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yandere-daydreams · 4 years ago

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Kinktober - Day Nineteen

Prompt: Somnophilia

Pairing: Beelzebub/Reader & Belphegor/Reader (Obey Me)

TW: Non-Con, AFAB!Reader, Non-Consensual Touching, Slight Cockwarming, Orgasm Denial, Thigh-Riding, Dehumanization, and Unfortunate Implications.

You honestly weren’t sure why the twins bothered having separate beds.

They didn’t always get along, you’d been chained to them long enough to know that. Beelzebub could be inconsiderate, with his passive approach and his questionable priorities, and Belphegor was either abrasive, stand-offish, or aggressive. No, they didn’t always get along, and yet, they always ended up in the same bed by the time the sun rose, whether it was Belphegor falling onto Beelzebub’s after hauling himself back to their room in the middle of the night or Beelzebub waking up from an all-too-realistic nightmare and seeking out his closest brother for comfort. One way or another, they slept together, they always slept together.

Which means you always slept with them, too.

It was bad enough to just have Belphegor latched onto you, his head burrowed in your chest and his legs tangled with yours, but it was torture to have Beelzebub block out your only means of escape, slotting himself against your back and burying his face in your hair, one arm folded under his head and the other draped over your midriff. It was too warm, even without a sheet. They were too close, even if neither demon was trying particularly hard to pin you down. It was suffocating. You’d already tried squirming, writhing against Belphegor in hopes of dislodging yourself from his loose grip, but all you’d done was make things worse for yourself.

Because now, he was holding you even tighter, his nails digging into your sides, threatening to draw blood whenever you shifted. You could feel hot breath ghosting over your collarbone, the pointed edges of his teeth nearly making contact with your skin every time his lips parted.

Because now, he was grinding on you.

You cursed under your breath, making a half-hearted attempt to push him away. It must’ve been a dream, a repressed thought, something that spurred him to hump your thigh like a bitch in heat as soon as he wasn’t conscious enough to feel ashamed about it. The rough fabric of his boxers was already irritating you, but it was preferable to having no barrier at all. As long as he could get himself off quickly, quietly, you’d survive. As long as Beelzebub didn’t--

“Are you still awake, (Y/n)?”

Fuck.

There was a rustle from somewhere behind you, a slight dip in the mattress, and then Beelzebub chuckled, looking over the situation with a tired grin and half-lidded eyes. With a hollow thud, he fell back into place, pressing his chest against your back and kissing the top of your head, the gesture much too affectionate for what you already knew he'd say next. “He used to do this all the time, when we were kids,” Beelzebub explained, his voice heavy, trailing into a yawn as he settled against you. “It’s cute, right? Belphie’s always had really vivid dreams… He used to sleep-talk, too. Keep me and Lilith up for hours, when he got into it.”

It might’ve been cute. It might’ve been ironic, if nothing else, if his hand wasn’t already trailing downward, rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your thigh before finding your panties, thick fingers trailing over your covered slit. It was a lazy sort of affection, meant for efficiency more than pleasure, but that didn’t stop the heat pooling in your core or the blood rushing past your ears, your body already trained to know exactly where this was going. “Beel,” You tried, grabbing his forearm. He didn’t seem bothered, though, only leaning over to kiss your cheek as he cupped your cunt. “I just- It’s already pretty late, and I don’t know if I can do this--”

“You don’t have to do anything.” You felt him frown, contemplatively, pausing for a moment before your panties were pushed to the side completely. “I’m just helping out Belphie. He’ll be really happy in the morning, trust me.”

Usually, Beelzebub was the gentler of the two. He liked to take his time, he liked to have your slick staining his chin as kneeled between your legs, he liked for you to be prepared to take him, if only so you’d cry a little less when he finally decided to fuck you. That might’ve been why it hurt so much, despite the wet, audible clicks that filled the room as he forced two fingers through your tight entrance. Beelzebub was supposed to be the nice one. Beelzebub was supposed to be the kind one. He wasn’t supposed to hurt you, not for his own entertainment, not for himself.

But this wasn’t for himself, was it?

It was for Belphegor.

His digits curled, spreading apart, stretching you in a way that made you push your shoulders forward and forget about Belphegor’s frantic thrusts, your mind suddenly on that soft, sensitive spot inside of you, the one Beelzebub was petting and prodding and abusing, like a wild animal that couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to behave. He didn’t have to cover your mouth, you took care of that on your own, biting down on the edge of your hand as a dozen different kinds of mewls and whimpers threatened to escape. There wasn’t a technique, a strategy - there never was, with Beelzebub. The heel of his palm ground against your clit, his fingers pumped in and out of your pussy, but all of it was messy, reflexive, careless. It shouldn’t have felt good, it shouldn’t have felt like anything, but it did. It did, and you hated him for it.

There was a gentle peck to the back of your neck, one that lingered far past its welcome, and without warning, his free hand snaked under your over-sized shirt, groping and pinching at your chest, doing just enough to make the pulsing in your cunt unbearable. You clenched your eyes shut, forcing yourself to go rigid, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from bucking into his hand, from trying to get him to go deeper, to move faster, to do something that’d push you over the edge. For a moment, it even worked, an airy sigh barely reaching your ears as he drew your hips flush against his, as the pressure mounted and he added another finger and, and, and…

And he pulled away, leaving your whining and clenching around nothing as he wiped your own slick on your stomach, keeping a strong arm around your torso as he reached past you. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You couldn’t bring yourself to look, not as something hotter, something bigger than Beelzebub’s fingers pushed into your cunt, not as Belphegor went still and melted into you, and not as Beelzebub laid back down, thoroughly satisfied with his work.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You weren’t sure what you might’ve said, but you knew it wouldn’t have made a difference. Not one that would’ve mattered, anyway.

They were brothers, after all. They were twins.

Clearly, nothing good would ever come out of trying from get between them.

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sgwrscrsh · 4 years ago

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vi. double firsts

☁️a/n☁️ this chapter has a couple lil blurbs (i say 'lil blurbs' as if i didn't write 500 words for each of them) bc i didn't wanna make them talk about these moments retrospectively over text. i tossed around the formatting w the readmore so this is where it landed, i hope it still reads clearly enough. i'm having a lot of fun w this series i just wish i could have a full free day to mass produce n schedule future chapters. maybe if i keep saying it'll happen, i'll manifest it eventually

the long awaited jangling of keys in the front door has you leaping off the sofa with two fussy babies in tow. you bounce them in your tired arms as you make your way down the hall to greet your husband.

an exhausted but relieved sigh escapes your lips at the familiar sight of the blonde hair you helped him touch up a few days prior when you were blessed with a quiet night.

before atsumu could lean down to kiss you like he always did when he came home, your daughter excitedly babbles, "dada!", big round eyes bright with recognition.

the two of you freeze, eyes wide with surprise, and look at her leaning against your shoulder.

"baby, can you say it again?" tsumu asks softly, almost as if he couldn't believe what he just heard. "who am i?"

"dada!" and with her answer comes a flurry of bubbly giggles, followed by the setter's megawatt smile.

"that's right! i'm your dada! dada's home!" he plucks hana out of your arms to spin her around. then he stops mid-turn and looks you dead in the eye. "that was her first word, right?"

you sigh again, unsuccessfully suppressing a smile of your own in an effort to seem exasperated and jealous, though the latter felt easier to portray for some reason. "yes, tsumu. that was her first word."

the man is ecstatic at your confirmation, cradling his pride and joy to his chest and whispering sugary sweet praises that cracked your half-hearted facade with ease.

apparently, you aren't the only one envious of the exchange as your son begins to wriggle in you grasp. fully expecting ryuki to crawl towards his father like he had before, you set him down on the floor. but of course, the little bugger has a surprise of his own in store; he shakily gets to his feet and wobbles across the small distance until he crashed his face into atsumu's paint leg, grabbing the fabric in his tiny fists for dear life.

this time, tsumu doesn't miss a beat before scooping his son up with his other arm. you laugh at the visual of your husband blubbering into your children's tiny necks as you coo at them internally, still kind of a little bit butthurt over their blatant betrayal of favoritism.

once he calms down, atsumu kisses you properly and leaves you a little more breathless than usual despite your kids sandwiched between you.

“jealous, babe?” he smirks, knowing the answer even before you crossed your arms and pouted at him.

“not at all. and even if i was, i think i’m entitled to be. you aren’t the one who carried them for nine months and gave birth to them after hours of labor.”

“but i am their amazingly cool professional athlete dad. huh, my little prince and princess,” he murmurs as he rains dozens of kisses against their pudgy cheeks.

tinkling laughter fills your ears and your heart with content.

“yea, you really are the best dad.”

“i’m home!” osamu calls from the front door as he trades his outdoor shoes for a pair of house slippers.

“hurry up and bring the food in here! i’m starving!” you holler back amidst your sons’ gurgles and the snapping of plastic against plastic. osamu walks into the dining room, muttering something about no welcome home, and finds you getting ryo and takumi situated in their high chairs so they could eat with you at the dinner table.

“please tell me you didn’t only bring home your funky test fillings. there better be regular fillings in there or so help me, osamu-”

“relax, love,” he interrupts you with a warm hand splayed across your lower back and a reassuring kiss against the side of your head. “of course i made your favorites, too. just in case these testers turn out to be inedible.”

“samu!” you exclaim, mildly worried for your kids’ safety, but ultimately you had full faith in your husband’s cooking. he never fed you anything you didn’t end up liking before, so you entrusted him with your heart and stomach, certain that you could do the same with your sons’.

“it’ll be fine. besides, look how cute the little ones are; i only used three fingers to shape them.” chest warm with affection, you watch osamu’s eyes light up as he eagerly demonstrates his technique for you with an imaginary onigiri. you were the one who helped him open up and express his emotions better, and now, the excitement for his passion clear as day on his face convinced you that you were reaping what you sowed for years.

“i can’t wait to see them, love. though, i still don’t think meatball onigiris are gonna taste the best.”

“see, this predisposed bias is why you aren’t one of my taste-testers anymore.” he sticks his tongue out at you, which you playfully roll your eyes at, while unbagging the riceballs wrapped in parchment paper, saving the few minis for last. peeling away the brown wrapping, you set one in front of each of your boys, watching them take them in the chubby hands and pick off grains of white to shove in their mouths, fingers popping out covered in drool.

ryo pauses his thoughtful chewing, staring at the filling peeking out from underneath the rice. “oni,” he says, almost too quiet for you to catch.

“oni?” you and samu look at each other in confusion as you try to telepathically determine whether ‘demon’ was really his first word or if he just mispronounced ‘older brother,’ which would’ve made for a much cuter story.

your unsaid questions are answered when takumi pipes up beside his twin with a bright and cheery, “giwi!”

“they really are your boys, aren’t they?” you shake your head in amusement.

finding the situation too funny to register the weight of the moment, your mirth-filled gaze finds the stars in osamu’s eyes when the two of you realized their first words were ‘onigiri.’

“yea, they are.”

v. || mlist || vii.

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tailorvizsla · 4 years ago

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[Disclaimer: I was absolutely fucking wasted when I wrote this. I’ve cleaned up all the typos I could find, but “Drunk Tailor’s Thots” and the meme stay. Enjoy.]

Title: cracks in his armor Pairing: Daddy x Reader, your tongue x his hammer (and other places), your back x his work table lmaoooo [Sadet (OC) x f!Reader] Word Count: too many (~3k ish?) Rating: absolute filth like NC-21 or something like I’d probably throw myself off a cliff if anyone saw this shit irl Warnings: no use of a condom because tailor is a hoe like that just pretend it’s okay, the ol’ in an out, you lick his hammer, stuff, plot what plot this is straight up porn, inappropriate use of a hammer, he is big meat mando we are hiding all 7+ inches of tiingilar-fed Mandalorian sausage in various holes, we’re climbing the Matterhorn and sliding all the way down to base camp coochie first, we are fucking Sadet like it’s the Dicklympics and we’re going for gold in every category Author’s Notes: just pure unadulterated thirst because who doesn’t want to get bent over and absolutely destroyed by a dude with nice shoulders and a huge dick also we’re licking his hammer BUT pretend it’s CLEAN I ain’t got time to write in him cleaning it off, it’s clean, I promise.

[I feel like I need to apologize to @magsgotswags for what I’ve done to her boy, but...that would be a huge fucking lie and I am not a liar. That being said...I’ll hose him off, put his hammer through the autoclave, and make sure he eats a well-balanced meal before I send him back. 🤣]

📚 My Master List 📚

You’re not sure how this even started but here you are, bent forward over Sadet’s work table with your pants down around your thighs and his cock buried in you to the hilt. He’s got one hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the soft, buttery wood underneath you. The other hand holds your wrists behind your back as he fucks into you, his fingers like iron bands as they dig into the delicate bones in your wrists.

Sadet isn’t big into emotions, but you know for a fact there are at least two things he loves in life – his craft and his big beautiful beskar hammer. Hazily, you wonder if it was the fact that you had cornered him to ask what his line of work entailed that caught his laser-like attention and got you into this situation. A sharp thrust forces a half-sob from your throat as his cock finds the end of you, as if he can sense your distraction from the lesson at hand. He has this thing where he likes to lecture you and test you on what you’ve retained later. It’s not fair – you both know it – but you’re whimpering so much right now you can’t even protest his treatment of you.

Even if you could, you wouldn’t. As emotionally constipated as he is, this is still the best cock you’ve had in your life and you’ve made some headway with getting him to open up a bit. You are not fucking this up. Licking your lips, you let your eyes drift shut as he continues his merciless pace, hips smacking wetly into your ass. You’re virtually helpless to do anything but take his cock. Just the way you like it.

“ – utilizes seven basic techniques [1],” he’s saying, and you feel him look down at you as he squeezes his fingers around your wrists. “Can you name four of them and tell me what each one accomplishes?”

You manage to uncross your eyes as you open them.

“D-drawing,” you gasp out. “Len-lengthens th-the metal.”

“You like length, don’t you,” he murmurs. “Continue.”

A whine pours out of your mouth as he changes his angle just a bit, pressing his cock right into that sweet spot, the one that has you squirming and throbbing.

“B…bending…”

“Mm-hmm,” he responds. “Bent, just like you right now, hmm?”

“…heat,” you manage to get out. “Allows it to b-bend. Ductile. Malleable.”

“Just like the heat of my hands makes your legs spread wide open,” he murmurs. “Bend apart like red hot steel. You feel like it on the inside, too.”

Squirming, you let out a pathetic little mewl as he slows his pace, letting you feel every inch as he draws out until his cock threatens to fall out of you entirely.

“Come on, two more,” he says. “You can do it, little one.”

You wrack your mind, trying to remember what he had been saying earlier. The wretched man stops moving entirely, letting you feel every little twitch of his cock inside you. At least now, the only thing distracting you is the heavy weight of his hands on your body.

“Welding,” you blurt out. “Welding.”

He resumes thrusting slowly, the pressure around your wrists lightening ever so slightly. You don’t need to be prompted to explain it to him.

“Welding…joins two metals,” you stutter. “The same, sometimes dif-different metals.”

“I like joining,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a thrust that forces a noise between a grunt and a scream from between your lips. “Look at us, two different types of metal here. I’d say you were copper. Soft…conductive. All it takes is one little spark and you glow for me. Takes a lot to shatter you…but I think I can make it happen.”

You bite down on your lower lip. He’s broken you before, brought you to the edge until you sobbed for him, begged him for release, promised him the world just to let you finish. He’s a generous lover but when he focuses on the task at hand – whether finishing beskar’gam at the Forge or while fucking you to the brink of tears – there’s very little that will redirect his attention from his work.

“One more,” he coaxes. “You can do it.”

Your brain sputters to a halt. No matter how hard you try, you can’t remember the rest of them.

“Can’t remember?” he asks softly, voice faintly mocking. “I’m disappointed you weren’t paying attention.”

He releases your wrists and pulls out, leaving you feeling empty. Effortlessly, he lifts you up, maneuvering you onto your back in the center of the table. Before you can react he grabs either side of the front of your pants and pulls, neatly ripping the fabric apart. Fuck, yet one more thing you’ll need to worry about later. Sadet lets out a dark noise of delight at the sight of your well-fucked cunt, glistening wet and swollen.

“Hands under you,” he orders, and you slide your hands under your lower back, pinning yourself into place. If you obey, there is a chance he will take mercy on you, let you come and forgive you for not paying attention to his lesson. As his fingers dig into your thighs, you know there isn’t a chance he is going to let you off that easy. It was futile to hope otherwise.

“Blacksmithing utilizes seven basic techniques,” he starts. “You got a few of them. Drawing, bending, welding. There’s punching, which is used to create a decorative pattern or to add a hole.”

His fingers trail up your thighs as he holds your legs wide apart.

“Speaking of adding holes…I haven’t fucked your ass yet, have I?” he murmurs. You’re not able to hide your grimace and Sadet laughs at you. “If you’re ever in the mood, I’ll happily wreck your ass the same way I wreck your cunt, little one…now where was I?”

He pauses deliberately, reaching up. The man yanks your shirt open, sending buttons flying in every direction. Your bra follows but you don’t dare protest – he’ll just offer to buy another one for you. There is something about literally ripping the kute off you that turns him into an animal.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “You weren’t paying attention during my lesson. How to punish you…”

You whine and squirm, knowing what’s coming next. With one hand, he places his hammer on the table, all smooth beskar from the head all the way down to the metal shaft. Sadet lifts it and aims the handle right into your cunt, sliding it in slowly. It’s thick and cold and he only uses it on you when you’ve really pissed him off. You deserve it though – he’s given this lecture at least a dozen times, you should know the seven steps. It’s your own fault at this point.

He keeps a tight grip around the shaft to keep it from sliding too far in and hurting you. He’s fond of making you cry but not that way – he doesn’t want to hurt you, he only wants you to cry from pleasure. When you finally relax down onto the surface of the table, he starts to rock it in and out slowly. When you reach up and squeeze his forearm with your fingers, he knows he can use a little more force, and you return your hand under your back.

“There’s upsetting, which thickens metal on one dimension through shortening on another,” he says. “Then there’s also upsetting, which is what your refusal to pay attention does to me.” He sighs exaggeratedly. “You’re a mess in armor, but...a tolerable mess.”

You whine, pussy clenching around the ice cold intrusion inside you, heart racing at the sight of the smooth dark visor floating out of reach above you.

“Can you remember the last one?” he asks, his voice almost taunting. “You can do it.”

“F…finish…finishing,” you pant out, and he tilts his helmet down at you in a Mandalorian smile.

“Good girl,” he rumbles at you. “I may let you finish, little one, if you keep being good for me.”

He turns his attention to his hammer, watching the beskar disappears inside you, only to reappear moments later, wet and drenched in your slick. He stays there until the metal is warm from your cunt before he pulls it out. Lifting the edge of his helmet up, he brings the metal to his lips and the tip of his tongue darts out, lapping up a bit of your mess. You shudder in response.

“Warm, sweet. Soft. Tastes good,” he says. “Tastes like you.”

He gently places the hammer down onto your torso, the heavy head on your belly and the smooth metal shaft pointing toward your face. Without waiting you open your mouth and close your eyes, stretching your lips around the smooth metal handle. It’s a bit awkward like this, bobbing your head while you clean the long streaks of slick off the beskar, but he loves it in a way he can’t really explain.

Once he’s satisfied, he pulls the shaft out of your mouth with a wet pop. Then he deftly turns it around, holding the head just above your lips. Locking eyes with the horizontal bar of his visor, you let your tongue dart out, tracing along the gleaming metal surface. His other hand tightens at your waist.

“I have something else for your mouth, if you’d like,” he murmurs.

You nod once at him, and he offers his hand, pulling you up into a sitting position. Sadet helps you down and you lower yourself onto your knees as you take in the sight of his marvelous cock: thick, long, uncut, and curving slightly up and to the left. Parting your lips, you bob your head, taking him a little further each time. He doesn’t move as you take him in until he brushes up against the back of your throat.

One hand rises to cup his balls – heavy and covered in a fine thatch of curling hair – while the other rests on his thigh to brace yourself. Peeking up at him from under your lashes, you let him sit in your mouth, tasting yourself and the faint bitterness of his cum. Sadet rolls his hips, giving you a few moments to settle in before setting a brisk pace. His fingers dig into your scalp as he tugs on your hair, guiding you on his length, not speaking a word as he simply watches his cock disappear into your mouth.

You sort of give up on controlling the pace then and go slack in his grip, yielding to him entirely. Your jaw starts to ache rapidly, but you keep your eyes on his visor, knowing that your glazed over eyes drive him wild. You can taste hints of bitterness as his precum spreads across your tongue, his pace growing faster and rougher as he chases completion inside your hot, wet mouth. His other hand curls around the back of your head and you know he is getting close to the edge.

“Wanna hear you gag,” he whispers, and you squeeze his thigh it’s okay you tell him with your hand.

Your jaw burns now but you don’t want to tap out, you don’t want to stop, not while he’s so close. Your cunt clenches around nothing, painfully empty after his cock and hammer, aching desperately for him to finish inside you and coat your insides with his seed. As he hits the back of your throat, you gag a bit, and he groans in response. Tears stream down your cheeks as he continues. You can hear the harsh pants from his modulator and thank the gods you think to yourself – you’re not sure how much more your mouth can take right now.

Sadet pulls his cock free and strokes himself to completion on your face. Thick ropey splatters of cum coat your skin and fill your mouth, spilling down onto your breasts as he groans, a growling noise from deep in his chest. He holds you there, his body hunched forward as he pulses the last few drops onto your chest.

With his index finger, he wipes up a bit of cum clinging to the head of his cock. He tilts your head back and wipes It onto your lower lip. You dart your tongue out to lick up the mess, listening as his breath hitches. When he lets go of your hair, you sink onto the ground, body aching and trembling from exhaustion. As goosebumps prickle across your arms, you realize you’re also trembling from how cool it is over here in this corner. He brushes his thumb against your cheek.

“Stay there,” he says quietly and you nod.

You’re not sure you’d be able to move even if you wanted to right now. As Sadet goes to the hook on the wall, you use the remains of your shirt to wipe the mess of your face. He takes down his luxuriously soft fur cape. Instead of wrapping it around you, he spreads it onto the ground next to the Forge and returns to your side. As you get to your feet, he wraps a calloused hand around your elbow and helps you up, guiding you over to his cape. Along the way, you shed the remains of your top and bra.

Sadet joins you on the cape, taking his helmet off last, and setting it down on the floor next to you. Dry heat pours out of the exchange vents, sending another prickle across your skin as he settles between your thighs. His eyes drift shut and you know he’s stopping to enjoy the heat. During the summer, he always pauses when taking that first step outdoors, taking just a moment to tilt his face toward the sun to bask in the harsh light. He opens his eyes and you smile up at him, squeezing your knees around his hips as he settles across your body.

He guides himself inside, pushing in with short, gentle thrusts, sliding in until your bodies meet. Meeting your eyes, he starts a slow, deep pace, hitting every single one of the needy spots inside you that scream for friction. As you trail your hands up his arms and shoulders, fingers cataloguing the knots in his muscles, you sigh with pleasure. You luxuriate in the deliciously soft fur underneath you and the sweat-slick glide of his body above yours, his weight heavy and comforting at the same time. He takes it slow, trying to be considerate of you, considering everything he’s done to you in the past half-hour.

Digging your nails into his back, you feel the thick corded muscle jumping under your fingers, sighing with pleasure. You can’t hold back your inhalation when his lips – soft and slightly chapped – meet your collar bone as he kisses you for the first time. He starts to pull away but you wrap your arms around his neck, pleading with him silently to keep going. And he does, pressing one light kiss to your shoulder after another, trailing his way to your neck. When he bites down, you moan wantonly, cunt and legs tightening around him. Your reaction seems to encourage him and he keeps going, each kiss sending a dizzying arc of pure lightning shooting through your entire body.

By the time he makes it to your jaw, you’re shaking, on the verge of coming, your head swimming dizzyingly from the sheer pleasure of his lips against your skin. His next kiss lands right next to your lips and you desperately want to turn your head to meet his lips but you know it’s not his thing so you let him decide what happens next. He hovers for just a moment as you watch him with half-closed eyes, your pupils surely blown wide open from arousal, and he leans in, his breath fanning across your cheeks.

That’s enough to send you right over the edge and as your back arches, Sadet kisses you on the lips, swallowing your cry of pleasure. He thrusts a few more times, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you remember to kiss him back. Your hand curls around the back of his head and pulls him in close as you deepen it, mouths open and his tongue hesitant against yours. He thrusts shallowly a few times before drawing to a halt, his lips never leaving yours as he continues the kiss.

He draws back after several more toe-curling kisses and you unlace your legs from around his waist, dropping your feet onto his calves. When he hisses and jerks forward, thrusting his half-hard cock into you, you give him an apologetic grin and remove your feet to the cape underneath your entwined bodies. When the two of you have regained your faculties, he pulls out, and sits back on his heels as you rest your hands on your belly.

He tilts his head slightly as he offers his hand. Once again, he pulls you up. You take in your ruined garments with a wry look on your face.

“I’m going to have to go back to my room in your clothes again,” you quip at him.

“Who said anything about you leaving?” he asks.

Your mouth drops open in a little ‘o’ of surprise, your eyes jumping up to meet his. After all this how can he still want more? He laughs at you as he picks up his helmet and hammer.

“I haven’t gotten to test your knowledge of different fuel sources yet,” he explains. “We have all night, sweet girl. There’s plenty of time for me to breed you.”

With that he marches you toward his sumptuous bedroom.

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[1] Traditional blacksmithing has seven basic techniques used, but can be divided into four rough categories: forging, welding, heat-treating, and finishing.

__________________________________________________________

Data:

Tailor: would 100% let Sadet smash

Kalni:

Figure 1: Meme showing the subject’s thoughts on Sadet the Armorer from the Samaki Tribe. The strong language in this image – “In conclusion, I’m a slut for Sadet” – indicates the subject is willing and able to permit Smashing to occur.

Maggie: Yes

Kata: Yes

Izzy: Yes

Conclusions:

To come to an accurate conclusion, the experiment would need a bigger sample size. However, based on preliminary results, it can be concluded that Sadet is 100% Smashable.

Bibliography:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blacksmith#Smithing_process

The “You Enabled This” Tag List:

@hdlynn @magsgotswags @thecautiousengineer @maybege @nelba

#star wars #the mandalorian #tailor writes #while fucking wasted #romance #oc: sadet #sadet is magsgotswags's OC #my sample size is perfectly fine #my conclusions are perfectly unbiased #this is a scientific study #no beta we die the same way bo-katan did on the inside when din djarin got the darksaber #we were simping for sadet in 2020 #simping for sadet in 2021 #inappropriate use of a hammer #for a mandalorian armorer this is probably considered sacrilege idk

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the-shy-and-anxious-fangirl · 3 years ago

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Flufftober Day 23- Hold Me in Your Arms

Izuku caught his breath, feeling his gut twist with fear and horrified awe as he watched Touya rise into the air, propelled upwards by concentrated blasts of blue flame, the same technique he’d seen used by both Endeavor with his flames and Kacchan with his explosions

“He can fly?!” he cried aloud, to no one in particular, at least as far as he could tell. He could sense the presence of other people around him, but he couldn’t see them. The only person he could see was Shoto, across the battlefield from him, struggling to his feet while bleeding from a dozen nasty looking wounds.

Up above their heads, so far that he looked like nothing but a tiny black speck, Izuku saw Touya cease moving and hold himself still, hovering in mid air. He swore he could feel his cold blue gaze on him, and he realized that he must have been scanning the battlefield below him, searching for... something. Suddenly, he dived, and Izuku realized what- or rather who- he was after a split second too late.

“Shoto!” he screamed, calling up One For All to launch himself across the battlefield toward him, desperate to reach him before Touya did, knowing what he would do to him if he got his hands on him. He was half a second too late, his fingertips just brushing the fabric of Shoto’s costume before Touya snatched him away.

“No!” Izuku cried, and gave chase, using Float to pursue Touya as he returned to the air with Shoto in tow. He still didn’t have a lot of experience using Nana Shimura’s quirk, but he didn’t care. He had to catch Touya before he reached the apex of his flight with Shoto. He knew with sickening certainty what he would do once that point was reached, and he was even more certain that he couldn’t allow it to happen. He couldn’t lose Shoto. Not like this.

“Give him back!” he yelled, putting on a burst of speed to get within shouting distance of Touya, doing his best to supress the sudden flashbacks he had to the last time he’d been in a situation like this. Touya suddenly jerked upright and came to a halt, hovering in place, his fingers curled menacingly around Shoto’s neck.

“ ‘Give him back’?” he asked mockingly, parroting Izuku’s words back at him. “Alright then. Catch.” With a strength that was surprising, considering his thin, seemingly close to emaciated frame, he gripped Shoto by the collar and hurled him into the space between himself and Izuku, whereupon gravity immediately took over to pull him toward the ground far below them. Izuku moved quickly to intercept him, but his relative inexperience with Float proved to be his downfall- he didn’t know how to brace himself against impacts in midair, and when Shoto slammed into him, the jolt of the collision drove them apart, and though Izuku reached desperately for Shoto as he began to fall again, his hand closed on empty air. Then, in one final act of malice, Touya hurled a fireball at Shoto as he fell. He screamed in agony as he ignited with fire not his own, and his plummeted to the ground, burning like a phoenix as he fell. But unlike a phoenix, he would not rise again.

“Shoto!” Izuku cried, sitting bolt upright in bed. Beside him, there came the quiet rustle of sheets, and then Shoto’s arms were around him, drawing him gently back down onto the bed.

“Ssssh,” he whispered in Izuku’s ear, his warm breath tickling his neck. “It’s alright. I’m here.” A broken sob clawed its way out of Izuku’s chest, and he rolled over to cling tightly to Shoto, his overactive amygdala refusing to let him accept that the nightmare was over until he could hold the man he loved in his arms and feel him breathe and know that he was okay.

“It’s alright,” Shoto whispered, rubbing soothing circles on Izuku’s back as he cried. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m okay.” Izuku choked back another sob at that, this one of relief. Shoto continued to rub his back and murmur reassurances, the creature comforts he was in desperate need of in that moment, until at last he was able to regain his composure.

“Nightmare?” Shoto asked softly once he’d calmed.

“Yeah,” Izkuk whispered hoarsely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shoto asked, running his fingers through Izuku’s hair.

“No,” he said, wrapping his arms more tightly around Shoto and leaning further into the protective circle of his embrace. “I just want you to hold me.”

#i figured it was shoto's turn to do the comforting #flufftober #flufftober2021 #flufftober day 23 #nightmare #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #my hero academia #izuku midoriya #touya todoroki #shoto todoroki #tododeku #my fic #arianna writes

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okayto · 4 years ago

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Murderbot Reference: Character Descriptions Part 2

Fandom reference! I tried to note every time a person/thing got a physical description, as well as additional info like how augments work, etc. Please note that there may be spoilers for all five books, but especially Network Effect.

This post contains:

ART’s Senses

ART’s Crew

Three

Rami, Tapan and Maro

Tlacey

Tlacey’s ComfortUnit

Targets (Network Effect)

Barish-Estranza: Eletra, Ras, and Supervisor Leonide

Augments (what they are/how they work)

Other Human Personal Tech (Non-Augments)

Other Bots/Machines: Agricultural Bot, Pathfinders, NE Target Drones, MB’s Drones

Other posts: Part 1; Part 3

ART’s Senses

· Besides cameras, sees ship through internal sensors, “which provided data (heat, density, angles of motions, etc.) that didn’t translate into images, at least not visual images useful to humans.”

· MB guesses that gaps in ART’s memory archives might look like “a giant interruption in the constant incoming reports from subsystems like life support, navigation, etc. It was tricky, because for ART these are not like discrete reports from connected systems, but more like the sensory input I would get from the pads on the tips of my fingers.”

· Does have cameras in many areas, cameras hidden enough that MB didn’t know they existed until ART turned them on and provided access via the feed in NE.

· Likes Amena and talks to her more gently than MB or other humans—it’s more careful of Amena’s feelings. Has talked about human adolescents in a positive way. ART is, on a regular basis, a teaching vessel.

ART’s Crew

· Iris: augmented human. Dark brown skin, wearing a decorative woven bracelet when rescued in NE and a light blue longsleeved T-shirt. Small, shorter and slimmer than Ratthi, but not much bigger than Amena. Dark hair is the curly kind that puffs out a lot, but in NE pulled back and tied up in a band. Hair is long enough that she lifted it up so MB could see her back/neck when checking for an implant. Longsleeved T-shirt and pants and soft shoes are the casual version of ART’s blue crew uniform. Some bruises and scrapes at rescue. Seth’s child.

· Seth: tall, very dark brown skin, “with less hair than most SecUnits,” a mostly-hairless head; earlier description from photograph (later context makes this likely to be Seth) says “no hair on the front half of his head.” Iris’s parent, she calls him “Dad.” Captain of Perihelion.

· Martyn is Iris’s other parent (called “Dad); Seth’s marital partner; earlier description from photograph (later context makes this likely to be Martyn posing next to Seth) says lighter skin than Seth, with short white hair; he/him

· Kaede is about the same size as Iris, but skin is lighter and her hair is yellow

· Matteo is small like Iris and Kaede, and has a lot of dark hair that at rescue had come loose from braids. They/Them.

· Turi is young like Amena. They/Them

· Karime uses she/her

· Tarik uses he/him

· On variation of crew uniform (made for MB): dark blue, pants and jacket of deflective fabric, good quality (better than Station Security), with lots of sealable pockets for weapons and drones. Stability fabric boots, probably tough enough to jam a hatchway. Looks like what human security would wear. ART’s crew logo on the jacket, which also has a collar that folds down.

Three

· SecUnit, with projectile weapon built into arm

· Armor flexes if it shifts its shoulders

Rami, Tapan, and Maro

· All wearing variations on work clothes, no uniform logos. Either Rami or Maro has an implant, but none are augmented. Part of a group marriage of 7 people, with 5 children of various sizes. MB thinks all are young—not far from adolescence.

· Rami: tercera, “which was a gender signifier used in the group of non-corporate political entities known as the Divarti Cluster,” te/ter. Purple hair, red eyebrows, light brown skin. Wearing a jacket.

· Tapan: female. Multicolored braids wrapped up around her head, blue jewel-toned feed interface clipped to ear, slightly darker skin than Rami. Wearing a flower-patterned t-shirt.

· Maro: female. Very dark skin, silver-colored little puffs of hair, “almost beautiful enough to be in the entertainment media.”

Tlacey

· Augmented human female

Tlacey’s ComfortUnit

· Physical configuration doesn’t match SecUnit standard.

· Lots of hair, silver with blue and purple on the ends, pulled back and braided like Tapan’s but in a much more complicated pattern.

· Bare arms show no metal, and no gun ports

Targets (Network Effect)

· When fully affected: look like tall, thin augmented humans. Dull gray skin. Narrow human features, dark brows standing out against smooth gray skin. Colorless lips.

· Not completely identical: one Target on ship is slightly taller and has broader shoulders than the other.

· Targets on ships: wearing formfitting protective suits and partial helmets that initially left a lot of their faces bare. One on the B-E explorer wore “more casual human clothing:” dark green-black pants and jacket, black shirt with a collar. Shoes had heavy treads, designed for rough planetary terrain. Hair looked more normal, with reddish brown tight curls cut close to the head.

· Targets and colonists: gray skin is a progressive condition, not natural or cosmetic effect, some still look like humans who were altered rather than aliens. Not all who still looked somewhat human were fighting on the same side. Most of fighting group wore “the kind of rough work clothing normal for colonies or mining, a cheaper, more battered version of ART’s environment suits with hoods but no breathing gear, or a mix of clean work clothes, plus a random collection of what looked like old uniforms and protective gear.”

Barish-Estranza, Eletra, Ras, and Supervisor Leonide

· B-E uniforms are red and brown with corporate logos

· Eletra and Ras both wear B-E uniforms that are disheveled and torn.

· Eletra has brown skin and dark hair that reaches at least to her shoulder blades.

· Supervisor Leonide has “mid brown” skin “that was common to a large percentage of humans,” with an artificially smooth, even tone that indicated cosmetic enhancement. Dark hair wrapped around the top of her head and she has small metallic and gemstones set in the rim of one exposed ear.

Augments

· According to MB, are “supposed to help humans do things they couldn’t do otherwise, like interface with the feed more completely or store memory archives.”

· Augments that aren’t feed interfaces are meant to correct physical injuries or illnesses.

· Augments are meant to be helpful. Implants are different (MB compares implants to governor modules, something the person has little to no control over)

· Normal augment would have filaments extending directly into the human nervous system. Some augmented humans may have dataports/plug-in interfaces in the back of their necks, since MB is able to pass off its dataport as one of these often.

· Normal augmented human (augmented with feed) has interface built into brain; non-augmented humans have removable interfaces (excluding implants, which seem to be regular interfaces just not removable without surgery).

· Augments and constructs work with “machine-readable code written into human DNA”

· Augmented humans can work more fully in the feed; MB thinks that the drugged-up GrayCris assassins wouldn’t be possible to control with a removable interface, so the controller must be augmented (and this proves correct).

Other Human Personal Tech

· Un-augmented humans can’t access the feed unless their interface is working and attached properly. Tapan’s in-ear interface was taken out while ART’s MedSystem worked, and she had to put it back in before she contacted her partners.

· “Normal external interfaces for humans were designed to look like all kinds of things, from carved natural wood to skin tones to jewels or stones or enamel art pieces to actual plain metal with a brand logo.”

· Human voices on the feed sound like their physical voices, and can show emotions. Humans (and augmented humans) usually subvocalize when talking on the feed.

· During killware attack in ES, Pin-Lee, Mensah and two crewmembers each has portable manual feed interfaces they used to shore up SecSystem; allowing them feed access without using their personal on-body interfaces.

· MB says in AC that killware and malware can’t do anything to humans or augmented humans; the killware attack in ES hurts augmented humans enough that one needs rescue breathing. This could be MB’s lack of knowledge, or it could be because the ES killware is rare, essentially a disembodied bot and an extremely uncommon/unheard of tactic.

Other Bots/Machines

· Agricultural bot: almost 10 meters (~32 feet) tall, covered with spikes. Lower body has 10 long spider limbs for moving around without crushing anything, upper part is a long curving “neck” with a long head also covered in spikes

· Pathfinders: like drone for space. Active scanners that can zip around a planet collecting environmental information and terrain imaging, plus looking for comm signals, possible energy sources, and hostiles. Can relay audio as ART uses it to threaten Targets. Very expensive.

· Drones used by NE Targets: model MB is unfamiliar with. Round and as big around as MB’s head, any holes for cameras or weapons hidden despite size. Made of stealth material (or pattern) that can’t be spotted by camera, but regular vision OK.

· Drones used in ASR, pulled from the hopper: “They were the small kind, barely a centimeter across; no weapons, just cameras.”

· Also in ASR, MB mentions that there also exist drones that aren’t much bigger than the hopper drones but include a small pulse weapon (but as far as availability through the company, you have to get an upper tier package)

· MB’s regular drones: small enough that it can have a flock (at least a couple dozen?) land on it and not impede movement in an EVAC suit. MB mentions technique where it can have drone accelerate a drone straight at a target’s face, and if hit an eye or an ear it goes straight to the brain, so probably fairly small. They are also easy to visually overlook when perched in a room recording people, or sneaking through a doorway. They’re also easy to store in MB’s many pockets.

#Murderbot #Murderbot Diaries #Network Effect #Martha Wells #Reference

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kaetastic · 4 years ago

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New York Guider

pairing: Luca Changretta x Mob!Italian!Reader

summary: Y/N arrives at New York to discuss some deals, until she stumbles upon an Italian mafioso. [requested: @supermegapauselouca]

warning: just fluff ? lol

word count: 4.6k (a writer’s block that took a week to write this lmao)

note: i am not italian + i do not know the language so please be merciful to my translations lol. anyways, sorry for the time it took for this to post! my brain had been gushing of ideas but nothing is being typed lolol

Blurs of haze cast over the chilly leather seats, seeping through each layer to vaporize each inch of possible material. It smeared over the seats with its unbearable sizzling temperature. Since it had concocted the surface for an area of possible cooking, an egg could be fried in an impeccable haste speed. There was a slight guarantee that the sides would be frayed and crunchy to the tongue. However, it did not budge those who had accustomed to such temperature.

Hence, they laid their skin over the scorching surface without flinching back, splaying over metal as if it had been a chilly summer breeze. Almost as if they had been immune to such pain. On the other hand, those who had not grown their skin into the new surges of heat were scribbling down notes in their head for the future. Well, in hopes that they would survive this assessment.

The usually harmless source of heat had become an irritating nuisance recently, something the civilians had only picked up when they realized their coats that were as thick as a bear’s fur had been stuffed deep in their closet. It was covered by layers of dust, sprinkles of cobwebs and things they preferred they didn’t get answers to. Too busy with their heads embedded in their work, they hadn’t brought up the new change in factor.

Now, the streets were overrun by sheets of munched on newspapers. All sides were covered by articles and endless paragraphs talking about the abnormal heat and the measures people would take to fight in the unbearable battle.

One had amusingly been- The West Deck, A Hot Spot For Cooling. Will Boats Have To Be More Careful? While some papers draped from posts, a handful had dotted the streets as if rolling haybales. It was abandoned after it was used for its short and temporary utilisation, a makeshift fan.

Despite the scorching sun that pinned high in the sky for nearly two weeks, the realization had only settled down languidly. Meaning, the peak of complaints had only risen at its highest point recently. It had been nothing but complaints.

The sun that pierced rays of heat surges onto the New York civilians was as if it sat behind a blind; paused everybody in a daze to not realize the heat. There were all sorts of complaints: about the sweat dripping down their back or the sweat painting their suits, quite visibly; the street stench of the sticky liquid.

Even though they had spent some time on the road to get to the desired location their boss had ordered, the swivelling of the clock’s arm had not bothered them a bit as everything had gone to plan. Well, nearly everything since there was some trouble on the port to which they had resolved by a quick utter of her notorious lips. Those that sat in the car was a mental person as they subjected themselves to pain and torture of the sizzling metal roof. So, why had they been in the car forever?

Some bodies didn’t bat an eye to the heat. It was not the same for the man who was behind the wheels, responsible for the valuable life in the backseat. Three were straight out plucked from the Mediterranean, and one had lived his life in the dazzling place of New York City. The roads they had swerved on were accompanied by towering buildings and clutters of people; however, it had decreased as they inched closer towards the wanted street.

Too busy with the safety of the critical and important guest who sat at the back, the driver tolerated the bites of heat in his suit, the fabric inched tighter as seconds pass. As if his clothing had suffocated his ribs. The back of his palm had been smeared over with the waterfall of sweat crawling down his forehead. Despite his technique of ignoring the heat and focusing on the drive, he had no control over his mind. It felt as if every time he had thought of plunging himself in the chilly water of his tub, it was a method of torture.

Sparkles of light danced in the air, wavering side to side as sunlight blared through the glass pane, radiating onto the prominent specks of dust. It seemed like an endless cycle of repeated movements. Speckles of dust rocked themselves down the ground then somehow manage to quiver back up. An amusing ride. Though, it wasn’t the same for the punished car and the driver. Y/N’s tongue poked her inner cheek, the tip of her tongue had been desperate for relief of water. Water. It would’ve been the last drink she would call for in a bar. In situations like these, she would take anything.

The residue of red wine that plastered in the crook and crannies of her mouth poked her tongue. Teasing and taunting her as the short supply had, unfortunately, run out. The only available source of hydration she had bought for the journey she had underestimated for being short. It was anything but.

Y/N was sure there wouldn’t even be a drop of the liquor she had brought since it was she who chugged every millilitre of it. She couldn’t help but to wish she had the ability to somehow- magically refill it to the brim. If only. How could she have let the last drop slide down her throat without her reminiscing on the moment? Too lost in her thoughts and approaching negotiations, Y/N didn’t even realize she was getting parched.

Glancing down at her lap, her thumb pressed onto a nuisance string of dust that attached itself to her recently bought dress. The elegant green looked as it had heavily cost, expensive. Even though she had brought a bag specifically for her jewellery which was one of the reasons the driver’s shoulders was crying moments ago, she had worn her beloved golden necklace. Well, she did love each and every jewellery she owned, the low hanging gem was just different.

Y/N felt slightly guilty for holding her love for the necklace slightly higher than the other’s she owned. Almost like those parents who liked one child more. It wrapped around her neck in an adoring way, capturing every glint of the sunlight. The award for stealing the spotlight would’ve been awarded to the painful investment of a necklace. Her brother might’ve been the one to try to hold her back whenever her eyes graze over the sparkling sins; however, it doesn’t always go as planned.

No matter how big of a closet, full of gold and strings of diamonds she had, Y/N will not be stopped until the room is overrun by the jewellery. Sure, there had been times when her mother had tried to knock some sense in her head for purchasing such luxurious items as soon as she glanced at it. But, it was a little quirk she claimed as hers. A quite shameless one that is.

“Dove sono tutti?” (where is everybody?) Pietro inquired, eyes brushing over the silent street they had curved into. Seconds ago, every square of the street was packed with at least three people. It suddenly felt like they had entered a deserted land of emptiness. Despite the towering buildings of intimidating glass which were the ogling eyes of the skyscrapers, everyone would assume the commercial road would be streaming of people. That was not the case as the streets were as dry as a desert. There were only a handful of cars that were of the same model- half a dozen to be exact since it didn’t take too long to count such a small number on a said-busy street. Where were the tales of New York and its people? The boss’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Her tongue poked out to caress her drying lips. Since the situation had felt somehow threatening and sceptical, Y/N already had her fingers pressed onto the bulge of the gun in her garter. Just one yank to finish a battle she hoped she wouldn’t have on American ground. Questions resounded off the walls of her head. There was no doubt that the leader of the territory would be hovered over the edge at her very much expected appearance.

Was she to be welcomed by silence? The list of people she had to negotiate with had been separated into two: those who had greeted her, and those who didn’t bother to exert an effort. This was the latter’s case. It definitely ticked something in her which caused her tongue to smear of bitterness as if her presence was not appreciated. All the mobster wanted to do was go back to Italy, and munch on some finally good food. Those she had brought over the ship had been already devoured on.

Unfortunately for her, she had to get the business she was set less than a month to get over with. Some issues with the cargoes. One of the main topics that had been brought up during the family dinner by her uncle- one of the reasons she was even here. Damn you uncle Lorenzo.

“Probabilmente cazzo protestando per i diritti di lavoro, americani.” (probably fucking protesting for job rights, Americans) Vittorio snickered when his eyes brushed over the random, peculiar items littered onto the ground. It seemed as if the people had been escorted out quite forcefully in a short time span. There was a violet silk handkerchief puddled on the ground, smeared with a tint of dirt from the excessive amount of times feet had stomped over it. It was accompanied by a shoe that seemed freshly bought, a golden pocket watch, and a pen. All spaced away in great distance.

Y/N didn’t say anything as she observed the silent road which had been roared by with her vehicle’s boisterous engine. The sound of the car’s plead to rest for a while after the exhausting journey bounced off the walls of the buildings to trickle into ears. She recalled on the time she had heard of the rise in opposition of the civilians to their dedicated work which was met with unfair pay. The Italian had read it on paper and her uncles who lived on the other side of the planet had mentioned it over a family meeting a couple of times.

Before she had the chance to mumble her order, a flock of men dashed out from the corner of a building. All in sombre oversized coats despite the heat, fedora hats attached to their heads, probably cowering around the lake of sweat that had been trapped inside. The pace of their steps echoed into the invisible cracks of the windows, “You’re not supposed to be here!” Leading the group was a man, slightly shorter than the rest; who had a caterpillar as a moustache, his voice sending quivers to run down the present buildings.

She pressed her lips while her eyes ran over the group as a rapid observation of who she might deal with, “Resta qui e non tirarti fuori le pistole. Non ci serve un'altra guerra.” (stay here and don't fucking pull out your guns. we don’t need another war). There was a second seething in the vehicle before the words marinated into their heads. Pietro, the man who fiddled with the black fedora in his hands, parted his lips to amplify his uneasy thoughts about the situation. The slamming of a door slapped across his mouth. He let out an aggravated sigh from the expected action of his boss.

The vein on Matteo’s forehead was visibly popping, branching down to slide between his eyes. His eyes were narrowed onto the vehicle which was exactly had he had said- not supposed to be there. Matteo’s pace hindered at the sight that left him astonished for a while. Although his eyes had glued onto the driver who had been drowning in his sweat, it had swiftly averted to another figure. The Italian hadn’t thought that a woman in a fluttering dress would be approaching him- or exit the car. The trailing men followed the same gesture, eyes beaming to gaze at the way the dress danced around her figure with every step she took; the way sparkles pierced back into their eyes from the tinted layer hovering over her eyes.

It felt like every click of her heels interjected a pause in between a second to stretch time. And stretch time it was. Still in a daze, they watched as she pulled the sunglasses off with a click. The colour of her eyes glistened under the blaring sunlight, smearing over their astonished faces. There were endless of questions brought up in their heads; however, the most common one was, why was she in the car with three other men? It was safe to say all of the inquiries involved her.

“Good morning. I’m sorry if I’m disrupting something but I came here for business.” Y/N sent a quirk of her smile, fingers fiddling with the temples of her sunglasses. Matteo finally yanked away from his thoughts.

“The street is currently occupied.”

Y/N pressed her lips in understanding before she craned her neck around to brush over the dead street, “Where’s everybody? It’s Monday, right?”

Matteo nodded, “It is. May I ask who you’re supposed to meet?”

“Travis Philip. With this empty street, there’ll be no one to lead me... would you guide me to his building? I heard it’s quite big, myself.”

Matteo quirked his eyebrows as faint chuckles from the men behind him echoed as a response to her indirect jest. The mention of the notorious name struck a chord in him. Travis Philip. The Italian had one and only one memory with the New Yorker. It was not good. There were words hurled around which was then followed by weeks of negotiations and conversations from the head of superiority that pinned over Matteo’s head. By superiority, Matteo meant Luca Changretta, “Travis Philip? What’s a woman like you tangling with a man like Travis Philip? He’s bad news.”

Y/N’s lip parted, wanting to answer his reply as vague as possible since there was a twinge in the man she could not point out. A twinge that would cause suspicion in her to rise. Just like those times she had to face those rising groups in her territory back at home. However, a raspy voice sprung onto the archery board before she had the chance to let go of the arrow, “What’s taking you so long?”

Luca stomped out of the building with anger seething from his ears in a steam of irritation and impatience. His shoulders were tense, rigid as if unbent metal blocks. The mafioso had sent down his accompanying men to check out the roaring noise of a vehicle.

Luca had expected them to kick out the unwanted people without uttering a word since the civilians of the city knew the faces they had to fear. When his eyes grazed through the heads of his henchmen, he was only left with unanswered questions. Questions he wouldn’t mind forgetting for it to torture his curiosity as he could gaze upon the sight. After sending a quirk of his lips, he turned to Matteo, “Mi prendi per il culo? Ho detto blocca la strada.” (are you fucking kidding me? i said block the road)

“L'ho fatto.” (i did) Matteo mumbled back.

“Perché è in piedi davanti a me allora?” (why is she standing in front of me then?) While the two engaged in a conversation- well, more like a scolding from the towering man to the other, Y/N couldn’t help but watch in amusement as she understood every single syllable and word gushed out onto the ground. There were few mentions of the name Luca which suits the towering man with his sleek hair. But what ticked her ears was the name, Travis Philip. The man she was looking for.

The shorter man rambled on, red creeping up to smear against his ears as huffs of mist evaporated out of his ears. Almost as if he was tolerating the annoyance of this, Luca, “Abbiamo bisogno di lui per darci i soldi. Mentre tu ti godevi il tuo tempo qui fuori, potevo solo tenerlo fermo.” (we need him to give us the money. while you were enjoying your time out here, i could only hold him down.)

“What did you do to the poor man?” The blotches of anger on the towering figure halted to crawl back into hiding. Luca pulled his body away from Matteo which he didn’t even notice was an inch away from his henchmen. He averted his focus onto the woman in confusion. Had she understood what he said? His doubts were then answered. “Save some pieces for me. Non essere egoista, lead me to him .” (don’t be selfish)

Sauntering through the crowding bodies of men, she passed the group before she screeched to a halt. There was the noise of a door slamming shut and distant feet approaching her; however, there was no familiar sound of feet shuffling that would usually follow after her from the stranger group of men. Y/N glanced at the narrowing eyes who lingered on the same spot, “So? Do I need to repeat in Italian also?”

Throwing confused gazes at their boss, the henchmen who were on duty were as struck as the superior Italian was. Luca nodded quite defeatedly while he pinched the bridge of his nose. He threw his hands in the air when no one seemed to understand his silent order, “Do I have to do everything?”

After what Y/N would call a successful deal, if you can call a couple of punches and strings of blood gushed to spray the walls a deal, she had realized it took nearly the whole day as the sky was smeared with gradients of orange and red, the sun waving a farewell. There was slight satisfaction on her side even though the bar was not full.

Y/N could’ve done better- but she was no idiot. The woman was not on board with the idea of giving up thirty percent of the cargo pay to the transporter. He was out of his mind to jump from twenty-three to a whopping thirty percent. All because few shipments had suspiciously not landed onto its designated ports, “You know, I reserved a table at this nice restaurant. Thought of not going because what kind of loner would I look like sitting alone, right?”

The wavering warm light plastered over the Italian who paced beside her with his hands stuffed in his pocket. Y/N could vaguely recall to what led to her being walked to the place she was staying at by a man she had recently just met. Not only an Italian like her but one who possessed the same power in his hand.

There were fragments she could try to piece together, though, it didn’t seem quite right. The possibility of the situation she was stuck in was hovering over the chances of her men yanked by an urgent call. The corners of Y/N’s lips curled up at the indirect question, “Are you asking me out to dinner, Luca?”

The Italian man pressed his lips, fingers fiddling with the curling cloth that erected out of its stitching line. Oh, how irritated his insides are from the minor fault. Luca hummed, eyes throwing a glance at the woman, “I am.”

“Well, I hope you can push that reserve later because I’m going to be running around this whole week.”

Despite the previous week flying past her in a blink of an eye, Y/N’s whole body ached and quivered like a rattling stick on the furious waves of the ocean. It had been exhausting. There were so many issues she had to multi-task and make sure to recall it by engraining the problems in the back of her head. The men she had dragged from Italy could only do so little. Overlapping her attempts at remembering these tasks she would have to keep her tabs on, she had to face negotiations with other business partners. Even though she had come mainly for Travis Philip, there were strings of names she had to deal with on behalf of her organization.

All of the muscle aching and brain crying vanished as she now sauntered under the howling night towards the building she was to stay at temporarily. It all evaporated in a hasty exhale of waves from her body. No matter what she had done to recover from the period of exasperation, nothing had worked. Unfortunately, she had to learn this first-hand since the list of what her men would usually do had not served the same results to her. That was until the approaching dinner had arrived.

“You know, usually, I get sent home in cars.” Y/N chided. She couldn’t help the curling of her lips at her words that pierced into the Italian man who chuckled at her jest. The woman was sure that they were midway to her stay since her men had used the same path to send her to her lodge. Somewhere hidden under flaps of thoughts, Y/N didn’t want the night to end after the fulfilling meal; Luca’s presence. She didn’t know what it was about the man, but she knew she had never met somebody like him. Italy possessed a spectrum of people. However, Luca... he was different in ways she could not point out.

Maybe it was the way his hair was sleeked, or the way his somewhat oppressed Italian accent budged into his English sentences. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the comforting fact that he knew of the world she lived in. Without a doubt, one could see the pair as equals as they stood practically on the same labelled position. Luca Changretta grew up with the knowledge of how the mafia worked, how the organization ran, and the sacrifices they had to commit. All to wear a hefty golden crown on their head.

While the tranquil street was echoing with the clicking of her sharp heels and the light shuffling of Luca’s steps, she noticed the lack of vehicles on the road. It was usually run over by wheels and honking vehicles even though it was nudging to rising of the sun. One of the things Y/N had learned after a stretched-out meeting that had hovered over the end of a day. The Italian woman would be in the back seat of the car and watch as people engulfed the streets, and vehicles occupying each inch of the road. But now, it was just them and sprinkles of slumbering cars, “Enough experiences, have you?”

Y/N shook her head at the unexpected reply. Despite the dinner being simple and casual, she couldn’t help but feel it was more than that. Simple was underwhelming to the way her heart fluttered at every mumble of words from his lips or the way she couldn’t help but send a genuine smile after he quirked the corner of his lips.

There was something cowering in the crack in the corner of the restaurant while they munched on the food that was worth salivating for. It lingered its eyes onto the two as they ate. However, the woman held back. It wasn’t a feeling that she was sceptical of or had a bad feeling for. Instead, it was the feeling she had been described to when she was tucked in her bed by her parents. The stories of an emotion that had led people to do things they wouldn’t normally do. The tales of love.

The Italian woman had a handful of attempts at finding this story- well, more like confirming its existence. Because after some times, she had lost hope and felt that the tearful stories said by her mother were just lies. Lies that she falsely believed in. So, was this it? The way her gut twisted in peculiar angles whenever Luca would do the slightest like quirk his eyebrows while she went on rambling. Now that she noticed, she was slightly more open with the man. Never had she felt in her own skin when talking to someone out of her blood relatives.

During the simple dinner, she had learned many things from the man. Not only from his stories, but from her observation that she hoped was not too obvious. There were countless of times the Italian male had tried his best to suppress his vulgar words even though she had said not to worry.

It was amusing to see Luca string of from ‘fuck’ to a rather peculiar and random word to finish off in front of the lady. He justified it when he said it wasn’t right to curse in front of a woman. Then, he proceeded to hurl ‘fuck’s and ‘shit’s after he had accidentally nudged his glass cup onto the ground which gushed into fragments of infant shards. To which he threw an excessive amount of money (more like a wad of money) on the desk. It was worth for one table set.

“Enough for me to know that there is a reason for you to tire out a lady’s legs.” Luca grinned, his fingers cladded with his sparkling rings pierced on the stubborn scar that would torment his face forever. The memory of something he wished he could have forgotten. The permanent marking that would remain on him to remind him of the pathetic moment of his youth life.

The Italian man nodded in understanding, “Yeah, but you can have a better view of the moon when you walk,” Y/N shook her head at his excuse for making her knees cry out for rest. “Plus, you get really good exercise.”

“I hope you’re not indicating for me to exercise. I’ve done a lot of walking this past week.”

“What kind of a man do you take me as?” Luca inquired as he stuffed his fingers into the pockets of his jacket.

Silence engulfed the two after Y/N’s quick chuckle. It wasn’t one of those that occurred when the moment had felt wrong. No, it was more than that. It was far more than that. A silence of enjoying the fact that the other was still here. His radiating warmth had coated her arm. She knew it would be a lot warmer if she was just nudged into him. The period of time hadn’t been interjected by a mumble before Y/N’s eye grazed over her lodge, “This is it.”

The pair lingered in front of the wooden door. Luca watched with his hat in his fingers. Although her body swerved to nudge to her left, time smeared in a blur.

Luca caressed her chin with his thumb, fingers gingerly and softly pinching to tilt her up. Even though the night where every civilian had prayed for cooling and a miracle surge of wind, the faint whistling of breezes had failed their hopes. There was only a tease of puffs in the air as if it taunted those who were drowning in their own sweat. With the twinge of cooling breezes, it was vanished once their warm lips generated a temperature hotter than that of the waves of heat in the bright morning.

Y/N didn’t want it to end, the feeling of his fingers brushing a trail to place against her cheek so softly as if she was a cargo of fine wine; the taste of his lips. But it did. Unfortunately, “I’m leaving in two weeks.” She breathed out, eyes ogling up to face the man who had plastered over her with a feeling she had never felt before. It was foreign. Y/N needed more of it.

“Well, then, it’ll be two unforgettable weeks.”

#luca changretta x reader #luca changretta imagine #luca changretta imagines #luca changretta oneshot #luca changretta oneshots #luca changretta #luca changretta x mob!reader #luca changretta x italian!reader #luca changretta x mob!italian!reader #peaky blinders oneshot #peaky blinders fluff #peaky blinders oneshots #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders #luca changretta fanfic #luca changretta fanfiction

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c-is-for-circinate · 5 years ago

Text

Learning to Knit and Crochet Resources Online

The world’s a strange, scary place right now, y’all, and I can’t imagine what my past several days would’ve looked like if I didn’t have a mountain of yarn and needles to focus on. Sometimes, when everything is scary, there’s nothing more comforting than soft things in bright colors and the small satisfaction of creating a thing in the world.

But what if you, dear reader, don’t have a stash of yarn and needles? You’ve never needed to turn to fiber arts in a time of need before! (Or at least, not in years.) What if you can’t go outside?

Fear not, friends, this is the post for you!

Step 1: Get some supplies

To begin knitting, you’ll want at least one skein of yarn (I recommend worsted or bulky weight, which is a thicker yarn that’s easier to work with for beginners, in either wool or acrylic) and a set of needles (I recommend somewhere between size 7 and size 11). I’m less familiar with crochet, but you really can’t go wrong with a good worsted weight yarn, and the internet tells me the recommended hook size for that is I-9 through K-10.

The whole world might seem very far away outside your front door, but plenty of local and small businesses would love to bend over backwards right now getting their products to you to help in your time of need. And basically the entire yarn community is made up of small businesses, so there are LOTS of options.

Option 1: local yarn stores. Chances are, if you live anywhere near a major urban area in most countries where it gets cold in the winter (and quite possibly even if you don’t!), there’s an independent yarn and fiber shop near you. Go to google maps and search ‘yarn store’ to see what pops up. (Michaels, JoAnn Fabric, and large retailers like that will probably appear too, and they’re not a bad place to start for a beginner in normal times, but I have no idea what their hours or approach to delivery might be and supporting local businesses is so important right now.) If you find one reasonably near you, check out their website or give them a call. A lot of local yarn stores are taking online or phone orders right now even if they usually don’t. Many will deliver to your door; others, you may have to come into the shop to pick something up, but you’ll be able to make it a very short trip. Bonus here: If you call up a local yarn store on the phone, they’ll probably be delighted to help you decide exactly what to buy as a beginner. (They also probably know more about crochet than I do.) Knitters and crocheters are ridiculously helpful as a community.

Option 2: online yarn retailers. If you don’t have a local yarn store, or if they can’t deliver/you can’t go in, or if their options are too expensive, or for any other reason, there are also LOTS of places to buy yarn and materials online. I’ve had a lot of luck with Alpaca Direct, including that time they were out of the color I ordered and an incredibly nice lady called me on the phone that same afternoon to work out other options for my project. WEBS is also pretty well-known, generally reliable, and often has good deals. Both of these places, despite doing a lot of online business, are associated with individual brick-and-mortar stores which are closed down for shopping and classes right now, so you can feel good about supporting them too. Outside of the US I’m less familiar with the common retailers, but some work with Google should be able to find you someone who can ship to you relatively easily. You can also buy direct from manufacturer in many places! As a last resort, Etsy has some beautiful yarn available pretty much all over--since that tends to be all hand-dyed and often small lots, though, it can be more expensive and less what I’d recommend to a beginner.

Step 2: Learn the basics

Youtube has been a godsend to the whole community for learning fiber arts techniques. There is pretty much no technique you can’t watch demonstrated by half a dozen different people in different ways and languages. And pause and rewind at will.

Casting on, or getting the yarn onto the needle: video 1; video 2; video 3; written instructions with pictures (note that there are LOTS OF WAYS to do this, and the videos don’t all show the same method--searching on youtube offers tons of other options too)

Knit stitch, the most basic stitch: video 1; video 2; video 3; written instructions with pictures (note that these tutorials are all for English style knitting, which I find easier to teach to beginners. If you run into confusing videos later when the yarn is being held in the left hand, that’s Continental style--same result, slightly different technique!)

Purl, the other basic stitch: video 1; video 2; video 3; written instructions with pictures

Bonus: How to crochet: video 1; video 2; video 3

Step 3: Ravelry.com

Now that you’ve got some yarn and you know how to hold it, what do you do with it? Welcome, my friend, to the wonderful world of Ravelry.

Ravelry.com is basically the website for knitting and crochet. It’s the biggest repository of patterns anywhere online (possibly anywhere in the world? somebody fact-check me on that), and it’s very much a place where fiber artists congregate to share project photos and tips. It’s free to make an account, and they take very little personal information. Some things you can do there include:

Find something to make using their fabulous pattern search filters. For instance, you could find all free downloadable patterns written for one skein of worsted yarn at a beginner difficulty, in both knitting and crochet.

Browse the forums looking for help or chatting with other fiber artists

Keep track of your own yarn stash, your projects, and future projects you might want to knit

Look through pictures and projects made by other people to get ideas

Accidentally spend hours going through patterns and project photos self-soothing by looking at pretty things

...etc

I, and most people I know, mostly use Ravelry as a giant pattern library. Any time I decide hey, I want to knit a sweater, I can go over to Ravelry and try to find a pattern for a sweater I like. There are zillions of options, and trust me, as somebody who has written her own knitting patterns--don’t. (At least not until you’ve been at it for a year or two.) A good pattern helps you make sure all the stitches you’re trying to make go in the right place to make something cool. You absolutely don’t have to use one--but it often helps.

Step 4: Just make something!

Crafting is so good for mental health, especially in times like this. I knit while I’m watching shows, listening to podcasts, or just sitting on the couch. It gives me something to do with my hands, calms me down, and lets me feel really good about making something that’s my own.

And the knitter community is pretty awesome. I already know they’re going to fill reblogs of this post with more and better advice that I forgot, as they pass it along. Come on over and join us.

#knitting #crafting #crochet #survival tips for the apocalypse #this is apparently the 2020 mood #pass it along!

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unicyclehippo · 5 years ago

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Can you do "Take off your shirt" for Beaujester?

it’s early in the morning now; the sun hasn’t quite risen from its cradle behind the mountains but the sky is slowly bleaching to a pale gauzy grey, a rippled fabric roof that feels heavy and strange. maybe it’s just because jester is accustomed to the seaside, that burned blue sky that changes seemingly on a quick wind to storm tossed grey and back again. the sky in rexxentrum never seems to change. never goes entirely black with storm like it feels like it should. never clears. just...hangs there.

jester is staring out at it when a hand presses somewhat clumsily onto the glass pane, shoves it open. the latch strains and then pops open—not very strong, someone should tell the nice vaguely overbearing dwarven lady about that. hinges shriek faintly. a voice, probably belonging to the person whose hands those are, swears quietly.

‘you know,’ jester says, and watches those fingers grow white with pressure beneath the splattering of grime and blood, ‘you could have come through the door. it might’ve been quieter, beau.’

beau hangs a moment longer. then, with a long grunt of effort, lifts herself up onto the sill. she straddles it, inches carefully into the room and despite herself, jester is kinda impressed. if she hadn’t been awake already, she never would’ve woken up—and, and this can’t be forgotten, they are on the second floor.

‘very impressive!’ jester shuffles in the bed, sits up, applauses brightly. beau’s form is all in shadow, silhouetted by the rising sun, but jester sees her shoulders rise with a little shrug.

‘thanks.’

jester frowns. ‘are you okay? you sound weird.’

‘fine.’ beau pulls herself fully through the window. if jester hadn’t been watching closely, she would miss the way the other girl sways. puts her hand out on the end of the bed to steady herself. she wonders idly what she might have missed in the past, if she hadn’t been watching. ‘i’m gonna take a bath. wake myself up.’

‘oh, but, did you sleep?’

‘yeah. yeah, i slept,’ beau tells her. she doesn’t sound like she’s lying, but. jester also knows she’s good at it. ‘just went on a little, y’know, wake up run. some exercises. don’t wanna get flabby during down time, gotta keep in peak physical condish.’ her voice is typical beau: brash, harsh, over-confident, warm. pointed. like she’s talking right to jester. it isn’t so profound an effect when it’s just the two of them—and a sleeping yasha on the floor but she’s sleeping—but jester still feels it.

it’s distracting. jester pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them. with a cheek pillowed on her knees, eyes tracking the way beau picks her way across the floor, jester wonders if maybe that means something. if maybe beau meant something, something real, when she talked about how good icky-thong and da’leth were at talking around something. how she had agreed when jester mentioned the details.

‘why do you have blood on your hands?’ jester asks, before beau can reach the door. ‘is that part of your morning exercises?’

beau stops. turns toward jester. not fully, but enough that she can eye the bed, and jester in it. enough that jester can see one corner of beau’s mouth as it twitches into a stretched smile.

‘yeah. sometimes, i dunno if you’ve noticed,’ she comments with a grin, ‘but i punch things.’

‘i’m not stupid beau.’

‘what? no, i know you’re not!’

‘i know you punch things.’ jester swings her legs out, touches her feet down onto the pleasantly chilly wooden floor. she wiggles her toes. ‘i know you don’t punch, trees and stuff,’ she insists. ‘not until you bleed.’

‘advanced monk techniques. always learning new shit.’

‘that lie,’ jester says, trying to keep her voice steady, ‘wasn’t as good as your others. turn around.’

beau stays where she is facing the door.

‘i’m gonna take a bath. i stink.’

‘turn around, beau.’

‘no.’

jester stares, confused, at beau’s back. ‘no?’ she doesn’t think beau has ever told her no before. not like that, not without suggesting something else, or, or saying hey i like the idea but it’s also the worst one i have ever heard, just sayin’.

‘i’m taking a bath. and i’m going to the archives afterwards. don’t wait for me. tell the others.’

‘oh. okay.’

jester hates the way her voice sounds—small and confused. hates the way beau’s shoulder twitches before she reaches out for the door to the hallway and slips out, out of sight.

she waits there a moment, tail curling and uncurling around her ankle. she listens to the sounds: yasha’s deep, even breathing, so nice to hear after she had been gone for so long; foot traffic and the wooden tap of wheels over cobbled stone from the one or two wagons moving around so early in the day; the silence like a held breath and then the distant rattle and hum of pipes from the bathroom.

jester’s eyes drop from the doorway to the floor. there’s a pool of blood where beau had been standing. small, maybe a good dozen or so heavy drops. jester’s stomach squirms at the sight of it. too much to have come from scraped knuckles.

‘oh this is a bad idea,’ she tells herself, but pushes open the door and follows after beau.

the washroom is lovely. small, only intended for one or maybe two occupants. the bath itself is only big enough for one adult, though feasibly if one wasn’t particularly concerned with comfort, two or three could cram into the space. the bottom one might drown, of course, but it’s only a hypothetical.

the room is filled with steam but beau is still dressed, leaned over the hand basin in a pose jester has never seen her in. slumped. tired. one hand is braced on the wooden tub and she stands a pace or two back, most of her weight on the one arm. her head hangs down, hair loose and falling like a curtain down around her face.

her other hand, jester sees—in the instant between breaking the handle to burst in and beau whirling around to face her—her other hand is curled arojnd her waist. no, a little higher. around her ribs.

‘what’s wrong with your ribs?’ jester demands.

‘what the fuck?’ beau hisses back. the steam isn’t enough to hide the damage to her face—the rapidly swelling cheekbone, obviously broken, the split in the same eyebrow. ‘jester, i’m in the fucking bathroom—i could have been taking a shit—‘

‘but you aren’t taking a shit!’ jester accuses, and kicks the door shut behind her. ‘you’re in here being weird and bleeding and not telling me what’s wrong! i know there’s something wrong beau, i’m not stupid!’

‘why do you—has someone called you stupid?’ beau half asks, half demands. ‘why do you keep saying that? who was it?’

‘no, no one, it’s just—ah!’ jester almost screams, jabs a finger toward beau. they’re close, not quite face to face but the room isn’t terribly large. ‘don’t try to distract me, it won’t work!’

the steam has wafted away from their faces, largely escaped out the door and now curls around their feet, building again, pouring from the bathtub as the water level rises slowly. with no filter, nothing hiding beau’s face, jester sees the flicker of something in dark eyes—fear? annoyance? upset? as soon as she sees it, it’s gone again; jester pours over beau’s face, her stance, but she’s gone still and silent and there’s nothing to pluck, nothing to catch.

‘bad training session,’ beau lies. out and out lies.

jester huffs, scowls across at her. ‘you don’t have to lie to me, beau. i don’t care what you were doing—well, no, i care but you know if it was a bar fight i would think that’s really fun, and if it was dairon i would kick her in the teeth because wow-a, you’re fucked up,’

‘thanks. i held my own pretty good, though.’ beau smirks. chucks her chin up in that infuriating smug way she does. there’s still nothing behind the unblinking eyes.

‘i just mean, whatever it is, beau, i just want to make sure you’re okay. you know that, right?’

‘of course.’

‘of course,’ jester repeats, brow crinkling. she can’t figure out why it sounds so weird, so off. shrugs it away uncomfortably. ‘so?’

‘so what?’

‘are you gonna let me heal you or what?’

there is a long, long moment where jester has no idea what beau is going to say. it’s strange, because they’ve been through storms and fights and people nearly dying and getting kidnapped and being pirates and shopping and rescuing people and jester was pretty sure that, if not an open book, beau was fairly easy to read. that she got the gist of what beau was saying, or what she wanted to say. but here, in a cramped steaming room with very little space between them and a pressing weight of a lot of very important very scary things bearing down on all sides, jester looks for the face of her friend in the woman across from her and finds nothing but a smooth mask. and who is standing behind it, she can’t quite say.

‘beau?’

‘i don’t mind a scar or two,’ beau says. smile ticks up at the corner, crooked, charming in a very roguish kind of way.

‘i think you’ll mind when your broken cheek stops you from eating. or gets infected and your brain swells and you die.’

‘sexy. the way i’ve always wanted to go.’

‘beau.’

finally. beau’s eyes cut away from her. it isn’t much, but it’s enough. almost a flinch.

‘have i—done something wrong?’

‘no,’ beau insists, instantly, the word spat between them. her eyes are back on jester, burning hot. ‘no.’

‘then what is it? because first you’re not wanting to sleep with me and then you’re not talking to me and you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night to go i don’t even know.’

‘fight.’

‘well obviously,’ jester mutters, accent thick with upset.

‘in a fighting pit.’ beau breaks her harsh stance a bit. steps over to the bath and twists the tap off so it stops filling. it’s at about the halfway mark now and she busies herself with sniffing at a few of the bottles on the counter, nose wrinkling at the heavily perfumed ones. she tips in a few drops of something that smells of wood notes, lets the oil diffuse into the water.

‘i get to fight,’ she tells jester, and lowers herself down onto the small stool beside the bath, one arm resting on the lip of it, the other curled around her middle. ‘until i win, or until i’m fucked up.’ she grins. tired. more of a baring of teeth.‘same thing, kinda.’

‘oh.’ jester looks around for another stool. there isn’t one, so she perches on the edge of the bath. ‘so. you’re, like, not okay then.’

beau’s grin widens. she laughs a little, disbelieving. shakes her head. ‘i guess not.’

‘is it because of caleb?’

‘what?’

‘you were super pissed the whole time we were at—at that place. and every time caleb mentioned icky—‘

‘don’t. say his name,’ beau breathes. squeezes her eyes shut tight. winces at the pressure on her cheek. ‘yeah. i hated that.’

jester narrows her eyes. ‘but is that really why? or are you letting me think it?’

‘i’m not that good of a liar, jester.’

‘but are you really not, or are you just saying tha—‘

‘jes.’

jester huffs. arranges her skirts.

they sit for a few long moments in silence. then beau bends with a groan to start to remove her boots. jester slides to the floor to help, batting beau’s hands away.

‘jes, no, you don’t have to—‘

‘you’re hurt, beau. just...let me.’

the laces hiss out of their hoops, loosen from around beau’s ankles. jester tosses one and then the other into the corner of the room, peels beau’s socks off next and throws them soon after. it might be the heat of the room but beau is flushed, embarrassed, and the hand on the bath comes up to cover her face.

‘thanks,’ she grunts.

‘you’re welcome.’ jester glances up from beneath lowered lashes, catches the exhaustion written over beau’s face when she thinks jester isn’t looking. ‘beau?’

‘mn.’

‘are you okay? for real?’

‘i mean, i’m beat to shit but that was kinda the point.’

‘no, i know,’ jester says, though she doesn’t think she does know entirely. not in the way beau seems to be implying. ‘but. everything with caleb and the beacon and, and yasha, and,’

‘right. yasha,’ beau sighs, sounding ten times more exhausted. ‘i need to talk to the soul.’

‘about yasha?’

‘nah. i mean. sort of.’ she tilts her head from side to side in a half nod. ‘about the way da’leth fuckin’ lied to them about who yasha was.’ beau shakes her head, seeing jester’s worry. ‘i’m not gonna let them do anything to her. i’m not mad—i’m relieved as hell we got her back, trust me.’

‘i do,’ jester says instantly.

the tightness in the corners of beau’s eyes loosens a fraction. enough that jester notices.

‘yeah. i just can’t—i can’t side with the assembly on lying to the soul just because my friend is caught in the mix.’ beau sighs. stands. ‘anyway. fuck. i need a bath. gotta soak and—not think. for a second, anyway.’ jester stands when she does and for a moment beau looks at her expectantly and then sighs. ‘i don’t mean to be rude but like, alone?’

jester rolls her eyes. ‘i’m not leaving until i’ve healed you.’ discomfort slashes across beau’s face like the cut of a knife. ‘you didn’t think i would seriously follow you and let you get away with not getting healed, did you?’

‘i mean...’

‘no. take off your shirt.’

‘not the way i’m used to hearing that said,’ beau jokes. she turns around. grips her shirt at the waist and pulls it up and over her head.

jester stares. she can’t help it. she’s seen beau get changed in their shared room before, shared excursions to bath houses before, but not like this. maybe because it has been a while, maybe because beau has gotten stronger and harsher on their travels, maybe because beau is holding herself tight and tense with pain or worry or vanity, but beau’s back is sculpted—layer upon layer corded muscle and scar, make up the planes of beau’s back, holding tight to the column of her spine, taut muscles of her shoulders leading to the notch of her neck where it meets the spine. her scapula shift, probably out of discomfort, but it looks mesmerising to watch the muscle and bone move beneath her skin.

and the bruises. the imprint of knuckles, of dull bootprints, the too-perfect ring of knuckledusters, paint purples and reds over beau’s skin, breaking the surface now and again in red scratches and contusions.

jester reaches out.

‘i’m—going to heal you now.’

‘yup. cool.’

she lays her hand flat on beau’s back. it falls of its own accord, seemingly, to curl around beau’s hip and the magic doesn’t burst out of her or sparkle like it sometimes does but instead jester, maybe because she’s so entranced so focused on beau and healing her, that jester feels beau. feels her like her magic is touching her, like she’s seeping into beau, the edges of herself and beau merging for a second. it’s weird and scary and jester whips her hand away quickly.

stares as beau rolls her shoulders out, the movement exaggerated by being so in her face.

‘thanks, jes. that—that feels better.’

‘good.’

‘can i have my bath now?’ beau asks.

jester hesitates. tries one more time. ‘are you okay, beau?’

‘i mean, you healed me so never better.’ she waits a moment. ‘i’m kinda half naked, jes.’

it’s not the answer she wanted. or, it is—she wants beau to be okay—but it was casual, easy. another lie. she leaves, feeling like she has seen more of beau than she was prepared for. and not the naked skin part.

jester focuses a minute on mending the handle and lock of the door she had broken. that, at least, is straightforward. that, at least, she can fix.

#cr tag #tagging my stories #prompt fill #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #sort of #beau was fucked up tonight n im interested to see wtf happens w that

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parkerparts · 5 years ago

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i’d like to be my old self again (but i’m still trying to find it)

5 Times Peter Parker Dances for Someone Else + 1 Time He Dances for Himself (AO3 here)

O N E

They tell him dancing is in his blood. They say it in high-pitched voices with a smile and a pat on the back, like they can give him talent and technique by patting it into his body and pushing him into a studio with a dozen girls and three other boys who already know that plie means “bent.” The next day at school, Peter trips and falls, skinning his knee. The teacher and his classmates crowd around him, asking if he’s okay, but he’s too busy examining the red liquid gushing out of the scrapes to answer.

“What do you mean when you say ‘dancing is in my blood?’” Peter asks May and Ben on the way home from school. “I thought it would look like pink and glitter, but my blood’s just red. I checked.”

Through the rearview mirror, Peter watches his aunt and uncle smile. “Not literally,” Ben tells him, turning around to pat his knee. “Your mom was a dancer. She was an amazing dancer, Peter. Your mom was planning on enrolling you in classes when you reached this age, and we thought you might want to try it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become a star like your mom one day. You might be even better.”

“What if I’m not good at dancing at all?” Peter asks, looking up into Ben’s eyes with more fear and insecurity than a child his age should be able to feel. “What if I’m not like my mom?”

“You’re only six. You’ll get there.” Ben smiles at him, full of warmth and hope, and for a moment, Peter lets himself believe that he can dance, that one day he’ll be a star. One day, he promises himself, he’ll make his mom proud.

At class later that day, his hope crumbles into pieces like sand from the playground that’s just not wet enough to be molded into something useful, something beautiful. He can’t make his legs do that move, can’t move his head and his arms in a circle at the same time, can’t keep his back straight at all. He’s so close to quitting, to going home and telling May and Ben, “I don’t think I want to do it anymore,” but they pick him up after class, and while May orders dinner, Ben shows him a video of his mom dancing the final pas de deux from Manon.

She’s beautiful.

Week after week, Peter goes back to class, and he tries to make his body move like the dancers in the video, like his mom, who used to dance with an otherworldly grace. Peter’s still not sure he has an ounce of that grace in his blood, despite the constant assurances that he’ll get there one day, but he tries anyway. He points his feet and holds his head up high. He smiles as he dances until the teacher begins to compliment him for his stage presence as well as his technique.

Peter is six years old when he performs onstage for the first time. The music ends, and the crowd politely claps, and somewhere out there, May and Ben are sitting, probably wiping away each other’s tears. Peter takes his classmates’ hands as they bow, and as they come up, Peter squints at the bright spotlight. If he stares long enough, he can pretend it’s his mom, watching him dance.

This is for you, he thinks. I can’t dance, but I’ll dance for you.

T W O

The day after Ben’s funeral is sunny, like the world is healing and mocking Peter for his inability to stop hurting.

There’s a knock on Peter’s door, and he hastily shoves the scissors scraps of fabric in his closet as he goes to open it. May, her red-rimmed eyes magnified by her glasses, stares at Peter’s face like all she wants to do is hold him close. It’s suffocating. It’s comforting. It’s painful. It’s sad. “Are you going back to dance today?”

Peter shrugs. He hasn’t gone to the studio since Ben died, but it’s been a little over a week, and people are going to expect him back, especially with their performance a month away. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” May says with a strained smile. “He’d want you to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Peter whispers, voice hoarse from unforgotten tears. “Not without him.”

It’s true. Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to continue dancing without Ben, who helped Peter sew all of his costumes, who drove Peter to the studio every day, who volunteered to help tech all of the shows, who took countless photos and videos from backstage, who cried every time he saw his nephew perform, who believed in Peter, even - or especially - when Peter didn’t believe in himself.

May breathes in, sharp and full of pain, and she reaches out, folds Peter into her arms and whispers in his ear, “You can. You have to.”

As it turns out, Peter can’t. He walks into the studio and sets his bag down, only to realize that he left his ballet shoes at home, so he walks right out and blinks back tears at the thought that Ben would have come running after him with his shoes in hand seconds after he left the house.

May is waiting when he gets home, curled up on the sofa in Ben’s favorite blanket. She takes one look at his face, wind-bitten and scrunched up from his efforts not to cry, and she calls in sick to work and makes him macaroni from a box.

“Do you think he’d be disappointed in me?” Peter asks, mouth full of macaroni.

May clicks her tongue, softly chiding. “I think he’d be proud of you. I think you’ll make him proud.”

“He always believed in me. I can’t even believe in myself, but he always did.”

“I believe in you.” Peter looks up from his empty bowl and catches May wiping away her tears, the heartbreak on her face so raw, so overwhelming that he forgets how to breathe for a moment. “You just keep dancing, baby. I’ll believe in you enough for the three of us.”

Peter goes to dance the next day, and his muscles, reborn with spider DNA, still remember how to dance, even if his foggy, grief-stricken brain cannot. For the first time, Peter lets himself coast through class on autopilot, lets his body take over while his brain crumbles, and somehow, by the end of class, he’s built his brain back up again.

His soul was still shattered, shards of it scattered to the winds like ashes from an overturned urn, but that was a problem for another day.

By the time the show rolls around, Peter has collected nearly all the pieces of his soul. Some of him is lost forever, left behind in a time before the spider bite, the time before Ben’s death, but he’s somewhat whole again, whole enough to dance off autopilot, to dance with a semblance of emotion and depth. His body processes the emotions that his brain can’t.

The last piece in the show - a contemporary showcase of student-choreographed pieces - is one that Peter worked on himself, along with the senior boy who taught him how to do a la seconde turns. The dance ends with Peter falling off stage as the lights turn black. The music builds, and dancers leap across the stage in time to the flickering lights, and Peter runs, sprints to the edge of the stage, holds out his arms, and when the music suddenly fades, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and falls backwards.

A strong pair of arms catches him before he hits the ground. The audience is still and silent, and the theater is dark, and in the few seconds after the dance ends when the world comes to a stop, Peter thinks Ben is back, here to catch him as he always promised he would.

Then the audience begins clapping, a standing ovation that ripples through the crowd, and Peter has to open his eyes and thank the tech guy who caught him, the guy that would have been Ben if Ben had still been alive. Peter boosts himself back onstage to bow, and as he turns to face the audience, he catches sight of May in the second row, clapping furiously with tears streaming down her face.

He would be so proud of you, she mouths, half-whispering the words, and Peter’s super-hearing picks up the sound.

I know, he mouths back, not caring if the director will call him unprofessional. I know he would.

He’s doing it for Ben, after all. He’s dancing for Ben and for May, for believing in him and challenging him to never stop dancing, even when the memories and legacies in it are too much to bear.

T H R E E

Peter should have known better to try to hide something from Tony Stark. If the man had been able to find out he was Spider-Man, his best kept secret of all time, then of course he’d find out about Peter’s senior recital.

“I should have known you’re a dancer,” Tony told him, draping an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “I thought those flips and that agility came from the spider DNA, but I guess you’ve got your own DNA to account for that. Mary Parker is your mother, am I correct?”

“Principal dancer of New York City Ballet at only twenty-one years old,” Peter said with a smile. Since first hearing of his mother’s career as a dancer, he’s done his research, and he’s proud of being part of her legacy. “Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but I’ve seen her perform as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was drunk at the time, probably, or maybe high on something, but I remember parts of it vividly. She was a beautiful dancer, your mother. I think watching her when I was in my early thirties was part of the reason why I love ballets and dance now. It just manifested itself twenty years later.”

Peter wants to ask more about his mom, wants to listen to Tony talk about her forever, but the man ushers him through a door, and he’s inside a glittering studio with barres lining the walls and mirrors stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Skylights bathe the room in bright morning light, shining on a sleek sound system that Peter instantly recognizes as Stark tech.

“What’s this?” Peter asks, stepping out of his shoes to reverently slide across the marley panels in his socks. “Is this for me?”

“Technically it’s Natasha’s. I had it built for her when we built the Compound. Barnes uses it too sometimes, which shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did the first time FRIDAY told me he was here. But yes, it’s for you too.”

“Why?” Peter turns to face Tony with a wide-eyed stare.

Behind his tinted glasses, Tony blinks slowly, fishing for words in a way that makes Peter nervous with anticipation. “I want you to feel included here. I know you don’t live here, but this is your space too, regardless of whether or not you choose to use it. Your studio is fiercely competitive, and when I last spoke with the director, private studio time was fully booked. This is yours to use if you want to practice a little extra or if you just want a space to dance in. I was also thinking you could talk to Natasha or Barnes if you really want to. They’d probably be interested in teaching you a few things about dance, both in the studio and out fighting on the streets.”

Peter’s overwhelmed by the thought Tony put into this, even though the man plays it off with an air of nonchalance. However, the subtle undertone of heavy expectations weighs him down, and he does his best not to panic in front of his mentor. “Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn’t have to.”

“I know. I don’t do things because I have to. I do them because I want to,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth curled up in an affectionate smirk.

“Thanks,” Peter whispers again, feeling small and scared and stressed for no reason at all. He’s never been very good at receiving gifts, never been very good at receiving expectations. “Thank you so much.”

Tony just hums and flashes him a smile. “You’re welcome, kid. You want to stay here for a little bit? If not, I can have Happy drive you back and you can catch your afternoon rehearsals.”

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure thing. Team dinner is at five. Don’t be late.” Tony closed the door behind him as he left, and in the grandeur of a studio, his very own studio for the rest of the day, for as long as he wanted, Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath.

An hour later, after changing into tights and his warm-ups and doing a quick barre, he’s working on choreographing his senior solo. Something Old and Something New, he calls it, writing out counts in quick strokes as he marks his thoughts on the floor with his feet. There’s a video of his mother in NYCB’s studio, working on a piece set to the same music Peter chose, a piece she never got to debut because she fell in love and got married and had a child, and by the time she was able to return to dancing, she had already forgotten about the piece.

Peter, however, picks up where she left off. He’s adapted the pointe work and made it more contemporary, filled in the gaps of choreo the video doesn’t show, and now he has this piece that’s mostly his, but there’s something about it that’s also not his own, a part of his dancing that never really belonged to him anyway.

Every other weekend, Peter begins spending nights at the Compound, having Happy drive him straight over Saturday after rehearsal ends and driving back late Sunday morning to get to the city in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsals. Even though he’s exhausted, he works hard on these weekends, training and choreographing and working on his technique late at night and early in the morning. He takes up Tony’s offer and asks Natasha for help, who ropes Bucky into the deal, despite Peter being too scared to ask. Some days, they’ll help him refine his art, give corrections on his classical technique, and offer opinions about his choreography. Other days, they’ll train him, teach him to use his body and his art as a weapon.

As a result of spending more time at the Compound, Peter meets the rest of the team and gets to know them. Among the new faces is a boy Peter’s age named Harley Keener, who dropped out of high school when they wouldn’t let him graduate early and drove up to New York, calling in a favor with Tony Stark. He’s a genius, Peter discovers, but not in the naturally gifted way that he seems at first. He works hard, harder than anyone Peter had ever met before, and he loves what he does. He lets Peter talk about anything, about the latest high school gossip, about chemistry and thermodynamics, about dance. Anytime Peter is at the Compound and he’s not in the studio, he’s with Harley, either hanging out or working in the labs.

“Do you like him?” Tony asks one day as Peter warms up in the studio. Sometimes Tony asks to sit with his work in the studio while Peter dances, and sometimes Peter lets him.

“I don’t know,” Peter says in between sautes. “If I think about it too much, I get anxious, so I just stopped thinking about it at all. With him, I don’t have to think anyway. I just get to be, you know? It’s sort of like dancing. I just get to be and do what feels right.”

Tony hums knowingly, and Peter fights the urge to blush. He’s pretty sure he fails by the way Tony looks at him over the edge of his glasses. “That’s how Pepper makes me feel,” he says, and he leaves it at that, the seeds of implications left hanging unsaid in the air.

Peter swats at them as he presses play, and by the time the song ends, the seeds have mostly dispersed, but some of them have taken root in his heart, and Peter has no choice but to let them grow.

All of Peter’s extra training at the Compound has made him an excellent dancer. He’s no match for the natural talent at the studio, but his hard work has paid off, and he’s rising in the ranks, slowly but surely.

It’s also made him a better fighter out on the streets, just as Tony had said. He could dance circles around Big Man and his men, and he had defeated Kingpin single-handedly with tricks he learned from Natasha and Bucky.

One night, about a month before his senior recital, a month before he graduates high school, Peter goes out on patrol in the precious two hours between school and dance. He’s exhausted, burned-out, and he’s close to calling it quits after thirty minutes, but when Karen alerts him of Kraven the Hunter’s presence in Central Park, Flushing Meadows, Peter swings his ass there with little more than a sigh.

“Spider-Man,” the villain greets, but Peter’s not there to banter with his words. Instead, he banters with his body, dancing past charges and blows and landing a few of his own. He falters once when Kraven pulls out a blowgun, and it’s his own demise because seconds later, he feels the poisonous dart find a home in his thigh.

But Peter’s used to fighting through pain, through injuries. He once sprained his ankle during an adagio and had to dance through his subsequent variation on the ankle. It was relatively healed by the end of the coda, but he knows the feeling of pain, knows how to fight through it and do what needs to be done, knows how to do it with art.

He wishes he could say defeating Kraven was as easy as plie, but it’s more like petite allegro, seemingly quick and seemingly easy but surprisingly hard and requiring more energy and control than any sane person should have at that point in a class. It hardly matters. The fight lasts no more than half an hour, by which time Kraven is webbed up in a Queens Zoo enclosure and Peter is at last felled by the poison in his blood.

Tony finally arrives, flying in with an urgency that makes Peter laugh because it’s a little too late, but he’s grateful for the help that Karen apparently called because his vision is going fuzzy.

“You did good, kid,” Tony says, and the way it makes Peter go warm feels like an antidote in its own right.

“Did it for you,” he mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. “I danced it for you.”

Peter awakes hours later to the sound of a door opening. Tony and May walk in as he slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings. He’s in a hospital bed in the medical ward of the Compound, and there’s a warm pressure on his hand.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Harley says, squeezing his hand lightly. “Guess you don’t need a true love’s kiss to wake you up after all.”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” Peter snarks back, and even though it doesn’t actually earn him a kiss from the other boy, he gets a laugh, so he calls it a win in his book.

F O U R

“The whole point of college is to try new things,” Ned tells Peter, dragging him through the door of whoever’s house the party of the night is being held. The two of them are in their freshman year together at NYU, inseparable to the very end. Besides, with Peter’s whole Spider-Man thing, Ned was the logical choice for a roommate. “Yeah, we’re not really party people, but we could be, right?”

“I don’t know, Ned. I’ve got, you know, spidery things to do tonight, and I have a super important lab write-up due Monday,” Peter replies, but the point is probably moot because he’s already dressed up and there, so he might as well stay. Ned must realize that too because he grins at Peter and hands him a beer.

“Even superheroes need a break. Come on, Peter. Live a little, okay? Partying is self-care.” The notion is so ridiculous it makes even Ned laugh, but as always, Peter’s best friend is able to lift his spirits and make him feel more comfortable in a situation that’s anything but comfortable.

By the time Peter has had his seventh beer, his spider metabolism finally gives in, and he feels drunk enough not to care. Ned ditched him for a group of kids in his computer science class, and they’re doing shots by the bar. Peter’s dancing with a few girls from his composition class, cheering with them when the music changes to a remix of a song they improvved to last week.

“You can really dance,” someone tells him, voice low and far too close to his ear. Peter whips around, ready to tell some creep to back off, but he’s blown away by windswept, blond curls and a glimmering smile.

His eyes are the wrong color, he thinks, and he immediately hates himself for the thought. Harley is probably batting his deep green eyes at his latest hook-up, whose name is Eugene, and Peter shudders at the thought that it might be Eugene Thompson.

“Thanks,” Peter says, staring into steel grey eyes instead. “I’m a dance major, so it’s kind of my thing.”

The not-Harley stranger laughs, and he smiles at Peter in a way that makes him feel appreciated in a way he hasn’t felt in months, maybe years. “So will you dance for me?”

“Only if you dance with me too.” Not-Harley lets Peter drape his arms around his neck as they swayed to the music, some early 2000’s pop song with dirty lyrics and a dirtier beat.

Not-Harley dances even dirtier, and after one song, Peter is more than uncomfortable and ready to deck the guy and leave, but then he offers Peter a drink, and it’s strong and smells good, so Peter drinks it and lets the guy lead him out to the dance floor again. It takes two more drinks for Peter to start dancing back, to lose himself in the rhythm and the feel of human contact, no matter how dubious it may be.

Then the guy kisses Peter, slams his mouth against his in a sloppy move that makes Peter moan anyway because he’s riled up on touch and taste and alcohol. “Harley,” he murmurs into the kiss, barely registering the guy pull away. “Harley, please.”

“I’m not Harley,” the guy says, and Peter’s eyes snap open, the world rushing back to him in overwhelming waves. “My name is Hayes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles, and although his voice is soft, he feels like screaming.

The guy, Hayes, just smiles at him with a look disguised as kindness as he says, “It’s okay. If you dance like that, I’ll let you call me any name you want in bed.”

In an instant, Peter feels shame and guilt crawl over his skin like bacteria, like parasites come to leech away all the good things in him, if there’s anything left. “I should go.”

“I don’t think you should,” Hayes says, tightening his grip on Peter’s waist, and in a flash of panic, Peter rips himself away with a bit of his super strength, tipping Hayes to the floor.

“Sorry,” he says half-heartedly. It’s all he can manage before the urge to sprint out of the party overtakes him, and it’s only when he’s in the cool night hair that he breathes, a deep shuddering exhale that leaves him feeling empty.

Is this what dance is for? he asks, looking up to the sky and spinning in slow circles. He knows it’s not. He knows dance is an art form, not some party trick to get into people’s pants, but Hayes’ cologne lingers on his skin, whispering that he’s nothing more than an object programmed for people’s pleasure.

Will you dance for me? say the demons in his head. Is dance really as sacred as you think, or will you dance for anyone who asks?

Not just anyone, he tells himself. Just my parents and my aunt and uncle and family of superheroes I’ve somehow found. Just for my classmates and my teachers and boys in clubs who look like Harley Keener and smile at me like I mean something to them.

F I V E

A scream rips unbidden from Peter’s throat as he hits the ground. They always say that beauty is pain, but he’s feeling decidedly unpretty as he cradles his sprained ankle, weak from years of never letting it heal properly, ever since that first pas de deux. Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that bad. His body is already working on stitching itself back together again, but it feels good to scream, so he does it again, letting it taper off into a dry sob. The tears he needs to cry never come, and he wonders if he’s broken or just accustomed to this feeling.

The door to the studio in the Compound slams open, and in runs a sleep-rumpled Harley Keener, wide-eyed in confusion of the sight of Peter on the ground. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Peter grits out, sitting up. “Just panicked when I fell, that’s all. Did I wake you up? Did I wake anyone else up?”

“Just me, I think,” Harley says softly, slipping on the marley in his woolen socks to fall gracefully to the floor beside Peter. “And I was already awake.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers.

Harley’s gaze turns sharp. “For what? Falling?”

Yes, Peter thinks, fighting a sarcastic grin. Sorry for falling in love with you. “No. Yes? Sort of. I’m feeling kind of like a failure tonight. And every night, really, but that’s trauma we don’t have time to unpack right now.”

“It’s only one a.m.,” Harley says. “We have all the time in the world, if you want it.”

Peter, who knows how short life truly is, wants to take Harley’s offer, to cherish his promise of more time, of all the time in the world, but he’s tired and in pain, and he can hardly form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Another day,” he says. “When it’s actually daytime, not some stupid hour of the night.”

Harley laughs, soft and sweet and reverberating around the room. Peter melts at the sound. He wants to dance to it, almost gets up and does. “What were you working on anyway? It’s winter break.”

“The latest piece for my composition class. It’s due when right after break because we have a showcase coming up.”

“Send me the dates. I love watching you dance,” Harley says, and the words make Peter sad rather than happy, and he doesn’t know why.

“I don’t know why you do. I mean, I don’t even like watching myself dance.”

Harley’s quiet for a moment, and Peter wishes he could take the words back. “I wish I could show you what you look like. You’re normally a swan, or some old cliche of grace, but when you dance? You turn into an angel. It’s breathtaking.”

Peter’s breath hitches, feels the warm glow of praise flow through his veins and lighten his heart. “Oh, Harley,” he says, and all the words he wishes he could say hang in the air. He’s never been very good at saying what he really means with words, fickle and fleeting. Dance, on the other hand, is emotional and eternal, and it’s his way of saying without speaking, of conveying the emotions that linger in his heart.

Harley cups his face in his hands, frozen fingertips leaving burning trails of warmth in their path as they trace along his lips. “Try again,” Harley asks, though it feels more like a command. “For me?”

Peter has never been able to deny Harley. With surprisingly stable legs, despite a swollen ankle, he stands, limps to the center of the room, and breathes.

That’s all dancing is, after all. It’s easier than breathing, yet the hardest thing he has ever done.

Harley starts the music, and all Peter has to do is breathe. He’s lifting up and sinking down and running and twirling around, and a minute into the piece, he’s forgotten about the pain in his ankle, about the misery that weighs him down. He almost forgets about Harley, but it’s hard to ignore his gaze, burning bright trails against Peter’s skin.

Peter faces the mirror in a lull in the music, stares wild-eyed at his own reflection, battered, bruised, broken, and beautiful. Harley said that when he dances he turns into an angel, and Peter sees it now, the otherworldly glow that dancing gives him.

Then the music pushes on, pressing him forward and he falls on his knees, the counts of floorwork giving him an opportunity to center himself again before he stands, preps, and turns, spiralling his leg up in the air and down again.

He’s about to fouette into the second set of pirouettes, but on the plie, he catches Harley’s gaze, burning brighter than Peter has ever seen it before. He stumbles, his weak ankle gives out, something cracks, and he falls again to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, defeated.

“Do you still think I dance like an angel?” he asks, feeling Harley kneel next to him.

“The most beautiful angel of them all.” Harley places tender hands on his leg, carefully probing and watching Peter’s reactions. “I think your ankles broken.”

“You’re probably right.” For some reason, he begins crying, quiet sobs of vulnerability, which hurts more than the physical pain. “Do you mind leaving me alone?”

Harley falters. “You need help.”

“FRIDAY will call someone, but I need a moment alone. Please?” Peter looks up at Harley, reaches out a trembling hand to caress the other boy’s face.

At Peter’s touch, Harley concedes. “Okay,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. “I mean it, you know. Every word I said.”

“I know,” Peter replies, and he does. Some people are hard to read, but Harley’s truth is written all over his face. “Maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

“One day,” Harley echoes. “I’ll see you around, Peter.”

Peter says nothing, merely giving the boy a weak smile. Harley flashes one back before finally leaving, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

Alone in the studio, Peter breathes easier, but at the same time feels the oppressive weight of some grief settle on his shoulders. Remorse, regret, guilt, goodbyes: they all pile on him, pinning him under their burden.

Farewell. It feels like a farewell.

+ O N E

In many ways, it was a farewell. It’s been a year since the incident in the Compound’s studio when Peter broke his ankle. It’s been a year since Peter has talked to Harley any more than bland small talk at team dinners and the one time they ran into each other in the hallways of one of Tony’s charity galas. Peter doesn’t remember much about it, couldn’t say what they talked about, but he remembers the heartbreak that flashed across Harley’s face when he first laid eyes on him.

It’s been a year since Peter last danced.

At first, he took time off to heal, partly because a broken ankle healing in less than a week would look extremely suspicious, but also partly because he did need to heal, emotionally as well as physically. A two-month-long break turned into a six-month-long break, and when Peter returned to NYU for his sophomore year, he changed his major.

There’s more to his year-long sabbatical from dance than an injury. There’s a history of doubt, of self-loathing, of feeling like dance was simultaneously what he was meant to do and what he wasn’t born to do. There’s a history of dancing for other people instead of dancing for himself, and the moment he decided to do something for himself, he stopped dancing. For Peter, having danced nearly his entire life, not dancing feels like he’s missing a piece of himself, a piece of himself he’s been trying to grow back with limited success.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to dance again. He doesn’t even know if he wants to dance again.

It’s winter in New York City. It’s cold and windy and snowing and cruel, but Peter finds himself walking through Times Square because he’s tired and numb and thinks that maybe if he stands in the brutally cold air in the middle of a crowd, he might feel a little less alone, a little less dead, might feel a little something at all.

Something at all comes in the form of a piano and a voice and hazy memories of a childhood spent dancing in his bedroom with the CD player on full volume. Peter walks through the crowds until he finds the source, a girl his age playing a keyboard and singing gently into a microphone as people passing by drop spare change in the cup on top of the keyboard. As people jostle him in their haste to keep up with the pace of the world turning, closes his eyes, Peter stands still, closes his eyes, and listens.

And then he begins to dance.

In his jeans and boots and knitted beanie, jacket and scarf discarded on the dirty city street, he dances. His body remembers what his mind wants to forget, so he lets himself move to sweet, sad chords and the voice of a girl who smiles at him once in between the chorus and the second verse. She knows what it feels like to fall out of love, out of love with yourself. She hopes he will fall back in love.

When the song ends, the small crowd that formed around them claps. The singer stands and takes Peter’s hand, her cold hand frigid enough to be felt through Peter’s glove. He squeezes it tightly as they bow, laughing and breathless, and Peter’s trying not to cry because the tears will freeze to his face.

The crowd disperses when they straighten up and the girl goes back to her piano with one last smile at Peter. One person remains, the bundle of Peter’s discarded clothing tucked under his arm as he claps a few more times. Peter watches him as lifetimes of repressed memories and emotions flood him, and when Harley catches his eye and smiles, that same smile Peter fell in love with in every lifetime before and will continue to love in every lifetime after, it’s impossible not to cry.

A familiar warmth envelopes Peter, as he sobs, and dimly he registers Harley’s own tears falling into his hair. “Harley,” he says. “Harley, it’s you.”

“It’s me.” Harley pulls back and cups Peter’s wind-bitten face in his warm, gloved hands. “And Peter, it’s you.”

There’s a story behind those words. It’s a story of a boy who loved to dance, who danced for others because it filled the holes in their hearts but ripped his own heart to shreds. It’s the story of a boy who, on a windy winter day danced in the middle of Times Square, who stitched together the remaining pieces of his heart with the chords of a forgotten song, who spun silk patches to fill in the gaps with the language of a forgotten art.

It’s a story that doesn’t end with a happy ending but a hopeful one because there, that day, with the wind and Harley’s arms encircling him, that boy was reborn.

#harley keener #peter parker #spider-man #parkner #harleypeter #dancer peter parker #may parker #ben parker #tony stark #ned leeds #ballet #angst #hurt/comfort #5+1 #5+1 fic #bella writes

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moonlightstars16 · 4 years ago

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Chapter 13 ~ Two Doors Open, One Shut

AN: Hey so I know I put out a schedule not too long ago. However I’m loosing inspiration(s) for this story and yes I will finish it. But I might just do it when I can. I’ll try to stick to the schedule.

The rain from the outside continue to pour down. Tapping the 'glass' on the window. The time was about midnight, as the clock struck and chimes echoed all over the place. The fireplace was barely holding onto it's light; as the tiny sounds of cracking wood revealed the small ember inside. However the candelabra's illuminated the area where two people were sitting near the warmth of the fire. Smiling and well deep into a good book.

Steven found himself clinging to Connie's every word. Not just because the story was well written, but for the gentle voice that spoke the words. It was unique to say the least. Being soft one minute and the next doing a crazy tone for every character. He found it to be quite enjoyable. Which was odd because he hadn't found any interest of stories being told to him like this before. At least not in many years.

"And this concludes chapter five." Connie spoke putting a bookmark on the page and closing it as a yawn escaped her lips.

"So we are stopping there?"

"Oh? Does his highness want more?" Her teasing tone made him roll his eyes.

"Well things did end when it was just getting good. Everything seemed so dull at first."

"A good build up and backstory is perfect for any story and it's characters!" She scoffed putting the book back on the small table beside her.

"Not if it takes three of those chapters to get there."

"With certain books I agree. But this sets everything up so well and leaves even more details in mystery! Besides I like the friendship between our two main leads. But it takes time for them to get there."

They both sighed out in exasperation. Obviously neither of them will agree fully to one side. But that didn't matter much in the grand scheme of things. Connie was proud of him for at least giving this a chance. Though she doubted her own vision and thought it to be an hallucination, she saw the twinkle in his eyes. Something she only ever seen only once before.

"You're smiling?"

"Oh" Lifting up her hand she braised passed her lips and cheek. Sure enough they were pointed upwards, exactly like a smile. "I suppose I am."

"Am I to suppose you've find it pleasurable reading out loud to me?" A malicious look in his eyes (playfully so).

"I-...I wouldn't say pleasurable... I guess I would say...perhaps it was...nice. Yes it was very nice to do something like this."

" 'Nice', hm... Well I shall take that as a compliment. After all you wanted me here to see if this helps me reconnect to my humanity. Or is it because you actually like spending time with me?"

"You know it might be both." The words slipped so casually in the conversation that she covered her mouth quickly while looking away. This wasn't going to pass by him so easily. Her words took him aback as silence fell while he registered the meaning. A smirk appeared across his face as he took the opportunity to tease her so.

"Do my ears deceive me? Or that's your way of telling me you like me."

"That's not what I meant-"

"Oh that's not what I heard. Plus you also stated that our time together was nice. Am I wrong?"

"No, but I...ugh!" She buried her face in her hands as a roaring fit of laughter emerged from within briefly before fading away.

"Oh Connie what am I going to do with you?" Standing up he extended his hand with hers. Waiting as she slowly accepted it. Feeling something inside her stir as her hand touched his. Though separated by a piece of leather fabric, the warmth from inside radiated off him. With a pull, slightly more forceful than normal, he pulled her up as she stepped closer to him to keep her steady. The boots she wore almost tripped her up. The mid-sized skirt tied to her by a corset and off the shoulder blouse, swayed gently in the brisk breeze that appeared when she stood up.

His eyes found hers as he looked into the beautiful doe-like eyes. One of her most unique features to her beauty. The tiny locks framed her face so elegantly. Even if to some it was all messed up and not so neat. His hand still clinging to her own as they did nothing else but gaze into one another's eyes.

The loud crack from the logs in the fireplace snapped them out of it. Both clearing their throats, hands still intertwined as he began to walk away, leading her out the door. Her pace matched his to the point they were side by side as they stepped through the hallways and up staircase's to her room.

"I shall expect you with Pearl tomorrow morning. Since you need all the information you can get." Connie nodded her head, slipping her hand away from his and opening the door and stepping inside. Pausing to turn back around as her curious nature took hold. Well more needing confirmation as of late.

"How long till the project is underway?"

"Only nine months."

"I-....I never realized how long it's been...only three months since I-...." Sighing, her hand slid slightly down the edge of the door.

"Humanity will survive... Rest well Connie." With that he turned away, returning to his own chambers as she watched him walk down the hall and disappear. The sincere gentle tone she heard filled her with warmth inside. Closing the door she leaned her back against it. Placing one hand over her middle and the other right above her heart. Closing her eyes as she breathed in and out.

"You too Steven."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The castle's midnight screeching came from one hidden area deep down below. The sound echoed through the walls just barely. It was similar to a ghost and so the residence inside dubbed these hours, the haunting. At least those who understood the concept of souls and spirits. Connie was laying in bed when it began, her thoughts of the previous few hours invaded her mind. The ghostly wales brought her back to the present moment. Glancing out the window she caught a glimpse of the Zoo. Briefly wondering if the sound originated from there. However the noises faded and she slipped back into her dreams.

Steven was sitting by the fireplace with his hands folded. Ignoring the world around him other than the flames that seemed to dance in his presence. He too thought about the hours prior with her. How natural it all came to be. The comfort of just being around her and the satisfaction of listening to the story she spoke out loud. Not realizing it, a smile graced his lips as a longing gaze began to form.

'See? What did I tell you.'

'She only read a book.'

'And you listened to her every word'

'It was a good story.'

'Then why is your heart pounding every time you think of her or the mention of the name...Connie?"

'I-....'

His other half was right. Clutching his chest he felt it. The pounding of his heart. A look of realization about what was happening took over. Eyes widened as his hand went to his mask and gulped. It was hopeless to dream of such things like this.

'Keep allowing her to be in your heart. You'll see-'

'Shut-up'

Steven told her before about who he truly was. She has seen it himself...

'Why is she willing to help me? Why hasn't she given up yet?'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another slash across the skin. Another scream. Another victim. Topaz had brought a new human from the zoo into the torture chamber. Ruby held the scared and confused specimen down while Aquamarine used a syringe full of sedatives to paralyze the next test subject. Getting annoyed by how much it squirmed as it seemed to her eyes Ruby wasn't doing the job very well. Finally after she hit the human's head with her wand and they stopped resisting, finally able to inject the elixir of sorts into the blood stream.

"Okay, let's inform Spinel that this one is ready for the torment."

"What does this sedative do?" Ruby asked chaining up the human by the wrists and ankles. Aquamarine looked into the empty syringe which held just a drop of it's contents from before.

"It's suppose to be all that we've tried so far."

"You mean immobility, unable to speak, and the memory loss?"

"Precisely, however the heightened senses of feeling pain is new. If this is a success, then everything will soon be ready for our final phase in the plan."

"Well we certainly won't know until I give this a test run." Spinel walked into the dimly lit cell from the shadows. A cloak wrapped around her shoulders, inside her whip, a sharp blade, even darts just for fun. Behind her was a dozen more cells filled with other test subjects. Some in 'better' shape than others, some worse.

She needed to find the perfect torture technique. One that will make a certain hybrid very impressed. Enough to have him draw blood on his own volition. To have him become the beast he was before. Unleashing all his destructive powers. Only she would have complete control over him. They would rule together and soon she would be the only one holding all the power in her hands. He needed to only be reminded of what he is.

A monster.

"Leave me." Spinel commanded pointing towards the cell door. Both gems complied without hesitation. Turning her attention back on her victim as she shut her eyes and laughed inwardly. Shoulders moving slightly as she took off her cloak. Pulling out the small dagger with one hand, the other with a whip. Advancing towards the human with it's back turned to herself. Slipping the sharp metal between the back and the belt. With a flick of her wrist she snapped it apart.

The blue vest now hanging open enough for her to lift it up with the blade. Tearing it apart from the body. Only the white cloth pieces remain. That she left alone, for blood that was so contrasting in color would surely grasp the attention. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the bare skin. So smooth with veins protruding from underneath. Tempting her with the promise of blood just a deep scratch away. Her vision became clouded with the promise of blood. Her eyes narrowing as she licked her lips.

It began centuries ago. Pink became Rose Quartz. The Diamonds had dismissed her entirely about earth an it's beauty. White 'punished' her by manipulating the form Pink held against her and began to cause her pain. The cries from it all rivaled Blue's power as she begged and pleaded for her to stop. Apologizing for her actions and formed back into a much submissive state.

Spinel had watched it all along with Pearl. Something inside her snapped as she tried to stop all this. However Peal held a firm grim on her, almost to the point where she could poof out of her form. Glancing up she saw the pain through her eyes she held. It was becoming more and more clearer that Pearl had deep, hidden feelings for Pink.

But to outsiders, they were blind to it all. Moment's like this made her ache in pain and anguish, wanting to help. Spinel knew that very well. However she knew that it had to be this way. She had to wait and watch. Not only for her survival, but for keeping Pink safe from any further torment.

Spinel watched in confusion as her Diamond cried out in pain. For the first time seeing her so weak, pitiful and defenseless. Whatever this was, she didn't like it coming from her. So when Pink bursted through the walls to meet them, having the appearance of Rose Quartz fully, she hugged her tight in her arms. They were best friends after all and nothing would change that. Rose smiled and gently embraced her with a hug in return.

A year after the rebellion and themselves hidden away on earth, Spinel felt the distance between her and Rose. From time to time they would 'play' together, but it felt more like a chore, a check on a list instead of something really meaningful. Spending less and less time together as Rose hung out with the human, Greg, more and more than herself or even Pearl.

One day while walking on the cliffs overlooking the sea, she found Pearl sitting on a small boulder, watching the sun set. She joined her without a word spoken. Both shared a similar feeling of being forgotten. Spinel glanced down and saw Pearl still holding onto the human brush Rose found long ago. Then into her eyes as she saw a certain wall forming around her. Closing off any emotions that she felt for Rose. Perhaps maybe entirely.

"She soon won't exist."

"What do you mean? You're not going to poof her are you?!"

"What- No! I would never Spinel! I meant-" A gasp escaped her suddenly, an expression of worry took over for just a brief moment. Regaining her calm and orderly composure she looked at her with a sympathy that almost looked fake. Almost. "She didn't tell you, didn't she?" Her tone more factual than a question.

"Pearl, what's going to happen with Rose?"

"Rose is...going to have a baby. I don't-... The best way I can describe it is that she will give up her physical form and pass her gem to her half human child."

"Half human?" Spinel looked down with a puzzling look before continuing. "That Greg Universe is involved somehow?" Anger rose within her voice.

"Yes"

"And you're just going to let this happen?!"

"It's what she wants. I...can't stand in the way of her happiness. According to human physiology since she has human organs and such formed within, she has about six more months-"

"I can't believe this!" With that she ran off to find her. Ignoring Pearl calling out her name. Anger rose inside her. If she had any blood, it would be boiling by now. Tears mixed with hatred, sadness and frustration overflowed her. Something inside her was changing and she didn't even do anything to stop it. 'She told Pearl and not me... She made her choice without consulting me?! Her best friend?! I thought... I thought we had a chance to reconnect....'

Finding the temple she broke through the door. Not even bothering to notice that Garnet and Amethyst were around. With her gem she opened up the door to her room and rushed inside. Finding Rose's room in an instant with her sitting on the clouds. Hands over her pronounced mid section right above her gem and sighed.

"How could you?!" Rose turned immediately to see an upset gem with tears over her cheeks. Eyes widening in realization as a pained expression appeared on her face. Walking forward she knelt down and sighed.

"I'm so sorry Spinel. I didn't mean to keep any of this secret from you. But it is my fault I didn't tell you sooner." No matter how angry she felt, all her emotions poured out ash she wrapped her noodle-like arms around her giant friend and cried into her shoulder. Feeling Her hand upon her back as she soothed with her with a soft lullaby. One that she had sung to her whenever the day wasn't so fun. And today of all days was one of them. Whatever was inside of Spinel, calmed down....for the time.

Hours had passed and they talked about everything that was going to happen. How things were going to change but her love for them all will remain. So when the day finally had come, she sang the lullaby to her one more time. Easing her into the next chapter of their story. With a soft 'I love you' the bright light came into the room and faded into a baby's cry.

Spinel soon had a new best friend to play with and talk too. Someone she could be herself with. They soon became the best of friends, watching over each other, being almost joined at the hip together. Sometimes, Spinel found herself wondering if this was someone knew or just Rose reformed. whatever the case she felt happy.

Until ten years had passed when everything changed once more. It all seemed like a blur to her memory. The ships blocking the clouds view, a burst of light as they all poofed away. Waking up she found herself in a holding cell. A large Jasper guard stood in place. Watching them all as they reformed one by one. Moments later, even before she could say anything to them, a huge blue hand picked her up away from them all.

The Diamonds gave her the ultimate punishment as they threw her into a zoo. A human zoo. One they had created ever since the gem war in hopes that Pink would return to them. Now a symbol of what her rebellion had created. Seeing that Pink was now the half human boy, they thought it would be best to separate them for awhile. The others were held in a cell. Greg was also with Spinel in the zoo like herself, trapped. Pearl was put in a solitary confinement for Pearls like herself. To reform and be 'better' Pearl servants than before.

Spinel wondered why she was put here with the other humans. But her wondering didn't last long as a few saw her as an instant threat. Acting like animals while others stayed hidden away from her. They feared and hated her for being a gem. Greg tried his best to help keep her safe, but even he suffered greatly at the loss of his son taken away from him. The promise he made Rose was broken. Spinel hid away from it all. Only finding tree's to conceal herself and the branches to use a a defense.

It was brutal. Whenever they found her, they would beat her to the point of poofing. Thankfully they were not intelligent enough to know that shattering was murder. So she reformed over and over as they repeated the process. Spinel thought Steven would come to rescue her. To save them all like he did with Lapis from Jasper. But he never came.

The feeling of abandonment flowed through her once more. Anger rised inside her deeply, something was changing from within and she welcomed it with open arms. If Pink had only stayed like herself, she would've saved them all from this. She wouldn't have had them all captured and locked away. They could be hiding from the Diamonds if she didn't run away and give up existing. Her powers would've save them all, just like before. They could've lived happily ever after. But that didn't exist. Not anymore.

'It's her fault.... It's Her Fault.... IT'S HER FAULT!!!'

Her mind screamed over and over. Finally it was her snapping point. No longer wanting to hide, she began fighting the animalistic enemies within her prison walls. At one point, while fighting she stabbed a human in the shoulder with the sharp point of her branch. Watching as he fell over and began to reveal a red liquid trickling from the cut she made. Something about it unlocked a blood lust inside. It reminded her of the pain Pink went through, the cried of torment from the memory to the sounds she heard now became music to her ears.

With a laughter so maniacal and sadistic, she began to do more. Have more cuts, see them bleed. Listen to the sounds of pain and agony as she stabbed, hit and murdered every human in that fight. Soon the rest became even more fearful of her. Those who tried to poof her now, didn't get a chance to even breath their last word.

Upon seeing the bodies covered in blood she smiled and laughed and laughed louder and louder. A bright light overtook her as she transformed into her new form. A black dress with pointed shoulders and ripped up hems, black boots instead of clown shoes. Hair in an upwards, messy twin tails like horns. Her tears formed black lines like masquera on human women running down the cheeks. The heart -shaped gem, turned upside down as her eyes were more blood-red.

She soon began to kill just for the pure enjoyment. Nothing would stand in her way. Anyone trying to defy her would be long gone. However this wasn't the only thing she found fascination in. Hiding in secret for her next victim, she heard sounds of what seemed like a mixture of pain and pleasure. Finding the source, she peaked through the bushes and eyes went wide. The two humans were moving on top of each other. Their clothing pushed to the side as their lower halves connected in a way that was quite astounding.

Spinel only heard about this once from oh so long ago from Rose. Apparently what she did with Greg to make their child. However instead of getting angry from it, she decided to understand it more. The entire event stirred something within her. So she watched and listened. Gathering up all the information she could.

A year had passed and Spinel was growing tired of just watching and causing bloodshed and fear upon others. But what she never had imagined was being placed by Steven's side once more. It was a way for him to be 'tortured' to bring back Rose's form. During which she saw a beastly side of him she never could see before. It was a glorious site.

One she needed to see once more.

With one final gash to the human's side she pulled back with what appeared to be heavy breathing. Seeing that she went a bit to overboard and attacked so much that the spine was shown and the subject was dead. Shaking her head she dropped her weapons and stood up straighter.

Removing the blood from her form as she sang a simple lullaby and wrapped the cloak around her once more. A song she heard Steven compose one evening. One that stuck with her ever since she heard the haunting melody. Waking away from the cell as Jasper waited for her outside with her arms folded and back against the cold wall, like his demeanor. Spinel's voice echoing through the walls.

'Your eyes see but my shadow My heart is overflowing There's so much you could come to know You're content not knowing Tenderly You could see My soul'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another successful day of the Zooman Rehabilitation project. Pearl decided to make an appearance this time around to help things really become more organized. It seemed a bit odd but intriguing to see Bismuth trying hard not to blush. Connie noticed her emotions instantly and smiled to herself about it.

Once all was said and done, Pearl went to go with Steven for a chat with Blue Diamond on the Diamond line. The others went back to their own duties. Connie placed a hand on Bismuth's shoulder with a smile and a whisper.

"Why don't you go talk to her?" Gesturing to Pearl the rainbow haired gem's blush became bigger and bigger.

"I-I don't-"

"Save it. I know what I saw. Why haven't you said anything to her?"

"It's not that easy Connie." Bismuth sighed before walking to a stack of books to put back on the shelves. "There are many times I could've said what I wanted to say. But I blew it. Now it's too late."

"What do you mean?" Connie asked grabbing a few books from the stack and helping her out.

"Long ago, before Steven was born, I saw Pearl going up to the cliffs above the ocean. Watching as she sat for what seemed like forever. In solitude. I knew she was thinking about Rose and her time spent with Greg. How distant she had become. I knew it broke her heart to have her relationship so apart in that moment." Connie remembered her training with Pearl when she asked about Steven. How she could stay at his side no matter what evil he done. The look of sorrow and rage from within as tears brimmed her eyes. She was still hurting from loosing Rose not just physically, but emotionally.

"What do you mean all the time's you could've said something?"

"Well one evening as the sun was setting, I was walking up the cliffs to talk to her and finally say something. But I heard her scream Spinel's name as the little gem ran right past me. Pearl reached out for her when she saw me walking in her direction. Awkwardly so I continued and sat by her. I asked her what had happened and she told me everything. I saw her holding an item that Rose gave her long ago. She was clutching to it so tightly, I knew I couldn't say what I was feeling. Not then especially."

"She hasn't let go, hasn't she?" Connie stated more like a fact than a question as Bismuth nodded.

"I did the best thing I could do. I just sat with her in silence. At least this way, she would know I'm here for her. That's the best thing I can do. Just be there whenever she needs a friend."

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merakiaes · 5 years ago

Text

Oblivious - Sokka

Pairing: Sokka x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: #12 from the kiss-list.

Warnings/notes: Some Sokka for anon! I hope this is what you wanted, if not, feel free to request something else! I haven’t read through it so sorry if there’s any mistakes. Hope you like it!

Wordcount: 2492

Summary: You have to kiss Sokka in order to stay hidden from firebenders.

”Okay, so I know your favorite color, your favorite food, and even your favorite water bending technique. Now, it’s time to move on to the real questions.”

You gave Katara a hesitant smile as she grinned evilly at you while rubbing her hands together, looking more like a crazy lunatic than the evil person she was probably trying to resemble. But nonetheless, it got your heart beating with anxiety and anticipation.

“I’m a bit scared.” You admitted with a nervous chuckle, watching as she leaned closer to you.

She looked at you for a moment without saying a word, keeping the tension thick in the air, until she finally spoke. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t even known you were holding at the question, relaxing as it wasn’t at all what you expected. Sometimes, you forgot that the girl was one and a half years younger than you and probably wouldn’t ask the same brutal questions the other girls your age had back in your little village in the South.

You crossed your legs where you sat in Appa’s saddle, the anxiety fading away and a smile rising to your lips as you nodded. “I have, yeah.”

“Really?! I didn’t know.” Katara widened her eyes, moving closer to you. “How was it? What was it like?”

You raised an eyebrow at her. “Hey, now. One question each, you already asked one.”

“Come on.” She whined. “Please, I really want to hear about it.”

You scanned her big, pleading eyes and pouty lips for a moment. Sometimes you really had to remind yourself about the fact that she, despite only being a little younger than you, was still a child who got exited about love and boys, something you hadn’t since you had begun your journey with the Avatar.

Sighing after a moment of silence, you gave in. “Alright, alright.”

Katara’s whole face lit up with a bright smile and you couldn’t help but smile back. “Who was it? Was it someone I know? Was it… You-know-who?” She asked excitedly, her voice fading into a whisper at the end.

But Sokka, who sat off to the side, caught it anyways, his head turning slightly in your direction to be able to catch the rest of the conversation.

“Unfortunately, no.” You chuckled. “It was Kallik.”

As if it was even possible, Katara’s eyes widened even more at that, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Kallik? Sokka’s sworn enemy Kallik?”

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms over your chest. “Oh, please. They weren’t enemies. They both just had huge egos and felt the need to compete about the top spot.”

“You’re probably right.” She agreed, a frown coming to rest on her face. “But how come you had your first kiss with him and not, you-know-who?”

You huffed out, leaning backwards against the saddle with slumped shoulders, hand picking on the fabric of your pants angrily. “You know how he was. Too oblivious for his own good.” You paused. “But anyways, I guess it could’ve been worse. I mean, he wasn’t… you-know-who, but he wasn’t all too shabby looking. I guess he was as good as anyone to have my first kiss with. And second, and third.”

“You kissed him several times?!” Katara exclaimed, successfully waking Momo up from his slumber where he rested in her lap. But the girl seemed far to fascinated to even notice the animal kicking to life in her embrace. “Did you, you know, do it with tongue and everything?”

“Sure.” You shrugged.

“How did it feel?”

You admired the way Katara still had enough youth left in her to get excited about small things like this, but you couldn’t help but wrinkle your nose as you thought back to the late night in the South Pole that you and Kallik had spent messing around.

You thought for a moment, not being able to find the right word to describe it at first, but soon speaking out. “Wet.”

Katara’s eyebrows furrowed together at that, her nose wrinkling up just like yours at the thought. “Wet?”

“Yeah.” You laughed, giving her a teasing grin. “He might have looked good, but he wasn’t a very good kisser.”

Katara laughed, you following her lead, her happiness just being so contagious. “I can’t believe we’ve lived in the same village with the same people all our lives and haven’t ever thought about getting to know each other like this before.”

“Yeah.” You agreed. “It’s nice to be able to talk about something other than Firelord Ozai, for a change.”

Katara smiled. “So, did you break up with Kallik?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but I’m not sure he got the hint. He’s with your dad and his fleet, and it makes me want to hit my head into a big rock when thinking about the fact that I’ll probably see him sooner or later.”

“Do you think he’s going to try to kiss you?” Katara giggled.

You rolled your eyes at her words. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so sure.” Sokka’s voice joined your conversation suddenly, causing you to whip your heads around to look at him. “Maybe it was you who was the bad kisser and you just don’t want to admit it.”

“Sokka!” Katara glared at her brother, bending out a small whip of water from her water bottle and hitting it to his arm.

Sokka shifted back in his seat, eyes wide and glaring at his sister while holding his arm. “What?! I’m just saying!”

“At least I’ve had a kiss.” You glared at Sokka.

He turned his head to look at you, eyes narrowed into slits and arms coming to cross over his chest. “I’ve kissed someone!”

“No, you haven’t!” Katara was quick to call out, siding with you.

“Have too!” Sokka shrieked out, obviously offended by the whole situation, even though he had started it himself.

“Oh, yeah?” Katara crossed her arms over her chest. “With who?”

Sokka’s glare suddenly fell, his cheeks tinting red. “With, uh… with- with-“

Katara smirked. “That’s what I thought. You’re just jealous that (Y/N) has kissed someone and you haven’t.”

You offered him a teasing smile. “Don’t worry Sokka, I can sacrifice myself for the greater good of your kiss-virginity, if you’d like. Proving to you that I’m not a bad kisser would just be a bonus.”

Sokka’s face turned a scarlet red at that, instantly putting on a defensive guard and scoffing. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. As if I’d ever want to kiss you. That would be like kissing Katara, disgusting.”

Although you would never admit it, his words stung, and had you up on your feet in a second as Appa finally landed after two whole days of flying. “You’re not the most appealing person in the world, yourself.” You scoffed back, moving to the edge of the saddle while looking to Katara. “I’m going to take a look around, yell for me if you’re in danger.”

You reached the edge of the saddle, just where Sokka was now standing, and pushed him to the side while muttering a sour “Move.”

Sokka stumbled to the side at the force, his eyes widening as he watched you walk away from them and into the trees. Turning to his sister, he threw out his arms. “What’s her problem? Was it something I said?”

“You’re so oblivious.” Katara scoffed, getting up and walking after you, leaving Sokka with Aang, the latter coming up to the former just then with a confused look on his face.

“I heard you guys bickering back there, what happened?”

“I have no idea.” Sokka rubbed the back of his neck, looking into the woods where you had disappeared, before stopping his movements short as he thought, eyes narrowing in realization. “Wait a minute, oblivious…”

Sokka shot forward suddenly, almost knocking Aang over in the process as he jumped off the flying bison, running in the direction you and Katara had gone while yelling. “Katara! Come back here! Who did (Y/N) have a crush at back home? Katara!”

____________________________________

“(Y/N)!” Katara’s voice yelled, pulling your attention away from the necklaces you were currently looking at.

The two of you had stumbled upon a small town when trekking thorough the woods in search of food, all while talking about her idiot brother, whom, unfortunately, held your heart and didn’t even know it.

Aang and Sokka had found you a few minutes later, and you had been spending the afternoon peacefully in the town, buying food and looking around; having fun.

But of course, said fun had been cut short as a shop-owner had recognized your faces on a wanted poster and alerted some Fire Nation guards nearby, leaving you to, once again, run for your lives.

“(Y/N)!” Katara yelled again, as she ran towards you braids flying in the wind. You instantly sprung into action, taking her arm once she was close enough and dragging her along with you as Aang fought off the majority of the guards with his airbending.

You didn’t know when or where exactly you had lost Katara and picked up her brother instead, but soon enough, it was you and Sokka who was running away from five of the dozens of firebenders, taking turns left and right into different alleys to shake them off, but with no success.

“Come on, Sokka! Run faster!” You yelled as you took another left turn, casting a look over your shoulder to loo at Sokka who was falling behind more and more.

“We’ve been running for the past fifteen minutes, I’m running as fast as I can!” He yelled back, arms and legs pumping harder.

“Well, it’s not fast enough!” You glared as you took a right. “They’ll catch up to us any second now!”

You made it back onto the town square then, and in the distance, you could barely make out blasts of fire and air battling behind a few of the houses. Without thinking twice about it, you reached back and grabbed a hold of Sokka’s hand, pulling him along through the crowd.

You reached your other hand out and grabbed a blue shawl from a mannequin before the shop owner could see, and rushed for the closest wall.

Your heart was beating fast and hard in your chest, your lungs breathing heavily form the intense workout and with anxiety for what you were about to do.

As you stopped by the wall, Sokka kept running as he hadn’t noticed your halt in movements, only to be tugged back from still having his hand firmly clasped in your. He whipped around to look at you, eyes wide with bewilderment and arm flailing.

“What are you doing?! They just got out from the alley!” He yelled out.

But you only breathed, taking a hold of the front of his shirt and roughly shoving him against the wall, figuring he wouldn’t have moved otherwise. “Just trust me.” You said as you held him in place all while wrapping the big shawl around your shoulders to hide your clothes, before hurrying to press your lips to Sokka’s, pressing your body against his to hide his, clothes as well.

Sokka made a sound of surprise, his arms flailing around briefly. Not having enough time to wait for him to regain his composure, you quickly took matters into your own hands and grabbed his wrists, positioning his arms around your waist and then placing your own behind his neck.

Just then, you heard the guards come out of the crowd, and you could only hope to God that they would be stupid enough to fall for your plan. And much to your relief, they ran straight past you, weapons raised and ready to attack.

“I saw them run this way, they must have gotten ahead! Come on, we can’t let them get away!” One of the firebenders yelled as they passed you, and just like that, they were gone, disappearing down another alley.

You breathed out through your nose in relief before moving to break apart from Sokka, but much to your surprise and without you even realizing it, he had started to kiss back and was now squeezing your hips tightly, stopping you from getting anywhere.

You found yourself melting into the feeling for a moment, before you managed to shake yourself back to reality, slapping Sokka’s chest lightly and mumbling against his lips. “They’re gone now, you can let go.”

The sound of your voice seemed to make something snap inside of him, as he instantly let you go and pulled his lips away from yours. Catching sight of his face, you noticed the intense red quickly rising up his neck and to his face.

“That was…” Sokka mumbled out in a flustered state, seeming to be a bit out of it. “That was…”

“A good get-away. Public display of affection makes people very uncomfortable; they didn’t even look our way.” You answered for him, taking a step back and looking around.

“Hey, so…” Sokka spoke again, pulling your attention back to him just to catch him rubbing his neck, his eyes squinted as he smiled a flustered smile, his cheeks a bright red. “About you-know-who… is it someone I know?”

You shook your head with an amused smile. “You’re an idiot, Sokka. Too damn oblivious for your own good.”

Sokka chuckled nervously. “Well, maybe we could do it again sometime. I mean, if we ever find ourselves in danger again, or just, you know-“

“Are you kidding me?” You asked, interrupting him with narrowed eyes. “This was a onetime occurrence, Sokka. It was like kissing Katara, as if I’d put myself through that again? Disgusting.”

Sokka’s face fell at your words, and you had to resist the urge to laugh out loud at the way his shoulders slumped with defeat.

And then you flashed him a smug smile, reaching your hands up to grab his face and pulling him in for another long kiss. When you broke away, Sokka’s eyes were wide open and staring at nothing, not even getting the time to progress what just happened before it was over again.

You patted his cheek with a teasing smile. “Let’s go help Aang and Katara.” And with that, you were off, allowing Sokka to shake himself free of his trance, the blush already dusting his cheeks becoming even brighter as he stared after you.

Momo came up to him them, landing on his shoulder. He turned to the small animal with a sigh, mumbling out a quiet and defeated; “I don’t understand girls”, as he started walking in the direction you had gone off to, a mixture of amazement and confusion clouding his mind and having him distracted for the rest of the week until he finally gathered up the courage to kiss you again, officially taking your relationship to a new level and sealing your fate together.

Tagged: @edarene @nekodemon73

(If you want to be tagged, send me a message with the character and/or fandom you want to be tagged for)

#avatar #avatar the last airbender #avatar: tla #sokka #sokka x reader #sokka imagine

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razieltwelve · 5 years ago

Text

Grand Design (Final Rose x GOT)

This goes with The Prince and the Rose.

X X X

Ned Stark read through his daughter’s proposal carefully. For a girl of only eleven years, her writing was impeccable. However, it was her logic that impressed him the most. She had always been cleverer than any girl her age had a right to be, but she also tempered that intelligence with practicality. She was not given to losing herself in flights of fancy. Instead, she was ruthless in applying her intellect in service to their family and the North.

Her proposal was no different.

It laid out in clear terms how she had studied everything she could about the great, productive mines of the Seven Kingdoms. She had paid particular attention to the environment and surroundings of those mines in a bid to identify patterns, and she had succeeded. If her reasoning was correct - and she’d yet to be wrong about something this important - then she had identified a method to find potentially productive mines through examining their surroundings.

Moreover, she had used her newly developed technique to identify dozens of potentially fruitful locations throughout the North. Iron. Silver. Coal. Copper. Gold. Those were just five of the resources she claimed to have identified. By the gods, if even a quarter of the potential mine sites turned out to be correct…

“You have read this proposal, have you not?” Ned asked Maester Luwin.

The old man nodded gravely. “I have, my lord.”

“And what do you think?”

The maester took a deep breath. “You already know my thoughts on your eldest daughter. She is… brilliant. Had a fellow maester submitted such a proposal, I have no doubt he would be feted throughout the Citadel. For a child to come up with such a thing… truly the gods have blessed her.” He nodded firmly. “I have examined her proposal from every angle, my lord. I see no reason to doubt her method. All that remains now is to test it.”

“Indeed.” Ned took a deep breath. If this worked, then the North would profit most handsomely indeed. “I will send men to the locations she had identified. If the gods are kind, then my daughter’s method will prove accurate and the North will find itself much richer for it.”

X X X

Ned called his daughter into his solar. As always, there was a solemn air about her, one that lightened slightly as she sat opposite him. He bit back a smile. His serious daughter never failed to show warmth around her family and friends. “Lyara, I have finally received word from the men I have dispatched. Of the locations you suggest, around a third look to be extremely promising.”

“Only a third?”

She frowned, and Ned chuckled before pulling her into a hug. “Do you truly not understand what this means, my daughter? For generations, the North has been the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, yet we have not been blessed with the wealth of the West or the bounty of the Reach… or so we thought. Indeed, we have often been looked down upon by the South. Yet now…” He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “It will take time for the mines to be set up, but to have gold, silver, copper, iron, and coal in the North is like a dream come true, and the North has you to thank.”

“Everything I do is for our family and the North,” Lyara replied. “It always seemed odd to me that the North should be so big yet have so little in the way of mines. Studying what the mines of the South had in common seemed as good an idea as any.”

“You are full of ideas,” Ned replied. “And all of them seem to work out.” Indeed, he had enjoyed one of those ideas earlier in the morning. Lyara had invented a dish she called ‘pancakes’ along with something she called ‘maple syrup’. Who knew that something so delicious could come from the sap of a tree? He had no doubt it would prove popular throughout the rest of the North and even the South. Better still, the trees it came from were found almost exclusively in the North. “It is like you were born knowing things.”

His daughter’s smile had a hint of mischief in it. “Perhaps I was, father.” He brows furrowed. “But do you think you could speak to the kitchen staff? There are a few more things I’d like to try…”

“Of course, Lyara. If they are anywhere near as good as pancakes and maple syrup, I see no reason to stop you.”

X X X

The first inkling that Edward Baratheon - who had once been Diana Yun-Farron - ad that someone from his old life had made it to Westeros as well was when Lord Eddard Stark sent a shipment of maple syrup to her father, the king. Now, maple syrup was something new in the Seven Kingdoms. Indeed, Edward had wanted to make it only to be told that maple trees didn’t grow in the south. Along with a good supply of the stuff, Lord Stark had also sent a recipe for pancakes.

“By the gods,” Robert groaned as he shovelled a pancake covered in butter and syrup into his mouth. “Is this what they eat in the North?” He laughed. “Cersi, tell the children we’re headed north.”

The queen chuckled. She was eating in a more refined manner than her husband, but it was clear she was enjoying the food every bit as much. “Robert, we’ll need a better excuse than that to go north. Besides, I’m sure your good friend, Lord Stark, would be happy to provide more of this…” She glanced at Edward meaningfully.

“It’s called maple syrup, mother.”

“Ah, right. I’m sure Lord Stark will be happy to provide more maple syrup.” Cersei ate another slice of pancake. “Although these pancakes are an interesting idea too. I am curious to see how they taste with other things.”

“He said his girl came up with both,” Robert rumbled. “She must be blessed by the gods if she can come ups tin stuff like this.” He stopped eating for a moment and straightened. “He also mentioned they’d found some goodly deposits of gold, silver, copper, iron, and coal in the North as well.”

“Truly?” Cersei raised one eyebrow. “I had thought the North lacked such things.”

“So did I.” Robert lowered his voice and looked sternly at the Kingsguard in the room. It was clear he wished the next words kept secret. “He said his daughter came up with some method to find mines.”

“But… she must only be a girl still. Where would she learn such things?” Cersei wondered.

“Aye,” Robert replied. “But look at our boy here.” He pointed to Edward.

Edward grinned charmingly, giving his father what the powerfully built man had come to call the ‘Lannister smile’. “Me, father?”

“Don’t be daft or overly modest, boy. The maesters tell me you’re a genius, and I’ve talked with your uncle enough to know most of the schemes that company of yours is using to make coin are your idea. You’re a boy still, but you’ve managed to drive the price of steel down by more than half with your new methods, and I’m told that’s only the beginning. Likewise, those potions and liquors you’ve come up with are worth their weight in gold.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m completely hopeless.” Edward grinned toothily, his smile all Baratheon this time. “Although it would be nice if I could borrow some reliable men.”

“Oh?” Robert grinned back. “What are you scheming now, son?”

“I have heard rumours of how silk is produced, credible rumours.”

Cersei stared. “Truly?” The price of silk was exorbitant at the best of times, and as much as she wished to have more of the lovely fabric, it was difficult to procure in large quantities.

“Aye, and I might even be able to start producing it too… if the right men could be found to carry out a mission for me. They’d need to be cunning men, ingenious too, and dependable above all.”

“I’ll look into it,” Robert promised. He’d never been much of a merchant, but his son had done a good job of explaining many of the more boring concepts in ways that were interesting. “Silk, eh? That would definitely help fill our coffers.”

“It certainly would, father.” Edward looked over to where his siblings were enjoying their food. “But enough of that. We should focus on enjoying this fine meal.”

His father laughed and went back to wolfing down his own pancakes. Normally, Edward would have been doing the same, but his attention was elsewhere. After all, he recognised the recipe for the pancakes. It was one he knew himself. In his old life, his parents had used it, and he had lovingly passed it down to his own children as well. Was it a coincidence, or had someone else from Remnant made it to Westeros?

Still, the introduction of maple syrup had reminded him of something he should have done long ago. His efforts until now had all been directed at earning enough coin to fix the parlous state of the royal coffers. Now that he - and the royal family as a whole - was practically swimming in money, he could turn his attention to food, namely, condiments.

Oh, yes, he couldn’t wait to make some proper condiments.

X X X

Ser Barristan eyed the ‘laboratory’ as Prince Edward called it with no small amount of wariness. The boy was undoubtedly brilliant, but his enthusiasm occasionally reminded the old knight of the pyromancers that had served the Mad King. Of course, it helped soothe his worries that prince’s efforts were usually devoted to either enriching the royal family or helping the kingdom’s people.

“What are you working on, Your Highness?” he asked.

The prince merged, a tall boy of twelve, with half a dozen men at his heels. Two were maesters, and the other four had been hired by the prince himself as apprentices of a sort. All of them looked at him with something approaching adulation for the knowledge and wisdom that seemed to emerge from him like some kind of gods-given gift.

“As you now, Ser Barristan, contaminated water is one of the single greatest causes of illness amongst the people.”

“Aye,” Barristan said. “That has always been the case, Your Highness. I wish it were not so, but…”

“Well,” the prince said, smirking. “That will no longer be the case!”

“Truly?” Ser Barristan asked. Oh, he had waited so long to serve a worthy king. Robert was doing much better now, but it was the boy before him that he truly believed in. Aye, Edward would be a great king one day, a king who could work wonders for the sake of his people. “How?”

“This.” The prince brought forth a jar of powder. “Although the ingredients are not exactly uncommon, extracting them in the correct purity and concentration was the tricky part. When this powder is added to unclean water, it cleanses it and makes it safe to drink.”

“It is a wonder,” one of the maesters said. “And to think it all came from a theory the young prince had regarding disease…”

“A theory?”

“We can talk about it later,” the prince said. “What matters is that if you add a certain amount of powder to water, then it will be made clean and safe for drinking.”

“But… surely such a thing would be expensive,” Barristan murmured. Certainly, he knew many people who would pay handsomely for it.

“It would have been had I not devoted time to honing the process of making it, and I know I could beggar people who wish to ensure their safety. However, I have no intention of asking too much for it. I am sure a family of even modest means will be able to afford the price I set.”

“That is… noble.”

“Yes, but it is also practical.” The prince grinned. “You see, Ser Barristan, the crown gets much of its income from taxes. We can only tax people if they can work. Sick people cannot work. In a very real sense, making this powder affordable will actually ensure the crown collects more taxes.”

“Ah.” The knight smiled. “A fine reason if someone asks you why you are willing to sell such a potent substance so cheaply.”

“Money is nice, set, but it should not be the only concern,” the prince replied. “Besides, I am to be king one day. What kind of king would I be if I chose to watch them suffer when aiding them was within my power?”

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “It is an honour to serve you, Your Highness.”

X X X

Robb Stark would forever the first time that he ever saw Lyara truly angry. Oh, sister could be grumpy, and she did scowl and glare rather more than was normal, but he’d never seen her truly angry before. And he was glad he had not, for the expression on her face, the sheer, murderous fury in her eyes was enough to terrify even him, and he wasn’t even the target of her ire.

The wildling holding Bran froze, his knife still held near the boy’s throat.

“Drop your swords!” he stuttered. “Drop them now!”

Robb and Jon looked at each other. Behind them, bow at the ready, Theon looked unsure of what to do.

“Let me brother go,” Lyara growled - and it was most definitely a growl. “And you and your fellows may live. Don’t and I promise that every single one of you will die today.” The sheer coldness of the words put the snow and ice around them to shame.

When no reply came, Lyara continued. “Bran, do you remember that trick I taught you?”

The boy was trembling with fear, but he managed to nod. Robb smiled faintly. Bran was a Stark, and Starks were not cowards.

“Good. Do it.”

Two things happened very quickly almost at the same time. Bran jerked his gloved hands up, bracing them between his throat and the knife. In the instant the wildling’s attention shifted to Bran, Lyara moved.

There was a flash of movement, and a pair of knives whistled through the air. One buried itself in the eye of the man holding Bran, and the other lodged in the eye of the only archer amongst the wildlings. Even as the men were falling, Lyara rushed forward, sword drawn, and put herself between Bran and the rest of them.

“Bran!” she barked. “Get behind Theon!” Jon, Robb, Theon, attack!”

What happened next was a blur. Robb was glad for his training and for his father and Lyara’s ruthless insistence on drilling him until fighting and proper technique were things he could do on instinct. By the time it ended, all of the wildlings were dead, and he, Jon, Lyara, Theon, and Bran were all still standing.

“Gods…” Robb’s stomach heaved as he realised he’d cut down a pair of men and injured another. Jon looked much as he felt, pale and staggering as he eyed the carnage. Even Theon, always so eager to talk of battle, was swallowing thickly in a bid to master his to mach. From the looks of it, he’d hit three of the wildlings although only two had been killed by his arrows. The third had been hit in the leg. Robb shook his head. Theon was a better archer than that, but, well, this was the first real battle he’d been in. Father always said that fighting for real wasn’t the same as practicing in the training yard. He’d been right, like he always was.

And Lyara…

Jumbled images filtered through his mind. His sister had been like a whirlwind of steel. She’d cut down man after man, and the look on her face now… it was frightening.

Nothing.

She looked as though she felt nothing, as though the men she’d cut down had only been obstacle to remove. It was Bran, he realised. Until they’d threatened him, she’d been perfectly happy to let them go on their way. But the instant they’d threatened him, she’d changed.

It must be the wolf’s blood. HIs father had told him about it once, and he’d said it was fiercest in Lyara out of all of them. Aye, Bran was part of her pack, and the wildlings had been foolish enough to threaten him. Little wonder she’d cut them down so ruthlessly.

"Robb,” Lyara said, and he flinched before settling as warmth returned to her gaze. Yes, this was the sister he’d grown so fond of. Outwardly stern, yet warm and caring all the same. “We need to go. There may be more.” She looked at Bran. “Bran, come here.”

The boy hurried over and all but buried himself in her arms.

“You did well,” Lyara murmured. “Father would be proud, I know it. But you must be strong for a little longer. We won’t be safe until we get back home.”

“Shit…” Theon muttered as some of the tension left his frame. “Shit…”

“Aye,” Jon agreed with a shudder. “Shit.”

Absurdly, Robb found himself laughing. “That about sums it up.” He shook himself. The horses had returned now that it was quieter. “Come on. My sister is right. We’d best ride for home while we can.”

Lyara helped Bran onto one of the horses and then put a hand on his shoulder before nodding firmly to Jon and Theon. “Rob, Jon, Theon… you all did well today. Bran lives because of your actions. Be proud of yourselves.”

X X X

Edward sat down beside Joffrey. “You’re scowling brother. What’s on your mind?”

“Why can’t I beat you?” the younger boy grumbled.

“Hmm…” Edward fought the urge to ruffle his brother’s dark hair. In his past life, Averia and often done hat, and there was something amusing about being the older sibling this time around. “First and foremost, you’re younger than me Joff. Oh, that won’t matter much once we’re full grow, but you’ve still got a lot of growing to do. We both do, actually. But your biggest mistake is how you approach the fight.”

“Oh?” Joffrey had their father’s temperament, but his build was more Lannister than Baratheon.

“Your build is closer to our Uncle Jaime’s, Joff, whereas mine is more like our fathers, which means I’m bigger and stronger.” Joffrey scowled, and Edward patted him on the back and grinned. “Peace, brother. Do you really think size and strength are all that matter? Look at our Uncle Jaime or Ser Barristan. Neither of them are giants, but you’d be hard-pressed to fight a single man in the kingdom who’d want to face them in single combat. Rather than relying so much on meeting strength with strength, you need to leverage your speed and agility. Moreover, I’ve seen you fight other people, Joff. You’re cunning.”

“I suppose...”

“Be confident in yourself. Cunning is a good thing. Ask Ser Barristan, and he’ll tell you the same and that it’ll win you more fights than just being big and strong. When you fight against the other squires and lads, you use your cunning. Against me, you’re too concerned with trying to outmuscle me. That’s not going to work. You’ll need to be quick on your feet and quick with yours wits if you want to beat me, brother.”

Joffrey nodded slowly. “Perhaps…” He shook himself. “How about another bout?”

“By all means. I’m always happy to help.” Edward grinned. “As your future king, it is my solemn duty to help my younger brother in all of his endeavours.”

“Could you not grin like that?” Joffrey grumbled. “It makes you look crazy.”

X X X

Author’s Notes

Just more snippets from the lives of Diana/Edward and Averia/Lyara. It won’t be long now before they meet. Of course, they’ll be overjoyed, but you can bet their parents are going to misinterpret things when they seemingly get along instantly.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here. In fact, I’ve just released a new story, Attempted Adventuring. If you like humour, action, and adventure, be sure to check it out.

#final rose #game of thrones #fanfiction #averia yun-farron #diana yun-farron #ned stark #robert baratheon #barristan selmy #cersei lannister

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a-deadly-serenade · 4 years ago

Text

Alchemy Between You & Me: Chapter 3: Tin [Guy of Gisborne/Reader]

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362053/chapters/67299466

chapter below the cut.

chapter 1: arsenic

chapter 2: sulfur

A heavy feeling settles into the pit of your stomach as you gaze upon yourself in the mirror. Your hand trails across the hem of the dress that adorns your figure, the cotton fabric soft against your fingers, and decorated in various trims that only confirmed your suspicions that it must have been quite expensive.

You took another deep breath in an attempt to calm your nerves as you prepared to leave, for today you’d officially begin work on the black powder. Closing your bedroom door behind you, a small part of your brain desperately hoped that you wouldn’t run into a particular someone, grimacing at the mental image of him gawking at you wearing the dress he’d chosen for you.

Clearing your thoughts with a shake of your head, you quickly darted down the hall and let loose a relieved sigh when you made it to the lab without any interruptions. Stepping inside, you allow yourself a moment to lean against the cool iron door, bracing yourself for the hard day of work ahead.

Walking over to the counter, you folded up your tight sleeves as best you could and got started.

First, you had to purify the saltpeter that would be mixed in with the charcoal and sulfur. This is what would take the majority of your time today, for the refined powder had to be thoroughly dried before being combined with the other two elements.

Tossing some wood into the fireplace, you grabbed a nearby candle and dipped the flame inside. After a few minutes, you had a roaring fire and you grinned triumphantly. This had been the biggest hassle to clean and it took about as much time scrubbing off the dust and soot from your hair and body as it did to clean the blasted thing.

Next, you placed a pot of water over the flames and began to gather up the other ingredients while you waited for it to boil.

When you heard the telltale signs of bubbling hot water, you carefully placed a handful of pieces of saltpeter inside the pot along with some wood ash you’d saved from when you cleaned out the fire pit. You learned this technique from your old teacher, a trick that he learned from reading a book by a fellow chemist that hailed from the Middle East. The wood ash served to strip the saltpeter of its other elements, mainly calcium and magnesium, to leave behind a purified powder. This would at last be sifted through a strainer to remove any impurities that remained.

The whole process took a few hours to complete and once the first batch was done, it was a simple feat of repeating the steps over and over again till you had sufficiently enough saltpeter to add to your mixture.

Sweat dripped down your forehead and you stepped away from the fire for a moment, dunking a towel into a bucket of cool water to wipe yourself down.

You hadn’t a clue how much time had passed, having been completely engrossed in your task. You’d also lost count on how many batches of saltpeter you’d purified at this point. Was this your fifth? Sixth?

Dumping the dried powder into the sift, you vigorously shook it from side-to-side, a plume of fine particles and dust billowing into the air around you. Thankfully, you had fashioned a make-shift mask from a spare piece of cotton fabric, although you had nothing to help spare your eyes from the relentless sting that always came when working with such refined materials.

You dab at the corner of your eyes with a clean washcloth and take off your mask to beat it clean against the sides of your desk. Patting your dusty hands on your dress, you carefully pour the saltpeter into a large jar, one of many that you managed to fill up during the span of the day.

Taking a step back, a pleased smile spreads across your face at the progress you’d made. This was surely enough to finally begin measuring out the ratios and the thought fills you with excitement.

You supposed now would be a good time to begin crushing the sulfur. A frown crossed your face at that. You’d always hated working with sulfur, it was greasy, dusty, and of course, it absolutely reeked. Any attempts to dull the smell were in vain, regardless if you did it near a window or lit a dozen candles.

Waving your hand in front of your face, you tossed the bowl of ground sulfur as far away from you as possible, but it was useless, the whole lab surely stunk of rotten eggs at this point.

Coughing into the crook of your arm, you pour yourself a glass of water and take a long and much-needed drink.

The sunlight waned through the windows and you took a gander outside. It was well into the late afternoon, a breeze ruffling your hair as you watched the townsfolk down below scurry about their day. Taking in a deep lungful of the clean, crisp air, you exhaled a long, exhausted sigh and wearily dragged your hands across your face.

You knew that you were pushing yourself to get this done and you also knew that should you rush the process, the final product would definitely be of much lower quality. Surely the sheriff did not expect you to have barrels full of black powder prepared by the end of the day? He was a little mad, but he wasn’t unrealistic.

Heading back to the counter, you grabbed one of the empty books he had brought by to be a ledger. Dipping your pen into the ink, you began to draw out a crude table in preparation for properly measuring out the ratios with the help of a handy scale.

A knock on the door causes you to jolt where you stood, your head whipping around to stare straight at it. It was as if you had a sixth sense, mind, and body both already knowing who stood behind the age-old iron before they even stepped in.

You feel your shoulders tense when they walk inside, irritation flashing in your eyes for a brief moment before you mask it with a forced smile.

Guy returns the gesture, smiling at you in greeting. He heads in your direction, his nose scrunching up slightly when he happened to stride by the large pile of sulfur.

“It appears you’ve been hard at work today, milady,” he said and his gaze flickered over to the glass jars filled with saltpeter.

“Yes, well, you’ve mentioned that the sheriff is a man who does not like to be kept waiting so I put it upon myself to begin work as quickly as possible,”

He seemed impressed by your tenacious attitude and took a step forward as he inched his head in the direction of your ledger.

“Are these your notes?”

“Yes,” you replied and pointed at the symbols that you etched into the table. “These all stand for the various compounds that’ll be used in the mixture. I was about to begin measuring them out when you decided to visit.”

He pointed towards the bowl of sulfur, his face contorted into a grimace. “Does that happen to be a part of your mixture?”

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip in a vain attempt to hold back your laughter and you chuckled softly as you nodded your head.

“That’s sulfur. It’s what’ll help give it the kick that it needs. It’s incredibly versatile, however, I could never stand working with it. The smell is simply terrible,”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Reminds me of eggs that have been left for too long out in the sun,”

You laughed again and nodded your head in agreement. “It’s absolutely horrendous. Although, it is rather fascinating that it naturally comes from volcanoes,”

He cocked his head to the side, his dark eyebrows furrowing together, creasing his forehead. “Volcano…?” he repeated slowly as if you’d spoken in a completely different language.

You blinked, confused, and then the realization dawned on you. “Oh!” you exclaimed. “Right, you… most likely would have never even heard of them. There aren’t very many volcanoes in England…” your voice trailed off, immersed in an internal tangent on how best to describe them to him.

“It’s a mountain, enormous and intimidating in its stature alone, that hides a deadly secret at its peak,”

Guy took a step closer, his obvious intrigue apparent on his face.

“What sort of secret?” his eyes shined mysteriously under the light cast by the fire and candles and in your zealousness to teach him something new, you did not notice it at all.

“It is filled with molten magma!” you said with a loud gasp, hopping excitedly on the soles of your feet.

That certainly caught him off guard and he was perplexed as he mulled over your response.

“Mag… ma?”

“Oh, it’s melted rock that travels as water does upon a riverbank. Sulfur is found inside magma once it has cooled enough to be refined from the ore,” you explained, as though it were the simplest concept in the world.

Guy stares at you, dumbfounded and you fear for a moment that you might have overstepped and said too much. But then again, you were an alchemist, it was your job to know about something like this. You hadn’t gone and inadvertently offended him, had you?

He suddenly burst into a round of laughter, your anxiety slowly trickling away as you softly laughed with him.

“You are truly remarkable,” he said earnestly. “I admit, I’m almost a little jealous that you understand so much about the world,” his smile morphed into a half-hearted frown and he sighed. “There were times I wished for nothing more than to leave, to try and have another go at life,” his tone was light, but the look on his face told you otherwise and you were shocked at this sudden vulnerability.

His expression changed, bewilderment enveloping his bright blue eyes before it was quickly stomped out and replaced with a vague veil of disgust. “Forgive me,” he said. “I merely wanted to say…” you noticed him inch ever closer, your gaze flicking down to his arm and back up to his face.

“That even if I cannot physically travel this world, I’ll be able to vicariously experience it all with everything that I’ll learn from you,” his hand tentatively reached out to grab your shoulder but out of reflex, your feet pulled you back, and you shrunk away from his grip.

There was an instant tension in the room.

Guy looked almost hurt that you’d done such a thing, however, the confusion came out first.

“Why do you recoil from me?” he wondered and he sounded genuinely upset.

Your heart started hammering in your chest and you took a step back, attempting to put some distance between you two. You feel tongue-tied, unsure of what to say. How could you explain that you’d heard about who he really was? That he had frightened a woman so terribly that she burst into tears when she spoke of him?

Placing yourself on the opposite side of the wooden counter, you face him with wide eyes.

He hesitated to lean in closer to speak with you, opting instead to stand with his arms folded across his chest. “Have I done something to upset you?”

You fidgeted where you stood, your teeth worrying into your bottom lip. “No…” you said carefully. “No, you haven’t. At least not personally,”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly at the shift in his tone and you huffed, defiantly placing your hands on your hips. “Sir Guy, what is this about? Unless you’ve come to assist me in making the black powder, I suggest that you take your leave.”

He was taken aback, his mouth parting open slightly from shock. “I merely asked you a question,”

“Yes, one that I find to be rather inappropriate,” you retort. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to work.”

You turned to walk away and start measuring out the sulfur when you heard him start walking after you.

“Just a moment—”

“Sir Guy!”

The two of you froze and your heads simultaneously whipped around to find Lady Marian standing at the door. Her green eyes were set right on Guy, her expression stern and unperturbed at the look he sent her way.

“Lady Marian,” he said with a sneer. “What brings you here?”

“I’d heard that there was a guest staying at the castle and I wished to formally introduce myself,” she said cooly and flashed you a knowing smile. “Was I intruding on something?”

Guy opened his mouth to send a sarcastic reply her way, but you beat him to it and said,

“No, my lady, Sir Guy was just leaving,”

He was stunned into silence, his gaze now on you. For a brief moment, a deep and tumultuous lament flashed across his face, but all too soon his jaw clenched and he held his head up high, unsuccessfully masking that you’d undoubtedly torn his ego to shreds.

He gave you a terse curtsy and hurriedly departed from the room, coldly striding past Marian without so much as a nod of the head.

Instantly you let out a long sigh of relief. Your shoulders sagged and you leaned against the counter for support, eyes fluttering shut as a heavy weight lifts from your chest.

The door slams shut and Marian’s boots tap softly against the stone floor. You feel a hand gently yet comfortingly squeeze your arm and your eyes open to find Marian standing before you, a kind smile on her face.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

You nod your head and smile gratefully at her. “Yes, I’m alright, thank you,”

“What happened?”

You gestured for her to follow you and she did, the both of you taking a seat on some stools that you’d placed near one of the windows.

“It started off perfectly fine,” you admit and take a deep breath, the cool evening air settling your nerves. “He asked me about some of the materials I’d be using and I had no problem explaining that. However...” you sighed, your head hung low in mild embarrassment. “Our conversation must have had a deeper effect on me than I thought, for when he tried to reach out to me, I turned away from his touch.”

“Oh…” Marian said quietly.

She was deep in thought for a moment and you suddenly recalled that the two of you had been interrupted the day before, there was still more that she had to tell you.

“I can see that you already know that which I’m about to speak of,” she said softly and you slowly nodded your head. Her lips were pressed together thinly and the features of her face were taught, laced in a mixture of anxiety and a bit of frustration. “There is no point in keeping it from you any longer. You deserve to know why your apprehension is well warranted... why I've come to despise Sir Guy of Gisborne,”

A chill runs down your spine however, you remain quiet, and silently wait for her to begin.

“Guy and I… at one point…” she heaved a heavy sigh and said, with her head bowed remorsefully, “Were to be married,”

“WHAT?!”

You squawked and nearly keeled out of your seat from total shock. “You were to be what?”

“It was not my choice,” she snapped. “I… I had found myself in a rather precarious situation and the only way to get out of it was to marry him,”

You looked upon her in complete bewilderment. What could have possibly happened wherein she had to marry Gisborne to avoid certain doom?

“Care to elaborate?”

She faltered, unsure, but then something clicked behind her eyes, a resound resignation that she silently agreed to with a subtle nod of the head.

“Guy discovered that I had been colluding with Robin Hood,”

“Robin Hood?” you repeated, the name sounding so familiar yet so mysterious at the same time. “Robin Hood? Robin… Robin… wait,” you said, mystified by your own conclusion. “You mean Robin of Locksley?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “He left around the same time you did, to go and fight in the Holy War,”

“No,” you gasped, horrified. You had heard stories of the terrible things that took place on the battlefield, hearing rumors on the state of the war-torn mind. Men would come home riddled with invisible scars, some so deep that it changed the very nature of their soul. Had Robin experienced something similar and fled to the woods to lead a life of solitude?

“He came back after four years of service and experienced first-hand how the state of this country had deteriorated. At first, he attempted to use his influence to push the sheriff into bending to his own moral compass but, I’m sure you can imagine how well that went,” she chuckled softly and you did as well.

You’d only been here a few days but you could immediately tell that Vasey was the sort of man that despised being undermined. You briefly wondered how long Robin lasted as a noble till he took to the woods to escape living under Vasey’s rule.

“It’s because of those morals that he finds himself an outlaw,”

“An outlaw?” you’re stunned. You hadn’t heard anything about him being an outlaw!

Marian raised an eyebrow up at you. “Did you not know? He saved three people from Locksley who were due to hang and was labeled as a disturber of the peace ever since. Have you never heard the sheriff ranting about a man called Hood?”

“No, I—” your voice trailed off and you frowned. “I had no idea. All that I heard is he lives in Sherwood forest now,”

“You haven’t a clue about what he does?”

“No!”

She laughed and gazed at you in disbelief. “Well, let’s just say that a certain sheriff would be an awful lot richer if Robin Hood was not around,”

“No,” you gaped and then burst into an obnoxious round of laughter. “Nooo! There’s no way that Robin…” one look at Marian’s face made you snicker behind your hand as you say, “He steals from the sheriff?”

“Yes,” she replied, a big grin on her face. “He returns it back to the people, where it rightfully belongs,” all too sudden this smile fades away and she sighs.

“These… these last five years have been incredibly difficult,” she muttered and anxiously kneaded her hands together. “The taxes that go towards the King are outright robbery and the way the people are treated if they can’t pay them is horrendous,” her voice is bitter, laced in disdain. “I… I always tried my best to help in any way that I can, but, that’s what ended up putting me here,” her gaze flicks to the side, a swift sadness overwhelming her.

“I assisted Robin in preventing a plot to kill my father, along with a few others that openly support King Richard,” she explained and you gasped.

“He tried to have those that serve on his council murdered?”

Marian nodded her head and she lowered her voice as her eyes cautiously darted around the room. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while that the sheriff has been working in tandem with various other nobles in a plot to dethrone the king,”

“That’s...” you stuttered. “That’s ridiculous. He’d be committing treason!”

“Not if they manage to get Prince John on the throne,”

“Are you saying that Prince John is participating in a coup?”

She frowned and leaned back in her seat, arms folded across her chest. “I cannot answer that definitively, however, I strongly suspect that it is true,”

You were dumbfounded and albeit, a little terrified. If the sheriff was secretly staging a coup to usurp King Richard, what else was he capable of? He was a lot more dangerous than you initially thought, giving you all the more reason to be exceptionally careful around him.

“But…” she said forlornly. “That is not the true reason for why I am here. You recall that I mentioned I was to marry Guy, yes?”

“Of course,”

“I agreed to it completely under duress, the reality of being hanged for assisting an outlaw constantly waved over my head. When the day finally arrived, well…” she chewed on the inside of her cheek and then pouted, shyly looking away from you as she swayed in her seat. “I...may or may not have refused him at the altar… and punched him… and took off on horseback… with Robin,”

You stood there, stupefied, an array of mental images reeling around inside your head. Marian punched Guy? Marian eloped with Robin? Along with the news that the sheriff was supposedly staging a coup-d'état, this was almost too much for you to handle.

“You punched him?” you stated firmly. “Punched?”

She nodded her head. “Yes, punched.”

“And then you eloped with Robin?”

“That is correct,”

She was so serious, in both tone and demeanor, that it only took a few seconds for you to crack and burst into another round of loud laughter. Marian quickly follows suit, and soon, the two of you are practically howling, clutching your sides as her words truly sunk in.

“You really punched him!” you almost shrieked, but immediately lowered your voice as you added, “Guy! In front of all the wedding guests?”

“And the priest!” she giggled. “One mustn’t forget him!”

“How could I!” you said shrilly and cackled behind your hands. “Oh, that must have been exhilarating,”

“You have no idea,”

“I’m almost a little jealous,” you admitted with a sly smile. “I wished I would’ve gotten the chance to do that to one of the men my father pushed me to court,”

“Oh, I can only wish you success in any future endeavors,” she mused and the two of you chuckled.

“But…” you said, your laughter dying down as you eyed her with pity. “It’s because of that you’re here…”

You hadn’t intended to kill the mood, however, the reality of her situation was much too serious to be overshadowed by what she had done, even if it had been well-deserved.

“Yes…” she replied solemnly. “Guy had come to my house a few weeks later, bringing with him a fury I had never seen before. His wrath was swift and before I could even stop him, he had set fire to my home,”

“What?!”

Her lip trembled slightly and she nodded her head swiftly, biting down on the inside of her cheek to prevent any tears from falling. “He burned my house down and ordered that we both be placed under house arrest, my father and I,”

“Your father is here?” you exclaimed. “In the castle?”

“Yes,” she gasped and clicked her tongue when a few tears managed to slip past her defenses, stubbornly wiping them away. “This has been the hardest on him. He has been in such poor health the entire time we’ve been here and they hardly do a thing to help him,” she spat.

“What’s wrong with him?” you wondered and leaned forward in your seat, hands clasped in your lap.

“I… I’m not sure,” she admitted. “However, I can tell you that he is very weak, sometimes feverish. He needs medicine and water and a decent meal for once, but I know that shall never happen,”

You shot up from the stool and Marian jolted in surprise, staring up at you with wide eyes.

“Not on my watch,” you said firmly and gave her a determined stare. Briskly walking over to one of the counters, you shuffle through the jars you’d carefully organized and gathered up a variety of medicinal herbs. Cutting up a piece of cotton fabric, you sew it together to form a small bag, dumping the contents inside and sealing it with a bit of extra thread.

“Here,” you said and handed it to Marian. “Grab a mug or two from over there,” you instructed. “I’ll boil some water that we can take over to him,”

“What is this?” she asked and closely inspected the bag. “Is it… is it medicine?”

“Yes,” you replied and carefully picked up a rock you had placed in the fire, dropping it inside the pot of water to get it boiling much quicker.

“It’s a mixture of herbs that will help with the symptoms that you described,”

“You’re trained in medicine?” she gets up and heads in the direction of the spare mugs, grabbing two and bringing them over to you.

As the water started to simmer and bubble, you gently let it drain into the two mugs, smiling at her. “It is just as important for me to understand the functions of the human body as it is to understand the functions of the universe. Although I will admit, I am much more knowledgeable in alchemy than medicine,” you added sheepishly.

She had a tight grip on the mugs, her eyes shimmering like gemstones in the light of the fire. “Thank you…” she said softly, rendered speechless by your kindness.

You gave her another smile and then urged her to lead the way to her father’s bedroom. She briskly yet cautiously walked through the halls, not wanting to spill a single drop of the precious hot water.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a wooden door and handed you one of the mugs to knock and signal her arrival.

“Come in,” a weary voice replied.

The first thing that you notice upon entering the room is the pallor of his skin. It is pale, sunken in, his expression hollow. However, when his eyes land on Marian, they light up and he smiles.

“Marian…” he whispered, relief washing over him. “What a surprise, I wasn’t expecting you today,”

She placed a gentle kiss on her father’s forehead and tenderly brushed back some of his thinning gray hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” he said and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Marian smiled warmly down at him, but she could tell that he was trying to remain strong in front of her. He knew how much she worried about him and for that he never wished to be any more of a burden on her; she already had enough to deal with.

“Father, I brought someone with me,” she said and beckoned you forward.

You shyly cleared your throat and gave him a wave. “Hello,” you said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,”

He eyed you skeptically yet stuck out his hand in greeting nonetheless. “I am Sir Edward of Knighton. And you are?”

You introduced yourself and he acknowledged your name with an indignant hmph.

“She is a friend of mine, one that comes bearing some knowledge of medicine,” Marian said firmly and reached into her dress pocket to procure the small satchel of herbs. “She said that this should help alleviate some of your symptoms,”

He turned to look at you, surprise etched on his features. “Really?”

“It’s a simple combination of herbs that will help with the chills, aches, and pains that Marian informed me about,” you explained. “All you need to do is steep this bag into a cup of hot water and drink it while it’s still hot,” you handed Marian one of the mugs and she dropped the bag inside.

After a few moments of letting it steep, she handed it to her father and he took a cautious sniff before downing the contents in one go.

He hummed pleasantly, his eyes shut in delight as he relaxed in his bed. “Why this has warmed me down to the very bones,” Edward said with a delightful glimmer in his eyes.

You grinned. “I’m so glad. I was furious when I found out how not only you’d been treated by the sheriff, but your daughter as well. The fact that he thinks he can get away with such callous acts…”

“It’s because he can,” Edward said sharply. “There is no code of honor anymore, not when men like Vasey are in charge,” he grumbled to himself and placed the empty mug on his nightstand. “You took a risk helping me today, young lady, and for that, I am forever grateful.”

“Nonsense, my lord. I am a partially trained physician, this is all just a part of my job,” you gave him and Marian a mischievous grin and they both chuckled.

“It does set my mind at ease knowing that there is now someone like you watching over my daughter,” he said fondly. “These past few months have been… rather difficult,”

“Marian has become an invaluable friend to me,” you said honestly. “And as long as I’m around, you will not have to worry any further about receiving proper medical care,”

Marian’s head whipped around to face you, her mouth parted open in astonishment. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course!” you exclaimed and stumbled back a bit as Marian tackled you into a hug. Your quiet laughter rang out in the room as you wrapped your arms around her shoulders to pull her close and return the embrace.

When she pulled away, she had tears pricking at the corner of her eyes and sniffled a bit, dabbing at her nose with her sleeve. “You are too kind,”

“It’s the least I can do,” you said. “The bag that I gave you lasts for a good three to four cups, but after that, the herbs begin to lose their potency. When you run out, simply stop by my lab and I will make some more,”

“Bless you, my dear,” Edward said and gently clasped your hand between his. “I never thought I’d see the day… meeting such a selfless soul in this castle.”

Giving his hands a squeeze, you exchanged a few more pleasantries before you, unfortunately, announced that you must return to your work. Bidding Marian and her father farewell, you retraced your steps back to the lab and walked inside, a content smile on your face.

This instantaneously vanishes when you see someone standing in front of the fire. That someone being...

Guy.

Your feet are rooted to the spot, your heart leaping into your throat as dread settles into the pit of your stomach. There was no positive outcome you could foresee to explain him being here. Had he come to toss you in the dungeons for your insolence? Take you to the sheriff to be dealt out a proper punishment?

With his back turned, you couldn’t discern a thing from him and cautiously took a step forward.

The sound of your footsteps seemed to finally alert him that he was no longer alone, turning on his heel to gaze over at you with wide eyes.

You halted in your tracks and looked back at him, stare unwavering and patiently waiting for him to make the first move.

Surprisingly, his gaze falters and he appears almost timid, glancing down at the floor and rubbing the back of his neck.

It certainly caught you off guard.

“I’m sorry if I startled you just now,” he said gently. “I only wished to see you again, so that I could apologize,”

Your eyebrows rose up in surprise. You definitely weren’t expecting that either. From what you could tell, his intentions seemed genuine and for a moment, your walls came down and you took a few steps closer to Guy. Folding your arms against your chest, you stare up at him incredulously, dubious as to whether or not he’d apologize for the right thing.

“My behavior earlier, it was completely inappropriate. I… I should not have acted the way that I did and I apologize if I overstepped my boundaries,” he cleared his throat and then placed his hands behind his back. “I can only hope that this did not completely soil our friendship,”

“Friendship?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Are… are we not friends?”

You frowned and unconsciously rubbed your arm. “I… I do not know…”

Disappointment flashed in his eyes and he sighed. “I see… it appears as though you’ve already made up your mind,”

You could not help but feel a little sorry for Guy, it was apparent that this meant a lot to him. Perhaps he’d read a bit more into your friendliness than you would’ve liked? Well, you can’t exactly place all of the blame on Guy. You had been rather fond of him the first night you met. However, things were different now, and it felt almost impossible for things to go back to the way they were knowing what you knew now.

“Nevertheless,” his voice pierced through your thoughts. “I personally believe that actions speak louder than words, so, if I could ask you to follow me,”

He walked up to you and you stepped aside, allowing him to pass as he tugged on the iron handle and held the door open.

You observe him with an air of suspicion and cautiously headed out of the lab. He kept his distance, leading you down a few corridors until you ended up in the castle courtyard.

When you reached the stairs he picked up his pace and sped down them, ushering his silent thanks to a man that stood nearby, his hands occupied with the reins of a gorgeous horse.

It was an enormous stallion with a beautiful dark brown coat that shimmered black in the evening sun. His mane was long and coarse, dark as night, and he had a white stripe down his forehead, topped by a cute pink nose.

You looked to the horse than at Guy, whipping your head back and forth for a few seconds until you finally understood.

Oh. This horse was for you.

“Sir Guy, I…” you stuttered over your words. “This… I cannot accept this,”

“Why not?”

“I… it’s… it’s too much. I would not feel right accepting something so lavish,”

“You are an important key-player here in the castle,” he said and smiled down at you. “We’d like only to remind you that we value your work, that’s all,”

“So this isn’t some sort of consolation prize?” you asked sternly.

“Well,” he said, his cheeks flushed slightly. “It would be a lie for me to say that wasn’t entirely the case,”

You sighed and took a step forward, allowing the horse to sniff your curled fist, his ears twitching as he assessed you.

He let out a snort, blowing some hair out of your face and you giggled, reaching up to stroke his lovely mane.

“Do you like him?”

You glanced over at Guy and offered a smile in his direction, your eyes glazing over fondly as your horse started to gently nibble on the tips of your fingers. “I do. However, I hope you understand that I am not so easily won, despite such an extravagant gift,”

“Oh, I know,” he replied. “All that I hope for, my lady,” he gracefully places the reins in your hands, his touch lingering for just a moment before he folds his arms behind his back. “Is for us to be friends. But… I suppose I could stick with simply being colleagues for now,”

He was handling this surprisingly well and you had to wonder… did he really learn something from your argument?

You were still wary of Guy, Marian’s warnings constantly lingering in the back of your mind, but he was more than willing to respect your wishes. Perhaps this all could have been avoided if you had told him outright that you desired some space? Ah, there was no point in lingering on the ‘what if’s’ now.

You gift him a genuine smile and nod your head in appreciation. “Thank you, Sir Guy, hearing you say that means more to me than you know,”

His face lights up and he bows before you. “Of course, my lady. Feel free to take him out for a ride, I’m sure he’d enjoy it,”

“At this hour?” you gasped. “Oh no, surely the sheriff would not approve of me going out so late—”

“It’s fine,” he assured you. “If the sheriff disapproves, he can take it up with me,”

“Are you sure?”

He chuckled. “Yes. Now, go before I change my mind,”

You beam up at him and hoist yourself up onto the back of your horse. He’s strong and gives his head a shake when he feels you pull on the reins, but he quickly relinquished control, staring straight ahead as he awaited your orders.

A strange sensation bubbles up into your chest and before you can think to stop yourself, you look over your shoulder and call out, “Thank you, Guy, I shall be back soon,”

His eyes glimmer with a mixture of emotions and one, in particular, makes your heart skip a beat until you tell yourself you’re thinking too much into it. You flash him one last smile before squeezing your horse around his barrel and urging him into a gallop, running through the streets of Nottingham and out into the colorful fields of Sherwood.

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threadsketchier · 5 years ago

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Whumptober #17 - “Stay with me”

Some of y’all may remember my old Melodramatic Space Trash™, I’ll Come With You. I took it down a few years back after getting epically stuck and then growing displeased with it overall. It’s in Princess Bride “mostly dead” territory, but...only mostly dead. After I wrote “A Hard Question” I decided that if ICWY were to keep existing I stubbornly wanted to connect them by having AHQ become the prologue of ICWY, and just bridge everything with my Zahn 2.0 series. But I digress.

For those of you thinking WTF is this story, ICWY is a “I LOL’ed & then I srs’ed” take on “Shattered Ties” by Jedi_Lover. AKA, Mara suffers irreversible amnesia of the events of Vison of the Future and is stuck with a dubious Force bond that’s not all rainbows and sunshine to deal with. Because, taken seriously, this plot is arguably a disservice to Mara in saddling her with more mental issues for sake of Luke’s manpain, I wanted to take more consideration on the consequences for her in any future revision. BUT I DIGRESS. This is the opening of Chapter 1, which has only had minor tweaks from its original version to make it fit with the new prologue. The first several paragraphs consisted of direct quotes from VotF in order to dovetail the story from there, so there’s a bit of that snipped here. Note the difference in Luke’s catchphrase for attempting to wake Mara carried over from AHQ.

He was standing in a pool just off the edge of the last of the underground rivers he and Mara had passed during their trip through the caverns. Five meters to his left, the torrent that had brought them here had vanished, leaving only the river rippling its sedate way along.

And two meters to his right, bobbing gently in the pool as she floated beside the craggy rock, was Mara. Her eyes closed, her arms and legs limp. As if in death. The precise image he'd seen of her in that Jedi vision on Tierfon.

And then he was at her side, raising her head out of the water, gazing at her face in sudden fear. If the trance hadn't kept her alive – if she'd struck something hard enough to kill her after he'd lost his grip on her –

Behind him, R2 whistled impatiently. “Right,” Luke agreed, cutting off his sudden panic. All he had to do to bring her out of it was speak the key phrase she'd chosen, the phrase she'd wondered aloud if he could handle. Almost as if she was afraid he couldn't…

He took a deep breath. “Come with me.”

There was no response.

A sickening dread began to clench his gut. Forcing calm into his voice, he repeated himself, a tremor still escaping him as he enunciated each word more clearly. “Come with me, Mara.” An almost manic hope that perhaps this was just a fiendish little trick of hers skittered across the back of his mind. Perhaps she had heard him all along and was only pretending, trying to scare the wits out of him for old times' sake. But he knew it wasn't true even as the thought crossed; however brief it was, the disorientation upon emergence from a trance wouldn't have allowed her to pull it off.

Only the quiet rush of the river answered him. Mara lay still and flaccid, eyes closed and mouth slack, a blue tinge to her lips.

“No.” The denial left him in a moan. “Mara, no. Please.” Echoing slightly off the cavern walls, R2's anxious fluting joined his exclamations and went ignored. Despair made his grasp on the Force as slippery as the sodden rock around him, and he crushed it down until it coalesced into a near-physical pain deep within his chest. He needed his senses now more than ever, to find if–

Instantly Luke was hefting her up and struggling his way out of the pool toward the nearest surface where he could lay her flat. She was not gone. Not yet. But she was near the edge and fading fast, her heart locked in either v-fib or a faint spasm of pulseless electrical activity. He didn't know if her lungs were waterlogged, but it was irrelevant at the moment. How many minutes had she already been in this state?

As it had been with the sentinel droids, his entire focus was narrowed to this one desperate task: to revive her, somehow. Fear, fury, and even expectations had to be cast aside as he began vigorous compressions. He could not fight the will of the Force, but he would fight as long as he still had her, even if only by a thread.

“Artoo!” he shouted, splitting his concentration just long enough to seize him in a mental grip and lift him over the water and terrain. “Get your arc welder out. I'm gonna need a charge.” More elaborate ideas were quickly dismissed in favor of the simplest solution. With the extra power packs, R2 likely still carried enough energy to spare at least one, possibly two, jolts strong enough to attempt defibrillation, although the effort would drain it significantly. A monophasic electrical impulse was not ideal, requiring more power and risking serious burns, but there was no other choice. The fact that they were all drenched just made it that much more dangerous. There were so many factors that he could not control without having a medpac's auto-defib for diagnostic measurements and adjustments.

All he could do was listen for the songbirds, to tell him how much and when.

“You ready?” At R2's affirmative chirp and the whir of his arc welder extending, Luke paused compressions for only a moment to gather a fistful of the charred fabric around Mara's shoulder and tear it violently to expose enough bare skin for the tip of the appendage to rest near her heart. The incurable gallantry within him, in a bittersweet way, was relieved that there was no need to fully expose her. Despite her usual crassness and pragmatism, this was not the way he would have ever wanted to see her, the last of her dignity literally ripped away.

“You need to press down hard, Artoo. Now juice it up, and I'll tell you when to shoot, okay?”

Beneath his hands he felt something give way with a soft pop, and strangled down sharp regret at having either broken cartilage or bone. It was almost inevitable with crude manual resuscitation.

Be careful.

Always, Farmboy.

But he hadn’t been careful enough. He’d come here to protect her, hoping to save her. But the harder he tried to prevent his visions, the more inevitable they seemed.

R2 blurted readiness, and Luke plunged into the Force, pleading for that precious guidance. Electrons gathered until…

“Now!” He pushed himself backwards, completely away from Mara and any residual water around her, and the astromech shot current straight into her. He watched her body twitch from the shock. Wheeping urgent queries, R2 leaned back to lift the welder off of her. Luke reached for her neck, but the tension had not cleared from his mind; it hadn't worked. To his horror, he noticed her arms starting to curl up and her fingers gnarling in decorticate posturing, an ominous sign of brain damage.

Gritting his teeth, he resumed compressions. “Again, Artoo. We have to try again. Same thing.” The droid's reply was blatantly nervous; it certainly wasn't accustomed to delivering what, in any other situation, would be harmful toward a non-hostile organic being. Astromechs weren't medical droids, no matter how heavily modified.

If it failed a second time, other options were far less viable. His bionic hand wouldn't contain enough power for that kind of discharge, and releasing energy from the few other electronic items they had left would either be inadequate or potentially deadly. Even after years of study, he knew he did not quite have the same deep, fine biological control that an instinctive healer such as Cilghal possessed. His own body was a living battery, but he had never attempted a Force technique for making any use of it that wouldn't involve Sith lightning, not to mention that he stood the chance of killing himself with such a wild endeavor. After everything they'd been through and divulged to one another, Mara would sooner prefer to die than see him call upon the darkness as a solution to save her.

He would have to let her go.

You've defeated my clone, you've slain a mad Dark Jedi, you've braved vornskrs, you've prevented Thrawn's rebirth, you've spat in the face of death a dozen, a hundred times. Fight back, Mara. Fight back for us.

Again R2's welder came down on Mara's chest. “Go!” he cried, and held his breath.

She convulsed a little harder than before. This time R2 rolled backwards, knowing a third try was beyond its capacity. Electrons dispersed haphazardly, depolarizing wayward cells, and for a split second her heart and his world were still.

Then he felt nerves fire in return, and it might as well have been the ignition of a new star.

Springing forward, Luke sealed his lips against hers and sighed out his pent-up conviction into her lungs, half the battle won. That's it, Mara. Come on. You're almost there. He breathed for her until he felt her diaphragm hitch, and sour water suddenly shot into his own mouth before he could detach; he rolled her onto her side as she gagged and coughed weakly. Her pulse was rapid and thready at first, but gaining strength. Hot pressure built up behind his eyes and a sob of relief escaped him.

“You did it, Artoo.” There had been many times, Luke mused, when his faithful droid had been worth double its weight in platinum, and this was one more of them. No, truly, R2 had no price.

Mara was breathing but not regaining consciousness; her eyes remained half-lidded and rolled back in their sockets. Luke refocused his senses on her to try to discern any injuries she might have suffered from their brutal journey through the lake's drainage that had caused the hibernation trance to fail. He shuddered to consider that it was his fault, that he had not done a thorough job in slowing down her functions and she had nearly drowned from his own hasty negligence. He'd been so certain that it was effective when she'd gone to sleep in his arms.

Across her head, however, he picked up a glaring area of inflammation, and it soon became clear that she had indeed collided with something on the way. It didn't lessen the pangs of guilt. If only he'd managed to hang onto her the entire way…

He would have needed a greater level of consciousness, enough that he would have run out of oxygen sooner and drowned himself. Or even slammed into the same spot she had, and neither of them would have survived. He could perfectly picture her chiding him once more about uncontrollable factors.

“Mara,” Luke whispered, still afraid but now suffused with hope, “we're getting out of here. Hang on.” The words were more for his own encouragement, for he knew she couldn't hear him. He bent and brushed his lips against hers before carefully lifting her again, and set his concentration on healing her as he began to follow the river's path out of the caverns.

#i lived bitch #i mean the fic not just mara lol #whumptober2019 #no.17 #my fics #star wars #luke skywalker #mara jade #r2d2 #ICWY #zahn 2.0

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