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rcksmith · 3 years ago

Text

Desire — Kaz Brekker

(Photo not mine)

Requests: “Hello there! I've been around this blog for a bit now and you are an amazing writer! I was wondering if you would be ok with doing something with 21 28 & 29 from the smut prompts and kaz brekker? If you are uncomfortable please just ignore this!”

“Kaz brekker Smut prompts 28 66?? Love you💖!!”

“I can request Kaz smut prompts 29?❤️”

Smut prompts:

21. “Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already shaking.”

28. “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

29. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

66. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of shot, mention of desire, desire, mention of smut, explicit smut, NSFW.

Word count: 3k

A/N: All smut requests for Kaz must follow these rules.

I hope you like💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — —

There was something about you. Something impossible to decipher, with a glow hovering around you like a electrical energy. Wrapping your whole body in a cloak of magnetism. There was something about the way you spoke, walked, laugh. Something about what it was like to be you, in your beauty and mysteries like a sphinx.

Something that made Kaz Brekker completely furious.

You couldn't be more distorted from the image, in Kaz's mind, than what was to be a peaceful woman. Calm, controled, with steel emotions and wit in eyes. Someone who, like him, knew how to dance the waltz of negotiation, manipulation, who could blend in with the shadows and know the best time to listen more than speak.

You were not like Inej, you were not like Jesper. Hell, you were like nobody Kaz has known in all of his 28 years.

Nothing reminiscent of calm and control would be used to describe what it meant to be you.

Your soul are stormy, loud, obstinate, too stubborn and too talkative. You needed to speak loudly, laugh, move, expose your opinions to the seven winds and to whoever listened the most. You needed to question, inquire, doubt and test the limits of any situation. A direct order for you would be an affront to your free and independent spirit. A command that would curtail your freedom or tame your strong genius was almost like an invitation for you to do exactly the opposite of what they had ordered you to do.

So, for a man of trained reasoning, subtly balanced world, and who was used to his every command being followed vehemently and promptly in blind obedience, such a personality like you was like introducing a disturbing factor capable of shaking all his judgments. Sand in a watch, or stone in a shoe, would be no more a nuisance than a strong nature like your.

The extraordinary stubbornness and mania to counter his orders - when, in your words, they were unreasonable - had made you different from all the women Brekker had ever met. Kaz liked challenges and responsibilities, a good puzzle, but you were on a level far beyond that.

You were a danger to his peace of mind. And you knew that. All his aversion to your indomitable spirit only served as fuel for your own mission in to piss him off. Few men were like Kaz Brekker, you knew that, with a strength of character too powerful to be ignored. He was not just comfortable in his position of authority as he was obviously unable to act in any other way than as a leader. His stoic figure and always so contained in a wall of indifference made you want to ruffle his hair to see if you could remove any emotion. And being a girl who hasn't always liked leaders, Kaz Brekker was a huge temptation. Few moments had been better than those that you managed to piss him off beyond what he could handle.

However, all the reasons why the two of you were so exasperating for each other, did not explain why the air crackled in ambiguity when your eyes met. The hemisphere was adorned in a thought-provoking, poignant veil, like a warm honey flowing down its throat, and there was something else in the way blood flowed like flames of fire through veins of you two.

Jesper said that the sexual tension between you was so tangible that it could be cut by one of Inej's knives, but you refused to think of Kaz that way. At least until that moment.

Not pure images of what the infamous Brekker could do to you between four walls swept you like the strong Arabian wind. Making you be surprisingly breathless. Kaz was not a man whose private life was exposed, nor was he involved with many women, but you have heard two or three of them when they were drunk saying that Kaz Brekker in the room could be incendiary.

Everyone knew that his touch reserve didn't limit him to anything, but that his job was at the top of the priority list and that sexual encounters were almost never on that list.

"It was not my fault!” Jesper defended himself one night, slightly drunk, sitting at the club's round table next to the other crows “I didn't know he was married to another man! That damn pretty face seduced me!”

"Did he seduce you?" You asked, skeptical and playful.

"I swear to God! And it had been a long time since I had sex with anyone, and I went… ”

“But you did sex last week." Inej laughed, chocked.

"Exactly!" Jesper said, as if he were obvious.

You laughed with your beer glass in your hand, taking another sip.

“Is a week a long time to not sleep with anyone?" Matthias retorted, trying not to laugh.

“Are you going to tell me that is not?” Jesper and Nina spoke at the same time.

“If a man has time for sex more than once a week, he clearly doesn't have much to do. And I'm sure I gave Jesper a lot of tasks that would keep him busy.” Kaz narrowed his eyes at his friend, and Jesper hid his guilt behind the rim of his beer glass, looking to the side.

"So you are saying that you are a very busy man?" You teased, trying not to laugh at the scathing look Kaz sent you.

"I disagree. The values of hard work and discipline cannot match the hot body of a woman in bed.” Matthias said, exchanging a brief conspiratorial look with Nina, who winked at him.

"There are more important things." Said Kaz.

"Like what?" You rested your chin on the back of the hand whose elbow was on the table, the playful look of a rebellious student.

"Progress." Kaz held your gaze.

He wasn't going to take your bait. But you didn't give up easy.

"Tell me, if God gave you a deal: all the hunger in the world would be extinguished in exchange for you never being able to have sex again, what would you choose?" your eyes had a teasing feline glow.

At that moment, Kaz felt a shiver up the back of his neck, like a warm breath of autumn. Something crawled, like a snake, across his rib cage and down to his groin, pumping blood like fire through his veins.

He held your gaze, but the feline glow in your eyes promised to contain the most ardent sins. Suddenly, Kaz's mind was flooded by the wave of obscene images of you, on his bed; moaning, squirming, shouting his name and being very obedient with every order he gave you.

He would make you such a good girl...

"I don't believe in God." He replied succinctly, the predator's eyes still in your eyes audacious feline's.

A big, satisfied smile spread across your face, and you said: "As I thought. Bad luck for hungry people.”

Realizing that he had fallen right into your cunning trap, Kaz got rid of your diabolical magnetism and cursed.

“I didn't say…” he stopped, impatient “It doesn't matter. I have more important things to do than waste time here.”

But the smile you hid behind the glass was noticeable to Kaz.

After that night, the crackling, gasping flame that circled the two of you intensified to alarming levels. Kaz could feel you holding your breath when he was too close, and you could see him squeezing his cane harder when you sweetened your voice for him.

However, regardless of Kaz's wanted to fold you at a table and put an end to your brat girl pose, enjoying the groans he was sure you would let out, the two of you still fought like dog and cat.

Just as it was now.

“What do you mean, I'm not going?!” You looked at Kaz, amazed, when he told you that you would not participate in the robbery that week “I know that security system like the back of my hand!”

It was true, what you had of stubbornness, you had of technological intelligence. There was no computer that you would not hack, a program that you would not hack, and a system that you would not unlock. Your genius with technology made up for all your lack of obedience.

But Kaz ignored. “I've already told you. It's a more dangerous mission than you're used to and we don't have time for the plans you come up with right away.” He needled you.

“Are you referring to Switzerland?” You were never anything short of direct and inquiring. It was logical that you would question every orden. “But I already told you that when the alarm went off your plan didn't work anymore! I was more useful inside to deactivate the alarm than waiting outside.”

And stubborn. Holy God, how stubborn you were!

"And it cost you to get shot."

"But it was just a shot!"

Kaz looked at you, puzzled. “Just?! And wasn't it enough ?! You put the whole team at risk!”

“But if I hadn't deactivated the alarm, we would all be arrested! And only I knew how to do that!”

"My fucking God, isn't there a speck of common sense in you?!"

But you answered boldly: "Not when you impose clueless plans on me."

Mortified would be an understatement to describe how he was now. What an unbearable creature! Kaz felt the anger spread from his neck to his face, igniting his breath and squinting his eyes in annoyance.

Why was it so difficult for you to follow a simple goddamn rule?!

“Besides, your initial plan was flawed and there was no reason for me to be out when it was necessary inside and...” And you kept talking!

If you had noticed Kaz's completely enraged state in front of you, you would have been scared, shut up and ran. But, truth be told, Kaz suspected that even if you knew how to read the murderous humor in his eyes, you wouldn't have left that office. Much less be afraid. You could argue with the demon. And you would probably beat him out of tiredness.

However, regardless of the desire to shake you up, to see if that put any good sense in you, in that second, watching you gesture with your hands, defending your point of view as if it were the england queen's crown, something swept Kaz's body from the top of his head with dark hair to the tips of his illustrated boots.

The sound of the world was drowned out by the flow of blood itself in his veins. His heart hammered hard in his chest and, in that instant, a sharp sting in his groin and the pit of his stomach set him on fire.

His gaze went down to your mouth, which kept moving. And when it came up to your eyes, your stubborn and defiant gaze sent Kaz's rationality into space. He dropped the cane abruptly, which toppled to the floor with a hollow crack, and advanced towards you in firm and determined steps.

Gluing his gloved hands to your face, Kaz silenced all your protests with a strong kiss. Hot, fiery, domineering. The kind of kiss that held years of camouflaged desire, years of irritability, years of an unnerving desire to make you shut up with all the perverse forms that existed.

You weren't afraid of him. But you should. You should if you knew everything he wanted to do with you.

However, as if you have been burning in the same desire for years, you responded to that kiss with the same urgency. The same hunger. Kaz slipped his hands into your hair, closing his fingers there and deepening the kiss with ferocity. He felt beside himself, like a hungry wild animal that had been denied food for years and that only now had its teeth set on its prey. You moaned against his lips, bringing your hands to his lean, strong biceps, squeezing your fingers there.

You both needed air, but neither seemed to give a damn about that. Misted of desire that burned like a fire in their bodies, Kaz pushed the two of you backwards, slamming your back against the wall and swinging a frame beside. You gasped, and the gesture made it possible for Kaz to invade your mouth with his tongue, hunting every piece of hot meat. You two fought the same battle in that kiss: invade, dominate, conquer.

They both wanted to take the waltz, but Kaz would never let you conduct the show.

He pulled your wrists up, pinning them with one hand against the wall, leaving you immobile while sinking his mouth further into yours. Kaz felt you try to get rid of his tight grip, but he was stronger than you. And much more when he have a objective.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He murmured against your mouth, the tip of his tongue playing with your bottom lip. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Was impossible for you to control the loud moan that escaped. Your body trembling with desire, your legs wobbly, your wet core vibrating with his words. Kaz Brekker was a fallen angel. With a beauty and charm you've never been immune to.

How can you think you'd win the dominance game with him?

And, like the fallen angel he was, his smug and arrogant smile painted the corner of his lips when he saw what his lines did to you.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” Kaz mocked “If I knew it was only necessary to do this for you to shut up...” he brought his lips closer, his voice hitting yours “I would have fucked you like the naughty brat you have been a long time.”

If his caustic and maddening kisses hadn't been enough to break you in half, that statement would have done all the work.

In that second, you hoisted your white flag, biting your lip in a needy moan and closing your eyes for a second by the overwhelming vibration of your core. God, you needed more. Whatever he gave you. Anything he wanted to give you. You just needed more.

"Are you going to be good?" He played with the dough you were in his hands, his devilish mouth going down your neck, leaving a trail of fire and debris wherever he went.

You agreed, desperately. “Yes, Sir."

That title seemed to do things with Kaz. Because in the next second, his mouth was back on your. More urgent, more needy, more dominating. You shifted your hips for more friction with his, and Kaz rewarded your obedience by pulling one of your thighs forward, making your skirt go up, aligning your thigh on his hips and giving access for his member to fit perfectly against your pulsating core.

You moaned louder this time. Fingers clenching, heart pumping frantically. Kaz pulled his lips away from you for a second, taking his hand off your thigh and bringing it to your mouth.

“Pull.” He ordered, referring to the glove.

You murmured a low, excited moan, bringing your mouth to the glove and clenching your teeth on the cloth at the top of his middle finger. Satisfied, Kaz pulled his hand back, watching the alabaster skin peel away from the leather fabric. As soon as he was free, he removed the glove from your mouth, replacing it with his own and stealing all your breath in that fiery kiss.

His free hand wandered over your thigh, touching you for the first time with a touch that promised to show you all the most delicious and secret sins in the world. His tongue wrapped around your again, and the moan you let out was even greater when his long fingers brushed against your wet, throbbing core.

"S-sir!" You sobbed, your hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more.

"Look at you." His fire voice beat against your lips, the tightness against your wrists getting stronger, more possessive "I’ ve only started using my fingers and you ’re already shaking"

Your body cried out in unbridled desire, sobs mingling with loud moans and heavy sighs as Kaz tormented you with his fingers. He touched you, slid, opened and sank, increasing the volume of your pleas.

“P-please" You begged, the body in need, the urge too urgent.

Kaz looked you in the eye, a dark, malicious gleam burning in his Egyptian blue irises. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" He teased you.

But you no longer cared about his teasing. With your lips swollen and red, your heart racing and the core pulsing in despair on his experienced fingers, you were already surrendered.

"Please. I n-need." You mumbled submissively, rummaging your hips in his hand.

"I bet if I wanted to fuck you against my desk, here and now, you would be very happy to do it, wouldn't you?"

He was foisting all of his dominance on you, bending you to your knees for him. And you knew that. You knew he was taking years of anger out on you. But you couldn't care less. You wanted him. Ardently. Desperately. And if it was a good girl Kaz wanted, damn it, you would be a good girl for him.

You readily agreed, your eyes shining in supplication.

“Good.” Kaz pulled you brutally off the wall, turning you over to the table and pushing your chest against the icy wood, pulling your hips at him. “Because that's exactly what is going to happen.”

Suddenly, desire and hunger roared like a wild beast. Kaz watched you, bent over his desk, obedient, surrendered, offering every inch of your body to him.

His breath was burning in his throat and it was no longer possible to order his thoughts, contain his euphoria. He would fuck you so hard that it would make that memory the only thought when you remembered him. When you dare to rebut his orders.

Kaz pulled you skirt up and your panties down, letting out a groan that sounded more like a growl as he saw your wet core. Pulsing and desperate for him. For anything he wanted to give you. It sparked a fervent desire that Brekker had never felt in his life, devastating any possibility of thinking about anything other than fucking you.

Playing with your fingers in your slick, wet folds, you whimpered again, the core pulsing whenever he teased you inside, pressing his fingertips there but never entering.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice came over the top of your shoulder, hoarse, animalistic, full of profane desires.

"Please." You were quick to beg “I do what you want! But just...please, please… ”

You already felt your eyes watering from over-stimulation, your heart burning so hard it was beating, your core aching from emptiness.

You sealed the end of the game between you. Kaz had won. In a triumphant checkmate.

And you didn't have to beg again. Barely seeing when he unbuttoned his pants, you just reasoned his hard, hot, pulsating member by opening your from the inside. Claiming everything that was yours as his in a strong, desperate, hungry lunge.

"S-sir!" You screamed, your nails scraping the wood from the table, the core pulsing overwhelmingly around his rigid member.

In a more badly lunge, Kaz sank completely into you, moaning loudly as he hit rock bottom. The gloved hand slid over your shoulder, propelled you to him while the bare hand tightened on your waist, hitting you at a steady, raw, animalistic rhythm.

The sounds were pornographic, dirty and loud, echoing off the walls. The air was hot like molten lava, pungent and muffled, driving you two lost breath. Their bodies clashed as if the world was going to end tomorrow, in aggressive, rough thrusts. These were thrusts that made half of his things on the table fall to the floor, mixing in a mess that would serve as a reminder later about the sinful activities you two did.

You screamed when Kaz took on more force, his fingers squeezing you so hard that they would leave you with marks on your shoulder and waist the next day.

"Fucking hell!" Kaz snarled between his teeth, feeling your flesh throb around him, squeezing he with such desperation that he knew you were close.

You sobbed, tears streaming down the corners of your eyes as you pushed your ass towards him, trying to bring him as deep as possible, as deep inside you as possible. But every time his pelvis smashed into your ass, a loud moan and the feeling of being completely full drowned you.

You begged, pleaded, for something you didn't know. But Kaz seemed to know. Taking both hands to your hips, your pace became even more unperturbed, pushing you to the limit until you cum in a scream in his name, your lungs on fire. Kaz came close behind, sinking as deep as possible and pouring all the hot liquid into you. Almost like a brand.

The air was filled with sex, lust and desire, filled only by the sound of their ragged breaths that struggled to stabilize.

You were still panting when Kaz's voice came after you: "Whatever I want, don't I?"

A deal with the devil.

3K notes · View notes

teklarn · 3 years ago

Note

I NEED A PART TWO FOR BAUKGOU’S AWKWARD CONFESSION!!

𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓵 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 𝓹𝓽. 2

character(s): katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

a/n: k the first one kinda blew up and i've been on tumblr for like a week and it made me rly happy receiving the requests ty <33 thank u for all the reblogs too !! this is a bit later than i hoped it would come out b/c half of the original fic was deleted by accident, but i’m on summer break until sept 5 so hopefully i’ll still update frequently.

𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕!

summary: bakugou finds he’s rejecting his feelings for you in fear of becoming weak, however he just can’t seem to ignore you.

genre: lil angsty, fluffy at the end

warnings: cursing, one-sided pining, gave reader a quirk, the fighting scene is bs i cannot write action scenes at all im so sorry lol, second hand embarrassment for our dearest dynamight :(

word count: 2507

pls don't mind any typos! i try to edit to the best of my ability but i tend to type fast and i might miss a few or a lot of things.

- - -

read part one here my loves !!

you found yourself bored, cheeks puffing out as you swirled around the drink in your glass cup, sitting across from midoriya. he was muttering again, which you’d always found cute, however you weren’t listening this time at all.

part of the reason you’d rejected bakugou was due to the fact midoriya had requested your attention first, and not as friends. if you’d told bakugou that, it would just wound his delicate ego on top of the fact that you truly had no interest in him whatsoever.

at the moment, though, he was the only thing on your mind. there was no sudden spark of attraction you’d felt when he’d confessed. of course, anyone would find it flattering that the katsuki bakugou found you attractive. his standards were higher than the clouds.

at the moment, it felt like something was blocking your chest from feeling something for him, however you couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“—it was amazing, right, y/n? y/n?”

your eyes flickered up to meet the emerald, wide-eyed eyes of your friend. you contemplated lying, but it was no use. shaking your head softly and pursing your lips, you set your drink down. “i’m sorry, midoriya. i’m just kind of...out of it, i guess you could say?”

he cocked his head to the side. “’out of it’?” he repeated.

“yeah,” you sighed, head pounding.

“is everything alright? maybe today isn’t the best time for this.”

“yeah,” you agreed. “maybe.”

“do you want to go back to the dorms?”

you nodded, massaging your temples. “yeah, yeah let’s go home.”

midoriya let out a soft chuckle through his nose, smiling. “alright.” he offered his hand, and you gladly let him heave you up.

“i’m sorry about this. honestly, midoriya, i enjoy your company, i really do. but i never assumed you’d catch feelings for me too—”

“too?” he blinked. the two of you continued on your way back to Heights Alliance.

you gulped. “yeah, there’s—”

“are you saying you caught feelings for me, as well?”

your eyes fell blank, lips parting in question. “no, uh. you know what? never mind.” you giggled gently in hopes the two of you would laugh it off without another thought. perhaps you should keep you and bakugou’s quiet interaction to yourself. midoriya and bakugou were already rivals enough.

the following week was agonizing in many ways. sitting beside bakugou guaranteed that you would get strange, judgmental looks. it never guaranteed his stolen glances. when you’d catch him staring, his cheeks would flare up, and you swore he had smoke puffing out his ears.

each time, he looked as if he would explode. what can you expect from a guy like him?

it was easy to assume you’d just pissed him off, though. you weren’t the type of person to tell everyone you’d been asked out, but you needed to speak to someone about it. the thought had been nagging you, stuck at the back of your mind but just on the tip of your tongue.

you even found that you were distancing yourself from midoriya, who, after asking you out, had insisted you begin calling him izuku. over everyone else, you’d choose him to speak to about the matter, but ever since you’d discovered he had feelings all along, it was strange being around him.

you viewed him differently. he shot you glimmering smiles and blushed softly when you said his first name.

“y/n?”

you twisted around to see mina rocking on her heels behind you. “yes?”

“are you okay? you seem...how do i put this.” she tapped a pink finger against her lips. “off. you seem off. is everything alright?”

your brows raised. “oh, yeah. i’m good. thanks for checking in.”

“is there anything you want to talk about?” she adjusted her hero costume. you and the rest of the girls were currently changing for another training exercise.

yaoyorozu fixed her hero costume. “i don’t mean to impose on anything, but i have to agree with mina, y/n. of course, there’s no pressure to tell us anything. you’re under no obligation to unless you need and want to talk to someone, but we’re here if you need us, okay?”

you nodded, smiling softly. “thanks you guys.”

it was the same training as before, however you were able to select a partner of your own. being that there were 21 students in the class, there was always ought to be a group of three, or one person left out. you’d come into yuuei out of pure luck, as some like to put it.

you’d found it offensive they’d assumed it was that and not your own pure skill. it’d taken a while to re-convince yourself that you were worthy of being in the class, even if you were usually the odd one out.

most students had already bonded by the time you arrived here, so finding a partner wasn’t always easy. once you and midoriya had gotten close, you two did most things together, however at the moment, you weren’t quite feeling it.

surprisingly, your eyes caught bakugou standing alone, eyes scanning the room for a partner. kirishima must have partnered up with another friend, then. it was always them together.

unfortunately, you weren’t quick enough to avoid either of them. bakugou was already trotting up to you, eyes locked on your figure just as midoriya began jogging to your side.

in perfect unison, they asked, “be my partner?” (in two very different tones, of course.)

you blinked between them, about to answer when aizawa came up behind you three.

“are you guys in the group of three?” your teacher deadpanned.

your shoulders slumped. “yeah, i guess so.”

“get to work. you’ve already wasted five minutes standing around.”

you nodded politely. “yes, sensei.”

you swallowed. bakugou’s crimson gaze was pinning you in your spot, and midoriya’s lips thinned with a lack of enthusiasm when bakugou looked back at him.

“get to work, you three,” aizawa repeated, walking away.

“i can take on both of you.” bakugou cracked his knuckles.

you clenched your fists. “we already know you’re at the top of the class, bakugou. there’s no need to rub it in our faces.”

he averted his eyes, cheeks flushing red. it was like a sad, silly way of letting you know you won this fight.

“i’ll go against you two,” you said, adjusting your hero costume.

midoriya’s eyes widened. “what? y/n, but—”

“but i’m not strong enough?” you finished for him. you knew where they ranked in strength, and while yours was just as powerful, if you let one thing slip, your arrows would disappear and you’d be dust. “that’s exactly my point, you two are practically at the top of the class with your quirks.”

“tch, don’t hold back,” bakugou said, readying himself.

“don’t go easy on me,” you mocked.

“y/n, do you really think this is a good idea—” before izuku could finish, you and bakugou launched yourselves at one another.

you charged forwards. an arrow flew from your hand, twisting its way right through the smoke of an explosion. when it cleared, bakugou was nowhere to be seen.

a gasp fell from your lips as you turned around just a little too late. your ears rang terribly as your back collided with the ground.

izuku cried out. green lightning flashed, and he was at your side in a moment. “kacchan!”

you groaned, sitting up. bakugou cut through the smoke with an arm. “fight me, damned nerd. there aren’t any pauses in a real fight.”

you wriggled yourself away from midoriya. “midoriya, you’re my enemy in this.”

“bu—”

“no buts. fight me. and don’t hold back.”

midoriya noted the determination in your eyes and stood, giving you a sure nod. you were back on your feet in a second. bakugou flew in the air and came crashing down just as fast as he conjured a blast in his right hand.

attacking wasn’t your best option right now. you were smart enough to know that. an arrow appeared flat at your back and pulled you from where bakugou was targeting.

cement flew into the air.

that blast could have wounded you badly. possibly killed you, if he’d hit the right spots.

in the air, you examined their zealous features. midoriya’s brows were furrowed in that determined smolder.

bakugou, as always, looked angry. as expected, he charged first, shooting himself into the air. his foot nearly collided with your face, missing my barely an inch. you took your shot, revealing the arrow you’d hidden behind your back. the tip collided with his chest.

you left the arrow to complete its command and stick your blonde opponent to the wall and trap him there while you went after midoriya.

while he bested you in strength, you did the same to him when it came to speed. you dodged his punches like they were weak attempts at hitting a ball in a park.

you grinned. in a battle of strength and speed, whoever landed the first hit would win. there was no question.

twisting in the air, you allowed the ball of your foot to shove midoriya to the ground. he cried out as his face was crushed into the cement.

it was perfect timing, as bakugou ripped free of your hold, the arrow keeping him in one spot dissolving into air as soon as its purpose was lost.

your head whipped around to see him charging for you.

your fingers curled. the headache pounding at your temples was beginning to get hard to ignore.

bakugou launched himself at you, spinning in the air like a missile. he really wasn’t going to howitzer you...right?

when he didn’t slow down, you threw your body to the right, the attack just barely missing your leg. it scorched a bit of your thigh. a groan fell from your lips as you cupped the area around the burn, shuddering with pain.

bakugou’s chest was puffed proudly as he marched up to you, hands cracking with excited explosions.

he pulled back his right arm, ready to spark up another fight as midoriya recollected himself. you bit your lip to hide the fact you were quivering.

it was sudden, but bakugou paused when he saw your hand fly up.

“give me a minute...” you gasped out, skin still sizzling.

“y/n! are you alright?”

you didn’t respond. midoriya smacked his friend’s arm. “kacchan! what’re you thinking?”

“midoriya, i’m fine. don’t stress over it.” you limped to your feet, rejecting the extended hand from your green-haired friend. “i’ll just go see recovery girl.”

“do you need—”

you smacked midoriya’s hand away, a little bit more rude than you intended it to be. “i’ll be...fine.” you offered a weak smile to hopefully make up for your tiny outburst.

although you could see in his eyes he wanted to help, midoriya nodded and stood by, hand falling back to his side. you clutched around the patch of burned skin. the sting had faded a bit, however there was a soreness to the wound that felt like a constant stabbing to your leg.

you swallowed the pain down, marching towards the exit with determination and a bit of a limp.

you looked back to see midoriya had gone off to tell mr. aizawa what was going on. your teacher nodded, understandingly.

there were a few worried glances and offers for help in the hall, but you’d neglected them all and found yourself relieved to see recovery girl in her office, typing away.

she turned as the door opened. “please knock beforehand next time—oh, dear. y/n? are you alright?”

you gave a tense nod. “mhm. just got a bit banged up in training today.”

the old woman pursed her lips, smile lines becoming evident. “i see.” she led you to the small cot reserved for patients such as yourself and directed you to sit down.

she examined the bruise. “it’s fairly bad. what happened?”

you made a gesture to the door. “i was brawling with bakugou and things got...intense.”

“that boy has quite an extreme side to him, as i’ve come to notice.”

“mhm,” you agreed.

“unfortunately, y/n, i have no ointments to be able to treat this properly.”

you nodded sheepishly before the old woman smooched your cheek. a soft green glow radiated around you.

when she pulled back, she said, “now, your body will be trying to catch up on the healing process. that’s what my quirk does. speed up recoveries. since it’s sped up, you’ll require some rest, preferably sleep. i’ll make sure your teachers know you’re excused for the rest of the day, sound good?”

“yes, thank you recovery girl.”

she pushed herself out of her rolling chair and left the room, smiling at you.

your eyes fluttered shut not long after that.

the sun was gone when you woke up, the hallway light flickering off.

“good, you’re awake.”

you looked to the left. you cried out, gathering the white sheets around yourself despite being completely clothed. “bakugou! what the hell? you stalker! you creep!”

bakugou took the slap you gave him on his arm. it was light, and didn’t do much damage.

“what...what do you want?”

even in the dark, you could tell bakugou’s cheeks were burning red. “about...about the other day. i wanted to talk to you about it.”

your chest fluttered in unwanted hope. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

“dammit, y/n, i wish there wasn’t anything to talk about. you’re insufferable and annoying and i can’t stand being around you because no matter what’s going on, you make my chest feel all funny. it’s stupid, and i can’t take my eyes off of you.”

heat rushed to your cheeks. “i’m flattered, really. but i-”

“i’m not asking you to reciprocate my shitty feelings. if anything, it’s better if you don’t.”

“bakugou, i wasn’t...” you paused.

“you what?” he snapped, voice soft despite his tone.

“i was going to say that ever since you...ever since you asked me out, i’ve been conflicted about my own feelings.”

“the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“i’m not sure if i like you back or not, bakugou. but hearing you say all this...makes me want to give it a shot. sort of. also, why the hell are you watching me sleep?”

bakugou swept hair from his eyes. “don’t go and try to change the subject on me, dumbass.”

you gulped.

“so what’re you saying?”

“i’m saying,” you started, “i’m saying that maybe i want to go out on that date with you.”

“say it again.”

“what?” you looked up, his eyes boring into yours.

“i said i want you to say it again. tell me you want to go out on a date with me.”

it startled you how sure he was when he knew what you wanted, too. this was unlike the last attempt to ask you out.

“katsuki bakugou, i want to go on a date with you.”

he grinned. “where to?”

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katzkinder · 3 years ago

Text

Little Drops of Water

Tetsu is his pride and joy.

It goes without saying, really, that his dear Eve is his greatest treasure in the world, and that the Item he has been given, one half of the set of four hairclips Tetsu used to keep his hair out of his face all throughout middle and highschool, are almost equally as dear to him as the boy himself. Long after Tetsu is gone, their shiny plastic, ocean blue, will last and Hugh will add them to his treasures. There they will remain alongside a young noble girl’s favored comb, a king and hero’s favorite embroidery (done by the steady and lovely hand of his wife), and… A peasant girl’s dress, carefully, lovingly preserved against the ravages of time, so delicate now that only the most trusted of his subclass are allowed to care for it.

Yes, Tetsu is his pride and joy, and yes, it goes without saying that Hugh holds him near and dear to his heart… But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t brag about him to whoever was fortunate enough to have to listen to him.

...Which is why the situation in front of him is so… Frustrating.

Now, call him a coward, call him a fool, call him a doddering old man… Perhaps he was all those things. But he was not so fool enough as to blindly praise working oneself into the ground, nor was he the type to give praise where it wasn’t due.

Tetsu was not the brightest.

He would admit this, albeit no longer to his Eve’s face. And while he would admit this, he would also much more readily sing Tetsu’s redeeming qualities. Tetsu was a hard worker. Tetsu was steadfast. Tetsu was loyal. Tetsu was a good listener.

Tetsu was all these things and more, but most of all, Tetsu was dedicated.

Which is how Hugh found himself acting as tutor, with his brilliant mind and sharp wit, while his dear Eve prepared for university entrance exams.

It was heartbreaking, though, how hard he worked. Not because Hugh believed he would fail, oh no, far from it. Tetsu might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was fastidious, and really, Hugh thought, the thing that held him back the most was his lack of confidence in his own abilities, to which Hugh proudly thought he had been quite instrumental in rectifying, if he did say so himself.

It was heartbreaking because… Sometimes, it felt as if the only one who believed Tetsu would succeed was Tetsu himself.

And Hugh, of course.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He didn’t believe Tetsu’s family meant to discourage their son. Far from it, they wanted nothing more than for Tetsu to succeed, and they supported him fully in his university career endeavors. Except, well, Tetsu had told him that he wanted to go to university for one very simple, but very heartfelt reason.

He wanted to save their inn.

The inn which… Tetsu’s own parents felt had no future.

But Tetsu and his iron will, of course, thought otherwise, and he refused to give up on the family business, the place he had grown up and loved and worked so very hard to help run, even as far back as before he and Hugh had met. It was charming. It was lovely. It made Hugh want to fight for him, more than ever before.

The inn was something that, even more than a contract with Hugh, Tetsu took Pride in.

So Hugh, in order to nurture that pride, in order to care for his Eve, would do everything in his power to teach Tetsu everything he needed to know to make that dream of his come true. To make their home, because that’s what it is, this place. This little inn is Hugh’s home now, too. It’s no grand castle, no stone walls or towers or awe inspiring, imposing structures, but he loves it all the same, loves the people who make it such a warm, wonderful place.

He wonders how he could have ever considered letting this place die.

Hugh knows the answer, of course. It’s because he was a coward, a fool, and a doddering old man.

He refuses to be that way any longer.

***

“Hugh. Are you tired?”

The Servamp of Pride exaggerates his yawn further, rubs at one of his eyes with a tiny fist, and mumbles that he is fine, he can keep going, let them continue the lesson. Tetsu frowns at him, adjusts the reading glasses he now needs (and he’s grown into such a handsome young man, Hugh thinks, barely able to keep the smile off his face to continue his ruse), and sets the heavy prep book aside.

“No, it’s late. What time is it?”

“Check your phone, my boy… It’s almost a quarter to eleven,” Hugh informs him, just as Tetsu makes a startled noise when he confirms as such with his own eyes.

“It really is that late… Hugh, that’s amazing. You never need to check a clock or anything.” He shakes his head, willing the distraction away. “Sorry. I should have kept a better eye on the time. Let’s stop for the night. I didn’t notice, but… I’m kind of tired, too.”

And just like that, Tetsu starts tidying his space, placing his glasses back in their case and his books back in his bag while Hugh goes to fetch their pajamas. His Eve pats his head when he returns, murmuring a quiet thanks while Hugh soaks up the attention in a way very few people who aren’t big brother are able to earn from him, and after that, it’s the rest of their bedtime routine as normal. Getting changed, brushing their teeth, rolling out the futon, and climbing in together, Hugh always forever tiny against Tetsu’s larger frame, forever his Eve’s favorite teddy bear.

It suits him just fine, and he chitters softly, contently, when he’s snuggled close, tucks his head up under Tetsu’s chin and inhales the scent of pine he finds there, that wafts from Tetsu himself and his futon each. It’s soothing. It’s home.

Hugh cannot allow himself to fall asleep yet, no matter how tempting it is.

He lies there, being held, being loved, and waits for Tetsu’s breaths to slow, waits for his arms to go slack, just a bit, because once Tetsu is asleep… His real work begins.

It’s easy to slip away. A bat in the night, easing the door to Tetsu’s room open and swooping out into the halls, a wandering pet no one will see in the dark and no one will hear, silent as the beat of his wings are. He pauses, only briefly, when passing by the front desk where the lovely spouse of Tetsu’s elder sister still diligently works, greeting Miyako with a swoop and a cheep. She smiles at him, bids him safe journey.

“I’ll leave the lamp on for you. Take care, Hugh~”

A charming young lady, and she treats Tetsu well. Hugh can’t say he disapproves of her, even if her family is one he could do without. Of course, he never says as much, neither to her face nor to Tetsu’s.

That would be rude.

...To All of Love, however, he will gladly complain.

***

Hugh does not return until hours later, when the moon has passed its highest point in the sky and is on its journey back down to the horizon, chased by creatures neither he nor humanity can see, and yet, if you had asked him once, he would proclaim for certain that they were there.

Now, though, science tells otherwise, and he mourns the loss of that mysticism of the past at the same time he celebrates the inventions of the future, because it is only through the inventions of the future that he is able to monitor what needs to be monitored, and complete the tasks that need to be completed.

Such as keeping up with the local subclass, not all of which are his.

It is… Exhausting work.

Tokyo is a large place, and even without the Melancholy vampires to look after, knock on wood that it stays that way, even without Lust subclass, godspeed to All of Love, the number of them in Tokyo is staggering. Most of them are his, yes, and he does not regret granting them new life, no, never, not one bit, but… Well. Some of them need more assistance than others, and between tending the inn alongside Tetsu, studying, and this, his schedule is just… Completely packed full.

He wouldn’t trade this mind numbing feeling for the world. Not after they worked so hard to achieve what is still, unfortunately, an unsteady peace, but it’s an unsteady peace that has allowed his siblings and his subclass to prosper. To be happy, and healthy, and it leaves him puffing out his chest, tired but proud. Tired but happy.

Hugh would do even more if it were asked of him, he thinks as he sits to start putting together more flashcards and mnemonics and memory games, pens and books and note cards spread out in front of him while he lies on his stomach and gets to work. He would do even more, do whatever he could, if only to secure Tetsu’s future even more surely than the rising of the sun.

Because Tetsu is his pride and joy.

And as his pride and joy… Hugh would make certain that his Eve could rest without a single ounce of guilt.

Sleep well, my dear. The future is yours.

#kat's katerwauling #servamp #tetsu sendagaya #hugh the dark algernon iii #pride pair #pawprints #servamp fic #where my pride stans at

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years ago

Text

I’m Always Curious Part Thirty Seven

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Notes: I hope everyone’s having a good week 💕 This one is uh... Long-ish

Warnings: Canon-typical violence; angst; fluff Summary: “Couldn’t unearth that eight hundredth notebook?” Una asked dryly.

I’d given up on trying to find my old translations by the time we reached Catalpa.

Paledore commed that he was making headway with some of the translations, anyway, though he didn't have anything he was fully confident in sharing with the team. As soon as we dropped out of warp, a shuttle with a few of our engineering officers was on its way over to the Hutton to lend a hand. With transporter and warp capabilities down, as well as limited transmission capacity, their team was spread thin.

“Have we got a fix on the crew’s location?” I asked Number One as we strode toward the transporter bay.

“Not yet. We have the coordinates of their last transmission, but whether or not they’re still there is a but of a gamble.”

“Any breakthroughs on the translation?” Pike asked, looking over his shoulder at the two of us.

“Not yet, but Paledore’s on it.”

“Couldn’t unearth that eight hundredth notebook?” Una asked dryly, and I shot her a look.

“Notebook?” Pike asked as we all approached the transporter pads.

“One of the runes looked familiar from a class at the Academy. Couldn’t find where I took the note down,” I explained before stepping onto the transporter pad beside Watson. I caught sight of the Captain glancing back at me, seemingly poised to say something before he turned to face forward again. My brow furrowed, curious, but I didn’t get the chance to ask him what it was before we were beaming down.

Catalpa’s surface was arid and bright. It took a few moments to adjust to the light that the three suns in the sky shone down on us. I looked around at my fellow crew members before I turned, searching for any other signs of life, or any other Starfleet crew members. “Alright,” Pike said, looking around, “Let’s split up— teams of two.” I had assumed Una and Spock would pair off, but Spock moved to go with Watson, his junior officer, and Una with the Captain. That left myself and Thira— but that was more than alright with me. We’d be looking for the crashed shuttle that the crew of the Hutton had taken down. There was a chance that there would be crew members within the surrounding area, and even if there weren’t, if Thira could patch the vessel, we could get it off of the ground and use it to scout for the landing party. Pike glanced around at the groupings of us, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment before he nodded firmly, glancing away and issuing a stern, “Be careful,” To the group.

“Sidhu here.” “Anything?” Una’s voice was nearly unrecognizable through the thick crackling of the static. “Nothing,” Thira answered. I glanced over as we waited for an answer, for further instruction, but none came— just the crackling hiss. I shook my head a little bit, raising my hand to swipe at my brow. “How long have we been down here?” Thira muttered, tucking her communicator away again. “Couple of hours at least.” “I need— I need to sit,” Thira huffed tiredly, lowering herself onto the ground and opening her jacket a little. She waved her hand at her face, trying to cool off. I looked around. Where we were looked no different from where we’d beamed down, but I knew for a fact that we hadn’t gone in circles. I huffed, walked around to stand in front of Thira, offering her some shade, and she sighed, smiling. “Thank you.” “No problem,” I smiled a little in turn before glancing around. I could feel a breeze, picking up a little. “...You feel that?” I asked, looking in the direction it was coming from. “Yes, finally,” Thira muttered. I frowned at the sight of what seemed to be a shadow moving in the distance. “Thira.” “Mm?” “What’s that?” She turned to look at it, frowning, and pushed herself to her feet, trying to get a better look. I lowered my hand to my communicator as I heard it trill. Before I could get out my greeting, Paledore’s voice crackled through: “Commander! — Ambushed crew — translated — runes of — Folmarian—!” My stomach twisted at what did come through, as the shape of the shadow became clearer and clearer still. It was a vessel, a large sand-skimmer outfitted with fore and aft guns. “Thira, move,” I pushed her arm behind me, “Run.” “Folmarian what?” She asked, taking a couple of steps back as I urged her. “Pirates.”

The bad news was, we could not outrun the sand-skimmer. A planet as barren as Catalpa was, there was nowhere to hide. In addition to the unforgiving landscape, we’d been walking for two hours; we were tired, we were thirsty. The good news was that we found the crew of the Hutton. Of course, they’d had their communicators taken away, as Thira and I had, as well as their phasers before having their hands bound, but, you know. You take what you can get, really. There were seven members of the Hutton crew on that sand-skimmer. I watched, dismayed, as one of the skimmer crew members smashed our communicators to pieces before flashing me a toothy grin. “Won’t need that where we’re going,” He rasped. His fellow crewmates had chuckled; I felt Thira tense beside me, and I’d simply lowered my eyes. There was no way for me to track where we were going. Whatever this ship-type, it had some cloaking device that kept it hidden from the Enterprise’s sensors. “What are we going to do?” Thira mumbled. “Don’t panic,” I reassured softly, “They’ll find us.”

“Shouldn’t we fight them off?” I frowned at one of the crew members of the Hutton that had scooched up beside me when our captors were occupied. I glanced around at the surrounding ship before asking, “With what?” “I cannot stand to just waiting,” They hissed. “I understand that, but anything we do will be risky. We have no weapons— no way to free our hands.” I hesitated before admitting, “During the Klingon war, I was taken hostage, briefly. It was terrifying, but I knew that my crew was coming. We’re here because your crew reached out as soon as they realized something was wrong, something bigger than your vessel could handle. They’re going to find us. We just have to wait.” The Hutton crew member went silent beside me, shifting moodily. “...When were you captured?” I nearly didn’t hear Thira’s question about the rush of wind around the sand-skimmer. I shook my head a little. “Let’s just say we stopped using a tether on Tag and Runs after that.”

Waking up to Christopher’s voice had been the sweetest sound in the world, once. This particular instance, however, was… More than a little imposing. “Attention: this is Captain Christopher Pike of the U.S.S. Enterprise.” I wasn’t sure when I’d drifted off, but now Thira was nudging her shoulders against mine, forcing me awake. “It has come to my attention that several Starfleet members, including two of my crew, are aboard your...Vessel.” I had to fight a grin off at the pause, looking around and trying to locate the source of his voice. It was too low in the atmosphere to be coming from the Bridge of the Enterprise— he had to be close. “If you halt now, return our crew members to us unharmed, we promise you that we will let you go. If, however, you choose to engage us in combat...I cannot speak for the condition you will leave in.” I had to huff out a soft laugh, unable to help it. The crew of the skimmer were rushing this way and that, doing their best to locate the source of the threats, to man their guns, to raise their shields. They didn’t do it quickly enough, however, because within seconds, members of the Hutton and the Enterprise alike were being beamed aboard. “Beam us out!” The member of the Hutton beside me snapped, even as Phaser fire began whizzing over our heads. “I’m sure they would if they could,” I gritted, trying to shrink myself down against the rail of the ship. “That’s not good enough!” They yelled, “If I’m ever aboard a starship again—” I was hardly listening— I was watching Una cover Spock’s six as he worked at an imposing-looking control panel. She caught my eye and I gave her a quick nod, letting her know that I was okay before the two of us averted our gazes again. Questions and answers could come later, when there was time. “Are you listening to m—?” The Hutton crew member yelled, but before they could complete their irate tirade, they were beamed out. “Shit!” I hissed, glancing up after them. “Clear, Captain!” I heard Una yell. Captain? But— “Copy, Number One. Five to beam up—” Why wasn’t he on the Bridge? He should’ve stayed on the Bridge— I saw Thira beamed out before I saw Christopher just in front of me— And then the ship dropped away. -- I didn’t think I’d ever be so happy to be sitting on the floor of the transporter bay with my hands bound. I glanced over to see Spock already working to untie Thira’s hands, and I glanced behind me as I felt Una’s nimble fingers working at my own restraints. “How’d you find us?” The words were thick in my mouth, my tongue heavy and dry. “Paledore got some help, worked out the runes. We did a fine-tuned scan of the planet, there’s a map carved into its crust, and a deeper magnetic mantle. It was interfering with our communications and initial scans.” I glanced up as Una helped me to my feet, and I caught sight of Christopher leaving the transporter bay. He glanced behind himself, but he didn’t turn, didn’t meet my eye— he just hesitated for a half-step before going on his way. “Med-bay, both of you,” Una tacked on before I could say a thing. -- The dehydration was an easy fix. The sleep deprivation, that was fine, I was used to that. Boyce had given myself and Thira the day, and while she was taking it to rest, I couldn’t get my head to settle. It was the worry I couldn’t get out of my mind— the half-looks that Christopher had been giving me, before I beamed off of the ship and when I’d been beamed back on. I needed to speak with him. He didn’t seem surprised to find me standing beside the Captain’s chair, expectant and quiet. He just glanced up, told Number One that she had the conn, and led the way to his ready room. The door slid shut behind us, and I folded my arms around myself, looking around. “You’re alright?” “Yes, Captain.” “Then what is it that you need to discuss, Commander?” I couldn’t help my sharp glance, the furrow in my brow. His tone was so austere; his eyes were guarded, and a little cold. “...The mission on Catalpa. Before we beamed down, you seemed like you were going to say something—” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean—” “And when we beamed back aboard,” I spoke up a little bit, speaking over him— I wouldn’t let him hurry me out of the room, no matter this discomfort, “You also seemed to hesitate.” Pike shook his head a little bit, lips pressing into a thin line. “That sounds like a matter of your perception, Commander.” “...Don’t do this,” I pleaded softly, “We’re just getting back to… Something normal, and Catalpa’s a hiccup, but—” “A hiccup,” He scoffed, “A hiccup doesn’t almost get you killed.” “Captain—” “I had it.” “...Had what?” It took him a long moment, but— “The notebook that you were looking for, I… It was in my quarters. Several of your notebooks still are. I’ve been… I have been meaning to give them back to you.” I considered this for a moment before I managed, “Then how did Paledore—” “Once I realized that you couldn’t find it, that it was likely my error, I beamed back aboard and gave Ensign Paledore the materials he needed. But it was clearly too late.” I watched Christopher turn away from me, walking over to the window. “I see,” I finally said, “Well...The point is, we made it off of the planet—” “No, the point, Commander,” Christopher turned back to me, “Is that you were nearly killed because I can’t let go of you!” I was stunned into a surprised silence, my mouth falling open a little as Christopher lowered himself onto his couch and put his head in his hands. My heart had ticked up in my chest. Christopher and I had been toeing this line for so long, but for him to simply dive headfirst into this conversation— my mouth was as dry as it had been when I’d been beamed off of the planet. “I almost lost you again,” He said quietly, “And it would’ve been my fault.” I took slow, careful steps over to him before I hesitantly knelt down in front of him. I reached up, lightly gripping his wrists and tugging his hands away from his face. “...Technically it’s mine for not digitizing my notes, right?” I tried to tease, to bring a smile to his face, but Christopher’s lips barely twitched. “I should’ve given them back a long time ago,” He mumbled, defeated and tired as he said so. I settled back onto my heels, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why didn’t you?” Christopher’s face shifted, his eyes flashing, his hands leaving my grip as they cupped my face. “How?” He asked lowly, “How can you still not know what you do to me?” In that moment, I felt more joy and more fear than I had the moment I’d seen him aboard the sand-skimmer. “Christopher,” I mumbled weakly, shaking my head a little. He didn’t give me a moment to falter or to shy away. He just drew me in, pressing his lips firmly to mine. I leaned into him, bracing my hands on his thighs. We took our time, indulging in each other’s little shifts and pauses, the feeling of our lips slipping together, heady and sweet. I teased my tongue along the seam of his lips and thrilled in the soft groan that emanated from his throat. When Christopher leaned away, it was only long enough to draw me off of the floor and onto the couch. I settled into his side, his arm curling around my shoulders as mine wrapped around his middle. He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed as he drew in a deep breath. I leaned in, pecking his lips gently, trying to soothe the hurt that was lingering over him. “I’m sorry,” He murmured plaintively against my lips. I nodded, smoothing my hand over his side. “It’s alright.” The words were hardly out of my mouth before he was kissing me again. -- Number One had the conn for...Quite a while. Tag list: @angels-pie ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo ; @how-am-i-serpose-to-know ; @onlyhereforthefandomandgiggles ; @inmyowncorner ; @tardis-23 ; @paintballkid711 ; @katrynec ; @hypnobananaangelfish ; @elen-aranel ; @blueeyesatnight ; @hotchswifey ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lunadegitana

#I'm Always Curious #Captain Pike x Reader #Captain Pike x You #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike/you #Captain Pike fic #Captain Pike Imagine #Christopher Pike/Reader #Christopher Pike/You #Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike fic #Christopher Pike Imagine

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years ago

Note

if you’re still taking meet ugly asks, could you do 01 or 13 for sternclay? nsfw please

Here you go! I went with 1.

we were set up on a blind date but it went horribly, so now you message me every time you have a good date because you think your tips will help me in the future, you ass.

Bzzbzz

Joseph picks up his phone and regrets it before he’s even done reading the waiting message.

Barclay: See, this is how you dress for a date at a casual place.

It’s accompanied by a photo of a headless torso, sporting a Ramones T-shirt and blue jeans.

He deletes the message. He told that asshole he was in the suit because Hayes kept him late to finish a report and he didn’t want to be any more behind for their date than he already was.

No, you know what, he’s had enough of this.

J.S: He’s dressed like a college student. No one told me you were a cradle robber.

Barclay: Just trying to help you do better next time ;)

This is the same line he gives Joseph every time he sends one of these texts

“It was great, it felt like a real conversation instead of an interrogation.”

“See, what made tonight nice was he didn’t look at his phone even once.”

“Now, what made this nice is that he didn’t mistake another guy for me on the way in.”

He has reasons, explanations, things that could make him look more like a man who had a bad day and less like the poster boy for the horrors of blind dating. But the one time he tried sharing his side of things, Barclay responded that he wasn’t doing this to make sense of their shitty date, but to make it easier on the next guy.

It was the last date in a long line of increasingly desperate attempts by his loved ones to find someone, anyone, for him to be with; being married to his work fills all his needs. Leave it to his older sister to spot that it wasn’t meeting many of his wants.

Joseph tosses the phone away, retrieves his take-out leftovers from the fridge. As he munches reheated green mango chicken, the city heading out into Friday night revelry without him, he decides that while he’s not about to take dating advice from a guy who can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to consider someone else’s perspective, Barclay makes one good point: there’s always a next time.

And there’s no moment like the present to start planning for it.

--------------------------------------------------------

Barclay cannot figure out why Logan chose this spot; it’s one step above gay cruising club. Not that he hasn’t had fun at those before, but he was hoping for somewhere quieter. Also somewhere with better food; you can tell a lot about a guy by what he orders, and fuck all about him when the only meal to be found is chips or the olive from a martini glass.

Still not the worst date he’s been on.

As Logan steers the conversation in promisingly steamy directions, Barclay glances at the bar and locks eyes with his biggest disappointment of the year. Joseph raises an eyebrow, then his face goes annoyingly neutral as he looks first at Logan and then to the bartender for another glass.

His date excuses himself and Barclay weighs how much of a dick he wants to be against how good Joseph looks tonight. He’s in a v-neck and a short jacket, dark-wash jeans making it easy to picture how satisfying hooking his legs over Barclays shoulders would be.

Barclay sidles up to the bar, leaning on it and smiling at Joseph, “You finally decide to put my advice to good use?”

“No.” Joseph replies, tarter than a cherry, and goes back to looking at his phone.

“Suit yourself, and have fun going home alone.”

The black-haired man squares his shoulders, turns so that Barclay gets a full-on view of a stunning face and sharp, blue eyes, “At least I won’t be going home with someone who’s using me for a prank video.”

“Pfft, whatever man, you’re just-” Barclay snaps his mouth shut as Joseph turns his phone, showing a Youtube channel hosted by none other than Logan.

“His modus operandi is to have viewers vote on which gay man he should go out with and string along the whole night until he reveals he’s straight.”

“I, I uh, that’s” his heart is in his shoes, “that’s not very nice.”

“That’s not all. There are three cameras recording your date.” Joseph points to three separate guys, “they’re using their phones, makes it hard to prove they’re not just texting or something else innocuous.”

He might cry. Worse, if he cries, he might owe Joseph an explanation.

“There you are baby, thought you’d run off.” Logan sets a hand on his arm and Barclay freezes, trying to work out a non-humiliating form of escape.

Joseph clears his throat, “Are you aware that recording people without their permission is illegal in this state?”

“Uh, no, but what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

“You, and those three gentleman you’re having film Mr. Cobb here, are all at risk of being charged with a misdemeanor.” Joseph’s voice is smooth and clear, utterly in control, and Barclay gets goosebumps as he pulls out his wallet and flashes an FBI badge, “I suggest you get out of here before you do something you regret.”

The quartet disappears in a cloud of body spray as Barclay slumps onto a stool and Joseph orders two more drinks, sliding one his way. Whiskey Soda, his favorite. He’d ordered it during their date.

They sip in silence for three songs before Joseph says, “I guess I passed the dubious honor of your worst date onto someone else.”

“You’re still a strong runner up.” It’s mean, but Barclay isn’t feeling very chipper right now.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that bad! I was trying to learn as much about you as I could while switching from work mode to a date.”

“You made me feel like I was doing all the work!”

“If you’d given me more than a half hour of your time I could have fixed that.”

“Nah, I know when a date is doomed. No point in dragging it out. It wasn’t going to be fun.”

“I can be fun!” Joseph knocks back the rest of his drink, “I’ll prove it.”

Barclay snorts, “how?”

“I want a do over. Right now.” Lights dance across his skin and Barclay gets a whiff of gin and mint as he leans so they’re almost nose to nose, “Unless you’re afraid you’ll be the dud this time.”

“You’re on.” Barclay growls, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

------------------------------------------------

Either his pillow sprouted fur overnight, or Joseph isn’t where he should be.

He cracks his eyes open, squinting in the muted, grey light sneaking in under the curtains. The room, while tidy, isn’t his, and the clock on the wall tells him he’s starting his Saturday out with oversleeping.

Barclay is sound asleep beside him, his broad, hairy chest rising and falling soothingly. A cursory peek under the blankets shows he’s a naked as Joseph is. As the agent slips from the bed and hunts down his clothes, he starts to remember why.

They’d done something in the club bathroom, a blow-job, that’s right, and the instant Barclay dragged him into his apartment Joseph shoved him onto the bed, yanked his pants off, and returned the favor. He remembers, as he surrenders to going commando rather than wear his pre-cum stained boxer briefs, wanting to sleep with his head on Barclay’s stomach, cum still on his lips, but the cook made a very convincing argument to come up and kiss him instead.

His pants are back on when his phone lights up from it’s spot on the floor.

Alert: Snowstorm predicted to last until 5 pm Sunday. Travel limited, recommended for emergencies only. At least five feet of snow predicted.

“Shit” he whispers, pushing the curtain aside to discover a world of smooth, white roof tops and impassable streets.

Jinglejingle

He spins, startled, as what he thought was a black pillow shakes out it’s ears and rises from a cushion at the foot of the bed. It’s the single most absurd dog he’s ever seen, like someone smushed a corgi and a Rottweiler together. It blinks at him, cocks it’s head, and then shifts its attention to the bed.

“Please don’t jump.” Maybe he can still sneak out on foot, or find somewhere else to wait out the storm.

The dog launches it’s tubular body onto Barclay, who “oofs” and is laughing before he even opens his eyes.

“Hey boy, yeah, I know, I know, didn’t let you in until way after bedtime.” The cooks deep voice is scratchy with sleep. The dog wiggles and digs at the blankets on his chest as he turns his head, smiling Joseph’s way, “morning babe.”

“Good morning.” Throwing himself out the window would result in hypothermia. Also a broken ankle. So no luck there.

Barclay notices his jeans, “Oh, uh, if you need to go that’s cool. I, uh” he yawns “I have a policy of making breakfast after a hook-up, but if you’re in a hurry I can just get you some coffee for the road. C’mon Sass, let me up.”

“I, um, I can stay. I don’t have much choice.”

“What do you--oh fuck, I knew we were getting snow this weekend but no one said anything about a fucking blizzard. Guess you’re crashing here for the weekend.”

“I guess so.”

Barclay’s smile shrinks, “Is that a shitty outcome?”

“No! Or, um, I just” Joseph sits on the bed, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t want to impose. I was trying to get out of here so I wouldn’t make things awkward since I, um, I don’t do this much.”

“Gotta say that was kinda obvious.” It’s a gentle tease, Barclay’s fingers flipping through his phone, “huh, when did I take a video last night?”

“I think you--oh, oh my lord.” Joseph claps his hands over his mouth, blushing at the memory.

“What, did I talk you into karaoke or somethi--holy fuck.” Barclay scoots to where Joseph is frozen, holding the screen where they can both see it. The same face growing excited beside him is looking up at the camera, lips wrapped around Joseph’s cock as a voice urges him on.

“You like that, big guy?”

Barclay nods, pulls off so he can drag his tongue up the shaft with a grin. Then he swallows it almost to the base, Joseph’s hand flying past the lens to stifle a moan.

“That’s it, show me how much you like it, s-so the next time you feel like sending me a snarky text you can watch this and remember just how much fucking fun you had sucking my dickAH.” A laugh as Barclay sits back on his heels, pulling off the condom.

“C’mon blue eyes, bet, bet you’re gonna look great when you cum, fuck, think I ruined these pants just watching you. Heh, you like that, like getting me hard and wet on the fucking bathroom floor.”

“Usually it’s, it’s the other waAAaay aroundohfuck, shit.” Cum spatters across Barclay’s face. The cook licks his lips, still smiling, as the camera sinks to his level, Joseph giggling behind it, “here, let, let me clean you up.”

“Don’t want everyone else to see your cum all over me?"

“Nngn. I, I mean no, not in actuality.” Joseph’s hand returns to the frame, gently cleaning Barclay’s cheek with toilet paper.

The video ends there. Joseph is red from his hips to his cheeks, but not so embarrassed that he misses Barclay rubbing his thighs together. Then the cook meets his eyes and sets the phone aside.

“I can delete it. Know your face isn’t in it but if you’re more comfortable with it gone, it’s gone.”

The offer alone calms him, “No, no it’s okay. Thank you for offering. I, um, since I’ll be here awhile, can I use your shower?”

“Sure, it’s just through there.” He tips his head at the door in the left wall, grabbing a robe from the door and heading into the chilly apartment, Sass clickclick-ing on the hardwood after him.

As always, the world is more manageable when he’s clean. A pair of sweatpants and a thick, blue sweater are waiting for him on the bed, and coffee-swirled air coaxes him into the kitchen. It’s small but immaculately organized, Barclay moving from stove to cabinet to fridge and back again in an intimate dance.

“Coffee on the left is yours. I’m doing pancetta in the omelettes; most of my friends are vegetarian so I never get a chance to bust it out.”

“That sounds delicious.” He picks up the mug, sighs as warms his chest, “mmm, you have real cream somewhere in this house.”

“Yep. Remember you said you liked the real stuff when you could get it. I drink mine black, but really these beans demand cream instead of milk; sets of the chocolate notes really nice.”

“I can never taste those. Same thing with wine. But I guess that’s why you’re the professional and I’m not.”

“That’s more a happy coincidence. I got into this to help with the bills when I was in high school. I wasn’t, like, combining flavors and deciding to be a cook like in Ratatouille or something.”

“That’s a Pixar movie, right?”

“Only the best one ever made. Have you really not seen it?

“I, um, I only watch kids movies if I’m babysitting my niece. Which doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.”

“Well, now I know what we’re doing after breakfast. Ah ah, Sass, not for you.” He shoos the dog from where it’s valiantly trying to double in length to reach the table.

“Is his name short for something?”

“Sasquatch.”

“Awwww.” Joseph crouches down to scritch behind one, floppy ear.

“His whole litter was named for cryptids; Nessie, Champ, Yeti, stuff like that.”

“‘Bray’ feels like an obvious one.” He smiles, then remembers not everyone is a nerdy UP agent, “sorry, never mind.”

“Uh uh special agent, I’ve been waiting to ask you about this. You don’t get to say you’re ‘like Fox Mulder’ and then not share more.” Barclay pulls out his chair, kisses his head when he sits down. He then listens to Joseph expound on canine cryptids of the midwest for fifteen minutes, fascinated the entire time.

“Y’know, I had a line cook who swore he’d been abducted by aliens.”

“What was his proof?”

By the time their plates are clean, Joseph has generated three alternative explanations and Barclay is staring at him with an expression straight from a rom-com. The cook sets up the movie while Joseph does the dishes, then pulls him under a mound of blankets.

“The heat in this place is shit, but I promise I’ll keep you warm.”

He enjoys the movie plenty, the weight of Barclay’s arm over his shoulder and, eventually, his waist, even more. They watch Ramen Girl for the hell of it, spooning on the couch while the snow makes dunes out of the sidewalk.

When the second movie is done, Joseph rolls so he’s facing the cook, “What should we do now?”

“Could keep watching movies, or bake something. I’ve got some cards and a few games in the closet. Or we could just cuddle and talk. I’m good with whatever.”

“...Could I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“You’ve been so sweet all day. Why were you such an ass about our first date?”

Barclay shifts, discomfort entering his eyes, “I was having a shitty week and was hoping the date would make me feel better. I ended up so anxious after it, felt like you wanted to be somewhere else, that I kinda took my frustration out by being a dick. I’m sorry. I, um, I wasn’t even on that many dates between now and then; I’d just text you what I’d wished had happened to fuck with you.”

“I should’ve known it; no one has that many good dates in a row.”

“Sorry.”

Joseph cups his cheek, “And I’m sorry for making you feel that way the first time. I had my reasons but, well, you still had a bad time because I was flustered and couldn’t get my mind off work.”

“Think you’ve more than made up for it.”

“Can I try again anyway?” Joseph kisses him, slipping his fingers under the waistband of his sweats.

Barclay’s lips curve up, “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

Once Barclay is comfortably naked atop the blankets (space heater pointed at the bed all the while), Joseph asks if he has any condoms.

“Yeah, bathroom cabinet. But I’m not, uh, I don’t-”

“It’s not for penetration. You said last night that was a no for you.” In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, he watches him relax. If he ever finds out someone saw the tension in those muscles, heard the worry in that sweet, deep voice and pushed anyway, he’s going to set them on fire with his mind.

Barclay nestles his cheek on his pillow as Joseph fishes his swiss army knife from his jacket, puts his ass in the air and wiggles it expectantly as Joseph unrolls the cut latex.

“Is this okay?”

“Uh huh, I really love it when guys do this but, uh, it doesn’t happen much. The hair turns a lot of them off.”

“Cowards.” Joseph holds the makeshift dam in place. Barclay’s chuckle morphs into a moan as he presses his face between his asscheeks, tongue making an obscene sound against the latex. There’s a warmth to this angle that he loves, a tender sort of filthiness to the way Barclay pushes his ass back with little gasps of his name.

He doesn’t get to practice his technique often, but that makes it all the more pleasurable to re-acquaint himself with it now, find the ways of pressing and curving his tongue that make Barclay’s ass tense under his hands.

“Fuck, fuck, Joseph, I take it all back, every rude text, you’re gonna drive every date you get crazy, gonna make them wonder how they got so lucky to get someone so goddamn wild.”

“I don’t think I will. I think” Joseph kisses the small of his back, “I think it’s you. You bring it out in me, you make me want to do all the things I’d be ashamed to ask for the rest of the time.”

Barclay whimpers happily.

“I’m serious. There’s something about you, I feel like I can want what I want without shame.” He nips his right cheek once, gently, “or maybe it’s just that what I really want is you and everything else finds into line because of it.”

“Fuuuck, baby, please.” Barclays weight shifts as Joseph eats him out ever more messily, “wanna, wanna make you feel good.” He’s rubbing his dick, Joseph can tell by the sound.

“May I?”

“Uhhuh, fuck, c’mere” Barclay grabs him as soon as they’re both sitting up, “was gonna pound you into next week but I dont wanna waste time with the harness right now.”

“Then we can do that tomorrowAH, ohlord” his hand stutters on it’s way to Barclay’s cock as calloused fingers circle is dick, “god there is not a part of you that disappoints, you’re just a wet dream from top to bottom.”

“Aw, babe.” Barclay kisses his shoulder, groaning as Joseph thumbs his dick, “fuck, speaking of, you gonna tell me what you meant in the stall last night? About things being ‘the other way around.”

Now it’s his turn to hide his face, “Promise you won’t think I’m dirty?”

“Babe, your mouth was on my ass a minute ago. You’re dirty and I fucking love it.”

“I, um, I, when I travel for missions I look for, for places that have glory holes.”

“Oh fuck” Barclay ruts against his palm, “that’s a fucking amazing image blue eyes. You on your knees, trying to keep that fucking suit clean while a fucking parade of guys shove their dicks down your throat.”

“I, it’s an easy way for me to get off, I can edge myself until I’m done and then cum without anyone being the wise but, god, half the time I’d think about this, want this.” He speeds up his strokes, pumps his cock into Barclay’s fist.

“What, a hairy trans guy?” Barclay bumps their noses together.

“This” his free hand glides along Barclays arm where it’s holding him, “s-someone to see me, hold onto me, fuck the whole of me and not just the acceptable, easy part. But” he meets brown eyes, teases slick skin, “I, the other times I fucked someone like this it, it was like I was still in that fucking stall. Last night, today, I’m here, I want to be and I am.”

“Baby.” The word comes in a sweet rumble of understanding just as Joseph cums with a gasp. He holds on for dear life as Barclay joins their hands and guides his fingers along his dick, forces his mind to memorize the movements and shapes for next time.

Barclay cums with a groan, flinging his hands up to cup Joseph's head and kiss him. There’s cum on his arm, on Joseph’s fingers and now in his hair and he cannot bring himself to give a shit. Gradually the kisses trail to his cheeks, his neck, his collarbone, and then Barclay is nestling his head under his chin.

“I, um, I think it might have been a good thing. That first date. I can be overly focused on work, can forget to turn off the special agent questioning mode and just talk like a person. I’m glad you saw those parts of me and, um, and decided to give me another chance.”

“Hey, you saw that I could be kinda sensitive and stubborn when I think someone did something wrong and you still saved my ass from being humiliated on the internet.” Barclay sighs as Joseph pets his hair.

“Do you, um, want to keep getting to know each other? Good parts and bad?”

Barclay looks up at him. Sees him.

“Yeah, blue eyes, I do.”

#sternclay #agent stern/ barclay #meet ugly #taz amnesty #trans barclay

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 31)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hope you like this one! There’s a greek dress mentioned, and it is inspired by this one and this one

Thank you for reading lovelies, please lemme know what you think! Love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @receptionistfromhell

The sun is starting to leave way for the moon when the door to the shop is opened again. Words about being closed are leaving Valdís’ lips but she catches the figure of the Prince and saves them.

Hvitserk greets her and Freydis with murmured kindness, and turns to you with questions and also an apology in his eyes. Reminded of the last time you saw him, when he left you in the training fields after angering his brother, you think he may feel guilty, so you offer a smile as you approach him.

“What is the matter?”

He offers only a half-hearted shrug around his easy smile, “I will let you guess.”

“The King calls for me.” You say in a sigh. The Prince laughs quietly, nodding his head.

“Yeah,” Hvitserk says, offering you your cloak from the hanger by the door, “You didn’t need your premonition for that, did you?”

As you walk away from the shop with Hvitserk by your side, you cannot help but asking, “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, but…we must talk of war, and Ivar wants you to be there,” After a few moments of silence, you hear him speak again, pride shining through his tone, “My plan to avoid more losses than necessary when raiding Strepshire, it pulled through.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had contacts that had traveled to that city, some even that had been called to bring forth some of the Lord’s more…extravagant tastes.”

“Should I ask?” You ponder out loud, a small furrow of your nose. The Prince chuckles.

“No,” He sentences without hesitation. With a deep breath, he continues explaining, “Well, I discovered through these…merchants that the city has tunnels for the family, servants, and all the like.”

“Tunnels your brother can use. Tunnels Stithulf wants to use.” You breathe out, stopping dead in your tracks and facing Hvitserk with a growing smile on your face.

But he only shrugs in response, and explains, “You mentioned old stone, and it didn’t…make sense that the Saxons would depend so much on a fishing town.”

“You are brilliant.” You laugh, eyes wide.

Hvitserk shrugs, but you see him puff his chest at the praise. It is almost adorable.

With an arm going around your shoulders casually he offers,

“I had to be. Can’t have the Greek Priestess outsmarting all of us.” He teases with a smile, to which you roll your eyes. Hvitserk keeps his arm around your shoulders, and guides you all the way to the longhouse.

____

The Vikings prepare for a raid on Strepshire, with Hvitserk’s information being the last piece they were waiting for to take the city. A matter of two days, and they will set sail.

The brothers and their men are discussing war, and once again you are reminded, as the King speaks, of how brilliant Ivar is when it comes to battle and thinking like his enemy.

He discusses how to ambush them from their tunnels, how the ships should approach the city, how the brunt of the forces -the ones that will approach directly through the front gate- should ready for the attack; he talks about it all with a certainty and a glint in his eye that speaks of seeing the world differently than everyone else, and you find yourself enthralled.

Hvitserk calls out your name and you turn to him. He gestures with his hand,

“Do you have anything to say?”

You share a look with your husband, “Ivar already knows all I know of Stithulf’s army.”

Leaving the longhouse behind with certain steps, you eye the area around it for a small clearing of peace, Ivar trailing behind you. When you find it, you stop walking, turning around to meet Ivar’s eyes. After a moment of consideration, you smooth the ground underneath you with a sweep of your foot, and try imagining the formations in the earth.

“What are you doing?”

“You asked me to show you my people’s ways of war,” You reply without hesitation, not lifting your gaze of the ground, “I’m showing you.”

You feel his eyes on you, but eventually Ivar sighs and with a small sound of exertion lowers himself to a sitting position across from you.

“Narses always fought like a Byzantine, waged war like one too,” You recall the outskirts of Dublin with a small smile, and draw the first line, “But here he bent to Stithulf’s formations, he accommodated our people to fit his plans. It cost us everything.”

“You spoke of someone else, a man from the Mediterranean.”

“Acar, the mercenary. He’s commander of the Arab forces. They are going to be the first forces Stithulf will send to aid the city, I’m certain,” You start confidently, “They are the same men that have brought a large part of my homeland to heel.”

“How do you Greeks fight against them?” One of the Vikings asks, and you are forced to walk up to the map when an opening for you to do so is made, silently, between the warriors discussing.

You do not fail to notice you are made to stand on the other end of the table, across from Ivar. You meet his eyes for a moment, and he only bows his head, prompting you to go on. An encouragement, a promise you have a safe place to land, a reassurance he has your back.

You never realized how much you needed it, needed him; until the moment you had so many eyes on you, awaiting like beasts for the next move of the foreign witch, and found your heart settling its beat, your confidence strengthening, when he met your eyes and promised he trusted you, promised you he was listening, promised he was proud.

Resting one hand on the table and letting your eyes trace the letters of Strepshire’s name, you explain, “We don’t fight them in open fields. The cavalry will always push for flanking your formations, especially if you hold a shield wall, and if you hold a direct onslaught against them for too long, their infantry will make way for their cavalry to strike through no matter the cost. Avoid that, avoid…predictability.”

After a breath, you add, “There’s also warriors we called champions. They are precise and deadly; they were used in the Mediterranean to weaken an army’s morale, to disarm their plans.”

“How?”

You swallow past a dry throat before answering, “By killing the leaders, the heroes. They send their best not to thin the army’s numbers, but to cut off the army’s head.”

You find Ivar’s eyes and you realize now what the knot in the pit of your stomach that settled since you heard they were to raid Strepshire was. Fear.

Even the best fall in battle, even the best go to their Valhalla when their Gods cut off the thread of their fate. And you cannot help but fear Ivar will not return from that city, even if he survived Repton, York, and so much more.

You tell yourself you should feel shame at wanting to keep him alive, that you are believing his lies and your own by allowing yourself to care about him. You also know if he were to die, if Ivar weren’t to return, your status as a free woman -and your status as Queen, even if consort and nothing more- would be useful and you could leave Kattegat, return to the Greeks, never spend another day on this cold land.

You know all this, and still you fear, still you know when time for battle comes both their Gods and yours will hear prayers for protection.

Returning your eyes to the map on the table, you suppress a sigh. You were never nothing other than hopelessly foolish, were you?

____

Ivar told you to go ahead and retire for bed without him, and from the room where they discuss war you two went on different directions.

While you were changing, you eyed the red dress Thora had helped you make a few days ago, while she’d not-so-subtly prodded at Hvitserk’s doings. It is a light and simple dress, certainly not made for the harsh cold of Kattegat, but confectioning it was familiar and nostalgic, and even if only as a keepsake of your home, you made it to resemble a Greek summer dress.

Instead of the night dress you usually wear, you chose the soft red fabric, and for a moment, with your feet bare and your hair loose, you felt closer to Gods you did even while standing in their temple.

You now sit on the ground by one of the larger windows of your bedroom, a collection of flowers and branches around you as you work on a wreath, not so different, even if life has proven to be so, from when you were a child in Eleusis, a healer in the Silk Roads, a Hiereia in Attica.

In your mind you go over what was discussed tonight, you go over all the certainties the Viking’s planning gives you that this will turn out in a victory.

You knew before this you trusted Ivar, his instinct, his intellect, his eyes that see beyond what others’ do. But Gods, to hear him speak of war and battle so surely, to see his eyes turn cold and calculating, the eyes of a strategist, to hear his voice imposing and certain, the voice of a leader…it is something else entirely.

He accepted your words about the Arab champions with surprising ease, and with his eyes on Hvitserk he asked about the dimensions of those tunnels under Strepshire.

In a matter of moments, Ivar turned the tide and decided to let Stithulf’s men have the tunnels, certain the Saxon would send through those tunnels the Arab champions to take out the sons of Ragnar and their higher-ranking men. With but a moment of consideration, he’d found a way to outsmart them.

You still hear his voice in your head, stating confidently that the Arabs haven’t faced enough Vikings, that the Saxons may be used to tricks but the foreigners aren’t. It still sends a thrill down your spine, remembering his voice lower when he stated the last steps of his plan, remembering his smile as he looked at the map on the table, certain of victory and hungry for it.

You don’t know how long you spend here, working on the wreath of flowers, with each intertwining of the stems a plea to the Goddess of Spring that she lets winter hold for a while longer, with each drop of blood you let the roses draw from your fingers an offering to the Queen of the Dead that she doesn’t take him from you just yet.

Ivar walks into the room, but don’t lift your gaze from your work, only greeting him with a hum.

“That dress is different, did you make it?”

“Greek peplos,” You tell him, nodding, “Or, my best attempt at it, anyways.”

“You look…”

“Cold? Yeah, I’m freezing.” You still stay there, your feet bare on the cold wood and your fingers carefully tracing over the crown of flowers.

“Beautiful,” He corrects, before taking his eyes off you with a slight twitch of what you could swear is embarrassment in his expression. Ivar acquiesces, “But…yes, also cold.”

You have to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot. Not even reminding yourself that you are Queen, that you are a grown woman, that you are married to him could keep the stupid flutter of your heart.

“T-Thank you,” Is what you settle for saying. “I’ve missed wearing familiar clothes, to be honest. I feel closer to my Gods in this.”

“Ah, so you’re praying.”

You lift your gaze from your work, eyes narrowed, “I was there at the sacrifice, I honored your Gods. That doesn’t mean I won’t honor my own.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, and a part of you wonders why.

Ivar chooses not to say anything, and with practiced ease starts working on the buckles and fastenings of the braces on his legs.

“What are you praying for?” He asks after a few moments.

Time.

You keep your gaze on the flowers in your hands, strikingly reminded of the last time he left you behind to chase after war and death.

Through gritted teeth, you bite out, “I hope you know that if you don’t return, if…if you leave me alone here, I’ll find a way to make you regret it. You won’t rest in your Valhalla while I have breath, Viking, so don’t…don’t die.”

Ivar only smiles, eyebrows lifted.

“Are you threatening me?”

You hold his gaze, and swallow past a tight throat. You only ask one thing, “Don’t leave me alone here.”

In this kingdom, in this world, in this life.

“You’re not…scared for me, are you?” You say nothing, only glare at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you saying you’d mourn me if I died?”

What kind of question is that? You resist the urge to let your fear become venom, you bite back accusations of how he continues to be so blind to how much he means to you.

“Ah, so you notice I care for the monster that took me captive?” You say, though there’s lightness, mirth, in your taunt, “You are either insulting me by implying I am weak enough to pray for the life of a man I supposedly hate, or…you are admitting you were wrong.”

Ivar accepts your words with a shrug, and crawls to one of the cushioned settees near the bed. After a few moments, with his hand by his mouth, he admits,

“I…realize you were right.”

“So you were wrong.”

He frowns, “I didn’t say that.”

“But you were.”

Ivar rolls his eyes, an exaggerated gesture that only manages to make your smug smile wider.

Still, when you’re close enough, he extends a hand, beckoning you to him. And it is as easy as breathing, for you to take it and sit next to him, drawing your legs up underneath you, as if to protect vulnerable feet from the cold of Kattegat.

“Gods, woman, you’re freezing.” Ivar frowns, warm fingers closing over your own.

“What happens if those ships don’t return, Ivar?” You ask, your voice wobbling. You feel your breath quicken, and you are once again a child looking over the horizon of Eleusis, waiting for a navy that was never to return. “What happens if you don’t return?”

“Then you are free. Free of me, free of-…”

“Ivar.” You interrupt him, and it is all you can say. His expression softens, and he sighs.

“Do you want me to promise you that I will survive?” He asks, an edge of incredulity, of levity in his tone. As if he is trying to make you see the madness in your request.

It is in the hands of the Gods, you know this. You know you should not fear, you know you should not worry, you know you should do and feel and be many things.

But you still offer the shrug of one shoulder, and Ivar almost smiles.

After a breath, he acquiesces, “Better men have tried to kill me and failed.”

You accept his words, his strange form of reassurance, with a smile and a sigh that trembles past your lips.

After a few beats if silence, you ask, “You will come back before winter, won’t you?”

“Yes,” He assures you, but Ivar spares you a glance out of the corner of his eye, and offers, “If I don’t…”

“You will,” You sentence, interrupting him. You don’t even hear whatever words he tried speaking, words that spoke of the possibility of a winter alone here, if not a lot longer than that. After a moment, you offer, “If you don’t, you’re easy pickings for the Saxons. Dublin cannot hold if Stithulf regains his strength.”

You know you’re right, and Ivar knows it too. Still, he offers you a smirk, and taunts you, “And you are certain of this, wife?”

“Your arrival, your support, spared Dublin of capture, you know this. We had the upper hand,” You motion towards him with your chin in a taunt, your lips pulled into a smile that dares him, “Even with your mighty army, Ivar the Boneless, us Greeks made you falter.”

“Arrogant.” He accuses, but he still smiles, dark and proud.

“We were hungry and cold, far from home,” You remind him, “But we made you change tactics a few times, didn’t we?”

“We weren’t going to lose.”

“No, I know that. It was Fated that it ended the way it did,” You shrug, “But we made you fight for it.”

You could swear Ivar’s smile turns softer, more secret. He lifts the hand he holds to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to your fingers.

“That you did.”

As he is to drop your hand back, his eyes focus on the small wounds you sport on your fingertips. A drop of blood trails slowly down your ring finger, and Ivar hesitates only for a moment before he brings your hand to his mouth again, only this time to lick off the offending drop.

Your breath catches in your throat, and in the hungry and proud smile he sends your way you see the faint stain of red. The only thought in your head for a moment is the need to taste that blood off his lips.

You quieten those thoughts, using that same hand to shove playfully at the side of his face. Ivar snorts a laugh, but you could swear his eyes are darker when he looks back at you.

Your own eyes are drawn to the slight smear of blood you leave on his pale skin and…Gods, what wouldn’t you do to be able to close the distance and lick it off.

But you force yourself to also let go of those thoughts, and you let your smile dim as silence reigns between you again. Your eyes trace the wreath of flowers that lays there near one of the windows, an evidence of your prayers, an evidence of your weakness and your fear.

An evidence that your heart isn’t yours anymore.

If it ever was.

You cannot keep yourself from remembering his words yesterday, his accusations that you were somehow playing with his head, with…

Before your thoughts get ahead of you, you ask, “Do you truly believe I’ve been playing with you?”

Ivar looks ahead as he considers his answer, leaves you to watch his profile and the way the dim lights of the room play with the angles of his face.

“If you’d been playing with me, you wouldn’t have fought the way you did.” He tells you finally, but there’s words he isn’t saying.

“And I’m not fighting anymore,” You offer, earning a half-hearted shrug from him, and nothing else. An exasperated yet fond smile curves at your lips, and you sigh, “I told you before, your own thoughts are what drives you mad most of the time.”

The smile Ivar offers is one purely for your benefit, tired and bitter and gone in an instant.

For a moment he lowers his gaze to your joined hands, distractedly brushes over a small cut on your finger. His gaze is enthralling even if his eyes still don’t meet yours, and there’s a fragile sort of vulnerability written into the way he holds himself that makes you pause.

“In all my life, nothing…nothing has come easy,” He explains quietly. After a moment, he offers another flickering smile, though this one does speak of softness, “You certainly didn’t either, but lately things are different, and I can’t help but think it a…a vision, a mirage, that once I get close enough to having will just…vanish.”

He finishes his sentence with a gesture of his hand, and your eyes follow the movement with a dull ache in your heart.

You’re suddenly a chained and wrathful Priestess again, sitting across the table from your captor and having him share very similar words, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods why.”

You still don’t have an answer, though you wish you did.

You do have the certainty that this isn’t a trick, that this isn’t something easily lost. Never could be.

And looking into his eyes, meeting your fear with his own, both so different from each other; you decide to let go of pretenses and masks, if only for a moment.

If only for a brief, stupid moment of courage.

It won’t vanish. I love you.

You let your hand cup the side of his face, your thumb caressing the scar you are so smitten by. Keeping your eyes on Ivar’s, you lean closer, silently begging that this is not wrong, that this is not another mistake.

His skin warms under your touch, and you watch with baited breath his lips part in innocent anticipation as you grow closer and closer. Ivar’s eyes travel to your own lips, before anxiously returning to meet your gaze again, looking more lost and vulnerable than you ever thought you would see him.

Deciding to listen to your heart, you press your lips softly against his, closing your eyes and letting the electricity and the warmth take control over your body.

Ivar’s sharp intake of breath through his nose, the way he tenses under your touch and almost freezes at the affection is not strange to you any longer, and it doesn’t deter you.

You move your mouth over his, the hand on the side of his face urging him close with as much tenderness as you can have when your heart beats like it wants to leave your chest and burrow into his.

When you pull back, his mouth chases after yours, and Ivar leans forward as if a thread tied you two together. You allow yourself a smile, tremulous and girlish as it is.

His eyes open slowly, as if awakening from a dream, and his breath leaves his parted lips quickly as he gazes back at you. A few moments go by, breaths shared and your heart beating fast and thrilled in your chest.

A challenge, really, to see who yields first, who admits to craving the touch of the other’s lips, who offers and who accepts or rejects.

The Gods may have made you arrogant but they didn’t make you stupid, and you’ve known for a while this is where you were headed, this is where you wanted to be.

Doesn’t mean you’ll admit it, at least not like this.

Surprisingly, it is Ivar who caves first.

“Kiss me.” He breathes out. A dare, a command, a plea.

And you do, with no hesitation this time.

Ivar kisses you back hungrily, deeply and desperately, demanding with teeth and tongue what you give freely.

His strong hand grabs onto your wrist tightly, keeping your caressing touch on his face, while the other finds a home in the back of your head, gripping onto the loose strands of your hair.

It feels like it is the first time you’ve kissed him -been kissed by him, been kissed at all- and yet it feels like the electrifying touch of his lips on yours is a dance as old as time itself.

There’s a tremble in your hand when you hold on to the fabric over his chest, there’s an urgency in his hands as he pulls you closer; but there’s an ease to the way you straddle him, there’s an intimacy in the way he breathes your name over your lips.

You lose track of time in the heady feeling of his lips on yours. One of his hands grabs at the side of your jaw, tilting your head to meet his kiss, the other settles roughly on your ass, bringing you down against him, drawing you closer, closer, closer.

You gasp his name against his lips, breaths labored when you rest your brow against his, heart beating wildly in your chest when you meet his eyes.

You smile, breathless and a little mad.

But Ivar looks at you like someone who just realized stands at the edge of a precipice. His eyes widen, and he pushes you off him, however shakily.

Rejection burns, it burns and scalds and your lips part but no words leave them. You can only stand there, cold and hesitant, and watch as he scrunches his face in reluctance, in hesitation, in anger.

Ivar lifts a hand to the back of his head, avoiding your eyes with a twitch of anger, of shame.

“You know I can’t…I can’t do this.”

You stare back at him, heart still beating fast and cold taking over you. However slighted you were by his abrupt rejection, however scared you are of your own feelings, however torn you are about the things you want; all of it pales when you see the expression in Ivar’s face.

When you learned Laconia was free, when Fate released you of the strings holding you by the throat and you threatened to break at the seams; you clung to Ivar like he was the one thing keeping you in this world, and past the unsteadiness of his legs that at the moment you couldn’t think of, maybe out of sheer will and strength alone, he stabbed the wooden floor and kept you upright, didn’t let you fall, didn’t let you break.

And the same certainty flows through you, the same steeled resolve, the same drive to grant safety and comfort and peace.

And so you don’t hesitate when you step closer again, one of your hands tentatively settling on his shoulder, the other, as if half of you was braver than the other, reaches for the side of his jaw, thumb going back and forth over the scar under his eye.

“This doesn’t have to be anything other than…this.”

You lean down and bring his mouth to yours, softly. It surprises you and delights you in equal measure, how easily Ivar surrenders to your kiss, how pliantly he leans to meet the touch of your mouth on his.

When you part, his eyes open slowly, and the absolutely enthralled expression on his face as he stares up at you sends a rush of heat through you.

But, after a moment the daze disappears. And he still grits his teeth, his eyes still jump from place to place, and he still insists, “I…can’t give you what you need, what you want.”

You shake your head, unwavering. You once again wonder which one of you is the bewitched one, when with but a look Ivar makes secrets spill from your lips, when with nothing but his touch he makes invisible bindings release you.

“What I need is you,” You whisper. Your hand on his shoulder lowers, presses softly over the center of his chest, and you lean your brow against his, never taking your eyes off his, “What I want is this.”

You wouldn’t have believed yourself to be brave enough to, even after the words leave your lips, and with the truth you tried ignoring is looking right at you; not falter, to not feel the instinct to pull back, to return to secrets and safety.

There’s no hiding you’ve wondered what the cost would be to give in, hoped maybe he would give in and so you would be able to have this without the guilt of having chosen it.

There’s no hiding you wished to just forget for a moment there’s a world past him and accept that maybe it was Fate after all, that maybe this borrowed time is a chance to live another life.

Your fingers digging into the wooden pillar of the home are the one thing that keeps you upright as you confess, the last breath of an already dead woman: “I wish I never returned here. I wish…I wish I had gone with you to Kattegat, like you said we could. I wish I could have lived another life, móðir.”

The life that should have been, maybe.

Maybe that is why it is so easy to accept his hands on your hips bringing you back to him with a gentleness that almost surprises you, maybe that is why it feels like home when you straddle him and put your arms over his shoulders, maybe that is why it feels like your heart beats in synch with another’s when Ivar leans his head against your chest and sighs.

Your hands trace over his back, his shoulders, you cannot help it. You find yourself almost giddy with the realization you can now touch as much as you want to, as much as he will let you.

A voice in the back of your mind reminds you that pretend as you wish, you are aware you could have had this, or something so much closer to this than the scraps you’ve been living off of, much earlier.

Ivar says something, but you do not hear it, and you ask him with a hum of question to speak again.

You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, “You’re what I need too,” He breathes, before moving so that he presses a kiss right over your heart. Your breath catches in your throat and your hand moves to the back of his neck before you even realized you’ve moved. He smiles against the red fabric of your dress, and offers, “What I want, too.”

It is yours.

But you can’t say that. He will be taking your heart all the way to England with him, and you wish you could relent and let him know of that, if only to give him the task to bring it back to you.

You don’t make any attempt to move, and he doesn’t either. Your fingers tire of aimless wandering, and you silently take up the task of undoing his braids.

You could swear he leans more of his weight against you as you work your fingers through his hair.

You once prayed for the borrowed time you’re living on to last a lifetime, and as you sit there, his arms around your waist, his face pressed against your chest, you don’t see why it couldn’t be so. Why you couldn’t stretch time however you want it to. You have no doubt you could, as long as you can remain with him holding you like this, letting you hold him like this.

After a small lifetime, you whisper, “We should go to bed.”

Ivar hums an agreement, but it takes a few more breaths before he leans back. His hair falls loosely behind him, pliant and soft after you lost track of time running your fingers through it, and you find yourself smiling, lovesick and foolish, at the proof of your work.

That night you don’t sleep. You talk, and kiss, and touch, and discover. And you make out of the borrowed time you live on a small eternity.

____

Sooooooo...? :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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leonicscorpio · 4 years ago

Text

Y'all, I'm so excited for Gotham Knights.

Both as a batman and bat family fan. This game is looking to offer a lot in terms of both gameplay and add an extreme amount of story. I especially am excited to see what they end up doing with Jason.

Right off the bat (lol) I love his design. They show that he's large and imposing. Physically intimidating. As well as bringing back his white streak with a clean short haircut and s scar that extends from his mouth all the way up his head. His design is just *chefs kiss*

However upon looking at his promotional information I was immediately grabbed by his bio. They mention something very specific about this universe's Jason that is very unique and peculiar.

The top text pretty much establishes what is already canon and what we know about Jason to be true. The death, Lazarus Pit, his anger, etc. This also poses the fact that we will probably see a Jason in-game that is very volitile and easy to anger. (That's hot) but what's most interesting is the bottom text. "After reconciling with the Batman Family, he's embraced Batman's non-lethal combat methods" what's so striking to me is that Jason and Bruce seemingly made up prior to the events of Bruce's death. As Jason got the message of Bruce's death, and as seen in the image prior (the one with Jason's face) we see Jason is visibly hurt and shocked. He's taken aback by the announcement. While I think any iteration of Jason (Pre-New 52 straight up-villain Jason or New 52 Anti-Hero who is half trying to get Bruce to love him, half telling Bruce to fuck off) would be shocked of Bruce's death announcement. We get to see Jason's reaction first and foremost and it's very personal and emotional. This brings up a point that's been bugging me ever since I saw the announcement of Gotham Knights.

What happened to Jason that made him reconcile with Bruce?

This post is speculation as to what I think may have happened to Jason to cause him to turn around and be welcomed back into the Bat Family.

I think that the events of Under The Red Hood still happen but either Bruce or Jason kill the Joker.

It's a stretch. But hear me out. We know the most defining moment in Bruce's and Jason's joint story is the confrontation between Bruce and Jason over the Joker and Jason trying to force Bruce to kill the Joker.

Bruce decides he cannot kill the Joker. Now the movie and the comic differs on how they handle the ending. In the comics, right as Jason is about to pull the trigger, Bruce reacts and throws a Batarang at Jason. Slicing him in the neck. Severely injuring him but not killing him. In the Under the Red Hood movie, Bruce, when faced with the option of having to chose between killing the Joker and just letting Jason kill him. Bruce turns and walks away. He readies a Batarang because he predicts (correctly) that Jason will retaliate out of confusion because he sees Bruce as rejecting him again. Not understanding that Bruce is simply chosing not to be involved in the situation.

I think Jason turning around to Bruce could happen most likely because the events of Under the Red Hood transpired differently. We know Joker still exists in this universe because Jason's death and resurrection is implied to be the same. But we also know that Barbara Gordon's paralysis during the events of The Killing Joke are still canon in this universe.

What if this universe follows the canon of the movie in that when Bruce turned away from Jason, either Bruce verbalized to Jason that he doesn't care what happens to the Joker, right now, he's chosing Jason, and although he doesn't want Jason to kill the Joker, he's letting Jason decide.

What if Bruce still throws a Batarang at Jason and instead of staying still, Jason brings the joker up and uses him as a shield? Killing the Joker or severely injuring him as a muscle reaction to protect himself from the Batarang. We know that the reason why Jason is so antagonistic towards Bruce is because Bruce didn't kill the Joker and let him continue to kill and injure people after Jason's death. And that inaction is directly what happens

The WB Montreal team (the team making Arkham Knights) hasn't confirmed if The Joker is in thw game. We know the confirmed villains are The Court of Owls and Mister Freeze. With Two Face being hinted at through promotional material. But there is no direct references that The Joker will be in the game.

I may be looking too deep into this. Jason may have just turned around as a result of Bruce's demise. But I like to think of the potential character interactions we could see in Gotham Knights. I want to see a Jason that has properly reconciled with Bruce and is trying to make amends. Only for him to lose Bruce and run the risk of falling back on bad habits. Is Jason still antagonistic towards Dick and Tim even if Bruce accepts Jason as The Red Hood and is able to help reform him? Is Jason still the bitter, almost acidiccly snarky and biting character his in Scott Lobdell's characterization of Jason if he reconciles with Bruce? Does he still call Tim "replacement" and such if he's accepted and recognized and given the support he needs? How does the rest of the family react to Jason? Are they apprehensive?

There's so much to look forward to with Gotham Knights and I'd love to know what other people think. With an exciting new take on Jason's character (as well as being able to play as Jason in an RPG based setting) we get to have an extremely diverse cast. All of the Robins are played by Asian American voice actors and Barbara is played by a Latin-American voice actress. Stephen Oyoung is a fantastic casting for Jason because he already has a lot of exposure as a VA who plays villains. Christopher Sean is going to bring so much fun as Dick (for those who don't know he voiced Kazuda Xiono in Star Wars Resistance and Ludwig in Epic 7) America Young is the current voice of BARBIE and is also going to bring so much to the role of Barbara Gordon. And while Sloane Morgan Siegal is the new face of the bunch, from what we saw from the promo he's bringing a great new take on Tim Drake that's going to be refreshing and exciting.

Let me know you're thoughts!

#Gotham Knights #Jason Todd #Red Hood #Dick Grayson #Nightwing #barbra gordon #Batgirl #Tim Drake #Red Robin batman #Batman #under the red hood #The killing joke #Stephen oyoung #Christopher Sean #America Young #Sloane Siegal #gotham knights spoilers

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

the nie sect is known for strong, angry sect leaders and strong, angry women; nie mingjue is just the first to be both. she refuses to let this burden fall on her little brother, who is far too young for it (he's barely old enough to understand that their father is dead, and still sucks his thumb at night)--she can swing a saber like the best of them, and, well... it's not like there are many nie elders to object anyway

also on ao3

The stories said that Nie Mingjue’s mother was a goddess.

They said she descended down from the mountains, crisp as a winter breeze and tall as a temple statute; they said Lao Nie fell in love with her the first moment he saw her and married her the next; they said that the heavens were jealous of their love and summoned her to return –

It was a little nicer than saying that Nie Mingjue’s mother was a rogue cultivator that lingered in Qinghe just long enough for a marriage ceremony and a baby before remembering that she preferred living alone.

Still, as Nie Mingjue grew up – and she did grow up, up and up and up – people started passing around the old story more and more. Lao Nie rolled his eyes but didn’t stop the rumors, which Nie Mingjue interpreted to mean that he thought they were useful somehow, though she never quite figured out the reasoning there. What difference did it make if she were the child of a goddess or a mortal woman?

Either way, she was still a girl.

Oh, Qinghe was famous for its indifference to such things: in Qinghe they don’t care if you’re a man or woman, the story went, as long as you can swing a saber, and it was even mostly true. No one would raise an eyebrow if you shared your bed with a man one night and a woman the next, no one cared if you said you were one for a week and the other for a month…

Still, for all of Qinghe’s indifference, the Nie sect had never had a female sect leader.

At least, not officially – there were a number of sect leader’s wives who were terrifying enough to have deserved the title – and officially was what mattered, in this case. The sect leader was the fulcrum on which the sect turned, the core of their fearsome cultivation: if water ran downhill, then evil flowed up, and the sect leader’s saber spirit was always by far the fiercest in the sect.

That was why Nie Mingjue’s ancestors died so much more quickly than her cousins – why she had plenty of great-uncles and great-aunts, and a family consisting of only her father, herself, and her younger brother.

“Do you not want me to be sect leader?” she asked her father once, because he had deliberately gone out and gotten himself a new wife to have a child with, showing great relief when it turned out to be a boy. “Is it something I’ve done, or haven’t done?”

“It’s not that,” her father had said at once, with such surety that her fears of inadequacy had been relieved. “It’s only – there are sacrifices that must be made, if the sect leader is a woman. A saber spirit powerful enough to support the sect cannot be allowed to escape.”

She hadn’t understood it at the time, being too young, but then she got a little older and started bleeding, and an old auntie came and told her why the bleeding mattered.

The sect leader’s saber was too strong, too fierce, too alive: full of resentful energy, almost like a ghost, hateful and vicious, and their bond with their master was too close. Normal swords could be used by anyone; only the powerful refused any hand but their masters – the powerful, and the Nie sabers.

A sect leader who was a woman could never have a child, lest that child’s soul be stolen away in the womb and replaced with something else.

“So I won’t have children,” Nie Mingjue said, when her father died before his time. “Easy enough.”

There were elders enough in her sect, those that had been lucky enough not to be part of the main clan line and to escape the burden of being sect leader; they looked at each other with concern.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t about to let them put the title of sect leader on Huaisang, then only a child of seven, not when there was her father to avenge, and so she reached up behind her back and brought Baxia down on the table in front of them, cleaving the old wooden table in half.

“I have the bloodline, and my saber’s strong enough to bear the strain,” she said while they stared: that table had survived more than a few of her father and grandfather’s strikes, only to yield to hers as if it were nothing. “If you want to protest, challenge me now.”

In the end, they didn’t.

And so she became sect leader.

The sacrifice of any future children turned out to be the easy part.

Jin Guangshan stared at her breasts whenever she sat across from him, and tried to stumble into her to take advantage of the fact that the top of his head only reached her chin; she made sure never to accept any invitation to ever be alone with him, especially when he was drunk. His wife glared at her as if it were her fault that her chest and hips had grown proportionate with the rest of her, giving her curves that were relatively rare among her countrymen.

Jiang Fengmian might have been all right, she supposed, if his wife hadn’t hated her nearly as much: Madame Yu had been childhood friends with Madame Jin, Nie Mingjue vaguely recalled, but she suspected the real reason was the Jiang sect’s inclination to keep women away from politics no matter how high their cultivation.

“How are you supposed to ‘attempt the impossible’ if you refuse to let half of your population even try?” she asked Jiang Fengmian once, and he just shook his head and tried to pat her head (she glared death at him until he retracted the offending limb before it could be chopped off), and said she wouldn’t understand, that Qinghe was too idiosyncratic, too indiscriminate, that other places were different.

(His daughter gave Nie Mingjue a flower after that meeting, blushing red to her ears, and followed it up with a bowl of soup, and to this day Nie Mingjue still didn’t know if it was because of what she’d said or if everyone in Yunmeng was just as indiscriminate as Qinghe and they just didn’t admit it to themselves.)

Even the ever-polite Lan sect wasn’t friendly.

The irritating part was that she was sure they would have gotten on well if she had been born a man, or at least presented as one, as she would have if she’d been a misaligned reincarnation; alas, she wasn’t, she was a woman, and the Lan sect rules dictated that men and women could not grow too close or intimate. Lan Qiren guarded his nephews against her as if they were treasures, and it took quite a while before she finally met Lan Xichen face to face.

“Wow,” he said, blinking at her. “They weren’t kidding when they said you were a goddess.”

“No, that’s my mother,” Nie Mingjue said automatically.

Lan Xichen smiled, his eyes turning into crescents. “No,” he said. “I’m sure I meant what I said.”

Nie Mingjue felt something jump in her chest, which had never happened before. But she had fought long and hard to be taken seriously as a sect leader despite her youth and her gender, and she wasn’t willing to give that up by falling, like every other female cultivator her age, for the man ranked first on the list of most attractive young masters.

(Nie Mingjue was ranked seventh. She’s not even sure how she got on the list, but apparently there were plenty of female cultivators who were happy to vote for her no matter her gender.)

Besides, even if her heart did beat a little faster whenever Lan Xichen smiled at her, and even if he indicated through some hints that he might be inclined to feel the same, it didn’t matter. She knew, even if he didn’t, that she wouldn’t bear children in this life – she loved Baxia dearly, she did, but her willful, vicious saber would make a terrible child – and she couldn’t impose that on anyone else.

Anyway, she’d figured out pretty quickly that Lan Xichen’s younger brother was a cutsleeve – whatever Lan Qiren might think, pornography was a perfectly reasonable gift for a teenager, especially given how successful Nie Huaisang’s side business was – and that meant Lan Xichen had to be the one to have descendants.

Nie Mingjue had heard all the stories about what happens when a man marries one woman who can’t give him children and another who can, and she wasn’t interested in that.

So they were friends.

She wasn’t sure if it got easier or harder when she met Meng Yao, who was small and delicate and scheming in a way that she found ridiculously endearing.

He wasn’t expecting her to be a woman, she thought: he’d set himself up on a mountain path, buckets of water at his side and a pitiful expression on his face as he chewed on hard bread without even taking a sip of the water right beside him to wet his throat, and when she’d stopped right in front of him to ask him about it he’d looked up at her and his eyes had gotten to be half the size of his face.

Nie Mingjue might’ve fallen for the gambit if it wasn’t for the way she could almost see the way he was rapidly reevaluating his entire strategy in real time – it almost made her nostalgic about listening to her cousins teach each other the warning signs of a white lotus seductress selling misery and purity.

Still, in the end it didn’t really matter if he was deliberately exaggerating his misery to sell it to her – the responsibility for good behavior was on the bully, not the victim, so she went and scolded the people inside the cave.

Afterwards, she took him out to walk with her.

“I’d already spoken with some people about you; it seems like you’ve established your merits in the battlefield and off,” she told him. “You don’t also need to be pitiful to get my attention.”

Meng Yao smiled self-depreciatingly. “I find that men have a soft spot for people they think need them.”

“Well, I’m not a man, am I?” she pointed out in return. She thought about it for a moment, then decided, as always, to be blunt. “I might spend most of my time now with men, but I spent my childhood with women; a woman’s tricks don’t work that well on me. What is it that you want?”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Do you want to be my deputy? I’m willing, since you seem competent enough,” she said. “But if your goal is to get back into your father’s good graces by reporting on me, don’t bother. He has spies enough for that – he doesn’t need a son to do it.”

“Perhaps I just want to show him what I’m capable of,” Meng Yao said.

Nie Mingjue laughed. “At my side? If you’d like to try, I’m not going to stop you, but I’ll tell you now that the merits that Jin Guangshan values may not be to your taste.”

She made him her deputy, and he lived up to her expectations – he was efficient, capable, competent. He was good at understanding people, which she wasn’t, and he could figure out within moments what any given person wanted. Just as importantly, he lived up to the principles she prized, valuing the lives of the common folk as well as Nie cultivators; he did what she asked of him, and he did it well.

It would be a shame to lose him, she thought, but she still brought him with her to a wartime meeting with the Jin sect.

Afterwards, she made her excuses to leave early, as she always did, and when Meng Yao showed up later that evening to drop off the usual round of spies’ reports, Nie Mingjue could smell blood from where his nails had pierced his palms.

“He asked you if you were fucking me,” she said, accepting the papers. It wasn’t a guess. “You can tell him that you are, if you think it would help your standing with him.”

Meng Yao seemed repulsed by her suggestion, which amused her.

“Don’t you mind that half the camp thinks I got my position by climbing into your bed?” he asked her, a wrinkle in his brow suggesting that the question mattered to him. “Most of them can’t decide if I’m your boy-toy or merely stupid enough not to notice that I’m deliberately seducing you for my own ends, but either way the implication is highly unflattering. Don’t you care?”

“…not really?” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve been sect leader since I was fifteen and more than half the sect leaders that currently report to me have been treating me like I’m a walking collection of fuckable female body parts since then; they get extremely irritable any time I open my mouth and remind them I’m not. Keeping a boy-toy is positively tame compared to the rest of it…you must have heard the one that says that I’m a frigid bitch that can only be satisfied by fucking my saber? That one’s a perennial.”

Meng Yao’s expression suggested he had, in fact, heard that one.

“My father always told me that the more people talk behind your back, the harder you have to work to leave them with nothing to say,” Nie Mingjue continued. “But I’ve found that they’ll find something to say, and if there isn’t anything, they’ll make something up. There’s no way to stop gossip.”

Meng Yao was frowning. “That seems unduly pessimistic. Not to borrow our enemies’ words, but if you shine like a sun in the heavens –”

“I’m the sect leader of one of the Great Sects,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’m a war hero. I have a reputation as a upright and righteous person. And yet between me and Wen Ruohan, who’s to say whose name is dragged through the mud more? They curse at him as the man who ordered the rape of their wives in one breath and talk eagerly about how much they’d like to rape me the next…Meng Yao, don’t take insult when I say this, but you could be as wise as a sage, as powerful as a landslide, as beneficent as a buddha and they’d still ask each other behind their sleeves what you learned from being a whore’s son.”

His expression was rather ugly – nothing at all like his usual calm smile.

“I usually get over it by associating myself with better people,” she added. “Have you met Lan Xichen yet?”

It turned out he had, and that they were rather fond of each other, too. Very fond, to judge by Meng Yao’s starry-eyed expression, and wouldn’t it be just her luck if the two men she was attracted to – and which she’d refused on the basis of not wanting to cut off their family lines – ended up pairing up together, which would also cut off their family lines?

Of course, Meng Yao was off limits for other reasons as well…

One day she overheard them talking about Meng Yao possibly leaving, probably intentionally on Meng Yao’s part, and she walked inside rolling her eyes already. “If you want to go, go,” she said. “I’ll write you a recommendation letter, for whatever it’s worth – he’s got a thick enough face that it might not do you any good, but he’s already noticed you, so hopefully that’ll be something.”

“Sect Leader Nie –”

“I didn’t promote you out of a sense of gratitude,” she said impatiently. “You’ve always wanted to get back to him, for whatever reason; I’m not going to hold you back.”

He smiled at that, and Lan Xichen smiled with him.

Really, there were limits to the sort of things you could expect a person to resist, even with willpower like hers.

“Have you decided that you will go?” she asked Meng Yao. “Is it your final decision? Let me know now.”

“It is.”

“Good,” she said. “You’re fired as my deputy. Also, I’d like to take the two of you to bed, if you’re similarly inclined.”

They gaped at her.

“What?” she said, crossing her arms. “He’s not my deputy anymore, there’s nothing immoral about it. Besides, nobody will get any stupid ideas about marriage if there’s three of us involved. It is only if you’re interested, though; I won’t be offended if you say no –”

Lan Xichen was kissing her before she even finished the sentence, so she assumed the answer was not, in fact, no, and Meng Yao’s reaction was equally enthusiastic – though perhaps equally wasn’t the right word, given how both she and Meng Yao ended up tied up in Lan Xichen’s forehead ribbon before the night was done.

“I knew it was a kink,” Meng Yao said, inspecting it with an expression of satisfaction, as if he hadn’t just demonstrated a fair share of his own. “Something so prominently displayed, Xichen-gege, for shame…”

Lan Xichen didn’t show so much as a hint of shame about it. “We’ll have to do this again,” he said. “I’m not even a fourth of the way down my list.”

“There’s a list?” Nie Mingjue asked, stretching out her legs to see how they felt after all that tossing around. “Tell me this is written down somewhere – no, tell me your uncle found it.”

Lan Xichen shuddered. “Thank you, da-jie. I didn’t need that mental image – it’d be like the time you gave Wangji pornography, only worse.”

Meng Yao decided the best way to muffle his laughter was in Nie Mingjue’s shoulder. With his teeth.

Nie Mingjue gave him a half-hearted shove. “Get off,” she grumbled. “I need to go drink some medicine to prevent contraception before we encounter disaster – this wasn’t planned, you know. I was intending on dying a virgin.”

“Da-jie, for you to die a virgin, that would mean – uh – that would – you were…? Mingjue!”

Nie Mingjue gave them both a glare. “Don’t tell me you two listened to those stupid rumors. I don’t take just anyone to my bed.”

“And you decided on two of us?” Meng Yao said, blinking at her. “Da-jie is very ambitious.”

“Not as much as you,” she said, rolling her eyes and pushing away their grasping hands. “What’s your real plan, anyway? You know Jin Guangshan won’t accept you as a son just because you show up and volunteer.”

“I don’t need to be his son, I just need to wear his colors,” Meng Yao said. “It’ll make for a better story when I defect to the Wen sect – as a spy, don’t look at me like that. You know I’d be good at it. And if I get close enough to Wen Ruohan, I can kill him. I’ll give you his head as a present, da-jie.”

“Unfair, A-Yao! I can’t compete with that,” Lan Xichen complained. “You have to let me help.”

‘Help’ turned out to be Lan Xichen allowing himself to be captured and Meng Yao stabbing Wen Ruohan in the back when he was about to start torturing the First Jade of Lan – Nie Mingjue had a headache and a strong desire to kill them both.

Even if they did bring her Wen Ruohan’s head.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourselves,” she scolded them – both Lan Xichen and Meng Yao, now officially Jin Guangyao (thanks to a bit of pointed haggling over which clan got what war merits and how that applied to the division of the spoils of war), looked positively smug. “What if you’d died?”

“But we didn’t,” Lan Xichen pointed out. “And now we’re here to claim our reward from our goddess.”

“Did I promise you a reward?”

Two sets of puppy dog eyes…and they did help her avenge her father.

“Fine. What do you want? If I can give it to you, it’s yours.”

They looked at each other, and Nie Mingjue immediately started to worry: they’d had time to think about it. That was dangerous.

“We want to marry you,” Lan Xichen said.

“Both of us,” Jin Guangyao said. “To avoid any jealousy.”

“That’s…not how that works,” Nie Mingjue said blankly. Men married multiple wives, not women multiple men: they had words for women who did that, none of them complimentary. Or legal, for that matter. “And anyway, I’ve already told you, I can’t have children. Huaisang’s my heir, and he always will be – you deserve to continue your family lines. Both of you.”

They exchanged looks again.

“That’s fine by me,” Jin Guangyao said. “Jin Zixuan’s the heir anyway.”

“I have plenty of cousins,” Lan Xichen said. “Can we go to bed now? I was injured in the line of duty –” He had a scraped knee and exactly three bruises, she’d counted. “– and I need some care and attention.”

“And an agreement of marriage from da-jie,” Jin Guangyao said, because he had a lawyer’s eye for such things.

This was almost certain to cause some sort of political disaster.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t settle for sworn brothers or something?” she tried.

They wouldn’t.

(The stories said that the leader of the Nie sect was a goddess – a war goddess, a goddess of the blade, sharp as the saber she carried and tall as a temple statute; they said that her two lovers fell in love with her the first moment they saw her and fought a war that upturned the entire cultivation world just to win the right to claim her hand; they said that they served as her right and left hands, and that when the three of them were together, the venerated triad, they could never be defeated.)

#mdzs #nie mingjue #lan xichen #meng yao #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #da-jie #Anonymous

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buglife · 4 years ago

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Bend and Not Break - Ch 1: A Mark

Anonymous said: Not sure if someone has requested this yet, but I’d love to see how the cast would react to an assassin coming after Ghost or Quirrel. I mean, there’s gotta be some bugs out there who don’t adore the new sovereigns right?

Anonymous said: If your still doing these (if not I’m really sorry and please just ignore me) may I request 17: “Ok, well… Fuck.” With Quirrel and Ghost being his knight in shining armour.

Read here on AO3 :3

Quirrel looked in the mirror, sighing to himself as he regarded his reflection. He was due to make a public appearance today along with Ghost, so he had to look the part of a King. He still didn’t feel much like a king, not really. He felt more like he did when he was helping his mother run the archives, which was a lot of running around and keeping people from losing their fingers to explosives. It wasn’t all about preventing disasters, it was also about fostering the love of learning and the curiosity that makes society better. So in a way...he felt the same now as he did then. There was more paperwork, of course, but he was happy. It helped that he had a spouse to share the load with.

He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, the pale ore gleaming in the light. It had been made from Ghost’s old nail, with them having a matching ring. They had long since outgrown the old nail, and most of it was used in making the pure nail he now carried. Still, it was something special that their rings were made with the metal that helped kill a god and started the rebirth of Hallownest. Smith and Sheo were absolutely delighted to work on them, and now the both of them had completely unique nails and rings that will probably last forever.

Today was going to be a rather emotional day for Ghost. He remembered them telling him snippets about the Soul Sanctum here and there. They could only mention what they were comfortable talking about, and it wasn’t much of it that qualified as such. Sometime during their journey to end the infection, they had entered the Soul Sanctum and put down the mad scientist within along with his equally mad followers. Grandeurs of immortality and power was enough to corrupt any bug, but from what he heard, the ones involved went far beyond corruption. It was evil. Pure evil. Ghost usually stopped talking at around that point, and Quirrel found himself cuddling them as they sought comfort to ease what they cannot forget.

The worst day perhaps, was when the Kingdom had established themselves enough to expand beyond bare necessities. As soon as the funds was available, Ghost had the Soul Sanctum completely stripped down to the bare walls and floors. They had gone that day to oversee it all and when they returned, they could barely hold themselves together. They spent the night crying, mourning the lives lost in the pursuit of power. They had given the dead within rest, but it still destroyed them on the inside to have to return to that place. Quirrel did his best to help, and many a sleepless night was spent together, attempting to heal deep wounds within.

They had recovered, in time. Stripping the place had done a lot to help them move on from the experience, and they had decided to turn it into something new. Something useful that would help bugs and not harm them. Something that promoted life, not take them away.

Its where they were going today, to officially open it up to the public. Quirrel would be there not only as a fellow ruler, but as support for Ghost. Despite it all, it was going to be hard for them.

Quirrel smoothed back his antenna and tied his silk kerchief around his head. It was a necessary habit he picked up while growing up with his mother. After burning his antenna one too many times due to splashes of acid or a chemical reaction gone wrong, he tended to pin them back. They got in the way sometimes, but once in a while he felt safe enough to let them out. The palace didn’t really have acid, or volatile chemicals, but old habits die hard.

He clipped on his cloak, letting the study fabric fall around his shoulders as he pinned it in place. It was a lovely blue, nearly iridescent, and clasped with a pale ore brooch that designated him as king. There was no way he could ever bring himself to wear something as tacky as a crown. Hell, Ghost wouldn’t even be able to fit one on their head. Instead, brooches seemed to fit a whole lot better.

Once he made sure his nail was strapped to his side, he deemed himself ready, and exited the room - only to nearly smack into his spouse, who was opening the door at the same time.

“Oof!” Running into Ghost wasn’t as fun as it was when they were little. Back then their shell was soft and kinda squishy like any other grub. But once stasis ended and they caught up on all their missed molts, their chitin had become tough and hard.

“Are you alright?” Ghost’s telepathy was soft and gently breezed by his mind. It’s just something gods could do, apparently. Their sire could, Quirrel knew that as a fact, but the fact they also ate a god boosted their ability to communicate without relying on sign language. They only ‘spoke’ like this to family and friends, a little too nervous to use it on the public. Quirrel hoped that would change with time.

He didn’t blame them, though. They were terrified of being considered scary. They were certainly imposing, but not as much as their sibling, Hollow. There were those that will always be scared of them, with them being a god and immensely powerful. But enough of their subjects loved them enough to not care. He just wished they could see it. Quirrel considered them handsome and cute, but then again, he was biased.

“I’m okay love, I was about to go and find you.” Quirrel smoothed down the front of his cloak and picked at Ghosts, adjusting it around a little. “It’s nearly time.”

Ghost was silent for a moment, and then leaned down to softly bonk their forehead against theirs. “I know.”

“You’ll be fine. That place doesn’t exist anymore.” He did his best to soothe any lingering nerves. Being around Ghost for so long as alerted him to their various tells. “It’s a better place now. Much better.”

They nodded slowly and let out a deep breath. “You are right. It is just hard to let go of what it was.”

“I understand, it will take a while, but you are doing great.” Quirrel took Ghost’s claws in his and gently squeezed. “Come along then, we don’t want to be late to the dedication.”

Ghost tilted their mask up in a smile, and then nodded. They bent down to steal a quick kiss, one that Quirrel returned, and together, they headed to the Stag Station.

----

The Capital was bustling, like always. It no longer was the City of Tears, not with the new revitalization of Hallownest. The rain had been stopped, redirected with new plant life growing on the ceiling. Lurien himself helped renew the spells that kept the water from outright pouring out of the lake above. Without being constantly rained on, more bugs were out and about. Today however, they were gathering in front of what used to be the Soul Sanctum, waiting around a platform where their rulers would be giving a speech. Most bugs were eager to enter the newly renovated building, because it was for them, and them alone.

The Soul Sanctum, which had brought so much death and misery to so many lives, had been converted into a multi-level communal greenhouse. There, farmer bugs would grow a verity of food, which is then free to be picked and used by the public. Taxes from the upper members of society will be used to keep the place running. That way, no bug would have to go hungry. The intimidating and Gothic architecture of the building had been transformed into a pillar of glass and green. It was now friendly, the oppressive air from before banished into a place of shelter. Not only could you go there to eat, but you can go there to rest among some of the floors dedicated to flowers. It was a gift, from the rulers of New Hallownest to the people, and the people were waiting to be allowed in to enjoy it.

The five new knights of Hallownest stood in various places around the crowd. So far, they didn’t need to do much but remind some citizens to calm down and not crowd each other. With Xena on her beast (named Pickles, but only she can call them that), it was easy to keep everyone in line. Cloth stole a quick moment to wave to Myla in the crowd, temporarily breaking protocol, but it wasn’t like Tiso was going to scold her for that, since he did the same thing. Once he finished his quick wave to his other date friend, he scanned the crowd and recognizing a few folks from Dirtmouth as well. A lot of people showed up to this dedication, hell, he even spotted a few spiders and bees in the crowd. It just made him scan the crowd more thoroughly. Threats could come from anywhere, and he took security very seriously.

It wasn’t long before he spotted the Kings approach the platform and climb on, waiting for the crowds cheering to die down before they began the ceremony. Quirrel was doing the speaking today, Ghost standing beside them and holding his hand. Tiso remembered when Ghost was small enough to pick up and throw. It was lots of fun, but now they were too big for that. Oh well. As soon as the crowd’s noise died down, Quirrel tapped a speaking stone on the provided podium and his voice was projected outwards to be heard by everyone.

“Hello to you all, our dear subjects. Today we continue to do our very best to provide for you, our people, whom we dearly love and cherish. This site was a place of tragedy, and pain, part of the past of old Hallownest that was rife with corruption and oversight. But today we have washed away the dark and terrible past, to bring in the new, which is full of hope and life. We have -”

Quirrel had always been a good speaker. But Tiso wasn’t here to hear a speech. He heard it before, when Quirrel had asked him and his fellow knights to hear it and give honest feedback. Tiso had suggested Quirrel get to the damn point because nobody liked just standing around, so he thankfully cut the speech down by half.

There were bugs everywhere. Bugs in the square, bugs that could climb were hanging on buildings, bugs looking out windows, bugs on roofs, everywhere. Tiso scanned them all, eyes narrowed. It was no lie that there were bugs out there who didn’t agree with the direction the new government was taking, especially having another god as a ruler. Ghost and Quirrel had managed to piss off the right people. They were the folks that enjoyed profiting by gaming the system, and that system came tumbling down once Ghost claimed the throne. It got even worse when they married Quirrel, who was scarily smart. Quickly it became obvious that nobody was going to get away with old hustles anymore.

Quirrel continued talking, and Tiso continued watching. Then, something caught his eye. A glint of metal shined on one of the rooftops, a figure crouched down behind it. The glint moved, and Tiso’s heart went cold.

“GET DOWN!” He shouted, and with a heft, threw his shield as hard as he could. Bugs instantly dropped to the ground and the knights gathered to the podium. The shield whistled through the air, and with a satisfying clunk, impacted the bug on the roof. There was a brief shout of pain, and then came the thwip as a crossbow bolt lodged itself in the podium. It was obviously aimed for the pillbug’s head, and it missed him by scant inches. Someone in the crowd screamed and it started a chain reaction of panic. Cloth and Ogrim took crowd duty, ushering the crowd into nearby buildings to get them off the streets and away from the danger.

Xena was already heading up to the roof atop her beast, the creature climbing up the sides with frightening speed. Tiso flashed his soul and recalled his shield, just in time to hear the bug on the roof start screaming once the beast reached it’s fanged maw out and grabbed them. He trusted Xena to keep at least enough of them alive for questioning later.

To add more chaos to the mix, some bugs in the crowd dropped their cloaks, revealing nails, and rushed the podium.

“No more gods! No more masters!” Some of them shouted. The sentiment was echoed by the other assassins as they parted through the crowd, not caring about who they knocked over or trampled in their haste. Bugs continued to scream, struggling to get out of the way as some were simply tossed aside to make way. Tiso could hear grubs wailing and the sharp clang of metal as some of the bugs in the crowd took up their own nails. They were valiantly trying to hold back the assassins, who cruelly cut them down and left them to bleed out. Thankfully medics were among the guards, and they quickly raced out to try and save the injured civilians.

So this was a coordinated assassination attempt, usually they were done by singular bugs. They must have gotten a little smarter. Tiso was about to jump into the fray, only to hold back when Hollow sped past him and body checked an assassin so hard that he could hear the chitin cracking from where he stood. Ouch. He let Hollow do their thing and barked out orders to his guardsmen. They had to get everything under control, and fast.

However, the Kings of Hallownest were no pushovers. Quirrel practically teleported, moving with an insane amount of speed to kill an assassin with a flash of their nail. Since the crossbow bolt was aimed at him, Ghost was especially pissed. They were trying their best to not change into their true, terrifying form and completely destroy the square they worked so hard to rebuild. Judging by the extra three pairs of eyes that opened on their mask, they were barely holding on. Tiso did not blame them.

One assassin got lucky, moving at just the right time to scratch their nail along Quirrel’s side. He let out a hiss of pain and leapt backwards, ignoring the wound for now. He moved to retaliate, only to see said assassin become a smear of hemolymph on the platform. He glanced up to see an absolutely furious Ghost retract a void tentacle back into their body, still coated in a thin sheen of gore.

“Are you okay?” Ghost’s mental voice was now tight, louder. Quirrel could hear the rumbling of the void in behind, overlapping as the power of a god began to leak through Ghost’s control.

“Yes dear, just a scratch.” Quirrel sidestepped another assassin, bringing his nail around to cleanly slice off their nail arm. The assassin screamed, now missing an arm, and was quickly grabbed by Ghost and slammed bodily into the ground. Ghost then proceeded to kick them into the nearest building, cracking the stone slightly and leaving said bug a quivering mess.

As quickly as it all began, it was over. In total there were eight assassins. Three were outright dead, most due to Ghost. The rest were maimed and beaten bloody, but were alive. They weren’t too sure if the ones Hollow got to would survive or not. Either way, they weren’t going to get out of the situation alive, either by the executioner’s axe or dying from their wounds. Tiso had ordered the spare guard out, and there was a city wide search for more conspirators. There was no way to tell how many were out there, at least, until the prisoners were questioned. Something Tiso was going to enjoy doing so very much.

Ghost was panting, trying to calm down after losing their control for the bare moments it took for the fight to finish. Quirrel shivered, also breathing heavily. Adrenaline was surging through his body still and he doubted he’d be able to calm down anytime soon. Ghost had grabbed him, holding him tight as they too, shook. For a being designed to have no emotions, Ghost sure wore theirs on their sleeve, frantically patting Quirrel down for injuries. He knew what they were afraid of, and he stopped their hands with his to prevent their anxiety from taking over their rational thought.

“I’m okay love, it’s just a scratch.” He had time to look at his wound, bleeding blue. It wasn’t even terribly deep. It would just need some cleaning and some shell paste. If anything, it was making a mess of his cloak. The cleaners were going to have an absolute fit about it. He sighed as Ghost moved their hands to the wound, clearly worried.

“Your Majesties!” Ogrim hurried over. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine, thank you. What of the assassins'?” Quirrel again, moved his hands to hold Ghost’s as he listened to Ogrim.

“Captured. We have guards scouring the city for anything suspicious.” The dung beetle looked about the now empty square, watching the assassins that were dead being dragged away. “Tiso and Xena are going to head an investigation once they interrogate-”

Ghost whistled, stopping Ogrims words. “I will interrogate them.”

“Your majesty, are you sure, you-”

“I am very sure.” They had since hunched protectively over Quirrel, arms like a gate around him. The malice in their 'voice' wasn't hard to miss, something Ogrim picked up on. He was always able to pick out the tiniest of details.

Ogrim bowed his head, but spoke plainly. “With all due respect, as your knight, and as your friend, I urge you to at least let the captain and his lieutenant do their job first before you decide to do anything.”

“Ogrim is right, love.” Quirrel reached up to cup Ghost’s cheek, hand oddly feeling weak. Perhaps he was still worked up? He started feeling a little dizzy, maybe he needed somewhere quiet to de-stress for a little while. He wouldn't mind retreating back to their bedroom to cuddle for a while. That should be able to do the trick nicely. Still, he continued with his advice. “You are too worked up right now. You need to calm down first. We both do.”

Ghost shook for a moment, and then took a few deep breaths. “Okay. Please tell Tiso and Xena to get as much from the prisoners as they can. I will be there shortly.”

Ogrim nodded. “Of course, Cloth and Hollow will be here soon and they will be able to escort you back to the palace.”

Quirrel started to say something and then was hit by a sudden wave of light headedness. He grabbed onto Ghost’s arm to steady himself as he momentarily lost feeling in his legs.

Ogrim and Ghost noticed that for sure. “Your majesty?” Ogrim questioned, reaching out a claw to offer support.

“No no- I’m fine...I’m..” The world twisted and a spike of pain and nausea punctured his gut. He suddenly couldn’t tell which way was up or down anymore. His legs gave out and through an increasing and concerning wave of numbness, he felt himself being caught.

“QUIRREL!!” The mental shout was loud, and with it came more noises he couldn’t quite make out.

Ok, well… fuck.” The pain seemed to get worse, now a burning sensation that spread from the wound on his side to the very core of his body. His lungs hurt. His heart hurt. A disturbing wave of pain twisted around his limbs and went right into his brain. It suddenly got more difficult to breathe as he clutched his spouse with his claws.

He was dimly aware of someone screaming desperately, echoing around his head as he lost the ability to understand it, he was too busy gasping for breath.

The noises blended together until finally, there was nothing but darkness.

-----

“In you go, ya fucker.” Tiso not so gently tossed one assassin, a particularly nasty looking cricket, onto the stone floor of the dungeon cell. They had given just the bare amount of medical care necessary to keep them alive. The worst injury was the stump where their nail arm used to be, cleanly cut in half by the biggest nerd in the kingdom. “This’ll be your new home for a while, but it can get a little nicer if you decide to talk.”

“It won’t make any difference,” The cricket spat a wad of hemo on the floor. “I’m dead anyway.”

“True…” Tiso mused, leaning on the bars to stare the other bug right in the eyes. “But would you rather prefer a quick death, or being dragged kicking and screaming into the void? Cause let me tell you, I’d rather take a beheading over that. That shit is fucked up.”

“Typical of a tyrant.”

“You seriously calling the squirt and the nerd tyrants? I mean, they literally were about to open a public greenhouse so that everyone can eat before you idiots crashed it.” Tiso tapped his shield against the bars, making the metal ting in the most annoying way possible. He absolutely loved messing with prisoners like that, it made them slip up more often than not. Tiso learned more from pissing off the prisoners than he ever did 'nicely' interrogating them. “I don't know about you, but that don’t sound like tyrants to me.”

“All gods, are tyrants.” The doomed assassin moved to sit up, resting their back against the cold stone walls. Their movements were awkward, now that they were missing an arm. “The Pale King was. The Radiance was. Even the White Lady. Now we have an even more powerful tyrant as our king! We can’t keep letting ourselves become playthings for monsters!”

“Call them a monster one more time and I’ll feed ya to Xena’s beast, and the beast chews slowly.” Tiso narrowed his eyes at the bug on the other side of the bars. He could roughly hear the other prisoners being tossed in their cells as well. Judging by the echoes, they were spouting the same nonsense and getting zero sympathy for it. “You’re a fucking idiot, you think you can just kill our Kings like that? King Ghost killed the Radiance, for fucks sake!”

The cricket smiled through their broken mandibles, dribbling hemo over their cloak. “No, we can’t kill the tyrant, but we can hurt them.”

Tiso stared, shocked by the words. A very bad feeling sat in his gut, and was quickly vindicated when Cloth rounded the corner.

“Tiso!” she shouted. “It’s Quirrel!”

“Yeah?” The bad feeling grew stronger and he desperately prayed to whatever was listening, that the next words out of his love's mouth wasn’t going to be bad news.

“Quirrel...he's...He’s been poisoned!”

Tiso’s world went numb, and all he could hear was the insane laughter of the prisoner behind him.

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commander-diomika · 3 years ago

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(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 4 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde Rating: Teen and Up Word Count: ~1900 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Rating Will Change to Explicit in Later Parts, Opposites Attract, Hurt/Comfort, but zolf's not doing a great job of it, canon typical poor bedside manner zolf, Holding Hands, Massage

Summary: “A pair of eccentric foreigners building a dungeon? My, I hesitate to think what pictures they’re painting of us.” When Zolf looked up, Wilde’s mouth was seeking a path to his old smirk around the new routes of his face. He detoured through a wince and raised a hand as if to touch his cheek.

“Is it still botherin’ you?” Zolf’s said softly.

“It’s fine,” he said, dropping the hand.

“Wilde.” Zolf tilted his head in slight exasperation. “Let me have another look at it.”

JAPAN, One Month Later

Wilde was sitting at his desk staring blankly when Zolf came in. He blinked at the papers without looking up.

“How’s it all looking?” Zolf asked when it became clear Wilde either hadn’t noticed Zolf, or wasn’t going to acknowledge him. The faint sounds of construction work mingled with the steady fall of rain on a wooden roof, and the combination of sounds seemed to have a lulling effect on the man.

Wilde cleared his throat and moved one stack of papers to another fruitlessly; gave his head a little shake as though to clear the fog. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

Before Wilde was due to emerge from his self-imposed quarantine, Zolf had been stewing over how he might provide comfort to the man. He was sure that Wilde wouldn’t have coped at all, and Zolf would be forced to make it better somehow. How would he find words to help someone for whom polished words came so easy?

But he’d been surprised by Wilde’s immediate and steely practicality. He had come out of the room looking drawn and harrowed, but perfectly himself. “There absolutely has to be a better way of doing that,” he had announced, and headed straight for the bath. He’d done his best to wipe off the blood that had covered his face and neck, but there was still a little crusted into the cracks. Especially around the weal that now marred his face from temple to lips.

Instead of falling to pieces as Zolf half-expected from the fussy bard, Wilde had thrown himself into the work of finding, acquiring, and modifying a building fit-to-purpose at their next destination. If Wilde was in motion, he was fine. If he was busy and distracted, everything was fine. But as soon as he stopped… Zolf could see it for what it was, but he didn’t know how to change that. For two people who communicated either through business or bickering, letting Wilde stick to practicality was the easier path for Zolf.

“Wilde?” Zolf prompted again in the office. “How’s things?”

“Hm?” Wilde acknowledged, raising tired eyes. “Actually-” he paused, gathering his thoughts, “-it’s not looking too bad. The works on the isolation cell should be finished by the time Barnes and Carter are scheduled to return. As much as I am loath to send someone like Barnes on what is essentially a heist, our funds have been almost utterly drained.”

Zolf nodded. He’d shed his outer rain layer in the slush room, but his hair and beard were still slightly damp as he moved over to dry off by the warmth of the brazier. He didn’t look at Wilde as he spoke. “Aye, but Barnes is the one we can trust to come back with the funds. I’m still not so sure about Carter.”

Wilde just shrugged. “Howard simply cannot abide boredom, and I daresay what’s coming will hold enough novelty to entertain him awhile.”

Except for the seven days we’re going to jam him into a cell for, Zolf thought, but he didn’t speak the thought aloud.

The seven days in Damascus hadn’t exactly been easy for Zolf, either. Wilde had extracted Zolf’s promise not to open the door regardless of Wilde’s behavior, and Zolf was a man of his word. But for the whole week, the imprisoned man didn’t cry, or scream, or even talk most of the time. He was silent, leaving Zolf to stew in his own fears of being infected with whatever had turned the amiable Douglas into an attempted murderer.

Around day five Zolf had given up calling through the door to check on Wilde, only to be met with silence. He could have been dead for all Zolf had known.

But he wasn’t dead, or monstrous. He was right here. Needing action and movement to fill every moment of his waking hours so he could stay sane, but at least he was alive. “How are things on your end?” Wilde asked.

“Not too bad. Like you said, the locals are an alright bunch, and they’ve mostly got no idea what’s goin’ on in the wider world. I found a local carpenter who was able to tweak your designs for the trap door, and I reckon he thinks it’s all a bit of a laugh. Everyone seems to just think we’re a pair of odd foreigners, and they’re happy enough for the coin we’re spendin’.”

“A pair of eccentric foreigners building a dungeon? My, I hesitate to think what pictures they’re painting of us.” When Zolf looked up, Wilde’s mouth was seeking a path to his old smirk around the new routes of his face. He detoured through a wince and raised a hand as if to touch his cheek.

“Is it still botherin’ you?” Zolf’s said softly.

“It’s fine,” he said, dropping the hand.

“Wilde.” Zolf tilted his head in slight exasperation. “Let me have another look at it.” He moved to step behind the desk.

“I’m fine, Zolf. We both know that once a scar is healed up, there’s no point pouring more magic into it.” Wilde’s mouth was a hard line and he straightened up as he spoke. He’d been stooping a lot. He was quite frankly too tall for everything here and unused to Japanese style furniture. The agitation from his words flowed into his body, and as he straightened up, he started tilting his chin from one side to another to work out the kinks.

Zolf had paused. He was right, of course. There was nothing more that Zolf could do to fix the scar, and Wilde had bristled like an angry cat every time it was brought up. It hurt Zolf in a place he couldn’t quite reach nor name. Yes, Wilde had been a different, more focused man since they’d regrouped to work together, but before Douglas, Wilde still laughed at his own lewd jokes and sang sometimes just for the joy of it. That man was gone. And Zolf couldn’t reach back in time to bring him back, and he was powerless to heal the scar that dragged on Wilde’s mouth, so maybe he should just drop it.

I can’t fix the big things. I wouldn’t even know where to start, Zolf thought. But maybe I can do somethin’. Zolf found his momentum again and moved behind where Wilde sat.

“Here, le’ me.” Zolf laid his hands on Wilde’s shoulders. A beat passed, and Zolf was sure he would be shrugged off. But Wilde simply stilled.

When he wasn’t pushed away, Zolf squeezed his hands into the tight knots of Wilde’s shoulders, concentrating on the act. Wilde sighed, head relaxing forward slightly as steady fingers worked into bunched muscle, the light fabric of his shirt allowing Zolf to feel the warmth of skin beneath his fingers.

Wilde had put back on most of the weight he’d lost in Damascus. His hair’s gettin’ so long, Zolf thought, mildly disapproving. If he don’t cut it soon, he’ll have to start tyin’ it back. He idly brushed the hair to one side to reach under and cup the nape of Wilde’s neck, working thumb and index finger into the base of his skull. Zolf had half expected Wilde to tease him, or make some smart-ass comments, but for all his prickliness, he’d gone remarkably quiet and limp under Zolf’s hands.

Sometimes it’s easier to like him when he’s not talkin’, Zolf thought. Definitely easier to touch him.

Zolf’s mind drifted through the sounds of construction drifting up from the basement. Buying an entire inn had stretched the funds thin, and the island wasn’t flush with resources, so what they’d ended up with wasn’t exactly The Ritz. He’d wanted to make it a little nicer, not for him but for the inevitable time Wilde had to do it all again.

Zolf silently swore to Wilde that he could stay at the inn, stay safe, and Zolf would do the quarantines, so Wilde didn’t have to. Even as he promised it, he knew it was an oath he would break. Needs must, at the end of the world, after all.

Zolf continued to massage, and for a little while, there was nothing but the sound of rain.

Zolf was brought out of his reverie by the touch of Wilde’s hand covering his own. Wilde had raised a hand from the desk, reached to his opposite shoulder, and hesitantly laid it over Zolf’s. With a small start, he realised that he’d stopped massaging some time ago. He had come to stillness with hands sitting comfortably, one on Wilde’s shoulder, the other resting on the warm skin of the nape of his neck.

Zolf froze, gaze transfixed on their hands. They were like a miniature portrait of their statures; Wilde’s lanky and long, Zolf’s broad and sturdy. Zolf didn’t think as held his breath, flexing his hand, allowing each of Wilde’s fingers to slip in-between the gaps in his.

Wilde cleared his throat, finally. “Do you… do you think we’ll be safe here?”

When Zolf went to reply, he found his throat completely dry and unable to give voice to the roil of emotions inside him.

He wanted to lie. Yes, of course, completely.

He wanted to say I don’t know but I’ll keep you safe,

He wanted to tell the truth and say Of course we’re not safe. We were bloody safe in Damascus before you ignored me and acted the fool, and as that still-present anger bubbled to the surface he slipped his fingers out from between Wilde’s and stepped back.

“I don’t think anywhere is safe anymore,” he said to the back of Wilde’s head. Whatever anger he felt wasn’t worth voicing. There was nothing he could say that would punish Wilde more than he already had been. “But you’re more… focused now.”

Wilde’s shoulders immediately knotted back up. “More focused,” he repeated. “That’s one way of putting it.” He half-turned his head and ran a thumb down the scar, not in a way that seemed consciously pointed but in a gesture that hit Zolf like a missile to the chest.

Zolf clenched his still-warm hands for a moment, steeling himself, and placed his hand back where it had rested. “I’m sorry, Wilde. We’ll make it as safe as we can. I’m not- I’m not going anywhere.”

Wilde gave a grim little chuckle and shrugged Zolf’s hand off.

Zolf knew he was awful at this. He tried to say the right things, but Wilde was the one adept with nimble words and emotions. Zolf was out of his depth, and he hated that something about this eloquent, frustrating mess of a man made him feel like he was out past the shelf and floundering.

“Anyway. I’m going to bed.” Zolf stepped out from behind the desk and went straight for the door. Maybe if he could leave without looking at Wilde he could escape that clumsy feeling. But something, his good intentions perhaps, had him stop in the door and try one last time.

“G’night, Wilde. Try and get some sleep, aye?”

Wilde cocked his head, obviously debating whether to bite. Instead, he half smiled, eyes inscrutable. “I will try.” Was it nostalgia on his face? Regret? Before Zolf could figure it out, Wilde nodded a gentle dismissal and picked up a pen. “Goodnight, Zolf.”

#hank writes #zolfwilde #zoscar #rusty quill gaming #rqg #rqg fic #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #honestly i just wanted them to hold hands but turns out i traumatized #them both too much #they'll have nice things eventually

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13eyond13 · 3 years ago

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I'll try to keep it short because you're very kind but I'm becoming annoying... I actually like Soichiro. It's his morals I cannot stand. In fact, in line with his, I like Matsuda's and even Light's variations more, even with all the darkness they entail, because they're more critical. I adore L and find him relatable, but I'm not so sure if I'd like him as a person in real life, and yet I again like his morals more than Soichiro's. I still think Soichiro is generally a better person than any of the others. I still dislike his morals the most. When I say at the opposite end of Soichiro in the moral spectrum is where Near stands I'm not talking just about my personal liking, but as I interpret their views on morality. Maybe there's some detail of the manga I'm forgetting (I truly have to reread it), but Soichiro didn't seem very critical about... anything, while Near states something like "even if god came and told me this is good and this is bad and this is The Truth I'd still consider and come to my own conclusion". I like that. I care less about someone getting a moral with what I may consider a degree of grey if they do that. I myself have very strong morals that nonetheless have degrees of grey; strong doesn't mean pure. My grey and someone else's grey might be very different. But I've developed them, not accepted them blindly. Near of course, Mello, L, and even Light and Matsuda do this, but Soichiro generally doesn't. And I dislike that greatly. In fact, I think I'd find him kind in real life, and likeable, but I'd not really like him because I can't really bring myself to like someone like that even when they're kind and compassionate and good. I'm already talking more than I intended but I'll try to point out what bothers me of his attitude.

Soichiro is very very anti Kira, but he's working for a government with the death penalty and he doesn't seem to consider that even for a moment. For him, that the government does it is justifiable but monstrous if a person does it. He doesn't really have a justification, it's just like that because it's as it is. He's very against L's methods, buy L uses people who were going to die anyway at the very moment he uses them either way because of the death penalty, because of the government. From a government pov, if the government were to do what L does, it'd be something terrible. From an individual pov? Not so much. It's ugly, but it's beyond himself whether that people die or not, and his decisions are easily justifiable from an individual pov: they're going to die irrevocably, that very day at that very time, and he is using what he can to solve a very complicated case that is taking many lives, and he even might use the moral support of "I'm giving the prisoners the chance of choosing, with the potential reward of lifelong imprisonment instead of death". And again, while a government doing that is terrible, it's not as terrible for a person. L is a private detective, an individual. People can be fallible. Governments shouldn't. What L does might be justifiable, if ugly, for a person, but it would be unforgivable for the government to do. But the government lies on L and it's L who takes the slander of the rest of the Task Force. And that's what Soichiro doesn't see, and that's what bugs me. Soichiro sides with the government and the laws no matter what, no matter if they're terrible and are actually the cause if indirectly of the terrible things L is able to do (I'd have to reread to be completely comfortable affirming this, but Soichiro's attitude towards the government reminds me a bit of Mikami and Misa to some extent).

Soichiro hates Kira, and hates and criticises L's methods and his ruthlessness, but doesn't even consider for one moment the problem is not L. The problem is not the 24 yo boy/man, the problem is his government, that has the dead penalty and actually let's a private detective carry on with the investigation and do as he pleases (and I'm not even taking into consideration how L's upbringing and the lowkey if fun exploitation he was subrmited to have most probably influenced if not determined the way he acts in these cases, because while it's intriguing it'd feel like justifying L out of pity, and either way Soichiro doesn't know that; but I mention this because L's entire past at Wammy's, like the other children's, is another very terrible move from governments and adults in responsibility positions). The problem is Interpol, the governments in general, blatantly saying L is ruthless but not even setting rules when working with him. And I think it would actually have been very easy to stop L doing those things. Just change the rules of the game, tell him beforehand there are a few things he can't do. It's a game after all. Of course L would still exploit the moral and legal vacuums of the rules as he pleased, as one does when playing anything, but the government wouldn't have given him totally free way.

I'm not sure if I'm explaining myself very well. Years ago in a class I talked about the difference between personal vengeance and the death penalty. I feel this is similar. A person is fallible. A government should be able to stand over licit murder. L manipulating people to prove a point is ugly. A government doing that or letting someone free way to do whatever is terrible. L does whatever, and as an individual is not so horrible as it is that the governments internationally actually let him do whatever even knowing beforehand without setting rules. Soichiro sees this and it doesn't even cross his mind for a moment to criticise the government he's working with. Also, he considers his morals the best, which makes sense in a first person pov (why support x morals if you don't think they're the best? I'm not critisising this), but he's very... imposing about them, while as I say not being precisely the most critical thinker. That Soichiro is like this, morally (I'm not even talking about the policeman aspect though that's so often talked about in the fandom), makes a lot of sense to how Light ends up being Kira, and with how Matsuda thinks and acts. And I find that very intriguing, but I can't stand Soichiro's simplistic morals and his better-than-you attitude even though he's a generally good person. That's why I dislike his morals the most (of course you don't have to agree!). I don't stand by Near's morals either, but I like his "god could come and tell me and still I'd doubt" attitude. It's what makes gods mad in basically every mythology, but I love that kind of thought process. I'm very much like that too.

I'm so sorry this is so long. I tried to cut, but I got the impression it'd make it even less clear or more difficult to understand. Or maybe the lack of clarity lies precisely on how repetitive and long this is. I'd like to think English not being my first language has to do with this, but honestly the problem is most probably just me. I hope I made the point understandable enough, though. And thanks for your patience. I really liked that post of Near someone sent as an opinion and how you replied! Very interesting takes on both ends.

Hi again! You have some very thought-provoking points about it all, and don't worry, your English is excellent.

I loved Near's stance about these things as well, and that's something that really bothered me when growing up about some authority figures and institutions being really totalitarian and silencing of doubts or stances they deemed too negative or incorrect to voice aloud. I value having freedom of choice and the ability to think critically about everything immensely. Maybe it's because I went to a very strict and sheltering and weird little school as a child that tried very hard to indoctrinate me with a specific worldview, and always shamed and silenced anyone who disagreed or questioned them or felt like an outsider or wanted to have a different point of view. I remember relating the most to Matsuda on the task force when I first watched the show as a teen, because he was always speaking up with his devil's advocate questions or confusions. The way Soichiro and the others usually yell and scold and shame him for this bothered me a lot, because I wanted them to discuss things openly so I could see all the different sides of the arguments more clearly. Actually, I think this is a pretty culturally similar thing between Japan and Canada (where I am from). There's a strong emphasis on doing what's best for the entire group instead of just yourself, and being too controversial or outspoken or individualistic about certain things is often taboo and frowned upon as a big social faux pas. It's possibly quite a bit stronger pressure toward obedience and conformity and politeness in Japan in certain ways as well, but I don't know for sure as I haven't lived there myself.

I think Soichiro had a bit of nuance and flexibility with his morals and his stances in various instances throughout the plot, and to me he seemingly tries hard to see things from other angles during complicated moments in what must be one of the most difficult situations he could possibly face as both a police chief and a parent. But it's true he never seemed to doubt that upholding the laws already in place and the way his government punishes the convicted were the "correct" ways society should function. I think this series would be a really interesting one to discuss in a class that talks about stuff like justice and the death penalty and law and ethics and such for how many of these things it touches on in an entertaining and thought-provoking way!

#soichiro #near #matsuda #ask #anon #p

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flourchildwrites · 3 years ago

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Six years after their escape to the human world, the Grace Field children live together in a happy, harmonious home. Twenty-one-year-olds, Ray, Norman and Emma, have folded themselves into modern society and work tirelessly to provide for their younger siblings, putting the greater good of their family before their personal needs. But as children turn to into teenagers, new house rules come into play. Norman, convinced that Emma will never remember their unique childhood bond, makes a bold proposition — to prohibit romantic relationships between the Grace Field children and end his hopes for something more with Emma once and for all.

Ray knows all too well how dangerous it is to reignite a spark, but for the happiness of Emma and Norman, he's always been willing to burn.

Fandom: Yakusoku no Neverland | The Promised Neverland (Manga)

Relationships/Pairings: Emma/Norman (Endgame), Emma/Ray (Fake Dating), Norman & Ray, Emma & Ray

Genre: Post-Canon (Spoilers for Anime-Only Fans), Fake/Pretend Relationship

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 12,930 words (incomplete 3/5)

A/N: Oh, hi! So it's been a while, but I have neither dropped off the face of the Earth nor given up on this fic. Sometimes, I just have to wait until I'm in the right state of mind to write a chapter. Until next time....

Chapter 3

The cuckoo clock on the wall of Norman’s study is an ornate piece of artistry. It does its job fashionably and without complaint, keeping time with as much precision as its pendulum can muster. Norman likes to lose himself to the details of the carved wood. The dancing animals and crisp steeples that surround the clock face never fail to interest him when his thoughts turn sluggish at the end of the day.

Norman would happily wile away his evening hours waiting for the clock’s melodic chime to sound at the top of the hour, but this is not the gift’s purpose. Instead, it is meant as a constant reminder that time itself is a precious commodity. Mike Ratri gave him the clock upon his admission to law school. And though Norman’s enthusiasm for the present has dissipated, he cannot disagree with the principle behind the clock’s coded message.

Time can be a beautiful, but unforgiving mistress; yesterday’s opportunities are lost in the past, gone forever.

Perhaps, Norman muses, for his next graduation, he will receive a high-end watch from the Ratri clan. Then he, along with his time, will be literally and figuratively shackled to the course the family’s scion has mapped out for him. Norman knows he is regarded as the best of the bunch, the poster child amongst the extraordinary children born and raised in the demon world. Ever rational, he cannot disagree with that conclusion.

Still, he rakes a finger under the collar cinched around his neck to loosen his tie and fusses with the first few buttons of his pressed shirt. The emblem of Lambda 7214 peeks out from underneath the scoop neck of his undershirt, and not for the first time, Norman traces the tattoo’s hard lines where they are exposed. Compared to this marking, the numbers on his neck are practically forgettable.

Norman isn’t like the other Grace Field children, not since Peter Ratri’s malicious experiments. Neither can he lump himself in with the other Lambda survivors. Though Barbara never shies away from advocating for the latter.

“Are you even listening?” Barbara’s voice is shrill as it comes from the cellphone wedged between Norman’s shoulder and ear.

In the background, he can hear boxing gloves rhythmically pound against a punching bag. Norman doesn’t like lying to Barbara; he knows what the woman is capable of when she’s feeling feisty. But after hearing the juicy gossip from the younger children in his house, concerning a date between two certain someones, Norman’s mind refuses to focus on administrative matters. Still, he tries to soldier on as if nothing is amiss.

“Of course,” Norman fibs. “You’re concerned about the benefit, just like you are every year. And every year, it turns out fine. We get our funding; the Ratri family keeps their moral high ground.”

The sound of hard punch startles Norman, and Barbara pauses, slightly winded, before responding. “But the problem is that they want Zazie to attend this year. Zazie!”

The thought causes Norman to pause. He is wont to recall Zazie as he once was — a child stuck in an overgrown body with a paper bag hiding his face and twin swords strapped to his back. But Zazie, like his brothers and sisters, has grown into his shaggy hair, and in his case, his mental strides are much more impressive.

“What does Zazie think about attending the benefit?”

Barbara scoffs. “He’s fine with going for a little while as long as he isn’t on his own, but why should he waste his precious words on that family ? They don’t fund his therapy out of charity; they pay for it because his hardships, all our hardships, are their fault.”

Normally, Norman would play devil’s advocate. He would remind Barbara that Mike isn’t like Peter and point out that most of the advances made on behalf of the cattle, Lambda and farm children are funded by the donations of the benefit’s attendees. But tonight, Norman has no such fight in him. He has four cases to read and brief, an argument to draft for his legal writing class and a Ray-and-Emma-shaped problem that seems to become more bizarre by the minute.

“I’ll talk to Mike and see if we can defer Zazie’s involvement,” Norman capitulates, rubbing at his neck as his to-do list grows longer. “He may look like an adult, but he’s still a teenager. It can be easy to forget.”

There’s a pregnant pause on the other side of Norman’s cell phone connection.

“Are you feeling alright, boss?”

A part of Norman wants to laugh, a great big belly laugh that would draw the kind of attention the household head does his best to avoid. Of course, he isn’t alright. It was a relief when he first made the decision to impose a fraternization ban, but then, Ray went and asked Emma out just to spite him.

Clever, impulsive asshole.

How could Norman go through with it after that? Either he would have seemed like a heartless roadblock or a jealous cockblock to his siblings. And neither alternative comes close to the truth, an inconvenient conundrum that’s been eating away at him for years.

Norman exhales, long and slow, and because he can ordinarily be (somewhat) honest with Barbara, he doesn’t lie to her this time. He won’t divulge the whole, messy truth. For that, he wouldn’t even know how to begin. Heavy the head that wears the crown, or in this case, Norman thinks it’s more along the lines of a cape.

“No,” he responds, “I’m not alright. But I’m sure I’ll be fine after exams. I just need some time to rest and get my head on straight. No need to be concerned.”

There’s a flurry of movement coming from Barbara’s side of the connection, and when she speaks again, her voice sounds unflinchingly clear. Norman braces himself when he realizes she’s paused her evening workout and taken herself off speakerphone.

“Far be it for me to suggest that you shouldn’t be living with the Grace Field kids, but you’re also one of us — a Lambda experiment. We have different needs, and Lambda House could provide you with much more support or at least a break from being in charge. Come live with us and let someone else run things over there. We all miss you, boss. Maybe someone could help you for a change.”

A lump sticks in Norman’s throat, and he swallows it, ready to make excuses that never arrive. Words fail him for the umpteenth time in a handful of days. Suddenly hot, he scratches the back of his neck and shrugs off his collared shirt entirely. The top of his Lambda 7214 tattoo remains on full display. Sometimes, he hides it so well that he begins to believe his own lies, but there are moments when the truth corrodes his carefully constructed facade.

Norman may be the brightest child from the demon world, but he’s also damaged goods, marked in ways that Ray (for example) is not.

He could live at Lambda House. Correction, he should live at Lambda House to better avail himself of the on-call therapists for his night terrors and have his medication managed with more regularity. But then, there would be no reason for Norman to oversee the Grace Field children’s home. He wouldn’t be able to drag himself down to breakfast each morning to find her, Emma, sipping her coffee and joking around with the younger children, or feel his heart flutter when wishes him well in the evenings.

Norman stays because she’s worth all the small inconveniences and then some. The time in between, the numbing hours spent studying, problem-solving and balancing the books, are a means to an end. Emma always tips the scale in Grace Field’s favor. Even with an anti-fraternization rule, Norman doesn’t expect his feelings to change.

Nevertheless….

“I’ll think about it,” Norman hears himself say, and he ends the call promptly with promises to be in touch soon simply to put the matter to rest.

Read the rest on AO3!

#tpn #noremma #the promised neverland #yakusoku no neverland #tpn emma #tpn norman #tpn ray #tpn phil #manga spoilers #flourchildwrites #when the mood strikes her

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rokutouxei · 4 years ago

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the other van gogh

part 4 of: atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theodorus van gogh / mc, theo & vincent | gen | 2403 | [ao3 in bio]

spoiler warning: this fic references scenes from theo’s main route chapters 3, 8, and 18.

You’d heard about Theo before you’d gone to the mansion.

Not by name, no, not by history either. You’d gone to museums with Vincent’s paintings and had read a few descriptions of historical context here and there but for the most part you had heard about his brother with a peculiar moniker.

The Other van Gogh.

When you’d met him that night at the mansion, the roots of guilt began to implant itself into your heart. And with every second you spent with Theo afterwards, knee-deep in his work, the guilt had birthed in its wake curiosity—as to why he was known for his brother, and not for whatever he had done on his own.

Why Arthur would not stop with his brother-complex jokes. Why everyone thought this was normal. Why no one asked questions—why this was just fact.

What did they know that you didn’t? What made Vincent mean so much to Theo to begin with?

Of course, the kind of brotherly connection and support that siblings do have isn’t really news to you, but you could see at a glance that this was different. That they weren’t just brothers, they were partners, and it seemed that Theo derived so much meaning in his life from Vincent’s existence, like he couldn’t hold himself up if not for his older brother.

But why?

If there is anything the passing of time has taught to its scholars, whether they are the ones spending unending hours and days and years in libraries, cooped up, comparing texts from each other, extracting and analysing and cross-referencing, or if they are the ones who are constantly out on the field, making notes, remembering everything, writing everything down to memory—it is that nothing, nothing, can ever truly be captured in its full historical detail. There are always things that will be missed, overlooked, misunderstood, things that no amount of work on history will ever be able to recover.

That is the weakness of the human perspective. Not everyone will write these histories, and there will be many, many experiences that will never be known.

Theo’s, perhaps, is included in those.

You don’t have much knowledge in history to begin with, but the guilt of not having recognized that first night in the banquet continued to gnaw at you, worsening now that you’re spending even more time with him compared to everyone else, and yet you still feel like you knew even less than you started with.

You have an argument, but even to you, it is weak: that the rest of them are pretty much names you would not have been able to escape in the 21st century educational system. Isaac Newton, of course, the discoverer of gravity. Jean d’Arc, the great martyr. Leonardo da Vinci, with his paintings and sculptures. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, whose songs you started humming in childhood. William Shakespeare, sometimes called the greatest writer in the English language. Napoleon Bonaparte, perhaps one of the greatest military commanders in history. Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the famous Sherlock Holmes. And even Dazai Osamu is pretty recognized as an author too, as far as you knew. And Vincent van Gogh—of course, one of the most renowned artists in the world.

But Theo?

While Vincent was a myth, Theo remained largely untold.

Look, you weren’t a history scholar, and considering your work back in the 21st century, this kind of knowledge was and is entirely out of your radius of practical information. You really didn’t have much reason to know about it. It’s just a niche that you’re not in. And that’s entirely fine, you tell yourself, no single human ought to know everything about the world—except, perhaps, if you’re Leonardo da Vinci, who seems to have an answer for everything, but that was beside the point.

For the longest time, these missing bits of his history left unknown to you, matched with the fact that Theo isn’t exactly the kind of person who is easy to get to know, made your efforts of really, really doing your best to get closer to him feel like you were instead making friends with a wall.

A tall, handsome, strong, passionate, smart, ocean blue-eyed, ridiculously rude wall, but a wall nonetheless.

Or a closed door.

Until Vincent opened it for you.

It was in response to your bewilderment. When one is a sadist and the other one is an angel, it is easy to wonder how they would be related. The day you go out to the flower fields to deliver painting supplies to Vincent is the day he tells you that “I know Theo’s easy to misunderstand, but he’s a really nice kid, so please be friends with him okay?”

And while the instinct is to say no thanks, Vincent’s not exactly the person you can say no to, so you let it go. And on that very same day Theo had allowed you to see a part of him, one you wondered if he ever really ardently shows anyone else, talking about sunrises and the art world and what he can do. What he wants to do. A little glimpse, a peek of what’s hidden inside, but not enough—barely enough—to satiate your own curiosity.

And you, silly, silly little hondje—Theo is right when he says you don’t know just how much trouble you walk into—you take this little curiosity as a challenge.

So you watch.

Watch what history has missed.

Mastering the art of looking at art with a critical eye is one that is honed over time. But with a teacher both as strict and as passionate as Theo, it is a skill that you quickly pick up. Learning the implications of certain gestures; the observation of the tiniest details; the effects of colors; of sharpening one’s gut.

You thought it would be hard.

Or at least, much easier said than done, especially when the man frustratingly keeps calling you dog or snack or any variation of the both of that when he only has miles and miles of praises for his older brother. You were, are, and will obviously be at an entirely different level than Vincent for as long as you will be here. (Not that you minded. Why would you mind it?)

But it isn’t hard at all.

It’s rather easy.

The easiest things to see are their differences. Of course—it’s always like that. That’s exactly why it’s so easy to misunderstand Theo at face value. Where Vincent’s smile is sunny and warm, Theo has a glare that makes flowers wilt. While Vincent likes his pancakes plain and with butter, Theo can get thirty lifetimes worth of sugar for the amount of syrup he puts on his pancakes. Where Vincent is approachable and perhaps a little airheaded, Theo is guarded, distrustful, wary. While Vincent’s words are soft and kind and gentle like wildflowers are, Theo has the formality of roses but also their barbs and thorns.

But the days turn into weeks and your eyes get trained to see past that. Get used to seeing the gentle rays of sunlight illuminating their irises when they look back at each other, talking about art. Vincent sees the softest sides of Theo, see where his thorns give way to flowers, where his distrust smooths into blind faith.

And you want to see that too.

So you practice.

Start with catching the little details like how Theo walks with his hands in his pockets. Or the way he casually adjusts his tie right before he enters a room before a meeting with a client like he’s psyching himself up. Or maybe the way he bites the inside of his cheek when he’s deep in thought, the lines that form on his forehead when he’s squinting so hard at a painting through his magnifying glass. Or the little tug of a smirk he cannot resist when he gets complimented, the one he so subtly and ever so quickly washes away with a neutral face in a second.

Then you catch other things, too. Like how if you matter any single bit to Theo, you can get him to do pretty much anything, bending himself backward over if you ask him. How he pays attention to things that matter to him, down to the littlest detail, like an artist’s changing focus, a shift in style, a change in technique. And how Theo has a dream and it’s one of the only two things he really, really believes in. (The other is his brother.)

You thought it would be impossible to see Theo through Vincent’s eyes, but.

Eventually you do.

You don’t know where it begins, but it begins somewhere. Maybe on that evening you’d gone up the atelier and seen the candlelight shine on his prideful, confident boyish grin, as if he knew all the answers for certain. Or maybe it was later, standing in the garden laughing because how is it that Theo van Gogh, so strong and imposing and scary is now pinned onto the grass with the most playful golden retriever you have ever seen?

But that’s the important part. You start seeing it.

The same way Theo could tell the painting was a fake at first glance that morning at Cedric’s.

And the wall is still tall and opaque and hard to climb but—

You can sort of see the sunlight peering over it.

On the day of the storm, in between antiseptic and rolls of gauze, silence permeates the library like a dense fog. The only sound you can really quite hear besides the thunder outside is your thumping heart, racing as if in time with Theo’s labored breathing.

There are too many questions to ask. You want to ask him why he does all of this. You want to ask him if it is worth it. And you don’t know the order in which to ask them, which ones are the ones you have to hear, but you do.

Theo, for a brief moment, opens up to you.

Allows you to see the red of his wounds and his roses. See the garden, not his thorns.

But before the two of you could head out to your rooms, to go back to bed and pretend none of this had happened, you hold the first-aid kit in your hands and turn to him, already putting his bloodied jacket on, and ask the question you had long feared asking, the one whose answer you worried you really didn’t deserve knowing.

You ask, “Why is it that you’re so fixated on Vincent?”

There’s a moment of held-breath silence, then Theo answers.

“Because I made a choice that day, and he is all I have left.”

The next day, you catch Vincent in the garden painting. You hesitate at the doorway wondering if you should interrupt him, but eventually decide that this is something you ought to tell him, out of respect.

“I wanted to say sorry,” you say, sitting next to him on the grass. Vincent turns to you with confusion in his eyes.

“What about?”

“When we were at the flower fields, and I asked you and Theo if you were really brothers—I thought about it a lot the past few days, and I think finally see what you mean,” you say. “About Theo.”

Vincent smiles, the smile of someone who knows more than they let on.

(A lifetime ago, in the middle of a seaside town when everything was falling apart around him, Vincent had only one person holding him up, and that was his brother. They were young then—but felt much too old, older than they were. Youth was not gentle with them, and for the most part they spend much of their lives making up for times they spent less kind to one another. Dreaming for the children they used to be, the ones they would have wanted to nurture, but cannot anymore.

The seaside town where their paths were linked and then diverged. They were teenagers, walking alongside the mill, hiding in stockrooms, listening to the crash of the waves against the Dutch shores.

And a full lifetime ago, long after they’d grown out of the old family home, Vincent had taken up his pen and had written to Theo:

We’re quite distant from one another, and in certain respects we may have different ways of seeing, but nevertheless, sometimes or some day one of us might be able to be of use to the other. For today, I shake your hand, thanking you again for the kindness you’ve shown me.

The salt in the air, the gray paths, the winding roads, they all remain.)

That is the weakness of the human perspective. Not everyone will write these histories, and there will be many, many experiences that will never be known.

And because of this the world might only remember Vincent after all. Might only remember he had a brother that stood by him but had nothing in comparison to the legacy of paintings that once were piled up in that said brother’s small Paris home. Might only think that the entire story only revolves around Vincent, and that there is only Vincent and then the other van Gogh.

The world might not know him by name.

But it’s okay.

You hold his face in your hands, that night he tells you he’s sworn to throw everything away for Vincent. The van Gogh that wasn’t the Other one. The name of the feeling you hadn’t wanted to put into words tasting like blood in your mouth.

Theo can do what he wants.

And the world can forget.

But you will remember.

And to at least one person—he will not just be the other van Gogh.

in the atelier: Two children on the beach by Pierre van Dijk

#ikevamp #ikevamp theo #ikevam theo #ikevam #ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire theo #atelier heart #fic #the other van gogh

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hellowkatey · 4 years ago

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angstpril day 12: dying words

Summary: Qui-Gon lives after the duel at Naboo, but the Force isn’t happy about it. Fate had already predetermined this was to be his final hours, and now he lives on borrowed time. The Force beckons, and Qui-Gon is rushing to tie up his loose ends before he fulfills his fate.

part 1 | part 2 | read on AO3

warnings: major character death (surprise surprise)

Unfinished Business (part 3)

It should be easier to come to terms with death when you know the very moment you will die. It's a cruel thing to know the moment you will cease to live.

It should be comforting to know it will be painless. Timely. As quick as the time it takes to breathe, but after the exhale there will be no inhale that follows.

Dying should be the easy part of all of this because there is no death, only the Force. It's a phrase Qui-Gon has muttered to himself many times in his years of being a Jedi, and yet... he sits on his funeral pyre and realizes he isn't ready and certainly isn't comforted.

Qui-Gon knows he was meant to die in that duel. He knows he was meant to take his last breath in the arms of his padawan, and the galaxy was meant to move onward. But the galaxy was also doomed to darkness, and if the Force let him see the suffering, he rationalized that it was asking him to stop it.

The Force denies that as its motive. Apparently, he misread the situation. Qui-Gon always thought the past was meant to flash before your eyes in the final moments before death, but apparently, it is the future you leave behind. Maybe for some who worry about missing who their loved ones will turn out to be, it's a positive. A last happy note before becoming one with the Force.

For Qui-Gon, it felt like a slap to the face. Everything he had worked for, everything the Force had led him to, was just going to end in darkness? It couldn't be right. Not with Anakin being the Chosen One. Not with the Jedi at the height of their strength, and the Force the embodiment of light. No. Qui-Gon was always taught that the future is not set in stone. Fates change as frequently as stars die across the galaxy; the future is as unknown as where the next star will be born. This is a future he cannot allow to prosper.

Looking around, he can feel things are already different.

Anakin stands at the foot of his pyre outfitted in youngling robes and a freshly buzzed haircut. His eyes are big and brimmed with tears, but there's a soft smile on his face as Qui-Gon locks eyes with him. The Chosen One has a long way to go, but his progress has already been impressive. Qui-Gon managed to convince the council to send out representatives to Outer Rim to finally investigate the issue of slavery. They've operated under the safe thumb of the Republic for far too long. Jedi are meant to step out of their zones of comfort. When he has completed his youngling training he will likely become Obi-Wan's padawan. Though they haven't yet made their partnership formal, Qui-Gon is pleased to see a faint thread of a bond already forming between the two of them.

They are two beacons of light in the Force, seemingly meant to be intertwined. While the thought of such a pairing is daunting to Qui-Gon with what he saw, he sees the divergence from his vision. Anakin's undertones of anger and insecurity have diminished greatly. Obi-Wan's signature is not laced with pain and tragedy. Whatever he has done here, whether it is a permanent or temporary detour from the future, he has at least done his duty. As a Jedi, it is all he can ask for.

It's time.

Qui-Gon raises his eyes, taking in the room of what feels like half the Jedi Temple. His gaze falls upon Obi-Wan. The new knight stands with his cloak pulled tight around him and shields pulled tighter. Behind him stands the imposing presence of his own master. It's been a few years since he's seen him. His hair has gone completely gray now, and his face has begun to show his age. Dooku still has that unreadable neutrality that used to drive Qui-Gon mad, but he can at least feel their dormant bond buzz slightly with feelings of serenity.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan approaches with his usual obedience. Now closer, the Jedi Master can see the anxiety behind his eyes and feel the racing of his mind. "The time has come."

"Are you... sure, Master?" The break in his voice is enough for Qui-Gon to question it himself. But the feeling is undeniable. For the first time in his life, the Living Force has fallen silent. He can feel the faint signatures of his fellow Jedi around him, but he has lost the connection to the energy that flows through them all. Instead, he feels the Cosmic Force creeping out of his periphery. It builds-- the same intensity, if not greater, than the Force he has come to know through his life. The last chapter of his life has already closed, and now he must submit to the next one.

"Obi-Wan, I want you to know..." he starts aloud, but shifts to the bond that flows between them-- the last piece of the Living Force he has a grasp of. 'I am so very proud of you. Your strength, your talent in the Force, and your unbreakable will have continued to impress me these last twelve years.'

Obi-Wan stares at him. Silent tears run down his cheek. 'It has been because of your teachings, Master.'

'Some perhaps,' he replies. Obi-Wan smiles. 'but there is so much more that I couldn't have taught you. Qualities that are inherent and cannot be taught. You serve a very important purpose in this galaxy, my padawan. Let the Force guide you to it.'

The exertion makes him lightheaded, and he pulls out of their bond as carefully as he can. Obi-Wan's face falls as Qui-Gon takes care to lock up his side. Bleeding bonds are a painful experience, and though there is no way this will be comfortable with his former padawan, he can try and make it a little easier. He looks back to Anakin now and reaches out his hand.

"Come, Anakin."

The boy walks to him with half the confidence he displayed when he ran into them on Tatooine. He stands on the other side of the pyre, staring at him with uncertainty.

"Do you have to go?"

"Yes, Ani, I do."

"But you're fine now. Your injury--"

"My injury has healed, yes, but my spirit hasn't." Anakin chews on his lip. Qui-Gon does wish he had more time to explain but he will trust Obi-Wan to do that for now. "One day you will understand, young one. But for now, just know the Force has decided it is my time, and I am a servant of the Force. I am leaving because it is my fate."

"Fate," Anakin mutters, wiping away a tear with his sleeve.

"I will always be with you, Ani. In the Force."

The boy jumps forward suddenly, wrapping his small arms around his neck. He hugs the boy back, all the words he just said suddenly feeling as though he lied through his teeth. The realization is striking, and he looks to Obi-Wan who is staring at him with solemnity.

I don't want to go.

But the moment he realizes this is the moment the Force decides his time has officially run out. Qui-Gon gasps slightly, and time feels as though it is slowing.

Anakin is pulled away from him, carried off with tears dripping off his chin by one of the council members. At some point, he was laid down, softly and carefully, and peering over him is Obi-Wan who takes care to brush all the loose hairs out of his face and smooth it down. Mace Windu stands on the other side, his eyes shut and hand resting supportively on Qui-Gon's wrist. Even Dooku has taken a place beside his grand-padawan, an arm on his shoulder, which is a comfort he doesn't often extend.

Though he isn't ready, and the room feels like the air has been sucked out of it, Qui-Gon does appreciate that this will be his final moment. Surrounded by everyone he loves and cherishes. Soon, he will join all the others he loves who can't be here in life, but are waiting for him in death.

He can feel his Life Force waning into nothing. In his final moments, he looks at his padawan who is desperately holding back his mourning.

"Here and now," he says, a mantra he so often repeated. And upon the last bit of his Life Force leaving, he is overtaken by the Cosmic, and the room full of people around him fades into a bright white.

The strange part about dying is that somehow everything he learned about it was right and completely wrong.

The transition from life to the afterlife was quick, yes, but painless would not be the word he would use to describe it. With the Living Force vacuumed out, his bonds are suffocated and torn from his consciousness. If he had a body and the ability to cry out he would-- yet the face he can feel such agony without a body is a mystery on its own. One by one, he feels his connection to that room of people sever. One by one, he is reminded that he is dead. Truly dead. Not in some sort of twilight, not a dream.

Yes, maybe they were right that death is not the end, it is the return to the Force, but right now he feels like an unwelcome guest. He is simultaneously drifting through nowhere and somehow everywhere in the galaxy. He has no sight, but he can feel and therefore he can see in the strange way that the Force allows him a different kind of insight.

When the last connection is torn, he truly feels as though he has been untethered and dropped into the middle of an ocean. He is trying to float, trying to keep his head up, but the forces that surround him are pushing him down. Qui-Gon grabs aimlessly until he feels a familiarity. A rope he's pulled before. So he does.

The future flashes before him again. If his previous pain wasn't enough, this is an entirely different one. The same agony. The same pit of despair. Light battles against light, except one side is horrifically tainted by an insidious dark hold. He feels the cold of darkness, the loneliness of involuntary solitude, and when he drops that link to the future as though it's burning him, he yells out into the void in despair.

"No! I was meant to prevent all of this! I lived so I could stop the darkness."

Qui-Gon has little experience with the Cosmic Force, so it surprises him when it replies.

The nature of fate is not yours to change.

"But the future... the future is not linear. It is not set in stone. Every choice... every action can change--"

You have changed the destinies of your loved ones, but their fates are solidified.

He's stupefied, his horror causing crazed desperation within him, and he flails away as though his spirit has any authority here. "I must go back! I must tell them what I know, prevent darkness from--"

You cannot return to that world. You cannot stop the darkness. This is the fate of the galaxy.

"Why?" He yells bitterly. "I-I- made sure Obi-Wan was prepared. I set Anakin on a better path, with more support."

There was a time when the Force would surround him and feel like a warm hug. It was his constant companion, his best friend. But now it wraps around him and he just feels like he is trapped. This is his end? His thanks for years of service to the Force? None of it ever mattered?

You cannot stop the darkness, the Force repeats. This is the fate of the galaxy.

#angstpril2021 #fic #daytwelve #dyingwords #major character death #final destination au done!#i feel like the ending makes all of this like a slow burn angst

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