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avvail-whumps · 2 years

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‘guns for hire’ — carving a claim #4

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content warnings: captivity, denied food, also denying food when eventually given, denied painkillers/medicine, sleep deprivation, non-con touching (not sexual, fingers in the mouth), chains, knives, blood, cutting (another person)

Pressing his face into the mattress below him, Leo grit his teeth through the burning pain, expression wrinkled.

Every minute, there seemed to be a zap of agony, jerking him awake, leaving him to curl up tighter in himself and hear his hopes begging for him to disappear into nothing.

He didn’t dare look at his ankle.

Roy had simply nudged his cheek in some form of brief affection, like he was trying to console him, and promptly left and locked the door behind him as Leo screamed and sobbed for the pain to stop.

It must have been hours, dragging along across his mind, and no sign of his captor.

His ankle had swollen and it was bent at an angle, meaning he couldn’t even lay down without it being pressed in an awkward direction. Sweat had beaded along his forehead, no flush of colour apparent on his face, taken over by a sickly white.

He’d been given no painkillers. No food. Leo couldn’t even sleep because of the pain, infecting his mind and lurching him from any sense of relief when he began to doze off. His fingers trembled, winding them into the mattress, fresh tears tracking down his cheeks.

The chain felt cold against his skin.

Wasn’t it useless? It wasn’t like Leo could walk with his ankle in the state it was, and all it did was make him feel like some sort of trapped animal.

His eyes were burning and growing heavier by the hours, yet even when he closed them, he couldn’t drift off to sleep. Not even for a moment.

Frustration built up in his chest, clogging in his throat. His stomach was tightening with hunger, and it was starting to affect his head, throbbing with nausea. Leo groaned, clutching his stomach, quietly crying into the mattress.

Maybe it was morning by the time Roy had appeared, because he had a bowl in his hand. He was whistling quietly under his breath, but the noise seemed to drill straight through his skull, making him want to press his hands against his ears and drown it out.

The mercenary crouched down slowly in front of the mattress, his arms resting on his thighs, brow cocked. Leo could feel his gaze dragging across his body, cracking his eyes open slowly. He could feel just how sore they were, along with the rest of his face.

He winced softly as his ankle flared, and the mercenary almost laughed.

“You aren’t looking too good, lion,” he sighed, tilting his head to the side. “Here. Some porridge.”

The thick smell wafted through the air, making his stomach pinch and his head throb with a dizzying wave of lightheadedness. Roy had swiftly left after that, leaving the bowl on the stone floor beside the mattress, but Leo simply wrapped an arm around his head and ignored it.

The idea of stomaching food didn’t sit right with him.

The next time Roy showed up, the porridge was cold and Leo was pressed up against the wall, his cheeks washed out and developing circles darkening under his eyes. He couldn’t see the mercenary’s face, but the sound of a loud banging caused him to flinch violently, his head snapping upwards.

His unfocused eyes landed on the bowl, which Roy had kicked against the wall in a flock of anger, the contents spilling out across the stone. The bowl had landed upside down, clattering loudly until it finally came to a stop.

Leo cried out in pain when fingers twisted through his hair, jerking him from his spot against the wall and closer to the man. His arms flailed out uselessly, but it was effortless the way Roy wrestled him harshly onto his back, pressing against him heavily.

He lashed out with the last remaining strength he felt he had, fueled by his fear and adrenaline, but it was useless. His ankle seared with a schorching pain that ricocheted straight up his spine.

“Let go!” He shrieked, his gloved hands digging into his jaw, shoving his skull into the mattress. Leo squirmed with tears in his eyes, the biting pain digging into his flesh.

“I don’t cook often,” Roy snapped, his voice laced with an ounce of venom. He had reached into his pocket and tipped a few pills into his hand. “So I suggest you take what I give you when I’m feeling generous. Don’t be so fucking ungrateful.”

When Leo pried his lips open to reply, the mercenary pinched the pills between his two fingers, and shoved them down the secretary’s throat. Leo’s eyes widened and he choked on a gasp, feeling the horrible intrusion pressing against the back of his throat, pushing the pills further down.

The glove rubbed against his tongue and Leo’s lungs begged for air, unable to draw in a gasp with the fingers blocking his airways. The secretary seized his wrist, digging his nails into it with a frantic vigour, but it didn’t deter the mercenary above him.

Once he seemed satisfied, his withdrew his fingers, the pills gone, and Leo erupted into a fit of violent, desperate coughs, the tears sliding down his cheeks and saliva pooling around his lips. He shuddered in disgust, jerking away from his grip.

“I-I hate you!”

Roy smirked. “I know. If you keep wasting food then maybe I’ll have to start feeding you like this. And then you’d probably hate me more.”

Leo clenched his jaw and ripped away from the man’s touch, pressing it frantically against the mattress as if it could swallow him whole and get him out of there.

“I-I just want to go home...”

“And?” Roy shrugged. “I don’t want to go to jail. You’re mine, lion, whether you like it or not.”

Then, something mischievous flashed in those eyes. Something that Leo didn’t like one bit. The mercenary held his gaze, trapping him there, as he subtly slid a small knife out of the holder wrapped around his thigh. Leo could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage at the sight.

“Maybe you just can’t see it yet,” he shrugged nonchalantly, shifting his weight until Leo could barely breathe. He felt his hand seize his wrist, pushing it firmly against the mattress. His heart plummeted to his stomach, writhing against him.

“N-No—”

“I know where to cut,” Roy muttered softly, as if the words would soothe him in any way. Leo felt the bite of the blade ghosting over his skin, on the inside of his wrist, and his thrashes picked up even more. His chest heaved with shallow breaths.

His grip was too tight and Leo couldn’t even find the strength to push him away. “Please!”

“Stop squirming,” he grit out, applying pressure against the knife, watching as it pierced his skin,” you don’t want me to hit an artery, do you?”

The pain was sharp and Leo sucked in a hiss through his teeth, clawing against his shoulders. A shuddery moan of pain slipped past his lips, tensing when the bite of the knife shocked him, and dissolving into shuddery sobs.

Roy only shushed him quietly, his eyes fixated on the rush of blood and the direction of the knife, slowly carving four intricate lines into his skin. The blood was hot against his skin, burning and scorching, and Leo fell into waves of pain instead of fighting it any longer.

His ankle burned and the chains dug into his limb awkwardly. He pressed his forehead against Roy’s arm, sobbing quietly against the warm fabric, and the mercenary smiled slightly under his breath as he worked.

“There you go, just keep breathing,” he murmured offhandedly, admiring the way he would tense and wince with each press of the blade. His skin was so smooth, it almost seemed wrong not to taint it.

Wracked with exhaustion, the secretary blinked away the black dots along the edges of his vision, clenching his jaw tightly until the knife lifted from his skin, and didn’t return. His skull pressed back into the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, a sheen of sweat glistening against his face and disheveled blond hair falling messily around him.

He felt fingers brushing against his cheek, and Leo’s eyes flickered open to find the mercenary smirking at him with an indifferent look in his eye.

His wrist was stinging sharply, and Leo swallowed the dry shards in his throat when he turned aside to look. His wrist was smothered in long, wet lines of red, and he suppressed a loud sob as he forced himself to look away.

“Good job, lion,” Roy chuckled, his fingers sliding through his hair and moving towards the back of his skull. Leo whined softly as they tightened in his locks, holding him there securely. A silent threat. “Now, listen here. I’ll go get you something to clean up the blood. I’ll get you a nice glass of water, and make you another bowl of porridge. I’m not good in the kitchen, so I can’t guarantee it’ll be as nice as the last one. I put a lot of work into it and I didn’t appreciate you wasting it like that.”

Leo panted quietly, his chest shaking with his shallow breaths.

“But I’m not going to all that unless you promise you’ll cooperate. Can you do that, lion? Are you going to cooperate?”

The secretary nodded his head frantically, and Roy raised a brow. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes,” he choked out, his voice weak. “...promise.”

The mercenary smiled, patting his cheek. “Good boy.”

The pressure lifted from his chest, and Leo gasped at the influx of air flooding into his lungs. He rubbed the area and slowly forced himself to sit up, the idea of lying down for any longer making him feel queasy. He didn’t dare glance at Roy as he stood back to his feet, but he heard the loud banging of the door being bolted shut. It echoed through his skull as the secretary gently cradled his right hand, glancing at the messy sight. The blood was still fresh and the lines were hard to make it out, but Leo couldn’t bare to look any longer.

Eternity didn't feel like long enough before the mercenary was returning. Leo felt a beat of terror flush through him as he approached, keeping his eyes pinned to the ground. He watched another bowl and a glass of water being placed against the floor, before Roy sank on the edge of the mattress, sighing.

“Wrist.”

Leo sniffled and did as he was told. The man gripped his hand and began wiping the blood away with a damp cloth, soaking it up until it disappeared. The scent only seemed to grow stronger, that metallic smell sour against his nose. Roy seemed to sense the disgust in his eyes and the tension in his face, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“You’ll get used to it,” he muttered lowly, yet the comment was anything but comforting.

Leo felt pressure on his wound and hissed as the mercenary lay one of those large, rectangular plasters over it, smoothing it down.

He dropped his wrist carelessly, and Leo brought it up to his chest. “Good as new. I suggest you eat all of that, or I just might give you a matching one on the inside of your thigh.”

Leo’s brows twitched into a frown as the mercenary shot him a wink, swiftly turning towards the food on the floor. He took the water first, his fingers only just strong enough to grasp it without dropping it. As soon as the cold liquid touched his tongue, Leo realised just how thirsty he really was.

He gulped it down greedily, flooding down his throat and easing the soreness, and only pulled away when he felt Roy’s gloved hand ruffle gently through his hair. He peaked up at him through his eyelashes as he left, watching the door clang shut, and the lock slide into place. The secretary slumped against the wall, his muscles aching.

It was like a suffocating presence had finally been expelled from the air, allowing him to breathe and relax.

It took him a few seconds to gather the strength to pick up the bowl and spoon, shovelling the much needed fuel into his mouth. It was luke warm, and a little watery, but it seemed like the most delicious thing Leo had ever eaten.

Which was funny, because he didn’t even like porridge.

tag list – @unorganisedalienrubbish @d-cs @rabidrabidme @sordayciega @burningkittypoet

#whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump scenario #whump drabble #whump snippet #whump series #whumpee #whumper #whump fic #whump things #leo and roy #captivity #writing #my writing #avvail whump #mercenary #not a fan of this one but i'm super excited for the next 😈

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wildlyglittering · 3 years

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The Journey Begins with a Smile

So ages ago (and I do mean ages) I asked people to give me some Nessian prompts and I had four requests. Not many so that’s completely doable I thought.

Since my request, things didn’t go so well for my personal life and then, on a global scale, a pandemic hit. Both those things meant I wasn’t writing or even reading much.

BUT I was determined to fill those requests - even if the requesters had forgotten or no longer cared! Luckily I have managed to get my groove back so am trying to ride the writing train for as long as it will carry me!

@ekaterinakostrova requested something where Cassian made Nesta smile for the first time. I’ve taken some liberties to fill the prompt but here it is. Finally.

I hope you enjoy!

***

The multi-level gardens of the Day Court stretched outwards like a labyrinth.

Unlike the Night Court, whose gardens were sensibly flat, Day’s held winding staircases which lead to a plethora of mezzanines, stacked one after another. Each offered a new delight; pools of water swimming with gold and white fish, pagodas draped with ever blossoming honeysuckle or fountains carved with the curved forms of caressing lovers.

Some paths appeared to lead to dead ends, but the experienced visitor long learnt appearances were deceiving. As long as the explorer had the foresight to move thickets of ivy and trailing roses aside, they would find smaller paths twisting towards secret grottos.

Aside from the romantic allure of mystery, the garden’s contained an energy which reverberated through Cassian’s bones. Although the deep calm of the Night Court lands was his preference, Cassian found staying in Day was never an unpleasant experience.

Wandering the gardens would have been its usual satisfying activity if not for the frustration simmering in Cassian’s veins. Not an hour before he’d bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the copper of his blood before storming from the bedroom suites, leaving the other occupant behind.

His anger, and hers, were twins to each other. When the subject matter at hand arose, rational discussion dissipated like smoke in a storm and, as they were both apt to lose their tempers, that’s exactly what they did. After those times, it was best they stayed apart.

Being away from the Night Court brought up the familiar argument.

Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face, they were in Day on Rhys’ orders otherwise they wouldn’t have been there at all.

The knowledge of who Lucien was to Helion, and who the Lady of Autumn had been, was now widely known. Now, the painful possibility of civil war loomed over the Courts, brought on by the betrayal of an unwritten code of conduct. Helion was thinking ahead, reaching out to all potential allies in the hopes if he gained enough, Autumn would be dissuaded to start conflict.

There was no question Rhys would pledge to Helion.

It didn’t hurt though, Rhys said, to pay Day a visit.

Rhys spoke about contingency planning and counter-measure tactics but Cassian had known Rhys long enough to understand the guise. Under everything lay the ripple of the question of Spring’s allegiance and the inevitable shift of power towards the next generation of High Lords, including those Rhys was unable to befriend.

Custom dictated High Lords, and now High Lady, were the only ones to be allowed in the sanctum to speak politics. However, Rhys requested the attendance of his Inner Circle - where Rhys went, his most trusted followed.

What was less clear was the rationale behind Rhys’ request that those connected to the Inner Circle also attend. It was, Cassian believed, Rhys’ attempt to keep his friends compliant and a way to curry favour from others - namely Lucien who always hungered for time with Elain.

This secondary request was the one which opened the festering wound close to the surface of Nesta’s skin.

In an effort to find some calm, Cassian took to walking the gardens, like he had many times before. Like those times before, his steps took him a familiar route. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious mind, he sought out what would bring him solace no matter how measly a sliver.

He ventured down a staircase, overflowing with floating lilacs, and onto a terrace which was surprisingly spacious for such a narrow-arched entrance.

This particular mezzanine was paved with sand coloured stone and framed by apple trees, their branches reaching towards each other like fingers. The waist high balcony overlooked the next level down – the glass domed ceiling of the sunken library.

This terrace, tucked away in the constructed gardens, housed the collection of seven statues who all faced inwards, into their circle, for eternity.

Like all statues in Day, the figures had been carved from marble run through with thick veins of gold and silver. Unlike the other statues, Cassian held an interest for these and these alone.

Whichever sculptor Helion found, he found one with talent. Despite the fact they were rock the sculptures contained something so painfully real. They were motionless yet their bodies held motion, they were emotionless yet their faces held emotion. When Cassian reached out to touch them, he swore there was bone beneath their stone skin.

Day was never more glorious then how she was now, in the full swing of her namesake and the wide blue sky called to Cassian to dance. Though his muscles ached to obey and his wings quivered in anticipation, he wouldn’t fly. Day was filled with sharp, ornate spires and he’d navigated a similar path unsuccessfully before.

But being trapped on the ground did nothing to help his mood; his legs shook, his eyes stung. Cassian was tired of the burning sun, tired of being apart from his friends, tired of the endless political deliberations of the other High Lords.

When he was unable to fly, Cassian needed to find other ways to curb his energy. One of those ways often involved his willing mate.

Except, at this current time she was not quite so willing. The blush pink rooms they were guests in were uncomfortably close to the rooms of others so Nesta didn’t want to make love to him here. She was even less likely to be inclined towards Cassian’s persuasions following their argument.

This was a radical departure from how they were in the isolation of their mountain cabin, especially in those final days. Time had turned into hourglasses and the sand of their lives trickled through their fingers fast then they breathed.

They couldn’t move to each other quick enough then, couldn’t remove their clothes fast enough, couldn’t press their bodies close enough.

Since their return to Velaris it was as though Nesta was turning into stone as cold and hard as the material of the statues Cassian now stared at.

Cassian sighed, drawing a deep breath of the lilac scented air into his lungs and walked towards one statue in particular. The one he thought of as his twin.

The stone fae stood high on the ends of its toes, as if it couldn’t bear to have any part of itself touching the ground. The arms stretched over its head, fingers straining upwards, begging for the sky to claim it. The figure didn’t have wings but Cassian imagined them, stretched out behind, broad and strong.

Cassian’s own wings, tangible flesh and bone, twitched as a breeze drifted past.

The circle existed for centuries but grew in number over the years. The first ones, the original ones, hadn’t changed but the way Cassian looked at them had. Once a carefree nature danced about them but, like all things weightless, that had floated away.

The invisible weight on them now was hard and heavy. Even the figure for the sky had something buried under the surface that hadn’t existed before.

Cassian was no fool – he recognised his own transference. What he saw; fatigue, anger, sorrow – these were his own burdens and in turn he projected them onto the poor stone creature in front of him willing it to absorb what he didn’t want.

Cassian ran his hand once more over his face. He wanted his effigy to take Nesta’s words which today were sharper than usual with insults flung towards his family with flippant ease. He reminded her that when she spoke with venom against them, she spoke venom against him.

Take your antidote then, she’d sneered, beg your friends to draw it all out if you think I’m such poison.

Nesta hadn’t been fully happy in the mountains but she’d been as close to peace as he’d ever seen. Finally, a part of Nesta was at rest, and the female Cassian loved was in a place he loved. All had been right for a time, their hearts in full growth, only to shrink into themselves when they were summoned back to Velaris.

Cassian would be misguided to think their arrival in Day was what agitated Nesta to begin the fight that morning. He could pretend she picked up on his restlessness or that she didn’t care much for the Court however the latter was a lie.

During her lengthy rehabilitation Nesta had visited Day on numerous occasions, sometimes with Cassian but often without. On the instances he visited her he was forced to choke down his jealousy at seeing Nesta and Hellion walking arm in arm, understanding that the High Lord of Day was playing a significant part in helping her heal.

Nesta would spend every minute in this place if Helion asked her to.

No, everything triggered from Rhys’ request that Nesta come to Day.

In Nesta’s eyes, Rhys’ request was a command; a command which served only to appease Rhys’ ego and prove he would always be able to demand the lives of those around him bend to his will.

Rhys wanted Cassian to be in Day and Rhys wanted Nesta to provide a pleasant distraction for Cassian’s restless nature. There was no other purpose.

The bitterness bled into Nesta at the fact Rhys demanded her attendance in a place she adored and would visit without complaint. Rhys had smirked it was the ‘without complaint’ he’d wanted from her for once.

She came only because Cassian had pleaded.

The heavy honeysuckle cloyed at Cassian’s nose and he decided to leave the gardens before he drowned in the scent of flowers. He’d find Az, a permanently sympathetic ear, who would patiently listen to Cassian’s complaints about how suffocated he was in a place he longer wished to be.

As he turned, a flash of marble hidden in the trees caught his eye.

Cassian hadn’t noticed anything else on this mezzanine before but it was no surprise, the white figure among the deep green leaves was set apart from the circle and tucked out of sight.

Drawing closer he saw the statue stood with its back to the rest, head titled downwards. The marble designed to be the hair splayed outwards as though caught in a tumultuous wind. Something about the statue, something about her, hollowed out Cassian’s chest.

“Why didn’t Helion put you with the others?”

“Because she doesn’t belong with the others.”

A voice, smoky and deep, carried across the space and Helion appeared from behind a wall of ivy onto the terrace next to him.

Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that secret passage.”

“That’s the whole point of it being a secret,” Helion said with a wistful sigh. “Now I’ll have to move it.”

“Don’t on my account.”

“And have you get here quicker to start your sulking? I don’t think so.”

Cassian opened his mouth to refute Helion’s words but the High Lord spoke over him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said with a nod to the statue. “Out of all them, this one’s my favourite.” Helion turned to Cassian, dark skin glowing from the light within, mischief in his eyes.

Cassian bit his teeth together.

She was beautiful though, curves and angles, and the strength of stone. But who were they speaking of? The statue or Nesta herself?

“Why is she over here and not with the rest?”

The smugness slid from Helion’s face, his dark eyes scanning Cassian’s face, categorising every imperfection and scar as though he searched for something. Perhaps he wasn’t able to find what he wanted and a sad smile crept onto his face. “I told you – she doesn’t belong with the others. If I put her in the circle where would she gaze? At the ground? I won’t have that for her.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted, “She’s already looking at the ground.”

Helion cocked his head to the side, like one of the curious dogs in the mortal realm who sensed an invisible Cassian without truly perceiving him.

“Interesting how we can view something so differently. Tell me,” Helion said, “what are you seeing?”

They stood, arm length apart, one a High Lord and one a General. One draped in white and gold silks and the other clad in black leather. Winged and grounded.

Centuries existed between them with decades of Helion’s decadent parties where his fingertips would trail across the skin of Cassian’s muscled forearm, his mouth curled into a sensual smile. They’d not gone to bed with each other but shared at least one female over the years.

Here they stood in the sun; no lustful invitations, no pulling of rank. They were two males, competing in a game with stakes Cassian didn’t care for.

Still, he described her. Head downward, eyes downcast, eyelids. No sculptor would ever be able to create something so fine but Cassian swore there were delicate, long eyelashes casting a shadow against the sharp sculptured cheekbones. The graceful neck curved into a collarbone and clavicle with strands of stone hair caught in a storm of her own making.

Head and eyes down. This is what Cassian relayed to Helion. “Are you satisfied?” he growled, “I’m tired of playing.”

Cassian had jested over the years that Helion had a way of undressing him with his eyes, of looking beyond the armour and siphons to the male underneath. Helion had roared with delight and asked Cassian if he wanted to put that feeling into action.

Now, with the High Lord’s dark eyes on him, Cassian believed Helion was witnessing something deeper, that he was now staring beyond bone and blood.

“I know when you’re upset,” Helion said, glancing away, “and where you go when you are. You’ve walked this pathway numerous times and besides, these are my gardens, they tell me everything.” Helion’s eyes flickered back to Cassian, “You’re not as prone to idiocy as Rhys would have you be. Look again and try and do it properly.”

I have, Cassian wanted to tell him but he hadn’t.

Her stone feet were planted on solid ground, the stone hands down by her sides with the palms facing upwards. Her head was still down as were her eyes.

The figure seemed to change the longer he looked, one expression melting into another, completely different from before; disinterest, anger, peace. Cassian followed the line of her eyes to the gold domes roof of the sunken library glinting in the sunlight on the mezzanine below.

The statues full lips were tilted upwards into a smile, small but there.

“You don’t love Day,” Helion said to him, his deep voice breaking through the storm of Cassian’s thoughts.

“I enjoy it.”

“But Day will never be home.” Helion raised a robed arm towards the sky, long dark fingers stretching out, the light greedily swimming around his skin. “You seek freedom and you can’t find that here. So, my question to you oh miserable one, where do you find freedom?”

Cassian shrugged; this was an easy question and though Helion already had the answer, Cassian would play a little longer. “Velaris. The mountains.”

“And who are you free with?”

Helion’s tone was sly and conspiratorial as though he was inviting Cassian into a darkened room and asking him to share all his secrets, whispering across velvet pillows or through draped curtains. It was like honey dripped from Helion’s mouth.

Cassian’s fists clenched, tendons sliding over bones as he flexed his fingers.

Helion was skilled at drawing out confidences that most fae wanted to keep hidden. He emitted some strange magic which made Cassian want to dash to the nearest scribe and spill everything he had. Names and faces swam into Cassian’s mind, seemingly at Helion’s bidding, the most prominent being the one who spent her morning scowling at him.

Her name took shape at the end of Cassian’s tongue.

“You know who,” Cassian choked the words out in lieu of the ones that was forming, “don’t play your games.”

Helion stepped closer to the statue with a sigh and trailed a graceful finger across the carved lifeline on her upturned left palm. The line cut off not long after it started before beginning again, half a nail width away. It matched the real version perfectly.

Helion pouted and peered over the ledge. “It’s no fun if you don’t want to play but let’s not then, let me share with you a truth which your own truth speaker doesn’t care to bring to you. Nesta isn’t free in Velaris, but then you do know this.” Helion’s eyes glanced from the sun glinted library roof to Cassian’s face.

“She’s free here though. My statues, my darling beauties, represent the hearts of my most welcomed guests and while you are quick to immediately assume that Nesta spends her time staring at the ground, I see she is simply seeking her own peace.” Helion shrugged, gold and white silk sliding over smooth dark skin. “Freedom looks different for everyone.”

“I know that,” Cassian snarled, teeth bared, “I don’t need some heavy-handed lecture.”

The air began to pulse as an energy reverberated around the stone of the terrace. The tree branches shook and the leaves rustled. One growl of power to a disobeying dog. A warning; never bear your canines at a High Lord in the very Court his blood runs through.

Cassian uncurled his fists, splaying his fingers in Helion’s eyeline. Acquiescence. Cassian was guilty of foolish behaviour but he was no fool.

Helion’s tone had bite. “I’ll forgive your misjudgement on account of your poorly developed emotional response mechanism but only this once. You get away with burying your head when in the Night Court but I won’t have it here. Let me speak plain - this statue is an everlasting part of my garden but it’s rock, expensive rock, but rock. I would happily welcome the originator of its visage to become a permanent member of my Court. I think she’d accept, don’t you?”

Although the power of Helion still sang its presence, Cassian restrained the urge to turn feral. He didn’t, wouldn’t, because despite what others thought, Cassian was no animal. Besides, some part of Helion’s words wormed their way through Cassian’s brain.

Perhaps Helion discerned the calm Cassian was desperately trying to maintain because his voice was soft when he next spoke. “You have two options my handsome friend; go together to a place where you are both equally as free or find your freedom apart. Sacrifices have to be made and they shouldn’t all be hers.”

The sweet scent of roses and lilacs drifted through the mezzanine and Cassian looked down at the statue’s open palm.

“You can spend your time out here staring at an exquisitely carved piece of stone or you can reach for something real,” Helion said. “Your choice.”

Cassian thought of the circle of statues at his back, most especially the one on its toes spending centuries reaching for something that never came.

The squeeze on Cassian’s shoulder was gentle. “You’ll find her in the library,” Helion told him, “but then, you already knew that.”

Cassian sighed and closed his eyes and when he’d opened them, Helion had gone. Only the hanging ivy swaying by the wall was any indication of where he’d gone. Cassian looked back at the statue’s calm and serene face before trailing a fingertip onto the other open palm, half expecting her hand to curl around his, finding that he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I knew.”

Cassian wanted everything; Nesta, the Inner Circle, Velaris. He wanted his freedom; long fought for and hard won. He could have all those things if he pushed hard enough - but only for a time. His desires co-existing side by side would have lasted as long as a breath in the span of his lifetime.

There will be cost and Cassian understood the price.

He left the mezzanine and its sculptured delights behind. They were just statues, fixed to stand forever. Living things were meant to move.

The library was cooler than outside, filled with white marble columns and an expansive white marble floor making the space larger and lighter. Ivy weaved its way up the columns while the golden domed roof provided a welcoming warmth, counterbalancing the coolness of the stone.

Nesta was exactly where Cassian knew to find her, tucked away in her favourite loveseat under an arch in the romance section.

In the mountains Nesta told him how she spent her days in the Day Court; meals with Helion, walks with Helion, talks with Helion.

They all made Cassian’s stomach twist.

Nesta also told him she learnt to be alone with her thoughts. In those moments she went to the library, one of the few places she found comforting. There hadn’t been many safe spaces on offer to her in Prythian.

Cassian stood a small distance away behind one of the larger columns, folding his wings in as tight as he was able.

Nesta would always be one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen. As she was now, with her head bent to her pages, she matched the statue above their heads; watchful and waiting.

Her face, smooth and still, could have been carved from stone, a testament to how expressionless she could be. If Cassian hadn’t experienced the passion, the sadness and the rage which existed underneath he would have believed she felt nothing at all.

Her cool voice carried across to him.

“Are you going to spend all your time lurking in the shadows?”

“I don’t lurk.”

Nesta looked over briefly, a delicate eyebrow raised, her pink lips downturned. Those blue-grey bore into him. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Cassian sighed and walked toward her. At least, he thought, Nesta shifted on the loveseat to make room for him. After their argument he thought she would be more inclined to try and beat him with the book she’d turned back to read.

They sat in strained silence. Nesta’s soft breaths out of sync with Cassian’s. She inhaled on his exhale. Everything was out of sync with them, even down to the core.

Cassian let out another sigh. Maybe he could fix this, re-set where they were going wrong. He shifted, his leg brushing against hers, so he could see her while he spoke.

“I was speaking with Helion,” he said.

Nesta kept her face to her book but raised an eyebrow again, “Oh.”

“Yes, in the garden.”

“Hmm,” she murmured and turned a page.

“He found me through one of his secret passageways.”

Nesta’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Now he’ll have to change it, so you don’t find it.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“He has many that he’s always changing. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

The silence fell over them again like a fog. They’d reduced themselves to small talk between strangers, Cassian at a loss for what to say and Nesta with no desire to help him find his words.

“He found me in the statue circle.”

She was about to turn another page, although she hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, but her fingers stumbled and she dropped the book which landed with a thud.

Cassian picked it up, the gold embossed words on a cover of rich green telling a story of love. Nesta reached out and as she did, Cassian used his other hand to grasp her wrist, “Nes...”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Let me go.”

It was a weak command, her voice shaking as she spoke but Cassian would always obey her will and he released her wrist. Nesta snatched at her book.

She didn’t open the cover, abandoning her pretence of reading and instead placed the volume on her lap, staring upwards towards the ceiling.

“I hate those statues,” she said.

“I know.”

“You have to visit them every time you’re here.”

“Not every time,” he replied but she turned, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, every time. I’ve seen you and I’ve felt you through the bond.” She looked away and started to trail the lettering on the cover with a fingernail. “Besides, Helion tells me you visit them a lot.”

Well, Helion is a spy and a snitch, Cassian wanted to say but bit those words down. This was Helion’s court and those were his garden’s, his statue’s. He went where he pleased and talked to whomever he pleased, and that, unfortunately, included Nesta.

“After our argument this morning I knew you would go there instead of coming to see me,” Nesta continued, “you and that damned circle.” Her voice cracked and she bent forward, placing her face in her hands so Cassian couldn’t see. Strands of hair fell from her crown braid over her forehead.

“Nesta,” he said, and Cassian took her wrists in his hands, gently pulling them away from her face.

Her face had blanched a stark white and the rims of her eyes were tinged pink. Despite the sheen of tears in them, Cassian knew she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Nesta always found a way of shoving everything into a box in her soul.

“You all get to spend eternity gawping at each other in every Court in every form, don’t you?” She snatched her hands away, smoothing down the frayed hairs away from her face, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re just statues,” he said.

“I know,” she hissed, “Don’t be belligerent Cassian, we both know you’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not being-” but he stopped speaking and sat back against the marble wall, his wings hitting them with a bang.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to think of what to say to make any of this better. He thought back to their argument in the bedroom, mere hours ago which felt like days, surrounded by excessive amounts of silk in various shades of pink.

“There’s a statue of you,” he said, envisaging it like some lost old memory and not something he had been staring at less than hour ago. The image was clear in his mind; the windswept hair, the upturned palms, that lovely but sad face with its hopeful, delicate smile.

“I know.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It’s set apart from the others.”

Cassian heard the rustling of her dress as Nesta shifted. “Helion told me he wanted it separate from the rest because it didn’t suit the others.”

Cassian’s heart picked up its pace, “What do you think about that?”

“I agreed. The statue should be away from the rest. It doesn’t fit with the others.” Nesta let out a gentle sigh. “I don’t fit with the others.”

Cassian opened his eyes and stared into the distance.

The gardens were a labyrinth and the sunken library even more so, rows of white bookcases lined with vibrant colours, pastels or even shimmering golds stretched outwards until they stopped short of the central atrium, right underneath the top of the dome. The light shone through in beams and specks of dust danced amongst them.

They both sat rigid and unmoving with muscles locked into place and stared ahead, not at the rows of books but at the future in front of them, at decisions that would take them away or bring towards.

“Would that suit you?” Cassian asked, his voice thick. “Being apart from us? Elain? Amren? Me?”

Nesta’s fingers twitched on her lap, digging deep into the material of her skirts. “I don’t need to consider Amren in my plans and she knows this. Elain will understand in time; besides she has her own life now and gets to live the way she wishes so I don’t understand why I cannot.”

She paused. “Feyre will be irritated but she’ll come around in time. She’ll have to.”

“And me?”

The seconds of silence lasted longer than Cassian liked. There was no definitive answer, no immediate outpouring of emotion. His breath rasped in his ears and now he could hear Nesta’s, finally in time with his own. Her voice was quiet, travelling from a universe away.

“You can’t seem to understand why I don’t love the Night Court as much as you do so I don’t know whether you’ll come around in time.” Nesta picked at a loose thread on her dress. The more she pulled, the more it seemed she unravelled the sinews in his heart. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait until you do, if you do. I don’t heal in the Night Court; I can’t heal among those who hate me.”

Cassian wanted to reassure her; to say he would understand why she couldn’t love the Night Court, that eventually she would heal amongst the copper roof tops of Velaris and she was never amongst those who hated her. The words stuck in his throat and burned.

His love for the place he called home was built in his bones, constructed as part of him as he had wings on his back. Without his home he wouldn’t be Cassian of the Night Court, he wouldn’t be anyone.

“Helion has offered me a home here,” she continued.

Cassian nodded, his head bobbing on a neck that now felt too thin. Cassian understood Helion wanted to offer Nesta a home in Day, he wasn’t aware he already had. “Would you be happy here?”

“I think so.” Nesta let out a mirthless laugh, “Day is the opposite of Night and so the Court would suit me just fine.”

Something burnt inside his chest. His overworked, overwrought centuries old heart was now in flames and this was the beginning of it turning to ash.

“I can’t live in Day,” he said. “The Court is fine enough but this place would become to me what Night is to you. It wouldn’t sustain me.”

“We’re at an impasse then. The road ahead of us is splitting.” Nesta spoke the words with cold, impassive authority, the kind of tone she used for others which led them to assume she was a heartless creature.

But Cassian could feel her as he always had. A crack across her heart ran deeper than anything before. She’d been through hell and come out the other side carrying what pieces of herself remained within her clenched fists. This couldn’t be the event which broke her, he couldn’t be the fae that broke her.

Sacrifices, Helion told him less than an hour ago, needed to be made. But not all sacrifices needed to be a bad thing. Sacrificing something didn’t mean you would always lose; it may mean winning something more valuable.

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, “if you think the road only has two paths to choose from.”

Nesta took in his words, and Cassian could sense the moment they landed in her mind, how she sounded out their meanings. A strand of wavering hope rose between them.

“Oh,” she said but her voice held a tremor, the edge of anticipation she was clinging to and the thread wound itself tighter round her finger until her flesh turned white.

“I believe this morning an angry female hissed at me about retreating back to the mountains and staying in the cabin forever.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Well, I believe the female had a right to be angry as I believe said female was being abandoned by her mate.”

“He would never.”

“Hmm.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to leave them,” he said.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged and her hope dissipated from her like smoke. “I know,” she said, “I just-”

“However,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t mean I won’t leave them. At least on a semi-permanent basis.”

Nesta took a deep breath in.

“I can’t live here,” he gestured outwards to the marble pillars and trailing ivy and streams of violently bright light. “Day isn’t for me but Night isn’t for you. My life is in Velaris and I have responsibilities that I can’t leave and friends I want to see, but as long as I’m somewhere near, somewhere I can fly to them I think that will be fine.”

Nesta released her breath and Cassian carried on. “I can’t lose them Nesta but I won’t lose you. I’ve waited a long time for you even before I understood what I was waiting for. If Velaris will destroy you then at some point the city will destroy me too.”

He continued to stare ahead but Nesta’s arm brushed against his as she moved, her slight frame against his broad one. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pale face gazing at him and if he turned to her, he would see her hope anew.

“The cabin needs more work to make it habitable all year round and the winters are hard and isolating. I’ll need to fly to Velaris more often than you would want and you’re still going to have to visit your sisters. Honestly, I’d hate to make Elain angry.”

There was a soft sob next to him. “I’d hate to make Elain angry too,” but she smiled through her tears.

“We’ll have to think of a way to transport all your books. I’m not flying them to the cabin, not if you’re bringing that twelve book saga you’re into with the-”

Nesta grasped his chin in her slender fingers and turned his face to hers. Shining in those blue-grey eyes through the misty layer of tears was pure delight.

“Thank you,” she whispered and brought her mouth to his. The kiss was sweet on his lips, soft and slow and filled with the promise she would always love him. Cassian deepened the kiss, sliding his hands over her waist before trailing upwards on her back to tangle in her hair.

They stayed like that for a while, his tongue seeking out and sliding against hers; wet, luxurious kiss after kiss. Cassian groaned and gripped Nesta’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh beneath her dress and he swung her up and over onto his lap.

She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “No! Not here, not in front of the books!”

“The gardens then?” he joked and received a flick to his chin for his trouble.

“Helion will be disappointed.”

“That’s perverse.”

“No,” Nesta crinkled her nose, “that I won’t be making my home here.”

Cassian trailed his hands up Nesta’s back to her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers, looking forward to when he could make it took as disordered as her glorious statue’s. “Make this place your holiday destination. I’m sure you’ll frequent Day every time I’m in Velaris.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“And when we’re done appeasing the world we’ll be together again, at home.”

Nesta’s eyes scanned his face, the way Helion’s had done earlier, but instead of an assessment that had left Cassian found wanting, her eyes were soft and the blue-grey was the colour of the sky in the Night Court just after a storm.

“Yes,” she said, “at home.” She leaned in to kiss him again and before Cassian closed his eyes he soaked in the image, letting it burn forever into his mind. A perfect picture of Nesta in the flesh; her fluttering eyelashes, freckled nose and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

#nessian #fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron x cassian #nesta #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosaf #acosf #helion #i wrote something #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nessian fan fiction #nessianfic #nessian fan fic

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shreddedparchment · 4 years

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.31

Hulk Smash (Pt.1)

06/03/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 8,188

Warnings: language?, war, fluff, smut

A/N: This one took a while to get out. I’m sorry about that but I hope you enjoy it. It’s a little longer than I’ve been doing Pseudo Princess chapters. I’ve been trying to stick to 4k-6k but this one needed the extra 2k words. I hope you love it as much as I do. As always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work!! xoxo

Tags are CLOSED!!

Please do not REPOST my stories on any other sites. Reblogs are welcome!

“Stop. No. Not here.” Steve tries to push you away as your hands tug open the front drawstring of his trousers.

He’s been dressing lazily these past few weeks, caring little as to what he looks like since he spends most of his time here in your old rooms planning for what’s to come.

He’s been so good about obeying Grandmother’s wishes to keep his hands to himself. Too good. Your body is burning for him and you pull his cock out, still soft, and pliable in your hand.

It twitches as you take hold, Steve’s storm blue eyes shaking as his breath hitches when you stroke the length of him, base to tip as you lean over him, your breasts so close to his face.

“I want you.” You whisper, looking down at him only inches away from his lips.

You’re careful to keep your voice down as Peter is just outside the office door.

You hadn’t used this room much your first time here—most of your studying had been done in the library and the small table in your bedroom. Now that Steve needs a place to work, it has been converted into his own small den.

The large wooden desk, a solid piece of surprisingly dark wood in your father’s more brightly colored castle, is where he sits on a tall pale rose velvet cushioned seat. The tabletop is littered with scrolls and leather-bound books. Steve’s notes and plans. Strategies for the team.

“No.” Steve attempts to deny you, reaching down to place his hands on your shoulders in an attempt to push you away but his hands only flex around the muscle. “We can’t. You’re heavy with child, my flower.”

His cock seems to twitch harder at the thought and you feel him stiffen in your stoking grip. You know how much he loves your tummy. He strokes it every night. Cooing and cherishing you and his prince.

You’re eight months gone. The snow outside is finally gone. The trees are starting to sprout, and the bees begin to buzz amongst freshly grown flower buds. The castle is pleasantly cool, despite the warm day beyond the castle walls.

Steve has kept you at a distance since the two of you were rescued by Sam from Bright Rise. After a month and a half of waiting, your patience has worn thin. You want him, and you will have him.

“Then I’ll only have a taste.” You plead, dropping to your knees.

Steve sits up quickly, catching you below the elbow and almost pulls you back up, but he’s too afraid to be more than gentle with you. This makes it easy for you to force yourself back down and out of his grip.

As you lean in towards him, holding the head of his cock only inches away from your mouth, your hot breath finishes the job of making him hard as his shield.

He sighs, voice shallow, body tense as he grabs the arms of his chair. “Y/N…”

“Let me.” You plead, talking with your lips pressed against the bulb of his cock.

You flick your tongue out, running the slippery wet along the crease of his head until you reach the soft, heated tip.

With a quiet moan, you close your lips around him and give a gentle suck.

Steve falls back, breathing heavy, shoulders slumped against his chair as his chest and stomach struggle for air.

“Oh, my flower…” He whispers, allowing his hand to wander up to the side of your face to caress your cheek.

You smile, triumphant in his defeat. With gusto you take him into your mouth, struggling to take more than half of him, he’s so big.

“Mmm.” You keen, the vibrations of the sound making Steve gasp.

You begin to roll your tongue along his undershaft, when a knock sends your heart racing.

Almost as if you two share one mind, you scoot back as fast as you can (which isn’t as fast as you’d like) underneath his desk, thankfully shielded from view by the large ornately carved front.

Steve scoots his chair in as much as he can while holding his legs wide open so that you might fit there between them.

The door opens and Steve sighs with frustration, his cheeks and ears burning scarlet. You can see him. Only his face, but he spares you a glance and frowns as he looks up to see the interrupter.

With his elbows on his desk, he sighs. “What is it, Sam?”

“We’ve got the perimeter of the castle completed and Lord Coulson has sent an update on the state of the Kingdom.” You hear the drop of a letter on the desk above your head then look back down at Steve’s cock.

It’s begun to soften, and you can’t have that! He’d given in to you finally.

You reach out and take hold of it, wrapping your hand around the base.

Steve jumps, then coughs to cover the movement up.

“Are you alright?” Sam asks. “Do you need some water?”

You smile lightly as you watch Steve turn his blue eyes on you with a subtle look of shock. He shakes his head then looks back to Sam.

“No.” He clears his throat and you begin to stroke him, making him stiff again. “No, I’m fine. Is that all?”

“I thought you might want an update about Sharon.” Sam offers, and her mention irks you.

In response—and because he’s right there, pink cock erect and glistening at the tip where you’d been licking—you lean forward and press him to your lips again.

He shudders and you wrap your mouth around the head before sucking softly, moving your head forward until you’ve taken as much of him as you can.

You hold him there, tongue attempting to lap at him but unable to do more than shift around his girth.

“N-No.” Steve sighs again, this time pretending exasperation to cover the sigh of pleasure spilling from his mouth. “No. I don’t need to know about Sharon.”

“But-”

You pull back, as silent as the dead of night, breathing heat against him as you pull him out of your mouth and stroke him gently.

“Sam…can this wait? I’m very….very busy.” Steve sighs again, shutting his eyes tight as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock again.

He places his hands over his eyes, massaging them and his temples as if nursing a headache before meeting your gaze. He bites his lip, licking at them as you smile then take him in as far as you can once again.

He shuts his eyes, breath hitching as he turns his eyes back to Sam.

“Anything else?” He asks, stern and clearly in need of solitude.

“No.” Sam says, sounding a little offended. “That is all.”

“I’ll come find you later.” Steve tells him. “I might take a rest with her Majesty after I’ve finished here.”

“Very well, your Majesty.” Sam says, and his feet retreat from the room.

As the door shuts, he falls from your mouth as he stands.

He struts to the door, latches the lock, and he’s back before you in seconds.

He pulls his chair away and stoops down to help you to your feet as you struggle with the weight of your unborn child.

“I’m sorry.” You almost laugh, not really sorry one bit. “I just couldn’t let you-”

Steve’s mouth falls against your hungrily, his hands on the sides of your face to hold you still as he presses you into his desk.

He kisses you until your head is dizzy then pulls back to lift you onto the edge to sit.

“How am I supposed to resist you when you don’t play fair?” Steve asks, face furrowed with all of the repressed passion he’d had to shove down in the last month.

He hikes up your skirts, dipping low to kiss you again and you wrap your arm around his shoulders as he spreads your knees and settles between them.

“You’re making me break my promise.” He accuses you.

You laugh at him, unable to help yourself with his pouting and he stops as if you’ve frozen him in place. His hands are curled around your thighs, holding them apart as he presses against you.

He watches you chuckle, his expression shifting from frustration to a look of pure adoration.

If there’s one thing that Steve cannot get enough of, it’s your laugh.

“I’m sorry.” You giggle, reaching down to grab hold of his shirt front, holding tight. “I’m so sorry. I’m just so…”

“You’re not sorry.” He whispers, then kisses your lips softly before silencing your laughter as he buries himself in you, quenching both your thirsts.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re so happy. So satisfied.

Steve is sleeping with his head on your naked chest, his arms around your torso with one hand still caressing the side of your extended belly.

He’s been here all day, and you’ve been too happy and comforted by his presence to care that you’re so hungry you could eat an entire roasted pig.

Your little one however, protests violently, kicking against Steve’s hand.

He groans then your tummy rumbles and though he slower than usual, he’s still quick to respond to your hunger as always.

First, he picks his head up off your chest, looking at you with sleepy eyes. One closed, one barely open. His lips are curled into a small grimace as he tries to focus on your face.

“Wassamadder?” He asks groggily.

Your stomach rumbles again.

“You were so tired.” You explain, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair.

“Have you not eaten?!” He sits up, voice much clearer as his disapproval wakes him up.

“You’ve been sleeping so restlessly. I didn’t want to wake you.” You continue.

Steve is up and out of bed, pulling on the cord to call for assistance while he pulls on his robe.

Your heart laments as he covers himself up, but the door opens almost right away. You pull your bedsheets up around yourself and struggle only a little as you pull yourself to sit up in bed.

“What happened?” Peter asks, panic in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You assure him, sorry for the anxiety that your multiple disappearances has created in him. “We’re fine. I’m just a little hungry.”

“Why hasn’t anyone brought her Majesty something to eat?” Steve looks towards the windows to see that night has fallen. “We’ve been in here all day.”

Peter flushes and you frown at Steve.

“It’s not his fault, Steve. I asked them not to disturb us.” You chastise.

“That’s not the point.” Steve argues. “You are clearly with child. It should be our first priority to make sure that you eat.”

“I’ll fetch her a feast, your Majesty.” Peter assures him, then turns and disappears through the doors, shutting them as he goes.

“Steve…”

“I know!” He sighs, moving around to your side of the bed. He grabs your nightdress as he passes it then holds it out for you as he sits. “I know that I’m being unbearable. I’m not sorry though.”

You shake your head, pulling the night dress over your head. Steve pulls the sheets away from your legs and then offers his arm for you to use as you stand and pull the rest of your nightgown down.

When you’re dressed, Steve pulls you down onto his leg, sitting you there as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“I want you well. You’re still recovering from our escapades in Bright Rise. I don’t want you to become weak again.” Steve confesses. “It took you three days to wake up.”

“You’re worrying for no reason.” You reach up and fix his bed hair, tucking the strands back with gentle fingers.

“What am I to do if you should fall ill? I cannot lose you. Either of you.” He frets, placing his hand on your stomach.

“Oh,” You chuckle softly, affection pouring out of you at his sweetness. “You won’t lose me. If my hunger had been severe, I would have said so.”

Steve frowns at you, knowing better. “You and I both know that you would have gone hungry if it meant letting me sleep, which I am grateful for, but I want you to take care of yourself first from here on out. I’ve taken enough from you in our marriage.”

Biting your lip, you frown at first because he’s still suffering from his guilt but then you smile. He knows you well now. You hate it and love it all at once.

“Now stop arguing with me and promise me that you will do better. For our prince if not for yourself.” Steve says, playing dirty.

You feel rightly chastised and nod. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

Reaching down you place your hand over his and the two of you caress your stomach.

There’s a knock on your door and you slowly rise as it swings open.

Peter moves in holding a tray laden with simple breads and jellies for you to snack on. He’s followed by Natasha who stops by the door wearing a long and beautiful ruby red dress with an intricate golden lace pattern along her bodice.

She watches Peter place your tray on your table but waits for him to leave before she speaks.

“Have you received word on Fury?” Steve asks her.

“Yes. He’s on his way. It will be at least three days before he can get here. As for Mr. Lang and his wife, they should be here tomorrow night. Tony’s preparing a feast for them. It’ll only be us, but with what we’re asking of them-”

Steve nods. “Tony will spare no expense.”

“Nat, how is Bucky?” You wonder, moving towards her a few steps while you chew on your slice of bread.

“Better, your Majesty. He’s feeling more and more like himself every day.” She smiles, grateful for your concern.

“I’d really like to see him.” You tell her, pleading.

“Not yet.” She says sternly, then her voice softens at the disappointment on your face. “I know that you say you’re not worried about your safety with him, but we all believe we should take things slowly.”

Looking to Steve, you see that he agrees.

With a huff you move to sit by your table.

“How is his new arm?” Steve wonders.

“Stronger than his old one. It won’t be easy to break this new one.” Nat reveals.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one.” Steve says with a smirk, Nat returns it.

You’re not sure what’s so funny, but they seem happy about Bucky’s progress, so you sit down to huff on your own.

The last thing you want is for Bucky to be angry with himself. Blaming himself for something that was not his doing.

“When can I see him?” You ask, biting your bread once more.

Nat and Steve both look at you and Steve moves to you, stooping down into a crouch to look up at your face.

He slips his hand around the back of your head, caressing it before he places his hand on your stomach.

“We should take our time.” Nat tells you.

“How much time?”

“Until the baby is born.” Steve says, and your heart falls.

“But that’s still nearly two months away.” You complain, your heart aching for the torture that Bucky must be enduring. “I can’t wait that long.”

You drop your food, reach down, and place your hands on Steve’s cheeks.

“Please? He needs to know that we’re alright. I know you’ve seen him, but he needs to see that the baby is fine.” You turn a knowing look on Nat. “He’s asked about us, has he not?”

She looks away, confirming your suspicions.

“Steve don’t let him torture himself with this guilt. I can’t stand it. Not at my expense.” You wait but watch as Steve’s resolve breaks. He takes your hands, kisses your palm, and then nods.

“Fine. But we’ll go together, you are not to leave my side, and we will be no more than five minutes.”

You beam, ecstatic for your triumph.

You meet Nat’s eyes as Steve stands and moves around to sit at the opposite side of the small table. She’s frowning, upset that you get your way but only because she’s worried for you.

Instead of fighting about what’s really bothering her, she glares at your plate of breads and jams and sighs heavily.

“I’ll go get you something more substantial to eat.” She says simply, then turns and leaves.

“She’s upset that I’m going to see him.” You lament, your heart falling a little.

“She’s worried about you and our child. They all are. We only want to keep you safe.” Steve explains.

“I know.” You nod. “But I want to keep all of you safe too.”

Steve’s expression softens and he nods. “I know. My sweet flower…” He coos.

He spreads some strawberry jam on a piece of toast then holds it out for you.

“…if you could, I think you would save the whole world from all its troubles.” Steve shakes his head.

“Is that so wrong of me?” You ask him, and he simply chuckles before placing his elbow on the table, chin in his hand as he watches you nibble.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Stay there, please, your Majesty. I don’t know what else Hydra has put in my head.” Bucky pleads and you stop just inside the large doors of father’s smaller dungeon.

Though it is underground, it has been fixed up with a large four post bed, lush carpets, sturdy tables, and cushioned seats.

Steve stands beside you. On edge. Staring at Bucky so intently you think maybe he might be seeing through him.

Slowly you run your hand along his back and feel him relax, all while you stare ahead at your terrified friend.

“From what I understood, Princess Shuri had removed all of the brainwashing from your mind?” You check, knowing it to be a fact.

“She thinks she did.” Bucky relents. “Yes. But there is no way to know for sure. This isn’t exactly something that happens often.”

“No one is here to whisper into your ear this time, James.” You sigh, moving a step closer. Steve moves with you.

“Is that how it started?” He wonders, utterly confused. “I-I remember a little. Natasha told me that you’d seen Pierce with me before it happened.”

“I did.” You shake your head, placing your hands along the base of your bump, caressing the little angel within absentmindedly.

Bucky’s eyes also find your prince and are glued there suddenly, face contorting into a look of pained grief.

“Is he alright? Have-have you felt him at all?” He asks, voice so quiet that it dies out completely t the ends of his questions.

“Yes!” You assure him, a small automatic chuckle escaping your lips at the thought of your little prince being still, ever. “Yes, very much. He kicks me all of the time. He moves night and day. This morning he kicked Steve awake, demanding to be fed.”

Steve slips his arm around your waist, loving the side of your stomach.

“He does that every morning.” Steve agrees. “I told you, you had nothing to worry about. She and my heir were perfectly healthy.”

Bucky visibly relaxes, backing up until he’s sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I needed to see it for myself.” Bucky says, proving your suspicions completely correct.

You give Steve a frown and a knowing look. He returns one looking rather chastised.

“That’s exactly why I wanted to see you.” You tell him. “To show you that we’re alright. You didn’t hurt us, James.”

“Bucky, please your Majesty.” He pleads, sighing lightly.

“Then if I call you Bucky you must call me by my name too.” You tease him.

He gives you a smile before he looks down at his feet and chuckles only once before meeting your eyes again.

“Okay.” He shakes his head, then slowly his smile falls, and you can tell that his mind has gone back to the violence of the day he attacked. “What happened?”

You move closer with Steve along for your every step and stop at the first seat you come to by a small table set for two.

Natasha must be down here all the time.

Steve helps you sit—fussy husband that he is—then stands behind you, his hands on the back of your chair.

“I thought I was dreaming.” You admit to Bucky, shaking your head a little as you try to remember that day in detail. “I was still a little disoriented by the sleeping draft that Grandmother had given me, so I drifted in and out of my sleep as I watched Pierce exit a carriage. He called to Rumlow, who then brought you to him. He leaned in towards you and I could see his mouth moving as he whispered into your ear. Then I must have fallen asleep again. It could have been seconds or minutes but when I opened my eyes you were all gone. The carriage across the square stood alone and you were nowhere to be found.

“We didn’t see you again until you were in front of our carriage in the middle of the road.” You can see his mind working hard to remember or maybe to connect dots he’s collected of the happenings of that day and perhaps even his time in Hydra’s capture.

“Do you remember them messing with your mind?” You ask him, Steve stiffens behind you.

Perhaps you’re not interpreting his tense silence correctly, but you have a feeling that Bucky was never asked about his time with Hydra. Or maybe not in depth?

You look up at him, but he doesn’t meet your eyes and instead stares at Bucky intently, waiting with bated breath for his answer.

Bucky chuckles, relaxing his body with the movement.

“What?” You ask, “What have I said?”

“How can you be so fearless? Only Natasha has asked me about my time with Hydra.”

“I didn’t want to pressure you.” Steve interjects, his voice lamenting his hesitation.

“I would have told you everything if there were anything to tell.” Bucky assures him.

“So, you don’t remember anything?” You ask him.

“No, it isn’t that I don’t remember anything, it’s just that none of my memories are linear. I remember small bits. A cold table made of metal. Sharp bites to my arm and shoulder. I remember a deep laughter, then a surge of freezing wind. I remember a strange sharp burn, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

“Now that I think about it, it feels like when Thor uses his hammer and the air is full of that same energy.” Bucky tries to explain.

You understand what he means though you don’t have a word for it. “Like lightning?”

“Yes!” Bucky exclaims. “Yes, exactly like lightning. How could they channel it? Hydra…”

He drifts off into thought.

You give him a few minutes of silence, letting him think.

“Do you feel well enough to greet our guests?” Steve asks after a while.

“I don’t know…” Bucky says, standing and wringing his new metal hand. He strokes it, massaging his metal palm with his flesh thumb.

“Bucky,” You begin gently and rise.

This time, Steve doesn’t follow when you move towards Bucky, and you know that the two of you are of one mind, finally.

Bucky takes a faltering step backwards, but the bed is there, and he can’t move any further. You reach for his metal hand and step so close that he looks down at you with fearful eyes.

His hand you place on your belly, a gentle smile offered as he quickly scans your grip, Steve by the chair you’d been in, and then your face.

“You can’t hide down here forever. I know that you’re afraid. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t. But my fear is in what Hydra can do. I’m not scared of you. You were the first person from Broklin’s court that I met after Natasha and you greeted me with a smile and kind words.

“I will never forget that. You also stood up for me when I arrived in Broklin. Steve told me how you chastised him for being cruel and I had no idea. Even if it was only to save your king from himself only, you will forever have my trust, Bucky. Whether you want it or not. You will never be able to make me give up on you and I assure you that Steve feels just as I do. And I’d bet that Nat is in that list of those you will never get rid of as well.”

In your stomach, your prince kicks and Bucky gasps. He laughs once, startled by the movement but then Steve is beside you, his hands on your arms as he meets Bucky’s eyes.

“I need you with us, Buck. We need you with us. My son will need his Godfather.” Steve states, and you smile, because you’ve known his intentions for some time.

Bucky is speechless and says nothing while your prince kicks away in your belly.

Finally, Steve’s own smile peeks through when you reach back to take his hand.

“I think you might have rendered him mute.” You tease. “You’ve broken him.”

“Are you alright, Bucky?” Steve checks.

Bucky seems to regain a little of his composure as he chuckles weakly.

“Godfather?” He gasps.

“If you are willing to accept.” Steve tells him. “I can think of no one else that would protect my son with the strength and sincerity that you would. Please say that you will accept.”

“Of-of course I will!” Bucky says, cheeks flushed, but eyes beaming. “How can I deny my King and Queen anything that they desire?”

“Then you’ll come to dinner.” You tell him, an order of the most loving kind.

Bucky chuckles again, this time with true humor.

“She’s relentless.” Steve teases. “This Queen of mine.”

Bucky nods and continues to laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you so much for joining us Mr. Lang. And you too Mrs. Lang.” Tony says, smiling at Scott while his wife Hope grins pleasantly beside him.

“Your highest Majesty of Kings.” Scott says with a flourish of his hand and a grin so wide it makes your cheeks hurt.

Even sitting he attempts to bow, and you have to fight the stretch of your own smile as you’re tempted to laugh.

“Scott.” Hope says her voice even and stern.

The table is full. Tony sits at one end, Pepper at the opposite end. You are sat beside Natasha, who has taken to fussing over you in place of Steve who has been placed across from you and a few seats down.

The others at dinner are Clint, Thor, Peter, Bucky, Sam, and Harold—or Happy, as he prefers you to call him.

Happy more than anyone else in the room looks nervous but you know it has nothing to do with the current guests and more so the fact that Fury is due any time now. With the snow almost gone his journey should be quicker.

“We are very gracious for your hospitality, King Anthony.” Hope says with a kind smile in place as she puts down her fork.

As they exchange simple pleasantries, you lean towards Natasha to whisper in her ear. “Where’s Bruce? Did he have medical work?”

Nat also leans to meet you then turns to answer you. “He has taken his form as the Hulk tonight. He’s monitoring our perimeter. If something comes up, he’ll let us know.”

You’re not sure what Bruce’s Hulk persona looks like yet, but you know that he’s larger. Larger than Thor or Steve.

But if they sent him of everyone on the team, things must be serious.

“I’m sorry that we’ve brought you out here for this.” You interject, leaning forward while placing your own fork down too. “I mean, I am pleased to have you here. Pleased to meet you. But under these circumstances…”

Fretting, you lean back and wring your hands.

“Y/N…” Steve says, worry flitting across his face.

Natasha is there for him where he is out of reach and slides her hand into yours to hold it and offer a bit of comfort.

“Oh, no, your Majesty.” Hope hurries to reassure you. “Word of Hydra’s ambush has reached the furthest kingdoms and we are happy to offer assistance.”

“Hope is right.” Scott nods, his face serious and honest. “We wanted to help even before word arrived with your request for aid. People are very fond of the Queen of Broklin.”

This catches you by surprise and your eyes go wide as you look at Steve then your father, and finally Scott and Hope in turn.

“Me?” You ask in shock.

“Why does that surprise you, little bird?” Thor wonders, happy for you in this news.

“I…” You begin, unable to finish the thought.

“Your people love you.” Hope says gently, a smile stretching her pretty lips. Her slender form and angular face framed by dark straight locks gathered gently up upon her head, all adjusted for you in its softness. “Word has traveled far of your efforts to make their lives better. They notice. Other kingdoms care. You are a wonderful Queen and we are happy to fight for someone who already fights for so many.”

Left speechless, you turn to Steve who sits leaning back in his chair, eyes dazzling with admiration but a smile that tells you he expected no less.

As all of you begin to round out your meal, you’re still reeling from Scott’s words when a sudden rumbling silences the room. It’s distant, past the castle grounds but it’s unmistakable. It sounds like the round metal plate that Bucky had thrown beneath your carriage in Hydra’s first ambush.

Everyone freezes in place, Nat with her hand stretched out over yours, your hands on your belly, Steve’s elbow still resting on his chair’s right arm as he’d been leaning towards Bucky to speak in hushed tones as the rest of the room had chattered away.

“Happy…” Father begins, and Happy springs to his feet and moves out a side door, long dark cloak of shimmering silk following behind him. He’s surprisingly spry for someone so stout but you know how much he must do for father.

Steve turns to Sam and Bucky, and with a firm nod they’re up on their feet moving through a second door on the opposite side of the room.

“Steve…” You whimper, more from fear of being separated than from any fear for your life.

“It’s alright.” Natasha assures you, but she’s not even looking at you.

Her own heart has left the room and you can see her desire to follow.

“Go.” You tell her, whispering so that no one else can hear though you know Steve will know what you’re doing.

“I’m not leaving your side.” Natasha says firmly, almost angry.

“And Bucky needs you more than I do right now. He’s still recovering Nat. Go be his iron shield. I have mine here.” You point out.

Nat looks at Steve who gives her a tiny nod and she’s up and gone in a sweeping sashay of crimson skirts.

You struggle to get out of your chair and Clint is at your side helping pull it back so that you can rise.

“Allow me, your Majesty.” He says with his eyes on the large windows behind you.

“Do you see anything?” You ask him, placing your hand on your back as you stand.

“It is late. I can’t see anything from here. I need to get to a tower.” Clint states.

“There’s a tower in the wing where my quarters are located. It looks over the entire Southern front. You’ll have nothing to obscure your sights.” And it’s where you’ll be if things get risky. Knowing he’s up there will give you comfort.

Moving to stand beside him you can indeed see that trying to see anything from this height and in the pitch black of night is impossible. There are a few specks of firelight in the distance. Knights patrolling the grounds. They’re a little more frantic in their swaying with the sounds of explosions at the opposite end of the property, but they remain at their posts.

Clint reaches up to smooth his golden blonde hair, touches his ears and for a moment you see them glow a dim purple hue before they fade.

“Clint?” You check, waiting for him to say anything. “The tower?”

Two hands run the length of your arms and you lean back, knowing he’ll be there.

“Go, Clint. And check on the other two as well. See if they’re ready.” Steve tells him.

Clint meets his eyes and with a quick bow to the two of you, he turns and leaves.

Heavy footsteps stop beside you and Steve, and you turn to see Thor also staring out the windows with a furrowed brow.

A quick glance back at your father and you see that he and Pepper are in deep conversation with Scott and Hope.

“I will stay with her.” Thor says.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “I need you with us down in the fight. Peter is coming up to be with her. And we have contingencies for her safety. Don’t worry. Your strength is better served in the fight.”

Thor looks as if he wants to disagree, looking down at you with a furrowed brow and agonized bright blue eyes.

“Go.” You tell him, trying to look as strong as you can.

You want to tell him to be safe. To stay out of too much danger. For your sake. Because you can’t stand the idea of his being hurt. But you don’t. Because Thor needs to know that you believe in him and you do. He saved you and now he must save everyone else.

“I’m fine.” You promise him and with clench of his jaw he turns and thuds his way to the Southern balcony.

The doors thrown open allow a rush of warm air to fill the room. Only the hint of a chill in the new spring air. Soft gauzy curtains are thrown up to wave and weave as Thor holds out his hand and his hammer flies readily into his hand. He holds it up into the air and a crackle and boom of lightning hit the spot he stands in.

You gasp, shocked by the sight never having seen him transform on the spot into his own unique outfit. He’s always been normal around you and this God that stands before you is not the Thor you’ve seen before.

His arms are plated quickly, each piece landing and stitching together like the sky is sewing him in. The plates run along his shoulders and torso. Six round plates, thick and with Asgardian runes burned into the metal fall into place along his front from large to small. His bottoms are thick black leather, boots large and reinforced with more glistening silver iron.

Along his shoulders a long red cape with golden threads begins to flow, down to his feet as his hips are shrouded in more thick leather armor.

On his head a helmet begins to take shape. Strong and crackling with more sizzling blue lightning that flows along the shape of it until two silver wings stand erect on either side of his brooding face.

As the lightning dissipates merely seconds after its hit him, he spins his hammer, adjusting his stance to brace himself against the floor. With a mighty thrust into the air he’s lifted off the ground and disappears into the sky with a small crack as he picks up speed.

Your terror begins to subside. Embracing the majesty of his transformation and the clarity of just how ready for battle he is soothes your nerves and you look up at Steve who stands watching you with an agony similar to that of Thor’s only moments ago.

Reaching up you place your hands on the sides of his face, caressing his cheeks as he wraps his arms around you more tightly.

“Go.” You whisper, voice shaking because you might be able to put on a brave face with Thor, but Steve is an entirely different story.

“I will come back to you.” Steve swears, leaning in closely until he can rest his forehead against your own.

His hands wander down to your lower back and the other comes around to press into the side of your belly.

“I will be back for both of you.”

“You’d better.” You whisper in return, trying to at least keep your tears from falling. “I’m not finished with my studies yet and I can’t run a Kingdom on my own. I can’t even spell acquisition without looking it up.”

Steve’s face relaxes as he chuckles at your little joke and it relieves your anxiety for only a split second.

“My son will have both his mother and father to raise him. You and I are forbidden to die until he is at least married with his first child.”

Steve smiles again, nodding before leaning in to kiss your lips.

Two quick pecks is all you good before he’s pulling out of your grasp. Your hands hold onto him as long as they can but he’s out the door after Sam, Bucky, and Natasha before you can even take a breath.

With your fingers pressed to your lips, holding that last kiss to your lips in worship, you watch as Father sends Mother away.

She gives you one last glance before she’s hurrying off to her own post in the war room to give out commands whilst Father is out with the team.

Father, Scott, and Hope get to their feet.

“Do you need to change?” Father asks.

“We are always ready.” Hope says and she quickly peels off her dress—one whole piece despite how much it looks like a traditional gown.

Beneath is revealed a sleek gray suit unlike any you have ever seen before. Along the torso is a framework of yellow fabric that you don’t recognize but it all looks like armor. Leather, but more pliable. She reaches along the back of her neck and pulls from there a hood that she draws over her head then attaches to her front a silver mask.

Beside Hope, Scott has also peeled away his nicest tunic and trousers to leave him standing in a similar suit of black and red, his own hood and mask also placed over his face.

Hope hunches forward, her eyes straining for a moment before four silver wings appear out of thin air attached to her back. They unfurl in a wisp of smoke like magic. With a subtle twitch of her right hand, she’s suddenly gone, replaced by a miniscule version that you have to squint to make out.

“Don’t worry.” Scott tells Father, place his hand on his shoulder. “If things get worse, I have a way of making sure they see the point we’re trying to make. They couldn’t miss it even if they tried.”

With a subtle move to his hand too, he also appears to shrink. As he finishes, you see the smaller Hope catch him and out the window they go with the sound of a tiny buzz of wings left in their wake.

“They were essential, I think. Hydra won’t be expecting them.” Father tells you, moving over to stand beside you as you reel from witnessing not one but three magical transformations in one night. “This is all because of you, you know.”

“Please don’t say that.” You beg, heart racing as you turn to look at the frantic little flames below again.

“No, I mean it.” Father says.

“Father-”

“I don’t mean this fight. I mean, this team. We’re together again, because of you. Even have some new faces too.” He smiles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Not just because you married Steve, but because of the things you’ve done. The Queen you’ve become. The woman you brought us all back together.

“Even Clint returned.” Father says.

There is a beat of silence in which you think about everything you’ve done as Queen for Broklin and it has indeed been quite the learning experience. You’ve learned so much about what makes the world work and where adjustments can be made to benefit everyone.

You’ve learned how to open yourself to weakness and you’ve found strength within yourself that you had no idea you possessed. You hadn’t known before how much someone else could mean to you and how that love could grow even further for your son.

You hadn’t known how freeing it would be to trust someone so completely and to have someone trust you so completely too. You’d never known what it was to share a friendship so deep that it became more than friendship. It became family.

“I wish this wasn’t happening.” You whisper, struggling to bottle up your emotions again.

“They were going to come back one way or another.” Father assures you. “At least this time we know what they want. Come on, let’s get you to your room.”

Reluctantly you go with him and let him lead you back to your quarters where you take the seat at your table.

The quiet is unbearable until…BOOM!

The castle shakes and you yelp as you’re startled.

Before you can understand what happened, your window is thrown open from the outside and into your room flies a large body of black and silver armor. It looks almost exactly the same as Father’s Iron Man suit, the only difference is the coloring.

“You’re up, Tony. They need you down there.” Rhodey’s voice says.

“Rhodey?” You gasp, standing from shock.

“Where’s Parker?” Father asks, “We need you out there too.”

“He’s on his way. His Aunt’s home was set ablaze, he’s escorting her out of the city.”

“You should both go.” You tremble.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Father says.

“Not a chance.” Rhodey says.

“Do not leave her side.” Father says then moves towards you to plant a quick kiss to the top of your head before he’s also gone out of sight probably to change into his suit.

“What’s happening down there, Rhodey?”

“It’s not good.” He states solemnly, “But we’ve got more skills than they do, though they have the numbers. We’ll have those soon though. Hopefully by morning.”

“Lord Fury?” You realize.

“Yes. He’s bringing every retired or decommissioned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that he can find that is still loyal to the cause.” Rhodey says, moving to stand by the open window again.

You follow and gasp at the angle your room provides to the fighting.

There must be a hundred Hydra soldiers marching on the castle with swords drawn and shields up. A dimly illuminated mass of black disappearing to the left where you know they must be trying to storm the gateway.

As you watch, you occasionally see a flash of bright red and swirling magic that you don’t recognize or the blue flash of Thor’s lightning.

You strain to catch sight of Steve’s shield or the gleaming shine of his helmet and sword, but you can’t see any of them. You can only hear the battle only just out of sight.

“Distract me Rhodey, please or I might go mad.” You gasp.

“How?” Rhodey asks, completely on edge. He clearly wants to be back in the fight where he belongs.

“What is S.H.I.E.L.D.?” You wonder, having read the name a few times but never understanding what it was.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. was an agency created from talented knights and other individuals dedicated to the protection of every human life from those who would seek to corrupt or harm them. They dealt with all sorts of threat from military threats to those that were…special.” Rhodey explains.

“Magical attacks.” You realize.

“Yes.” He agrees. “But they were infiltrated by Hydra and we destroyed it. All of it. Many people lost their posts in that initial coup, but Hydra was exposed, and we prevented an attack similar to this one on a much larger scale.

“The bad thing about it is that Hydra retained many of the scientists, witches, and warlocks that have since created many strange and highly damaging weapons for them. The sounds of destruction tonight are a direct result of that.”

“How many do you think will come to our aid? Do you think it will be many?” You wonder, desperate for any sign of hope.

Rhodey is silent, busy thinking it seems to answer your question. Just as you’re about to press him, the doors of your quarters are thrown open roughly and you gasp, jumping behind Rhodey and shielding your belly.

Through your door moves a large—no—an absolutely massive form a green and rippling muscles. He’s without a shirt, body glistening with sweat and sporadic splotches of dirt and what appears to be dried blood.

On his left breast is a circular etching, a shade of angry red with strange and unfamiliar runes and symbols. His hands are also covered in what looks like dried blood.

Around his waist is a long layered dark plum set of pteruges, held together at the front by a heavy iron belt with three skulls to shut the clasp. His feet are bare and that’s where you look first.

With wide eyes, you follow the form up to its face where he huffs once then moves in further, frowning at the way you’re cowering into Rhodey’s side.

“Won’t hurt you.” The massive figure says, and then you realize who he is and why he’s there.

“H-Hulk?!” You gasp, surprised by his enormity.

“Queen of Flowers.” He states, smiling for a moment proudly before moving over to the fire in your hearth where he then pushes the chairs aside, making them scrape loudly against the floor. He sits down facing the flames, sighing with contentment before he reaches behind his head to scratch.

“Banner what are you doing here?” Rhodey asks.

“Hulk sent to watch Queen Flower. War Machine must go back to fight. Go.” Hulk says, ignoring that he’s addressed as Doctor Banner.

“I don’t-” Rhodey begins but you reach down to grab his arm and meet his masked glowing eyes.

“Go. They need you. Please make sure Steve is safe.” You beg, then release him so that he might go.

“Hulk, don’t leave her side until Peter gets here, do you understand?” Rhodey checks, staring at Hulk until he responds.

“Hulk understands. Queen safe. You go.” He waves him away as if he were an annoying fly before Rhodey sighs and moves for the window.

“If something happens,” He begins, “Pull the cord by the fireplace and it’ll let Pepper know to get one of us up here.”

“Okay. I’ll pull it if something happens. Go.” You push him a little towards the window and with one last look at you, he steps on the ledge then leaps out into the air.

He falls for several seconds before a burst of stunning blue light erupts from his hands and feet and he goes soaring towards the fight you can’t see.

“Hulk hungry.” Hulk says after what feels like an hour but must only be minutes.

“I’ll ask them to bring something.” You move to the cord by the bed and pull it. A few moments later, a maid appears looking frightened out of her wits. “Food please. D-Hulk is hungry. Bring lots.”

“R-right away, your Majesty.” The girl curtsies and hurries away to fetch what will hopefully be a substantial meal

“Hulk?” You try, moving to stand closer to him.

He grunts.

“What’s it like down there?” You eye the blood on him, torso, face, and finally hands. “is the fighting very bad? Shouldn’t you be down there to help them?”

Do you really need to be looked after like this? He could be doing more good on the ground!

“You don’t need to stay with me.” You whisper, attempting to persuade him for everyone’s benefit. “The maid will come back and she’ll stay so, shouldn’t you go fight again? You should help them. What if they’re-?”

“NO!” Hulk shouts, slamming his heavy fist into the ground making the stone and wood shift with crackles and creaks.

You jump, surprised by his booming voice.

“Hulk told to stay and watch Queen. Hulk will watch Queen. Keep Queen safe! Hulk’s job!” He huffs, quieter but still upset.

You gasp quietly, but he doesn’t miss it. He turns to look at you where you stand by the bed staring down at the ground by your feet where a small puddle of water grows as it flows, hidden beneath your skirts, down your leg and onto the floor.

“Oh my…” You squeak, suddenly much more terrified than you were a second ago.

#king!steve x reader #king!steve rogers x reader #king!steve x you #medieval fantasy au #royal au #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #avengers x reader #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfiction au #pseudo princess #pseudo princess pt31

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ratplagues · 3 years

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🔥 any dishonored thing of ur choosing -deathoftheoutsider

wah okay!! i will talk a bit about the outsider and void then..i dont really wanna frame it as a Hot Take bc i have no interest in starting shit or whatever like ill interact with whatever i want to in this fandom and ignore the rest and everyone else is free to do the same but.

I do not think The Outsider is a “character” in the conventional sense, much less that it does his character or the allegory he wields any justice to be shipped with anyone in the series (at least without seriously considering the implications and framing it in a way that completes the allegory. more on this later)

the outsider and his void are an allegory for Otherness; i’m namely gonna frame it as queerness and neurodiversity, but really anything could fit as long as it’s about you feeling seen as a marginalized and othered person. he is written to represent this allegory, not to be a person with a satisfying narrative arc or dimensions. this is why some people feel that he lacks depth-- he’s not supposed to have depth compared to others in the series, he’s mostly a vehicle for what he represents, and is supposed to be easy to identify with or recognize.

he was born to a life of hardship, suffered at the hands of the rich and powerful, was ignored, cast out, etc. etc. a familiar story. poor, queer, nd, really whatever you wanna frame it as. he was a nobody outcast. in comes the envisioned, they pick him to serve as their martyr and idol without his permission. he then had his name cut away and forgotten, and was thrust onto a pedestal to spend the rest of eternity being worshipped by other outcasts who had suffered at the same hands he had. he has something greatly in common with those who worship him, including the very people who stripped his mortality from him in the first place, but because of this shared hardship (and nothing else), his own autonomous personhood was disregarded completely in favor of The Community needing someone Just Like Them to idolize. if this sounds familiar, that’s because it should!!

his humanity was taken from him, and in his place, an idol was created. his human body is frozen in stone in the center of the void-- retired. out of commission. no longer needed. he was immortalized, transcended. this is traditionally desired, although dishonored is trying to convince you that it is not actually desirable. in the age of internet content creation, you can be immortalized without even being present, without knowing about it. you become what you can do for other people, and what you cannot. people fall in love with an idea of you, the idea of you being like them, and other people come to hate you deeply without even knowing you. people came to hate the outsider more deeply than he ever had been when he was human-- he wasn’t seen when he was human. a pedestal only helps you to be seen. the outsider had the choice made for him to achieve immortality in exchange for the simple joys of being un-known.

he spends all of doto trying to convey this idea to billie through the hollows:

"There is freedom in being hated. There is license in being cast out. Some learn this lesson a little too well." "These people lay their thoughts, their petty wants, their murderous desires in front of me to witness. I cannot turn away." "We carry what was done to us through the rest of our endless days. No one asked if we wanted it." (i like this one. he speaks for the community-- this is a shared experience, one everyone can recognize. however, as a Queer Figure, he never asked for this. he never asked to be immortalized. i like the double meaning here)

not to mention, the entire extent of the outsider’s Sole ability and influence on the real world is to “choose” people and give them untold power over others. this is a fun ironic twist on what marginalized groups endure from powerful people, (dishonored is largely about power imbalances and socioeconomic hierarchies) but it’s also fun to think about in the context of the role model/fan framing-- so many worshippers give their lives to be “chosen” by him. it’s easily framed as an exaggeration of otherwise very real power imbalances and often the flagrant breaching of boundaries existing between creators and fans.

and on the subject of the VOID...ohht he void.....

the void should be a haven for queer folks. for nd folks. it’s wanted by so many to be a safe space, it should be, it’s the Other World! it’s renounced by the abbey, crusaded against, even. but it isn’t. it’s just this limitless, eons-old horizon that hungers and starves for something to fill it. if the outsider is the lament of queer idolatry, the void is the lament of queer Hunger. it is roaming, and restless. it does not belong to the outsider; the outsider cannot survive without it. it’s the desire to belong, not a place of belonging.

the void craves this idol, this outsider-- i, for one, have often experienced hunger for a truly moral and just role model, someone to make the world Right, and i know this is another shared feeling. those who worship the outsider, who drive themselves mad trying to see him or be chosen by him, are suffering from this idol hunger. you see this in a lot of queer and nd kids and young adults. i grew up just having my life and interests like, punctuated by different fixations on different people that i didn’t know at all, only fell in love with the idea of. it happens a lot.

there’s a couple more doto quotes that really highlight this for me:

"They carve my mark into the old bones bleached by the sun. They carve my mark into their skin. They learn true hunger in the Void." "All these charms, these runes and fetid offerings on shrines made for me, will be nothing more than objects worn of meaning. Bones and dead things, thrown into the dirt."

“They learn true hunger in the Void.” is something that i wanna touch on real quick. people can spend their lives obsessing over the idea of what they think the void will cure for them, will fix in their lives, only to find out that it’s just a hollow manifestation of the emptiness they’ve felt all their lives. it’s not the needs met, but the need itself. you have to make the home, it doesn’t already exist and you can’t fucking run to it. it is heartbreaking, frustrating, one of the bleakest messages i’ve ever encountered in a game, but i’ve never felt more seen. by submitting to these ideas, the idea of a perfect unhuman human and the idea of a perfect otherworldly home, you are surrendering your humanity. you’re not only being transformed by the powers gained (if they are gained), you’re essentially dissolving with hunger after never having these needs met. you see so many people in these games whittling themselves down to nothing but base need. empty apartments occupied only by shrines, sometimes containing their corpses. journals of people dedicating their lives to the worship of the outsider, always ending darkly. "I will find this empty place. Somehow the key to open the Void will fall into my hands. In time, I will learn the secret and he will call to me as he called to her."

not to mention The New Envisioned-- prolonged exposure to the void will always, without fail, turn a human into silver void stone. these creatures can no longer interact with or acknowledge the mortal world. they have surrendered themselves to hunger, and cannot be saved. this is celebrated by the cult, honored by them, even. i honestly like....i pity them, and i hate them, and i recognize that i’ve been those people, lmao. when i was at my worst as a teenager, i wasnt so much a person as i was just a shell full of hunger and heartbreak. my personality was defined by who i was a fan of. i think i definitely was Less Human then. the cult of the outsider is a universal experience!!

dishonored, at its core, is a celebration of humanity. it asks you to celebrate human emotion and weakness despite greed and bigotry. the powers are not to be wanted, they are to be ignored, refused. it is human to hunger, but it is Queer and Divergent to make hunger your life’s meaning, to need to learn the secret, find the key, be chosen and loved and cherished, to be made whole by some perfect thing. to find your humanity in something un-human. dishonored sees all that, mourns it with you, and then asks you to find humanity in each other !! love the spine of your lover, the blood draining down the docks, the pause to stretch languidly in the sun of a work day.

and finally...on the topic of outsider shipping....i dont think that, in his god form, it does him much justice to be shipped with anyone. he’s not much of a person, just a projection of his former self and a vehicle for his allegory as discussed-- im sure he could be shipped like this, but it just isn’t satisfying to me in any way. however, let’s talk a bit about his lethal and nonlethal ending. DOTO asks you to make a choice. is it better to give him an abrupt and merciful ending, after deciding that the fury he’s endured at the hands of others’ famine is too much trauma for any mortal to live with? or will you decide that it’s only fair to give him a chance to live the life he never got to, to return his humanity that was taken without his consent? if you choose to free him from the void, i think you can very very easily make the argument that he can be shipped with corvo, or anyone else that can easily be shipped w/ ppl. he’s finally free to live his life as a queer man, can explore the simple and complex joys of being human with other people, navigate the hills and valleys he never got to before. corvo’s just a nice pick bc 1) experienced human/inexperienced human is good, 2) they know each other, but they don’t. this is a good setup. 3) corvo is an older queer man and uhh you cant convince me otherwise lol! and older queer/younger queer is a self indulgence for me. also corvo is just nice. i think he would enjoy helping the outsider navigate his new humanity.

just some thoughts i have running through my head all hours of the day :) this is really long cuz its a combination of a lot of infodumps from discord lmfao

#m #doto #death of the outsider #dishonored #Anonymous #long post

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alexandenigtscreations · 3 years

Link

Summary:

Jon, weak from his encounter with Peter Lucas and Martin struggling to throw off the haze of the Lonely support each other as they make preparations for Scotland.

Jon had nearly folded after they left the Lonely. The ach at his core threatened to steal all the strength from his limbs. He doubled over, holding his stomach willing, begging his body not to give out-not when Martin could see, not when he was actually here.

“J-Jon?”

He’d made Martin worry- damn it! Not a minute out of the Lonely and Jon is already causing trouble. This was not what he wanted.

“M-m fine-” he managed, though he was decidedly not fine, he was shaking and a cold sweat dampened his face. It was as though his insides were being carved out with a pumpkin scoop. “Really-I-I just need a moment.” He sagged to the uneven floor of the tunnels and Martin joined him, pressing close. It was closer than anyone had been to him in a long time.

Jon wanted to lean in, rest his head on his shoulder, or wrap his arms around him. But there was no way of knowing how Martin would react- ‘I really loved you, you know’. The words he’d said on that distant shore came swimming back. Jon hadn’t fully realized the implications of them then, not when he’d been so focused on retrieving Martin.

They had a new weight to them now.

“I-I wish I would have known sooner-” fatigue threaded through his voice “how you feel or-or felt, I mean.” He chuffed a sad little laugh “I’ve never been particularly good- with these sorts of things.” Their fingers were still intertwined, resting lightly on Martin’s thigh. He found he didn’t want to let go yet. Perhaps it was selfish, childish even, but if he could hold on a bit longer- to keep hold as long as he was allowed.

Martin hummed absently “I think it’s still feel actually.”

Jon froze, the simple sentence eliciting a flood of emotions he didn’t realize he could experience when he was this spent. “W-wait, you still-”

“Never really stopped.” The words delivered in a slow matter of fact fashion.

Relief crashed into Jon. He lifted Martin’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. His hand was cold, concernedly so. Looking up, Jon could see wisps of fog escaping from him. Now that he thought about it, his voice still echoed with the Lonely, oddly detached. The tunnels weren’t helping him warm up either.

“Ho-how are you?” Jon asked.

Martin seemed to retreat further into himself, becoming even harder to read. “N-not sure” he said at long last, “Everything’s- hazzy still?” His hand was limp and cold in Jon’s own.

“That’s alright.” he said softly, and Knew it to be true. So long as the Lonely didn’t take hold again, the Eye supplied ominously. Another wave of hunger made him curl his knees to his chest. Anger and frustration flared in him. He’d been doing so well! Then Lucas had to get stubborn and chose to literally die rather than tell him what the hell was going on! Beholding hadn’t seemed to be pleased with the loss of a meal- and Jon was hurting because of it.

How hard was it to say a few damned words? To share a few thoughts?

“You seem- uncomfortable.” Martin stated. He’d gotten more direct since his time with Lucas.

Jon gave his hand a light squeeze.

“Nothing that a bit of sleep won't cure.” They’d been resting for a while now. Well, a kind of rest, though Jon felt as though he’d been on a veritable rollercoaster. Still, they were pushing their luck so close to the institute. Between the Not!Them?, Daisy, the hunters and the cops, Jon figured it was well past time to shove off. “It’s too risky, leaving through the institute, we’ll need to use another exit.”

Guilt twisted his insides at the idea of letting the others deal with the mess, but there was little good he could do in the state he was in. And Martin- Martin needed to get away from all of this. They both did. The only question was where.

Unbidden, the knowledge of Daisy’s safe house came to mind, the possible routes making themselves Known.

The Knowing made him sick, he faltered, pressing his hand into his stomach once more, feeling the pounding in his skull grow.

“You look like hell Jon.” Martin commented in the same detached tone.

For his part, Jon grunted an affirmation, hoping that the eye would let up just a bit, enough to get out of London at least, enough to bring Martin back properly.

They hit Martin’s flat first. Jon coaxing him to pack while perched on the edge of the bed, hunched over. Sharp elbows on knobby knees. It wasn’t the first time Jon had visited, but the difference was stark. Before, it had been homy, though, sparsely furnished. A few knits on backs of overstuffed chairs, the smell of bergamot from the tea Martin was fond of, a few house plants, candles and warm lamps scattered about. Now, the comfort of the place had fled leaving the chill of the Lonely.

Jon hated that it was here, hated how it had nearly claimed Martin. So much had happened while he was...incapacitated. Turning into one of the very eldritch horrors they took statements on. Sustained by fear and despair- there was another stab of hunger- well, sustained in theory at any rate. Instead of being able to help his assistance, they’d been forced to manage him as well as fend off the attacks on the archives.

“Done.” said Martin at long last, jaring Jon out of his musings. He cursed inwardly, he’d meant to keep an eye on him. They didn’t have time for zoning out.

“Aren't-aren't you taking your poetry journal?” Beholding told him Martin hadn’t packed it. When he’d lived at the archives, he’d rairly been seen without one. Filling dozens of the things.

The man frowned “Haven’t been writing much these days.”

“O-oh, right.” said Jon. “Just- we’re headed towards a pretty rustic area, there may not be a lot to do.”

Martin considered this for a moment before crossing to the small bedside table and pulled out a few books. “Then maybe I’ll have time for a few of these.” he said, tossing the books over, a collection of short stories, a heavily read copy of The Hobbit, and a few poetry books. “Been meaning to get to them, just- didn’t seem like there was much of a point really-” The last book in the stack caught his eye, a leather bound journal. He took a moment to flip through. “Hugh,” a ghost of a smile “it’s almost full-”

Jon made a note to pick one up at the station.

“Ohh-” Martin’s eyes lit up to their original honey brown “I know what we need!” and he retreated into the main room, coming back with a small, classic radio with dial knobs.

Jon snorted “Lo-Fi charm?”

“Yep!” he beamed. “My next door neighbor gave it to me growing up. Used to mind me when my mum went out. They used to pick up pirate radio on this bad boy back in the day. Though my mum never liked it much- She-” he faltered, frowning slightly, his eyes clouding once more. The Lonely was back.

Jon sighed, squashing the rising disappointment. For a moment it looked as though Martin was snapping out of it, but then- his mother? Yet another thing that had happened while he was in god damned coma. He wasn’t sure what happened between the two, but it seemed complicated.

What do you really know about each other? Jon watched Martin struggle to fit the new items into his bag before sliding down next to him with a “I think this is going to need a repacking.” Martin huffed out an agreement.

In truth, he didn’t know much about Martin. He liked tea and poetry, enjoyed the Lo-Fi aesthetic, made people feel noticed in small, meaningful ways Jon never understood, was a fast learner, he hated peaches, tended towards passive aggressive, could be every bit as brutally honest as Jon (when provoked) and that he was the one person Jon wanted by his side more than anything else.

The Eye slipped in through the gaps of his curiosity, feeding him more information. Like how the friendly neighbor had been one of the few adults to take a genuine interest in Martin. They’d bake pastries on occasion (often inedible) and they taught Martin how to cheat at cards, which he had excelled at. Even when Martin moved away, they’d kept in touch until they died-and Lord, Stop! This was not how he wanted to learn about Martin!

Pain tore through Jon’s insides, head splitting, the Eye demanding payment for information he had no right to Know. He doubled over, holding himself together as best he could begging it to stop. Just Stop!

There was a hand over his shoulder, icey but soft. It was grounding and Jon curled into it. It was a long while before Jon unfurled, his head had been pillowed on Martin’s leg. He’d been stroking his hair and murmuring softly. His cool touch was wondrous on his pounding headache.

“Are you alright?” Martin asked, he was barely focused on Jon now, fog closing in.

“Yes- I- yes” his voice was a horse whisper.

Martin hummed in a way that made it plain he didn’t believe him.

“J-just the encounter with Lucas-took more out of me than I thought it would-” it was the truth, most of it, at least. It still didn’t change the fact that the flat wreaked of the Lonely. The mist swirling around concerned him “Martin-you... with me?” Normally Jon could ignore the Lonely. It….complimented, Beholding. But not now, not after what it had tried to do to Martin.

Jon reached up gently cupped his cheek, running a thumb over the freckles dashed crossed his face.

Martin sighed and nodded, holding Jon’s hand lightly. “Always.” and some of the haze lifted.

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

Text

Shelter (Part Five)

And here it is, the grand finale! Originally, this was actually a little longer but I finally decided that the last part I had in mind didn’t really add enough to the story to warrant including it. I think this ending is better. I also think the story is long enough as it is. I’m pretty happy at how quickly I was able to get this done, considering that I’ve been wrapped up in other (non-writing) things recently. I’m going to put it down to feeling inspired by seeing my delicious rat bastard in the G1.

Pairing: Jay White x OFC

Word count: 3,841

Content advisory: Smut! Nothing too much beside that other than some significant angst

Alone in my damp little rooms, I did my best to hide the sounds of the sobs that overwhelmed me. I didn't want to give anyone, him most of all, the satisfaction of knowing that I'd been broken.

It was true that my life had some worth: my father would not let me die a prisoner of another noble if only because it would make him look weak. But if what I'd heard from my sister's servants was true, then she had lied to me and brought me here as a pawn, a cover for her plot. She was the person I had loved most in my life and she had lied to me and put me in danger. Given that I had run away in the dead of night, I doubted my husband would want anything further to do with me. So if I were ransomed, I would live the rest of my life under the strict control of my family. My future lay either as a despised nuisance banished to a few rooms of the family home or as an embarrassment packed off to a convent. I had never known what it was like to feel truly alone until that night.

I felt rage building in me towards all of them- my parents, Elizabeth, her husband, their servants who refused to exonerate me, and most of all towards Jay White. Whatever intrigue had happened with him and my family, I had been blissfully unaware until I had crossed paths with him. I understood that he had only revealed the rot that was in my life but I could not stop from seeing him as the source of my problems. He must have done something to force my family to embark on such a reckless plan. Elizabeth only used me because she was desperate, I told myself. He was the monster.

I tried not to think about the fact that he had been right about a plot against him, or about me being used as a distraction because my sister knew he had once had feelings for me. Most of all, I tried not to think about what had happened the night before, about the hours I had laid awake remembering his touches, the beauty of his body, and the passion he'd awakened in me. He'd done it to make it hurt that much more when he made me beg for the lives of the others. It had meant nothing to him and I fought to have it mean nothing to me.

Strangely, in the days that followed the departure of my companions, I was afforded a great deal more freedom. One of the guards accompanied me on walks around the grounds, allowing me to breathe fresh air for the first time in what felt like years. Millicent was practically my personal maid and I was allowed to explore certain areas of the castle. I particularly enjoyed being able to read through some of the beautiful books that Jay had commissioned from a nearby monastery, mostly works of philosophy. I took some pleasure in teaching Millicent to read so that she might enjoy the texts herself. After a couple of weeks, I was moved from the sad little corner of the palace in which I’d spent my time there to a proper set of rooms with a real fireplace, a real bed and a sitting room where I could take my meals. The door was still locked when I was not accompanied by a guard but I couldn’t deny that I was a great deal more comfortable. I hesitated to admit even to myself that the rooms were cleaner and in better condition than much of the home I shared with my husband. It was clear that Jay was better off, something that I hadn’t expected. I wondered if this was something that Elizabeth and the rest of my family realized since the old Earl had not been especially wealthy for one of his status.

I tried to avoid Jay as much as possible, seeking to avoid the feelings he stirred in me. I assured myself that the amelioration in my treatment was due only to the fact that I had become a commodity of some value. Like cattle or sheep, I was something he could sell to the right buyers and the right buyers were the people who I had always believed loved and treasured me. At first, I was successful, however the more I took advantage of my newly granted freedoms, the more I seemed to find my way to him.

On one afternoon, while I was out walking under guard, enjoying the colours of the autumn landscape, we encountered him on the way back from inspecting his troops on the marches. A haughty demeanor flowed from him as he looked down on us from atop his horse that made me feel a burning in my chest and I refused to look at him.

“How nice that you’re enjoying the air,” he declared, more to my guard than to me. “But be careful of this one. She’s not to be trusted.”

At that, my eyes snapped to his. I wanted to tear the arrogant bastard from his horse. Instead, I spit back at him, “A rich statement coming from you.”

He gave a cruel laugh and continued back towards the castle. My guard and I continued to walk in silence and the entire time, I felt the fire in me build at his casual remark. I struggled not to think of him but my mind continually returned to the look on his face, the obvious way in which he sought to provoke me. Even after I returned to my chambers I was seething and wanted nothing more than to confront him. When Millicent shyly entered, as she always did when she brought me dinner, I frightened her by rushing towards her just out of the frustration I felt at being cooped up.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” she squeaked, curling her body away from me. She carried no trays as she usually did and she seemed extremely afraid of what I might do.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. My mind is preoccupied and it was a nervous reaction, nothing more. You’ve done nothing to vex me or warrant abuse.”

“Thank you ma’am,” she stammered. “I’ve just been sent to tell you that the Master has requested you to have dinner with him, in his chambers.”

“Not in the dining hall?”

“Oh no, ma’am. That’s only used for great events. He always takes his meals alone, unless it’s a night when…”

“When he’s drinking with his friends and entertaining whores,” I huffed. The periodic decadent nights were something I’d certainly noticed, starting with my arrival. The presence of such women, the knowledge that Jay delighted in their company, made me angry beyond my capacity to express. I tried to convince myself that it was my revulsion that a noble of my stature could sink so low. However, I knew in my heart that it was jealousy, unbridled jealousy, that these women got to have him in a way I couldn’t.

Millicent curled back into herself, blushing. “I’ve just been told to bring you to him, ma’am.”

My heart hurt seeing her like this and I reached forward, holding her cheek in my hand. “You are blameless, my sweet girl. You have made my time here more than just bearable. If I seem harsh, it is nothing to do with you. I only wish that, wherever I might go, that I could take you with me.”

She started to cry and I held her to me until she had recovered herself. I then allowed her to guide me to Jay’s apartments, where I was apparently to dine with him.

His rooms were, of course, luxuriously appointed, but even more so than I might have imagined. Once again, I was struck by the display of wealth that, while not ostentatious, was more than I would have thought possible in his circumstances.

The man himself sat at a round table with plates of cured meats and cheeses, along with decanters of wine. As soon as I entered, I felt his lupine eyes lock on me, and my breathing quickened. I took my seat opposite him, still shivering from the chill his stare induced in me, keeping my head turned towards the door even after we were left alone.

He remained silent until I finally looked at him, shamed at how I cowered under his gaze.

“Since when are you so quiet?” he gloated, taking a gulp of wine and pushing a full glass to me.

“Since I understood that my life means nothing,” I snapped, grabbing the glass and emptying it in one gulp. “Since I became aware that I was a commodity like gold or cattle to be used as a commodity in your political games.”

“I suppose I should remind you that it was your choice that I should treat you as such.”

“It was not my choice,” I retorted, grabbing the wine and refilling my glass only to drain it once again. “I merely pointed out that you could use me according to how you already perceived me. You’ve made it clear that I am nothing to my family but a pawn they wish to retain. I have spent my whole life loving people who only wanted to use me in some political gain. I already know that my husband rhinos nothing of me and his family will have no interest in retrieving some fool who abandoned them for no reason. And as for you…” my eyes narrowed as I focused on him, “I am a trinket you can sell, nothing more.”

Once again, I grabbed the wine and poured myself a full glass that was quickly pushed down my throat. Jay and I glared at each other in a standoff until the butler arrived with our main course, a roast with vegetables and potatoes that made me weak with hunger.

The manservant carved away a portion for both of us and while I fought to maintain eye contact with my gaoler, the moment the servants had retreated, I greedily tore into the meal, the best I had tasted in months. I was embarrassed to see that Jay observed me through his dark eyelashes, drinking his wine and taking judicious bites of his food while I behaved like a wild animal. He laughed at me a little, which was more than I could bear. I stood up, wiping my face with the serviette provided and took an uncertain step towards the door.

“I want to return to my chambers now,” I stated, embarrassed at the hesitance in my own voice.

Jay swallowed the contents of his glass and poured himself another, never moving his eyes from mine. “No you don’t.”

He advanced on me like a predator grasping hold of my wrists as I sought to shelter my face from him. I did not fear he would strike me but I knew that my eyes would tell him something very different than what I just said.

“You don’t want to go anywhere. You want me to drag you into my bed and take you the way your husband should have on your wedding night. You want me to ruin you.”

Twisting my arms behind my back he once again captured my mouth with his and once again I felt a fire consuming me from within. Feeling me respond, he released my arms and I wound them around his neck without a thought, trailing my fingers through his dark hair. One of his hands slid up over the back of my head and he pulled me away from him, grabbing a fistful of my hair.

“I only wish I could trust you,” he growled.

“What does that matter? You keep me locked in my room all the time except when you want to use me for entertainment. I told you that I had nothing to do with the plotting against you but you won’t believe me. Once I threatened you and tried to escape because I understood nothing of your political intrigues. Since that time have I ever denied you anything you asked? Did I not beg you on my knees to spare my servants? And as far as...” My throat contracted, unwilling to speak more.

“As far as what?” he whispered, drawing his lips up the length of my neck, smiling against the skin as I let my head fall back. “As far as this? Is this so repulsive to you?”

I twisted to face him, my breath trembling as I spoke. “You know it isn’t. You know I go to pieces every time you touch me. And so I ask you again, why is it that you think me unworthy of your trust?”

In one rush of movement, Jay gathered me up in his arms and carried me into his bedroom, tossing me down on his beautiful bed, plush with blankets and silk. I was a little frightened, unsure what I had actually asked for, but I felt my body aching to experience the pleasure he’d brought me that one night that seemed so long ago. I was almost as frightened when I saw his face, eyes consumed with lust, his expression ferocious. He pulled and tore at my clothing and I helped, struggling free even though I cringed at the idea of being fully naked before a man.

Likewise, I tore away at his clothing until he wriggled free of all of it, my eyes hungrily taking in his body, so much like a beautiful sculpture and yet so much more beautiful because it was real. My breath caught as I ran my hand down his chest, feeling each carved muscle, down to the depression on the inside of his hips, stroking the base of his erect member. His whole body shivered and I withdrew the hand, wondering if I’d done something wrong.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” was all I could bring myself to say, my voice like the squeaking of a mouse.

He gave a small but not unkind smile, shifting onto his side and running his fingers over my stomach to my exposed sex, sliding his fingers around the flesh that had become soaked.

“You liked this when I did it before,” he rasped. “Have never done it yourself?”

I shook my head, unable to speak as he swirled his fingers along the bone and up to the sensitive little nub that had nearly driven me crazy before. He raised himself a little, alternating between stimulating that spot with his thumb and pressing his fingers into the opening, a little further inside with every touch, until he was brushing against some hidden spot inside me.

My head fell back and my eyes closed, I was so lost in his touch. My reverie was broken by a sharp bite to my nipple and I came back to my senses to see him glaring at me with a frightening intensity.

“Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

He gave a sharp thrust of his fingers and my eyes fluttered shut once again, although I forced them back open a second later. “I don’t know if I can,” I pleaded.

“You can and you will.”

Just as I had before, I felt something building in me, in my sex, in my stomach, and gradually filling my entire body. I dreaded the moment he was going to stop but he continued, increasing in speed and force until I could feel some invisible thing break inside me, flooding me with the most incredible pleasure I had ever experienced. Fighting to maintain the eye contact he demanded, I was moaning, crying out involuntarily, my breath ragged. I marveled at the look of excitement and pleasure on his face, wanting to kiss him but unsure if I was allowed.

He slowed the pace of his movements and slid down so that his face rested between my legs. He gave me a little wink and pressed his lips to that aching bundle, licking at the juices pooled there and softly sucking. I felt wave after wave rolling over me, not as intense as the first but sweet nonetheless, until the space became so sensitive that I twisted and mewled in pain. He held me down and continued his ministrations, rougher than ever until I was almost in tears. Once he was satisfied, he licked his fingers clean once again and leaned over me, grabbing hold of my jaw and thrusting his mouth against mine.

I resisted just a little, shocked at the taste, but relented when he squeezed my throat. As the kiss continued to build in passion, I felt him pressing against me, the tip pushing against the opening that felt swollen with what I’d already experienced.

Pulling back, he grasped both my arms in one hand, easily pinning them above my head and he leaned down to whisper, “It hurts the first time for a woman. Is that what you want? Do you want me to hurt you?”

“”I want you,” I whimpered. “I don’t even know what it means but I know I want you.”

He guided my legs up so they were around his waist, showering kisses over my neck and chest. I felt his prick brushing against the folds of flesh, the head gently pressing inside. As he’d done with his fingers, he teased a little bit at a time and I wondered if that was how it was done, even though it didn’t feel quite right. Then he grasped my hips, fingers digging into the flesh so hard I could immediately feel the bruises forming. He forced my legs up a little higher and with one strong movement pushed himself all the way inside me.

As he had warned, it did hurt, enough that I gave a little scream at his first thrust and continued whinnying as he pushed forward. Before long, however, he slowed his pace, his lips capturing mine and then sliding all the way down to my breasts.

“Just try to relax,” he murmured into my skin. “Relax and it will feel better.”

Breathing in deep, I was able to let myself go just a little more and it did feel better. It continued to feel better and better as he stroked that magical spot inside me with unerring precision and I once again felt the tension building inside me, my core tightening around him as he pushed harder.

His thumb traced gently along my jaw and as I looked at him I saw his expression untainted by suspicion or anger.

“Again?” he breathed.

“Yes. Please.”

And within seconds I was once again in ecstasy, that early pain forgotten, washed away in a tide of mewls and gasps.

“God,” I panted, “does it feel that good for you?”

“It will. Don’t worry, you’ll know when it does.”

Feeling the increased urgency of his movements inside me, I held onto him as tightly as I could, determined that he should get as much pleasure as I had. Watching his face as he reached his climax, I felt giddy with the idea that I had done that.

I pulled him close to me as we both caught our breath. The return to Earth, to the castle and the realities of our world was heavy, the looming darkness a crushing force.

“How much have they offered you for me?” I rasped, once I was sufficiently recovered.

He raised himself so that he could look me in the eyes. “A great deal. Your father has at least. Your husband has had nothing to say.”

“What if I refuse to go back,?” I asked flatly, shocked at how my mind seemed clearer than it had ever been. “What if I told you that I’d throw myself out of a window here rather than spend my life as an outcast or a nun?”

He eyed me, some of the suspicion returning. “You’d rather spend eternity in hell than your life in the care of your family?”

“Or I’d rather risk hell than leave here. Collect my father’s money and send me off if that’s what you want. It’ll end the same way.”

Once again, his eyes flared. “So I’m supposed to feel afraid of the guilt if I drove you to suicide?”

“I’m saying that while I have no reason to believe that I can trust you with my welfare, I’m willing to do so.”

“You’d be willing to be kept here as my mistress, knowing that I could grow bored and dispose of you at my will?”

“I would rather live here as your wife, since even the Pope would see fit to annul my marriage,” I said, mustering all the pride I could. “But in lieu of that, I would rather live here as one of your numerous conquests than to be returned to any part of my old life.”

His eyes softened a little, and suddenly I could see the young man I had known in my youth again.

“I think you wanted to marry me once” I ventured. “Perhaps my family rejected the offer because it was not politically advantageous.”

He made no motion to confirm or deny my statement but the way his eyes turned bitter and prideful told me that I had come close to the truth.

“My family doesn’t have that power now. I am asking that you consider any monetary offer you receive for me against this: I only want to be with you and I would rather die than be sent off to some miserable, lonely fate without you. You’ve already claimed what my husband should have. Anything else is entirely in your hands. And I trust you with that power.”

I felt his body tremble just a little before he spoke. “I want you to know that when I dispatched your companions, I ordered the men to convey Hannah to the safety of a town. Only the men were left on the road.”

“A fair solution,” I mused.

“I won’t ever make you live in any kind of infamy,” he sighed, dropping his head to my chest. “The fact is that part of me doesn’t want to trust you because I don’t believe I could withstand being rejected again.”

“And you have to choose whether to let that part dictate your future or to believe me.” I took his face in my hands and forced him to look me in the eyes.

“There is going to be a fight,” he murmured. “Your family is going to come for me.”

“And they will lose because they underestimate you.”

His lips were on mine once again and I grew dizzy with the intensity of the kiss, my body constricting around him involuntarily.

“Mine?” he hissed, burying his mouth against my neck and biting at the flesh.

“Yours,” I sighed, feeling a sense of relief I had never known before. “Yours.”

#jay white imagine #jay white fanfic #njpw fanfic #wayward wrestle writing #njpw imagine

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archadianskies · 4 years

Note

19 + 18 + 17, Simarkus!

(soulmates + tattoo artist + skin hunger)

→ on Ao3

It isn’t the flashiest, slickest tattoo parlour but for Simon and Daniel ‘Jericho’ is the place where they can truly be free. It’s a place that’s all theirs, a place they carved out with hard work, with blood, sweat, and tears- so so many tears.

At first it had been just the two of them, as it had always been ever since they were sixteen and kicked out by their parents, and then Josh joined them, and then North, and since that day they have been known as the Jericho Four. They each have a speciality: Daniel specialises in painterly techniques, of colourul swathes that washed over the skin; Josh specialises in minimalism, of crisp, strong black lines; North specialises in text, of a thousand fonts at the ready to speak their mind.

As for Simon, well, Simon has never been good at any of that stuff. He’s much better at caring for others, at nurturing and soothing and so that’s why Jericho has a cafe inside of it. He cooks, he bakes, he brews for both the customers being tattooed and for any family or friends hanging around for support. Sometimes they don’t come in for a tattoo at all, and Simon finds himself serving students and workers on their lunch break.

It isn’t ever going to make them rich, but it’s enough to get by comfortably and really, that’s all Simon could ever want.

“Got a pretty complex booking tomorrow.” Danny whistles low as he scrolls through the email on his laptop. Simon looks up from his book, interest piqued, and scoots closer to him on the couch.

“Oh?” His twin tilts the laptop slightly, showing a beautiful geometric explosion at the heart of a glowing blue triangle, as if it were in the midst of shattering outward.

“He’s asking for white ink for some of the lines, so it’ll glow under black light. This is a seriously massive piece.” Danny nods, impressed. “Multiple sessions, with extra surcharge for the white ink. He’s already sent the down-payment, so he’s definitely committed.”

“That’s a crazy amount of work.” Simon reaches over to click on the image so he can zoom in. “It’ll be stunning when it’s done. Where does he want it? On his back?”

“No, over his chest. The fragments will spill over onto his shoulder too.” Danny clicks onto the next image, of the design overlaid on a male silhouette. “I blocked off the entire afternoon for this.”

“Then you better rest up.” Simon taps his temple. “Big day tomorrow.”

It’s a slow going day but Simon loves those best. It’s even raining outside, which only adds to the soft cosy mood inside Jericho. With no other clients booked except for Danny’s new one, Simon finds himself sitting at a table with the other three sharing a freshly baked pear tea cake. The tattooists have their sketchbooks out, and Simon loses himself to the sound of the rain and the scrape of their pencils. There’s some semblance of inner peace to be found, he thinks, just in these sounds.

The door opens, and the muffled pattering of the rain turns into a roar momentarily as someone rushes in. Simon stands automatically, switching back into his hospitality role.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Jericho.” He greets the hooded man neatly securing his folded umbrella.

“Hi, I’m a bit early for my appointment but I thought I’d come in out of the rain since I was around anyway.”

“Mark S., booking with artist Daniel Lambert.” Simon nods. “Would like a coffee and something to eat while you wait?” The hood falls back and that’s definitely not some stranger named Mark S. “Oh you’re-”

“Markus Manfred.” Josh finishes behind him, standing in surprise. “It’s- wow. You’re really here. I saw your thesis at the Museum of Modern Art. I marched with you last Fall. I thought you were in London researching for your upcoming mural?”

“Just got in last night, actually.” Markus grins, offering his hand for Josh to shake. There he is, Markus Manfred, adopted son of Carl Manfred; artist and activist in equal measure. “A little jetlagged and still adjusting to the timezone, but I’m here in one piece.”

“You did that portrait series on the Eden Club workers.” North adds, offering her hand to shake.

“With my brother Leo, yes.” Markus shakes her hand firmly. “They needed a medium to tell their stories, and we were honoured to oblige.”

“So what’s the story about this tattoo, then?” Danny pulls up another chair to their table, and Markus takes a seat.

“I want to build on one I already have. I want to make it mine, because the original wasn’t my design.” He shrugs, leaning back comfortably in the chair. “I actually intend to commission tattoos from each of you, to tell my story. I use cloth and brick walls as my canvas, but I want my body to be a canvas for you.”

“I don’t know if you’re being eloquent or cheesy as fuck, but this is the most interesting commission I’ve ever been given so I’ll let it slide.” Danny smirks wryly and Simon smacks his shoulder.

“Behave.” He turns to Markus, and this close he can see those famous heterochromic eyes. “Coffee?”

“Yes please. And a slice of whatever this cake is, if there’s any left.” Markus grins, tapping the closest plate. “Smells divine and I bet it tastes just as heavenly.”

He’s seen a lot of half naked bodies. It comes with the job- not his in particular, but well, Danny’s and the fact the parlour is tucked just behind the cafe. Simon’s gotten used to seeing people in various states of undress, so used to handing nearly nude people coffees and slices of cake.

He’s not ready for Markus Manfred to take off his sweater and shirt, revealing a body surely identical to the grandiose marble sculptures that used to grace the ancient world. Not wanting to delay his tattoo appointment, the artist had picked up his cup after finishing his cake, carrying it to Danny’s station at the back and promptly undressing. Simon doesn’t know why he followed, but his feet seemed to carry him after them.

“Fuck.” Danny exhales. “That’s a Kamski.”

Markus looks down at his chest, at the glowing circle at the end of his sternum. His grin is sheepish as he scratches his nape and takes a seat. “Yeah, it is.”

“No way, an original Kamski? Not a Camden?” North follows into the room, Josh behind her. “From before he left CyberLife?”

“Thirium ink. I thought I’d never see one up close.” Josh breathes, voice tinged with awe. “When he left CyberLife he took the formula with him. Their tattoos use an inferior ink with a lower thirium ratio.”

“Well we definitely don’t have pure thirium ink here, sorry bud.” Danny pats his shoulder and Markus laughs.

“No, I know. I don’t want another tattoo like this one. I want one I designed.” Markus clarifies. “This is my story.”

Josh has a thousand questions, and Markus seems happy to answer them. Selfishly, Simon goes to the front door and turns the sign to say ‘Closed’, locking the door so no one else will disturb them. He makes another round of coffees and carries them to the back. Danny has his noise-cancelling headphones on to tune everyone out so he can work. Josh has dragged his chair closer, and North is sitting on her tattooist bench. Simon hands everyone a new cup and takes a seat at Josh’s vacated bench.

“Do you think we’ll ever reach that stage though? Artificial intelligence that can think for itself?” Josh asks curiously and Markus hums in thought.

“I think so. It’s the issue with making them look human, though. The moment we make androids is the moment we divide the world.”

“What do you mean?” North frowns. “Wouldn’t that, I dunno, be a good thing? People get attached to roombas. What more when there’s robots that look like us?”

“That’s what I mean though.” Markus clarifies. “Half of us would anthropomorphise them, and the other half would reject them completely, unable to bridge the fact they are different from us. Humans find it hard enough to treat each other with compassion, what more when there’s an android that looks just like them but is a machine?”

“Then I suppose an android revolution would happen.” North shrugs with a laugh. “If we ever treated them like shit, then we’d deserve the revolution coming for us.”

“I don’t believe it would come to that, I believe we are an intelligent, compassionate race.” Josh argues. “We would achieve integration and acceptance through dialogue.”

“And you- Simon, isn’t it?” Markus turns his head slightly to catch his gaze. “Where do you weigh in, in this theoretical android revolution?”

He wrings his hands, frowning. “I wouldn’t really ever want to take part in it.” A confession of cowardice, but an honest one at least. “I’d just want those I love to be safe. I’d- I’d go somewhere and wait it out, I guess. But if they needed help, I’d help them. I’m not sure how I’d help with caffeine and baked goods, but...I suppose if they needed a place to stay, a place to hide I could give them that much.”

“He’s a softie.” North pretends to ‘whisper’, shooting Simon a grin. “But he’s got grit, and will get the job done.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” Markus smiles at him, and Simon, honest to god, hand over heart, swears the world slowed for just a moment so he could enjoy it. “Kindness in the face of a cold, cruel, apathetic world is an act of bravery, of defiance.”

They talk and they talk and Simon loses track of time until Danny takes off his headphones.

“Ok Christ I need a pee break.” He bins his gloves and makes shooing motions at Markus. “Go on, you too, before I start the next part.” He leads him away and North crosses over to sit next to Simon, elbowing him.

“I’m a flaming homo but that boy is…” She clicks her tongue as she makes an ‘ok’ sign with her fingers. “Gorgeous.”

“Who cares about that, he’s so-” Josh struggles to verbalise his thoughts, making a frustrated gesture with his hands. “He’s so beautifully compassionate and driven. He spoke at the protest I marched at, but only briefly. Hearing his thoughts, hearing his opinions here in private is just...something else.”

“Simon has stars in his eyes.” North teases, poking his cheek. He bats her hand away.

“I do not. I’m staring a healthy amount. Surely no one should look that beautiful and still be human, right?” He asks, exasperated. “He has freckles. Everywhere. He has the body of a marble statue. He speaks like a Roman orator. Or some Greek philosopher. He has one blue eye and one green eye for god’s sake, who let him loose on the world?”

“The more important question is,” North jabs his side, causing him to yelp “is he single?”

“Oh, yeah, because he’s going to be so interested in a coffee boy at a tattoo parlour.” Simon rolls his eyes. “I have so much to offer.”

“You do, Simon.” Josh frowns. “I do take offense to that. You’re a wonderful person, you gave North and I a chance when no one else would. You found us at our worst and helped us become who we are today.”

“Pretty boy would be lucky to have you.” North pecks his cheek. “I mean it.”

They end up ordering Mexican because it’s already six o’clock the next time anybody checks and Markus seems content to stay a little longer. Somehow in the span of an afternoon he feels like he’s always belonged right here in their little quartet. Even if he’s sitting there half naked with cling film wrapped taut around his freshly inked chest and shoulders.

“Ok Danny,” North fixes him with a serious look, “important question: where do you stand in the android revolution?”

“In the-” Danny makes a face. “Is this the shit you guys were talking about while I was working?”

“Well not the whole time.” Markus laughs. “Though I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“I dunno. Would we be able to afford one?” Danny scoops salsa onto a chip and pops it into his mouth. “I’d treat them well, I guess. Make ‘em feel part of the family. If you treat them badly, they could snap and then you’d deserve what’s coming to you.”

“We’re years- decades away from that kind of tech.” Simon shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter right now.”

“It does.” Markus objects. “They might not be real now, or maybe not ever, but how we treat anything not human is a reflection of ourselves. They’re mirrors held up to test our humanity.”

“This is way too deep for Mexican on a Wednesday.” Danny declares through a mouthful of food. “Just putting it out there.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry!” He laughs, expression apologetic. “I swear I’m not like this all the time.”

“Pineapple on pizza?” North demands, pointing an accusing finger. “Wrong answer sends you out the door.”

“Can I abstain from answering until I finish my dinner?”

“I’ll allow it.” A pause as she narrows her eyes threateningly. “But only just.”

Markus Manfred takes a taxi home at about 8pm and Simon doesn’t quite know if any of it’s real, if any of it actually happened. It has to have happened, because there’s another session booked to occur in exactly three weeks. He loads the dishwasher as Danny takes out the trash, waving to Josh and North as they take their leave. Three weeks and Markus will return. How will he fill his time until then?

He doesn’t need to wait three weeks, in fact, because Markus comes back the very next day.

“Hey.” A greeting paired with a thousand kilowatt smile, easy and charming.

“Good morning Markus.” Simon blinks in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Is something wrong? Did you need Danny to have a look at the tattoo? Is it bleeding too much?”

“Actually,” he grins and oh it’s far too early for Simon to process such a sight “I was hoping for a cup of coffee and some breakfast?”

“Oh.” He nods numbly. “Y-yes of course. What can I get for you?”

“Strong black with honey, and something bread-y.” Markus takes a seat at one of the tables. “I thought I’d get some work done here. It’s wonderfully private.” A nice way of saying it’s not a bustling Starbucks, Simon thinks wryly, but he’ll take it. He serves him a large mug of coffee and a thick slice of banana bread and tries not to stare too much at Markus’ elegant hands as he takes out a sketchbook and thumbs through it idly.

“What gave you the idea of this tattoo?” Simon asks curiously as he spots early sketches of the tattoo design. He takes a seat opposite him, nursing his own large mug of coffee.

“I wanted to shatter through the wall of self-doubt, of anxiety that held me back.” Markus smiles softly, eyes roaming the page. “Growing up in Carl Manfred’s shadow wasn’t easy but a lot of it was all in my head. Dad has never been anything but encouraging to us, as Leo and I both branched out on our own artistic journeys. What held me back was my own fear to leave the safety of his name and stand on my own.”

“Shattering the red wall.” Simon nods slowly. “I guess we all have that moment, don’t we? A moment where we have to decide whether to stay behind it where we’re safe but also changeless, or fight and shatter it, to find our own way.”

“Did you have one, Simon?” He seeks his eyes with such an earnest expression. “A moment where you had to choose to shatter the red wall?”

“We didn’t have much choice.” A heavy sigh. “It was shattered for us, by our parents. We got kicked out at sixteen, and there was no red wall left to hide behind safely. We only had each other, and the only way was forward.”

Markus reaches over and squeezes Simon’s hand. “I’m so sorry.” He says with such sincerity Simon believes it.

“It’s alright. Jericho is where we can be truly free.” He smiles tiredly. “This place is everything to us, and Josh and North are like family. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Why call it Jericho?” Markus picks up a pencil, turns to a blank page and starts sketching.

“It was the name of an old freighter.” It’s been almost fifteen years, Simon thinks, but the memory is still sore. “We hid there for a while, when we didn’t have anywhere to go. It was falling apart but it was dry and safe. It was home.” And now home is here, home is just upstairs and it’s dry and safe but also warm and full of love. Simon props his chin on his palm. “Feels both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday, to be honest.”

“Grief and trauma are not linear experiences.” Markus shakes his head, eyes candid. “What you experienced at sixteen will always be valid. Our growth is measured in how we cope with that pain, with all we’ve learned over the years.”

It stuns him to hear it, and he feels his mouth open and close as he tries and fails to reply with something coherent. Markus scratches his nape sheepishly.

“Sorry, I’m doing it again aren’t I? Sounding like some cheesy self-help inspirational poster.”

“I’ve just never been told that before.” Simon admits, smile wobbly. “I guess I’m just so used to taking everything in stride and carrying on. I bury everything deeply, in the hopes I never really have to process it.”

“Then it just rots, Simon.” Markus reaches out again, placing his hand over his and giving a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no chance for growth if the roots are rotten.”

He looks down at their hands, and it’s as though his heart wants to soak up the contact, wants to drink it in as though he’s parched. It’s not as though he lacks affectionate touch, they’ve always been an affectionate quartet of friends, but it’s more like he can never get enough. Markus very gently rubs the back of his hand with his thumb in slow, light strokes. Heat pools in his cheeks.

“I’m alright now. I’m much much better here.” Simon smiles, and though it’s a little shaky it’s real and heartfelt. “I’m happy and I’m safe, and we’re financially secure, so what more can I ask for?”

“I’m glad.” He says, and Simon knows he means it.

Though he knows it’s selfish, Simon finds himself hoping Markus will drop by for breakfast often. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to him, and his heart leaps into his throat every time the handsome artist opens the door and strides to the counter with confident, purposeful steps. He always has a kind word for all of them, always has a brilliant dashing smile and Simon’s been very careful with heart over the years, but he’d be kidding himself if he said he wasn’t head over heels for Markus.

“How’s the mural coming along?” He asks as he sets down a steaming mug of coffee.

“Pretty good. Most of the underlayer is down, but it’s forecast to rain for nearly the whole week so I’ve got to postpone it a bit.” Markus sighs wearily. “That’s alright. I’ve got another piece I’m working on in the studio, so I don’t really mind. How’s things here?”

“We had another customer with an original Kamski.” Simon tells him, and Markus raises his brows in surprise. “I know right? What are the chances of having two of you come within the span of a fortnight? She’s a ballerina. I’m pretty sure North’s in love with her.”

“That would be Ms. Chloe Hersh.” Markus smiles. “I’ve met her only once at an art gala but she’s very lovely. She is the original Kamski. The recipient of the very first thirium tattoo.”

“That’s amazing. How lucky we are to have the two of you stumble upon our tiny little parlour.” Simon muses as Markus laughs softly.

“Simon we didn’t find this place out of luck, we sought it out.” He says knowingly, as if it’s always been a fact Simon overlooked. “There’s talent here, and warmth and kindness and really good coffee and the most amazing tea cakes ever.” He finishes with a wink, and Simon knows he’s absolutely done for.

*~*

When Markus arrives for his second session, there’s barely any preamble before he’s hanging up his coat and stripping off until he’s shirtless. The linework has healed, meaning Danny can progress with the colour. Simon sets down his coffee and a berry muffin on the little table by chair, and tries his very best not to stare.

“We dropped by Greektown to see the mural yesterday.” Josh says from across the room. “It’s coming along beautifully.”

“Thanks.” Markus smiles. “Weather finally cleared so I’ve been trying to cram in as much as I can before it turns bad again.”

“You’re doing the backdrops for the ballet next, right?” North hops up onto her bench. “Chloe told me.”

“Yeah, it’s my next project and my brother is doing the promo shoot for it.” He settles into position, taking a gulp of coffee before Danny guides him to stay still so he can begin. “It’ll be fun, it’s a modern Anna Karenina.”

“Small world huh? Or maybe you Kamski originals are all like, telepathic because of the fancy ink.” North teases, and Markus chuckles.

“Oh no you’ve figured it all out. That’s the real reason Elijah Kamksi invented a new ink- to make a group of improved humans.”

“I’d believe it.” North snorts back a laugh. “His house looks like a supervillain lair.”

They fall into easy conversation, and Simon leaves occasionally to serve a customer at the front or bring more drinks and food. North eventually moves off to start working on a client, and Josh finishes his final session on another.

It’s as the afternoon is winding down that Simon starts to see the small telltale signs of pain on Markus’ face. Over the sternum is one of the most painful areas of the body given the thinner layers of fat, muscle and skin and as Danny moves to start layering the colour, sweat begins to bead on Markus’ forehead as his brows pinch together.

Automatically Simon reaches for his hand, returning the reassuring squeeze he’d given him the week before. Markus tilts his head slightly and gives him a grateful look, grip tightening the longer Danny works over the sensitive area.

“Hey, you’re doing great.” Simon murmurs, mimicking his earlier actions as he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand soothingly. “And it’s looking beautiful too. It’s all worth it, I promise.”

Markus nods numbly, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as Danny progresses further down his sternum. Simon doesn’t leave his side, and it’s only when Danny sits back and removes his headphones does he realise he hasn’t let go of his hand either.

They order burgers and fries from a diner not too far away, Markus joining them for dinner after the parlour is closed. With each visit it feels less and less like he’s a stranger and more as if he’s family.

Discussions and conversations flow, and he’s interesting and verbose even if tonight he’s a little more tired than usual: a marathon tattoo session definitely does that to a person, and Danny is much the same. When he’s wiping down the table, he sees Danny pull Markus aside just before Markus leaves. He says something, his expression serious, and Markus nods solemnly before leaving to catch his taxi.

“Did you tell him about the aloe vera?” Simon asks as his twin brother returns to his side to help him clean up.

“Uh yeah. Definitely needs a higher level of care this time around and I told him to send me photos if his skin acts up so I can tell him what it’ll need.” Danny shrugs, not bothering to hide his yawn. “Next session will be the last unless he wants further detailing.”

“I think it’s your best work yet.” Simon compliments, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I mean it.”

“Thanks Si.” Danny smiles tiredly, bumping his forehead to his. “C’mon. Dying to go upstairs and sprawl on the couch with a beer.”

*~*

He hopes like last time Markus will appear for breakfast, but it’s not to be. He tries not to get his hopes up, tries not to look too eager every time the door opens. Markus doesn’t stop by for over two weeks, in fact, and Simon tries not to feel despondent as the days go by without his presence.

The mural for Bellini Paints at Greektown is announced as complete on social media, and they go to see it during lunch on a sunny Tuesday. It’s a beautiful piece, taking up an entire wall at the entrance to the arcade where Bellini is housed. Sweeps of colour streak across the brickwork in graceful arcs, coming together to form a pair of hands holding a palette and paintbrush; a work of art about a work of art in progress. Simon thinks it’s stunning, and the sheer scale of it is enough to leave him awestruck. He takes a photo and sets it as his background, so he can admire the colours whenever he wants.

When Markus arrives for his final session, he brings a large canvas with him. It’s covered with a sheet, and tied carefully with twine to secure it.

“Hey, Simon.” His smile has an apology in it. “Sorry I haven’t dropped by recently. It’s been pretty crazy trying to finish the mural and I had this other project on the side.”

“We went to see the Bellini mural yesterday, it’s stunning.” Simon finds himself smiling wistfully. “The colours are just so vibrant, it suits the store perfectly.”

“Thanks, I’m pretty proud of it.” He holds out the canvas. “This is for you.”

“...For...me?” Simon gawks at him, unmoving. Markus Manfred is handing him a canvas. Markus Manfred. The artist leans in.

“That means you have to take it from my hands, Simon.” He ‘whispers’ and Simon scrambles to take the canvas, laying it down ever so carefully on one of the tables so he can unwrap it. It’s a painting of Jericho, of his family; there’s Danny, there’s Josh, there’s North and yes, even him. It’s a beautiful flurry of colours and exaggerated brushstrokes, and they’re crowded around a table eating tea cake and drinking coffee, with sketchbooks laid around.

“When I first came here, it was like coming home.” Markus lays his hand over Simon’s and it’s only belatedly that he realises he’s shaking. “I felt welcomed, and I felt at peace. I felt like I’ve always been here. That’s the magic of this place, Simon. That’s your magic.”

“Markus I- this is too generous, I couldn’t possibly-!”

“You can. I painted this for you.” Markus moves to hold his other hand too, coaxing him to face him. “Because you are the heart of this place. You may not have had a choice to break through your red wall, but you persevered. You are so much stronger than you think, Simon.”

The tears come even though he gave them no permission to, and Markus gently draws him into a comforting embrace. Over the years he’s only ever had Danny, and more recently Josh and North. There was never any time to dwell on the hurt, there was and is only the path forward; if he stopped for even a moment to think back on what he survived it would swallow him up. To have Markus affirm his strength, to have him acknowledge the pain and his progression is far too much for him to process.

“Did you make my brother cry?!” Danny demands, appearing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “What the fuck did you say to him?!”

“Danny, look.” Simon wipes his eyes clumsily, pulling back a little in Markus’ arms so he can point at the painting on the table. “Markus painted this for us.”

“...You what?” Danny’s brows nearly disappear into his hairline as he spots the canvas. “Is this- are you for real?”

“I mean, well, yeah. It’s real and I made it.” Markus grins sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to make your brother cry though.”

“...Holyshit. Uh. Wow. Thanks?”��

“It’s 3pm, shall we get started on my session?” Markus seeks his eyes. “Is that alright, Simon?”

“Oh! Yes, of course! Sorry I’ll um- I’ll cover this up and take it upstairs so it’ll be safe.”

He has to hide upstairs for a good fifteen minutes just to make sense of what just happened. He’s holding an original Manfred in his hands, and gifted to him no less. It’s not just a pretty painting, it’s a work of art of his family, making it absolutely precious and priceless. He resists the urge to hug the canvas to his chest, instead laying it on the coffee table before returning downstairs to the parlour.

Danny’s already started, headphones on and brows creased in concentration by the time Simon brings in a tray of coffees and some black tea and honey cupcakes. Markus offers him a slightly pained smile, and Simon immediately sits beside him and holds his hand.

“Would you” Markus flicks his eyes over to make sure Danny isn’t paying attention “like to go to dinner with me on Friday?”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Oh, does Friday not work for you? Wait, the parlour’s open longer on Friday nights, sorry.” Markus nods in understanding. “How about Saturday?”

“No I- I’m- the- Friday is- I mean, you’re...asking me to dinner?” Simon stammers, feeling his cheeks flush as Markus strokes his thumb over the back of his hand.

“I’m certainly not asking Daniel.” He cocks a brow, grin mischievous as Simon feels his cheeks grow hotter.

“Um Friday is fine. I’d love to.” He frowns. “I can’t believe you’re asking me out to dinner while my brother holds a very sharp object against your skin.”

“He already knows. He threatened to stab me if I ever broke your heart.” Markus admits, and Simon realises that’s what Danny must’ve said to him last time right before he left. “Which is fair, really. If I ever broke your heart I’d deserve that. But I’ll do my best to look after it very well, I promise.”

“Then I’ll see you on Friday.” Simon finds himself unable to stop smiling. Markus brings their clasped hands to his lips, kissing Simon’s knuckles.

“I’m really looking forward to- ow!” Markus yelps as Danny applies just a little more force than necessary.

“Don’t flirt with my brother until I’m done.” Danny orders, voice a little too loud to compensate for the music blaring in his headphones. He fixes Markus with a stern glare, and Markus nods obediently. “Good. Now stay still.”

*~*

The finished piece is spectacular, truly Danny’s best work. The lines are crisp, the colours are vibrant, and it’s really as if the shards are exploding outwards from the ghostly outlined blue triangle. It’s taken just over a month to heal properly, with luckily only minimal scabbing.

Simon admires the work, watching it come alive with each inhale and exhale, with each rise of fall of Markus’ broad, toned chest; a boy breaking out of his father’s shadow to forge his own path as a man of his own making. He traces the triangle carefully with his finger, touch featherlight. Markus hums, a small sound in the back of his throat as his lips curve upward in a lazy smile.

“Tickles.” He mumbles, capturing Simon’s hand and bringing it to his lips so he can press kisses to his fingers. Opening his mismatched eyes, he blinks at Simon sleepily before rolling over and pulling him flush against his body. They’re delightfully, sinfully bare beneath the covers, legs tangled, and it’s somehow still almost downright scandalous to Simon every time it happens. “Hey gorgeous.”

“Good morning, my love.” Simon greets in return shyly, and Markus smiles at those words, pressing their mouths together one, twice, thrice insistently. It’s a hungry, desperate beast, this thing called love; selfish and needy and somehow never sated but that seems to suit them just fine. They’ll drink each other in and drown wholly, completely, in the wonderful chaos; two halves of one whole.

This is the freedom they found, this is the freedom they earned, and the red wall lies in shards at their feet.

*~*~*

(Markus’ tattoo is similar to this, something like the moment when androids deviate in the game)

#simarkus #dbh markus #dbh simon #detroit: become human #me: oh i'll keep it short and sweet!#also me: 5;5k sounds about right #caleb crow #adventures in text posts #annie writes: dbh

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pcrseverance · 3 years

Text

He takes it when he first sees them, the army of red with the familiar-but-not face leading them.

The aches and pains and the throbbing in his head are distractions he doesn’t need for this. The trembling in his hands will slow him down and he needs to be able to trust his fingers to grip his sword, not let it fall to the mud if they’re overrun. When they’re overrun.

Cullen bellows his orders and urges the soldiers and his Templars into position. He catches a scout by the arm to spread the word to those who bear the sword on their chest, to warn them of the temptation that approaches. To tell them to top up the blue so the red doesn’t call as loud and sing as sweetly.

He darts to his tent where the box sits innocuous amongst his belongings. Cullen had stopped carrying vials about his person, the temptation too much, but now he cursed himself as he went through the motions of preparing it with hands that threatened to spill and waste. Nostrils flared as the metallic scent rose and his heart lurched in an ugly eagerness he’d never felt before.

Andraste lay, nestled sweetly in the wood, and watched as Cullen downed the liquid.

The lyrium slid over his tongue, tasting as sharp as winter and soft as silk, leaving a lingering numbness in its wake. Down his throat and into his bones, into the marrow and all the channels it carved out inside. The starving remnants that clung on sang with joy as they were finally fed. His head cleared and his hands grew strong, aches soothed where they had previously throbbed so incessantly he hadn’t realised quite how much until they were there no longer. He felt full again, for the first time in weeks, felt strength return even as he sagged and gasped at the intensity of relief.

Fingers no longer fumbled as he packed the contents back into the box, snug in the velvet lining. Blood no longer pounds in his ears. But Andraste’s face gazes up at him and at that he falters, fingers out stretched over her sword, her mercy.

The clash of fighting draws him back. He slams it shut and shoves it back into place. He returns to the field, calls further orders and holds the gate until the Inquisitor returns.

;;

When it happens again it’s messy.

Cullen holds on and holds on and holds on until suddenly he can’t. Until suddenly he’s had enough and it’s been two months since Haven fell and two months since he last drank and two months since he felt anything resembling human.

When he tries to smile it’s a grimace, when he shouts an order his voice wavers in a way only he can tell but it’s still there, when he takes a report the paper flutters in his fingers even when there’s no breeze.

He’s at his desk writing letters in a shirt that clings with cold sweat, he’s writing words that mean nothing to nobles who mean even less and he signs his name and it’s not him. The signature that’s scratched into the paper isn’t his, bears no resemblance to the proud and fluid scrawl it once was. It isn’t him and he’s been taken away from himself enough times that he wants it back and it never occurs to him that the him he’s chasing is the lyrium.

Glass shatters and ink spills as he rids his desk of its contents, papers crunch underfoot as he tramples it and hauls himself up the ladder.

His belongings are minimal and it doesn’t take long to find the wooden box, as if he ever lost it. It’s resting place just under the bed burning into his mind with every starving twist of his chest knowing he could make it stop and deciding he just should.

The boxes contents scatter when he opens it, and they tumble free from their velvet beds and it falls to the floor with a thud. He snatches up the powder but the dilute rolls out of reach and he simply doesn’t bother. Once upon a time there’d been another man who took it like this and he mimicked in unpractised movements, grinding the half spoon of dust he’d usually mix with dilute onto the back of his hand and inhaling.

It goes everywhere.

He coughs and grinds his wrist against his nose where the blue powder clings and sniffs again desperately. He can feel something happening but it’s not enough and he does it again twice more even though it makes the back of his throat hurt and his eyes water.

Cullen’s nose runs and there’s dust on his face and when he wipes at it with his wrist again it comes away bloody but he doesn’t care. He can feel it spreading and it’s different, with each breath he takes his lungs expand until they’re impossibly big and should be bursting out his chest but the lyrium sings as it’s fed and it’s too much too fast without the dilute and he took three maybe four times what he should but it didn’t all end up in his lungs.

Blood spills over his lips, he tastes it when he takes a shuddering gasp and it sprays with saliva when he shakily exhales.

His lungs deflate and his body feels soothed. He drops like his strings have been cut, falling on the bed to bleed into his pillow and sleep.

Andraste watches him from the floor, looks on with her vacant wooden stare. It’s the first thing Cullen sees when he wakes at dawn, rust red and bright blue still clinging to his face. He snaps it shut and locks it away with shame crawling up inside his throat until he throws it up, out the window over the mountain side.

;;

The third time he’s drunk and alone and at the top of a tower. It’s night again, and eighteen days since the last.

He’d tried to feed the emptiness. To pour liquor on it to douse the hunger but it persisted and pulled and he could hear it. Hear it plead in his bones and in his chest, hear it call out in its desperation louder and louder until a reply whispered back, husky tones in his ear that were meant only for him. It whispered to him from his desk, from the drawer he’d shut it in and the drawer he’d locked. Its call crawled into the tavern until he was on unsteady feet and chasing it. His stride, precarious as it was, left no room for question as he abruptly left for his office, but in the hour of the night there were few about to witness his failing.

Large fingers dwarfed the small key, hands shook and knuckles split and spilled blood as they met wood in his frustration. When it finally slid home the solid click the lock made didn’t satisfy as it usually did, barely even registered in the face of yanking the drawer open and pulling the box free.

He couldn’t say why, but he takes it to the mage tower. Takes it to the top, tumbling past scaffolding and beams and covered furniture, up stairs and ladders until he’s there out in the open with the wind whipping at curls already in disarray.

Cullen breathes deep and for once the cool air isn’t sobering. It stings his cheeks and pinkens his nose but does nothing for the headache that makes his eyes throb and nothing for the twisting in his stomach.

He’d intended to throw it away, to hurl the box as far as it will go off into the mountains and the snow and the dark of the night but he doesn’t. He’s failed twice already and it just makes the third time easier.

Enough was learnt from last time that even in his intoxicated state, even with swollen knuckles, he takes his time preparing the lyrium. Careful measurements and just as careful mixing and it goes down his throat as easy as if ever did.

The relief is almost instantaneous and the desperate pleas of his body stop. The only thing it leaves is the nausea from the drink and once again it brings shame.

Andraste watches him as she always does and this time Cullen curls in on himself over her. Fingers press at her face in a desperate and clumsy caress and the wood darkens where tears fall. He can’t pray because he doesn’t deserve it. Can’t beg and plead because he bought this on himself. He can’t ask for anything because this is his fault and he did it in her name.

He’s a leech on the Inquisition and its resources, a sham of a commander and no better than the man who now stands at Corypheus’ side.

No. He’s worse than the man at Corypheus’ side because at least he was once a good man who had kindness and empathy and simply fell victim to that. Fell when he succumbed to the drug they were told to and cast out for treating people like people and having his eyes open where Cullen’s were shut.

Cullen’s eyes are shut now as he weeps over the wooden box and the figure that lays inside. His eyes are shut but he doesn’t sleep and he doesn’t know how much time passes, simply that when he opens them again it’s light, and when he raises his head he meets warm eyes that are filled with pain and compassion.

For a bewildering moment he thinks it’s Andraste. His muscles are stiff and his mouth dry, mind dazed with bruised knuckles wrapped tight around the box in his hand and in that moment the only two things that exist in his universe are the box and those eyes.

They blink and he blinks.

A hand settles on his shoulder and his world grows wider.

Notes:

Basing on the vaguest of timelines that the Herald remained in Haven for two months, Cullen choosing to stop taking lyrium just under a month into this.

Basing the workings of lyrium on my own headcanon which can be found in the headcanon: lyrium tag.

Going down the ‘Sided with the Mages’ option because Red Templar Samson breaks my heart.

Immense bull-shittery regarding how lyrium is taken. And how any drugs are taken tbh.

#headcanon #headcanon: lyrium #drabble #tw: drug use #please don't reblog

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

Text

Silver Egoism

Genre: Smut, Friends to Lovers, Idol AU

Pairing: Jimin x Reader ft. Jungkook

Warnings: Voyeurism, exhibitionism, dom!/top!Jimin, unprotected car sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses), choking, heartbreak, swearing/cussing, creampie, multiple rounds, male masturbation, phone sex (to some degree), overstimulation, (semi-)public sex (does car sex count as that?)

Summary: Within a band as close as a family there is no room for egoism, but one night the envy can no longer be suppressed as a rabbit in love unintentionally tries to outdo a silver fox.

Because when it comes to Love, the rules are different.

And Jealousy will do anything to gain the winning hand.

Masterlist

Friendships can unconsciously deepen by means of little gestures going beyond the realm of mere kindness and gifts to show a person holds more meaning to the other than initially thought. However, even then, the meaning can get lost in translation when the receiver does not reciprocate the emotions which are endeavoured to be shown.

As is the case with the obsidian leather jacket and Chanel necklace gifted to the girl met way back in high school sitting in the chair opposite Jungkook, happily chatting as an unrequited heart sits next to one that recently confessed his feelings for the woman doing the presents justice during a night of drinking white wine together. And despite being like brothers, hating the warm smiles and timidly roseate cheeks whenever Y/N comes over cannot be helped. Still, there is no merit in destroying a close bond on the grounds of unrequited love and henceforth a tongue toxically green with envy remains silent as it pretends to watch cat videos while actually observing the love of a lifetime through the lens of the camera.

Eventually, as the hour grows later and the morning brings the preparation for an interview, the chatter between friends regarded by a hushed third party dies down with the realization of having to make an early start and that going to bed would be the sensible course of action.

‘Alright, I should go.’ Y/N stretches like a feline, a habit likely picked up by hanging out with Yoongi, who is not any competition whatsoever for he acts more like a nagging older brother than a potential rival. And that is fortunate because regardless of having known him longer than yesterday, the musical genius remains a somewhat intimidating individual one should not mess with. ‘I’ll be watching the interview as soon as it comes out. Good luck, lads.’

‘If you want, I can drive you home.’ Jungkook rises simultaneously with the beautiful companion, pulling focused irises away from the screen towards reality.

‘Thanks, but-’

‘I’ll drive her home.’ It comes out on a whim and more vicious than intended, redirecting all attention buzzing in the amicable living room still filled with the energy of the barbecue to celebrate the first good summer weather giving a clear navy and violet twilight sky adorned by sparkling stars. Unfortunately, the splendid circumstances had turned sour by the tropical monsoon that the wind whispered hints of while munching on shaved ice, pushing eight souls indoors. However, it also meant the gorgeous girl was, to much selfish relief, chased off the picnic bench just as Kook tried to sit her down on his lap in a supposedly casual fashion were it not for the clearly yet slowly hardening shape in tight denim jeans.

‘Jimin-ah, are you alright? Why are you upset?’ Taehyung’s brows furrow in sad confusion, always sensitive to the moods of anyone near the golden heart aware of the surroundings more than one might think. ‘Do you want to talk about it? I hate to see you angry.’

‘I’m fine, Tae Tae. Just tired.’ A gentle smile is fabricated with effort but has enough of an effect to make a sometimes too gullible mind believe it for the moment. Howbeit hesitantly so. ‘I’ll just take Y/N home and call it a night.’

‘Hyung, the last few performances have been hard on you so-’ The maknae speaks up again, undaunted by the sharp edge to unintended hostility, and proposes to kindly take on the role of the driver as intended.

But is repaid by the same too venomous irritated exhaustion. Withal, it is not physical tiredness but more so purely emotional. Sensitively sick, all emotions that have bottled up thanks to having to hide in order to save everything coming to a dangerous boiling point. ‘I said I’ll take her home, Kook.’

‘Chim, calm down. You’re clearly exhausted.’ The scent of tulips in spring has appeared between warring parties of which solely one is aware of the fight. The hand first covering a racing heart, the cause of the adrenaline easily mistakable for stress while it is truly the touch and her nearness, rising to swiftly comb through silver manes before coming to rest on the cheek. ‘I’ll be fine on my own and text once I’m home, alright?’

The sweet innocence of sparkling soothing eyes triggers perhaps the most idiotic and selfish decision ever, the storm of feelings no longer able to be contained. Not when being this close and every sense is overrun by the familiar scent of the never-changing perfume, the comforting touch whenever thinking all that is done or said or both will never be enough.

That I am not enough.

For her.

Notwithstanding, just tonight those lingering haunting doubts are put aside as lips unexpectedly crash into each other and a small palm grabs the behind that should have tried to sit on the lap it always does. There is no resistance nor pulling away, only the envelopment of the other cheek and a barely audible gasp dimmed by six-headed surprise filled by soft humoured baritone chuckles when not staring on in speechlessness.

And the broken heart of a long-time amazing now betrayed friend.

Alongside the cruel carelessness of not paying the pain any mind, focusing on making a lasting imprint on long-longed for lips that will ignite a hunger for more instead of on the world coming to a halt.

An existence that slowly starts to turn again as mouths part, a soft murmur all that remains between them and possessive fingers entwining. ‘I’ll take you home. Let’s go.’

‘Um, yeah.’ The attempt of creating a lasting impression is clearly successful, Y/N rendered wordless and needing a second to gain composure before being dragged out the front door with an absent wave of goodbye. ‘Good luck, lads. Figh-’

And plopped down in the passenger seat of the shadowy onyx BMW 8 Series Convertible, proudly brought after completing the driving test and gaining a driver’s license. Swiftly, the belt is fastened and fashionable boots make way to the other side of the vehicle to do the same.

Soon, the engine roars to life, tires screeching over the driveway wrapped in the dusk and speeding towards the illuminated heart of the city.

Towards the medium-sized luxury apartment given as a birthday present last year, simply due to being able to pay for it and wanting the beloved to live a good life.

It has to be said, however, that the current home is a compromise because the original penthouse did not get accepted nor the option to share a roof because the gorgeous woman “did not want to keep me away from the guys and give me space”.

Yet, what was failed to be noticed was that the empty gap carved into an unrequited heart is solely filled by her presence. The reason for that is simple: it is not about money nor fame nor stage persona.

It is about an old friend.

The dancer from Busan.

Chiminie.

‘Uhm, Jimin... about that kiss...’

‘I don’t regret it, especially not because it was in front of everyone.’ Palms tighten around the leather of the steering wheel, voice reduced to dangerous egotistical jealousy. Teeth grit at the memory of the barbecue, Kook trying to settle the wonderful girl at the window displaying a rapid blurry landscape on muscled thighs.

Deform into a snarl when remembering the hardened shape in pants she would have sat against, feeling it. ‘In front of Jungkook.’

‘Jungkook? What does he have to do with this?’ Brows furrow in confusion, sincerely not making the infuriating connection between statements and acts.

‘How can you not understand? After all the hints?’ With a loud noise as of nails scratching a blackboard a sharp turn towards the body of water flowing through the metropolitan is taken, stirring up gravel while descending to the river bank underneath the nearest metal monster of a bridge.

Here, at the waterside reflecting the life of night owls, the engine is turned off before shifting to face the uncomprehending beautiful mistake with perhaps too sharp a tone. ‘I am in love with you! Fucking head over heels.’

‘Why? Why me?’

‘Because with you, I’m normal. With you, I’m okay.’ Frustrated shoulders relax as the volume of speech lowers to a normal conversational level instead of being barely shy of shouting. ‘With you, I’m just Park Jimin, a regular Busan boy.’

‘You’ve never been anyone else to me. Not a celebrity nor a distant person suddenly too good to hang out with normal people.’ A stern severity dims the well-meaning light in honest eyes caressing the cheek once more, the tenderness fading into flickering worry. ‘However, the guy I saw in the living room is somebody I don’t know. Who is he?’

‘He is the guy who cannot deal with seeing his best friend try his luck with the girl he actually loves. He’s the short-tempered unpredictable envious me.’

The me without you.

A persona who rises again by grabbing the wrist to place a wanting kiss on the inside, to take in the scent of young spring clad in leather. At war with the genuine ego forced to simmer beneath the surface and fighting a battle consisting of equal strength. ‘A guy I would never want you to date unless it’s me. No, even if it was me, you shouldn’t. Never let toxic people into your life because it is so short already.’

For a second, Y/N merely looks at double-edged melancholic lips resting on tulip skin. Were it possible, being frozen in this exact moment would likely be the best outcome of the story since this is all there shall ever be if the risked friendship continues to exist.

This is all we have.

All I have.

All that will ever be.

Although, the curiously withholding of something unspoken while continuing to solace a lonesome boy with love forms a hint towards a detail which might alter the seemingly hopeless train of thought. ‘Life’s indeed short, incredibly so. But, Jimin, because it is thus, it also makes every minute with a beloved more precious.’

‘What are you saying?’ Nothing in the attitude leaning forward gives away a straight explanation of the hidden meaning behind the wisdom likely picked up thanks to hanging out with Namjoon hyung. Again, it is fortunate the rapper is merely seen as an older brother instead of being real competition.

‘We see each other very little, but each time we do I’m impossibly glad I have you back for a brief while. My best friend, my...’ The end of the sentence floats in the tense air, blushing cheeks refusing to speak the last part.

‘Your what?’

But eventually do.

‘My... crush.’

The two words spin around, warming up veins grown into arrogant ice and inflating pride to an indescribable extent. Gradually the meaning truly dawns, making both warring egos within mutually smile in relieved excited delight.

The grabbed wrist is lead to regions below where the effects of the frustration still boil painfully though were able to be ignored until now, distracted by the suppressed jealous rage resulting in an outburst. The bottom lip is caught between teeth, not resisting another action of the selfish persona clearly elated by the confession and who has taken over demeanour entirely. Rather, it is perversely fascinated despite playing coy, more so when Y/N’s palm spreads out over hot denim like a blooming flower. ‘Chim, erm, heh, wh- what are you doing?’

I could ask you the same, pretending to be innocent and yet not hiding the need for me.

‘Get in the back, princess.’ Spurred on by the intimate contact essentially ignited by oppressed apparently futile rage, huskiness naturally creeps into the vocal manner of a chest slowly starting to struggle for breath.

‘What?’ Keeping up the pretense or mayhaps sincerely confused by the rapid change in atmosphere, the gorgeous mistress manages to glance away from the point of fascination and take on the roll of the seeker of answers in dark irises regardless of knowing to find none.

‘Backseat. Now.’

Not until a somewhat clumsy way is made to the designated place after hearing the demanding growl and undoing the seatbelt, the hands of a best friend from a great harbour city coming to rest on hips at the end of an enchanting wake.

Until those same hands creep up underneath the oversized shirt despicably lent from someone else before the chance to run up the stairs to retrieve something from the personal collection of clothing, the jacket discarded beforehand. Jungkook had the advantage by being situated on the ground floor of the dorm and literally sprinted to his room once a step into the kitchen was set.

Rip it to reveal the classy Victoria Secret bra underneath.

Another gift.

The meaning of which has only become clear now.

Stone-hued locks tilt to the side in amusement, loving the revelation that compliments the simple Chanel necklace perfectly. ‘Well, would you look at that. Wearing something I got you beneath the shirt of another.’ However, some of the delight dies into the snarling grave of fury at the thought of a charming bunny who outdid a silver fox. ‘Jungkook’s.’

‘He simply offered it so I wouldn’t catch a cold.’ An undignified huff reputes the selfish demeanour though the split second a pout forms tells of a pleasure in driving a boy with love to madness.

Into a persona.

If that is how the game is going to be played, so be it. Anything to make Y/N happy, to create something of our own. Henceforth, husky lips hover over parted ones, teased and left wordless. ‘It sure looked like it, but we both know better. He wanted to see you wearing his shirt, would likely have slipped the scene to see you change into it.’

‘He isn’t like that.’

‘Fair enough, the latter doesn’t apply. Nevertheless, he wanted to confess to you tonight, make you his.’ A cruel smile unconsciously carves itself onto the mouth, thinking of the faltering young face in a disappointed vividly painted image. ‘What a surprise would it have been for him to discover my brand on you.’

‘You’re not so cruel as to actually mean that, are you?’ In spite of the contrasting message by palms slipping to the behind to bring heated bodies closer, big eyes shine with the plead for the current state of mind to not be truthful. Still, the squirming when beginning to move at a slow steady pace to fuel the heat below further while undoing the claps and tossing the bra aside hints at being entranced by the domination. Especially submissive to the tyranny when placing soft kisses from the chest up towards the ear.

To whisper nothing but twilight sincerity. ‘Yes, tonight I am. I meant every word I said in the little periods of time we got to spend together and always will. Life’s too difficult already to complicate it further with lies.’

And show you anyone but myself.

Staying faithful to the thought, skinny jeans are contrastingly calmly tugged off before removing the pair of blushing consenting irises. They know the actual message behind the cryptic wisdom, acknowledging they are not the sole ones to be influenced by the wise leader of BTS. ‘I don’t want to lie to you.’

‘You don’t have, ah, to. Never h- had to.’ Affectionately, warm palms envelop the cheeks while the steady rhythm makes remaining in control of any sense of civilization much harder. And if not that, the barely chaste kisses surely are the cause alongside the bared skin revealed from discarded boxers achingly gliding over wet cotton.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Enough self-control can be exerted to form an important question and register the significant meaning of the nod waiting for the inquiry. ‘Can I be selfish just a little while longer?’

‘Yes.’ The alluring warmth is revealed from beneath the underwear of which the hedonic scent sends the mind into a hazed frenzy and cuts patience short with its temptation. ‘Y- Yes, Jimin!’

Every inch adds to the scenic teary-eyed sight below on the backseat, nails digging into skin helping to colour the painting, guiding hips temporarily slowed down to adjust to the novel enrapturing heat. Exclusive to a harbour town boy with love, the guy beneath the flirty stage persona millions of voices encourage and fawn over.

But he solely does over one person.

The woman beautifully responding to every new strike as shades blend behind shut lashes and create fireworks with every meeting of mouths and stroke.

Something of our own.

This.

This perfect picture.

This is what we have.

Our ending.

And it wants to be shown to the one who almost shredded the canvas.

‘Wha- What are you d- doing? Jimin?’ Y/N looks sensually aghast laced with astonished disappointment at being left hanging somewhere along the way to euphoria despite the harmony of hues strengthened by muffled lewd sounds and physical guidance.

‘Just a minute, princess.’ A rapid mischievous kiss means to nullify the stun, which it does at the cost of creating a quizzical expression on a blushing face as the jeans thrown onto the ground are reached for. From the back pocket, fingers fish out the telephone and dial Jungkook’s number.

After going over thrice, the call is picked up. ‘Hyung? What’s up, why are you- oh.’

Oh, indeed, because neither of the two other parties fully realizes what is going on in the dazed mind under a sensational hypnosis of colourful touches until advances come freely again to resume a shared endeavour long longed for. Exploited at a more savage pace to compose compositions that could not exist with the former method, exacting bittersweet revenge on the steadily becoming breathless young rabbit hanging on the other side of the line.

Tethering.

Alone.

Whereas a Busan dancer and mistress are together on the verge of toppling over the edge.

The arrogant knowledge of this truth sounds through in the proudly jeering undertone of a clear voice leaving no room for mistake, wanting to create havoc to enjoy in schadenfreude. ‘Shit, Jungkook, she’s really tight. Takes cock so well. And her tits, so fucking nice and bouncy.’

And rejoice in the flushed cheeks of the woman the heart has been beating for since the first meeting during a student exchange in high school. Albeit with a degrading manner that expresses the frustration of not entirely coming first at the moment. ‘Do you like that, huh? Being such a slut that you’ve got a man masturbating to hearing me pound you hard and liking it? Spreading your legs just as soon as dick is offered to you?’

The response merely consists of desperate agreeing whines, the warm colours growing hotter as the unintelligible words tumble forth and also spur on the absent yet present boy in love turned sinful in audible fanciful solitude. ‘Fuck, hyung, keep talking like that to her. She sounds so pretty, so whiny.’

The original intent has been reached, egotistically claiming the girl who has been there since the rise of Bangtan while simultaneously feeling the backlash of the sting the chosen punishment for both men in need of chastisement. One for greed and one for attempting to prevent this canvas. ‘Shut up, she’s mine. This is all you’ll get of her, all you’ll hear of her. Just tonight. And I want you to know it’s me between her thighs, not you.’

However, the sneered rebuke is not cared about as the maknae is too lost to actually care, too enraptured by the painting that cannot be seen and close to catch up with the final strokes leading to elevated completion. Notwithstanding, as the sole consciousness same enough to be somewhat of a source of order in the corrupt chaos, the final ultimate state of bliss does not want to be reached before a warning is made very clear.

To hear the mutual claim on me from the panting wonderful enchantress lying on the ruined shirt of an equally as destroyed rival. Hence is why a palm wraps around the heated throat to close off any means of air, the last extreme move to exert dominance. ‘C’mon, tell him how much better I am. That you want me, not him. Say it.’

‘K- Kookie, he- he’s so good.’ The following dominantly rough stroke coaxes out a wonderful complacent high-pitched stream claiming the canvas and the initial painter despite the narrow access to air. ‘Better than you. Fuck! So, so much better. I want him, o- only him.’

After a few repeatings of the same scenario, irritating due to a third wheel yet marvellous thanks to the stunning union, both the defeated golden maknae and Y/N lose a grip on reality.

However, since it happens simultaneously, the younger boy might use it to his advantage in daring yet intolerable later advances or to fancy a colourful storm together with her when not being there. Regardless of what the ulterior goal of the split second of breaking into blissful fragments might turn out to be, it forces the actually still selfishly desperate hand of a boy with love. ‘And yet you cream all over me just as Jungkook cums. Looks like my princess doesn’t know how to show respect and loyalty.’

But anything can be taught if using the appropriate manner, thus hardening the strokes until screaming alabaster flows freely and ever onward without stopping.

Action.

Reaction.

Result.

‘My name, Y/N. Scream my name.’ The slightly slackened hold on the throat forcefully strengthens again, mirroring the reinvigorated power pinning an otherwise wild waist down. ‘Scream my fucking name. Over. And. Over.’

Every word of the last command is accentuated by a sharp advance establishing the desired effect, tuning out almost completely the agonized though satisfied moans of bunny nerves being driven into overdrive. Notwithstanding, instead of allowing them to invoke another euphoria shared with the woman belonging to another, the call is ended just to childishly leave Jungkook hanging dry. ‘Keep calling, babe. He won’t get to hear you again.’

One final stroke triggers the primal second floating in ignorant bliss together with the claimed fleeting soul basking in the dusk enlightened by night owls.

A moment of us.

Slowly and carefully, arms shivering with the blast of shades which are slowly erased lower and meet a warm welcoming pair lovingly enveloping dishevelled grey locks. The soft cheek against which a palm having calmed down in demeanour, no longer suffocating, comes to rest leans into the touch, breathless but sighing in gladness.

‘Did... did you like it? I’m sorry I involved Kook into this, but I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t want him to confess because I was afraid I’d lose you and that, well, resulted in the self-centred man you’ve been seeing this entire night.’ The confession bordering on a futile waterfall going around in circles manages to be stopped at a good point, preventing speech from crossing the line and falling into a spiral. Instead, the dewy hot throat scented by spring tulips is nuzzled while enjoying the perfume.

‘Had it been anyone else, I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed it as much as I did. So, yes, I really liked it. Really, really liked it.’ A short moment filled with happy giggles lifts a grand part of the heaviness of heart caused by egoism, delighted to no extent upon hearing the sincere amused yet meaningful tone in Y/N’s voice. ‘And before you ask, no matter who the persona is you happen to be in the moment, I still like you.’

‘Even when I’m an arrogant selfish bastard ruining the hopes of his best friend?’

‘Don’t think of it that way, Chim. It’s the choice I made and I have chosen what is right for me. For what I have wanted for the longest time.’

‘I have as well. Wanted this, that is. Even when the company told me I couldn’t.’ A shake of the head dismisses the melancholic thought of the manager’s voice sternly renouncing dating as breathing becomes a tad shallow with grief. ‘This is what’s been hurting me, not being with you. The person who makes me love myself.’

‘Is it selfish then?’

‘No?’ Despite the underlying suggestion, the response is doubtful because the ego overrun by the sensual drive to claim wanted the same but exerted its will in an egotistical manner at the cost of another.

‘No. No, it isn’t. We finally have what we have wanted all along. I don’t want Jungkook and you don’t want somebody else. We’re happy and happiness is never selfish.’ The kiss on the forehead is soothing, assuring of the determined righteousness of the statement and solacing in the request that follows in its wake. ‘Stay over tonight. It’s been too long.’

‘Indeed, too long.’

Too long for true self-love to return.

To have kept it waiting at the door of the familiar apartment.

In empty arms finally embracing the one they should.

Just like the stars in the navy sky transforming into dusky black.

Waiting.

For us.

#BTS #BTS smut #BTS x Reader #ksmutclub #btswriterscollective #Jimin #Park Jimin #Chim #Chim Chim #Jiminie

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chunhua-s · 4 years

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CHERRY RED ➽ ASAHI AZUMANE X OC

genre: ongoing, fluff

warnings: mutual pining

Chapter 2: In Apathy’s Lonely Lullaby

That hallway on the first floor had, within her three years spent on Karasuno’s grounds, become something of Sora’s own personal haven. A place where her music filled up the walls and danced on the air like cherry blossom petals, brushing against the cheeks of those that passed by as if it were the hands of a lover that so tenderly touched their skin. Students and teachers always fell into similar reverence whenever they passed through the hallway, abandoning their thoughts and voices in favour of hearing her play and allowing the gentle notes she created to fill up their hearts, for the faster songs to settle heavy on their tongues like molten gold. She was a world-builder, capable of spinning entire universes under the touch of her fingers; an urban legend that was whispered about beneath the waves of her harmonies, hushed words of supernovas and dying stars that sang of unworldly beauties in their final moments.

Her fingers moved seamlessly in their journey across the piano keys, their transition from one note to the next appearing so elegant even with the quick tempo of the piece. Her face was set in the perfect picture of composure, the underlying hums of exhaustion and hunger hidden away by her concentration as she pushed herself into practicing for the upcoming competition. She’d spent the better half of the previous night similarly in the confines of her home, sat with her back straight and hands outstretched to brush against the keys until her body had grown stiff and her mind hazy with neglected dreams. Over the course of two weeks, the time she dedicated to practice had become something of a constant battle, one in which she tirelessly fought with herself to pour her feelings into her music, fill the notes with what she so frequently left unsaid that her audience would be left defenceless against the barrage of it. Over and over, she repeated to herself that she needed overwhelm them, wrap their very breaths between her fingers and pull them from their lungs; leave behind nothing but an empty void waiting to be filled up by the torrent of her emotions. For them to truly understand her; the need grew into something so incessant that the only thing she could think of was the unexplainable craving to carve herself into their hearts and wrap herself around them like a vine, leaving behind such a strong and impactful memory in the wake of her storm that they would see her face whenever they heard a piano play.

She was left breathless by the end of the song, and yet even as each gasp for air was dragged between her parted lips, her red eyes continued to burn against the white music score sat neatly on the sheet holder. It wasn’t enough yet, her feelings weren’t getting across the way she wanted them to. The room still felt too cold, too empty, too desperate and yearning for the sentiments she kept locked away behind cherry lips. Frustration bubbled on the edge of her exhaustion, leaving her to feel drained and near ready to collapse against the grand piano as angry tears threatened to leave star trails across her brown skin. All her effort — her blood, sweat and tears, the countless nights she forced herself to stay awake, pouring out over black and white keys until her stomach cramped in hunger and her vision turned white — and she was still unable to give her heart to the piece. The very thought caused the golden blood running through her veins to burn hot across her body and collect on the back of her tongue, so that she could focus on nothing but the unrelenting bitterness of her inability. So that it would remind her of everything she lacked and tear her apart by the seams, until she was absolutely destroyed and what remained of her star-filled galaxy was left to scatter across dark plains and disappear beneath black holes. It would break her apart, scream at her until her spirit caved in and left Sora Ishida as nothing but an empty shell.

A familiar face appeared in the doorway, and it was as if she relearned how to breathe in the light of caramel brown eyes. His face was painted into the same concerned frown he’d worn that morning, when he saw her emerge from her front door with red lines beneath her eyes and across her nose. And yet, even in his picture of worry and tender care, he appeared unto her as beautifully as he’d always been; the sight of him there with her was enough to still her aching heart and wash her fears away beneath a gentle summer rain.

“Did you eat yet?”

Guilt consuming her under the weight of Asahi’s question, she was left unable to answer as she watched his expression turn from worried to exasperated, his feelings being so effortlessly translated in the heavy sigh he let out. With silent, lumbering steps, he crossed the distance between them with two bento boxes in his hands. He held one out to her wordlessly, his eyes telling of a particularly quiet sternness that was so often absent in his relaxed expressions; she felt as if she were a child being scolded by her senior as she helplessly received the box from his hands, followed after him as he moved to sit beneath the open window, away from the piano.

“I promise I was going to get something from the vending machines before class started again,” she tried to appease him, gingerly taking the spot next to him and gazing down at the lid of the box he gave to her. She felt an appreciative smile grow on her lips and was unable to fight back the swelling of her heart for the cute drawing of Totoro, the large cat depicted over the baby blue colours. A doubtful hum came from the boy next to her as she popped the lid to reveal a very delicate arrangement of rice and curried shrimps, broccoli, and carrots.

“You speak as if anything from the vending machine can keep you alive,” Asahi said, his words light in his sarcasm as he gently unwrapped his own box, a simple wooden thing with small flowers covering the sides. The smell of the delicious food quickly surrounded them like a warm blanket, familiar in its flavour and, as if to prove his words, caused her stomach to rumble its ascent. She felt her skin grow warm in shame, a resigned smile taking its place across her lips as Asahi’s gentle laugh danced on the wind. It was the sound of hushed waters passing through a spring meadow, filled with secrets and promises told to each other beneath the watchful stars, and she wanted more than anything to capture every second of it inside a glass bottle, one that she’d hold close to her heart in every waking moment.

“Mom’s basically badgering me to make sure you’re eating, too,” he admitted to her after swallowing a mouthful of his lunch just as Sora began chewing on hers; she’d nearly missed his words on the high of the delicious flavours on her tongue, feeling herself instantly relax as she absorbed the taste of the curry-covered rice. Heavens, it had been too long since she’d eaten a proper home-cooked meal, considering that both her and her father had been eating store-bought bentos for the past two weeks while her mother left on her travels. Because of her absence, the two had only barely given much thought to properly sustaining themselves on real food, something they wouldn’t have been able to get away with had her mother been at home with them. As Asahi continued speaking on nodes of astonishment and a look of betrayal, she relished in another taste of her rice and curried shrimps. “She rarely ever makes lunch for me anymore, but she made sure to do this for you because she felt like you and your dad wouldn’t be eating well in Olivia-san’s absence — it’s like she forgets who her real child is sometimes, honestly.”

A laugh rang through from her lips at his expense, recognizing the words for their playful nature. “Well,” she hummed, the last of her chuckles tumbling from her mouth like butterflies, “I’ll be sure to come over and tell Mitsuba-san thank you for taking such good care of me.”

Asahi abandoned his faux-frown for his regular, sweet smile, tilting his head to the side in the softness he always bore with him. “She’d like that — she’s really excited to come see you perform again, you know?” At the mention of her upcoming competition, Sora felt her throat lock and tighten around her next breath and her smile drew just a bit tighter, and it was as if the merciless waves that thrashed around in her chest before his arrival were coming back to pull her under.

Sensing her growing turmoil, Asahi’s lips turned down and his concerned frown returned to his face; Sora felt so guilty, watching the peaceful expression he bore fade away into undeserved worry, all because she wasn’t able to keep her feelings in check. He shouldn’t have to worry about her, she silently scolded herself, especially now that he was beginning to get back into volleyball. She should be the one to take away whatever was on his mind, not add extra things for him to worry about when he didn’t need to.

Before she could try and brush away his concerns, she watched his hands lower with his bento and chopsticks until they were rested between his crossed legs and turned his head to fully face her. “Is that what has you so torn up these days?” Ah, had he been able to read her feelings all that time? The guilty feeling worsened, knowing that he’d been watching her eat away at herself for so long when he should have been concentrating on his volleyball practices.

She drew a smile across her lips in hopes that it would ease his worries off her, did her best to reassure him that she was alright. The words “Don’t worry about me, it’s only competition nerves,” fell from her lips and she prayed desperately that he would take them as she gave them, that he wouldn’t think to try and see through them. And yet, she knew Asahi, and she knew that he could read her like an open book, that he could trace every single constellation that scattered across her caramel skin and connect them to show everything she tried to keep masked beneath her passive smile. She saw now, in the way his coffee brown hues searched the expansive, barren lands of her red eyes, that it was futile to hide anything from him; he was picking apart each and every negative emotion that plagued her dreams, and would lay them out between the both of them so that they were no longer concealed.

“You’ve been working yourself a lot these past days,” he muttered as the lines on his forehead deepened in quiet distress for her and her well-being. It made her wish, for his sake at least, that she would have been more careful. “I know you want to do well but you have to take care of yourself too, you know?”

She sighed again, the sound heavy and relenting to the feeling of weakness that crept across her spine like insects. How was she supposed to tell the boy in front of her about what was plaguing her? How could she look at him and tell him sorry that he had to put up with such a boring person for so long? A girl of placid expressions and smiles that never told enough of the happiness she felt whenever she was with him, how could she say sorry for being so plain and apathetic? She tried and tried, but the words wouldn’t come out of her throat. Like a cruel joke, the words of her classmates echoed in her mind, “Really, Ishida-san, you’re too bland! It’s so hard to tell what you’re really thinking!” And though their words were said in a harmless remark, Sora couldn’t help the way that she’d begun to consider them for their weight, dwelling on them for longer than she should have until they began to fester in her mind like an open wound. As bad as she felt for having been the most boring, uninteresting, friend, as cold and lifeless as icy wastelands, she was selfish and didn’t want to let go of the boy who warmed her dead heart with his joy and smiles.

And so, this selfish girl forced her lips to move with a prayer at the back of her throat, that no matter what, she would still be able to latch on to the boy that made her happy. “I have to keep playing, Asahi.” The smile on her lips burned like acid, the doubts and worries that plagued her in the latest hours of the night threatened to choke her with tendons of shadows until she would collapse and fall away. But she kept going, pushed past their restraints so that if anything, at least he would be able to understand her when no one else would. “If I don’t play, then how else will they understand me?”

And there it was. The look that was able to wash away each pain of her heart and fill it up with a never ending well of acceptance for everything she was. Asahi’s smile was so gentle and tender, warm under the afternoon sun where the smell of curried shrimps and chalk dust surrounded them between four walls. In that moment, her entire universe shrunk, compassed itself to fit between the seconds that passed them by like fine gold dust and red rose petals. In the place where her music fell silent and her heart ached for the familiar burn of unexpressed feelings, she felt herself instead embraced by everything that he was, drank up the sunlight that stretched across lavender fields and green grass meadows. Her universe became the hallway on the first floor where students and teachers let their hearts sing on her keys; the piano room that had seen her crack and fall apart and build herself together again; her universe became him.

She felt her heart melt into a puddle when Asahi’s hands cupped her cheeks and lifted her head so that she could meet his gaze once more, so that she could see the endless patience in the smile he bore. He had always been a tender boy with a heart of glass, a little pessimistic and an abstract sense of humour that drew shameless laughter from the depths of her belly. He was a grounding anchor that kept her tethered among harsh waves, a beacon of light in the darkest moments of her life. And with his hands holding her the way they did, he was guiding her out of that darkness to bring her back to him, letting words of comfort and promises of safety dance on the wind and wrap around her heart.

His thumbs rubbed slow, easy circles across her skin and he held his eyes locked with hers, drowning her in pools of caramel and warm coffee. “Isn’t it more important,” his voice came in on a low whisper, one that tickled her ears and caused her heart to flutter, “for you to understand yourself more?”

And suddenly, the universe fell quiet. Everything except for them had suddenly stopped moving, becoming trapped in a vortex of stagnant time flow that left her alone with him. The chalk dust and sakura petals had all become still, and all that remained was his warm smile and the feeling of his palms against her skin. His soft words echoed in their small space with an impact great enough to shatter and recreate the foundations she’d built up in her chest; she could do nothing to fight against it, let herself become swallowed up by him so that he could mould her as he wished. Until she became everything he would want; he only needed to command her and she would act.

“If you’re able to understand yourself, won’t everything turn out alright” He said, “and if it’ll make you feel better, I understand you perfectly fine.”

He was right. Was there any real need for the world to understand her? What would their validation and acceptance bring her save for transparency in places where she preferred obscurity? Just as quickly as her worries had overtaken her, they seemed to dissipate like stardust, crumbling between Asahi’s fingers and leaving back a bright and genuine smile. She lifted her hands to hold on to his, felt the warmth that met against her cold skin and let it fill her up to the brim. “It makes me feel much better,” she told him, grinning back as his lips stretched farther across his face, “it means the world to me.”

As a musician, Sora Ishida could create entire worlds beneath the tips of her fingers, could tell legends in the sounds of the melodies she played. And yet, she decided that there was no world more beautiful than the one where Asahi Azumane remained in her life.

#haikyū!!#haikyuu #haikyuufanfiction #haikyuu asahi #haikyuulovestory #asahi azumane #asahi x oc #asahi azumane x oc #oc fanfiction #poc character #karasunovolleyballteam #karasuno #very highkey self indulgent #asahi and sora are being goofs #mutual pining #unedited

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tortoisesforhire · 4 years

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Fic a Thon Day 2

Letters to Superman

Kara teaches Clark about Krypton via letter writing. She is somewhat successful. In more ways than one.

Dear Clark,

You asked me to tell you about Krypton. Well, here goes nothing! I know uncle Jor-El sent his mind capsule with you as a guide but you can only program so much into a limited space, and there's more to a world than history and science.

You were a miracle baby. Did I ever tell you that? The first naturally born baby in over three centuries. Our scientists believed we'd lost the ability long ago but, there you were. Father always did say Jor-El was the smart one. Of course, Jor-El was a biologist and Father was a botanist but still. He always used to tell me I was meant for great things. I used to think he peaked at my gene-code and was trying to give me hints. On Krypton you're not born, not in the traditional sense anyway. You're grown using the genetic material from your parents and engineered to your greatest potential. We were very concerned with that; potential. To be our best selves. So, when you're born you have your whole life already laid out for you. Your career, social class, even who you'll marry. Although that's a bit less strict science and more woo-woo in my opinion. Mother used to say Rao had tied red strings of destiny to the inside of our ribs to lead us to our perfect match. I liked that idea better than being genetically engineered to love a specific person at first sight.

I know how that sounds to someone who didn't grow up there. But Krypton was utopia compared to other planets. Sure we had our faults, which of course led to our destruction. Humans have strange ideas about free will. Like it's the be all end all of happiness. We had free will to a point; you operated within your own will in the circle in which you were placed. We made our own choices, free to make mistakes, but the structure of our society limited those mistakes a great deal. We had no poverty, no issue with world hunger. Everyone fulfilled a purposeful function that gave them personal satisfaction while also benefiting society as a whole. That probably invokes some strange sci-fi robot dystopian image for you, nerd that you are. But it was what it was.

I still dream about it. The violet oceans of Turan, the Yalaran blossoms that grew outside my bedroom window, the smell of the wind in the hot season. I dream of day trips to the Haloran valley, swimming in the lake and Cara-Uam. The sound of Ora's laughter. I miss the sky. It was bigger than on Earth, wider and deeper. You could see the stars better. I miss our constellations; Saroium and Ulapturus, Calamara and Hamam Ura. We lived on the edge of Argo City, next to the Terraform compound were Father worked, trying to find a way for Kryptonians to inhabit other planets. If only he had succeeded.

Tuam moro, it means 'here are my thoughts'. As you know Krypton was centuries ahead of Earth in terms of technology. Holograms, voice messaging across interplanetary lines, the sort of stuff that only exists in science fiction here. That was reality for us. However, letter writing, tuam moro, was considered to be a gesture of great respect. If you wanted to make a good impression, or express deep emotion or show someone how much you trusted them; you wrote a letter. By hand. We had to practice in school. I used to hate it, I could never understand what the point was when you could just call someone and speak face to face.

I remember once, in academy, my best friend Ban-Ko would write little notes and pass them to me. Silly things, nonsense to distract me when I was frustrated, make me laugh. Mada-Ra caught us once during a test and I thought for sure we'd end up on punishment duty in the fields. We were supposed to be writing to our Academy head to express our gratitude or something. But she just stood there, holding Ban-Ko's stupid note and smiling before she handed it back to me. She said; 'My husband used to write me notes just like these when we were young,' and then winked at me! I was so red in the face Ban called me Galoran for the rest of the day. (I don't know how well versed you are in Kryptonian astrology, but Galoran was the name of a red giant four kriniks from our solar system, we'd just learned about it and Ban thought we was funny.)

I was going to marry him. Or the Kryptonian version anyway, it's not entirely the same as it was on earth but it's generally similar. It's more of a formality than anything else. He was my Halanath Morum, which means 'my heart in you'. It's essentially just a genetic matching of our respective DNA but still, he was my best friend. He died before Krypton, after a terrorist attack at the Academy caused the ceiling to collapse. That was the year you were born, a year before Krypton died. I never thought I'd be able to live without him. Losing a match, even a young one like that, unconfirmed... most don't survive it. Father said it was because your body couldn't compensate for the loss of it's partner so eventually it just died. I didn't have much time to grieve of course, after that happened they discovered the terrorists had disrupted a planetary fissure and jump started magnum pari-am which is basically the apocalypse.

It was a long year, let's just say. The highlight of which being you by the way. Our very own miracle baby. It's sad Ora never got to meet you, she would have loved you. She was our cousin, Astra's daughter. She was tri-born; engineered from a three-way bond. Triangle marriages weren't uncommon per-se, but they were seen as special, and the children born from them even more so. She was something else; artisan track, completely beautiful. She was five years older than me and I adored her. She looked like Astra for the most part; long blonde hair and the same fine bone structure. But when she smiled she was the spitting image of In-Ra. She had their eyes too, soft and brown with little crinkles at the corner when she laughed. In-Ra was my favorite relative, born with a genetic defect; a mistake in the DNA coding which resulted in a non-gender. At least that's what Father said. But In-Ra was beautiful, and funny and so full of love. You couldn't help but adore them, and who else could have put up with two people as stiff necked and stubborn as Astra and Non? Ora was just like them. She was slotted to travel to the neighboring system to study the masters in the Tan quadrant after she finished at the training school. She died in an earthquake in Haloran Jungle two years before you were born. In-Ra was never the same.

Well this is a gloomy letter, sorry about that! I'm sure you would much rather talk about the good things on Krypton than the sad stuff. I know! Your mother, Lara, she used to collect these beautiful little figurines, they were of fidiha, which are sort of like horses only they have two tails and they're gem colored. She had so many of them, all in this little room at their house. Tiny exquisit carved ones made out of jade rock or matekite, even one made out of wood from Trinia; a forest planet not far from ours. She had this one in particular; it was all black and a little shiny with bright blue gems for eyes. It was so life like. I used to run my fingers over the tail whenever I was at their house. She said it was given to her by her mother, who had been from the east. Apparently she was descendent from the Tilian Line, or the old Royalty. The Monarchy was dissolved centuries ago of course, but the bloodline never quite ran out. So I guess that makes you a prince huh? Lucky.

How is Metropolis these days anyway? I haven't been there since last Christmas when the General showed up and got in a fight with Lois. Lovely man the General. Really, what a riot. If I never see him again it'll be too soon. I met Jimmy today. Thank you for, you know, outing me to him. Appreciate it. How is it okay again for you to tell your best friend about the whole alien thing but I'm not allowed to tell mine? Winn is way more trustworthy than Jimmy is! Just because James is unfairly good looking does not make him better at keeping secrets.

Diana say's I should just tell him and damn the consequences and really, who am I to argue with Wonder Woman? Winn deserves to know, he's been my best friend for over five years. It feels weird not telling him, he's practically family at this point. Besides, if Bruce gets mad then I'll just blame Diana and let them duke it out. You know he's totally scared of her right? Wise man. I mean, I can bench press a bus and I'm scared of Diana. I know you like to pretend you're not but we can all see through that. Everyone is scared of Diana, she's terrifying.

Alex is here now. I have a date tonight, some online thing. Eliza said I should try and ‘get out there’ or whatever. I tried to explain that I don’t date but she wasn’t really listening. She gets sort of weird when I talk about Krypton or, y’know, the fact that I’m an alien. I think she likes to pretend I’m ‘normal’.

I know she's just worried about me but honestly, it's a little suffocating. It's one thing to have the League walk on eggshells around me like I'm a bomb or something but this? I'm not a naive little girl anymore, if I ever was. In spite of what you all seem to think I am entirely capable of taking care of myself. And what's so great about being normal anyway? I can fly! Being able to fly kicks the pants off 'normal' any day. I just wish she'd leave me alone about the whole dating thing. I've been resigned to being a cat lady for years now, or a dog lady. Bunny lady? I could totally be a bunny lady.

Alex is glaring at me now so I must leave. Wish me luck! And seriously Clark, if you ever want to talk about Krypton just ask me. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about it.

Balarath Iri-Rao By Rao's Light Kara Zor-El

#My writing #supergirl #superman #fic day 2

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emperorsfoot · 5 years

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Another Hordak chapter.

More flashbacks to his early life.

This one with an art lesson from Hode!

...

True to her word, Catra ordered two of her henchmen to babysit Hordak and keep him on task. They followed him when he went to the galley to retrieve more ration packets. They lurked in the doorway when he took off his exo-suit in the infirmary.

A reptilian and a satyr.

They were afraid of Hordak at first. All of the gang from the Crimson Waste was. Hordak was less of a person and more of a cryptid to them. A living shadow with glowing eyes that lurked within the bowels of the crashed ship. New-Kyle and Four-Arms said that he was something Boss Catra brought with her back from the Fright Zone. But to spite this very clear origin story, the rest of the gang still spread wild tales that he was a monster that had dwelled in the crashed ship for centuries –people did believe the ship was haunted, after all. That he was woken from his slumber by Huntara and She-Ra, and hungered for fresh blood and living flesh.

But after watching Hordak for the past couple of days, the pair decided maybe he wasn’t an immortal revenant from the bowels of a crashed vessel.

He did not crave living flesh or fresh blood. The only thing they ever saw the creature eat was the brown goop that came out of foil wrapped ration packets he found in the galley. On the off chance that he did eat fresh meat, he complained about the flavor, and remarked loudly that ‘naturally formed’ beings were obsessed with seasoning at the expense of nutrition.

He was not nearly as intimidating out of the shadows, in the light of the sickbay. He was not a living shadow. In fact, without that armor on, he was very thin. Far too thin for his height. Almost skeletal. With portions of flesh and matter all together missing from his forearms.

By the third day, Hordak’s two guards couldn’t believe they had ever been afraid of him to begin with. By the third day, Hordak’s guards had become comfortable enough with their charge to become bored with their task.

“I am Mara, She-Ra of Etheria, and I am gone.”

The reptile guard groaned loudly, frustrated and annoyed. “Gawd! Can’t you shut her up?”

From his position under the bridge console, Hordak gave a growl of frustration. The sound rumbling up from the back of his throat. It used to be such a sound would terrify any Etherian who heard it. It was dark and rolling, like distant thunder warning an approaching storm. Since being defeated by the Princesses and taken by Catra into the Crimson Waste, the sound had diminished in effect until all it earned him from the pair of Etherians in the room was an impatient glance.

“I feel like if turning her off was something he could do, he would have done it by now.” Suggested the satyr. “I mean, if she’s just starting to irritate us just imagine how irritated Tall-Dark-and-Creepy must be.”

Hordak let out another growl of frustration. He missed the days when the ignorant natives of this backwater rock feared him enough to respect him –at least while in his presence. He knew his soldiers back in the Fright Zone must have said all manner of things behind his back. Scuttlebutt was a staple of military life. But none would ever have had the gall to talk about him as if he weren’t in the room when he was very much present and in a position to hear. He did not appreciate being referred to as ‘Tall-Dark-and-Creepy’. His name was ‘Hordak’. It was the name he chose for himself upon his promotion to the Emperor’s cabinet. It was a name blessed by Prime himself when he was elevated to the highest position a clone could hold. It wasn’t just a name, it was an acknowledgment of his skills, all his hard work, of his… value to the Empire. To call him by anything else was an insult!

“If either of you sandworms think you can perform this task better than I, I’ll welcome you to try.” He snapped, not bothering to slide out from under the console. Hordak already knew they couldn’t. Prior to a few weeks ago, the denizens of this desert thought the hologram’s recorded voice were the whispers of ghosts.

There was a beat of silence in which the satyr and the reptilian just glanced at one another. They knew the were ill-suited to mechanical work just as well as Tall-Dark-and-Creepy did.

“Just make sure you are performing that task.” The reptilian reminded him. He was a little unsure of what the task was –exactly- he just knew it had something to do with repairing the ship’s main bridge computer so that Boss Catra could hear an old recording. “Otherwise it’ll be all three of us that get in trouble if Boss Catra gets mad.”

“Had my eyes but tear-ducts, I would weep for you.” Hordak scoffed, unmoved. What did he care if his guards shared the catwoman’s ire? He never wanted them hanging around him in the first place. He wanted to be left alone to tinker at his task and wallow in feelings he didn’t quite know names for.

“Hey, man, we’re just doing what we were told!” Snapped the reptilian. “I don’t see why we should get in trouble for following orders when you’re the dead-weight that can’t seem to get this act together.”

“That is because you lack discipline.” Hordak informed him. None of his brothers would ever have an attitude like that. If you were a guard, and you allowed your charge to disobey or not perform a task they were given, then you were not doing your job. It was as simple as that. If you were a Territory Captain, and your planet rebelled, then you were not doing your job.

A good soldier did his job.

A good soldier followed orders.

…

“Do you know how to hold a planet, Zero-Zero-Three?” Hode asked.

The older clone insisted on taking a shuttle down from the Vinyl Hood to the planet’s surface. Lord Hode always liked to tour the planets whenever he was away from Capitol Core. He had a keen interest in the diversity of the universe, something that couldn’t be found among the Horde where everyone looked identical to himself, thought identical to himself, believed the same dogma, held the same values. Hode said such things became monotonous and boring. Stagnant. Unmoving.

The clones of Horde Prime had no far-reaching histories, no legendary heroes or god-like idols –save for Horde Prime himself. The clones of Horde Prime had no past. Most of them, didn’t even have concepts for a ‘future’. Only one, single, unifying present. As a race, and as a culture, they were not going anywhere. They were not moving towards anything. They were fixed. Stuck.

Aliens were not like that.

Aliens had histories reaching back as far as there was intelligent life on their planets. Aliens had legends and heroes. Myths, and monsters. Stories, and illustrations, music, and dances, poetry, sculpture, fashion, architecture. Art. Aliens had art. And Hode was obsessed with it.

They walked down the wet and bloody street. The bodies had been cleared away, but puddles of blood still gathered and congealed in the gutters or on the sidewalks. The avenue stank of urine and feces, all beings voided their bowels and bladders when they died. Clearing away the bodies did not clear away the smell. In the heat of the day, the stench of blood mingled with piss and shit hung in the air, rank and thick. Zero-Zero-Three fought the impulse to cover his nasal cavity with a hand. In the heat and rush of a battle, the smell of blood and shit was exhilarating. The scent of prey. After the battle, when a soldier has stepped back from the killing edge, when they were just a normal clone again, the odor was foul and offensive.

Reaching the courtyard outside the capital building Hode stopped them, looking at the sculpture in the center of a bloody fountain.

“What do you suppose this is supposed to be, Zeor-Zero-Three?” Asked the older clone, eyes focused on the carved marble and not looking at his Force Captain.

Zero-Zero-Three glanced at his Lord. Really, he wanted to stop and examine a hunk of rock that was shaped into… “I believe it is meant to be a group of their own kind, my Lord.”

Indeed, that was what the statue looked like. Two full sized alien natives with their tentacles for arms and multiple legs. Raised, almost bubble-like ocular organs. Oral orifices stretched wide in what he assumed were supposed to be expressions of enjoyment for their kind. Below the two full-sized aliens were a group of smaller ones, their bodies not as proportional as the larger figures, their limbs shorter and thicker. Almost like how immature clones looked before they reached full maturity and were allowed out of the tank. Child aliens.

“Clearly.” Nodded Hode, not exactly annoyed with his subordinate’s superficial and obvious view of the statue. Of course, it was a group of their own kind. Species rarely put up statues of creatures not themselves outside their central governing buildings. “But what genre of group? A mating pair and their offspring.”

Clapping his arms behind his back, Zero-Zero-Three relaxed into a parade rest. Lord Hode could take hours when ‘appreciating’ aliens’ art. The Force Captain settled in for a great deal of standing, staring at nothing important, and being asked for opinions on a thing he had no opinions of.

“This would imply that they’re a binary species.” Hode continued.

“Binary, my Lord?” Like, ones and zeroes? Like the coding he used when reprograming his personal datapad and console?

“Yes, binary.” Repeated the Lord as if this explained things. “A species divided into two different sexes.”

“What would be the purpose of that?” Zero-Zero-Three found himself asking before he realized that he really didn’t care. A single species being divided sounded… problematic to him. The Horde did not have divisions –apart from those of military rank, obviously. All Horde were made the same and hatched the same. The divisions came later, after individuals were given opportunities to distinguish themselves from their brothers. When they performed well on missions, in combat, serving their superior officers. And there were levels to these divisions. Clone trooper, sub-Commander, Territory Captain, Force Captain, and Lord. There was no one-or-the-other.

“For procreation.” Hode elaborated. “Races that do not have our cloning technology must procreate by natural means, male and female combining to create a new being. Some species the mating pair only comes together for that explicit purpose and then separates soon after.” He turned his attention back to the statue. “This depiction seems to imply that these creatures do not separate after mating and raise their offspring together as a single unit. The fact that they’ve placed this statue outside their central governing building implies that their offspring and the family unit are a central object in their society.”

Zero-Zero-Three looked back at the statue again. The adults –the parents- attention focused on the younger ones –their children. “No wonder we defeated them so easily.” He scoffed. “If they waste their time with these smiling younglings instead of developing their military. One has to wonder how they managed to overthrow Captain Eight-Two-Seven at all.”

Hode glanced at him, a little surprised. “Have you never had to fight a creature defending its offspring before, Zero-Zero-Three?”

“Not that I’ve been aware of.” The younger clone shook his head.

The older clone looked legitimately surprised by that. “Parent organisms are particularly formidable when protecting their offspring. They become irrationally vicious. Societies that place a central emphasis on their offspring and the family unit are easy to conquer, but more difficult to hold.”

“Are you excusing Captain Eight-Two-Seven, my Lord?” Asked Zero-Zero-Three. Should he not have killed the other clone? He thought his Lord’s intensions were very clear. The Territory Captain couldn’t do his job, he served no purpose, he had to be discarded.

“No.” Hode assured the younger man. “Merely commenting that he did not understand the natives of the planet he was assigned to hold. Let’s go inside, Zero-Zero-Three.”

Obediently, the Force Captain lead his Lord into the building. There were still guards posted at the entrance, and the main lift. The blood that had been fresh earlier was thick and congealed now, covering the lobby in a dark green goo that squished under their boots and made uncomfortable suction sounds when they lifted their feet.

One of the clone troopers set as guard pressed the button to summon the elevator for their Lord and their Force Captain, then double checked to make sure the lift cabin was empty before the Lord and officer stepped inside. The building had already been emptied of alien natives, there shouldn’t be anyone in the lifts except for Horde clones. But Zero-Zero-Three demanded vigilance and diligence from his subordinates, and that was what they gave him. No one wanted to be the idiot who let their superior officer, or their Lord get assassinated after the battle had already been won.

Zero-Zero-Three pressed the button for the floor that held the governor’s office.

Every other window on the floor was pained in stained glass. Each one showing a different scene.

Lord Hode insisted on stopping at every one.

Every. One.

Right out the lift, was a stained glass window flanked on either side by two indoor plants –all of them splattered with dry green blood. Hode ripped a couple of leaves off the plants and used them to wipe the window clean. Then stood back to study the full picture.

The lead of the pains cut bold dark lines through the whole image, drawing even more contrast between the vibrant colors. Primary yellows, jewel-tone blues, deep crimson reds, violets, emerald hues, and energetic oranges. This one showed one of the aliens seated on what might have been the wall of a primitive castle or fortress of some kind. A sword lay on the wall next to them, but the subject’s back was to it. In the alien’s tentacles were instead a branch and a chalice.

“I suppose this one is meant to tell us these creatures prefer eating leaves and getting drunk, while neglecting warrior training.” Zero-Zero-Three announced his best guess at an interpretation before his Lord could ask. Because Hode always asked. The older clone seemed determined to make everyone else who worked under him think about art as much as he did.

Hode gave a small but nasal snort. He found the Force Captain’s interpretation amusing. “Possibly. Art is always open to the meaning of the beholder. But, I have found in many cultures, that plants have symbolic meanings beyond the physical and tangible. The branch could be an offering of peace on this world. The book, a symbol for knowledge –or the sharing of knowledge since the written word is how information is passed. The presence of a discarded weapon could indicate that these creatures believe violence should be set aside in favor of communication and peaceful exchange.”

“Pathetic.” Grumbled the younger clone. No wonder his troops defeated them so easily. It was a wonder they managed to take back their planet at all.

At each and every window, Zero-Zero-Three gave his interpretation. If he became tired of the art and remained silent, his Lord would ask for it. Then disagree with it. Lord Hode disagreed with each and every one of Zero-Zero-Three’s interpretations of the images they were examining. He looked at them through the eyes of a Horde clone. Read the colors, and subjects, and objects as a soldier would read them. He did not try and think why an alien might feel it important to depict that specific thing in that specific way.

One featured one of the natives, holding a sword in every tentacle, facing off some kind of large creature rising up out of the ocean. It was the first image Zero-Zero-Three saw of one of the natives that he felt appropriate applying the word ‘warrior’ to. Any being that looked willing and ready to take down a monster four times its size was no pathetic pacifist.

“You see, Zero-Zero-Three, no culture is without its heroes and its legends.” Hode’s tone was almost joking when he followed that stament up with, “Almost makes you wonder why we don’t have any.”

“My Lord?”

But the older clone did not elaborate.

Then they came to the broken windows. The ones Zero-Zero-Three and his troopers burse through when they infiltrated the building from the roof next door.

“A pity.” Hode lamented. The broken ones were the only windows the Lord did not pause to study.

Finally, they reached the governor’s office.

The carpet was still thick with the aliens’ blood and it squished loudly with every step they took, still wet fluid oozing up from under the mostly-dry top layer of green.

Ignoring the sound his boots made, Hode strode through the office, taking note of the frames on the walls. The art in here was strikingly different from the stained glass in the corridor, or the statue in the courtyard. Those were clearly definable as depictions of the aliens themselves. Family units, or figures from their histories or their folktales. But the paintings in the office were more abstract. Fewer colors, cooler colors, and simpler lines. Some even nothing more than geometric shapes.

Hode looked back at his subordinate.

“I don’t know, my Lord.” Admitted the Force Captain before the older clone could ask. “My abilities stop at the identifiable.”

“Simpler art is less distracting in a work environment.” The Lord explained. “The less complicated décor allows the mind to focus on tasks, and the cooler colors –blues, grays, and greens- stimulate more efficient thought. Much more appropriate for a governor’s office than the loud and heavily contrasted stained glass outside wouldn’t you say.”

That was not a question.

“Why even have art at all?” That was a question. Zero-Zero-Three did not understand its importance. It was impractical, probably time consuming to create, and did nothing but sit around taking up space. In his mind, art served no purpose. It should be discarded.

“In a clerical office setting like this, art would make them feel less pinned in.” Hode sounded very patient with his Force Captain. The kind of patience that seemed into his voice when he was losing patience. Sometimes the other clones’ lack of interest in the things that interested him were frustrating. To have such a keen interest in a subject, but have no one with which to share that interest with. Hode was quite possibly the oldest clone still living, and yet in all his years he had found no other Horde soldier he could call kindred.

Leaving the paintings on the walls, Hode strode to the desk and Zero-Zero-Three dared to hope that the Lord might actually begin the work of selecting a new Territory Captain so that they could get the heck off this Host forsaken rock and get back to the main fleet in Capital Core. The cloning crèches were in Capital Core, and they held the best medical technology in the known universe. Horde Prime reserved nothing but the best for his clones. Zero-Zero-Three felt more at ease knowing such resources were close at hand. His condition required him to be hyper-aware of his medical needs.

Hode did not sit down at the desk or boot up the terminal. Instead, he picked up a frame on the desk that had been knocked over during the battle. The image on it was blissfully free of green blood spatter. Hode held it up for his Force Captain to see.

“What do you make of this, Zero-Zero-Three?”

It looked like a simple piece of paper. Mass produced and of poor quality. Scribbled on the paper in a medium that looked like it might have been sticks of soft wax –like crayons- were messy stick figures. At least, Zero-Zero-Three assumed they were figures. One, drawn in green crayon appeared to have the four legs and tentacles for arms that the natives had. They were holding a sideways L-shaped line in one tentacle that may or may not be a representation of a burst pistol, and it was pointed at a tall and skinny figure rendered in black crayon. Two arms, two legs, a single line for a body, triangles added to the sides of the head that might have been pointed ears, and red wings framing the center line of the body. Even in the primitive and simplistic rendering, Zero-Zero-Three recognized the image of a clone trooper.

The younger man scoffed. “A crude representation of their victory over Eight-Two-Seven.”

“I child’s representation.” Hode corrected. “Probably the leader’s child, since they kept the drawing here on this desk.”

“Pathetic.” Zero-Zero-Three muttered with distain.

Hode made a non-committal noise and placed the frame back on the desk, standing upright. “Judging by the drawing, the child is probably very young. Too young to have participated in the battle. But children have a tendency to grow up, and the child of a rebel leader usually grows up to become a rebel leader themselves.” The older clone informed him. “You will need to find this child and kill them before that happens.”

“My Lord?” Asked Zero-Zero-Three, confused by the order. How could he search this planet for one small child from his Lord’s side all the way back in Capital Core? That didn’t make sense.

“You know, you never answered my question, Zero-Zero-Three.” Said the older clone by way of explanation. “Do you know how to hold a planet?”

A small stone of dread sank into the younger clone’s stomach and Zero-Zero-Three fought the urge to swallow the nerves that suddenly welled up in his throat. “That is a Territory Captain’s job, my Lord. A Force Captain’s job is to lead the troops and command the military in his Lord’s name.”

“You are a clone of our great Emperor, Horde Prime, and your job is to do what you’re told.” Hode reminded him. The words coming out in a snap that neither of them were going to call ‘frustration’. “And I am telling you to remain here and hold this planet for our Emperor.”

That was a demotion. Territory Captain was a rank below Force Captain.

“My Lord, have I displeased you in some way?” Demanded Zero-Zero-Three, desperate to understand why his Lord –whom he had tried to serve diligently and attentively- was basically banishing him to a nothing of a planet far from the capitol. Half way to Old Revena, the original Horde World.

“My pleasure was immaterial in this decision.” Hode assured him. “I am simply placing the best person I know of in a strategic position.”

“What strategy is there in demoting me to a planet sitter!?” Snarled the younger clone, more of his anger seeping into his voice than he meant. He heard it in his tone, and his volume and regretted it immediately. One did not last long by questioning their Lord and talking back. Zero-Zero-Three instantly demurred. Bowing low to the older clone. “Forgive me, my Lord, but this is very sudden and I don’t understand why.”

Was it- was it because of his defects…?

Hode pulled out the chair from the desk. A wide, flat base meant for creatures with more than just two legs. It had a tall back, but no armrests. “Sit down, Zero-Zero-Three.”

He did as he was told. Sitting awkwardly. His narrow posterior barely taking up any space in the over-wide alien chair. It made the younger clone feel small. Less, somehow.

Hode didn’t so much sit on the desk as he did lean against it, his arms crossed over his chest. “Whom do you serve?”

“The Empire.” He supplied as if this should have been obvious.

“What is the Empire?” Pressed the older clone, as if the original answer was not an answer at all.

“The Horde Empire.” Zero-Zero-Three corrected. Then paused. Remembering all their conversations about art. ‘What do you suppose this is supposed to be?’ What was the Horde Empire? Really? A collection of genetically identical soldiers, willing to lay down their lives for their Brother. The greatest technological military the universe has ever seen, all at the command of their Brother. A sweeping force of nature that conquered everything it touched in the name of their Brother. Their Brother. At the center of it all was Horde Prime. Emperor of the Known Universe. The heart of the Empire. He was the Empire. “Horde Prime, our Big Brother is the Empire. I serve Horde Prime.”

It was hard to see Hode’s expression from under his hood, but by the folds of the fabric, it looked like the older clone’s ears drooped just a little bit. Was he displeased by Zero-Zero-Three’s answer? Could Zero-Zero-Three do nothing right?

“That is the correct answer.” Hode announced. There was no displeasure in his voice. Perhaps the ear-droop was imagined. It was hard to tell with that hood up. “You will continue to serve our Emperor and Brother from here. By holding this world for him and making sure it does not fall back out of our hands.”

Now it was Zero-Zero-Three’s turn for his ears to droop.

“Don’t look so sad, Zero-Zero-Three.” Hode reached out and grabbed his chin, forcing the younger man’s face up to look at him. The red glow of his eyes the only thing illuminating the inside of his hood. It made Hode’s expression impossible to read. “You are a slow learner, but you do learn. Preform your duties here well, and you just might find yourself elevated above a Force Captain.”

Zero-Zero-Three’s eyes went wide, disbelieving. Then narrowed again with skepticism. “But the only rank above a Force Captain is a cabinet Lord.” Hode’s position. “For me to be promoted, you would have to die.”

“All clones must die.” Hode reminded him. “And all clones must serve.” A pause. “Have you never dreamed of climbing to the cabinet, Zero-Zero-Three?”

Pulling his face out of the older man’s hand, the younger clone looked down and away. He did not want to meet his Lord’s eyes when he admitted. “I never thought I’d live that long.”

Because of his defects…

“Remind me again, Zero-Zero-Three, what is your batch number?” Hode commanded.

“Sixty-six thousand six-hundred and ninety-four, my Lord.” He supplied dutifully. “From crèche number forty-two, tank number three.”

66694-42-003

“Sixty-six thousand six-hundred and ninety-four.” Repeated the older man. “You never expected to live this long, yet here you are eleven years old and still preforming admirably.”

Zero-Zero-Three flushed at the complement, the skin of his cheeks and ears coloring a vivid purple.

“Who’s to say what will happen to you before your number is called up and you go to join the All High Host? Preform your duties well and your superiors will take note of you.” Hode reminded him. “You were a sub-Commander serving under me for less than a year when I took note of you.”

The younger man flushed again. “I was so sure you were going to kill me, my Lord.” He admitted. “In hind sight, you should have killed me. I questioned you in front of the other Captains.”

“You did not question me, Zero-Zero-Three, you asked a question. There is a difference. A very significant one.” Hode was very firm in that reminder. “And it was that act that drew you to my attention. Allowed me to see that you were not just a mindless drone like so many of our other brothers.”

His ears drooped more at the reminder that he was not like the rest of their brothers. He was different. Atypical. Anomalous. “Perhaps that was my… defects manifesting early.”

“Perhaps.” Hode admitted and Zero-Zero-Three was not prepared for how such an easy agreement –without hesitation- that his defects might have been influencing him even back then. “That does not change the fact that you’re different. Ears up, Zero-Zero-Three, that is not an insult. It is a statement of fact. Of every other sub-Commander and Force Captain in that room, you were the only one who though to ask me ‘why’. That struck a chord with me.”

“Actually, I asked what the relevance was, my Lord.” Corrected the younger man without thinking. One did not usually correct a cabinet Lord of they wanted to remain happy, healthy, and alive. Zero-Zero-Three looked up into his Lord’s darkened hood, concerned that he might have just insulted his superior. But, as was usual, Hode’s expression was unreadable. Zero-Zero-Three looked away again. “Why are we speaking about our first meeting.”

“Because I’m old and I like to reminisce.” The other clone scoffed, as if this answer should have been obvious.

He stood from the desk, scooping the child’s drawing back up as he did so. He opened up the back of the frame and pulled out the paper, folded it and slipped it into a pouch of his belt. Another piece for Lord Hode’s always growing art collection. The old man did not offer an explanation and Zero-Zero-Three did not comment. Hode always took at least one –sometimes more than one- cultural artifact from every planet he visited. It was at the point now that an entire deck of the Vinyl Hood was devoted to the Lord’s art collection.

Cultural clutter.

Zero-Zero-Three did not stand. His Lord had not given him leave to.

But he did look back up at the older clone. Crimson eyes pleading, ears drooping so low they were almost brushing his shoulders. “Are you really leaving me here, my Lord?” He asked, sounding very much like a freshly hatched cadet in that moment. Like a hatchling being pushed out of the crèche. “I thought you said it would be inconvenient for you if you lost me?”

“I said it would be inconvenient if you died.” Hode corrected the younger clone. “So, don’t die. I will be very annoyed if you do.”

He moved to leave.

Zero-Zero-Three catapulted to his feet. He opened his mouth to shout at his Lord’s back, then realized he had no idea what he wanted to say.

“I do not know how to hold a planet!” He blurted out. Three times Lord Hode asked him if he knew how to hold a planet and each time Zero-Zero-Three avoided answering. Because he didn’t know how. Because he was a Force Captain, not a Territory Captain. It was not a Force Captain’s job to hold a planet, it was a Territory Captain’s job.

Hode looked back at him, the turn of his neck pulling on the fabric of his hood so that Zero-Zero-Three could see the lower half of his face. A square chin identical of his own, and thin lips pulled back in a humorless grin, displaying crimson teeth. “Then learn. You are a slow learner, Zero-Zero-Three, but you do learn.”

The younger clone chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to try and convince his Lord not to demote him like this. To find someone else to stay and planet sit, so that he could remain at his Lord’s side.

“Learn about art, Zero-Zero-Three.” His Lord suggested. “When you understand a species' art, you understand that species. And if you understand a species, you can control them. It is always easier to hold a planet when the native population is under your control.”

Zero-Zero-Three looked to the side, his eyes finding an abstract painting on the wall. A background of pale cream swirls, behind a series of unevenly spaced cubes in hues of teal, and shaded in umber. He had no idea what it was supposed to be. The Horde did not make art. The clone troopers of the Imperial Horde spent their spare time on more practical hobbies.

“Alter your uniform to hide how thin you’ve become.” Hode reminded him. “And be sure to eat plenty of protein. Do not allow yourself to become any thinner.”

“You’re really leaving me here?” Why did Zero-Zero-Three feel like he was being abandoned? His Lord had given him a task, he should carry it out without question.

“Yes, Zero-Zero-Three. I am.” Hode exited the office.

Zero-Zero-Three slumped back into the alien chair that was too big for his tall but narrow body. He put his head in his hands. He was given a task. A new mission. He had his orders. He might not like them. They might have come with a demotion. But Zero-Zero-Three would preform his task as best he could.

He was a soldier, and a good soldier followed orders.

#hordak #the horde #horde clones #imperialism #fan fiction #genetic composite #ao3 #RenkonNairu #spop #She-Ra

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tabletopmayhem · 5 years

Text

“I'm telling you, for the last time, it's not Welsh. I can read Welsh. It's some very early Old Welsh, which is a rather different beast.”

Oya sighed in frustration, leaning back in her seat. It creaked warningly, and she rose from it just before it collapsed, falling to the ground in pieces as she stared down at the straw-strewn floor of the shed. The heavy stone coffin dragged into the center of it, was covered in carvings, the inscriptions made shallow and faded by time and wear.

It was quite ancient, unlike any of them.

The light in the ramshackle farm they'd holed up in wasn't the best, but it was merely a temporary stop tonight. There were more Lancea out there. If they fled, of course, she would let them flee, but word from the girl serving as her switchboard operator was that the second team was still on the hunt. If there were any left, they would be found and eradicated. Or they would find and try to eradicate the Carthians.

Tonight.

“There is some Latin sprinkled in, for when the Romans came, they...”

Patel fell silent in his rambling as she glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow. His youthful face set into harder lines, and he scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. She glanced from him to young Rumiko, and then Cathryn, but both of them simply shook their heads. A tilt of her head and she turned her attention to Nathan, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. She noted with some disapproval that he'd removed his jacket; no doubt tossed it in a dirty corner somewhere again.

When would he stop being such a thorn in her side?

“What?” he asked her, smiling his perpetual smile, forever tinged with a hint of wickedness. “I can't even read.”

“We need to fix that,” she said, and continued over his loud scoff, “but that isn't important right now. The Lancea were keeping this in their vault for a reason. I have no doubt if the Invictus had been there when we breached it we'd be fighting them for it right this very moment.”

“We could have acquired very many other important things,” Patel said, grudgingly, “but we absconded with this. What are you going to do, hunt for a scholar?”

“You doubt me now, Oresh? This is what we needed to take,” she told him, fixing him with a stern gaze until he averted his.

“No, forgive me.”

“We could search for the Crones, they've got to be out there somewhere,” Cathryn interjected brusquely, crossing her arms under her chest, scowling at it. “It's got the Circle's symbol there.”

“And they likely lost it to the Lancea. Obviously if it was that important to them, they would have tried harder to keep it,” Oya dismissed, “or brought it with when they fled. What can you read of the latin at least, Oresh?”

Patel sighed and turned his attention back to the stone, smoothing his hands over it. She examined the carvings herself, more curious about the symbology than the language itself. The inscriptions were down the center of the long, deep sarcophagus, framed by a decorative border. At the top, a bird of some sort, wings spread wide; it was faded more than the rest, having been quite intricate once. At the foot, the symbol of the Circle of the Crones, an old, more simple version.

“It is difficult to say. Daughter of, here. Daughter of however one pronounces that, I suppose. Something something arise...it's just the random word here and there. I see nothing that looks like a curse, but that doesn't mean it isn't warded by some ritual of the Crones, they have some very strange ways.”

“Let's just open it already,” Cathryn said, nodding at Oya. “It's probably an elder. They're not going to be doing much of anything blood-starved, even if they were to awaken.”

“We don't need elders,” Nathan declared sourly. “What good have they done us so far?”

“We might not need them, but we need bodies for this fight,” Cathryn argued, crossing her arms over her chest. “This is a body. Don't be foolish out of principle.”

“I agree. Nathan, I chose this for a reason. Please, have faith in me,” she said, and his expression instantly softened. They shared a smile, and he finally nodded his head to her. Oya returned it, and then glanced back to the others. “Go outside and tell our people to be on guard, then, you two. Better safe than sorry. Have Errol close to hand. We should be prepared for brute force as well as negotiation.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Cathryn went and held the door for Rumiko, who glanced back at her sire once before departing. Patel nodded, and she returned it and disappeared into the night. Although she would never say it, that loyalty bothered Oya some. Rumiko was loyal to her sire, not the Movement, not to Oya herself. Either would have been more acceptable.

But Oresh was loyal, which she should remember.

“I would prefer it if all of you let me do this, we don't know what could happen.”

“Not leaving you, let's just wake the geezer,” Nathan denied instantly, a sentiment Patel quietly echoed, minus the odd slang.

“We must be prepared for the fact that they may not even speak English. If that's the case we'll have to hope they are nonviolent,” Oya said, examining the stone sarcophagus with some curiosity. She was not afraid. Not of what lie within, or what possible traps might be upon it; for she had been led to it, and was meant to be here.

The stars had brought her to this moment, and whoever, or whatever was in this coffin would help her defeat the remnants of the Lancea. No good came from the church. If they wished to survive in the future she was building, they would submit and change, or they would die.

“Open it,” she demanded, turning back for the collapsed remnants of the chair, ripping a leg from it. Enough of a point. “And then step back. If there is anything to contend with inside, I shall contend with it.”

They knew better than to argue, each going for an end of the heavy stone to lift, and remove. It scraped, slow and noisy, dust sifting to the ground as it was levered to the side. She stepped forward as the low light flickered across it, banishing darkness that had been lingering within for perhaps centuries, or more. The face within, skin drawn so tight to the bone that it might be a mummified corpse, was marred by that to be near unrecognizable in feature.

Hard to put humanity to such a rictus.

The clothing had decayed to nearly nothing, and when she glanced up to Oresh, he seemed as puzzled as she. “Daughter?” she inquired simply.

“I read what I read,” he retorted sourly, “it lacks context, it could speak of his sire or progenitor.”

“A fair point,” she allowed, examining the ceremonial-seeming stake driven into his chest, pierced through leathery hide and doubtless also a withered heart within. A beautiful thing, the stake was smooth and intricate, carved with sinuous designs much like the faded blue-inked tattoos marred by the shrinking of his fleshless skin. His head was attached. Still able to be woken, if they removed the stake that kept him in torpor. Blood-starved, however, he would certainly be.

“Not a bad looking guy for a corpse,” Nathan said, raking back his hair with a dusty hand, and then grinning at the slightly-aghast look she gave him. “What? Got more tattoos than a sailor, though.”

“Those are most certainly Celtic of some sort. Old, very old,” Patel said, glancing up into her face. “I don't know if he'll be of any use at all. He's more than likely going to immediately lose his mind to hunger.”

“We need to try. Not simply because we might need him, but...because he might need us,” she said, setting her unnecessary makeshift stake aside and reaching for the ancient, well-polished one piercing his chest. “Please, both of you, trust me.”

She knew that they would.

After all, she had saved them as well.

“G'wan, y'bespawlin' drate-poke, come at me agin, will ya? Take your leasins an' begone afore me ire be tempted!”

The door thumped heavily, Errol grunting and digging in his heels as it scraped a half inch. Nathan gave him a reassuring smile, but his own was heavily strained, awkward. Walking over, he lent his own strength, leaning a shoulder against it and flashing a grin. It got him a clear of the throat and averted eyes. Errol was shy, but he couldn't blame a guy for taking advantage of the situation.

It'd been a boring few weeks apart from the murder.

“I still have no idea what he's saying,” Nathan confided, glancing back over at Oya, “but it's English.”

“I wouldn't call this English,” Patel said with open disapproval. “It's some bizarre conglomeration of nonsense and comprehensible language in an abominable accent. It's like a drunk Welshman learned English from an even drunker Yorkshireman.”

“Well, we can't all sound like posh colonizers, can we?”

“A bit rich coming from a Frenchman who can't speak French.”

“I'm American, kiddo,” Nathan snorted.

“How much blood did you leave in there?”

“Half a crate of bottles, it's all we had left from the hospital raid,” Nathan said, turning to thump his back against the door instead, digging his bare feet into the dirt outside the door. Oya stared at his feet in disapproval, and he hid a smile from her. “Hopefully not enough to make him strong enough to...”

The sound of glass shattering made him wince, though she kept her own composure. The hand below his against the door curled in, fingers digging, and he briefly turned her attention to Errol's face in inquiry. His face was tight, unreadable, and fixed on Oya; but then again it always was.

“He's a Gangrel, ma'am.”

“We should have left less blood,” she sighed. “Oh, I wish he would have listened to me...”

“He'll be fine, let him work it out,” Nathan said with a strained shrug, barely moving against the door. “He's just been woke up from a very long sl-”

Another bottle shattered, and Oya sighed again, pausing in her pacing. She looked distressed. The expression tugged on his heartstrings. She cared so much about this sort of thing, and he felt bad that it hadn't gone well this time. Maybe it still could.

Maybe he could help.

“I think that was all of the bottles? Maybe at least that means he'll calm...”

Cathryn's words were interrupted by a shattering crash from the opposite side of the shed. By the time the mortal posted on that side shouted, Nathan was already off like a shot, leaving the rest of them behind. Now here was something he could do.

Skidding around the corner, his bare feet sliding across the dirt, he saw the figure in the distance between the slender lines of fruit trees. Already a decent head start, but luckily he was fast. Forging into the orchard, Nathan bolted after the escaping elder. No way he was going to let Oya torture herself over letting him escape.

He might be fast, but Nathan was faster.

It was easier to run with bare feet, pounding across the ground, keeping him steady when he found half a rotting apple underfoot, rolling and sliding. He skidded for a moment and then caught himself on a tree, only a split second. Not enough to break his line of sight.

He was making progress, the figure flickering through slim shadows and sharp moonlight shining between the trees. It might be dizzying, confusing, for anyone with lesser eyesight and less practice. If there was one thing Nathan was good at, it was chasing people.

Especially naked people.

Difficult to fight the urge to scare him a little, it set off all the instincts. The beast was lurking, hungry for not just hunting, but screaming, terror, blood. This wasn't for it, though, and it'd have to be content with just this. For now.

The shadow dodged to the side when he got too close, something flung back that thudded off his shoulder, startling him into a brief pause. An apple. Fighting back a laugh, he bolted again, calling out mockingly, “fruit? Sorry, mister, you'll have to do better than th-”

The fist to his face took him down, hard enough that he heard the tree he slammed into crack. It was his skull that cracked next, hitting the ground so hard he could have sworn he heard his brain rattling like dry peas in a tin can. No time to fuss, though, because the shadow was on him, hands on his throat, spitting in his face.

“Y'rapkapelt gauvey, 'll smash y'gob!”

“I don't know what that is, but it's probably true,” he wheezed around the hands crushing his windpipe, any further words cut off by a gurgle.

There was nothing for it to slam a fist into his face, shaking the Gangrel loose and knocking him back. The impact hit hard, like brick hitting stone, and he felt something crack. Rather than let him gain back the ground, Nathan threw himself forward, ignoring the shattered bone in his hand as he swung again, slamming the elder onto the ground and pinning one arm under a knee.

The strike hit the ground as his opponent dodged his head to the side, and as the moon broke through the clouds and their stares met.

“Wow, you have really nice eyes.”

Apparently it was just a moment on his end, though, because that got him a fist to the face, smashing his nose into a pulp.

Fair enough, time to dance.

Bracing himself for a slew of broken bones until the others arrived, he threw himself into the fray. He might be a lot of things, but scared of a fight wasn’t one of them.

“You could have been killed! You could have been...augh!”

Oya paced away, throwing up her hands. Nathan was half considering pushing up to go after her when she came storming back and slapped him across the face. It didn't hurt any more than his face already hurt, but he grimaced anyways, feeling the sting of disappointment. She immediately turned and stomped away again, and he idly examined his broken jaw, forcing it back into place as it healed.

“It's fine, we came to an agreement. Worked things out like men. Right John?”

“Ioan, y'addled gobshite.”

“Yeah, I can't say that,” Nathan admitted, wincing as it got him a punch in the shoulder that wasn't pulled in the least, making him slump to the side. “Ow-owh owwww, fella! Go easy on a guy.”

“Pissbaby. Gie you a raddlin'.”

“I don't have time for this...this...nonsense!”

“Soun' like ket. What y'even sayin'? Invictus shite.”

Nathan immediately stifled a snort, though it probably wouldn't make it out of his smashed nose even if he hadn't. Warily he watched Oya's back as she drew herself up straight, chin lifting. She turned, slowly, dark eyes full of fire as she stared down Ioan, lips a thin line.

“We are not Invictus,” she said slowly and with brittle enunciation.

“Oh. Thet's all right 'en.”

“It is?” Nathan asked dubiously, and got a shrug in return. “Oh. Fair.”

“Do you have a problem with the Invictus?” Oya inquired, still stiffly.

Ioan considered that, reaching over and abruptly jerking on Nathan's nose. With a yelp he cringed forward, feeling the sickening crunch of things being pulled back into place. He immediately lifted a hand to Oya despite the pain, feeling her beast bristle protectively. Blinking, his vision swimming back together from its fractured state, Nathan lifted his head and prodded his nose.

“You're good at that, fella, thanks.”

“I asked,” Oya snapped, “if you have an issue with the Invictus.”

“Oh. Aye.”

“Well. Then I suppose it's a good thing we didn't leave you to be found by them. I'd think you'd find some gratitude for that, perhaps?”

“Wha'?” Ioan asked, glancing from Oya to Nathan.

“She wants to know if you want to hit people with us.”

He lifted a fist in explanation, Ioan glancing from him, and then back to Oya again. His face, long and still a bit hollow from being underfed, was a bit ghoulish, but surprisingly calm. Beating the stuffing out of Nathan seemed to have helped him, at least a bit.

Ioan sniffed, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded his head. “Oh. Battle, is it?”

“Against the Lancea Sanctum,” Oya agreed simply.

Ioan's face hardened, arms tightening over his tattooed chest. He pressed his lips together and nodded his head slowly, long hair swaying as he looked from Oya to Nathan, and then back again. Twisting his mouth to the side, he flopped back against the wall and let out an explosive sigh.

“I like killin' Christians.”

“Then I guess you came to the right place,” Nathan said, turning his attention to Oya. He wasn't sure why she looked a bit uneasy for a moment, and he flashed her a smile until she turned her attention back to him. “I guess you were right. Again. You always are.”

That seemed to work, her expression relaxed and she inclined her head to him. “I suppose I was.” Confidence lifted her chin again, much to his relief, and she turned her attention back to Ioan. “Well. The stars brought us together, Ioan, as I predicted. Fate may have a sense of humor, but it has not let me down yet. Welcome to the Carthian Movement, for however long you choose to join us.”

“Wha'?”

Nathan stifled a smile as Oya sighed, lifting a hand to her forehead wearily.

“...Never mind.”

#owen jones #vampire the requiem #NPC writings #Prince Oya #Nathan Lemarc #Oresh Patel

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