#he is nearly wholly deaf if not entirely in his left ear

[gloopdimension]

hgoo.ii dont have any new thoughts but ummm.Leo & orion ........ smile

:) leo and orion

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Lena, Number Eight [Part 2 of ?]

Continued from Part 1

Lena doesn't plan to go back. 

Seeing Hargreeve's face on every news channel dredges up every nightmare she's tried to stuff away, and the last thing she wants to do is return to the house where everything started.

But his executor contacts her office with notice that she’s named in the old man's will.

It’s still not quite enough to change her mind, but it moves her close enough to the line that when Kara weighs in, she doesn’t have far to push. 

"These are the people you grew up with,” Kara points out, “at least for a time.” She gazes at Lena with soft eyes and a softer smile. “Don’t you want to know who they’ve become?"

She sounds so hopeful that Lena can't bring herself to admit that they were never really her family at all. Or that she started keeping tabs on all of them the moment the Umbrella Academy disbanded, if only to know that they remained very far away from her.

Lena agrees to go, but on one condition: Kara comes with her.

Kara readily agrees, eager glimpse the enigma that is Lena Luthor. As long as they’ve known each other, and as close as they are, Lena’s connection to Hargeeves was a complete surprise. Lena had never hinted, and it all drives home the fact that Kara doesn’t know a single thing about Lena’s past except what she’s read in the papers. She’s as hungry for details as she is desperate to provide Lena the support she needs.

When they finally land in Metropolis, Kara’s not quite prepared for how grey the city is. Or how large the Academy is. It takes up an entire city block, and looms tall over the surrounding buildings. Inside, it’s just as gloomy, full of old world decor and coated in the dust of a forgotten era. 

Lena strides in with her shoulders square and chin high. Her heels click against the marble floors, and the sound announces their entrance to the four figures already huddled in the lounge. As one, they all turn to face Lena with varying degrees of surprise.

"Whoa," says one with dazed hooded eyes and curly hair. He gives an exaggerated blink. "Anyone else seeing this?"

"Hello to you too, Klaus," Lena returns, chin high. "And yes, I'm alive, if that's what you're wondering."

"It might be what he's wondering," says another, a man with sharp features clad in dark leather and... knives? He turns to face Lena head on, bristling for a fight. "But the rest of us are wondering what the hell you're doing here."

"Diego..." The only other woman in the room tilts her head chidingly. Something about her seems familiar, and tickles at the back of Kara's mind. 

Lena doesn't seem fazed by the man's aggression. Nor is she impressed by the blades he holds in each hand. Her only reaction is to lift the executor's note, sandwiched casually between two fingers.

"I was summoned,” she replies drolly. She tucks her hand back into her pocket.

Kara recognizes her stance. It’s the one she uses to exude confidence and ease-- regardless of how she felt. Even Kara never knew what was behind her mask until the moment passed, and Lena let the facade slip. Sometimes she was just fine. Others, not so much.

"And what?” Diego pushes, features souring into a sneer. “You thought you’d stop by for a quick payday?”

Kara bristles at the insinuation, but Lena only smirks.

"That's cute," she purrs.

The familiar woman speaks up again. "Diego--"

"What? If she thinks she can just waltz in here like she owns the place, looking for a handout, she’s got another thing coming!"

"She's a Luthor,” comes the low response. “She doesn’t need a handout.”

The last figure among them steps into the pale light filtering in through a dirty window. Kara tenses when she realizes that he’s head and shoulders above the rest of the already tall family, and twice as wide.

The hulking figure lumbers to a stop, regarding Lena solemnly. “She could own this place, if she wanted.”

He meets Lena’s gaze, and Lena holds it completely unaffected by his intense study. “Lena.”

“Luther.”

A tiny smirk curls the man’s lips. “Hope that didn’t get too confusing for you in your new place.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Lena’s tone remains lofty, to the point of dismissive. Luther’s smirk fell away, challenge thwarted by an afterthought.

Kara watched them all carefully, and kept quiet as Lena turned her gaze to the woman who’d come to her defense. “Hello, Allison.”

"Hi, Lena." The woman grins, and with a jolt Kara realizes she's looking at THE Allison Hargreeves. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough."

Klaus snorts from his position on the couch. "I like her."

To Kara's surprise, it's that small comment that brightens Lena's smile. 

A large, hulking man lumbers forward, gaze hard. "And the plus one?"

"A friend... and moral support."

Kara shuffles closer, wordlessly granting Lena the reassurance of her presence. The figures around her all feel large and imposing-- she doesn't know how much help she can be, but she's there and she's staying. 

"Well, then," says a new voice, older and gentler than the rest. Kara turns, and nearly swallows her tongue at the sight of an upright chimpanzee walking towards them. He smiles at her and Lena in welcome. "It seems we can begin."

The others settle in, but Lena casts another glance around the room. "Where's Vanya?"

Diego scoffs. "Who cares?"

"She should be here," Lena counters.

"Why should she?"

Lena blinks, clearly shocked by the cold rebuff. "Are you still twisted about the damn book--?"

"Fuck the book!” Diego snaps, gesturing with the point of the knife he held in his palm. “And fuck you too. This is family business--"

"Business for which Mr. Hargreeves requested Miss Luthor's presence, Diego. Please, show some respect."

The chimp-- man?-- creature?-- turns his stern glare from Diego to Lena, and softens noticeably. "I am glad you're here, my dear."

Lena shrugs her eyebrows with a light sigh. "That makes one of us. Let's just get on with it."

"She shouldn't be here any more than Vanya should be!" Diego counters, gesturing sharply. "She isn't one of us! She doesn't even have powers!"

Silence rang out in the wide room, as the occupants freeze. Kara freezes right along with them.

"Excuse me?"

Lena’s voice is low, and just this side of dangerous.

"You heard me! You lost your powers and got packed off because you couldn't hack it at the academy without them, and now you've come crawling back, maybe not for money, but for something. Whatever it is, you're not gonna get it, because you are NOT part of this family."

"Diego..." Allison’s warning falls on deaf ears.

Diego closes in on Lena, gaze dark and predatory. Lena doesn’t budge, meeting his glare inch for inch even as Diego’s pointing finger glints with the blade still tucked in his palm.

“Whatever it is you came here for, Miss Luthor, you are not going to get it. You aren’t one of us-- and you.. aren’t... family.”

He punctuates with one jab too many, takes one step too close.

Lena doesn’t so much as blink when Diego is flung away from her, plucked away by an invisible hand that send him flying until his back slams into the far wall. He hangs there, grunting for breath under an immense and invisible pressure that pins him by the chest with his feet dangling three feet off the floor.

Kara’s heart jumps to her throat as the room suddenly seems to plummet.

It takes her brain a long moment to realize the room isn’t sinking, but that the items in it are lifting. Anything not breathing or bolted to the floor slowly rises, and hovers steadily while the rest of the Hargreeves stare in awe.

Luther recovers first.

“Put him down--!” His charge towards Lena halts with a single glance-- he freezes in place, as stuck as Diego.

Kara stares. First at him, then at Lena, who casts a calm gaze around the room.

"Reginald Hargreeves was lot of things," Lena delivers smoothly, “but honest wasn't one of them."

She has yet to remove her hands from her pockets. Her placid calm takes several moments for Kara to realize that the invisible force holding Diego and the room aloft is somehow Lena.

Normal, human Lena, gripping a man by the throat without lifting a finger. Kind, gentle Lena, whose invisible grip lifts Diego’s forgotten knife, dropped in the commotion. It spins lazily in the air, and floats so close it nearly nicks the tip of his nose.

When he swipes at it, his hand ends up pinned to the wall next to his head.

"You might have grown up, Diego, but you're still small."

The knife jabs forward, driving point first into the wall beside Diego's head. He yelps, and then drops into a heap, released from Lena's grip. The rest of the room returns to its rightful place in a more controlled descent, before slamming the last inch in a petulant clatter.

"We're done here."

She pivots smoothly, and departs, Kara close on her heels

"But you haven't even heard what he left you!" Klaus exclaims, wholly unconcerned by Diego's slow rise back to his feet, or the fact he’d been riding a floating couch for the last thirty seconds.

Lena doesn’t respond. She doesn’t slow until Allison’s voice calls after them.

“Lena, wait! Please, just-- wait.”

To Kara’s surprise, Lena slows to a stop. Kara hangs back, willing to let Lena face her almost-sister alone, but not without backup.

Allison’s gaze bounces between them. The smile she gives Kara is cursory before she focuses her attention on Lena. “I’m sorry about them.”

“I’m sure.”

"It's actually really good to see you." Lena doesn't respond. "I'd hoped we'd run into each other, after I left, but it turns out you're pretty hard to get a hold of."

"That's by design."

"I know it's been a long time, but... I've never forgotten you."

Lena huffs, rolling her eyes. 

"It's true!" Allison insists. "You got out! You got to see the world, have a real family, real friends. There were so many times I wished I’d been adopted too.”

The foyer sits quiet around them when Lena fails to respond. Allison twists her hands together, nervous. “And it got lonely sometimes, growing up with so many brothers. I know it’s been a long time, but… there’s not many people who understand what this place was like. I’ve missed having another sister."

Lena regards Allison for a long moment, features and shoulders smooth as stone. When she smiles, it’s without mirth.

"I wasn't adopted, Allison,” she delivers coolly. “I was sold.”

Kara’s stomach plummets, a sour taste climbing up her throat. All the way here, she’d tried to prepare herself. She’d reasoned that if Lena’s childhood was a good one, she would have shared more of it sooner. But the confirmation of something dark and terrible makes her throat lock tight.

“And as far as sisters go…”

Allison stares at her, gaze edging on hopeful. 

"You already have one. Did you even call her when your dad died?”

Her only answer is Allison’s downcast eyes and guilty shuffle. 

“Yeah.” Lena’s features curl in a cold smile. “I’ll pass.”

This time when Lena leaves, no one stops her.

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

You've got so many compelling characters, I wanted to ask you about how one of them would deal with mine. So Spiridon is his usual silent judgement self, but he's very unhappy at Eren for dismissing Sera AND making Briala the puppet master, someone he considered a legit friend. He doesn't confront Eren but he can tell that the big boy is seething. What happens next?

I am SORRY this took me two thousand years to do but here it finally is!  ~3800 words of angry tall elves, most under the cut.

The Inquisitor often regretted having insisted the big white bastard remain at Skyhold, and today was no different.

He didn’t hate Spiridon, he supposed.  Not like he should have.  True, ‘big white bastard’ was one of the kinder ways he’d been known to refer to his former clanmate, but then Eren himself had likely been called far worse.  He certainly made no great effort towards hospitality now.  The Inquisition had need of Spiridon’s blade, nothing more.  As such, the hunters on the shadow path stalking outside Skyhold’s walls must remain unsated, and the cries of those back home distraught over tales of the harellan’s presence at the Inquisitor’s back must continue to fall on deaf ears.  

At least for now.  

Eren had seen judgment in the eyes of those he passed for long enough that he expected nothing else, exacerbated as of late by the recent troubles at Halamshiral.  Presently, it came from the stalk of white and beige crowding his peripheral vision, and with a particular sharpness.  He’d felt that needling pinch for weeks now; Red Jenny’s overdue departure from Skyhold lifted some measure of frustration from Eren’s mind, but Spiridon clearly did not appreciate being short the distraction in his down time.  Not a word had passed between them since, but the big bastard’s stares were sharp enough to speak for him.

Since the Inquisitor’s return from the Winter Palace, however, that little pinch had grown sharper, and deeper, no longer a needle so much as a blade.  It would be only a matter of time before it broke the skin, and drew blood.  

Spiridon watched him approach from his perch against one of the fortress walls as if he’d been anticipating it.  Dreading it, perhaps, Eren would’ve liked to think.  The air hung thick between them with a distinct sense of hunger, a long-standing craving on either side for the opportunity to have only their own halves of this conversation.  They would each pick its carcass clean, without concern as to whether the other found the same satisfaction.  Likely, they would both wholly intend to ensure their opponent did not.

Never one to give up an advantage, Eren would have the first bite.

“Is there a reason you think standing there gawking like that is the best use of your time?”

He received only a huff and a corresponding stiff, irreverent jerk of his subordinate’s upper body as a reply.  Fine, he thought, and drew a few steps closer.

“I expect everyone here to do their jobs, and it is hardly your job to support that wall with your back, is it?”  

Still no reply.  What else would he expect, really?  ‘Yes, Inquisitor, right away’?  A blatant insistence that he fuck off, perhaps, but acquiescence without some sort of pig-headed resistance?  Certainly not, not from him.  Nevertheless, Eren tired of the distraction of being followed this way and that by seething eyes and piqued breath, and decided it would simply not do to leave without ensuring its removal.   

“I suggest you find something useful to do.”

Despite the soft shuffling of cloth and boot against stone as he turned to leave, it would be far too much to hope for that this constituted Spiridon readying to do as he’d been told.

“And if I don’t?”

Eren turned, knowing full well what he would see behind him.  Spiridon had indeed shoved off the wall and risen to his full height, a good head taller than he was, if not more.  He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a sneer gliding down the wide bridge of his nose, daring the Inquisitor to answer.

Hardly willing to be such an easy meal, Eren moved towards him once more.  

“What did you say?”

“And if I don’t?” Spiridon repeated, the pitch of his voice dropping just enough to feel a bit patronizing.  “What then, hm?  Gonna throw me out, too?”

If it comes to that, without hesitation.  

Certainly not in the mood for another of the ambassador’s lectures on ‘good form’, ‘tact’, and ‘civility’, Eren begrudgingly straightened his posture and bit back the words until he could muster some that were a bit more...diplomatic.  He’d wasted enough of his time turning back in the first place.

“Is that what you want?”

Any attempt at good form, tact, or civility in Eren’s voice came through far less than enthusiastic in the first place, and the creases forming in his brow didn’t help.  The jagged edge of Spiridon’s upper lip rose, just enough of a smirk that Eren found himself fighting his own involuntarily rising into a sneer in return.  

“We’ll see.”  Spiridon leaned forward a little, and raised his eyebrows.  “So much for ‘need all the help we can get’, huh?”

Predictable.  The loudest mouths often sat below eyes that hadn’t seen, and Spiridon had been far from Verchiel when -

No.

“I am not discussing this with you,” Eren growled.  “It had to be done.”

“Bullshit it did.”  

His reply came almost the moment Eren’s mouth closed, as if he’d heard those words enough times he would’ve heard them whether they’d been said or not.  “You really think that justifies anything?”

No.

“I do not have to justify anything to you, understand?  Nor do I owe you any explanation.”

Perhaps as if to demonstrate the weight behind his words, Eren’s brow sank deeper into the hard stare he leveled at his clanmate - no, his former clanmate, and remained so until the crunch of the ground under the sharp turn of his heels communicated just how finished the Inquisitor was with this conversation.

Or so he thought.

“Yeah, see, I think you do.”  

Spiridon moved towards him in leisurely, yet deliberate strides, stepping forward to lay charges against his leader with the smug confidence - the utter arrogance - that this time, he could make them stick.  Once he’d closed the distance between himself and Eren to a mere step or two, he released one hand from behind his back, and pointed a long, bony finger towards his own face.

“You know what this means.  You know exactly how and why I got these, and still you actually asked me to stay.”

The marks of the harellan, a traitor to the clan, to be shunned and forgotten if not killed on sight, split his face on either side like cracks through stone.  He still remembered the morning after it happened: the commotion among the hunters, the hushed whispers throughout the camp, the blood staining the ground, and the faces of those responsible - the ones who survived, anyway.  By the time Eren was made aware of what happened, Spiridon himself had already gone, and his attackers relayed the news with a juvenile giddiness behind their outward solemnity that turned his stomach even now.  As though he should be proud of them, or perhaps even grateful.  Those men searched the face of their warleader for vindication in what they’d done, and Eren had left them wanting.  

Despite having every reason to dismiss Spiridon’s departure with a gruff “good riddance”, perhaps that lack of an opportunity to do so then was what prompted Eren’s often regrettable decision to ask him to stay when he and the Inquisition crossed paths years later.  That couldn’t be his explanation now, though.  Nor could he express the regret he felt rather keenly in moments such as this, like the itch that lingers after wandering through stinging nettles.  Briefly, the thought crossed his mind that that sting, albeit irritating and entirely unwelcome, felt familiar, and a familiar sting was just the slightest bit better than the dull pulsing pain in his hand, and the general prickle in the air about Skyhold that kept the soft hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end.

No.  Keeping a seasoned elite warrior on hand stood to reason regardless, and he’d not give Spiridon the satisfaction of feeling that sort of wanted.  He’d not be admitting he’d made a mistake, either.  

“Yes.  It was to the Inquisition’s benefit.”

Spiridon’s head cocked to the side ever so slightly.  “Wasn’t she?”

Ah, yes.  She.  The question righted his attention back to the matter at hand, and the clench in his fists could relax a bit knowing it would require far less contemplation to answer.

“No.”

The space between them and the Inquisitor’s remaining patience pulled taut in the silence that followed, and, having determined he’d offered Spiridon more than enough time to say whatever he was going to say, Eren turned about and headed back towards the keep at a fairly brisk pace.  Spiridon could rot with his frustrations by that wall for the rest of eternity for all he cared.  

Behind him, air rushed from Spiridon’s nose not unlike that of those big Ander horses he kept.  “What was it, then?  Couldn’t take your beloved Dalish being knocked down a peg, or you just don’t like being questioned now that you’re in charge, your Worship?”

A calculated strike, one Eren should have been expecting.  A question that should never merit an answer, flanked by spouts of inane horse shit he knew nothing about.  A jab at his back he should have been able to shrug off and keep walking.  Leave the bastard to stew.  Nevertheless, his jaw and fists clenched, his shoulders rose, and his feet planted the moment he heard that ridiculous name.  A moment more, just to be certain, and Eren stormed back towards the smug bastard, fully intent on returning the favor.  The ambassador could keep her lectures; with those words, Spiridon’s entitlement to any sort of tact or civility was forfeit.  

“Because she is foolish, and short-sighted,” he growled, forceful hands nearly throwing the words from his lips.  “Because her games needlessly cost people their lives, and because she ignored my order to stand down twice, which cost the Inquisition potential resources that could have saved those lives lost to her stupidity in the first place.”  

Each syllable stoked the embers rising in his core, providing all the fuel he needed to bite, to maul, to tear away flesh until he left nothing in his wake but bone and blood.  He would eat first, and he would eat well.      

“Letting her leave was an act of mercy.  She should be in a cell for what she did.”

Spiridon, true to form, weathered the onslaught with barely a twitch of his split lip.  Quietly biding his time, awaiting his turn to feast.  Even his eerie stillness couldn’t hide that the big bastard was practically salivating.

“Shouldn’t I?” he began, leaning forward enough that Eren needed to crane his neck upwards to maintain eye contact, with a coy raise of his eyebrows.  When only the mossy green vallaslin around Eren’s eyes tensed inward in response, Spiridon raised himself to full height once again, jutting his sharp chin forward and staring such daggers down his nose that told Eren exactly what he would say next before he even drew the breath to say it.

“Shouldn’t you?”  

Like a wolf notices the slightest of limps in its prey, so too did Spiridon notice the thick gasp stuck in Eren’s throat, the result of a stalemate between the parts of him that wanted to lash out at such insolence and those that wondered if perhaps there wasn’t something to it.  And, as wolves are wont to do once they’ve noticed such vulnerabilities, Spiridon stalked around him in a slow circle, forcing Eren’s attention tightly around his every move, and, coincidentally, his every word.

“Do you honestly think any of that foolish, short-sighted shit you pulled at Halamshiral will actually help anybody?  You’ve cost every one of those elves in Orlais their lives for all anyone knows, but yes, you’ve shown such mercy, haven’t you?”

His teeth fell true, and struck deep.  Spiridon’s words echoed those in his own mind, the ones that hounded his sleep and plagued his dreams since Halamshiral.  

You’ve cost every one of them their lives.

Leaving the decision of who would rule Orlais to the Inquisitor put him in a position he would have relished if any option had been the least bit appealing, but what could he honestly have done differently?  Leave Orlais in the hands of an empress who would show elves a friendly face only to have them murdered and burn their homes to the ground when it suited her?  Gaspard at least presented his mind regarding the people with a bare face; easily recognized, easily anticipated, and, with Briala’s oversight, easily leashed.  Yet, the doubt never quite left the back of his mind, and he saw it written over and over again in Spiridon’s self-righteous scowl as he circled, steady footfalls mimicking the heartbeat pulsing ever louder in his ears: for how long?

A decision without favorable options that should never have been his in the first place, indeed, but what was done was done.  If the emperor would cross the Inquisitor’s blade one day, he was more than welcome to the consequences.  

As was Spiridon, should he choose to continue this challenge further.

Another few steps, and Spiridon drew to a sudden halt directly in front of him, moving in closer with his chin dropped, ready to deliver his killing blow with a glare instinctively mirrored inches away on Eren’s own face.  

“That piece of shit Sera killed wouldn’t have even thought twice about killing you where you stood had you been anyone else but the great, benevolent Inquisitor, and neither would the one you just handed an entire fucking empire.”  

With that, the big bastard stepped backwards, the way an artist might in order to properly admire their handiwork.  He searched for cracks in the Inquisitor’s face now just as the hunters who split his had searched for praise in the warleader’s years prior.  He could allow a slight tremble to contain the pressure, perhaps, but he would not show cracks.  He must not show cracks.  Just as before, eyes would search, and Eren would leave them wanting.  Spiridon had fed quite enough.

“And when did I ever claim greatness, hm?  Or benevolence?” he snapped, tightly balled fists barely heeding his will that they remain at his sides as his teeth ground against the words. “It is not my duty as Inquisitor to be kind and good.  I am not a diplomat, and I am not a politician.  My sole purpose here is to end the threat Corypheus poses to the entirety of Thedas, and I will not compromise that to help you sleep easier at night.”

Chill wind mixed with Eren’s hot breath as he sent it steaming into Spiridon’s face, alongside a stiff finger granted a momentary reprieve to ensure he listened.

“Do not for one instant think I am unaware of what my duty will cost.”  

Spiridon’s lip curled into his reply without missing a beat.  “What it’ll cost you, or what it’ll cost everyone else?  Or does anyone but you even-”

No.

“It doesn’t matter!” he barked, cutting the air and Spiridon’s retort with a bladed hand, and forcing the big bastard to step back lest he cut more than that.  Good.  “War has always, always carried a price for those who aren’t fighting it, as you are well aware, regardless of how I do or do not value their existence!”  

Flecks of spittle found their way onto Spiridon’s cheeks as Eren pressed forward without concern for maintaining a demeanor fitting his station.  The time for such things had passed, and Spiridon would heed carefully considered words no more than would an unbroken horse.  

“But make no mistake, the lives we may lose will be minuscule compared to the countless lives that will be lost if we fail.  If a few must suffer so that many will not, then so be it.”

The pulses in his marked hand strengthened, and Eren hid the sickly green light with a rub at his neck as he turned away to collect himself.  A gesture made with the naïve assumption Spiridon would leave him to it, rather than be right at his back when he turned to face him again.

“And when a day comes that you need something from those you let suffer?  How willing do you think they’d be to lift the suffering of the man who watched theirs and said to himself, ‘I can live with that’?  If you even manage to leave any of them alive?”

“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?!” Eren roared.  “I do none of this for glory, or for favor; I do this because I must!  The same reason I’ve trained and protected a clan that sneered behind my back and called me unworthy.  The same reason I see to it those who will not abandon the shadow path do not find you in your sleep.”  It came as less of a speech and more of a snarl, accompanied once more by an accusatory finger.  “Because that is my duty, whether I want it or not.  Because this,” he thrust his hand forward, fingers splayed, the searing energy within thrumming so strongly now he could swear Spiridon may actually be able to see his skin move, “means I am the only one who can.”

They stood in silence for a moment as the heaving in Eren’s chest and the throbbing in his hand slowed.  In the brief absence of Spiridon’s voice, Eren found his own words hanging in his head, and himself alone with a reality he had wrestled even before Nightingale handed him that infernal dragon sword the day they arrived at Skyhold.

I am the only one who can.  

And the one who must see it done, no matter the cost, be it to himself or to anyone else, because the cost of doing nothing was more than he was willing to bear.  Even if the mark which designated him as such would one day be his undoing.  

He cradled and stretched his marked hand, his gaze pulled towards the pulsating light as his heart and breath fell into steady rhythm, and the stinging burn within began to subside.  It very well may be his undoing.   

And he would fulfill his duty anyway.

“The price is high enough without my own allies adding to it,” he said softly, as much to himself as to Spiridon.  “I will not apologize for doing my duty, and I will not suffer such insubordination.”  

He raised his eyes, but left his head where it was, a fiery glare falling on the big bastard from beneath a furrowed brow.  His next words were for Spiridon, and Spiridon alone.

“From anyone.”

“Yes, we all know how important you are,” Spiridon said through a condescending sneer, “but you still need people.  If you’re going to get people to risk their lives for you and your precious duty, you better give them a good fucking reason.”  His glare tightened once more, eyes becoming mere slits of darkness in the pale of his face.  

“And ‘because I have to’ isn’t good enough.”

Of course not.  Not for him.  It hadn’t been a good enough reason to take vallaslin, or to cease any of his small rebellions that eventually earned him those wolf marks in the first place.  Why should he expect that it would be good enough reason now, with so much more at stake than some scars on his face?

“You are not my prisoner, Spiridon.  You were asked to stay, remember?”

Asked, not told, a luxury Eren had not been granted.  Not really.  One which, he thought through a sinking knot in his stomach as he clenched his fist once again around the pulsing green palm, Spiridon may very well recognize, and take advantage of far sooner than later.  From the purse at one corner of his mouth, he knew what Eren meant to say, and he was considering it.  Once again, the big white bastard would sow doubt and dissent, then leave him to the task of reaping it.  Quite a luxury, indeed.

“Think of a better reason, Inquisitor,” Spiridon said in a low tone that could almost be described as somber, as if to emphasize some sort of finality, “before there’s no one left who cares to hear it.”

He left the Inquisitor there without care as to whether he had anything else to say, trodding off to...who knew.  To drink, perhaps.  Perhaps that would be the last Eren would see of him; he’d walk past the threshold of the Inquisition’s fortress and right into the shadow hunters’ waiting jaws, never to scowl and crowd anyone’s peripheral vision again.  For now, Eren could no longer be bothered to care, and retreated from the courtyard himself.  

A full pipe and several hours left the Inquisitor with a calmer head, but still in no state for sleep.  His mind drifted with the tendrils of smoke, first to the training yard, likely filled by the little black-eyed agent who never seemed to sleep, then to the fields and wooded clearings that served the same purpose for Lavellan.  Often, it would be him awake in the small hours of the night, swinging his scavenged human greatsword at nothing in particular - imagined enemies, perhaps - practicing forms and drills until he was chased back to bed or the sun rose, whichever came first.  Other times, the training grounds would serve as an arena of sorts, the place he put his training to use and demonstrated to his fellow warriors why he, of all of them, deserved the mantle of warleader.  A place to prove what words alone could not.  

Perhaps his restraint in the courtyard was...unwarranted.  Perhaps settling their differences the way they had in their youth would do them both some good.  And he was far from above dragging the big bastard out of his cot to knock his teeth down his throat for a while.

Having found all the motivation he needed; he dressed lightly, tied his hair back, and collected two pole arms from the armory.  Spiridon’s quarters lie just beyond the tavern - if he wasn’t in one, he’d be in the other, and Eren would send no messenger to rouse him from either.  The tavern was empty by the time he arrived, so he completed the short walk to the glorified broom closet where Spiridon slept and delivered a sharp rap on the wooden door with the end of a polearm.  Figuring him for a heavy sleeper, he tried again, and once more before simply turning the knob and rather unceremoniously letting himself in.

He’d spent the entire walk over rehearsing what he would say at this very moment and settled on something simple, yet effective - Training yard.  Now.  The light seeped into the room from behind him, and as the pile on top of the cot finally coalesced into view, the breath he drew to say it hitched in his throat.

Shit.  

[emmaekay]

Keiyaku VII for TPTH Vegebul Smutfest

AN: Well, here we are! It’s the end of Keiyaku. Have you enjoyed it? By the end, it was 20,100 words long. Thank goodness for @tpthvegebulsmutfest rule of using cuts! I love getting comments, hilarious tags and reblogs, so feel free to tell me what you think. Did something not make sense to you? Let me know! I plan on doing a full edit after the smutfest but before I put this up on AO3, which one of you asked me to do. Did you figure the ending out in advance? Did I shock you? Did you know that authors are desperate for human contact?

Day Seven – Cancer

“BEGIN!”

Bulma wanted to run away, she wanted to hide, she wanted to beg for mercy. She did none of those things.

Vegeta wanted to launch himself from his seat, to enter the battle, to rip Daiku apart and let his blood wash over the ground. He did none of those things.

Daiku wanted to refuse to fight. He wanted to throw the fight. He wanted to leave Bulma there, unharmed. He did none of those things.

“BEGIN!” once spoken, the command rang out over the assembled crowd and could not be unspoken. The battle would need to be met.

Daiku launched himself forward at Bulma – he would not drag her agony out needlessly. One light punch to the most heavily padded part of her suit should be enough to incapacitate her without killing her. He hoped he would not kill her.

Closer and closer, Daiku flew toward her, but Bulma felt the half-second stretch out into an eternity.

You have everything you need inside you.

I will swear upon my honor never to touch her – not in lust or in anger, so long as you live.

VEGETA, STOP!

It was time to test her theory.

“DAIKU, STOP!” Bulma shouted with all her might, all her willpower, all the strength she had in her tiny little frame.

The entire Saiyan audience jumped to their feet, stone silent. King Vegeta’s eyes were wide with disbelief, Prince Vegeta’s fists clenched tightly at his sides, mouth agape, frozen and breathless. Of all the Saiyans gathered, only Queen Pea, hiding the barest hint of a smile under one hand, remained unmoved by what she saw before her.

In the fighting ring, Daiku had frozen in place. One leg lifted in his blitz of a run. One arm swung forward and aimed at the dead center of Bulma’s chest. Less than one hair’s breadth separated his fist and her breastbone.  

That would have been enough to draw jeers, cheers, jibes and still more betting – but it wouldn’t have dumbfounded the entire audience. That, however, wasn’t the only thing that had happened.

Bulma was glowing, surrounded by a radiant, royal purple light. Ki rolled off her in waves and she hovered above the floor by six inches. Her head was thrown back and as soon as Daiku froze in his assault, she spoke.

Her voice was not her voice – it was amplified and multiplied, as if three Bulmas spoke at once. She lifted her head and pierced every listening ear through its owner’s heart with the force of her voice.

“DISHONOR.”

Daiku glared at her. She, floating off the floor, was finally at eye level with him now. “What?” he choked. Is she impugning MY honor? Daiku felt a fury growing inside him.

“YOU ARE DISHONORABLE.” Bulma’s glowing form continued to accuse him. “YOU SWORE NEVER TO HARM OUR MOTHER FOR AS LONG AS OUR FATHER LIVES.”

From high in the stands, ever Saiyan’s hair stood on end. The King whipped his head around to stare, disbelieving what he was hearing, at his wife. She smirked at her King, who flopped down to his throne – the mystery solved for him. Prince Vegeta never looked away from Bulma, not even to blink, never once as she continued to speak.

“DISHONORABLE ONE. DO WE SPEAK UNTRUE?”

Daiku dropped out of his fighting posture, straightening his back and trying to compose himself. The fury which had nearly blinded him a moment ago began to melt away and was replaced by something wholly different. He bent at the waist, and laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

“No, no, you speak truly,” he sputtered, still chuckling. “I swore never to touch your mother in lust or in anger for as long as your father should live.”

“THEN IT IS A DISHONOR FOR YOU TO FIGHT HER NOW.” Bulma’s form continued, her eyes a soft lilac in color and the brilliant aubergine light around her still flickering and flaring out around her. Vegeta choked and sputtered, trying to understand, trying to process what he was seeing.

Her ki has been different.

She has been eating more than even I.

Daiku’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “You are… very young. I am not fighting her in anger, nor am I conquering her in lust. This is an honorable battle and I am filled, especially now, I am filled with joy. There is no dishonor in this match for me.”

“I SEE.” Bulma’s body spoke. “THEN IS THERE HONOR HERE FOR OUR MOTHER?”

“Yes,” Daiku replied. “She has already satisfied the conditions for her victory, since you have kept her standing for one minute. There is honor in battle for all Saiyans.”

“GOOD.” At that, Bulma’s ki flared to the highest point of the ceiling and she shot forward, punching Daiku once – hard – in the belly, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to his knees. He held one arm up high over his head, palm open.

Surrender.

The courtyard erupted into screams and cheers, a great throng of Saiyans began to chant PRIN-CESS-BUL-MA! PRIN-CESS-BUL-MA! The King and Queen broke into wide, wide grins and called out over the din, “VICTORY! THE FASTING IS DECIDED! HAIL THE PRINCESS BULMA! VICTORY! THE FASTING IS DECIDED! HAIL THE PRINCESS BULMA!”

Vegeta flashed and in an instant was at Bulma’s side, as the light around her dissipated and she fell to the ground. Her blue eyes fluttered – her own blue eyes – and she looked up at Vegeta. “Did it work?” she asked him, before falling fast asleep in his arms as her new people rioted in joy around her.

***

When Bulma came to, she was on a plush, ruby red couch. She was wearing her Saiyan battle suit. She was alive.

And she was confused.

She remembered yelling, she remembered Daiku freezing on the spot, like Vegeta had done many times, like the castle guard had done many times. Bulma’s theory was that Saiyan men were weak to screaming women. After all, when Vegeta heard her yell, he dropped everything. The guard, even on pain of death, had been frightened enough to jump out of her way. She had intended to just scream at Daiku for the full 60 count and weasel out of the fight that way.

But instead, she’d blacked out and when she came to, she was here.

She blinked and looked at the room around her. Plush, red velvet furniture and a gilded four poster bed under a massive leaded window, easily 16 feet tall, drapes drawn open and the night sky in full, glorious view.

A knock came at the door. “Come in.” Bulma said softly, sadly. She assumed she had just fainted dead of fear, losing the match, embarrassing her and dishonoring Vegeta. Would she ever see him again? Would he even want to see her, after such a miserable performance?

Beri entered the room with two armfuls of Bulma’s favorite liquid silk fabric, this time in an intense eggplant purple. “Princess Bulma, you’re awake! Thank goodness, thank goodness. Are you alright? How does your body feel? Do you hurt anywhere? Would you like a drink, or some meat, or should I just go find the Prince?” Beri dumped the fabrics on the bed and rushed toward Bulma in her flurry of questions and concerns.

“Beri… I thought you would hate me? And what happened in the match?”

“Hate you?! Princess, you are my greatest treasure – the greatest treasure of all Saiyans!”

“I’m so confused.”

“That,” Vegeta growled from the doorway, “is because no one can ever explain anything properly around here. Including you.”

Huh?

“Beri,” Vegeta addressed the dressing woman. “You are excused for one hour. Do not return early. Inform the King and Queen that we will be down to the feast at our leisure.”

Beri smiled warmly at Bulma and nodded dutifully at Vegeta, then excused herself.

“How. Did you. Do that.” Vegeta snarled, his voice dark.

“Do what? Vegeta, are you angry with me? Did I lose? Did I dishonor you? Why is Beri calling me Princess now? Why is she so pleased with me?”

Vegeta’s face softened. She didn’t know.

“Bulma… you won. You struck Daiku once in the belly, dropped him to his knees and he admitted defeat.”

“WHAT?”

“Do you not remember?”

Bulma sat down on the edge of the bed. “I remember going to the match. I remember Daiku rushing at me. I remember yelling at Daiku once, to stop. And then I remember waking up on that couch.” Bulma pointed to the couch the Vegeta stood next to. “I don’t remember punching Daiku or winning or anything else.” She frowned.

Vegeta crossed the remaining space between them and snatched her up off the bed, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly. His Bulma. His Princess Bulma.

“Bulma, you could have died. What was your plan, to shriek at him until his died of his deafness?”

“You do what I say when I yell at you.”

“Because of the keiyaku, you little fool.” He held her more tightly, kissing the top of her head.

“The castle guard did what I said when I yelled at him.”

Vegeta frowned, but before he could ask her what she meant, he felt his mother’s energy in the room. He released Bulma and turned to face her as she walked into the room and sat upon the couch.

“Hello, children,” she smiled warmly. “Do you have questions or would you like to be left alone?”

Bulma blushed, longing to be alone with Vegeta, but he was already crossing over to sit in a chair facing his mother.

“What,” he demanded, “is going on?”

“Vegeta, have you ever heard of the Saiyan Gemini?”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.

“It’s very rare, my son. Very rare and very strange. And very powerful. From a one in a million Keiyaku, sometimes two babies can be born from the same wombtime.”

“Two WHAT?” Bulma shouted. “Two what? What did you say?”

“Don’t be afraid, my girl, it is clear that they are bonded strongly to you already.” The Queen smiled, reassuringly.

“Two what? What?”

Vegeta had not spoken. She was always hungry. Her ki was different. Her commands were irresistible to Saiyan men.

“Bulma is…” Vegeta trailed. “Bulma is… Bulma is…”

“Oh children.” Queen Pea tittered, rising from where she sat and crossing to Bulma. She took the younger woman’s hands in her own and lead her to sit on Vegeta’s lap in the chair he seemed stuck to. She took her seat on the couch once more and looked at both of them.

“Bulma is with child. With children. She is exhibiting all the signs of the very rare Saiyan Gemini.”

“I’m…” Bulma began.

“You’re…” Vegeta said.

“Congratulations! The King and I are so pleased.”

Bulma began to cry, but not in sadness, in overwhelming joy as the most gentle aura of plum colored light began to emit from her belly. Her twins were telling her hello. Vegeta placed his hand carefully, carefully, so carefully on her glowing middle and the light expanded to cover his hand and up his arm.

“I think,” Bulma laughed tearfully, “I think they’re saying hello, daddy.” She wept and wept. Vegeta’s hand shook.

Queen Pea addressed them both. “I knew Bulma was pregnant the day I saw the two of you playing in the field. When a Saiyan woman becomes pregnant, her words become irresistible commands to any male Saiyan they’re aimed at. When you told him to stop,” she looked at Bulma, “he stopped. We evolved this way to make our very difficult and dangerous pregnancies a little easier – it keeps our big, dumb lovers from accidentally harming us.” She laughed. “I didn’t realize it would happen in a non-Saiyan woman, though.”

Bulma and Vegeta both looked very young, the Queen thought, as they hung on her every word.

“But the Gemini! That shocked me today. You were in absolute mortal peril and your babies took over your body to protect you. They will be powerful. And brilliant!” She clapped her hands together. “I can’t wait to meet them!”

The Queen gathered up her skirts and made for the door. “Come down to the feast, soon!”

Vegeta and Bulma just stared at the door, long after the Queen had closed it behind her.

***

Vegeta was on top of her, behind her. She was twisted underneath him, one leg crooked protectively against her swollen belly. She needn’t worry, though – Vegeta was twice as protective of his soon to be born young.

He slid one hand over her belly, up and over her round breast and up the ivory column of her neck. He stroked her cheek with a thumb as he stroked in and out of her with a burning need.

Her long blue hair flowed over her shoulder and lay like strands of the finest silk on the bed. Vegeta listened to the soft gasps of her breath. He watched a delicate pink flush bloom on her cheeks.

My Princess. My Bulma.

Bulma felt him flow deeply into her, deeply and gently and she moved one leg to engulf him more fully. He slid in and out of her, building up the speed and depth. His hands caressed her, and he bent over her to steal a kiss.

My Prince. My Vegeta.

They clung to each other in love and in passion, in desperate need for the other – as always. But something new had developed in these last few months, in addition to the twins growing strong in Bulma’s belly. Their lovemaking came with a sense of peace and of home. That no matter where they were, as long as they were together, they would be home.

He nuzzled into her neck, aligning their bodies with such exactness.

She was made for me. My perfect one.

Bulma could feel him more deeply than ever before and as he ground against her, she cried out in pleasure and happiness.

Take me to the man I’m destined to be with!

Vegeta felt her tense and relax, tense and relax around him, and he let go inside her with a growl like a purr from the back of his throat.

Bulma was home. She couldn’t wait to welcome her babies, and introduce them to their father.