castle entrance.

“There is papa.” The girl said as she pointed towards the castle gates.

Arya turned and her breath had caught in her throat. Coming into the castle on a brown horse was a man with the most beautiful ocean eyes that she had ever seen. Ocean eyes that she never thought she would see again.

But that is impossible. The little girl she had in her arms looked nothing like him. Her hair was a muddied brown and her eyes were an undeniable hazel.

“What is your name?” She asked the little girl in her arms.

She looked up at Arya and smiled, “I am Lyra Baratheon. My papa calls me the little Lady of Storm’s End.”

Arya’s mind begins to get fuzzy. She was trying to put pieces of an impossible puzzle together. Had she really expected him to wait all this time for her? And what about the child’s mother? Why did she not look like him? How could she have been so stupid? Of corse he would move on. She gave him reasons to. But that didn’t mean that it still didn’t hurt.

Arya looked up one more time, this time those ocean blue eyes were staring right at her.

Only one thing could come to his mind, “Arya?”

#gendrya #arya stark #gendry waters #jonerys #got #gotspoilers #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #d&d #arya x gendry

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