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keelywolfe · 3 years ago

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FIC: This Is A Test (standalone)

Summary: Gaster has always been a loyal subject to Asgore, always obeyed his word and order. Until today.

Notes: I had this idea a long time ago of Underfell Gaster working for Fellgore because he didn't really have a choice, shoving down all his emotions and working as an unfeeling scientist, doing his experiments and following orders like a loyal subject...until he can't. Not anymore.

This story contains mentions of past failed experiments in the form of created children, essentially children dying or being stillborn, not explicitly so but it is there. There are also mentions of experimenting on created Monster children, again, not explicitly so. I consider this to be a prelude to a good Dadster-type story.

Tags: Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Found Family, Pre- Good Dadster, Medical Experimentation, Bad Fellgore, Babybones Red and Edge

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

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None of the lab technicians could ever hope to match Royal Scientist Gaster when it came to typing speed, but to be fair, it was hardly their fault. When one had numerous magical hands to assist, one was understandably more proficient than someone with only two.

Standing at the keyboard, repurposed from a derelict at the dump for his needs, Gaster added the last formula and hit enter. There was a moment of concern as he waited to see if the old, forgotten machine still worked, an uncomfortable amount of time drawing out to the tension of a piano wire before in an abrupt surge all the dusty lights in front of him came to flickering life. With a belch of grinding sounds the gears began to turn, slowly dimming to a loud hum as it began processing the inputted data, the monitor filling with characters scrolling too fast to be seen as it churned through hundreds of thousands of possible coordinates in seconds, searching for possible matches to his if-then qualification.

Gaster took a step back, watching his abandoned creation’s rebirth so intently that he didn’t hear the door opening behind him, nor the shuffling footsteps. It took a single word, the voice rising over the droning machinery to give him a pause.

“doc?”

He turned around to look at experiment S-23 standing by the opened door, shuffling their bare feet nervously on the dirty floor. In truth, that voice should be far too deep to come from such a small body, but extensive testing confirmed their accelerated growth cycle had already ended. The experiment was a failure and termination should have been the next step. None of the other experiments had required it; their systems shut down after the failure of the growth process ended. This one, though, clung stubbornly to life years after they should have dusted.

Terminating defunct test subjects was simply a part of experimentation, Gaster knew it well, and did not appreciate being prodded about it. He’d curtly informed the very few techs who dared question him on his decision to forgo termination that S-23 was still being monitored because of their unusual longevity. Such a thing could be quite useful in upcoming studies, there was no reason to sacrifice a possible source of information so hastily, and their careless disregard for the patience of longer termed studied would be noted. Those questions quickly stopped and now the technicians tolerated S-23 as a sort of mascot, mostly ignored as they went about their duties.

S-23 shifted to scratch nervously at the back of one leg with the toes of their other foot, wobbling unsteadily until they caught their balance. Their lack of grace was forgivable; at their side was S-47, clinging tightly to their hand with only one crimson eye light visible as they peered out around S-23’s billowing gown. S-47 was only two days out of the incubation tubes and already walking, part of the accelerated growth process. Talking should have been next and tests confirmed at least rudimentary understanding, which was all Asgore required for a soldier. Should have been talking, but S-47 said nothing, only clung to S-23’s small hand, still standing so they were half-concealed by the other. They were already nearly as tall as S-23’s shoulder and would continue to grow. Estimates were promising, putting them at nearly twice the previously attained heights.

Strong and able, capable of understanding orders. All that was necessary for an army waiting to be grown.

“Thank you for coming,” Gaster said. Even alone, it was difficult to allow his stiff professionalism to ease. “I’m aware it’s earlier than you’re normally awake.”

S-23 only nodded silently, well accustomed to disruptions of their sleep. They slipped an arm around the shorter one’s shoulders, pulling them closer. “i think he’s hungry.”

“I expect so,” Gaster said, almost absently. “That sort of growth consumes a great deal of magic. Here.” He crouched by the heavy pack that was leaning against one of the walls and pulled out a cinnamon bunny purchased that morning. It was no longer warm, but the smell was still enticingly fresh. Such a thing was a rare treat and S-23 brightened visibly, the expression faltering as the younger beside him grunted eagerly and reached for it.

Gaster watched, unable to prevent himself from cataloging S-23’s reaction. They unwrapped the treat and gave it to the younger without saving even a small portion for themselves, swallowing hard as they watched S-47 devour it. Before they finished, Gaster retrieved another from the bag and handed it over silently, watching with a sort of wearily resigned amusement as S-23 started handing it over as well.

“Stop,” Gaster told him, and S-23 froze, looking up at him with wide sockets. It was rare that Gaster spoke sternly. It was normally unnecessary, S-23 was always near pathetically eager to please. No, he told himself, not pathetically. Childishly. “Eat at least half of that yourself, food may be scarce for a while.”

He could see S-23’s confusion, though they did as they were told and the supreme enjoyment on their small face as they relished the treat made a lump form at the back of his throat, viciously swallowed away.

Gaster turned back to the machine, his eyes skipping over the crumpled missive on the nearby table. Despite the destruction, the royal seal was still visible and Gaster did not need to read it to know what it said. The order was too brief to be forgotten.

Bring them.

Bring them, the first soldier for his perfect army. After all this time, the experiment worked and…no, not experiment, the child. If he was done with the lab then he could be done with that as well. The child was thriving, growing as expected, their long-fingered hands were tipped with the demanded sharp claws, their teeth wickedly sharp as they tore into the small pastry. Asgore was eager to begin their training, teaching them the skills they would need in the war against the Humans. Teaching them to be a killer, filling their tiny soul with LV.

S-47 looked up at Gaster with wide eye lights, their face smeared with crumbs as they offered him an incongruous, innocently happy smile through those jagged teeth.

Gaster turned away again, back to the pack, and he roughly pulled out two pairs of small shoes and some mismatched clothing. All of it would be too big for either of them, but when he’d begun bringing clothes to the lab months back, a single piece at a time and no more than one article a week to be carefully concealed outside the watchful eye of the cameras, he’d been unable to gauge what size might be necessary. Better to be much too large than too small and useless.

Their confusion was obvious as Gaster hurriedly pulled off the thin gowns they both wore and replaced them with shirts and trousers. S-23’s confusion was more profound; they’d never worn real clothing in their entire short life. Even the blanket in their tiny room was rough and utilitarian, their cell sterile and bare. The solitary toy in it was a worn stuffed rabbit missing one of its button eyes, given by Gaster during a test of their capacity for empathy and never retrieved. That toy was usually hidden beneath their pillow, kept out of sight of the other lab technicians, and was now stowed away at the bottom of the backpack.

He only had one of S-47 shoes tied when the machine burped out a cheerfully musical sound. Gaster nearly fell as he staggered to his feet, assisted by his own magical hands as he stumbled over to the monitor where two words stood out bluntly on the screen.

Coordinates found.

Gaster took a long, slow breath, and turned to look at…at the children. They stood there dressed in a hodgepodge of stolen clothing, confused and yet so trusting. Their wide sockets curiously watching as they waited for him to give them orders; they were accustomed to that, already accustomed to being told what to do and ready to be molded, ready for that innocence to be ripped away, to be turned into something else.

There was another, newer computer on the other side of the room with orders already typed in, waiting for confirmation. Gaster went to it and tapped in his keycode, turning away before he could watch his life’s work destroyed as the virus he’d created greedily ate its way through the servers.

“Come along, children,” Gaster said firmly, with confidence he did not feel. He shouldered the backpack with its meagre supplies and paused only long enough to tie S-47’s other shoe before he took each child by the hand, leading them to the machine. There was only enough charge for one attempt but that was fine. They wouldn’t be back and when the virus was finish with the main servers, it would infect the machine’s drives as well.

They needed to hurry now and Gaster let go of S-23’s hand…no. No, the child’s name was Sans, given to him in a barely audible whisper when Gaster first held him, still wet with sticky fluids from decanting. He’d named every one of them, all forty-five of the others, every lost child falsely called an experiment and he’d hold those names in his soul until the day he dusted. On his other side, Papyrus, once called S-47, was bouncing excitedly, lifting a foot to admire his new-old sneakers.

Gaster let go of Sans’s hand long enough to press the single glowing red button on the machine’s control panel. On the large metal pad that extended from the machine’s side, a wavering cloud of blackness formed, a portal that, according to his calculations, should lead to somewhere else. Where exactly that was could only be answered by going through it.

If it worked, wonderful, and if it didn’t, well. That might be for the best, too.

“Come along, children,” Gaster said again, and he led Sans and Papyrus to that portal, dim shouts from down the hallways already audible and growing louder. They followed him trustingly, never pausing as he stepped through the darkness with his children as they traveled to whatever lay on the other side.

~~*~~

end...?

#underfell #babybones #keelywolfe #underfell gaster #underfell sans #underfell papyrus #dadster

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purplehairedwonder · 3 years ago

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Definitely Not Affection

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG Pairings: Gen Words: 3,100 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Roronoa Zoro Note: This was written for the “Hurts to Breathe” square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo @badthingshappenbingo card. Anon prompted platonic Zoro and Law.

Feel free to send prompts for additional fills!

Summary: On the way to Wano, Law treats his wounds from Dressrosa in the middle of the night. Zoro finds him. Snark (and definitely not affection) ensues.

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

It was a relentless ache deep in his chest that wrapped around to his back and jabbed at his lungs with each breath had Law putting down the book he’d been trying and failing to read for the last several hours and hobbling toward the infirmary in the ass hours of the morning. Not that he could actually tell the time of day by looking out a window when the Polar Tang was submerged, but after years of intimate acquaintance with insomnia, Law knew in his bones what it felt like to be awake when he should be asleep.

The ship—which was typically buzzing with activity from his rowdy bunch of idiots (it was only now that he wasn’t dead on Dressrosa that he’d allowed himself to acknowledge how much he’d missed them) and had only gotten more chaotic with the additional passengers on board—was quiet as Law moved down the hallways he knew like the back of his hand, the creaks of the metal and the hum of the engines combining into a familiar white noise that Law took great comfort in.

He let out a relieved breath as he reached the infirmary, only to wince at the sharp jolt that shot through his chest and side, straight through to his back. He grabbed onto the doorframe with his uninjured arm, fingers tightening painfully against the metal as the pain stole his breath. After several shallow breaths, the pain receded, and Law loosened his vise-like grip. He straightened as much as the lingering pain would allow before stepping inside the infirmary and flipping on the lights.

Law headed for the cabinets, where he pulled out fresh rolls of gauze, disinfectant, and painkillers. He laid them on the operating table then unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, discarding it alongside the pile of medical supplies. He carefully unwrapped the bandages around his chest, noting the watercolor of yellows, greens, and purples brushed across his ribs and the scabbed bullet hole wounds dotting his abdomen, giving the impression of a twisted paint-by-numbers scene. Satisfied that there was no visible sign of infection, he moved to his arm, removing the bandage around his bicep.

He grimaced as the unraveling gauze revealed an ugly knot of bruised and stitched-together skin. He could feel the fatigue and weakness in his arm as he flexed his fingers and tried to roll his shoulder. He shook his head; though the feeling and the strength of his grip were slowly returning, he couldn’t be sure that even with the aid of his fruit that his arm would ever return to full strength.

Once he finished his visual inspection of his wounds, Law opened a Room. He’d overextended himself so badly on Dressrosa that, days out from Zou, he was still struggling to hold a Room for more than a few minutes at a time. In the first couple of days after the fight, when he and the Straw Hats had been cooped up in Kyros’s cabin, Law had been the only doctor present, but he’d had to stick to traditional methods of treating his allies (and himself) since his Rooms would flicker out almost as soon as he tried to summon them.

Over the following days, he’d been able to open his Rooms for slightly longer periods, so he’d used the limited stamina he had to treat the most serious of his injuries while fending off infection (his arm was particularly primed for infection considering the poor conditions in which it had been repaired), preserving as much of his strength as he could afford. Of course, he wasn’t a freak of nature like Luffy or his crew who healed at, in Law’s professional opinion, completely ridiculous rates, so he had numerous lingering issues to address. And because he’d had to prioritize his internal damage from being shot with fucking lead bullets over more superficial concerns, he knew he’d be left with some ugly scars.

When they’d reunited with his crew on Zou, Law knew it hadn’t escaped their notice that he was the only one among the newly arrived group from Dressrosa to still be sporting bandages, but he hadn’t wanted them to worry any more than they already had, so he’d made sure to complete his treatments when they were sleeping. He’d thought he’d addressed the worst of his issues, but the persistent pain in his chest that kept awake—despite his body’s constant demand for sleep to heal—had him returning to the infirmary once more.

With the familiar blue glow of his Room around him, Law turned his attention inward. After a moment, he frowned then tapped his chest to remove his lung. He’d already repaired the damage done to it from getting shot in the back, and he could see the signs of scar tissue forming from the repair. That shouldn’t be causing the pain he was feeling now, though. He turned the organ around, studying it through narrowed eyes, ignoring the sweat beading on his forehead.

Then he noticed it: the beginnings of lead poisoning. Law had been so focused on preventing infection in his arm that he’d gotten complacent with the lung he thought he’d already treated. Law cursed himself silently; he should have expected the lead bullets to cause more than psychological damage. Thankfully, this was something he could handle.

As he concentrated on carefully removing the poison from his lung, he pushed aside the fatigue in his arms and ignored the tremors in his legs. His vision started greying at the edges, but Law shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear his sight. He needed to take care of this now.

He could do it before his Room failed.

He could…

His Room collapsed and his vision went dark.

-----

Consciousness slowly returned, and though the comforting embrace of sleep tried to call him back under, Law had the unshakeable feeling that he had something to do, so he cracked open his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling of the infirmary. His head throbbed and he groaned, throwing a hand over his face to block out the light.

“Torao?”

Law frowned at the familiar voice and lowered his hand. He turned his head to see Zoro sitting in a chair next to the operating table, where Law was laid out. When had that happened?

“Zoro-ya?”

Zoro quirked an eyebrow at him. Law sighed, resigned, and turned his head to look back up at the ceiling.

“What happened?”

“I was talking a walk—”

“You mean you got lost,” Law corrected without thinking.

Zoro grunted but didn’t disagree. “I saw the lights on in here so came over. When I looked in, you were doing something with your Room.” He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to mess you up, so I was about to leave. But then your Room dropped, and you passed out.”

Law grimaced at the ceiling. He’d pushed his limited stamina too hard. Bepo would kill him if he found out.

“I grabbed you and put you on the table, but I didn’t really know what else to do.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Law asked, looking back over at Zoro.

Zoro shook his head. “Didn’t want to leave.”

Law’s lips twitched. “You don’t know where their rooms are, do you?”

“Shut it,” Zoro retorted sourly.

“How long was I out?”

“Half an hour.”

Law nodded. That wasn’t too bad. He’d been known to sleep for an entire day when he’d taxed his powers too much, so half an hour meant he probably hadn’t done any lasting damage. He frowned then turned back to Zoro.

“Why were you up, anyway?”

Zoro shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. I’m usually on watch on the Sunny.”

That made sense. Law’s crew had their own watch schedule well settled, so, though they’d offered, there was no need for the Straw Hats or Wano guests to take their turns. Zoro was probably also feeling cooped up after being submerged for several days since they’d left Zou. The Hearts were used to being below the surface for days at a time, but the experience was completely foreign to their passengers.

Deciding he felt stable enough, Law slowly pushed himself upright. Zoro made to help, but Law waved him off. Law shifted so his legs dangled off the edge of the table, but he didn’t try to stand.

“What were you doing?” Zoro countered once Law had settled himself.

Law had a deflection ready at the tip of his tongue, but he pursed his lips and tamped down on it. What was the point? Zoro had seen him in Dressrosa; hell, Zoro had been the one to practically carry Law to Kyros’s cabin after Doflamingo’s fall when Law had been barely conscious from exhaustion and blood loss. He also wasn’t crew—an ally, yes. But he wasn’t one of Law’s, someone Law needed to protect.

Law rubbed a tired hand over his face then gestured down at himself and the ugly remnants of Dressrosa. “Treating my injuries. Unlike you all, I still heal like a normal human.” He frowned as Zoro snorted a laugh, remembering what he’d been working on when he’d passed out. He glanced down at his chest, noting the empty space in his chest. “Where’s my lung?”

Zoro jerked his head toward the counter. Next to the sink, Law’s lung sat, no worse for wear though he must have dropped it when he’d blacked out, next to the medical supplies and his shirt. Law let out a relieved breath.

“In the middle of the night?”

Law blinked, taking a moment to recover the thread of conversation. “My nakama don’t need to see this.”

Zoro tilted his head, mild surprise playing across his face. “You think they would care?”

Law shook his head. “It’s not that. I…” He took a breath. “I left them months ago when I went to Punk Hazard. They didn’t like it, but I ordered them to go to Zou. I told them I’d meet them there, but I didn’t really expect to ever see them again after that.” The ferocity of Bepo’s hug when they’d reunited on Zou, the way Shachi and Penguin wouldn’t leave his side until Law had to Shamble them away with the little bit of strength he had to spare, the relief in Ikkaku’s and Jean Bart’s eyes… It all ran through Law’s mind, guilt gnawing at his insides. “I think they knew.”

“So, you don’t want them to worry any more than they already have,” Zoro supplied.

“Something like that.”

“No offense, Torao—” Law snorted. Zoro never gave a shit about giving offense. “But that’s bullshit.”

Law raised an eyebrow.

“Who else can you trust at your worst if not your nakama?”

Irritation rushed through Law at that. “I didn’t ask for advice on being a captain on my own ship, Zoro-ya,” he snapped.

Zoro raised his hands, visibly backing off, and the irritation left Law’s veins as quickly as it had come on. Law sighed.

“Apologies.” Dressrosa and the reunion with his crew were still fresh, leaving Law feeling rawer than he had in years.

Zoro grunted, which Law took as an acceptance of the apology, before looking between the organ on the counter and Law. “What do you need?”

“Huh?” Law asked intelligently.

“With your lung.” Zoro shook his head. “That will never not be freaky, by the way.”

Law huffed a laugh. “So I’ve been told.” He let out a breath. “I found some signs of lead poisoning in my lung,” he said. “I was trying to fix it before…” Before his stamina ran out and Zoro had to fucking catch him.

That could never leave this room.

“Lead poisoning?”

“From Doflamingo’s bullets.”

“Bastard,” Zoro muttered, shaking his head.

“I need to fix it before returning my lung to my body.”

Zoro eyed him. “You up for that?”

“I was almost done,” Law deflected.

Zoro snorted, recognizing the diversion but not calling him on it. He pushed himself to his feet and stretched before heading over to the counter.

“What are you doing?” Law asked, frowning after him.

Zoro glanced over his shoulder. “Getting your damn lung, weirdo.”

Law opened his mouth but shut it again when nothing came out. Zoro nodded at his silence and carefully picked up the encased lung. He handled it with gentleness that Law thought should have surprised him but somehow didn’t. The swordsman returned with the organ and held it out.

Law nodded his thanks and took it in his left hand. He used his right hand to brace himself as he stood, but the arm buckled under him as he put pressure on it. He kept forgetting about the injury to his dominant arm. He cursed as Zoro reached out with a hand to steady him. Law took a steadying breath then pushed Zoro’s hand off him. Zoro’s lips twitched in response, but he didn’t say anything. However, Law noticed distantly as he summoned a Room, Zoro’s eyes never left Law’s face as Law finished removing the remnants of lead poisoning from his lung, as if looking for any sign of weakness.

Law wasn’t sure what to do with that realization as he slid his repaired lung back into his chest. He dropped his Room and took a test breath.

No pain.

Law nodded, and Zoro’s shoulders dropped the tension they’d been holding.

“You don’t need to stay, Zoro-ya,” Law said tiredly, leaning back against the operating table. “I still need to clean and redress my wounds.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow before silently retreating to the counter to grab the supplies Law had gathered earlier and returning with them. He set them on the table next to Law then crossed his arms, as if daring Law to kick him out.

Law huffed a breath at the other man’s stubbornness but didn’t push further. Practiced hands made quick work of disinfecting the bullet wounds and the stitching on his arm. However, Law could feel the effects of overusing his fruit creeping in, and his hands were starting to shake as he wrapped the bandages around his chest.

Finally, Zoro uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Law frowned but didn’t fight as the swordsman plucked the roll of gauze from his weary fingers. “Zoro-ya?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve done this for Luffy after a fight?” he muttered as he quickly and efficiently finished wrapping Law’s torso before looking for scissors to cut it off. Law opened a quick Room and Shambled scissors from a drawer into his hands.

Zoro frowned as Law offered them to him then shook his head. “Idiot.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Law muttered as Zoro tied off the bandages then moved to Law’s arm.

“Then don’t act like one,” Zoro countered. “You and he are more alike than you know.”

Law snorted but allowed the other man to finish his task, mind drifting with the steadiness of Zoro’s presence at his side. Maybe there was something to what Zoro had said about allowing his nakama in; Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin were allowed to see more than anyone else since they had been with Law the longest, but he kept a distance even with them when it came to his revenge plot. If he was being honest with himself, he knew he hadn’t opened up to them about his plans for Dressrosa because they might have succeeded in talking him out of it, and Law hadn’t known how to do anything but live for avenging Cora-san for more than a decade.

Now that Cora-san had been avenged and Law was still alive, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. He could throw himself into the task directly in front of him—taking on Kaido—but (assuming they survived) then what?

Once Zoro tied off the bandage on his arm, Law lifted his arm to test it. Firmly tied but not too tight.

“Not bad,” he allowed.

Zoro smirked as he stepped back. “Better than that and you know it.”

“Don’t push it.”

“You done here?”

Law nodded then definitely did not yelp in surprise as he was pulled up and onto Zoro’s back. Zoro’s lips quirked upward as he adjusted Law’s mostly dead weight, arms wrapping around Law’s thighs.

Law leaned over Zoro’s shoulder with narrowed his eyes. “Shut it, Zoro-ya.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And if you do, you’ll regret it.”

“Oh?” Challenge sparkled in Zoro’s eye. Law rolled his eyes. They both knew he was in no shape to fight Zoro right now.

But fighting wasn’t Law’s only leverage. “If you say a word about this, I will have my crew get rid of all the alcohol on board,” he threatened. “Dry ship until we get to Wano.”

Zoro went rigid. “You wouldn’t.”

Law’s lip pulled back into a vicious smirk of his own. “Try me.”

Zoro grumbled but stepped out into the hallway and followed Law’s directions to his cabin, only having to backtrack twice. Law would never admit it aloud, but he was grateful for the support. His strength had flagged, and his eyes were drooping as if his body had only just realized that it was the middle of the night and he should be sleeping. By the time they reached Law’s door, Law was giving directions around yawns and thumping Zoro in the thigh with his heel each time the younger man grinned in response.

“Let me down, Zoro-ya,” Law demanded without much energy behind it.

But Zoro ignored him and opened the door. He stepped inside and glanced around in mild interest before heading for Law’s bed. He turned around and dumped Law onto the mattress, letting him bounce a couple of times. With a hmph, Law leaned over to pull off his boots and kicked them over the side of the bed. His shoes off, he looked up to see Zoro dropping into his desk chair.

Law raised an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting.”

“At my desk.”

Zoro hummed in response, crossing his arms against his chest and shutting his eye. Law rolled his eyes in response as a light snore echoed through the room. The Straw Hats were truly just as stubborn and ridiculous as their captain.

And that was definitely not affection he felt toward them because of it.

Defeated and exhausted, Law turned off the light and smirked at the yelp of surprise when he hurled a pillow at Zoro’s face.

#Trafalgar Law #Roronoa Zoro #Caitlin's fic #One Piece fic #One Piece fanfiction #Bad Things Happen Bingo

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fanfalc-616 · 4 years ago

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The Rights Of A Nindroid

Chapter Thirteen- Variation One

(Prevoius chapter here)

(Discord Here)

This chapter was originally an RP with @ablackswansweet, and there are two versions- one from both character’s POV. I have Swan’s permission to post this.

Zane warily eyes the young adult who enters alongside Martha. Does she intend to hurt him to force him to do something?

“What do you want?” He questions, hating the resignation in his tone.

He really has begun to give up.

The blond seems oddly excited, considering the circumstances. It looks as though he’s barely containing himself as he comes up to Zane.

He leans into the nindroid’s personal space, studying him closely in a way that once again makes him feel like a studied lab rat.

"I want to learn how you work." The blond smiles deviously. He then grabs Zane’s face and moves it around to inspect it from different angles, and Zane tries to cover up his winces of pain as some of his exposed sensors are touched.

The blond takes a few notes in a notebook before returning to Martha’s side, still with an evil expression.

Zane tries to hide his sigh of relief when the teen leaves. It had taken a lot of impulse control to stop himself from attempting to bite the blond- being manhandled in such a way is a very unpleasant feeling.

“Haven’t you done that enough?” He protests, shifting in his bonds to the best of his ability. “With everything you’ve done to me, I doubt that any competent mechanic would need any more research.”

He glares at the two while he speaks, wishing he still had his faceplate- if only to better emphasize his look of displeasure.

The young man laughs a little, seemingly more to himself than to anyone around him. Yet once again, there’s still an almost cruel aura around him that puts Zane on edge.

"Thing is, Original, I'm not exactly a mechanic. I'm just really, really interested by your wires and gears. And how well they respond to… Certains stimuli," he says.

The teen takes a few more notes before looking to Martha, seeming to wait for approval. She gives it with a nod.

Zane doesn’t quite grasp what is happening until wires are hooked up to him, the blond still seeming to almost shake in his excitement.

He then steps in front of the control panel and looks back to Martha.

Zane feels a wave of unease take over him. Something about this situation is concerning him, and it’s more than the fact that they likely plan to hurt him.

They haven’t given any orders. They haven’t asked any questions. And yet it seems that they plan to hurt him anyway.

They claim that this is training, but at this particular moment, it seems as though this shaping up to be more torture than an attempt at teaching.

“To begin with, my name is Zane, not Original. Second, if you are so interested in ‘wires and gears’ perhaps a robotics course would be a more healthy outlet for you.”

He’s well aware that his words will make no difference, but he attempts to convince the teen to leave him alone anyway.

After a few moments, he adds, “Why are you doing this? I can assure you that I have never meant to cause harm on any innocents.” He glances over at Martha on the last words, noting her displeased expression.

“You can begin whenever you like.” She tells the blond, who hums in response.

"Hey, Original?" He calls out, waiting until Zane looks at him to continue. "You talk a lot."

The young man then pushes a button, and Zane finds himself squirming in his bonds at the uncomfortable feeling. This is far from the worst they have done or can do, but it is still not a pleasant feeling.

He watches as the blond writes something else down, and starts to try and reason with the teen, trying to convince him to stop. He even uses proper manners, but it still seems to have no effect.

When his requests to stop are left ignored, Zane decides to take a new track.

“I suppose I am talking a lot,” he admits, “but not nearly as much as an old friend of mine. Jay couldn’t stay quiet if his life depended on it.”

While starting up a friendly conversation might seem illogical, Zane hopes that it will perhaps give him some insight on the one hurting him. Information about the blond may give him an opportunity to convince him to stop- and perhaps small talk will help him prove that he is seintent.

"Heh, yeah. I had a guy like that in one of my foster homes." The blond smirks, seemingly at the way Zane is surprised. "Didn't end well for him either. No one like a constant source of useless noise, don't you agree?"

Zane isn’t quite sure why he finds him so humorous, but he chooses not to dwell on it, instead trying to find an appropriate response to the words.

"How is your old friend doing now?" The blond smirks as he turns up the voltage, staring Zane dead in the eyes.

Zane struggles to keep a hold of himself, gritting his teeth and trying to maintain the conversation.

And endless source of constant noise? That could be a way to describe it, but Zane has always been fond of Jay’s rambling.

“I haven’t seen him in a while- I’ve been a little…” He glances down at his chains, wincing. “... tied up.”

At this point, it’s likely that the blond has a game of his own if he’s still choosing to continue the small talk- and the large smirk on his face confirms it.

He pauses a moment before continuing. “I don’t think I caught your name, either. What do you go by?”

The blond wears a faux-surprised expression for a moment before answering. "My name's Kyle. He/him, I guess. But I don't think you're going to need to know that."

He returns to slowly upping the charge of the voltage, seeming to reveal in the uncomfortableness that he’s causing.

"Tell me about your other old friends.” Kyle still doesn’t look away. “You said you were dating, right ? How's it like ?" That menacing smile doesn’t fade, and while Zane isn’t quite sure where he’s going with this, surely playing along for the moment couldn’t hurt.

He forces any sign of pain down, attempting to keep up a polite and friendly facade even as the pain increases.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kyle.” He lies. “I don’t recall mentioning that I was in an active relationship, but I suppose that the background research you must’ve done would cover that.”

It is obvious that they know about his boyfriends- how else would they have known to show him what they did in the sensory manipulation?

The pain is still increasing, and it’s becoming harder and harder to pretend as though he’s not hurt.

His breathing has begun to grow heavy, and he’s sure that there are flickers of winces being shown, but he still does his best to maintain his friendly appearance.

"Yeah, I read your file before coming here. Big fan, by the way." Kyle still wears a cruel smile, but it starts to turn more menacing, an evil nature with more purpose. "Wonder how they feel about your self-sacrificing nature," he snarls.

But then he pauses, gritting his teeth. He seems to be trying to keep a hold on himself, but Zane isn’t quite sure what could have triggered it.

Unless… is it possible that his self destruct could have harmed more the way it did Martha?

Zane doesn’t have time to dwell on the thoughts, as he’s suddenly blasted with electricity, and he’s forced to bite back a cry of pain.

Thankfully, it’s only high for a few moments before Kyle lowers it, allowing Zane to regain his composure with a relieved sigh.

Kyle redirects the conversation again. "So, your old friends ?"

Zane decides to instead address the major concern of what may be a part of Kyle’s hostility.

“When I was fighting the Golden Master, I meant no harm to any innocent people. I was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I… I understand that in some ways, I have failed this function, but I do my best to help those in need.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Keep calm. He can’t let the pain overtake him- he’s begun to sense that that’s what Kyle wants.

He debates saying more, but chooses to remain silent, waiting for a hopefully diplomatic response.

Kyle sighs and gives him a sharp glare that confirms Zane’s hypothesis. It was likely that his sacrifice had-

He’s cut off from his thoughts by a spike of electricity, and it takes quite a bit of willpower to prevent himself from shouting out at the pain.

Unfortunately, it appears that his pained reaction pleases Kyle, who is now smiling again.

"You didn't answer my question, Original. How was life with your… Boyfriends ? Kai Smith, Jay Walker and Cole Brookstone, yeah ?" He smiles as he emphasises the last names, a menacing threat behind his words.

Zane feels everything in his body go rigid, and with his concentration now centered on the others, he knows that he is having more acute reactions to the pain.

He hates the small whimper that escapes him, but he ignores it in favor of speaking, addressing the underlying threat of his words.

“You do not touch them.” He snarls. “If you hurt them, I swear on the First Spinjitzu Master that I will hunt you down to the ends of the-“ Zane finds himself cut off with a cry of pain as the voltage is jammed up.

"Calm down. I didn't even actually threaten them yet," The blond mutters to himself. Thankfully, it’s not long before he lowers the voltage, and when he does Zane is able to breathe again.

But his panic is still running high. He had all but directly said that-

"If I wanted to truly use them as hostages, I'd tell you I know which shop they go to every two weeks to buy supplies and food, which is the one at the end of the main avenue."

The voltage begins to increase, and Zane wants to be listening, but he can only just make out his words, in too much pain to think straight.

"I'd tell you we have live feed of them almost every day and everywhere they go."

Zane hates the loud screams escaping him, but he can’t even focus on them, all of his attention forcefully grabbed by the pain and the threats, the way he threatens the ones he loves-

"Or… I'd tell you how one of them already got arrested once, and how easy it is to transfer prisoners or fake an accident."

Zane can feel the way his body is reaching the maximum limits of what it can handle, he can’t handle much more of this, this will kill him, he can’t possibly-

When the power is shut off, Zane finds himself sobbing, thankful that it’s gone, the pain is gone, but he still has fear running through him, fear of what could possibly happen to the ones he loves.

Kyle walks up to him, and Zane hates the fact that he flinches, and he hates even more the smile the teen wears when he does.

"Don't you dare threaten me or her ever again. Remember who holds the power here," the blond mutters in his ear before going back over to Martha, checking his notebook.

Zane doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed of how much he had screamed when the voltage was on maximum power- or at least, what had felt like it.

He wants to retort, to tell the boy that will protect his boyfriends to the death, to tell him that he is more than a machine, to tell him that he will threaten him again if he has to.

But he can’t find the words. He’s too tired to come up with proper sentences.

The part of him that spends too much time with Kai urges him to tell the teen a string of insulting curse words, but Zane ignores it.

When the two leave the room, Zane doesn’t even bother saying a farewell.

What’s the point in it, anyway?

#the rights of a nindroid #ninjago fanfiction #ninjago zangst #psychological torture #torture #trauma

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kylorengarbagedump · 5 years ago

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 32 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 31 here. Part 33 here.

Summary: Does anyone want to be here? Seriously.

Words: 4800

Warnings: tw: EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT for the first half of the chapter

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: This took some time to write, despite its length, so I really, really hope y'all enjoyed it, and I hope it achieved what I was hoping to achieve.

Big big thanks to @pnw-escapism, @thetorturerwrites, and @faestae for looking it over and providing guidance/corrections. I love y'all very very much.

I also love YOU. And I also hope you are enjoying this fic. I enjoy trying new things and challenging myself, so I hope the results are worth it. Y'all truly bless me every week. Thanks so very much, and stay safe. <3

In less than fifteen minutes, Kylo Ren was going to fuck you.

At the thirty-minute mark, your pulse pounded when you tied up your hair, recalling the last time he’d taken it down, wondering how you would feel once it was over.

At sunrise, you’d woken to the chirping chorus of birds in the garden, their song stirring in your mind as you dressed, as you shambled down the stairs, counting steps like you prepared to count seconds.

Yesterday, in bed, you imagined the painful stretch of his dick, the apathy in his eyes, the solemn sentence of your existence--not a woman to him, or even a person, but a receptacle for his seed.

And now, in less than fifteen-fucking-minutes, you would lie back in Johana’s lap, hold her little hands, spread your naked legs, and Kylo Ren would fuck you.

The sound of his voice permeated the thick air of the den, filtering through your ears like mud, mind already too murky to process it. From your knees, you could spy the shadows of his boots and Johana’s feet. Between them, the fireplace was barren--you wished for flame, for something else you could blame for your damp hairline.

Whatever reading he was performing dissipated while you focused on your breath, the slow, leaky sound of your trembling lungs grounding you to reality. In any other reality, in any other universe, you would spread your legs for Kylo Ren without him having to ask--but in this one, you were his former lover, his future incubator, his present cum repository. What you had shared with him was indescribable and unsustainable, it had shredded you open from your spirit to your skin, it had left you floating, a spectre to your own existence--and it made you terrified for him to touch you again.

The snap of a shutting Bible jolted you alive. You swallowed, and Kylo stood, leaving the book on the chair.

“Go prepare. I’ll be in.” His voice was emptier than you’d ever heard it.

“Yes, Sir,” Johana replied, and he left, crossing the room and exiting without a word.

On her instruction, the Marthas departed, and you followed her just as you’d done twice before--across hardwood, up the staircase, through the dark halls and into the bedroom. In the two days since she’d stolen your switchblade, you hadn’t spoken a single word to Johana, partially out of fear, partially out of anger. Your meeting with Rey had been embarrassing--you’d almost begged her to take you off of the assignment, to let you escape and forget about everything you’d promised to provide.

But you doubted Kylo would let you go, regardless of his current demeanor. And you’d also come to a reluctant, painful realization that you were the only person on the planet with enough insight on him to help bring Gilead down.

The thought of his future torment was a skewer to your heart--you were breathless at the mere consideration of him suffering, when all you’d ever desired was to hold his hand as his equal. But perhaps that was what he’d meant when he’d said he’d had no choice. There was no choice but to drive that skewer through your chest. After all, this wound would be like so many other wounds you’d accumulated since you’d been assigned to a red dress--it would continue to weep, drench your flesh in iron agony until it could scar. Until you were finally free.

“We don’t have all day.”

Johana’s voice yanked you back into his bedroom. She’d already lit the candles and was sitting, hands open, in the middle of the bed. Your stomach squirmed again--but you stepped to the side of the frame and slipped out of your underwear before clambering to join her, scooting to the edge of the mattress. Staring into the ceiling, you plopped your head onto her stomach and eased your knees apart, stiff fabric scratching your bare thighs, and when she grasped your hands, you started trembling.

Your first ceremony with Kylo Ren had been before you’d known him, before he’d known you. Now you’d lie under him and pretend that you had never seen devotion in his eyes, or felt affection at his fingers.

“What are you nervous about?” she mumbled. “This is nothing new for you.”

You didn't respond, worried that if you opened your mouth, you'd tether yourself to a moment that you wanted to fly away.

The door opened, and your stomach fell through the floor, smacked the foundation. Commander Kylo Ren stepped through the threshold, silent while he shut the door and approached the bed. Your heart hammered your chest, throat thick, breath picking up in pace, and through the veil of fear, you met Kylo’s gaze, the electric surge between you stuttering your pulse.

He studied your face, his jaw tight, a flicker of shielded connection vanishing in his pupils. You stared, chin quaking, seeking his mercy, met only with vacant, deadened consideration, an absence of recognition--it was as if he wasn’t even there. Behind you, Johana crushed your hands, a reminder of your inferiority, and you whimpered. You were a hummingbird, flitting between two lifeless flowers, starving for sustenance they could no longer provide, exhausted wings beating pleas into the cold, hollow air.

As he lifted your skirt, you disappeared into your mind, hoping to dissociate until he was done. An ache tore open your gut, a longing for him to be someone, anyone else--anyone who hadn’t held you, anyone who hadn’t kissed you, anyone who hadn’t ever spoken your name. And especially not this man, the one who had driven you to delusion, who haunted you, a revered revenant of your desires both pure and depraved.

In the distance, you heard Johana sigh, and then the muffled sound of him groping himself through his trousers. The world had become a turbulent torrent around you--all you wanted to do was drift. Or drown, flooded in memories you wished you didn't have.

Johana jerked your arms back in a vice-grip--you flinched, glancing up at her, only to observe that her focus had fallen to your Commander, who had exposed his erection, his cock thick and hard in his hand. He worked himself in preparation, as if he wanted to ignore you, as if the acknowledgement of your presence interfered with his task. Your pulse picked up, and another shudder rippled through you when he stepped forward, avoiding the pressure of your stare that you knew he felt.

You wondered, briefly, if he’d thought about stopping--if he knew you didn’t want this, didn’t want to be fucked like this, and especially not by him. You also wondered if he knew that it wasn’t because you hated him, or because you didn’t want him, but for just the opposite--and to meet him in faux-intimacy, to be branded with recollections of what you would never have and had been stupid to crave seemed worse than wallowing in nothing at all.

It didn’t matter, really, if he had--between the Eyes and Johana, he was duty-bound to fuck you and pump you full of semen--but as he parted your folds with the head of his dick, his eye twitched, his throat bobbed.

The pain was sharp and sun-white, and you whinged, wincing as your Commander broke your pussy open with a long, slow thrust, his breath caught in his chest. Chin trembling, he exhaled, tearing his attention from between your legs to meet your eyes. But it brought no relief--instead of solace, you found nothing. Nothing but a resigned, black void, swallowing familiarity. You snuffed a wheeze, sweat blooming at your nape.

Johana cleared her throat, jostling the bed with her calves, and Kylo started thrusting in lustless, obligated strokes. The tension, the resistance made it worse--you bit your lip, absorbing the hurt, unable to leave his gaze. With every new thrust, he split you wider, nerve endings buzzing in protest, the pain subsiding as your walls worked to accept the intrusion. In this fervorless reunion, you could focus on nothing else but the ice of his stare, the squelching sound of his cock, and Johana’s quiet, restrained breath.

Regret swelled in your chest, suffocating you. You wished it hadn’t had to end like this, wished he could have seen you as whole, wished he could have known you as you were, wished that he’d had the opportunity to truly cherish you--and maybe, to your horror, even more. Maybe, in some other world where he wasn’t possessed by power, he could have freed you.

Maybe, in this same, fictional world, he could have even loved you.

Water welled in your vision, and you sniffled, averting your gaze, hoping Kylo wouldn't see your tears. But it was too late--he grunted, and his hips jerked, moving faster, skin smacking yours in a shockwave of suffering. Whining, you caught his eyes again, and now they were whirlpools, churning with loathing and fury and sorrow. It thawed you, the intensity, the company in your misery--your Commander, still your reflection, as desperate as you were to leave this moment, to end the dagger reminders of your history.

That was the truth: you missed him. And he missed you. But you could never have each other in any way other than this.

Seized in the hurricane of emotion, Kylo’s lid twitched, and he gulped. He was close, you could tell, but stuck on the edge, unable to reach his peak, fucking you deeper, forcing himself toward climax. A tiny gasp left him when he shifted, leaning back to watch his dick drive into you--but your lack of enthusiasm, the dry spasm of your cunt dashed this strategy, too, and his chin quaked, eyes darting to you again, the whirlpool now a maelstrom threatening to gush from his flesh, and you wanted it to, wanted to asphyxiate in his anguish, wanted to meld with his need until the hot awful ache in your chest bubbled and burst and bled you alive.

Johana growled. “Will you hurry up and finish, already?”

You splintered, a sob escaping--it was unfair, so, so fucking unfair--and tears spilled down your cheeks as you trembled in her grasp, shuddered wails fleeing your chest. She seethed, and Kylo choked a groan as he shivered, slamming your cunt once, twice, with deep, full thrusts, teeth bared. And then he collapsed, back crested, bracing himself on the bed, panting with something you might have confused for exhaustion if you didn't know the truth, despite his theatrics. He hadn’t actually finished.

Avoiding your face, he pulled out, a blessing to your sore sex, and tucked himself away. Johana sighed with impatience, but he ignored her, glancing at you with glossy eyes before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

With a snivel, you met Johana’s gaze through the watery cloud of your own. If she hadn’t stolen the switchblade--if she hadn’t been so damn blind...

The latent pool of pain within you boiled like lava to sudden rage. Snarling, you ripped yourself forward, and she yanked you back, legs curling around you.

“What are you doing,” you hissed, “let me go!”

“If you think I’ll let you screw up getting pregnant--”

Grumbling, you twisted in her grip, wringing free. “I don’t care about that!”

She snagged your wrist, reeling you toward her. “Well, I do!”

“Get off!” You shoved her back, catching her eyes, spying the pricks of wetness there. “Is this really what you wanted? This is what you dreamed of?” Sneering, you leapt to the ground, wobbling from the ache in your cunt before snatching your underwear and pulling it on. “This is the life you imagined as a little girl?”

Johana watched you, silent, face contorted in a strange mixture of terror and disbelief. You rolled your eyes. There was no point in trying to reason with someone who was dedicated to dragging you into her own personal hell. Scowling, you took to the nightstands, ripping out the drawers--empty, empty, empty. Only one was occupied by the Bible, which you opened and shook for good measure, but found nothing. Growling, you turned to the dressers, stalking over to them.

“You’re wasting your time,” she said. “The knife isn’t in here. I don’t even sleep here anymore.”

You spun on her. “Why hide it at all?” Quick steps carried you to the bed. “Why are you doing this?”

She glared at you. “Why are you doing this?”

Blinking, you stalled. “What?”

“Is having the Commander wrapped around your finger not enough for you?” she said. “Do you have to try and--and take Gilead, take my child from me, too?”

“Your child--”

“Yes, my child!” She straightened, hopping from the bed. “I’m owed it! I deserve it!” More tears brimmed in her eyes. “And it deserves even a shred of stability when it comes into this world!”

A short laugh left you. “Is that really what you want?” you asked. “To raise a baby that isn’t even yours with a man who doesn’t even love you?”

“That’s what God wants for me!” she snarled. “It’s my job as the Commander’s Wife to stand by him, and once you give birth, I don’t care what I have to do. It’ll be your job to leave.” She was feet from you now, face tight. “Whether he loves me or not doesn’t even matter.”

You allowed her sentence to hang in the air, collect the weight of hopelessness like a magnet.

“Doesn’t it?”

She stared. There was a level of fantasy to her indignation, her ego clinging to the belief that once you were gone, this could all go back to normal, that all she needed to do was endure this new bout of her husband’s madness, as she’d endured everything else. A nagging thought lingered in the back of your mind--there’d been others who’d threatened this fairytale. You couldn’t figure out why she was putting up with you.

“I know there were Handmaids,” you said. “Before me. Why haven’t you, you know.” You shrugged. “Done with me like you’ve done with them.”

Johana stuck her chin out as she glanced over you, cheeks pink--then looked away. “It doesn’t matter.” She cleared her throat, smoothed her hair, and stomped to the door. “Just. Get pregnant. That’s all that matters.” Slipping behind it, she was gone.

Alone in their bedroom, you stared into the ground, shaking, and you kicked the air with a furious shriek, forcing tension through your hands. Your mind was still roiling--Kylo’s behavior during the Ceremony had confused, baffled you. There was only one important part of the entire ordeal, only one true reason for your purpose--and in the face of your pain, he’d abandoned it completely.

Sighing, you crept through the threshold, deciding to return to your room. As you passed through the blue-night soaked halls, through the wide windows overlooking the garden, you heard it--a tormented roar, the crash and shatter of something on stone--and your chest tightened. It could only be your Commander. And he could only be that upset about you.

Your ribs wrenched open with shameless need--a need you could and would no longer deny. In the strangled air of the bedroom, pretense had collapsed; you had needed him to see you, not a Handmaid, not his property, but you, human and broken and afraid. And he’d met you there, human too, a lonely Midas on his throne, buried within a mountain of glittering, lifeless gold. Like a gust, your feet carried you down the steps and through the house, careening toward the garden.

Breathless, you threw open the back door, flying over stepping stones, your path littered with the colorful carcasses of his wrath. You followed the shredded hedges, the flower petals tossed like confetti over grass, guided by his echoing ragged breath, hidden beyond the trickling pond. Skipping past the bench, you snuck between the topiaries, dodging shards of ceramic--remnants of planters that he’d shattered on the ground, leaving mulch hills and mangled leaves behind. And then, breaking through the viney maze, you saw him: a terrible, heaving shadow, stranded in a sea of black emerald grass.

He heard you, a ghost in the wind, and turned--hips-chest-shoulders--appraising his demolished domain, and then his eyes, red with remorse, found you in the wreckage, awash with him in the receding tide of reality. God, Gilead, the Council, the Ceremony--all of them equally meaningless in the new, blistering dew of your shared liberty, all of them crumbling like a brittle nest under the gravity of your need.

Kylo cut through the lawn, rushing you, and before you could think or speak or breathe, he was on you, one arm buckling your knees, the other catching your shoulders as he swept you up to his chest. Air escaped you, and you stared into him and his galaxy gaze, his hair melting into the moonless sky--a deity descended, your secret salvation. He clutched you to his chest, as if he could collapse you into it, nuzzling his face into yours, breathing in the scent of your skin.

You went to speak, and he hushed you, drawing a deep breath into his lungs, his fingers curling into your flesh. He held you there, cradling you under the stars, until you relaxed, releasing the breath you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. Then, without words, he walked with you, keeping you tight to his torso, sheltering you in the strength of his body. Trembling, you nestled into him, pressing your ear to his breast, reveling in the resonance of his nervous heart.

Kylo Ren carried you through his home, ascended the stairs, took you through those blue-night halls again, never once loosening his grip until he opened the door to his bedroom and shut and locked it behind him. He took you to the bed, a faux-bride in a blood-red dress, and eased you down, your head sinking into the pillow, your body limp on the mattress.

Strange, how different it felt from moments ago, how it was now a refuge in his presence, rather than a prison. Your shaking wouldn’t stop--it had escalated to full-body tremors, and he shushed you, cupping your face in his large palm, lifting your bonnet from your hair and tossing it to the side. Kylo captured you in his shiny, wet gaze, pressing his lips to your forehead before meeting it with his own.

“I don’t want you in this,” he said, tugging at your dress. “I don’t want you in this ever again.”

Blinking, you exhaled a laugh of disbelief. “What?” you asked. “But the law--”

“I don’t care.” His hand quaked at your cheek. “Let me remedy this.”

“Oh…” Your blood sang. “Okay.”

Keeping his forehead to yours, Kylo grappled with your boots and socks, tearing them free and tossing them to the side, then lifted your skirt, peeling your dress from your figure, staying linked to you until you needed to raise your arms to remove the rest. His face burrowed into your naked neck, and his hands swathed your back while he worked to remove your bra, sliding the straps from your shoulders and discarding it, too. Your breasts exposed, new gooseflesh smothered you, this time borne of wonder. Breath shallow, he hooked his thumbs into your underwear, meeting your eyes for permission--you nodded, and he shucked them in a single, strong movement.

Fully naked below him, he drank you in, his gaze glossy again, but he swallowed the emotion, passing his thumb over your temple. Then he paused, glanced at the floor, before kicking off his own shoes and stripping himself, his clothes joining the pile he’d created at the side of the bed.

He was flush with fire that swarmed the air as he climbed over you, the sensation of flesh-on-flesh wracking your bones. Shushing you again, he threaded his fingers into your hair, pressing soft kisses along your cheek, trailing to your jaw before he nestled into your neck once more, an arm looping under you, pulling you into him. Heat blossomed, blazing between your bodies as skin skimmed skin, and you writhed, wrapping your arms around him.

“Tell me,” Kylo began, his voice a whisp in your ear, “tell me everything.”

A shiver skittered up your spine. “About what?”

He mouthed wet, warm kisses at your throat. “You.”

“Like…” You blushed, thighs grating together. “Like, where I was born?”

“No.”

Nipping your ear, he moved lower, hands skating over you, painting pleasure with his palms. He suckled at your clavicle, tracing a line to your sternum with his tongue--you whimpered.

“Tell me what you fear.”

Gripping your backside, he burned kisses between your breasts, briefly acknowledging them with a nuzzle before continuing--his mouth was tender and deliberate, as if you were gossamer, as if you would tear under his touch.

“Tell me what you’ve lost.”

With a hum, he kissed over the roll of your belly, to the swell of your sex, settling between your legs and gracing your thighs with his lips. You squirmed, chattering with need, rocked by the ripples of pleasure arcing through your nerves.

“Tell me what you think of before you sleep.”

His nose skated your folds--and in one swift action, he grappled your hips, spinning you and rolling until he was supine beneath you, your legs straddling his head. You balanced yourself with the headboard, trying to find steady breath while you dizzied at the sight of your Commander’s beautiful face below you, a demon preparing for baptism between your thighs.

“Kylo--”

He murmured your name to quiet you, kissing the quivering flesh near your heat, your walls throbbing in anticipation. Kylo was slow, dragging over every inch while he teased toward your knees, then back, his hands caressing your hips. His eyes met yours, brimming with adoration, and he licked a line across your cunt, mouth massaging your other thigh. Breath quaking, you sifted through his hair, head falling back as you allowed your lids to flutter shut.

“Tell me,” he said, and pressed his lips to you.

A soft cry escaped, and you swallowed--Kylo was scattering small kisses along your slit, as if to heal the intangible wounds he’d left behind. He slicked through you, tentative, curious, exploring your depth, groaning with delight as he tasted you. To your surprise, words tumbled free, an easy baring of your soul, loosened by the barrage of bliss on your brain.

“I’m afraid…” You whined when he sucked a fold into his mouth. “I’m afraid of being alone.”

He purred in praise, releasing you to gather the other half with his lips, suckling it swollen, his tongue wet and strong as it slipped into your slit. There was a deliberate avoidance of your clit--which twitched and stiffened in ways it would only do for him--his mouth marking you in memory as he kissed you not in desire, but in apology. In servitude.

“I’m afraid of being lost,” you said, and another round of tears threatened to fall. “I think I am lost.”

Licking lines through you, Kylo purred when he reached the top of your cunt, circling your clit with lavish, lingering kisses. You groaned, fingers coiling around his waves, your hips bucking, begging for him, for his release. But he was torturous--he drew his tongue between your slit until his nose grazed your clit, sparking pleasure, a moan catching in your throat. Humming, he rolled the tip around it, and air fled you in wanton breaths while you tried in vain to grind onto his face, fighting his hold on you.

“I’ve… I’ve lost who I was.” Your throat was tight, your breath cycling faster. “I’ve lost who I wanted to be…”

Finally, finally--he rewarded your patience and flicked your clit with his tongue, swirling it in saliva before taking it between his plush lips. You sobbed, tears spilling free, body thrashed with waves of ecstasy, and Kylo moaned into you, his mouth hot and soft and working your clit as it throbbed and ached against him. Laving at you, he sucked, hands stroking up your sides until he reached your breasts, palming at them, thumbs brushing your nipples. Your back arched in bliss, and you jerked his head into you--in response, he battered your nub with his tongue, suckling you faster, chasing your wriggling frame as you gyrated in rhythm, your chin dropping to your chest, body plunged in pleasure.

“And I--ah--I think of you before I sleep,” you panted, unashamed, creeks streaking your cheeks, “I think of belonging, I think of being found, I think of being yours--oh--”

Kylo gripped your hips. “Cum for me,” he muttered, breathing your name. “I’ll find you.”

He drove his face into your cunt, sucking your clit past his teeth, beating it faster, groaning, bathing in your slick. You whined, twitched, moaned, and euphoria exploded over your skin--you came hard onto his tongue, clit pulsing in his lips, walls spasming at his chin. Kylo sucked in a breath through his nose, swallowing your orgasm, following your descent until the tingles disintegrated and you collapsed, spent, onto the bed, sweat sticking to the sheets, still shivering with tears.

A guardian, he gathered you up, pulling you into his protective embrace, a strong arm enveloping you. He folded you to his frame while he pet your hair, his lips soothing at your scalp.

“You’re here,” he murmured against your hairline. “You belong.”

You knew, from the soft lilt of his voice, he meant with him, not to him. In the silence, you wept, nuzzling into his bare chest, snaking your legs between his, hoping to blend your bodies. Doubt and relief zipped through you--this was all you’d wanted, perhaps all you’d ever want. His defiance and rejection of your role was concession enough for your forgiveness. But he was still a Commander. You couldn’t understand why he’d do it all for a Handmaid. For you.

“What about the others?” you asked. “Before me? Did they…”

He huffed. “The others sought me as you did.” A pause as a tiny exhale left his nose. “None were like you.”

You blushed. “But don’t you care,” you said with a sniffle, “about. You know. What made me this way?” When he didn’t respond, you continued, “Um. Like what made me a Handmaid.”

“I read your file,” he replied. “The day after you crushed a flower in my face.” He kissed your crown. “I’ve known.”

“Oh.” Heat swept over you. “You don’t care?”

He eased you back, gazing into you, thumb swiping a stray tear from your cheek. “Any man before me is inconsequential,” he said. “The number moreso.”

More heat. Shame. “I just thought…” You couldn’t continue looking into his honest eyes. “You helped make the laws.”

Kylo was silent, for a moment, his chest rising and falling with a slow breath. “There are laws I did not create.”

The admission flipped your insides, mind rushing back--Snoke’s office, his mockery of Kylo’s doubts, the recording, Ben Solo--you snuggled closer, smoothing your palms over his scarred skin. There were more scars, scars that you couldn’t see, but wanted to know and understand.

“What made you this way?” you asked. “Who was Ben Solo?”

Kylo Ren said nothing for a long, strained stretch, his heart quickening at your cheek. You stared into the wall, unwilling to move, to shatter the fragile vulnerability that he’d revealed. Then he tilted your head, large hand grasping the back of your neck while he pulled you into a slow, gentle kiss, lips caressing yours, his arm pinning you to his side. As he kissed you, he maneuvered you both so you were under the sheets, hidden to the world. He released you, only to graze your mouth again before passing his nose over yours.

“Tomorrow.” His irises shimmered, molten gold alive with passion. “You’ll see.”

Your pulse jumped. “O-okay.”

From the corner of your eye, you spied a proud tent in the sheets, bobbing for attention--you hadn’t even realized how long he’d been this hard. You knew he’d been denied release, that you hadn’t made him cum in weeks (though you didn’t know his private activities), and to have the opportunity now, in this bath of intimacy, was almost irresistible. Biting your lip, you reached for it, but he grabbed your wrist.

“Tomorrow, eager little bird.” He wove his long, thick fingers between yours, his grip dwarfing your own with ease, and clutched your hand to his chest. “Lie with me. Sleep.”

Nodding, you wiggled your fingers in his, your heart dancing, cells crackling with joy. Tomorrow. You didn’t know what it would bring, or the path for your future--but you knew, for now, the path to freedom seemed like one you could walk together. For now, the Resistance could wait. For now, Kylo Ren was warmer than a hearth, deeper than a forest, calmer than an empty ocean.

He was everything--both your night sky and your stars. And you fell asleep, serene, in the vastness of his arms.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #tw: dubcon #um I hope I did okay

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callmefitz · 4 years ago

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Two Weeks Ago, Today - Rumir Fic 4.1k words

Amir character study poorly disguised as a Rumir kidnap fic. Mild blood/injury description, hurt/comfort, happy ending and fluff.

(Forgive my lack of read below, I’m new and don’t know how to add a cutoff)

When Amir returned back to their room, Rupert was gone. The sheets were tousled and pushed back in typical Rupert fashion, something Amir has resigned to believing will never change. The windows were pushed open ever so slightly, allowing for some morning sunlight to spill onto the messy desk. Rupert’s desk, with unanswered correspondences, still cluttered the edges. He knew Rupert probably just got up when he left to check security with Joan. But still, the image from two weeks ago today still flashed in his mind.

The rain was roaring in his ears as Amir clambered back to bed. He loved Fitzroy, he loved Rupert... but when Fitzroy had to go the whole castle had to know.

“Rupert?” Amir whispered conspiratorially. Maybe tonight they sneak out to have a date night in the kitchens. With the rescheduled wedding on the way and the completion of the castle, they barely had time to each other anymore. They only really saw each other at night, when no reasonable person would request their counsel.

“Rupert...” Amir whispered again as his eyes adjusted to the dark, searching for the sleeping form of his fiancé. As the downpour intensified, a singular strike of lightening illuminated the room like daylight to reveal a horrifyingly gruesome sight.

The sheets and blankets were in knots on the floor, as if they were kicked and twisted as something was torn from them. The books on their desk were strewn about the floor. One of the swords resting in a rack above their bed was missing, left on the floor with a singular red stripe running along the sharp end and a few splatters beside it. The wrought-iron window overlooking the heartlands was bent beyond recognition as if claws sunk into it and pullled. Shards of glass glittered wet and sharp on the floor like diamonds.

Amir suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“Rupert?” He yelled, but the room was deserted. Already there were footsteps running to their room, he had probably altered half the castle by now, no matter, Rupert was gone... he was gone and-

“Your Majesty,” Sir Joan exhaled as she pushed open the door, torch in hand. For a moment Amir wished what he had seen was a nightmare, but the same scene greeted him cast in the sinister warm lighting.

“Oh Guiniverre,” he heard her whisper. Rupert was gone... someone had taken him right in his own home. He was gone and hurt and probably-

“Amir?” Rupert said softly, and Amir whipped around. Standing in the morning sunlight, Rupert leaned against the doorframe with a silver breakfest tray in hand. His eyes were tired and worn and his skin was pale, but underneath the horrors of the last two weeks he was still the same Rupert he’s always been. Amir released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Rupert still was.

He didn’t realize he was crying until a pale hand cupped his cheek, stalling tears in their wake. He held it to his face, feeling its warmth against his face. Fingers that, two weeks ago today, were bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. Now they were porcelain pale and un-Rupertly soft. They were still his. They were still alive.

Small wonders.

The silver breakfest tray was long abandoned, set off to the side and growing colder by the minute. Without words, they slowly moved to the bed, the hand not leaving his face. They sat near the foot, in the safety of the warm sunrise, for a few silent moments.

“Amir... you gotta talk to me here. What’s going on in that big ol head of yours?” Rupert said, so so softly, as if Amir was the one who was taken.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good head, a very nice head. Lots of hair on it, some pretty eyes, a left dimple that you show off all the time... very nice head, but not transparent.” Rupert rambled, and Amir laughed, his throat barbed with tears.

“I was a mess when you were gone,” Amir mumbled after a prolonged silence.

Rupert pulled away and regarded Amir for a few minutes. His face was drawn up in sadness, a loving silence, a deep compassion.

“Well, I think you did pretty ok.” He finally said, gathering Amir’s hands in his. “I mean, look at us. You saved me. We’re home. I have breakfest in bed with me and Fitzroy is still asleep. Normally this would call for a celebration.”

There was still a shadow of a bruise on Rupert’s cheek. Another reminder of Amir’s failure to do one right thing.

Two weeks ago today, Amir sat in this same place, his hands in fists by his side. The rain had long subsided, and Fitzroy sat his head on the bed longingly. He scratched his head, but it didn’t fill the void. Rupert was gone.

“Percy is leading a scan of the castle in case they’re still in the walls. I have Cecily leading the new recruits through the city and outer bands looking for evidence. Until we hear back, however, there’s only so much we can do,” Joan looked down at Amir with sadness in her eyes, “Hey.”

Amir met her gaze.

“He’s going to be ok.” She smiled, more to convince Amir than herself. There was almost nothing to go by, no notes or discernible trace of a captor. The room was a bloody mess, with splatters on the lower half of the walls and pooling around the untouched sword. Rupert’s sword. The sword of the west.

“Joan, I really appreciate your optimism, and I know we aren’t close so I may be over-stepping here, but please cut the crap.” Amir said sharply, “I know we have nothing. The guards have already cleared the castle. The watchmen in the outer bands have reported no exit or entry. He’s gone.”

“Guiniverre, he’s gone.” Amir’s resolve crumpled. His fingers dug into his hair as he pressed his palms in his eyes. He took a few deep, shuddery breaths before continuing in a painfully monotone speech.

“I just.... I really need Rupert right now. I need him. He always knows what to do. I always tease him for over-reacting... but at least he has plans! I’m no good at this, and we have nothing to work with. No trace. He’s just gone.”

Something stirred within Joan. She knows the hollow feeling, the guilty helpless. Except she’s had the luxury of false alarms thus far. Her eyes couldn’t help but to wander again toward The empty slot above the bed, where the western sword once hung. Now only the eastern one remained, and it was hauntingly incomplete without the other. “I-“

“It’s my fault. Rupert is awful with a sword. I meant to teach him, I really did. We’ve just been so busy, and with peace talks in the North and trade in the South we both agreed it would be pointless in the short term. If I had-“

“Considering the number he did, he isn’t completely awful with a sword,” Joan said with a smile and faux amiability, then lost it when she saw Amir’s composure. He was right. They weren’t particularly close, Rupert was the bridge between them with his friendship with Cecily. They saw each other in passing, exchanged commentary, but never had the chance of be alone together without a crisis.

Judging my Amir’s face, or lack therefore of, they were in another crisis.

“This isn’t your fault, Prince Amir,” Joan said forcefully. She sat next to Amir on the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation rested her open palm on his back. Something grounding.

“But it kind of is,” Amir brought his face up, “It can’t be coincidence that they came while I was gone. They must have been watching us all night... waiting for me to leave. They knew they couldn’t take us both. There’s no way-“

“No way you could have known,” Joan corrected the thought before it rose.

The rain continued its onslaught, and in the darkness Rupert felt farther and farther away from Amir.

“We shouldn’t be celebrating until your limp is gone.” Amir said with finality, breaking from the memory and entering the present. His hands left Ruperts and rested below his shoulders, “Seriously. Is your pain returning?”

Rupert pushed him aside and smiled wearily. His eyes were still half-lidded and dreamy with sleepiness from his medicine, “You’re worse than my mother. Amir, I’m fine. It’s ok. You saved the day in the end.”

“Hardly feels like it,” Amir laughed, but there was no jot behind it.

Rupert sighed.

“You know, when you and Joan finally found me, I was so exhausted and sweaty and gross and in a world of pain. I thought I was going to pass out,” he began.

Amir’s face fell into concerned pain, “Rupert-“

“But when I heard you dismount your horse and come running up, it was like I was meeting you all again. When you burst through that tent, it was like kissing you for the first time.”

Rupert was a total sap.

“I think we remember it differently then,” Amir said dryly, “because when I saw you, I was thinking a lot of not good words.”

Rupert smiled, “Well, duh. They were jerks. But you have to realize, Amir, I was terrified.”

Amir tensed.

“I was hurt and lost and stuck with a bunch of jerks and also thinking not good words, but when I saw you it all went away. I knew you were going to save me. At that moment, I was going to be ok.”

“Then you passed out,” Amir added.

“Well, then I actually did pass out.” Rupert agreed. “But you did saved me Amir. The window is fixed and Joan told me the minute I can walk the Castle circuit without a limp she’s going to have me run sword drills so much that I’ll collapse. We’re stronger and safer and happy again.”

“Are we?” asked Amir, “because everytime you leave me sight it’s like I can’t breathe again.”

Rupert pulled Amir close.

“The castle should have been safe to begin with. We should have trained more often. Something like this was bound to happen-“ Amir rambled, as Rupert hooked his arms around his neck and unceremoniously flopped backwards on the bed, taking Amir with him with an oof. He pushed himself slightly away, as if the fall somehow opened up all those nasty wounds.

“I’m serious, Rupert,” Amir continued, “You act like everything is fine, and maybe for you it is, but it wasn’t for me. You didn’t see it! You didn’t see our room and what those thugs were planning... you didn’t see yourself half-alive and drenched in blood. I saw it, and I still see it. It won’t go away.”

A part of Rupert wants to be mad. After all, he was the one who was taken. He was the one bound to a post in a stuffy old tent at the mercy of former Eastern kingsmen. But watching Amir, seeing the guilt in his eyes whenever Rupert’s step faltered, the detached expression when night fell and they lay silent in bed, the cold determination that filled his voice when passing new security policies; sure, Rupert was the one taken, but Amir was left behind. That alone was a different type of torture, and right now was his time to speak of it. This was only the first conversation of many.

Amir is crying now, harder than before. Somehow he felt shame in that- he rarely cries, even when it’s just Rupert.

“Rupert you’re... you’re my everything. I don’t think I could live without you... and that scares me. It scares me so much.”

“‘Mir,” Rupert said softly. His own eyes were wet with tears and he shuffled closer until their hands could interlock. The morning sunlight glinted off the two circular bands adoring their fingers. Engagement rings. A formality from the East that promised a lifetime together. For a moment neither of them said anything. For a moment it was as if it were two weeks ago, right before Amir left to relive Fitzroy and there was no concept of fear in the dark. For a moment their weakness remained concealed. A moment that lasted that lifetime tenfold.

“How are you ok with this?” Amir asked after an eternity.

This. This chasm that the last two weeks drew between them. The sleepless nights full of painful groans. The long days where he was barely conscious and breathing, miles away from home. The stormy night where he woke up alone and scared, and blindly attempted to fight off his attacker with a sword he barely knew how to wield.

“I’m not,” Rupert replied, barely above a whisper, “I almost didn’t get out of bed.”

Amir took a moment to absorb that information and turn it over in his mind.

“While you went to check with Joan, I considered one-hundred and twenty-nine reasons why I shouldn’t leave our bedchamber. All of them ended up with that tent. I think I hate tents now. I really hope you secretly aren’t a camping guy, because unless it’s a life or death situation I’m not going inside a tent again. No sir. You should call me No-Tent-“

“Rupert-“ Amir began.

“Exactly! But as I was saying, I thought of so many reasons why I shouldn’t get out of bed today. But then I thought of you, and how you’re probably exhausted, and then my stomach started grumbling, and I decided today I was going to get breakfest for us. So I did.”

“And you just, did it?” Amir looked away, to the window. Reinforced with dragon’s steel. Lavinia saw to it that the panes were too small off even a mouse to fit through if broken, so now the kaleidoscope window threw colors on the walls, floors, and bed of the room. Rupert’s face was tossed in a brilliant shade of blue.

“I didn’t just do it. First I counted to one-hundred and twenty-nine. Then I took my sword off the wall and debated bringing it with me. But Porridge doesn’t like weapons, so I put it back.” Rupert began carding his fingers through Amir’s hair, “Then I called for Cecily because my leg was so stiff, and she can throw knives scarily well so I decided she was much better than a lousy sword...”

The itemized description of Rupert’s morning was more to fodder the oppressive silence and diffuse any latent guilt via distraction that anything else. It must have worked, for as he went on the tears began drying and Amir’s stiff shoulders slowly went undone.

“... there was this whole thing with like, jam or marmalade? It was a whole debacle, then I couldn’t get a good grip on the tray and almost dropped it, which was a disaster. But we got back and I saw Cecily on her way and walked in, where I saw my brave, perfect fiancé on the verge of tears and decided that just wouldn’t do.”

Amir didn’t reply.

“I’m not fine, Amir. As much as you hate walking into a room without me, I hate waking up in a bed without you. I’m still really, really scared,” Rupert said, “But I don’t want this to break us. I can’t be scared to get breakfest. I’ve spent too much of my life being scared to do that.”

Amir adjusted on the bed so that he lay on his back with his head tucked underneath Ruperts chin.

“I think you’re pretty brave,” Amir announced after a moment of deliberation.

One week ago today, nothing but the thunderous, vengeful drumbeat of hooves and the air whistling past filled Amir’s ears. Joan was beside him, equally engaged in the chase, leaning forward and slightly standing on the back of her horse. Ahead, Fitzroy and Porridge led the trail, and behind some of Joan’s best recruits filled the rear.

Looming above were the Southern Caves, a cavernous mountain range cutting off the Heartlands from the Southern Tribes. Due to its intemperate climate and inaccessibility to law enforcement on either sovereignty, it was a breeding ground for crime, piracy, and highwaymen of all shapes and sizes.

Amir didn’t like to imagine himself engulfed in anger or acting out of hate. But if this lead ended up being false as well and Rupert isn’t there, he may skewer someone.

In other words, he pressed onwards with resolute determination. Meanwhile, Joan held out her arm to signal to Amir and the guild to slow.

“When we reach the overpass, me and my women will surround the suspects,” she said, assertively yet low enough that Amir strained to hear her, “You will survey the surrounding area and get to Rupert if he’s there.”

A hottness flared inside Amir, “But-“

Joan silenced him with a simple look, “If Rupert is here, he’ll need you the most.”

Ahead of him, Amir could hear the soft murmur of men talking around a campfire. Hints of smoke permeated the air around them, and through the foliage he could see flickers of light. They were so close. Joan raised her arm to signal readiness. Like a blade cutting air she thrust it forward, and with deadly silence the small army burst through the edge of the forest and into the bowels of the Southern Overpass.

The reaction was immediate. Laid before him was a modest camp, with well-established tents, bounds, and fires. Rage seethed within Amir- while he had been searching, they hadn’t even moved. The inhabitants, rough-looking men and women with a glint of former nobility in their eyes and sword, reached for whatever nearby weapon lay unattended and attempted battle. Joan’s recruits were as ruthless as they were capable- they quickly apprehended the band with a firm sense of duty and exceptional efficiency.

But Rupert wasn’t there.

Amir lept from his horse, hitting the ground with a dull thud as he took off toward the tents. He tore open the flaps of the first one. Empty. The second one. Empty. Blood rushed in his ears. The third one. Empty. Tears pricked at his eyes. The fourth one. Empty. He had to be here. The fifth one-

It took a moment for Amir to realize he was looking at his husband. Maybe because he had never seen him truly hurt before- they had both been roughed up, sure, but none of their adventures had ever turned disastrous. Maybe it was that, or the fact that Amir hadn’t truly accepted Rupert was gone until he was found.

“Rupert,” Amir breathed. The tent was stuffy and cramped, with odd and rotting furniture bordering the walls. A haphazard interrogation chamber was constructed with mis-matched chairs, with old food trays discarded near a corner. The smell alone was enough to turn any self-respecting man away.

“Hey ‘Mir,” Rupert half-whispered with a smile. Rupert, who was tied kneeling with his back to a post. Rupert, with a purple bruise reaching up his face up to his cheekbone. Rupert, with clumpy hair and watery eyes. Rupert, with bloodied knuckles and a half-rasp in his voice. Rupert, who was alive.

Amir sunk to the ground, knees hitting the dry earth with a thud and tiny clouds of dust. Both of his hands reached for Rupert, cupping both of his cheeks in his hands before sliding down to his shoulders; a cursory assessment. He tugged lightly at the rope binding Rupert’s shoulders, finding no give. His eyes then cast downwards toward Rupert’s leg, which was bent awkwardly out to the side.

“I’m fine, really,” Rupert said softly, “Just tripped.”

“Just tripped?” Amir echoed. He wanted to say more, but Rupert doubled over in pain, or as much as he could when forced upright, and groaned.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Amir said, mostly to himself, before retrieving a small dagger from his belt and begin cutting through the rope. It wasn’t a clean slice like he anticipated- it was thicker and more resilient than what it seemed- and took several seconds to cut. When it finally did break, Rupert slumped forward into Amir’s chest. He was a dead weight.

“Rupert?” Amir said. When the other didn’t respond, Amir gently pushed Rupert off him. His eyes were closed; he didn’t stir.

Fear gripped Amir’s heart. He let Rupert lean against him, feeling for the pulse in his wrist the steady puffs of air against his neck. Both were weak. He snaked an arm up Rupert’s back, threading his hand in the other’s hair and holding him close before leaping into action.

“Ok, ok,” Amir said softly, “It’s ok.”

He threw one of Rupert’s arms over his back and across his shoulder and held his other hand under Rupert’s armpit and pulled both of them up. When Rupert remained limp, he hooked his foot around Rupert’s leg- the good one- and walked for the both of them.

The sun was piercingly bright and equally hot when they both emerged from the center tent. Perspiration beaded over Amir’s brow, equally from the heat and stress. In a slow hobble towards Joan and the others, they pushed closer to freedom and further from the tent. One head low, the other upright and straining. When the rest of the recruits spotted them leaving the circle of tents, two young lady knights rushed to them to help. One helped support Rupert, the other with a bag of medicinal supplies sent by Lavinia.

As part of the illusion of normalcy, Lavinia saw to it that the West had excellent healthcare.

Together they laid Rupert in the shade of a particularly aged oak tree, where the two recruits (one a cousin of Cecily and the other a former lady in waiting for his mother) began to stint, bandage, and clean any of Rupert’s wounds. Amir felt useless yet again- while he knew basic first aid for prophetic reasons, performing it on someone else felt wildly different. In addition, most of his knowledge was based on what to do in the moment. Most of the marks marring his fiance were given a headstart of two or three days before introduced to gauze.

By either instinct or selfish need, Amir grabbed for Rupert’s hand. It was sticky with sweat and discolored slightly, but it was still his; his blood ran through it just like it did two weeks prior. Helplessness consumed Amir like a wave again. Protection was the foundation in which Amir’s core values were cultivated on. Protect his country, protect his people, protect his loved ones. If he couldn’t keep Rupert safe, then who could he protect? If he couldn’t protect Rupert...

Amir didn’t pretend things weren’t as serious as they were. If they had come a week later.. even days... Rupert’s health would have been scores worse. There wouldn’t be enough medicine in Lavinia’s bag to treat him on site.

The words of a particular bold suspect pulled him from his guilt.

“You’re just as foolish as your mother,” one of the men sneered, “Your father would be disgusted to have you as a son.”

His arms were bound behind his back, yet his impressive stature and scarred body proved that simple rope wouldn’t contain him for long. He was old- older than Amir, most likely a noble elevated to aristocracy by Amir’s father due to similar values and pugnacious tendencies. Despite this, he was a sad man. He didn’t know love nor longed to learn about it- any kindness in his soul had been long extinguished by a raw bitterness against the world and a hardened heart. He was grasping for straws in a blind attempt to recreate the past; his father’s past, built on the corpses of innocent people for the sake of expansion and greed.

Amir pitied the man. He wanted to say a thousand words in response; some of anger, revenge, debate, and instruction, but instead he only said one: “Good.”

The hand in his squeezes, and Amir is brought back to modern day. He leans into Rupert’s chest, listening to the steady heart beat and deep breaths that recently lost their rattle. The sun pours through the new windows, stronger windows, splashing a rainbow of colors across the bright room. Not a single cloud dots the sky: it would be another beautiful day. Rupert is alive- a wonder, a gift, a miracle- and Amir never wishes to be apart from him again. Maybe that is unhealthy, but right now, in this moment, not a single thing could tear him away.

Rupert is Amir’s everything, and Amir is Rupert’s universe.

“Amir?” Rupert says softly. Amir closes his eyes.

“Mm?”

“I think you’re pretty brave, too.”

#the two princes #the two princes podcast #prince amir #prince rupert #ttp #rumir #lady cecily #ttp podcast #ttp rumir #sir joan ttp #the two princes fic

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stonebreakerseries · 4 years ago

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Day3: Youth + “You did this?”

Day 3 of @oc-growth-and-development’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event!

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Tellene & Re’an

If the knock at her door had been any more timid, Tellene might have mistaken it for a trick of the wind. Well, it’s about time. Huffing, she reached down, sliding the key around her wrist into a small hole in her desk. With a twist, the door at the far side of the room clicked open. “Come in,” she said, taking a brief moment to check the state of her robes, making sure the red lapel lay flat and creaseless. Appearances were important business in Tel Shival. Almost as important as one’s skill, although the two seemed closer in competition now than they used to be. It was difficult to stand out in a place so overflowing with talent. Both the Allied Kingdoms and Khathi Empire only ever sent their best, and even then, most were turned away.

Luckily, Tellene, First of the Weavers, never had a problem making a name for herself.

It had been quite some time since she last dealt with an accolt. Being the youngest and least capable among their ranks, Tellene never had the patience to hold their hands as they trembled their way through basic glyphstrings. In fact, it was a testament to her dislike of instructing that she only spent a year as a Leirah before seeking - and gaining - a place among the Maesars. Now, Tellene folded her hands in front of her and fixed her narrowed gaze on the door as it tentatively inched open.

Oh Divider’s Own...

“Quickly, accolt. My time is precious. I will not have it wasted.”

That seemed to do the trick. By the drawing of her next breath, a nervous youth stood in her study, the door swinging shut behind him, his hands worrying the white sash around his waist. Like many from the western-most regions of the Empire, Re’an was slight in stature, his grey-brown skin reminding Tellene of the ashewoods that bordered her childhood home. While his entry record placed him at nineteen, he looked at least three years younger, with wide brown eyes and an almost frenetic disposition. Although, she conceded that could be circumstantial, given her reputation. Not to worry. The rigours of study and the intellectual warren of academia would age him soon enough.

However, and most interestingly, this young man had already found a way to stand out from the herd.

“M-Maeser Tellene,” Re’an stammered. Then, like a panicked afterthought, he raised two fingers to his throat and bowed his head reverently. Or it would have been reverent, if he didn’t appear moments away from fainting. “I, um… y-you sent for me?”

Tellene arched a brow. Rather than state the obvious, she simply cleared her throat and raised a small bundle of papers, bound together by a red string. Holding them aloft for Re’an to see, it was hard not to feel a little sympathy as the colour drained from his skin. “You did this?” she asked.

Funny, how simple questions rarely received simple answers.

“No,” he replied immediately, almost instinctively, then hesitated. “I mean, I-I’m not… I’m not sure if… I don’t---”

---“Let me make this easier,” Tellene interjected. She flipped the papers over and inspected the cover page. “Is your name Re’an?”

He cringed, but nodded, some of the nervous energy bleeding out as he resigned himself to his fate. “Yes, Maesar.”

“And you are a third year accolt?”

“Yes, Maesar.”

“And you recently sat an exam for Leirah Sonoval’s class on...” She glanced at the paper again, barely concealing a frown. “Thaumic Rhetoric: A History of Dissent?”

What in the Divider’s name were they teaching these days?

With her opinions carefully hidden behind painfully endured etiquette training, Tellene simply returned her attention to Re’an. Again, he nodded, apparently having lost the ability to use his voice. Sighing, Tellene was about to press on, but an errant thought stopped her in her tracks. This could be an interesting moment to gauge his mettle. In fact, with what she intended, she would be remiss not to seize such an organic opportunity.

“I imagine,” she continued slowly, setting the papers down and turning to the first page, “you have some theories as to why you are here?”

To her surprise, Re’an didn’t hesitate, equivocate, or attempt any other twist of rhetoric he had so clearly studied.

“I cheated.”

Good. So, he was reasonably honest, despite evidence to the contrary. That or he was clever enough to know that lying would serve him poorly. Either way, Tellene approved. If nothing else, it showed he could assess a situation quickly and with some accuracy, even while shaking hard enough she swore she could hear his bones clicking together.

Folding her hands on her desk, Tellene flicked her gaze to the wooden chair at the side of the room, nestled between stacks of books. Hesitantly, Re’an followed her silent instruction, picking it up and carrying it over. Once he set it down, he stood awkwardly by its side, unsure of how to proceed. I love that my reputation still precedes me, Tellene thought, before making an acquiescing motion.

“Sit, and tell me exactly how you cheated.”

Even though Re’an perched on its edge, chair seemed to swallow him, his arms drawn close, heel bouncing agitatedly against the carpeted floor. But then, much to her surprise, his brown eyes flicked up, meeting her gaze. Holding it.

Interesting.

“You don’t already know?”

A faint smile threatened the corner of Tellene’s lips. She fended it off. “It is clear to anyone with a set of eyes that you copied entire sentences - sometimes paragraphs - from a variety of seminal texts.” She leaned forward, chair creaking slightly beneath her. “I asked how you did it, in an exam hall, under the watchful eye of three supervising Leirah. And do not lie to me. This is important.”

Re’an shifted, wiping his palms on his robes. It was though his skin was too tight and he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. “I, ah…” The words stuck like glue to the back of his throat. “I... have a bane, Maesar.”

Tellene regarded him flatly. “A bane.” With a suffering sigh, she reached up, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. Unfortunately, it took time to overcome a youth spent surrounded by misinformed superstition; nonsense like banes and knacks and the old gods. It was yet another process she lacked patience for. “Oh, very well. What kind of bane, then?”

Clearly sensing her irritation - mostly because she never bothered to conceal it - Re’an refused to meet her gaze, chin down, fists pressed to the tops of his thighs. “I-I remember things well. Too well. Mostly things I read, like words, pictures, symbols...” He pulled in a breath, then mustered the courage to look up again. “Maeser Tellene, I read every text Leirah Sonoval set, then a few more outside the curriculum. The Maeser Librarian recommended some papers as well, and I read those too. Exams, they… they make me nervous. It gets hard to think, so I always over-prepare.”

“Many accolts feel the same way, and compensate similarly.” She tapped his paper with her nail, the sound sharp, ringing through the room. “That does not explain what you did here.”

Re’an hesitated. “I know what I need to say, most of the time. But when I start changing the words it just…” He wrinkled his nose, and Tellene saw an old frustration in the expression. This was not a recent struggle for him. “It just doesn’t sound right anymore. It’s like the way it was written the first time was how it was meant to go, and when I change it, something always gets lost. This time, when I saw the question, I panicked. So I just took the parts of what I read that seemed relevant and wrote them down. I didn’t even think about---”

Tellene held up a finger, silencing Re’an mid-sentence. “I did not ask for excuses. You are not here to beg forgiveness.”

The comment seemed to surprise him. “I’m not?” A genuine look of confusion swept across his face, followed closely by an even more surprising emotion. One that straightened his spine and brightened his eyes with something alarmingly familiar. “Then... why am I here?”

Curiosity.

Tellene leaned back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach. “I have met many thaumists with incredible memories. In truth, as a Maesar Weaver, I consider myself among them. But even in the best of circumstances, none of us can transcribe entire passages of relevant information - from multiple resources - with perfect accuracy. Not the way you have. It is highly unusual.”

Some of the young man’s self-consciousness returned. “Yeah, I know.” He caught himself, stiffening. “Ah, I mean: yes, Maesar Tellene.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “How long have you been in Tel Shival, Re’an?”

“Three years.”

“Do you lack ambition?”

He blinked, startled. “No? Maesar, I---”

---“Then why have you hidden this skill for so long?”

Still rattled by her previous question, he answered this one with far less hesitation, hands shaking. “Because I didn’t want people treating me like I’m---”

Tellene raised her brows as Re’an bit off his sentence, his jaw physically clenching from the strain of it. “Like an anomaly?” she offered. Re’an huffed, a rueful smile tinging his lips that made him appear much closer to his age. Maybe even a little older.

“That is a... nicer way of putting it than I’m used to, Maesar.”

Ah. There it is. He had been hurt before. Treated like an oddity at best, an aberration at worst. She would have to tread more carefully than she thought. “Re’an,” she said, and her tone pulled him out of his mind and back into the room. “You are aware that what you are capable of is in no way a ‘bane’, are you not?”

“I…” He looked down. “Yes, Maesar.”

Not so honest, then.

As much as Tellene lacked patience for most accolts, this one tugged at her. It spurred something almost protective; an instinct she thought she had fed to the sharks years ago. Perhaps being faced by a unique mind, still young enough to doubt its own capacity, had struck a chord she thought severed. Or perhaps she had simply uncovered some long-buried empathy.

Either way, she had made her decision.

“Cheating on a final exam is grounds for severe censure, depending on the Leirah. You are aware of this?”

Re’an squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Maesar.”

“And you are aware, being in your third year, that any censures on your record will severely jeopardise your opportunities when selecting a discipline?”

He sounded almost feverish. Defeated. “Yes, Maesar.” He swallowed tightly. “I… I want to apologise. I made a mistake. I will accept whatever punishment Leirah Sonoval sees fit.”

“Leirah Sonoval would have you expelled.”

Wide brown eyes fixed on her, horrified. ”He---what?” Re’an bolted to his feet, breaths coming in short bursts. It was as though he was unsure of whether to stay, run, or faint. “Maesar, please, I won’t do it again - I swear I won’t. It was one time - the only one in the three years I’ve been here. I can retake the exam, a harder one even, I don’t care. I’ll do anything, but please, please…”

Part of Tellene thought this moment would be somehow satisfying. It was an important moment - one she could not avoid if she was to make sure she got what she needed. But instead, as she watched Re’an blink back tears, frantic and terrified, all she felt was pity. Maybe even guilt.

Divider, what was happening to her lately? She was losing her touch. It was a good thing she rarely left her studies, or maintaining her reputation would be significantly more difficult.

“What discipline did you plan to join, Re’an?”

The change of subject - possibly even her change in tone - managed to shake him from his panic. Somewhat. “I… I couldn’t decide between the Augists and the Weavers.”

For the first time, Tellene allowed a smile to tinge her lips. “Well... perhaps I can help you reach a decision.”

This time, when he looked at her, there was no more fear. No more self-consciousness. No more dread. There was simply hope, pure and reckless.

“Y-You would let me join the Weavers?” Re’an swiped his eyes hurriedly with his sleeve, clearly embarrassed. “But Leirah Sonoval---”

---“Has no power over a Maesar’s charge.” She met his gaze. “I will allow him to assign you some texts on academic ethics to appease his wounded pride, but should you accept, that will be the end of the matter.” She paused, then added, “Provided you do not do it again.” Unless instructed.

She gave him a moment to let her offer sink in. It was an extremely rare thing for an accolt to be taken on as a charge, yet alone by a Maesar. In her twelve years as First of the Weavers, Tellene had never even considered taking a charge. Even from among the Leirah, who had petitioned her incessantly for a good ten of them. It was too much work for too little return. Too much like mentoring, which she had gone to great lengths to avoid.

Yet... here she was.

“You won’t regret this,” Re’an said suddenly, as though reading her mind. He seemed to have collected himself, and while he still trembled, there was something else about him now. Something charged and determined, if not to prove himself, then to prove others wrong. That was good - he would have to do a lot of that. No one takes kindly to someone pulling ahead of the pack. Divider, he reminded her of another man she knew. All he needed was red hair and about ten times the stubbornness. “Maesar Tellene,” Re’an continued, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

At that, Tellene snorted, arching a brow. “If you think you will be thanking me for this, you clearly have not been paying attention. I suspect your dormmates have already reallocated your bed and said their farewells to their fallen friend.” When Re’an actually smiled, Tellene struggled against the urge to immediately scare it away. No, that would not do - not if he was to be her charge for the foreseeable future. She could not bear timidity for any length of time. “You will meet me here every morning, directly after first meal. I am beginning your lessons in advanced glyphwork early.”

Re’an nodded frantically, swept along by the moment and all of its promise.

Then he stopped.

“Um... Maesar?”

“Yes?”

“I have Leirah Pelona’s class after first meal tomorrow.”

“I see.” Tellene leaned back, chair creaking beneath her weight. “Have you read the works of Djenovir?

“Yes, Maesar.”

“And you can recite them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have already completed the class.” With that, she turned the key in her desk, and the door on the far side of the room clicked open. “Don’t be late.”

#oc-tober #oc tober #fictober20 #tellene #re'an #telshival #prompt #neither of these two are major characters #(at least not for the first book)#but they show up now and again - usually Tellene in Delver's flashbacks - so I felt like writing a little about her #and her charge #who she needs for a very specific project that just so happens to perfectly align with his skills #StonebreakerSeries #tellene writing #rean writing

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notcanoncompliant · 5 years ago

Text

A Coast That’s Unclear - Ch. 2

Chapter Links: Ch. 1 // Ch. 3

Explicit, 18+ // TW: dubious consent (not in this chapter, and not between Tony & Peter)

Pairings: WinterIronSpider

Tag List: @thatmarvelstan, @pixelizedgenocide, @what-the-ever-lovingfuck

DISCLAIMER:

The ‘Underage’ warning is for a brief scene in Chapter 1 while Peter is 17, which is the legal age in NY. The rest of the explicit action happens after Peter is 18. It is going to get explicit. There is Daddy kink. Heed the tags, please. If you have an issue with it, don’t read this fic. Don’t bother with ship-shaming, I will delete your comments.

If y'all are good with this, keep going, and I hope you enjoy <3

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CHAPTER 2: Beachfront of Bad Blood

Steve's pissed.

He's frozen in the doorway, white-knuckling the strap of his laptop bag and staring into the dining room at what has to be a strange tableau; Bucky standing with his prosthetic extended, Peter Parker on one side of the arm, holding it and staring up with a deer-in-headlights expression from where he's been studying the metallic plating, and Tony Stark on the other, looking less startled, but slightly wary.

"Hey, Buck...what's going on?" Steve asks slowly. His voice is even, but tense.

Silently and profusely thanking whatever's out there that Steve's too polite to just launch himself at Stark, Bucky clears his throat and drops his arm.

"Peter, Mr. Stark, this is Steve. Steve, they're our tenants; got the room for the month." He doesn't bother with much more of an introduction because it's pretty obvious Steve recognizes the pair.

As Steve's jaw tightens and his eyes go stormy, Bucky steps forward and then turns back to face his guests, pastes on an easy smile.

"The room's upstairs, first door on the right--there's a sign hanging, can't miss it. Get settled in; if you need anything, I'll be down here."

Stark looks like he's going to say something, but Peter moves in close and nudges him sharply before giving Bucky a shy smile.

"Thanks, Bucky," the teen says, and then both guests grab their bags and disappear up the stairs. Bucky watches them leave, nerves sparking in his gut.

Steve brushes past Bucky to the arch beside the stairs.

"Kitchen. Now."

Bucky closes his eyes and runs a hand down his face before following.

Steve's on him soon as he walks into kitchen.

"What the hell, Buck! When were you gonna tell me you were planning on harboring Tony Stark and his kid in our house?"

"He's not a fugitive, Stevie," Bucky says. He needs something to do with his hands, a reason to not look at his fiance, so he crosses to the sink and starts washing the few dishes.

"He's running from the consequences of his actions," Steve fumes, "He's lucky I'm not reporting him to the police, or--or calling the press--"

"The kid's eighteen," Bucky says, scrubbing a little harder.

"Stark's had him since he was fifteen. Do you really believe nothing happened before he was legal?"

Bucky's gut twists, and he sets down the plate to face Steve.

"Stark Industries is one of the biggest companies in the world, Steve; you think Stark woulda had a press conference if this was about another pedophile in power? Peter'd be buried, not on fuckin' vacation with the guy. Stark's not hiding from what he did; they just don't wanna be eaten alive by the press--."

"You didn't even tell me!" Steve cries, throwing his hands in the air, "You didn't even give me a chance to--fuck, Bucky, that's awful." He sounds hurt, and Bucky's jaw tightens.

Didn't give you the chance to say 'no'. He slumps back against the counter.

"I couldn't, Stevie. I got the call, and I had to help 'em. At least--couldn't you at least be okay with this for the kid? You know he doesn't deserve any of the shit they're sayin' about him, and no one out here's gonna give 'em any grief."

Steve just stares at him.

"You're not even sorry, are you?"

Bucky doesn't say anything. After a long, tense moment, Steve's expression hardens.

"Fine," he snaps, "I'm going to bed." He grabs his laptop and walks out, his feet thudding pointedly upstairs.

Bucky exhales, turning back to the sink. Through the window above it, he can see the sky just barely beginning to turn purple with the sunset.

He's not sorry.

Of course he knows Steve's at least partially right about Stark and the kid; Bucky's not naive enough to discount it entirely. But he likes to think he's a pretty good judge of character, and after actually meeting the two of them...he's willing to hear them out.

Especially Peter. The kid had been on Bucky the moment he and Stark stepped into the house, rushing through a greeting and then asking to look at Bucky's arm.

His expectant stare had been all big brown eyes and lightly flushed cheeks, and god, he's pretty had run through Bucky's head before he could squash the thought. He'd smiled and said "Go for it", and Peter had immediately put his hands on the prosthetic, turning the arm this way and that, leaning in close to look, all the while spewing questions and exchanging all kinds of tech babble with Stark that Bucky couldn't hope to keep up with.

A minute or so in, Stark had come to stand across from Peter, watching the teen with indulgence and undeniable pride. Bucky's pulse had picked up when the billionaire had glanced at him and arched a brow--Cool, right?--and Bucky had smirked in acknowledgement...

And then Steve had walked in.

Bucky knows his initial impressions don't necessarily negate the more disturbing possibilities, but...Peter's clearly confident, intelligent. And Tony hadn't come across as possessive or hovering or censoring; he'd just stood back and watched the kid go, a soft smile on his ridiculously handsome face.

Tony Stark...God. Bucky swallows.

He's seen pictures, but up close, the guy's something else.

Both of them are.

Bucky's only human. A human in a months' long dry spell--of course he's going to notice. It doesn't mean anything.

He rings the sponge out with a little more force than necessary.

When the sky's dark, he goes up to the bedroom.

Steve's deeply asleep, snoring softly on his side of the bed. Bucky sits down at the edge on the other side. He watches his fiance for a long moment. He can't remember the last time they went to bed together. Even just to fall asleep in each other's arms.

After a few minutes, he pulls himself up and leaves the room, closing the door softly.

A beer. A beer sounds good.

A few feet from the stairs, he sees a sliver of gold light across the wood floor. Tony and Peter must still be awake. It's a little surprising; fresh off hours of driving, they'd both looked understandably beat when they'd showed up, despite the enthusiastic examination of Bucky's prosthetic.

He slows and tries to keep his footsteps quiet, padding across the hardwood and carefully avoiding any creaky boards. When he's about cross the thin spill of light, though, a soft noise comes through the open door, followed by a dark chuckle.

Bucky freezes.

"No, no," he can hear the smirk in the man's voice, "you don't get to be shy now, sweetheart."

There's another sound, the sharp drag of a body over sheets, and a shocked gasp. And then slick, wet sounds that Bucky's willing to bet are from Stark's lips and tongue.

"Tony--"

Oh. Oh God. He needs to walk away. Now.

"You look so gorgeous like this, baby," Tony says.

The quick, sharp smack and Peter's short cry of pained pleasure jolt Bucky, send uneasy electricity skittering through his gut. He really needs to leave, and he...really can't.

"Please--"

Peter sounds wrecked, and suddenly all Bucky can see is the way the eighteen year old had looked up at him, the spread of pink across his cheeks, the banked excitement at the prospect of getting the chance to put his hands on Bucky--

On Bucky's arm. The arm.

He can still feel all the places those fingers had pressed on the metal plating.

There's the plastic pop of a cap, and then more filthy-wet sounds as Peter makes another wordless plea.

Tony speaks again.

"You looked so pretty earlier, too. Blushing for him like that. Do you want him to see you like this?"

The response is mumbled, quiet, Bucky has to strain to hear it.

"...yes."

"Yes what, baby?"

There's no immediate response, and then Peter gives an almost pained whine.

"Yes, please--I--I want him to see me--"

"You're going to tell him 'thank you', baby. For letting you put your hands on him."

"Y-yes, Daddy--"

Tony hums in approval. "Good boy."

A rhythmic shifting starts, the building slap of skin on skin as Peter moans brokenly.

"You're so perfect, Peter, so good for me..."

Tony practically purrs the words, and Bucky's going to hell. He's going straight down into the pit of fire with a cock so hard it hurts, and it's with that resignation that he lets himself cast a quick glance at the gap in the door as he finally goes to walk past.

It's fine, he's not really looking; he probably won't see anything anyway--

--But that's bullshit; Bucky knows the layout of the room like the back of his hand, knows exactly where the bed is positioned in relation to the doorway, and--Oh God.

Peter is laying bent over the side of the bed, facing forward in Bucky's line of sight. His eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is slack, his hands twisted in the blankets. Tony's upright behind him, one hand on the back of the teen's neck, the other at Peter's hip, keeping him pressed into the mattress as older man's hips roll in a sensual, controlled surge and retreat. If the billionaire were to look up, it's almost a sure thing that he'd be able to see Bucky at the door.

Bucky's pulse is pounding in his ears--god this is so wrong shouldn't be watching this what the fuck am I doing--and he finally moves past, carefully making his way down the stairs.

In the kitchen, he takes a Heineken from the fridge and pops the cap with his prosthetic hand, stands at the counter and chugs half the bottle in one go.

Maybe an hour later, Bucky re-enters his and Steve's bedroom. He stretches out next to his fiance, leaving a broad distance between their bodies.

He's wide awake.

He can't stop thinking about the cut of Stark's hips, the hungry but loving look on his face as he stared down at his boyfriend?--lover?--and Peter, face screwed up with pleasure, clutching desperately at the comforter.

The door was shut when he came back down the hall.

Bucky drags a hand down his face, exhaling heavily.

You're so perfect, Peter, so good for me...

Fuck.

***

The next morning starts...poorly.

Steve's side of the bed is empty and cold when Bucky wakes up. He drags himself out of bed and through a shower before he makes his way downstairs.

He feels a wash of shame as he passes by the guest room; the door's closed, no sounds filtering through the wood.

In the dining room, there's a fresh pot of coffee on the table, an empty mug beside it. Steve's parked at the nearby table going over some paperwork, a sour expression on his face.

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky tries. His fiance looks up, sighs, and goes back to his paperwork.

Alright then. "How'd you sleep?"

"Shut it, Buck. We're still fighting."

"Good to know you've decided that for the both of us." Bucky goes to fill his mug as the sound of a palm hitting the table top rings through the room.

"Damn it, why can't you take this seriously," Steve snaps. "He adopted the kid! He's supposed to be his father!"

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee.

"And--and you welcomed him with open arms--brought him into our home. Why?"

Before Bucky can answer, he turns in time to see Steve's expression tighten, become concerned and slightly condescending, and Bucky's hackles rise.

"Bucky, babe," Steve says, a cross between placating and pleading.

"Don't," Bucky warns.

But Steve does. "You don't owe him anything--"

"It's not about the arm, Steve, fuck. I know I don't owe him anything!"

"Then why, Buck?" His fiance's glare is cutting, back to angry disbelief.

Groaning, Bucky tilts his head back and covers his face with both hands.

"Why?" Steve asks again, quietly.

Bucky sighs, his hands dropping to his sides as he returns Steve's gaze. It's too early for this garbage, too early to deal with Steve's righteousness, it's just...too much.

"The kid's eighteen," he says flatly, "It's no one's business but theirs. I got a chance to help someone who needs it, and I did. You've always said I'm a good judge of character, and I trust Stark, okay? He's not hurting Peter."

Not in any way he doesn't want, Bucky thinks, and he tries to ignore the trickle of heat down his spine.

"Just drop it, Steve," he says and walks away.

***

Bucky sees Peter and Tony in passing throughout the next few days.

He wonders if they heard he and Steve arguing.

He wonders if they heard him outside their door that first night.

He knows this is messed up, that even though Tony made him an arm--gave Bucky his life back--Tony and Peter are strangers. Steve's his fiance and his childhood best friend; he should be backing Steve, being part of the team Steve tells him they are.

But Tony and Peter are...exciting, in a guilty way, in a fantasy way that Steve isn't. Every night, he lays in bed, not touching (not that Steve's reaching for him, either), and while his fiance snores quietly, Bucky thinks about sneaking back down the hall to the guest room door, but he doesn't.

He just spends the days living for the small moments of contact; Peter's quick smiles and small waves in passing, the occasional "Hey, Mr. Barnes" or "Hi, Bucky".

(the kid has quite the blush; it makes Bucky think too much about that first night, and he does his best not to react too much in those brief encounters beyond a casual "Hey, Pete," in case he gives some sign, lets them in on the secret he's trying to keep for himself.

And he keeps waiting for a 'thank you'. Feels guilty for expecting it, and then guiltier for being disappointed every time it doesn't come.)

Tony has to know. Bucky's almost sure. The billionaire doesn't say anything, doesn't ask for anything, but whenever he and Peter pass by he stares at Bucky a little longer than is casual, eyes shuttered and searching.

And Steve...Well, Steve hasn't been speaking to him, but Bucky can't find it in him to care. The total distance is...kind of a relief, if he's being honest with himself.

***

On the fourth morning, Bucky's had enough of the tension. He's up and showered by 7 a.m., standing outside the closed door of their only tenants, ready with an olive branch.

He's barely knocked when the door cracks open.

Peter smiles up at him, says "Morning." He looks sleep-warm, doe-eyed and soft, like he isn't quite awake, yet. He's lovely.

Bucky realizes he hasn't said anything back when Peter begins to look faintly amused.

"Hey, Pete," Bucky says, finally, smiling back. He feels like he might be blushing, which is completely ludicrous, since the kid's just standing there...in nothing but an oversized Stark Industries t-shirt that brushes mid-thigh...

Fuck.

"...Did you need something?" Peter asks, and Bucky wonders if he might be projecting his own desires, because the words come out soft and promising, Peter's big brown eyes seeming to heat as Bucky watches, and suddenly he very much wants to know what Peter looks like when he--

Bucky clears his throat. "Yeah, actually; I was gonna go out to the beach today and figured I'd see if you and Tony wanna come?" Word choice, Buck, Christ.

Peter's face lights up instantly, chasing away the sleep and whatever else Bucky thought he'd seen.

"What?! Yeah! Definitely!" he says, twisting around and bounding out of sight. "Tony, wake up!"

There's a squeak of springs as the kid presumably lands on the mattress, and Bucky has to resist the urge to peek around the still partially opened door. He hears a mumbled response, and then Peter's voice again.

"It is important; Bucky wants to take us to the beach!"

A groan and more mumbling, and then Peter returns to the door, grinning.

"Tony's still waking up, but he said he's down! Let me get him in the shower and dressed and we can go!"

He disappears back into the room, leaving the door open a crack.

Feeling lighter than he has in days (maybe even months), Bucky goes down to wait on the porch.

It's late November, so there's a layer of fog over everything and the beach is empty; even in the spring and summer, the town's too small for excessive tourism, and during this time of year there's hardly a soul. Bucky loves it; it allows for peace in a way nowhere else does, and he feels good about bringing Peter and Tony out with him, hopes they find some of that peace for themselves..

It also feels like a good way to start making up for his...indiscretion.

Everything's quiet, muffled by the fog; the waves and the cries of seagulls sound far away. They walk down the cement path that runs from the parking lot along the stretch of the beach, and Bucky's relieved that Peter's not put off by how not 'California' the beach is.

The group wanders far enough down that the parking lot is no longer visible, and Peter leaves the path to explore closer to the water. He picks through the rocks and wanders down to walk near the tide, about twenty feet down from the walkway, as Bucky and Tony continue a short ways.

They end up parked on a driftwood bench, hands in their pockets, relaxing to the hush of waves and the snatches of laughter and indistinct conversation from Peter, who's busy making friends with a local, and the local's dogs, that have wandered over from one of the nearby private beaches.

Bucky sneaks a glance at his companion.

There are plenty of photos of Tony Stark floating around, ranging from professional magazine covers to scandalous, blurry paparazzi shots. None of them compare to the man in the flesh.

The billionaire's reclining against the backrest, watching his lover, an affectionate half-smile on his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes are crinkled just a little, and the light smattering of grey through his dark hair and goatee make him look distinguished, masculine. He looks...lived in, comfortable in his skin. The arrogance of youth and genius has been tempered by life experience; now he radiates the confidence of the busy but well-lived, and he wears it well.

Bucky allows his eyes to drift along the cut of Tony's jaw and then down his chest and stomach. That expensive wool jacket is open, the dark red shirt Tony's got on is tight enough to hint at the musculature underneath. Bucky's seen it all, the olive-toned skin and soft muscle, wants to see it again.

He suddenly recalls Steve's angry comment --he's supposed to be his father!-- and feels a hot, dirty rush. His eyes travel back up to the other man's face to find it angled towards him, a knowing smirk curving Tony's lips.

Bucky clears his throat and looks back out at the water.

A little distance away and to the side, Peter's standing, breathing hard from running around with the dogs and smiling while he talks to the dogs' owner about God knows what. Bucky can feel Tony's eyes on him, hot on the side of his face.

"Has Peter said anything to you the last couple days?"

Bucky swallows, looking back at the billionaire.

"Like what?"

Tony smirks at him. He's about to say something, and then he breaks eye contact to look past Bucky. The amusement stays, but warmth floods in, and Bucky's pulse jumps.

Peter steps onto the path and drops onto the bench between them. He's grinning, color high on his cheeks, and Bucky's brain helpfully supplies the last time he'd seen Peter looking so flushed.

"Hey, Pete," Tony says, smiling.

The teen returns the greeting and starts leaning toward his boyfriend, and then stops abruptly, starts to sit back.

"You can kiss him in front of me," Bucky blurts. Jesus.

He genuinely means it as a reassurance; he wants them to feel comfortable behaving like a couple. Bucky's seen the strain between them in the house the past few days, the way they avoid unnecessary contact outside their room, especially if Steve's nearby. But he knows how it sounds, and Tony suddenly looks a lot more amused where Bucky can see him just past Peter's shoulder.

"I mean you're allowed to be cute with each other, that's all," Bucky says, kicking himself internally while giving Peter what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

And Peter...Peter's looking at him kind of like he wants to crawl into Bucky's lap.

"Thank you, Bucky," he says warmly and purposefully, and when a little more color blooms under the kid's skin, Bucky feels heat rise under his own.

When the kid doesn't immediately turn to kiss Tony, Bucky feels the insane urge to lean in himself--and then Tony's hand comes up to cup Peter's chin and turn the boy's face to his.

"That was nice of you," he hears Tony murmur.

Bucky's expecting something filthy to happen next to him at this point, and he's not sure how he's going to handle it. But the kiss is quick, and then Peter's sitting upright and talking about the person he just met and the dogs he just played with, and Bucky feels a little like he's going crazy.

They don't stay at the beach for long; the wind starts picking up and the clouds are beginning to look darker, like they might spill soon.

On the drive back, Peter leans up between the front seats so he can alternate between resting his chin on Tony's shoulder, fiddling with the radio, and eventually--after shyly asking Bucky to take off his jacket--inspecting Bucky's prosthetic again. The 'inspection' this time around is mostly Peter tracing fingertips along the fine lines of the plating, and Bucky tries very hard not to react too obviously.

By the time they get back to the house, Bucky's rock hard in his jeans, and even though he's pretty sure he manages to get out and get his jacket on and zipped without anyone seeing it, the too-innocent look on Peter's face makes Bucky think he's underestimated Peter Parker a little.

"I'm gonna run upstairs real quick," Bucky says as soon as they're inside. "Coffee pot's over there; figure I don't need to give the geniuses any instructions. I'll be right back down."

"You're not gonna hang your coat?" Peter asks, gazing up at him guilelessly.

The expression cracks when Tony walks behind the kid, and judging by Tony's smirk and the sudden blushy indignation and tiny smile on Peter's part, Bucky's willing to bet he just pinched the kid's ass.

Bucky makes his escape up the stairs, trying to move like he doesn't have an erection, a semi-hysterical laugh bubbling behind his ribs.

"Ugh, Tony--Bucky! Wait! Do you have any hot chocola--Oh, hi, Steve..."

Shit. Bucky nearly runs right back down the stairs, wants to put a physical barrier between Peter and his fiance, but he knows better than that. Instead, he scowls down the hallway and keeps going towards his room.

He's hanging his jacket in the bedroom closet when the door creaks open.

"Buck?"

Bucky takes a deep breath.

"Yeah, Stevie?" He pulls a thick sweater on over his t-shirt and turns around.

"Where'd you guys go?"

Steve's standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, trying too hard to be casual. The thin veneer is obvious as hell, and Bucky really doesn't want to have this argument.

"The beach," Bucky says shortly. "I figured they might wanna see more than the inside of our house for the next month."

"You didn't wake me up."

Bucky holds back a sigh, moves to the bed and starts straightening the pillows.

"You never wanna go to the beach. And I didn't think you'd be into hangin' out with Stark." And I didn't want you to go.

"I'm into hanging out with you," Steve says, the words ringing hollow, and Bucky almost laughs as old, faded pain echos deep in the back of his mind.

Pulling the blankets into place, he runs his hands across the fabric to flatten the wrinkles and straightens to face Steve.

"Stevie, don't--I get why you're angry about Tony, but don't act like--"

"So it's 'Tony', now--"

"Don't act like you've been tryin' so hard to make time for me, because it's been months, Steve," he says, "Since the arm. Since before the arm."

He feels sick from adrenaline, and Steve's looking at him like he can't believe Bucky would say something like that, and Bucky just can't be in this room anymore.

"I'm gonna make breakfast. Just--just don't do this shit in front of company."

Bucky gives Steve a wide berth as he goes to leave the room.

He's just turned the corner from the stairway when Steve comes thundering down after.

"I'm going to the library," he says as he yanks open the front door, "so I don't 'do this shit in front of company'."

Peter comes out of the kitchen archway and freezes, a mug in his hand, and Steve whirls on him.

"Have fun with my fiance," he snaps, "since apparently your own father isn't enough."

"Steve--" Bucky snarls, but the door slams shut. He starts to follow--

"Bucky, don't! Just--let him go," Peter says, his voice strained.

Bucky turns, and Tony's standing behind Peter, now, his mouth drawn tight in a thin line, and noticeably not touching the younger at all. Peter looks drawn, shaky, hands gripping his mug like a lifeline.

Pressing his palms into his eyes so hard he sees patterns and colors behind his lids, Bucky curses thickly. He drops his hands, and there's a stilted silence that just drags.

After a moment, Bucky exhales and rubs at his mouth. He knows the smile he gives Peter is strained, but he's trying.

"You wanna help make breakfast?" When Peter nods, a little of the weight comes off Bucky's chest.

"Okay...Okay. Fuckin'--" Bucky waves his hand in a vague gesture at Peter, "--hug your damn boyfriend, Tony," he says to the billionaire, "He's shakin' like a leaf. Kid's gonna be droppin' eggs all over the place."

It's nonsense, and he feels his face heat a little bit, but as he skirts around them to go into the kitchen, he's relieved to see Tony gather Peter tightly to him and press a long kiss to the kid's hair. Peter buries his face in the crook of Tony's neck.

Bucky doesn't stick around to watch any longer, goes into the kitchen to start pulling out what he needs to make french toast and bacon and eggs, and then he has to stop and grip the counter, because his hands are shaking.

When a palm lands on his shoulder, he jumps a little. He'd missed the approaching footsteps.

The hand stays, squeezes gently for a moment, and slides off.

"I'm not great at cooking, but I'm great at paying other people to do it for me," Tony says.

Bucky snorts. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Let's do the small town thing. There's got to be a diner around here that serves more grease than food."

Tony's smirking at him, and Bucky huffs a laugh and lets go of the counter.

"Yeah, alright."

_______________________________________

This is available to read on Ao3 as well <3 But I’m going to post the rest of the chapters I have so far (up to ch. 6) on here, too.

#starker #winteriron #winterspider #ironspider #ao3 fic #not steve rogers friendly #WIP #fanfiction #fic writing #actu

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harryandmolly · 6 years ago

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The Long Way Home -2-

Summary: His world is a little rocked when Shawn is joined on his 2019 world tour by Emma, a former child star with a chip on her shoulder and a voice that haunts him.

Warnings: Language, brattiness, popstar angst

Word count: in the neighborhood of 3.8k

Emma wakes up on the wrong side of the bed again.

Physically, it’s the wrong side of the bed. For as long as she can remember, in whatever bed she’s slept in, from the fifth floor walk-up shithole in Ladera Heights to her grandfather’s house in Louisiana to every five star hotel she’s patronized, she’s slept on the right side of the bed.

Since her team for tour is more modest than that of a headliner, she took advantage of the opportunity to trick out her bus. She replaced the back lounge with a whole bedroom rather than a bunk under a snoring make-up assistant. It’s not the grungey first world tour experience but, fuck it. She has the money and she wants the privacy.

But this bed situation must be really throwing her off. She wakes up on the left side three mornings in a row and it puts her in a fouler mood than she already has been.

She stands slowly, feeling a familiar ache in the balls and heels of her feet, her knees and her lower back. She has the body of an 18-year-old plagued with the ailments of a 60-year-old and there’s no real wonder why with seven days a week of Pilaticardio on top of choreography rehearsals for tour.

Choreography was one of the many things she fought against and clearly lost out to the opinions of her managers, agents and mom. She had plenty of dance experience, sure, you don’t get to be Miss Little California 2010 without being able to put together a jazz square, but she never pictured herself dancing on stage.

She shakes the thought from her head, unwilling to go down that road so early in the morning. If she starts the mental list of all the things she’s doing now that weren’t as she pictured, she’d just get back in bed and she can’t because tour starts today.

Tour. Starts today.

She does almost crawl back into bed but Margaret’s at the door going through her schedule as Emma strips naked and changes into an Ivy Park workout ensemble that she thinks Mabel, her stylist, one of the only people on this bus she can stand to have half a real conversation with, would approve of.

Emma marches out of the converted back lounge bedroom past her troops – Mabel sitting with a bowl of steel cut oatmeal, Carmela, her trainer, in a ball cap holding resistance bands that make her cringe just looking at them. Her make-up and hair team are still in bed, she thinks, because she won’t be needing them until after her torture session. She hates them a little for getting to sleep late but she blames the bitterness on the early hour.

Before tea, before avocado toast, before coherent thought comes Pilaticardio and all its associated agony. Carmela spread out mats and equipment in the empty parking lot outside the venue beside their bus. When they start getting their blood moving, Emma remembers, as she does every morning, why she puts up with it. Pilaticardio makes her feel strong. Emma doesn’t live the kind of life where she feels strong often. From the outside, she looks like the top of the operation, the head of the dragon, making decisions and directing her destiny. It couldn’t be further from the truth. She obeys Carmela’s every instruction but still commands her own body in a way no one can control but her. She revels in it.

When it ends, she’s powerless again, resigned to be whisked off for a five minute shower, breakfast and into hair and make-up for her first ever soundcheck.

She’s not listening to Margaret as they stride across the blacktop toward the venue. She cradles her sweating water bottle in her hands, tapping her manicured claws against the strong plastic.

Emma can’t help herself. She glances at the bus she knows to be Shawn’s, strains to hear some activity, narrows her eyes to look for signs of life. Her heart races just at the sight of it, which she dutifully ignores in favor of her analytical approach.

She tilts her chin up proudly. She’s awake and working hard before the headliner. She assumed this would be the case as Shawn doesn’t need a glam squad to get him looking that good. Plus, it’s her MO. If she works twice as hard as everyone around her, she wins. That’s been ingrained since birth, since her pageant days, since her biggest worry was if she could twirl a baton faster than the girl next to her that her mom always called chubby but really she just had a sweet round face.

Emma carries herself even taller in her skyscraper wedges, practically strutting past Shawn’s bus. She assures herself it’s not because she wants him to be looking, to be watching the back pockets on her skinny black jeans. A thrill shoots up her spine at the idea, though. To have Shawn Mendes’s eyes on her ass? Well worth the Pilaticardio.

Emma tunes back in when she hears Margaret’s voice tick up in register, indicating she’s asked a question. Emma looks at her and raises an eyebrow. Margaret, very used to repeating herself at this point, reiterates.

“Do you want your mom along on the radio interviews tomorrow?”

Emma fixes Margaret with a blank stare. Margaret’s eyebrows quirk and she nods with an exhausted sigh.

“Right. I’ll book her a massage instead.”

Emma doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t acknowledge her. She keeps walking, her heartburn kicking in earlier in the morning than usual.

Appropriate, then, that her first single, the thing that’s been kicking up almost as much fuss in her team as this tour, is called “Fireheart.” “Fireheart” was first played for her by a team of producers in a frigid conference room on the 40th floor of a building in downtown Los Angeles where all the bad things happen to her. She remembers smiling in that way that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she croaks. In her head, she’s tearing her hair out.

She went home that night to her 6-bedroom palace in the Hollywood Hills, the only place she gets to be alone (at least sometimes) and cried so hard she busted blood vessels in her cheeks that she knew would make the make-up artists think she’s bulimic and she doesn’t have the energy to correct them.

“Fireheart” isn’t a bad song. She chants this in her head as she springs up the steps to the artist entrance of the venue with Margaret hot on her heels. This chant has a tune associated with it now for how often she desperately repeats it. She bobs her head along with the imaginary beat, walking past her vocal coach with a nod and a shallow grin as she walks onstage.

She feels nothing when she looks out into the 17,000-capacity arena, empty and waiting for her to bring it to life. She stands on the edge of the stage, painted toes almost hanging off the edge, willing a little bit of danger to get her blood pumping. It’s the only thing that does anymore.

Her vocal coach Steven stands behind her, feeding her warmup exercises. She stares at the fourth seat in the third row, wondering who will be there tonight, wondering if she’ll be a little girl screaming her name, or screaming “Becky,” the character she played on Fake It Til You Make It. She answers to that name as easily as she answers to Emma. It doesn’t matter anymore. Neither of them are her. Not really.

Soundcheck goes off without a hitch. Her voice is sounding great, thanks to Steven. Just to be safe, since it’s her first tour and her voice is so green, he has her on vocal rest for the rest of the afternoon. If he weren’t 54, gay and married, she’d plant one on him.

Emma retreats to the bus for a conference call with the label about her single release, a dreadful reminder that this precious vocal rest can’t last. The single drops in two weeks and they’ve been hyping it up for months like it’s a fucking Beyonce album. Radio interviews are set up all over Europe. They’ve picked the treatment for the music video, which they’ll shoot on a day off during their stint in LA in July. Everything is almost ready for her debut, her sugar pop, twinkly-eyed, auto-tuned debut.

Thank god she can be silent for that call. And thank god no one but Margaret can see the faces she’s making.

When it ends, she feels that familiar 3pm defeated feeling. On her persistently buzzing phone, she types up an “I need 30 minutes. Please” message in her notes app and shows it to Margaret. Margaret acquiesces with a sharp nod.

Emma stumbles into her bus bedroom and shuts the door, slumping against it for a 10-second pity party, hanging her head.

In five steps, she’s at the foot of her bed, yanking at her shoes and reaching for her magenta wireless Beats at the same time. She hops onto the Casper mattress she insisted on and feels her bones sing her praises for relieving them.

But before she descends into a quick rest, she crawls on her knees to the window at the head of her bed and peers out through the slatted blinds, again looking toward Shawn’s bus curiously. Lights are on now, of course, it’s midafternoon and he’s soundchecking after her. She has great timing, apparently, because the door opens and, behind a few scraggly band members she can’t remember the names of, he steps out in Nike shorts and a pink hoodie that makes her release a funny noise from the back of her throat.

She studies him, the way he turns and responds to one of his friends with a barking laugh that makes him throw his head back. He runs up behind another one and claps a hand on his shoulder, facing away from her so she can’t see him but she imagines he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

That 3pm wave of indescribable sadness is ebbing closer and if she doesn’t head it off at the pass, it’ll crush her. She licks her lips and lies face up on the mattress over her Egyptian cotton sheets, feeling a rush of relief in her veins like heroin when her headphones go on and the music starts.

She closes her eyes and rests a hand in her stomach while the other rakes through her hair. When she’s this far away from everything, she can pretend the hand doesn’t belong to her, that it’s someone else doing a job she’s done her whole life – soothing her, talking her off a ledge.

“I pretend that I’m not ready, why do we put each other through hell? Why can’t we just get over ourselves?”

Shawn lives for the feeling he gets before a big show, and there’s no show bigger to him than a tour opener.

He’s been bouncing off his dressing room walls for hours, it feels like. He’s so jazzed by the thrumming in the walls of the Ziggo Dome as it fills to the brim with tens of thousands of screaming fans that came to see him. He can’t imagine this level of energy coming from anywhere else. It’s fucking addictive. He wishes everyone could try it.

When a team of women looking solemn storm past his open door, he knows Emma is near. Sure enough, his room of band mates and other team members falls silent as she brushes past the door, flanked by her manager and her vocal coach.

She’s dressed for the show in a spangley blue dress and matching high tops. Her hair is blown out and her eye make-up is dark. As she passes the door in a long, modelesque stride, they lock eyes for only a fraction of a second before she’s looking away like she didn’t see him. He shivers.

“She’s really starting to freak me out,” Zubin mutters.

Shawn frowns. “She’s just… cold,” he mutters, puzzled.

“Fucking frigid,” Geoff replies sharply, disapprovingly, “A girl that pretty can’t be that mean, it’s so wrong.”

“She’s not mean,” Shawn defends, sitting backwards in a chair so he can lean his chest on the back panel, “I mean, she hasn’t been mean, she just hasn’t been friendly.”

“She’s barely said a word to anyone but her team since she got here. And have you seen the way she looks at them? She’s an ice queen,” Mike reasons.

Shawn knows it’s pointless but something in him wants to fight for her, fight for something in her he hasn’t even seen yet. But he’s heard her sing so he knows it’s in there.

He shrugs, noncommittally. “I’m gonna go watch her set from sidestage.”

He’s joined by the others because they’re curious to see if this lovely Fembot can put on a show. They crowd their way out into position as her music comes on. He recognizes the track from the first season’s soundtrack, her first top 10 Billboard single. He rolls his eyes at himself for how familiar he’s become with her career. He pretends it’s simply research, that it’s good sense to know about his opening act. If he’s honest, that’s not it entirely.

He makes sure she can’t see them before she walks out – he doesn’t want to make her nervous. If she’s anything like he was during his first arena show, she’s shaking like a leaf right now.

But she could’ve fooled him. She struts out onto the stage, bouncing in her cute sneakers and waving like she’s Taylor fucking Swift. And she might as well be because even though she’s the opener, at least half the stadium is shrieking her name. It’s this funny hybrid of “Emma!” and “Becky!” that, amplified, sounds more like “EMKY!”

He feels like he’s watching “Camp Rock” or something. Every move is choreographed, every line screamed to the crowd is rehearsed. Her dancing is perfect. Her pitch is on point. She might actually be an automaton after all. He’s pretty convinced until she reaches the last song of her set.

The dancers flee. Someone runs a vibrant yellow acoustic guitar out and she slides it on like it’s an extension of her. He shifts uncomfortably because he’s kind of turned on.

She pulls two pins out of her hair he couldn’t see were stuck in there and her hair falls longer and looser around her lightly bronzed arms. She smiles as the crowd cheers and murmurs something into the mic about “slowing things down for a sec” and it’s still practiced but he hears something in her voice he hasn’t yet and he’s hooked.

She swings the guitar behind her back and kneels, unlacing her sneakers. She kicks them off and stuffs her little white socks inside. Shawn and his whole group are silent, watching her with fascination. She stands upright, barefoot and gives the crowd the first genuine smile he’s seen on her. It takes his fucking breath away.

She shifts back and forth from the balls of her feet to her heels, sliding the guitar back into place across her stomach. She begins strumming softly and he recognizes the opening chords to “How I’ve Been.” He knows it well, it’s his favorite. It’s the seventh track on her third soundtrack album and the only one he’s found that boasts her as its only writing credit.

She bobs her head with the music and he finds himself joining her. She balances the guitar on her right hip, her right foot lifting onto her toes as she strums. He watches the shimmering sequins wriggle over the backs of her long, butter-soft legs. Shawn actually feels his stomach flip like he hasn’t in a very long time.

Emma’s voice is deep and throaty on this track. He loves the way it sounds in his headphones but even more now when she’s singing it live and he can hear it vibrating out of her chest. He wants to rest his head there while she sings to him but he shakes that idea as quickly as it comes and focuses. Eddy nudges his arm and makes a surprised and impressed face. Shawn quickly nods and looks back at her, unwilling to be distracted from this.

She’s here now, he can feel it, in a way she hasn’t been the whole show. The whole two days they’ve been at the venue. She’s commanding the stage in a way he didn’t learn to do at all while he was an opener, and arguably not until well into his first headlining tour. But she’s crooning into the mic like an old fucking pro, planting her feet wide and throwing vocal runs into the song that aren’t on the recorded version.

He hears himself whoop from the sidelines and he doesn’t care that his bandmates are eyeing him suspiciously. He claps loud even though he knows she can’t hear him. He’s just happy to witness this.

Her last run is the most impressive and has the whole crowd on its feet. When her voice fades, the cheering doesn’t. She lifts the guitar by the neck and grins genuinely, laughing and waving. He hears himself laughing and glances around. The guys are swept along, too, smiling and nodding to each other, mumbling about “hey, that was pretty fuckin’ good.” She’s won them all over, it seems. Shawn is content.

After a quick, humble bow, she grabs her shoes and scurries off. As she’s approaching their side of the stage, she’s still smiling down at her feet, watching where she’s walking until she sees a big group of man legs and stops dead, her smile dropping off instinctively.

“Awesome job!” Shawn practically squeals, stepping up to give her a quick, friendly hug. It’s awkward around her pretty yellow guitar and because she totally freezes when she sees him.

When he pulls back to chat with her about the set, she’s gone. Not physically, she’s still there, but whoever she was on stage might still be floating around out there in the ether, away on the wind, because she’s definitely not in Emma’s body.

Her expression is flat. She manages a dead smile and a nod. “Thanks, man. Have a good show.”

She steps aside, nodding politely at the other members of the band before stalking away, still barefoot, still sparkling. Her cast of creatures hustles behind her to keep up with her enormous steps back to her dressing room.

Shawn’s eyebrows are pulled together in thought as they wade back through the twisting backstage hallways for the last few minutes of pre-show prep, complete with rituals and superstitions. He needs to shake this weirdness before he gets out there. He wonders if he’ll catch a little bit of her, the one he saw during the last song, when he’s out there. Maybe it’s like a pixie dust he’ll breathe in and he’ll feel again like he did when he was watching her.

He doesn’t spend much time wallowing in his bewilderment, there’s too much to do. Between Andrew and the band, he’s fully occupied, no room for powerwalking blondes with long fingers and bare feet. They herd up the way they always do and prowl to the stage. The full power of the pre-show ecstasy overtakes him. He’s drunk with it, drumming his hands on his thighs, nodding his head impatiently. He’s handed a perfectly tuned electric by a tech named Joey and grins wildly, thanking him by name, which seems to take him by surprise.

When the lights go down, his heart roars in his chest. He bounces on his toes and throws his head back, shaking his hair and feeling the fire crawl up his veins.

He jogs out onstage, momentarily overwhelmed, like he always is, every night without fail, at the screams. They’re screaming for him. That’ll never not be so fucking cool.

He greets the Dutch crowd to raucous cheers and starts playing “Lost in Japan.”

He forgets to look for her until after the second song once the jitters have faded a little into welcome energy. He looks forward to her reaction and hopes she’s having a good time. He glances to the side he stood on earlier and doesn’t see her. He turns and looks the other way and frowns.

He tries not to wonder about it as he starts in on “Why” and curls a hand around the microphone with a guitar pick between his fingers. He looks down at the VIP section, assuming she wanted a better vantage point.

But no Emma.

He’s definitely thrown but continues on, willing himself to forget her absence until he’s lost in the show again.

It’s a great tour opener. Amsterdam is such a fun crowd. He thanks them profusely after his encore and jogs off, handing the guitar off again with another “thanks, Joey,” which earns him a wholehearted “great show, Shawn.”

Andrew greets him excitedly with words of genuine praise that Shawn doesn’t really register.

“Thanks, man,” he laughs, nodding at him, “Hey, did Emma leave?”

Andrew keeps his gaze level, shrugging. “She didn’t stay for your set.”

Shawn blinks. “She didn’t stay? At all?”

Andrew shakes his head. Shawn’s parted lips shut and he hums, trying to sound disinterested.

“Kay. Let’s bounce, I’m fuckin’ sweaty!”

His words are stilted and he knows if he can hear it, so can Andrew, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

After some good-natured monkeying around and a beer or two, Shawn strips off his sweaty show clothes and showers off, letting himself think about Emma again. He wonders why she didn’t stay. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well? Maybe she’s got an early interview tomorrow, her single is dropping pretty soon, he thinks. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter. It’s impolite for an opener to leave before the headliner’s set, especially on the first show of the tour. It’s a weird vibe to throw out.

But he can’t stop thinking about her with that yellow guitar and her hair sticking to her back and her toes curled against the dirty stage floor for balance. He grows a little hard under the hot water at the thought. He throws the temperature to the cold setting, blasting himself as he plants his hands against the tile wall, breathing slowly. When it’s so cold it sucks the air from his lungs, he shuts it off and steps out to dry off.

He walks past her bus that night with his hands in his pockets and his head in the stars. He notices a light on in the back where the lounge should be but he hears she converted it to a bedroom and he scoffed when he heard it from Geoff but he’s secretly a little jealous. As he walks closer, he hears music. He strains to place it. He lifts his eyebrows when he realizes it’s Tammy Wynette.

Frowning, he slumps off to his bus, feeling a little defeated. But the tour must go on.

Taglist: @the-claire-bitch-project @smallerinfinities @crapri @stillinskislydia @carlaimberlain @heavenly—holland @abigfatmess @rosecolouredtimes

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes rpf #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes fic

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cassiebunny9 · 7 years ago

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‘Take a Breath- Part 2′ Drake x MC fan fiction

Thank you to everyone that read part 1! I love reading fan fiction, I love that someone has created something with characters you love, and filled the ‘moments in between’. So this is attempt number 2 for me at fan fiction. Just FYI, I’m VERY new to this, and spend most my real life in a toddler-induced sleep deprived state, so there’s plenty of typos etc.

Parts 1 and 2 were written as I personally felt that after the scene in the Beaumont study and the interaction between Drake and MC at the coronation ball, SOMETHING must have been happening!?! There is so many things that they needed to acknowledge, both together and mentally. So this is my take on how things went down. It’s a bit angsty but how can it not be? As much as the last chapter of TRR annoyed me, at least we can hopefully have a guilt free option in Drake in book 2. I hope you enjoy.

Rating: M

I don’t own the characters, but I wish I owned Drake

***************************************************************************

Drake

Tears cling to her lashes, and I can hear her sharp intake of breath as she processes my declaration that yes, that night where we gave into the passion, and pressed as close as we could clothed, meant everything. And nothing. As she exhales, I see the moment she registers that nothing can change, and her eyes harden with resignation. I raise my hand, and gently wipe the tears away with my thumbs and pull her close, saying a silent goodbye in my head. My chin rests on her hair, my stubble teasing it into an even more untameable mess. Her theatrics from flinging herself on the bed earlier have loosened her signature front plait, and I find myself absentmindedly combing my fingers through the ends. The light scent of her shampoo teases my senses and I know that saying goodbye to her will stay with me forever, never knowing what could, and should be. 'It's not enough, is it Drake?' she sighs. She knows there's no response either of us will like so I just pull her closer, keeping silent, savouring the feel of her delicate frame enveloped in mine. It's cruel that she fits so perfectly, our bodies moulding to accommodate the other so naturally. 'I messed up bad tonight, I can't think how to fix this'. I feel the tell tale signs of sobs beginning to quake her shoulder until she suddenly jerks away, straightens up and wipes her face carelessly on the back of her hand. The tears held back make her eyes glitter, and I feel like I can actually hear, not just feel, the snap as a piece of me breaks away and attaches itself to her, to Riley forever. She's never looked more beautiful, in grief she's utterly heart-breaking, hair astray and her minimal makeup washed clean from her face. 'I know that you think this can never happen between us, and I know why, but I need you to understand one thing.' She looks to me, waiting for my permission for her to continue. I nod, there's not a lot more I can bring myself to do at this point. 'After the meteor shower, I knew. I knew that Liam would never have the effect that you do on me.' She takes another breath, calming the tears that are threatening to leak, and I'm helpless to do anything but wait for her to regain her composure, both willing her to stop, yet needing her to finish.

Riley

'I nearly left that night, but I stayed, I had a plan!' I laugh bitterly, not finding the situation or the naivety of my past self remotely humorous. 'I've distanced myself from Liam ever since, hoping that he will choose another, and we would be free to explore what we are. I didn't see any other way you would consider us an option'. It made sense to me at the time. If I didn't actively compete, how could he possibly pick me over the others? I've maintained eye contact with Drake the entirety of my little speech, knowing this is goodbye, but needing him to know that I chose him. Needing him to know that it's all been for him, and that until my ridiculous stunt at the spa, I was never playing games, that maybe even my plan would have worked. His face has softened, his mouth agape, the usual walls in place having slipped as he processes my words, my declaration. All of a sudden, he closes the gap between us, cradling the back of my neck in one hand as he lowers his mouth to hover just in front of mine, and I place my palms on his broad, defined chest, anticipating his next move. It's intoxicating, like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing how close you are to the next step being your last. 'Tanner, what are you doing to me?' he mutters, prolonging the moment. Impatient I make the choice, and the rest of the journey to his lips, myself. We start slow, exploring each others mouths gently, teasing, tasting, savoring each kiss like it’s the last. My hands roam his chest, his back, his arms, god his arms, their definition alone inflaming my desire further. He is much more hesitant, sticking to my hips, playing it safe, holding back, always cautious, afraid I'm more breakable than I actually am. I bite his lower lip, needing more and I feel him thrust into me in response. He groans, and my body arches into his with a cry, attuned to his wants. We're no longer thinking, just being, as if its only us in the world. He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his back, pushing his hardness closer, aching at how ready he is for me. 'Tanner! You need to slow down.' his eyes are closed, and I cant help but push myself against him again, eliciting a throaty rumble from him. He lowers me down, and I'm vaguely aware I'm perched on the antique dressing table, not caring as trinkets hit the floor in a domino fashion. He trails kisses down my neck, and finally, finally one of his hands makes its way up to my breast, under my dress, massaging firmly until he pinches one of my nipples. Pleasure rips through me as I hiss, my hips buck, and legs widen, giving him unspoken permission to move closer, my body completely under his control. I'm delirious, I'm panting, and internally begging him to continue. We're still fully clothed, and I've never been this turned on in my life. I start to tug at his waistband, undoing his belt, wanting so much more with every touch, and I start to lower his trousers. Then he abruptly stops kissing me, and steps away. 'What the hell Drake?' I'm breathless with pure need, for him, all of him, mind body and soul. 'I can't Riley, I want to, I mean, fuck, I want to. Do you even know what this is doing to me right now? To stop, well now'. I see him adjust himself in his trousers and I let out a frustrated squeak. 'Talk about blue balls!' I mutter. 'Liam could still pick you Riley! Hell, I think he will, I mean, you spent tonight with him!'. His voice breaks, and he begins pacing, looking everywhere but me. I'm regretting smashing the only bottle of whiskey, knowing that I could definitely do with one after his speedy change of heart and the reminder that more than one set of lips have been on mine tonight. The moment our connection was broken, the uncertainties of the situation came rushing back into the room to play. 'What do I do then Drake? Do you want me to marry him? End us? Or be my dirty little secret?' his face pales, sickened with the idea of being unfaithful behind Liam's back. I have to admit, I'd only thrown it in to try and reiterate the gravity of the situation if I married his best friend. Any moral compass I thought I possessed was obliterated around Drake.

Drake

My stomach clenches at the thought of being 'the other man' and betraying Liam like that. There is literally no outcome in which we can be together without destroying Liam. Urghh, I feel utterly disgusted with myself and I resume my pacing, knowing there's only one outcome I can live with, and therefore I force myself to say what needs to be said, finally pausing to look at her directly so she believes me. 'I care for you Tanner, but this has got too messy. I don't want what you want, I don't want marriage, to settle down, I don't want you like that.' I almost choke on the lie and I see her reel in shock and disbelief. 'Listen, about what's just happened, I'm attracted to you and we have a similar background, but that's all, it's not worth breaking hearts over. That's why I stopped…that. You're in deeper than me, I don’t want to use you.'

That's not why I stopped at all, I broke our encounter before I fell for her any harder than I have, because with Riley, a taste would never be enough. My body and my actions were beginning to betray me. I held back because I would have ended up making love to her, and I'm not sure I understood the difference between that and sex until we nearly took that step. I also know if we had crossed that line, I'd never be able to let her go, ever. I need her to believe my lies, I've hardened my gaze, dug out the scowl, and put the walls back up, because her continuing as Liam's suitor is the only way we have any chance of getting out of this mess hurting the minimal amount of people. 'I don't…I don't believe you Drake' she stutters, and the resolve I'm holding on to is wavering as her gaze attempts to penetrate my armour.I look away. 'What you should believe is that Liam loves you far more than I ever could, and he want's to give you the world. Going to the coronation and carrying on as normal is the only option'. She turns her back to me, and picks out some nightwear from the dresser, studiously ignoring me for several minutes, until she begins to head to the bathroom. 'It's been a long night Drake, maybe you should just leave now.' I nod stiffly, and make my way to the door. Every step away from her is agonizing. All I want to do is hold her, touch her, mark every inch of her as mine. I want to memorize every freckle, caress every smile with my lips, I want to call her mine.

#drake x mc #the royal romance #fanfic #fan fiction #choices #trr drake #trr #choices you play

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mythicamagic · 7 years ago

Text

Diabolik Fairy Tales - Chapter 8

AU - Diabolik Lovers re-imagined as fairy tale characters. Each chapter will feature a different diaboy, as their dark natures become entwined with the original macabre fairy tales of the past. Includes smut with a nameless heroine (slight reader insert)

Rated M Trailer is here (you can read all my fics here on fanfiction.net or Ao3)

Chapter 1 - Yuma Mukami Chapter 2 - Shuu Sakamaki

Chapter 3 - Kanato Sakamaki Chapter 4 - Ayato Sakamaki

Chapter 5 - Ruki Mukami Chapter 6 - Laito Sakamaki

Chapter 7 - Azusa Mukami Chapter 8 - Reiji Sakamaki

Chapter 9 - Kou Mukami Chapter 10 - Subaru Sakamaki (end)

Warnings: Smut, implications of dismemberment.

Schadenfreude ~

Quick, exhilarated breaths laced with pain. She pushed herself on, gritting her teeth, heart threatening to burst. Spinning in a tight circle, trembling feet tripped once more, breaking her perfect form. Staggering, she caught the wall of the ballroom, rapid breathing sounding too loud in the large, empty room. Sweat rolled down her temple.

It needed to be perfect. A waltz, a tango, whichever one he chose, it didn't matter. If she couldn't dance, then she'd be an embarrassment to her husband on their wedding day. No doubt they'd dance a set, watched by onlookers from the entire kingdom.

She glared down at her aching, blistered feet. They'd probably started bleeding again.

Sighing, she dragged herself to a seat, fingers twitching with the need to remove her shoes and rub the abused flesh. Glancing around her, she bent down-

"Is your commitment so lax that you'd allow yourself a break, this early into practice?"

She froze, straightening just as a tall gentleman entered the room. His steps were quiet, movements regal and smooth as he came to stand before her. As always, he gave off a slightly condescending air, and the handsomeness of his features belied the sharp bite that lurked just beneath every word.

Adjusting her skirts around her to hide her feet, she raised her chin, acting unaffected by his presence.

"No, not at all. Can I help you, your Highness?"

He met her gaze evenly, considering her. "I may be a Prince, but you're my fiancee now. You can speak with me a little less stiffly, so long as you don't step out of bounds."

Her eyes widened, having not expected this. "Then...how should I refer to you? Is just 'Reiji' acceptable?"

"Good grief. I give an inch and you take a mile..." Reiji gave a resigned sigh, fixing her with a haughty look. "Very well. Since we are to be wed in just a month's time, a little familiarity is fine, so long as you address me correctly while in public. As for why I'm here, I was observing your atrocious dancing and decided to intervene."

She was unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "You were watching?"

"Please don't squeak like that. It is unbecoming." He pushed the rim of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure you realise that dancing like this requires a partner. Why are you alone?"

Standing up to regain her indifferent composure, she fought not to take a few steps back. The urge to put a little distance between them tugged at her aching feet, but she focused on the pain instead of her discomfort. Her fiance's stare bore into her as she held his gaze. "I thought you would be busy, and didn't want to disturb you."

"While I would usually be thankful for a degree of forethought for my time, you're ultimately being stupid. Which do you think would be more harmful in the long run? A little time out of my schedule to refine you, or the subsequent embarrassment our wedding dance would be?"

She remained absolutely still as he shifted, dark hair caressing his cheeks as he leaned down to eye level.

"It would be more accurate to say that you were afraid of approaching me, weren't you?" The cadence of his voice sharpened into a point, and she heard the teeth in his words. Unlike before, she didn't react, and kept her head raised. He was an unknown entity to her, so sharp and collected at all times. She had no idea what lurked underneath that poised, gentlemanly appearance, but the scent of him sent her head reeling. It was a mix of chemicals, and beyond that, a strangely lulling one.

The aroma of black tea.

Something shifted in his eyes. "I'll make things clear for you, so that you understand; I took an interest in you at the Ball. However, from what I've seen, your grace and elegance have all but disappeared."

A memory flashed inside her mind, of swaying bodies, priceless chandeliers, glittering dresses, and fine wine coating her tongue. He caught her dazed attention once more as he straightened, his face a stoic mask. "Unless you take steps to correct this, then I will call off the wedding."

Fierce alarm cut into her heart like pinpricks of glass. "I-I am a Baron's daughter! Such things have been branded into me since birth!" Her heart stuttered in her chest as she pressed down the urge to argue.

The afternoon sunlight caught his glasses, before he tilted his head, a sneer colouring his voice. "It's not just those qualities. Your etiquette, posture, even your intelligence..." she glared at that, and his eyes narrowed in answer. "Your very nature has changed. Exhibit some degree of effort to refine yourself, and all will continue on as before. I will personally oversee your progress." His lips curved up at the edges, morphing into a strange smile.

She willed the frown to smooth away, frustrated that she'd broken her composure so easily around him. With a start, she felt the soft material of a glove beneath her chin, before the pressure of his fingers urged her to look up. His smile curved wider at the spark in her gaze, as if delighting in the struggles it took to uphold her image.

"My...that your eyes can be so clear and defiant, even now. I'm surprised." Reiji murmured, a snide lift to his words.

"Your Highness." Came a hesitant voice.

Reiji turned to the doorway, where a servant lingered.

"What is it?"

"Pardon the intrusion. Prince Kanato is...well, he's among the dining guests, my Prince." The servant winced.

Reiji exhaled sharply, a rigidness creeping into his frame that hadn't been there before. His fiancee looked on as the servant bowed and left, while Reiji turned away.

"Please bathe yourself, before asking a servant to escort you to my room."

"Your room?"

"Yes. Be prudent. This annoyance shouldn't take long, and I don't appreciate being kept waiting."

With those taciturn words, he left, taking that heavy, assessing air with him. As she stood rigidly in place long after he'd gone, an insidious feeling, like that of a test subject to be studied, weighed upon her. He'd been that way when she'd first arrived at the castle a few weeks prior.

Making her way back to her room, a brief flash of a item hidden beneath her bed came to mind. It felt like an eternity passed before she found her hands gripping the sides of the plain white shoe box. The fiancee sat on her bed, the grandness of her room ignored in favour of the simple box. With shaking fingers, she lifted the lid, gazing at the flawless shapes beneath.

Glass slippers caught the light. Her heart stuttered.

The lid slammed shut when a knock sounded on her door, and the fiancee quickly hid the box away once more.

Answering it, she found a maid, who cheerfully announced that they'd readied a bath for her.

Some time later, after soaking in the tub, she shook her head at her foolishness. It hardly mattered if someone caught her admiring the shoes. The second born prince had only announced his engagement to her because of the wretched things. They were what she was famed for. The infamous woman, who had run from him at the strike of midnight, leaving behind a single glass slipper.

Reiji had sent a vast number of officials out to find the wearer of the shoe, and in the end, after searching tirelessly, they'd brought her to the castle.

And the day she'd arrived...

The day I arrived, Reiji...why, why did you look so uninterested in me? Why try so hard to find the wearer of the shoe, only to gaze at them with such empty eyes?

The fiancee mused to herself, after she'd been dried and clothed, following silently behind a servant, that perhaps they were more alike than she'd thought.

Because his eyes back then...had reflected exactly what she'd been feeling, hidden inside her heart.

Walking on eggshells around her fiance in the following days, the woman tried her best to gauge his moods and character. Unfortunately, Reiji kept up a reserved and strict air of professionalism between them, acting more like her personal trainer than potential lover.

More than that, his blunt, cutting words made it difficult for her to retain her own constructed persona.

"Stand there for an hour."

Her teeth gnashed together, trying to keep herself still as the book balanced precariously on her head. She smoothed the wrinkles in her expression as he ignored her in favour of an old book.

They were situated outside on a balcony, which was wide and spacious, leading directly to his room. The fiancee had noticed chemicals in glass tubes, along with books on alchemy inside. She hadn't been able to get a close look at them, but what went without saying, was that Reiji had obviously dabbled in the black arts.

She wasn't about to bring that topic up. No doubt he'd ask her how she knew of such things, why she recognised the black bound book on his second shelf.

The book toppled from her head.

"Really now. Is your posture so terrible that you can't stand still for five seconds?" A deceptively calm voice asked, sharp eyes apprising her.

She quickly grabbed the book and placed it back on her head. She didn't want him to see her squirm, as she had when they'd practised etiquette and holding cutlery correctly. It wasn't that she was terrible at the tasks, far from it. She knew how to act and behave, or which silverware to use. No, it was more the danger of Reiji's silent, assessing presence. He watched her with a sort of fixation, which she'd keenly felt with every moment that passed.

Her feet began to ache, and she grit her teeth when the pages on her head started to slip.

"It seems you weaken considerably, whenever you spend a significant amount of time on your feet." His voice was suddenly too close, and a pressure on her lower back made her stiffen. The pressure increased to correct her posture, until her spine straightened, and she felt the pad of his thumb brush the lacy material of her dress.

"Is there a reason for this?"

"Of course not. Though I've noticed...we're a little late in starting my studies. Should we not move on to politics? The trade industry of your kingdom, or reciting Latin..."

Reiji had insisted she learn everything about the inner workings of the kingdom. She felt her fingers twitch with the need to ball into fists when he brushed past her, sending her heart stuttering. He glanced back at her with a calculating look, before nodding.

"You're right. Come, today we'll do something different."

Sighing in relief, the fiancee promptly reached for the book, only to stop and think better of it. Reiji's eyes widened minutely, before he pushed the rim of his glasses up out of habit and gave her permission to stop.

The quiet, assessing air between them only doubled as she was led into his room, and was given free reign to look at what she pleased.

Unable to gauge his motives, she carefully perused his selection of books, avoiding the dark magic book, before gravitating towards the chemicals.

She suddenly stopped, experiencing a brief flash of nostalgia. "Ah, Mother used this one in her perfumes."

"Oh?"

"And this one when mixed with rosemary is-" She noticed his intent stare and straightened. "Ah, sorry. I'm hardly a herbalist, but I couldn't help myself."

Reiji finally looked away, shifting in his armchair to reach for a book. "It's fine. If you know so much about herbs, then perhaps you can find me this one. It is the right season for them after all." He flipped to a page, which displayed a herb that struck a familiar chord with her. There was a phrase next to it, in a foreign language she couldn't read.

"Do you have the name of it?" She tried.

His eyes glittered with amusement. "I'm sure you're capable of finding it without one."

The fiancee agreed, if only to try and gauge an understanding about her intended, since the barriers of distrust were still towering high.

She set out in a carriage, and bypassed the bustling town in favour of the woods lurking on the outskirts. She'd bid the driver to wait, and had wandered into the cover of the trees with nothing but a basket and knife in hand.

She felt a little foolish, traipsing through the woods with only a picture of the herb to go on. Sighing in annoyance when her skirt caught on a nearby bush, she tugged it free, continuing her search.

It took hours, and the fiance had stopped many times, taking notice of her surroundings to ensure that she wouldn't lose her way.

A black crow had been following her for awhile now, but she pretended not to notice it as the sound of wings filled her ears once more. Perhaps it was from Reiji, keeping an eye on her. She ignored it, searching near the riverbanks, clearings, even around the meadow lying just outside the cover of the trees. Yet found nothing.

"This is ridiculous." She grouched, feeling as if Reiji had played a cruel joke on her.

Just as she rested against a tree, a line of ants by her foot caught her attention. Her eyes followed them, travelling further up the line to where a white butterfly lay helplessly on the ground. Part of it's wing was damaged, yet the other was still fluttering futilely, trying to save itself.

The fiancee stared, morbidly entranced as the ants began to swarm around the broken butterfly. They pulled it's wings apart slowly, making the little insect tremble and writhe.

"Cinderella, oh Cinderella! Where are you, little slut!"

The black crow cawed. She started, broken from her heavy thoughts. With a dull realisation, she found the plant she'd been searching for right in front of her. Stepping over the dead butterfly, she took a closer look at the leaves.

I know this plant. But what was it called?

Somehow, this detail that he'd left out felt extremely important. The leaves were a dull, darkish green, with pitch black berries on the stems.

Atropa Belladonna. It came to her suddenly.

Her eyes widened, and she froze.

Deadly Nightshade.

The fiancee rose a brow, regaining her sense of calm and considering the plant before her. She was not a benevolent woman. It hardly mattered to her what her future husband did with the poison. She'd known something was amiss from his concoctions. They'd had a pungent smell that twisted her stomach, but worse was the tinge of sickening sweetness lingering in the air.

The closest she could describe it to, was a rotting piece of meat that had been left out in the sun, mixed with that of cheap perfume. The unmistakable scent of...

Bile rose in her throat. She closed her eyes against the image that awaited her every night in her dreams, before rolling her sleeves up and getting to work.

"Where are the berries?"

"I picked them off."

Reiji stared at her fixedly, eyes narrowing. "Indeed. Why, pray tell, would you do that?"

"I couldn't conceive a good reason for why you'd need them." The words rolled off her tongue with practised ease despite the malevolence in his gaze.

"Ah, by which you mean; You ruined any chance I might've had of poisoning someone, by removing the berries."

The fiancee watched as he eased out of his armchair, ignoring the plant she'd placed on his desk and approaching her slowly.

"Fufu, what a foolish girl I am to marry." His eyes lit up with a predatory gleam that had her shifting. Reiji calmly tugged at the white glove on his left hand, explaining in a clipped tone;"The roots are far more potent than the berries, and yet you didn't remove them. Only simpletons and children eat the berries, and sometimes they can be saved, but the plant itself is far more useful."

The glove was pulled free, and he reached past her with slow, lingering movements to place it on the desk behind her. When he pulled back, he caught her gaze and held it captive. "I'm afraid this calls for more severe training than you're typically used to. You deliberately tried to sabotage this task."

She stiffened. "B-but, you said it yourself; I wasn't successful."

"Good thing you weren't, or what I'm about to do would be far more painful. Turn around."

Alarm flared briefly inside her. She'd known he would do something if she disobeyed, in fact she'd counted on it. If it meant unearthing the shadows flitting behind his expressions, she'd committed to seeing this through. Anything was better than the cold war between them, the stagnant distrust. Yet it didn't make facing his icy wrath any easier. "Y-you can't do this-"

"Actually, you'll find that I can. The question is whether or not you can bare it. If you're so against this treatment, then by all means leave at any time."

The challenge was there, as was the necessity of her task. She needed to marry the Prince, above all else. But now she knew without doubt that he was well aware of her less than innocent motivations. Perhaps he'd always known.

Her eyes sharpened with determination. Her gaze stayed locked with his, until she obediently turned around.

Unsure what to expect, she shuddered when his dark voice brushed close to her ear. "Help yourself to a drink."

Her eyes rested on the teapot in-front of her, hands lifting automatically to the handle. If she'd acted on her mounting terror, she would've thrown the priceless china at him and ran from the room. As it was, she poured herself a cup of black tea, a comforting steam curling the rim.

"Go ahead. I trust it's not too hot." Came the silken voice once more.

The fiancee lifted the cup with stiff, measured movements. Her eyes shifted to the glass tubes around the room, filled with various chemicals. Poisons.

Inhaling slightly, she found the scent slightly off. It smelled too sharp, almost like mint but much more overpowering.

She shivered when a hand settled on her waist to steady her as she swayed. He'd made no effort to hide that the tea had been tampered with.

Surely, she thought, he wouldn't kill me.

The gloved fingers tightened, digging into her waist. Lips brushed her ear, the voice a hungry rush. "Drink."

In her mind, she begged and pleaded with his humanity as she shakily brought the cup to her lips and drank. The instant the tea slid down her throat, she coughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Squeezing her eyes shut against the putrid taste that made her eyes and tongue burn, the cup slipped free from her fingers. Porcelain shattered, sending the rest of it's contents spilling over the side of his desk and dripping to the floor.

"Good grief, what a mess you've made. Come, lie down. You'll be even more of a nuisance if you fall."

Why would I fall?

Already she felt something spreading through her body, heating it from the inside just as her limbs grew stiff and heavy. She made it half-way to the sofa before she collapsed onto her knees.

Reiji picked her up without a word, and set her down onto the soft material. He checked her pulse and found it racing, muttering to himself about dosage. He smoothly rose to grab a small piece of parchment, dipping a quill into some nearby ink and writing some notes.

Distant terror filled her as she tried and failed to lift her hand. It lay heavy as a brick at her side. She focused on her breathing, trying not to panic as she lay trapped inside her own body. Reiji suddenly appeared in her line of sight as he leaned over her, putting some eye drops into her pupils.

"You'll regain your ability to blink in a few moments, so bare with it. Since your vital organs haven't shut down, the dosage seems not to be lethal. I'm pleased my hunch was correct."

Her face remained emotionless even as horror swamped her insides.

"Paralysis is somewhat more interesting to behold than someone poisoned. One who is poisoned knows they are dying, and will scramble and beg for an antidote. But all you can do right now is silently scream." Reiji turned her head with deceptively gentle movements, and she started at the amusement dancing in his eyes.

"The next part should take effect soon." He noted softly, lips lifting. What started out as a debonair smile soon spread, revealing teeth as his lips stretched unnaturally wide. Her heart did a strange pulse, quickening in the wake of that smile. "I wonder how susceptible you are to aphrodisiacs."

She lay helplessly, unable to look away from him as her eyes began to sting. Heat momentarily swept through her, gradually worsening. It started out in her lower belly, sending her heart into jitters as her breathing hitched.

The heat began to spread, rushing through her veins and alighting her flesh. A viciously painful ache tightened her core.

Her lashes fluttered, before she found herself able to blink.

"You feel it now, don't you? Blink once for yes, and twice for no.'' Reiji uttered calmly.

Despite the red hot need flowing through her body, making her feel wanton and ravenous, she forced herself to blink twice.

"No?" He rose a brow. "So if I do this-" his hand brushed the expanse of her bared collarbone, before travelling down her side. It was when his fingers passed dangerously close to her breast that her lashes squeezed shut. "You're saying it doesn't effect you at all?" He murmured, cruelty in his knowing gaze.

She desperately longed for relief as heat swelled inside her. Never had she wished so much for the ability to move, to rub her thighs together to alleviate the ache, or perhaps let her hand stray...

"This particular aphrodisiac is designed to battle the paralysis and take effect while you're under the influence of both. Some think aphrodisiacs are mere placebo effects, but I'm sure you feel differently." He smirked, hand trailing maddeningly close to her core as his fingers rested over her navel.

He then bent very close to her face, and she willed herself to sink deeper into the cushions even as she lay trapped. Hot breath fanned over her cheek.

"...You're ultimately just marrying me for my title, aren't you?" He muttered, searching her face for a response. "Come, you can at least be honest about that. It is for that reason, that I should at least be entitled to a wife that I can respect. I'd rather not have to tolerate my partner like I do my brothers."

That delicious pressure in her lower regions flared alive with the brush of his fingers over her sex, making her burst at the seems. He touched her over her clothes, making her frustrated and desperate, even as her dignity cried out for him to stop.

"You should know... I despise manipulative women. They are not strong creatures, but mere cowards, hiding behind saccharine smiles to obtain shallow desires. I met many of those women at the ball." His eyes stayed locked with hers as the pressure of his digits increased, rubbing her core in achingly tight circles.

Her face had heated by now, her breathing erratic.

"Understand this; If you insist on marrying me, then do not act on the vapid thoughts that brought you this far. If you conduct yourself anything at all like that soulless bitch who raised the triplets, then I'm afraid a marriage certificate will not be enough to save you."

The sweetened ache blazed into an agonising, encompassing pain. "Do I make myself clear?"

She blinked once.

Reiji stared at her, before the fingers at her core pulled away. A whimper escaped her parted lips and he paused. Dark red eyes observed her with gleeful, darkened malice.

She understood it now, understood him more than she'd liked to. He wasn't angry with her for sabotaging the plant on purpose, it was the thinking behind it. Her penchant for manipulation had blackened his mood.

Reiji turned away from her and began to work on something, measuring different vials and jotting notes down.

His fiancee lay frozen in a perpetual state of need, seeking relief and yet never finding it.

An hour or so later, mobility crept back into her veins, and she rose from the sofa, fully intending to leave without a word.

"By the way, there was no aphrodisiac in the tea."

She froze.

The silken voice continued from somewhere behind her. "You're very susceptible to the power of suggestion, but beyond that, it seems you truly found pleasure in what just took place. How interesting."

Gritting her teeth in embarrassment, she felt her face flame red. Quickly walking from the room, she tried to grasp the remaining tatters of her dignity.

It was several days later that she heard the announcement. Another ball was to be held, but this time it was in honour of their engagement. The day of the wedding approached swiftly, and would take place a mere few days after the engagement ball.

"While taking care of you, I've let some of my responsibilities slip onto others shoulders. Of course they would shirk them until the last moment. How detestable some people are." Reiji had muttered, annoyed that the date of the ball had been pushed back so far. It felt inconsequential to have one, and she'd said as much to him, but he'd just looked at her flatly.

And yet, as she watched him flit from one organiser to another, remembering every detail, she realised how committed to work he was. She knew he was no pampered prince, but his penchant for finery had blind-sighted her to how much he took on. With no brothers in sight to help, and a seemingly unmotivated workforce of servants, she felt a slight pang. His movements blurred away for just a moment, until another figure was in his place. A delicate young woman stood, frantically cleaning, dust and ashes clinging to her brow.

"attention-"

She blinked, and found Reiji before her. To her surprise, she found her hand on his arm. Reiji was watching her seriously, reiterating his words. "You have my attention, do I have yours?"

"Forgive me- I, I wanted to ask if there's anything I can do to help prepare the Ball." She lied, shaken.

"I find it unlikely that you would be of much use, but if you insist, then I'll find something." He turned, as if to look for anything she could assist with, before thinking better of it.

"Oh, and I must insist you wear the glass slippers on the night of the ball." He murmured instead.

She felt an uncomfortable weight plunge her stomach into the abyss. "W-what?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No." She said a little too quickly. "No, not at all."

And there it is. She thought. That's all it took to break the facade.

The guests assembled in the great hall, some couples already dancing on the floor that gleamed with their swaying reflections. The fiancee watched them all, stood in a floor length dress that felt heavy and cumbersome.

She stiffened when a hand glided down her arm to her wrist, and she looked up to find Reiji. For some reason, she softened a little at the sight of him. He looked just like he had at the first ball, where they'd met...

"Your back." He said, eyes racking briefly down her form.

"Yes?"

Reiji paused, his gaze lingering on something, before turning away. "It's nothing. Your posture has improved."

He led her to the floor, one hand at her back and the other clasped around her own. She followed him with practised ease, used to the sensation of his lithe body brushing against hers, but feeling her heart constrict at the familiarity. Soon it would all be snatched away.

Her hand tightened around Reiji's, but he didn't comment. They each knew the fragile peace between them would change tonight.

When they finished the set, she gazed up at him numbly, wondering. Why had he poured so much effort into refining her, if he knew it wouldn't last? Did he find satisfaction in seeing her futile struggle?

Do you have any affection for me at all, Reiji?

Excusing herself, the fiancee made her way to her room, knowing it couldn't be avoided.

Gentle moonlight glinted off the dainty slippers. Her fingers shook as she gripped them tightly, the glass cool to the touch. To her horror, droplets landed on the surface of the shoes, sliding down the sides and hitting the floor by her feet. The fiancee bowed her head, shoulders shaking while quiet, broken sobs escaped thin, cruel lips.

Staggering outside onto her balcony, she sat down heavily onto a chair, placing the box onto a table. Then, with trembling fingers, she picked up the sharp blade that lay hidden inside. She'd placed it within the shoe-box for safe keeping, but now she wished she hadn't.

Breathing out slowly, she hitched up her skirts, tying them out the way, around her waist. Then, leaning over in her seat, she stared down at her feet.

More specifically, the severed toes on her left foot.

To stare at the damaged flesh for any length of time made her almost forget what having toes looked like. But all she had to do was look at her right foot to know that she was misshapen.

And now I'm disfiguring myself again. She thought, with a calmness she did not feel.

Remembering the pain, the blood from the first time, it stilled her hand rock solid.

Swallowing thickly, she lowered the blade, until it rested over the toes on her right foot. I need to be perfect. I need to fit into the shoes.

"It's the only way." She murmured numbly, eyes glassy with remembrance.

"It's the only way, my dear. Think of your mother! Think of your sister! You will be saving us from destitution. All you need to do is marry the Prince. Marry him and all the pain will go away. In time you'll barely notice it, I promise."

She was terrified. She'd never been so scared of Mother before. At the sight of her wavering, sharp fingers grasped her hair, locking tight around the locks in a steel grip.

"Listen here, you ingrate! I will not go back to the streets, do you understand? You'll obey me or I'll- I'll lock you upstairs with that wrench Cinderella! Is that what you want?"

A wail had escaped her that was echoed now, as she pressed the blade down harder. She grit her teeth and closed her eyes, remembering how it had sank into her flesh and gotten stuck partway through muscle and bone. It'd been agonising.

Hot tears streaked down her cheeks as she inhaled sharply, pressing harder until she drew blood-

"That's quite enough."

Gloved fingers wrapped around her own, prying the numbed digits away from the blade. It clattered to the ground.

Breathing harshly, she stared into Reiji's intent gaze. He knelt before her, a shadow passing over his face.

"This farce has ended. You'll explain everything. Now."

She shivered in light of his voice, pitched black as night. But her mind had drifted away, somewhere safe, into childhood fairy tales. Smiling brokenly, she began her tale;

"Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Cinderella. She had everything she could ever want, a loving father, big house, and beauty beyond compare. One day, her father remarried, taking a new, and very severe woman for a wife. Cinderella's Stepmother had once been a baroness you see, and had built herself up from nothing when her husband had left her penniless and laden with two daughters. Therefore, the Stepmother was cruel, jaded. After Cinderella's father died, she delighted in the girl's pain and misery. As for the Stepmother's daughters, they were incredibly shallow, spoiled things, raised on manipulation and ambition. After making Cinderella their slave, they forbid her from going to a Grand Masquerade Ball, which the sons of the King were to attend. But low and behold, on the night of the Ball, an enchanting creature attended the gathering, ensnaring the second eldest Prince's attention..."

Reiji stared at her seriously as she spoke, the sounds of the guests, though muffled by the distance between themselves and the ball, still reached their ears.

She smiled bitterly, remembering the sight. "Of course, the creature was Cinderella. She had used magic to garb herself in finery, and danced with the Prince for hours. When she suddenly fled at the strike of midnight, she left behind a glass slipper. Her Stepmother was enraged when she returned home, for though her face had been hidden under a mask, little details had given Cinderella away. The woman therefore locked Cinders away in the attic. A letter arrived soon after, informing the kingdom that a search had been issued for the wearer of the glass slipper. Whoever the shoe fit, would marry the Prince."

The fiancee swallowed the burst of emotion that threatened to pour past her teeth.

"By the time...the royal emissary arrived, Cinderella had grown very quiet in the attic. One of the Stepsisters went to see her...and found her dead. She'd died from hunger. Be- because- the..." She took an unsteady breath, pressing her lips into a thin line as tears swam in her eyes. "The Stepmother had left her to starve."

Reiji straightened into a stand, listening silently.

"T-the Stepsister knew her foot would not fit into the tiny slipper. So she found the same magic book that Cinderella's Godmother had bestowed upon her for the ball. Having very little time, and at the behest of her mother and twin sibling, the stepsister... cut off her own toes with a sharp blade, in order to fit into the shoe. The blood spilled was offered in payment for a spell that would heal her flesh, without returning the toes back to her." She presented her left, disfigured foot. Shame heated her face, an ugliness within her growing restless at the sight of him assessing her maimed flesh.

"The Stepsister put on the glass slipper, hiding her severed flesh from view until it sat snugly inside, and of course it fit. As further proof of her identity, the Stepmother pried the second glass slipper from Cinderella's cold fingers, and presented it. The emissary was delighted, and informed the Prince at once. In the week it took to arrange her move into the castle, the Stepsister relearned how to walk. Her mother and sister demanded that she send them monthly payments as soon as she was married."

She gave a dusty sigh. "And of course...she went willingly to the Prince, who'd expected that enchanting creature for a wife, and instead received..."

The smile that curled her lips felt jagged and instinctual, a reflection of her true self. "An ugly stepsister."

The tears felt hot as they ran down her cheeks, dripping to the floor. It felt strange. She'd been taught never to cry. "It contorts your face, Dear. You must never allow anyone to look upon a face that isn't perfect. I suppose this means that you'll have to wear make-up for the rest of your life."

"It's as I'd thought." Reiji finally spoke softly.

Her surprise soon cooled into grim acknowledgement. "You knew all along, didn't you? That I wasn't her."

"Do you take me for a fool? Any idiot could see that. It's merely that now, my theory on why you made the switch has been confirmed."

It was her turn to stare at him. Reiji sighed and pushed the rim of his glasses up. "Contrary to what you believe, I was not ensnared by Cinderella. I first approached her to dance because she seemed somewhat lost, and I intended to speak with her merely as a host. But as the night wore on, she was admittedly not bad company, and marriage had been suggested by my father just a few hours prior. When she ran from me, I was quite surprised. From her bearing, I felt she were a servant in disguise, and had a vague interest in what would happen if I extended an offer of marriage, not to her, but to the wearer of the shoe. I had a feeling something like this would happen."

"Well your curiosity is sated. The game is over. What happens now?"

Reiji fell quiet for some time, looking out at the kingdom that lay beyond her balcony. She watched him, feeling heartsick and knowing why. But she couldn't reveal what lay just beneath her story; The tangible mess of feelings she'd harboured for him even before the ball.

"I think a talk with your mother and sister is in order."

"W-what?" Dread clawed fiercely at her stomach.

"...I need to confirm something with my own eyes."

The fiancee had no choice but to notify her family via letter of their sudden visit. Her mother was less than enthused, but the moment the Prince's name was mentioned, she'd caved.

What felt like a mere few moments later, they were seated in the parlour of her old home, facing her mother and sister on the opposite sofa.

"We are honoured to receive you in our humble home, your Highness." Her mother smiled, all sharp edges and wary malice.

Reiji lifted a porcelain cup to his lips, saying nothing. His fiancee sat stiffly beside him.

Her mother and sister shared a look at his silence, and the room felt tenser, quieter. He regarded them calmly as he set the cup down on it's saucer. "Something very concerning has been raised to my attention. About your daughter."

The woman opposite him sat regal and perfect, but nothing in her made him appreciate her image. He knew this type of woman. Cordeilia had tried many times to crush his own mother under her foot in the name of competition, using underhanded tactics. This woman was no different.

"Is that so? What has she done now? I assure you that whatever it is, we can-"

"She aided in the murder of her Stepsister, who was my prospective Bride." Reiji stated. Several black crows landed on the bare branches of a tree outside, visible from the window.

"Is this true, my love?"

She kept silent under Mother's watchful gaze. Enduring it as she always had, and frozen stiff with fear.

"Some slanderous accusations have been raised against you, and yet you will not defend yourself in front of the Prince?" Her mother tutted and apologised to Reiji.

He shifted in his seat, composed as yet more crows landed on the branches outside, until they were filled with countless birds. "I believe a thorough investigation into this matter is the best course of action."

"I-investigation? Surely there's no need for such hasty measures, my Liege. These are only accusations aren't they? There's no proof." The woman's keen eyes sharpened into flint. A brief flash of fear skittered over her expression.

"She confessed."

"Oh. Oh I see, well that changes things." She snapped her fan shut. "This is a very shocking and unfortunate turn of events. I understand that a murderer cannot be fit to be by your side, though. Might I make a suggestion so that we can settle this matter with as much discretion as possible?"

Reiji watched as she smiled. "The wedding is in just a few days. A scandal wouldn't exactly break out over your cancelling it, but I know you value your image very highly as a second born Prince, do you not?"

Those ruby red lips twisted up further. "I suggest a switch. My other daughter is a very healthy young woman, who has nothing to do with this. She is her twin in every way. No would would suspect."

Reiji closed his eyes against the swell of rage that overcame him. "You would...trade her."

"Yes of course, why not? No one would be none the wiser."

A harsh sound from the crows outside made the fiancee tense. Soon the whole flock was joining in, raising harsh caws into the air, sounding famished.

Reiji chuckled, shifting in his seat as he leaned forward and laced his fingers together. "Now I understand...yes it's all very simple." He murmured to himself, eyes distant for a moment.

His gaze suddenly sharpened, locking on the fiancee's sister. "You there. What colour carnation did you wear at the Ball?"

"W-what does that-" she stopped at a sharp look from her mother, and tilted her head up arrogantly. "I don't quite remember, my Prince, but I'm fairly sure it was yellow."

The fiancee's eyes widened, and she felt her insides warm when Reiji glanced at her.

His lips tilted up into a self-deprecating smile, just for a moment, as he remembered something buried in his past, from long ago.

"I'm going to have to decline your offer. Beings are not to be switched out like a hand of cards. They have individual marks and traits that set them apart. They cannot be substituted."

A dull thud slammed against the window.

The fiancee started, and looked at the crack in the glass, which had a slight smear of blood. The crows outside were loudly screaming, a few of them leaving the branch to sweep down. They hit the glass once more.

"Your Highness, please forgive us! We didn't mean to offend." Said her sister, a squeak in her voice.

Reiji seemed to be past caring. He smoothly rose from his seat, adjusting his cuff-links. "You have made a very grievous error. I'm afraid I'm not likely to forgive this."

Continuous thuds landed against the glass in a deafening roar. The windows began to split apart, before parts of them shattered. Glass caved in. Harsh cawing from the black crows filled the room.

"W-whats going on?!" Her mother screamed over the noise.

"Please endure this experience as best you can. I have a feeling it might be quite painful." Were Reiji's last words, before all hell broke loose.

The fiancee couldn't see in-front of her for a moment. Everything turned into a haze of black feathers, wings, and loud, terrible screaming. She felt an arm wrap around her shoulders, pulling her frozen body into something warm. She clung to his form as they navigated through the sea of crows that swamped the room. The putrid scent of dark magic clung to her senses.

She turned back, squinting against the flurry of activity and focusing on the screaming. Just for a moment, the black sea parted, revealing the forms of her mother and sister. She stopped breathing at the sight.

Black crows were digging into their faces. They pried out Mother's eye with their sharp beaks, heedless of her flailing and broken sobs.

All the fiancee could do was watch as they were swallowed by the mass of feathers once more.

"Tell me what colour carnation you wore."

She'd looked at him. "You already know the answer to that."

"Yes, I do. But I want to hear it.

"It was blue. It was...your colour."

The sound of church bells rang loudly throughout the streets, for all the kingdom to hear. The fiancee, who had now become the bride, started at her ring. The woven band of gold glimmered in the light.

She shivered, still clad in her wedding dress as she leaned on the railing of the balcony. She couldn't stop thinking about the conversation they'd had a day before the ceremony.

"I've admired you from a distance for a long time, so when the Ball was announced, I couldn't stop myself. Mother wanted us to appeal to the eldest Prince, but I couldn't. So I..."

She felt hands slide onto her shoulders, gently turning her. The bride leaned up to meet his lips in a kiss, her lashes falling shut.

"I know I've been cruel, but I didn't want that to happen to my stepsister, you must believe me. Haven't you ever made a mistake?"

"...Even I was a child once."

He removed his gloves, letting them fall to the ground as he drew her with him into the shadows of their room. Reiji wasted no time in manoeuvring her to the bed, making her lean forward onto her forearms and leaving her back exposed to him. Pale fingers twisted into the laces of her corset, as he untied them with sharp, quick movements.

His composure didn't break as her skin was revealed to him, or even as he shed more of her clothing to leave her bare and aching. But a storm sang inside his chest, and he cupped her cheek with his palm, his thumb resting under her chin to keep her in place. When he kissed her it was with all the hazy desire he could muster, swallowing her moans as if they were the sweetest wine.

"Y-you still want me?"

"Don't ask foolish questions."

Her hands darling went to the buttons of his waistcoat.

"You really should understand your place by now."

Her legs were grabbed, and tied to the support beams of the bed, until her thighs were left open.

"R-reiji." She felt it keenly, the space between her legs becoming warm with anticipation. Her ankles ached from being tied up, but the air fanning on her bare skin made her forget to care.

Reiji assessed her as he loosened his tie, standing over her form. She lay open and inviting, her chest heaving with want of him. When he leaned over her, she raised her hands to touch him, embrace him, and he was struck by the look in her eye.

She wanted him. She'd chosen him. Reiji buried the part of himself that wanted to relish this, and instead kissed her deeply. His body sank down above hers, their mouths melding as he chuckled at her impatient hips pressing against his.

He entered her carefully, if only to prolong the moment and see her writhe some more. Her wet folds were slick with desire, luring him deeper, until Reiji shed all pretence and thrust inside her sharply. His bride's mouth hung open in a silent scream, before a low, delectable moan shuddered past her lips.

Reiji leaned back, and angled her hips up as he began to move. Her legs on either side of him began to twitch and tremble against their bonds, but he kept going. He tried to censure any sound that tried to escape him, but found himself releasing quiet breaths and shuddering moans. His length slid in and out of her sex with a methodical pace as her hips rose to meet his. She held onto his forearms as he moved, making strained, heinous noises that sent his heart racing.

She'd tried not to think about it, about the images that lurked just in the back of her mind. But the instant she tightened and let go, white hot blistering heat sweeping through her core, the flutter of black feathers sounded in her ears.

She saw her mother and sisters faces, staring back at her with blank sockets for eyes.

Reiji shuddered and grit his teeth, his expression shuttering as he released inside her. He panted harsh, ragged breaths, staring down at his bride's terror filled eyes.

"You belong to me now. Not to them. Forget them. Forget everything that isn't needed."

His words filled her mind, until there was nothing but him there.

She didn't know if it was more dark magic that had made him settle so insidiously deep inside her being, but whatever it was, she embraced it. She embraced him, inhaling the scent of black tea as their bodies began to move anew.

#diabolik lovers #reiji sakamaki #diabolik lovers fanfiction #diahell

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shockcity · 8 years ago

Text

DD #8 - Comfort

Rating: M

Summary: 5 times Matt was comforted and the one time Matt comforted someone else.

Category: M/F

Pairing: (past) Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios

Warnings: oh boy. PTSD, panic attacks, torture, non graphic rape/non-con, character death, trauma, watch out for this one.

Claire is a warm weight beside him, the length of her arm running along his; her pulse calm and steady. He tries to match his breathing to hers. Deep inhale, slow exhale. 1…2…3…4. But it is hard. His body is buzzing with adrenaline.

5…6…7…8.

Rain patters against the hall window, and two floors down a drunk is stumbling up the stairs. Inside Claire’s apartment, voices carry in a low murmur, crawling up his spine like spiders. 1…2…3…4. Outside, a taxi runs through a pothole filled with water, jostling a passenger inside. He yells something rude about the driver. The driver mutters something rude back.

The neighbor’s dog is hungry.

5…6…7…8.

He leans his head back against the wall, pulse pounding and face hot. His hands shake. I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I’m so scared, God, I’m so scared, please, please–

Claire shifts. Bringing him back down to earth. He breathes in and out, feeling stupid. Feeling humiliated, angry (so angry), and ashamed. He feels like he is wasting her time, showing her parts of himself she shouldn’t have to see – why can’t I get it together? he screams in his head. Always in his head.

He is dying. He is crazy. He is a coward. Get up, Matty. Breathe in. 1…2…3…4. He doesn’t deserve her. Breathe out. 5…6…7…8. He doesn’t deserve anything good. Breathe in. 1…2…3…4. Why doesn’t she leave? She hasn’t left yet. Breathe out 5…6…7…8. He is a nuisance. Breathe in. 1…2…3…4. Exhausting. Breathe out. 5…6…7…8. So scared.

1…2…3…4. 5…6…7…8.

Claire waits for him to breathe, and underneath the panic, his heart aches with gratitude.

She sees him in the library every night for eight days. He stays until they close, and then walks over to the 24hr coffee shop a few blocks down. There he returns to his studying until he passes out and is forced to leave, or his morning class starts.

She isn’t following him or anything. Her roommate closes the library almost every night, and girls shouldn’t walk home alone, so Marci does her studying late these days and they usually leave together. Encounters with Murdock are never on purpose. She does not ever seek him out.

Marci doesn’t like him. He rubs her the wrong way. She dislikes how he makes Foggy feel inferior, though she admits that Murdock doesn’t do it on purpose or anything. She doesn’t like how he’s such an overachiever, as in the, ‘needs not just a life but also psychiatric help’ type of overachiever. He gets the grades and impresses the teachers and maybe she’s a little jealous, but Murdock is also kind of an ass so she’s got legitimate reasons to dislike him.

But he looks like hell, and Marci isn’t a total bitch. She may be ruthless, and clever, and a little bit mean, but she does have a heart, and it seems to react to Murdock’s pain in a sympathetic manner. Gross.

“She was crazy,” Marci says to him. It is 3am, and she has stomped into the coffee shop after catching sight of him while out with her girlfriends. She wants to get back to them. Get back to her life. But Murdock is just so distracting with his eternal angst. “She was nuts, alright?” Marci snaps.

Murdock turns his face toward her, his mouth falling open.

She adjusts her weight and huffs. “Look, I don’t like you, I think I’ve made that clear, but Natchios was insane, and honestly really scary, and even you deserve better than her. So get over it. Move on. Quit killing yourself with precedent.”

“I’m not–”

“You really are. It’s kind of pathetic, and I’m totally losing all my respect for you, and if there’s one thing I do for my enemies, it’s respect them. You’re becoming less of a challenge. Fix it.”

She leaves him there to do whatever, considering the matter done and dusted, though in her head she is preparing her next speech should Murdock continue to try to suicide by studying. It involves public humiliation and the sharp edge of her Louboutins, and Marci is not known for making idle threats, so Murdock should just be sensible and do what he’s told. Most people did what Marci wanted, eventually, and he was no exception.

They are fighting each other in between fighting everyone else. Amidst the chaos of the ninjas and the heroes that are defeating them, Frank and Matt are in their own little world; a struggle within a struggle. Matt tosses his billy club Frank’s way and Frank gets a shot off in Matt’s direction as they weave in and out of battle. The Hand comes at them and together they take them down, then turn and exchange blows as if they were never interrupted. They dance.

The Heroes for Hire have nearly cleared out all of the ninjas in the building, and Claire and Karen are already checking on and patching up the hostages. Cage, Rand, and Jones gather weapons and check for more threats, keeping an eye out for the scared civilians. They are soon distracted by Matt and Frank, who are up in each other’s faces and arguing quietly, but aggressively.

“Cut it out,” says Karen, but neither of them listen.

“– yeah, and what good’s that gonna do?” They hear Frank say. “You wanna die, use a bullet and do it yourself, Red.”

“Hey!” Claire suddenly shouts, kneeling next to her bleeding and likely traumatized patient. “That’s enough. Both of you. Out.”

Frank leaves first, though probably more because he’s done with trying to reason with Matt than wanting to obey. Matt hesitates, but then follows. They hear the hissing argument start up again once they’re outside.

“Wow,” says Jones.

“They’re just like that,” Karen sighs, sounding resigned.

They patch everybody up and begin leading them out as sirens sound in the distance. The Heroes for Hire wait with the hostages for the ambulances. There is no sign of Frank or Matt.

And then they hear them. “Goddamnit, Red,” says Castle, coming toward them hot on Matt’s heels. They grapple with each other, and then Frank grabs Matt’s shoulders and shakes him. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help, Frank.”

“Hell you don’t.” Castle looks at Matt, eyes intense and haunted. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you–”

But Frank grabs Matt’s arm, and it is both gentle and gentlemanly. Matt sags in surprise and exhaustion. They walk away.

“Wow,” Jones says again, and that about sums it up.

She stands before him, spine straight, chin tilted up, arms akimbo. He is panting, wild eyed and cornered, seeing her without seeing her. As he comes back from wherever he was, realizing where he is and what he is doing, he visibly transforms from predator to prey.

“You with me?” she asks him, unshaken.

“Yes, I–” He’s embarrassed. His cheeks turn scarlet. “'Tasha, I’m sorry,” he says in a rush, sounding devastated.

She holds out her hands and places them carefully on his arms. She clasps them, holding steady. “Breathe in 1…2…3…4.” Natasha does it with him. “Breathe out. 5…6…7…8.”

They do this until Matt looks as though he won’t rattle right out of his skin. Until his eyes droop with both calm and oncoming despair. “Every time you relive it,” she says. “It means you survived.”

He listens. “You did everything right, because you survived. There’s nothing that can touch you, because you survived. Every time you wake up, you wake up because you were strong enough to survive. You’re here, Matt, with me. Alive.”

She looks at him with soft, understanding eyes.

“You did good,” she says.

And he leans against her, and breathes.

“Matthew,” she whispers in the dark, and she can probably see her breath, it is so so cold. “Matthew.”

He tries to form words with his tongue and mouth, but his throat is shredded from screaming and his jaw is hot and swollen. He turns his head toward her, even though it hurts.

“Matthew, I’m sorry,” she tells him, and she has said this many times since they were thrown into this prison. She has begged him for forgiveness, has screamed as he was taken away, and howled until he came back. “I never meant for you– I love you. Do you know that, Matthew? I love you. And now we’re going to die and I hate it. I hate it.”

She is not crying, but her voice is despairing. She has lost all hope. He doesn’t blame her. The Hand will not let them go now that she has returned to her body, and he is being punished for having redeemed her. Stick is dead. Stone is dead. The Chaste will not rescue them. There is no one else.

He is dying. They have taken his body and burned it. Beaten it. Violated it. They have taken Elektra and hurt her, made her scream so he could listen. They have tortured them both with each other. He doesn’t know for how long they have been here. He doesn’t know how long he has.

He loves her too.

The next time they come, they retrieve both of them out of their cells and drag them to the chamber where the Hand masters sit. There is a deliberation. Elektra is close enough to grab his hand and squeeze.

A silence, an agreement. They tear her away from him.

He can’t see, he can’t see, but god he can hear it. He can hear everything they do to her, every last thing, and he kicks and bites and tries to go to her, to make them stop, but they are silent and unmoved. Unmerciful. She is bearing it, though the pain, the violence of it all, must be tearing her to pieces. Her head turns toward him.

“Matthew,” she whispers, over the grunts and slices and roars. “It’s alright, Matthew. It’s alright.”

He sobs out her name and tries to crawl to her. They hold him down.

“Matthew, you’re going to be okay. You’re so good, Matthew. You’re perfect–” she cuts off and gasps, crying and screaming wetly. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s going to be alright.”

When it is over, she whispers to him still. Her comfort is useless but so important to him, because her voice is like oxygen. Because he is falling apart but she is saying otherwise. She talks to him in a daze, naked, spread-eagle, and drowning in blood. He sobs.

One of her torturers approaches, a sai in his hand. “No, no, no!” he chokes, using his hands to drag his body forward. “No, no,” he is screaming; voice thick with tears.

“Don’t cry,” Elektra whispers. “It’s alright. Everything–”

She is gone.

Matt cannot breathe.

Foggy is awkward around him. His hands flutter, and he talks incessantly, while Matt shuffles the bottle of wine from one hand to the other. Finally Foggy takes it from him, thanking him.

They are having dinner for the first time since Matt moved back to Hell’s Kitchen. It has been four months since Japan. Matt is recovering. Foggy is awkward.

“So, you and the Black Widow, huh? Dude. Impressive even for you.” Foggy’s heartbeat suddenly spikes. “I mean, well, not really. Just. Just kidding, man, I totally get it if you’re not– if you plan on– shit.”

“Foggy?” Matt says. “Are you okay?”

“Am I…?” He takes a large gulp of wine. “Jesus, Murdock.”

Matt fiddles with his cane. “You never used to treat me like glass, Fog,” he reminds his best friend with a smile.

Foggy finishes his wine, washes out his glass, and puts it on the counter. He leans, hands spread on marble. Matt frowns.

“Foggy?”

He is crying. Foggy is crying. He is crying hard. “God–” he gasps. Chokes on a sob.

Matt moves forward, alarmed. He wants to touch Foggy but he doesn’t know if that’s OK. “Fog, Fog, don’t cry.” A sudden echo of Elektra. He shoves it away. He is busy. “What’s wrong? Please, Foggy.”

“It nearly killed me, seeing you like that,” Foggy hiccups, sounding inconsolable.

“You-you were hurt bad, and I wasn’t around to stop that from hap-happening.” He sobs harder. “You were, they did, they told me…oh, god–” Foggy suddenly breaks off. “I’m gonna throw up.”

He lurches toward the bathroom and makes it just in time. Matt follows, frightened, arriving just as Foggy coughs and cries, before crumpling to the floor. “God, God,” he gasps. “Matty, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Matt says, collapsing next to him and gathering him up. “No, no, Foggy. You didn’t know. None of this is your fault.”

“I didn’t see you,” he says, angrily now. At Matt. At himself. At everything. “I didn’t hear from you for six months. Six months. And I never thought that that wasn’t normal. That you might be in trouble.”

Matt shakes his head. “I didn’t keep in touch either, Fog, and I was stupid not to tell anyone where I was going. But me being hurt…what they did to me, to me and El-Elektra. That’s on them.” He repeats what his doctors, Claire, and Natasha have said. “That’s on them, Fog. And they’re dead now, so there’s no one to blame anymore.”

“I should have known,” Foggy sobs, covering his face. “Matt. Matt.”

Some part of Foggy knows that what Matt has said is true. That the bad things that people do to others is on the people that did them, that the mistakes that lead up to being the victim of an attack, an assault, a violation…are absolutely irrelevant. It’s on the attackers – the bad people. It’s on them. Not you. Not you. You survived. You’re alive. You’re good.

He whispers to Foggy that he is good, that he is alive, that it’s not on him. He whispers and holds onto his friend and thinks about everything after. About the careful comfort of a group of people that love him – honestly love him. About their soothing breaths and quiet resolve. Their unwavering belief that he will get through this. Their kindness.

He takes all of that and gives it back to Foggy. He will spend the whole night, the whole week, the whole year, and the rest of his life…making sure that Foggy carries no guilt or shame. That he is happy, and recovered, and unbroken.

That he knows and feels that Matt loves him – everyday.

#MW8 #DD fic #daredevil prompts

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