#// and he's forced in no uncertain terms to face what that would feel like

[thanatologie]

anyone that says emmrich never actually faces his fear isn't actually paying attention. hear me out, okay, i've talked before (so many times) about how i think for emmrich his fear of death is less actual thanaphobia and more...his fear of being alone. of living alone, of spending eternity alone - especially in a culture and a society that places emphasis on lovers being buried together; he's terrified of it. and a romanced emmrich is so terrified of his relationship with rook - and how he feels - that he's willing to try to end it on the eve of a battle one or both of them might not come back from, because he's worried it might not be the big damn love story he's been aching for his whole goddamn life.

and guess what! rook doesn't come back.

he spends almost a month making that damn dagger - and like the rest of the crew - trying to find rook to pull them out of the fade prison because he's lost them. he's lost them right after realizing his fear's gotten the better of him and he's staring down the barrel of eternity without them. he was already trying to backpedal the whole thing before solas pulled his switcheroo and you know rook telling him they'll talk about it at home was like...a constant refrain in his head that whole almost month they were lost.

(which raises a good point with the mortal vs lich path in this respect, because a mortal emmrich was ready to tear open the fade to get rook back, imagine how many lines a lich emmrich might cross, especially given his line about never letting them be parted in this or any other world again. i have thoughts about how emmrich doesn't come back wrong from that, no, but he definitely comes back changed, he's...off. i've seen speculation that lich emmrich isn't emmrich - which i don't buy - or isn't entirely emmrich - which is a little more interesting and there may be some truth to the latter, or it could be he thinks he's indestructible at that point and gets really reckless and less measured but that is another argument for another time.)

and basically the point i'm leading up to here is...you can complain all you want that he never uses the l word before the final battle, but even with harding pointing out he's gotten a little spacey and distracted and mopey with a relationship on the burner, and all the other pet names he uses so damn liberally (dearest, darling, flame of my heart), he's still holding a lot of stuff back. he's still holding himself back, quite a bit, until that moment when he finally (finally) tells rook he loves them. he never calls rook my love until after the fade prison in the mortal path, and it's just the once, as far as i can actually remember. and it's because of all of that shit above.

(lich emmrich does it earlier, because that this may be my last chance to say it comes a hell of a lot sooner, and he uses my love liberally after that point.)

this is intentional on his part. this man has skirted around using the word love so much ("very fond of you" my ass) that rook totally has the option to call him out on it and it's like a record scratch.

he's, i think, terrified of loving something that can die? and he's terrified of being alone. and ultimately a romanced mortal emmrich has to face both of those things, one after the other, between manfred and the fade prison. and i think, going forward, it's not going to be completely gone - in fact for a hot minute after everything it's probably exacerbated to a large degree and he's probably extra...like that for a while - but it makes him confront those things head on in...very blunt ways. here's a reminder of what losing someone you love deeply to death feels like. here's what losing someone you've given your heart to for safekeeping feels like. it's kind of disingenuous to claim his fears are left untouched, when he's given a one-two knock out punch and is left having to deal with the fallout of that.

eta: and none of this actually touches on the fact that it's him that tells rook to grab the dagger before they go poof, so he's siting with that constant weight on his chest, too, but we'll dig into that at a later time because it's cold and my fingers are starting to get stiff.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Twenty

Steve gets dressed fast, his brain kind of fixating on the memory of Eddie’s...penis? Wriggling it’s way across his skin. The way the head or...face, had slowly started to open up.

Jesus Christ.

They can just never have sex. Or be naked together. Ever. That’s fine. That’s absolutely the most normal and logical way to play this. Steve stops, one leg in and one leg out of his pants...what if it bites?

“Stee love?” Eddie’s still wrapped in a towel, wearing it kind of toga style, wrapped firmly under his armpits. He already has his hat back on. He’s fidgeting with the edge of the material.

Eddie used to be half fish anyway, so it’s not like Steve was expecting an involved sexual relationship when...when he thought Eddie was going to die. Steve feels like absolute shit for thinking it, but there was never any commitment before, their relationship had a very definite end. Which, yes, okay, had the positive effect of Steve just...completely by passing any kind of sexuality crisis.

Or species crisis.

But now...now he’s in it for the long haul. And Eddie may want intimacy. Hell, Steve would quite like some intimacy. When Eddie just had a...well, a parting, like a girl, Steve hadn’t given it much thought really, Eddie’s only just freshly legged. Eddie only just now has a real life span. Steve just kind of figured they'd...work something out at some point.

They are probably still going to have to do that.

“Stee love?” Eddie asks again, more quietly this time, uncertain. Steve hates that he’s probably the cause of that.

He still wants the defense of pants though, right now, while he...processes things.

“Right, Yeah,” Steve forces his brain back on line; whatever that was, Eddie was fine with it. And it’s a part of Eddie, clearly...so. Steve needs to just get over this real fast, “what do you want to wear? You can choose.”

“Choose,��� Eddie goes to the closet, pulling out some draw string sweat pants and the sweater Joyce made for him.

He takes the towel off, leaving it on the bottom of the bed. The slit is clearly closed; Steve can’t see any evidence of anything. He’s so entranced, staring at the space between Eddie’s legs, that Eddie manages to get a leg in before Steve thinks to intervene, “wait, baby, boxers first.”

Steve gets them, Eddie pulling his leg out, turning the pants inside out in the process. He puts the boxers on backwards, but Steve figures it doesn’t matter since he’s got to sit to pee anyway. Eddie’s clearly confused by one leg being inside out, so Steve helps him fix it.

Watching Eddie put on the sweater is a bit of an experience, it starts off going on over his head sideways, one arm hanging from Eddie’s chest, so Eddie twists and sticks an arm in there, forcing it to straighten before he puts the other one in.

“Uhm,” Steve says, staring at the fully six inches of belly buttonless exposed midriff Eddie’s left with, “maybe we should put a tee shirt on underneath.”

“Underneath,” Eddie cocks his head.

Steve gets him a shirt, helping him back out of the sweater, into the tee shirt, then back into the sweater. The shirt is pastel blue, the sweat pants gray, the sweater red and green. It’s a bit of a look, especially with the bobble hat, but Eddie grins big as Steve finishes dressing himself. Eddie watches closely as Steve puts his socks on, and then goes and gets himself a balled up pair from the drawer.

He sits on the edge of the bed, next to Steve, unballing the socks, one immediately falling to the floor, Eddie clearly not expecting what would happen as he unraveled them. He gets them on okay, apart from one being upside down, so the heel is on the top of his foot. He’s pulled both of them up over the top of the ankle cuffs of his pants.

“My boyfriend is a fashion disaster,” Steve comes to terms with it pretty fast; it’s just Eddie being...Eddie.

“Called boyfriend? Called...fashion disaster?” Eddie sounds the words out carefully.

“Oh boy,” Steve sighs, “here, let me at least fix the socks,” Steve kneels, twisting one sock the right way around and then pulling the cuffs of his pants out so they’re over the top. It reminds him of the ring, kneeling in front of Eddie like this; Steve touches it, where Eddie’s hands rest on his thighs. He might not of exactly intentionally put the ring on that finger in the moment, but now that he realizes what he’s done he definitely likes it. “Boyfriends means I love you, and you love me.”

Eddie nods.

“It’s not the same as friend love...so I love Birdie, but it’s different, to how I love you...I won’t kiss anyone, except you, you understand? I love Birdie, and the kids, and Nancy and John and Joyce and...Hopper, I guess. I love them and I care about them, but…”

“Love Eddidie more good.”

“Yeah, yeah baby.”

Eddie nods, “Eddidie love Stee. Perfect love. Kiss Stee. Not kiss not Stee,” Eddie’s so earnest as he looks down at Steve. His eyes are much better, only vague traces of where they were bloodshot, the lids no longer red or swollen.

Steve snorts a laugh, “so you won’t kiss anyone else,” he says slowly, “you won’t kiss other people.”

“People. Stee. Eddidie. Kids. Hopper. El. Joyce…”

“All,” Steve makes a large encompassing gesture with his hands, “all people.”

“Not kiss all people. Kiss Stee,” Eddie tells him, almost desperate, “love Stee.”

“Love you too baby.”

Eddie’s face crumples for a moment, and for that horrible second Steve thinks Eddie’s going to cry, he certainly looks on the verge of it, big brown eyes liquid, when he says, “Eddidie sorry.”

“Sorry for what baby?” Steve rubs at Eddie’s thigh through the material of his sweat pants, trying to comfort him.

“Eddidie different.”

“I...yeah. Yeah but it’s okay, it’s fine-”

“Not. Stee scared.”

Steve sighs, well fuck, he thinks. “I was just…you are different, okay. But it’s fine, okay, it’s good, I was just...surprised. Okay? Not bad. Not bad I promise.”

“Perfect true? Promise? Eddidie not bad?”

“You’re not bad. I promise okay, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Touch more? Kiss?” Eddie asks uncertainly, and for the first time ever, Eddie won’t look at Steve when he speaks. He’s staring down at his own knees instead. It guts Steve a little.

“I...yeah. Yeah...later?”

“Today?” Eddie looks up, so earnest still.

He clearly needs reassurance and Steve feels like an absolute shit for making Eddie feel this way. He really didn’t mean to, his response was pure instinct, he really had no control over it, “maybe today...maybe tomorrow? Soon, okay. I promise soon.”

Eddie nods in agreement, but he looks...wilted.

“Come on, you wanted cobbler? And we can watch ‘Splash’?” Steve knows it’s distraction through bribery, but he just needs a little time to process.

Eddie brightens immediately, nodding, “cobbler many good.”

Tom Hanks is under a table, trying to dry Daryl Hannah’s mermaid tail away with his dress tie. Eddie is fascinated. He’s sitting forward in his seat, watching, enraptured.

The phone rings, but Eddie barely registers it, so Steve leaves him to it.

“Hey kid it’s Hopper, you still want a ride to your appointment tomorrow?”

And actually, Steve had more or less forgotten, “uhm...no, I think I’ll be okay,” Steve’s pretty sure he’s up for driving, he can get a shoe on no issue now as long as he’s careful.

“All right, I’m going to need some I.D. photos of Eddie for his documents, think you can manage that?”

“Yeah, yeah Hop, should be able to do that tomorrow. We need groceries anyway.”

“Right, well don’t forget he can’t wear that hat in the photos.”

Shit, Steve thinks, “might have to wait then, I mean his ears are kind of pointy.”

Hopper hums, “what about a wig? Like a fancy dress one that looks like his hair, just for the photos?”

“That...could work, but where-”

Hopper sighs down the phone, and it sounds like it pains him to admit, “I might have something.”

“Again?” Eddie asks, the second the film finishes, “Madison good.”

“Later baby, Joyce is coming over.”

Eddie immediately perks up, “Christmas food?”

Steve laughs, “no, something else, but are you hungry?” Eddie nods, “okay, I can make us something quick.”

“Here honey, sit down,” Joyce indicates a chair for Eddie, “I’m not sure how well this will curl, but if I just spray it down and twist it up, it might be curly tomorrow.”

Eddie sits, letting Joyce fit the wig on his head. It’s obviously false, and nothing like Eddie’s real hair, but the transformation is still immediate. It makes Eddie look healthier, more like himself. Joyce hums to herself as she brushes it out, Eddie fiddling with the ends.

“And why do you have this?”

“I told you kid, no questions.”

“Oh don’t be such a grouch Hop,” Joyce chastises him, smiling, “we went to a costume party for Halloween, we were Sonny and Cher.”

Steve can’t help the shit eating grin he turns on Hopper, “of course you were,” Hopper just rolls his eyes and mooches a beer out of the fridge.

“Eddie I’m going to cut some off this okay? I’ll try and get it about right for you okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, sounding bemused, “thank you Joyce.”

“Such good manners honey, you’re very welcome.”

“Called manners?”

“Oh...well it mean you always remember to say please and thank you.”

“Please and thank you.”

Steve watches them chatting away, vaguely listening to them talk as Joyce asks Eddie which were his favorite parts of Christmas; she seems genuinely thrilled that Eddie is wearing the sweater she made.

Hopper’s leaning against the counter with his beer, “kid we gotta do something about the pool.”

For a moment, the words resurface a truly horrific set of memories that bring Steve up short. Just for a second, he almost can’t breathe, and then it passes, “look Hop, that day, I’m...I shouldn’t have shouted, the way that I did-”

“Kid, I’m old enough to know when I was wrong,” he looks over at where Joyce is snipping bits off Eddie’s ‘hair,’ “and I was wrong.”

Steve looks out the window with Hopper; it’s cold out there, a thin layer of fresh snow decorates the lawn with patchy white splotches. Steve can see what Hopper means though; Steve’s pool chair is nearly black with vines. Hopper moves, clearly intending to head out there; Steve heads into the hall, slipping on his sneakers carefully and grabbing a jacket and some gloves.

He meets Hopper, looking down at the vines and the shitty murky crap in the bottom; Hopper flicks his cigarette end into the muck.

He sighs, “what you got in the shed?”

They had drained the pool as much as they could, but the pump soon started to protest the sludge, so they turned it off and then Steve ran it through with buckets of clean water from the hose. Hopper’s in there, double layers of trash bags taped to his thighs and a bandana mask over his mouth and nose. Joyce and Eddie have a shovel and a fork between them, standing on the pool edge, scraping the vines off the edge and the tiles so they drop into the black muck at the bottom. They’re dead and brittle, snapping and breaking off easily, leaving little puffs of grey dust to float down after the chunks fall.

Steve runs back and forth, sneakers dirty as he goes as far in as he dares, shoveling and moving buckets and then the wheelbarrow to Hopper’s instruction. There’s a clear set of footprints and wheel marks across the lawn and snow, into the trees where Steve’s been dumping all this is in the hopes the melting snow and rain will wash it all away.

They work for a couple of hours before the dark finally drives them back inside, but the pool does look much improved. Steve figures if he can get out there in the day and spend a good few hours on it, he could definitely clear the worst of it. It’s gross, but no where near as deep as Steve feared it would be.

“Once we get near to the end we can put a couple of feet of water in, then just get in and scrub and the pump should do the rest,” Hopper tells him, “you got your appointment tomorrow, but I’ll drop by the day after?”

“Thanks...thanks so much Hopper, I really really appreciate this.”

Hopper shrugs, “I’ll bring Jon, he can help.”

“Thank you Hopper,” Eddie tells him, too.

“Kid, really, it’s fine. No pine cones necessary.”

Part TwentyTwo

[kuro4thegays]

- Steam

[Word count: 3.2k] [Dr. Ratio x male!reader] [Content: nsfw, top Veritas, bottom reader, hot spring date, just the slightest bit of angst, misunderstandings, reader may be depressed, but also a bit silly at times, massages, anal fingering, lots of steam, spanking, orgasm denial, anal, love bites]

“Why do you cover yourself even when no one is watching?” The words echoed inside your mind, bubbling up like their only purpose was tormenting you. You wrapped that soft towel around your body like a shield, all while setting your feet down into the steamy water.

You sighed, rubbing your cold shoulders. The towel was the only thing keeping your upper body somewhat of a regular temperature. You looked down into your own reflection, silently judging the face that greeted you in the water. Well, greet wasn't a very precise term. Your reflection only mimicked the same judgmental look you gave it, yet there was something in the back of your head that forced you to keep looking. Hatred always had its way with you.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting. I hope you didn't get too bored without me.” That warm, familiar voice stole your attention like it meant nothing. You raised your gaze back to reality. There he was, Veritas Ratio, the man that striped your heart right out of your chest and now just won't give it back.

“It’s really no issue.” You averted your gaze, seeing the doctor in general made your heart race, but God, you don’t think you can handle looking at his bare figure, only slightly concealed by that towel he wore around his waist. “I can wait. It's really fine.” Perhaps there was something more you wanted to say, yet ultimately chose silence. 

"No, no it's my fault. I don't want such a brilliant mind to waste its time just on waiting." Veritas joined you on the edge of the hot spring. Was he just trying to fluster you with those words? Regardless, you returned your sights back onto the water's surface. Too bad that even there he couldn't avoid his face.

"Shall we? You must feel cold by now." His hand found its way to that small exposed bit of your back, causing you to immediately straighten your posture. One can imagine that while enveloped within the cold breeze Veritas' touch would feel twice as hot.

"Mm... Yeah." You answered, finally taking a chance to gaze into the doctor's eyes. "I think I'm ready.”

Veritas unwrapped the towel from your body, exposing your figure to the warm waters. Just like that, he nodded and gave you an encouraging push, not enough for you to fall into the water, but enough to lead you into its inviting warmth. Finally, coaxed by Veritas' gentle touch, you pushed yourself off the edge and into the hot spring.

“Ah, feels nice, doesn’t it?” The professor sighed, stretching his muscular back before leaning back onto the rocky surface behind him. Almost like inviting you over, he tapped the spot next to himself.”It’s not bad.” Upon request you joined him, leaning down until the water reached your neck.

“Are you feeling okay? You seemed kind of out of it just a moment ago.” He dared to bring up the difficult questions, gently rubbing your waist under the water.”Do you wish to talk about it…or maybe something more physical is what you need?” He affectionately nuzzled  your neck, the warmth of his being rivaling that of the hot spring itself. How could he caress you so lovingly, you couldn’t help but wonder. Almost like on instinct you leaned back into the warm touch, craving it more with each passing moment. You were ready for it to be taken away at any second.

“Yes, please.” The words came out more desperately than you had planned them to. Uncertain would be a fitting description.

“Would a massage suffice?” Veritas’ hands slid all the way from your waist up to your shoulders, guiding you to the edge where you could lean for support. “Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this if you had listened to me when I told you to take a break.” But it wouldn’t be Veritas if his tender touches weren’t mixed with a heavy dose of scolding. “But you just had to continue on with your stubborn ways.”

“You just love being correct, don’t you?” Without thinking you spouted your retort. Your shoulders tensed only slightly, yet that alone told Veritas enough.

“Oh, believe me. In this case I really wish I wasn’t.” He trapped your smaller frame against the cool edge of the lake using his larger body, making it so that you weren’t able to escape the situation like you had many times before.”You-” “I’m not done talking.” Veritas shushed you with ease. Now the only thing separating you was the water's gentle embrace. “Are you aware of how much energy I spend just thinking and worrying about you? How many nights I have spent awake because of your idiocy?” He didn’t let go even when you tried to avert your gaze, no, he got even closer. “You can’t even imagine how much it hurts when you do these stupid things to yourself. And can’t you at least look at me when I’m talking to you?”

Veritas’ voice finally did something to earn your attention back, even if only for a moment. Your eyes looked into his for maybe a millisecond before the doctor tried to get closer, causing you to ultimately close them shut yet again. Only then did it hit Veritas in the head how he must have sounded like. “Hey, [name], I… I didn’t mean it like that. I just feel like…” The genius was so quickly reduced to a stuttering mess at the sight of his love in fear. Words managed to fail him like they never did, so he shut his mouth and tried a different approach.

“Veritas-” You gasped upon contact, pulled down into the water’s warmth until not even your shoulders were exposed to the cool breeze. Veritas held you tight, his grip not lacking in either strength nor warmth, firm and affectionate it was. He was not letting go, not now, not ever.

“Veritas… I’m fine.” You whispered, yet your trembling voice didn’t do much to ease the doctor’s worries. “I just..  I don’t know what is it with me today.” You hugged back, well, closer to clung back to the larger male’s form. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, don’t be. It was me that got carried away.” He reassured, burying his head into the crook of your neck. Such an emotional moment it was, shame that it had to end so clumsily. Your feet eventually tangled together, sending you down face first into the water. Veritas wasn’t happy with this, there was no world where he would have been happy with this, yet at the moment he couldn’t stop laughing. His poor lungs were probably desperate for air.

Eventually, Veritas pulled both of you out, that wide uncharacteristic grin still shamelessly gracing his face. He ran his hand through his wet hair, pulling his bangs back. You could only stare. You had almost forgotten all the dark thoughts that plagued you earlier. That was just what Veritas did to you. “Why are you staring at me like that?” Veritas' grin morphed into a proud smile. Perhaps you did something to him too. “You said you didn’t want to get your hair wet.” You chuckled, eyes not leaving the larger male’s for even a moment. You traced your hand along Veritas’ forearms, fingertips only gently caressing his form. “You mentioned that massage, didn’t you?”

Veritas tensed up a bit, back straightening before taking up the challenge. “Do you honestly think that I wouldn’t hold up to my word?” He scoffed even just at the thought. “It wasn’t my intention to imply anything.” You teased back, that shine in your eyes returned like it never went missing in the first place. The terminal waters were only further raising the tension between the two. Light steam oozed from the pool of the water before sensually dancing in the air around them.

“Come here.” Veritas gently pushed you against the edge of the spring, his chest making contact with your naked back “Relax now, love. I got you.” His hot, steamy breath could be felt all the way down your exposed, vulnerable neck. He striped you bare of all control, yet also of all your stresses. Your body melted into the doctor’s first touch, the soft kneading motion of his hands causing a sensation comparable to heaven itself. It started with only your shoulders, the muscle fully giving into the affectionate motions. Your lower back was not neglected either. 

“Can you feel that? Doesn’t it feel nice to let me take care of you for once?” His hands found that one particular knot that has been causing you trouble without you even knowing it, at least that would explain the uncharacteristic, explicit moan that left your choked throat. You arched your back, perhaps on impulse. That said, Veritas did not miss the chance to feel you up. “It’s nice.” The words escaped your lips. You leaned into the touch, the doctor’s hand expertly maneuvering your body like it was made all for him. You, of course, didn’t mind this at all, other than the quite distracting heat rising in his lower stomach. “I want more of you.” Your words were immediately answered with a pinch on the nipple. You gasped, the sensitive pink buds hardening after only a few squeezes. Instead of relaxation, Veritas’ massage only induced the opposite, excitement.

“I know, darling, I know.” Just like he could give pleasure, he could also take it away. He let go of your perky, pink nipples, returning his hands to your back. “But I need you to relax if you want more.” His feathery touch moved down to your soft cheeks, massaging the fat of your ass. Your breath hitched, you knew where this was going and your patience was running low. “Veritas…” You whined, but only received a slap to the ass. “Patience breeds success.” Veritas spoke his usual wisdom, though something told him that maybe it might have been uncalled for. But you bit your tongue. You pushed your rear into Veritas’ hand, hoping that the action will inflict impatience on him too.

It seemed to have worked. You felt that familiar hardness brushing against your soft ass, touching you so teasingly, making you lose your mind. Though, you were shortly rewarded. Out of nowhere, you felt a singular finger stab through your pucker hole, eliciting just the softest moan to slip out of your precious lips. You gripped onto the lake’s moist edge for much needed aid. “Just one finger in and you completely fall apart. My, I wonder how much could you really take?” He emphasized the words with a hit to the prostate, feeling the fleshy walls almost immediately clenching around his digits. It didn’t take long before the second one joined into the mix, the needy moan that spilled from your lips just a moment ago now mutating into a loud whine. “Please Veritas. It’s not enough.” You cried out, feeling as if that sweet spot deep inside you was being set ablaze.

“Say it again and I might consider it.” He dared to make such an order. If the scenario was any different you would have scoffed, yet horniness has its way with making all shame dissipate. “Please.” 

Veritas had enough mercy to make that ‘maybe’ into a definite ‘yes’. The third finger slid in just as easily as the first two, stretching you open with no resistance other than the periodic clenching. “Is this how you like it? Or was it something else you were begging for?” Veritas asked, but only received an absentminded, but nothing short of enthusiastic nod. That was enough for him to understand his love’s wishes. 

“Fine, I think you deserve it.” His fingers left a vacant hole inside you, but reassurance came when you felt the throbbing member sliding between your cheeks. “You can take it, I’m sure of it.” You could only gulp nervously at the doctor’s words, feeling your own burning saliva sliding down your dry throat. The open mouth kiss Veritas left on your neck sent you over the edge. You aligned yourself with Veritas’ pulsing erection, your body practically begging for penetration. And your love gave in.

Veritas stabbed into your tight ass, penetrating the petite entrance inch by inch before bottoming out completely. “God, you’re so fucking tight.” You could feel the rhythmic throbbing of his dick, your nice butt swallowing each pulse of his erection. Veritas started out slowly, dragging his dick out before slamming right back in with force. His dick felt like it was burning inside your heat. In this state of mind and body your neck felt like the tastiest treat. He started out with only gentle kisses, following with the kisses that would leave lasting bruises before finally biting fully down and piercing the thin layer of skin, provoking a choked scream to break the otherwise peaceful night. 

His thrust only got faster, even if little by little. The choked scream was only built upon by much meeker whimpers uncontrollably seeping out of your needlessly addictive lips. Your nipples weren’t forgotten either. Just a single pinch and your voice rose in pitch. Veritas flickered his thumb over the hardening button, leaving it even more sensitive. “Ah.. hah.. Too- Too much.” You babbled.

“Too much? Already?” Veritas raised a singular eyebrow. “Come on, you know there is even more to come, right? I haven’t even started with you.” Just as promised, Veritas’ pace accelerated, causing the once tranquil water to now violently splash against the many rocks that built the lake. His kisses were wet, needy and absolutely devouring, attacking just the sweetest flesh of your neck. And the lewd sounds coming from your hoarse throat served as only further motivation. Though he still had some of that gentleman left in him, enough that he would never let you poor leaking cock neglected. He squeezed your shaft, perhaps too roughly at first, before starting to pump at an almost equal pace to his thrust. Considering this, the arch of your back that followed should have been expected. You pushed your ass into him while your front was still clawing at the lake's solid border. Drool slid down your chin, the absolute disheveled state you were in causing the other male's rock hard dick to twitch.

“You like that, don't you?” Suddenly, he stopped. His large hands moved up from your waist, running up your side before settling on your chest. “You like it when I grope you like this. You like it when I worship your body.” You could feel his hot breath crawling down your spine, starting from your flushed, red ears all the way down. “Admit it. Say it out loud.” His words could barely count as whispers. 

You gulped. It wasn’t that you couldn’t admit it, it was just that you couldn’t catch your breath. “Mmm…” You mumbled, but the way Veritas grabbed your chin told you that he wasn’t quite pleased. “Use your words.” He turned your head to get a better look, watching your oh so perfectly fucked out face. “Y-Yes-” A slap to the ass was the only thing you received, but the stinging pain already told you everything. “I… I like the way you touch my body. Please, do it again.” You said, but his silent gaze didn’t do much to reassure you. Lucky, you got that reassurance in other ways. He pulled you into a hot, deep kiss, his tongue breaching the barrier of your lips and getting right to that tasty spot that made kissing you so addictive. 

He dropped that cold mask and moaned into your mouth, the shameful sound something he would never in any scenario let anyone hear, but you proved to be quite the exception for him in most things in life. You could melt just in the kiss itself, but oh when you felt his dick move inside you again, you could have dropped to your knees right then and there. He began moving his hips again, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves hidden deep inside your passage repeatedly until all the thrusts merged together. He caught up to the previous pace, hungry hands reaching for your erect member with a carnal need before beginning to pump in the same rhythm with each strike. 

“Fuck…” The words got lost in the kiss. “You feel so good.” His nails dug into your hips, the slight surge of pain nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure. “I… I think that- ngh, I’m close.” Veritas lost control of his own hips, sloppy, but fast, thrust setting fire ablaze inside you. The act itself would have heated up your body on its own, but combined with the hot spring’s steamy water sweat was sure to stick to your body like a second skin. “Veritas, I can’t… hold it in.” You whined and, finally, after just a few pumps you screamed out his name, your whole body spasming as your cute cock sent its filthy, sinful load into the pure, clean thermal water, staining what some would refer to as holy sight. And with how tightly you clenched around the man it was only natural that he would follow. Veritas’ deep groan, hoarse from pleasure, echoed through the silent night as he practically erupted inside your tight little hole, feeling how its walls squeezed every single bit of cum out of him. Your bodies molded together for only a brief moment, but even in such a short time your pleasure felt like his and his felt like yours. 

But eventually, you both fell from the shared high, bodies sore from all the action. But even the painful soreness was something Veritas wanted to share with you. The doctor’s tight grip relaxed, leaving red spots where he once held you in place like a hungry animal, though what came after felt equally loving. He nuzzled your abused neck, the poor thing left bruised, before inhaling your scent, not the one of your cologne, but the one your sweaty body oozed with on its own accord. He moaned, probably for the last time tonight, at the feeling of his now softening dick snugly hidden within your passage, he could stay like this forever.

“Such sounds don’t suit you, doctor.” You teased, leaning back into the safe embrace. “That’s because they were only meant for you.” In a somewhat strange moment of vulnerability, he kissed your earlobes, whispering such sweet words that you couldn’t believe it was him.

“Really?” You asked, trying to sound ever so sarcastic in an attempt to hide the fluttering feeling that raged inside your heart. “Then I think it’s better if this stayed just between the two of us.” He was quick to nod at your proposal, not even sparing a moment. “I think so too.”

You looked back down at your own hand, noticing your smooth skin morphing into wet wrinkles. “Maybe we should go dry ourselves before we get all wrinkly.”

“Just give me a few more minutes. I want the moment to soak in.” Reason told him otherwise, but his mind has already fallen into the love’s trap. The roles were now reversed and you couldn’t help yourself from commenting. “Such foolish words, I expected better from someone of your capabilities.” Though another, more annoyed, slap to the tush was enough to make you reconsider your words.

[Writer’s note: it's been a while, hasn't it? I started writing physically recently. Spend a notebook in like two weeks. This was supposed to be finished earlier. Oh well... As you might have seen in my answers life has not been so good to me lately. Thankfully, this tough patch might be ending soon. I just have to survive another month and I'm done. Perhaps I'll be posting more then.]

[naffeclipse]

Speakeasy

Reader x Mob Bosses!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Many thanks to Anonymous for letting me go ham with the mob boss brothers and making them absolutely dastardly! I love the scenario for this one and just how sinister but sweet Sun and Moon can be when they have their favorite little thing sitting in their laps. The boys just love to show off what's theirs.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

You are anxious, to say the least. Two large hands escort you. One rests on your shoulder, the animatronic’s off-white and yellow thumb sliding slightly underneath the neckline of your dress to stroke the bare skin of your shoulder. The other is on your waist, dark blue and silver, keeping you close despite your urge to race straight out of the speakeasy.

The mob bosses smile down at you with the wicked, wide smiles of sharks. In no uncertain terms, they are keeping you with them.

Swallowing your visible nervousness becomes hazardous as you realize that the illegal venue is very much open for business. Instead of a nightlife of posh people prepared to spend exuberant amounts of money on smoking and drinks, then swing away on the dance floor open before a small stage for a band, there are gangsters everywhere. They line the bar stools, sit in the plush, rich leather couches and seats, and musicians play low, soft jazz as if to not disturb the entrance of the crime lords of the Celestial Gang.

Your throat becomes thick as you smell cigarettes and alcohol and sharp, overapplied cologne. Low lights burn yellow and cast thick, clogging shadows around the open room. Several animatronics already flank a center sitting room away from the bar and dance floor. Human men dressed in sleazy suits quickly move towards the mob bosses. 

The small swarm settles when Sun and Moon escort you to a fine, black leather couch big enough for just the three of you. You bow your head under the scorching attention, all eyes seemingly upon the outsider their bosses brought along to the business meeting. Your hair falls into your face as a brief curtain to the overwhelming atmosphere. 

How did you get here? One moment, you’re researching the famed Celestial Gang for a column in the newspaper which pays you well to find the best, most reliable information, and the next, you were ‘borrowed’ by none other than Sun and Moon. The crime lords have done dark and dirty deeds to keep themselves high in the underground. Why kidnap you for a few days just to put you in a red dress and take you into the heart of their illegal dealings?

“Take a seat, love.” Sun presses close to your ear, warming your face when his faceplate touches the corner of your cheekbone.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Moon’s rough voice touches you. He lifts a hand and removes the shield of your hair and sweeps it behind your face, exposing your freckles and wide, green eyes. “What would you like? A drink, perhaps, my dear?”

You recoil, revealed by force once more to the many eyes, but the real danger is the ones with their hands on you, refusing to allow you to escape. A stutter begins in your throat. Swallowing it down, you force yourself to say in a tiny, demure voice, “No, thank you.”

“Later then.” Sun nods his sharp sun rays towards a man behind the bar. He moves swiftly, his hands flying out of sight. 

Sun and Moon promptly set you down on the couch, and you can’t help but wonder if this is what a minnow feels when crowded by two sharks as they take their seats on either side of you. Caging you with their bodies, your eyes widen at how they press their legs against yours. 

Sun leans forward in the slightest to take your hand between his own and unfurl the anxious fist you made. Moon leans deeper against the backrest and slides his arm behind you, cradling your waist. Stiffening, you hold as still as a doe deer in the sights of a hunter. All the while, every last goon stares down the three of you but not a word nor electric breath leaves those who await their bosses’ command.

The man behind the bar emerges carrying a silver tray with one lowball glass filled with a rich amber liquid. Close beside it is a dark blue pack of cigarettes.

You shift in your red dress as the bartender approaches. The fabric of your gown is rich and built to flare out when dancing. You didn’t want to put this on—no matter how lovely—but Sun and Moon cowed you with firm reminders. While they’re ‘borrowing’ you, they intend to dress you as they please. 

The checkered shrug was all you could manage. It took much to convince them to allow you to wear it but you pleaded, and they seem to enjoy it, much to your embarrassment.

The bartender bows and offers the tray to Sun first. Strangely, the animatronic accepts the glass while containing your hand in his other grasp. The amber liquid swirls between his nimble fingers. The bartender crosses to the other side of the couch. Moon tilts his head. His red eyes glance at the offering in approval before plucking the pack and immediately opening it.

Your mind spins with how they might indulge in the very human vices, but to your amazement, it seems to be a sort of ritual. There’s something ceremonial about the presentation. The enjoyment of something refined and toxic without partaking.

You watch the liquor glimmer in the crystalline cup. Sun pale eyes, sharp and dagger-like, pierce you with a glance.

“It’s bourbon, dollface.” He tips the glass closer, offering it to your lips. “You couldn’t imagine how much blood and money went into acquiring this one small glass. Would you like a taste?”

You flick your gaze up. He leans over you, crowding you, dwarfing you until you’re almost sliding onto Moon’s lap. His brother eagerly keeps you in place as Sun studies you. His smile holds an edge while he squeezes your hand in the slightest.

“I shouldn’t,” you murmur, but you shrink as you speak.

Sun’s eyes flash like the tip of a blade. He lowers the glass closer still to your mouth until a rich aroma spills upward and invades your senses. 

“Oh, but I say you should.” His grin bears down upon you. “No one touches my bourbon but I do want to know if it’s as worthwhile as the bottle says. One sip, turtle dove.”

You hold his gaze, almost trembling. It won’t kill you, certainly, but this is more than the pressure of a drink.

“Okay,” you concede meekly.

Sun’s smile is lethal as he presents it to you. Gazing into the amber liquid, you lean forward, unable to even hold the glass as Sun carefully presses it to your mouth and gently tilts it. A sweet spiciness spills over your tongue, reminding you of the solar crime lord. You merely wet your lips before it smoothly slides down your throat before you turn your head away. Sun allows it, satisfied with a sharp electric click of his tongue.

“How does it taste?” he purrs, catching your chin and lifting it higher as he admires you. A flutter overtakes your middle.

“Expensive,” you manage, “and strong.”

Tilting his head, Sun’s grin widens as his voice enters a growl so sweet it matches the bourbon’s flavor, “Good. It’s earned all the blood and money I spent on it.”

A few bodies shift from foot to foot and animatronics blink a few optics. Mercifully, Sun releases your chin. Again, you duck your face to hide as the liquor cools your stomach. Only a few drops and you already feel strange and tiny like a trapped rat.

Moon flicks a lighter. The sharp spark of it catching causes you to jump, and Moon chuckles a dark, rolling sound deep within his chassis.

“Relax, baby.” His red eyes search through the curtain of your hair. “You’re in good hands.”

You take a long strand of hair hanging in your face and begin twirling it around your finger. Twisting and twisting the lock, you watch Moon methodically pick a cigarette from the pack using one hand. Slowly, he slides his arm out from behind you. A dark pulse to his gaze washes down you until he reaches for your face and sweeps back the hair dangling in front of you.

“Look me in the eyes. You’re too pretty to hide from me,” he says in both warning and affection, and it chills you to the bone. “Don’t do that again.”

“Okay,” you breathe. Every function within you shrivels under the intensity of his red eyes holding you captive.

His fingertips slide over your cheekbones, lingering for a moment as if he might count every freckle dusting your skin. You tremble inwardly. Moon shifts the cigarette dexterously to his fingers. Holding it steady, he leans forward.

“Be a doll,” Moon rasps. He’s not asking.

“I—” you take a deep breath, your heart pumping hard. “I don’t smoke.”

“I know, my dear,” Moon chuckles sinisterly. You do not doubt that he does. “You’re going to help me light it, nothing more.”

A part of you writhes but you can do little but part your lips. Your fingers twitch as if you had a hope of taking it yourself, but Sun’s firm grasp on your hand is thick as shackles and Moon is as unyielding as a cold night.

He sets it softly on your lips. Unfamiliar with such a ritual, you freeze as Moon holds out the pale flame. He cups it, looming over you while he sets the end aglow with red-hot heat, and all the while, his eyes are devouring you whole.

“Hold still,” Moon commands. 

He lights it, and on instinct, you inhale. A poor choice, considering the flood of smoke that quickly sets fire to your lungs with a singing flavor of anise. A fierce cough overtakes you. Moon takes the cigarette from your lips as Sun tuts his tongue. 

“Naughty thing,” Moon chastises as he allows you to finish your fit, but he draws the cigarette away from you, holding it perfectly between his fingers while his other hand roams your back, hitting softly until you, at last, expel the last of the forsaking tobacco now staining you fiercely.

“You need to be good, love,” Sun reminds close to your ear. His digit plays with the dangling jewelry hanging from your earlobe. A shiny, silver sword. “What are we to do with you if you can’t behave?”

You choke but for a far different reason.

“I’ll be good,” you say, unable to get out anything else but whatever might please them.

“That’s all we ask, baby.” Moon’s hand slips under your chin to turn you towards him. Your lips part as he squeezes in the slightest, and you feel like a fish with your lips puffed into a pout. “Business will only take a moment, then we’ll get back to you.”

You bleed a fierce blush at how he holds you, his eyes commanding you without restraint. You utter a pathetic sound of agreement before the crime lords share a look.

They keep you firmly in place all the while they conduct the mafia meeting. Throughout, Sun’s and Moon’s hands are constantly upon you. Sun speaks of numbers, how well the handling of merchandise such as alcohol has transpired and Moon focuses on conflict, the safety of the gang and the casualties suffered, and how to strike back against those who crossed the line against them. You listen, feeling little more than a plaything in their palms. Moon rubs your side gently. Sun traces his thumb over your knuckles. You endure their forced closeness, unable to even hide behind the curtain of your hair as per their warning.

Then, at last, Sun and Moon lean back with a sort of finality. The goons relax in the slightest, able to ease off from their strict attentiveness before a slow murmur of talk stirs the air. The music picks up a touch louder. A slow, smooth sound of jazz that fills you to the brim. You can hardly unclench your jaw before Sun and Moon share a look so devilish, you fear for your soul.

“We worked hard today, Sun,” Moon drawls out sinisterly.

“We have. We need a reward,” Sun hums, pleased and dastardly. 

“What are you talking about?” you ask, your heart racing within you.

“A dance, of course, dollface.” Sun takes your hand and lifts it high. Moon captures your other before you register how they lift you from the couch in one swift motion.

You reel as they escort you to the dance floor. One flick of Moon’s hand commands the musicians to turn up the music, and the gangsters’ eyes follow you as you’re pulled onto the last place you want to be. The dance floor. 

In one sure motion, Sun begins to remove the shrug from your shoulders. Any resistance you might have made is cut by Moon holding you in place by your chin until Sun carelessly tosses the checkered cloth off to the side. 

“Beautiful,” Moon announces. His thumb finds the tattoo of a quill on your right bicep and strokes it adoringly. You shiver under the caress.

You freeze when another presence falls into your shadow.

“Lovely little thing,” Sun says as he traces a finger along the line of your bare shoulder. Another shudder rolls down your spine.

You turn as if you might escape but Sun seizes you by the hip and lifts your arm high, twirling you until the world is a blur of low light and smoky haze, and dips you. You gasp. The same nefarious hands catch you by the waist, bowing so close to your face, the sharp crown framing Sun’s head in sharp, yellow rays takes over your vision. A blush fills you to the brim.

“There’s nothing to fear, love. We’ll lead,” Sun reassures you with a laugh that flips your heart. “Won’t we, Moon?”

“We will.” Moon answers by stealing you away into a swift step that leaves you dizzy and with a head rush. He half drags, half carries you with a tight grip on your hands. You can barely catch up. 

You flush, trying to protest that you want to leave, now, and stop being a shining new toy to show off to their underlings, but there’s no denying the crime lords. Moon sweeps your feet off the ground as he grabs your waist and lifts you in a half circle. The red fabric of your dress flares out. Your stomach drops and your heart soars.

Then you’re back on your feet. Breathless, left spinning after Sun’s dip and Moon’s twist, you can hardly register the closeness until both mob bosses are upon you. At your back, Sun clasps your hand, holding it behind your waist as if he intends to pin you against his brother. Moon likewise captures your other hand, holding it shoulder-level. Two palms fall to your hips, and in a strange, electrifying motion, Sun and Moon force you to dance with both of them.

“How do you know how to do this?” is all you can gasp. It’s too perfect. Too prepared. Sun looms over your shoulder with a lethal warmth while you turn your cheek as if you might keep both of them in your vision. Moon presses closer to you, hanging over you like the cool threat of a storm.

“We have thought long and hard about what we might do with a troublemaker like you,” Sun speaks low into your ear. “You’ve been learning too much, turtle dove.”

You stiffen in the slightest. Despite this, your feet are caught in their rhythm, slowly spinning in time to the romantic tune floating in the air.

“What?” you breathe. “How did you—”

“We have our ways,” Moon reminds. He tilts his head, his fedora covering the lowlight and shadowing his face even deeper. 

They know. You found out their relation to their elder brother. The police chief.

You also found that they haven’t spoken to each other in years.

Your pulse picks up in horror. This is what this has been about. This whole time, the cat-and-mouse game, is because they’re going to kill you.

“Please,” you say, trembling. Their hands squeeze your own. 

“Hm? Speak up, love,” Sun laughs, taunting you. “I can’t hear you.”

“Don’t kill me,” you say it starkly, quietly. Your eyes are wide. There is nowhere to hide while they trap you between their chassis. 

Moon stares at you, his red eyes darkening into crimson before he releases your waist and slowly leans down. He captures your face between his palms. With Sun holding you in place, there is nowhere to run. You close your eyes.

A brush of something cool and tasting of anise falls against your lips. You start under the lunar crime lord’s kiss. When you open your eyes, his grin is pleased, wicked. He holds you a moment longer under his sharp teeth.

“That would be a waste, don’t you think?” he rasps.

Sun grunts something before he spins you around by the hips. Moon allows him, and he takes you by the waist to keep you on your feet while Sun looks upon you with desire so fiery, that you fear it will engulf you. His pale eyes gnaw away at your every edge.

“I thought…” you murmur senselessly. 

“You thought wrong.” Sun presses a finger to your lips with a wicked grin. “I need to take a bite out of you too.”

This time, your eyes are wide open when he bends down to press his faceplate to your lips, and you gasp underneath his hungry kiss. He pushes and pulls, and you almost sway were it not for the Moon stabilizing you. Sun releases you slowly, greedily.

“That’s right, dollface,” Sun purrs as Moon presses close and kisses the back of your neck. “We have plans for you.”

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 52: The Maestro's Correction

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, body control, burns, hand whump, whipping, blindness, abuse, blood drinking

October 1925

Alexander stood and bowed low as the Maestro entered the music room, trailed by Oliver in eerily perfect synchronization. "Good evening, sire. I hope you are well."

"I also hope I am well. That depends largely on your hospitality, I'm afraid," he said. "Let us begin by examining your new acquisition in more detail."

"Certainly, sire."

No, no, no -- it took all of Oliver's self-control to not fight as the Maestro sat down on the padded bench and forced him into a submissive kneel. The hook and eye on his dress was undone, and Oliver's dread rose. What did he mean by examining in more detail…?

It was somewhat of a relief when those stony eyes focused on the brand on his chest. "Slipshod. The edges are clearly uneven. The symbol will hardly be readable." The Maestro looked up. "It's obviously your work, Alexander. If you had coerced Lily into fulfilling your obligation, as you were no doubt tempted to do, it wouldn't be in such a sorry state."

"Yes, sire."

"Your thrall is permanently marred, the results of your task an abject disappointment, and all you have to say in response is 'yes, sire'," said the Maestro, his tone like a knife pressed against Alexander's neck. "When I attended the ballet, your thrall informed me that you are allowing him a great deal of freedom, as well, are you not?"

"Yes, sire."

Oliver couldn't turn around, but he could hear the despondence in Alexander's voice. This had been his fault, hadn't it? He should have covered for his master. But Alexander had warned him in no uncertain terms to be honest. What was the correct action? Was there even a correct action?

"Because your thrall is otherwise so obedient, I feel inclined to only impose a light punishment this time."

"Thank you, sire."

The Maestro indicated a fat candle sitting on the end table, its flames providing the only cheer and warmth in the room. "Place your hand in the candle's flame until I am satisifed."

"Yes, sire."

"No!" The choked cry came from Oliver's mouth before he could stop himself. He wrenched his head out of the Maestro's grasp just enough to see Alexander's shock, his hand hovering dangerously near the flames.

"Oh?" Oliver's head was snapped back to look in the Maestro's eyes, filled with a cold fury. "You disagree with my judgement?"

"No, no, sir, I don't --"

The Maestro slapped him across the face hard. "You disagree with my judgement and then you lie to compound it," he said, rage in every note of his musical voice. "You do this out of loyalty, no doubt. My misguided children seek companionship among humankind, and value loyalty over obedience. A flaw I have not yet burned out of them."

Oliver trembled as the Maestro took his right hand. The vampire's hands were colder than ice and smooth as porcelain. He ran his finger's down Oliver's palm in a way that might have been tender in other circumstances. "Do you play any instruments, child?"

He was thinking of burning Oliver's hands, wasn't he? Oliver desperately wished he could answer yes to that question, in the hopes that he would be spared, but the blossoming bruise on his cheek warned him otherwise. "No, sir."

"Are you clever with your hands?"

Oliver thought back to the many evenings he'd spent repairing the bindings of antique books and mending his worn clothes. "I believe so, sir."

"I see." The Maestro turned over Oliver's hands in his own. "Human hands can be permanently damaged. A shame, truly. Mutilating your hands before you've been given the opportunity to prove yourself useful would be a waste at this time, as would any corrective action that spills excessive blood."

Oliver wasn't sure if he should be relieved by that. "…Thank you, sir?"

"You have an obedient soul. I'm not wrong about such matters," said the Maestro. "It is your master's lack of discipline that is to blame for your insubordination. Therefore, I will not punish you."

"You won't, sir?" Oliver would have found this mercy difficult to believe even if he didn't notice Alexander tensing.

"You don't want to watch your master's punishment, do you?"

"No, sir."

"Then look into my eyes, child. Deep, deep into my eyes."

He didn't have a choice, as the Maestro's power drew his gaze upwards and locked it there before he fully realized what was happening.

"Deeper. Lose yourself."

There was a disconcerted ticking noise in Oliver's head, as though his ear were pressed to a clock, and he realized in terror that he was being enthralled, the power like chains wrapping around his mind. Despite Alexander's many warnings and his own resolve to be obedient and avoid trouble, Oliver couldn't help the urge to pull against it. It was bad enough to have to give over his body. The idea of this cruel vampire invading his mind was too much to bear.

But it was already too late. Oliver was already trapped in his eyes. As the ticking of the clock gradually slowed like a mechanical toy winding down, his thoughts slowed too, his vision engulfed by the cold oblivion of the Maestro's gaze.

"Close your eyes down. Tight. As tight as they can."

"Yes, sir." Oliver's eyes obediently shut, sparing him the weight of that gaze, but doing nothing to free his mind.

"I am placing lead weights on each one. Weights that are far too heavy to allow you to open your eyes on your own." A cold finger tapped each of Oliver's eyelids. "Only I can move these weights. You will not open your eyes again until I allow it."

"Yes, sir."

"Wake."

That crisp snap sounded next to Oliver's ear, and he felt the chains on his mind lift, but he did not open his eyes. Could not. Oliver couldn't help but be confused. The Maestro had full control of his body. Why go through the trouble just to make him shut his eyes?

There was one obvious, awful possibility: because he did not intend for Oliver to open his eyes ever again.

"Now that that's settled, you may take your punishment, Alexander," the Maestro said.

Oliver was forced back into a kneeling position and the Maestro placed one hand atop his head. He heard several steps across the wood floor, and then absolute silence.

Was his master actually burning his hand in the candle's flame? There was no sound at all, no cries of pain from Alexander, not even the sound of breathing. The only thing tethering Oliver to the world was that hand on top of his head. As much as Oliver would hate to see or hear his master in pain, the deathly silence and darkness and suspense made it so much worse.

And just as Oliver thought he couldn't take it any more, he smelled what he desperately hoped was not the scent of charred flesh. His spirit cried out to do something, anything, to help his master, but blinded and bound as he was, there was nothing he could do.

"Enough," said the Maestro, after what seemed like an eternity. "I grow weary of watching you disappoint me. Alexander, play."

Play? Alexander's sire couldn't possibly expect him to play an instrument with a ruined hand. Yet Oliver could hear Alexander sit down at the piano bench and begin to play a piece which obviously involved a great deal of intricate fingerwork. Perhaps his hand was not that damaged after all -- but the smell in the air said otherwise.

He didn't have long to sit and enjoy the music (as much as he could under the circumstances) because the Maestro stood and pulled Oliver up, leading him in a dance. Oliver couldn't see and didn't know the steps, but he didn't have to, as his body was once again puppeted without his input, gliding across the room with a grace that was not his own, his trembling hand trapped in that cold porcelain grasp.

"One," intoned the Maestro. "Two." Several beats of music. "Three."

Oliver didn't know what it meant. Swirling around the music room with his eyes shut tight, his anxiety was reaching a fever pitch, making it difficult for him to relax enough to allow his body to sink into the control.

"Four. Five."

He was counting the mistakes, Oliver realized. Every moment his concentration broke, his body was fighting just the smallest bit against the unwanted intrusion. Each time that happened, he would slightly miss a step, or pull against the Maestro's grip.

"Eleven. Twelve."

He couldn't focus. He couldn't follow. He couldn't stop his treacherous body from rebelling against being made the plaything of the implacable vampire in front of him. And the number was climbing.

"Twenty-two." The Maestro released his grip on Oliver, who reeled backwards. "You may stop now, Alexander. Do you see now what I was talking about? He has obedience, but lacks discipline."

"Yes, sire." Alexander sounded as dead inside as he was metaphysically.

"Try not to spill blood unnecessarily when you administer the punishment. I finally find myself with an appetite."

"Yes, sire."

Oliver didn't have to wait long to know what the punishment was. Once more, he was kneeling, and he felt a sharp blow from a thin implement sting his back. It was followed by another, and another, and although Oliver was being kept from movement, he couldn't help but cry. The anticipation of each blow was as bad as the pain, and his back felt like it was on fire.

"That's twenty-two, sire."

"Your hand was light," said the Maestro. "No matter. You had three mistakes in your playing."

He heard Alexander kneeling beside him. The blows the Maestro delivered to Alexander's back rang out through the music room, unmistakable.

"Now that that unfortunate business has been taken care of," said the Maestro as casually as though he'd been discussing an unpleasant chore, "I will take my meal."

Oliver felt every muscle in his body tense, despite the control holding him. It was wrong, wrong, wrong for anyone but his master to drink his blood, but everything about this evening had been wrong.

And it was made even worse by the fact that Oliver couldn't see what the Maestro was doing, when the bite was coming for him. All he could feel was a hand on his head and a thick vampiric aura enveloping his mind. It felt strangely empty. Not like desire or hunger or pleasure, like Oliver had always felt with his master. No, the Maestro's aura was purely about control and practicality, freezing him in position so that he could be fed from. Oliver couldn't even tilt his neck as he'd been trained.

At least a feeding wouldn't be so bad, compared to everything that had happened so far, Oliver reasoned. Miss Lily had instilled in him the craving to provide for a vampire, and the feedings he'd experienced so far had been pleasant, even euphoric. He'd been dreading it previously, but now it actually be a relief.

At least, it seemed like a relief until the Maestro's slender fangs sunk into the flesh of his neck.

Oliver gasped in surprise and pain. It hurt, agony radiating from the bite, and the sensation of teeth in his muscles was deeply violating, not to mention the uncomfortable suction of his blood being consumed. His world narrowed down to nothing but the awful, aching wound, his body spasming with the need to escape from the predator, frozen in place by unnatural means.

It hurt, of course it hurt. He should have known better than to think this might be a relief. Alexander always put him under a gentle spell of sleep and submission and pleasure as he fed, a spell that kept Oliver from feeling any of the pain that would naturally accompany his neck being bitten. Of course the Maestro would not do that, would instead relish his suffering.

As his master's sire drank his blood, his thoughts began to overpower Oliver's own, and he found…

Nothingness.

A pitch black sky with no stars or moon or clouds. An empty field devoid of life as far as the eye could see. A bitter chill sapping the strength and cheer from his very marrow.

Order. Solitude. Misery.

The inky sky rushed to meet him, to swallow him in oblivion, and Oliver thought he might be dying.

"Oliver?"

He was floating back up through the darkness, tethered by his master's voice.

"Oliver? Oliver, please wake up."

"I'm awake, sir," he said, trying to open his eyes and finding that he couldn't, the memories of what had transpired rushing back to him. He couldn't open his eyes at all, the imaginary lead weights keeping them firmly shut. He could tell that he was laid out on the padded bench, cradled gently in what he hoped was his master's arms. His back hurt and his cheek stung and the wound on his neck was intensely uncomfortable… but he was alive. "I can't…" he said, panic rising. "I can't open my eyes, sir. Is he still here? Is it over?"

"He's gone. He probably won't trouble us for some time," Alexander said. "You were brilliant, Oliver. A picture perfect thrall. I wish you didn't have to go through any of that, but you handled it all so well."

Praise from his master cut through some of Oliver's fear and pain. "Will I be able to open my eyes again, sir?"

"Yes, you will, I promise. Hypnotic commands usually fade away on their own if they're not reinforced."

"How long will that take, sir?" said Oliver. Despite the welcome reassurance that this wouldn't be forever, his mind was already filling with anxiety over how he would be able to live. How could he find his way around the expansive manor while blinded? How long would he have to go without reading?

"Well… my sire's very powerful, as I'm sure you know, and you're…"

"Weak, sir?"

"I wasn't going to say weak. You take to enthrallment very well, which has nothing to do with mental weakness, believe it or not. And it's a trait I find endearing, but unfortunately in this case it might be a problem. It could last a month, maybe more…"

Oliver's heart clenched at the idea of weeks in the dark. How could he even take care of himself? Would he be able to cook or bathe? Would he need his master to help him do all of those things? Would Alexander help him?

"…but don't worry!" said Alexander hastily, running a hand through Oliver's hair. "I'll take you to see Lily first thing tomorrow night. She can usually undo things like that, especially considering the grip she has on your mind already."

Oliver never thought he'd be so grateful for Miss Lily. "Thank you, sir. I hope it isn't too much trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. You endured all of this for me. Helping undo my sire's damage is the least I can do. Speaking of which, I've already bandaged your neck, but I should tend to the wounds on your back and make sure they aren't too serious. I could get some ice from the icebox for your face, as well."

"But what about your hand, sir? Did you actually…"

"Yes. It will heal on its own, and I can clean and bandage it later. You don't need to concern yourself with it. I wish to tend to you."

Blinded and in pain, Oliver couldn't bring himself to argue with that. "Thank you, sir."

"I can't easily undo my sire's work, but I can help ease your pain with my song. Would you like that?"

"Yes, very much, sir."

His master began to sing, and his voice was like a lifeline in the dark, soothing and relaxing him and making him feel like everything would be okay, even if it very much wasn't.

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Thanks for reading. Next week: happier days with Fitz.

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[uplatterme]

Cherry Wine

—sub!kaeya/dom!reader, transmasc!kaeya/gn!reader | implied fwb relationship, fwb to lovers, hurt/comfort | mentioned nipple play, fingering (kaeya!receiving), edging, semi-public handjob (kaeya!receiving), mention of kaeya’s tcock like once though anatomy is kept pretty vague and gender-neutral

—kinda based on cherry wine by grentperez, that song has been on replay for days.

It’s not unusual for the Knights of Favonius to have these sorts of events, gatherings were held to provide some sort of bonding amongst other knights. A teambuilding activity, if you will.

He holds a glass of dandelion wine and the aroma reminds him of his…The smell reminds him of Angel’s Share and the said owner of that bar who isn’t here, and what he wouldn’t give to be in his position.

He stands idly in a secluded space, not wanting to catch the attention of the others who seem to be having a much more enjoyable time than he is.

His eyes wander around, examining his colleagues and other guests socializing.

The Cavalry Captain spots you and then out of nowhere, his hand is moving on its own, forcing him to drink the rest of the alcohol to hide the creeping blush starting to show on his face.

He turns around and faces the wall which is probably more suspicious than him just standing there alone, now that he thinks about it. However, he’d rather be caught dead than have you say something about him staring at you.

See, conversing with you isn’t really a problem. After all, you two have been friends ever since and even perform some acts that the average friendship doesn’t usually account for. Suffice to say, the knight trusts you a lot.

However, Kaeya might have stepped over that line a week ago…which is why he’s ignoring every letter you’ve sent to him. 

My Kaeya, I apologize for not meeting up with you lately. I have been stumped with the new work that Jean has assigned me for the rest of the week. Here are some flowers that I’ve gathered while I’m out in Liyue. I hope they won’t wither by the time you get this letter. I miss you.

He internally screams once he remembers the contents of that letter. A lovely bouquet of qingxin, one which he immediately freezes to keep alive for as long as he possibly can. You were really too nice of a friend to him.

You’ve always referred to him as “My Kaeya” ever since the first letter you formally sent. So he assumes it’s a friendly term to refer to him, something that he shouldn’t read further into if he doesn’t want to get his feelings hurt.

Also, it may or may not be his fault that you were assigned that many workloads from Jean…

He already messed up last week.

He tried to forget about it, but it’s impossible to forget when your fingers were inside of him, his juices soaking the sheets while your tongue had its way with his chest, nibbling his nipples just the way he likes them as your saliva trails down from his scars to his stomach.

It wasn’t even that bad. Literally, there were worse times when you two got at it like two wolves in heat, yet somehow that was when his mind just decided to spew out those three specific words.

He sounded like he was enjoying himself on a honeymoon with his newlywed. What was he thinking… he could have moaned out literally anything else. Hell, he would have rather moaned out in Khaenri’ahn for fucks sake. 

Yet he didn't, he said something much idiotic.

He can’t even say it in his mind right now, he’s far too embarrassed.

Kaeya is uncertain whether you heard him or not. He didn’t see you respond strangely at all, so is it possible you were too focused? Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t notice because he climaxed right after that mishap of his…

He’s hoping it’s the former.

He fidgets with the glass in his hand, breathing to calm himself down before turning around again. 

“Hi.”

Kaeya’s heart jumps at the sight of you being so near to him. How long have you been there to begin with?

“Hello.” He replies as cooly as he can, averting his gaze away from you.

“I’m back.”

“I see that.” Archons, what is he saying?

“Are you—” 

You cut yourself off, pursing your lips and giving him a smile before continuing. He’s seconds away from just bolting out of here.

“Did you like the flowers?”

“I did.” He answers.

“Good.” 

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, the hired musicians changes the current music playing to a more…romantic one.

That’s fine. He’s good at these kinds of things.

Kaeya shoves any sign of embarrassment or nervousness away and looks straight at you directly. You must have drank a lot, the dilation in your eyes makes it easy to tell.

“Care for a dance?” You invited.

“My, are you sure you can keep up?” He bites back.

“Probably not, but if it prevents you from standing by yourself then I’ll dance with you as long as I can.”

The genuineness of your words always manages to stir him up.

Kaeya laughs. “I see you’ve had much to drink.”

“Sure, something like that.” He catches a grin from you despite the way you bow at him.

He shakes his head, offering his hand in front of you. There’s a slightly noticeable tremble his hand makes but you place your hand onto his, keeping him still.

“I’m afraid a simple waltz is all I can do, I’m no Eula.” You admit.

“It’s fine. I’ll lead.” Kaeya says, trying to act as confidently as he can. 

“Alright then, Captain.”

His arm wraps around your waist as you place your hand on his shoulder. His breathing staggers but he tries to focus on the music and his feet, swaying you along with him. He dances gracefully, of course. Not that it’s surprising as he grew up in the Ragnvindr household.

He knows people are watching, he doesn’t meet their faces or yours.

“Kaeya.” You speak.

He raises his head. It’s bad etiquette to not look at the one you’re dancing with, though he hopes he can be forgiven just this once.

“Can we talk after this?”

He loses track of the time and his body moves as if it’s on autopilot. He only realizes that the music has stopped and so does he, when the people around him are clapping.

Kaeya faces you again, unsure of what to do. 

All of the sudden, his body is being dragged away to a more quiet spot, Your hand gripping his wrist. The balcony provides room for the two of you, the rest of the party being hidden away by the fancy curtain.

“Are you cold?” You ask.

The breeze is a bit shivering but he’s used to the cold due to the cryo vision he holds. 

“I’m fine.” 

He hears you sigh, as if that answer he’s given you was somehow wrong. You grab a flask from the inside of his blazer, taking a swig before handing it to him.

Kaeya smells the alcohol and he worries. “More alcohol?”

“It’s my first drink tonight.”

He doubts that, although he finds that there’s no reason for you to lie.

So, why do you keep giving him those eyes?

Kaeya gives in, drinking the rest. Warmth grows on his face and he’s unsure whether it’s from the wine or the fact that your mouth was just on the flask.

“This is new.” He examines it with a closer look.

“Cherry Wine. Diluc gave it to me, apparently it’s from a merchant he met.”

Kaeya chuckles. “I see you’ve been conspiring with my brother.”

There’s jealousy obvious when he says that, but who was he to be jealous? The line of friendship becomes more and more obscured.

“Well, unlike someone. He actually finds time to reply to my letters.”

“You’re mad.” He points out.

“Here I thought you were too dense to even notice that.” 

You close the distance between you two, his hands holding on the railings of the balcony as your hand steadies his back, kissing him deeply and much longer than any of the kisses you’ve given him.

His heart thumps from his chest, wanting more of your lips when you separate from him.

“Say it again. Tell me I didn’t mishear.” You plead.

“I…What?” You did hear him.

“Do I have to fuck it out of your mouth again?”

“Sweetheart, we’re in public. Gods, how strong is that wine—hey, wait!”

Your hand slips down his pants, palming the growing erection from under. Kaeya bites the back of his hand, your hand stroking his hardened tcock while you observe his face with a stern look.

“C-Come on, I really didn’t say anything.” He says, halfway between a soft whine and a cry.

“Captain, I didn’t take you for a liar and a coward.”

He’s dripping wet, he knows by the way the cloth sticks to the skin on his thigh. The pace you’re going at is undeniably slow, and he knows you won’t let him finish if he doesn't say those words again.

“Please?” Kaeya begs. It’s been a week without your touch and frankly, it’s a week too long.

“It’s admirable how you’d rather have me pleasure you like this in front of everybody rather than just admitting it.”

The knight knows that he’s enjoying this far more than he should be and that it’s the only thing worth remembering about this gathering.

And then your hand grips him tighter and his legs quiver, cursing your name out in a breathy moan. 

“What’s wrong? Poor Captain wants to cum, does he?” You tease.

“You ass.”

His thighs rub together, wanting more of that extra friction. He admits that the action is quite humiliating, though if there’s a way to get himself off without confessing his feelings for you, then he’ll gladly do that.

“No. Spread them apart.” You ordered.

“H-Huh?”

“You heard me.”

He follows through, a squeaky whimper escaping his throat.

“So desperate, My Kaeya.”

His foot almost missteps when he feels the warmth from one of your fingers slowly penetrating him. Oh fuck, you cannot be serious.

He throws his head back as you continue to explore more of his insides. And just like before, you’re meticulously playing with him just so he breaks apart.

“I already said please.”

“And it’s appreciated, dear. But that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Fuck…hn, you—”

He stays a wreck like that for a few minutes, not being allowed the permission to cum from your fingers. Why do you want him to say it that bad anyways? Do you really want to reject him like this? Right now?

Kaeya’s body feels heavy.

He’s close, oh so close. 

His nails dig into the skin of his palms, he hears the inside get quieter and for a second, he assumes that it’s because of how he’s gasping and panting because of you.

He shakes those thoughts, knowing how loud the music and gossiping of the knights must be.

“Do you not like me?” You blurt out.

What an absurd question. Why do you think he’s letting you do this?

“Am I too pushy, Kaeya?” 

Your words are contrasting your actions far too differently. Your fingers start to get rougher, he’s painfully hard and he just wants to—He can’t—he physically cannot hold it any longer.

The mention of your name is indistinguishable from a slobbering baby, he holds your waist again although for a particularly different reason this time.

It’s so cheesy how he gets so lovesick whenever he cums.

“I-I love you.”

His entire body collapses into an orgasm. He sobs onto your chest, he’s unsure whether it’s because of how fucking good that felt or the forthcoming response you’ll give as he’s finally admitted it.

What he didn’t expect however, is the fact that it’s not only his face that’s soaking from tears.

“I hate you.” You say.

There’s a hurt in his chest and he wants to take it back but what’s already been said is right there. He wants to apologize. It’s his fault after all for thinking anybody would think of him as anything more than a friend, for catching feelings—

His thoughts are silenced as you kiss him once more, it only lasts for a few and he’s left stunned as to why you would do that.

“I thought you finally caught on. I was so happy when you said you love me, I was caught off guard,”

You take a deep breath, calming yourself.

“And then, you decide to avoid me?! I even sent you qingxin, and you know I don’t like high places!”

…

“You like—no, you love me?” Kaeya states, the thought seems way too unbelievable.

“Obviously! Who in their right mind would address their friend as theirs?” You spat back.

You groan, pushing his already weak body away.

“I love you too, Kaeya. Don’t do that again, okay? You worried the shit out of me.”

“I…Okay. I won’t, I promise.”

He starts walking towards you shakily before pulling you into a tight hug. 

It’s a strange hug. The breeze is far too cold, your clothes are now sticky, and both of your eyes are red from crying. 

Yet somehow, it’s comforting.

It’s perfect.

[love-toxin]

Retrieval - entry II

entry I

plot: forging on through the horrors you've endured thus far, you venture deeper into the plagas cult territory to find something waiting for you there. more than something--someone.

(cws: fem!reader, blood, body horror, gun violence, knives, mention of a car accident, hurt-comfort, wound tending, raccoon city flashbacks, passing mention of smut)

word count: 5.3k

Even if you did plan out a route on your map, you've quickly realized that the landscape has changed so dramatically in your time away that it likely wouldn't have made a difference. In no uncertain terms, you are completely and devastatingly lost.

By now, the afternoon sun has long started beating on you from overhead and the sprinkling of rain this morning has turned the air thick and uncomfortably muggy. Each step up the incline of the dirt path and by extension the shifting of your clothing is a constant reminder of how sweaty you are, your stretchy shirt damp and sticking to your chest while beads of sweat pour down your neck and cling to your eyelashes. Your gloves have had to come off and Leon's jacket would've followed if the alternative wasn't to carry it–but regardless of those small choices you just have to accept the discomfort and keep trudging forward. You've got no idea where you're headed now but you won't get anywhere by sitting around, and at least you can try to peek through the trees and rocky inclines that line the road to see if you can spot any discernible landmarks. While you still have the task of finding Leon, returning to the village is no longer an option after what you saw this morning.

A shudder runs through you merely at the thought of it, your mind fuzzy with the memories like your brain is trying to protect you from the sight of that massacre. And it's almost worse to ponder that act of senseless violence than it was to witness the aftermath of it, not just because you recognize that some of those bodies were villagers that you'd cut down yourself, but also because you can't envision what kind of monster would have spread out such an unholy image for you. None of the creatures you remember seeing would have the patience or planning to do such a thing, and if it had been the work of a particular monster you'd faced off with, you're certain that if they knew you were there they would've killed you outright instead of trying to–what? Scare you?

Your boot meets a rock and you absentmindedly kick it up, watching with a passive interest as it skitters and tumbles its way around the path before rolling to a stop in the grass beside it. Was it to scare you? Could it have been a fluke, and you'd just barely missed the rampage of a vicious and callous monster? Or was it the will of the Plagas that called them there, and either ended them from within or had them hack each other into oblivion? You've got a feeling you would've heard something if either of those things were the case, but then again your sleep had been….preoccupied.

You shift the straps of your bag to ease the weight from one shoulder to the other, your gaze fluttering from one end of the path to the other like the presence of someone else would somehow allow them to be privy to your thoughts. The intense sweating you've been doing for the last few hours has masked over that wetness between your legs that you've been dealing with, the two forces intermingling so you can't really distinguish one kind of dampness from the other. It certainly doesn't make it any less uncomfortable, and it's an unfortunately clear-headed reminder of the shame you often feel after having one of those dreams about Leon.

After all, he is–was–your best friend. You met before Raccoon City went to shit, you lived through it together, and you faced the same hardships that came after when the world around you wanted to forget the cruelty of that horrid night. You knew how to joke around and keep the air light, you could drag each other out of your depressive episodes when nobody else could reach you, and Leon knew every ugly bit and piece of your life just like you knew his. Your friendship had always been something precious and you could never imagine throwing that all away by admitting to him that you're in love with him. He had been the only person in the world that you knew cared about you, the only person that would go to the ends of the earth to defend you, and to lose that would be equal to a death. It's what's made this loss all the harder, feeling like you've lost him twice over and having to mourn it all alone. And the guilt hits you even more when those feelings bubble up inside you again, because all you want is for them to just go away so you can grieve Leon as what he was, not what you wanted him to be.

You're always tempted to think he'd see you as gross for imagining doing those things with him, to him, but in reality you know that if you ever told Leon he would get the biggest head about it. Feelings or no, he'd be so smug he'd tease you until the end of time and it would stroke his ego to the heavens and back–and whenever you think about it, it just brings a smile to your face on instinct. He could be such a bastard sometimes, but there's no better person you could've called your best friend. Which, of course, makes the pang in your heart hurt all the worse when you're reminded that he's gone, and that he took his last breath in a place like this.

Speaking of which, it dawns on your senses that something absolutely reeks. Granted, the whole village smells of shit and blood–but this smell is different, it's almost worse, and it's to the point that you almost feel the need to pull your shirt up over your nose to block out the invasive wretchedness of it all. It's somehow getting worse as you walk, which can only mean you're getting closer to the source of it–and if it wasn't obvious by now, it becomes obvious with the crack of an aging engine roaring up and the sound of tires scraping over dirt and gravel. Fuck.

The raspy chorus of voices reaches you over the crest of the hill, and within moments of you halting in your tracks the vehicle comes barreling into view. On two crooked axles your imminent death approaches in the form of a truck gunning down the hill at top speed, two Ganados in the seats while God knows how many more growl and shout from the back and behind, brandishing their tools like weapons and vying for your blood.

It only takes seconds for your choices to dawn on you, but even that time isn't generous enough to give you much chance for a successful retreat. With two steps back you finally feel the panic whack you in the chest, but it powers your legs before you can think to move them and soon enough you're sprinting back the way you came. Your feet feel too light to control on the slope but you can't just stop, the heat of the engine is already at your back and if you hesitate, you know you're dead.

Fishing down the opening of your top, your fingers jab the secret pouch you sewed in there and two bullets come back out in your palm, warm steel forcing a calmness into your frayed nerves as you frantically load them into your gun. Those bullets are for emergencies, and you've encountered worse outcomes than this, but dying here would mean failure and there wouldn't be anyone left to try and bring you back to life this time.

You throw your arm back behind you to shoot, and everything flashes a bright, hot light to blot out the world–and then, just as swiftly, it all goes black as the ground falls out beneath you, pain shoots up your spine, and your eyes finally snap shut into total darkness as flame engulfs you.

"Officer! Wake up, officer!"

You haven't been called that in a while, but it still feels familiar–the voice, however, is different. There's only a distant wisp of something you recognize as you struggle to open your eyes.

"S'okay, I'm fine-" Your mumbling rings soft and faint over the crackling of fire and rain, barely audible–but the soon-to-be familiar face shakes his head and huffs a sigh as he pulls you back up to sit straight.

"You are not fine, officer. You're bleeding."

You see now what the situation is, your vision coming back into focus as Leon's warm hands steady you against the alley wall. Your memory's still fuzzy, but the pain shooting up and down your left leg is all you need to remind you of what just happened.

You'd been running down the street, escaping from a herd of the zombies with a bag slung over your back–the artillery from the station had been spread out all over the city and the medical supplies had run dry, so for almost half a day you'd been gone from the station to scout for supplies and redirect survivors towards the safehouses you and your fellow officers had staked out. One of them being the station itself, which had just come into view after you'd skidded around the nearest street corner and spotted those bright lights illuminating the front gate.

But after that, your recollection gets a little fuzzy. You'd heard a screeching sound on your left from behind, felt the tremor of something shaking the ground as several pairs of rotted hands reached for you from over your shoulder…and from there everything is a complete blur. A flash and a wave of heat had rushed over you, the blaring of a horn sounding from behind, and you vaguely recall the ground falling out from beneath you–although, based on the stiff soreness of your back, you suspect the impact of the truck that had hit you had sent you flying and you somehow wound up in this alley, or close to it. You've got a pretty good feeling you didn't just end up sitting back against it with your head propped up, else you've got the devil's luck for certain.

"Leon," You rasp, your throat dry and cracked from the heat and your laboured breathing. With that worried expression painted clear on his youthful face, he holds up a bottle of water to your lips–and you drink gratefully, feeling refreshed even by the wasted droplets dribbling down your chin as you struggle to swallow. "You can call me by my name, y'know–unless you don't remember, in which case my feelings are a–nngh, shit–little hurt." You cringe at the feeling of cloth scraping over your open wounds, nails digging into your other leg as Leon grazes the gash on your opposite thigh with a bit of medicine in hand. It's deep, you can tell that much, and if this were a movie you're morbidly certain that this would be the moment your partner has to put you down before you turn. Maybe you're already getting there, if the feverish heat crawling up your chest is any indication.

You shift your gaze over to the lump beside you, and find that your hand has been resting on the same bag you'd risked hide and hair for. It's half unzipped and looks like it's been rummaged through. It dawns on you that the water, gauze, and other medical supplies he's got rolled out are all part of the stash–and how embarrassing is that? You made so many promises to Marvin and the others that you would come back with hope in your arms, and yet you're the one using what you brought before you've even returned. Clipped by a fucking truck of all things. Yet, when Leon rolls your name off of his tongue with the ease of someone that's said it a thousand times before, your heart flutters and calms all at the same time.

"You're pretty relaxed for someone that just got hit by a car." He reaches out to squeeze your hand, and does so even tighter as he presses an alcohol-soaked pad into your jagged, bloody flesh. It stings like shit immediately and rips a string of curses out of you, but it's a necessary evil, so you just grit your teeth and bear it to try and make it easier for Leon to work. Being a newbie, you figured he would freak out…and yet, somehow, he's even calmer than you and he's doing a damn good job of keeping you distracted for him to tend your wounds.

"Truck, excuse you. Get your facts straight, rookie. Sounds cooler if you call it a truck-" Your half-joking reply is cut short as a sharp cry erupts out of you without warning. Burning pain shoots through your leg, tears immediately welling in your eyes and speeding down your cheeks as the searing sensation overwhelms almost every other sense. Your body jolts with it and Leon's hand comes down firmly on your thigh to keep you still, his other hand pressing warmth into your wound over the cloth he's smeared some herbs into. When the agony eventually starts draining out of you, it takes your strength with it and leaves you slumped back against the wall, lungs tight and burning from you panting and gasping for breath. With another wave soon to come and several more to follow, you have nowhere else to brace yourself but on Leon's shoulder, which you grab hard and squeeze tight as he works the medicine in and goes through the painfully considerate process of disinfecting the wound and bandaging it tight with a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

"Anything in there?" You finally manage to pant out, forehead dripping with sweat that he takes care to wipe with the other side of the cloth.

"No, don't think so."

"Thank fuck. I'd rather die than yank it out. You're a lifesaver, Lee." You're trying not to whimper as you speak, you don't want to come off as weak, but Leon really doesn't look like he minds nor that he's gonna use it against you in the future. His concern is written plainly on his face, thumbs gentle but firm as he wipes your tears like a brother would do for his younger sister. Or a friend for a friend. A partner for a partner.

"...Lee?" He murmurs, repeating the nickname for you both in a teasing way and a surprised one. You've only met a handful of times, haven't even gotten to know each other aside from the general pleasantries–but he seems happy. Relieved, really, that you don't mind his help or his company.

"You prefer 'rookie'?" You huff right back, anticipating a bit of sass or a rebuttal in some way. But he just shakes his head, seemingly unperturbed as he starts briskly packing the medicine back into your bag as the rain patters against it.

"No, no, just…I've never had a nickname before. Call me whatever you like." He speaks with a smile on his face and it would be irritating, if not for how sincere his words are and how much joy he clearly gets from the smallest gesture. As much as you'd like to dwell on it and humour him with a dozen questions, the zzzzip of your bag beside you and the shuffling as he lifts it up and pulls it snug over his shoulder brings you back to reality. Your very, very unfortunate reality, if the groaning and gnashing sounds in the distance are any indication.

"I hate to say it, but there's no way you're walking on this leg." He says that so ominously but his baby face really isn't doing him any favours, and you're not one to just back away when something needs to get done. So, despite his advice, you grip the wall behind you and stagger to get to your feet, bracing yourself against the warm brick as you hiss in pain and raise yourself unsteadily on only one leg–which, of course, has Leon holding out his hands to steady you as you do, exasperation passing over his features as you make no effort to use him to stabilize yourself.

"Hey! What did I just say?" Leon clicks his tongue like a mother hen, but doesn't leave you high and dry at all. He grabs the arm on your bad side and manhandles you into pulling it over his shoulders, his strength and the hand bracing your opposite hip giving you a very inconvenient shiver. Focus. "You're so stubborn."

"I'm not just sitting out here to die."

"I didn't say that. Here," With one step forward, it's clear that you're not gonna move fast enough to make it to the station unscathed. In a case like this, you'd expect to be left here while the more able-bodied of the two of you goes ahead with the medicine and sends backup when he can–but obviously that isn't quite what Leon has in mind. Instead, he bends down to slide his arm up behind your knees, counts down from two, and sweeps your legs out from beneath you with a careful swiftness to lift you up in a bridal carry. "It's okay, I got you." It's embarrassing and humbling all at once, a squeak smothering itself behind your teeth as you immediately cling to him with your arms around his shoulders. But he doesn't seem at all fazed, and doesn't even stumble as he starts walking towards the edge of the alley. If anything, he walks with more balance while he's carrying both you and your precious cargo to safety. "I'm not just gonna leave you behind."

Leon's got more integrity with one day of the force under his belt than most officers you've known. He's a blessing and an anomaly all at once, precious and potent like both an antidote and a poison mixed as one. But however unclear your feelings about him were that night, you know for certain that you would've died cold and alone in that alley if not for him. He rescued you without any inkling as to what he would get out of it–and even if it kills you, you're going to repay that favour by rescuing him.

"Well hello, miss stranger."

Your eyes flutter open, the ceiling of a room the first thing to meet your gaze–and the second being a man hunching over a table opposite from you, your head turned so far you nearly stumble off the makeshift cot you've been laid out on. "Had a nice nap? Figured as much–you took quite the nasty hit to the skull. Lucky you're still breathing!" He cackles jubilantly, and if nothing else that raspy laugh is what clues you in to that small shred of remembrance.

"Merchant? Wh…What are you…?" You shake your head in disbelief, a soft 'nevermind' passing your lips as you just elect to take this all in at face value. You never understood this 'Merchant' guy when you were here before, so you can't expect to pick him apart for answers now. With measured steps you approach his counter and try to shake off your limp in the process, your eyes scanning over the crowded shelves of his wares–and the inner pockets of his coat that he flashes open to take you by surprise.

"Uh…you got anything for my pistol?"

The Merchant chuckles heartily, and out comes several boxes of the convenient ammunition from beneath his rickety little table. With what little you've got to trade that you spread out on his counter, you can get about two boxes with twenty bullets each for most of what you're carrying. The money for airfare, a cab to the station, and some light supplies you picked up once you landed in Spain has cleaned you out pretty good, but he's fair as always and even offers to clean your gun for you while he's at it.

"Ooh, before you wander off–I've got somethin' extra for you, missy."

With a flourish befitting....him, he pulls out a decently sized piece of equipment out from a box behind him, and turns to lay the shotgun flat across your hands, the weight sinking into your palms as his half-gloved fingers retreat and he lets you get a feel for it. It's pretty hefty on its own, polished and substantial with a trigger that's got the kind of resistance you're used to. With a gesture from him to encourage trying it out, you take a decent step back from his table and lift the gun up into the crook of your arm, eyes lining down the length of it towards a very convenient lantern propped up on top of the crumbling stone wall opposite to you.

One cock of the shutter, a breath in–and a bang erupts from the courtyard, the lantern shattering into a thousand pieces and the Merchant's raspy laughter rising like the flock of crows that take flight from further into the castle grounds, cawing like mad at the sound that echoes like thunder throughout the canyon.

"She's a beaut, ain't she?" The hunched man chortles, clearly prideful of his work. You lower the gun back down to your hip, the smell of ashy powder filling your nose, and nod quietly before turning back to him and holding it out over his counter.

"It's great, but you've got all I had. Maybe I'll come back for it."

"Naw, missy–you keep that. S'on the house this time." Your brows raise in shock and a touch of confusion, along with a little seed of distrust that you can't help but entertain. You know better than to trust people blindly, especially strangers, but then again the Merchant doesn't exactly conform to any expectations you could've had. At your hopeful confirmation of "really?" he nods your way, the bandana that covers his face slipping a bit as he tilts his head forward and reaches behind him.

"While you're at it, have this too–not gonna be much use to me, I'm afraid." With a flourish, he unveils a sheath he'd been hiding only god knows where and sets it down in front of you. From just one glance as you strap your new shotgun to your back, a glimmer of recognition wells up inside you and your hands find the hilt in a matter of seconds. Raising it to your face, you gently tug on the handle to slide the blade all the way out….and sure enough, you do recognize it. The engraving on the side is about as familiar as your own handwriting considering how often you've been on the sharp end of this knife–a product of endless close-combat training sessions that your best friend insisted on practicing with you. It hits you right then–Leon would've died before he let go of this precious thing.

"Where did you find this? Here?"

"Just up the stairs there," He jerks his thumb back towards the entryway behind him, hazy memories of that winding path coming together in your mind as you recall going down it before. "Picked it up from a bloody puddle in the main hall. Return it to your friend, would ya? He's my best customer." You can feel his grin from behind the mask, and a pang hits your heart as you consider breaking the news to him….but the adrenaline is kicking in now and you just have to go, you have to briskly bid him goodbye and excuse your hurry as you rush out towards the stairs and mount each set in record time as you make a mad dash for the foyer.

By sheer luck, your frantic sprint through the winding courtyard betrays no hint of activity since you were here last. The cannon still sits perched at the top of the tower for a raven to crow atop it, and while the stairs are littered with bits of crumbling rubble they're still relatively easy to climb as you come out on the other side, mere feet of space separating you from the smashed-open gate you'd both fought so hard to get into. Down the looming path overshadowed by two huge, towering walls on either side, you hurry up the last few steps and brace both hands on the heavy doors, grunts of effort foregrounding the scrape and rusty squealing of the hinges as you slowly push them open to reveal the place Merchant had directed you towards.

"Hngh-!" With one last shove, you swing them out slowly and step back to catch your breath, before clambering through the entrance and slowing your run to a jog and then to a stop, eyes roaming in wide sweeps around the massive entrance room to look for some kind of clue. It's just as misty around the floor as it was before and the lights fortunately haven't gone out, yet the suits of armour, vases, side tables and weapons scattered everywhere don't alert you to anything immediately out of place. You do find yourself plucking a chunk of loose stone off the ground and slinging it at the nearest knight, however, just to watch as the plates of silver armour clatter with a hollow sound before crashing into a heap on the floor. It's better to be safe than sorry considering what you and Ashley went through last time with those things.

In doing so, and in stepping over to kick aside the helmet with a bit of indulgent violence, something catches in your eye in your peripheral. With a glance, you spot a few dribbles of otherwise un-noteworthy blood and slot your gun out of its holster just in case. But when you kneel down to check it out and wave a bit of the mist away, your eyes widen in disbelief as you see the speckles of blood lead toward a puddle–and beyond that, a trail that guides your line of sight all the way towards the set of doors leading to the inner sanctum.

Is this Leon's?

You shuffle quietly towards the pool of it a bit further away, realizing only upon getting closer how big it really is. Aside from the puddle itself there are smears drawn through it and radiating out to paint the unmarred floor, as if someone had either stepped through it and slipped or had sat down completely and let themselves bleed freely where they lay. Based on the trail, it resembles the evidence of an attack, an injury or death, and then the person being dragged off towards a second location. But no matter how weak he might have been, you just can't picture Leon being hurt like this and not fighting back, not winning in general, because when you pull out the knife and hold it over the puddle you can clearly see the spot it had been lying in when Merchant had picked it up.

There's only one other option you can think of, though, which is somehow more gruesome than the thought of your best friend being stabbed and his body being dragged away to be disposed of…

…Did he try to cut the parasite out of his body?

The scene in front of you paints a horribly gruesome picture with that idea in your mind. Did Leon sit here, bloody and injured from the explosion, and attempt to cut the Plagas out from his body? If he did, did he succeed? Or did he simply put himself through more torture before he met his inhuman end, and was dragged off by some other force to be used for more of their sick rituals? Following the trail of blood where it leads is your only option, but it is an option, which is something you've slowly started believing you weren't going to find after all.

"Leon!"

You call out his name as you get back up to your feet, your voice ringing through the hall in haunting echoes. It doesn't matter if you draw whatever's hiding out into the open. At least you'll know what's waiting around the corner to strike–and in the case that Leon hears you, you want him to know that you tried. You're trying. You want him to realize you want to find him, you're thinking about him, you care for him and that you didn't leave him behind just to forget about him. You're here now and you'll do anything if it means getting him back.

"Leon, I'm here!"

The next set of doors part somewhat easier than the ones that lead outside, your shoulder more than enough for you to push through and slip into the next room to track the trails left behind. Your legs stall once you've wound through the interconnected room between and laid your hand on one of those huge doors around the corner–you know exactly what could be waiting there, and what you'd had to deal with last time–but it just isn't enough to stop you, even though it should. You push through it and take a step into the long, massive room that stretches out into many key areas for an ambush, and breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the wheels still in place and the staircase already lowered. Perhaps you have been lucky and nothing else has really changed aside from Leon's presence, but that still doesn't allow you to give yourself pause as you hurry up the steps and hop over the pedestals with your gun drawn. The blackened, muddy water doesn't scare you, nor do the half-ajar doors up on the catwalks that could burst open and spill out with bloodthirsty cult zombies. The trail Leon's left for you is getting thinner and sparser, however, and that does worry you as you approach the next set of doors and take them each in stride.

You can't lie to yourself, your hope is dwindling just as quickly as it came on. Only splatters and splotches of the trail remain and nothing else has alerted you of his presence yet–no notes, no scraps of fabric torn off his clothes, not even a hair in sight for you to inspect and try to determine whether or not it's Leon's. Maybe it was just a stray dog or a wolf after all. Maybe you really are grasping at straws.

"No. He's here. Don't give up yet." You whisper under your breath to yourself, praying in the very back of your mind that the self-reassurance is enough to keep your feet moving as you head in the direction of the courtyard. You just keep repeating it in your mind. He's here. He's here. Leon's gotta be here. I know he's here. I'll find him. Your inner voice grows so strong as you walk through the chilly air of the night that you really start to feel that way, to the point that it feels like Leon's eyes are piercing into you.

In fact, it really feels like you're being watched when you start thinking about it. It's probably just paranoia, and understandably so considering this place's gruesome past. Your knuckles brush over the handle of Leon's knife at your hip out of habit, but even with that thought in mind you still stop in your tracks right at the gate into the courtyard.

You swear you just heard a cough. It couldn't be. Monsters don't cough. Not like that.

The blade slings out of its sheath with a shiiing that could cut the air itself, and your fingertips are just barely brushing the grip as it flies in an arc out of your grasp–that's the moment you get a glimpse of the person standing behind you, and your breath chokes itself out of your mouth as the tip of that bloodied blade meets their throat.

You could've anticipated almost anything…but not this. Anything but what's standing before you, staring you down with eyes that could burn you down into ashes and blow you away in the breeze.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Home. - Fluffy Ending (not canon) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 2.8K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: none. Tags: you/your pronouns, reconnecting with family, wedding guests, second chance romance, time skip. a/n: not proofread. I didn't like the way I wrote this ending but I figured I should share it either way. It's too fluffy/forced for my taste. The actual alt ending will be better. ALSO: Was listening to Chemical by Post Malone on repeat while writing this. Idk if you wanna do that too while reading...

[MASTERLIST]

You're twenty-eight, he's twenty-nine.

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t step a foot back in Manc, not even if cows flew!

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t keep in contact with anyone, not even if someone died!

(Which your father did. Thank fuck.)

You broke those promises so many times.

You were unable to keep away, though you tried…

It’s your own fault, really.

You stalk your old friends and family on Facebook sometimes.

Other times you check the local news.

Others you check the obituary and marriage sections on the news.

You beat yourself over it every time. Even though seeing the lack of changes through your cyberstalking and the news made you feel immense relief, you still ended up closing the pages on your browser with more aggression than you should and sulking in your bed.

And yet, you still go and do it again a few weeks later.

And then another few weeks later.

It’s pathetic, really, but maybe it provides you some comfort. Maybe helps you sleep at night.

You should’ve figured out that someone would have made you eventually. 

I mean, naming your blank Facebook profile after the one mean neighbor you had, who called the police on you and your mates once for being too loud while hanging out in the street, and died years ago? Yeah, they’d make you eventually.

Luckily for you, it was Olly who did.

All things considered, it could’ve gone much worse.

Maybe… Maybe you should follow his advice.

It’s been a decade.

Your mum deserves at least a letter to let her know you’re still alive, that you’re healthy, happy, and safe. She’s owed that much…

-

It was very strange to be inside your childhood home after almost eleven years.

Four days ago, your mum had openly sobbed as she threw her arms around you, and you had found yourself sobbed with her, both of you falling to your knees at the front door.

She held your face so gingerly and kissed your forehead so many times, her face severely more aged than the last time you had seen her.

The letter you had sent her 8 months before was 23 pages long, a bulk so large you sent them unfolded and stapled together inside a manila envelope rather than folded neatly into a standard one, and had detailed everything you figured she should learn about your life. 

Where you went.

What you did.

Who you did it with.

How you felt.

What you learned.

How you changed.

You apologized for running away, for worrying her.

You assured her you loved her and missed her.

You asked, tentatively, if she could find a way to let you be a bit more present.

You reiterated you wanted to remain living where you were in Scotland… but that you could allow yourself to be her daughter again if she so wanted it.

You know she cried reading it. Hell, you cried writing it…

You didn’t expect anything, you didn’t want to cause her any more grief by coming barrelling back into her life. She’s your mother, you didn’t want to manipulate her. You weren’t surprised when she didn’t answer for a few weeks…

But then her letter came. A simple half-a-page response that said, in no uncertain terms, that she missed you, that you were always welcome in her home and her heart, and she wanted to have her little girl back.

It all culminated in today.

Adjusting your red gown with one hand, you walk up the aisle, the other holding your 10-month-old daughter who’s clad in a pale yellow tulle dress. She’s kept flush to your chest, her chubby legs wrapped around your hip.

You and your mum find a spot near the middle and sit down, though you scoot yourself as far on the pew as you can, making sure that you can step off to the side just in case Evelyn starts fussing. Though you doubt she will. 

The ceremony is being held in the middle of the afternoon and she has been calm and sleepy this whole time, softly dozing off in your arms, her little face nuzzling to your neck, since it’s close to her nap time.

You sit Evie down on your lap and place a hand on the back of her head while you and your mum speak softly, still waiting for the wedding ceremony to start.

You still can’t believe that you’re here…

Wythenshawe still looks as crappy as ever, you still know the streets like the back of your hand, though a lot of it has changed, shops went out and into business, and people moved away.

You met up with your old mates at your local just a couple of nights ago, and after a lot of tears and some drinking, you gossiped all night about your lives and everyone else’s.

In a way, it feels like you never left…

You were so afraid that they would hold a grudge at you for leaving, for not staying in touch… But they never did. You were welcomed with open arms…

It’s… nice.

The ceremony doesn’t take long to start. 

You nearly cry at the sight of Emily in her wedding dress, having deemed her a close friend for the better time of your formative years. And Olly, as emotionally detached as he tries to pretend himself to be, cries at the sight of his bride.

The ceremony is long and a bit tedious, as most weddings tend to be, but you’re still happy to be there… Happy to be back.

It’s nearly 45 minutes into the ceremony when Evie starts fussing a bit. You’re quick to take the nappy bag onto your shoulder and rush out of the church while shooting some apologetic looks to the guests around.

Once outside, you find shade under a tree and begin to bounce Evie a bit, knowing she isn’t fussing because of her diaper or hunger, but rather from the fact she’s teething.

One hand balances the infant, the other sets down the nappy bag on a low wall and you begin rummaging for the teething ring toy amidst the pockets. When you find it, you give it to her, which she gladly takes, though it doesn’t do much for her pain, only quieting her down a bit by allowing her to bite all over it.

“Shhh… it’s alright, pet…” You whisper to her as you kiss her smooth forehead and nuzzle your nose against the crown of her head.

You keep softly swaying and bouncing with her in your hip, moving about, side to side, while she drools all over the toy, her hands, and your dress as she softly headbutts your chest while chewing.

You’re lucky your dress is a dark enough shade of red and made from a fabric as forgiving as chiffon, so that the wetness will dry quickly and discreetly.

It’s in the midst of your pacing and bouncing the infant on your hip that you spot him.

His pale jawline peppered with a well-trimmed stubble, his blonde hair cut short and hidden under the beige beret, his strong build wrapped in full military dress…

You almost didn’t recognize him…

You leave your bag right where it is and beeline for him before you can stop yourself. 

And he makes no motion to move from his resting spot, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, and looking right at you like you’re sure he has been doing for the past 15 minutes or so (you wouldn’t put it past him).

“Fuckin’ hell…” You hear yourself saying as you come to stand in front of Simon.

He tosses his cigarette down on the floor and puts it out with his brown boot, blowing the smoke away from your daughter on your hip.

“That how you greet people now?” He retorts while looking down at you through his fluttering eyelashes. 

His voice is so much deeper, rough and strong than it used to be… You don’t know how to respond at first, your mouth has gone dry and your brain has blue-screened.

You’ve had dreams about this before… Nightmares too.

You’ve imagined that one day you’d cross paths with him on the street and you’d stumble all over yourself. That he’d ask you how you’ve been or what you’ve done with your life and you’d have nothing to show for it…

You thought you’ve healed from your past, but here comes Simon Riley to indirectly tell you “HA! Think again, dumbass!”.

“You surprised me is all.” You end up saying, your voice carrying a maturity and a strength you didn’t know it could. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Didn’t think I would either. Got lucky this coincided with my leave.” He remarks. “Could say the same to you, though.” He adds.

You can’t tell if he meant to offend with that comment. Olly had told you through Facebook that he told Simon about you vanishing off the face of the Earth and that Simon didn’t take it well. You knew he, rightfully so, expected you to stay gone.

“Got back in touch with Olly and the rest of my family.” You remark simply and shrug.

He keeps looking at you with those brown eyes of his, with a certain coldness behind you that forcefully reminds you that this is not the same person you used to know. The boy he was and the man he is are forcefully different people.

“Cute kid.” He adds after a beat of silence as his eyes flit to your daughter who’s still very much in her own world with her teething toy.

“Thanks.” You reply.

This feels awkward. You’re finally standing face to face (more like face-to-chest, goddamn is the man tall) after a whole ten years. Are you even friends? No. But are you acquaintances? Also no. And you have too much of a history to be strangers. 

So what are you?

“What’s her name?” He asks as he looks back at you.

“Evie.” You answer. “Evelyn.” You correct yourself before adding. “Evie for short.”

“Hm.” He remarks unemotionally. His eyes flit over you up and down, taking in… everything about you.

You are a confident person, you’d say. You feel good in your own skin. You like your reflection when you see yourself in the mirror. And you feel like a million bucks in this dress, which wraps around your body beautifully, the fabric making you look delicate and soft.

But under his scrutinizing gaze, you feel anything but confident.

So, you take a breath and return the same scrutinizing gaze, up and down, taking in every inch of him, your eyes just as strong and confident as his own. He notices, because of course he does, and he puffs out his chest and raises his chin, to allow you to keep looking at him, showing himself off a bit proudly.

He’s wearing a khaki formal uniform, or full dress as you remember it being called, and although it's been ten years, you still remember some things about all the stuff you investigated about the British Army, so you could keep up with him, impress him with your knowledge.

A brown waist belt with a sash across the right soldier means he’s an Officer… The buttons are gold and shaped like winged parachutes, and he wears a beret instead of a cap. A beige beret to be exact, which means he’s no longer in the Parachute Regiments, who wear maroon ones. There’s a cap badge on the beret and the Excalibur on it tells you one thing: he’s special forces. You don’t remember which one… but you know he’s something big, bad, and important.

“Special Forces.” You muse out loud, showing off what you noticed.

His eyebrows raise, impressed by you, and then he nods. “Somethin’ like that.” He adds.

“Done well for yourself, then.” You add and he nods again and blinks while smirking, as if trying to humbly pat himself on the back for it.

“She have a dad?” Simon asks while shooting Evelyn a look. The words escape his mouth quicker than he wanted and sound a lot more judgemental than he meant for them to.

The way your eyebrows raised at him, the same way they used to when he’d say something bloody stupid as a teen, told him you weren’t pleased and that he had put his foot in his mouth.

“Sorry.” He says though it’s clear he doesn’t mean it. “Came out wrong.” He tells you.

You might have gone ten years apart but you knew Simon like the back of your hand at one point… And you knew sometimes he’d say things aloud when he meant to keep them as thoughts. It’s clearly that’s a habit he still has.

“I know what you meant.” You reply bluntly as you fix your grip on the infant, swiveling her a bit to sit on your other side.

“What’s the answer then? She got a dad?” He probes as he dips his head a bit to the side, his arms hanging by his side as he looks you up and down.

“Aye.” You end up replying, the Scottish word slipping past your lips then you meant for it to. You still speak English with a Manc accent, just like him, but there are little quirks like this one that you’ve adopted after living in Dundee for ten years.

Simon’s eyebrows cock up as well at the sound of Scottish word, and you can tell he finds it odd, but he doesn’t comment. “Where’s he, then?” He retorts. “No ring on your finger.” He adds.

Your eyes drift down to your left hand which is wrapped around your daughter now, the splayed fingers showing a distinct lack of a wedding ring. He sounds just as judgemental. But you don’t let it ruffle your feathers.

“Separated.” You reply maturely. “No ring on yours.” You say and nod toward his own left hand which also lacks a ring.

“Married to the job.” He replies and you can’t help but let out a snort of a chuckle, which makes him chuckle dryly too.

“‘f course you are.” You add in reply.

“Could’ve been married to you.” He retorts with the same casualty of someone saying ‘Nice weather today’.

You scoff and shake your head. “Really?” You add.

“Ye.” He adds. “Had a ring and everythin’.” He quips. “Then Olly told me you ran off into the night.”

You scoff again, mostly out of disbelief, and look away from him, your eyes flittering over the courtyard in front of the church.

The ceremony should be finishing soon enough.

“Dodged a bullet then.” You remark dryly, smiling a bit in amusement.

“You or me?” He retorts and you find your eyes drifting upwards to him again.

For a moment you just both stare at each other in silence… 

Your eyes are locked in the same way they used to whenever the two of you were about to throw themselves at one another as teens… 

Then, he breaks into a grin, and so do you, the both of you looking away for a moment. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You’re both amused at the cheekiness of your comment.

“How long are you stayin'?” He asks you once you both glance at each other again.

“Goin’ home on the 26th.” You tell him. “How long’ve you got leave for?” 

“‘Till the 27th.” He replies and dips his head to the side a bit.

This is definitely crazy.

You secretly wonder if you’ve gone mad.

A decade has gone by… But there’s no mistaking the electricity in the air.

That light buzzing of goosebumps that prickle at your skin, making the hair in the back of your neck stand… Like lightning is about to strike…

“Take me out to dinner.” You demand abruptly and narrow your eyes at him.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek again in amusement. “Are you askin’ me on a date?” He retorts.

“No. I’m tellin’ you.” You add, watching how his brown eyes swiftly light ablaze with a certain fire you never expected to see after so many years apart.

“Tomorrow?” He suggests.

“Tomorrow.” You add.

“I’ll pick you up at 9.” He adds.

You know damn well that 9 P.M. is too damn late for dinner… But you also know that in reality, your ‘dinner’ will be grabbing Nando’s and cheap beer, and eating in the backseat of his car in that one side road you always used to go to… talking into the night… and probably definitely fucking each other’s brains out.

“Like the good ol’ days.” You remark.

“Mhm.” He adds.

Then, the church doors open and the guests come pouring out, forcing the two of you to separate.

But you can still see the smirk on his lips from afar as you walk off to grab your nappy bag, find your mum, and get ready for the rice toss.

[MASTERLIST]

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving

[streets-in-paradise]

Loving in the Shadows

Troy (2004) Reader insert fanfiction / Achilles x Mycenaean Princess! Reader - Part 24

Word Count 14 K

Warnings: Stalk(ish) behavior, unwanted posessive thoughts driven by anger. Possibly bad geography (I needed it for plot reasons).

Summary: During the absense of men, the women waiting in Ithaca find themselves fearing the presence of a mysterious shape that had apparently managed to abduct the visitant princess.

Playing with the two halfs of himself to keep the locals unsuspectfull, Achilles has secretly returned for his loved one in an improvised visit of uncertain motives driven by longing and a partial awareness of the difficult context she faces as he deals with his feelings regarding it.

Tags: @yerevasunclair @mysticaldeanvoidhorse @spideyanakin @spideyanakin-interacts @awakenedevildays @alaysha-of-middle-earth @zoegarfield @helie-brain

Awakening late in a palace temporally led by women, the young girl discussed with her handmaid the events of the previous night. The tale ended with the details of her talk with the seer. Despite she couldn't be as honest and precise as she would have liked to be, Polydamas was still convinced that her dream had been divine Intervention.

 The maternal aura mixed with marriage related symbology made him suspect it was the work of Hera, but the princess wasn't convinced of that. The approach of the divinity was too humble for the queen of the gods, who would have never accepted to take the form of a deceased mortal that once was a cheater queen. On top of that, it would be expected from Hera to simply deliver strict commands meant to be obeyed instead of testing the suitability for marriage of some mortal girl. 

It didn't make sense, but it wasn't his fault. She wasn't honest with him, or otherwise she would have seen herself forced to tell the great friend of Hector about her feelings for Achilles. He was a seer, but also a rival of her interests who wished to watch her rule Troy. 

Ereny was her best friend and longest term confident, together they could create their own conclusions. 

" isn't it obvious? ... You have survived your first encounter with your mother in law!" Was the girl's conclusion. " Cheer yourself, my friend.  Maybe you won her blessing. " 

The princess stopped searching on her things to decide the dress she wanted to wear that day in order to turn back and face her. 

" The Nereid Thetis ... Do you think it could be her? I suspected it, but I thought it was giving myself too much importance. She is his mother, she wouldn't visit me unless ... " 

The dress she had picked fell on the floor, a sudden surprise made her drop it. 

" ... Unless her son is thinking of making it official" Her friend finished the sentence for her. " Maybe Achilles is one of those men who secretly consult their mothers for everything. Wouldn't that be sweet? He is the most feared greek warrior, but he just has to know what she thinks before taking any big steps ... And maybe he has been telling her all wonderful things about you! He wants her to love you like a daughter because he is so in love with you ... " 

" Or maybe she has heard me talk about him, I have prayed near the sea quite a few times. " The lady corrected. " I don't want to have high hopes yet. " 

Ereny picked the clothes and handed those to her.

" I bet he misses you as much as you miss him. " She sweetly comforted her. " The borrowed clothes you sleep on need washing. " 

The lady chuckled and threw the garment on the bed. 

" I'm very careful ... Of all the times I had it on, only once I was naked underneath. "

The servant girl wheezed and it took her an instant to recover. 

" Behave like a wife washing his clothes. Why wait until being back when it's safer to do it here? " 

She had a great point, in the domains of her relatives she couldn't be seen washing men's clothing that didn't belong to her father and they had a perfect excuse to do the task without delayments.

" Alright, I'm going to offer Polydamas fresh clothes as payment for his services before he could suggest making me go on a date with Hector ... That should be enough to disguise it, trojans wear a lot of blue. "

It was a beautiful day, ideal to spend time outside. With the sun shining so tenderly clothes would dry perfectly and they would have plenty of time for relaxing activities. Penelope had the kindness of offering her a group of her own maids to accompany them and the princess allowed Ereny to select them by herself among her freshly made friendships in the palace. 

Lucky for her, Polydamas was among the trojans that remained in Ithaca while the princes were gone. His insistence regarding her must have upsetted Hector or perhaps he chose to stay because of not being well rested after she woke him up in the middle of the night. The offer for payment surprised him, but he didn't refuse and handed the handmaid the clothes he preferred to get washed. With their baskets full and in a great mood, the girls left the palace searching for the rivershore.

Only then the princess realized that she missed the chance to make connections with noble girls of the area. Meeting the trojans had completely distracted her from that goal and she have been spending more time dealing with problems that didn't concern her than actively helping herself. Perceiving the practical effects of her rank in her interactions with the servants made her realize her mistake. While Ereny moved with complete naturality around them, the maids of Penelope would distance themselves from her. Although understandable, their attitude was making her feel out of place. She was almost like a mere observant of the work they were doing for her.

She missed the disruptiveness of Melantho, that little girl wouldn't doubt in coming to her as a friend careless for sounding improper. Favorite of the queen, she was a slave girl with the mindset of princess somewhat stuck in between the two worlds through her privileged position. Her absolute lack of humility was concerning and could reach annoying límits, but at least she was fun to be around.

The silent humility of the eldests was a boring extreme, guessing that it wouldn't be like that for all the royals they served but the specifical weight of her crown was the cause of the awkwardness. Mycenaeans were guests to handle with caution, even if she had proven to be nicer than the king. Her personal choice of doing the walk to the river instead of requesting for a charriot that the slaves would have to follow on foot already showed she was a grounded woman. However, the bits of her personality they knew weren't enough to make her fully approachable in that particular context.

Waiting for the clothes to dry was going to take forever, not because of the weather but due to the odd interpersonal climate. Despite she insisted on washing the men's clothing by herself, leaving them space to work on some of her dresses, the girls hanged everything all by themselves on the rope they had securely tied from its extremes to two threes. Doing so, they noticed some oddities worthy of being questioned that Ereny couldn't explain.

" Do you happen to know by chance why has Polydamas handed us the clothes of two different men, if your debt is exclusively with him ? " She shamelessly asked her, taking the initative for the group hoping the princess will know how to cover her tracks better than what she could cover for her. " The girls may be a bit shy, but notice details."

Noticing that she wasn't angry when presented with such singular question relaxed them out of their initial fright and at least one of them dared to speak up.

" The seer is not broad shouldered. " Cora pointed out. " Well, he is, but not enough for that. "

The connotations in the comment expressed more than the simple meaning of the words.

" Not at least to nicely fit in that. " Lena added, testing waters with more mischievousness. " I don't doubt the trojans must be formidable warriors, but only Prince Hector has a matching physique."

It was the worst possible guess, but unfortunately a very sensical claim despite being far from the truth.

" Don't slander our new friends, trojans are fascinating." Ereny corrected, trying to deviate the speculation. " They have this weird accent, i think Hesione must have lost a bit of it with the years. It's very thick in some of them and they minspronounce my name but it sounds so fancy. "

The princess chuckled at the observation and followed her.

" Sounds more like Eirini . "

" It's fabulous! " She agreed. " I love it, wish i could keep it."

" I have been told by the man himself that I mispronounce his a little bit sometimes. " The lady confessed. " Specially when I'm angry or just want to piss him off, the continental greek accent makes it a bit stronger. More like Hek-tor, Hektor .... but he said i have a musical tone, so i think he likes it. "

Some of the ithacan maids giggled, slowly loosing the shyness.

" Is that what you want to believe? Fine, I don't mind. " The princess simply replicated. " I have nothing to prove, rumours only increase my fame. Penelope says that if people choose to assume the prince wants me, that will attract good prospects in the country even if it's just to assure the mycenaean throne stays greek."

" You won't find someone better, such man doesn't exist at least in this country. " Lena teased her." I know every greek prince, they all come here sooner or later, and they are all rubbish compared to Hector. If you don't want to marry him … Who are you waiting for, princess? A god to come down and impregnate you? "

It was such a well crafted joke that she couldn't get angry.

" It's hard to tell, I just don't think he is the one. "

An autentical disbelief reigned among them, so great that it compensated for their initial shyness.

" What's left for you to consider?" Clio asked, with surprising honesty. " Your highness, he is the perfect husband! Hector is handsome, brave and strong, but soft tempered when he has to … "

" … Incredibly rich, of a good family and you have already dominated his only brother. " Someone else followed. " He is also the miracle of a man that, having a recognizable advantage as a warrior, still chooses to behave like a polítician when the chance is given to him."

They had made an interesting point. It wouldn't work as intended, but she wanted to admit it was a good one.

" He has the power to get whatever he wants, but chooses not to. " The mycenaean recalled, with certain wonder. " If you put it in that perspective … I have never meet a man like him, that's for sure."

The girls got a bit excited for the wrong reasons and their approbal began to flow inmediately.

" Just for that?" Alaia interrupted, curious judging in her wondering tone. "If you grant us the pleasure, Hector would be one mycenaean king I would gladly kneel for. "

" … The most beautifull brown eyes I have ever seen. " Lena admitted, deep admiration slipping away in her slightly inconected words. " Imagine waking up every morning to find him staring back at you. "

The comment became a startpoint for a full conversation collectively constructing ideas for hours. Sitting in a round where the princess remained as center, the servants were doing their best to tempt her through their own romantic ideals. Unattachable for them, but a believed posibility for her.

Excited girls that didn't turst in her negatory, they believed to be helping her case.

" Horseback ridding through the trojan landscape! " Clio imagined out loud for her. " I bet that would be fantastic. "

" Or watching sunsets on the beach. " Cora corrected her. "That would be so romantic! I have heard their shores are magnificent. "

" Forget the shores! … Princess, think of the wedding night! " Lena shamelessly remarked, making many of the rest giggle. " I can't imagine a better way to spend it than giving yourself to him. Prince Hector respects slave girls, in all his time here he hasn't seeked to sleep with any of us. He must be of the rare kind of man that reserves all his passion for the wife. I bet he would love you like no mycenaean queen has ever been loved. "

A choir of complicit chuckling followed, but she remained unaffected.

" Regarding Hector I have only one curiosity and it is that I want to see his loose hair. "

The strange claim caused a bit of dissapointment, but all the questioning glances were begging her to explain it further.

" He is always wearing that wonderfullly crafted hairstyle, you never see him looking casual. It shows that he can't relax, he can't breathe. The ties are allways there, even if battle gets those a bit loose. "

Her eyes deviated from the group, staring in direction to the river before she would deliver her self reinforced conclussion.

" I don't want to marry him, I don't want to bed him. I just want to untie his hair. Metaphorically, I want to see how a carefree Hector would be like and nothing would change from that. Just two good friends sharing understandment of the represive nature within their roles in a world that constantly pushes them against themselves. "

Teasing stares followed her, proving the audience remained skeptical.

" Don't worry, my friend. I believe you. " Ereny rescued her while standing up to go check the drying of the clothes. " I know how you act when you have a crush, nothing like this. The mycenaean lioness turns into a kitten for the one she fancies. "

The accuracy of her words made her chuckle, since her servant was the only one there who had a precise idea of how to spot her feelings for a man.

" Take it from me, girls. If she still has the energy and focus for clever comebacks, he hasn't impressed her enough. "

And with that being said, Ereny patted her on the shoulder as she passed by. Little did she know that the cheerfull spirits were soon to fade.

An horrifying discovering surprised her as she intended to fullfill the task, the two companions she had on that had ran for the fear of it.

Behind the extended clothes, lurking between some trees, they believed to have seen a misterious masculine figure stalking all of them.

Panick took over and only the lady had remained calm.

" Maybe it's the god who came down to impregnate me. " She sarcastically teased the servants. " Any wanderer coming down from the hills can cross our path, we can't control it. "

" But it could be a satyr attracted by the sound of girls laughing carelessly. " Ereny theorized out loud. "… maybe hoping to get one away from the group. A dark cloak kept the face hidden and i didn't look down, but i don't want to risk it. "

Normally, the princess would have remained skeptical. However, the amount of strange events pilling up made her reconsider it.

" Fine, let me see by myself if the clothes have already dried, or you will have to carry the extra weight if there are still wet. "

Things got considerably worse once she raised up to finish the checking and ended up discovering an actual proof of their tale.

The garments of Achilles were gone and whoever scared the servant girls was the only possible thief.

" Man, satyr or olimpian god, he will have to get back what he stole. " The lady concluded, her fury beating the chances for developing panick. " I'm not leaving without it and, ríght now, I don't care what any of you have to say against that."

Silence reigned among the scared ithacans, warning her that she wouldn't count with any help from them.

" Fair enough, I'll get it back by myself. "

Her loyal servant intended to follow her, not only out of brave will to share the danger but because she knew what she meant. Those clothes were the reminder of her distant lover and the promise of seeing him again to return the borrowed item. Recklessness was an unusual attitude on her lady, allways measuring the costs before venturing into anything, but in that moment she was willing to risk herself for that simbolical meaning.

The princess was already running in the described direction and her friend felt powerless to make her stop.

" PLEASE, GET BACK!"

" I have to do this. " The lady explained herself. " Stay with the girls, Eny. If something happens to me, I want you to tell Achilles and Agamemnon to join forces in vengeance on my name. "

The joke wasn't nearly as funny as she thought she was making it sound in order to tranquilize her.

" I'm SERIOUS! " Ereny insisted. " Don't do this, he will understand. "

" We are on Ithaca, nothing ever happens here! " The lady replicated. " Why do you think Odysseus goes to create chaos in other kingdoms? He rules a happy, quiet island were he gets bored. "

A cracking sound got her wary, suspecting it could be the footsteps of the nameless shape she was chasing. She followed it on a rush, smirking with triumphal satisfaction.

The atmosphere got thetric enough as she advanced, increasing the sensation of being watched in a game of cat and mouse where she wasn't sure of really being the chaser. Thinking the shadow couldn't be far, but was yet nowhere to be seen made her feel uneased.

" Show yourself!" The princess demmanded in a slowly shaky tone. " It's me who you want, I feel it. You stole something I care about, you knew I would follow you for it."

She swallowed hard, then concluded.

" That belongs to the man I love. If you hurt me, you will have to face him. He fears no one, men or gods equally … and I trust no one to avenge me like I trust in his rage."

Inmediately afterwards she was looking arround in search for any sort of reaction to her threat. Nothing happened, and just when she was starting to accept the posibility of being alone, the misterious stranger emerged from behind with an overpowering grip.

The young mycenaean tried to scream, but a hand pressed against her mouth had silenced her.

Her eyes went wide when she recognized the metalic wristband of the kidnapper.

" Got you. " He taunted her, whispering close to her ear. " Miss me, princess? I couldn't wait any longer to be with you."

That husky voice, she would recognize anywhere. Part of her wondered if it was trully happening or a supernatural being had assumed the shape of Achilles for her. Both posibilities seemed equally unrealistic, but she had no way to explain it.

His hand stopped the pressure to keep her mouth shut, tracing her lips with his fingertips instead. Within the same action she felt him sniffing the scent of her hair and as he captured it, his exploring touch began travelling down to caress her neck.

" My love … " She purred, ecstatic like in a trance. " Is this some sort of illusion? Last night i dreamed of being in your arms. "

Her confession didn't seen to surprise him as much as it should.

" Was it a good dream? "

Telling him about it would have pushed the topic of comitement too soon, since in her dream she was about to get betrothed to him. Despite she remembered very well her conversation with Penelope and intended to follow her advice, she simply couldn't admit to him ríght there that she dreamed of being his wife.

Even less she could question him regarding the divine inspiration she suspected it had. If it was trully a visit of his mother, he may not know it or wouldn't admit it.

" A very good one. " She vaguely told him, with sweet excitement. " My mom was there, I remembered of her face! And she was approving our relationship! It was like if you were plotting to convince father of something ... "

Achilles turned her over so she could watch the dark hood of his cloak fall back, revealing his face.

" That sounds wonderfull. "

They remained in silence for an instant, just gazing into each other's eyes. He dedicated her his most charming smile and she returned the gesture.

Her beauty grew with each reunion, his imagínation was never enough to capture it completely. Time and separation had increased his desire, but that wasn't affecting his perception. He did find her even more breathtaking than the last time he saw her.

Achilles would never understand the country's obsession with Helen, when her lovely niece was ríght beside her. She was an underrated gem, and if other men would ever discover it, they were too late already because she was his.

The sweet confussion in her eyes made him melt. His lovely princess was looking at him as if she still wondered if he was real. He would have gladly provided a proof she wouldn't easily forgot, but she searched for it herself.

The mycenaean pushed him against a tree, taking her turn of trapping him with her body as she crashed her lips against his. The passionate kiss released all her longing, her hunger almost knocked him over. Such intensity was surprising coming from her, even for him.

Her ferocity was protective, as if she feared she could loose him at any moment. He sensed it, but tried to limit himself on just enjoying of it.

Blessed he would be of being kissed like that on every welcome back from war, he couldn't wait to have that.

She took his breath away, metaphorically and literally.

" It's me, i'm here. " He calmed her once he recovered. " I'm feeling we have learned a lot from each other. Your strategic mindset to twist rules brought me here, listening has taught me of your tricks … Did I teach you to kiss like that? "

She gave him a few more pecks on the lips as inmediate response.

" I must have learned with you, there is no one else who had ever given me mind blowing kisses like yours … among other things I never did with anyone else. "

He smirked to her subtle provocation.

" Do you think I haven't thought of loving you? Context is very tempting, here we don't have to worry about your father discovering us. "

Her glance adquired a glimpse of pretended innocence, acting as she didn't mean to hint that.

Achilles grabbed her hips to emphasize his point and keep her still, struggling to not ruin the moment.

" You said I couldn't follow you to Ithaca because he would suspect of us, but nobody knows I have arrived. "

Proud of himself as always, he revealed his clever twist on their problem thinking it would impress her.

" Who would believe it? Mighty Achilles, harvester of death, doing a secret appearance just for me? " She teased him, evidently flatered. " Some say you can't go anywhere without causing a scandall because you can't stand being unnoticed. Staying hidden, keeping a lower profile, is almost like torture to you. "

" Not a worst one than being without you for so long. " He simply confessed, making her heart race. " And in this way my presence will not outshine you … I heard men had started fighting over you. "

The specifical tease didn't sound like a jealous reproach, but she was worried for the transgiversed information he may had get from the people.

" Has your own fame never taught you that you must not believe everything you hear? A lot has happened, but new suitors aren't part of that despite how badly Odysseus wants it. He tricked me and i'm dealing with the consecuencies, but good things are coming out from that."

" I'll deal with that treacherous bastard later. " Achilles promised to himself out loud. " Can't say I'm not proud of you for cultivating your fame, I love that. I want the world to see how wonderfull you are, to overhear fools believing they have a chance with you … but they are saying the princes of Troy have came to dispute who will marry you. "

" I'm attending a diplomatical meeting, Ithaca is representing the greek islands regarding some commercial tensions with Troy. " She attempted to explain him what he already knew. " Odysseus has deceived my father and me, he kept hidden his real political and personal reasons. "

She removed his hands from her body to hold both with hers.

"I have nothing to do with that, I won't allow it. "

" Neither will I … and you are coming with me. "

Tables turned once more as he picked her up and started walking in an unknown direction.

" Are you insane? We can't just leave like this!!" She sensically protested. " This counts as an act of kidnap, even if i'm not resisting it. "

His childhish side emerged, refusing to admit jealousy but acting under its influence.

" Then those maids can go cry for Hector to save you." He mocked her in return, proving to have heard at least part of the conversation she had earlier with the servants of Penelope. " I'm glad to know Ereny is still loyal to me, scaring her wasn't my intention. I was aiming for the others."

" Turn back and apologise yourself. " She intentionally suggested. " You will make her suffer if i dissapear. "

" Don't worry, we won't leave without her. " Achilles tranquilized her. " … She is my gift for Eudorus. "

Being in his arms again in such unexpected way was like a dream come true, but that didn't make the situation less frustrating.

" STOP!!! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!! WHO DO YOU THINK FATHER IS GOING TO BLAME IF I GO MISSING? "

" Your dear friends the trojans will be alright, they have a plausible excuse to get away. "

" Agamemnon will call it a complot under the complicity of Odysseus. He would seek to destroy Ithaca and Troy alike! … He has once attacked Phtia for way less."

Achilles stopped in his tracks, but still refused to release her.

" I didn't tell you about that for you to use it against me. "

" I had to find out through Hector that you were born a prince, your father was friends with his." She quickly replicated. " You clearly haven't told me everything. "

" So you have been talking about me. " He teased her, deviating the topic. " That's sweet, you take our deal very seriously. "

" Why didn't you tell me that, Achilles?? " She insisted. " Were you afraid it would have given me vain hopes? "

The snarky reproach hitted him, but not as the callout she intended it to be.

" I feared you would have rejected me." Achilles confessed, not with ease to talk about such intimate fear. " … I don't care about that damn throne, I want you, but you could have believed otherwise. Experience has made you cautious, you have been hearing for so long about the traitor that seduced the queen. I didn't want you to see me as that man, to push me away thinking I'm with you because I want to get back the crown that Agamemnon stole from my father. He can keep it, I rather steal you from him to make amends."

Concious as she was of how things had once trully played out, the mere comparison felt disgustingly wrong to her.

" You are nothing like Aegisthus, i'm perfectly aware of that. " She conforted him. " You would have killed that despicable man if you would have meet him because that's how you are. Protective, ferocious … And i'm proud of you, proud of loving you."

" Yet we are loving in the shadows … and i'm growing sick of it." He admitted, then concluded. " I want the world to know you are mine. "

She caressed his cheek, then softly lifted his chin and gave him a peck on the lips.

" And you know how I wish to be forever yours! But trojans don't deserve to be blamed, neither ithacans pay for the trickery of their king going wrong. "

The warning didn't matter to him, used as he was to shred blood to get what he wanted, but he understood it was a limit she wanted to avoid. Still, that wasn't enough to stop him from resuming the march in the direction he had previously settled.

" People will keep dying anyways, you know it." He corrected her. " Where did this sudden strike of righteousness came from? Perhaps an active concience is what you get for spending too much time with Hector."

She didn't fall for the provocation, but teased its intentionality instead.

" He has the habit of accidentally inspiring people into doing the right thing. That's exactly why your friend has picked him for me behind my back."

Temporarily careless for the protests and attempts of persuation, Achilles kept advancing with his precious load in arms. Unlike she kept stating, kidnapping her ríght then wasn't his inmediate intention. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't going to steal her away for a while and he had yet to decide what was he going to do with her.

Impulsiveness brought him to the shores of Odysseus' kingdom. He needed to see her and they were not going to have a better chance for safe encounters any soon. The father wasn't there to get in his way, and his soldiers were easy to fool. His mother had brought him the news of the trojan presence, but he didn't mind about that untill circunstancies changed his mind.

He was taking her deep into the wild. There he had improvised a temporal hideout in the deepness of a cavern that looked like a tent of war camp in peacefull times. Once they arrived, he placed her on top of some extended furs on the ground while briefly admiring her understandable cluelessness. Vulnerability was bringing back some of the innocence that he stole and she looked lovely.

So dreamy that it was simply impossible not to kiss her before any glimpse of explanation would start to flow.

" Odysseus showed me this place, we stayed here when bad weather ruined our hunting. " He said ríght afterwards. " Not good enough for a princess, but is the best I found to secure some privacy."

She was looking at him attentively, reflecting great curiosity.

" How did you find me? You couldn't possibly know I was going to be outside washing clothes. "

Achilles took off his upper garments as if he considered to change back into the freshly dried ones she provided.

" Thanks for cleaning it, … but I do wonder why you had to. "

Some more sweetly delightfull shame got painted on her face.

" I wore those to sleep many times, hoping to dream of you. " She simply stated. " Don't try to distract me, you know what I mean. Eny thinks I have been visited by your mother last night. "

" She wants me to settle down, but she never says it. " Was his vague reply. " Seeing me get commited to a stable relationship has made her very happy. "

She attempted to hide her excitement with her typical jokes.

" I think my father would die on the spot after hearing about us."

He sat close to her while following the joke.

" One more reason to do it as fast as we can. "

She gave him a reprobatory look while also stiffling some chuckles and he exposed his back to her in a playfull way.

" Mind giving my sore muscles some attention? Besides from carrying you all the way here so you won't escape me, I had a few adventures on my way to you. "

The sample of her post battle cares he received in Mycenae had clearly stiked with him.

" If we would have stayed like i told you, the girls would have reached me scented oils to work on your skin. " She commented, tracing patterns on his shoulder with her fingertips. " Here i have nothing i could use to give you a proper massage. "

" Don't be so sure of that, I have something you will like. " He purred in response, pointing in the contrary direction . " Over there, in that vessel. "

The princess followed his instructions and found a small amphora containing perfumed oil of a foreign fragance.

" Where did you get this? "

" During my adventure. " He innocently recalled. " I had to take a bath afterwards so you wouldn't see me all messed up. "

He felt her pressing soft pecks on the back of his neck as fast as she returned to his side.

" Not like I haven't noticed how you enjoy of your warrior freshly arrived from the fight, but I thought my special girl deserves more of my effort in looking good for her. "

He almost had her exactly where he wanted her and she seemed so happy about that.

" You are effortlessly handsome, but I appreciate. " His princess thanked, before starting whispering close to his ear. " Now lay on your stomach and start telling me all about that while I fix you up. "

The occurence surprised him even more.

" Is that how you want to do it? "

Achilles smirked as he obbeyed her command, very satisfied with the outcome of his mischief that was about to get even better.

In order to perform the task, she got on top of him and straddled him with her legs.

The hero groaned at the sensation and she started rubbing his shoulders, slowly working all the way down to his back.

" I think I dreamed of this before. " He seductively confessed. " Only your hands were on my chest … and you were completely naked. "

She chuckled and pressed a bit harsher.

" Is that all you think about? How dissapointing. "

Achilles grunted in response to the touch and words and she kept laughing.

" You know that's not true. " He sweetly corrected her. " … But you also must be aware that being without that for so long has its hardships. "

She caressed the sides of his abdomen before keeping the focus on his back.

" I don't know, I have been without it my whole life. "

The innocent sounding comment was a total tease.

" Don't taunt me. You are barely a maiden and I'm unused to abstinences of any kind. "

She reclined enough to place a few kisses.

" I know, the sacrifice you are making Is more than what any woman could ask from you. No other man would have done such promise to me. "

She dared to take her confession a bit further.

" It does make me feel special when I think about it, you know ? « Achilles refuses to have any other woman on his bed because of me » Who am I to get such honor? "

" The one I love. " He sweetly answered. " … I bet you wish you could brag. "

The hero closed his eyes, allowing her to relax him with her so longed touch.

" So, aren't you going to brag about your feats? " The girl reminded him. " How was the journey? "

" I took a secretive route, so I expected dangers stumbling with bandits. " Her beloved began his tale. " My intention was not to leave trails, but things got complicated. "

She reapplied on him more of the absorbed oil to make the caressing more effective.

" How much? Did those fools hoped they could capture you and sell you as a slave because they didn't know who you were? "

His princess sounded like an excited little girl awaiting for the details of some epic story and he feared the reality would dissapoint her.

" They enraged me and i lost patience. " The myrmidon admitted. " Contrabandists, very eager to get rid of the evidence of their lootings in asian shores because the trojans were too close. I gave them a chance thinking I could get something nice for you, but part of their sale strategy was telling me that the princes were not going to interfere because they were too bussy with the pretty princess brought from the continent for them. "

She stopped the massage out of sudden, spontaneous reaction to realizing of the terrible coincidence.

" … You didn't kill them, ríght? "

Achilles noticed the change in her attitude with subtle concern.

" I let them talk, they were worried that the outcome would let them out of business. " He continued, forcing himself to adopt a cassual tone. " Those men were completely sure that the heir Prince of Troy would want to take that girl for himself, because only a few of them had seen her and they kindly described her to me with lascivious adjectives. That, I didn't mind. I had a few I could think about, but what I couldn't tolerate were their metaphores for the fear of commercial and political penetration of trojans in greek land. "

Time to fool arround was over, so she released him to clean her hands and lay down beside him.

" My love, you already know I don't have interest in that route. "

He refused to look at her for a instant, keeping himself still in the previous position.

" I didn't care, hearing them suggesting it made me loose judgement … My mother warned me about insulting the goddess of marriage and in their mocks I felt the threat of punishment. "

The princess touched his arm to get his attention back at her.

" Do you really think Hera could make Hector want to marry me just to curse you?" She stopped his trail of thinking. "Only unless she would want me in an unhappy marriage with a man nice enough to not be cheated on free of guilt. My bloodline is stained, two generations of cheater queens preceed me and everyone wonders who is going to be the next one. "

Achilles rolled over to face her and embraced her by the waist.

" No one will take you away from me. "

She smiled and snuggled against him.

" Trust me, he won't. I got him on our side. " She reasured him, then sniffed the scent of his skin. " You smell nice. We are going to need more of that. "

His criptic answer came on the form of a dubious mock.

" Sorry, love. I believe they will be unavailable for a while. "

She looked up in shock.

" Are you telling me you did kill them over those stupid comments? "

The ask left him feeling helpless, and very surprised of her reaction.

" I wanted to fight only two, but all the rest would have joined in aid of them. " The warrior defended himself. " They were despicable anyways, not a big loose you should take sorrow in. "

Her initial excitement transformed into frustration, but he could not find the reason for her to be upset.

" I didn't think you would care … Is there something I missed? "

" They were the lead Hector has been chazing since he got here and I intended to help him track, now we have nothing. " She confessed, with resignation. " We were close to discovering a thread of the network that has been threatening the Route of Copper, what could have been greater for the bilateral relationships than a stupid marriage."

He started to play with her hair before she could began to loose her temper.

" Don't worry, I bet some must have escaped. " He sweetly tried to comfort her. " I couldn't have killed everyone, could I? If the prince is smart enough without you, he would find them. And if he isn't, we will get rid of him. "

His calm tone only upsetted her more.

" I have goals of my own too, Achilles. I'm working hard settling political bridges. "

He would never display any sort of open jealousy, but what he had to point out was a logical concern from his perspective.

" I can't believe you are being so naive. What do you think is going to happen afterwards? They will demmand a wedding to close the deal, they allways do. "

" The would love to, but it won't work because in Hector's eyes i'm no different from a diplomat. " She insisted. " He doesn't have the slightest regard for my womanhood! I won his respects in the way a prince does in the council, not a princess in the feast, and that's hard to understand for many. "

For a brief moment he had a half smile of approval.

" I admire you as a strategist and as a woman … I love all of you. "

Her temper got slightly softened, but she had found a practical use for the advice she had received earlier and she was going to try it.

Behaving like a wife could sometimes mean to call him out.

" Could you then respect my work even when it doesn't serve you? I have enough of that in home and I know that's not what we want for us. "

She caressed his cheek to soften the blow.

" I won't blame you for what happened, there was no way for you to tell those men were of any importance … but I will, if from now on you try something on purpose. "

Achilles gave her his most innocent smile.

" I won't bother him, I promise. "

She tried to cheer him up pointing out her findings in his field.

" … Aren't you curious for other sorts of information I got for you? When I tell him about what you can do, he believes i'm exagerating, and he is the best warrior among the trojans. My father will never be able to replace you with him, no matter how badly he may want it. Hector thinks that your feats are impossible, the fantastical descriptions of a girl who doesn't understand how fighting works. "

She gave him a peck on the lips ríght before the conclussion.

" You are the best fíghter in the world, no man alive compares to you and your legend will outshine his. "

Achilles seemed lethargic to the good news.

" That won't matter if I end up under his command, and wanting his wife as if I needed her like the air I breathe. "

Even after all the lovefull words and sweet moments they shared, he still had the hability to surprise her like the first time.

" I know how important it is to you, but if peace with the trojans comes on the price of letting you go, then I don't want it. " The blond demigod concluded. " I will fight as many combats as it would be enough to keep you by my side. "

She leaned her head against his shoulder while giving him her sweetest look.

" You won't need that: Hector wants to go back home to his princess and this time I feel no amount of political pressure would be enough for him to accept sacrificing himself. "

" He clearly doesn't know of how persistent Agamemnon can be. " The myrmidon pointed out, speaking from his experience. " When I was a lad I despised the idea of fighting for him, yet here I am. "

It made her chuckle, probably remembering similar examples in her own past.

" For once, we will have a victory of mine to celebrate. Think about that" She recalled, changing the angle of the topic. " If i help Ithaca to get a good deal with the trojans, that would prove my father I'm not useless and Hesione will see i'm not failing her cause. For me, that's the equivalent to when you make entire armies surrender showing off your talent in the art of giving death. "

The description got his attention and he didn't let it pass.

" The muses would have a lot to say in your definition of art."

" Giving a good death takes skill, precision, and even kindness. " She cutted him off. " You are not a fighter known for leaving your enemies agonizing, or their corpses disfigured in grotesque scenes. In war, you kill to win, and that makes you the most lethal. While others paint messages on the bodies of the defeated like begginers, you mastered the most effective fíghting tecniques to reach the highest numbers in the shortests spans. Being killed by you is an honor, this balance between brutality and care is an art you have perfected like no one. "

She was once more about to trap him in his own words.

" I too love all of you: the fighter and the man. "

" Arguing with you is very frustrating, so I think I will grant you the win again. " Achilles concluded while caressing the side of her hip. " I will not try to force an encounter that could possibly ruin your mission just to brag, even tho I would love to present myself in front of that trojan prince and prove I'm the best. "

The sincere claims could not be not followed by some teasing.

" I shall let him enjoy of what he will never have " The warrior said, in a lower tone that sounded almost like whispers. " Although I have to admit I'm dissapointed of him. Part of me hoped you would have to break Hector's heart with your love for me. "

She followed his game, trying to figure out if the jokes trully masqueraded some jealousy.

" Seriously? It didn't sound like that to me a while ago, when you confessed you killed some men for doing vulgar metaphores about Troy dominating Greece that had me on the bed of Hector. "

" That's wasn't jealousy, I was sending a message to every mortal and inmortal considering standing in my way. " He defended himself. " I always knew Odysseus wouldn't support me inmediately, but now he acts as if he is trying to shield you from me. That means I'm running out of political allies, but I hope my old friend will get the message and change his mind. "

It sounded insane, but it made perfect sense to her and she was amazed. As a warrior, the only source of political pressure Achilles had was the sword, so in that improvised massacre he was subtly telling Odysseus to stop his scheme because he wanted her for wife.

" Don't play with me! I'm a silly girl in love that would hold on to the slightest hope, and you couldn't have figured out what you want so clearly this fast. "

Achilles had only to answer her with the simple discovery he had arrived to in his homeland.

" I can't stand returning from war and not find you there … Something is missing, for the first time ever I came back home and didn't feel fulfilled. "

The short moment of autentical vulnerability led to a sweet request. He couldn't keep talking, not at least without exposing himself too far, so he encouraged her to share instead.

" Tell me about your victories. I want to know everything."

While she understood the need to temporally close the topic, his demeanour reminded her of an encouraging detail. He valued his capacity to keep himself unpredictable knowing her as a perceptive behavioral reader. If he would ever seek to propose, he would want to do it in the most surprising cricunstancies. Signals showing he wasn't against the idea were given to her, but Achilles would only confess clearly a desire of making her his wife at the precise moment he would pick to make it real.

Not too soon to keep her in a frustrating waiting, neither too late when some suitor could get the upper hand.

In a matter of instants the dynamic of their encounter changed completely as he prepared to become a listener of her tales. Initially, she intended to emphasize the points of her political labour that were benefitial to both. For so, she started telling of the long whiles trojans would stay after dinner hearing her share his stories presented as harmless entertainment. In the response of the new public there was a profile being shaped that they needed to discuss, given how she was already working on a design that would better respond the objectives he settled. However, the warrior insisted on how he wanted her to speak of herself and the trojan reaction to meeting her.

Getting in details about the pointless pursuiment attempt of Paris happening at their time of meeting was a waste of time, so she only narrated the warning phrank on Odysseus' welcome knowing that would make him laugh. After that, she confidently admitted to have charmed the crew while keeping a friendly and respectfull approach of its leader.

All her anecdotes gave him the impression of hearing she was like fish under water arround the people of Hector. Everything Mycenae kept banned for her, they encouraged. From them she was receiving the kind of admiration she deserved, judged as herself and not as an extention of her father with nothing remarkable to present.

It was her big moment obtaining good fame on her own and even when he was very proud, his heart secretly broke a bit hearing her. Insisting on keeping her for himself sounded like a harmfull whim when Troy was offering her everything she ever wanted before meeting him. The prince didn't love her, but his city wanted her, and among them she had a chance to shine the way she deserved.

Her feelings for him were as strong as allways, but Achilles started fearing their love could be an obstacle in her own road to greatness. How could he, of all men, ask her to leave her ambitions behind to follow him? Him, crownless prince of a wild kingdom fighting his way into history. How could she still pick him over the chance of being the mighty queen she was born to be?

And yet, there was no glimpse of doubt in her choice of the path to pursue. When speaking of her businesses with Troy, it was always implied she was helping to clear the way for negociations others would have develop further. Falling víctim of the process escaped her thoughts, always keeping the hope of creating alliances that would make of those people their friends.

The invincible warrior could tell by the phrasing that his princess kept him in her dreams of all kinds. She was thinking of xenia bonding visits to the city where the two greatest heros in the world could befriend each other. Of meeting Hector's wife as the woman who already belonged to the rumored demigod and strategically befriending the couple meant to become the next royal marriage of Troy.

There was no thought escenario where he wasn't the man of her life, where they wouldn't be together sharing triumphs.

Before sunset would ruin their chances to move anywhere else, he had to accede in taking her back to a populated area and he did under the promise of sneaking to see her later as soon as possible. What he trully craved was to get at least one more night before safely deliver her back to the palace, but such prolongated absense would raise questions that she wouldn't be able to answer. If escaping with her wasn't a viable option, then he had to start serously thinking what was he going to do.

Returning to his homeland alone knowing what had been going on wasn't even considered. He could always show up to receive the hospitality of his friend, pretend his presence was a coincidence and claiming himself the author of the slaughter to frighten the trojans a right amount without ruining the political labour that have been made. It seemed a good idea, untill he considered he wouldn't stand the enviroment of the palace without succumbing to a possesive breakdown.

Having to endure constant irruptions of unaware people claiming she was the perfect match for Hector, teasing from his friends and other forms of harmless insistence while pretending to be an outsider neutral in the matter would make him loose his mind. He would recklessly throw away the secrecy out of pure rage, just to shut their mouths, kissing her roughly or pulling her to his lap. Any resemblance of self control would abandon him and he would end up ruining everything by sneaking into her room to take her like a desperate madman, spilling her virginal blood over foreign sheets with no honor.

Following her like a ghost untill the danger would pass and they could get at least a few quiet days to be together before her inevitable return to Mycenae was the best option. Untill he would get what he needed to make the impossible plead to Agamemnon, that was still better than seeing her so close to his vigilance.

However, that didnt mean he was going to let her go completely clean. Once they finished discussing the serious matters, speeches were replaced by a passionate silence. Achilles took his time to taste her with all his senses untill getting drunk of her to temporally saciate his own longing. The smell of her hair, the softness of her skin, the taste of her kisses and the sight of her beauty all combined to calm the beast inside of him. His extended teasing was followed by some carefully crafted marks he purposedly left on the side of her neck. Her loose hair would be enough to cover the evidence in case of trouble, but it was his peculiar way of self expression.

Achilles was self confident to the point of arrogance, no man was capable of making him feel threatened. Nevertheless, the situation was an increasing source of jealousy. He hated having to hide his love for her while hearing that the prince was receiving her on a silver plate and yet dared to reject her. If at least Hector showed signs of wanting her, he could just come out from the shadows and face him to compete for her like heroes were meant to. It would be a legendary contest that would put to shame the one once developed for Helen's hand. Something bards could sing about, but the trojan had no interest in competing against him.

Not even for the glory or his spot of stardom would the son of Priam react the way greeks expected from him. He simply didn't care despite the comparisons between them must have reached him too. He never intended to get in his way, not even to prove himself the best. For that, he was leaving him without reasons to justify his feelings of unease whenever it was being implied he could wed his princess. Could he be blamed for gossips working in functionality with the political needs? Even if an arrangement would be made later between the kings behind his back, the man did nothing wrong.

Precisely because he couldn't simply blame him and fight his way out of the problem, the righteouness of Hector made the situation very frustrating. Achilles felt jealous of his position as a prince finding such easy public and possibly familiar approval, but not entirely of him. He secretly wished for the gossipers to discover her marks with no possible explanations linking those to the Prince of Troy, even risking the sort of questioning that could raise.

His anger was with the world surrounding them, and his circunstantial powerlessness to let them all know that girl was his in a context where he couldn't just conquer her by the sword.

They pretended to part ways in public, but he still kept watching her movements from afar to make sure she would arrive safe. The citadel was not that far from the place in which he acted as he was leaving her, so her walk should have been an easy one. For most, it was, untill a small escort of magnificently dressed warriors intercepted her.

Trojans, he could tell by the foreign aspect of their armors. One of them, a lad of smaller frame, rushed to hug her enthusiastically. Achilles had no idea of what they were talking about, but the young man seemed very happy to see her.

Out of sudden, her route changed as that stranger guided her somewhere else with all the other men behind them. The myrmidon had no option but following them out of protectiveness, even despite she seemed trustfull of them.

The way in which the warriors obbeyed him implied that man had some sort of power over them, but he didn't look like he could be their leader. Guiding them inside a tavern, he made them look like security escort.

The warrior in disguise entered subtly after them and picked a solitary table with a good spot to watch his encounter with the lady. A closer viewpoint revealed the delicate features of a face never touched by war blatantly contrasting with the military uniform. A wearing for appearances, since he wasn't even carrying any visible weapons.

That had to be Paris, he thought, the useless little brother of Hector. His attention was completely focused on the princess, keeping a body language that invited closeness without being necesarily flirty, yet still touching her more than he was used to see. She didn't seem to mind, chuckling from time to time to his comments. The relaxed scene was of two friends sharing the latest news outside the límitations of the palace, nothing that should annoy him, but he simply disliked him.

Focused as he was, Achilles didn't realize he was staring too intensely at them as he cassually drank the wine brought for him. While the dark cloak offered some coverage, it also gave him a mysterious feeling that fed curiosity on the trojan once becoming aware.

She tried to stop her contextual companion from approaching, but he finally stood up and confidently walked towards the watcher.

In his perspective, the flamboyant attitude of the presumpted prince was hilarious. Achilles had the impression of being in front a peacock showing off his feathers, a man whose self determination was focused on keeping a royal appearance reflecting a nobility that was performative. It was a sad attempt to compensate for his lack of trully noble qualities, a spectacle.

" I must ask … Which one of us have you been looking with such intense interest? The lady, or me? " The trojan whispered with discretion, taking the empty seat in front of him without asking. " … I would understand if it was me. I have the blood of Ganymedes, so that's an expected price to pay for my flawless face. "

The eyes of Achilles were turbulent water burning with anger.

" Don't make me punch you, that girl looks stronger than you. " He warned at the provocation. " … Is she with you? "

The brunet smirked with complicity, quickly overcoming the fright.

" Wish she was, but we are just friends. " He confessed. " Are you not from here? That's not a mere merchant's daughter, she is the princess of Mycenae … "

Achilles simulated a mild surprise and sipped from his drink before replying.

" Mycenae? I pay my taxes to them, so maybe I have the ríght to a little peek. "

" I suppose that's true, but I have been looking for free. " The young man added, feeling at ease. " Courtesy of King Odysseus, since i'm staying in his palace."

The bragging inspired in the hero a way to give back some of the effort his princess was putting into the shaping of his legend.

" Lucky of you. I have never seen beauty like hers, and I have been in Sparta. " He cassually commented. " Trust me, the saids about their queen are a magnified fame. Menelaus exposes his wife everywhere, but Agamemnon doesn't let his daughter leave his palace often … Now I see why. "

His criptic phrasing intrigued the prince, but he reacted quick on trying to dissapoint him.

" Her shine is gelid, like the gold the Atreide hoards. " Paris warned through metaphoric language that Achilles found useless. " Never before I have been rejected so coldly and I doubt you could succeed from the ashes of my failure. "

The prince gave him a path on the shoulder, as if he seeked to comfort him.

" She is far away from your reach, don't expect much from a lady who has remained careless in front of the most beautifull man in Troy. "

Achilles gave him a taunting skeptical glance , then charmingly smiled for her as she arrived among them.

" I'm not sure of what you are doing, but I beg you to end it now. " She kindly scolded Paris, indirectly extending the warning to Achilles as well. " Stop fooling arround, we should be in the palace. "

Paris took the warning too lightly.

" We don't have to, I'm trying to escape from Hector. " He reminded her. " He has lost his mind when we arrived back only to find out that you were missing. Penelope is dealing with him because Odysseus requested us to stay out of the matter, and he has valid reasons. Something out of our understanding has infested this lands, all travellers must beware. "

The grim warning clearly incluided the man of the dark cloack and piercing blue eyes, but he seemed as careless for danger as Paris was of responsability.

" I shall not get intimidated by the colorfull tales of a pretty boy prince. "

" You should, some speak of an angry god claiming lives. " The trojan insisted. " We found an entire pirate crew slaughtered in one of the neighbor islands, no initial sight of survivors untill we did an extended search. "

The princess, still standing i'm front of the middle of table and in between them, managed to notice a strange change on his voice. For the first time since she meet him, the youngest son of Priam was speaking in a dark tone, as if he shared an horror tale.

" A wounded criminal embraced my brother's knees begging for protection of the very same people he was escaping from in the first place. He claimed the massacre was done by just one man, and King Odysseus mysteriously supports this theory … Some of my men, and so do I, believe no mortal could have done it. How could a single warrior attack with the ferocity of an army? "

It took a great effort for Achilles to turn his pridefull smirk into a fake expression of intrigue. His pride was raising to the sky hearing trojans could be mistaking him for a god.

Unstopable cockiness elevated his provocations.

" If I was a god coming down here, I would do it only to put some demigods in her. "

He glanced in her direction bitting his bottom lip, and she skillfully pretended to be disgusted.

" Unforgivable! What kind of man would do such vulgar claims for a woman that could easily get him beheaded? "

The glimpses of masculine complicity in the behavior of the trojan temporally faded as he protectively pulled his friend to his side. That action secretly granted him a bit of respect from the warrior, who expected him to drag her away.

Yet, the prince got a better idea than simply leaving the place to avoid the discomfort.

" In fact, we can properly judge that. "

She realized that he spoke of submitting him to the Judgement, but she couldn't do that to him the way she wouldn't hesitate with any other man. He was the onlyone whose answer she didn't want to know, partially because she was almost sure of knowing it. The riddle weaponized as test to know the priorities of a man between the most common masculine ambitions could reveal that Achilles would choose war over her.

It would prove Odysseus ríght about him, even despite that wouldn't be enough to completely break her heart. She knew him as a warrior, never expecting he would have to change for her. However, not wanting to get in the middle of his dreams with eternal glory wasn't the same as being ignorant of what those implied. If she would get told in the face that there will be something else always above her that would hurt her, even if she wouldn't mean to feel hurt. Aware from childhood that her father would allways pick his thirst for power over her, she didn't want to find herself repeating the cycle with the man she fell for.

" Paris, it's a game to play in feasts. Helen and I conceived it to cheat noblemen into revealing their truest ambitions so other girls of nobility would stay warned. " She recalled, trying to stop her friend while pretending she wasn't invested in the matter. " It looses its purpose being used like a simple game for the tavern, wasting it on vulgar men. I don't need to know the answer of this nameless errant traveller. "

Over time with her, Achilles learned to recognize patterns of her lies. Exagerating her royal demeanour was one.

" Don't need or don't want?" He teased her. " Are you afraid this vulgar man may surprise you? "

She kept the arrogance as an acting, but also as a shield for her fears.

" I already know what you will answer, so it would be a waste of time. "

Catching glimpses of the strange tension going on in front of him, Paris decided for them.

" I'm up to waste time, so let's play! "

Achilles finished the rest of his wine in one long take and raised up in acceptance of the challenge. The three went to the table that the royals shared, but the feeling of surveilance coming from the foreigner didn't allow the greek lovers any secretive exchange.

By indication of Paris, the princess sat in the chair placed at the center and each man took an extreme of the space. Then, the trojan prince assumed the role of narrator, commanding the mycenaean to play the voices of the goddesses describing their gifts. Hera, offering a throne of limitless power; Athena presenting her bliss to triumph in all battles. The myrmidon noticed how the girl changed manners, phrasing and voice tone matching her mental image of each deity.

For an instant, he found it increíbly cute. Even tho he never thought much about it before, he couldn't help imagining her acting like that for her children at storytelling time. Their children, if he would get to be with her.

Distraction out of the sweet thought happened when she represented Aphrodite seductively claiming she would give him the love of the most beautifull woman in the world. Exactly as beautifull as she herself was.

He chuckled to himself, aware of what she meant with that.

" Would I get to choose who that woman is, or would Aphrodite pick her for me? As a judge of beauty, I should be able to extend this faculty on mortals. "

Impressed by the clever move, Paris banged the table with his fist in frustration.

" That's not how it works! It was never said you could choose! "

The princess tried hard not to laugh to stay in character.

" Silence, mortal! The bargain is still on going. "

Eyes settled on the warrior once more, she put on her most charming expression for him while twirling strands of her hair.

" So, who do you think that woman would be? "

He smiled, resisting the impulse of chuckling a bit for her exagerated flirty mannerisms in the impersonation.

" The princess of Mycenae, only her I would take. "

Sticking the the role, she pretended dissapointment.

" Well, it's not of my concern if you would rather go for a lesser prize. " She mocked herself, in fake annoyance. " Fine, she would be yours as long as you choose me. "

Paris was mad with himself because that flirtatious twist didn't occured to him before.

" Who would you choose? " He asked directly. " That's what the riddle is about, and remember that the justification matters as much as the choice itself.

Achilles stared at the side in contemplative silence, carefully calculating his response. Guesing the purpose that the creators had given it, the game was pretty revealing on itself. Clever masterwork from the women of the Atreides, but he had the advantage of knowing them quite well.

" It's alright, you can say Athena and I won't get mad. " The princess interrupted his thinking. " I see it in the bright of your eyes, you appear to me as a man who craves glory above anything and wouldn't give it away for a wife. "

The conclussion confused Paris, who was thinking the opposite based ln the lustfull commentary that the stranger had made about her.

" Would Athena make me the next Achilles? " The cloaked man asked in a provocative tone. " Or Hera turn me into Agamemnon? Do the ones that choose Aphrodite get in the same box as Menelaus, who gave up his ríght to question his brother for the pretty wife he got him? The problem you present is too simplistic. Did it never occured to you that one man could want two gifts exactly as badly? "

The question raised an alarm in her.

" Life forces us to choose, so the rule is taking only one. "

" I want it all. " Achilles cutted her off with passionate arrogance. " Except for the throne, at least. Tell Athena and Aphrodite that I find them both equally beautifull because endless victory in battle leaves you empty if you loose love as a result of it once you already found it. No amount of wine and lust unions with beautifull concubines obtained in war would fill that void. "

The answer broke the rules, but he was staying true to himself and his rule breaker nature. She shouldn't have expected otherwise, but the well thought and heartfelt argumentation remembered her once more of exactly how she fell for him.

On the opposite perspective, Paris started to perceive there was something greater hidding in the strange appearance of that mysterious man who didn't even bothered in telling him his name.

His thoughts were deep, and he didn't speak like the brute he appeared to be moments before. The youngest son of Priam felt a weird fright believing he was coming out to them, and specially to her, as someone or something else.

" Who are you?" He interrupted them before she could comment anything on the given answer, visibly amazed. " I feel as if my eyes have been tricked by a spell all along just of listening to your reasoning. "

Achilles suddenly remembered of his existence.

" Carefull, Prince of Troy. Chasing reflections keeps deceiving you." He mocked him. " Now, if you excuse me, I would like to answer further to the lady with another riddle. "

Inmediately afterwards, his attention was fully back with her.

" Imagine you are commanded in a divine mission to judge who is the strongest of the gods. " Achilles started twisting the format of her game into a new reverse version where the judge would be a woman. " Three gods come down as contestants for the title and, given that you are a mortal, they compete bribing you with gifts. "

She chuckled and rolled her eyes, believing his try was pointless.

" That makes no sense, everyone knows Zeus is the strongest of the gods. "

" That's precisely why he shows up first to defend his title. " The warrior corrected her. " He tells you that if you choose him, you would get the chance to be the mother of a new bloodline, the most magnificent royal house the world has ever seen. Given that your family already has ancestry in him, this doesn't imply he would make you the children. He would find for you a perfect king, and together you would raise blessed princes for a new powerfull kingdom. This would make you a legendary queen, remembered by your glorious descendants shaping the world. "

She smirked, getting a precise idea of where he was going with that option.

Hector, her politically choosen perfect king.

" Next comes Apollo, offering the gift of prophecy. Highest power a woman can have over men. " Achilles continued, not missing her reaction. " Unlike the crown of Queen, this is one you can weild on your own. Kings, warriors and heroes would come to you consulting their fates; asking you what they should do with their lives. You would get to live free from men, but influencing their choices as a virgin oracle. "

His way to make each gift sound tempting was excellent, and she couldn't deny it showed great understandment of certain feminine sensibilities.

" Last, but not least, Ares appears knowing his typical gifts don't appeal to many women. "

Pretending that the hood of the cloak was starting to annoy him, Achilles tossed it behind to expose his face before continuing.

" Because of this, the god of war gives you an instant to admire him in all his glory before announcing he would find for you the mortal who resembles him the most. A blood thirsty beast, irascible and whimsical, but passionate for you as he is for Aphrodite. "

Emotional investment made him break character, explaining himself deeper than what was contextually necesary.

" … A man that would give it all to you, warrior that would make of you his inspiration to fight. When he will be at your side, you will be fill of affections and the treasures of his conquests. Without a throne, you would still be a Queen, because he would make the men he commands see you as one. When he would be away leading them, he would lay alone in his tent on long nights thinking about you. His every victory will be glory that will raise you up among the women of lesser husbands. Yours will be the strongest, most manly out there, yet he would never forget his softness with you. "

It made her blush furiously at the speed of a sweet embarasement impossible to hide.

Achilles saw his mission accomplished, but provoked her even more.

" What do you say now, princess ? Whose offer would you take? "

She appeared to be speechless, but her answer began with a simple critic.

" Well done, but you failed to acknowledge that an essential part of the Judgement implies the options you reject would later become your punishments. " She tecnically corrected him. " There are two levels of reasoning to consider in your answer: what would you wish to obtain from your choice and how would you rather your doom to be seiled."

Her cleverness would never stop amazing him.

" What a wicked sense of fun you have … "

" I come from the House of Atreus. " Was her simple reply. " I have seen how a royal house born under the bliss of Zeus can corrupt itself on human action, so i'm not really invested in that. Despite it's true that oracles are the only women of true power, they have no one to look after. More powerfull and free than Queens, but their lifestyle is even more isolating. Being courted by a warrior, on the other hand, seems the merriest and less determinating out of the three fates."

Her efforts to make the theorization feel autentically rational, as if she would be playing with a stranger that had just challenged her, were flawless.

" Now, at the next level, we have the punishments. If Apollo gives me the prophecy, Zeus could easily take away my capacity for persuasion and my gift would be useless. If I take his gift instead, Ares could feed the flames of war before the perfect kingdom promised to me would get its chance to raise and my perfect king would despise me for that. The offer of the god of war would make me loose my position of royal, and walk into an uncertain fate, but I would be doing it following a man of intense feelings who wants me at his side above any other. "

The lady made a brief pause, merely to tease her hero.

" … I would definitely pick Ares and his short-tempered, hot blooded warrior husband. "

Before the trojan prince could cheer victory and mock her claiming she had picked the equivalent of the same path he took, the course of events took a twist he found unexplainable.

Suddenly, the stranger raised from his seat and headed towards her. Without any explanations beyond the overwhelming force of his glance, he took her hand and pressed one harsh kiss on her knuckles ríght before leaving.

Passionate twist of a respectfull gesture, so intense that it perfectly replaced a full mouth kiss. Her lips parted slightly within the action, as if she would have instinctively responded like that could have been about to happen.

A miracle has been performed in front of his eyes: caught in her own game, the cold minded princess of the mycenaeans was left burning from inside out. For as much as he wanted to mock her about it, Paris was still trying to understand what had just happened.

By the time they were back at the palace, he had enough to present a working theory to his brother.

" Worry no more, Paris has saved the day! Ahhh, i love how that sounds, so comforting. Turns out I got the answer to all riddles! " He arrogantly claimed as he approached him. " She got lost and I found her safe, you can follow me ríght now to see her if you wish. It was definitely an accident, but I believe hers and ours are connected. "

Hector sighed with relief, yet remained cautious of the observation.

" What are you talking about? "

" Ares took down our enemies from one strike to show he is stronger than you because he wants to have her first, and the wedding rumours may have angered him. " His brother informed. " … I think the god of war is flirting with our beautifull friend. "

[lansthetic]

Did I make this instead of drawing Lance for his Birthday. Yup. Regret will be a problem for tomorrow me. ✌️💚 This snippet was translate with google, so sorry in advance for the mistakes. :>

Fernando wasn't easily scared. He had seen a lot in his centuries of life and honestly, threats were just one thing among others. He had the ancient and forbidden black magic anchored on the skin of his body in sinuous lines. Nothing can scared him. Nothing. It was his name who make poeple trembled in fear, not the way around.

-What are you doing here, Alonso?

Fernando looked at Jenson's mischievous and uncertain gaze, his body leaning on the ring net, gangs of boxes in his hands. All the people present had stopped their activities, eyes fixed on him and their whispers reaching his ears like a freaking gang of mosquitos. He grumble. Fernando denied his minority in front of the magical auras that he perceived. Wild and savage energies from the demons rubbing his skin like a whispered warning.

-I need a bodyguard. Fernando confessed, then scratching his chin, uncertain. I was given your address, but I didn't think I'd come across a boxing club.

-It’s not just any boxing club.

The dark wizard mentally grumbled under the laughter of the others wolves present, the demons being much more discreet, but some chuckle silently. Fernando knew perfectly well the physical attitudes of the wolves, these brutes believed blindly in their fists and with a good reason. A really good reason. Jenson's laughing eyes stared at him with nostalgia, perfectly remembering that evening in France back in the days. His jaw remembered it too.

-Listen, I just need a bodyguard for an indefinite period of time. Fernando grumbled, burying his hands in his pockets. Can you help me, yes or no?

-Of course! Of course, my dear friend. The werewolf laughed, getting up from the net while removing his gloves. Do you need a wolf or a demon?

Considering the delicate investigation he was on and the constant pressure placed on the hunters' orders, a werewolf wasn't really a great choice. Lewis had warned him, a wolf would risk causing problems with some of their evidences but especially since their main suspect was a wolf.

-A demon.

-I have someone for you, then.

The threats he was receiving were futile, but Fernando had to follow Lewis' orders and if Lewis imposed a bodyguard on him, then he had to comply. He hated being ordered around left and right and having choices forced on him, but his well-being was important to the hunters and he inevitably had to stay in one piece for the sake of the mission. Lewis will tell him whatever he wants, Fernando knew that the hunter didn't care about him and that it was only for the sake of the investigation that he had given him the address of this boxing club. This same club run by one of his old friends from whom they left each others path on bad terms. Fernando scratched his chin as he followed Jenson body moving on the stage, yelling at the others present to continue their training. On the other hand, going down the three small steps of the stage, the werewolf pointed at a demon who was standing not far away, sitting on one of the benches of the platform, a towel around his neck.

-Lancey, come here.

Basically nothing scared him and Fernando always saw everything coming meters ahead. People were afraid of him, usually, his name and his presence made cities trembled with fear and insecurities. He was scary, so seeing the opposite on the face of that demon had frozen him in place. Lewis had insisted that he find a bodyguard, after the macabre package discovered on his doorstep and Fernando, knowing how stubborn Lewis was, had given up. He wasn't afraid of anything. He had brushed death so many times that nothing affected him anymore, but when he met the eyes of this demon, he feel his heart stop. Two brown eyes with whitish reflections stared at him curiously and the magical aura that wrapped around him took his breath away on the spot.

-Alonso, let me introduce you to Lance, the best fighter I have at the moment. One of the best if not the best.

-You're exaggerating, Jenson.

Lance turned his face towards the wolf and pouted. Fernando felt his eyebrow rise, unable to conceive what had just happened in front of him. Did this demon, with this killer aura, just pouted? Really?

-No, no, no. The werewolf patted the demon on the shoulders in a friendly manner. I emphasize what I just said, you are my best fighter and the only one who, I believe, will be able to tolerate the bad temper of our sorcerer right here.

-Always so nice, Button,

Fernando growled, sizing the wolf up with a pair of black eyes. Lance stared at him, a little surprised, but a little mischievous smile stretched his lips. Fernando stared at the young demon, especially at the two shiny marbles that stared at him with a hint of envy, unable to read the man. He made his way next to him.

-So… you need my help, grandpa?

-First, I'm not old.

-Yes, of course. Jenson chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. You’re six centuries old, Alonso.

- You can’t talk with your four centuries under you’re belt, Button. You’re no better.

-All right, that’s enough teasing, grandpas.

Lance laughed. He seemed so young, his pouting face still in the flame of youth and Fernando thought he saw George during a brief second. George with his childish presence despite his Lys title within the hunter hierarchy. George, hunter in his twenties, right-hand man to the one and the best investigators in the city and also boyfriend, with an already golden reputation. Fernando chuckled as his eyes dart on Lance in a teasing way.

-You're still just a baby, demon. You can’t talk either.

The demon pouted again, in a rather adorable face despite his murderous eyes that want him dead on the spot.

-I'm 27. I'm an adult.

-That's what I was saying, still a baby.

[dailydragon08]

hi! if it's ok I'd love to request a scenario for the star wars gang please :) I'd love to see how they all react to a genderfluid s/o (if you have any questions plz dm me :D)

thank you!

Thanks so much for the ask! Sorry this took so long, I was on a bit of a semi-hiatus, but am back now and working on the other asks in my box! Also, thank you to @kaleidoscope1967eyes for some of the suggestions in here!

I think everyone would kind of be in the realm of similar reactions here, but with a few small differences. Everyone is very accepting about you being gender fluid and doesn’t make a huge deal of it, but are very protective of you in different ways. Eventually, they all get a knack for being able to tell whether you’re leaning more masc, fem, or somewhere in between for the day just by your clothes and hairstyle and will adjust pronouns accordingly if necessary.

Growing up as royalty and a major player in both the imperial senate and the New Republic, Leia is always on top of the latest fashions (which I wish they explored more in other media, but I digress). I think she’d be so interested in helping you adapt different clothing and hairstyles to how you were feeling that particular day and loves finding an outfit that either matches or sort of rhymes what you’re wearing to any events—or even just day-to-day wear. Being royalty and a politician, she’s traveled a lot, so this isn’t a new concept to her at all, and she thanks you for telling her with a warm smile and shoulder squeeze before getting down to business for the day. She’s very adamant that you not only have all the gender-affirming things you need day to day, but also that your preferred pronouns are written correctly in all official documents.

And if someone tries to misgender you or discriminate against you in any way whatsoever, Leia will give them the biggest dressing down of their life – no matter the time, place, or audience – and make sure they know to never pull anything like that ever again. By the time she’s done, they’re standing there like a chastised, guilty toddler as they apologize to you. If she had to, Leia would glare down and lecture the entire senate until they not only got it right, but didn’t even think about forgetting or getting it wrong ever again.

Luke is very accepting and wants you to feel safe and welcome with him above all else. He would make sure to give you a soft smile and thank you for telling him before opening up a discussion to make sure he was doing everything he could to support you and learn how he could improve. He does research on his own as well and if you’re also Force-sensitive, he will get you as many custom-made Jedi robes as you want so you have options for whatever you’re feeling day to day. He checks in with you frequently, both verbally and through the Force, to make sure you’re feeling okay and check if you’re using different pronouns from the day before. If you’re comfortable, he starts doing a daily check in via telepathic connection each morning so that even if you don’t have time to talk or are several rooms away, he’s still well informed.

The way he defends you differs a bit from his sister. If someone misgenders you or makes any sort of unnecessary comment, he’ll immediately interrupt and correct them. His face and tone stay as calm and serene as ever thanks to his Jedi training, but you can feel the irritation flowing off of him if it’s anything more than an innocent mistake. If this person continues with their behavior, he’ll correct them again and ask them to be respectful and make it clear in no uncertain terms that he sees any disrespect to you as disrespect to him and that the two of you will be walking away until they can conduct themselves better. Afterwards, he’s checking in on you and apologizing for the experience so gently and doing whatever it takes to make you feel better.

Han being Han of course makes some harmless, playful remark the first time your style drastically changes in front of him. But once you explain you’re gender fluid, he takes it in stride with a “good to know; so what are we doing for lunch?” He tends to be more observant than people give him credit for – especially with those he cares about – and although he gets good at knowing what you’re feeling that day with a glance, still decides to make a “Gender of the Day” game. Traveling around on the Falcon with him puts you in constant proximity and you find yourself stealing his shirts and jackets quite often on more masc-leaning days (which never hesitates to pull a cocky compliment or pickup line from him).

Anyone who dares to make a snide comment gets Captain Solo in full force, with a low ���listen here, pal” as he leans across the table and makes sure they know if it happens again, they’ll not only have an angry sharpshooter on their hands, but also a pissed off Wookiee.

To follow up, Chewie (platonic) also is immediately accepting and although you can’t understand his language, you overhear Han keeping him up to date with your pronouns every day. Eventually, you learn from C-3PO’s translation that Chewie goes out of his way to ask someone in the OT gang every morning (and sometimes directly comes to you with the protocol droid’s help) just to make sure he’s got it right. He’s more than happy to help Han defend you as well and even when it’s just the two of you, he gives an ominous growl as he stands up to his full seven feet if anyone gives you trouble.

Similar to Leia, Lando is also well-traveled and an avid lover of fashion. This isn’t a new concept to him at all and in fact, when the two of you meet, he’s already asking what your preferred pronouns are. Like the princess, he’s also always elated to help you adapt your fashion choices and has many things custom-made for you – you can hardly say you like something or wish an aspect of a piece of clothing was a little different before he’s already buying it or having his tailors work on it. He even gifts you some articles of clothing that are a two (or even three!) in one via folding a flap a certain way, zipping something, etc. so that one shirt or pair of pants can double as either more masc, fem, or in between.

He's extremely protective of you, no matter who is giving you problems, and will always insert himself between you and the perpetrator with a hey before correcting them in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Especially with his higher rank in the rebellion, he can easily have someone removed from the room if needed and if Chewie’s nearby, employs the Wookiee’s help as well.

R2-D2 (platonic) chirps and beeps while wobbling on his outer legs to let you know he understands and is more than happy to support you. Although you can’t typically understand his noises, he still will sneakily change code in official documents or computer systems to reflect correct pronouns and if someone’s giving you a hard time, he’ll use one of his little retractable arms to give them a little shock.

C-3PO (platonic) of course is aware of gender fluidity, but has never met someone like you – at least, not that he remembers before his memory was wiped. Ever since then, he’s been glued either to Leia or Luke’s side, so hasn’t had a chance to experience much outside of the chaotic workload the rebellion usually requires. But he’s so interested and excited to ask you questions if you’ll allow, but also makes sure to educate himself on his own. You have to hold back your laughter sometimes when he excitedly comes to you about some new piece of information he found as if you didn’t know it yourself – but of course, halfway through his excited ramble, he remembers who he’s talking to and goes “oh, I’m so terribly sorry” before offering to help you in any way he can, always interrupting and correcting people when needed, and if they don’t back down, telling them point blank “well, I think you’re rather rude.”

~~

Taglist: @kaleidoscope1967eyes @masterlukessaber @coffeeorsomething-irl @eveningserenityyy @victorian-nymph @lxstfathier @rogue-kenobi @lavandula-ipsum @sonofthedunes @pomplalamoose @lex-the-flex @ilovemarkhamill

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Thanks (m, cold)

Hi guys, thank you again for voting on which scenario you wanted to see for this fic! It's a bit of a slow burn, and idk how I feel about the ending, but Elijah is staunchly miserable by the end so hopefully that makes y'all happy 😅 let me know if you like it 🫶

Ps I've been writing this for literally the past 12 hours so I cannot look at it anymore, I'll read it over and edit errors in the morning but I need to get it out before it drives me insane lmao. 5.5k words under the cut :)

CW: male snz, colds, coughing, fever, contagion

There was nothing quite as depressing, Elijah decided, as the days leading up to Thanksgiving dinner service in a restaurant. Well, unless you were Greyson.

“Goooood morning, boss! Two days til the Big Day; are you pumped?”

Elijah turned his chair slowly towards the door, where the chef stood grinning unironically. He thought, not for the first time, that Greyson was likely some sort of dog in a past life – a golden retriever, or possibly a lab. One of those ‘no thoughts, just vibes’ dogs.

“Am I pumped?” Elijah asked, glaring at Greyson. “For a day that should be spent drinking shitty beer and eating my weight in carbs spent instead putting on a fake smile for people who don’t even think of us as human? For people who go out to eat literally once a year, and make sure they do it on a holiday so they can feel powerful by forcing a restaurant to serve them, then complain about the price and stiff my servers? Am I pumped to barely break even, even though the restaurant will be packed from ten am until close, because those same people staunchly refuse to pay more than eighty bucks a head to stuff themselves silly? Am I pumped to listen to my staff complain all day, despite the fact that when each of them was hired, they were told in no uncertain terms that they would be working holidays?” Elijah clicked his pen closed loudly, stood to let Greyson through, and sat with him in tandem, his face set in anger the whole time. “No, Grey. I am not, in fact, pumped.”

Greyson broke their eye contact to wake his computer, the lecture obviously unexpected. “Clearly I should’ve read the room before opening my mouth,” he said, glancing back over at his boss briefly. “My bad, boss.”

Elijah, embarrassed that he’d let himself sink into such a state about something as stupid as a holiday service, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Fuck. Sorry, Grey. You just caught me at a bad moment. I had two servers call out for today, I’m fuckin’ sweating because we really need everyone here for Thursday and neither of them are sure they’ll be good to come back in two days.”

“Hmm,” Greyson hummed, his eyebrows threading together. “That’s weird. I had Victor and Elise call out on my way in.”

Elijah felt his heart thump in his temple. “Did they say why?”

“I didn’t ask,” Greyson said, turning his chair to face his boss. “But I guess I should’ve. Did the servers say why they couldn’t come in?”

“Some sort of fever-cold thing, is what Jason said he had. Ashley just said she felt like shit.” Elijah pressed his fingers into his eye and sighed. “I need a cigarette. Care to join?”

Greyson, never one to turn down nicotine in any form, stood from his chair. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said.

The two of them walked through the empty kitchen in silence, Elijah entirely too wrapped in his own thoughts to continue their conversation. There was an ongoing joke, a trope, at this point, about holidays in the restaurant; everyone was always sick for them. Last Easter, the servers all had bronchitis, and a couple of Valentine’s days ago, Greyson had so many cooks call out with the stomach flu that they’d had to hire last-minute temps to fill in on the line. Despite doing nearly 300 covers, they barely made enough to cover the immense labor that seven temps on a holiday cost.

“Lij,” Greyson said as the two of them stepped out the back door and sat on the milk crates littering the loading dock, “it’s not going to be like Valentine’s. I can see your fuckin’ gears turning.” The chef pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, handed his boss one, and lit them both up. “Relax.”

Silence, once again, fell upon them as they smoked and watched fat snowflakes disintegrate on the asphalt. Elijah hoped that Greyson was right, that everything would be fine and he was overreacting – but he knew better than to hope. More likely than not, it was going to be what it always was on holidays: a shit show.

Matt and Mark, hand-in-hand until they spotted their bosses by the door, turned the corner and waved to their counterparts in tandem like well-trained circus animals. Elijah couldn’t help but smile as their fingers unwove from one another.

“Morning,” Elijah called, stubbing out his cigarette. Greyson did the same, and the two of them stood to let the younger men into the building.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Mark asked rubbing his hands together as he pushed the door open. Elijah shrugged as he held the door open for the other two and walked in behind them.

“My rage keeps me warm,” he said, prompting a laugh from Greyson and an eye roll from the younger men. “How’re you guys?”

Mark shot a look at Matt as they all walked towards the office at the front of the kitchen. “I’m well,” he said, pointedly. Elijah nearly stopped in his tracks when he glimpsed Matt glaring at his boyfriend.

“Matt…?” Greyson asked, an attempt at giving his sous chef a get-out-of-jail-free card. There was silence as the three of them turned, expectantly, towards Matt.

“I’mb good,” the sous said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. Elijah audibly groaned, Mark winced, and Greyson bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity.

“Well, you certainly sound great,” Greyson said, palming Matt’s shoulder aggressively. “Would you like to go home and sleep that off?”

“Yes, he -”

“Ndo,” Matt said, cutting Mark off and shooting him a look. “I wandt to help prep.I’mb – hh! hh’NGTSH-uh!” Matt turned and pulled his coat up over the bottom half of his face to sneeze, then quickly gathered himself and stood up straight. “I’mb fine,” he said, convincing no one.

Elijah closed his eyes briefly and sighed through his nose; fortunately or unfortunately, he knew exactly why Matt hadn’t called off.

The week prior, Elijah and Greyson had dolled out raises and bonuses for the staff; this year was Matt’s fifth as sous chef. Greyson had basically written a dissertation of why his sous chef should be given a new title – Executive Sous – along with a significant raise and bonus. It hadn’t taken much convincing; Elijah knew exactly how hard Matt worked, and staying at the same restaurant as a sous chef for five years was nearly unheard of in this city, especially for someone as young as Matt. He and Greyson had agreed that Matt’s loyalty to the restaurant deserved to be compensated, and had surprised him before his day off with the new title and pay.

Matt had been surprised – shocked was probably a better word for it, honestly – and had confided in Elijah after Greyson had dipped early to meet up with a date that he felt like he didn’t deserve the raise.

“You do,” Elijah had said, laughing lightly. “We wouldn’t have given it to you if you didn’t deserve it.”

The younger man had shaken his head. “I just… I mean, Greyson is here way more than me. I get two days off mostly, and he doesn’t let me work longer than ten hours. And I love it here, you guys don’t need to, like, worry about me leaving if that’s what this is about.”

Elijah had given Matt a confused look. “Greyson should be here more than you, first of all he’s a partner, not just the chef, and secondly, he gets paid very well to be here eighty hours a week. That’s his choosing. You’re his employee – if you were here as much as he was and getting paid significantly less, that wouldn’t be fair. And we’re glad you love it here, but that’s not why we gave you the raise. We gave it to you because you’re a hard worker, and you deserve to be compensated for what you do.” Elijah had smiled at Matt, patted his knee, and finished with, “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Matt had just smiled back and nodded, but Elijah knew he hadn’t changed his mind about ‘being undeserving’. Elijah knew, via background checks that were performed by his off-site HR company, and via Mark being a blabbermouth the second he got a glass of wine in him, that Matt had been a bit of a troubled kid; he’d been bounced from one foster home to another as a kid, and then one juvenile detention hall to another as a teenager. Only when he’d dropped out of high school and gotten a job as a dishwasher at a Denny’s did he finally decide it was time to shape up. He’d worked his way into the diner’s kitchen, then a slightly nicer kitchen, and when he was 20, he’d shown up at the front door of Elliot’s in an ill-fitting suit with a speech about how he was ready to work somewhere that he could hone his passion, even if they couldn’t pay him a dime. Greyson had hired him on the spot, not even consulting Elijah, despite only having been the executive chef for a few months.

Elijah knew Matt felt that he owed Greyson, not the other way around, and this promotion and raise was the nail in that coffin of doubt. He knew there was no way Matt would go home, no matter how shitty he felt.

Greyson just shrugged at his sous chef’s denial of being sick. “If you want to stay, I’m not going to make you leave,” he said, walking into the office and changing from his sweatshirt into his chef’s coat. “Just don’t sneeze on the food.”

Matt rolled his eyes and stripped off his jacket to put his own chef’s coat on. “Yes, Chef,” he said, coughing into his elbow. Mark and Elijah exchanged sidelong looks.

“Are you feeling okay?” Elijah asked his junior manager. Mark smirked, hiked his laptop bag further onto his shoulder, and started towards the dining room – his makeshift office.

“Never better, boss,” he said, pushing through the swinging doors. “Never better.”

***

“So, is he coming in tomorrow?”

Greyson lolled his head to the side, hands still on his keyboard, and deadpanned Elijah. “The fuck do you think?”

Elijah pulled a hand down his face and nodded. “Yeah, okay, just wanted to check.”

While Matt had been relatively fine the first few hours of the shift, by the time the last guests had eaten, the sous had been so staunchly miserable that Greyson had marched his ass into the office, thrown his jacket over his shoulders, and pointed towards the back door. “Go. Home. Now.”

“Chef, I – HTSHH! Hh-! GTSH-uh!” Matt wrenched to the side, collapsing into a post-sneeze coughing fit that made the cooks flinch from five yards away.

“You’re not fine,” Greyson insisted. “You’re sick, and you’re going to get everyone else sick.”

Matt nodded, miserable, and hung his head. “Sorry, Chef,” he muttered, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Go,” Greyson said. “And come back when you’re well.”

Mark had taken Matt home in an Uber, and the cooks and servers had been able to leave relatively early, which left Elijah, Greyson, and a bottle of whiskey between them on the desk to figure out how they were going to handle the rest of the week.

Greyson sighed and reached for the bottle as he pushed away from his computer screen. He took a long pull and handed the bottle to Elijah, who followed suit. “I just… I don’t understand why he’d come in that sick,” Greyson said, pulling his hair to the top of his head and securing it with a rubber band from their drawer of office supplies. Elijah had to pull the bottle away from his lips to laugh. “What?” Greyson asked.

“You, of all people, can’t understand why he came in sick?” Elijah asked, incredulous. “You?”

“What do you mean me?” Greyson asked, snatching the bottle back. “If anything, he learned it from watching you.”

“Oh, spare me, Greyson,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “For awhile there, you literally came in sick three weeks a month.”

Greyson scoffed. “At least I’ve never passed out on the kitchen floor.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No, I almost passed out. You actually fuckin’ swooned. Collapsed in a puddle. Full damsel in distress.” Greyson took another pull and placed the bottle back on the desk. “So don’t come for me unless I send for you.”

Elijah guffawed at this. “Who taught you that saying?” he asked. Greyson shrugged.

“I heard one of the servers using it. I like it.”

“The servers are twenty years old, you dinosaur. The last thing they want is Grandpa Greyson using their jargon.”

“Fuck off, if anyone here is a grandpa it’s…” Greyson stopped suddenly, held up a finger, let his eyes flutter shut, then let out a shaky breath. “Fuck, that’s annoying.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, then raised an eyebrow at his boss, whose face had drawn into concern. “What?”

“What was that?” Elijah asked, glancing over at the bottle of whiskey they’d spent the past hour sharing.

“I just thought I was going to – oh,” Greyson’s eyes widened. “No, dude, relax, I’m totally fine. I feel great.”

“‘Buzzed’ and ‘great’ are two different things, Grey,” Elijah said. He reached up to feel Greyson’s forehead, prompting the chef to lean back in his chair.

“Great as in healthy,” he insisted, shooing Elijah’s hand away. “Seriously, I’d let you know if I – HRRTSHHH-ue!” He caught the sneeze in his elbow – barely – and choked back an irritated cough. From the crook of his arm, he heard Elijah swear.

“I’m going to end your fuckin’ life, I swear to God,” Elijah muttered, pushing the bottle further onto Greyson’s side of the desk. “You let me drink from the same bottle as you, you dick.”

“I’m fine, Elijah, Christ it was one sneee – hh! - hh…” Greyson tipped his head back in anticipation, then lowered and shook it when the feeling once again dissipated. “See? Totally fine.” He sniffled – convincing, Grey – and immediately changed course. “Plus, it’s alcohol. It’s an antiseptic.”

“It one million percent is not,” Elijah said, rubbing his temples in defeat. “Greyson, you cannot be sick. We cannot be sick. How the hell are we going to be able to run Thanksgiving?”

“Elijah,” Greyson said, “listen. I am fine. Everything is going to be just fi – ITSHH-ue!” Greyson pitched forward into his palm and cringed. Elijah, begrudgingly, slammed the box of tissues they kept on a side table in front of the chef.

“Bless you,” he said while Greyson cleaned himself up. “And, I mean this from the bottom of my heart: fuck. You.”

***

“Hhh-! Huh… hnnn.”

“Bless you.”

“Oh, screw you, Lij,” Greyson muttered for the millionth time that day. He grabbed what felt like his hundredth tissue and blew his nose – only for the feeling to reignite. “Huhhh! Hhh...hh… guhh.” Greyson rubbed his nose again and angrily spiked the tissue into the trash can beneath his prep station.

“Bless you,” Elijah said again, mocking.

“You kndow,” Greyson said, turning towards his boss, who was seated in the office, not looking Greyson’s way. “Karma is going to combe for you for being an asshole to mbe.”

At this, Elijah glanced towards Greyson. “Karma? No, karma is having a cold and not being able to sneeze because you let your friend drink out of the same bottle as you when you knew you were getting sick. That’s karma, and you got what was coming to you.”

“Fuuhhh! Huh! Hh...fuck,” Greyson grumbled, coughing into his shoulder.

“Karma is also giving your sous chef a lecture about being sick at work, only to be get sick and have to come into work because you’re technically the most well of all the sick cooks and chefs.”

“Are you finished?” Greyson asked, throwing his hands in the air. “I get it. And to be fair, I did ndot kndow I was getting sick.” The chef sucked in painfully through his nose and collapsed into coughs once again.

“Mmhmm,” Elijah mumbled. When it seemed like Greyson wasn’t going to be able to stop the coughing, he took pity and got up to make the chef tea.

“Here,” Elijah said, slamming a paper cup in front of Greyson. “Drink it. Sickie.”

Greyson, unable to come up with a proper comeback, just did as he was told. “How mbany on the books tonight?” he croaked. Elijah sighed, pulled up his phone, and slid it towards Greyson. “Fuck,” Greyson said when he saw the number.

“All the people in the city who aren’t coming in tomorrow decided tonight was the night, apparently,” Elijah said, taking his phone back and putting it in his pocket. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, in earnest.

Greyson nodded. “It’s ndot too bad,” he said, taking another sip of tea. “Just wish I could fuckigg sndeeze.”

Elijah huffed out a laugh. “You’re sure you don’t want to call Matt in?”

“Definitely no – hh! Huh...hhhITSHHHZUE! Oh thank fuckigg God – HUHHESTCH-ue! Hh! Hnn...HuhhhETSCHH-ue! HTSSHH-ue!”

Elijah whistled, long and low, and pushed the box of tissues towards Greyson. “Wow,” he said. “Bless.”

Greyson rolled his eyes as he took a handful of tissues and cleaned himself up. “See?” he said once he’d thrown them away and washed his hands, “Good as new. HTSSHH-ue!”

Elijah chuckled. “Sure, Chef,” he said, moving towards the doors to the dining room. “Whatever you say.”

***

In his thirty-nine years on earth, Elijah had learned a lot about himself. He’d learned that he was a hothead, and he had to really think about the repercussions of what was going to come out of his mouth if he wanted to keep the person he was talking to in his life. He’d learned that he was incapable of whistling, juggling, or any other party trick – but he could pull out a fantastic rendition of Queen’s Somebody to Love during karaoke, and that was enough to make him seem like he was fun at parties. He’d learned that he loved to have his own space, and should he ever find a partner, he knew they’d have to have separate bedrooms. And he had learned exactly what it felt like when he was getting sick.

Like… really sick.

When Greyson said things like, “I didn’t know I was getting sick,” it truly did not register to Elijah. Maybe it was because Greyson’s illnesses always seemed to be some sort of mixed bag – starting differently every time, with symptoms that varied wildly – or maybe it was because he just didn’t tune in to how he was feeling. Greyson always said he basically tried to ignore his body until it forced him to pay attention; maybe that was something that Elijah needed to attempt. Because Elijah… Elijah knew exactly when and how badly he was getting sick every single time.

It had started that afternoon, mere hours after he’d given Greyson shit about exposing him to this illness, the way it always did – with the type of sore throat that made you feel weak in your knees. Elijah had swallowed, then immediately felt dizzy with the pain that surged in his throat. Oh, he thought, touching his neck. Oh, no.

He was, of course, a creature of habit and attempted all his usual ways to quell the pain – cups of tea hidden in paper sleeves, lozenges he hoped Greyson was too stuffed up to smell on his breath, handfuls of ibuprofen – to no avail. By the time dinner service came around he could hear the rasp in his voice and, despite the ibuprofen, could feel the ache in his joints that meant he’d already made it to stage two; fever.

This was how he knew he was going to be down badly. If he could ride the sore throat past the fever and straight into congestion, he might be able to get away with just a normal cold. But if that fever set in before any other symptoms, it was all over.

“Yo,” Greyson said, approaching his boss post pre-shift. “Cand we quickly talk about the semantics of tomborrow’s buffet before people get here?”

Elijah lifted his heavy head from his pre-shift notes and blinked in Greyson’s direction. “Okay,” he said, brilliantly. Greyson’s eyebrows knit together, concerned.

“You good?” he asked, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. Elijah nodded slowly – surely, if Greyson was able to push through this illness with such ease, he was just being a baby about it. He swallowed through the knives in his throat and nodded.

“Just a headache,” he said. “What do you want to talk through?”

“Just wanted to see how mbany cooks you think I should have on the buffehh....ETSZHCHH-ue!” Greyson directed a massive sneeze into his elbow, and Elijah’s head about exploded with pain.

“Christ,” Elijah muttered, pressing his palm into his eye. Greyson muffled a cough into his sleeve and shook his head to clear it.

“Fuck, ‘scuse mbe,” he said, looking back at his boss. “Umb. Did I get you or something?”

Something like that, Elijah thought as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re just loud, and my head hurts.” He pulled out his phone, looked at the cover spread for the next day, and said, “Three cooks on the buffet. One for omelets, one for prime rib carving, one for dessert bar.” He looked up at Greyson for his confirmation. “What?” he asked.

“You just… look like you’re in pain,” Greyson said, carefully. “Did you take -?”

“Yes, I took ibuprofen,” Elijah cut him off. “Go make sure your guys are ready for tonight. Take a decongestant so they can understand you. I’ll be back there in a minute.”

Greyson pursed his lips, but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir,” he said, and left Elijah to brood.

By some stroke of luck, the third inevitable stage of Elijah’s illness didn’t hit him until after they’d finished service. He was checking the lead server’s station so she could go home, when suddenly it felt like a thousand bees collected in his sinuses.

“Yeah, looks good Riley, thanks, see you in the mo – IGTSHH-uhh! HSTSH-ue! HhhhINTSZH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side, the sneezes so sudden he barely had time to cover his mouth.

“Yikes,” Riley said, taking a step away from her boss. “Bless you.”

“Thanks,” Elijah muttered, pinching his nose to quell the itch.

“You pick up whatever has everyone else out this week?” she asked, taking off her apron. Elijah shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Have a good night.”

With all the servers gone, Elijah slunk back into the kitchen and sunk into his office chair, his head in his hands. He was not prepared to do a whole holiday service feeling like this. This was nightmarish, and he’d only felt sick for nine hours. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was going to be -

“Hey, bless you,” Elijah sat up and turned around at the accusation to see Greyson standing at the office door with his arms crossed. “Could’ve heard those from fuckin’ space.”

Elijah rolled his eyes, painfully. “Whatever,” he said, powering his computer up to finish the night’s paperwork. “You’re one to talk, I don’t think you’ve gone three seconds without -”

“HRRSHH-oo!” Greyson cut him off with a comically-timed sneeze directed into the collar of his shirt.

“-that,” Elijah finished.

Greyson grabbed a tissue and wiped his nose. “Yeah, but it’s been well-established that I have a cold. I was under the impression that you were still -”

“HTSHH! HRSHH! Huh-! HuhhESTZHH-ue!” Elijah once again collapsed in on himself, head both buzzing and pounding, the explosive sneezes grating the back of his throat.

“- well,” Greyson finished, and moved into the office to sit by his boss. Just as Elijah looked up from his lap, Greyson slapped a hand on his forehead.

“Enough,” Elijah said, pushing Greyson’s palm off. Greyson put both his palms on his knees and gave Elijah a knowing look.

“So, you’ve been sick all day, or…?”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, clearing his throat, “I’m fine.”

“You have a fever, Lij. Like, a pretty significant one.”

He knew, and he had known, but the words made Elijah’s eyes well and his throat close all the same. God, he hated having a fucking fever and all the stupid, ridiculous emotions that went along with it. Elijah took a breath, closed his eyes to collect himself, and addressed the chef.

“I’m not feeling 100%,” he said. “But I will be fine. You are sick – if I’m not 100%, then you must be at like 10% at this point.”

“I don’t have a fever,” Greyson pointed out, taking Elijah’s hand and placing it on his cool head. “See?”

Elijah bit his cheek to keep from snapping. “Alright,” he said. “Whatever. Still, you need to go home; it’s a big day tomorrow.”

“I will when you do,” Greyson said, shrugging. Elijah, completely spent, and done arguing, just turned off his computer – paperwork be damned for the night.

“Fine,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “Let’s call it a night.”

Greyson, clearly confused, just raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Alright boss,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “See you tomorrow.”

***

If there was one thing Greyson knew about Elijah, it was this: if you wanted him to admit defeat, you had to corner him.

When he woke up at oh-dark-thirty that morning, Greyson felt lucky that he was no worse for the wear then he was the night before. Was he stuffed-up to the gills? Yes. Did he have an incessant, grating cough? Yeah. But ultimately, it was a cold, and he’d work through far worse many more times.

So, despite the fact that it was still dark out, Greyson donned his hoodie and set out for the restaurant. On the way to the early-morning subway, he called Matt.

“...Hello?” Matt answered on the third ring. “Chef?”

“Mbornin’ sunshine,” Greyson said, coughing into the receiver. “How’re you feeling?”

“Uh…” Matt said, attempting to gather his bearings. “Better. Am I supposed to be at the restaurant now? I thought I was scheduled at eight.” Greyson heard him push back a blanket and plant his feet on the floor. “You sound like shit, by the way. Sorry about that.”

“Inevitable,” Greyson said, a brush-off. “And you aren’t scheduled til eight, but I have sombe very important, pre-work, Executive Sous shit I ndeed your help with.”

“Sure, boss,” Matt said, and Greyson could hear him changing clothes, using mouthwash, and whispering goodbye to Mark. “Anything you need.”

“Good man,” Greyson said, pausing at the top of the subway steps. “Could you pick up cough drops, Mucinex, and a hot water bottle, if you see one? Oh, and a real blanket. I’ll Venmo you some mboney.”

“Uh, sure, boss. Is this… for you?”

“Not for me,” Greyson said, coughing into his sleeve. “For Elijah. He’s down bad.”

“Oh. Oh, shit,” Matt said. “Yeah, okay, for sure boss. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, mban. Hey, I’mb about to head down to the subway, text mbe if you have any – hh! HTSHH-ue! Fuck, sorry,” Greyson wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Mbaybe grab more tissues while you’re there,” he amended.

“Sure, Chef. Bless.”

“You’re the best, Mbatt. Always knew you’d make a perfect number two.”

Greyson could hear the eye roll through the phone. “Don’t get sappy, old man,” Matt said. “See you soon.”

***

To say Elijah felt like shit would’ve been the understatement of the century.

When he woke up that morning, Elijah was fairly sure he was dying. The fever he’d crawled into bed with hadn’t budged, his sinuses were packed, and he’d officially acquired the final gem on his sick-as-fuck gauntlet: the cough. This day was going to be absolute hell.

Elijah did his level best to get ready for the busy service; he managed to take about half a shower before he had to sit down, dizzy from exertion; he’d gotten one contact in before sneezing so hard he almost poked his eye out and settled on glasses; he’d even found the strength to put on a pair of pants, though a button down was entirely too much for his shaking hands, so he settled on a cardigan that looked passable enough. God he hoped the servers – and Mark – would be able to hold down the fort out front, because this was nothing short of tragic.

Unwilling to deal with the subway and unable to drive safely in this state, Elijah settled on calling an Uber to work. It was early, a little before eight, but he knew if he didn’t get there now, he’d never make it.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” the driver said, leaving Elijah to immediately regret his decision not to drive. “Pretty early to be up and at ‘em. You heading to see family?”

Elijah cleared his throat as best he could before begrudgingly responding to the driver. “Ndot quite,” he said, his voice strained and congested. “Worki – HGSTHH-ue! HRSSH! ETSZCH-uh!” Elijah attempted to hold back the sneezes, unsuccessfully. Sans any tissues, he wiped his nose on his sweater sleeve. “Excuse mbe, sorry.”

“Working and sick on a holiday?” the driver said, shaking his head. “That’s rough, man. Bless you.”

Elijah’s face flamed, but he was in no state to deny. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Thangks.”

The rest of the drive was in blessed silence, and Elijah made sure to tip the guy extra for being exposed to whatever plague he was walking around with. When he finally pushed through the back door of the restaurant, Elijah felt like he’d already lived a lifetime today; he really wasn’t sure how much he’d be able to take.

“Elijah!” Greyson’s voice reached him before Elijah could even see his face. “Happy Thanksgiving, you sick old fuck!”

Elijah turned the corner and almost burst into tears – there stood Greyson, his face pale and nose bright red, and Matt and Mark looking no better, outside of his office; his office that had been, essentially, turned into a cozy-looking bedroom.

There were blankets on the floor, the chairs removed, and medicine on the desk. The harsh office light had been shut off, and instead one of the lamps from the host stand glowed gently from behind the computer. And, perhaps most heart-rendering, in Greyson’s hand was a bowl of steaming soup, and in Matt’s, a cup of tea.

“I know you hate working the holidays, and feeling like shit is just insult to injury,” Greyson said, setting down the bowl so he could guide Elijah into the office. “So we thought we’d mbake it just a little less shitty.”

Elijah allowed himself to be lead in, unable to find the words to thank his friend. He turned into his elbow to cough, a welcome respite from the tears he could feel threatening to spill over. “Grey,” he said when he’d gathered himself. “I… this is so… you guys…” he swallowed around the lump in his throat and shook his head. “I don’t kndow what to say,” he said, looking up at Greyson. “Thangk you.”

“Ah, save it,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his friend’s back. “You’re always looking after us. Call it our Thanksgiving to you.”

Elijah smiled a little, punched Greyson’s arm lightly, and allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. Heading to see family? the Uber driver had asked him. Maybe he had been, after all.

[bluecatwriter]

Blood of My Blood: Permission

@animate-mush and @ibrithir-was-here, I finally finished drafting the scene! XD

As Quincey Harker first begins to fall in love with Lu Holmwood, he realizes that he should ask for her father's permission to court her. That should be an easy conversation, right?

CW: Descriptions of emotional abuse, mention of smoking

---

Arthur stood at a window in the second story, looking down at his only daughter, his most precious child, strolling and laughing on the lawn below with a vampire. 

Evening light bathed them both, making Lu's curls look like they were pure gold, and giving the boy's pallid skin enough color that he would have almost looked human— were it not for the glowing red of his eyes, so bright that Arthur could see it even from up here. Lu said something and the vampire laughed.

Arthur's hands clenched the windowsill as he leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the roiling in his stomach that hadn't quite subsided since the creature had shown up in his office several days ago. Why he had even let Lu meet the boy in the first place was beyond him. He should have made some excuse— oh no, Lu, there's an undead creature running loose in Scotland, you and Uncle Jack had better go take care of it!— and sent her away. He should have kept her safe. That was his duty as her father.

Of course, it wouldn't have worked. Lu was smart, and Arthur was not a good liar.

But Arthur had failed to prevent their meeting, and now Lu was completely smitten. What's worse, it was easy to see why. The boy was sweet and engaging, an attentive listener, fascinated by the beauty of the world. He quoted romantic poetry with the same enthusiasm that other boys might discuss sports teams. And whatever he was, he was not a vampire like they had fought before. Arthur had tried five different crucifixes on him, as if one could be defective somehow, and forced him to chew garlic while Arthur stared at him as if daring him to collapse into dust on the spot. One of their sources had brought Arthur some holy water, and when he dabbed it in the shape of a cross on the boy's forehead, the vampire had stood there obediently and then asked if something was supposed to happen.

Lu suddenly looked up, and saw Arthur spying on them (no, not spying, he just happened to catch a glimpse and had to check on what they were doing, just in case the vampire was, for instance, trying to rip her throat out). Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, the rebellious little grin on her face quite familiar to him now. He remembered how timid she was when he first met her, how she shrank into herself as if wishing she could disappear. Now she laughed loudly and grinned fiercely and made it clear that she was going to do whatever she willed, regardless of what "the dad" had to say about it. And that was what Arthur wanted, really— for her to be bold and confident and sure of herself— but why oh why did it have to manifest this way?

She waved and blew him a kiss. Arthur blew her a kiss in return, and managed to even smile, but his smile only held until the vampire turned his head and looked up at him too.

Their eyes locked, red to blue, and Arthur felt protectiveness rising in him like a flood. If he was a good father, he would march that boy into his office and tell him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his daughter. If you so much as think about touching her, I will stake you right through your unbeating heart, do you understand?!

The boy tipped his hat, bowing his head with that eerie courteousness that he had shown ever since he'd arrived. He looked a lot like his father— or, as he often clarified, his papa— just then.

What was worse, Quincey being a vampire, or him being raised by the man who had tried to murder everyone Arthur loved?

Arthur stepped away from the window, found that standing was suddenly too much work, and leaned back against the wall instead, slowly sliding down it until he hit the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

He didn't cry long before he heard a soft rap on the doorframe, and he struggled to lift his head to see Jack standing there. Jack gave him a sympathetic smile, then crossed the room and held out his hand, helping Arthur up into a chair. Arthur wanted to bury his face in his hands and keep sobbing, but he could tell that Jack wanted to talk, so he just looked at Jack through tears. 

Jack stroked his hand soothingly through Arthur's hair a few times before withdrawing it to sign, "Lu?"

Arthur choked out a small sound, and jerked his head toward the window. The sounds of Lu and the boy laughing came through the glass. "Jack, am I doing the right thing?"

Jack sighed, his smile turning wry. "You know Lu. She will do what she wants regardless, so we might as well go along with it."

Arthur groaned, leaning into Jack's touch as he petted his hair again. They'd had a similar conversation three years earlier, when Lu had started hanging about with a disgusting boy who treated her like a supporting character for his own ego. Arthur had wanted to throw him out onto the street on his head, but Jack had counseled that Arthur keep his disgust to himself. Forbidden love is very romantic, Jack had said, and Lu is a romantic at heart. She gets that from me, he'd added with a little smile. Arthur had gritted his teeth for four months, until one day Lu showed up unexpectedly in his room, her mascara running, and told him that she'd dumped her boyfriend. Arthur had never been so relieved in his life.

"I'm supposed to keep our daughter safe," Arthur said, his voice choking a little. "How do I know… how can I be sure…"

"You can't," Jack signed, his movements short and sharp. "We must trust what we know: that the holy objects don't burn him, that he has never drunk blood from an unwilling subject, and that his goodness seems entirely unfeigned."

Arthur gulped. "I don't know how I can handle this."

Jack kissed his forehead. "One step at a time," he said when he pulled away. Then he straightened, and Arthur could see him switching into Doctor Mode. "Now, young man, I am going to take your blood pressure."

He strode out of the room and returned with his sphygmomanometer, which he set up on the table. Arthur tried to calm his breathing as Jack placed the cuff around his arm and puffed it up, then frowned at the rising mercury on the device.

After a moment, Jack sighed, setting down the pump in his hand to sign, "It's a wonder your blood vessels haven't exploded."

Arthur groaned and leaned back in his chair as Jack deflated the cuff. 

"Maybe you should smoke more, to calm your nerves."

"I would turn into a chimney."

Jack huffed a laugh, and when Arthur tried to follow suit, he ended up crying again. Jack wrapped both arms around him and held him as Arthur shook silently, while the sounds of his daughter and the vampire laughing still drifting through the window.

*  *  *

Lu had complained about having to attend a boring party tonight with a friend, but Quincey was actually glad for it, because it gave him an opportunity to do what he'd suddenly realized he must do as soon as possible. 

He'd gotten careless, and lovestruck. (Lovestruck, what a beautiful word! He had imagined so many times what it must be like to be struck by love, but the reality was even better than he expected.) He'd gotten carried away, lost in the glow of Lu's presence— the sparkle of her eyes, the sharp wit of her words, the unabashed confidence in the way she moved through the world. He had been pining like a lover in one of those ballads he loved to read. And he had forgotten the most important step of all, the one that all other steps depended on. 

Lord Godalming's scowl from the window this evening had thrown the necessity of this step into sharp focus. He must approach Godalming tonight and hope to set all in order.

After Lu had left for her party, the servants directed him to Godalming's office, and Quincey stood at the door for a long time, rehearsing his speech in his head, before knocking. He heard Godalming's "Come," and opened the door, stepping inside with his most respectful yet friendly face on, to see Godalming at his desk.

Godalming's face always changed when Quincey entered the room: a tightening of his whole expression, as if it had suddenly become an effort to hold his skin in place. In the corner, Dr. Seward looked up from reading something. It was easier to decipher his expressions: he stared with singleminded focus and curiosity, much like Mum did, rather than Godalming's fidgeting and pacing and avoiding eye contact. But Godalming was the one Quincey must address, and so he only spoke to him.

"Lord Godalming," he said, proud of the even measure of his voice. "I ask your permission to come in and speak."

Godalming cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hands. "Yes, of course," he said, though his tone was unconvincing. Still, Quincey must take a chance.

"Thank you, lord." He crossed the room quickly and stood before Godalming's desk, his head bowed as if under the weight of an invisible hand. Before he could lose his nerve, he launched into the speech he had prepared. "Lord Arthur Godalming, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking me under your roof, and for the hospitality that you have shown to me in my time here. I know that all in this household are under your authority, and all here belong first and foremost to you."

Quincey couldn't quite tell what kind of expression Godalming was making— he shifted in his seat, that tightness in his face grew more pronounced, and he glanced over at Dr. Seward. But he didn't tell Quincey to stop, so Quincey plowed on.

"I know you are a benevolent lord, for you allow all those of your household to pursue their lives in bliss and harmony. With this in mind, I humbly beg you to hear my request."

Here he paused, looking for any sign of what Godalming might be thinking. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps— it was hard to tell— but he was not scowling, snarling, or getting that cold look that Father got right before breaking something. So far, so good. After a moment Godalming said, with bluster in his voice, "Out with it, then."

Quincey breathed a little sigh of relief to have explicit permission to continue, but worked to keep his voice formal. "Thank you for the opportunity to make my request. Lord Arthur Godalming, I ask that I may pursue and court your most treasured and beloved property, Lucille Holmwood."

"What?!" Godalming sputtered, and leaped to his feet. Suddenly, his expression was as easy to read as a book: outrage, and surprise.

Quincey resisted the urge to take a step back. He was surprised, too— he thought it was obvious that they were interested in each other. What part of this wasn't Godalming understanding?

"Don't ever call my daughter 'property' again!" Godalming roared, slamming his hands on the desk.

Now he did startle backward, blinking in confusion. Out of everything in his statement, how could Godalming possibly be angry at that? His mind scrambled to interpret the situation, wondering what unspoken rule he had trespassed.

"She is a person," Godalming continued, "not some trinket that I own— and certainly not a thing for you to own, either!"

"I would never dare!" Quincey burst out, affronted at the very thought, before remembering himself and dropping his head in deference. He had to show that he was obedient, that he would listen to the lecture and the learn the Lesson embedded in it.

Quincey had learned long ago that he had no desire to be like Father— he had no desire to rule, to overpower, to possess. But he had often, so often, dreamed of being like Papa. He had hoped to find a man or woman that he could adore and care for, someone he could protect. Owning another person was never something he had considered, even though he knew that Father would be disappointed in his lack of ambition.

He realized that he'd just been staring blankly at Godalming, who was clearly waiting for him to respond, and he scrambled to find the words that would avoid the worst kind of punishment. Bowing his head further, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I did not mean to cause offense, lord, but of course that is no excuse," he said, all in a rush. "I will welcome any punishment you see fit."

He didn't know what kinds of punishments Godalming was likely to give. The dread of not knowing made his stomach twist, but if he could endure it, perhaps Godalming would consider him worthy.

"I'm not going to punish you," Godalming said, speaking with disbelief, as if it was a ridiculous idea. (He must be trying to put Quincey off his guard so that he wouldn't expect the punishment when it came; Quincey made a mental note to stay alert so that it wouldn't catch him by surprise.)

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said simply. He kept his head down, watching furtively as Godalming and Dr. Seward signed quickly back and forth to each other, Godalming frowning and Seward looking concerned. Lu had taught Quincey a few signs, but not nearly enough to have any idea what they were saying. 

Godalming suddenly turned to face him, and Quincey straightened instinctively, though he still kept his head bowed. When Godalming spoke, his teeth were gritted, but he appeared to be trying to control himself. He seemed to value self-control, just like Mum did. "Jack has suggested that perhaps I've misunderstood you. Explain, then—" The sharp edge on his voice flared, then subsided. "—why you referred to my daughter as 'property.'"

Quincey spoke carefully, knowing that speaking the wrong word could be the difference between getting his request and getting severely punished. "Lucille belongs to you, is it not so?"

"Not in the way an object belongs to me," Godalming said, starting to pace. He turned on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at him. "And if you think to treat her like your property—"

Quincey flinched as if he'd been slapped. To be accused not once, but twice, of trying to commit treason in this way made him feel horribly hurt, but he couldn't just blurt that out. He struggled to say, "My lord, please let me speak."

"Speak!" Godalming burst out, waving a hand at him. "You don't need my permission, just speak!"

Quincey fought down the tears that threatened to spill over his eyes, stumbling over his words. "Thank you, lord. I… I had no thought of making her my property. I meant that… I was asking if I could become your property, sir."

Godalming stopped pacing stared at him as if he'd said the most unintelligible string of words ever spoken. Quincey stood there, unsure whether to keep talking, and then Godalming sharply turned to Dr. Seward, and they signed back and forth with puzzled scowls on their faces. Quincey waited anxiously, wondering if they were discussing his punishment. He hoped that he wouldn't cry when they put him through it. He hadn't cried during a punishment in a long time.

"Yes, I know, Jack!" Godalming said unexpected, then grabbed a paperweight that sat on his desk, fidgeting with it as he spoke. It looked fairly heavy; it would hurt if he chose to hit Quincey with it. Father considered corporal punishment to be uncivilized, but a different lord might have a different rule. "Just tell me," Godalming said to him, and again it was clear he was putting a lot of effort into sounding calm, "do you consider yourself to be anyone's property now?"

Quincey could have wept with relief to get a question that made sense— but now that it was posed to him, he had to pause. He had been ready to blurt out that yes, of course, he belonged to Father, and only to Father, as everyone in the household did, but…

Papa's last words to him were imprinted on his mind. He hadn't really understood them, standing at the castle doors that day that seemed so long ago now, but the reality of it was beginning to sink in. Remember, you don’t belong to him. Or, or to us. Just to yourself.

"I don't," he said, and he felt a terrifying emptiness at the declaration. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. "When I lived in Castle Dracula, I was Father's property, along with Papa, and Mum, and everything in the house. But Papa has sent me out now and says that I belong only to myself." Now that he said it out loud, it seemed stranger and stranger. But of course Papa would never go against what Father wanted. Papa had always taught him to do what was right, and obeying Father was right. Father must have changed his mind, and wanted him to own himself.

Godalming's expression remained steady, so Quincey decided to go on. "My heart's desire is to find another household where I may be owned and show my love and loyalty, just like Papa did. This is my deepest wish, that I have held since before I even knew that such a thing were possible." He shut his mouth, squeezing his hands together. 

The past few days, he had been thinking about the possibility of asking Lu to kiss him. He had never been kissed by anyone before, except the bloodless kisses that Mum and Papa gave him. Perhaps she would not like the taste of of his blood, but he could offer, anyway, and maybe she would like to try. He imagined her lips open against his arm— or even perhaps his throat!— and wondered what it would like to feel his skin give way under her teeth, to feel his blood leaving his body to nourish that one he loved. The thought of it was so exciting that it made him feel a weakness in his legs, a fluttering in his stomach. 

"Quincey!"

Quincey didn't realize he'd been daydreaming, and he snapped back to attention, again speaking in a rush. "I apologize for letting my mind wander, lord, I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"I'm not going to— for Christ's sake—" Godalming looked helplessly at Dr. Seward, as if he could explain this, while Quincey stood there still feeling confused. "Good grief, child, what kind of a life have you had?"

This was probably a test, but Quincey didn't know how to pass it. "A happy one," he said simply. "I come from a loving family."

"Why are you so afraid of punishment, if your family was so loving?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Punishment is love," Quincey said, a note of frustration entering his voice. He felt a wave of anger at Godalming for insulting Father, for disrespecting the name of the family. "Father punished me to teach me how to be strong and right."

Godalming's eyes blazed again; Quincey wondered why it seemed to make him so angry. "So he never hurt you?" Godalming asked.

"Never," Quincey said, putting emphasis on the word, "except when it was for my good."

Godalming raised an eyebrow. "And when it was 'for your good'? What did he do then?"

"Whatever best suited the disobedience." Quincey spoke without emotion, trying to tamp down the annoyance he felt at this clearly bad-faith questioning of his Father's parenting skills. What did Godalming care?

"For instance?" Godalming pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Again, Quincey decided this must be a test. He focused on speaking as plainly and completely as possible. "If I paid too much attention to my books and not enough to him, he would make me tear up the books and feed the pages into the fire. Or if I forgot my place, he would come into my room and destroy my things." 

Godalming's expression was changing from demanding to horrified. "What kinds of things?"

He had a sudden, sharp memory of a stuffed toy rabbit that Papa had brought him when he was a small child. He could still feel the soft cotton against his cheek, see the button eyes and the embroidered smile. He'd named it Hoppy. 

"Things I liked. Especially things that Papa bought me in town. For instance, once I owned a toy rabbit. But then I questioned a decision that Father made, and so he took my rabbit and—" His voice caught; there was something about saying this out loud, when he had never spoken of it before, that made him suddenly feel like he was going to cry. "—and tore it to pieces." 

He still remembered the sound of the fabric ripping, the way that Father had held Hoppy just out of Quincey's reach and methodically shredded the toy until only fibers and buttons were left, Quincey screaming and begging him to stop all the while. Afterward, Quincey had wept and gathered up the shreds and brought them to Papa. Sometimes Papa could fix the things Father broke, but this was not one of those times. 

Papa had held him tightly and let him cry, and afterward they had had a burial service for Hoppy, at sunrise after Quincey should have been in bed.

He felt tears in his eyes and a knot in his throat, and in his attempt to hide both, he lashed out. "But the punishments worked! I learned to never question the wisdom of those better than me, and to obey instructions, and to be respectful in all circumstances. Besides, none of the things he destroyed were mine. They were all his. Everything in the whole land was his. Sometimes I just forgot. But I do not forget anymore. I would never ask to possess anything for myself. If you allow me to be part of your household, I will never forget that all belongs to you."

There was a long silence. 

"Jesus Christ," Godalming said, and slumped into his chair.

Quincey wasn't sure why Godalming was invoking the name of the man on the crucifix he now wore, but it was not the time to be asking questions. He stood there, waiting for him to speak again.

Godalming groaned, dragging a hand across his face. "Quincey, I— I don't know what to say."

Once again, a feeling of relief came over Quincey. He knew this kind of roundabout speaking, and knew what the proper response was. Without hesitation, he dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his face against the carpet. 

"Lord Godalming, I throw myself upon your mercy, as a wretch, a worm, begging to be your property and yours alone, to sit at your table and eat your scraps—"

"What the hell are you doing?" Godalming yelled. "Get up!"

Quincey sat up quickly, still on his knees, staring at Godalming's horrified expression over the desk. "I… I thought you wanted me… to beg?" Father had always liked begging.

"God, no! Quincey, please, please just pull up a chair and sit down and listen."

That he could do. Quincey quickly pulled up a chair and sat, hands in his lap. Godalming stood up and began to pace again, still fidgeting with the paperweight. He seemed to be grasping for words to say, and it was only after signing back and forth with Dr. Seward for a few moments that he spoke.

"Quincey, you say that you belong to yourself. Well, Lu belongs to herself, too. No one in this household is my property. Do you understand? Everyone here belongs to himself."

Quincey didn't see how that could possibly work, but there was nothing to do but take Godalming at his word and hope this was not a test. "I understand, lord."

Godalming paused, and looked at Quincey with a cross between pain and exasperation. "Quincey, you're a vampire. Lu is a human. You are a danger to her, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you to court her."

Quincey felt the words sink into him like ice, and the urge to throw himself facedown on the carpet again made his fingers twitch.

"But," Godalming said, and paused. In that pause, it seemed that he aged ten years before Quincey's eyes. "But," he said again, and now his voice was husky, "I do not have the say in this. As I said, Lu belongs to herself, not to me. If you want to court Lu, and she wants to court you, then I… I won't stop you."

Quincey stared at him. This was impossible; he must have heard wrong. "You do not wish to exercise your right of ownership?" he asked hesitantly.

Godalming looked unspeakably weary. "Lu can make her own decisions— and you'd damn well better abide by whatever she decides."

"Yes, lord, of course," Quincey said quickly, still wondering if this was some sort of illusion that he would wake up from.

"But make no mistake: if it comes to it, I will protect my daughter above all else. Do you understand?"

Quincey resisted the urge to smile in relief. Here it was, a straightforward threat, something that he was used to working with. He tempered his wave of excitement, and stood solemnly, bowing. "I understand, lord. I swear to you, I will give you no reason for displeasure."

Godalming looked somehow even greyer than before as he leaned wearily on one hand. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, but it was a halfhearted mutter.

There was a long pause.

"All right, now go." Godalming waved his hand in dismissal. 

Whatever he might say, Quincey knew that permission to approach Lu as equals was still a privilege that Godalming had bestowed on him, and Quincey must acknowledge the gift. He reached across the desk and took Godalming's hand with both of his. Godalming startled, but Quincey was committed to the gesture now: he bowed his head over his hand and pressed a bloodless kiss to it, the way that Papa would do with Father when thanking him or placating him. He felt Godalming shudder under his touch.

He still suspected that this whole scenario was some sort of test, and that Godalming would punish him for it, but at least he could be on his guard now— and at least he could invoke Godalming's words against him if he tried to change his mind. Papa had taught him that it was important to remember exactly a person's words, so that you could use them in the future if you needed.

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said, looking earnestly into Godalming's face. One of his eyes was twitching, and Quincey could hear his heartbeat loudly. "I will treasure this kindness." Then he raced out of the room before Godalming could change his mind.

*

Arthur groaned and sank back in his chair, feeling a shiver go through his whole body. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, see the soft, bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye. Jack raised his hand to speak.

"Don't," Arthur snapped. "Don't say a single word, Jack Seward."

Jack stood instead and walked to his side, planting a kiss on his head. "I'm proud of you, just the same," he signed, before using his hand to feel along Arthur's neck for his pulse. He pulled back and shook his head disapprovingly. "Blood pressure, young man, blood pressure."

"I said not a single word."

"I'll get you a cigarette."

"Jack!" Arthur grabbed his arm, and felt suddenly that Jack was the only real thing in this upside-down world where he had just allowed a vampire to start courting his daughter.

Jack paused, then settled himself onto Arthur's lap, linking his arms around him. In this position he couldn't speak, but he breathed long, slow breaths, his way of reminding Arthur to breathe, too. Arthur shuddered through several shaky breaths before he was able to slow enough to match Jack's pace. 

The unknown loomed before them, like a great blackness in his mind. He couldn't protect their daughter forever. Lu would make her own decision, and then… well, then there was nothing to do but wait and see.

~~~

[thegreenlizard]

Not Obi-Wan’s first slave uprising (II)

This is a drabble for“Not Obi-Wan’s first slave uprising” AU. It’s three disjointed pieces of tell don’t show in a trench coat, but I was trying to organise my (and Obi-Wan’s) thoughts, so it served a purpose. It’s not quite the path that that would take Obi-Wan to the conclusion at the end yet, but it might be pieces of it.

“All a jedi must do, padawan, is follow the Light. The rest is window dressing.”

—patron saint by spqr

What would have happened if the republic hadn’t miraculously been given an army just when they needed one, Obi-Wan thought. Would the republic have been overrun? No, the separatists wanted to secede, not conquer. More likely, the senate would have been forced to issue a draft, which would have been immensely unpopular—as the Military Creation Act had been, before the discovery of the clone army—both among the wealthy and influential core worlds who feared their populations would not accept it, and the Rim worlds who feared the draft would draw from their populations disproportionately. It would have made war less popular, less supported, and protracted war doubly so. It would have lead to seceding worlds facing less opposition, and the republic having less brute strength to force them to stay. It… would have meant the republic would have had to make concessions, reforms even. It would have meant diplomacy and negotiations would have to be attempted if all our war wasn’t an option. It, in fact, was exactly what the Jedi were meant to do.

Not this: commanding an army of slave soldiers to fight a war to force worlds to stay in a republic they no longer felt served their needs. To keep power in the hands of those who already had it, but weren’t willing to compromise to keep it.

*

In the days following the Military Creation Act and the draft of the Jedi Order, Obi-Wan had kept thinking back to something he had been told years ago, while he was still a padawan. Obi-Wan had been some months out from Melidaan, still on a probation, still trying to reconcile his experiences with the expectations of the Jedi. He had been trying to repair his frayed relationship with his newly reinstated master and had been hesitant to bring up any of his doubts. They had taken an easy diplomatic mission to Alderaan where Obi-Wan had met Bail, then still Prestor.

Bail had been a few years older than Obi-Wan, still growing into himself, but already he had had that core of duty and integrity that Obi-Wan had never ceased to admire. And he had told Obi-Wan something then, that had stayed with him all these years. That it was the duty of any leader, to serve the people whom they lead.

It was not the teaching of the Jedi. The Jedi taught that their duty was to serve the entire galaxy, and all sentient life therein. The Jedi were not leaders, but diplomats and arbitrators, facilitators of a different kind. But service and duty were baked into them in the crèche all the same. And there was something about Bail’s wisdom, that had resonated with Obi-Wan as he kept getting missions that turned into firefights and sometimes all out wars.

Obi-Wan already lost his argument with the Jedi Council then. He had only been a lowly knight and had been in the position to argue in the first place due to his mission debrief after Kamino and his lineage relationship with his great-grandmaster Yoda. But in the end, he had been told in no uncertain terms that the Order was not in a position to refuse the draft or to fight the Military Creation Act.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow. To go from Kamino, where the lights of the clones had shone so brightly in the force, as unique and riotously colourful as any city despite the outward appearances, to Geonosis where the lights of both Jedi and clones had been snuffed out in troves. He had been feeling sore in the force, from all those deaths. As far as he knew, the campaign was still ongoing, but he had been recalled to Coruscant to give his mission report in person—and to accept his assignment as a general of the army.

Only to then realise that the newly passed Military Creation Act afforded the clones no civil rights, not even sentient status. To realise that the Jedi were just… going to accept it, because of politics and of the greater duty they could apparently serve.

Frankly, if the Jedi’s duty to all sentient life did not extend equally to the men under their command, then Obi-Wan no longer cared about following the Order’s rules. He would never stop being a Jedi, but as Qui-Gon had once put it, being a Jedi was about following the light—the rest was window dressing.

But now, his duties as a Jedi were to include direct command of soldiers. Men, whose wellbeing relied on his decisions. Men, who would live or die on his word. That was not the case with other sentients of the galaxy, who were free to make their own decisions. Didn’t that make his duty to his men greater, not lesser? Didn’t that make it primary?

Obi-Wan had always struggled with attachments. But he did not know how to fight with divided loyalties, how to split his heart and portion pieces of it carefully, calculatingly. There was no room in war for it. He had always given all of himself to the fights he chose. To Melidaan. To Mandalore. To their people. He did not know how to do any less now.

He felt like he was at the precipice of something, at a fork in the road before him where he could only choose to walk one path but not another. He had a choice: his men, the order, or the senate.

He had, he realised, had to make the same choice before: to be a Jedi, or a general. To serve the people, or his mission brief. He had already made his decision and had kept making it over the years. And he found that it was not so hard to make again, after all.

*

“It is the duty of any leader, to serve the people whom they lead,” Obi-Wan starts haltingly.

“My primary responsibility—my primary loyalty—is no longer to the Jedi Order, the senate, or even the republic and its people. It is to the men under my command.”

“If these duties conflict, I will put our men first.” Obi-Wan willed his commander to understand. “We will fight, and we will die. But only as long as it is in the pursuit of the common goal our men choose to make those sacrifices for.”

“Any man who wants out of the fight, I swear I will find them a way.” He would. It would be difficult to smuggle deserters out, but he would personally falsify death certificates for everyone who’d rather take their chances outside GAR.

“I will not force you to fight. I will not be your slave master. If you would rather strike out at the unknown regions, just give the word. If you’d rather dump my ass before you go, just give the word. If you’d rather I step down from the command and start fighting for your rights in the courts, I swear I will pull every favour and piece of blackmail I have accrued during my diplomatic career. And if you’d rather break your chains—Cody, it wouldn’t be my first slave rebellion.”

Obi-Wan rises from his chair and drops on a knee in front of his silent commander. He pulls his lightsaber from his belt and offers it to Cody.

“So you see, it is not you who are at my service. It is I who am at yours.”

*

Cody doesn’t know what to say to his general offering to commit treason for him and his men. The man has literally gone down on his knee to, what? Swear loyalty to Cody, a clone? This is so far outside the parameters of his training that Cody might just as well have been transported to another dimension entirely. And he does not know what to say.

The general, still kneeling at Cody’s feet, tries for a smile though it comes out more as a grimace.

“You don’t have to say anything, commander. We can pretend this conversation never happened. I know I haven’t earned your trust yet. You don’t have to decide anything now.”

Kenobi gets up, sits back in his chair and scrubs his face, looking a little lost. Then, to Cody’s horror, he starts undoing the plates of his armour and pulling open the body glove underneath.

“Did you know that there’s a word for a freed slave who enslaves others?” Kenobi asks conversationally and tilts his head until Cody can see his bared neck. It’s pale, like the rest of him, and there’s a band of twisting scar tissue around it. Cody must react somehow, because Kenobi nods and starts putting his armour back to rights.

“Depukrekta,” he says with disgust. “I wasn’t a slave for very long, in the grand scheme of things, but I…”

“I—to be frank, I considered resigning from the Order and refusing the draft entirely in protest. But I thought you and the men at least deserved a choice in how you wanted your battles fought.” Kenobi shrugs and adds ruefully “And the option of resigning publicly is still open, should you wish to be rid of me.”

Kenobi, having said his piece, slips quietly out. Cody states after him for a long time, thoughts whirling. Then he comms Fox.

[delta-pavonis]

July Kinkfest Day 1

The Sandman || Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || 559 words

Prompts: Begging | Degradation | “You have to tell me what you want.” (I'll call this inspired by all three prompts, but the first is the big one here.)

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hob gets to be dark (as a treat), D/s (if you squint), would be eventual D/s if I kept writing, Hob uses magic, what if dark!Hob is the one who captures Dream in 1916?, what if Dream is already thinking about planning for the events in The Kindly Ones?

Author's Notes: Eh, a day late. This went a completely different direction as I was writing it. Like, screeching tires change in direction. But I like it, despite it only being kinky if you squint. Don't worry, Day 2 will be kinky enough for both of the posts.

“Never.” His Stranger snarls, leaning forward to pull against the bindings on his wrists. The runes carved into the simple leather cuffs burn gold and the captive sinks back against the wall with a hiss.

“Never say never,” Hob sings, purposefully off-pitch and off-putting. “Over five-hundred years you have made a fool of me – no more, darling.” He shakes his head as he paces. “No more.”

Stars in the void-black eyes follow Hob back and forth, but he says no more. Pity, that. 

“You are the one who gave me this gift. You are the one who spurned my friendship. You are the one who will suffer the consequences.” Hob stops and turns to stand facing his Stranger. “This is, in no uncertain terms, your fault, my dear.”

The captive lifts his lip in a sneer and his rage radiates off of him in tangible waves. They crash up against the darkness seething out of Hob and create visible sparks. 

Hob takes a half-step towards the captive and his darkness expands, curling along the floorboards, seeking out their target. His power pushes against the aura around his Stranger, eating away at it, like acid. Those black-space eyes narrow at him.

Another half-step forward and more of his Stranger’s aura is degraded. It is a slow erosion, but he has time. Hob has nothing but time.

Another half-step. Then another. Successive constricting circles of power ring around his Stranger and Hob is honestly surprised it is this easy to trap an Endless.

Unless… 

Hob inches forward once more and inhales sharply. Now that he is feeling for it, it is obvious. 

It is Hob’s turn to snarl as he surges forward, closing the distance and grabbing his Stranger by the hair, pulling with enough force to snap his head back so that he has to look up at Hob from where he is forced to kneel. “You are letting this happen, Dream of the Endless!" He was hoping to extract that name from his Stranger by force, but his anger overwhelms his plans. "You allow my power to gnaw away at yours. Tell me what your game is!” 

They stare at each other, Hob panting with the physical exertion of maintaining his hard-won magicks. The panting means that Hob’s lips are already parted when Dream surges upwards and covers Hob’s mouth with his. 

For a moment Hob gives in, swaying into everything he has ever wanted, and then he stumbles backwards with a shout. “What the fuck?”

“Capture me.” Now Dream is panting, body trembling with emotion. “I don’t want this any more. I can give you the power.” He strains against the cuffs again, tilting all of himself towards Hob, and while the runes light up once more, Dream does not hiss in pain. “The ruby around my neck. Take it. I will show you how to master its power. I will show you how to use it to master me.” 

Hob has no idea how long he watches with wide, unbelieving eyes as his Stranger tries desperately to get across the floor to him. 

Eventually even the Endless sags down, arms held limply aloft by the cuffs chained to the wall. The sound Dream lets out is something Hob absolutely refuses to believe is a sob. 

Except then Dream, his Stranger, whispers, “Please, Hob. Please take me away.”

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 27

thronebreaker scifi cyborg!reynard au part 2

After being sent away from Meve's service, a cybernetically-enhanced Reynard reboots in a repair bay after suffering a critical failure.

Reynard's system comes back online in slow pulses--brain stem, nerve endings, vital signs, extremities. As his vision clicks on, he fails to recognize the dingy repair bay he reclines in, and as ever, his first thought as he wakes is of Meve.

Though he's yet to remember the details, he knows his body must have finally suffered some catastrophic failure, leaving her and her forces vulnerable and resources diverted to seeing him taken for repair.

His short-term memory bank clicks as it reboots, and he remembers–

Meve's face contorted with fury and hurt. Gascon, standing with head bowed as a newly-revealed traitor, subdued and regretful. Reynard, having tried to salvage the issue of his own treachery saying–

“It would contradict my base directive to be anything but devoted to th' royal family. My transmissions to Villem were intended to protect him. Not to aid Nilfgaard or to undermine our cause, Your Grace.”

“Your… base directive?”

“My programming, Your Majesty. I could not betray you if I tried.”

Reynard had not expected the severity of her reaction to that explanation, her rage, her stricken expression. And then, she'd turned her back and called to a soldier outside the room to have them escorted away, him and Gascon both, warning them never to return.

After that, his memory splinters, lost to the jarring misery that had interrupted his processes. He remembers hating Gascon, hating Nilfgaard, hating his own augmented body. For all his enhancements and systems installed out of devotion to her, not one of them meant a thing if he was not allowed to be at her side.

Driven by the loyalty written into his very being, he ceaselessly trailed behind their party despite his worsening condition, just in case he was needed after all.

How he’s ended up in the repair bay, he's uncertain, but a quick system check shows he's had quite a few significant repairs completed, ones he'd put off far too long. The place is cluttered and stained, clearly not Imperial at least, so he hasn’t been captured by Nilfgaard.

Gascon snores beside him, propped uncomfortably in a chair like this is an ordinary medbay, sitting at Reynard's sickbed.

More memories click into place. Gascon trailing him as he trailed the partisans. Arguing with him, so angry his joints hurt, or maybe that had been the corrosion catching up to him, his body rattling apart more and more over long days as he cared for it less and less, inevitably suffering the critical failure that led him here.

Reynard has blurry memories, crackling with static, of Gascon dragging along the wreckage of his usless body, cursing him and his stubborn pride and his choice to augment himself with the heaviest damn plate armor possible, and then everything washes out to the quiet of a lost signal between his mind and body.

Gascon looks small in the chair beside him, in part because he's not wearing his usual pointed cowl. His hair is a tangle of dark curls, and Reynard is surprised to see the cool metal of cybernetics interrupt the skin at the back of his neck from shoulder to ear. The handiwork is clean and high quality, not the stuff of underground salvage yards.

The noise as he disconnects from diagnostic cables wakes the sleeping man, and he topples from his chair, lurching up to grip the arms of Reynard's repair support.

“Ah, you've finally rebooted. Feel good as new then?” Gascon asks, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

Reynard thinks to asks where am I? What happened and how long's it been? Have you kept tabs on the location of the Queen's forces? Is all well with them? And most pressingly, who exactly are you?

“You have enhancements,” he blurts out, touching the metal of his own ear.

“Oh,” says Gascon with a nervous laugh. “Suffered a fever as a child and lost my hearing. Got some others as well, none so obvious as yours.”

He touches the inside of his wrist and a panel of convincing faux-skin lifts to reveal tidy circuitry. Why hide such a thing? Reynard has long thought he was the only augmented soldier left in Meve’s service, the rest having played a part in the betrayal in Lyria.

“Then you–”

Reynard stares. He doesn't really know Gascon at all, knows the treacherous reasons he joined Meve in the first place but not why he looked so pained as all was revealed, not why he followed Reynard or dragged his broken down body here. Can't explain why a slum-dwelling, flea-ridden terrorist would have augmentations unique to the wealthiest upper crust among them.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Brossard's th’ name,” says Gascon with a little salute. He can't quite fake his usual easy smile. “Last of my family, I suspect. All th’ rest were– well, you were there, weren't you?”

He’d been one of many who raided and shut down the Brossard’s complex, King Reginald unwilling to risk allowing even the family's serving drones to remain operational, given the threat of their advanced technology leveraged against the crown.

“Decommissioned,” says Reynard.

“Aye, big, stuffy word for wiped out.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Nah. Bygones. I'd have grown up some snot-nosed brat who inherited war machines. Better off a stray. People get touchy for good reason when they see my tech.”

“Sorry,” Reynard says again, lamely. “And I am sorry you had to drag my dead weight here.”

“You big fuckin’ lug.” Gascon knocks his breastplate with a fist. It rings hollow. “You're lucky I know every decent mechanic in all th’ Northern cities, ‘specially the slums. Granted, we’re borrowing this one. Poor fellow got conscripted into Nilfgaard’s forces. Left in a hurry, looks like. I managed to scrounge together th’ repairs myself. If your damn stubborn pride hadn’t gotten in th’ way, you could’ve sorted this earlier.”

“I live to serve th’ Queen,” Reynard says.

“You hardly could have helped her swat a fly in your state.”

“Is she–”

“Not far. We’ll catch up. Don’t worry your big metal head about it.”

A rush of relief floods through him, along with an itchy restlessness to return to his vigil watching from afar.

“Though not sure why you lied to her. Your loyalty programming's a scrap of code easily overridden by basic survival instinct.”

“I’d not override it. Not if Her Majesty was at risk.”

“You foolish, soppy, lovesick bastard,” says Gascon fondly. “I'd wring your armored neck if it wouldn’t break all my fingers right off.”

Gascon’s still got repairs to finish, little things to recalibrate. The workshop may be a mess, but it’s outfitted with plenty of supplies that suit his enhancements.

As Gascon's clever fingers fiddle with a control panel that opens at his back, Reynard feels his exposed skin warm through in ways he hasn't in years. Freshly-installed sensors light up along his plating. Each small touch as Gascon stands behind him to recalibrate the sensitivity of his system makes him feel alight, floating in a fog of pleasant sensation.

Reynard feels a rushing surge of echoing fondness for this strange man, a heat that thrums through his circuitry. It feels suspiciously like someone's dialed up his physical emotional response.

“Ha! I knew you could blush. You've gone pink, Reynard. Oh don't fuss, give me a moment. So much was shot, I had to rollback some of your bits to factory default settings. Easy fix.”

Some time passes, and Reynard drifts, stiff and silent.

“Have you blown a fuse? Reynard?”

“I'm–”

Shuttering the open control panel, he turns and lets his hands fall on Gascon’s upper arms. He’s shivery and overwhelmed with sensation, needing something he can’t seem to put words to. He's had his remaining operational nerve sensors dialed down so low for so long that to feel the warmth of body heat under his hands is far too much.

“Would you–” His metal fingers flex, unused to softening their strength so as not to bruise. “I need–”

Brow furrowed, Gascon slowly draws him wordlessly into an embrace, arms tucked over his broad shoulders, face against his neck.

“Not a big, unfeeling robot after all,” Gascon says, then softer, “though I never thought so myself.”

It takes some moments for calibration to kick in, for the intensity to ease, but Reynard clings a while longer.

“There now,” says Gascon as Reynard leans back, face no longer burning. “Happens to th’ best of us. Can’t wait to tell Meve how bright you blush.”

“She’ll take us back, you think?” He doesn’t mean to ask the desperate question. It’s absurd. To think either of them would be forgiven. He would advise her against it, were he still in her good graces.

Gascon grins. Reynard knows him well enough now to see the cracks of uncertainty behind his loud confidence.

“Maybe so. Maybe not.” He shrugs. “Not got much more to lose than I already have either way.”

Reynard realizes that he’s still petting at the seams of the cybernetic metal at the nape of Gascon’s neck.

They’re not the same by any stretch of the imagination, but in that moment, they feel joined by a very similar thread. It leads them back to the same place, trailing the footsteps of a disgraced Queen.