#and to take the arm away has got to leave him feeling strangely bereft | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alexaplaysgames · 4 years

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Have Mercy on Me

Pairing: Felix Escellun x GN!MC

Fandom: Fictif (Last Legacy)

Rating: M (swearing, mild sexual content)

Words: ~ 1500

Description: Felix and his barista are a bit less than careful when it comes to concealing their midnight make out sess.

Notes: So Sage suspects that Felix and MC are a thing, but he doesn’t know that they are. Or he didn’t prior to this fic. The last of my Felix writing spree! I’m moving on to some Asra next.

Tags: @margitartist @demon-paradise @themohawkhelmet @cactus-hoodie @aomiyeon @piningmaybeanartist @another-confused-gay

When I imagined travelling with the legendary Starsworn, sitting in the parlour of a run-down inn and getting wasted wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Sage grabs a bottle from the table at his feet and takes a hearty swig.

“Even this is failing to entertain me now,” he says, cracking his back as he stands, “I’m going to go pass out.”

“Will you kill me if I call it a cat nap?” I singsong.

Safe glares at me in reply, ears pinned flat against his head. “Do you want to find out?”

I opt to stay quiet as he turns towards the stairs that lead to our rented rooms.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night as well,” Anisa hums, her green eyes glittering in the firelight. “Goodnight, you two!”

Felix and I sit silently as the sound of creaking wood accompanying footsteps retreats up the stairs.

As soon as the parlour is silent, he turns to me, smirking.

“Ah, to be free of Sage’s incessant pestering.”

I too am rather glad to be alone with him. With all that’s gone on lately, I’ve barely had Felix to myself at all these last few days.

The cracking of the fire is soothing, the silence between us strangely comfortable. It’s rather odd, considering Felix isn’t one for quiet contemplation, and it’s very rare that any situation he’s involved in remains free of awkwardness.

I’m distracted from my thoughts as Felix glances down at our hands, still close together being that we have yet to seperate from our previously crowded position on the sofa.

Once again, I feel myself wishing that he would just ask for things when he wanted them, like he so obviously wants to hold my hand now. Am I doing something wrong? Is this some consequence of his relationship with Rime? I know almost nothing about that, I don’t really want to, but if that deer-man did anything to hurt Felix, I guarantee I’ll snap his antlers like Pixy Stix.

Then again, perhaps some of the hurting was consensual. He did have some choice comments about their sexual relationship that I’ve really been trying to forget. Yikes. I can’t imagine the Felix I know in a relationship anything like that.

He’s too precious... too soft. I feel like getting rough with him would break him, shattering his beauty to shards, like stained glass.

But I wouldn’t mind if he were a bit more forward with me.

“Do you want to hold my hand, Felix?”

He starts, then blushes as he meets my gaze. Felix nods, his expression turning resolute as he slowly reaches for my hand, then intertwines my fingers with his.

I reach to delicately tilt his chin up with the index finger of my free hand.

“I do like you, you know,” I tease, but the words still carry meaning. “You don’t have to be so hesitant.”

“O-okay. I know that, I do. It’s just... difficult,” he scoffs, a frustrated sound deep in his throat. His voice goes soft as he continues, “I haven’t- I haven’t done this since...”

“I know.” He doesn’t need to say Rime’s name for me to know who this is about.

I smile, sultry turning soft, then focus my attention back on the fireplace as Felix lays his head on my shoulder with a soft sigh. Progress. His hair tickles my chin, but I don’t really mind. He smells... nice. Like... well, he actually kind of smells like sage. Sage the plant, not the person. Felix would certainly take offence to the latter. I snicker under my breath just thinking of his reaction if I told him so.

I suddenly shiver as Felix turns his face into my neck, trying to stay still. He’s not a huge fan of casual physical contact, and I don’t want to scare him away. He’s kinda like a pet, a cat, in that any time he gets close I stay shock still in hopes that he won’t run off. He’s like a cat in many ways, actually. Grumpy, recluse, adorable. Another description he would despise, knowing his hatred for Stella. I purse my lips to keep from giggling. Man, if only everyone knew how hilarious I really am.

“You realize,” Felix hums, the vibrations creating goosebumps across my skin. “We are completely alone.”

My amusement fades in an instant, my features stretching into a seductive grin.

“Oh? And what, Felix, oh dignified and talented mage, are you suggesting?”

I can almost feel his face heat from where it’s pressed against the soft skin of my neck.

He sighs, then mumbles, “I beg you not to tease me so. We can’t all be as lascivious as Sage, my dear.”

“Felix,” I tease, despite his request, “are you asking for a kiss?”

He pulls away, face flushed red, biting his lip as he refuses to meet my gaze.

“No.” The answer is obviously yes, and although his pout is adorable, he sounds like a stubborn, petulant child.

I place my hands on both of his cheeks, forcing him to meet my gaze.

“Good. Because you don’t need to ask. If you want to kiss me Felix, go ahead.”

It’s a bold challenge. Never does Felix initiate such things, but I want him to. I want him to want to.

He blinks. Then, slowly, tentatively, he shifts closer to me, the sofa creaks beneath him, and I feel the cushions sink as he leans towards me. His breath fans across my face as he gets impossible closer, his eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks.

It’s in moments like these that it truly hits me: how incredibly intoxicating Felix is. I don’t think I could refuse him if I wanted to; my heart yearns to be swept up in the vortex of his stormy eyes, to drown in a sea as black as his fingernails or as red as his bitten lips.

I can just barely feel the brush of his lips against mine, leaving my breath stuttering in my throat. It’s nice- the closeness, the stillness. Intimate even, with our foreheads pressed together and our mouths just barely touching. I could stay like this with him forever.

Then our lips slide together in a familiar, passionate dance, slow and sensual and utterly delicious. I instinctively move my hands to tangle in his hair, pulling just the way I know he likes, while Felix surprises me by moving one hand to cup my face, the other to skim my thigh, and kissing me back hard, hard enough to make me feel like the breath that fills his lungs, and I struggle to refrain from smiling against the softness of his lips.

I pull away, trying not to notice his bereft, breathy little exhale, just long enough to quirk a brow before I place my hands on his chest and push him back into the sofa, chuckling at the noise of shock that he makes.

And while I love to have him near me, holding me, this is where I like Felix best. Pinned under me as I straddle his waist, wide, silvery eyes reflecting the dying firelight.

I lean over him, tantalizing, teasing, trace a path with my tongue from his collarbone to the shell of his ear, then finish by biting down on his earlobe, rolling the stud he wears in his ear with the tip of my tongue.

Felix gasps, hips involuntarily pressing upwards and against mine, a breathy whine building in his throat. I catch his wrists and pin them above his head, leaning back to admire the mess I’ve made of him.

“So pretty,” I murmur, twirling a strand of his hair with my free hand.

“You are quite,” his voice shakes with his ragged exhale, “resplendent yourself.”

I snort, hum, then lean forward to capture his mouth in a sinful, open-mouth kiss, grinding against him once more in a way that has us both panting into each other’s mouths. I’m not sure how long we stay tangled up like that, rocking together, never parting for longer than it takes to catch a breath.

His skin is surprisingly warm to the touch when my fingers flit under the fabric of his shirt, dipping over the soft give of his stomach, a gentle, exploratory touch I can feel mirrored by Felix’s hands on the bare skin of my arms.

I’m just about to suggest we take this somewhere more private when I’m interrupted by a choking noise. A sound not unlike that of a cat, yakking on a hairball.

Felix and I hastily spring apart, and my gaze is immediately drawn to a tall, white-haired figure standing at the base of the stairs.

“Holy fuck.” Sage whispers, his expression a mix of amusement, awe, and confusion. His eyes dart between the look of sheer mortification that paints my features and Felix’s disheveled appearance and half-open shirt.

Shit.

Felix flops back down, burying his burning red face in a pillow.

“Not now, Sage.”

Sage only smirks. “Interrupted something, did I? By all means, don’t stop on my accord. I’m all for watching, or joining. If you’re into that sorta thing.”

I can only manage to stare, slack-jawed. Is he really suggesting...?

“So,” Sage clears his throat, causing Felix to groan at the realization that he has not yet left. “You two really are-“

I nod.

“No,” he grimaces.

“Yes,” I deadpan.

“No,” he repeats, louder, frantic. “I cannot live in a world in which Felix has game. First Rime, now you? Are you sure you’re the one who got teleported to another dimension?”

“That’s not exactly what-“ Felix finally huffs as he raises his head, glaring.

“Whatever, man. This is some fucked up shit. Majorly fucked up, that’s what I say.” Sage crosses the room, retrieving a dagger from the nearby armchair and twirling it dangerously in his leather-clad grip (I assume this is the reason he came back into the parlour at all).

He makes to move up the stairs, but pauses, throwing me a grin over his shoulder, accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows.

“But if you ever wanna get a taste of the wild side...”

“Sage!” Felix exclaims, eyes flashing a dangerous green, but the former only snickers.

“Goodnight, horny children. Try to keep the noise level to a minimum, if ya know what I mean.”

I have to slap my hand over Felix’s mouth to stifle his angry retort.

This is going to be a long few days.

#Felix Escellun #Felix Iskandar Escellun #Felix x mc #interactive game #interactive fiction #visual novel #Last Legacy Fanfiction #Fictif #Fictif Last Legacy #Last Legacy #last legacy Felix

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years

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you've got that young blood (set it free)

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason.

Of Roman, Virgil, scars, and self-worth.

(Virgil would prefer to have this conversation when Roman isn't bleeding all over the place, but beggars can't be choosers. Roman would prefer not to have this conversation at all.)

Content Warnings: blood, injury, scars, brief and non-graphic panic attack, briefly implied past self-harm

Word Count: 6,509

Pairing: Prinxiety

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

He doesn’t expect Virgil to be waiting for him.

Later, he tells himself that he would have done it differently if he knew, that he would have made an effort to stand upright, would have tried not to waver, would have downplayed his injuries as best he could. And he tells himself that he would have succeeded, too, that with his acting prowess, he would have easily been able to assure him that nothing was amiss, would have been able to allay suspicion and send him on his way if only he’d had time to prepare.

None of that matters, though, in the end. Because he doesn’t know that Virgil is there, doesn’t know that he is perched on the edge of his bed (and has been for hours, though he will only learn that later), and so when he finally stumbles through the wardrobe that connects his room to the Imagination, he allows his knees to give out, allows himself to collapse to the floor, arm pressed against the deep gash in his side. He lets a moan escape his lips, half pain and half relief, because he has made it back, has returned, if not safely, then at least in possession of all of his limbs and most of his faculties. And he is practiced in stitching his own wounds and emerging into the commons a few hours later, any pain hidden carefully behind a dazzling grin, a few more scars added to the collection he never lets anyone see.

There is no reason for this time to be any different. So at first, when he hears the choked gasp, he thinks that his mind is playing tricks on him, that the blood loss is more severe than he thought.

But then, his bedsprings creak, and there is a rush of movement, and there is someone kneeling in front of him, hands trembling, hovering over his body, afraid to touch. He blinks, forcing his vision into focus, and the black-purple blur resolves into a pale face, wide eyes, and a patched hoodie.

Virgil.

He is speaking, words flowing from his mouth like a heavy rainfall, and he tunes in with an effort.

“--ell me where it’s coming from,” he’s saying, voice rushed, frantic, scared. “Oh my fucking god that’s a lot of blood, you gotta tell me where you’re hurt so I can fix it. Can you even hear me right now? Roman? Roman, please, you gotta--”

“I hear you,” he whispers. Pushing the words past his lips at all is difficult; he doesn’t have the strength to be louder. Most of his brain has devoted itself to figuring this out, trying to solve the puzzle of why, exactly, Virgil is here, appearing in front of him like a vision from the gods. And why, exactly, his heart is beating so fast.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Virgil says, quite vehemently. “Can you-- god, can you move? Like, your arm? I need to see how bad it is. Holy shit, Roman, where did--” He cuts off, leaving Roman unsure of what he was about to ask. And he doesn’t know what to do with the rest of it, numbness creeping into his brain, so he just tries to do what Virgil has asked of him, tries to sit up straighter and remove his arm from his throbbing side. The motion sends pain bursting up through his torso, like tiny fireworks going off in his flesh, and he bites back a groan. His sleeve is slick with blood.

“Oh, god,” Virgil says. He sounds so distressed, so frightened, and Roman wants nothing more than to tell him that it’s alright, that it will be alright, that he’s taken far more damage than this and come out the other side. He just needs his first aid kit, and though he could get it himself if he concentrated, it would be easier to ask Virgil to fetch it for him before he leaves.

But the words won’t come. He stares as Virgil pulls lightly at the fabric sticking to his skin, inhaling sharply as the pain flares again. And then, Virgil looks up at him, staring into his eyes, and he wonders, were they that color before? He’s always thought that Virgil’s eyes were brown, like Thomas’ are, but this close he can tell that they’re not, that they’re a dark purple instead, and how he mistook that color for brown, he has no idea. But they’re beautiful, like fractals of thousands of the darkest amethysts, glimmering with reflected light.

Virgil reaches up, brushes some hair back from his face, his fingertips barely grazing his skin. It would be a strangely intimate gesture if not for the sharp sting it causes, and Roman remembers, ah, yes, he took a rather nasty knock on the head as well. And head wounds always seem worse than they are, he knows that, knows that the drying blood smeared across his face is not indicative of a truly serious problem. But from the way Virgil’s staring, he’s not sure that Virgil is aware of it.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, though the words come out sounding more like, “‘M ‘kay,” and the slurring likely doesn’t inspire any confidence. But he wants Virgil to realize that he’s fine, that he can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need to stick around and take care of him out of some misplaced worry or misguided obligation. He has treated injuries far worse than this and lived to tell the tale. Or rather, to keep the tale a secret.

Virgil laughs, short and humorless. Roman doesn’t like it; it’s too dry, too bitter. “Where’s your first aid kit?” he asks, and though the fear is not gone from his voice, it is contained in a trembling undertone. He sounds determined, resolute, and Roman’s not quite sure why. But he was going to ask Virgil to get the first aid kit anyway.

“Bathroom,” he manages. “Cabinet under the sink.”

Virgil nods, and for a few moments, disappears from his line of sight. He feels oddly bereft without him there, like he’s been left in the cold, which is truly ridiculous. Virgil’s about to leave anyway. Once he retrieves the first aid kit, there’s no reason for him to stay. Roman can handle this on his own, should handle this on his own, frankly, because he’s the one who got himself injured in the first place.

But then Virgil returns, crouching in front of him, and rather than dropping the kit off and making his exit, he opens it, laying out gauze and bandages and thread for stitches.

“Can you take off your shirt?” Virgil asks. “Or do you need me to do it?” He doesn’t look up as he says it, continuing to rummage around in the kit, which leaves Roman to gape at him, because what? His mind feels slow and muddled, but he thinks that even if it didn’t, something about that request doesn’t make any sense. He spends so long trying to work through it that Virgil pauses, glancing up at him, brow furrowed.

“Roman?” he asks, more urgently.

The thing that Roman doesn’t understand is that he hasn’t left yet. That he seems to be staying. That he looks for all the world like he’s about to take care of Roman’s wounds himself.

Why is he doing that? There’s no need. Perhaps he hasn’t made that clear enough.

“I can do it,” he says, and proceeds to struggle out of his shirt, and then his undershirt. Every movement sets his body alight, but he grits his teeth and pushes through it, dropping each piece of fabric on the ground in a heap. The bloodstains are never going to come out of those, and not for the first time, he regrets designing the Imagination so that its effects linger. It would feel like cheating to do it any other way, but it’s in times like these that he wouldn’t mind a bit of cheating.

What a noble sentiment. Some prince he is.

He wrests his mind away from that line of thinking, reaching for the antiseptic that Virgil has set out. His hand closes around the bottle, but then, Virgil’s fingers land on his, and he stops short. Virgil is glaring at him, and he forgets how to breathe.

“What are you doing?” Virgil asks.

He frowns. “I told you,” he says, putting extra effort into enunciating clearly. “I can do it myself.”

There is silence for a long moment. Virgil stares at him, not saying anything at all.

Then, he does.

“What,” he grits out, “the fuck. No you can’t.”

That irritates him a bit. Dimly, it occurs to him that this might not be the time or place to have an argument, but he ignores that thought. “Yes, I can,” he says. “I do it all the time.”

For some reason, Virgil goes very, very still. His eyes flicker from Roman’s face to his chest, tracing across his abdomen with startling intensity. Under any other circumstance, this might fluster him, but he has the sneaking suspicion that there is something he’s forgetting, that Virgil is examining something he doesn’t mean to reveal. And Virgil is angry about it, Roman can tell; his eyes flare and his breaths become slow and deliberate, the same pattern he uses to avoid a panic attack, or to stop himself from lashing out.

Roman doesn’t want him to be angry with him. But he doesn’t know how to make him not be. He and Virgil have come so far from the unwavering animosity that used to lie between them, but he is well aware that his own inclinations and desires tend to exacerbate Virgil’s worries, and he has never been able to work out how to avoid that.

And yet, when Virgil speaks again, his voice is low and gentle, like he’s addressing a startled animal, and Roman might be insulted by that if it weren’t so pleasant a voice to hear. Sometimes, when the world is calm and there is nothing pressing to accomplish, he thinks he could listen to Virgil speak for hours, listen to his low rasp and unique cadence, the teasing, sarcastic tone that does things to his heart.

“Well,” Virgil says, “you’re not going to this time, okay? Lie back for me.”

He pushes Roman’s shoulder, gently lowering him to lie flat against the floor, and Roman is so startled that he lets him. He doesn’t understand this sudden softness, doesn’t understand why Virgil is insistent on doing this when he could easily do it himself, doesn’t understand why Virgil was even here to begin with. And along with the pain, exhaustion is crashing over him in waves, the last dregs of his adrenaline finally fading away. So he watches with half-lidded eyes as Virgil moves to his side, carefully rubbing a dripping washcloth-- did he conjure that? When did that happen?-- across his chest, wiping away the crusted blood. His motions are deft and sure, even as he begins to clean the wound itself, exchanging water for alcohol. Roman arches his back against the pain, gasping as lightning bolts lance through his side, but otherwise keeps as still as he can.

“Sorry,” Virgil murmurs, but doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna stitch it up now.”

“‘Kay,” Roman says, and despite the haze that has overtaken him, a thought occurs to him, and he lacks just enough filter to ask. “How’re you so good at this?”

Because Virgil is good at this, is clearly practiced, has done this before. He wouldn’t have expected it from someone so anxious, would have expected shaking hands and crippling indecisiveness instead. But Virgil displays only a steady, uncharacteristic confidence, and Roman doesn’t know why.

For along minute, Virgil doesn’t answer. The bite of the needle as he begins to stitch the wound shut is almost unbearable, almost sends him squirming and panting for breath. He holds himself still, but something in his face must reveal the effort it takes him, because Virgil stops, staring at him.

“Shit,” he says suddenly, loudly, and Roman jolts as he dives for the first aid kit. “Shit, shit, shit! Painkillers, I didn’t even think to--! Fuck, I am so sorry, can you--?” He holds up the bottle of Tylenol, shaking a few out into his hands, and he looks so angry with himself, so worried, that Roman can’t help but try for a reassuring smile.

“I c’n take ‘em dry,” he confirms, and does so once Virgil hands them over. “‘S okay.”

But Virgil shakes his head. “It’s not,” he says, looking at him miserably. “God, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m just…” He trails off, taking a breath. “I used to do this for Remus, sometimes,” he confesses quietly. “When he’d come back from the Imagination beat to shit. Usually it was Janus, but sometimes it was me, when Jan couldn’t be there, and painkillers do fuck-all for him, so I completely fucking forgot.” He pauses, eyes trailing over his torso once again, something like sadness in the set of his mouth. “Remus does this a lot,” he says, so softly that Roman barely hears it. “I should’ve figured that you might, too. I should’ve--”

He cuts off, and Roman is glad of it, because he has no idea what to say.

He used to avoid thinking about Remus as much as he could. These days, he thinks about him too much. There is no middle ground, and this just feels like another nail in the coffin that marks their countless similarities, another entry in the ever-growing list of reminders that he is not nearly as different from his brother as he has always pretended to be, not nearly as heroic, as noble, as good as he wants everyone else to believe.

He’s spending so much time in the Imagination, lately, and in his heart of hearts, he knows he’s trying to escape himself. What are a few more scars, easily concealed, if it means he finds a little bit of balance, a little bit of peace?

Virgil waits a few minutes before starting his ministrations again, giving the painkillers time to kick in. The needle still stings, still makes him clench his fists and bite his lip as he longs for a distraction, but the pain is dulled, now, and Virgil moves quickly and efficiently.

“Okay,” he murmurs at length. “That’s as good as that’s gonna get. I’m gonna look at your head now.”

He shifts positions, and is suddenly very, very close, filling up Roman’s field of vision. He doesn’t seem to care much about where Roman’s gaze falls, which gives him free rein to stare at him, at the determination that sets his face and the way his eyeshadow brings out the color of his eyes.

They really are lovely eyes. How has he never noticed that before?

Virgil swipes the washcloth across his face, motions gentle and firm and soothing, and Roman feels his eyelids drooping. There is something in the way Virgil is looking at him, something that Roman would almost call tenderness if he wasn’t well aware of the fact that Virgil doesn’t do tenderness, tries not to do vulnerability at all. Roman can’t throw stones; he dislikes showing vulnerability too, dislikes presenting himself as anything less than strong and brave and put together. The fact that he is in this position, showing weakness, allowing himself to be cared for, is almost more than he can stand, and he’s sure that he would be far more upset about it if he were less tired, less in pain. If it were someone else here, if it weren’t Virgil.

He’s too exhausted to examine that right now.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Virgil chuckle, soft and far more genuine than before, and he pries them open again. Virgil’s face is blurry, hovering just above his.

“The head wound looks a lot worse than it is,” Virgil tells him, voice distant, and if he had the energy to do so, he would respond with something along the lines of, I could’ve told you that. Because he could have, if his words would cooperate with him. “You’re gonna be okay, Princey. You can go to sleep.”

Sleep. It sounds appealing. Isn’t there something else he should do, though, something else to say? Something to say to Virgil, specifically, Virgil, who is here, taking care of him, even when there was no need, when he would have been fine doing it himself just like always.

“‘Kay,” he whispers, his eyes sliding shut again. The world seems distant now, the pain barely a blip on his radar. “‘M sorry… you had to spend so much time…”

There is a conclusion to that sentence. But he can’t find it.

Dimly, he is aware of the washcloth’s motions pausing, resting warmly on his cheek. Virgil says something, then, something that travels down a long tunnel to reach him and that sounds something like, “You have nothing to apologize for,” but that can’t be right, because he knows that’s not true. And he thinks, too, that he feels a finger graze his face, tracing a line that Virgil cannot know, because Roman has always taken such great care to hide the markings that mar his skin.

But consciousness is slipping away, and he lets it go.

-----

Roman wakes, and immediately tries to move. This ends up being a mistake; pain shoots through him, originating from his side, and it rips a whimper from his lips. His head throbs, too, and reaching up with a shaky hand reveals that there is a bandage wrapped firmly around his forehead. Further investigation shows him that there are bandages around his abdomen, too, secure and restricting, and that his chest is otherwise bare.

“Oh my god, you dumbass,” someone says, and suddenly, Virgil is there, leaning over him, hair disheveled and eyeshadow deeper than usual, and Roman cannot help but stare. “What are you doing, you’re gonna tear something open. I’m not stitching you up again, genius.”

Oh. Right. He settles back against the pillows and does his best not to react externally as the memories come rushing back. Practically falling out of his own wardrobe, letting Virgil take care of him, making a fool of himself in general. Fantastic.

“Right,” he says, and winces at the hoarseness of his voice. “Sorry about that. How long have I been asleep?”

Virgil sighs, perching next to him on the edge of the bed. “Not too long,” he says. “A few hours. You could probably do with some more.”

Oh, absolutely not. A few hours is more than enough time to be well on the way to recovery, or at least, enough time to seem as if he is. Though, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Surely, the whole mindscape knows about this by now. Surely, Virgil’s told Patton and Logan, or at least answered their questions if they asked what he’s been doing. He’s surprised they’re not in here, Logan ready with a lecture and Patton full of guilt, guilt that is entirely undeserved, since all of this is Roman’s own fault.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Virgil shifts his weight, glancing away.

“I told the others that I was helping you with a project,” he says, casually, as if he’s not upending Roman’s entire worldview, as if Roman doesn’t know full well that Virgil absolutely hates lying. “I think they bought it, so, uh. Janus might know something’s up, but he probably knows anyway, since you’ve been lying to us about it for so long.”

Roman’s stomach drops into his shoes. There is no bite to Virgil’s words, but it must be there, because Virgil must be angry at the deception. He didn’t plan to ever reveal the truth; he didn’t want to worry them, and more than that, he didn’t want them to know how weak he truly is, how imperfect. Though that’s another thing that they’re surely well-versed in by now, so he’s not sure why he bothers.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Virgil frowns.

“I didn’t mean it like--” He stops, shaking his head, and takes a few steadying breaths. Four-seven-eight. “Okay. I’m kinda scared shitless of having this conversation, but it clearly needs to happen, so. How long has this been going on?”

He’d hoped that Virgil would let it go. That Virgil’s tendency toward conflict avoidance would guide him away from asking any of the difficult questions. He should have remembered that only half of Virgil is flight, that he is just as capable of fight, of raising his voice and demanding his answers, that Virgil’s brand of courage is odd but no less present for that.

“What do you mean?” he asks weakly, and even as he says the words, he knows that the avoidance tactic won’t work. Not here, not now, and wouldn’t have even if he didn’t sound like he’s on death’s door.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Virgil says. He gestures, and then crosses his arms. “You. This. Getting hurt, and not telling us about it. Not letting us help.”

He chews on that for a moment, on the idea that helping would be a thing that they would want to do. Surely, there are better uses for their time? This is another reason why he made sure to hide it; if they knew, they would feel obligated to come to his aid, just as Virgil has. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want them to help him because they’ve fooled themselves into thinking they have to.

He clears his throat. “Not terribly often,” he says, and hopes that the lie isn’t powerful enough, isn’t loud enough to draw Deceit’s attention. “And even when it does, it’s nothing I can’t handle, really. I’m quite capable of patching myself up, you know.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I roped you into doing it.”

Virgil exhales sharply. “Roped me-- okay. Alright, that’s bullshit. You didn’t rope me into taking care of you, I did it because I was fucking worried about you.”

“I didn’t want to upset--”

“If you’re about to tell me you didn’t want to upset me, I swear to god, I will scream.” Roman dutifully shuts his mouth. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but you didn’t force me into helping you. I did that because I... I fucking care about you, alright? And I don’t want you to be hurt.” Throughout the speech, Virgil’s face grows steadily redder under his foundation, his knees beginning to bounce up and down like pogo sticks. He looks very much like he would like to run from the room, and perhaps it is a sign of how important he considers this to be that he doesn’t.

Roman stares, trying to process that. He has no idea how to respond.

Virgil takes another breath, visibly calming himself. “Look, I… this isn’t even what I wanted to talk about.” He meets Roman’s eyes, regarding him steadily. “I know you’re lying. About it not happening often. It happens a lot, doesn’t it?”

“How do you--” He breaks off, his mind racing in an effort to figure out how Virgil could possibly know that. This is the first time he’s been caught, after all, not just by Virgil but by anyone, and one time does not a pattern make. He shouldn’t be able to guess, shouldn’t be able to say it with such stark certainty, not unless he already had a low opinion of his fighting prowess, and that burns in a way he would like to not scrutinize too closely--

“Roman.”

Virgil’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, and he glances over. Virgil is staring at him, an odd expression on his face, somewhere between resignation and sorrow, and for a split second, Roman is almost overwhelmed by the urge to try to smooth that expression away, to do anything to put a smile on his face. Virgil’s smiles are rare, but that makes them all the more precious.

“You don’t even know that you’re doing it, do you,” Virgil says. “It comes naturally. You don’t even think about it.”

He blinks, because what? What is he talking about?

And then, Virgil reaches out to caress his face, and his brain bluescreens.

It’s a caress. There’s no other way to describe it, no other way to label the way his fingers lightly stroke his skin and hold his cheek. His face feels as though it has been set aflame, sparks going off wherever contact is made. He wants Virgil to stop. He wants to bury his face in his pillow for the rest of time and scream. He wants Virgil to keep holding him forever.

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason. He remembers it, then, remembers the way Virgil looked at his chest, at his face while he was treating him. He didn’t have the awareness to realize it then, but he does now, realizes exactly what Virgil saw, what he put together, and his breaths come short and quick as the implications catch up to him.

Virgil is right. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about the multitude of scars that cover his body, a patchwork of lines and grooves and valleys marring his skin, years and years of injuries piling up and tearing him apart, memories of blood and pain traced into him forever. He doesn’t think about it, because usually, they are out of sight, out of mind; from the moment he received his first, he began the habit of shapeshifting them away, showing off skin that is flawless, unblemished by his failures. He does it all the time, unceasing, because presentation is everything and he has never wanted the others to know, never wanted them to see him as he truly is. It is a constant expenditure of energy, but one well worth it, one that he barely notices after all these years.

Injured and weak as he was, the disguise must have slipped away. He must have fallen to his knees, scars on full display, in all their messy, ugly glory. And of course, Virgil saw.

And now, Virgil knows.

“Hey, hey,” Virgil says, and he can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “C’mon, Roman, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. Try to match my breathing, alright?”

And Virgil breathes, in and out, loud and intentional, and counts. Four-seven-eight. It takes a while for Roman to copy him, for his breathing to steady and his heart to slow, and once it does, he feels exhausted, wrung out, like bubblegum stretched too thin.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He can’t find it in himself to meet Virgil’s eyes.

“I told you, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Virgil says seriously. He pauses. “Except for scaring the shit out of me, but um. We can do that later, so just. Look, when you first got back, you were covered in them, and I wanted to ask then, but it wasn’t the time. And then you shifted them away literally while you were sleeping, which I didn’t even know was possible, but I guess you’re used to doing it? So I guess what I actually wanted to ask is, why’ve you been hiding them?”

He stiffens, and can’t stop the incredulous laugh from bursting from his lips, even as his mind reels with this new information. “Are you serious?” he asks, and forces himself to meet Virgil’s gaze, even though he would like nothing more than to hide his face, hide away under his covers until all of this goes away and he can pretend that things are normal again. “You can’t figure that out?”

But Virgil doesn’t react. “Pretend I’m stupid,” he offers, voice flat. “Walk me through it.”

“I--” He wishes he could gesture, redirect attention with waving arms and comical expressions. But every movement sends bolts of pain down his side, sets his head to throbbing again. “Really? You-- you saw them.” His voice cracks, and he tries not to let it get to him. What’s a little more humiliation at this point, right?

“So?” Virgil asks.

He can’t believe he’s going to have to explain this.

“So?” he repeats. “So? So they’re ugly! So they’re… they’re just reminders of every time I’ve failed, every time I’ve been dumb enough to let myself get hurt! So I don’t like them, and I don’t… I didn’t want--”

“You didn’t want us to see,” Virgil finishes, and really, he has no right being this astute, no right to see through him like this. His gaze is level, piercing, pinning him to the spot with its sheer intensity, and Roman feels entirely too exposed. “Well, I want to see.”

He becomes very aware that Virgil is still holding his face.

“You what?” he rasps.

“I want to see them,” Virgil repeats. “Will you let me see them?”

His first instinct is to deny him, to push him away and proceed to act like this conversation never occurred in the first place. He knows exactly how they look, knows exactly how unappealing they are; how long has he stood in front of the mirror, glaring at a reflection that is never up to his standards? And for some reason, the thought of Virgil of all people looking at them, judging them, judging him and finding him wanting, is absolutely unbearable. He thinks he would die if that happened, thinks he would shatter into a million pieces on the floor, break apart into so much dust.

But Virgil is asking. Asking, not demanding, and there is no disgust in his voice.

And he’s seen them. So really, what harm could be done that has not been done already?

Virgil is likely to keep pushing if he refuses. And Roman is so tired.

“Okay,” he says, and he shuts his eyes, and drops his shifted form. It feels like a layer of water sliding from his skin, or like an eggshell cracking open and revealing the messy yolk beneath. For a long moment, there is silence, heavy and oppressive, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes to look, doesn’t dare see the expression on Virgil’s face, the horror, the disdain, or worse, the pity.

And then, Virgil’s hand moves, lightly tracing across his face in patterns that are all too familiar. He can’t move, can’t breathe. He knows all too well the scars that he is counting: the slashes across his cheeks from too many careless swords, the line cutting through his lips from a harpy that tried to claw his face off, and the biggest of all, the slash from a dragon’s talons, a deep gash that begins on his forehead and trails across his nose, reaching all the way to his jawline, narrowly avoiding his eyes. Virgil’s fingers linger there longest of all.

And then, he pulls away. Roman braces himself.

“You think you’re the only one with scars?”

His eyes shoot open.

“What?”

Virgil is watching him, an odd light in his eyes. He’s rubbing his arm with one hand, up and down, a repetitive, subconscious motion.

“Look,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, just ever so slightly. “I get it. More than you might think. You have these scars, and you think they mean that you fucked up, or that you failed at something, and... Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know. But you know what else they are?”

Roman can’t speak. Virgil continues, not waiting for an answer.

“They mean that you’re still alive,” he says. “It means that you’re still here, that you survived, and that you kept going. That doesn’t make you a failure, it makes you strong. And I’m not gonna tell you that you have to think that they’re beautiful, or some shit like that, but they’re not ugly, they’re not gross, and they don’t make you worthless.”

His breath hitches. Tears pool in his eyes, and he is powerless to dispel them.

“It took me a really long time to learn that,” Virgil says. “They’re a part of you, and you don’t have to feel lesser for that. And you don’t have to hide them, not if you don’t want to. No one’s going to judge you for them.” He pauses, a strange look passing across his face. “And that’s coming from me, so, uh. You know. If the literal personification of anxiety is telling you that you don’t need to worry about it. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Roman laughs a little, despite himself, more out of disbelief than anything else.

“You really think it’s that simple?” he asks, and hopes that Virgil doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I know it’s not that simple,” Virgil returns. “I know how hard it is to change how you think about yourself. I mean, god, Roman, you know who you’re talking to, right? I’m kind of the king of negativity. But you’re not on your own on this.” He shifts, scooting a bit closer. “If you ask us for help, we’d do anything for you, but that’s not because we think we have to. It’s because we love you. And you deserve that love. Never think that you don’t. Scars or no scars.”

Roman shudders, emotions rolling through him with the force of a thousand rushing rivers.

“And I think, I mean--” Virgil stops. “Your-- fuck. Just, for the record, I--” He sucks in a breath, turning away sharply. “Fuck,” he says again, as if to himself, and then, in one smooth motion, he turns back to Roman, places both hands on the side of his face, and plants a kiss on his cheek, right over one of his scars. It’s like a thousand volts of energy, like a fire burning just beneath his skin, like a symphony crescendoing to its climax. Roman gasps, and Virgil pulls back, and Roman is absolutely certain that his face is melting off right now, that the warmth flooding his face and body is searing the flesh from his bones.

Virgil stares at him, face red. And then, to Roman’s shock, he does it again, on his nose, right where the biggest scar crosses his face. Slower, this time, his lips lingering for a heartbeat too long, giving Roman the chance to think about how soft they are, how much he would like them to be on his lips instead.

Well, that’s… huh. Part of him knew that already, has known for a very long time that he wants this, but the confirmation has his brain buzzing.

“I think they’re hot,” Virgil says, just above a mumble.

“You what?” Roman says, even though he’s fairly sure he didn’t mishear, even though hope, bright and warm and traitorous, is rising in his chest like a bird taking wing. He has never loved his scars, has never thought of them as attractive at all, and never so much as considered the possibility that someone else might disagree.

But Virgil doesn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie, not about this. It is a miracle that Virgil is acting this way at all, is behaving in a manner that clearly puts him far outside his comfort zone.

“Don’t make me say it again,” Virgil snaps, and there is the Virgil that Roman is most familiar with, hackles raised and spitting insults. Despite everything that’s happened, despite the fact that his mind is spinning and he still feels entirely too hot, he smiles. “Fuck, I’m just gonna go die in a hole now. See if I do anything for you ever again.”

He moves as if to stand from the bed, as if to leave, and though hours ago he wanted him to do that very thing, Roman feels a flash of panic at the prospect. Before he can think better of it, his hand snakes out and latches on to the sleeve of Virgil’s hoodie, stopping him in his tracks. For a moment, they stare at each other, both silent, almost expectant as Roman casts about for something to say, something to keep Virgil here.

“I have a scar on my lips,” he blurts out. “You, uh, wanna… do… something?”

He congratulates himself on his smoothness. He should give up being Thomas’ creativity and open up a smoothie place, that’s how smooth he is.

Virgil glares. “If you’re just gonna make fun of me, you can fuck right off and--”

“What? No,” he says. “I’m not-- what made you think I was making fun of you? I’m asking you to kiss me!”

Virgil stares, silent. He feels himself begin to waver.

“If… uh, just if you want to, I guess,” he says, voice weakening. “I just thought that maybe…”

“You’re an idiot,” Virgil declares, and captures his lips with his own.

A far as declarations of love go, it’s not the best Roman has ever heard. But as far as kisses, well.

“Don’t think this gets you out of talking about this,” Virgil murmurs, pulling back a centimeter or two. “I’m gonna sic Patton on you. You’re gonna get so much love and emotional support, and so many cookies, and you’re not gonna escape until we get it into your dumbass head that you’re worth so much more than you think you are.”

Even moments ago, the thought would have filled him with horror, horror at the prospect of anyone else knowing, anyone else seeing, anyone else wanting to talk to him about it. And maybe this is only a respite, a brief moment of insanity before that horror returns. And it’s not just the scars. Perhaps it’s never been about the scars, not really.

But right now, his head is buzzing with Virgil’s words, his lips still alight with the imprint of his kiss, and his scars are bared and Virgil likes them, thinks they make him strong, thinks that he’s not a failure at all. And most of him rejects that, suspects that in time, Virgil will come to see the ugly truth, and if that is the case, he should pull back now, save both of them the trouble.

Virgil won’t allow that, though; if he knows anything about Virgil, it is that he is stubborn, incredibly so, enough to be a match for him. And there is a voice, buried deep in his brain, telling him that he should listen, that Virgil is right, and that he deserves this. He doesn’t make a habit of listening to that voice.

But perhaps he should. And Virgil smiles at him, just slightly, and he thinks that perhaps he can.

“Cookies,” he repeats. “Sounds good.” And to his surprise, finds that he means it.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii

#sanders sides #ts sides #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #my fic #long post #roman (while bleeding out): haha don't worry i'll just patch myself up #virgil (softly but with great feeling): what the fuck

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jenovahh · 3 years

Text

Comm 17 - A Little Help - NSFW

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Threesome (MxMxM), Anal Sex, Accidental Voyeurism, Blowjobs, Heat Fic

Commission Request: WoL is going into heat and Estinien has always been their partner. Not wanting make things awkward with G’raha who they have burgeoning feelings for, the WoL seeks Estinien out once more. G’raha notices the WoLs absence, and decides to seek them out... ====================================================

There’s no mistaking the sounds he hears from down the hallway.

G’raha Tia knows his face is as red as his hair, no longer tipped with silver mind you.

The moans and sighs are unmistakable, familiar, and the sounds are so lewd he can feel his breeches already begin to feel a little too tight. His ears flick forward before flicking back in embarrassment, flicking forward once more as if he can’t help himself as he creeps steadily forward down the seemingly unending hallway.

The Rising Stones is empty, Tataru seeing to other business as she communicates with Krile who still lies in Sharlayan. Y’shtola and Urianger having mended their camaraderie have gone to research what the council could possibly be up to, most likely preparing to endure another late night up to their ears in tomes. The twins had busied themselves elsewhere, possibly still processing their father’s rejection. Thancred had gone out to attend to other matters, leaving with nothing but a wave and a smile.

Though he has always admired the Warrior of Light, even G’raha could not deny that he has not only spent time with A'von to be with his inspiration, his shining light...that he wanted more. While yes he knew his abilities could help their adventures, his reasons for joining A’von on his adventures were not so noble.

Even he could be selfish.

He knows not when these feelings of simple admiration and idolatry shifted into something more personal, pushing him to spend every bell of every day with A’von until they parted ways for the evening, each withdrawing to their own rooms. Part of him could not help but feel a little anxious for burdening the Warrior of Light with his presence every day, but could anyone blame him?

He loved every second he got to spend with his inspiration, to see those pale, blue eyes crinkle and pouty lips smile at him as their tails swayed behind them as they trekked across Eorzea. On more than one occasion had G’raha felt A'von's own tail brush against his own, the fluffy mass unmistakably curling around his own for barely a second before withdrawing so fast G’raha thought he might’ve imagined it.

He could barely sleep from thinking about it so much.

Try as he might, there was no running away from his burgeoning feelings for A’von, which was what left him feeling so bereft when he awoke to another day of the Warrior of Light mysteriously keeping his distance. It had been going on for barely a week now, A’von having started to nervously avoid him, until he became a ghost altogether. The only way G’raha knew he was relatively okay was from how he could distantly hear A'von's door close late at night when everyone had long since turned in.

Tonight was to be the same he thought, only G’raha had been arriving back to his room fairly late himself. He had nowhere else to go really, given his body had been slumbering on this world for the past few years, leaving him with nowhere else to stay save the Rising Stones. He had spent another night talking off poor Rambroes’ ear, sharing more tales of the future and the First and all he had seen. Passing on secrets of the Crystal Tower and its capability until he gave one good yawn and Rambroes sent him home just like old times.

It was quiet, whatever remaining Scions having long since gone home for the evening, meaning it was quieter than usual. It’s what led him to hearing moans and sighs from the end of the hall as he prepared to go to bed. He had been a little embarrassed of course, thinking that perhaps one of the other Scions needed release, and were thinking themselves quiet to races with average hearing. But one moan in particular let him know just which Scion was currently being pounded into the mattress.

He couldn’t help himself, cat-like stealth helping him sneak down the hall, toward the door that was cracked just enough that a sliver of light peeked out into the corridor. Just as the sounds got louder, so did the air, a familiar and long forgotten scent tickling G’raha’s nose and making him hard as rock in his trousers with each step he drew nearer. It was subconscious how his hand moved to grip himself through his clothes, not feeling such hunger since...he was in this body, strangely enough. Desire was the last thing on his mind when bearing the mantle of the Crystal Exarch.

“You like a good tussle as much as the rest...don’t deny it…” a man gruffly rumbles, the barely perceptible squeaking of the mattress finally making its way to his ears. Reaching the door, it's ajar just enough for his red eyes to peek in, barely able to contain his gasp at what he sees.

A'von is there, naked and sweaty and willing, his back to Estinien’s chest. Without meaning to G'raha eyes jump down A'von's bare torso to his cock, red, swollen, and leaking precum all over the place as it bounces lewdly with each thrust of Estinien’s hips. A'von's usually light eyes are darkened with lust, his trimmed claws biting into Estinien’s arm where the Elezen man has it wrapped possessively across his chest. Estinien’s other hand grips A'von's hip with bruising force, holding him in place as he controls the pace of his thrusting, leaving A’von no option but to sit there and take it.

He had been as in awe of the Azure Dragoon as anyone had the right to be, he thinks, despite the Elezen’s more standoffish demeanor. Having been the “new hire” himself, G’raha had taken to try and form a partnership of sort of being the two newest members, to which Estinien begrudgingly accepted. G’raha knew he didn’t genuinely dislike him as a person, but was more used to being alone, as was his wont.

G’raha had heard (or rather read) plenty about the prickly dragoon, noticing that he became more present as A’von had become more absent. Estinien had informed everyone he would be using this waiting time to take care of a few loose ends until it was time to depart, showing up surprisingly early as A’von had begun to make himself scarce. The seeds of jealousy tried to take root in G’raha’s heart, but he quickly quashed such thoughts. He was man enough to acknowledge that others had grown close to A'von in his absence; it was not fair to keep him to himself.

“You’re so beautiful like this, you know,” Estinien whispers, pressing thin lips to A'von's neck, tongue licking a stripe up to his jawline. “All hot and needy for me…” He growls, accentuating his words with a hard thrust, the sound of skin against skin making G’raha grip his dick tighter, needing some kind of relief as he played the hidden voyeur. He should step away, should turn around and go back to his own room, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight before him.

“S-Stop saying such things,” A’von moans, grunting as Estinien’s fingers snake their way up to slip into his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick them, drawing him into his waiting mouth. Estinien rumbles in approval, rewarding the Miqo’te by increasing the pace he fucks him. “Gods,”

“Halone couldn’t save you now...though you wouldn’t want that, now would you?” Estinien chuckles, making sure to fuck the Warrior of Light nice and deep. “No...it is your new friend you wish were in my place.”

“That’s not true!” A’von nearly wails, face flushing a deeper red from embarrassment.

A new...friend?

“Oh yes...it is not blue eyes you want to see. Go on and tell me more of how you wish for the heir of Allag to ravish you for all to see.” Estinien continues to tease.

“Estinien, be quiet,” A’von protests, even as his own hand goes to circle around his own cock in a silent plea for more. He handles himself expertly, eyes dazed as he tries to desperately thrust in his hand at the same time Estinien plows into him from behind.

G’raha is pretty sure he’s stopped breathing.

“I’m sure he would be more than amicable to your request…” Estinien hums, pushing down on A'von's back to press him into the mattress. G’raha watches toned muscle flex in Estinien’s arm as A’von’s tail curls around it affectionately despite the force Estinien exerts fucking him from behind.

G’raha’s mouth is dry as the desert as he watches A'von's lust drunk face, holding back a groan at hearing the Warrior’s wanton sighs. He looks back to Estinien--

...to find the dragoon staring right back.

G’raha freezes, preparing to turn tail and run but the dragoon shakes his head, smirking all the while as he turns his gaze back to A’von. “Go on and tell me, A’von. Tell me how you came to me because you couldn’t face your feelings for your G’raha Tia.”

“Gods,” A’von moans, eyes rolling back in his head.

“You want him don’t you? Too embarrassed to have him see the infallible, unshakable Warrior of Light, his light and inspiration...reduced to a moaning mess.” Estinien continues, not having stopped his thrusting for one moment.

“Gods yes,” A’von moans, a smile curling his lips at the thought.

“Well, you heard him.” Estinien calls, raising his voice to clearly indicate he is speaking to G’raha. He feels himself freeze even more, stiff as a board as Estinien ceases the motion of his hips, giving the Warrior of Light just enough time for his thoughts to clear. G’raha watches as if he’s having an out of body experience as A’von turns in question to Estinien before following his line of sight to the door where he stands, unmoving.

A’von and he simply stare at one another blankly for a moment, before A'von's ears pin back against his head, hands covering his face in shame. “Raha!” he calls, and at the sound of his name without the prefix, so many of his fears scatter like petals on the wind. “By the gods, I hadn’t meant-- I mean,”

“Will you just ask him if he wants to join or sod off?” Estinien interrupts rudely, prompting A'von to reach back and smack him.

“Be quiet,”

“Von?” G’raha calls, stepping into the room. He pushes the door open to allow himself entry, closing it gently behind him, ensuring that it is shut. “Did you really…?”

Blushing again, A’von buries his face into the sheets in embarrassment, prompting an exasperated sigh from Estinien. “The bloody fool was too enamored with you to bother asking whether or not you wanted to help with his heat.” The Elezen grumbles with a roll of his eyes. “Something about not wanting to bother you, that you’ve just returned to this world and shouldn’t worry about such things.” He mocks, going as far to impersonate A'von's voice.

“Must you?” The Miqo’te whines, looking as if he would love nothing more than to disappear.

Estinien playfully gives him a smack on the ass, enjoying the man’s undignified yelp. “I must.”

Swallowing, G’raha carefully reaches for the clasps keeping his gear in place, praying he isn’t presuming over much. He and A’von make eye contact, everything and nothing passing between them for a moment. Despite their compromising position, G’raha notices A'von still has the gall to look ashamed, and it’s then he knows he must say something. “I...want this as much as you. If your words hold true.” He murmurs, unsure of his own voice.

A'von's large ears slowly perk up, blue eyes locked on him as if he wanted nothing else. “I...I hadn’t wanted to impose. I presumed that you didn’t want,”

“Of course I want,” G’raha groans, nearly falling to his knees to the side of the bed, reaching to kiss A’von who returns it just as eagerly, the two men groaning into one another’s mouths. G’raha caresses his face gently, always, always wanting, his heart doing little flips in his chest that the gods have seen fit to grant him so many of his wishes.

G’raha feels A'von groan into the kiss, his eyes trailing to where he notices Estinien begins to slowly thrust again. This close G’raha can feel the effect of A'von's heat, his own breath coming fast as he stares into A'von's eyes, thumb trailing across the scar he knows his friend so adamantly hides. He can feel how he tenses beneath his touch, and so he moves to press his lips comfortingly to the scar, kissing every ilm as Estinien begins to one again build their pleasure.

“This is...okay?” A’von whines, claws ripping into the sheets as Estinien begins to pound even harder.

“More than okay.” G’raha groans, using this time to begin undressing as best he can from this position. His medallions clink together as his top falls to the floor, his hands nimbly picking out his hair pins and placing them with his top. “Though it has been some time, if memory serves, it may take two of us to satisfy a heat.”

Hunger fills A'von's eyes at that, following him as he stands to remove his trousers. G’raha can’t help but flush red at how A'von's lips part and his tongue swipes across them, gazing up at him hungrily before eyeing the outline of his cock in his underwear. Even as Estinien continues to thrust, A’von reaches out and grabs him by the thigh, urging him closer to where he can pull down his small clothes, letting his cock spring free.

G’raha can’t help but groan as he watches that tongue swipe over pointed fangs once again, A’von turning his body as best he can to get a proper grip on his cock and pull the tip to his mouth. A’von eagerly begins to lick at his length despite the dragoon’s thrusts, eyes gazing up at him wantonly that does none of his wildest fantasies any justice.

His mouth feels exquisite, tongue warm and wet, swirling around the tip as he eventually gives up and climbs on the bed, turning himself to kneel directly in front of his companion. A’von groans thankfully as he fully dedicates himself to his task, bobbing his head up and down his length all while Estinien holds him by the hips and rams into him from behind. Each thrusts forces a groan from his throat, the vibrations travelling up his length, sending pleasure racing through what feels like every nerve in his body.

“Wicked white,” G’raha curses, having not let go of the phrase as A’von greedily laps at him, thrusting his hips back against Estinien whose groans have gotten more frantic, his pace more wild as he furiously pounds into the Warrior of Light. They grunt and groan together, G’raha committing the sight to memory as A’von calls Estinien’s name as he comes, pulling off his length to moan his release into his lap as Estinein too meets his end.

Estinien groans as he comes, head resting against his A’von’s back as he gives those last few thrusts to ride out his orgasm. G’raha watches as the two of them catch their breath, A’von giving him a soft smile as he pushes himself up to bring G’raha down to him for a kiss. G’raha reciprocates immediately, their tongues dancing together even as Estinien withdraws, allowing for A'von to press forth unsuspectingly. G’raha scrambles to get his legs from under him as A’von straddles him, eyes devious as he holds his hand behind him expectantly. Estinien silently hands him the oil, G’raha watching hypnotized as he pours a generous amount in his hand before putting the bottle down once more.

G’raha can’t help but raise his hips as his lover’s hand wraps around his cock once again, the oil lubing him up easily. He can barely keep his eyes open, the pleasure is so overwhelming, looking through hazy eyes at how calloused hands rub him up and down.

Having recovered, Estinien grabs the vial of oil, pouring what remains over two fingers before chucking it elsewhere in the room. Coming up behind A'von he slips two fingers into his sheathe, A’von purring, eyes hooded as he still keeps his focus on G’raha. “Good, you’re still ready. You ready to take him?” Estinien murmurs into A’von’s ear, taking one between his teeth and nibbling.

A’von nods slowly, finally releasing his cock as Estinien pulls his fingers from his puckered entrance.

Slowly, A’von leans forward, resting rough hands upon the smooth planes of G’raha’s chest, eyes not leaving one another as A’von reaches below to take hold of G’raha cock and line it up. Sinking slowly, the two Miqo’te moan as one as A'von slowly sinks down, G'raha hands coming to knead the flesh of A'von's thighs as he takes ilm by precious ilm. Even if he’s still stretched from Estinien’s own pounding, A’von savors each bit until they are flush against each other, his cock still hard and leaking pre cum as is warranted by a Miqo’te heat even after an orgasm.

A’von leans down to kiss him, his heart feeling ready to burst as A'von raises his hips to bring them back down. Groaning into one another’s mouths, G’raha feels robbed of breath as A’von nibbles playfully on his bottom lip, earning a surprised whimper from him at the action. Smirking, he watches as A’von sits back up, riding him earnestly, eyes on him. “Let me...make these past few days...up to you…”

A’von rides him like a man possessed, panting and mewling as he bounces on his cock. As if the sight alone wasn’t erotic enough, Estinien comes to claim A’von’s lips, the Miqo’te’s hand wrapping around his cock and pumping furiously as he prepares to meet his end once again. “The both of you,” A’von groans against Estinien’s lips, and G’raha knows he won’t last much longer either. “I’m going to,”

A’von comes, crying out as his seed spurts everywhere, but G’raha can’t be bothered to care as he finally releases, feeling his orgasm soar through him with blinding speed. His toes curl as he feels his seed spurt inside of his love, eyes fluttering closed as he gives a few more thrusts to ride out his orgasm.

It is his turn to catch his breath, finally opening his eyes just in time to catch A'von as he seems to collapse atop him. “Von?” he panics, until Estinien stills him with a hand.

“He’s fine. Just worn out.” He huffs, standing from the bed to cross over to a nearby basin. “You and I both know he could use the rest. Especially since he’ll pounce on us soon as he wakes.”

Nodding, G’raha shifts A'von to be a bit more comfortable, scooting over to make a little more room for all three of them to fit. Given that they’re in Estinien’s room, he doubts anyone save Alphinaud or Tataru would dare pay a visit, and so he dubs it safe enough to rest his eyes, and join A'von in the world of dreams.

#estinien #estinien wyrmblood #FFXIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy XIV #commissions #ffxiv commissions #drabble

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softspeirs · 3 years

Text

Pairing: Ron Speirs x OC Prompt: Speirs + a kiss on that space where the jaw connects. Author’s Note: I got the prompt from this list that’s making the rounds.

When Perconte came running into the CP five minutes earlier to tell Speirs he thought Kat Gray was acting out of sorts and berating someone, Ron was sure he didn’t hear the man right. It was a strange report to be sure - Kat has a temper, but she’s never let it get the best of her, especially considering she spends most of her time healing wounds, not causing them, whether physically or verbally.

He hears her before he even gets to the building. Perconte’s warning of Kat potentially yelling herself hoarse didn’t seem like an exaggeration after all.

Gravel crunches under his boots as he picks up his pace towards the aid station, the heavy wooden door doing nothing to drown out her voice, but creaking as he shoves it open.

His gut reaction is a bolt of rage when he sees some soldier towering over her, nearly a foot taller than she is, his fist instinctively clenching at his side. He relaxes a bit when he realizes she’s the one giving him a dressing down, the taller man cowering away from her as best he can in the small space.

“-- could have been killed,” she’s hissing, her eyes narrowed to slits, finger nearly jabbing the man in the chest. “It was reckless and irresponsible, and I should--”

“Sergeant Gray.” He barks her name, trying to infuse the words with as much authority as possible, though he knows it won’t really make a difference.

She stops and stiffens, and he knows if they were around more familiar company she’d probably snap at him too.

“What’s going on here?”

She sighs, hands going to her hips. “Corporal Allen is injured, and the injury could have been avoided, as could the injury done to his friend here.” she gestures at another man sitting down, cold compress pressed to his forehead.

“Sir,” the man speaks, bravely, in Ron’s opinion. “We’re not that badly hurt. It was a stupid mistake - we were doing a supply run in one of the jeeps and took a corner too fast.”

“A joy ride.” Ron says, flat.

His eyes widen. “No sir! Doing the mail run. Like I said, it was an accident. Came to get checked out, and well…” he trails off, eyes going hesitantly back to Kat who has turned away and is furiously re-rolling bandages.

“The wounds?” He asks Kat, but she’s determined not to listen. He can see the way she’s trying to control her breathing. “Gray?”

She turns, just slightly. “Superficial except the one to his leg. He won’t need surgery, but he needs to stay off it.” She gestures towards the other man, “Corporal Matthews has a laceration over his left eye and a likely concussion that will need to be monitored.” Her voice is robotic, another tick on the list of reasons to worry about her that Ron keeps in his head.

“The jeep.” Ron says, turning back towards Allen.

“Fine, sir. A blown tire that’ll be fixed well enough. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t think I was going that fast, and I--”

“Enough. Get checked out by one of the other medics. Gray, I need to speak with you.”

She sighs. “Yes, sir.”

He leaves the building, listening for her footsteps behind him, and ducks around the corner into a quieter, darker alley in between the aid station and an abandoned building. “What the hell was that?”

Her eyes flash. “What was what?”

“You, going off like that.” He checks that no one’s around, and takes a step closer. “That’s not like you.”

“It was a stupid, avoidable injury.”

He ducks his head to better meet her eyes, eyebrows raised. “And?” He probes further.

She crosses her arms. When she speaks, her voice is low. “We are so close to going home. I am so tired…” her voice catches, and his heart clenches. “I am so tired of treating wounds. Now that we’re not getting shot at or getting blown up every five minutes… I’m so tired of these replacements thinking they’re invincible.”

He knows what she means. The thought of losing anyone else, even a replacement he barely knows… it’s exhausting. After Grant was shot and Janovec was killed, it started to feel like there was never going to be a single moment of peace until they were back in their own beds again.

Even then, he has no idea how they’re going to get back to a semblance of normal. It’s clear many of them are at the end of their rope, Kat included.

Again, he checks that there’s no curious eyes. It’s so quiet in this little alcove, he doubts anyone is around or would even see them if they were.

He takes a step even closer, backing her up until her shoulder blades lightly bump the wall behind her. Her sharp intake of breath makes him smile, and he leans in until he can press a slow kiss to the hinge of her jaw, right where it connects to her ear.

She shivers, and so does he.

“You are not responsible for every soldier in this regiment.” He says quietly.

Her eyes meet his. “Yes I am.”

He sighs. “You know what I mean. You remember that night in Aldbourne?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile, so he counts that as a victory.

“I told you then that you couldn’t put all that weight on your shoulders. It’s still true now.”

“I just-- I’m so tired, Ron. I’m so tired.”

Her face crumples, and then he’s gathering her in his arms as she lets the floodgates loose. How many days, weeks, months has she been holding this back? She’s sobbing great, heaving cries into his chest, and he tugs her as tight as possible, propriety be damned. He spares a thought that if someone sees them like this, it could be trouble, but with her falling apart right in front of him -- and him, sure that this woman is it for him -- he can’t find it in him to care.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, pushing away from him. He tries not to let himself feel bereft at her absence, but the cradle of his arms feel cold without her in them.

“Don’t be.” He clears his throat. “We’ve all been compartmentalizing for months. Years. You can’t keep it in all the time.” He shakes his head. “Just-- try not to take it out on every Corporal who comes through your door?”

She snorts. “What, you think he was scared of me?”

Ron grins. “I think more men are scared of you than you realize.”

“Even you?” She challenges. God, but he thinks he loves her.

“Yeah, even me, Gray.” He says, his words loaded with meaning. The air between them shifts, but before he can even figure out where the hell to go from there, footsteps on the gravel interrupt them and they swiftly separate, Kat heading back out into the sunlight without another word.

They don’t do goodbyes. They’ve never had the time, frankly, and they’ve gotten used to having to quickly get back to work without lingering in each other’s presence the way they want to.

This time, it stings a little. He doesn’t take it personally, knows the consequences if they were caught would be worse for Kat than for him, but for once he wants to be a little selfish. Wants to steal her away and show her what she means to him.

He heads out of the alley and hears her again in the aid station, this time, her voice bright as she speaks to someone. He allows himself one last smile as he thinks, hopes, that he’s the reason for that brightness.

God knows she’s nearly the only bright spot for him.

Back at the CP, Perconte and Luz are sorting through supplies when he walks in. They both straighten, but say nothing. Then, quietly. “So… did she kill him?” Luz asks, almost casually.

Ron chuckles, and nearly full on laughs when he sees them both looking at him almost horrified, them never having seen their stoic Captain express anything like mirth before.

“No murders were committed in the aid station.”

Luz recovers faster than Perconte. “That’s good. Would hate to have to clean up the mess.”

Ron says nothing, just slides behind his desk and gets back to the never-ending stack of paperwork in front of him, trying to concentrate on anything besides the lingering warmth from Kat’s body in his arms.

#ron speirs x oc #ron speirs x ofc #band of brothers fanfiction #ron speirs x kat

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onecanonlife · 4 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 6,196

Chapter Warnings: swearing, implied s.uidical ideation, non-graphic panic attack

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur frankly has no idea how a reunion with his father is supposed to go, considering the circumstances. Also, a ghost makes an appearance.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Three: listening for that angel choir

He comes to awareness violently, lurching into a sitting position, his hand outstretched before him. He is silent, but that’s probably only because he trained himself to be, back when they were so afraid of someone finding where they were, down in that dark, hidden ravine, stone on all sides and darkness above, closing in. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about,

(fire all around and the world falling to pieces and it’s all so very beautiful, and the worst thing is Tommy’s horrified face but he’s too far gone to care)

but the vestiges cling to him like cobwebs, difficult to shake off. He takes a moment to steady himself, to bring his breathing back under control, and then looks around, the remembrance of where he is coming swiftly. Technoblade’s living room is unchanged from last night, but there is no sign of Technoblade himself.

There is, however, someone in the kitchen.

He can smell food—eggs, he thinks. There’s someone moving around, their tread light and sure, and he knows those footsteps, knows them like he knows his own name.

He is standing before he can think better of it, and it is habit that keeps his own strides silent. He walks to the doorway of the kitchen and stops there, stops because there is a man at the stove, his back turned to him, but Wilbur doesn’t need to see his face to know him. He never has.

Something about this picture is wrong, though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s seen this a thousand times, if not in this setting, has woken up to this exact thing on countless occasions, back in their old home, back before Techno started going off to tournaments, before Tommy and he left to make their own ways, before Phil started spending more and more time on hardcore worlds, out of contact. Before all of that, it was just this, just Phil making them all breakfast in the sun-soaked morning.

Something about it is wrong, and he can’t pick it out, and he can’t stand here forever. He could leave, could turn his back and slip out the front door when no one is watching, but that won’t be well-received, and he hardly wants to be followed. That really only gives him one other option, and it’s ridiculous, how fast his heart is beating, because it’s just Phil.

(it’s just Phil, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? just Phil, and you can’t face him, not after what he did, not after what you made him do)

It’s just Phil.

So he leans against the doorway, and he clears his throat.

Phil whirls around, spatula raised.

(was he always on such a hair trigger? or is that new?)

He lowers it after a split second, his face flickering through several expressions too fast for Wilbur to process. Eventually, he settles on a warm smile, but there is something lurking around the edges, something that he is hiding, though Wilbur has no hope of figuring out what. For some reason, this doesn’t feel like seeing Techno again at all. With Techno, it barely took a moment for old patterns to resurface, barely took a moment to remember how to read him, but with Phil, it’s almost like looking at the face of a stranger.

(did you think he’d be the same? did you think he would be unaffected? even the most stable of anchors rusts eventually, exposed to the deep water)

“Wilbur!” Phil says, and he could weep to hear the sound of his voice, even though it hasn’t been that long, not technically. Not that long since the last time Ghostbur spoke to him. “Good morning! Did you sleep alright?”

He thinks about his nightmares and decides not to say anything.

“Pretty alright,” he says, and then adds, belatedly, “Good morning.”

The words come out awkwardly. It’s too casual, too normal, and everything that’s happened since the last time they ate breakfast together is sitting in the air between them, about as unobtrusive as a flashing creeper and just as dangerous. There’s too much left unsaid, and he has no idea how to go about fixing that.

So he just keeps standing there. Silently. And Phil stands there too, just as silent, just as watchful, just as awkward, and perhaps Wilbur should take comfort in the fact that he, too, seems to have no idea what to do. But he finds no room for comfort within himself, only a vague resentment, because wasn’t Phil planning to bring him back anyway? Just what was his plan for afterward, if he had managed to succeed? Was it this? This silence, this hesitance, this painful awareness of the distance between them, of all the things that went so bitterly, terribly wrong?

If this was his plan, Wilbur can’t say that he’s all that impressed with it.

But then, Phil steps forward. Only a bit, and slowly, as if he’s approaching a startled animal. Wilbur would be angry at the implication if he didn’t feel like he was one, if there weren’t something snarling and desperate caged within his ribcage, calling for him to either fight or flee.

“Would it—” Phil starts, and then stops, and it’s odd, because Wilbur doesn’t remember his father ever being so hesitant. Phil’s confidence has always been quiet, but at the same time unmistakable, and that makes this so very strange. “Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he goes on to say, and Wilbur’s brain stutters to a halt.

He can’t help but remember

(the spatula becomes a sword and his great creation is in ruins around him and he is laughing and sobbing and wild and everything is spiraling, spiraling, and what a glorious destruction it is, a beautiful chaos, and the center cannot hold and he is begging pleading shouting and there are tears streaming down his father’s face and an awful waver in his voice, but the sword is in his chest and he can feel nothing but relief, relief, relief, it’s over now, you can rest, your symphony is not finished never finished but it is over at long last, good night, good night and goodbye)

the last time Phil held him.

But that was then, and this is now,

(isn’t it?)

and Phil is watching him with an expression that might be either desperation or hunger, masked behind a slight smile, and that is what drives him to nod, what drives him to open his arms slightly, and then Phil is embracing him, and—

The mess in his head goes quiet. Just for a second, his father is enough to drive his demons away.

And it’s like fireworks on his skin, fireworks at first and then an all-encompassing warmth, and he doesn’t fit into Phil’s arms quite the same as he did when he was a child, is taller, older, cobbled-together pieces of the bright future he used to have, but something in him recognizes this feeling, recognizes it as safety, as comfort, as home. He slumps a bit, melting into the touch, and Phil doesn’t complain at suddenly holding up half of his weight, just adjusts his position a bit and grips him tightly, like he thinks that Wilbur might disappear if he lets go.

“God, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Wilbur closes his eyes against the words. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Phil that he isn’t. Even if for a moment, he can pretend. Pretend that this was his idea, that he’s alright with this, that what he wishes more than anything else isn’t to escape back into rest and away from this world that is too bright and too sharp and too laden with consequences.

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, and that, at least, is mostly honest.

His hands are clutching the back of Phil’s shirt, entangled in the fabric, and beneath his hands, he can feel Phil’s wings shifting. It is then that he realizes what he didn’t, earlier: Phil is hiding his wings, and that is what is wrong, because Phil never does that around the house. Never.

Though, come to think of it, Ghostbur never saw him with his wings out either. Not once.

Did Ghostbur ever question it? Did he ask and then forget about it, because the answer upset him? Or did he just not bother, presuming that Phil had his reasons and that everything was alright? That sounds like something Ghostbur would do, and for a moment, he is overwhelmed by a seething rage at his dead counterpart, because why couldn’t he ever be useful—

(better to be useless and happy than alive and miserable and the cause of everyone else’s misery to boot, better to forget than to remember, better to let it all go and float away in the wind with the dandelions and the blue blue sky)

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, and he realizes that he’s balled his hands into fists. He pulls away from the hug, steps back to meet Phil’s eyes, pretends that the sudden lack of contact doesn’t leave him feeling bereft.

He tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he manages very well. His skin feels as though it’s stretching oddly, as though it’s forgotten the proper shape for the expression.

“I’m fine,” he says, and that—that is a lie. That is a lie for sure. But what else is he supposed to say?

The wings—or lack thereof—are bothering him. Now that he’s spotted their absence, he can’t unsee it. He’s not sure how to ask, though, because he has the sneaking suspicion that

(he shielded you you idiot shielded you from your own explosion from your own destruction don’t you remember don’t you remember the way he cried out and the feathers in the air and he was holding you holding you don’t you remember don’t you remember how he tried to protect you even to the last don’t you remember)

there’s something about it that he’s not understanding, still, and he hates this, hates not even being able to trust to his own recollections, but he supposes that’s what he gets for his troubles. A beating heart and a mind full of holes and a wide open world that feels like a cage and a precarious stability that he thinks might go out from under him at any moment, like sand into a hidden ravine, and he’ll be sent down, down, down—

“Oh, great,” Techno says, and Wilbur jerks, wheeling around. He hadn’t heard him—but then, Techno has always been able to move far more silently than ought to be possible for someone with such a terrifying presence, with such a weight to his blood-soaked step. “You guys are being weird, aren’t you?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“We’re not being weird, what are you on about?”

His voice overlaps with Phil’s, and it’s a bit weird.

Techno snorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “Don’t be weird in my house, you guys,” he says. “If you’ve gotta be weird, do it somewhere else. I can’t take this.”

“What, the great Technoblade can’t handle an awkward social situation?” he says, and there is more bite to his voice than he intends, and Techno hears it, judging by the way his lips twist into a scowl.

“You know I can’t,” he says. “I hate socializing.”

What should have been a joke has turned into something that is—not. Wilbur should have known better than to push, maybe, should have known better than to call Techno out, because Techno does hate socializing, does hate being forced into awkward situations, hates an enemy that he cannot defeat with his sword. But then, none of that is quite right either, because awkward social situations are one thing. This should be quite another. Because they’re family, or at least, they’re meant to be, and no amount of awkwardness should be able to outweigh that. And yet, here they are, Techno glaring and Phil quiet and Wilbur suppressing the urge to bolt from the room and start sprinting across the tundra.

Staying the night was a mistake. Not leaving when he could was a bigger one. He’s not sure what he was thinking.

(he does, he does know what he was thinking, and he was thinking that he wanted things to be the way they used to be, if he was going to be alive, if he was going to be forced to live in this world once again, he wanted a family that was strong and steady and whole, not the fractured mess that this is, not fragmented and separated and snapping at one another’s throats)

“I’m making breakfast,” Phil puts in. He seems so very weary. Wilbur’s not sure why he’s only picking up on that now, but the bags under his eyes could probably pass for bruises. “Techno, Wil, how about you sit down? The eggs’ll be off in just a few minutes.”

Techno huffs, shooting Wilbur one last glare. But then, he does as Phil asks, sidling past to sit at the dining table, the chair legs making an awful scraping sound against the floor.

Wilbur remains standing.

“C’mon, Wilbur, come sit down,” Techno says. “I want eggs.”

Something shifts. His blood is buzzing, like his veins have been replaced with live wires. It’s a picture of domesticity, father making breakfast and son waiting for it, and he belonged here once but now he’s a piece that doesn’t fit, his edges worn away and grown out wrong.

(they shouldn’t fit either, and it’s wrong that they do, wrong that they’re comfortable with this even when the picture is incomplete and Tommy isn’t here)

“I’m not staying,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he does. And once he does, it’s out there, and he can’t take it back. But he doesn’t think he would if he could. It’s the truth, even if he’s only just discovering it. He’s not staying. He can’t.

Phil has turned back to the stove, but Wilbur can see the way his back goes stiff, the way his shoulders hunch, just a little.

“It’s breakfast,” Techno says slowly, almost bewildered, if Techno did bewilderment. He doesn’t, usually, but perhaps that’s another thing that’s changed sometime between Wilbur’s death and now. “You can’t stay for breakfast?”

“I can make something else, if you don’t want eggs,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur barely catches the words.

“It’s not about the eggs and you know it,” he snaps, and then stops to take a breath. Phil is silent. “Look, I wasn’t even planning on being here as long as I have been. Where’s Tommy?”

“At his old home, I think,” Techno says. He is holding himself very still, watching Wilbur very carefully, and viciously, cruelly, Wilbur considers making the attack that he is so clearly expecting. Considers leaping across the table and going for his throat, rolling around on the ground like they did when they were kids, playing, roughhousing, sparring, only this wouldn’t be any of those things. He wouldn’t be able to defeat Technoblade, of course, but he’d be able to get a good few licks in, even if he doesn’t have a real reason to do so,

(he wasn’t there for Tommy he left Tommy alone left him to that monster’s mercy he abandoned him and even when Tommy came to him he discarded him again tossed him aside as if they weren’t raised together weren’t brothers as if none of it meant anything at all he spawned withers in L’manberg and destroyed it destroyed it all destroyed even what it stood for and there won’t be any coming back from that)

even if his rage is aimless, directionless, building in him like a volcano begging to erupt, begging to destroy everything in its path, to delight in the carnage and—

He’s felt like this before. He’s felt like this before, and it didn’t end well, and it set the stage for all of Tommy’s suffering, and if that’s not a reason to try to hold back, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not what I was asking,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you why he’s not here. You don’t see a problem with it?”

“We’re not on the best terms with Tommy at the moment,” Phil says quietly, and Wilbur wishes he would turn around so he could see his expression, but for now he’ll settle for glowering at his back.

(where was the father when his son needed him the most? not there, not there, never there, and what happened to the father who raised them, to the father who promised he would always be by their sides?)

“And whose fault is that?” he demands. “He’s a fucking kid, Phil! He needed someone in his corner, literally anyone, and I’m sorry, but the fucking amnesiac ghost couldn’t quite cut it!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Phil asks. “Do you really think I don’t have any regrets? That I wouldn’t give anything to have him here, safe with us?” Phil wheels around, then, and usually, in times past, such a motion would be accompanied by a flaring of wings, an instinctive response, but there are no wings behind him, and without them he looks so very small. Once again, Wilbur is struck with that overwhelming sense of wrongness. “I know damn well that I failed him, Wil, that I failed all of you. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“Phil, wait, no—” Techno starts, but Phil shakes his head.

“I have, Techno, don’t try to deny it. I’ve failed you all, and the worst bit is that even when I had chances to try to fix things, I didn’t take them. Haven’t taken them.” He meets Wilbur’s eyes. “All I can do about that is apologize. I am sorry, truly. But Tommy doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that clear, both after you died and after Techno and I destroyed L’Manberg. If you’ve got ideas, Wilbur, I’m open to them.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that? His rage shrivels up, becoming something cold and hard and acrid on his tongue. Phil believes what he’s saying, that much is clear, and perhaps that’s the most disappointing thing of all, that he’s given up so easily, given up on keeping their family together.

(part of him understands. part of him understands that in the wake of everything, in the wake of his father murdering one of his sons and alienating the other, of course he would retreat to the third, to the one who was still there, to the one he thought he could still help. part of him understands the way that he clings to Techno, unwilling to lose, in his eyes, the only son he had left to him. part of him understands why Phil always takes Techno’s side)

(but part of him whispers, bitter and sharp, that Techno has always been the favorite. so was it ever really a choice, between Techno and Tommy? did he lose sleep over it, any time during the late watches of the night? or was he secure in his opinion that he’d done all that he could do, even though he never tried to do more?)

“I need to go,” he says, and braces himself for their renewed protests. But Techno is silent, and at length, Phil nods once, short and sharp.

“Will you be coming back?” he asks, and Wilbur gives the question due consideration.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Phil closes his eyes. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “Please be safe.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get, as close to an understanding as they will reach, and somehow, it sounds like more of an apology than anything else Phil has said. And if, for his own peace of mind, Wilbur has to pretend that he doesn’t hear how wrecked Phil sounds, how he seems to have aged another five years in the past five minutes, well.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he’s not sure whether he means it or not, and he thinks that if he stays here any longer, in this small kitchen with eggs on the stove and his father standing in front of him like he’s pronouncing a death sentence and his brother glaring balefully from one side, he will lose his resolve.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really. That compulsion is gone, it seems, washed away in the peace of the void, and only time will tell if it will return, now that he’s been ripped back into existence.

But in the end, hurting them is the thing he knows how to do best.

So he leaves. Nods once, sharply, turns on his heel, and walks toward the front door, grabbing his coat as he goes. It’s not in the same spot he left it in last night, is draped near the crackling fire, and there’s only two people who could have placed it there and Phil wasn’t there by the time he fell asleep, he knows, and his mind recalls the sensation of a blanket being draped over him. That is enough to get him to stop, to pause.

But not to stay.

The sunlight is cold, but he barely feels it at all.

----------

He manages to make it out of the tundra before he breaks down.

He wasn’t expecting it, even though he probably should have been, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he blinks and he’s on the ground, hands braced against wet grass, heaving for breath because this is so fucking fucked up—

It was a mistake. Going to Technoblade was a mistake, because now he and Phil both know that he’s back and he just walked out on them and he’s so angry at them for so many things but now they’re probably angry right back and when the fuck did his family get so fucking broken? And now he’s here, in the forest again, and he’s all on his own

(but he’s not on his own and there are so many eyes watching him)

(he is on his own because there’s no one to stand with him, no one brave enough, no one who truly sees)

(he is on his own because he’s pushed everyone else away and even at his lowest point there was a voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to stop to walk away to take a step back and gain some fucking perspective but there’s no one there for him and it’s all his fault)

(he is on his own even though Tommy is still there, despite everything, because even Tommy is wary of him now and that same voice tells him that he deserves it even as he denies it all and decries his little brother for a traitor)

(but he’s not on his own)

and his empty stomach is rolling and he can’t fucking manage to get a good breath in, and this might be how he dies again, and he doesn’t think he would mind all that much if it was because he still doesn’t want to be here, with all the cares and all the worries and all the responsibilities piling up on his back once again, and who the fuck thought this was a good idea? Who the absolute, ever-loving fuck took a look at what he did last time, took a look at how he cracked under the strain and blew up a city, and thought that it was a good idea to bring him back into the world?

In fairytales, when monsters die, no one brings them back. The victory is celebrated and the villain forgotten and their grave spat on. Wilbur never got a grave, but the principle should be the same.

He still can’t breathe properly. He’s gasping for air, but he can barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He might die here. He might die here, and he’d be mostly fine with that, if it weren’t for—

Tommy.

It’s probably Tommy’s fault that he’s here. Probably Tommy who—got Dream to resurrect him, and he really does need the details about that. But he still wants to see him, still wants to see his brother, and the original plan holds true. Find Tommy, then kill Dream, and maybe then he can think about his options. He can’t allow himself to die here, even if he feels like he’s going to, like his ribs are going to crack apart and his brain pound right out of his skull.

(and even besides all of that, what would Tommy think if he saw the message on his communicator, saw WilburSoot died without any context at all, without knowing that he was back in the first place?)

It’s easier when there’s someone there to help him. But he has no one, so he regulates his breathing himself, little by little, his progress set back every time a new wave of panic and desperation crests over him and makes him choke on air. But he does it. It’s not pretty, but he does it, and after some time, he’s kneeling in the grass, exhausted and wrung out and still here, for better or for worse.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” Each one increases in volume, and by the last one, he’s shouting. No one answers. He thinks he startles a few birds.

And then the forest is silent. He curls his fists into the grass, tearing up a few blades.

To the side, there is a flash of blue.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

(there’s something he’s forgetting)

“Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rough and hoarse. “You’ve been following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come out where I can see you!”

He gets no response, but he can’t say that he was expecting one. He clambers to his feet, sighing sharply through his nose.

(there’s something he’s forgetting something was it something he said to Tommy what was it)

“Last warning,” he says. “Come out. Or I’ll make you.”

It’s an empty threat, said with more confidence than he feels. But he has to be right about this, has to be, or else he’s been hallucinating, has been letting his paranoia get the best of him already, again, and if that’s going to be the case, maybe Tommy really would be better off without him there, because he refuses to go down that same road now that he knows where it leads.

(even though part of him still yearns for it, yearns to go to hell and take everything with him)

(it was something he said to Tommy, in that moment when the veil between worlds was thin and he could see his brother there, plain as day, sitting on that bench with Tubbo at his side, and Tommy said Dream could bring him back and he said no fucking thank you and also that)

“Aw, you been pining for me, Wilbur?” someone says, and it all falls into place.

(he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t alone in the void. as much as he might have liked to be, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. he wasn’t alone. not then, and not)

He pivots, and uses the momentum to send his fist right into Schlatt’s stupid, smug face.

And it passes right though him. It’s a strange sensation, one that sends sparks of electricity up his arm and feels a bit like dozens of tiny firecrackers are going off. For a split second, there is a bit of resistance, and then a give that sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

“Did that make you feel better?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stepping back. “What the fuck are you—what are you wearing?”

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Schlatt wear anything but his signature suit and tie. Not since they were young, anyway, young and stupid and ready to take on the world,

(for each other, and where did that fall through?)

so painfully ignorant of everything to come. But the Schlatt in front of him is not the Schlatt he knows, not quite, is off in so many subtle ways and one big one. His pallor is grey, his horns chipped and cracked, his hair mussed and disarrayed, but all of that is overshadowed by the oversized blue sweater, a horrible parody of Ghostbur’s yellow one, and honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

“What, you don’t like it?” Schlatt smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and—his teeth didn’t use to be so pointy, right? “I think it’s a fashion statement. All the rage with ghosts these days.” He steps back, and the movement is wrong; it’s so obvious that his feet have no real traction on the ground, that he’s moving in the same way that Wilbur remembers Ghostbur doing, willing himself into the new space rather than working dead muscles.

(funny, though, that Schlatt would at least pretend to walk, would at least pretend at some semblance of normalcy. Ghostbur almost never did, was always content to float around and disregard the unease he caused, to hand out blue and avoid any confrontation that might make him uncomfortable. but then, Ghostbur was completely happy to be the way that he was)

“You’re an arsehole,” Wilbur grits out. “The fuck are you doing here?”

And just like that, the pretense is gone. Schlatt rises into the air, tilting forward, though he keeps his eyes level with Wilbur’s, scowling ferociously. He’s a bit transparent around the edges, Wilbur notes absently, a bit fuzzy, like he’s dissolving into the air bit by bit.

“You think I want to be?” Schlatt says. “You think I wanna be here, Wilbur, really? I had all the booze I could possibly want and none of the pitfalls, and now I’m here, in this shitty world with all the shitty people I never wanted to see again, and I can’t even fucking touch anything!”

His hand lashes out, and Wilbur flinches on instinct, but it passes through his shoulder harmlessly. There is the strange electric sensation again, but other than that, nothing.

“You think this is what I want?” he continues. “I’m fucking dead and I want to stay that way. None of this haunting bullshit. My business here is fucking finished. Over. Done. I don’t want to be here.” He pauses, and it’s for effect, because he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just a dramatic arsehole. “And yet, whatever asshole dragged you back down here caught me too. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are, but I can’t figure out how to get back. So that’s a fucking, I don’t know. Fucking karma, maybe. How’ve you been?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment. He starts laughing before he can stop himself, hysterical gusts, torn from him like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs out, and he doubles over, bracing himself against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he eventually manages. “I don’t wanna fucking be here either. This is so fucked.”

Schlatt is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the last of Wilbur’s laughter, dying down into desperate chuckles. It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it’s either laugh or have another breakdown, and he’s filled his break down quota for the hour.

“I figured,” Schlatt says, calmer now, quieter. He drifts back down so his feet at least appear to be touching the ground. “I figured, I knew you didn’t want to—fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and once again, Wilbur is struck by the action. It’s for effect, or perhaps it’s just habit, but either way, the dead don’t need to breathe. Can’t, really, though they can go through the motions if they put the effort in.

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” he says, and there is absolutely no heat in it at all. “Why are you here?”

Schlatt looks at him incredulously. “I just said—”

“No, I mean here.” He gestures. “With me. Unless you have to be, or something like that.”

“Nah, I can walk away from you,” Schlatt says wryly. “Believe me, that’s the first thing I tried. But where the fuck else do you think I’m gonna go, Wilbur? You think I’ve got anybody waiting for me with open arms? That’s ridiculous.” He pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can see me. I did a little tap dance routine for Technoblade earlier and got absolutely nothing, so.”

“What?”

“No, yeah, see? I can go invisible, like this, and hide from you,” Schlatt says, completely ignoring what his question was actually about, the bastard. And then, he vanishes, like he was never—wait. No, he’s still there, but Wilbur can only tell if he’s not looking directly at him. And even then, it’s just a faint shimmering, and an almost transparent splash of the color blue. “I can tell I’m invisible when I do that. But when I do this—” He reappears, his arms crossed— “no one else can see me. Except you, apparently. Make my fucking day, why don’t you.”

“Gladly,” he replies automatically. “Wait, why is that even a thing?”

“You’re asking me?” Schlatt demands. “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who was a ghost for months, you should know how this works!”

“I really don’t,” he says. “And besides, Ghostbur wasn’t actually me. Just a fragment. A shadow.”

“Real poetic,” Schlatt mutters, and, well. Wilbur doesn’t have much to say to that.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Or rather, Wilbur stands, and Schlatt drifts about half an inch off the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the grass. He briefly considers whether attempting to punch him in the face again would be worth it or not, but dismisses the idea. Dismisses it a lot more easily than he should, actually.

“I feel like I’m not as angry with you as I definitely should be,” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pissed,” Schlatt says, and then, after a moment, adds, “Not so much at you, though. I mean, I am. But not more than I am at the general everything. Do you remember much of the—the you know?”

(darkness all around and a howling emptiness but so much better than the world so much more peaceful and after a while the void felt like an embrace, felt like coming home)

(Schlatt was loud and irritating and the clink of his whiskey glasses made him want to kill him all over again but it was a break from the monotony and it was nice, sometimes, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood if only a little, someone with whom he didn’t have to hide his shattered edges in favor of painting a prettier picture)

(empty and not and there is no death for the already-dead so the only thing to do is come to an understanding)

doesn’t, not really, only recalls a general sense of peace, the rest that he so craved, attained at least. And he knows that Schlatt was there, too, knows it, but while he remembers talking to Tommy, that one time, he can’t remember if he ever actually spoke to Schlatt. Evidence is pointing toward the affirmative, he thinks.

“Not much,” he says. “Do you?”

“I remember it was better than here,” Schlatt says. He kicks at the ground, and scowls when his foot won’t make contact with anything substantial. “I had all the booze I could’ve wanted. Sure, none of it was real, but that didn’t matter much. I��d kill to have a drink right now. Literally, I would murder someone.”

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Shut the fuck your mouth.”

“I’m planning on seeing Dream,” he says, ignoring that. “After I find Tommy, anyway. I’ll make him tell me what he did to bring me back. And you, too, I suppose, assuming it was the same thing. Why are you a ghost when I’m not?”

“You keep asking me these questions like you expect me to know the answers,” Schlatt says. He levels his glare at him, but it doesn’t look very angry. Just tired. Wilbur knows the feeling. “Ask him to send me back, how about? I don’t want to fucking be here.”

His eyes slip shut. “Neither do I,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than it has any right to be. His tone matches Schlatt’s: tired, exhausted, weary, wrung out, sick of everything.

When he opens his eyes, Schlatt is gone. There is no sign of blue, no shimmer in the air. He’s really gone, then, but he assumes he’ll be back. For better or for worse.

He sighs, gathers himself, and resumes his march through the forest, looking for Tommy.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #jschlatt #alivebur #glatt #/rp #cat writes fic #long post

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fizzingwizard · 4 years

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OK gang here we go, episode 33!

It was better than last week, which was better than the week before, so... make of that what you will.

Pic of the week!

A look of steely Dan determination.

More below!

Like I said, this episode is an improvement on the last one, by virtue of plot stuff actually happening, a few big happenings, and references to the other kids that suggest they haven’t been completely forgotten about (only mostly). Don’t get excited though - it still leaves much to be desired. I cry endlessly for the animation budget. But let’s get into it...

Taichi and friends are still in pursuit of SkullKnightmon and Hikari. We found our for sure last week that the creature in the little crystal is, indeed, Millenniumon, or rather a fragment of him, and his fragments fell all around the Digital World at the end of the great war or whatever it’s called and they’re the source of the miasma and they absorb energy from the human world etc etc...

So we find this big ass crystal which seems to be the central one, I guess? because it’s the biggest? and several creepy looking acolytes (dun dun DUN it’s VADEMON my FAVORITE DIGIMON) surrounding it and chanting...

Vademon: Find the horcux, kill Harry Potter, find the horcrux, kill Harry Potter,

In other news, there’s a lot of doom and gloom happening with Jou, who, bereft of his underwear, is forced to censor himself with his partners head. Gomamon you don’t deserve this

Jou: I need to get away from these Nanimon before I go prematurely bald too!!

Mimi, meanwhile, is Boxing Champion of the World.

Koushirou is the only one working. He’s on his way to pick up Jou, so I guess that means Yamato will get Mimi? That’ll be fun lol. We saw Yamato for half a second but it was the same frame of him riding Garurumon we’ve seen five times already so why bother capping it.

Koushirou is also keeping an eye on the satellite situation but doesn’t know what to do about it yet. Kabuterimon asks if he shouldn’t take a break about now and Koushirou says “I’m okay, besides, this is the only thing I’m good for” T___T you know this would be heart-breaking if I really believed the writers have ACTUAL PLANS to make good on Koushirou-related character development.... >:[

no this honestly pisses me off so much but I STILL do believe we will get SOMETHING for him and the others and probably not too far in the future... I think... I hope ugh

Back to Team A, they see lots of Digimon coming at them. Taichi’s like “it’s an attack!” but Sora, whose Fight Mode unlike Taichi’s has an actual Off switch, is about to figure out that they are in fact not interested in the kids at all and are running away from something.

Taichi: I can’t believe they didn’t want to kill us. Doesn’t everything in this world want to kill us?

The Digimon are fleeing from a suspicious crater with a familiar stone in the center. SkullKnightmon raises his own crystal fragment into the air and stuff happens.

By stuff I mean black lightning and purple-blue light which is meant to signify Evil which is mega DUMB because blue and purple are the most awesome color combo EVER I mean it throw some turquoise in there too and I will buy it whatever it is a necklace a shawl a codpiece

There are eight crystals that rise from the ground surrounding the central crystal and share energy with it. I thought the number eight might be significant you know for obvious reasons but it doesn’t appear to matter in this episode.

Evil crystals or not, Taichi’s on his way to save Hikari once and for all!

Hikari: Thanks, but no thanks, oniichan.

Taichi: H-Hikari! You don’t understand! You’re too young to go off with a strange man!

Hikari: But oniichan I love him

Taichi: Who do you think I am, Tevye!? You’re not marrying him and that’s final!

Hikari: waaah why don’t you understand me!!

ok back to the story...

Hikari abandons her brother for his muscular studly lover SkullKnightmon.

... >_>

Using Hikari’s powers, SkullKnightmon evolves to Gundamon DarkKnightmon. Meanwhile there’s lots of chanting and stuff about this being SkullKnightmon’s purpose or some such. I still kinda hope we get a redemption arc for SkullKnightmon or that he has something more to do with the story...

Agumon stops Taichi from wigging out and they go to save Hikari together, but before they can they are beset from all angles by henchmen.

Sora: Hey, you take care of Tweedle Dee and I’ll get Tweedle Dum!

Birdramon: *gets punched in the head* I hope you brought enough aspirin...

Then these guys appear. I’ve forgotten their names but evil as they look they literally just stand there till they get blown up and then more appear... I guess that’s a kind of talent

Takeru: Leave the small fry to me!

Pegasusmon: Takeru when I said I wanted a Happy Meal this isn’t what I meant

Hikari begins to be absorbed into a dark pocket dimension of DarkKnightmon’s or something like that. It seems like a very chill experience.

Taichi: I’ll save you! Take my hand!

Hikari: O... nii... chan... Fuck you...

ok so here’s my problem here.

This is meant to be all emotional and stuff right?? Hikari’s been blowing off her brother for an unknown reason (we all figured out what it was but look the main characters don’t know and that’s what counts) and he’s finally managed to catch up with her. His hand is inches away from catching hers and pulling her to safety. She’s got creepy glowing eyes. She mouths “o..nii...chan...” with a creepy smile before being pulled into darkness.

I know it’s for kids so it’s not going to be too scary or anything but there ‘just like... no build up here. The storytelling style is too mathematical. “We go from Plot Point A to Plot Boint B via Battles 1 2 and 3...” There’s nothing happening in between to make us feel Taichi’s desperation, or even to know what Hikari’s feeling in this moment. Is she really okay with this? Is she having second thoughts? It doesn’t make any sense for her not to be scared. I fully expected her to go through with it, but she can be scared and still go through with it... come on...

It’s like that scene from Utena except sapped of any and all emotional impact.

I don’t really remember how Greymon got up there in the first place since he can’t fly but at least we get a scene of him and Taichi plummeting to the earth after failing to save Hikari. The kind of thing that would be dramatic if there were any kind of animation budget at all.

The one thing the show is sure to do is show us Taichi’s expressions, which I guess is something... It’s just so rushed and the accompanying dialogue leaves something to be desired.

Greymon: Don’t give up, Taichi... Taichi... um. what are you doing...

Taichi: stop hitting yourself stop hitting yourself stop hitting yourself stop hitting yourself

Anyway, Taichi is Big Mad. I thought (hoped, to be honest) that we might get a glimpse of him going wild with dark energy like in the Devimon episode again... Or at least a hint that that was a possibility in the heat of the moment before Agumon snapped him out of it. But nope.

He takes a moment to be upset and then says “There’s no time to worry about what to do” and goes to save Hikari... from inside DarkKnightmon somehow :P

This does not go well.

Meanwhile Hikari is surprisingly okay for someone who was just eaten alive by sentient VantaBlack. She discovers a peculiar light inside... DarkKnightmon’s intestine??? Is that where we are now??? lmao

She recognizes the light as the voice that has been calling her and tries to head towards it, but is blocked by some purple jello.

There’s a kind of cool thing that happens here... We just had a scene where Taichi desperately tries to grab his sister’s hand and yank her out of the clutches of evil, but fails, mostly because she doesn’t do anything to help him since she is weirdly okay with the situation. Now we get a mirror of that moment with Hikari bursting out of the jello with her arm outstretched to grab what is clearly Tailmon’s paw.

Only Tailmon does take Hikari’s hand.

It was really cool to see the brother and sister paralleling each other this much. It shows the ways they’re both courageous and determined and caring.

Meanwhile Taichi finally whips out WarGreymon. Honestly, I feel like this should have been WarGreymon’s intro episode. This would have been a good time for a new evolution, rather than in a fight with a nobody that I’ve already forgotten. Idk. WarGreymon uses Brave Tornado to knock DarkKnightmon’s lances away and burrow into his armor. So, yeah, Hikari’s in his intestines, lmao.

Hikari is being chased by a two-headed monster who is in for the migraine of its (their?) life when the tornado crashes into it.

Hikari: Big brother! You look so cool!

Taichi: Promise me that no matter how many men come into your life, I’ll always be number one.

Hikari: okay that is creepy

WarGreymon explodes DarkKnightmon from the inside out x’D and Taichi gets a redo of his hand-reaching scene. First he berates Hikari for running off on her own and then smiles.

Hikari says she always believed he’d rescue her. Aww.

Sweet sibling love.

Then there’s this really hilarious sound which turns out to be the Vademon hivemind giving a collective cry of distress x’D it’s lmfao amazing. Then they start chanting “Next time next time next time” just in case you thought Millennium was defeated and we can go home now.

Taichi: Sora, do you know where I can buy a leash for this kid? I can’t keep chasing her like this. Aren’t kids today supposed to be glued to their phones and never go outside?

Patamon’s Girlfriend Radar piques at the bundle in Hikari’s arms.

And it is indeed Tailmon, and she’s been waiting for Hikari all this time.

Tailmon: I am Tailmon, a Holy Digimon.

Patamon: oh my god you can’t just call yourself holy ugh you’re so self-centered

D’awww.

They’re both sooooo cute. I’m annoyed they didn’t get a cool ending card like Takeru and Patamon did last week though. But still, this is a sweet moment.

So, there’s not a lot to complain about in this episode, comparatively speaking. I wish we had more dialogue and understood the value of a dramatic pause etc. Also wish Sora and Takeru had more to do than fight the henchmen. Like, if you can just erase an entire part of an episode and it still works fine, you clearly didn’t need that part so why waste time on it.

But at least we do get reactions from Taichi, and at least we got plot development. The Taichi/Hikari parallels were cool. And even though I had other hopes for how this arc would turn out, I’m glad it’s over because maybe we can finally do some other stuff now. Maybe. I want to get back to Koushirou SOOO bad but more than anything I am still gobsmacked by how long it’s been since Yamato’s had anything to do but ride on Garurumon. That is WEIRD. He’s YAMATO.

Next week...

... Looks like it’ll be a light-hearted undersea episode. I’m cool with that. The preview clips had a “Sebastian’s Calypso” vibe that I dig. It’s still about Taichi’s group but I think that’s to do more actual face time with Tailmon and Hikari. I hope we see the others as well and if not maybe the week after. I will be happy if this episode has some personality to it.

#fizz watches digimon 2020 #digimon adventure 2020 #digimon adventure:#digimon adventure reboot #digi spoilers #digimon

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fangirlingincamouflage · 4 years

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Blind Hope: Chapter 7

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1,232 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Chapter Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals, I make no money from this fanfiction. Dedication: @14readwritedraw96 and @thezucchini (For being so wonderfully enthusiastic) TW/CW Descriptions of pain, long term hospital stay

Previous chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 <~ You are Here

You are standing in the middle of the pasta isle at the grocery store when your cell phone goes off. It's that distinctive ping of an unknown number texting you. You sigh, roll your eyes, and wonder what is the easiest possible thing that you can make for dinner that night. In the past six days your workload has tripled. June and Em are on a much needed vacation and Nick is still unconscious at the hospital.

You know that because you called right before you left to go grocery shopping. You also called first thing this morning, and last night, and the morning before, and the night before that. You have called the hospital at least twice a day for the past thirty-seven days. You got the exact same information.

“Officer Jakoby is still in an induced coma, and he is not ready to be seen by friends or family.”

It was maddening.

Your phone goes off again and you set a jar of premade sauce back on the shelf. Your stomach isn't feeling red sauce. It isn't feeling pasta. Or oranges. Or any one of a thousand other things you were totally down for eating. You hadn't been hungry since the night part of LA went up in magical flames. Since Nick had been hospitalized.

With a sigh you eased into the snack isle. Is a bag of chips an acceptable replacement for dinner? Probably not, but you've had take out for the past two weeks and absolutely none of it has filled the steady, continuing ache in your heart.

Your phone goes off again.

“What?” you snarl loud enough to make the old lady with a basket full of frozen dinners blink with bewilderment. “Sorry. Not you.”

You pull your phone out and waive it at her. She doesn't look convinced, and doubles her speed to get into the next isle.

With a few swipes you bring up your new messages.

“This is Jessica, the Head Nurse at the Intensive Care Unit at the UCLA Medical Center.” The first message reads.

Your heard pounds so hard in your chest that your vision goes a little hazy. You grip your phone tightly enough to make the screen rainbow with protest.

“Nick Jakoby has achieved a state of continuing consciousness. One of my nurses made the mistake of telling him that you had stopped by.”

That hazy feeling turns to ash. You had wanted to see him yourself, to let him know what had gone on, and why you hadn't talked to him in six, not seven, months. He must be angry, furious.

The third message is brief, and comes across as a little mad. “In order to keep him in bed, I promised him you would come see him tonight. Do not make me a liar.”

You desert your cart, and take the shortest possible trip to the hospital that you have ever taken. Which is impressive, considering all the times you driven up there in the past month, just in case something had happened between your morning and evening check-ins.

You don't stop at the front desk, you know where you are going. The elevator doors close as you turn the corner, and the wait for the next ones seems like an eternity. The moment the doors whoosh open, you surge inside hitting the buttons for the ICU floor. You don't even wait. You ht the close-door button and watch your reflection stare back at you as the lift starts to rise.

What are you going to say? Should you have gotten balloons? Flowers? A stuffed animal? Would he even be allowed those things? Did he want them from you? Did he want to see you to make up or to have a final talk? In the twenty-eight seconds that it takes to get to your floor, your mind plays out you greatest hopes and worst fears in a strange, overlapping loop that leaves you feeling a little lightheaded.

Though maybe that has something to do with the fact that you haven't eaten well in a month.

Your clothes don't fit right, you think as you tug at the fabric. You should have gone home to change. You were wearing your comfy clothes to go shopping. The fabric weird. Then you realize its not the fabric, its your own skin. You are so nervous that your skin feels like an electric current is running through it. With a huff you roll your shoulders, trying to settle your nerves. It doesn't help.

The doors slide open and as fast as you got into the elevator, you hesitate to get out. This could go wrong. What if his mother is there? His partner? What about Johnassen, the jerk who broke his phone so long ago?

It doesn't matter you tell yourself as you take that first step off the elevator. All that matters is he's awake. You'll be able to see him with your own eyes.

A stern looking woman with stark gray curls looks up from a desk as you approach. She tilts her head and inspects you.

“For Jakoby?” she asks like she already knows the answer. “Follow me.”

Your heart is in your ears as you follow in the steps of her worn out shoes. She swipes her badge, taking you through a set of secure double doors. The sounds of the hospital change. The ICU is bereft of human noises, but it isn't quiet. You can hear televisions on a half a dozen channels turned down low, doing what they could to preoccupy patients who were in layers of pain. The sound of breathing machines hiss and whirl. A man in green scrubs wheels supplies down the hall. There's no happy, warm chatter. Just a strange sense of desolation and pain.

You do not like it here, and you can't imagine Nick here. Nick, with his warm laugh and kindness. Nick who kisses you like the universe exists in your lips. You want to scoop him up and take him away.

The nurse stops outside of a door at the end of the hall.

“They are quarantined behind a see through partition,” she tells you in the kind of no-nonsense voice that must come from years in her work. “Do not attempt to breech this partition.”

She holds out a long medical gown. Confused, you shoved your arms into the sleeves. She spins you, and starts to tie it up, and then she puts another one on your back, spinning you again so she can tie it in the front. She hands you a cap, and a mask, and you put them both on as she helps your feet into medical grade booties.

“How dangerous is it?” You ask as she holds up a pair of gloves to slip on your hands.

“Unknown,” she tucks the end of the gloves over the wristband of the double set of gowns. “But you saw the news, you know where they were. Better safe than sorry.”

She types a number into the key pad. “You get ten minutes. No more, no less. I'm not being mean, but we need to minimize any chance of exposure.”

You nod your understanding. Ten minutes isn't much time, but you'll make the most of it.

“There are armed men in there,” she finally says. “Don't do anything to make them think you are a threat.”

It's the last bit of advice she gives you before the pad turns green and the door is opened.

The room is long, white, and empty save for what looks like a box made out of hanging plastic. Only a few of the lights are on, casting half the room in evening darkness. There are several beds, but only one of them is occupied. The long, lean body of a black male is visible beneath the harsh lighting. Three other people stand guard, dressed from head to toe, AR-15 clutched in their hands. The door closes behind you.

For a moment you stand there, frozen and unsure. A little, ugly thought makes you wonder if this is some weird trick. Then you hear your name.

Your eyes are drown to the shape of a man sitting in a chair. You hadn't noticed him at first because the dark lines of his body blend a little too easily with the pseudo darkness on that side of the room. But now that you've seen him, you can't pull your gaze away.

Nick. You'd know the shape of him anywhere. The broad, strong line of his shoulders stands guardian against the pitch black behind him. There's a blanket across his legs, and an IV in his arm.

“It's you,” he says softly, disbelieving.

“Nick.” You take one step, and then another, and before you know it your legs are carrying you across the room. You almost forget the plastic. When you foot hits it, you're startled. The guards watch you with cold glares. “Sorry.”

And once you start saying it, you can't stop. Over and over again you apologize. You don't realize you are crying until you taste the hot salt of your own tears. You are sorry you didn't call him. You are sorry you left. You are sorry you didn't answer him back. You are sorry for everything you ever did in the last six months because none of those things was going to him. You sink to your knees at the edge of the partition, the tears making it impossible to speak.

He says your name again, so soft you wonder if you dreamed it. You look up, and he's shaking his head.

“Please, don't cry.”

Slowly, unsteadily, he gets up. He doesn't look at you as he pulls the chair from one side of the plastic sheet box to the other. Right in front of you, he plops the chair down, and then lowers himself into it. His staccato motions belie how hurt he must still be.

The pair of you are silent as you look one another over. You see the bruises beneath his woad blue spots; purple and yellow and, in some places, black. You see the stitches in his arm, the thick swelling of his hands. The skin around his cheeks is slack with the lack of food he's gotten in the past month. But his eyes, those gorgeous eyes that are yellow and red and orange all at once, they are filled with pain that has nothing to do with being thrown half a football field by a magical explosion.

“You're here,” he says, his voice soft. “I thought-” He stop short, shrugging, and then wincing.

“I know,” you tell him. While you aren't sure of the exact words he must have thought, you know that it couldn't have been good.

“Why?” he asks.

You open your mouth to tell him, but the words wont come. You remember Elizabeth, his mother, and the way she had looked at you. You could tell him everything, but what good would that do? He might get angry at his mother, it might cause some kind of rift between them and how many people did Nick really have who cared that much for his safety? Not nearly enough, you think as you take in injuries you hadn't noticed before.

Instead you shrug. You can't bring yourself to lie, but you can't bring yourself to tell him the truth either, no matter how much it's burned inside of you. You turn the words that she said over in your mind, pulling an answer from them without revealing their source.

“You got hurt because you were with me.” Your voice cracks as you say it.

His eyes close and his shoulders sag. His body leans forward. You think he's about to slide out of the chair. The pair of you kneel on the floor, staring at one another. Emotions that you don't think have ever been named whirl through you. You want to touch him, you want to hold him, you want to vanish together into the night.

“No,” he said shaking his head. “No. You were just the excuse. When they saw me-” he cuts off, coughs, and shakes. “They'd already decided what they were going to do.”

He looks away. You can tell that there's more to say, that he's struggling. Rather than push you give him a moment. He deserves that at the very least.

“It wont happen again,” he says.

“Why not?”

He opens his palm, I can't see anything there, but he must because he's staring down at it like it's something special.

“I can't talk about a lot that happened that night,” he says. “I want to, I want to tell you everything but...I can't.”

You shake your head. “I just need to know you are safe.”

“I think I am. I mean-I gotta tell you, it was not a normal night. I was...I was blooded.”

Your eyes go wide. You can't help but stare at his lips. He smirks.

“It'll take a while for the tusks to grow. But I don't need to file them anymore.”

You sit back on your heels. “Are you okay with that?”

He shrugs. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath and looks at you. It's a long look, a scared and hopeful one. It's like he's weighing a thousand dreams as he watches you and all you can do is wait.

“I thought I was getting over you,” he finally says. “It'd been months. Long months. Really, really long months. My mom even set me up on a couple dates with some unblooded girls from other states.”

Your stomach twists.

“Yeah?” you say, hoping that he's not about to tell you that he has moved on and this whole thing was about him saying goodbye.

“They were nice, but they...they didn't understand me. They didn't like what I do. They didn't like my jokes and they all thought Alaska is stupid.” The two of you laugh and it feels so good. He shifts his position until the two of you are nearly the same height. “I wasn't falling for someone else but I was pretending really hard like I was getting over you.”

You nod, you know what he means. You'd been going through all the motions, acting like you were moving forward when all you were doing was playing the role and hoping.

“I was going to come see you,” he said. “As soon as my shift was over that night. I was going to go right to your apartment. Everyone said I shouldn't because I'd just get hurt, but I thought that it would be worth it. I just..”

Slowly he reached into the blanket still twisted around his legs. His thick, injured fingers shook with pain as he pushed the fabric around.

“Where-hold on-it's here, I swear.”

Your heart, which has already gone through far too much, pounds all over again. Your mouth goes dry.

“Nick...”

“I almost died you know,” he says as he lifts a corner, continues to look. There's a little wetness on his brow, and you wonder if it's fear, nerves, or pain that's put it there. “And not just once. I almost died like four times.”

One of the guards cleared their throats.

“I know,” Nick said, holding up his free hand. “I know. I can't tell her anything. But you only have to look at me to see that it happened.” He went still, and bowed his head. “I did die.”

It's not even a whisper, there's no sound. It's a breath of words that you are sure the guards couldn't hear. You pounding heart turns to ice in your chest.

“What?”

But he doesn't say it again. Instead he looks up at you and his eyes are bright with a hundred emotions. “And all I could think about, was you.”

He holds out his hand. Nested there is a black velvet box. Carefully, he opens it, revealing a ring. It's made of two metals, platinum and rose gold, twisted around one another to form a very simple braid, and right there at the center is a stone in the exact same shade of blue as his spots.

“All I thought about every day has been you,” he is saying when your ears start to work again. “And I don't want to ever have to worry again.”

You swallow twice before you can speak. “Are you proposing?”

You aren't sure if he's blushing, but his ears twitch. “Only if you're saying yes.”

“You have to ask,” you say. “You have to...ask.”

“Is it a spell? A human thing?” he says.

You shrug, because it kind of is, but mostly you just need to time to stop your thoughts from making such a commotion in your head. There are a hundred ways this could go wrong, a thousand even, but even so-

He says your name and you find that he's shifted yet again, down on one knee in front of you. “Will you marry me?”

#nick jakoby fanfiction #nick jakoby x reader #nick jakoby #proposal #cute #sweet fanfiction

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echo-bleu · 4 years

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Oct 19-21 is the Good Intentions WIP fest ( @goodintentionswipfest ), the time to let go of abandoned WIPs and post them as is. Given that I’ve written a lot in the last year and also recently moved fandoms, I thought it was a good time to clean up my WIP folder(s), so I’ll be posting a few things that I started and gave up part way through. This means that each snippet is unfinished and not meant to be a full fic.

RNM, Alex, 1497 words. This was going to be a part of my Lines of Fear and Blame series about Alex & Isobel friendship, titled Drive Until You Lose The Road. [depression, PTSD, mentions of war, death, amputation and explosions, survivor’s guilt]

Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that when their lives finally quiet down, it takes Alex so much time to get used to it.

He didn't have to get used to the violence. It crept up on him. His brothers have always played rough, as far as he can remember, rough enough to hurt each other, and he was the smallest. He got kicked and punched and fell a lot. His father's blows were a different kind of pain, but it was still pain. Violence was never strange to Alex.

He didn't have to get used to the war, because he's always been at war. The war outside is more deadly, more awful than the war in his family, but it was never more painful than the war inside him.

He had to get used to the pain, because you forget the pain. You live with the memory of the blows and the broken bones, but you forget the pain, because your brain simply can't handle the prospect of being in that much pain again. So when Alex loses his leg, and he discovers the kind of pain that never leaves, the phantom limb and the constant ache in the stump and his messed up shoulder and his broken neck vertebra, it takes him months to stop hoping, in that short moment just before he wakes up in the morning, that it will go away. It takes him longer to stop raging about it. But when it comes down to it, he adapts easily. He's never had trouble to adapt to the dozens of places he's lived in, even overseas−it's not like he has many friends to miss. He adapts to being back in Roswell and having only one foot and seeing his father seemingly everywhere.

He doesn't really have to adapt to the skin-tight sense of wrongness of his life being turned over again. It's not so much the alien reveal−what does it really matter, if Michael is a telekinetic alien on top of being bisexual? It's the seeing Michael again. Navigating their shipwreck of a relationship. Finding out what his father has done, and is doing, and how it connects again to the depth of Michael's suffering. But Alex has never felt anything that came close to settled, to home, to safe. So it's just another war to fight.

Fighting is his default mode. Constant hypervigilance, of his surrounding and of his own body. The problem with trauma, is that it makes your brain forget to switch off fight mode. So no, it shouldn't come as a surprise that when the dust finally settles down around them, Alex finds himself spiraling down.

He groans at the ache in his head and his leg when he wakes up from his vague slumber and vaguer nightmarish half-dreams for the third time this morning. This time, his phone buzzing is what broke the silence. Sighing, he reaches for the phone and squints at it.

“Hey, Alex,” the video message says. “The last few days have been amazing. We're heading out to the airport soon, we'll be back home by mid afternoon. Text me if you want me to come by, I miss you.”

Alex sighs and lets his head fall back against his pillow. He's glad that he bought Michael a smartphone, if it means that he can see his face like this more often, but today he just misses him. It's ridiculous, honestly. They've been apart for a whole three days. But after a decade of missing each other, it's like he won't breathe until Michael is in his arms again.

He hesitates before texting, then chides himself. I'll be waiting for you, he writes, overriding his fear. Michael loves to leave him random video messages, and Alex only replies through texts. And right now, given how amazing a wind-swept Michael looks in the sun of Houston, he's glad of that. It's ten a.m., but his bedroom is still dark and starting to smell stale, and he lying in bed in his boxers.

He doesn't want Michael to see him like that, but he knows he won't be over this depression spell by tonight. Not with what today is.

No more events today, the calendar on his phone states. Alex couldn't bring himself to put anything in, even Michael's plane back. He declined to make the round trip to Albuquerque with Liz to pick the alien siblings up at the airport, citing his leg's dislike for spending time sitting in a car, but that was only half of the reason.

Michael doesn't know, of course. Isobel threw a party for their shared birthday last Saturday, then swept her brothers away to Houston to the NASA center as a birthday gift, to celebrate Max's resurrection and the twins' new interest at reconnecting with their origins. It's also an occasion to air out their issues without humans breathing down their necks, Michael confided in Alex, and start the process of healing together. Alex is happy that it seems to have gone well.

His own relationship with Michael is slowly growing, since they started rebuilding it from the ground up. Michael spends most of his nights at the cabin now, and they've been going out together more and more, working on Alex's instinctive need to hide. It's been rough, in some ways, but they're settling into a pattern that works for them, and since Max's resurrection and Jesse Manes's death, things have been quiet on the government conspiracy front.

Which leaves Alex here, now, three days into Michael's trip away from Roswell, feeling like he shouldn't be this depressed. For the first time ever, his life is good. He has close friends, his relationship with Michael is the best it's ever been, and the shadow of his father is finally gone.

It's just that being away from Michael is so damn hard. It's just that his pain level have been through the roof for a week.

It's just that today is the anniversary of the day he walked onto a bomb.

Alex buries his face fully in his pillow, his eyes filling with tears again. He didn't want to tell Michael and ruin his family trip. Liz was here yesterday, also feeling a little bereft at Max's absence, but she doesn't know the date anymore than his other friends. His men will call him, probably. They flew in and threw him a party when he was discharged two months ago, even though they're scattered across the country. They'll mourn together for the two brothers who didn't make it back home.

There's a yap, and from the bedroom door, left open since Alex is on his own, comes a running bundle of fur. Alex barely has time to turn and see her before Ksenia jumps up on the bed and sticks her nose under his chin.

“Hey, girl,” he murmurs as she mercilessly tickles him with her fur. She proceeds to lick his face, without paying any heed to his efforts to push her away. Alex fights for a minute before he gives in, leaving her free reign over his body.

Ksenia just settles down, half on the bed and half on his chest, with her head resting against his. Her warm presence is comforting, as Alex's ticklish giggles turn into sobs.

“I miss them, Ksenia,” he hiccups. “I don't…I probably wouldn't even be talking to Karl if he was alive, because he was an asshole, but I still fucking miss them.”

Ksenia just gives him another lick. Alex feels like he's choking from the pain inside his chest, like he can't take another breath. It's not even a panic attack, he can recognize those from a mile away, just plain old grief. He weeps for what feels like hours−actually minutes, but he comes out the other side feeling dried out and exhausted, tears and snot mixing with Ksenia's saliva on his face. He feels disgusting, yet he can't quite bring himself to get up and go shower.

What's the point, when Dawson and Karl will never get up again? Sometimes Alex can't even understand how he's still living, still handling the day to day things, everything so inconsequential and unimportant.

Not when it fucking hurts so much, that he came back and they didn't. That he came back and doesn't understand why, doesn't understand how.

Suddenly he feels trapped lying down, the weight too heavy on his chest. He sits up with a start, disturbing the poor Ksenia who yelps and jumps off the bed. Alex wants to apologize, but words are beyond him right now. He wheezes, throwing back his duvet until he can see his stump, and not the metal beam that crushed his leg and trapped him inside the crumbling building.

Ksenia must not be too angry at him because she doesn't give up and tries again, this time wrapping herself into his lap. Alex breathes out and hugs her tightly. “I'm sorry Ksenia,” he rasps out.

#roswell new mexico #alex manes #roswell nm #good intentions wip fest #mine #unfinished #echo's fanfiction

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penaltybox14 · 4 years

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Decofiremen: Soon Be the Dawning Days

@darknight-brightstar @zeitheist Every single one of my attempts to write pleasant holiday-oriented things ends up ass-deep in character dissection and plot exposition. @squad51goals @its-skadi

In this installment, we talk about seasons, changes, and things to celebrate.

December darkens the days, and sharpens the nights. There is frost every morning, and the sun is a pale consumptive, waking feebly and slipping weakly into evening. The potbelly stove in the dorm is always burning, always someone up in the night to tend it, every hour. The lads spend a productive few hours one off day re-arranging their beds, recaulking the windows, and hanging curtains. When Josiah asks what they are up to, they explain the lads at the ends of the rows have been getting cold in the night, and they are trying to fix it up so that either everyone is warm, or everyone is cold.

"You mind, Captain?" Jules Menlo asks. He and Bertram Cochrane have taken up the lead, since Antoine and Ellis left for the City. They are raw to it, but they are learning yet.

"Not at all, boys, carry on."

Josiah is pleased with them. Neat and natty rows of beds can go to hell, the lads are making a fine hearth for themselves. They make sure to vent it properly, and Lufty nods approvingly at their work - a house inside of a house, a canvas-flanked beast breathing and snoring in the wind-snipped nights. Josiah only scolds them once, when he catches Davey at three in the morning carrying wood in for the stove. Sure, he is wrapped up tight as a beetle in a sack of flour, but Josiah reminds them that he's just a boy, yet, and needs his rest.

Young Cleary had stumbled a while, the days after Antoine and Ellis were graduated. Eddy had given him a scorcher of a talk for forgetting to include Davey in the proceedings, and he deserved it. That responsibility is still so new and giddy to him - where now, he can remember his own graduation, and think well on it, and not always be so bitter - and he had left the boy bereft. Fool that he is. Even Silky would've cuffed him for it.

My true friend Silky, he writes, one glassy morning when the sun had lost the strength to lift the frost from the grass, you would not believe me or maybe you would. Do you remember the day the bell sounded for us, at breakfast? In the good cheer of sending my lads to the city, I left out the boy who needs us most, our young Cleary. Your god, my friend, would smote me off the earth. It was a terrible mistake, for I frightened him so badly. I had to set him down later in the day and explain all the proceedings and the ceremony. I am not yet sure he forgives me. I am not sure I deserve it. Here he is, a boy who has already lost one family, and I am to take another from him. You can be sure Eddy let me have it.

yours irresponsibly, Birchy

In those following days, after Antoine and Ellis depart on the train from Troy, his heart aches, something like a tooth you want to forget, something a body can't escape from. The long hallway is there in his dreams, in the boy's dreams, and now he hears the piano, and the distant laughter. He smells the books in the study. When he wakes, he feels the far-off gaze of a man much his senior, cool-eyed but in such a way as a lake when the summer days grow taut about the city streets. An expectant look, a waiting. Far off down that hallway, as far from the boy now as the Bronx for him, as the dorm he once sweat out his sear in. He would want to look away, as the village folks and the oakbellies look at his scars and his brace.

He knows that hallway, and that's just the trouble, for young Cleary has walked it alone, trailing his fingers along the green wallpaper, and Josiah, trembling for the thought of the beam waiting in the ceiling, has not followed. Coward, he thinks. To let the child walk his hallway and stumble, smoke-wrecked, to his wide lawn, alone. A one-legged and half-hearted coward. Davey looks at him askance often in those following days - doesn't come to read with him or practice his Latin, doesn't follow the lads out on their drills no matter how they coax him. He walks down the pathway past the brambles and into the woods, his too-large coat down past his knees and his collar up so high it leaves just his dark curls tumbling out in the sharp wind, and when he comes in for dinner, he is quiet and small among the lads.

It is one of those long, weary twilights when the winter rattles like dry bones, and his leg aches. He is fixing the ledger, making notes, and Silky's reply is on the edge of the desk. Davey slips in so quietly he only hears it with his sear, so startlingly that Josiah leaves a blot on the end of a row.

"Capper?"

He puts his pen down and smiles like he imagines Silky would at an Antoine or an Ellis. Truth to say, he has missed the boy, even the sometimes frantic, fledgling winging of his sear. He is far too young to grieve such an emptiness as that long, black hallway and the smoke-torn sky.

"May I ask a question?"

Times, the boy's genteel raising surfaces, softly like the wave on the shore. Times, as now, he holds his cap in his hands as if he's in a holy place, and his eyes are the shyness of moss on a shadowed ledge.

"Course. Always."

"Eddy said firemen don't take holidays."

"Come sit. What're you onto?"

"It's almost Dawning Days, that's all..."

"Oh, ghosts above, Davey - " Josiah has to laugh. " - no, that's not how Eddy meant it. He only meant that fires and accidents and all our work, it can happen any time."

Davey sits in one of the clutter of chairs in Josiah's office, kicking his legs, the gesture of a younger boy, an apologetic sort of gesture.

"I don't mean to laugh, young Cleary, but we do know the Dawning Days."

From the sundown on solstice to daybreak on New Year's - the time of spirits, the time of the seasons shifting, the time to do good and remember that the sun is only resting for a grand debut. The oakbellies throw a grand to-do at New Year's, all the officers invited to come at their most festive. He has not gone - and the oakbellies are likely to be glad of it, he figures, for he would not cut such a charming figure in his full dress and a tin of polish on his leg. They would, as they did at his promotion, shuffle and swallow hotly above their stiff collars. He would probably stand the whole night out of pride and spend the week after in bed. Perhaps it would be worth it.

"Do you have a party?"

"As many as we can."

"And lights?"

"As many as the sills will hold. The lights and the cups left out for the ghosts. Eddy has probably got another little tree to plant - you know, that stand of maple by the stables, that's his handiwork."

Davey is looking as delighted as Josiah has ever seen him. His eyes are younger, now. He is more the boy that he must have been in golden days, before his long dark hallway.

"And you already know Bertram and his fiddle, and save us all, we've heard the lads sing."

"They taught me the fireman's song." Davey grips the chair, and then pauses, as if lost of a sudden. "Lyddie would've liked that song, I suppose. Mother scolded her because she called the music our teacher brought her 'musty old tunes'."

From far away, in the marrow of his bones, Josiah feels the soft carpet of the parlor under his shoes. Dark walnut bookshelves and rich, salmon-colored wallpaper embossed with an intricate pattern, the sort of thing a child would run their fingers over. The books are less a rainbow than a late-summer forest, greens and smatterings of red and orange. The girl playing the piano, with the bow in her hair, likes to spin cleverly from the plodding strains of an old mass to the bright chirps of ragtime and dance. The brother laughs.

The oak floors in their dormitory had what seemed to be a century of wax and polish creating glistening currents in the low lamplight. They could have greased the bedsprings with a gallon of lard per man and the damned things would've screamed like witches every time a man so much as thought of rolling over. A cold night outside, and a warm hearth within, each coat and helmet hung on its hook, each woolen blanket tucked neatly around each mattress corner. The brothers are singing and the brothers are laughing.

"Antoine wrote me a letter," Davey says, quietly. "He says he got his sear." Davey bites his lip. "He says everybody looked after him, and his captain Jack Prince gave him a pocketwatch. Does it hurt so much, always?"

"Every man is different. It's a hard hand of days. But we look after each other." "I don't remember, exactly. I hurt so long, I was in bed and the lady wanted to call the doctor, I think. I hurt so long, and then - then it just felt like - " Davey leans forward, puts his arms on the desk and his head in his arms and sighs. Muffled, he whispers, "I felt like - "

Like wandering, Josiah thinks. That strange stillness when the fever breaks, before you come around to your mates watching over you, before you pull yourself out of your bed weak and stunned and brand-new on foal's legs. A fresh and open field, the shaded place where the last dollop of snow lives nearly into June.

"I know," Josiah murmurs, and lays his hand - his scarred hand - on young Cleary's shoulder. "I do know, son, I do."

"I wished Antoine didn't have to hurt that way. Or Ellis. Or Jules or Betram." "I dunno what it was like - " Josiah sighs. " - but for me, I had my mates around, and my pal, we got it together. I never would've got through it, without him."

"Thomas."

Josiah starts.

"Sorry, Capper. I read it on the letter. Eddy talked about him once, too."

"Silky."

"Capper?"

"Silky. That's what we called Thomas."

"Why?"

"I don't remember, really."

"What's he like?"

"Oh," Josiah says. "I'll tell you. You'd like him a sight better than me - for one thing, he's got two entire good legs and he could take you down to the fish pond. Second - "

Davey is kicking his legs again, scuffing the toes of his boots on the wooden floor.

"Well, I'll tell you. The day I met him, here at Wynantskill, he very nearly ran me down with a horse, a big old dapple grey gelding we called Chubby..."

Davey leans on his hands.

Silky's letter, half-unfolded, is by his elbow. I never really got the brothers' whole forgiveness bit, it says, but I do reckon it's a little bit like when you turn over the ash of a building, and you find a little green thing growing underneath.

#decofire #decofiremen #yes I realize that's an 11 day span #and yes sometimes that's an eleven day food alcohol and music bender #but you also get plants

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hollywooduniversityalumnus · 4 years

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1. burning glances, turning heads

He really should know better, Margot thought, to expect that his class would be paying attention on a Friday afternoon before the long weekend.

As Professor Hunt, the surliest yet most accomplished educator to roam the halls of Hollywood University, all but threw Lance Sergio out for being extremely obvious about taking excessively filtered selfies during the lecture, she took the opportunity to lean over to Addison, poking her with the eraser end of her mechanical pencil. The blonde, as if being suddenly woken, started, causing her gel pen to make a squiggle just off the doodle she was mindlessly making on the edge of her paper.

“What?” Addison asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Margot shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“I think we’re all bored,” Addison teased. “But at least some of us are more subtle than others.”

She nodded towards the front, where the professor had turned his attentions to Jenni Whitman, whose open laptop screen displayed one of the trashier celebrity gossip websites. Beside her, Bianca Stone surreptitiously slipped her phone into her pocket and bowed her head over her notebook, as though trying to commit the blank pages to memory, and Shae, another of Bianca’s friends, panicked and stuffed her phone in the front of her shirt, making a strange lump in the fabric.

As Jenni, too, packed up and took her leave at his insistence, Professor Hunt returned to the lectern, his jaw tense.

“While I understand that you are all incapable of delaying gratification long enough to pay attention in my class, I maintain my zero-tolerance policy for distractions. It would do the rest of you well,” he gritted out, “to not force my hand any more than it’s already been.” His eyes slowly took in the remaining pupils sitting in the hall. “Do I make myself clear?”

The lecture continued.

As he began a diatribe on romantic comedies, Margot turned back to Addison and gestured for her to look at her notebook. Addison subtly glanced down as she pretended to stretch, reading the message written on the corner of the page in very, very light pencil lead strokes.

Do you think he’s ever even seen a rom com?

Addison smirked and turned the page on her notebook, scrawling her reply in much more perceptible pink glitter ink.

Not on purpose, if at all.

Margot suppressed a laugh at the thought.

Like, maybe he sat through You’ve Got Mail thinking that it was about the postal service?

Or Mystic Pizza being about a magical pizza.

Or Crazy Rich Asians being a biopic.

Or-

“I thought I made myself clear.”

The two girls jumped in their seats, hearts pounding, expecting to find the frowning professor looming over them. Luckily for them, his attention was on Shae, whose poorly hidden phone in her shirt had become quite the spectacle, as the screen lit up behind the thin fabric and an instrumental snippet of a Top 40s hit blared from behind the buttons.

“Out,” Professor Hunt snapped. When Shae didn’t immediately move, he all but yelled, “Out!”

Dear God, she thought, this lecture is never-ending.

She was one of perhaps sixteen students left in the hall. Many others, including Bianca, had either flown the coop during the mandated fifteen-minute break, or were not-so-nicely asked to leave by the increasingly tense professor. She had flirted with the idea of beginning her long weekend early, too, but she knew she was already on thin ice with Hunt (to be fair, when isn’t she?), and she might as well learn something anyway. She didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. Unlike many of her classmates, she wasn’t heading home for the long weekend, and her plans for the next four days were most likely going to be a cycle of sleep, catching up on the show Chris recommended, and getting takeout.

“. . . and that is why we're discussing the decline of the romantic comedy, a genre that relies all too often on an unbelievable formula. Miss Sinclair?”

Addison’s head snapped up. “Yes, Professor?”

“Kindly give us an example of a trope commonly seen in romantic comedies. I am assuming you are familiar with them.”

“Y-yes,” Addison said, twirling her fuzzy-capped gel pen with her fingers. “Um, in, um, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the two leads often fought and got on each other’s nerves but fell in love with each other anyway.”

Professor Hunt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. A topical example of an overused trope. How often have you seen the two lead characters spend most of a movie fighting with each other, only to end up together in the end because of some ill-established passion? Far too often, I’d assume.”

As he droned on, Margot reached over and patted Addison’s arm. “Good job.”

The blonde returned the smile, relieved to have survived the encounter. “Thanks, I was dying inside.”

“Real love is nothing like that,” Hunt said, sneering. “Real love, the kind that exists outside of a cinema screen or five-dollar DVD bin, is not a predictable, clearly laden path with a clear and promised conclusion. Expecting a happily ever after in a relationship is naïve at best.”

“Who hurt him?” Addison mumbled to her.

She poked Addison again with her pencil. “Can you imagine someone loving Hunt? Or even dating him?”

“No! It'd be like dating an angry bear. It’d be a miracle if they lived to tell the tale. I heard he's single, unsurprisingly.” Addison shook her head.

“He probably has crazy high standards. Do you think he has a type?” She bit her lip, assessing her professor from afar. Though his modelling days were far behind him, he still maintained a well-kept, impeccable appearance that often made her wonder what he would look like without the constricting suits he wore like second skins. His features were both manly yet delicate, as if the world had taken its sweet time with perfecting his visage. And his jawline . . . sharp enough to cut glass. He was definitely not lacking in looks, talent, or drive, which was what made his being perpetually single all the more intriguing, though his personality made it understandable.

“Yeah, if perfect is a type. Like, someone with a model hot body, a mind as sharp as a stiletto, and a Hollywood career that's skyrocketing.” Addison giggled.

She tapped her lip with the eraser end of her pencil, thinking. “So, a fictional person.”

Addison leaned into her, eyes glimmering with amusement. “I bet it'd be like getting graded all the time. He'd be judging your outfit, insulting your conversation, critiquing your kissing technique! ‘Too much tongue. You call that a kiss? Kindly remove yourself from my sight.’”

She chuckled. “‘You’ve got to do better than that if you want me to feel anything other than complete and utter monotony.’”

“‘I've seen more believable kisses on The Bachelor.’”

The laugh that bubbled out of her was loud enough to capture the attention of the very man they were emulating. His eyes narrowed as he spotted her quickly trying to clamp her mouth shut.

“Miss Schuyler! Is something amusing? Perhaps you'd like to finish off my lecture on the difficulty of realistically portraying love?” he asked.

She straightened in her seat. “Sorry, Professor.”

“. . . And in conclusion, once a genre full of heart, the majority of romantic comedies have descended into farce bereft of true emotion. Class dismissed.” The professor strode over to his desk and began the necessary routine of shutting off the projection screen. As he did, the rest of the class stood up, stretching, and began packing their things away. Excited voices began eagerly discussing their plans for the weekend.

Thank God, Margot thought. The never-ending lecture was over. Let the weekend-

His eyes met hers, a pointed gaze. “Except for you, Miss Schuyler. Come see me. We need to talk.”

. . . Shit.

Addison touched her arm. “Do you want me to stay back, too?”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said, patting her friend’s hand. “You go on ahead. Don’t be late for your bus. I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing your mom.”

Addison grinned. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

“The least you can do,” she teased.

Addison’s smile waned. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on campus for the weekend? My mom said it would be no trouble at all for you to visit.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. With almost everyone going away for the long weekend, I’m going to indulge in using up all the hot water. Maybe even sit at the good table in the coffee shop. Wild stuff like that. Thank you, though.”

“Well, then,” Addison said, smile returning full-force, “I’ll be on my way. Good luck! Hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “Don’t worry about little ol’ me. I know how to deal with him.”

Addison nodded and took her leave, one of the last of the classmates to exit the hall. Gathering up the rest of her things, Margot stuffed them into her tote bag and made her way up to the professor’s desk, where he was busy rifling through his own bag and muttering to himself.

“Just one second,” he said, placing a few handfuls of odds and ends from the depths of his bag on the table.

She nodded, more fascinated by the things that he seemingly carried around with him. Of the many things on his desk, she noted a mini Rubik’s cube, a slip of paper with very faded ink that might have been a receipt or a movie ticket once, a cellophane-wrapped green-and-white mint, three expensive-looking pens of various colours and sizes, and a tube of plain blue Nivea lip balm, identical to the one she had in her purse at that very moment. While the label on hers had faded from usage and being flung around inside her bag, his looked brand new.

After brushing those items back into his bag, he placed a stack of papers on the desktop. Among them, a bright slip of paper poked out, much smaller than the rest, and made of a thicker, textured material. Curious, she pulled it out until she could read the tiny lettering.

5th Annual Los Angeles Charity Masquerade. Admit one (1). $250 admission not including fees/taxes.

She’d never been to a masquerade. She imagined they were just like that scene in Labyrinth, with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly spinning around the room, surrounded by people in grotesque masks that partly concealed their identities. Big poufy dresses and suits with coattails. Drapery and curtains and mirrors. But an LA soiree version of one probably meant champagne by the bucketful and crudités carried around by masked waiters. Perhaps live music, performed by musicians forced into formal wear, and maybe they were even masked as well. Was everyone there, guest or not, required to wear one? Were masquerades that strict? Do people who wear glasses have to-

You’re getting distracted, she told herself.

“A masquerade ball, huh? That sounds romantic.” She leaned against the desk, smirking at him. “And here I thought you were completely against the concept of romance.”

“Only someone delusional looks for love at a charity masquerade ball,” he replied scathingly. “It's a charity event and an obligation. I'm expected to attend, but there'll be no one worth talking to. As usual.”

“No date, huh?”

His eyes narrowed. “A date would require me to spend the entire evening there. I can't imagine anything worse. I'll be leaving as soon as I've made my donation to the cause. But I didn't call you up here to discuss my social calendar, Miss Schuyler. I wanted to talk about your behaviour in class. I thought, after seeing nearly all of your classmates get removed from the hall, you’d know better than to provoke me. I want to make it absolutely clear to you that it is unacceptable to disrupt my lecture. Save your chit chat for your own time, understand?”

She swallowed hard, feeling heat on her cheeks from his gaze. “Yes, Professor.”

He nodded once. “Good. You may go.”

As she left the hall, phone in hand, her heart was thumping in her chest from excitement. But not from the weekend finally starting.

She’d never been to a masquerade, after all.

But first, she’d need a dress. And shoes.

Without her stellar roommate and fashionista friend by her side, she felt entirely overwhelmed as she flipped through the overflowing closet Addi had insisted she make use of. Though she hadn’t told her the whole truth – just that she was attending an event that required formal wear – Addi had been thrilled to break up the boring bus ride with some advice.

“Not too much cleavage,” Addison said, her voice tinny through the phone speaker. “And not short, either. Knee-length or longer.”

“Do you think I’ll need gloves?” she asked. “Like Cinderella?”

Addison hummed. “Maybe. Pack a pair of elbow length white gloves in your bag, just in case. Oh my gosh. What bag are you bringing? It cannot clash. You hear me? Cannot.”

“Addi, I don’t even know what dress I’m wearing.” Margot frowned at her phone, balanced atop a stack of textbooks on her vanity. “I’m standing here in my underwear trying to figure this out. I’m pre-bibbidi-bobbidi-boo here.”

Addison’s laughter rang out of the speaker.

“I’m serious, Addi. Maybe I shouldn’t go.” She bit her lip, thinking of the money she’d spent on a ticket, money that might’ve been better spent. She was lucky that there were even tickets available. But that was beside the point. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea? Having a good time? Attending a charity event? Making career-defining connections? Come on.” Addison giggled. “Maybe you’ll even meet the love of your life there.”

“Right.” She flipped through the racks, eager to find something, anything . . . and then she saw it. A strapless, silvery blue ball gown, tight at the top but not overly cleavage-baring, that flared out at the waist to a full, silky skirt that would definitely conceal whatever shoes she would wear. She pulled it out of the closet and unzipped the clear garment bag to admire it. It was a princess dress if she ever saw one. Turning back to the phone, she quickly requested the voice call turn to a video.

Seconds later, Addison’s tired faced filled the screen. “What is it?”

Brandishing the dress out with a flourish, she ignored that she was standing in little more than a bra and panties as she showed the dress for her friend’s approval.

The gasp she heard confirmed her selection.

“You’ll be so stunning! A real-life Cinderella,” Addison said.

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly, running her hand over the smooth fabric, already envisioning the makeup look she’d pair with the outfit.

“Except-” Addison narrowed her eyes in her best stern Hunt impression. “If you lose one of my shoes, it would be best to leave the country.”

Her taxi finally reached the front of the line, and a footman waiting on the sidewalk opened the door for her. She stepped out in her beautiful ball gown, giving the footman a grateful smile as he closed the door after her. Taking her time ascending the steps in her heels, she met another footman at the door who, after looking at her ticket and corroborating it with the guest list on a tablet, handed her a mask with ribbons.

She stepped into the hallway leading to the ballroom and found a mirror where she could put it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was more than pleased by her last-minute glow-up. As Addison had her closet, she had her vanity, stuffed to the brim with makeup products that she used to make herself look as chic as possible. After adjusting the mask to fit her face, she smoothed a layer of lip gloss over her lined lips and smiled to herself.

With this mask, I could be anyone . . . well, anyone smokin' hot, that is, she thought.

The ballroom was packed despite its tremendous size. Decorated Regency-style, it dripped with decadence, glass, and shine. Gold chandeliers tipped with crystals dangled from ceilings with painted murals, and tables spilled over with decadent food and sparkling drinks in crystal flutes. Famous actors and big names in the industry, though shrouded by masks of varying hues and designs, gossiped at the edges of the room, while couples danced and twirled on the floor. As she envisioned, masked waiters masterfully navigated the room, offering bite-sized treats that made her mouth water just looking at them.

After making her way around the room, taking in the splendor, she came to a stop near a pillar and sighed.

“This is incredible,” Margot said aloud.

“Isn’t it?”

She turned her head, surprised to see a man with a dark blue mask eyeing her from where he sat by the nearby bar.

“Come sit with me and let’s talk about it,” he said. The invitation, though innocuous in its wording, made her uncomfortable.

“Um,” she said. Her mind, which was usually buzzing with quips, did not offer her an out.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he pressed, voice a little too firm and sharp for her liking. “I won’t bite. Come here.”

She swallowed hard at his leery gaze, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “I-”

And then she felt it, a hand circling around her elbow, and she was not alone. She tilted her head up to appraise her saviour, who was looking down at her with a smile. Her saviour, tall and silver-masked, looked and spoke to her as if he knew her.

“There you are.” He led her to the other side of the bar, all the while chattering loudly as though they had come together. “Nearly lost you in this crowd.”

She knew that voice. Knew it quite well, in fact. She’d heard it in lecture halls, offices, in her nightmares and dreams, and in places unexpected.

This was one of the latter now.

He gestured to a pair of empty seats, and she gratefully took one. As soon as she was comfortable, he turned his head to look over at where that man who had been speaking at her sat. Then, he leaned against the bar, standing over the other empty seat, and picked up a half-empty glass, presumably abandoned by him when he came to her rescue.

“You should be careful,” he said sternly.

For a moment, she thought he recognized her, and she prepared for the lecture that would undoubtedly come.

“Even charity events attract the lecherous,” he continued. “You’re very welcome, by the way.” A smirk played on his lips before he took a sip of his drink.

“Thanks,” she said, for she had no clue what else to say.

He nodded once. “Do be careful with yourself. You’re bound to attract some unwanted attention. It would do you well to keep your head clear so that you may avoid future encounters. You can’t expect someone to come to your rescue every single time.”

“Nor do I expect rescue at all,” she replied. “I am no damsel in distress. Though, I guess, I kind of was for a second there, huh.”

He laughed. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. A genuine laugh that made him tilt his head back ever so slightly. She’d never heard him laugh like that before, but now that she had a taste, she wanted to hear it again and again. It was so unlike him, the caustic and cold professor she knew. It made him even more attractive.

“At least you’re honest.” He tilted his head at her. “I prefer to be honest.”

“I like that.” Sitting up a little straighter, Margot added, “Honesty's refreshing. One thing I've learned since I've been here, in Hollywood I mean, is that too many people are willing to lie to your face or cheat to get ahead.”

He glanced at his watch. “Is that so?” He killed his drink and then levelled his gaze with hers. “And you’re not one of them?”

“No,” she said, then thought better of it. “Not yet, at least. Not if I can help it.”

“So, you want to get ahead.” He finally lowered himself into the seat beside hers.

He gestured to the bartender for a refill, and she took the opportunity to order herself a drink. The bartender nodded at them and turned away.

“I want to be a household name. A famous actress.”

He leaned forward, close to her. “Here's some more truth for you . . . everyone here wants to be something. But not everyone here is going to succeed.”

Stubbornly, she said, “I will.”

“You're brash, naive, and overly confident. I used to be that way, before. . .” His smirk waned, then disappeared altogether. It was clear he was not mentally in this room anymore.

She wondered what he was thinking about.

The bartender slid his scotch refill to him, then delicately placed her drink on a coaster in front of her. He picked up his glass and took a rather large gulp.

“. . . Ahem. Excuse me. I'm Thomas. And you are?”

Honesty’s refreshing, she had said just moments earlier. Too many people are willing to lie to get ahead.

She truly didn’t want to lie to him, not now. But she also sensed that revealing herself now would mean that she wouldn’t get to keep talking to him like this or hear that laugh.

And, honestly, what good would come out of angering him after he’d been so kind to her?

“Someone who doesn't like to reveal all her secrets.” She smiled coyly, taking a sip from the paper straw in her drink. “It's a masquerade ball, after all.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You don't have to be so coy. I don't need a name to figure out who you are. Or anyone in this room, for that matter.” Turning so that he could assess the crowd around them, he nodded towards different masked guests. “Timothee Chalamet; his hair is distinctive, as is his stature. Charlize Theron; note the regal way she carries herself, much like several of her most notable characters. Adam Driver; tall, kind of awkward gait, a low voice that carries over the crowd.”

“Very impressive, Thomas,” she said, trying out his name on her tongue. It was sort of strange to refer to him so casually, but she’d have to adapt if she wanted to keep this going on.

He took another sip, clearly pleased to be right. “Told you, didn’t I?”

Though she enjoyed the game they were playing, she decided to really test him. “Here’s a harder challenge: do you know who I am?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I've been wondering that the moment you arrived. Something about you is familiar, almost loathsome, yet at the same time, forgive me, attractive.” He tilted his head. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

Though her heart was pounding, she kept it cool. “Maybe at the end of the night. Unless you're planning on leaving early. Are you?”

“No.” He broke eye contact with her long enough to get the bartender’s attention, and he gestured for another refill. “No, I’m not.”

At some point, in the midst of their conversation, the music had noticeably gone softer and slower. He finished his drink and sighed, placing the glass onto the countertop, but just as he was about to request another refill, she captured his attention with a hand on his arm.

“We should dance,” Margot said, springing out of her seat. “Care to join me?”

He hesitated, and her glossed lips pouted.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, all the while maintaining eye contact with her. He straightened his tie and gave her a smirk.

“Do try to keep up,” he teased, buttoning his suit jacket before offering her his arm. They slipped through the crowd, the guests not dancing parting for them as easily as water. As soon as they reached the dance floor, he took the lead, taking her in his arms and guiding her. She was slow, cautious. He watched her fight her instinct to look at their feet.

“If you're nervous, this dance will be over before it even begins,” he warned, though his grip on her tightened.

She pulled him closer, emboldened by the drink in her system and the fact that he didn’t know who she was, and smiled up at him.

“Do I seem nervous, Thomas?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not at all. I’m surprised. You’re not completely horrible at this.”

She batted her eyelashes. “You say such charming things.”

They both laughed as he whirled her around the room.

She didn’t know how long they’d been dancing for, but she knew they were being watched. The crowd of dancers had thinned considerably since they had first arrived on the dance floor, and now many spectators lined the floor, watching with increasing interest as she and her partner weaved around the other dancers, doing increasingly interesting moves at his lead.

Her heart was pounding, the music was building to a crescendo, and he spun her around the dance floor faster and faster.

Don’t puke, she told herself. Do not do it. Your reputation will not recover. Not with whoever’s in attendance, and certainly not with Thomas.

His voice came from somewhere to her right. “Keep to my tempo, or you'll fall behind.”

He spun her out and away from him.

The world beyond the dance floor seemed as if was moving in slow motion, while she was stuck on fast-forward. She felt like she was one of the fairy toys that spun around and around in the air, aimless and free, before meeting a wall or piece of furniture and clattering to the floor. She braced herself for impact.

But then her hands connected with his again, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the dancers applauded as he pulled her back into his embrace.

“You learn quickly. I wish you were one of my students,” he whispered in her ear.

Her stomach, which had felt so light just moments before, now felt heavy and twisted.

“You’re a teacher,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “I teach at a local university.”

“How . . . nice.” It was the best she could come up with at the moment.

After she had become too dizzy from the spinning, he escorted her off the dance floor with an amused smile. He led her through the ballroom and out onto a private balcony cordoned off by a thick dark velvet curtain. Taking her hand, they stepped closer to the railing, into the cool evening air.

After giving her a long look, he let go of her hand and slowly removed his mask. The silver-lined blue barrier fell away to reveal him. He looked even more handsome up close, with a shy smile on his lips and the bright light from a single lantern hanging above them illuminating his debonair features.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, stunned by seeing him so unguarded, and even more handsome up close. “Not at all.”

The ocean waves below were muted by her heartbeat. Above them, she noted the sun setting, the sky becoming an ombre canvas of oranges, reds, and pinks. It was truly a stunning sight, but her gaze kept coming back to him. Still smiling, he reached out and took her hands in his.

His voice was husky, low. “You are definitely the best part of the night. I wasn't expecting to meet someone like you. I can sense something about you, a connection . . . I never thought I'd feel this strongly about someone I just met, but I can't seem to stop myself.”

She felt as though she was not breathing. As if she might never breathe again.

Moving even closer, he circled his arms around her waist, tilted her head up, and leaned in, eyes closing just before they made contact.

She was surprised by how sweetly he kissed her, how delicately he held her, as though she would slip away in the faintest breeze. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer to him until they were nearly inseparable. She thought she could hear fireworks somewhere, and wondered if she was only imagining them, but when they finally pulled back from the kiss, she saw flashes of colour illuminating his face in vibrant hues.

“Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

And then his mouth was on hers again, pulling her closer still, until his back was against the wall, and her hand was on the back of his neck, holding him to her. She felt his fingers on her back, just above the silk of the strapless dress, and she shivered and pressed herself tighter to him.

“Please,” he whispered raggedly once they separated again. “I have to know who you are.”

Margot stilled.

He reached around her and began tugging on the ribbons of her mask. She watched him closely, letting him untie the knots, savouring what very well may be the last moment she would have with him like this.

The mask fell away from her face, and she watched him recognize her, watched his eyes widen and face twist in betrayal and anger before he stepped back and pressed a hand against his mouth in horror. Her blood ran cold as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened to one of complete disdain.

“Margot? How - how dare you?” he gasped. “You – you – I cannot believe this! You lied to me! You deceived me! You seduced me! How could you?”

His rejection, though expected, pained her in ways she couldn’t even describe. As though his words were branding irons, burning his hatred into her flesh.

“You’re the last person I wanted to see behind that mask,” he spat. “You, of all the people in the world.”

He kept hurting her, hurting her, like he didn’t care. And perhaps he didn’t, now that he knew the truth.

“I can’t believe I - Dear God, I kissed a student.” He leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths to keep himself steady.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched him denounce her in every way possible. Even though he’d bragged about being able to identify anyone, he didn’t expect her, didn’t even cross his mind to guess her, and for some reason it hurt her more than anything else.

“Some part of you might’ve known it was me,” she said indignantly. “You were bragging that you-”

He let out a caustic laugh at that. “Why would I want you to be someone I despise? Someone I don’t respect? I’m disgusted with you and myself.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Pushing past him, she covered her face – and the tears streaking down them – as she rushed out of the gala and into the night.

The taxi ride back to the dorms was awkward, mostly because she spent the entire ride sniffling, trying to hold back her tears, and using up the Kleenex the driver kept a box of by the rear windshield. After tipping him, she sprung out of the taxi and didn’t stop running until she was safely back in her room.

It was there that Margot allowed herself to fully break down. In that beautiful princess dress, she flopped onto her bed and sobbed, hugging herself tightly, letting out all the anger and frustration and pain that she felt at being so heavily and heartlessly rejected by him. She cried for the way he looked at her. Sobbed at the beautiful moments they shared that were now tainted by the conclusion of the night. She ached for what could have been and wept for her naivete.

A part of her knew that there was no way anything could’ve come from it. But she’d let herself fall into the fairy tale, accepting him as her stand-in prince for the evening, and felt charmed by their conversing, their somewhat playful banter, and the compatibility in their dancing skills. And the kisses they shared . . .

Though her chest and throat ached from crying, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still feel his mouth against hers, languid and sweet in its kiss.

There was something there. She knew it.

It hurt her to know that, even if he sensed something too, he would never acknowledge it.

Twenty minutes away from the Hollywood U dorms, Thomas Hunt sat on his bed, still in his suit from the masquerade, drinking scotch straight from the bottle. Two pairs of masks lay beside him, one slightly more rumpled than the other from its owner stepping on it as she ran from the private balcony.

Setting the bottle down on the bedside table, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think back to the beginning of it all, pushing past the haze the alcohol left in his head.

He’d spotted her the moment she walked in and had kept an eye on her since she began making her way around the ballroom. And, from the sounds of the men sitting close by him, he was not the only one who had noticed her.

The dress she wore made her ethereal, like she’d stepped out of a dream. The shiny silk that hugged her frame before flowing to the floor, coupled with her demure yet entrancing makeup and the awed look in her eyes from behind her mask, set her apart from the rest.

He took a large gulp of his drink and loosened his tie.

She got closer, and one of the wolves made their move.

As if by an unknown force pulling him forward, he found himself walking up to her, his mind struggling to catch up with his actions as he offered her a way out of the clearly unwanted interaction.

“There you are.” He led her to the seat he had previously occupied and was pleased to find that one of the men had taken flight upon seeing them interact. She sat down and looked up at him curiously, as if wondering why he had saved her from being potentially preyed upon.

“You should be careful,” he said. “Even charity events attract the lecherous. You’re very welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

He knew that voice. The sincerity of the gratitude, tinged with sarcasm at having to reply at all.

She seemed not to have recognized him. He wondered how long it would be before she did. Though the mask concealed some of her features, with his close proximity he was quick to identify her by other things that gave her away, like her high cheekbones and dark tresses she’d pulled into a half-up hairdo and, now, her distinctive voice.

He felt tempted to call her out on it and send her on her way home, but at the same time, he wanted to know where this would go. Revealing what he knew would mean that he wouldn’t get to keep talking to her like this.

And it was a masquerade ball, after all.

#thomas hunt #thomas orson hunt #hollywood u #fanfiction #only fools fall for you

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chrysalispen · 4 years

Text

xxv. the summer in their veins

second verse same as the first, i’ll reblog when this is up on AO3!

chapter below the cut as always <3

EDIT: chapter is now up on AO3 HERE

=======

The vague sense of disquiet and its physical effect -- levin and static sending fiery prickles along her arms -- did not fade. It persisted as she splashed into the waters and across the bank, as she approached the gate, as it swung shut at her back, and did not fade even when Keveh’to joined her on a silent and hurried return to the cabin. Her heart pounded and her throat felt tight with an anxiety which had neither a name nor a focus.

This forest has eyes.

“Right,” Keveh’to said without preamble as the front door shut behind them, “now would you like to tell me what in hells that was all about? You said you met her at the ruins?”

“Yes.”

“And you just gave half Ewain’s supply to her without a word to him?” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder at you, Aurelia. I really do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that for someone who often seems so worldly, you are remarkably quick to take the people here at their word. She was hiding something, and not doing that great a job of it.”

Aurelia threw up her hands. “She’s naught but a child, and we have more than enough of the things I gave to her to spare. That disaster last summer didn’t just hurt Gridania.”

“Did she get a look at -- you know.”

“No, my third eye was covered. You might at least trust in my discretion.”

Keveh’to exhaled. She unslung her packs and draped them over the hooks by the door.

“Now,” she said, “you can tell me what’s got you so excited it couldn’t wait until the other two got back-- what are they doing down the Millers’, anyroad?”

“I’m getting to it, trust me. I’ll make some tea while you wash your face- are you quite certain you’re all right? You don’t need the Hearer or Trevantioux to take a look at it?”

“Hells forbid,” the Garlean snorted. “Trevantioux would have me drink some awful concoction for his own amusement. No, it’ll be fine; scalp cuts nearly always look worse than they are in truth. It stopped bleeding a while ago.”

“Well, I’d wash it anyway.”

“I’m well ahead of you.” It wouldn’t do to have the other two men alarmed and asking inconvenient questions. Aurelia made her way to the small standing washbasin near the bath partition. The hempen covering was probably ruined. Maybe, she thought. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to wash bloodstains out of clothing; perhaps she would try one of Ewain’s smelly lye soaps and see if that didn’t take some of the stains out.

She filed it away for later consideration. Washing her laundry could wait until after she found out what had her companion so excited.

By the time she had cleaned her face and returned to the sitting area the tea was ready. Keveh’to handed her one of the earthenware mugs, filled near to the brim with chamomile. “We’ve not much time to talk,” he said. “They’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

She sat. “Go on. I’m listening.”

At length, he said, “You know Whiterock, right? That little spot where the children play?”

“The one in that birch copse near the walls? Of course.” Aurelia smiled into her tea. “Little Bran Miller was in a fine spate of ill temper when his mother told him he had to help me with gathering her moko grass; he told me in no uncertain terms he’d much rather be playing with his brothers. Their games get quite intense, so I’m told.”

“Aye, well, ‘tis just as well the lad wasn’t there to see what the rest of them did today. There was a corse half-buried under deadfall -- an Ixal scout, by all appearances. Blood and rot everywhere. One of the other children all but tripped over it.”

She inhaled sharply.

“Yes, I think it was good Bran didn’t see that. Did one of the village watch get careless?”

“They didn’t know it was there. He had been dead long enough for the forest to start getting at him.” Keveh’to set his mug on the low-slung table between them, then strode towards the door to rummage for something inside the pockets of his gambeson. “But something’s off about the entire thing- here, let me show you.”

As he frowned and muttered and searched his belongings Aurelia let her mind wander for a few moments. She was tired and sore and only half-registering his words, and her thoughts still lay with the young Miqo’te girl somewhere in the forest by herself. Hearing that a body had been found nearby did little to ease her worries; the disaster had left people bereft and desperate, and it was known that there were bandits in the wood.

I hope Vahne made it back all right to wherever it is she lives. I’d not forgive myself if-

“Ah,” the Miqo’te said triumphantly, tugging a hemp-wrapped bundle loose from the pile of armor. “Here we are. We collected this from the site where the boy found the body.”

She set aside her tea cup and stood, then made her way to the door as he removed the hastily wrapped item, then winced at the sight. It was an arrow of somewhat simplistic make, the iron head and ash shaft stained a coppery brown. Old blood.

“Ewain will not take well to finding something like this under his roof.”

“What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Keveh’to’s eyes gleamed almost amber. “Look at it. Can you tell me what doesn’t match here? You can touch it, it’s long dry by now.”

“I’m not certain what good my opinion will do. I’m hardly an inspector.”

“Well, what of it? You’re used to looking at these sorts of things when you’re trying to figure out why someone’s injured, aren’t you?”

Aurelia squinted at him, then held her hand out to take the implement from him. Gingerly she lifted the arrow by the shaft and examined it with a critical eye. At first glance nothing looked strange; the head was solid, albeit caked in dried blood, and the shaft and its fletching pristine. Were it not for the stains, she mused, one would have thought it to be--

Her lips pursed.

“One would expect to see the target’s blood in the fletching had it struck its mark, or some other sign of use had it not. This arrow isn’t a crossbow bolt, mind, but still. It looks…”

“Go on,” Keveh’to encouraged when she trailed off mid sentence, though by his tone it was clear he already had an answer in mind. Aurelia tilted the arrow over and over in her fingers, the knitted furrow in her brow deepening by the second.

“...This rather looks as though it is not what killed your dead man.”

He looked pleased. “Aye. ‘Twould seem we agree.”

Aurelia studied him in turn, her gaze appraising.

“You do realize,” she said, “that this would be considered official evidence? You shouldn’t even have this on your person, much less show it to me; last I checked, I’m supposed to be serving out a prison sentence.”

“That lot out there doesn’t give a damn because they think one dead Ixal only benefits them. You may be a prisoner,” Keveh’to replied, “but you’re the closest thing I have to a partner at the minute - and frankly I’m bored out of my bloody mind on wall duty. This gives us both something to do-”

“Implying I’ve not been run ragged on Ewain’s morning rounds.”

“Hang the rounds. Let Trevantioux do them.” Aurelia made a face. Ewain’s assistant had proven to somehow be even more insular than the old man, and the Elezen had made little secret of his distaste for Gridania’s choice of assignment in sending Willowsbend a foreign adventurer as a conjurer novitiate. “I’ll make up some reason for you to come along with me.”

“He’ll complain that I’m shirking my duties, no doubt.”

“He can complain all he likes and so can the Hearer. This is important.”

“Well, put that away before the two of them get back.” She handed him the arrow. “You said Whiterock, right?”

“Aye. It’s not far from the wall. Nearest the Quarrymill road.”

Aurelia nodded thoughtfully. “Meet me there at midday.”

~*~

The next morning was sweltering -- hot and humid and still. Other than the reedy noises of tree frogs and the odd bird call, little seemed to stir with the sunrise, and Aurelia was only an hour into the morning rounds before she’d sweat through her smallclothes and into her robes.

A glance at the sour-faced Trevantioux showed that the Elezen man fared little better in the oppressive heat, though he was stoic as ever where it came to any indication of his feelings - at least in her presence. Many of the Elezen who dwelt in the Shroud seemed little inclined to bear the presence of outsiders in the first place, but he seemed to harbor a particular rancor.

Any hopes Aurelia might have harbored that Ewain’s assistant might warm to her had been quickly laid to rest. The wedding originally set for the close of the winter months had been delayed until the summer, and rather than train her on his own and allow Trevantioux the freedom to court his bride and tend to his own affairs, the Hearer had insisted that his assistant stick to his usual routine - and, adding insult to injury by all appearances, he was compelled to allow Aurelia to attend him and observe him on his morning rounds.

Internally she ground her teeth every time the man spoke to her - at least most of old Ewain’s saltiness seemed to owe to age and weariness - and reminded herself that this was an internship, one that was not like to last indefinitely, and that once Trevantioux and his betrothed were wed he would be reassigned by the guild.

It was small enough recompense, all things considered.

Her final stop this morning before joining Keveh’to was the Millers’ cottage: one of the few places in town where Aurelia nearly always enjoyed some degree of respite from the veteran conjurer’s constant criticism. Trevantioux didn’t particularly get along with its sunny-natured and wry-tongued mistress, and was all too glad to leave Aurelia to tend to her while he saw to other house calls.

Aurelia for her part found instant appeal in Frieda’s quick wit and irreverent humor, and the sparrow-framed Midlander weaver had - despite her initial wariness of the outsider - likewise warmed to Ewain’s novice quickly. In the ensuing months she had gone from polite civility to voicing her frequent appreciation for E-Sumi-Yan’s wisdom. Frieda liked Ewain well enough for all that she found Trevantioux incurably stuffy, but she seemed well pleased the guild in Gridania had finally seen fit to send a woman to Willowsbend.

“Goodness, Aurelia, do you fare well?” she asked the novice conjurer now, frowning. “You look about to melt into a puddle right before my bed.”

Breaking from her brief reverie as she removed the herbs from her satchel and dabbed the sweat from her brow with the corner of one hem, Aurelia offered the older woman a rueful smile. “I might well be, at that. One could break a sweat simply stepping outdoors today.”

“Summer’s come upon us fast this year.” She shifted somewhat awkwardly in the bedclothes. “If you let me get up I can fetch you some water from the kitchen. Rauffe’s still working on the well, but I’ll not see a guest in my home go without-”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aurelia denied, the stern note of her response brooking no argument. “Never you mind a bit of sweat; I’ve a waterskin and plenty of shards to refill it. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh really now, Aurelia-”

“No.”

Frieda let out a thwarted groan. “I can’t simply be ordered to lie abed for the next two moons! There’s so much work to be done-”

“Well, you most certainly can, when needs must,” Aurelia replied briskly. “There’s hardly any need for all this fuss and bother, surely? It’s only until the baby arrives. Once you’ve recovered from the birth you can go traipsing about the forest all day if you like.”

A gusty and exasperated sigh tossed a puff of sweaty red curls from the Hyur’s brow. “I shall have you know I’ve done this plenty of times before,” Frieda complained. “And I’m perfectly healthy-”

“Healthy enough to complain, most certainly.”

“You know full well what I mean, Mistress Laskaris. I don’t see why I should have to be confined to bed for so long over some puffy ankles.”

“I told you already. ‘Tis naught but a precaution given your history-”

“A ridiculous precaution.”

“You're free to think whatever you like,” Aurelia countered, with the somewhat exaggerated patience L'haiya had so often used when talking to her childhood self in a fit of stubbornness, “but you are not just my friend. You are also my patient and as I have the care of you and yours, I bear responsibility for your well-being. As such, I would see you remain healthy and deliver a living child.”

“Aye, I know. But still-”

“I’m aware there’s plenty of work to be done. I’ve seen enough of your routine to know. But you’re hardly alone. Bran knows how to collect and dry the grasses for the spindle, you’ve two other sons of a goodly age to be helping about the house, and there’s Rauffe besides-”

“Rauffe? Rauffe won’t even mend his own smallclothes, never mind help with the spinning,” Frieda snorted. “If he gets a rip he’s like to just cut a hole in the arse end of his breeches and let in a stiff breeze - or out, depending on how much cabbage he had the night previous.”

Despite herself Aurelia let out an extremely unladylike cackle.

Frieda offered a triumphant grin and relaxed at last, lacing her callused fingers over the curve of her swelling belly. “And what of Conjurer Trevantioux? I thought he was to be checking on me this morning, but I mark he’s dumped you on my doorstep again. It’s getting to be something of a habit, that.”

“He is as anxious to be shut of me as I am of him.” Aurelia reached for her waterskin. “Here’s hoping the bride's father doesn’t take ill again and delay their wedding a third time.”

“Is old Darien really doing all that poorly, I wonder,” Frieda mused aloud, “or is Noline just stalling?”

“I hardly know her well enough to have an opinion. But both Trevantioux and Ewain have been frequent guests at her home since my own arrival and the old man’s little other reason to visit as often as he does, so I can only guess is that there’s some truth in it.”

“Well, I had to ask. She’s his only child, after all,” Frieda continued. Aurelia shrugged as she uncorked the skin. She wasn’t really one to spread idle village chatter, feeling it somewhat beneath her and out of the scope of her duties besides. “Between you and me I suspect he’s having rather a difficult time letting go.”

“Mm.” She raised the waterskin to her lips for a draught.

“And what of you and that handsome Sergeant Epocan?”

Taken by surprise at the probing question, Aurelia sputtered mid-sip, coughing. By some miracle water didn’t go everywhere, though it was a near thing. “What- Heaven forbid! The Sergeant and I aren’t like that at all!”

“That’s not the word ‘round town.” The Midlander woman’s smile was quite shrewd. “They say you’re on a first name basis with him. Keeper folk don’t let just anyone talk to them in such a familiar way, you know.”

Aurelia uttered a short, sharp laugh and set the skin aside, then tipped the rest of the ground medicinal blend from her mortar into the small glass bottle on the bed’s side table.

“You really ought to tell the old women in the marketplace to mind their own business and stop asking such personal questions,” she said in a voice far more dismissive than she felt as she reached for a stopper. “I don’t suppose that’s asking for very much, is it?”

“Oh, sod those old crones! I’m asking for my own self, love."

"So the impertinence is your own? My, that certainly makes a difference, I suppose."

"Imper- well, it’s not as though I’ve aught else to do these days other than laze abed and keep my hands busy with stitching."

"Excuses."

"Aye, some fancy pants big-city chirurgeon gave me mad orders to rest and won’t let me break them. Mayhap you’re passing familiar with her.”

Aurelia rolled her eyes, smiling all the while. “Right, I see how it is. Blame the outsider for your gossipmongering.”

“Only until I’m able to be up and about again,” Frieda retorted with a tart smile, one that lingered before fading somewhat. “...But what is he to you then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m… not really at liberty to discuss that.” Her face felt warm from more than just the day’s heat. “I’m sorry. If I could tell you I would.”

“Oh, very well.”

If only you could know the truth. “One of these days, perhaps.”

“No, no. Keep your secrets, if it please you, Miss Conjurer. By all means.” Frieda’s bright hazel eyes danced with mischief and amusement in equal measure. “But you know I’ll pry them out of you yet. Best be on your guard.”

~*~

Aurelia had taken the opportunity to bathe and find a change of clothing, thinking it would give Keveh’to ample time to finish his own obligations for the morning. He wasn’t at their meeting spot when she arrived, however. The clearing and the outcropping of bared stone was deserted, a barest breeze shifting listlessly through heat-curled leaves; even the birds seemed to have decided the day was too hot for their calls.

A first glance showed nothing that seemed to be particularly out of the ordinary; there were no indications that anyone else had returned to the scene since the body was discovered, although she would have been very much surprised had that been the case.

She lingered at the base of the rocks and examined the favored playground of the village children. The white outcroppings were partially covered in moss and lichen, but the rock was sturdy granite and she could see where the children had carved themselves footholds into the rocks for climbing. Signs of recent scuff marks from their shoes could be seen in the moss and dirt scrapes, and piles of leaves had been hastily raked together to act as a soft landing should one of them fall.

A place like this would have appealed greatly to her younger self- to say naught of her best friend. Aurelia’s slight smile turned faintly rueful. It would have been far safer than climbing the low-hanging zelkova trees that were native to Gyr Abania, certainly. (Although, she thought with an internal snicker, L’haiya would still have scolded her for getting dirt in her pinafore and leaves in her hair. She was not near fool enough to think that would have changed.)

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted what looked like an old basket someone had fashioned into a crude child-sized helm, lying a fulm or two away - something one of the children had dropped during their last game, no doubt. Slowly she picked it up, turning it this way and that-

“Aurelia!”

The call startled her, even though the voice was one she knew.

The basket fell from her hands to the ground as Keveh’to, trotting towards her, blinked in a sort of mild surprise. “Can’t believe I finally took you unawares,” he began, then frowned, “Is aught amiss? Did you find something?”

“Just one of their toys, I think.” She picked up the basket by its well-patched handle and passed it to him. “Lying in that pile over there. The children might want it back.”

“I’ll return it once we’re done having a look about. Follow me - and watch your step.” Keveh’to pointed to a depression not far from the base of the rocks, one she hadn’t noticed until then. “That’s where we found him.”

“Any sign the body was moved?”

“None, but it was very late in the day before I had the chance to properly look. There’s always a chance, I suppose.”

Something about his tone stopped her in her tracks. “You didn’t tell the Wood Wailers you were bringing me out here.”

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” Keveh’to scoffed. “They’d have never allowed it - and nor would the Twin Adder have done if I’d told them. But this lot won’t do anything no matter how suspicious it all is, and I know you’re as bored out of your mind as I am, else you’d never have agreed to come with me.”

“Mind you, I’m not saying I disapprove, but you are wagering what little trust the locals have in you to investigate a matter you were told to leave to the Wailers. ‘Tis rather risky, you must admit.” Aurelia quirked a brow at him. “And with the likes of me, no less.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He paused to thread the basket into his belt.” You’ve all the demeanor of a harpy when it takes you and you’re stubborn as a goobbue, but as a partner? You’re not half bad, Garlean.”

Recalling her earlier conversation with Frieda, she could only laugh.

“At any rate,” she said, “let’s get this done before we’re missed.”

They left the rocks behind and ventured a few fulms beyond, into the tree line, before the Miqo’te came to an abrupt stop. His tail thumped a slow rhythm against her calf as his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“This is the place." He paused. "I think."

"You think?"

“The way they acted I doubt Aubaints or Daye looked further afield than this for that arrow. They found it so quickly, but there was little enough time to look over the scene before night fell. If there’s others out here, I’m sure we’ll- here now, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That bit of soil over there. Something’s kicked up the leaves.” He pointed, and Aurelia followed the line of sight. The mark in the forest soil was half-covered by remnants of fallen detritus from the overhanging trees, but it was visible enough to have caught a hunter’s keen eye. “Wonder if maybe that’s where he found it?”

“This far away from the body? I doubt it, but let’s have a look.”

Aurelia approached and knelt to examine the area, her knee sinking into moist soil and old leaves. Light from the sun only faintly dappled the forest floor even in the early hours of the afternoon- this far into the Shroud, most of the wood was shielded by the upper canopy- and she had to adjust her position so that she did not cast so much of a shadow she could not examine what little evidence might still remained. It was passing odd she hadn’t found the shape of an arrowhead by now; the indentation in the soil was quite a bit less shallow than she had-

Her index fingertip struck something rounded and smooth.

“Found something,” she called.

Carefully she slid her finger deeper into the soil, curled it around the object until she could get purchase, and drew it out of the shallow hole in the ground until it rolled into her dirt-caked palm, the sheen of it winking in the dim sunlight. It was a small, slender piece of steel- one that her companion thought looked somewhat familiar, but it was strangely cylindrical and marked with soot on its flattened base.

“There’s your arrow, Sergeant,” she said.

Keveh’to frowned. How odd, he thought. It almost looked like the sort of thing he’d seen the Maelstrom’s volunteer privateers use in their flintlocks, but-

“Twelve, that can’t possibly be a musket ball, could it?”

“So you have seen a gun before.”

“Once or twice fighting the Empire. Some of the folk in the Foreign Levy were pirates sailing with letters of marque from the thalassocracy and a few of them kept sidearms.” He scratched at an idly flickering ear. “What I don't understand is the why of it. There’s no need for such weapons around here - might be one could use them for hunting, but if you ask me it’s not near as practical for that purpose as a good bow and arrow. I know I wouldn’t bother with it unless I were desperate. And I’ve never seen musket balls that looked like that.”

“Well, for one thing, this isn’t a musket ball.” She rolled it to and fro between her fingers. “It’s not even Eorzean.”

“But it couldn’t have come from anything else, surely?”

“Eorzean firearms discharge using aetheric means of combustion. The weapon that fired this used black powder. Look, you can see the scorch marks.” Aurelia poked the side of the casing. Steel glimmered dully beneath the patina of dirt that covered it. “This came from a gunblade.”

“...Imperial arms in this part of the Twelveswood? But we're malms from the nearest castrum. Are you absolutely certain?"

She gave him a very tired glance over one shoulder.

“You asked me for my opinion as a chirurgeon earlier and I’m giving it now. I daresay I’ve dug out enough musket balls and gunblade bullets in operating theatres to know the difference.” Keveh’to blinked at her, clearly taken aback. With a soft grunt she clambered to her feet, dropping the spent casing in his hand before he could protest and dusting dirt from the backs of her legs.

“Here, hold this. I’m going to look about for something.”

“What are-”

“There won’t have been just the one-- no. There, look.” It was difficult to see but there was a small ring of discoloration in the bark of a nearby elm sapling, one that became more visible as Aurelia drew closer. She scraped her finger against the border of bark and bared trunk where a round had impacted and embedded itself. “Another one. Whoever it was, they fired at their target multiple times.”

He stared down at the dirt-caked metal in his hand, brow deeply furrowed.

“...So as it stands we have a dead birdman with a bloody great hole in his chest, an arrow that was supposed to have been what killed him except there’s blood on it and naught in the fletching-”

“And at least two shots from a weapon that shouldn’t be here. And no other arrows save the one the lieutenant told you he found.” She shook her head. “I wish I’d have got a look at the body before the Wailers disposed of it. That would have been very telling.”

“Is that your professional opinion, then? So what’s the arrow doing here?”

“Either it was meant to be found, or the arrow is a red herring and has naught to do with anything at all, or we’ve a witness lurking about the woods.”

“I think we had better take this back to the Wailers immediately.”

“Agreed,” she said. “They will wish to impose a curfew until the matter is laid to rest.”

Keveh’to opened a small pouch on his belt and dropped the casing inside. “They won’t take that notion kindly coming from us. But if the killer is willing to risk discovery so close to the village, they’ll likely not trifle to harm its people.”

Aurelia’s lips had tightened into a flat, grim line.

“Also,” she said, “it would not be taken amiss to check with the night watch and ask if they heard any strange noises. Gunblades are not quiet things. It’s quite likely someone heard something. If we can figure out when-”

“Sergeant Epocan! Miss Aurelia!”

“Sergeant Epocan!”

A boy and a girl - both bedraggled and half-soaked - came crashing through the brush with all the grace of a bull griffin, Aurelia thought with an internal grimace. She recognized their faces on sight, as she did most folk these days. One was Cecilie Aubaints, the Wood Wailer lieutenant’s daughter. The other was Bran Miller’s older brother Hugh.

“Sergeant Epocan,” Cecilie shouted, “there’s a Keeper girl outside the village-”

“Silence, you silly girl,” barked a familiar voice, “lest the entire forest know your business!”

The pair blinked at the children, then at the sight of a very exasperated Elezen man bringing up the rear in his conjurer’s whites. Trevantioux Roulemet was a Wildwood man of six and thirty summers and had been Ewain’s assistant for the past five of them. Despite his relative youth he bore a perpetually sullen countenance, and what Aurelia’s father would have called ‘a certain inflexibility of thought’ where it came to any sort of change to his personal routine.

No doubt he was displeased that he had been pulled away from said routine to fetch Aurelia from wherever it was she had gone, and her assumption was confirmed when he drew close enough for her to see the storm in his grey eyes.

“The Hearer found my note, I see,” she said blandly. “How does Noline fare?”

“Well enough, for all I’ve been dragged away from my visit to deal with this foolishness. What are you doing out here? The Wailers said this place was strictly off limits even for us.”

“Never mind all that,” Hugh said a trifle impatiently. “There’s a girl who came looking for you while me and Bran and Cecilie were playing in the creek, and-”

“Hugh,” Cecilie hissed, and the boy flushed.

“Well, they were going to find out eventually!”

“All right, all right,” Aurelia said, “let’s not all get ruffled feathers over it. Where is she, Hugh? Is she at the Hearer’s house?”

“No, Miss Aurelia. I told Keeper Ewain she could go to my house with Bran and stay with Mama while we looked for you. She said she’d only talk to you and no one else, and Mama knows how to handle crying girls better than anyone I know.”

Crying. Anxiety lanced through her chest like a gut punch. She didn’t know Vahne well enough to say for sure, but she knew enough of Keepers from talking to Keveh’to to know if the self-assured young huntress had been rattled enough to cry in front of strangers, then something very grave must have happened to cause it.

“I’m going back,” she said. “Hugh, you come with me and the Sergeant. Trevantioux, take Cecilie home. We’ll go to the Millers’ first and meet you back at the cottage.”

“We were swimming,” Cecilie protested, but faltered under the older Elezen’s withering glare.

“In the creek,” he said acidly, “where you knew you weren’t supposed to be by yourselves?”

“We were just-”

“Come now, along with you. You can make your excuses to your father.”

She watched Trevantioux march the protesting girl back towards the village, looking rather like a disgruntled hound shepherding a wet kitten. Under different circumstances the thought might have amused her, but she knew she must have looked as worried as she felt when she caught Keveh’to’s quizzical expression.

“I thought you just met that girl yesterday.” “So I did.”

“What do you think brought her here?”

“No idea,” she said. “Hopefully something minor.”

#reborn by fire #chapter 25 #aurelia laskaris #garlean warrior of light

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venusofthehardsells · 5 years

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Dreamgirl [part 1]

ReaderxBucky Barnes Summary: Bucky tries to adjust to his new life in the Avengers compound. One day he meets a girl who might be everything he needs in order to move on, but is his past really that far away? Warnings: Non/dub con (I don’t know the details yet, but will update warnings on each chapter. Nothing in this first one though), masturbation, violence, psychological manipulation A/N: This is written for the In the Dark Challenge hosted by the super amazing @darkficsyouneveraskedfor so don’t let this fluffy first chapter fool you, it’s gonna be dark and angsty down the road hopefully. My chosen prompt was the line “I’m touching your skin, if it’s just a fantasy, then why is it killing me?” from the song Infatuation by Maroon 5. I plan on writing the entire story from Bucky’s point of view, so the reader is “her” instead of “you” in this one. Enjoy and let me know what you think ♥️

The sheet is tangled so tightly around his legs he is sure it's trying to stop the flow of blood to his feet. The whole bed is wet and cold with sweat and a shudder runs through his body. He is still sweating. He knows he should pull one of the blankets over himself, because even if his insides feels on fire, his skin is icy to the touch. The summer nights have been treacherous as of late, but the high tech self-regulating cooling system in the building should take care of that. Should. His head is pounding and he knows that even if he manages to fall asleep again, he won't get the hours he needs. Bucky's dreams are getting worse.

When he realises the faint light of dawn is getting brighter outside, he gives up fighting with the sheet and tears through it. The two white halves of linen sinks to the floor in silence like the echoes of distant ghosts. He will have to see if he can stitch them back together later. The day is already off to a bad start and he doesn't need to hear Stark lecturing him about defacing borrowed property. Again. No, what he needs is to clear his head. He can't even hear his own footsteps as he crosses the room and opens the bathroom door. His own stealth unnerves him sometimes. Clenching his jaw, Bucky makes sure to close the door behind him. The soft click of the lock is somehow comforting. As is the water splashing onto the crown of his head and running down the length of his body, rinsing away the stench of sweat and nightmares. That's why he sleeps naked; it's less of a hassle in the mornings. He turns up the heat as far as it will go and waits until the metal plates in his arm have absorbed the warmth. With quick, efficient movements, he begins to jerk himself off under the shower. As with everything else in his life, he goes about the task with the cold detachment of a soldier that HYDRA perfected in him. There is nothing sensual about the way he pumps himself towards completion, nothing gentle about the squeeze of his balls in his flesh hand. He just wants some sort of release, and he knows exactly which buttons to press for his body to respond. It's another part of him that, despite Shuri and the rest of Wakanda’s finest scientists’ best efforts, remain more automatized than human. Biting his lower lip hard, he tries to imagine someone else's hand stroking his shaft. A smaller, more delicate hand, nails painted red perhaps. It doesn't work. In the past, Sergeant James Barnes would have thought of a girl he had taken dancing back before he got shipped out. Billowing skirt, shoes with soles that clicked merrily against the cobblestones, all done up for him and glowing when she saw him, handsome in his still pristine uniform. How she blushed when he smiled at her, how she gasped as his fingers trailed up her thighs, the tightness around his cock as he filled her - or maybe some local European farmer's daughter who had spared him a lingering glance and a pretty smile as he marched by. He would have thought of her coming to him in the lonely hours of the foreign night, whispering soothing nothings in his ear while her hand crawled into his trousers and gently began stroking his length. She would kiss his neck and tell him how brave and beautiful he was, her warm body pressed close to his while she worked him into a blissful, private ecstasy with a hand not made of metal, and he would fall asleep with the certainty that once the war was over he would return back home and find a girl of his own. Bucky knows somewhere deep in the shadows of his mind that those fantasies had felt pleasant and a lot more satisfying than the solitude of the shower stall. He has tried time and time again to call up the images of the girls from the past. Not a single one of them remains to him. There are of course modern women who tickle his fancy every day. Steve's friend from SHIELD, the receptionist who works weekends in Stark Tower, the blonde who sometimes walks her dog in the park when he runs, the modelesque beauties leaving Sam's room after a night out, the woman reading the weather forecast on TV. Even the girl who delivered pizza to the compound last week had made Bucky look twice, with her pierced lips and dark green eyeshadow. No matter how hard he tries, however, he can't picture them in his mind when he puts his hands on his cock. They become fleeting ideas in his head, words without meaning, too distant and abstract to turn him on. In the end, he is left with no imaginary aid and pure physicality will have to do. He cums with a short groan in the back of his throat. The water washes it all away and it only takes him a few deep breaths to get his heart rate back to normal. It's 5 a.m. when he dons a pair of black sweatpants, a matching tank top and a dark grey sweatshirt to hide his metal arm. It'll be too warm later in the day, but as long as he can get his morning run done before the sun rises too high, it's manageable. He slips past Steve's room quietly and out through one of the kitchen doors without meeting anyone. Once outside, he takes off down his usual path. The air is clear and still. Nothing moves except for him. The pale golden disc of the sun has not entirely let go of the horizon yet, clinging on for one last kiss before the day can truly begin. The world still holds its breath. The streets are all but deserted at this hour, or at least the ones he takes. Bucky has deliberately planned this route through trial and error with that particular criteria in mind. He rarely, if ever, runs into anyone. He prefers it that way. Today is a rare one, however. As he nears the park, he spots a girl hurrying along its fences. She doesn't look at him and normally Bucky wouldn't acknowledge her, either, but his enhanced senses doesn't miss the fact that something small falls out of her pocket and lands on the pavement while she marches on, clearly focused on reaching her destination fast rather than pay attention to her surroundings. Bucky changes course and picks up what turns out to be a blister pack with four of the little capsule pills popped. He doesn't recognise the long Latin name of the drug on the back of it, but it seems important. For a moment he considers dropping it back onto the pavement and hope she comes back for it herself. If it is important, she'll notice the medicine is gone and go back to look for it. There won't be a lot of people around at this time of day so chances are no one will take it for at least an other hour. Then, just as he is about to put it back down, an unwelcome thought creeps into his mind in a nasty little voice that resembles Stark's a bit too much: what would Steve have done? Bucky almost groans. Yes, what would Steve have done? Medication on prescription is expensive. He doesn't know what it's for, but it could potentially be something that saves her life - or ends it if she doesn't take it. Besides, littering is bad form. He rolls his eyes hard at himself and takes off again after the girl. She has entered the park, presumably to cut a corner towards the main street, when Bucky catches up. "Excuse me? Miss? You dropped this," he calls out when he gets close and the girl stops, turning around. For a second, Bucky forgets to breathe. "Thank you." She eyes him warily when he offers her the blister pack, but she takes the pills from him regardless. Her fingers faintly brush against his hand when she does and his heart does a weird off-kilter somersault in his chest at the contact. "It would have been a pain to lose these." And then she smiles at him. It doesn't matter that she looks pale and tired, or that her hair is slightly messy and her posture is already halfway turned away from him in her haste. The small, tentative smile she offers makes Bucky feel warm inside, fuzzy almost and he smiles back with the slightest tinge of red in his cheeks. "Take care," he says lamely and then she's gone, hurrying on down the street until she turns a corner and he loses sight of her. Bucky feels strangely bereft when he returns to his route. Normally, he is focused on running, on the path ahead of him, on the movement of his legs and strain in his muscles, but now all he keeps seeing is her. The early sunlight in her messy bed hair. He turns and runs down by the lake in the park. The gravel crunches beneath his feet, but the sound is faint. His cheeks are still warm with the lingering rush of blood her smile caused to flood his face. It's an odd sensation. During all his years as HYDRA's Asset, he never blush, he's sure of that. And all the blushing he has done since his return from the darkness didn't feel like this at all. The soft shape of her lips when she smiled at him... An urge Bucky hasn't felt in a very long time stirs somewhere deep inside of him. It's not feral or aggressive, just... warm. Tiny, but warm. It has always been there in the oppressed depths of his tortured humanity, he realises as he allows himself to be reacquainted with the little spark after all those years as a stove away in his own mind. The Asset repressed and ignored it for so long it almost withered, but now that it has Bucky's attention again it's determined to make up for all the lost time. It screams and cries at him, demanding to be fed, revelling in the brief second her hand touched his as he handed her back the pills. Because that's what it is, this need, it's what it craves: touch. Not just any kind of touch, but the certain gentle and soft kind only an intimate partner can provide. Affection. Desire. Loving kisses and caresses long into the night. Bucky has to stop running and close his eyes so hard the world keens. Even with eyes shut, her face is clear as day. He rubs his eyes as if that might make her go away. Then he takes a few deep breaths, shakes his head and takes off around the lake faster than before. It's usually not something he does in public, sprinting like that. He's too fast for people not to notice something is different about him. But right now, all he cares about is getting the image of the girl out of his mind again. It feels unnatural, the way he can't seem to let her go. God, he even remembers her nail polish with little yellow hearts on each meticulously shaped nail. He groans in frustration and pushes himself to run even faster. Hell, it's still early and there are not a lot of people around to see him. After having been around the lake so many times he has completely lost count, Bucky is actually sweating and maybe a little more clear-headed - though not a lot, he thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. He slows to a jog and takes another few rounds at a more civilised pace, trying to look at the trees this time. They're lush and green and almost a little menacing in the early daylight, but he prefers them to the sinister high-rises jutting up from the asphalt all over the city like a sea of mismatched teeth reaching to chew at the sky. Trees in parks have no such appetites. They bloom and grow and shed their leaves in the winter even when they are trimmed or cut down to half their size. The city isn't regulated that way. It reaches up and down and out, devouring the land little by little until, he imagines, the entire globe has become a single gargantuan metropolis, glittering artificially in the big black nothingness of space. Will there still be trees left then? The young James Barnes loved the city with all its sizzling technology and promise of wonders beyond belief. This older, damaged version of him is less thrilled. He prefers the trees. The subject of vegetation actually manages to take his mind off the girl and distract him for as long as it takes him to wander into the coffee shop he sometimes stops by before going back. There is nothing wrong with drinking coffee back at the compound, but this way he has more time to himself. Away from Stark. Away from Steve. And today he figures he needs the extra minutes. The old-fashioned bell chimes above the door when he enters. It is the only thing he registers before he finds himself in front of the counter and face to face with... her. Bucky's world freezes on its axis.

[TRANSMISSION]

ORION: MISSION STATUS

ALHABOR: ASSET LOCATED. PATTERN OBSERVED. ESTABLISH CONTACT? ORION: PROCEED ACCORDING TO PLAN ORION: COMPLETE REPORT VIA SAFER CHANNEL ALHABOR: UNDERSTOOD ORION: HAIL HYDRA ALHABOR: HAIL HYDRA

Tags: @cake-writes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @some-kindofgnome

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #inthedark!challenge #dark!bucky barnes #dark!fic #dark bucky barnes #dark fic #marvel fanfic #marvel writing challenge #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst

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gigi-sinclair · 4 years

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This is entirely for @draculas-gay-daughter, because of this.

Also, the research for this has awakened in me an actual desire to learn to make candles, so thanks for that new quarantine hobby!

It's like, what do they call it, ASMR.

That's what Edward tells himself. Some people find it relaxing to watch strangers pop plastic wrap or flick dry paint brushes or whatever. He happens to find it relaxing to watch Tom Jopson talk about the intricacies of making candles.

He doesn't know how he first landed on “Brighten Your Day With Candles.” Some winding path of Youtube “recommended videos” he wouldn't be able to retrace if he tried, but the moment he found it, Edward was entranced. He watched every one of Tom's ten-to-twenty minute long videos immediately.

Nine months and thirty-four new videos later—Tom took off the weeks of Christmas and New Year's, leaving Edward bereft over the holidays—Edward understands no more about candle making than he did before. Tom, however, is endlessly fascinating.

Edward can't say exactly what it is he finds so alluring. Tom is handsome, with his flopping dark hair and his five o'clock shadow, but Edward sees handsome men all the time. He's clearly very intelligent, but Edward works with some of the biggest minds, not to mention egos, in the country.

There is something else, something which leaves Edward unable to look away. When Tom says, “Adding too much fragrance can, unfortunately, lead to curdling in soy candles” with a look of heart-wrenching empathy in his big eyes, Edward wants to gather him in his arms and give the man a good, solid hug. When he says, “I had news from viewer Jamie in Nova Scotia that they've solved their ongoing issue with wet spots!” Edward wants to kiss him in celebration. And when Tom leans forward, the V-neck of his shirt revealing a patch of dark chest hair, to confide, “Today, we're going to talk about the length of your wick,” Edward offers up a mental apology and reaches for his fly.

Edward thinks his obsession is secret, until one evening his flatmate George says, “Thanks for staying out when I had Emily over the other night.”

“It's fine.” It is in Edward's best interests not to be about when George and his girlfriend get together. There is only so much saccharine sweetness and over-the-top pet names he can handle.

“I really appreciate it. So does she. We wanted to get you a gift.” It's only then Edward notices the bag, printed with pink flowers and the words “It's a Girl!”, in George's hand. “Sorry about the bag,” he adds. “It was the only one I could find.”

Where? Is the question Edward doesn't ask. “That's not necessary, George. Really.”

“Open it!”

Edward tries not to sigh as he opens the gift bag. George's gift-giving history, while admirable in its efforts, is remarkably poor in its execution. The last thing Edward needs is another “Purrrrrfect Friend” mug with a cat’s tail as a handle, or a T-shirt with a Sasquatch on it. It's the thought that counts, he reminds himself, even if that thought is, when it comes to George, quite often incomprehensible.

This gift is just as strange. Edward stares at what appear to be squares of white wax, a roll of string, and several tiny bottles, until George, still smiling, explains, “It was Emily's idea. I told her how you're always watching that candle making channel on Youtube, and she said you're probably dying to give it a go yourself.” He looks at Edward, his expression expectant. “It's great, right?”

“Right.” Edward smiles. “It is. Great. Thanks, mate.”

The next day, Edward buys a pair of headphones.

***

One Wednesday nearly a year after Edward first found him, Tom finishes a talk about gel wax, then leans back on his stool. All of his videos are filmed in the same kitchen, with several little cactus pots on the windowsill and a gleaming sink, spotlessly clean, in the background. Edward wonders if it's Tom's own kitchen. If the rest of the room, or the house or flat, is as tidy as what he shows. If he lives with anybody. No one else is ever on the videos, although that doesn't mean Tom doesn't have a friend or a flatmate or a partner behind the camera.

“I'm really going to miss you,” Tom says, putting the gel candles aside. Edward's heart seizes. “But I won't be making any new videos for the next little while, because I'm going on a book tour!” He holds up the book, also entitled “Brighten Your Day With Candles”, he's been showing for the last few weeks. Edward ordered it the first time he saw it. He feels like he owes Tom at least that much. “I am so excited,” Tom says. He looks it, but Edward has never seen him be anything but sincere. “Unfortunately, it's just in south east England at the moment—sorry Jen in San Luis Obispo, I can't make it out to California this time, although I would love to someday—but I would really like to meet as many of you as possible. My complete schedule is below. See you soon!” He waves. Edward is about to scroll down to the comments, then hesitates.

What would he say if he met Tom in person? That he thinks Tom is the most incredible man he's ever seen? That he's watched every one of Tom's videos multiple times, and still knows nothing about making candles? That he often pictures Tom talking authoritatively about long burn times and multiple layers while Edward blows him? It's disgusting, inappropriate, probably illegal.

With a shake of his head, Edward puts the thought of meeting Tom Jopson entirely out of his mind.

***

At one time, Edward loved his career. That was before the company president died suddenly and his role was taken over by two co-presidents, promoted from within, who have a long history of conflict and have used Edward as a go-between, the miserable child of an unfriendly divorce, for months now.

It saps Edward's energy to the point that he doesn't have the will to look for another job. He just goes to work every day, suffers, and comes home to brighten his day with candles. Until one night, when George meets him at the door.

“Don't take your coat off,” he tells Edward. “We're going out.”

“I really don't feel like...”

“You will. Trust me.” Edward doesn't. They're great friends, but Edward doesn't trust him a bit. The feeling is vindicated when they arrive at the local Waterstone's, and George pushes him inside.

Tom is even more beautiful in person. His stubble looks like it's deliberate rather than the result of a long day, although Edward has always found that very charming in itself. He's wearing a smart white button-up shirt, and the smile he directs at the woman in front of him is so brilliant, Edward feels weak.

“No.” Edward turns to go.

George stops him. “Why not? It's the guy you like, isn't it?”

“It's...I don't...What am I going to say?”

“That you're a big fan? Even though you still haven't used that candle stuff Emily and I got you?” George looks at him pointedly. “Get him to sign your book.”

“I don't have it with...”

George reaches into his satchel and presses “Brighten Your Day With Candles” on him. “Get in the queue,” he says, in that imperious tone he sometimes has. “I'll wait in the café.”

Edward's stomach churns, but he follows George's direction, joining the queue behind a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter. There are two other people ahead of them. It’s long enough for Edward to regret his entire life up to this point, not long enough to gather the wherewithal to walk away.

When Edward reaches the table, Tom's smile becomes even more brilliant. “You're Edward, right?”

Edward's carefully thought out opening words—“Good work”—disappear. “How did you...”

“Your friend George sent me a message.” Of course he fucking did. Edward is going to kill him. Is actually going to put his hands around his throat and...“He told me you'd be here.”

“Hm.” Edward has no idea what to say. His mind is entirely blank. He searches desperately, a quest which eventually arrives at, “Yes.”

“You like my videos?” Tom holds out his hand. Edward shakes it, then, face burning, realizes Tom was reaching for the book. Edward drops it onto the table. It thunks loudly.

“Yes,” Edward repeats.

“Do you have a favourite type of candle?” Tom opens the book and turns to the title page.

“Wax ,” Edward replies, because his brain has apparently given up on this situation as entirely unsalvageable.

Tom laughs, as if that was a joke. He scrawls something in the book, then closes it and hands it back to Edward. “Thanks for watching, Edward. I really appreciate a loyal viewer like you.” He holds Edward's gaze as he says it.

Edward swallows around the lump in his throat. Edward has never done well in front of others. If he and Tom were alone, Edward might be able to come up something halfway coherent. Maybe. They're not.

“Thanks,” he says. He could swear Tom throws him a wink as he walks away.

It's that, along with the general humiliation, that leads Edward to duck out of view between Interior Design and Gardening. He opens the book to see what Tom wrote.

The words “For Edward” and a scribble that could be Tom's signature lie across the title page. Beneath that is a series of numbers. It takes Edward a moment longer than he wants to admit to realize it’s a phone number. He's not that lucky, usually. But he's also not this stupid.

His heart still hammering, Edward takes out his phone. I'm not really an idiot, Edward types, then sends the text before he can think twice. He glances at Tom, deep in conversation with a young woman in denim overalls, and goes to murder George.

Two hours later, Edward is sitting on the sofa at home when his phone trills. You don't seem like one. It's too kind. Just like he expected Tom would be. Can I buy you a coffee? Or better yet a drink?

“Who's that?” George asks, without looking up from his laptop. He doesn't need to. His entire body exudes smugness.

“Mind your own business,” Edward says. But, he adds silently, thank God you never do.

***

The rest of Tom's flat is as tidy as the kitchen he shows on his videos. It's also, amazingly, less than half an hour's drive from Edward's place. In addition to that, Tom has a day job at a shop Edward has passed hundreds of times, which he's always derogatorily classified as “candles, crystals and shit” and avoided.

“So if you hadn't been such a snob, darling,” Tom tells him, with a smile and a kiss, “we might have met a long time ago.”

Edward can't deny that. He can, however, deny that it's a good idea for him to join Tom on screen.

“Don't worry.” Tom sets up his phone on its tripod and comes back around the counter. “Just pretend it's not even there.” He kisses Edward again, on the cheek, then turns to the camera. “Welcome back, everyone! We have a very special guest today. This is my gorgeous boyfriend Edward, and we're going to help him make his very first candle!”

Tom posts the video later that evening. Not long afterwards, the comments start appearing. Normally, Edward would avoid them—he knows what Youtube commenters are like, and he never wants to see any criticism of Tom—but this time, he looks. To his surprise, there are several remarks about him. “Edward's so cute!” “OMG ur bf is the sweetest!” And, “That Edward guy really is great. I think you should have him on every episode.” The username beside that one is “PianoMan86” and the picture is the same one George uses on Instagram.

Bloody George. Fortunately, Edward thinks, looking at the slightly lumpy candle he produced with his own two hands, he has the perfect gift for him.

“Edward!” Tom calls, from his room down the hall. “Are you coming?”

Before they met, Edward assumed Tom would be the kind of guy who lights a million candles in the bedroom. In fact, he only ever lights one, but it never fails to have the perfect luminosity and fragrance for the mood.

“Yes.” Edward puts down his phone and hurries to join him. As amazing as he is on Youtube, Tom is unspeakably better offline.

#draculas-gay-daughter #niche youtube au

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elizabeth-234 · 4 years

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Whumptober 2019

Previous Prompt Day Twenty-Five: Humiliation

Hi Everyone! This was written months ago but got lost in my documents. I wasn't sure where to put it because I did write it for Whumptober so I decided to put it here!

Summary: Penny Parker is withdrawing away from everyone. No one knows what to do.

Alternative Day 14: Touch-starved

She was infected.

That thing had attacked Penny. Penetrated its elongated pincers into her flesh, injecting it toxic virus into her veins, searing away everything she was. Months later Penny could still feel the creeping sludge beat through every cell, disturb every particle leaving nothing of the Penny Parker she once was remaining.

She could climb walls, hang upside-down like some creature of darkness. This was to say nothing of her strength. It was nothing she’d ever seen before. There were these rushes of power when she used her abilities, leaving her so ashamed that she’d succumbed to them again. But that twinge of exhilaration – of triumph - which left her stomach in knots was addicting.

It could all go so wrong. Someone she loved, May maybe, could be hurt… All because of her affliction.

Those thoughts left her bereft of sleep. She spent restless hours dedicated to finding out what exactly was inside her. What she was now.

Time and again she was left running to the tops of the city, needing a place to vent all her rage. Her screams wouldn’t bother anyone up there. Only the wind howled back, sometimes with her.

Penny could now tell anyone about the majority of known types of spiders and their venom if necessary. All other arachnid knowledge was on the table too but it would never help. It wasn’t like she could walk back into Oscorp and demand to see their notes on the experiment.

There was no Oscorp to walk into anymore.

The problem wasn’t that simple. Nothing in her life was simple anymore.

She was changed, infected, and consumed with that thing. Would she become more dangerous? Worry gnawed at her every waking moment that she would hurt someone. Maybe it would happen through some newfound strength or maybe it would be through what flowed through his veins. There might be some accident and someone could be infected. What if they didn’t react the same and hurt them instead of making them stronger?

Like the venom her worries sunk into Penny, infecting her with another burden. She went from cringing back when someone brushed her shoulder and avoiding a handshake when Mr. Stark introduced her to someone to blatantly not allowing any touch. From anyone.

The worst day was when she rolled her eyes at May. Maintaining a cold tone in her voice she told her aunt she was too old for coddling and hugs. Her aunt’s expression haunted her while she cried in the shower after. Not even the scorching water was enough to burn away the memory. She even began sidestepping Ned when her friend begged to do their secret handshake.

Mr. Stark hadn’t noticed or if he had he hadn’t said anything. The man wasn’t the most touch driven person anyway. Pepper, though, would give her these lingering looks. At their weekly dinners her eyes followed Penny when she dished herself more or went to do the dishes. She was always careful to have someone set a dish on the table before she picked it up again.

Sometimes it was too much. The paranoia and all the disappointed looks haunted her, burning her no matter what she decided.

Patrols were the best way of controlling herself. It was all too easy to see herself truthfully when his blood painted his skin.

She continued strong in her decision, squashing down the urges to tap someone’s shoulder or to hold someone, anyone’s hand.

It’s strange how you don’t miss something until it’s gone. Then when it disappears you are so grotesquely aware of its absence. Penny never realized how much touch was a part of her life before. Though on the more socially awkward side, which was normal May reassured her for her age, she was a hugger. And now she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.

Not even the criminals she fought against could touch her.

No one else deserved to be so alone.

“Are you alright, kid?”

Her pencil clattered onto the table as she was transported back to the lab. She was working on homework while Mr. Stark fiddled with some project of his.

“Yeah… Yeah, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.”

“You look like shit, kid.”

She ran a hand through her hair, hoping the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks wasn’t so obvious to the other person in the room. If his smirk was anything to go by it was quite obvious. Mr. Stark took a step closer to her.

“I’m just tired today. No big deal.” She said flatly turning back to her work, holding her breath in anticipation. She winced at the steel tone of warning to crept into her voice.

Penny wasn’t sure what had gotten into Mr. Stark today. He was being especially obtuse or just didn’t see the annoyance in Penny’s eyes as he stepped closer again bringing his hand up.

The pen snapped in her hand, coating her fingers in gel. Penny dropped her head down to the table with a groan.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. Can we get back to work?”

The week had been rough. She was going on extra patrols because she wasn’t sleeping well and she wasn’t sleeping well because she kept thinking about the extra patrols. Ned was mad at her because Penny bailed on one of their movie nights and even MJ was upset because she skipped a decathlon practice and might as well skipped the rest of them she was so distracted.

Now Mr. Stark was staring at her like he’d grown another head.

“Penny Parker giving out some sass? Now there is something I never would have guessed.”

Penny refused to look. She stared at the broken pen parts, willing them to go back to normal - to before.

Nothing happened.

“It’s okay, Penny. I’m just kidding.”

His hand landed on Penny’s shoulder and warmth ignited under it. Penny startled back, not realizing how close Mr. Stark had got, but the hand stayed firm.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone comforted her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed it.

Penny sighed and her body betrayed her. Her shoulder relaxed under the touch, the warmth spreading like the venom had, although this time it didn’t burn. This foreign sensation was full of comfort and all Penny wanted to do was turn around and throw her arms around her mentor. For a moment she let herself bask in the comfort.

Then her eyes snapped open, unaware they had been closed.

Her spine straightened and Penny all but fell out of the seat. She scrambled back until she was safe. All the blood and venom pounded inside her blood looking for an escape.

The ground became infinitely more interesting as she felt Mr. Stark’s eyes on her. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there but her breath wouldn’t slow from short, staccato bursts.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.” She finally spoke having to stop and gasp for breath. “I think I should go.”

“Kid… What’s the matter? You can tell me.”

Penny shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself trying to stop any of herself, her infection, from seeping out somehow.

“I, please, can I go home?”

She heard Mr. Stark sigh and self-hatred coated the back of her throat.

“Sure, kid. Happy will take you home.”

Penny nodded releasing her breath and went to get her coat. She couldn’t look Mr. Stark in the eyes and was through the door when she was called back. Penny stared at her hands not wanting to see whatever emotion was in the man’s eyes.

“Call me if you need anything at all. Will you promise me that? It could even be for chemistry homework. Not that you need help with that but you know what I mean. I’m here for you.”

“Sure, Mr. Stark. Thank you.”

She spun around and marched out the doors running to the nearest alley so she could get to the top of a building. Her throat was hoarse by the time she was done releasing everything. The dry tracks running down her face told of her despair but they were gone by the time anyone saw her.

That night Penny avoided May, eating nothing and locking herself in her room. After she heard May’s light snoring she snuck into the bathroom to take a shower. The water rushed over her body, working hard to warm her limbs into life. Penny found herself turning the handle until it wouldn’t move any farther. Steam rose inside the shower curtain. Penny stared at the white tiles, memorizing their pattern until the water ran cool again. She was still shivering.

Pepper looked at him with pursued lips.

“What was I supposed to do? Force her to stay and share our secrets with each other? She’s a teenager and I don’t think I ever was one.”

She wasn’t deterred. Her hand reached out to grasp his and he turned his hand to lace their fingers together.

“She’s hurting Tony. You’re like a father to her and you should find out what’s wrong even if it’s hard.” 

He froze. Their eyes met and he knew she was thinking about his own father. How difficult that advice was for him to hear.

“Of course, I want to know what’s wrong, Pep. I just don’t want her to feel like she has to tell me. I would never want to force the kid into anything.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at him, taking in the dark circles and patches stubble on his neck.

Weeks had passed since Penny stormed out of their work room and Tony was at his wits’ end.

In all his years solving problems, nothing and nobody had taking so long to figure out. He called May, feeling like a snitch the whole time. She didn’t know what happened only saying Penny was in more of a mood than usual. Tony was surprised to find out this ‘mood’ began around the time Penny would have acquired her powers. Ned’s phone was easily hacked into and so far, their communication was entirely one sided.

It seemed no one knew what was wrong with Penny Parker.

The girl was getting worse. Tony had caught a glimpse of her on some kid named Flash’s snapchat the other day. There were bags under her eyes and her movements which always were so careful and confident, now jerked in what looked like spasms. Like she was battling something unseen.

Penny was skipping out on their afterschool workdays which meant she was avoiding Tony. But what really threw him into a mood is when he found out Penny wasn’t coming for help after she’d been hurt on one of her patrols. The only evidence was an absence from the school the next day. That was the only way Tony knew something had happened and it made him sick to his stomach.

His days were filled with worry, which turned into planning and then implementing. His calls were being ignored so he talked through May. They found a therapist for Penny, making sure she knew it was optional. Both of them felt a flicker of hope when she went to the first meeting, even stayed through the whole appointment, but she never went back. May said she wouldn’t talk to her for a week after that. The tickets to a spa day had resulted in silence for two weeks.

His girl was pulling away from everyone, from him, and he was helpless to stop it.

Her hand snapped up to cover her mouth as a cough wracked through her chest. The webbing shot out of her other hand, swinging her around the side of the building. The cough died down and she gripped the rope of web with both hands, noticing a tinge of maroon tainting the material where her gloved held on.

Penny had to get home to her room so she could assess the damage. She could feel a piercing sting in her side with every rush of the wind against her body. At least the pain was distracting her for what a total shit show patrol was.

Trickles of liquid seeped out of her side and soaked into her suit. She looked down to see how far the patch stained the material. It was larger and misshapen, with tendrils going down to her thigh. Every burst of air, every movement in the sky on her escape through the city had her suit stuck to patches of her skin, pulling off in an obscene squelch. Back and forth. Stuck to skin and torn off again.

Her head snapped up as the back of her neck tingled. Not soon enough. A building wall rose up before her. Her body spasmed in response, arms flaying in the air trying to take purchase of the brick but they missed their target. Her side was bathed in pain at the unexpected movement and down she was falling. The air whipped up around her trapping her screams inside her throat.

She fell onto something with a thud. Metal dug into her side and she rolled over to find she was on the edge of a fire escape. Using slow movement, she tried to roll back over to the middle of the platform. The metal dug into her side allowing more blood to run down the side of her body. She fell back with a cry and lost balanced. Her hand grabbed the edge and Penny dangled there.

The metal was slick under her fingers. If she was in normal condition she could hang there all day. If it was a regular day she would pull himself up and be on her way. Unfortunately for Penny, the sweat and grim covering her face, the stabbing pain in his side, and the weariness ingrained into her body all pointed to a resolutely abnormal day.

Her fingers curled tightly over the metal grate, unwound and she was falling again. This time she uttered nothing besides a grunt on impact. She didn’t even have the strength to brace her landing. Her arm landed painfully underneath the brunt of her chest, trapped between cement and flesh.

Another groan slipped into the night, echoing up the bricks in the alley. Tears filled the creases in the corner of her eyes and tracked down her cheeks, mixing with the dirt and sweat already there.

She didn’t bother to wipe them away, not even when they blurred her vision. No one could see them under the mask anyway. No one could ever see them.

Her hand gripped the wound in a last effort to stanch the bleeding. It was odd, she thought. She couldn’t feel the bullet lodged inside her body, but all the same knew it was there.

Her thoughts turned toward the infection as they often did of late. It was much the same thing. She couldn’t see the infection. She still looked like Penny, still talked like her but underneath it all was deep and gaping wound. A bullet in the form of the spider bite, slowly eating away at her like lead poisoning.

“I’ve called Mr. Stark. Your heart rate is too fast.” 

“No! Karen. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call Mr. Stark unless it was an emergency.”  

“You have severe blood loss.” She said and added when she went to protest. “You just ran into a wall and fell down the side of a building.” 

“It wasn’t a straight fall. Karen, he shouldn’t be here. I – I don’t want him here.”

Karen stayed silent and she knew she wouldn’t get any more help from her. She couldn’t stay there any longer. Gritting her teeth, she tried to sit up.

The bones in her arm and ankle ground together and she collapsed back down. Water sloshed around onto her clothes and the puddle settled to ripples around her limbs.

“He’s on his way.”

She bit back a scream of annoyance. She didn’t need help. She was fine. Everything was fine.

Penny sighed and closed her eyes, tired of watching the water turn murkier and red. Her head spun and she could feel her heartbeat thumping through her body.

All she wanted to do was lay there forever, but that wasn’t right, was it? She had to leave. She was supposed to be leaving, going somewhere, but where?

Lights flashed from above blinding her as they got closer. A humming sounded and she wasn’t sure if it was coming from inside of her head or out.

“Penny?” Mr. Stark rushed over to her side, his hands hovering over her body to assess the damage. There was metal in the air on her tongue. “Kid? Oh my god. What happened?”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.” Penny snorted, grimacing as it reverberated through her torso. She cracked her eye opened to see Mr. Stark reach out again.

She couldn’t think straight. Everything was slowing up and then speeding by too fast. She saw Mr. Stark’s hand descending down to her side. Cold ran through her body. It didn’t matter she was in her suit or Mr. Stark was in his. All she could think about was the blood covering her. The infection that would taint Mr. Stark. Someone who was good to her. Who cared about her.

Mr. Stark was going to…. Penny moved. She found her back against the wall, fingers sticking up the wall so her head was higher than Mr. Stark’s.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Penny, get down from there. You’re hurt. Do you hear me?” 

“Don’t touch me.”

Mr. Stark put his iron hands up.

“I would never do that without your permission, Penny, but I have to make sure you’re okay.”

Her stomach strained under her weight. Another drizzle of liquid ran down her side.

“Penny come down, your tearing the wound open more.”

“I can’t, I can’t”

“Yes, you can. Trust me.”

She stared down at the man with large eyes. It wasn’t a question really. She trusted Mr. Stark with everything. She trusted him with her life, but it was herself she didn’t trust. She couldn’t trust. How did she explain that?

Fortunately, or not as it was, Penny’s fingers slipped against the wall in her lack of concentration. She fell forward as her eyes rolled back, covering her world in darkness.

Mr. Stark rushed forward. Penny felt her heart lurch and she was lost to the darkness.

Thank you. Hope you all enjoyed.

Taglist: @verdonafrost @whatisthou

#penny parker #penny parker fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #ao3 fic #whumptober 2019 #whumptober #no. 14 #touch-starved #alternative prompt #female peter parker #tony stark #irondad #spiderson

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catherinestuart · 4 years

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HSHQ TASK TWELVE —– TIMELINE for the wretched woman who has fallen (thrice)

APRIL 25TH 1993

crown princess mary gave birth to her first child in the dead of night, and early after sunrise, the town crier appeared in front of holyrood palace to deliver the good news: princess catherine, countess of carrick, had been born. later that day, a special mass was said asking for health and prosperity to the newest addition to the royal family.

MARCH 9TH 2000

they keep telling her that she’s important and that she needed to excel in her studies. so when margot was given permission to read books in the library instead of learning french, catherine solemnly kept her head bowed towards her textbooks. but because she had been good, and she could count backwards from ten in french, her papa had prepared a surprise for her out in the stables. her first pony was called briallen, the welsh word for primrose, and the princess took to riding whenever she could.

JULY 19TH 2005 [ FEAT. @matildastuarts, @margotstuarts, @hrhhans ]

hans had taken to telling ghost stories late at night in the children’s rooms at charlottenburg palace, making matilda and karoline cry throughout the night since they were too terrified to sleep. in the morning after they had breakfast with their governesses, he managed to lock margaret in a dark closet. it was the first time that catherine punched someone in the face, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

SEPTEMBER 21ST 2008

at fifteen years old, catherine stood solemnly in the first row pews to the right of the altar alongside her family. her mother was now queen, scarcely a week after they buried her grandfather -- and the young princess held her grandmother’s hand as she held her breath when the monarch’s coronet was placed upon her mother’s head. her grandmother squeezed her hand, as if to say ‘one day it will be you’. her heart stuttered, as if in fear, and she never looked at anything the same way again.

DECEMBER 1ST 2010 [ FEAT. @artwindsor ]

catherine was seventeen, arthur was eighteen, and they both dreamt of a world that might unite their two countries. so they whispered to each other promises that they wont keep, and locked their hearts away in favour of something altogether more tangible: power.

JUNE 14TH 2011

the girls in finishing school had whispered about this boy for ages, and a palpable groan had been heard when he announced that he would not be escorting any one of them during the presentation. but catherine had almost laughed, for she found herself gracefully gliding across the shiny ballroom floor of the newly opened hazelton club in the arms of the same lord theodore innes-ker. at least now she could show those social climbers what a rough little girl from gordonstoun could do. “theo, if i may suggest, you should ask phoebe drummond to dance the viennese waltz with you- she’s absolutely the best of the class and i do know for a fact that she has her eye on you!” yes, she did have her eye on him -- in an embarrassingly obvious sort of way -- but the girl had always managed to trip over herself after the fourth count. maybe that’ll teach the precocious girl not to underestimate a stuart.

MAY 13TH 2013 [ FEAT. @ennioeste ]

“where were you?” catherine had woken up alone, the space where he held her throughout the night had been long cold, leaving her slightly bereft. she thought that she was far too young to be dealing with this, scarcely twenty, and already sounding like someone she’d rather not be. ennio stood up a little straighter, but even from the distance she could see his bloodshot eyes, the strange gait that she had no choice but to be accustomed to. “nowhere, i just got coffee from that nice place we like by the-” she interjected, suddenly feeling tired despite a relatively decent night’s sleep. “don’t bother, ennio... you can do what ever you want- i have to go to class.” so catherine slipped out of bed, took off his comfortable shirt she had on, and got ready for the day -- just a little too lovestruck to leave him completely, that is, until today.

JULY 3RD 2014 [ FEAT. @frvncicc ]

she first saw him when they passed each other in the hallways of the palace. her, in her riding habit after taking a spin around the grounds, and him, in a finely pressed suit and tie on his way to meet her mother. “that’s the prince of spain,” isla, her lady-in-waiting, whispered as he turned the corner. “the crown prince of spain,” clara, her other lady-in-waiting, supplied, with a little grin playing upon her lips. “her majesty is having him over to talk trade deals in person, but i heard from her assistant that she wants to push him towards one of your sisters!” catherine frowned instinctively, and she didn’t quite know why. it wasn’t as if she was hoping to jump into another relationship, especially one as improbable as being with a crown prince! that night when the queen introduced her guest to her eldest daughter, fresh out of university, catherine felt his eyes upon her and knew she was a goner.

MARCH 7TH 2016 [ FEAT. @giorxcci, @mimidbg ]

her friends had dragged to the bar, just barely, after their last in-class mid-term. they were a cacophony of royals, higher nobility, and several social climbers jammed into the corner booth of an oxford student bar. “gio- gio! what is this?” catherine held out the shallow glass of god-knows-what in front of her friend’s eyes. the italian prince laughed, motioning vaguely for her to ‘just drink it!’ before the stunning blonde next to him quipped, just a little louder than the raucous volume of the student bar they were sat in: “it’s not poisoned, darling! it’s from the most expensive bottle of scotch for our most expensive scot!” she had to laugh at that, and after shooting the monegasque princess a sarcastically withering look, the scot took the shot in one.

SEPTEMBER 2ND 2017

it was the first time she saw her mother in full regalia quite like this, right on the centre of the receiving platform as she looked up at the features that were mirrored in her own. it was difficult not to be humbled when one was kneeling in front of one’s sovereign, weighed down by a velvet robe and centuries of history. “i, catherine, duchess of rothesay, do become your liege of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and truth i will bear unto thee, to live and die against all manner of folks.” she was robed in her own regalia, a duchess’ coronet placed upon her head, and the look that her mother gave her said: ‘your next one will be far more grand.’

NOVEMBER 29TH 2017

england was going to implode into itself, and catherine decided it wasn’t in her best interest to associate herself with any arthur windsors -- even in secret.

JANUARY 25TH 2020 [ FEAT. @beaufort-a ]

catherine sat across the table from her fiancé, the hum of the airplane beneath their feet -- as she flicked through the latest issue of ‘international political science review’. “i can go with you,” his voice broke through her reverie, making her look up from her page. “to the taping, i mean -- i we could do it together.” she smiled then, mentally going through their schedules. “we’re keeping it pretty jam-packed for you, though, don’t you have the meeting with the lord chancellor over dinner? we’re anticipating that it’ll run late.” he hummed, a quiet lull as he thought it all through. “i’ll still pick you up then, shake some hands and get photographed coming out of the building with you... can’t have them thinking that you’re speaking for me without my consent.” she rolled her eyes good-naturedly at that, earning her a low chuckle from him.

#hshqtask012 #task: task #as usual: way too fucking long #this has been sitting in my drafts for way too long

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