#but i feel like 'It's Not Ever That Deep. Who Cares.' sounds like flippant or whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yelenasdog · 4 years ago

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 (𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐖𝐈 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: wherever they go, it seems they can’t escape each other

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.09k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smoking, drinking, kissing, getting ~steamy~, but nothing explicit.

𝐚/𝐧: this kinda feels melodramatic at times, but over all i think this is an alright fic that took me forever LOL! i hope you enjoy it! btw,

this can be read as ben!rog or just rog, i just was thinking of ben!rog when i wrote it

also if u wanna listen to kiwi while listening, the vibes would be immaculate and i reccomend it :D kk enjoy

✺🎬✺

Her footsteps were mute as she padded forward on the concrete, searching furiously through her crochet bag. The box in her hands stayed tightly gripped though, Roger noted. He waited a bit until he was certain she had no chance of finding what he thought she was looking for, and that he would be her last resort.

“Need a light?”

He watched with careful eyes as the girl next to him fumbled about to pick out a cigarette from the nearly emptied box, probably just some cheap ones from the gas station near the dorms.

“Yes, thanks.”

The brunet nodded, bringing his forward to her’s and inhaling, a few loose embers falling to the ground in a sparkling orange flurry.

Roger observed the way her chipped nails on ring adorned fingers shakily held the cigarette as she brought it to her lips, taking a very long drag.

It was windy out that night (which was the reason he was telling himself he decided not to bother with his Zippo), her silky black dress doing barely a thing to keep her covered from the chilly temperatures. He noticed the blue tint to her formerly painted lips, only a pale stain of color left behind. He also happened to notice the goosebumps that graced her exposed arms and legs, and her slight shiver that came with it.

The girl nervously adjusted the twisted strap to her purse, sending a glance in Rog’s direction every once in a while, but mostly she kept her gaze fixed on the stars above. She seemed to be mesmerized by the way they twinkled so brightly, even in the polluted sky. The bottles of liquor in her purse clinked together, and she cringed visibly at the sound, a shiver being sent through her bones.

He smiled at her behavior, oddly endeared by it, perhaps even enchanted.

“What’s your name?”

She turned, taking the stick from between her lips. Roger kept his eyes glued to the plump flesh momentarily despite the movement away from the area.

“That’s none of your business, Roger.” She smiled, a playful look set ablaze in her eyes.

He looked down, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“How do you know my name, then?” He questioned curiously, slanting his eyes and quirking a brow.

“Your band.” Her voice seemed softer, almost a fond tone set within it.

“You’ve seen us play?”

“Yeah, you guys are good.”

“You’re a fan then?”

She chuckled, looking to her feet.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

He laughed, nodding yet again.

They stayed together for some time, silently and mutually agreeing that enough had been said. They finished off their smokes, and with that, she turned to go.

“Bye, Roger.”

He bit his lip, feeling the sting shoot through him. He was conflicted on if to make a move, not wanting to diminish his confident and cool reputation he believed he had built for himself. He settled for shouting something along the lines of “will I see you around?” (which upon thinking back over it, maybe it wasn’t that cool), to which she only shrugged and kept walking.

He could hear the bottles loudly clanking together as she sauntered off, lord knows where to. He watched her go until she turned the corner, tossing one final look in his direction before continuing on, leaving him in deep thought.

“I’m telling you, mate, she was drop dead gorgeous. And I have no idea who she is, no name or anything!”

Brian rolled his eyes, tossing his notebook across the room onto the yellow sofa Roger was resting on, turning his full attention to his distraught friend.

“Well, did you ask her for her name?”

He shook his head, rolling his eyes in a similar manner to Bri. “Yes, I did. She said it was ‘none of my business’.” He scoffed, twirling a single drumstick between his fingers while tapping his foot repeatedly, annoying Brian to no end (per usual). The curly headed man only barked out a laugh, finding the entire situation quite humorous, if he was being honest.

“But she knew the band! Said that she thought we were good. S’ like she couldn’t make up her damn mind.” He grumbled, slumping forward.

“Wait, she knows the band?”

The drummer looked at him like he had two heads nodding slowly.

“Yeah, what about it?”

Brian stood up and sighed, grabbing his guitar and headed to the edge of the bar’s stage, resting behind the curtain briefly.

“You really are thick, Roger.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” He joined him by the curtain, noticing Tim had come up behind the pair.

“What’s all this about, then?”

“Nothing.” Brian and Roger replied in unison. Tim huffed, making his way onto the stage where the growing crowd was waiting. Cheers could be heard for the frontman as he introduced himself, saying something about how the rest of the band would be out in a second, and that they were just having some “sound issues”.

“Rog, if she’s a fan, she’s probably here tonight, yes?”

His eyes widened, and he suddenly began to feel quite dumb, not that he would admit it.

“Yeah, I suppose so…but she said she wasn’t a fan?” He trailed off, confused.

“She probably was just saying that for some reason. I don’t know, women are odd, they like to play hard to get.” Brian commented, oddly flippant for how conflicting his statement was.

Roger stood in place for a moment, still greatly confused what Brian was trying to get at. He shook his head and furrowed his brows, trying to put together the puzzle of this mess in his mind.

“Roger, for God's sake, don’t think about it, just go.”

Following his advice, Roger did his best to disregard any previous thoughts of confusion, a switch flipping in his mind. He stood taller, saying, “You know what Bri, maybe you’re right.”

“Great, go on then.” He watched as Roger bounded out with a newfound adrenaline and a smile plastered on his face, rolling his eyes for what wouldn’t be the final time that night at his bandmate’s antics.

As soon as he had made it behind his kit, he was scanning the crowded room, trying to locate the girl from last night. He watched the door throughout the performance, trying to see if she might have just come in a bit late. He held the hope she would somehow show up with him in his mind, but all to no avail.

The entire night, he couldn’t shake the thought of her lips from his mind, or the way the skin of her neck was so open and exposed, practically begging for him to attack it with his own lips. And with the way things were going thus far, he was sure that pretty face of her’s would be the death of him, he was certain, in fact.

“Find her?” Bri had questioned almost as soon as they had ended for the night, the lot of them now working on cleaning up.

“Nah. She never showed up.”

“I’m sorry, Rog. Maybe you’ll see her again soon, the campus isn’t that huge, you know.” Roger’s mouth formed a thin line as he raised his eyebrows, not convinced in the slightest that the situation proposed would occur.

“At this point I’m wondering if she’s even a bloody student here.” Roger grumbled, obviously no longer feeling the initial electric adrenaline of the night's performance.

Brian frowned, placing a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder and patting it once or twice before standing to go finish packing up.

It was later now, and the boys were finally leaving the bar, bidding their goodbyes to those around them. Roger walked out the front (in what Tim and Brian joked was a ‘moping manner’), hearing the bell jangle above his head, ringing annoyingly in his ear. The cold air hit him like an arctic breeze (or a ton of bricks, he wasn’t sure which description was more fitting). He shook his head and blinked a few times, as if that would rid his body of the frigid feeling. He sighed dramatically and pulled his corduroy jacket tighter around himself, watching as his breath made a small cloud in front of him.

“Roger?”

He turned, recognizing the voice immediately.

“Having a pity party, are you?” She giggled out, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“It’s only me, so no. Not a party.”

She “ahh”-d in understanding, her mouth forming into a sly grin. Her lips were a pale pink color that night, her eyes a bright blue shade. And similarly to the night previous, she was graced with only a brown fringed dress, her matching boots in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.

“Then what would it be if I joined you?”

He stood in thought, tilting his head. “I think then, yeah, it would be a party.”

“Do you not get cold, ever?” He added after a beat of silence, observing her ill outfit choice for the frosty climate. She rolled her eyes, muttering out a brief “ha, ha.”

Roger couldn’t help but bite his lip, holding back a laugh.

“I do on occasion get a little bit chilly. But I like the feeling.”

He tilted his head, walking over to where she was leaning against the brick wall of the dive bar. He turned to face her, not that she noticed, putting his weight on the rough surface behind him.

“It makes me feel,” she hesitated, struggling to find the right word, although she felt it was right on the tip of her tongue.

“Alive?”

She finally met his eyes after what seemed like forever, softly nodding. To him, she looked like an angel in that moment, the street light so beautifully illuminating her locks like a halo around her. He reached a cautious hand forward, dragging it against her cheek, down to her bottom lip.

Her mind was screaming at her to leave while she still could, to somehow not fall in the mix of the infamous campus player that was Roger Taylor.

But her heart? Well, as cliche as it sounds, her heart was telling her to disregard any reasonable thoughts and just kiss the bastard, for God’s sake.

And if anyone knew Y/n Y/l/n, they knew that most times, she would listen to the latter mentioned, rather than the former. And so after several moments of unbearable silence, she decided she would. Catching on relatively fast, Roger took her flush against him, Y/n able to feel his breath fanning over her face.

She leaned forward with a small smile, placing her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes wandered to his plump and rosy lips, adrenaline pumping through her veins. But before she could make the final leap, so to say, Brian, of all people, called out her name in a confused nature, squinting, believing that it might have been his eyes deceiving him. The girl from his 9 a.m. lecture could not possibly be about to snog his bandmate.

Impossible.

Her eyes widened, head turning immediately when hearing her name fall from his lips.

“Brian, hey!”

“Wait, you two know each other?”

Ignoring Roger’s (panicked) question, Brian walked over, a look of amazement still prevalent in his features. She moved from Roger’s side over to Brian, giving him a side hug, Bri’s arm resting on her shoulders.

“I see you’ve met Y/n. She’s in my astronomy class.”

She smiled brightly as the neon signs lining the downtown district of bars and restaurants alike, meeting Brians gaze.

“Yup, got to love Dr. Martin’s lectures.” She chuckled, the tall man next to her doing the same.

Picking up on Roger’s absolutely bewildered appearance, still taking in the situation unfolding in front of him, Brian took the liberty of initiating another conversation.

“So, Y/n, did you see the show tonight?”

She frowned, crossing her arms.

“Wanted to, but no, got caught up in the library. I have my final for statistics on Thursday, or else I would have been there.” She locked eyes with Roger, giving him a soft smile. Suddenly changing her demeanor, she reached into her bag she always seemed to have with her, pulling out those cheap cigarettes and her Zippo. She lit one of the sticks, inhaling.

“In fact, I heard your drummer was incredible, so I thought I would try to see him in action tonight.” Her gaze never left Rogers as she conversed, her mouth pressed in a line, the rest of her face completely neutral.

“But you’ve seen us before Y/n, he’s been with the band for quite some time.”

“I mean, I wanted to see him with a fresh pair of eyes, a different perspective, I guess.”

Still mildly confused, Brain shook his head and muttered something like “Right, okay” to which Y/n softly smiled at before dropping the cigarette from her hand. Barefoot, she couldn’t reach down to step on it, have the sparks die out under her toes.

“Could one of you get that, please?”

Roger nodded immediately, his boot finding its way quickly, the toe of it making a circular motion. His eyes stayed on Y/n, as had hers before. And despite the bustling city around them, Hell, even despite Brian’s perplexed stare, it felt oddly intimate, as if they were locked onto each other’s view (not that they were complaining).

But they weren’t, as she proved mere seconds later, abruptly bidding them goodbye and heading the opposite direction.

The pair of boys watched her as she went, heads tilted and jaws dropped to where if their mothers were present, they would be scolded to “close their mouths before they catch flies in there!”.

“That’s her, you know.” Roger commented bluntly, slightly shaking his head and then popping his lip.

Brian took a moment, turning toward his friend, stuttering.

“As in, her, her? Y/n is mystery girl?” He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, well, good luck with that, Rog.”

“Why would I need that, Brian?” He challenged, putting his hands on his hips, lifting his chin. Brain kept his assumed position, moving his hand to scratch at his neck.

‘Well, I’m sure if you hang out around her enough, you’ll find out.”

Rather than shouting out at him, asking him what the Hell he meant, as he really wanted to, Roger paid Bri no attention, not even giving him a second look before under his breath saying “I’ll see you later”, and in what Brian considered to be a quite shocking turn of events, bolting off in the direction Y/n had gone.

He ignored the shouts from Brian, ignored the judgmental stares and loud whispers of those who recognized him from the band. He no longer cared about keeping his ‘cool reputation’, not when she was so close.

“Is that Roger Taylor?”, “Oi, isn’t that the drummer from the band at the pub?”, “Hey, why’s he buggin’ out?” all flooded his ears, usually followed by what seemed to be snickering, making a desperate attempt to cloud his mind from his self-assigned mission. But it was no use, as he was set on catching up to her. In fact, she was so close he swore he could smell the mixed scent that was uniquely her, smoke and her perfume.

He hollered her name, God, he yelled it till his throat was hoarse, just ‘cause he could. He loved the way it rolled off his tongue, he loved the fact he even had learned it to begin with, and that alone was probably why he adored it so much.

She heard his cries, turning where she stood and tilting her head.

“Roger? What on Earth are you doing?”

He finally met her, bent over on his hands and knees, breath lost in totality. She placed a concerned hand on his sweaty head, combing through his chocolate locks. He would have shivered at the feeling, if he had the energy. Rather, he looked up with the goofiest smile she’d ever seen, resembling a golden retriever, or german shepherd perhaps, in human form.

‘D’you wanna go somewhere with me? Hang out a bit?”

She nodded, holding out a hand.

“Lead the way.”

“Mom and Dad want me to be some kind of a scientist, study the stars.”

“Yeah? And what do you think about that.”

She tilted her head, shifting her position.

“I’m not quite sure. I wouldn’t be against it, that I know. The stars are beautiful, but they aren’t where my heart lies, I guess.”

He turned to face her, their noses almost touching. She could feel his breath fanning over her face, and the proximity sent butterflies through her stomach.

“I want to be an actress.” She all but whispered, turning her attention back to the full night sky and the wonders that hung in it.

“An actress, huh?”

She only hummed a confirmation, moving her left hand to pick at the cool grass under her palms.

“I could see that. You, I mean, on the big screens.”

She turned, and Roger swore he had never seen anyone smile so big before in his life.

“Really?”

His own smile grew, and she nodded vigorously, the two of them beginning to laugh. He pulled her closer by her shoulders, unaware of where the conversation would lead.

“I’ll go to New York. You’ll see me on billboards in Times Square.”

“Well, that’s nice to know. I’ll just be a lone dentist somewhere, while you forget all about me, having lavish parties and such. Whatever it is that famous people do.” His voice was obviously joking, melodramatic was written all over him, yet Y/n couldn’t help but still feel a sliver of guilt.

She hit his arm, rolling back over to face him. She still had a smile glued onto her lips, both of their eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Oh, shut up, will you? Smile will make it big, and we’ll meet again, when you’re on tour. Or perhaps if I’m filming where you’re performing! We’ll have those nights to ourselves, It’ll be a secret rendezvous.”

She turned to her back again, finding his hand on the damp green, her heart beating a million miles a second as she reached for it, slowly entangling her fingers in his.

“The papers will write about us, Rog, when they find out. ‘Famous actress Y/n Y/l/n seen leaving a hotel with renowned drummer Roger Taylor’ is what the headlines will say. God, what a scene we’ll cause.” Her eyes were full of excitement as she spoke, her heart feeling like it was so filled with glee that it could soar out of her chest.

“Well, I wanna know the specifics.” Roger sat up, pulling her up with him, she giggled, and the brunette wrapped a hand around her waist. She sat beside him, the streetlight by the backroad she had led them on illuminating her like a silhouette. She bit her lip and grinned, tilting her head up to better exam Rogers angelic features.

“Are you gonna have some bloke waiting for you at home, hmm? Waiting for you while you conquer the world, only for you to break his poor heart?”

“Nah.” Her answer was immediate, her eyes honest as she spoke. “Only a cactus. He’ll be my only friend. I hear it’s lonely in Hollywood, Roger.” He raised his eyebrows briefly at this, choosing his next words.

“You’ll have me?”

His head turned to look at her, admiring the way the pale moonlight illuminated her, the artificial light from the streetlamps not doing her neverending beauty and justice, in his opinion. Their eyes seemed sporadic, searching each other's faces for signs of what they were doing, possibly being wrong, but they found nothing, as expected.

The yearning had become all too much for the inspired pair, and it felt like at last, all they could do, the only thing they could do, was kiss.

So they did. Roger took her face in his hands, closing his beautiful eyes, his eyelashes barely brushing against hers. He leaned forward, joining them together, finding that they immediately moved in a perfect synchronization. They were like two sides of the same coin, and that seemed to be particularly evident in that moment. By the contrast of their lips, or perhaps the aspirations of their careers becoming somehow just a little bit clearer.

But it didn’t matter, none of it did. Not in the long run. So they pulled apart, chests heaving and faces painted with childish grins.

It was quiet then, only the crickets and the howling wind could be heard. But she liked it that way, preferred it, actually. So quiet, in fact, that Roger was able to fall fast asleep, Y/n lying comfortably in his arms. She stared at the stars, then back to his sleeping figure, her mind unable to come to a consensus on what on God's green Earth she was to do.

She settled for placing a kiss on his jaw, closing her eyes. His eyes only fluttered, never waking completely. She muttered something like “See you, rockstar.” against it, before standing up and walking away, only turning back once to see his sleeping form one more time.

That was the last time for 6 years that he would see Y/n Y/l/n. See her in person, at least.

When he woke up the next morning, he was confused to say the least, wondering why Y/n didn’t wake him, mostly wondering where she had even gone. He looked around himself, patting the green grass beneath him, as if she somehow was invisible and he had missed her upon initial glance. He had shouted for her, his throat still hurting from when he did the same thing only 12 hours previous.

He had felt out of control, like the one he had been chasing had just slipped through his fingers (which it had). He had remembered asking Bri, day after day, if he had seen her in class, even just seen her around in general. Everytime the answer was the same.

“No Roger”, “I’m sorry, Roger”, “Not today, Roger”. It was a horrible, predictable pattern, that he had enough of. He was supposed to recover from it quickly, bounce back from her almost immediately, as there was basically nothing to bounce back from.

But he couldn’t, and due to such reasons, he supposed he finally understood what Brian had said, or warned, that night before he had gone chasing after her. He got it, in his own sad way.

And over the years, she slowly faded to the back of the drummer's mind, behind groupies, and songs, and shows, and such, just for her to resurface again any time he saw her on a billboard, just as she had promised. But he never let it show, outwardly at least.

He had made Brian swear not to tell the others, never to breathe a word of it to Deaky or Fred. He was embarrassed by it, for some reason, and that’s why he guessed he forbade him from speaking of it. But how long can you keep a silly college secret from your nosy bandmates? Apparently 6 years, tops, for Roger Taylor.

“Alright, everyone. Gather ‘round, I’ve got a surprise.” Freddie had said, his grumbling bunch of friends tired from their day’s work. Though, they usually had grown to appreciate and look forward to Fred’s “surprises”, today everyone was just a tad bit too grumpy to try (a certain Roger Taylor in particular, let’s call it foreshadowing).

“Oh, stop your moaning and whining, please, I promise this will be good!” the eccentric frontman had said, something hidden behind his back in his left hand.

Rog ran a hand through his, now, blond hair, exhaling in such a way that made Freddie slant his eyes, before giving in and rolling them at his flippant behavior.

“What’s going on, Fred?” Brian had been the brave soul to ask, stepping forward and then looking away momentarily to place his guitar onto a stand waiting not so far away.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He replied, jumping down from his place on the risers, removing his hand from his back and holding out what seemed to be 4 tickets to something. He walked down the loosely formed line of men, putting one in each of their extended palms. Roger, at the end of their formation of sorts, became concerned when Brian had burst out laughing, looking to his right, being met with Roger’s face of confusion.

Freddie, possibly more confused than Roger, pressing the piece of thick paper into his hand, his gaze falling onto Brian, who now had tears in his eyes.

“Bri, what’s so… funny. Shit.” He had looked down to the slip, the only words he needed to read to know he was absolutely screwed, being “Jaws” and “Premiere”.

Now, anybody who knew anything, knew that Y/n Y/l/n was going to be in the film that was said to become the blockbuster of the summer, playing the role of Ellen Brody (though a few had said she was far too young for the job). She had been an overnight success in the film industry, gaining popularity from the 1973 film, ‘The Sting’, playing Billie.

And Roger had watched ‘The Sting’, and you can imagine his surprise when Y/n had sauntered onto screen, red lipped and fresh faced. (He had to admit, she looked great in a suit.)

After that, the assault on Roger’s fragile heart was never ending.

Billboards began to pop up even more frequently as she was to star in more films, and it seemed no matter where he was touring, he couldn’t escape her. Whether it was posters, her face printed on newspapers, adverts in about every place business was done for one of her films, he felt like he was being followed. He had even seen an article about her in a magazine, and when he had flipped the page he was greeted with Queen’s smiling faces.

He had stopped watching them after ‘American Graffiti’.

So, he figured that this one wouldn’t be any different, and he simply planned on ignoring said film until he caved, doing his best to avoid her on the silver screen and anywhere else, which hadn’t been too difficult until this point (not).

But this? This was a whole new level of being royally fucked.

“Brian, Rog, something you want to share with the rest of the class?” John had asked, cocking his head and propping his legs up on the coffee table in front of him. Brian began to speak, wrapping an arm around Roger’s shoulders, the shorter man looking up at him with angry fire burning in his eyes.

“Well, I’m honestly quite excited. The film industry has always seemed very intriguing, actually, and I’m looking forward to meeting new people. Rog?”

“No.”

“No?” John repeated, “No, what?” He waved a hand around, trying to understand what Roger’s problem was.

“I just- I don’t- I knew-”

“Roger had a fling with Y/n Y/l/n and she broke his heart.” Brain blurted out, Roger turning and immediately smacking him upside his curly head of hair. He regarded an “Ouch!” before him and the rest of the boys burst out laughing, the drummer not included in that demographic, fuming.

“Rog, darling, when was this? How did we not know?” Freddie managed to breathe out, sitting down next to Deaky on the studio sofa. He crossed his hands and ankles, his full attention turned towards Roger who really, really didn’t wanna have to do this, and who really, really was gonna get Brian back for this later. Would he untune all his guitars? Unplug his amp during rehearsals, perhaps put hair remover in his shampoo? But, that would have to wait until after he was forced to spill his 6 year secret.

“It was in 69-”

“69?!” Freddie had cried out. “It’s been 6 bloody years? And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“Well I didn’t really see a reason it would be necessary to tell you all! In fact, I probably wouldn’t have told you ever if this bloke didn’t have such a big mouth!”

“Hey, watch it.” Brian weighed in, crossing his arms and fluttering his eyes.

“Look, Roger I really don’t see the issue here. We go to the premiere, you just keep a low profile and ignore Y/n, problem solved.” John cut in, trying to be helpful.

Keyword: trying.

“And how exactly will I do that?”

“We will behave, I promise.” Freddie added, though Roger seemed to be having a difficult time believing him or his claim for the others. So Roger only scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

Cameras were flashing brightly, reporters and such were shouting loudly, and Y/n was already exhausted.

Her red lips were painted like DeAngelo had done it himself, and her hair was styled just the way she liked. The heels she was wearing per request of her stylist, though, were horrible. They looked lovely, yes, but they were digging into her poor ankles, and she still had to wear them for who knew how long. She didn’t complain, though, she wouldn’t dream of it.

She would just continue her slow walk down the carpet, a sultry smile on her face. The black fabric of the gown she was wearing fit her beautifully, snug in all the right places.

She sure hoped it was, at least. Especially because she knew that he would be there.

Roger Taylor, the blessed drummer that managed to make a home in the backburner of her mind, his success coming as no surprise to the actress. She had loved every one of their records, and rather than running from his work like Roger had, she opted for going straight to the record shop, purchasing any and every Queen album in her sight. When she had checked out, the very shocked cashier had made some remark, asking something about “you a fan?”

She had thought about it for a moment, thinking back to all those years ago when Roger had asked the same thing. She smiled, shrugging.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

So when she had worked up the courage to invite the entire band to the premiere (on behalf of Spielberg, of course) she was a nervous wreck to find out they had accepted. Really, ask anyone who had any contact with her in the time from then to the premiere, they could testify that her moodiness had risen like a hot air balloon.

Now, though, she was kind of regretting that she had invited them, looking over to the sharp looking bunch, all dressed to the nines. She scanned her eyes over them, catching a wave from Brian, which she gladly returned with an enthusiastic smile. Bri then tapped Roger on the shoulder to alert him of Y/n’s acknowledgment, which resulted in Y/n’s eyes widening to the size of moons.

She turned her head, and worked to finish up her walk of the carpet just a tad bit faster. It all seemed to be for nothing, though, as in the dark of the theater for the premiere itself, she saw the seat next to her be filled, a presence filling her senses.

“Miss me?”

Their hands were all over each other, not truly caring if the tabloids caught a glimpse, just needing to make up for lost time.

They had stumbled into the golden hotel both her and Queen were staying in, the swinging doors of the New York establishment blowing a cool gust of wind in their direction.

They merely laughed at the minor interruption, their teeth clashing as they both smiled momentarily. It was soon forgotten, though, both of them having much more pressing matters in their minds.

They only came to a cease in the elevator, some old couple who most definitely did not care about whatever pressing issue the two of them felt they had, standing off to the side. (Y/n could swear she saw the older woman smirk and wink at her, to which she cocked her head and smiled.)

Once back into the safe confines of Y/n’s suite, they resumed like they had never even stopped, hands gravitating towards the others form as if they were opposite magnets, unable to be separated for too long.

“You’ve driven me crazy, you know that, right? “

She giggled and bit her lip, looking up into his eyes, their foreheads pressed together.

“Mmm? I’d hope so.”

He pulled away, shaking his head, blond locks following suit.

“Really, you have no idea. I haven’t been able to shake you from my head. You’re everywhere.”

Her excitement could barely be contained at his confession of sorts, chest heaving, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah, that was the plan.”

Roger shook his head with a dry chuckle, looking to his feet and back to her when she had tilted his head up, her finger resting on his jaw.

“Well, are you into it?” She questioned, grabbing his hand and pulling their clasped fingers in between their chests, her eyes hazy with hope.

“Yeah.” He titled his head, feigning a pondering look. “You could say I’m kinda into it.”

“Shut it!”

“Make me.”

She rolled her eyes at his stupidly provocative suggestion, and he only laughed, the two of them falling onto the plush comfort of the bed in a meshed flurry for the remainder of the night.

And if you couldn’t guess what could have possibly happened next, the black dress ended up in a pooled up pile next to the bed that night, right next to the heels that finally she had the pleasure of discarding.

The next morning, it was unlike the one 6 years ago, as when Roger woke up, he was overjoyed to find a sleeping Y/n, laying on his chest with hair splayed around her. And he had to say, he usually wasn’t much of a cuddler, but for some reason he felt so incredibly endeared, that anything else wouldn’t have sufficed.

He ran small circles on the exposed skin of her bare shoulder, the comforter concealing the rest of her limbs that were tangled up with Roger’s.

When she stirred, Roger sat up, fondly watching as her eyes fluttered open and her tongue ran across her dried lips, still carrying a hint of last night's red pigment. She looked next to her, her eyeline matching up with the covered skin of Roger’s lap.

She sighed, shifting her head to rest on his thighs as her feet dangled off of the bed. One of Roger’s hands came up to softly massage the top of her head, the other against the headboard, behind his neck. She stared at the ceiling, an unreadable expression creeping its way to her features.

“We were jacked up last night.” Roger’s voice cut through the silence they shared, deeper in the late morning than she had heard before.

“Correction, you were jacked up.”

“Whatever.”

They laughed, silence soon taking over once again. Roger sighed, closing his ever tired eyes.

“Are we gonna pay for this?”

She scoffed, inhaling deeply before reaching over to the nightstand, grabbing her carton of cigarettes. He noticed they were the same brand from college, a small smile making its way to his face at the thought.

She first lit hers, then lighting a second one for the man occupying her king sized bed (though she wasn’t even slightly upset by this, quite the opposite). She handed it to him, sticking her own between her lips and sitting up, straddling where her head had been minutes before.

She leaned forward, so close their noses were to the point where they were nearly touching. She took the cigarette from her lips, blowing the smoke to the left of Rog in the direction of the large balcony overlooking Times Square. She turned her attention back to him, though it had never really left, tilting her head.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” The answer came immediately, no careful consideration or pondering needed.

“Right.” She removed herself from him, standing and taking the sheet with her, letting it cover her like a renaissance dress. She walked over to the balcony, leaning against the frame of the double doors. She took another drag, an adoring smile spreading across her face.

“Then there’s your answer.”

She paused, Roger tilted his head, his brows lifting.

“Of course we will.”

✺🎬✺

if u liked that hot mess pls like and rb!! mwah ily go eat protein and drink water if ur able. xx hj

248 notes · View notes

ashdumpsterpile · 3 years ago

Text

of siblings and spies

@libblyster said: edmund rescuing lucy from danger (only a year or two into their reign as kings and queens)

ao3

Edmund finds her one week into her captivity.

She’s not expecting someone to show up (read: she’s not expecting Edmund of all people to suddenly come flying down from the rafters and take her guard out with one well executed kick to the head).

Her expectations lie more in Peter storming the castle or a tense, but nonviolent trade of prisoners or whatnot. But here her brother is, quickly frisking the unconscious guard of his keys and swiftly trying each one in the lock.

(This really should be an indicator of things to come, but it will be several more years before Oreius finally recognizes Edmund’s potential as a spymaster. Lucy likes to say she knew it all along, but to be perfectly honest, all she can think about is the pain in her ankle and how cold she is.)

Edmund finally finds the right key and throws the door unceremoniously open.

She flies into his arms, forgetting about her twisted ankle for a moment, and buries her face in his neck. “What are you doing here?” she hisses, pulling away after a moment.

He has a cut on his cheekbone and dirt on his chin. She reaches up, trying to rub it away.

Edmund bats her hand away. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come?” He frowns, eyes quickly sweeping over her, assessing the damage.

“No, but I didn’t think that Peter would be alright with sending you straight into a den of traitors,” Lucy says back, eyes darting toward the door. They’ll need to move swiftly if they want to avoid capture again.

Edmund’s lack of reply tells Lucy everything. “Edmund,” she groans. “Please tell me Peter knows you’re here.”

“Peter knows I’m here,” Edmund replies obediently, clearly lying. He quickly takes off his cloak and wraps it around her shoulders when he notices her shivering. “Don’t worry about it, Lu.”

“I’m worried,” she mumbles, knowing that if she has concerns, Peter’s are tenfold.

“Can you walk?” Edmund asks, eyeing her swollen ankle with trepidation.

Lucy takes an experimental step. Pain shoots through her leg, but it’s bearable. “Yes, I should be able to.”

Not fooled for a second, Edmund pulls her arm over his shoulder and let’s her lean the majority of her weight on him. He carefully leads her out of the cell.

The room beyond is just as Lucy groggily remembers it--she was mostly unconscious when they arrived--no windows, one door, which is locked. Lucy frowns.

“How did you get in here anyway?”

_______

Their escape does not go smoothly. The path Edmund had taken did not lend itself kindly toward two travelers--particularly one of which was incapacitated and could not take a single step without limping. They end up accosted by guards on more than one occasion, and--worst of all--nearly taken out by a werewuff.

Edmund handles the situation quite masterfully, Lucy reluctantly admits, save for the bit with the werewuff.

The growling and howling from the distance had immediately put him on edge--face paling and hands shaking--and by the time the creature had come across them, he was already a bundle of nerves.

After taking a truly nasty slice to the side, Edmund manages to unsheathe his sword. It’s Lucy, though, who surprisingly deals the killing blow.

While he’s fighting the wolf creature off, a few badly aimed stabs to the side that mostly angered it, she manages to grab ahold of his dagger and slam it with all the strength left in her into the monster’s heart.

Edmund stares at her with round eyes as she pulls the blade out, wiping it on her borrowed cloak. “I think we need to sign you up for fencing lessons.”

“Susan will like that.”

“Susan’s not the one gutting werewuffs in her nightgown.” He holds out his hand, helping her to her feet. “Come on, we’re almost out of here.”

_______

“I hope you’re fully prepared for Peter to murder us,” Lucy says, pressing her cold nose to the back of Edmund’s neck. Her brother jerks his head away, but can’t get very far with her perched so precariously on his back.

He sighs, readjusting his grip under her knees and continues his unsteady gait through the forest.

They’ve been walking for about two hours now, because apparently Edmund did not have the foresight to bring a horse with him. He took the ribbing with a good-natured grin, though, and hoisted her up onto his back after she began to tire.

Despite her own exhaustion, she can’t help the concern slowly taking over. It’s a long walk back to Cair Paravel, and Edmund hasn’t been able to do much for the wound in his side beyond staunching the steady flow.

She doesn’t think he’s going to pass out from exhaustion, but wouldn’t put it beyond his already flippant constitution.

“What Pete doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Edmund finally replies, realizing that she’s waiting for an answer. She can hear the smirk in his voice and rolls her eyes.

“I’m fairly certain he’s going to notice the two of us covered in werewuff guts, strolling merrily through Cair’s gates,” Lucy snorts, wrinkling her nose at the smell of said entrails. “Not to mention your absence will have been noted by the entire court by now. Really, you didn’t even think to leave a note?”

“He would have stopped me.” Edmund sounds winded.

Lucy sighs, ducking her head to lay on his shoulder. “For good reason,” she mumbles.

Peter’s been particularly over protective of Edmund of late, and by late she--of course--means since he bled out in his siblings arms on the battlefield. Peter had excellent reason to be cautious concerning his little brother.

Still, Lucy is glad that Edmund came.

“To be frank, I’m more scared of Susan,” he says, breaking the silence.

Lucy groans. “She’s going to kill us.”

_______

Susan is crying.

Lucy’s still half asleep, but she dimly registers being handed over to her big sister, who tearfully wraps her up in her arms. She smells of expensive perfume and the velvet dressing-gown is soft against Lucy’s raw skin and her embrace is warm. Lucy sinks into it with a sigh, allowing Susan to pet her hair and lay kisses on her forehead just this once.

She sneaks a peak out of one open eye over to her brothers, who are quietly arguing over something.

“Sorry for scaring you,” she says, as Susan lets out a particularly loud sniff.

“If you ever do that again-” Susan threatens, but then cuts herself off. Lucy gives her a weak grin.

“It’s alright. Edmund came for me.”

That gets her a raised eyebrow, which Lucy primly ignores. Susan wouldn’t get it anyway. Younger siblings have to stick together.

“You smell terrible,” Susan finally says.

If Lucy wasn’t so tired, she thinks she’d hit her. Instead, she settles for huffing loudly. Trust Susan Pevensie to be flustered over a little smell when Lucy had quite literally been locked up in an impenetrable fortress for seven days and then fought off a werewuff with a borrowed dagger.

“I-Ed?” Peter’s panicked voice breaks through Lucy’s annoyance. She squirms in Susan’s grip, trying to get a better look at the commotion. Edmund is on his knees, clutching his side with a pained expression. Peter is hovering over him, one hand tentatively on his shoulder. Edmund pulls his hand away. It’s coated with blood.

“I thought the werewuff didn’t slice you that deep,” Lucy frowns.

Susan stills.

Peter makes an intelligible sound, sinking down in front of Edmund. He shouts something to one of the guards who runs off, presumably on Peter’s orders. Edmund leans forward, dropping his weight into Peter’s waiting arms with an unamused laugh.

“Oops?” he offers, brow pinched in pain.

Peter smooths his hair back from his forehead. “What am I going to do with you,” he mutters, glancing between him and Lucy, who gives a lazy wave. “Both of you.” The annoyance in his voice doesn’t detract from the fear she sees in his eyes.

Lucy shrugs. Edmund mumbles something intelligible that has Susan rolling her eyes. Peter just sighs briefly, and holds his brother tighter. Lucy smiles, closing her eyes, trusting her older siblings to take care of them.

_______

Lucy wakes up in the infirmary.

The bed isn’t terribly uncomfortable--it’s a damn sight better than the threadbare cot in her cell--and the blankets piled up are soft. She runs her hand over one of them, watching as the fur rubs the wrong way and then smooths it back. It reminds her of Susan’s velveted dressing-gown.

Ah. Susan.

Her sister is nowhere to be found, but Peter is sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair by her bed, head pillowed in his arms by her legs. There are dark purple bruises under his eyes and the faintest hint of tear tracks on his cheeks. Heart aching, she reaches out to wake him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Edmund says, startling her. He’s perched on the windowsill, shirtless, legs dangling in the air. His side has been expertly bandaged and there’s color in his cheeks. Lucy feels her worries slowly lift. “Unless, of course, you would like to experience round 3 of ‘Edmund gets yelled at,’” he adds, lips twisting into something of a grin. He lets his legs swing back and forth for a moment, watching her considering.

“Should you be out of bed?” she asks, voice low.

Edmund shrugs and then winces. “Probably not,” he admits.

Lucy rolls her eyes and scoots over as much as she can without waking their older brother. She lifts one edge of the blanket nest up as invitingly as she can. “Well, come on then.”

Edmund tentatively pads across the floor, slight limp in his gait. After a brief moment of hesitation, he ducks beneath the blankets and settles beside her.

The two of them stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Lucy is reminded of a time, years and years ago--before things got complicated and Edmund got cold and Lucy became alone--when she used to crawl into Edmund’s bed after a particularly bad nightmare. This is like that, but better. Better, because this time Edmund lets her shift closer and drop her head onto his shoulder. Better because he wraps an arm around her and buries his nose in her hair. Better because that’s what both of them are now. Better.

“Hey Ed?” she mumbles, exhaustion making the edges blurry.

Her brother hums in response, angling his head toward her.

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

Before she falls asleep, she feels his thin arms tighten reflexively. “Of course, Lu.” His voice is impossibly gentle. “Always.”

#lucy pevensie #edmund pevensie #narnia fic #narnia fanfic #the chronicles of narnia #narnia #my fic

74 notes · View notes

battlinghurricanes · 3 years ago

Text

DEIPHOBUS TIME!

I'm honestly not entirely sure how I got such a deeply involved concept for his character and motivations, but I definitely did. I just feel like he fits into an especially interesting place in everything and that there's a lot of great potential with him.

Shout out to @petalveinedwarrior for enabling me and also I'm very sorry for being incredibly long winded. My bad.

Also DISCLAIMER! I am NOT an expert on the Trojan War and all its surrounding mythology lol. This is just for fun, based on my own fairly limited knowledge of the myths (though I think I pretty much cover everything that’s relevant to this). These are just my headcanons woven with some details from various myths. Sorry if anything’s missing or inaccurate!

SO!

First and foremost, I headcanon Deiphobus as the oldest of Priam and Hecuba’s children after Hektor.

Hektor calls Deiphobus the dearest of his brothers, and to me, this is why. They are the closest in age and they were the closest growing up, best friends when they were young. They also get the closest to being on equal footing which means a lot to Hektor, who often feels distance between him and his other siblings because of being heir to Troy.

Despite the relatively equal ground and Deiphobus treating Hektor with a very casual familiarity, deep down, he idolizes him. Deiphobus adores and admires Hektor, ever a younger brother in how he looks up to his strength and intelligence and reliability but close enough in age to not feel the same envy as so many of their younger siblings.

Deiphobus is aware that he is next in line to inherit the throne of Troy after Hektor, and the possibility of that is more real to him than to the rest. He doesn’t envy or want the responsibilities Hektor has to bear being the first son and admires him for it rather than resenting him. He never wants the weight of Troy on his shoulders.

Additionally, as close as they are, Hektor confides more openly in Deiphobus than the rest of their siblings. Consequently, he has a more realistic idea of both the burden he bears and also the ways he struggles to manage it like any human would.

Deiphobus holds Hektor in the highest regard- he means the world to him. It is a strange and unique combination of relating to and understanding Hektor exactly as he is and then loving him so dearly for how remarkably he seems to do in all of it, all that Deiphobus adores and strives to be like.

Hektor calls Deiphobus the dearest of his brothers, but Deiphobus would never need to say the same of Hektor, that much has always been obvious.

Deiphobus himself is ferociously loyal, boastful and fiery proud, wild and energetic, and always quick to smile and laugh with a sharp sense of humor. He’ll defend his own with tooth and nail, Hektor first and foremost, and they make a well balanced pair. Hektor’s level headed sense of responsibility softens many of Deiphobus’s rough edges, and Deiphobus’s enthusiasm breaks through many of Hektor’s more anxiously formed reservations.

Deiphobus would do near anything for Hektor, to a concerning degree in the eyes of some, but Hektor, by his nature, isn't overly controlling. He doesn't want Deiphobus to change how he is. Mostly, the only place Hektor truly pushes him is on moral grounds, for better rather than for worse.

Deiphobus hates to spend time overthinking anything, which benefits him in some ways, but also frequently has him following the example of those around him without considering what might lean towards cruelty. Hektor never tolerates hurtful and needless rudeness or otherwise, and their friendship doesn’t spare Deiphobus his reprimands.

Hektor's needling, though, has him step back and reexamine his actions and the second look is generally what he needs to correct his missteps. Admittedly, he’ll sometimes act better in some way solely to please Hektor, but far more often than not, he’ll come to recognize why it’s best with time and continue that way from his own compulsion.

(He grows and his conscience sounds irritatingly like Hektor.)

Deiphobus is actually one of the best of his siblings at not holding a grudge. He might for drama or humor’s sake, but once a squabble is past, he’ll easily set it aside in favor of having fun with whoever he fought with.

Regardless of his flaws, Deiphobus is amiable and of the opinion that it’s never worth passing up a good time over some pettiness. He’s never one to ignore the value of little joys, no matter how fleeting they are.

Before the war, when he is still younger, there is Antheus. He’s the pretty son of Antenor, and both Deiphobus and Paris are quite taken with him. Paris’s involvement rubs him the wrong way, but he elects to ignore it as best he can. It doesn’t sit right to consider policing Antheus’s actions. He can hardly demand he stop seeing Paris while still insisting on his company, after all.

Besides, he can’t really complain. Antheus favors him with his presence often, laughing at his jokes, stealing off his plate when they share meals, tumbling with him when they wrestle. And when Antheus lifts his hand to idly toy with his lower lip as he smiles slyly at him, Paris is the last thing on Deiphobus’s mind.

Hektor teases him sometimes when he turns up ruffled from some exchange turned overzealous, but his flustered frustration pales in comparison to his excitement, so Hektor gets away with it. Oh, he loves Antheus and the feeling is so heady, better than the most potent wine.

Then it all shatters when some men rush into the palace with Antheus’s limp body carried between them. He was in the gymnasium with Paris, they learn. One throw from Paris with a warped discus and Antheus was gone. Deiphobus stares at the blood soaked in his lovely hair.

Deiphobus is ready to rip Paris apart, but when his brother is guided in after, there’s just no room for it. He’s in complete hysterics, shaking all over as he hyperventilates, and screaming would have gotten through to him no more than their family’s vain attempts to calm him down.

Paris is inconsolable afterwards. He retreats in on himself, though without any attempt to defend himself, first to give himself the blame. He makes for a pitiful sight, and at first, Deiphobus can’t stand being in his presence at all, to take his anger and grief out on him or otherwise.

It doesn’t take that long for Deiphobus’s anger to grow more painful than cathartic anyway and, well, it is hard to lash out at someone acting exactly how he feels. He feels the same heartbreak and pain he sees in Paris and he can’t find it in himself to rage against him when he’d rather just sit and cry himself.

Paris does take it upon himself to face Deiphobus after a time and claim responsibility for what happened that day. Deiphobus doesn’t forgive him, doing that feels... off, but he manages to convey that he won’t turn on him for the accident with Antheus. He thinks that might make Paris feel better but he can’t truly tell.

It all still hurts then, even as they try to get things to settle. Nothing but more time can do anything more to heal those wounds.

And time passes and then Paris returns from Sparta with Helen, and, well.

The brewing war doesn’t drive a rift between Deiphobus and Hektor, but it does force a new distance between them. The pressure on Hektor spikes and never eases, and the time he has to spare becomes exceedingly rare.

Much of the time the two would have spent for themselves together now shifts to working together to manage the complications that come with this new conflict; Deiphobus has new responsibilities to shoulder himself. More work, less play, but the mutual affection and respect between them remains just as strong as before.

Deiphobus can’t help but feel a certain bitterness over having the casual companionship of his brother taken away from him, but he does all he can to set it aside. He refuses to let it be another source of stress for Hektor, so often too caring for his own good, and he doesn’t hold it against him anyway.

As always, Deiphobus remains aware that these tasks could easily have been his and, privately, he feels woefully inadequate in the face of that possibility. And truly, it just serves to make Hektor even greater in his eyes, handling it all with grace he can’t imagine. He knows he’s not perfect, yet still, it’s hard to imagine that anything could ever truly bring Hektor down.

And so, Deiphobus helps his brother in the ways he can and loves him as ever, always ready and eager to fight at his side.

Deiphobus leads a contingent himself, and does it well. It comes easier to him to manage a smaller group like that. He does as directed and guides his men through the fighting. One can say what they will about his ability to lead, but his capability as a warrior is undeniable.

Things shift between Deiphobus and Paris as well. Much of Troy turns on Paris, some faster than others. Deiphobus ignores the greater dramatics which, in his opinion, help nothing. Still, it is often tempting to berate him for his flippant disregard of the battles so he does, which is, admittedly, not entirely unwarranted.

However, Deiphobus and Paris share a mutual, unspoken understanding that they simply cannot focus on the war at all times. Sometimes it must be set aside. This is more often true to Paris than to Deiphobus, but that invites Deiphobus to keep Paris’s company when he can no longer bear all the stress.

In turn, when Deiphobus approaches him like that, Paris can trust not to be reprimanded as he so often is, as that gets ignored along with the rest of it. So there are times during the war where the two can be found together affably, chatting about nothing important. Their personalities can still mesh in such moments.

And, well, it’s shocking how steady things can stay over nine years of war, but they do. Death and loss become far too familiar companions, but they can do nothing but keep fighting through that, and things proceed much as they have been.

Until, of course, Achilles.

With all the cruelty of fate, it of course follows after they get the closest to driving away the Achaeans as they ever have. Such a brief, amazing hope. In his unmatched fury, Achilles slaughters their soldiers, butchers many of his brothers, escapes Scamander’s rage through the grace of the gods, and drives the army behind Troy’s wall with his advance, except for-

Then-

Hektor is dead.

Deiphobus tastes blood in his throat screaming at the sight behind the chariot.

In a way, it’s a blessing that it takes twelve days to get Hektor’s body and another twelve to bury it. With his death, command of Troy and her allies has passed to Deiphobus, and he could barely lead his own horse after losing Hektor, much less an army.

Deiphobus falls to pieces. He can barely process it, losing the one he held in the highest regard, held every confidence in, believed in to his core. Hektor was the best of all of them and now he’s dead, leaving him shattered. Deiphobus is hysterical, wildly heartbroken.

In this time is when Priam first turns on his remaining sons. He lashes out at them as he prepares to ransom Hektor’s corpse, degrading them as the most worthless of his sons. Still half blind with tears of grief he can’t hold back, he thinks that it’s true in the same moment he thinks of how he will now have to take Hektor’s place, worthless ruin though he is.

Most often, Priam refrains from speaking of his remaining sons after that, and in rare, fleeting heartbeats he almost seems contrite over cursing them. Neither is enough though to keep him from savagely reproaching them in unpredictable instances as Troy continues to spiral towards its doom. Deiphobus shakily chokes down his father’s abuse without a word.

Of course, he returns to the battlefield once Hektor is buried, coming to truly learn the crushing weight of his new role. How did his brother bear this? Every day feels like one failure after another; he’s not strong enough, not smart enough to do this. He tries anyway, each day more taxing than the last.

Deiphobus can hardly bear Paris after Hektor’s death. A large part of him hates him for it, desperate to pin the blame on someone despite knowing deep down that he’s not responsible. Though, even then, part of him is drawn to Paris, broken same as him, shaped by a sort of desperation to grieve for their brother with him. Misery loves company.

His anger burns hotter, but now he can’t bring himself to berate him even in the way he did sometimes before all this. He never confronts him with his hatred, such that it is. He simply avoids Paris entirely, knowing that if he indulges in the impulse to curse him for what happened to Hektor, he would fall apart at the seams.

Even now he can’t face the truth of what happened and keep going. It is all he can do to try never to think about it.

And then, with the aid of Lord Apollo, Paris kills Achilles.

The undecided limbo of Deiphobus’s feelings towards Paris topples into something like affection the moment he hears of it, connecting them once more. Paris has destroyed Hektor’s murderer, avenging him, and that matters to Deiphobus more than anything else.

That night, the two of them drink together until it half kills them, close enough to keep knocking shoulders as they revile Achilles with the worst profanities they know. It’s the only celebration they can muster after everything, but they’re both laughing for the first time since they lost him.

(When the night grows damnably late, Deiphobus’s attempt to laugh turns into retching and Paris collapses to the ground when he tries to get up to help. They suffer the agonizing morning together.)

They make a strange pair from then on. Friendship would be a generous word given the still unavoidable tension between them, but they somehow manage to maneuver around that and share a certain closeness. They maintain it despite differences that grind against each other. Sad as it is, it’s one of the only things either of them have left.

Paris and Deiphobus also weather Priam’s spontaneous tirades together. Usually wordlessly, but there is something to be said for the company of someone enduring the same pain you are. It is a quiet solidarity, but a significant one.

They talk of the war far more often now. Every day it devours more and more of their lives, always harder and harder to ignore or set aside. On rare occasions, they do still manage it. Those conversations make for a breath of fresh air, though that does little to stave off the feeling of drowning.

And then Paris takes a poisoned arrow and dies.

Deiphobus doesn’t wail and sob in the same way he did for Hektor. He’s too numb for it now. It hurts in an unnatural, distant sort of way. All he can muster is a ugly, stilted feeling of shame for letting himself come to care for him in the first place. Of course he would die like the rest, he should know this by now. He crumbles further.

After Paris’s loss, there's only two reasonable options for what to do with Helen. Either they need to return her to Menelaus or arrange a new marriage and keep her in Troy.

Helen pleads to be returned to her first husband but Deiphobus competes with Helenus to be the one who weds her. Troy does not stop them. There is a quiet but tangible tension to the city and he doesn’t think their people would tolerate Helen departing. He competes with everything he has left and he wins. And they marry.

That first night, Helen stares at his back while sitting in her new place on his bed. She expected to be treated like a piece of meat, a feeling she's grown well used to through living her life under the eyes of men, but he's barely even looking at her. He fought for her hand with an undeniable, feral sort of desperation. What was it for if he doesn't even want her?

"Why?" she asks him. "Why bother going through every effort to marry me only to be so cold now? What do you want?" Her voice would cut razor sharp if only she wasn't so tired.

He turns to face her with bloodshot eyes narrowed in a glare, riddled with barely restrained anger and grief. "I'm not letting you leave," he forces out and Helen pushes down the urge to scoff because that much is obvious.

"It has to be worth something," he continues. "There has to be something we fought for. If we just let you go back, then it won't have been worth jack shit." He paces, not looking at her again. "I won't allow that. Don't think you can avoid all this so easily now that Paris is gone. There has to be a point. My brother is dead because of this shit! If you're gone, then what would be the fucking point?!"

His brother. He means Hektor. He means Paris. He means every last one of them, so many dead. He means Hektor.

Helen doesn't reply. There is nothing she can say to that. For all that it doesn't make a difference, what he's laid before her is something she knows well. She's spent so long now berating herself and blaming herself for all that's come to pass and she understands. She hates this, all she wants is to go home, but she understands him.

She knows that they both hate each other and themselves all in equal measure. What a wretched pair they make, Helen thinks.

Not that they make much of a pair at all. They're rarely ever together. Deiphobus camps outside whenever he can, and when he can’t, he goes out of his way to avoid her. Helen accepts it as the best she can expect from the truly miserable situation this has become. The war drags on, but the truth hangs in the air that Troy is losing.

Then the horse.

The people, starving so desperately for peace, bring it inside the walls. Deiphobus tries to be cautious. He tries to think of what Hektor would have done. He commands Helen to walk around the horse, calling out in the voices of the Achaeans' wives. If there's some wretched spy or invader, let them show themselves. He'll kill them.

No one answers. Deep down just as desperate for peace as them all, he breathes a sigh of relief and leaves the damn horse.

He hopes the Achaeans filled their mouths with blood, biting their tongues as hard as they must have.

Troy is burning. The Achaeans fill the streets with slaughter; they are everywhere. Reunited with her husband after so, so long, Helen tells Menelaus where Deiphobus is. And so, Deiphobus dies alongside Troy.

(Deiphobus and Hektor meet again in the Underworld and Deiphobus tries to apologize for his failure to keep Troy safe. Hektor will hear none of it, refusing any of the anger he has every right to put on him. Still, a long time passes where Deiphobus silently and anxiously wonders if that was a lie, if Hektor truly does hate him for what happened.

Hektor keeps throwing him tense, unsettled glances sometimes when he thinks he’s not looking, even though he never says a thing. Each one worms further and further underneath his skin and he starts to squirm under the conviction that he’s done something wrong. Something Hektor holds against him.

When it finally grows so unbearable that Deiphobus confronts him about it at last, Hektor flinches and doesn’t disguise his fear and upset. Deiphobus braces himself. But then, mangled in with confusing, ashamed apologies, Hektor recounts for the first time how he died.

Athena luring him to his death in Deiphobus’s shape, speaking in his voice. How he turned to face Achilles believing he had support. When he called for a spear from his brother, he was alone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I think of it at all, I’m so sorry I let you believe I was angry with you because of it. I’m not, it had nothing to do with you, you shouldn’t have to know of it at all. I just- remember it sometimes. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Deiphobus feels nauseous. Hektor looks even more so.

“If I had actually been there-”

“No! Don’t do this. Achilles would have just killed you too.”

“We wouldn’t have died alone, then.”

They clutch at each other, these battered remnants of their souls, carrying with them the wounds of their lives.)

#the iliad #deiphobus #hektor #hector of troy #paris of troy #and misc others i wont tag lol #trojan war #greek mythology #my writing #goal: make everyone else have thoughts and feelings about deiphobus too #hes my randomly selected emotional support child of priam #and hes perfect for my favorite thing #weird little character studies #hopefully this was at least somewhat interesting to read #its been a long time since ive done a post like this #an unsurprisingly it is way too long lol #sometimes it really is just all or nothing with my headcanons #i also think about the version where achilles is going to marry polyxena and deiphobus grabs him while paris stabs him in the back #inchresting

41 notes · View notes

rufousnmacska · 3 years ago

Text

Only You

A manorian arranged marriage fic from an anon request -

Do you think you could write an angsty manorian drabble where political/royal pressures and such has Dorian marry someone else + Dorian being mortal has Manon encouraging him? just all that manorian heartbreak+pining. also really love your fics!

This turned into much more than a drabble, but I hope everyone enjoys it! 🤗

Many thanks to @itach-i for beta reading and helping plot things out! ❤��

PART ONE

Dorian hadn’t noticed the cold until his valet wrapped a furred robe around him. How long had he been standing out here? The sun had just broken from the horizon and his breath was pooling in front of him with each exhale. The valet, a gray-haired man named Ruben, disappeared back into the royal suite, muttering something about the foolishness of young men. Dorian smiled grimly, knowing he was indeed foolish. Worse. He was a godsdamned idiot. And he felt numb, as though his body was somewhere far from here, his mind with it. None of it was due to the winter chill. Staring off towards the hills west of Rifthold, his eyes glanced over the many red and gold banners attached to the city’s roofs, snapping in the wind. Part of him loved seeing his people so excited, so proud for the coming celebration. They’d suffered greatly during the war and had worked hard in the rebuilding effort of the last two years. But that small joy for his kingdom was overshadowed by his own despair. How many times had he stood in this spot, watching and waiting and holding his breath until he caught sight of those silvery wings and moon white hair dancing in the sky? He’d known today would be his last chance to watch for her. And since sleep was a fool’s hope, he’d come out to his balcony and stood here for hours, his gaze on the west, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

***

The rising sun shone brightly off the tops of the castle towers, giving the small group of witches their first real view of Rifthold in the distance. In the past, this sight would leave Manon breathless with anticipation, pushing Abraxos to speed up in her excitement. There had been times when her giddy desperation to reach the castle was almost humiliating, forcing her to contain her emotions before she landed. But no matter her control in those moments, Dorian would greet her on his balcony with a ferocious embrace, seeing right through her mask. He always had. Now, Manon wished that truth away, pushing it deep down, along with the nausea roiling in her gut. As they drew nearer to Rifthold, she could just barely make out the decorations hanging from the castle. It almost brought up the meager breakfast she’d eaten not long ago. With the brightening sky, she realized the entire city was decked out, covered in colorful banners and garlands. Of course, a royal wedding demanded finery. She had expected it, guarded herself against it. But her expectations were dealt a swift blow by the reality now facing her. Manon was on her way to Dorian’s wedding. Not as the bride, but as a royal guest. And she had no one but herself to blame.

*****

Six months earlier…

Manon frowned as Abraxos landed on an unusually empty balcony. Though she’d never asked for it, the space had been rebuilt to provide a large enough area to comfortably hold a wyvern. Wrapping halfway around the king’s tower, the balcony offered magnificent views of the ocean to the east and the mountains to the west. As she dismounted, Manon realized that vast western view was what gave Dorian the ability to know she was almost there. Normally, she wouldn’t notice the view because he would be there, scooping her up and taking her inside to say hello in her favorite ways. But tonight, she and Abraxos were alone.

Quietly, so as not to startle Ruben, Manon stepped through the doorway. She needn’t have bothered. The bedroom was as empty as the outside and she heard no sounds coming through the door to the other rooms. Wondering if he hadn’t received her last message telling him when to expect her, Manon sat on a sofa to wait. She lasted less than five minutes before pacing around the room, then finally deciding to go in search of Dorian.

The office was empty and as she continued through to the exterior door, Manon rolled her eyes at the messy desk. How Dorian managed to keep everything straight in the piles and stacks of papers was beyond her. She wasn’t in the corridor long before she heard angry voices echoing up the stairway. Chaol and Dorian had stopped part way up the tower.

“You can’t afford to just dismiss this threat of rebellion. Lord Frey is an ass, but he has the ear of too many other nobles to be ignored.” Chaol sounded winded. Manon didn’t think he came up here very often since his mobility was tied to his wife’s magic. That he was here now to continue this conversation was significant.

“I refuse to give into his demands,” Dorian growled. “He complains about me leaving the kingdom to Erawan, and yet he brags about how he profited from the war. Whatever gold he has in his coffers did not come from me.”

Manon inched back to the door on silent feet. She knew Dorian’s lords were causing trouble, but he’d refused to go into detail about it with her. The thought of anyone claiming Dorian had willfully abandoned Adarlan to Erawan made her blood boil. The valg king and his armies had left a path of scorched earth and devastation on his march to Terrasen. And Dorian had spent the last two years of his life dedicated to rebuilding his kingdom.

Chaol sighed. “Yes, but what he’s proposed in exchange—”

“What he’s proposed will not be considered,” Dorian interrupted. It was a voice Manon had never heard from him.

After a long pause, Chaol continued. “I know how you feel, Dorian. But we need to put emotions aside and think this through. I’m not saying we go along with it. But right now, we have to look at every option.”

“You say ‘we’ as if you would be the one marrying his daughter.”

Manon gasped, covering her mouth to remain quiet.

“It would be a political alliance,” Chaol reasoned. “You wouldn’t have to end things with—”

Again, Dorian refused to let him finish. “Stop. I’ve told you my decision. We will find some other way to placate the rebellious lords. I am not marrying her.”

Soft footsteps punctuated by the clack of a cane sounded as Chaol left his king and descended the tower. When he was gone, she heard Dorian smash his fist into the stone wall, pieces of mortar crumbling and raining down onto the floor. Manon was paralyzed, her hands balled up into tight fists, eyes wide. And that was how Dorian found her when he took the final steps up to his suite.

***

“You misunderstood. Frey doesn’t have enough clout to demand such a thing.” Dorian was frantic, spending the last two hours trying to explain away what Manon had heard. But her face had frozen into a mask, nothing he said could tease out even the slightest reaction.

“You can’t be so flippant,” she said, the stony resolve in her voice starting to scare him. “He’s offered you an out from civil war. If you care about your kingdom, you must do it.”

He was going mad. First Chaol, now Manon. Where was Yrene to talk some sense into them? He cared about his kingdom and his people. He cared so much that he had no life whatsoever beyond the endless meetings and negotiations and squabbles. His sole joy in life was standing before him now arguing that he should marry someone else.

“If I care?” he asked. “I was prepared to die for it. On many occasions. I would gladly give my life. But I won’t give my heart.”

Manon blinked slowly, and he realized she was looking past him. “You once told me you were prepared to give up your throne for Sorscha. Then the war taught you how foolish, how childish that was. And now, as if you learned nothing, sacrificed nothing, you want to do the same thing. Your life and your heart are one in the same.” Finally, her golden eyes met his. “I am immortal. You are not. You need a human queen to give you heirs and unite your kingdom. I will not play a part in disrupting that.”

Dorian searched for any sign - an unshed tear, a twitch of her lips, a clenched jaw. But there was nothing. Nothing on her face except a cold certainty that left him feeling lost, alone. He knew this was an act, a means of protecting herself. And yet, she was right. When they’d parted ways in Orynth after the war, he’d ignored the desire to ask her for some sort of commitment beyond “We’ll see.” They both had countries to rebuild and had chosen that greater responsibility over personal wishes. Dorian told himself then that they had time. Yes, he was a mortal. But he still had a plentiful well of raw magic on which to draw upon, magic that would give him a much longer life than a normal human. And only two short years later, out of nowhere, everything was falling apart.

No, he would not let his people suffer through war again. But giving in to extortion was not an acceptable alternative. He thought of Aelin, wondering how she would handle a situation like this. With the way her people adored her, he knew she’d never reach this point. Maybe Frey and his allies were right. Maybe he’d left them to fend for themselves out of cowardice instead of prudence. Suddenly, Dorian was exhausted, tired of being king, tired of giving up everything he wanted. He rubbed his eyes until they were red

“You know it has to be this way,” she said, having watched him sort out his thoughts. “No matter what they claim, you’ve never once abandoned this kingdom. Which is why you won’t do it now.”

Dorian stared at the ground, grasping for a way out, but his mind felt like aspic, soft and muddled and useless. “I won’t be a king who takes a queen and still keeps a lover.” The ultimatum was hard to voice, but it was true. Despite his rakish history, he’d never taken a new lover without breaking things off with the old one. If ever an exception was to be made, it would be with Manon. But he would never disrespect her, a queen in her own right, by reducing her to a secret paramour and source of castle gossip.

Still stoic, she replied, “I would not expect you to.”

They had always pushed and teased each other, seeing which one would break first and admit their feelings or give in to the desire. Desperately hoping that they were playing that game now, he surrendered. “I want you, Manon. No one else.”

The slightest hitch in her breathing and a tiny flutter of her eyes sent his hope soaring. But, with a firm tone that meant she would say no more, Manon said, “Marry her, Dorian. Save your throne and keep your people from more bloodshed.”

Before he could respond, she walked out the door and climbed into the saddle still strapped to her wyvern. Manon was in the air without a look back, and Dorian sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

*****

Rumors were flying through the witch city faster than the most agile wyverns. Mere months ago, the witches had expected an announcement from their queen, happy news that their kingdom would be united with Adarlan. Some were not in favor of their queen marrying a human, king or not. Others, especially those in the queen’s council, saw it as a good match. A love match, they claimed. But now, after the royal messenger from Adarlan had arrived, the gossip was spinning out of control.

Manon stared at the thick envelope sealed with red and gold wax, the wyvern stamped into it watching her with a single mocking eye. Dorian had once laughed about how significant it was for his royal crest to include a wyvern, a connection forged between their two kingdoms before they had even met. She’d brushed the thought away at the time, rolling her eyes at his insistence that fate was at work. But now, the memory of his teasing voice sank into her chest, adding to the heaviness and pain that had been choking her since she’d left him on that balcony months ago.

“You don’t have to go. No one would fault you for it. We can send Petrah as a representative,” Glennis said, her voice stiff and formal. It was a tone usually relegated for council meetings, not a conversation with her granddaughter.

She was silent for a long moment, still looking at the envelope. Instead of answering, Manon picked it up and ripped apart the seal. The invitation was written in fanciful blue ink with a border of red berries and ivy stamped into the parchment. She frowned at the flowery words that matched the design, knowing the girl must have been behind all of it. The girl. Manon knew she was likely close to Dorian’s age, but she didn’t care. The future queen of Adarlan would forever be the girl in her mind. Even so, it was impossible to miss her name in elegant calligraphy.

Your presence is requested at the royal wedding of Lady Eveline Frey and His Majesty Dorian Havilliard II, King of Adarlan

Manon stopped reading at his name and continued to flip through the remaining pages. They contained notices of the pre-wedding events that the ‘happy couple’ hoped people would attend, despite the possibility of poor weather at that time of year.

Happy. Her eyes caught on that word and didn’t move. She knew it was a lie. And yet, her old doubts and fears flooded back into her mind. She was still heartless despite her efforts to change, he deserved someone who could sufficiently return his affections. She was immortal, he was not. Manon had reasoned that she would rather lose him like this than watch up close as he aged and died. Rather lose him now, when they could both move on to full lives, than be forced to somehow carry on after his death. A magically extended life or not, she could see no other scenario if she continued with him. And if that was truly how she felt, then she wanted to be there and show him they were both better off this way.

Glennis watched her, likely reading every thought that had gone through her head. For when Manon said she was going, her grandmother’s head dipped in resignation. “Then I will accompany you.”

Manon lost count of her attempts at crafting a reply. She began with a simple list of witches who would attend with her, which morphed into a long drawn out explanation of why she wanted to be there. Then she backtracked into a brief, two sentence response. And even then, she had to make several copies until one was legible. The anguish of what she faced kept showing itself in her shaking hand.

Her eyes keep going back to their names and she found herself wondering what the girl was like. Did she like to read? Could she fight with a sword? Would she stand up to the nobility who claimed Dorian was not worthy of his throne? How would she react to him waking up screaming in the middle of the night from a nightmare in which he’d been torturing people?

That last thought made her feel sick. Not because of the dreams that still plagued him - she was well versed in helping to comfort him, just as he knew how to ease her grief and fear after a nightmare. It was the idea that they’d be sharing a bed that turned her stomach.

Gods what was she thinking? There were two months until the wedding. Was that long enough to forget everything Dorian was to her?

Manon knew the answer. And yet, when she read over their names again, she made herself remember why things had to be this way. Adarlan could not survive another war, especially one which tore it apart from the inside out. This was for the best. His and hers. This wedding would be closure, and afterwards, she could move on, search for a suitable consort. Not to become her king. She could not bear seeing anyone else beside her in that capacity. But finding an acceptable male to produce an heir would help to stabilize her kingdom. If Dorian was forced to set aside his heart to help his people, then she would do the same.

When she gave the reply to Glennis later, her grandmother frowned. “I find myself not wanting to send this.”

“It will be us and two sentinels. That’s all,” Manon said, ignoring the witch’s reluctance. “We will arrive the day before and leave immediately after the ceremony.” As Glennis nodded in agreement, Manon noticed she held a royal envelope in her other hand. “What is that?”

Again, that frown. “It’s from Prince Fennick Whitethorn of Doranelle. A cousin of Rowan’s I believe.”

“Was he in Orynth?” She didn’t recall him being there, but her memories from those early days battling Erawan’s army were foggy.

“I don’t think he was.”

Manon took it, examining front and back. The wax seal matched that of Queen Sellene Whitethorn. “What could this be?” she wondered aloud.

Glennis was already walking away, but she turned and said sharply, “I can only imagine.”

Manon was glad she waited until she was alone to read it, for by the end of it, she was sitting motionless, the letter forgotten on the floor.

Prince Fennick Whitethorn, a cousin to both Rowan and Queen Sellene, had written to express his regards and dismay at the news that the King of Adarlan would marry a noble from his own kingdom. He’d felt compelled to write her directly, offering her his support and friendship since he’d experienced something similar a few hundred years before. As Doranelle’s representative at the festivities, he hoped they could meet in Rifthold. In not so veiled terms, he suggested they might establish an alliance of their own, one that would be amenable to both their countries.

Mere hours after speculating about taking a consort and here she was, staring at a proposal. She couldn’t decide between outrage or amazement at the audacity of the fae male. It had certainly taken balls to approach her this way. And at this time. Picking up the letter, she read it over again. From the sounds of it, Fennick had been left heartbroken in his past. A past that extended even further back than her own. Had she not used her own immortality as a reason that Dorian should wed another? Here was an immortal throwing himself at her, eager for alliance. But she wondered if his interest would wane when he was told that at best, he might become her consort. There was only one man who she’d accept as her king, and he was now outside her reach.

She decided not to send a reply. If the fae prince was there, she would meet with him, see what kind of male he was and whether he might bring anything of worth to an alliance. If not, it would be one less thing to worry about.

That night, as she tried and failed to fall asleep, Manon found herself imagining how she might say goodbye to Dorian. They never used the word, choosing instead to focus only on their hellos. It made a twisted sort of sense that this goodbye, this parting that would be permanent, would be the first and last time it was spoken between them.

***

Yrene found Dorian in his office, watching the brutal winter winds send snow whipping through the air outside his window. Judging from her expression, she knew why he’d sent for her. When her eyes went to the letter on his desk, her shoulders seemed to slump, and she sat down heavily across from him.

“She will be attending,” he said, pushing the short reply across the desk in case she wanted to read it. After immediately recognizing the handwriting as Manon’s, he’d stared at it for a long time. As if there might be some sign of hesitation on her part, he’d examined the note, his eyes running over each stroke of ink, again and again. It was flawless. Just like her, he’d thought miserably.

“I didn’t think she’d actually come. It was meant as a formality between two allies.”

“Perhaps that’s why she has agreed. Formality, nothing more,” Yrene offered.

“How do you think Eveline will handle it?” Despite a wedding date only a few weeks away, Dorian barely spoke to his future queen. Yrene had been acting as a go between, keeping Dorian from having to feign pleasantries and interest in someone who he’d claimed looked and acted like an empty doll.

“She has been trained as a courtier since birth. I’m sure she will be as polite and ladylike as she always is.” Yrene rose and came around the desk, standing in front of the window to make Dorian look at her. “She may appear timid and vapid in front of her father, but she is no fool. She knows what this arrangement is and why it’s happening. Your involvement with Manon was never much of a secret. Eveline knows she is not your choice. But like you, she is doing her duty.”

Dorian didn’t reply. He knew his opinion of her was misguided, that it was based on anger at the situation, at her father. Which was why he kept his distance. If he couldn’t keep himself in check in private or with his friends, how could he expect to refrain from unleashing his rage on her with hurtful words? At least, that’s what he told himself. It was true, but some part of him knew that if he gave in and spent time with her, it would make this all the more real.

Yrene’s eyes darkened as she said, “Lord Frey has a reputation to match Chaol’s father. With her mother gone, I suspect Eveline has not had much control over her life. This would be nothing new to her.”

Now fully ashamed of himself, Dorian only nodded. If there was anything he could understand, it was not being able to defy a bullying parent. A new sense of sympathy filled him as he wondered how desperate Eveline must be for a new life. Freedom from an abusive father would be worth the heavy responsibilities and loss of privacy that came with being a queen. Maybe it was time to make an effort. He couldn’t envision a future where he would ever develop actual feelings for Eveline. But he could at least become her friend.

“What else have you learned about her?” he asked.

Yrene shrugged. “Her education has been extensive, and she knows much about the court and how it runs. She enjoys art and music, embroidery …” She trailed off, trying to think of any other attributes worth sharing. “Horse riding. She always seems to be coming back from the stables when I see her. I’ve gotten the impression her father does not approve of that hobby, but she maintains that being a good horsewoman befits a true lady.”

“So, she does disobey him then …” Dorian smiled slightly, recalling how he used to rebel against his parents. Horse riding was much less scandalous. “Does she need any help with the wedding plans?”

The suddenness of his change in tone had Yrene blinking at him. “I don’t believe so. But I can ask her.”

Dorian stood and walked towards the door. He knew if he didn’t start now, he never would. “I will go ask. I’d like to recommend some music.”

“Wait,” Yrene cried, trailing him out into the corridor. When she caught up to him, she asked, “What are you doing?”

The fear in her eyes almost made Dorian turn around and forget his pledge of moments ago to try and accept this. Yrene had always been the biggest supporter of his relationship with Manon. Whether she was helping them arrange a short, secret escape from their duties, or using her sharp tongue to tear down any detractors of the Witch Kingdom, or giving him advice on how to help Manon recover from the loss of her coven … Yrene had always been there. And now, for the first time, it seemed to be sinking in for her that what she had dreamed for her friends – a happily ever after to rival what she had with Chaol – was impossible. It pained Dorian to see it and he pulled her into a hug.

“If there was another way, Yrene, I’d do it. You know that.”

She hugged him back fiercely, her voice shaking as she said, “I know. She is my friend too, Dorian. And I don’t want to lose her.”

Gods, Dorian thought his heart couldn’t break anymore. And here it was, cracking into even more fragments, each time becoming smaller and smaller. “I know.”

Yrene backed away and let loose a string of curses and insults about Lord Frey that left his eyes wide and mouth agape. He’d never heard her speak like that before, had never thought her capable of such filthy language.

Before she could think to apologize, he laughed. “Well said, Lady!”

Red with embarrassment, Yrene burst into laughter too. When they’d both regained their composure, she said, “Come. I’ll walk with you to Eveline’s rooms and catch you up on her wedding plans.”

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “She is as much a pawn in this game as anyone, and she doesn’t deserve my animosity.”

Yrene nodded. “As much as I hate to admit it, she’s a perfectly lovely young woman. It makes things worse in a way.”

When they reached her rooms, Yrene led him inside.

“Your Majesty,” Eveline said brightly. Her dark hair matched her eyes and she gave him a beaming smile. “I was not expecting you today.” She was going through a stack of replies to the invitations.

“Please, call me Dorian. I insist,” he said. “I have one more to add.” Slowly, as if not wanting to give it up, he handed her Manon’s reply. He and Yrene both watched her carefully as she read it.

With the same smile as before, Eveline said, “I’m so pleased the Witch Queen will be attending. None of your other royal friends are able to come due to the weather. Though Doranelle is sending someone.” She paused, thinking. “I can’t remember his name.”

As the two women went through the replies and spoke quietly, Dorian pretended to listen. For one terrible moment, he wondered what the word princeling might sound like from Eveline’s mouth. The thought felt blasphemous, leaving him spinning and trapped between two worlds: the reality sitting next to him, this perfectly lovely woman for whom he felt nothing, and a dream world where he’d wake up happy each morning to snow white hair and golden eyes. A dream that had slipped through his fingers, like the wind gusting wildly outside.

Perfectly lovely. Eveline was lovely, and perfect, with exquisite manners, an impeccable wardrobe, and a distinguished education. But despite that loveliness and perfection, he knew without a doubt that his feelings towards Eveline would never come close to what he felt for Manon. Manon was his mirror, his equal. If beings other than fae were able to have true mates, she would be his.

The thought struck him like a dagger, straight to whatever bits of his heart yet remained. Shaking his head, Dorian tried not to think of Manon, of how this next visit for the wedding would likely be her last. Tried not to dwell on how he would have to live the rest of his life without her, his mate in every way that counted.

Of course, he failed. And when Eveline asked him about what music he’d prefer, Dorian used every ounce of strength he had left to force a smile on his face and answer.

To be continued...

***

Thanks for reading! You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m not sure who all is still out there. So if I missed you, or you’d like to be tagged/removed for parts two and three, let me know.

@itach-i @bookishwitchling @manontrashbeak @awesomelena555 @jimetg98 @over300books

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #yrene westfall #chaol westfall #glennis crochan #my writing #manorian fanfic #throne of glass fanfic #only you

81 notes · View notes

janekfan · 4 years ago

Text

Hostile

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30583040

Jon always needed a strong hand.

Ever since he was small and wandering off without his grandmother’s permission only to be escorted back by disgruntled police.

Elias just wanted him to be the best Archivist he could be.

It didn’t stop the sting. Just reinforced how much he had to learn and how awful he was at this job. He was just being...sensitive, right? The others were fine. They didn’t seem to have any issues, certainly not like him. Meanwhile, it seemed no matter what Jon did, Elias browbeat him. Always gently, always politely, until Jon understood how he’d gone wrong and left in a state of distressing confusion. His employer made it so clear that Jon often felt foolish coming away from his office. If he’d just been smarter he would have figured it out on his own without needing his supervisor to explain it to him in terms he could understand.

He passed Tim and Elias chatting amiably in the hall, burying his nose in the stack of papers he was carrying to make himself as small as possible before shuffling past them. They didn’t seem to notice or if they did, made no move to acknowledge him and the last thing he heard when he rounded the corner was Elias chuckling at one of Tim’s bad jokes, the same one he used to tell Jon at least once a month up in Research. It was inane. Nothing to well, to write home about. Certainly nothing that should have piqued Elias’ interest.

Though, Jon supposed, he didn’t know anything about either of them did he?

“Martin.” Cultured, the smooth voice drifted through the office door, worming its way into Jon’s ear and straight into his already hammering heart. He was ashamed that he couldn’t stop himself from creeping to the door and listening closer. “This is fine work. How long have you been working here?”

“Oh! Uh! Um!” Jon rolled his eyes at the stammering, pushing down a spike of what was definitely not jealousy. Elias laughed, light and easy.

“No need to be so anxious. You’ve been an asset to this department. A good fit.”

“Ah! Th’thank you, Elias. Sir! I mean, I mean sir.”

The man’s amusement was so sincere. Jon must’ve been missing something when it came to himself.

“Ms. James, a word if you please.”

“Of course, sir. How can I help?” Jon pressed his back against the wall, the chill of the basement cement seeping into his button down and sending him shuddering.

“I wanted to thank you for your dedication. I realize things have been fraught, for lack of a better term, since the promotion.”

“I trust in the interview process.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jon held his breath. “And I appreciate your willingness to support this endeavor as it continues to grow. Especially where our new Archivist is concerned.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you again, Ms. James.” Heavier footsteps retreated and Sasha’s headed in his direction. Jon nearly ran from her impending approach, taking refuge again in his office with the thought that it should belong to her echoing in empty space between his ears.

“Jonathan.” He tried not to fidget under Elias’ intense scrutiny.

“Yes, Elias?”

“I received a call from the library.”

“I, I assisted with a difficult case a few months ago.”

“I can’t imagine why, but they are asking for your help again.” It was a cutting remark and Jon fought against the flooding mess of emotions. “They know you’re now our Institution’s newly minted Archivist.”

Oh.

OH. Of course! His impatience was mixing him all up and getting him up in arms before Elias finished speaking.

“Do you know what it’s regarding?”

“I can’t recall though you are making fewer mistakes over time. I do think your efforts would be better focused on your work in the archives, don’t you think? Jonathan?”

“Ah, w’well. Yes. If that is what you think I should do.” He could feel his face heating up, no doubt blazing red with an embarrassing blush.

“I didn’t ask for your thoughts only for you to leave it up to me. You need to be decisive, Jonathan.”

“Yes, th’that is. Yes. I will be.”

“And?” Lord was he ever bungling this.

“I will turn down their invitation.” Elias was no longer looking at him but at his desktop screen with a bored expression.

“Don’t worry yourself. I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Th’thank you, sir.”

“No need to have you tangled up in old efforts.”

“Yes, of course.” Jon shifted from foot to foot desperately trying to keep his hands still, to be professional until Elias glanced back at him in confusion.

“You can go, Jonathan. I certainly don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

It was rare that Jon left his office since taking, stealing, the position of Archivist and the uncomfortable silence that settled over the breakroom upon his arrival was damning.

“Need something, boss?” Tim raised an eyebrow, hiding a frown behind his cup. Jon felt whatever bravery he’d scraped up in the past several hours disappear.

“I, um. I just, Elias?”

“What about him?” Sasha folded her hands, prim and polite as ever since the announcement was made.

“Well, you. You’ve known m’me a while, years really, and. And I think, does, does he--?”

“Spit it out, man.” He flinched at Tim’s bored tone. Tired of him. He shouldn’t have come here.

“He, the way he speaks with me?” Lord, this sounds ridiculous. He was ridiculous, just a sensitive mess. He always did this, turned molehills into mountains. Read into situations and only came out the other side wrong.

“Elias isn’t like that, weird maybe.” Tim sounded so sure, flippant and nonchalant. “He’s been nothing but supportive since our transfer. You’re misinterpreting him or something. You do that.” Jon’s stomach dropped, tears welling up in his eyes as everything he thought about himself was confirmed.

“No, it. It feels like more than that. It. Conversion with him doesn’t. It doesn’t feel right.”

“What, Jon? He’s being mean? Rough having a couple of new responsibilities?” Tim scoffed. “You got the job over someone more qualified, over someone who works harder than anyone--”

“Tim--” He held up his hand.

“Sash, he needs to hear this. Someone needs to tell him the truth.”

“The, the truth?”

Yeah, Jon. The truth. She deserves so much better than this and now her choices are to settle or flat out leave and it’s your fault. All because you couldn’t resist the urge to interview behind her back!”

“That’s not what happened!” Even Jon could hear his whinging, voice high and desperate for one of them to believe him.

“Not from where we’re standing, mate.” Tim crossed his arms and sat back in his chair and when Jon looked to Sasha she merely shrugged. Martin just looked helpless, staring into his tea and avoiding eye contact all together.

“I, I. That’s not.” Repeating himself wouldn’t do anything to save him and he fought against the tears gathering on his lashes. “I’m s’sorry.”

“Anything else?”

No. There was nothing else.

Jon kept to himself, kept his head down, arriving before the rest of them and leaving long after they did. He didn’t want to see them. He’d made a right fool of himself enough for now, unsure if his fragile self esteem could withstand another blow. Really, he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen and there was no way to explain how Elias had maneuvered him so skillfully into this position. Was he trying to drive a wedge between them? Knowing Jon would invite his two closest friends to accompany him? A knock on the door made him jump, reminding him for a moment of a very different and more sinister one from his childhood.

“Jon?” Martin, no doubt with another overture of friendship he was loath to accept. It was easier to remain alone rather than face the hurt of another rejection so soon.

“What do you need?” Caught off guard by his sore throat, he coughed roughly into his elbow, accepting the tea to soothe it with a nod of thanks.

“That doesn’t sound good.” It wasn’t. Now that he wasn’t burying himself shoulders deep in work and self flagellation he was aware of aching muscles and oppressive fatigue, a throbbing at the base of his skull that made him stomach sick.

“It’s nothing. I neglected to drink any water today.” It was true, he realized and Martin didn’t look convinced but Jon didn’t want to go into how miserable he’d been feeling lately. Tired and wrung out trying to avoid them all and figure this out and not have a melt down all at the same time.

“You should take better care of yourself.” Gentle and kind and Jon bristled with it, flustered with the concern.

“I’ll take that under advisement.” He turned away, staring at the messy surface of his blotter to avoid anymore interaction. “I have work to do.” Martin shifted, an expression Jon couldn’t parse on his face when he glanced up at the silence. “So…?”

“Oh! Yes, I’ll be going then.” Another awkward beat passed between the two of them.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Despite feeling particularly woozy it had been a good day.

Elias nodded to him when they passed each other on the way to lunch.

He pointed out a particularly competent piece of research.

Praised how well he was handling the job lately.

It was a shame it was at the cost of his sanity. Jon was falling apart at his poorly sewn seams, every moment another snapped suture and he was pinning himself back together with clothes pegs in a windstorm. Even he knew this wasn’t sustainable. He was going to burn out like a match overextending himself like this. But avoiding his assistants meant he wasn’t able to ask them for help. He’d made his bed. He just wished he could lay in it.

Maybe Elias would approve of Jon taking the rest of the day. He’d stayed late all week. Caught up with work and even plowed ahead a little bit. So when Jon caught him in the hall he tentatively asked.

"Y'you see, I. I've been a bit under the weather and I thought since I'm ahead--"

“Jonathan,” the disappointment in the way he said his name struck Jon like a bolt of lightning and he couldn’t stop the way his face fell. “You’ve barely begun.” Oh lord, he’d read this wrong. So very wrong. “Do you truly think it’s appropriate to ask for time off so early in your tenure?”

"No, of course not. I just meant, I just thought--"

"I find that difficult to believe.” He didn’t bother hiding his contempt. “If there's nothing else?" Jon shook his head, not trusting himself to speak lest he burst into hysterics right here. Elias left him where he stood and Jon took a few moments to compose himself before turning back the way he came only to nearly run into Martin.

"I didn't mean to listen!" He held up his hands in supplication or surrender. "I swear I didn't, Jon."

"S'fine." There wasn't enough left of him to care and when he made to step around the other man found himself stopped by a careful touch at his bicep.

“Wait, um. Please. Does he, does he always speak to you that way?” Jon eyed Martin warily. He was the only one of his assistants he didn’t really know. Why would he care?

“Only when I’ve made a mistake.” When I deserve it. When I’ve failed to figure out what he wants from me and done something wrong.

“It didn’t seem very professional.” Shame ran red-hot through his veins--what did he know?

“I assure you, I was. I was out of line.” Jon didn’t want to be here having this conversation with Martin of all people. He wanted to retreat to the relative safety of his office where he could sit in the dark and continue underperforming at his job.

“Jon, you’re not well.” Martin sounded upset with him and somehow it hurt worse than it did with Elias. At least Elias knew him. Martin by all accounts was a stranger. “You should be at home.”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand.” Jon tore his trembling hands through already bedraggled and greasy hair. He was disgusting. Unprofessional. Sweating through his clothes and unable to focus long enough to make it through even one statement.

"What don't I understand?" Jon's expression turned hard.

"Forgive me if I don't wish to count the ways in which I've failed at my job for you."

"Jon I--"

"Leave it, Martin." And he stalked off in none to straight a line, leaving Martin to gawk at his back.

Jon collapsed against his desk, the old pine creaking under even his small weight, before clawing his way across it to the chair and barely grabbing the bin in time to be sick. With nothing to lose he laid over it, stomach convulsing painfully as he fought to win back tentative control and only putting it back when his own panting became too loud in his head. Jon allowed himself a cry, forehead pillowed on folded arms where he slumped, muffling the pathetic sounds that slipped past him with his teeth; biting his wrist where his cuff would keep the mark hidden.

Tim's unceremonious arrival surprised him and Jon yelped, reflexively running a sleeve over his face to erase the evidence even though he knew it wouldn’t make much difference.

"Martin told us."

"Tol'tol'you what?" Real fear rooted him where he sat, raising the hairs on his arms and sending a thrill up his spine. What did they know? What had he said? Did he tell them about Elias reprimanding him? Proof of his incompetence? Were they here to yell at him again?

"How Elias has been treating you."

"Jon. You do realize it's him being unprofessional."

“You can’t let him treat you that way.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We would have helped you.”

Like a volley of canon fire each fast phrase pounded against his crumbling defenses and left him reeling with contradicting information.

“You should have said something earlier.” He tried. He just hadn’t tried hard enough and he didn’t know what made the words tumble out of his mouth now but he couldn’t stop himself from blurting:

“I tried!” And he'd known better than to try again and risk another telling off. He was shaking and sick. He didn’t want to be here anymore, wanted to go home. “But I d’did this to myself, didn’t I? That's why you l'let me hear the t't'ruth.”

“No, I was. No, Jon--” He plowed on, overwrought and interrupting Tim, words spilling out of him too fast to be taken back.

“I thought we. W’we were friends. I thought I could come to you when th’things aren’t g’good. Like before, like in research.” Jon scrubbed at his face. “But you just. You hate me. And I know it's my fault. I know I'm not, not fit for this position and I know it's ungrateful of me but I don't want to be here. I’m so tired. I don’t. I don’t feel well. And I’m not allowed to leave.”

“What do you mean?” Tim was a hell of a lot closer than he had been, kneeling on the floor and holding Jon's hands to keep him from scratching himself to ribbons.

“I’ve been telling you.” It came out as a pitiful sob, squeaking past a throat tight from holding back the sea.

“Okay, okay. Just tell us again.” Jon closed aching eyes, hot tears falling over hot cheeks, breath panting and strained in his twisted up chest all tied up and tangled with twine.

“I can’t s’skive off. Elias said.” Like a touchstone a pair of soft hands guided him back in the chair.

“He’s burning up.”

“Doesn’matter.”

“Of course it matters, Jon.” Sasha’s voice came from far away, through a tunnel, wending its way to his stopped up ears through syrup. His next thought slipped away, dissolving in the heat swallowing him up from top to toes. Breathing became harder, impossible, lungs full of caking cement smothering choking snuffing him out like a candle flame.

“Jon?”

“Jon!”

Devoured and spit out again, again again

writhing,

drifting on an outgoing tide of misery and affliction,

waves of agony break over him and suck him under and roll him along the mud bottom of a polluted river and every gasp he snatches at the surface is less and less and less

Clicking, beeping, the chirping of a million birds in a thousand trees and each one wants his attention tick tick ticking away like the blood red hand of a watch and awareness trickles in like hot black tar against the surface of his eyelids.

Fluorescent lights carve their way in between heavy lashes and Jon recognizes the broken sound of denial as his own. A noise, a voice? in the room and the blinding glow receded enough to think about figuring out where he was. He coughed, mouth a desert, and welcomed a spoonful of ice chips blissful and cool against the heat seeping through his veins, his arteries, his skin.

“Jon?” He recognized the sound, the person, the thumb tracing circles over the back of his hand. “Hey, there he is. Welcome back, bud.”

“T’Tim…waz…?” Fairy floss crowded out any thoughts and Jon spent the next seconds trying to come up with more words and failing.

“Do you remember what happened?” Martin took up space next, then Sasha, crowded around him and no, he didn’t. Was barely able to catalogue his body; the deep seated ache, a prickly itch in the corner of his elbow.

“Hos’ital?” Tim nodded, offering up another spoonful and Jon let them melt over his tongue. Lord, he was tired, prying open eyes he didn’t remember closing.

“S’okay, buddy.” He was being so kind. Like he used to be in Research and the last thing he felt before it all faded away were twin sweeps of familiar fingers wiping away tears.

All three assistants were still there the next time he woke though Jon had no idea of how much time had passed. He wasn’t as confused, actually aware of his surroundings and he scratched absentmindedly at the IV taped to his skin. The thin gown didn’t have sleeves long enough to hide the lines left behind by his nails. He didn’t remember clawing himself up like that.

“How do you feel?” Martin looked relieved, tired.

“Uh. Fine, fine.” He plucked at the stiff blanket, avoiding their eyes. “What. I’m s’sorry. I can’t seem to--what happened?”

“You’ve been sick, Jon.” Tim plunked himself down in a terrible plastic chair. “Bad stomach flu, dehydration. You’ve been here for days.” There was a hard edge to his voice and Jon suppressed a flinch.

“S’sorry.” Sasha sat down at his other side, taking up a hand, and Martin offered him a smile.

“Jon, please don’t be.” She looked tired too, drawn and pale. “Tim and I are the ones apologizing.” Jon shook his head, staring at his lap and withdrawing his hand to worry at his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have--”

“What?” Tim cut him off. “Asked for help?” Jon nodded, earnest, glad they were all on the same page.

“Yes! You’re understandably angry with me. I didn’t respect that.”

“Can you hear how ridiculous you sound?” Tim wasn’t shouting but it was a close thing. “We froze you out! Left you alone! Accused you of lying about how Elias was treating you--Jon. Being upset about a stupid promotion doesn’t warrant how we treated you. You know that, right?”

“I don’t. I don’t know?” Sasha hushed Tim before he could start up again.

“It doesn’t. And when you became ill we blamed you for that too, for not telling us after we gave you no reason to trust that we would help and it wasn’t right.” Gently, she embraced him and he couldn’t stop himself from collapsing into her and while she wasn’t always one for physical displays of affection, she pressed him closer. “We’re going to do better.”

“We’re in this together, boss, like we should have been from the beginning. From this minute on.” Tim clasped him on the shoulder. “Okay?” Jon, exhausted and confused and hopeful, looked up at Martin when he nodded too.

“Okay.”

#TMA #The magnus archives #Jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #elias bouchard #hostile work environment #hospital #overwork #stop being mean to jon :<#sick jon

68 notes · View notes

michals · 3 years ago

Text

That post reminded me I never actually posted this and it's one of those ‘kind of embarrassing I spent so much time on it but I’m posting it because I spent so much damn time on it’ things.

Klaus and Luther similarities/parallels

So the show doesn’t give us a ton of Luther and Klaus interaction but I think just them being the characters they are they’re really similar and have interesting parallels.

Of all the siblings I think it’s actually Luther and Klaus who are the most diametrically opposed in terms of their place in the Academy and their childhood. Obviously there’s the dynamic between Reggie explicitly calling Luther his favorite and Klaus his biggest disappointment, both of them had high expectations thrust upon them and one excelled and the other failed. But then again Luther was set up to excel and Klaus to fail. For all that Reggie wanted from Klaus he went about it in entirely the wrong way which only hurt Klaus’s abilities, and comparatively Luther’s powers are very straight forward so his training had to be mental in that he became exactly what Reggie wanted him to be.

Basically: Reggie’s abuse had opposite effects on them. Luther was brainwashed and isolated, Klaus was discarded and left to fend for himself. Luther loves/trusts his dad, Klaus hates him. Luther thinks they have a purpose and what they did was worthwhile, Klaus thinks it was all a big joke and meant nothing beyond Reggie’s little experiment. Luther’s at one end of the spectrum, Klaus the other, and everyone else falls somewhere in between.

How they show the effects of their abuse however, is actually more in sync. Klaus has a habit of either ignoring or talking around problems, acting like they’re not problems, or being flippant about them. Klaus acknowledges Reggie’s abuse but it’s usually in a jokey, casual manner, he usually moves on from talking about it quickly without getting too deep. He knows Reggie did a number on them but confronting it head on is difficult. And this is from a character who’s been in multiple rehab centers that obviously include some kind of therapy sessions.

Luther of course outright denies it until he’s faced with it in the worst way, and even then he can’t really get his head around it. One of the first things he did when landing in the 60s was to go to Reggie and expect him to welcome him, even though he doesn’t even know him. And then for all his talk in s2 about having moved on it reads like lip service, it sounds like he knows that’s what he should say, what he should feel, but it’s not entirely working. It’s like he’s just trying to dismiss it to the point where he will literally run away from the conversation. I still think the moment of him telling Sparrowverse Reggie that he’s happy they’re all home and together is a huge sign that he still thinks of Reggie as his dad no matter what.

Klaus and Luther either don’t know how to talk about their trauma or aren’t willing to. Whether it’s that Luther still doesn’t want to face up to it completely or that perhaps he does have the littlest bit of hope that actually Reggie did care and there was/is a chance he might care yet, or with Klaus trying to put the trauma on the backburner so he doesn’t have to relive it or process it in a way that means he won’t be able to drink it away or perhaps be forced to confront the powers that have caused him so much pain.

I also think they are genuinely sensitive. Not in the same way the others are, but empathetic and gentle in ways they never got to explore as children. I think that emotional wounds go much deeper than they let on. They’re always on the cusp of reaching out but not only do they not like dealing with their problems, they were taught not to. If given the chance they’d probably be happy to play support for the others but that wasn’t Reggie’s goal. I can easily imagine Luther as the kind of leader who takes everyone’s plans and thoughts into account and makes sense of it from there, who’s better at dictating than just demanding. And I imagine Klaus would probably be capable of understanding and connecting to his ghosts in a way that helps both him and them if he had been given different training.

Next is how both of them have poor self esteem and what comes across as a passive view of self preservation. Klaus has a very conflicted view of his place within the Academy. Apparently he was regulated to being the ‘look out’ often and wasn’t as active as the others. Obviously this is because of his complicated relationship with his powers and how Reggie treated him within the group dynamic. If he didn’t think Klaus was important (because he wasn’t doing what he was supposed to) then he wasn’t important. Now, having embraced his place as the black sheep of the family, Klaus still doesn’t know where he fits in and often comes across as “useless” (in quotes cause obvs that’s not the whole story, just a simplification).

Just in general he sees himself as an outsider. For all that he’s flippant and casually cocky he’s not actually all that confident in what he’s capable of to the point of not even trying sometimes because he’s convinced he’ll fail. It’s a smokescreen. It goes hand in hand with him not confronting his feelings or trauma, easier to play like he’s confident than to deal with it.

Luther’s self esteem came entirely from his place in the Academy and his father’s opinion and what Reggie made him. Even then his confidence gets shaken all the time when someone doesn’t listen to him or when they argue with him. He too tries to cover this up, Klaus is glib Luther is bossy. Then there’s the whole gorilla body thing, which he is very obviously mortified by. (Side note: interesting contrast in Klaus being usually the least physically covered up sibling and Luther being the most.) He’s wildly ashamed and embarrassed by his appearance. (There’s a whole other point I could make about how Luther only willingly shows his body when he’s being exploited and pummeled – or high – but that’s another post.)

Then Luther’s whole foundation crumbles with the discovery of Reggie’s true nature. He doesn’t have much left after that and then he’s dropped into a foreign world with no one and no way of coping and then Reggie once again lets him down. What’s he do? Gets into a situation that mirrors his relationship with Reggie, lets himself be taken advantage of, does what he’s told to the point of physical harm - because he knows nothing else and the bet is he doesn’t think he deserves better. Then he spends all of season 2 saying that he messed up, he’s not a hero, he’s not a leader and that he has no place thinking highly of himself. Guy straight up doesn’t have any self esteem at this point.

(Klaus also doesn't see himself as a hero even though he was on a literal superhero team.)

And in terms of their sense of self preservation: Klaus obviously has very little regard for his own health and wellbeing. Even if he doesn’t throw himself in front of bullets he’s still drinking and doing drugs to an extreme degree, to the point where they’ve actually killed him. He knows it’s bad for him, he knows it’s dangerous but he doesn’t care. Even with Ben in his ear he continues. When he dies in s1 he’s relieved.

Speaking of throwing one’s self in front of a bullet: Luther does this 3 times that we see. This comes obviously from his protectiveness as a leader but there’s an undercurrent of other people surviving being more important than him getting hurt. And when Five comes to him to say the world’s ending again Luther says he doesn’t give a shit. The Luther from s1 was all about saving the day, s2 Luther is shrugging and saying ‘yeah well, so what?’ and when he does start to care it’s mostly because he’s looking out for Five.

(Sidenote: I realize that my headcanon that Luther is becoming an alcoholic and has an unhealthy relationship with drugs is probably me reading into things but were the show to go in that direction: that they both would find comfort or an escape through substances would be another thing to tie them together and explore how their traumas affected them and what they do to deal with/avoid dealing with them. They’ve become pessimistic about the prospect of answers or catharsis so they look for escape instead.)

(Also also pointing out that the two times Luther was the most candid about his trauma was when he was drunk/high and one of those times was with Klaus – who for the first time in probably a long time, or ever, got to be the shoulder someone cried on. And what a great thematic idea that it’d be the two of them that’d be the most honest and open with each other eventually.)

Bonus item: Luther and Klaus have both died outside of their apocalypse related deaths (pretty sure Allison never actually died in s1 but was close) and in ways that none of the others were there for. Neither of them have talked about it. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to seem weaker than they already are, maybe it’s more of that ‘let’s not talk about trauma, let’s just get drunk’ mentality, or maybe it’s because they don’t think anyone would care. None of the others have really talked to Luther about the accident or the aftermath, none of them have approached Klaus’s addictions as an actual problem. Whatever reason why it would probably do them a world of good to find out they have that in common in the same way it would be good for Luther and Five to talk about their isolation.

They really seem like they should be very different characters in all respects and they really are in a lot of ways but there’s also this laundry list of ways they mirror each other or are similar and I hope the show takes advantage of that.

#tua #tua meta #luther hargreeves #klaus hargreeves

51 notes · View notes

kae-karo · 3 years ago

Note

Kaeya and/or Diluc with the banter prompt "don't tempt me" or "you didn't answer my question"

thank u eternally dear anon for giving me the always-appreciated opportunity to write some kaeluc >:} (send me one of these prompts and a genshin character!)

make me melt again - T - 2k

tags: stranded on a desert island, no i haven’t done the event stuff yet, idk if we even get to that part by the time i post this, but i was inspired, kaeluc reconciliation, canon divergence

[read on ao3]

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one? You’ve asked an incessant number of them over the past-” Diluc cuts his words off there. Past how long? The sun has set, of course, so he can be relatively certain that some hours have passed, but the exact number is as yet undeterminable.

And Kaeya is doing his best to make it feel eons longer.

“Have you even been paying attention?” Kaeya chides, coughs out a laugh. How he’s finding this amusing, Diluc isn’t entirely certain. This is very far from enjoyable, though he supposes it isn’t the worst situation he’s ever ended up in.

“I tend to tune out when you speak,” Diluc says as he glances over the fire to where Kaeya watches him, brow quirked.

“Hardly an afternoon on a deserted island, and you’re already rather feisty,” Kaeya says with a laugh. “How long until you raise a sword against me again?”

It’s the again that does it, that snaps Diluc’s neutral, unbothered composure. His jaw tics with irritation - of all the people to end up stuck on an island with, it had to be Kaeya, didn’t it? The one person among an entire world who happens to be particularly adept at pushing his buttons.

“You’re welcome to reminisce to your heart’s content,” he grits out, “but I have little interest in rehashing the past.” There is a reason he put all of that behind him, sequestered all his hurt behind an iron wall and locked it away. He does not need it rearing its ugly head now, when they’ve-

Perhaps not reconciled, but they are at an understanding of sorts. They are able to be in each others’ presence without causing problems, though he supposes such a tenuous alliance might crumble under the weight of hours spent on a deserted island.

With nobody to talk to but Kaeya, and nobody to intervene should things turn any less civil.

Not that Diluc will be the one to raise a hand against Kaeya. Never again - he has long passed that place, that dark well of heartache and betrayal. Teyvat moved on, and so Diluc moved on with it. He presumes that Kaeya has moved on as well.

“It was not a particularly pleasant evening,” Kaeya says, his words accented with the crack of a splitting log. Sparks fly up between them, and Diluc catches Kaeya’s eye. Immediately drops his gaze to the dark pit of the burning logs.

“I don’t care to reminisce over it either,” Kaeya adds once the fire has settled. His voice sounds...different. Quieter, less...gods, he can’t believe he’s dredging this word up in relation to Kaeya, but it’s less seductive. So very unlike Kaeya, or at least, the Kaeya that Diluc knows now.

He wasn’t always like that, so inclined to charm every person he meets. So flippant with his flirting that it sets Diluc’s nerves on edge just to be near him.

“We never really talked about it, did we?” Kaeya’s voice carries a hint of humor, and an outright invitation to talk about it now, in spite of his words just a moment ago. Diluc clenches his jaw, fights back the hundred-and-one questions that had burned in his chest after that night. It has taken a very long time to quiet them, and he does not particularly think that they bear any relevance now.

“What is there to discuss,” Diluc says, and means it rhetorically. Kaeya shifts, sticks a leg out and toes his boot off.

“A lot of things, I think.” His other boot joins the first a safe distance from the fire along with his socks, and Kaeya pulls his knees up and leans back on his hands as his toes dig into the sand. “You kissed me the night before that.”

Diluc’s gaze flicks to the side, to the ocean, and he stares hard at the soft flicker of the moon’s reflection on distant waves.

‘And what if I want to?’ Kaeya’d asked. What if he did want to kiss Diluc, then what?

‘Well...I wouldn’t stop you…’ The bravest Diluc could get, even with Kaeya. Far less terrifying to face a horde of hilichurls than to admit how desperately, in that moment, he’d wanted Kaeya to kiss him.

‘But you don’t want me to, do you?’ Bait, he knew it even then, but it didn’t stop him from riding that spark of defiance as far as it would take him. Far enough to lean into Kaeya, push him against the nearest wall and press his lips to Kaeya’s.

“So you do remember,” Kaeya says quietly - this Kaeya, in the present. On a deserted island across a dying fire from Diluc, after so very many years of careful avoidance.

“Of course I do.” How could he forget the rush of heat flooding his veins, the spark in his chest flaring to life at the taste of Kaeya’s lips? The desperate hands at his waist, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. His own hands searching, too, clinging to Kaeya like he’d dreamed about doing for ages.

No, he might bury it deep in his chest, but moments like those do not disappear entirely.

“But you think that’s not something we need to discuss, is that it?” Kaeya quips easily, and Diluc glances back to find his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, now, his scarf and cape discarded. He looks...lighter, this way. Unburdened, but not by the weight of his excessive accessorizing. More that he seems unburdened by the weight of the persona, the facade.

And out here, who would he have to pretend for? Diluc has certainly never believed the performance.

“I think it happened a very long time ago.” And…

And what? He hears it in his tone, the unfinished nature of his statement. And Diluc fears to even discuss that night, for the fact that it might dredge up feelings he has never quite managed to destroy? He can hardly say that to Kaeya, he’d never hear the end of it.

To Diluc’s surprise, though, Kaeya only hums. Stares into the distance beyond Diluc for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. How does he remember that night? Fondly?

“It must’ve been easy, then.” A pause, intentional, and Diluc refuses to rise to the bait. He waits, and Kaeya continues after another beat of silence. “To cast me out if you never truly felt anything for me.”

The meaning of his words processes slowly, leisurely, a perfect match for the faint breeze that twists through Kaeya’s hair, carries on to brush against Diluc’s cheeks. The soft moment splits in two at the sound of another cracking log, and Diluc grits his teeth.

“Is that what you believe?” His words come out on a harsh breath, low and quiet. Kaeya leans forward, wraps his arms around his knees.

“Is it not true?” Bait, Diluc’s mind supplies unhelpfully, but he will not let Kaeya sit here and tell him that it was easy, that Kaeya meant nothing to him.

That it did not break his heart when Kaeya told the truth of his past.

“It is not,” Diluc says shortly, and he dares to level a stare at Kaeya. Kaeya meets his gaze in turn, and by all accounts, it should be flippant. Should be easy and light, and Kaeya should scoff and dismiss Diluc’s words.

The stare he gives is not any of those things, though. Kaeya watches intensely, with sharp focus and tensed muscles, and Diluc is not entirely prepared to handle the sudden weight of his gaze.

A subtle, faint smile flickers to the edge of Kaeya’s lips, a daring thing for how rigid he looks right now.

“Tell me it hurt,” he says then, quiet. Voice laced with a years-old ache that Diluc feels in his chest, and he’s seventeen again - eighteen, almost, just about. Tomorrow. But right now, he and Kaeya find a hidden alcove in the back of the library, and Kaeya kisses him until he can’t catch his breath.

“It hurt.” The words hurt, too, but he says them. Speaks them to the fire and knows that they pass through the flames to reach Kaeya.

“Did you regret it?” Cautious, probing. Diluc blows out a breath.

“For a very long time, I did not.” His gaze flicks up, just enough to meet Kaeya’s for a brief moment before he turns toward the ocean again. “I feel...differently now.”

The closest he can bear to admitting that he lost not one, but two irreplaceable people in his life that night. And that one loss was entirely his own fault, even if he’s learned to forgive himself for his father’s death.

“Time changes things,” Kaeya agrees, and Diluc watches from the corner of his eye as Kaeya shifts, climbs to his feet. “Care to see if it’s changed anything else?”

Diluc’s heart catches up to the words a moment too late, then redoubles its efforts at the idea of what Kaeya could be implying. He swallows, inhales dying fire smoke and grasps within his mind for anything to steady him.

A hand appears before him, then, the lifeline doomed to drag him under, and Diluc’s gaze drifts up to find Kaeya standing over him, a gentle smile on his lips. Not teasing, not put-upon or overly seductive.

Just Kaeya.

And oh, Diluc’s heart aches, begs him to reach out and take Kaeya’s hand.

“There’s nobody here,” Kaeya says softly. “Just us.”

Diluc lets his gaze fall again, back to Kaeya’s outstretched hand. He shifts carefully, lets his heart guide his hand to take Kaeya’s. And oh, the way his heart races when Kaeya’s smile widens.

He pulls Diluc to his feet, then huffs out an amused breath that puts Diluc immediately on guard.

“Are you not sweltering?” Kaeya’s free hand tugs gently at the lapel of his jacket, though, and Diluc’s brows furrow.

“Trying to undress me?” he asks, entirely deadpan, but it pulls such a sweet laugh from Kaeya’s lips that Diluc has to fight a grin of his own.

“I’m trying to prevent heatstroke, but don’t tempt me.” An amused warning, and Diluc sucks in a sharp breath at the hand that skates across his chest, the thumb that hooks around the inside of his jacket. “May I?”

Diluc holds his breath, finds it impossible to do anything but nod.

He will admit - though not to Kaeya - that he’s grateful for the cool night breeze that his jacket had kept at bay. Kaeya sets it alongside his own discarded accessories, then glances down at Diluc’s feet.

“Fine,” Diluc grumbles as he sets about removing his boots as well. At this rate, Kaeya won’t be satisfied til he’s-

A flush crawls up Diluc’s cheeks, and he rushes to discard his boots and socks alongside Kaeya’s. And, to his relief, Kaeya seems to find Diluc’s state of partial undress satisfactory. Again, he extends a hand, and Diluc does not hesitate to take it this time.

He leads Diluc across the sand, vaguely in the direction of the water, and Diluc takes a moment to- to miss this. The comfort of Kaeya’s presence, when it’s so often been little more than an irritation. He lets his steps waver closer to Kaeya, until they walk with their shoulders brushing. Kaeya does not pull away.

The water is cold when they reach it - or, rather, when it reaches them. It curls its way up the shore to meet them, and Kaeya draws to a stop as it swallows his feet for a moment. Diluc turns to watch him, to watch the sea breeze whip at his hair and pull it back from his face.

His eye remains closed for a long moment, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and his hand tightens in Diluc’s in the short second before he opens his eye again, catches Diluc staring. His smile widens.

“What do you think, Luc?” Diluc’s heart stops beating for a breath. “Has anything changed?”

He steps closer, hears his blood rushing in time with the waves, and lifts his hand to Kaeya’s cheek. Thinks that he missed this, that he did not expect to ever have it again. To ever want it again, but here it is. Here he is, and here Kaeya is.

And once again, he does not answer Kaeya’s question. Just leans in, lets his lips brush Kaeya’s, and melts into the feeling of Kaeya pressed against him.

No, he might’ve said. Everything has changed, but not this. Never this.

#genshin #genshin impact #kaeluc #luckae #kaeya #diluc #genshin fic #prompts

35 notes · View notes

falseroar · 3 years ago

Text

Treasure Hunt

((Dark goes digging for old memories, with some “help.” Nothing serious and not related to anything, just something short I wrote on my phone while my computer was out of service to keep up with my daily word count goal. I was going to post this yesterday, but, eh...*gestures vaguely at all that nonsense*))

“Are you going to bury a body?”

Dark stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder at Wilford, the movement putting the shovel’s blade on his other shoulder perilously close to his cheek. “No, I am not. Unlike you, I don’t have a ready supply of those to hand.”

“What, you mean Jerry? Eh, he’s fine, he’ll walk it off,” Wilford said with a flippant wave of his hand. While it was true that his latest victim had survived, Dark silently thought he would not be walking off a bullet to the knee anytime soon. “So, what are you doing? Ooh, is it a treasure hunt? I can grab that new guy with the hat, turn it into a real bonding moment between the three of us, and we can let him walk in front in case there are any traps! Fantastic, I’ll go grab him right now!”

“No, Wilford, it’s not a treasure hunt.” Not in the strictest sense of the word, but his tone was at least enough to stop Wilford before he could go running off. “I’m just...It’s past time I checked on something. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why would I worry?” Wilford asked, falling into step behind Dark. He tapped his fingers against his mustache and remarked, “Not really sure I can remember the last time I worried about anything. Everything always just sort of works itself out in the end, you know?”

“I know,” Dark said, while he thought, “I know you think that’s how it works.”

But he just said, “I’ll be back later tonight.”

With that, Dark stepped out of the front door of the house and disappeared into the shadow that surrounded him, an ear-piercing ring growing and then immediately stopping the moment the shadow faded from sight. Wilford blinked and then shrugged, muttering to himself about making his own treasure hunt.

When Dark stepped out of the shadows, it was to find himself standing in the bright light of an early summer day, the sun adding some of the color back to his faded skin as he studied the remains of the manor in front of him for a moment.

He had no intention of going inside, of course, not today. No, his path took him around the perimeter of the overgrown yard, past hedges that had extended out to do battle with the lemon grass and the flowers that had escaped their beds in a bid to spread far and wide, the unmanaged plants all doing battle to gain supremacy over the neglected lawns. He had to pause multiple times and study the distance from the house, comparing the windows to the tree lines and the cracked and faded giant chessboard until he finally found the statue, its surface stained and worn until the face was practically a blank slate, one of its spread wings broken at the tip.

It looked smaller than he remembered too, but then a lot of things did.

Dark circled the statue once, taking in what time and weather had done to it, before he turned his back on it and began counting under his breath in time with each step.

“9...10.”

Dark stopped at a patch of grass and weeds no different than any other in the immediate area and raised the shovel he had borrowed from the shed the Author once used so regularly.

“You’re standing in the wrong spot.”

Dark stumbled, his attempt to stop the shovel mid-swing causing him to lose his balance. He swore under his breath and glared at Mark, wondering when he got here. “What would you know about it?”

“Only that a kid’s step doesn’t go as far as an adult’s.” Mark, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that better matched the weather than Dark’s ever present suit, strolled over to the statue and stopped at the same place Dark started his counting to look up at its face. “Hello, baby.”

“I thought you hated statues.”

“Oh, I do. If that thing goes weeping angel on us, I will absolutely leave you here to die.” Mark grinned. “I didn’t think you’d remember, but considering where you’re standing, I guess you didn’t. Watch this, each step was more like...”

Mark looked down, carefully counting out each step that he shortened to the point that when he reached 10, he was barely halfway to where Dark stood. “See what I mean?”

“What I see is someone who doesn’t remember insisting on taking giant steps,” Dark said, resting the blade of the shovel against the ground as he leaned on the handle. “You practically skipped from there to here.”

“I have never skipped! And I can prove it, because unlike someone, I actually came prepared. Tactical shovel, which is clearly superior to a regular shovel—“

“Putting a knife on it doesn’t make everything better.”

“Says you. And a metal detector,” Mark continued, showing off both instruments that he’d been carrying. “Watch and learn.”

Mark flipped the switch on the detector and paused, before flipping it again when there was no response.

“Did you actually put batteries in it?”

“Of course I put batteries in it!” Mark glared at Dark’s smirk and opened the battery compartment. There was just a brief pause before he continued, “Give me a minute.”

By the time Mark came back with a working metal detector, Dark had already removed his jacket and hung it on one of the angel’s outstretched arms, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows as he dug.

“It’s the wrong place, I’m telling you,” Mark warned as he began to run the metal detector over the ground, but Dark ignored him and continued to dig.

Mark started at the statue and began to walk out, the crackle of the detector leading him past where he stopped and all the way to where Dark stood, a smug smirk on his face as the beeping grew louder and louder until it reached the hole he had already started.

“Well, are you going to start digging or not?” Dark asked.

Only because the hole wasn’t deep enough to push him into it yet, or at least that was Mark’s irritated thought as he tossed the metal detector aside and picked up his tactical shovel.

They tried to pass the time in silence, but before long it turned to bickering about who was doing more work and if “you spilled dirt on my side of the hole” and if there even was a “my side” when they were digging in the same place, but eventually Mark’s shovel hit metal. Both men looked at each other and then back down again as Mark hit it again with a loud clang that...didn’t actually sound right, now that they thought about it.

Dark knelt, careful not to let his knees actually touch the ground, and brushed the loose dirt away as Mark bent down next to him, both having just enough time to realize the rusted metal was that of a pipe before it broke open, unleashing a brief but sour spray of stagnant water into both of their faces.

After that, they found a different yet suspiciously similar statue on the other side of the yard, and a pink-mustached man waiting for them, standing on the plinth with his arm wrapped around the statue’s shoulder like they were an old friend, beaming when he noticed them.

“Well, there you two are! I was starting to wonder, you know.”

“Wait, you knew where I was going?” Dark asked. “Then why did you pretend not to know?”

“Know what?” Wilford gave the statue a peck on the cheek and leapt down onto the grass beside them. “Well, are you two just going to stand around here, or are we going to open this thing?”

He held out a dirty, banged-up tin case, the rust on its hinges doing more to keep it shut than the cheap lock used all those years ago.

Mark looked down and around, noting the lack of holes or any sign of a shovel or other digging instrument as he asked, “How did you get that?”

Wilford stared at him, mildly puzzled as he asked, “What, like it was hard?”

Mark’s tactical shovel dealt with the lock easily, and also left a gash in the side of the box that earned him a glare from Dark that he tried to ignore as he forced open the box to reveal its contents: a set of envelopes, childish handwriting addressing each to Mark, Damien, and William, a tiny metal soldier that Wilford picked up with a smile along with a few other old-fashioned toys, and a faded photograph that Mark lifted out gently, as though afraid it might fall apart in his hands.

Dark looked over his shoulder at the three boys posed for the camera, laughing with their arms thrown around each other. He felt a stir in his chest, a brief flicker of something that faded into a sad nostalgia.

He wondered if Mark thought the same thing, about how none of those three boys were still here, not really. Not after everything they had gone through, after what they had done and attempted to atone for, whatever that might be worth now. Dark had no illusions about what little Damien might think of him, the dark figure of noise and ringing and strange shadows that followed his every movement. Did Mark feel the same way? And what of Wilford, did he even recognize the three young faces smiling back at them?

Dark glanced at him and found Wilford smiling as he pulled an old compass that, surprisingly, still turned in his hand alongside a crinkly map drawn in what looked suspiciously like crayon. There was a twinkle in Wilford’s eye as he asked, “Do you two know where this leads?”

Mark looked at the map and frowned, while Dark shook his head and admitted, “I don’t recall making a map.”

“Well then, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

Wilford jumped to his feet, nearly knocking the time capsule out of Mark’s hands as he pulled the two of them up with him. “Who’s ready for round two of this treasure hunt?”

Mark closed the box and tucked it under his arm, then hefted his shovel with a look at Dark that he actually could understand.

“We did come all the way for this, might as well see what else is here, right?”

Dark sighed, feigning indifference as he said, “Well, I didn’t have anything else planned today...”

“Fantastic!” Wilford grinned and spread out the map so they could look. With any luck, neither of them would notice the crayons stashed in his back pocket, or how the map they were studying didn’t look quite as old as it should have.

#markiplier #fanfiction #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #actor mark #time capsule #queued post #that hopefully will post when mark's not here

44 notes · View notes

hoodoo12 · 4 years ago

Text

Elegy (4/6)

These two’ll be the death of me, @clairjohnson . . . Home again, home again, jiggity jig, even if that home is a tomb. Despite drunkenness, something unexpected occurs.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

@turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beejiesbitch @janitor-boy @angelicspaceprince @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice `

If she hadn’t been so focused on keeping him upright his words would have knocked her down. Maria had heard this man flirt a hundred times over, but nothing ever so flattering and eloquent. The most beautiful. Her stomach twisted at the compliment. Both unbelievably flattered and heartbroken all at once. Had he always thought this? Or had he really just gone overboard with the drinks tonight?

She was about to respond, to express how completely touched she was by his words, when he started to talk again. Beej’s announcement of their arrival, and subsequent stumble, snapped her out of her thoughts. When had they gotten here? She hadn’t even realized they’d gone through a door.

Didn’t matter. The Netherworld was a strange place, Betelgeuse was strange, it was easier just to accept things as they were. What was harder to accept, however, was his home. It was practically barren, save for a bed, table, and wooden chair. The only light in the room came from a few scattered candles that revealed debris strewn across his old wooden floor.

It looked like a crypt. It might be a crypt.

“This is where you stay?” she asked, unable to hide the shock in her voice. Her place was hardly a palace, but it was clean. Bright. She couldn’t imagine ever spending a night here. Let alone however many hundreds of years he’d been dead. The mere concept made her chest tighten in pity.

“Let’s get you over to the bed . . .”

"Gives me incentive to get top side," he muttered half under his breath at her blurted question. "Who cares anyway? I close my eyes and it's gone. I don't see it. No one else does either."

She hadn't taken her arm from around his waist. With her continued assistance, he shuffled over towards his bed. The distance wasn't far, but as if to help bolster the fact his place was more fleabag hotel than the Ritz-Carlton, his foot caught a stack of Handbooks for the Recently Deceased--how did those get there? It couldn't be that he'd stolen them from recently deceased in order to con them--

--and he stumbled. The four walls around them did a looping dance. Automatically his grip over her shoulders tightened even as his other hand went for the rusty iron foot rail on his bed. He managed to remain upright, but had jerked her along with him.

As he recaught his balance, the room settled back into place.

She'd been close while walking with him, but there'd still been a detachment. He'd managed to scatter that with his ham-fisted, foolish misstep; Maria had been pulled right to him.

With a jerky, unnatural movement, he lifted his arm off her.

"Sorry," he apologized.

Top side. She and others, including Juno, had wondered for decades how he’d manage to find ways to the world of the living. There were rules. Passes you needed to apply for - but he, in normal Betelgeuse fashion, skirted by it all.

She was about to snap back at his flippant comment when he tripped over what appeared to be a pile of handbooks. Maria reminded herself to inquire on those later. Thankfully Beej caught himself on the bed, saving them both from falling face first on the wood floor. In his effort to stay balanced the arm around her shoulder moved forward, effectively pulling her into his chest. One arm still wrapped around his waist, the other now flat on his chest, she peered up at him with embarrassment. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was sturdy, and she felt unusually small pressed against him.

When he detached himself with a slurred apology Maria took in a shaky breath she didn’t need then helped him sit down on the bed. God, he looked so disheveled - more so than usual. His eyes were heavy, shoulders slumped, and his tie was loosened and askew around his neck.

Without waiting for permission Maria slipped the loose tie up and over his head and hung it gently on the foot rail. Turning back she hesitated, just for a second, before helping him slip his jacket off. She ran her hands over his shoulders and under the jacket, sliding it down his arms. The beauty queen reached around him, leaning in close, and retrieved the jacket and reunited it with his tie.

“From what I can see of your bed I doubt you take these off when you sleep.” She crouched down and angled his large black boots for him to see. “However, I can’t bring myself to see you place these nasty things on the mattress.”

Some quick finger work on the laces and a few short tugs had both boots off. She placed them neatly at the foot of his bed. Maria brushed some questionable dirt off her hands and returned to the older man, giving him a satisfied once over. Gently, she pressed on his shoulder for him to lay down.

“Get some rest, Alborotador. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around again soon.”

He felt loose, like his joints had been separated. Maria's gentle guidance around the end of his bed to the side and helping him sit was appreciated, but that was nothing compared to her carefully removing his tie. At some point it'd become loosened, or even in his inebriated state he'd have slapped her hands away. Nobody touched his neck, that was a rule. But she was quick and efficient and the fabric never touched his skin. That would've been enough, but then, but then--

She assisted him out of his jacket. Any other time he'd have made some off-color comment or pushed the flirting so hard it would have bordered on desperate. But muddled by the booze and still feeling the deep ache of rejection from those people in goddamned Connecticut, just to have her be attentive, just to have her hands peel him out of his outerwear--

A small sigh slipped past his lips. If she heard it, she ignored it.

Then she didn't leave well enough alone; she actually crouched in front of him in her cocktail dress and heels--everything about her was in stark contrast to the rat's nest he lived in, and he included himself in that melancholy assessment; he should have never brought her here--and worked the laces of his boots loose and pulled them off his feet.

The care and concern pained him. The simple act of touch took him apart.

When she took his shoulder he almost moaned. Like a man dying of thirst in a desert, he wanted nothing more than to drink in that simple friendly touch.

It took all his will power to not grab her hand. Not for anything inappropriate, but just to keep it there, so he could soak it in. Instead, he sat dumb and dull as she straightened her skirt and bid him farewell.

"Why does everyone keep leaving me?" he whispered. There had been a time very recently he'd bellowed that, but here, all he could expend the effort on was something closer to a whimper.

Maria had started to make her way out of the room when he spoke, the sound of his broken voice pulling at her more than the words themselves. Not that the words didn't catch her attention, and in many ways, hurt her. He was drunk, she reminded herself, and sad. She could stay with him a little longer - just until he was unconscious, she already crossed a line by being here, and basically sprinted past said line when she helped him undress.

"I'm not leaving you," Maria corrected while she walked back over to the bed. "I was just going home. I have no illusions that you won't be darkening my waiting room doorstep again soon."

Gently, she sat down on the bed beside him, her leg brushing up against his own.

"Now lay down. Go on." She pushed at him again, moving out of the way for him to lift his legs up. The beauty queen stayed seated beside him, her torso twisted slightly to look down at him while she spoke.

"If anyone left, it was you, Beej." The words were soft and sad, and she reached out absently to adjust a crease in his white(ish) button up. "Got yourself in so much trouble that Juno had to fire you - and then you were gone. Disappeared like smoke for years, only to show back up in the waiting room looking pissed."

Maria had been so relieved, and so unbelievably angry to see him after all that time. It was that absence, that complete cut from communication, that had brought her back to calling him Mr. Betelgeuse - a title she already found herself skipping again in favor of his nickname.

Maria appeared at his side again, and blearily he looked up at her. Her nudge wasn't rough but he was so unsteady it was almost enough to topple him. He managed to not just fall back like a drunk--haha--but only just barely.

Her words came to him as if through cotton wool. Disorganized thoughts moved lazily inside his head; it was so much easier to be angry than this drunken, dazed state he was in. The fact that the beauty queen had even given him the time of day was almost too much to take and much too much to even try and puzzle out.

In the reaches of his memory he did recall how upset she'd been to see him again, and her cool reception to him ever since the final incident that sent him packing--that he'd designed for at least the chance for freedom. Tonight was the first time in all the times he'd reappear she'd ever done anything more than nod politely and exchange chilly words.

As she sat primly, lightly beside him, the bed frame buckled. It didn't startle him, he was more than used to it, but he could imagine the surprise on her face as the mattress sagged her closer to him. Her delicate attention to his shirt made him catch her hand.

"Come here," he croaked out, before clearing his throat, giving her a half-hearted pull. "I gotta tell you something."

The unexpected dipping of the mattress when he laid back surprised her, and she ended up with her back pressed against his side. Maria might have just fallen on top of him, if he hadn’t grabbed the hand that had been adjusting his shirt.

Deep brown eyes assessed him curiously at the request. He was quite capable of saying whatever it was he needed to say from where she sat now - but the pull of sympathy was still strong. Without a word Maria leaned down to him, her free hand bracing her body on the mattress next to his. Being this close, even closer than when she was helping him walk home, she could pick up the smell of moss and wet dirt that clung to his clothes and skin. There was also the faintest smell of roses - so subtle that she could have second guessed if it was there at all.

She did as requested, and leaned over him. A stray lock of hair escaped from its careful pinning, and tickled his cheek. Maybe if things between them had been different, maybe if he hadn't fucked everything over in that spectacular way that was apparently his specialty, he'd have permission to brush it back. To lift it and settle it behind her ear. A minor but intimate gesture.

But he didn't. He let her hair stay where it was, because it was also nice to feel it on his skin.

Now that he had her there, he was at a loss for words. Lots of things flitted through his head: "You deserve better than me." "I missed you." "Wanna go see Saturn? I know a safe place--"

In the end, he frowned a little as he focused on her features. She was so close everything was blurred; he didn't think it was because of the alcohol. Why in the ever-loving hell did she put up with him?

"Thank you," he whispered.

There was a long silence while his eyes searched her face. Maria could tell he was considering something - and the fact that it was taking him this much time started to worry her. Why? She wasn’t sure.

At this distance she was able to get a good look at his face. It was round and scruffy, and strangely complimented by his Roman nose. Even in his current, sullen state his lips still had an upturned curl to them. She’d always liked his lips.

Her attention was taken away from his face when he spoke, and she smiled at him in response.

“You’re welcome.”

Blame it on the alcohol, on their proximity, on the raw vulnerability he’d shown her - but without having time to process her actions, her face closed the distance with his. The kiss was soft, and her lips barely pressed against his own.

It took only a few seconds for what she had done to register, and when it sunk in, she pulled back. Not all the way, but enough to give him a dazed, almost apologetic look. She hadn’t planned to do that, would have sworn up and down that she would never be kissing Betelgeuse right up until the moment she did. Maria started to sit up a little more and opened her mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say.

The brush of her lips against his was a shock that wasn't dulled by alcohol.

His hand automatically went up to touch her, to slip to her jaw to keep her close, but the split second that it took for him to try she pulled back again. But the motion was in place; although he missed keeping her where she was, his fingers touched the junction of neck and shoulder.

There was nothing more important in his existence than tasting her lipstick again.

Eyes wide, his tongue swiping his bottom lip in a move he didn't give conscious thought to, Beetlejuice breathed out, "Mi hermosa emperatriz Maria . . ."

With a little additional pressure from his hand he encouraged her back towards him as he surged up to her.

tbc . . .

#writing #role-play #BeetleTina #Beetlejuice #miss argentina #Beetlejuice x Miss Argentina #movie beetlejuice #musical beetlejuice #fanfiction #rp

124 notes · View notes

realtacuardach · 4 years ago

Text

Anger and Release

Here's my entry for Match 2 of Obiyuki Madness 2021 @snowwhite-andtheknight : Roaring Rampage of Rescue. Many thanks to @jhalya for her beta reading. I hope y'all enjoy!

...

Steam curled out from Shirayuki's mouth as she peered through the frigid dimness of the morning towards the fortress. In her current frame of mind, she could almost imagine that the steam was actually smoke pouring from the maw of an enraged dragon who had had treasure stolen from her.

She didn't like being angry. Anger clouded the mind, affected the senses, and she liked to be in control and sensible at all times, especially in times where a cool head was needed.

On the other hand, though, the anger that was not at all going away was fuelling the adrenaline coursing through her blood, and she would need that adrenaline for what she was about to do.

So, she let herself be angry.

Angry at the renegade soldiers for capturing her and Obi in the middle of the night without provocation. Angry at how they savagely beat Obi after they'd already mobbed him and restrained him when he tried to rescue her. Angry at how they had been thrown into the back of the wagon like sacks of potatoes, the pain of his fresh, brutal wounds showing through his bruised eyes and stabbing her in the heart. Angry at how he managed to undo only his hands before removing her bonds instead of untying himself totally. Angry that, instead of saving himself, he'd given her an apologetic look before pushing her out of the cart and then collapsing himself.

The apology frustrated her almost more than anything else, because she was certain he was not apologetic for the right reasons.

"When we get back," she muttered to herself in the lessening gloom, "we're going to have a long talk about not sacrificing yourself for me. Again."

Truthfully, she didn't have much faith that this talk would stick any better than any of their previous similar ones, but that wouldn't prevent her from trying.

You idiot, she choked back a sob, don't you know how much it hurts when you do this?

She forced the tears away. There would be time for tears later, when he was home and safe and so bound up by her healing that he would have to stop and listen to her.

And he'll smile up at me and shrug and say he couldn't make any promises...

She shook her head. Focus.

Squinting, Shirayuki looked around the fortress and saw only one sentinel standing guard at the entrance. That seemed a little lackluster as far as security went, but she wasn't complaining.

A murmur like Obi's echoed through her brain. Miss, you can never be too careful. The ground's not the only place the enemy can be.

As though on cue, she heard a slight crackling of tinder above her as though a squirrel was making its way through the limbs. She craned her head upwards to see a man in the tree besides the one where she was hiding, well camouflaged against the gnarled bark.

That wouldn't do.

Looking around surreptitiously, Shirayuki saw a jagged stone on the ground. She reached out and took it, its roughness grounding her and steeling her resolve. After a quick glance towards the sentinel at the door, Shirayuki crept a few trees away from her hiding place and looked up towards her target.

Practice with both Kiki and Obi had served her well; the rock slammed into the back of the tree dwelling soldier's knee as she'd planned, forcing his knee to bend and for him to lose his balance. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud amidst all the dead leaves.

Even in her haze of adrenaline, she could see his chest rise and fall, and felt a traitorous sense of relief.

The sentinel ran over to check his fallen comrade, his face showing first alarm, then irritation. He nudged the fallen man none too gently in the ribs and cursed. Shirayuki reached into her satchel, the glass jar solid in her hand.

"Fool," the guard grumbled, "falling asleep in a -"

The glass jar cracked across the back of his head, the potent herbs smearing across his skin and hair ensuring that the blow would knock him out. There were a few beads of blood where the glass scratched him, but she recognized him as one of Obi's attackers and couldn't bring herself to care much.

She stalked across the grass quietly and quickly, her ears attuned for any small sound, but heard and saw no one as she made her way to the door. Despite herself, her hand trembled a moment as she grabbed the door handle but she swallowed it down. She couldn't hesitate.

Obi needed her.

…

Years of having to deaden old soldier's wounds and to temporarily incapacitate stubborn, hardy patients who would not listen to her and stay in bed were serving her well. It meant that she knew just the right herbs to use, even if she had to grab them on the fly from the surrounding forest and unattended cupboards. It also meant she knew just where to dig and press her fingers to weaken muscles and render others unconscious.

She moved through the halls with almost clinical efficiency. Guard in west wing, herbs. Guard in east wing, pinch at the neck. Guard on the staircase, jar of herbs to the back of the head.

For once, she was grateful for her small size, it allowed her to creep and duck around the shadows. Because she had to take everyone out on the way to Obi, otherwise she knew their chances of escape were slim.

Especially with Obi as injured as he is.

Shirayuki gritted her teeth, forcing her feelings to fuel her rage. This was not the time to falter.

It was best to be quiet, the element of surprise was key. But she noted with alarm that her attacks were getting more reckless the deeper she went into the fortress, whether that was due to her desperation and anger, she didn't know.

She didn't care.

As she crept past the guard who had been watching the dungeon door, she heard voices and scowled.

A dull slap of something against flesh. "Where is the girl?"

A hollow chuckle. "What girl?"

Wind whistled as something was swung through the air, ending with a muffled thud and a deep groan. "You know what girl we're talking about!"

"Can't say I do," Obi groaned in response.

There was a sound that sounded sickeningly like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. "I won't ask again."

"Good, because I won't answer again." Obi clicked his tongue, the sound strangely garbled. "Not good at taking no for an answer, no wonder you can't get a girl-"

Don't provoke them, Obi!

Usually, if Obi was still being snarky and insolent, things were okay; it was only when he reverted to death glares that things were serious. However, that was when others, especially Shirayuku and Ryuu, were at stake. He was annoyingly flippant when it came to his well-being, so Shirayuki had no way of telling how bad it was without seeing him. She pushed up on her toes and stared through the bars.

Her blood ran cold, then hot, then boiling.

Her knight was shackled to the wall, looking even more bruised and battered then she had seen him before. Blood ran in a stream from the corner of his mouth, his limbs were contorted where they were shackled with blood plastering the material to his skin, and his glare was lessening to a slit of golden, blood-shot eyes as his face swelled from all the bruising.

And there was a blade held to his neck.

Rage filled Shirayuki like a beaker overflowing with viscous, corrosive liquid and she felt herself grabbing a rusty bar that had fallen in days past from the door. There were two people with him, the element of surprise would be almost useless here.

And it was overrated anyway.

She only made one sound before she dropped her cover entirely, just enough to surprise the brute holding the blade to Obi's neck and have him facing her.

With that, she cast aside all secrecy, let out an unholy shriek that she hadn't known herself capable of, and pounced.

…

"That," Obi huffed besides her as they struggled into the clearing, him leaning heavily on her shoulder, "was something, Miss."

Shirayuki gave something like a nod in response, but kept going. Her adrenaline was just about running out, and she could feel all the aches in her body starting to emerge. Just a little further.

"Miss?"

Along with the aches, the reality of what she had just done was beginning to sink into her thoughts as well. All those guards slumped unconscious, their wheezing both reassuring and terrifying. The bruises and scabs forming on the backs of heads and necks. The pained groans of Obi's tormentors as they faded into delirium, clutching most likely broken legs or arms. It looked terrible and daunting in her mind.

And she couldn't really bring herself to regret it.

"Miss, are you okay?"

It wasn't until she felt his fingers brush the dampness of her cheek that she realized she'd been crying. "I'll be fine."

"Miss."

He had no right to sound admonishing right now. None at all.

"Miss." He sounded gentler, although the admonishing tone still lingered in the back of his voice. "You're bleeding."

"Sure it's mine and not yours?" She shot back, and immediately regretted it at his wince.

"Miss, we're far enough. You need to rest a minute."

Acquiescing, Shirayuki maneuvered them to a small cave. She lay him down and sat beside him, hugging her knees to her chest, the fear and fatigue and anger and anxiety all curdling at once in her gut. She was doing a poor job of hiding it, given that Obi reached up to brush his fingers against her face again. "Miss, please…"

Something about the touch and tone undid her, and she began weeping. "Don't," she choked, "don't ever do that again."

Obi frowned. "You know I can't promise that."

"Why?" She demanded, "Why can't you? Don't you realize how much you matter? Don't you realize how much it would kill me if something happened to you?"

He swallowed hard. "Not as much as you-"

Shirayuki glared down at him. "Don't. Just, don't."

Obi sighed and forced himself into a seated position. With a slight noise of distaste at his bloodied clothes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She hugged him back fiercely and cried into his shoulder. He rubbed her back soothingly. "Thank you, Miss. I'm so sorry."

"Not as half as you'll be if you scare me like that again," she sniffled.

"Yes, Miss," she could feel his smile in the breath against her neck, warm and close and reassuringly alive.

She would need to talk with him more about this later, they were both well aware. But for now, they were both alive and safe.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

#obiyukimadness21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #Roaring Rampage of Revenge #Spitfire!Shirayuki #Obi's self-sacrificial nature is still going strong #much to Shirayuki's frustration

44 notes · View notes

sirtwentyofhousegoodmen · 4 years ago

Note

Arcturus/Melania for a prompt?

April 3rd, 1923

Arcturus Black scowled at the sight before him.

There were dozens of them—from Hogwarts students who'd barely finished their O.W.L.'s to the despaired over daughters yet unwed and rapidly approaching the number deemed the end of an unattached pureblood woman's use (30), All the available pureblood girls (along with some rather bold, uppity half-bloods) were currently flooding the ballroom at Noire House, each about as desirable as the option that came before them.

As always, thoughts of Cedrella made his lip curl even further.

The sound of Abraxas's hiss of distaste brought the young heir to the House of Black out of what his sister would call his sulking, and he pinned down the young Malfoy heir with a questioning gaze.

"Wilhemina Selwyn is wearing the most ghastly gown I've ever seen in my life," He uttered, shuddering theatrically.

"It's not the dress that's at fault," came the smirking voice of Alexander Rowle. "It's the fact that it shows off those repugnant, veiny arms of hers."

"The gown, the veins—I care not, I'm blaming whatever's remotely involved with forcing me to witness that."

"Boys!"

Arcturus turned his head languidly at the unmistakeably deep voice of his younger brother Regulus—that somehow he still managed to make sound effeminate—and gave his brother a curt nod that the younger Black could glean the meaning off a mile away.

Arcturus was having a miserable time.

"Well, don't tell me you've started without me."

"We would never dare," Abraxas raised his glass, mockingly. "What fun is the game without the best player?"

‘The game’ being the snide comments each of them delighted in making about all the other party guests.

"Now, Archie—I know when my older brother's in a snit," Regulus smiled to himself at the eye-roll this elicited from his brother, then theatrically lowered his voice. "Tell me, which of them was it and where did they touch you?"

Arcturus's face turned bright red while Malfoy and Rowle tried—poorly—to hide their sniggers behind their goblets.

"Careful with your brother, Black," Rowle said, stamping down the last vestiges of his laughter. "The Macmillans pounced on him with their eldest twenty minutes ago and he's been in a state since."

Regulus furrowed his brow and scrunched up his nose in distaste. "Mildred Macmillan? Oh, Archie, you poor dear. Thoroughly repellant woman."

Arcturus huffed in agreement. "Too lippy by half."

"Believe me when I say I share in your misery, Arcturus." Regulus took a light sip from his sidecar. "The Crabbes just downright assaulted me with that Aligherian creature they call a daughter."

Abraxas snorted. "Aren't they speaking with your uncle about Pollux?"

"Yes, but why settle for the third-in-line when you can get the second?" He shrugged, perfectly flippant in that way only Regulus could be. "Not that it makes any difference for them, I'm afraid. Irma isn’t to my taste, ghastly personality aside.”

The others shifted their feet uncomfortably while Arcturus ground his teeth to dust. Regulus's...preferences were bad enough, but to have it alluded to in such a way! Still, Regulus' unflappable manner and his overly sharp tongue—owed to a childhood of reading everything there was in the library—tended to amuse the pureblood men in their set enough to engender a tentative kinship. If nothing else, he was a novelty—and, above all else, a Black.

"Either way, I'd still say my evening has been less miserable than yours, Arcturus. After all, you were the one this whole soireé was thrown for."

Arcturus grimaced. "I haven't forgotten. I can hardly go to the restroom without being accosted by some impudent hoyden with designs above her station. That little jape you made wasn't too far off, I'll have you know."

Regulus laughed, gaily. "I trust nothing as bad as your Hogwarts Graduation party happened yet, has it?"

Arcturus grimaced at the memory of a very drunk, very indecent Caroline Greengrass hiding underneath his bedsheets in some pie-eyed notion to make herself Mrs. Black.

"No, Thank God. Aside from the Fawleys practically throwing their plain daughter at me."

"Eugenie?" Alexander scoffed. "Quiet as a mouse and about as attractive as one to boot."

"What do you expect?" Malfoy scoffed. "She is a Fawley after all—no wonder they decided to send that sister of hers to France. Those debauched cheesemongers will take anything as long as it's got legs."

"Regardless," Arcturus said, over Rowle's chuckling and Regulus's poorly hidden laugh. "I will need to pick one by the end of the night. Won't do for my uncle to waste all this gold for nothing."

"Oh, be still my beating heart," Regulus quipped.

"What do you want from me, Regulus?" Arcturus asked, patience worn thinner than his Uncle Cygnus's hair. "This is a cattle show with ballgowns, nothing more."

Regulus lifted up his hands in mock surrender. "Down, Archie. It's only a jape—you're no fun at all tonight. Normally we all have a delightful time bullying these unfortunates and you're stewing like a...stew? Bah, I can't think of anything clever to say anymore, this sidecar really does pack a punch."

The MacMillans appeared to have caught sight of him if the matriarch—a Goyle from a secondary branch that was far too ambitious for her own good—pointing wildly in Arcturus's direction to her long-suffering husband was any sign.

"If you'll excuse me—I need to leave before that woman tears me to pieces."

Without another word in his companions' direction, he bolted from the pillar they had been hiding behind for the last half-hour, and left through the first open door for the gardens he could find. Thankfully, Arcturus neither saw nor heard any witches or wizards upon his arrival outside, and he breathed out a sigh of immense relief.

He stayed there a few seconds, fixed to the marble flooring as if it were some rendezvous point, then shook off any odd feelings and set about a brisk walk around the gardens to gather his bearings.

As always, however, God had not seen fit to make his dreadful day any easier and after a few minutes of nothing but blessed solitude, he saw a petite girl at the entrance of the greenhouse.

Arcturus frowned. Brown hair, brown eyes—similar enough in looks but less beautiful than her elder sister. Yes, it was most certainly the younger Macmillan girl—she was in Regulus’s year, if he recalled correctly.

As if he hadn’t had enough of that lot today.

“Miss Macmillan, is it?”

The slip of a girl jumped, letting out a slight yelp in surprise.

“Oh, my—Mr—Sir, I, forgive me, I was only—“

“Settle down, Miss Macmillan. I mean no harm.” Arcturus walked toward her, grateful that she seemed to calm slightly at his approach. He had no patience for dealing with a ditzy, skittish schoolgirl tonight on top of everything else.

“Arcturus Black,” He nodded at her, rather less curt than he usually did, much to his own confusion. “We met earlier, I believe.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Black. What an unexpected pleasure.”

He snorted lightly, but didn’t comment. “Have you an interest in botany?” He nodded toward the venomous tentacula plant she’d been studying before his entrance.

The girl nodded, enthusiastic. “Herbology is my best subject at Hogwarts. We haven’t taken our N.E.W.T.’s yet, but I’m sure I’ll do well.”

“Seventh year?”

The girl nodded once, tucking an errant brown curl that had slipped out of her pinned updo behind her ear.

“The last year tends to be more...difficult for some,” Arcturus said, in an attempt at conversation—not that he knew how it felt for those who were sentimental about leaving hogwarts.

The headmaster during his own years there was his very own grandfather, after all.

She seemed to hesitate, biting her lip lightly. Looking at her in this light, he thought perhaps his judgement of her beauty was rather unfair—she wasn’t as pretty as her sister, but she was the farthest thing from plain. “It’s hard to believe it’s all over in three months. I’m rather glad I have more time to garden, however. Aside from Herbology, school was never much of an interest for me. I’ll leave all those books to my husband when I marry, I’m sure.” Arcturus nodded in approval at that, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind. “And you?”

He gave her a dry look. “I’m afraid the only thing I know about plants is how to kill them.”

She smiled shyly at the jest, and bizarrely he found himself returning it. “I’m sure you’re not as bad as all that. I hear you’ve an interest in horseflesh—one needs to be somewhat proficient in herbology if they intend to keep their horses in good health.”

Arcturus blinked, rendered mute upon the first thoughtful words he’d heard anyone say all evening. “Quite,” he nodded. “Are you knowledgeable in horseflesh, Miss?”

“I’d like to think so,” She said, fiddling with her gloves. “My grandfather keeps a stable at our house in Kintyre. I’ve been riding them since I was seven.”

“Side-saddle?” Arcturus asked, probingly.

She looked slightly offended. “Of course, Mr. Black—I could hardly ride astride, it’s unseemly for a woman.”

Arcturus felt a feline grin make its way onto his face. “I quite agree, I hope I didn’t cause any offence. Please, call me Arcturus.”

She blinked, then had the grace to blush—as if his choice hadn’t already been made obvious to him, that only solidified it further. “Of course, Arcturus, none was taken. You may call me Melania, then—or Melly, if it pleases you—that’s what everyone calls me,” she supplied, holding out her hand almost hesitatingly. Arcturus, just as all pureblood men were taught, dropped a kiss to the back of it, keeping eye contact all the way through.

Modest? Demure? Beautiful, but not so much it made her unbearably impudent and overly entitled?

The only downside was having that Goyle harpy as a mother-in-law. Then again, if all the men in his family had taught him anything, it’s that every man hates his mother-in-law. Either way, at least this dreadful affair could finally come to an end—as well as the incessant stream of grasping trollops his bachelorhood brought with it.

Silver linings and all that.

#arcturus black #melania macmillan black #prompts #ask #anon #noble and most ancient house of black #harry potter #the black sheep dog #ozymandias #abraxas malfoy #regulus black

50 notes · View notes

kickingitwithkirk · 4 years ago

Text

Greetings From Austin: Part II

Pairing: Alpha!Jensen Ackles x Alpha!Jared Padalecki x Omega!OFC

Summary: Jensen and Jared are at odds over a monumental decision that changes their lives in a way they couldn’t have envisioned.

Word Count: 3985

Warnings: a/b/o, bisexuality, angst, cursing, self doubt, depression/anxiety, married life/disagreements, medical stuff, sexual dysfunction, infertility, surrogacy

*Jensen acting out of character

*additional warnings to be added in future parts.

A/N: series Inspired by this art.

A/N II: For this part I did some research & delved into a bit of reproductive/genetic testing-please don’t dink me on details, I altered it a bit to fit A/B/O verse.

A/N III: There is no intentional hate or malevolence intended towards any of the Ackles or Padalecki families. This is a purely fictional piece containing real and created persons/names/events set in the fictional A/B/O verse. Some dates/events altered to fit story.

Part I

*no beta-all mistakes are mine

*photos found online

One hour later

Jensen sets two sealed cups in the small niche shutting its door and grabs his jacket sliding it on, his inner Alpha purring with satisfaction watching his husband's fumbling fingers working at a button on his shirt, “Need any help babe?”

Jared’s all dilated pupils and glowing cheeks above his thick beard, “I’m good, I'll be out in a few.” Jensen leans in for one more soft, lingering kiss before leaving. Locking the door behind him Jared leans against it, closing his eyes, savoring the last vestiges of his oxytocin high.

He can’t stop recalling that mischievous glint in those luminous green eyes as Jensen slowly licked his plush lips before diving in to kiss him stupid, his long, sinful tongue doing things that’s probably illegal in twenty states, hands with ooh, so thick, talented fingers capable all sorts of magical things.

Shaking himself out of the memory he crossed over to the sink and caught his debauched reflection in the mirror. Shit, he can’t out looking like this.

Turning on the tap cups his hand to catch some of the running water splashing his face to cool off when his phone starts vibrating in his back pocket. Drying his hands and face he pulls it out checking the text. Glancing up he runs a hand over his thick beard, smoothing it down before leaving the room.

Completely preoccupied typing a reply he rounds the corner heading for the doctor's office slamming into a woman knocking her off her feet, the contents of the bag she’s carrying scatter loudly across the floor.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

From her seated position she looks up...and up, his long, long legs clad in low riding jeans barely held up by a loosely buckled leather belt, his shirts rucked-up, a bit of his treasure trail and toned abs flanked by the sharp V of his hip peeking out.

“FuckI’mfuckingsorryFuckdidn’tfuckingsee....”

Jared, embarrassed, keeps apologizing, laced with fuck every other word, squats down gathering scattered items, dropping them back into the bag continuously babbling until she bursts out laughing. “And here I be thinking I said fuck to much,” a subtle lilt in her voice making it sound like she’s saying fook instead.

They move around each other picking up the last of her stuff. Jared reaches for a scarf when the central air catches a few loose strands of her hair, lightly dancing them across his cheek.

He inhales sharply as her piquant scent travels through his system eliciting a rumbling purr deep in his chest, “Fuck..” She breathes out gazing directly into his kaleidoscope eyes, watching mesmerized as they bleed into red with arousal as her eyes flash gold in response.

“I..I..fuck..I’ve gotta go!” She sputters, scrambling to her feet, grabs the bag hurrying away, leaving him holding the scarf.

Lifting the forgotten fabric to his face Jared deeply inhaled her scent, reaching down presses against his cock chubbing up the second time that day. He morosely stares in the direction she fled in once more, a low whine of loss escapes before he tucks the scarf into his back pocket and resumes heading towards the doctor’s office.

Dr. Rodgers, standing just inside in a doorway observing unnoticed, makes a mental note.

***

Jensen watches amused as Jared sits down with a slight wince, a not unpleasant reminder of their recent interlude, teases, “Did I make that much of a mess out of you Jay?”

Jared shrugs with a nonchalant “eh.” Jensen lowers his chin leaning close growling his displeasure at the flippant response, Jared internally shivers knowing he’s gonna pay for it when they get home, much to his delight.

Jensen abruptly stops growling, “You stink like Omega!”

Dr. Rodgers comes in carrying a binder saving Jared from responding, “We’ll get your test results in about two weeks unless we see something that needs further investigation.” He sets down the binder in front of them, opening it to the first page revealing a dossier and picture.

“Now, the next bit is selecting an egg donor. I’m sure you're wondering how we select the donors. I rely on a protein compatibility test, similar to the markers blood test used when matching Alphas and Omegas, narrowing down prospective candidates.

All of our donors are Betas and Omegas. Several of the Betas are willing to be the surrogate too. If you choose to go with an Omega donor we will have the extra step of selecting a Beta surrogate but that’s something to discuss later if needed.

We also take into account your personal preferences when it comes to physical traits, personality, etc. I’ll introduce you to the top three that are the best matches. If for some reason none of them work out, we’ll try the next most compatible candidates.”

Dr. Rodgers clicks his pen, “Let’s get started shall we.”

***

Flipping off the light switch Jensen walks out of the bath to find Jared already asleep. Crossing over to their bed he stopped at his side admiring him.

How had he gotten so lucky to have Jared as his? Over fifteen years since that life changing meeting he was more in love with his mate than ever, the ups and downs in their relationship that could have torn them apart made their marriage stronger.

Jensen took hold of the book Jared had been reading, gently pulling it out of his hand, slid in a bookmark and placed it on the nightstand turning off the lamp.

Easing into his side of the bed he leaned over pressing a soft kiss to Jared’s bare shoulder, who only wore bottoms since he always ran warm. Shifting, Jared buries his face into Jensen's neck, draping a long arm across his chest snuggling close, “Thank you.”

“For what babe?”

“Helping me today,” he could feel Jared’s breath warm against his skin, “I know you're against having more but please don’t decide not to, I want to have pups with you.”

Jensen mentality sighed, he’d be forty-three before they were born and didn’t want to be the old dad. Jared had argued that he'd never be, they knew lots of people were having their families later, look at Reedus, fifty when his daughter came and JDM, he was almost fifty-two when George was born.

“I’ll make you a deal, I’ll say yes if we find one donor we both agree on,” he felt Jared’s emotions shifting more positive, “but if you like one and me another, I’m not doing it.”

Jared pressed several soft kisses to the side of his neck, “Okay Jen,” he agrees, shifting to lay his head on his shoulder, “we’ll find the one, I can feel it.” he sleepily finishes.

Jensen rests his cheek against the top of Jared's head, not fallen asleep for ages. How was he going to handle Jared’s inevitable disappointment, knowing it will happen since they have always had vastly different tastes in females.

***

Five days later

7:00 A.M.

Jared was up to mile three of his daily workout on the treadmill in his office. He usually ran outside this early in the morning but a surprise thunderstorm altered his plans for the day when his phone rang. He dialed the machine down to walking speed to answer.

“Hello, Mr. Page, this is Sissy from Dr. Rodgers office, I’m sorry to be calling so early. He would like for you to come back in for a follow up about your semen testing.” Jared’s throat tightened, closing off his ability to respond.

He stepped off the machine and sat down on the large leather couch, “Sorry I..what time can I come in?”

“We have an opening at 8:45, will that work?”

“Yes ma’am, I can be there then.”

“Great, we’ll see you in a bit Mr. Page.”

Jared sat back not caring he was getting sweat all over the leather and started his breathing exercise to calm himself, telling his brain to knock it off, surely it wasn’t anything major with how calm Sissy was on the phone.

Ten minutes later he was still anxious but able to handle it. He glanced at his watch and knew he had to get his butt in gear to make the appointment.

Walking into the bedroom he found Jensen softly snoring so he moved as quietly as he could grabbing some clean clothes and headed for the shower. He left a note by the coffee pot saying he had an errand and be back ASAP.

He pulled into the clinics parking lot with five minutes to spare. Tucking his hair into his ever present beanie, Jared slipped on his mask and dashed through the downpour into the clinic.

After being temperature checked, Sissy walked him to the doctor's office. Knocking on the door she opened it and Jared saw the doctor on the phone gesturing for him to come in as he finished his call.

“Hello Mr. Page, thank you for coming in. I wanted to go over a discrepancy the lab found with your test, I'll try not to use too much doctor jargon.” He layed three pages on the table in front of him, a color printout of a sperm DNA strand broke down into segments and the others Jared recognized as chromosome mapping. “These are part of the Alphas sperm DNA sequencing. Normally, this one has a wide band in this segment,” he pointed to a circled area on the right page demonstrating a normal sequence. “This is your sperm's DNA. What I wanted to show you is a variant in the same section,” he circled a column on the left page, “which contains a narrow band instead,” he highlighted one piece of the chain.

“What does it mean?” Jared asked nervously.

“I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t know, I’ve never encountered this variant before. I looked at your previous testing from 2016 and it was also present on that test, not sure why it was overlooked. I’ve consulted with a few colleagues of mine to get their take,” he paused resting his arms on the desk watching Jared’s expression, “Mr. Page, I didn’t ask you to come in to upset you, I prefer to keep my clients in the loop if anything unusual does present with their testing. It’s possibly something that's genetically unique to you and affects nothing. I’d like to run a Tunel test, it’s a sperm chromatin structure analysis, it’ll give us more information to work with.”

Jared fidgeted, desperately wanting to chew on his fingers, “Umm…okay.”

“Good, it's not invasive at all, we just need some more sperm.” Dr. Rodgers says.

~~~

Jensen was stumbling around the kitchen working on his first cup of coffee when Jared walked in carrying a box from his favorite bakery.

“Those aren’t what I think they are?” Jensen asks as Jared sits the box down on the counter. He opens the lid inhaling the scent of decadent cinnamon roll goodness before pulling out one and taking a huge bite moaning pornographically, “Babe, whatever I did to warrant these remind me to do it again,” he says with his mouthful.

Jared chuckles as his mate continues making obscene noises before bending down taken a bit from the other side earning warning snarl.

“You are so not a morning person.” Jared chided sliding the box over to retrieve his own taking it setting down at the island bar pulling a chunk off.

“You wanna share what’s rattling around in that big head of yours?” Jensen inquires. Jared chews slowly before answering. “I got a call from the clinic, something showed up in my test.”

Jensen snapped fully alert, his roll forgotten, and sat down next to him, “Jared, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Jared fiddled with his roll, pulling it apart, “No, not that I’m aware of but they found something off and don’t know what it is. Dr. Rodgers said it’s probably nothing but wanted to run another test to see if he can figure out what it is what if something is wrong and turns out I was the reason Genevieve couldn’t get pregnant I don’t know if I can handle it the possibility of not being able to have pups I’ve wanted them for so long I can’t imagine our lives...”

“Jared,” Jensen sharpness interrupts Jared’s incessant rambling, making him go quiet, “I know you want to go to the worst possible outcome but let’s wait till all the tests are back. If it’s something, we’ll deal, we always do.”

***

August 3rd

“Jen, move your ass, were gonna be late!” Jared bellows from downstairs.

“I’m coming...dammit!” Jensen cursed as he tripped over the boxes left sitting by the bottom step. “You need to get the rest of this shit out of the way, about killed myself again!”

“I’ll stay up tonight moving the rest of this fucking shit if you’ll get a fucking move on!”

The sniping at each other had gotten worse since the house renovations were barely completed before heading back to Vancouver.

Jensen moved his music studio into the newly created space in the basement from the former guest quarters, now relocated to the spacious pool house. The empty upstairs rooms were converted into the eventual nursery/kids rooms with a Jack and Jill bathroom between them.

“You better start watching your goddamn language cause the last thing we need is for our kids to have a trash mouth like…don’t roll your eyes at me!” Jared threw his arms up in disgust before storming out to the garage getting in Jensen’s truck. They drove to the clinic in silence.

They were flying out tomorrow to quarantine for two weeks before resuming shooting on the eighteenth. Then the clinic called their tests were back and Jared didn’t want to wait till they got back for the results.

After their temperature check they were immediately escorted to the doctor’s office finding him already there. “Mr. Bonham, Mr. Page, pleasure to see you, please have a seat.” They sit next to each other not touching. “Is there something wrong gentleman?”

“Why do you ask?” Jensen barks, “Fuck man, don’t be rude!” Jared bit back earning a glare that makes most sane people back away from Jensen.

“Gentleman, no need to fight. It may surprise you but I actually see a lot of hostility between my clients. I’m sure the added stress of the quarantine while trying to start a family is putting your Alpha instincts more on edge, is it not?”

Jensen sighed, “I’m sorry sir, I was raised better.”

Jared gave an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry too sir, and you're right.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time and understand the situation from your side, my wife and I had trouble conceiving. We ended up having two sets of twins within three years, now that’s stress.”

Jensen blinked, “And I thought mine were a handful.”

Dr. Rodgers laughed, “They are a blessing but honestly, it’s an absolute madhouse at times. So, let’s get back to you two. Mr. Bonham, everything looks good, you are in the top percentile when it comes to mobility and live sperm count for your age group. One of the advantages of being an Alpha, unlike us poor Betas who’s diminish with age.”

“Mr. Page, I also have your results and the Tunel tests which turned out to be something.. unique.”

Jared eyes widened as he paled, his breath hitching, feeling his stomachs spastic tightening making him about vomit. He knew it, he knew something was going to go wrong, his brain didn’t lie to him this time.

Jensen was out of his chair and utilizing his Alpha strength turned Jared’s towards him before kneeling between his legs reaching up to firmly grip the sides of his head forcing him to focus on him opens up his side of their bond he’d shut the other day when they were arguing to gauge how bad this one was.

“Hey Hey, concentrate on me, I need you to breathe with me,” he held Jared’s gaze for several minutes as their breathing cinqued up, feeling him relaxing.

“There you go big guy. It wasn’t that bad, focus on your breathing okay.” Jared nodded embarrassed as Dr. Rodgers sat a bottle of water in front of him, “Do you need me to get you anything else?”

“No, he’s fine, thank you,” Jensen answers, getting up retaking his chair as Jared took a long drink from the bottle, “he’s usually more aware of these attacks but since the damn lock-downs.” Jensen shook his head in disgust, “We're heading back to Vancouver tomorrow to finish our sh..job before his new one starts late October. I guess it’s really hitting us both that it's finally ending.”

“Mr. Ackles, you can say show,” Jared and Jensen stare at him in surprise, “my daughters are fans, I know more about the Winchester brothers than a man my age should.” Dr. Rodgers ruminates, “Mr. Page, are you ready for me to continue?” Jared nodded as Jensen wrapped both of his hands around his free one.

“After I received the results I spoke with a specialist in Alpha genetics. They looked at all your tests and came back with a conclusion I’ve never heard of before.” The doctor laid a printout on the desk, “This is a visual aid to help me in explaining.”

“Chemoattactants are what a female's egg releases to attract the sperm to it. You know how it works from there; sperm meets egg, sperm penetrates egg and viola, fertilization. Alphas sperm has evolved allowing them to inseminate all three sub-genders, whereas male Omegas sperm is sterile since they possess both sets of reproductive organs but only need to utilize one.”

The doctor sets all three of Jared’s tests and the normal example on his desk for them to see, “This chromatin structure you carry Mr. Page,” he points to the highlighted section, “has altered so that the eggs of Alphas and Betas are chemorepellent to your sperm, rejecting fertilization.”

Jared sat still-shocked, blankly staring at the results lying before him, vaguely feeling Jensen reaching across their bond again. “Does this mean he’s...infertile?” He can hear Jensen hesitant inquiry, like he's standing across a vast chasm.

“In conventional terms, yes. This is the reason you were unable to conceive with your previous spouse, being a Beta, and there is still no medical intervention available that would have helped. What’s unique is his sp...”

Jared was numb. His dreams of a little Padackles tearing around their home had literally been salt and burned before his eyes with those test results.

In the recesses of his attention he’s aware of the continuing conversation around him, the longer it goes on, the more his brain is tuning out.

~~~

The first thing he becomes aware of are fingertips caressing his face, softly wiping away wetness damping his cheeks. Slowly blinking the blurry shape in front of him comes into focus.

Jensen is sitting in front of him. More accurately, he’s sitting cross legged in between his own splayed legs on the floor. Jared frowns as his senses are coming back online.

He was sitting on the chair that’s now off to his right so how did he end up with his back against the desk?

“You passed out,” Jensen answers his unspoken question, “and scared the ever-living shit out of me! I thought you were having an aneurysm the way your eyes rolled back into your big head!”

“I..I..don’t know what happened, I was looking at the results, you were asking questions..then nothing.”

“Stress Jared, you are completely stressed out and it's fucking with your illness!” He opens his mouth, “No, I’m not done so be quiet.” Jensen’s voice dropped with his Alpha tone overlaying it,

“Between that final script having you nuts all year, this quarantine fucking up your meds, dealing with your businesses shutdowns, getting Walker started, you had to add pushing for pups, it’s no wonder you couldn’t handle the doctor explanation of...”

“Explanation of what?” Jared lashes back in own Alpha voice, leaning forward into Jensen’s space, his eyes flashing red, “That I’m infertile, sterile, shooting blanks..”

“Shut that fucking mouth for two minutes or I swear I’ll deck you.” Jensen’s normally warm green eyes bleed into a fierce red, becoming hard.

Jared’s mouth snapped shut in surprise. They had gotten into plenty of arguments over the years, gotten in each other’s faces a few times but this was a first. Jensen had never, ever threatened physical harm.

Well, somewhat that time Misha set him off during a panel and he went for him afterwards. Misha stupidly goaded him again before Jensen gave him a shove, ordering him to cool off before he had to do something.

Jensen’s jaw ticked as he mentally counted to ten, “Dr. Rodgers said that you couldn’t impregnate another Alpha or Beta right?”

“Right.”

“The part you zoned out is that your sperm wants to only fertilize an Omega’s eggs.”

Sighing heavily, Jensen crawls over a leg to sit against the desk next to him. Jared pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees processing this information as Jensen reaches over and gently rubs his hand in random patterns over his back.

They had mutually agreed on a Beta donor. Now this threw a wrench in the plans.

“Maybe this is a sign we’re rushing into this again. Let’s take a step back and consider all our options.” Jared’s muscles stiffened under his hand.

“I’m not considering anything else and I’m not stopping.”

“Wait...what?”

Jared lifted his head, “I’m not considering anything else and I’m not stopping. I realize this isn’t what you want so don’t worry, I’m not gonna hold you to our agreement.”

Jensen exhaled sharply knowing when Jared spoke in that tone, that was it, end of discussion, mind made up.

Jared gets up, “I’m going to find Dr. Rodgers and see if he's still willing to help me. If you want to leave, go. I’ll get an Uber when I’m done.” He walks out quietly shutting the door behind him.

“Fuck!” Jensen closed his eyes thumping his head back against the desk. He knew he had screwed up and there was only one way to make it right.

***

Jensen asked Jared to let him stay, he was wrong for saying that and he'd be open to one of the Omegas as a possible donor too. Jared wasn’t completely appeased but he was happy Jensen didn’t take the out given him.

The three candidates were smart, attractive, lovely scented Omegas in their twenties that any Alpha looking for a prospective mate would seriously consider, leaving Jensen wanting something else.

“I like aspects of all three Jay, but honestly, I'm not feeling it with any of them.”

“Maybe you’ve reached the stage you’re looking for more substance, less aesthetic.”

“Did you just call me old?” Jensen gaped at his husband.

Before Jared responds, Dr. Rodgers enters, “I see from your expression Mr. Bonham that you haven’t decided on a candidate.”

“It’s not that I didn’t like any of them, there isn’t a..”

“Connection. It’s normal, just because your Alpha doesn’t mean you..desire every Omega you cross paths with. With some it takes time to find the right one.” He looks at his watch.

“We’re at the end of our appointment but I have one more donor I’d like you to meet today. She’s doesn’t exactly fit your personal physical preferences but this omega is...special..and she’s willing to be the surrogate too.”

The doctor opens the door gestures to someone. They stand up to greet her and as she enters they are enveloped by her piquant scent.

“Mr. Page and Mr. Bonham, this is Quinn.”

***

tbc

Part III

GFA: @babypink224221 @waywardjoy @let-me-luve-you @all-4-wincest

SPN: @donnatix @lyarr24

Sam/Jared @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @flamencodiva

#j2 #alpha!jensen ackles x alpha!jared padalecki #j2 fanfic #alpha!jensen ackles #jensen ackles #alpha!jared padalecki #jared padalecki #alpha!jensen x alpha!jared x omega!ofc #j2 au #j2 husbands #surrogate #supernatural

60 notes · View notes