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littlebookreader · 3 years ago

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Omnia bene, quod desinit bene

This has two parts: Information and the fic itself. For slightly easier accessibility, I will put both in this post itself.

Some information first:

Summary: Lester and Aurelia discuss the events of the past week.(For the Sunday prompt ‘ Favourite Minor/Background Character’ of the Victoriocity Appreciation Week 2021. Takes place a day after iustus alius dies ad domum.)

Fandoms: Victoriocity(Podcast)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Gen

Word count: 895 words

Characters: Lester Horrocks, Aurelia Bell, Julius Bell, Edward Sandringham(mentioned), Inpector Archibald Fleet(mentioned), Clara Entwhistle(mentioned).

Additional Tags: Exposition-my beloved, haha, whoops, everyone being horribly mischaracterised(sorry about that), Lester really is my favourite supporting character though, not sure if he counts as minor/background, so characterisation is not in fact the only thing I’m butchering today, end of the line!(and the series), can’t really think of much else, author regrets everything, no beta we anticlimax like Book, here you go

@victoriocity-appreciation for the Favourite Minor/Background Character.

Part 7 of Love, Actually.

This was the information. For the rest of the fic, it’s all under the cut.

Fic:

Lester Horrocks, crime reporter with The Morning Chronicler knew a story when he saw one. He wouldn’t quite call himself virtuous, exactly, but in most cases, he knew where to draw the line. Julius Bell had assigned him a rather a strange task- send notes all around the city, understand how everyone involved with the madness of the past week would react.

Sure, it seemed like a benign enough task.

“It must not go further,” a message, received only the night before, told him. He had no such troubles with that. Though…..

He looked around for a locution glass, filled in the necessary details and waited patiently for Bell to answer. The vague impression of his face appeared on the third ring, looking rather surprised.

“Ah, Mr. Horrocks! From The Morning Chronicler, is it? I am terribly sorry about this, but whatever it is will have to wait.”

All he said was: “Nuntium accepit.”

Bell looked visibly shaken, a rare occurrence for him, Lester surmised.

“I do beg your pardon?”

“Message received?”

“Ah, yes, yes, Mr. Horrocks, my Latin isn’t quite so poor as all that, fortunately.”

Lester simply stared at the image, wondering HOW this man had gotten where he was today. He then remembered the saying about those in a position of power, and chuckled to himself.

“You had assigned me this task, Mr. Bell, and all I have to say is, nuntium accepit.”

“Oh. Well, then erm, that’s good. I was briefly worried that you’d go….rogue.”

Lester smiled at the image, clenching his fists behind his back, wincing slightly when his nails began to dig in his skin. Who did this man think he was, anyway?

“You needn’t worry about that, Mr. Bell. I’m no threat.” But I am a journalist, he thought. That should be cause to worry.

Out loud, he simply said, “I already have my story anyway, and I have you to thank for it.”

It took him a while, but Julius managed to piece it all together. The image fumed, bouncing around in the liquid in a rather amusing way.

“Goddamn you, Horrocks-“

Lester wasn’t having any of that now. He’d done his part, hadn’t he?

He disconnected the locution glass. He still had something to attend to before going back to work at the offices, and briskly walked back towards the street to hire a cab, filled with a renewed sense of purpose.

Some might have called it revenge for all those years ago. Bell would have called it an inconvenience. He simply called it redemption.

________________________________________________________________

“So, you spoke with Julius.” No question, no obvious intonation implying one. Just a statement, filled with a knowledge that the deed had been done, and was hence forth, irreversible. Not like he would reverse it anyway, Aurelia knew. Lester was almost as stubborn as Augusta, perhaps even more so.

Was it something with all these reporters, or did she simply continue to attract the most stubborn people in all of Even Greater London to her doorstep. She didn’t know, but she wasn’t keen to find out, either.

“Yes, he’s fairly baffled about it. For some reason, I got the feeling that he blamed himself about the whole affair.”

“Did-“ she steeled herself. “Are you gaslighting my brother?”

He shrugged. “I could be. God knows he owes me a lifetime of it.”

“I know Vidocq’s son-“

“Edward Sandringham,” he supplied.

“Right, yes, ‘Edward��, knew all about it?”

“Of course, he was the one who gave Balmoral the almonds. I simply slipped in the note while he wasn’t looking. Somehow, he managed to figure out almost immediately that it was my doing!”

She chuckled. “I may not know him very well-“ As she said this, Lester visibly shuddered. He had a whole history with his father, after all. She knew that it was something of a sore subject for him. “But his only weakness appears to be his partner. Makes me wonder…”

Lester didn’t reply, so she added: “You already told me that the inspector and Ms. Entwhistle reacted poorly. “

He pursed his lips slightly. “On further reflection, not quite. I mean, the three of us knew that I was the one sending the notes. They didn’t. The assumption was reasonable actually; their mistake lay in approaching their landlady.”

Aurelia smiled. “The one who thought you were a ghost.”

“The very same.” They stood their for a moment, not quite knowing what to say next, after which both piped up: “It’s getting late-“ “I should probably get going-“

They stared at each other for a brief minute, confused and maybe even a little bit embarrassed. This time, Lester was the one to break the silence. “I had just received a tip, and something tells me I should act on it. Au revoir, Ms. Bell.”

“I hope you-“ she started to say. I hope you have feelings for me too? I hope you know you can call me Aurelia? What? What did she want to say? She decided to start simple for now. Not exactly a good look on her, but it suited Lester just fine. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He smiled back at her again, a combination of that charm and wit she’d only read in his articles as a teenager. “I already have.”

With that, he left, while she rushed back inside to get ready for work. It may have been a somewhat anticlimactic ending, then again, the last thing anyone in Even Greater London needed was excitement.

Maybe, it was better off that way.

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chrysalispen · 4 years ago

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(these are the things) i can do without;

Holy shit y’all this is so NSFW lmfao

uhhhh. nero/wol, light bondage, breathplay, warning because this is consensual but not safe or sane. don’t try this at home, kids.

NSFW below the cut, as always. AO3 link is here.

======

As per usual, Nero Scaeva had only himself to blame for his current predicament (pleasant though it was).

Name your price and I will pay it, he had said, and he really ought to stop making such impulsively magnanimous gestures in order to get himself out of hot water every time he crossed the eikon-slayer's temper. Particularly on those occasions when it stood a fair chance of ending poorly for him-- which, he owned, was somewhat often.

In his defense, he had expected that fulfilling a 'favor of her choosing' would have something to do with one of her adventurous impulses. He simply hadn't considered the possibility that this might be the sort of adventure on the table. Table- or bed, as it happened. In this case the four-poster in her bedroom to which he had been bound.

Aurelia sat on her mattress alongside his prone form with her feet tucked primly beneath her knees, clad in only a short chemise and a pair of smallclothes as she studied her knotwork (and really, whomever had taught the most objectively terrifying woman on the godsdamned star entire how to tie strips of vanya silk as if they were nautical rigging on a Limsan frigate could get buggered as far as Nero was concerned), looking for any weakness in her technique.

"Really, sweetling, all this over one broken alembic, and one barely worth the name, at that. Was your plan simply to frustrate me into submission?"

Nero was a born contrarian. He had prided himself upon that fact since boyhood, had pontificated upon it during his various clashes with one Cid Garlond, and very often had relied upon it to win arguments with Livia sas Junius on more than one occasion in his less-than-illustrious past. He was, in short, what an army recruiter might politely term ‘spite-motivated.’ Or perhaps he simply had the perverse urge to find out to what extremes she might be driven should he ever manage to push all of Aurelia’s buttons.

Although that particular remark, he allowed, might have perhaps been a step too far. She leveled upon him a stare that could have frozen an industrial forge.

"All things considered, I really should do just that," she retorted. "I can if you like."

"By all means, please continue."

The Warrior of Light was not a woman given to displays of ill temper. That said, perhaps she might not glower in the precise same way that Garlond did, but hells bedamned if the last time Nero had seen this exact look on her face hadn't been right before she proceeded to wreck every toy in his Castrum Meridianum laboratory and wipe the floor with him for good measure.

His grin was a challenge, a silent gauntlet tossed at her feet. It did not go unnoticed.

"Your willingness to cooperate does you great credit," she said with false sweetness. "I assume you won't mind if I take my time, then, as I'm certain you shall find it no great task to remain still-- and silent."

The Warrior of Light answered his insolent smirk with a smile of her own and leaned forward with one slender hand braced upon his chest.

Overeager fool that he was, he dropped his guard. His jaw went slack, anticipating the plush softness of lips pressed against his and the velvet heat of a tongue to slide against his teeth.

Instead, he received a mouthful of silk for his trouble.

He tried to curse in surprise, but all that left his mouth was a muffled growl of annoyance before the gag was pulled taut -- not enough to hurt or to chafe, but it ensured that the use of his words would be too much effort for him to bother. Still, that was harmless enough, and Nero supposed he should have expected it when she had told him exactly what sort of favor she intended to have him grant. A light slap, a bite or ten, perhaps (though he sincerely doubted it, knowing her) a bit of dirty talk.

Charming if rather pedestrian, in his personal estimation, as far as such things went-- but one had to start somewhere.

She did none of those things. She touched him with light, tickling trails of her fingers from collarbone to navel, showering a line of tiny kisses along his hairline and then his brow and cheekbone, traversing a warm, sweet path downward. Amused at the notion that such a delicate touch would have any real effect on him, Nero allowed himself to relax and enjoy her soft attentions, lulled into lazing contentment right up until the moment her teeth nipped at the soft skin just beneath his jaw.

He hissed his discomfort around the gag, at the tiny, sharp pinprick of pain amidst the warmth, and then there was another, and then another as she made her slow and unhurried way along his neck, one side, then the other. At the fleshy juncture that met the plane of his shoulder, she latched onto him in earnest, suckling gently through the sharp sting of her teeth, tongue flickering over the bruise she left behind as if to soothe.

Nero did not need a looking-glass to know what he would see: violet-red marks blooming like flowers upon the canvas of his flesh from ears to the base of his throat, marks that would be clearly visible even above the high neckline of his work doublet.

Violence thoroughly leashed beneath that soft and ladylike exterior, he thought, how very strangely apropos for a killer of gods.

The thought set his nerves alight. Heat and tension flickered through his stomach, tightening like the bonds that held him trapped, and beneath it he felt the twitching of his cock, nudging against the barrier of his smalls with slowly escalating insistence. He exhaled through the corners of his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut for a handful of moments.

What she had traversed with fingertips she now traced more intimately, dragging the damp softness of her mouth over every sensitive spot she knew he had. Tiny bites across his collarbone, barely openmouthed kisses along his sternum that seemed to sear him with each touch of her lips, a saucy flicker of her tongue over a puckering aureole, and the maddening tickle of her hair trailing close behind, warm and golden as it tumbled over his chest.

His limbs trembled as though he were - at thirty-four winters! - the callow schoolboy he had once been, breaths coming in quick and shallow sips through his nose by the time she pulled herself upright.

Her fingertips traced the border of flesh and cloth just below his waist, ruffling the wiry curls that peeked slyly from the waistband of his smallclothes, her nails ghosting in light and careful strokes over the firm ridge of his erection through his smalls. Nero’s hips surged upwards, trying to find something, anything to grind against-- only to meet resistance in the flat of her palm pressed against his stomach. Gods damn it-

“If you can be a good boy and stay still for me,” she said, “then I’ll let you talk again.”

A stab of alarm curled through his gut when she moved back towards the bedside and turned away from him -- surely she would not be so brutal as to make good on her threat to stir him and leave him to suffer -- and then he felt the shimmy of the mattress, saw her hands at her hips as they slid down her flanks. She was not leaving but merely removing her smallclothes.

He sucked in a soft breath through his nose. The heat below his waist had increased steadily with her teasing, and when her fingers brushed against his trapped cock in the process of reaching for his waistband he uttered stifled curses in Ilsabardian into his mouthful of silk, blunted nails digging into his palms enough to hurt.

Forcing himself to still his hips while she worked the laces loose, while she tugged his smalls down his hips and freed his length from their confines, aching and heavy: that was a uniquely exquisite agony.

She extended one of those lovely, powerful legs to straddle his waist so that she knelt astride him like a riding chocobo. Embarrassing as it was he couldn’t stifle the helpless groan he made at the sight of damp honey-gold curls hovering mere ilms above him, radiating palpable warmth.

“Don’t move,” she whispered, and braced one hand upon the neatly carved edge of her headboard.

The other wrapped about his flushed and throbbing cock, adjusting the angle with achingly slow precision until the head nudged at her entrance. His eyes were open enough to see the intense focus on her face as she began to lower herself onto him, and in that same instant he was all but lost in the sensation of soft, wet heat enveloping his crown, a desperately desired friction that felt even more of a shock to the senses with his control wrested from him.

He observed her silent expression of bliss in open fascination: the slow backward tilt of her head, the delicate arch of her neck, her soft and breathy sigh, nails dragging light furrows into his flanks as she took him into herself. Sliding smoothly into liquid heat until he was swaddled in it, from base to tip.

The sensation was almost enough to break his resolve. Almost---but not quite.

Nero grunted against the gag that bound his tongue flat against the floor of his teeth, and his forearms twitched, the tug of his wrists insistent against the restraints of silk that bound them to the posts. But he remained still, bent his entire being on it, even as he wanted more than anything to move, to thrust, the very thing she had said she would not yet allow.

At last she had settled carefully atop him, as soft and warm without as within, the plush curve of her rear cushioning her weight against his hips. She reached out to hook one index finger in the fabric and tug it free from his mouth, and he wasted no time in opening it.

"I am fairly certain," he began, his voice laden with sarcasm, “that this novel method of yours constitutes torture beneath imperial jurisdiction.”

"Don't be so dramatic."

He released a resigned sigh- a short, soft huff. "Sweetling," he said, plaintively. "You are cruel to me. Cruel."

"And you are altogether too accustomed to getting what you want when you want it." She kissed each corner of his mouth. "You willingly surrendered yourself to my tender mercies and I intend to enjoy every second of it."

"Something tells me 'tender' might be debatable."

"And you are quite clearly enjoying this."

"Perish the thought,” he smirked, though that too was quickly becoming an effort. Her hand left the headboard to stroke the planes of his torso, tracing lines of old scars and muscle, following the path of golden filament curls downwards to their joining at the base of his belly.

"Perish nothing. I'll wager you dreamt about this plenty of times before we even met." Aurelia nipped at one of the bruise marks she’d left on him, and the resulting moan buzzed against her lips as they trailed down the column of his throat. "Nero tol Scaeva, the right hand of the Black Wolf, bound to the eikon-slayer's bedposts whilst she rides him-"

"Left."

She clenched around him, a rippling squeeze as thrilling as it was diabolically deliberate. “Hmm?”

"Left," his back arched like a shortbow strung too taut, knees flexing and heels digging into the mattress, "his left-hand man, darling, I'm left-handed-"

"Pedantic and filthy? Truly, I have won Garlemald's greatest prize." Her laugh was a whisper against his collarbone, laden with tolerant amusement. "Though I must allow that you are quite charming when you’re this desperate."

"And I will neither confirm nor deny-" She rocked atop him with a thrust and his breath stuttered to a halt before he hissed out an oath, "-confirm nor deny the contents of my fantasies, no matter what you do to wring them out of me, you thrice-damned temptress."

"Goodness, you are so complimentary tonight. Perhaps we ought do this more often- or at all."

"Let me move.”

“No.”

“So help me, I will chew through these," he cut himself off with a howl of growing exasperation when her teeth sank into a nipple, “buggered bits of godsdamned frippery if I must.”

"Will you? But say the word and I'll relent." She sat upright. The curve of her grin was teasing and triumphant. "Perhaps."

"You think to have me beg you for release?"

She did not answer but instead set herself to work unlacing the neckline of the short undergarment she still wore. Though Nero was well aware it was a show for his benefit, he was unable to look away as she coaxed the knots to unbind and eased the leather strips through each opening.

Once she had judged the laces loose enough, she grasped the hem with both hands and pulled her last article of clothing over her head in a single fluid motion. Muscles shifting in deceptively powerful thighs, the long waves of her hair curling in graceful honeyed patterns over smooth skin flushed and dewy with sweat, she leaned forward to brace her hands along either side of his torso. Gravity tilted the soft swell of her breasts forward in kind to slide over his chest: just enough of a taste of her to torment.

"Once I've freed myself-"

The threat died on his lips when her fingers tangled in the thick curls at his nape. He growled in frustration. "You won't."

"Don't tell me what I won't do." The grip on his hair tightened as if she were scruffing a kitten. "Aurelia, I will break this bloody bed," he hissed. "Do not tempt me."

“I suppose that is one way to get what you want." He'd hoped he might provoke her temper, give him an upper hand. Instead, Aurelia smiled at him, soft and winsome, her grip on his hair relaxing and her fingers descending to trace the shell of his ear. He stared at her, unable to maintain even playful belligerence in the face of this new distraction, feeling suddenly and unaccountably flustered. "You can also have what you want if you just ask me nicely."

“You mean if I debase myself enough to beg you for the privilege.”

"If you ask nicely," she stressed. "And say it like you mean it."

Nero was fairly certain he was in trouble. The sting of those bites and the sensation of his hair pulling against his scalp left him with far less care for his pride than he might otherwise have owned, and the near-glacial pace of her hips was quickly eroding what remained of his willpower. But he did nothing in half-measures and he was not going to give in without at least a token resistance. It simply wasn't in his nature.

"Dearest hero," he purred. He dipped his chin so that his lips brushed against hers and in the softest and most conciliatory voice he could muster, he whispered: "Make me."

The grin he gave her was the widest, most shameless, most infuriating, most insufferable he could possibly muster, and Aurelia---

Her answering smile was as bright and hard as an uncut diamond.

Seven hells. He was definitely in trouble.

Nero was bracing himself for some sort of retaliation - perhaps she would grasp another handful of his hair and pull, or bite, or deliver a blow to his flank - so when she instead rested her cheek upon his shoulder, lips gently nuzzling at his neck and hands stroking his sides in a light and careful caress, he was left at something of a loss.

"Are you certain?" she murmured. “You would rather fight me?”

That low and husky whisper jolted its way straight down his spine.

Refusing to answer, he caught his lower lip between his teeth. Her lips drifted about his earlobe, and with a torturously slow roll of her hips, she drew it into her mouth and tugged with the barest scrape of her teeth before releasing him. A groan welled deep within his gut, made almost nasal by its escape from the depths of his throat. Her nails scraped over his stomach, just enough to raise gooseflesh as they drifted down to his hipbones, then inward until her fingertips stopped at the space where they joined.

There was nowhere left for them to wander, and he grit his teeth when she circled the base of his cock with index finger and thumb in slow strokes.

"Well, 'tis a terrible shame you can't bring yourself to be aught besides stubborn." She was touching herself now; her fingers trailed over the folds that had spread open to accommodate him and kept moving until the heel of her palm rested perhaps an ilm below her navel. Her index and middle fingers curled in, very gently- once again, just enough to tantalize him, to torment. "I could force you to lie there and watch me pleasure myself- if that is really what you'd prefer."

"Aurelia," he began, wetting his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.

She said nothing, only smiled. Sweat rolled down his temples from the crushing effort he exerted to not only remain still beneath her ministrations but to appear unaffected by them. It was a fight he knew full well he was losing; when she leaned toward him again it was like watching a hunter approaching to see what fantastic creature she had caught in her snare.

Her other hand trailed a fair expanse of collarbone and shoulder, bruise-mottled and flushed, paused at the soft hollow of his throat, then carefully wrapped about his neck. She applied no pressure, but her thumb tracked in idle lines over the rhythmic throb of his jugular.

She might as well have squeezed, in truth. The sound that emerged from his own mouth was something strangled and desperate, and on its heels before he could stop himself-

"Please-"

-came surrender.

Nero swallowed, the sound a very audible click. A large part of him was mortified at just how quickly he'd acquiesced to her teasing the moment she’d dared to grip him thus, but he was painfully hard and he was trying not to think about how much of it was directly related to that soft hand and the remembered warmth of it as she closed it around his throat.

Movement along his neck at last: her hand, sliding back into his hair. He felt something akin to disappointment before she gave the curls at his nape a cheeky little tug.

"You have permission to move," she whispered.

His soft sigh was the only warning she received before he flexed his legs just enough to brace his feet for traction and bucked.

The sharp upwards thrust tore a high-pitched cry from her lips. She released her hold on his hair when the motion unbalanced her, slamming the flat of her palm back against the headboard hard enough that they both winced at the cracking sound of its impact. He gave her exactly enough time to regain her balance before he repeated the movement, and she doubled over, tucking her head beneath his chin. A third repetition, a fourth, a fifth: slow and savage thrusts that left her writhing atop him.

Unable to resist the opportunity to tease even through the haze of his own lust, Nero grinned at her.

"Lost control of your steed, have you?"

Rebuttal took the form of a fierce kiss, one he accepted with a low and greedy moan into her mouth. When she relinquished him to take air, her mouth damp and slightly swollen, her dark violet-blue eyes shone with that hard, determined expression he secretly so loved to see.

"If a racing chocobo cannot unseat me, tribunus," she breathed, panting audibly, "I harbor serious doubts that you will fare better."

"I have put that particular chapter of my life behind me. That said, if you mean to have me put your riding skills through their paces," his smile took on a feral cat's curl, "I am told my testing methodologies trend towards the rigorous."

His motions eased as he taunted her, just enough to savor his riposte; it wasn't as though he were entirely in possession of his faculties, after all.

Aurelia took only a moment to consider her response before she lifted her hips perhaps an ilm or so; he clenched his teeth at the friction of it. Honey-blonde hair draped about his face like a curtain as she loomed over him, ragged breaths fanning against his brow with each shallow inhale and exhale. There was the slightest pressure of her lips just along the lower rim of his third eye: a tiny kiss that was sweet and almost maidenly, at stark odds with the deep rosy flush that had settled into her skin.

Her other hand abandoned its ministrations to trace the expanse of upper chest and collarbone--fingers damp with her slick, but almost unnoticeable with the heat and sweat that clung to them both-- until he felt light and careful pressure once more, the sensation of her palm stroking softly from ear to shoulder. It felt as though he had invited a predator in heat to brace its maw about his neck, either to claim him as her mate or to crush his trachea beneath her bite.

His breath stilled for that one moment, trembling and trapped, and the smile the eikon-slayer bestowed upon him was incandescent.

"Well," she whispered, "one can only hope."

Her thighs clenched to hold herself fast against him, knees digging firmly into his ribs as she met his thrusts with a roll of her hips-- moving with him so that she would not harm him, he realized (that quip about racing chocobos had been no idle jest, it seemed). The bedposts made an alarming cracking sound, but the bonds held fast despite the tension.

His hands clenched into fists so taut that his knuckles went white and his forearms strained; he wanted her to make good on that promise, wanted to feel her fingers closing around his throat-

His next words seemed to wrest themselves free of his lips of their own accord. He wasn't actually certain she'd heard his request at first until, without stilling the motion of her hips against his, she adjusted her stance.

Her hand grasped the curved outer edge of the headboard she'd carved for purchase until her weight rested against the forearm she had braced against the stained rosewood, slim shoulders rising and dropped with shallow breaths, flushed the same lovely rose as her cheeks as she peered down at him.

"Nero, I don't-" a particularly deep thrust wrenched a stifled whimper from her lips and her reflexive clench knocked the breath from his lungs in a glorious gut punch, an echo of that earlier thrill, "I don't want to hurt you-"

"You won't." The warmth of her touch, the weight of battle-calloused fingers and palm, threatened to slip away with her hesitation. He didn't want her to be gentle. Not right now. "I promise."

Doubt lingered in her eyes but she leaned towards him. Golden hair fell forward in a soft shower, the shining locks loose and curling from the heat between them, space somehow silent and filled all at once as she sighed--

--and relented. Her thumb rolled over his pulse, carefully applying pressure.

The engineer's breath escaped him in a harsh and painful gasp.

Fingers closing about the straps of cloth that bound them to her bedposts, he strained and writhed beneath her, reveling within the twin cages of her hand about his throat and her cunt about his length. His hips snapped forward and up in rapid strokes, renewing and increasing his pace, seeking end in whatever form it might take.

Starbursts of color prickled at the periphery of his vision, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was acutely aware of his heartbeat, throbbing through the length of his body from his compressed throat to the engorged tip of his cock, the sound of it muffled and distant as though he were underwater. His prize was the most intense orgasm of his life; the wager against it, his mortality. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

As the heat and pressure ratcheted upwards, self-inflicted strangulation coiling into the tension of approaching ecstasy, he felt increasingly certain that one of two things would happen: either he would lose consciousness or simply expire betwixt the eikon-slayer's thighs. Coming and dying at the same time.

Well, Scaeva, you could certainly choose worse ways to go, he thought.

A choked laugh sputtered past his lips but he had no time to give the matter either regret or further consideration. Liquid fire seemed to settle into the base of his spine and sear itself into his bones like a branding iron. His entire being was consumed by mindless sensation, a tempering with a single base purpose, and cogent thought failed against it.

Moments later her constriction eased just enough to relieve the growing ache in his chest. Climax and relief came so close on the heels of each other that time itself seemed to collapse inward; he could not tell where one ended and the other began. The scrape of air against the burning brand of his throat faltered, stuttered into a cracked and desperate moan at the same instant he felt the heat of his own release spilling into the grasp of slick heat and smooth muscle.

His vision faded to black at the edges for long moments and his pulse throbbed through his temples, and he kept moving, the motion of his hips slowing by increments into eventual stillness as euphoria began to fade, heat and sensitivity bordering upon overstimulation.

Nero could perceive the withdrawal of her palm from its place about his throat, the trail of her fingertips at their ingress, the impression of movement just above. Her knuckles brushed slick flesh and the wiry hairs at his base and on the edge of consciousness he felt her shudder, thighs rigid and shaking; she cried out wordlessly and her fingers stilled. He groaned as she spasmed around him.

For some few moments the pair were locked in exhausted stasis; the only sound that passed was inhale and exhale, hot and labored.

Her hands returned to the back of his neck and then his wrists, one at a time, tugging and plucking, and he realized she was loosening his bonds. His arms fell limp and half-numbed to the sheets as she gathered the silk and discarded it somewhere between the bed and the side table. He managed to summon enough strength to move a few ilms, then grimaced at the protesting ache in his shoulders and the overflow that had made it onto his hips and belly and into the sheets.

"Stay there," Aurelia panted, sounding as broken as he felt, "stay there, just let me-"

She braced her weight one last time against the headboard and eased herself up to roll her weight out of the low-slung cradle of his hips and onto the mattress, fingers clasped securely between her legs as she did so in a valiant (but ultimately futile) effort to contain. Nero happened to catch her eye right as she made the exact same face he did - a wince that was somewhere between discomfort and distaste - and laughed weakly.

Aurelia blinked at him in momentary confusion, then her expression eased into a rueful, rather embarrassed smile.

"...I can't bloody believe I did that."

"Well," he ran a hand through sweat-soaked curls, "I did ask you for it."

His smile, largely unrepentant, lingered as she exhaled with a deep heave of her chest and reached for the pitcher on the side table. "I was worried I might have hurt you. I could have hurt you."

"But you didn't." There was no response, only the sound of pouring water. He leveraged his weight onto his elbows to try and sit up and was shocked at how much effort that single act required. "However, point taken. Discussion later when we're both a bit less scrambled?"

"Agreed. Here, drink this."

He felt the warm whisper of her breath on his cheek and a brief press of her lips before the tin cup was pushed gently into his nearest hand. The water was cold and clean and tasted sweet. He swallowed slowly, letting it ease the rawness of his throat.

She poured water into the small bowl on the table and wrung out a hand-towel and Nero watched her face as she tended to herself before selecting a second cloth to do the same for him. Her expression was once again calm and pensive, though her flush remained, her hair softly disheveled. Ignoring the ache in his arm he reached up to tuck a damp forelock out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.

"Do you think," she began, then caught herself, "Never mind."

"Hm? No, go on."

The wet cloth idled upon the mild rise of his hipbone at his encouragement. Her cheeks seemed to bloom almost crimson with self-consciousness, dark blue gaze listing towards the edge of her pillow before shyly flickering upwards to meet his own periwinkle blue in a half-lidded, hesitant little smile that should not have felt so appealing as it did, not so soon- and then she said:

"....I, ah. I think I would not... be entirely opposed to doing this again sometime. If you like."

"As chance has it, I think I would very much like." His eyes drooped shut. Seven hells, he was actually worn out. "...some other time."

She let out a small chuckle and kissed him again, ruffling his hair as she did so. Nero felt the weight on the mattress bounce slightly as she slid off the edge and onto the floor.

"Where are you going?"

"To powder my nose." Aurelia bent over and snatched a piece of cloth off the floor. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She slipped past the partition; he could hear the weight of her footfalls as she climbed the stairs. Wearily he shut his eyes again, telling himself it was only for a moment or two. He didn't realize he had lapsed into a doze until a hand tapped his shoulder and he saw her standing there wearing nothing but the oversized drape of his shirt. She held a large plate in her hands.

"I realized I was hungry and I thought you might be too," she said, smiling. "Sliced sourdough with Thanalan goat cheese. And those fig preserves I put up last week."

"...We're going to get crumbs all over the sheets, you know."

"That's for future me to worry about. Come on, sit up."

Nero did, leaning back against the pile of pillows, and found the plate shoved into his hands while she crawled back onto the mattress and flopped comfortably next to him with a tomestone in one hand. He set the plate on his thighs, tossed an arm around her shoulders, and selected one of the slices she'd laid out as she curled against his chest. They ate in companionable silence as she flipped through the contents of the tome with her thumb.

"What's that?" he said around a mouthful of bread, cheese, and sweet fig. After their recent exertions, it tasted ambrosial. "Don't think I've seen this type of stone before."

"An 'irregular' tomestone, whatever that's supposed to be. I thought since I happen to have one of the most brilliant engineering minds of the current age at my disposal, he might be persuaded to stay in bed with me and sift through some really choice Allagan data. What do you say?"

"My, eikon-slayer," he drawled, "but you are cold when it suits you. Tying a man to your bed just to use him for his translation services?"

She cast a coy little smirk over one shoulder.

"I had to tempt you to stay somehow."

"A most unorthodox approach - if one to which I find myself quite reconciled. Did you make Garlond the same offer?"

"...I see that near-asphyxiation has done naught to lessen your cheek." She tweaked his ear, then rocked forward on her knees to reach for the empty plate. By some miracle, only a few crumbs had made it onto the coverlet. "You're using me for my wine cellar. I'd say it's a fair exchange."

"Then the answer is no, I assume?"

"Answer?"

"You did not, in fact, make the same offer to Garlond."

Aurelia scoffed, turning her back to reach over the washbasin, and set the plate down in the open space on the far side. "Obviously not."

"Ha! Then you admit you think me the expert."

"Cid would have translated it for free," she let out a loud and very unladylike yelp of laughter when his arms wrapped around her middle and dragged her across his thighs, "Wait, Nero, wait-"

"We have discussed these bloody comparisons of yours before-"

" 'Twas a jest!" Aurelia managed between helpless, girlish snickers, squirming beneath the arm that pinned her and the fingers that mercilessly tickled her sides. "Seven hells, that could not have had a more perfect outcome had I contrived-"

"Surely you didn't think you were going to get away with that, you little minx."

Rather than offer further resistance to continue their tussle, she rolled beneath the press of his hand onto her back, arms draped gracefully over her head. The high ruffled neck of his doublet undershirt was unlaced and the open neckline plunged towards the edge of her sternum, hem rucked up far enough by their wrestling that it brushed the outer curve of her breasts in a way that kept catching his eye.

His scowl eased and his hands stilled, and Aurelia saw she’d successfully disarmed him.

"Actually," she grinned and tugged upon that single untameable forelock, curling it around her finger as her other hand circled about the nape of his neck, "I had rather hoped that I would not."

She coaxed him to close the distance. Her smile was as bright and unwavering as the sun. Another defeat at the eikon-slayer’s hands, he thought-- but hardly one he minded overmuch.

Battles like this one, after all, were well worth the loss.

#chrysalispen writes #very firm lemony business

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maris-solstice · 8 years ago

Text

“The Golden Spires of Ghirapur” my first Magic: the Gathering fanfiction.

This is the first fanfiction I’ve written I feel manages to not suck enough to share with you guys! (criticism welcome, but please be gentle)

It stars my fanwalker, Maris of Zelzo, and two characters he works with on Kaladesh, Saria, an Aetherborn who’s adopted female tendencies, and Kharik, a frustrated Dwarf inventor, in a short look at Maris’ involvement in the rebellion. It will take me a while, but I’ll make a follow-up.

It also quotes the Magic Story installment Revolution Begins by Nik Davidson, Kelly Digges, and Kimberly J. Kreines. Enjoy!

The golden spires of Ghirapur stretched toward the aether-swirled clouds under a bright sun, majestic and intimidating, inspiring awe in observers on a regular basis, standing indifferent to the chaos currently unfolding at their feet.

The crowds parted as a swerving metal vehicle careened around a corner, three Consulate cruisers close behind. Blue aether jetted from cracks in its hull and one wheel rattled ominously, threatening to end the swift chase violently. The cruisers were in slightly better shape, but one was lagging behind, spilling aether profusely.

The onlookers gasped as a concentrated blast of golden energy flew from the fleeing craft and tore into the lead cruiser, tearing off a chunk of the smooth hull and causing the vehicle to swerve wildly off course, directly into the side of a building.

As the Consulate vehicle disintegrated on impact the other two veered off onto side streets, leaving the fleeing vehicle more or less to its own devices. The battered craft continued at breakneck speed through Ghirapur, followed by dozens of surveillance thopters, careening across open squares and down narrow thoroughfares toward the lower district,

Until it reached the barricade. Large Consulate automatons and a group of nervous enforcers with aether-powered weapons coupled with large metal barriers to make an imposing blockade at the close end of a bridge.

The pilot of the fleeing vehicle was not faring well. Maris of Zelzo was, quite frankly, not used to operating outside the influence of the law. Bending rules was commonplace as a Boros enforcer, but being in direct opposition to the government was usually something he avoided. Of course, this issue paled in comparison to the fact he had not slept more than half an hour at a time in three days, and the fact he’d just had to punch his way through an alley too narrow to swing a sword in, and the fact he was entirely unsure how to drive this vehicle or if it was even made for humans, since the Dwarf he’d hijacked it from was surprised he even got into the thing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he gritted his teeth, squinting through the borrowed goggles at the barricade. Plenty of room to swing a sword.

Gripping his Boros signet, he conjured a fireball and, opening the hatch of the vehicle, he threw the fire into the air intake. As planned, the aether (or something volatile, at least) caught fire. Thinking quickly, he melted the steering apparatus and accelerator in place, then leapt from the cockpit, his hasty combat roll saving him from serious injury. The brass and wood market stall he rammed headfirst into, however, ensured he was still going to pay for his decision.

Leaping to his feet, Maris watched, sword drawn, as the enforcers dove out of the way, some simply running for cover, others diving headlong into the river below the bridge. The automatons, about six of them, stood in place, reinforcing the barrier. In seconds, the flaming vehicle made impact with the barrier. The explosion virtually vaporized the leading automatons, scattering burning, twisted gears and metal plates everywhere. Another simply sustained so much damage it toppled into the water. What aether wasn’t burning sprayed into the sky in a fine blue vapor, swirling and dissipating like smoke.

The remaining operable automatons began stomping to his position. Dozens of thopters swept through the sky and several enforcers stood and readied their weapons, as Maris stood, defiant, in the street, clutching his Boros Signet in one hand and his sword in the other.

Suddenly, a dark figure swept from the alley behind him, throwing a large metal canister behind the advancing line. The object ricocheted onto the bridge, ticking loudly. With a loud explosion, the already damaged bridge and barricade collapsed, the span crumbling on the near side, cutting off the enforcers on the other side from reinforcing their fellows. As the grenade exploded, Maris hurled a fireball at the most damaged automaton, and the burning ball of light burrowed into the chest plate of the mechanical soldier, forcing it to the ground.

The figure grabbed Maris’ arm, and hissed “You’re going to be late now, come on!” The gloved hand latched on to Maris’ scarf and dragged him into the alleyway, as the enforcers fired aether beams after the rebels.

A Dwarf stood in the alley. Gesturing behind himself, he simply grinned at the other, then took off running ahead of the pair. Maris struggled to keep up. His liberal use of magic, combined with his injuries and sheer exhaustion, was taking a toll. Ducking in and out of doorways and buildings, the trio managed to evade the loud enforcers fairly easily, despite Maris tripping over his own feet on two occasions. The thopters were more of a challenge, but after leaping into a building through the window and leaving through a trapdoor in the floor, with the homeowner ushering them through, the trio managed to lose the small fleet following them.

Gasping for air, Maris leaned against the wall in the alley. The Dwarf seemed similarly winded, but the dark cloaked figure was unaffected.

“How long will you two need to rest?” The question was tinged with genuine concern. The figure removed the hood, revealing the relatively featureless face and blue, glowing eyes of a slender Aetherborn.

“I’m fine. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix, Saria.”

“Maris...That does not answer the question.”

The Dwarf adjusted his tunic and grinned. “Yeah it does. Old boy’s tuckered out because of his manhunt. Next time, maybe don’t punch out a peacekeeper when he stops you in the street.”

Maris sighed, having heard the same advice from...almost everyone, honestly.

“Yes Maris, Kharik is right. Next time let them finish the first question before you brutalize some poor dwarf who probably just liked your scarf. I understand the paranoia, but really?”

“Yes, yes, Saria. It’s a nice scarf. So where is this ‘Prakhata Club’ and, follow-up question, who in the Undercity is Gonti?” asked Maris, “You know, before they deploy a peacewalker to find us.”

The Prakhata Club, to Maris’ surprise, was a lot more somber than he thought it would be. He hadn’t been to clubs on Ravnica very often (mostly for raids, to be honest), and when he had they varied from intimate tavern settings to poorly-disguised Rakdos murder dens. But the depressed atmosphere was...new. Here and there inventors, pilots, workers, and quicksmiths grumbled to each other or to their drinks as Aetherborn servers darted about, refilling drinks and collecting tabs and tips. A musician playing some kind of unfamiliar instrument was providing atmospheric music. In one poorly-lit alcove, Maris noticed a trio of Aetherborn sitting, watching the room. In one corner a portly dwarf drooled into his own beard, whether asleep or stupid drunk he could not tell.

Maris, Saria, and Kharik sat at a small table, as far from both the entrance and the alcove as they could. No sooner had Maris received his drink (“You should try the mango fizz, Maris. It’s a dwarven favorite”), than a few new faces entered the tavern, about five assorted dwarves and humans, chatting excitedly in hushed tones. An elf watching them intently turned to his tablemate and murmured something. Soon the whole club was whispering and muttering. Maris caught a few words at the table next to theirs, a woman talking about three dangerous renegades on the run, and realized that news of the barricade’s destruction and the bombing of the bridge was now spreading. The Club was abuzz as the renegades and renegade sympathizers quietly discussed who could have done it.

“Well, Maris.” Saria cocked her head in what Maris assumed was amusement, “It seems there are some dangerous rebels on the run. You should go after them.”

Maris chuckled and went to reply, when the music coming from the small stage stopped abruptly. Two red-clad women, one much older than the other, were standing on stage. They had entered recently, and were standing near the stage for a good amount of time, talking to each other and surveying the room. Maris could swear he recognized the younger, but was completely unsure why.

That is, until Saria noticed him staring. “That’s Pia Nalaar, Renegade Prime!” she hissed.

Nalaar…

Nalaar!

The younger woman was Chandra Nalaar, an associate of the Gatewatch. He’d been following the other Planeswalkers around since the Battle for Sea Gate on Zendikar. Truth be told, he’d been following Gideon around since Zendikar, after Aurelia asked him to keep an eye on the Commander-General, and he’d only seen the pyromancer briefly, and from a distance, at both Zendikar and Thraben. Of course, the Gatewatch arrived on Innistrad after Maris had spent some time there, but that was not important…

Chandra looked nervous and unsure. She spoke a few words to the crowd.

"Hi. I'm, well, I guess you know who I am. Chandra Nalaar. Pia's daughter. Um...Kiran's daughter."

The patrons began to talk quietly among themselves. Others nodded, simply acknowledging her presence

"Some of you probably knew him. Some of you...I bet some of you maybe knew him better than I ever got to. And you know what? That's not all right! That you got to know my dad, and I didn't. That you got to work with him, talk to him, laugh with him, and I didn't. They took him away from me. From my mom. And when she decided to fight back, you all just...you just let her. They took from her, so of course she'd fight. But you? Not yet. You let her fight alone, because they hadn't taken enough."

The crowd began to get louder, angrier, as if she were accusing them of something. Kharik gritted his teeth and mumbled something under his breath, messing with his bracer.

"Well, today they took the rest. All your work, all your efforts, all your tools, everything. They took everything because that's what they do. And you're still sitting in here eating and drinking and complaining and not doing anything. What did they take from you? What else do they have to take?"

The Club erupted as some patrons began yelling in her direction, others arguing with each other. A few began to actually become violent, posturing at each other. Kharik, Maris, and Saria just watched as Chandra, disheartened, stepped off the stage. Then, the Aetherborn and their bodyguards moved in. The crowd stopped, frozen. Maris could sense the electric feeling of pure fear, cold and visceral. They scooped up the Nalaars and began to retreat to a door, gesturing to several patrons to follow….then, a pause. Maris felt a thrill of apprehension as the Aetherborn pointed toward him and his compatriots.

Nervously, the three followed the group into a back office, and down the corridor.

“Why do you think Gonti wants to speak with us directly?” Maris muttered.

Kharik leaned close and whispered back, “They might know about the bridge this morning.”

At that moment, the Aetherborn, having a conversation with Chandra, opened the door and ushered them into Gonti’s sanctum. Maris’ apprehension spiked suddenly at the sight of the Aetherborn crime lord.

“Angels above...here we go.”

#mtg #mtg fanfic #fanfic #fanwalker #kaladesh #magic the gathering

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