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gryffindors-weasley · 4 years ago

Text

Lover

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: After a day of unpacking and delving into memories, a moment of fondness is shared with your lover.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: mentions of food, fluff fluff fluff, kissing

A/N: This is my fic for @gcdric ’s Taylor Swift writing challenge! It’s based off of the song ‘Lover’. Lyrics I’ve used will be bolded and italicized!

The day was quite perfect, you must admit; almost as if it’d been just so in correspondence with your plans. The late afternoon sunshine cast warmly across your skin, beaming bright before the clouds sweep over it fleetingly only to return just as glowing as before.

It was beautiful as you stood in front of the little cottage before you. You must have gone back to do so a thousand times by that point, but it was an act all too irresistible as you gazed at it, hand enveloped in Ron’s. It was your house.

It stood much shorter than the Burrow, most anything was now that you thought about it, but it radiated the same kind of warmth nonetheless. Wildflowers sprinkled and flourished tall and bright amongst the grass in patches of blues and yellows and reds, sprouted up from around the edges of the cracked stone slab pathway leading to a very golden yellow front door. The roof bowed inward a bit at the center, a chimney standing on the far left side of the sweet little home.

Moss and vines had mingled and curled up the side of the stone house, swirling around the door and curving around the window above it on the second floor. A small set of matching yellow benches had sat on either side of the door, its paint chipped and worn with use, telling of their exposure to the elements, but you think you like them better that way. Perhaps your favorite part was the wind chimes that still remained, singing softly each time the wind had pushed them together. It was all encompassed by a wooden sage green fenced, the numbers of your address stamped on a metal oval slab fixed to the very front. You could have asked for a better place to live with the love of your life, it was entirely more perfect than you could have imagined it to be.

Even with the beauty and dream come true standing right in front of him, Ron still couldn’t manage to hold his gaze on anything but you. With the four times you had come to the very end of the walkway to admire just what your fate had been, he found himself looking at you each and every time. He always did that when you were around, and he always would. When you’d catch him doing just that, the crimson burning in his cheeks was expected and far too worth it, for your smile melted his heart when you casted it upon him.

His hand squeezed your own as he smiled, taking a moment to admire the soft smile you held as you looked at your very first home, your forever home. And the way your gaze bounced around every little detail and every little flower. He took one last look before his smile widened at his next words.

“Love, we’ll be unpacking clear into next month if we come back out here a fifth time,” he quips, your own grin widening as you turn your head and look at him.

“Be quiet, Ronald, or there just might be a sixth,” you counter with a smile so sweet his heart nearly leaped out of his chest right then and there. But rather than gushing over you he simply scrunches his nose in response to the use of his full name, in response to your lighthearted teasing he so fully loved.

He’s got no time to gaze at you a moment longer as you squeeze his hand, tugging him along the stone path to the front door and slipping inside the house as your laughter trails behind.

Box after box littered almost every surface you could think of, the only thing of use having been the mismatched furniture dotting around the living room and kitchen, and the unmade bed upstairs. Most of the boxes had been opened simply to see what was inside before they’d been left in favor of looking in another or sharing a kiss far too distracting. Some of said boxes had been dented, their corners pushed in from when Ron and Fred had dropped them, but it’d been far too amusing to hold even a drop of anger about it. Unbeknownst to you it’d been your very lover’s fault, having been so caught up and fawning over the way you’d twirled in the living room, the breeze catching in your hair and a smile on your lips—so caught up he’d stopped abruptly and promptly got run into by his brother following just behind him.

The laughter that left your lips was much too worth it for him to care about most anything else, especially Fred’s grumbling and swat to the back of his head. Okay, maybe he’d interrupted his adoration to toss a glare in his older brother’s direction.

A gasp sounded from you and pulled his attention, and he watched as you pulled something out of a box labeled ‘Miscellaneous’. In your hand was a very crooked and poorly taped wand, a thin layer of dust coated on it. He hadn’t used it in quite a while, having gotten a new one that has yet to be broken, yet to be encountered by the Whomping Willow.

“You saved it?” He asks, laughter in his words.

“Of course I did. How else would we honor the very first time you stole your dad’s car?” You tease, tapping it against the very tip of his nose. While his heart fluttered at the thought that you’d pulled it from the trash and saved it, he snatched it from your hand with a frown soon turned to a smile.

“It doesn’t really work anymore, you know,” he says, brushing his thumb over the tape he’d put there just over a decade ago.

“Maybe it’s just the user and not the wand,” you quip, his eyes narrowing at you as you stifle a laugh.

“No way!” He raises the bent wand his eyes fixed on the lamp seated on a small table by the window. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The spell is spoken with the utmost of concentration, the lamp in question rising very wobbly off the table before clattering unceremoniously to the floor. He flinches at the dreadful noise and you couldn’t fight your laugh any longer as you stole it back from his hand.

“Reparo!” You state, watching as each broken shard had mended with its matching piece, each fitting together so perfectly it’s like it’d never been broken at all.

Ron bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of your triumphant smile. You were right, you were always right. But, with a simple movement of his hand and a glowing orange beam of light, you found yourself pulled to him with ease, Carpe Retractum falling from his lips.

“I’m quite better at magic than you think, love,” he murmurs, smiling against your lips as you kiss him.

Your laughter puffed against his lips as you kissed him once more, spinning from his embrace much to his dismay in favor of digging through more boxes. “If you insist.”

He hadn’t missed the smile that had accompanied your teasing words, and you hadn’t missed his, and he was tempted to utter that spell once more just so he could kiss you again for far longer than just a mere moment. In fact, to do so until the end of time seemed perfectly well to him.

You pulled back a flap of another cardboard box that had yet to be labeled, smiling at the sight. You tugged the tangled clump of Christmas lights out, it’s cord thoroughly, knotted and woven with itself in what surely will be a pain come time to hang them up. In that moment, the thought hadn’t bothered you quite as much as it assuredly would in three month’s time, your smile beaming and bright.

“You kept these?” You ask, mimicking his earlier tone. He chuckles, nodding as he fumbled with the end of the cord that hadn’t been so terribly mangled.

“Christmas lights are essential to the holiday season, you know,” he defends. Regardless of your playful teasing, you knew just how much he liked them when it came time for the festive spirit. Well, they came second only to the assortment of cookies made every year without fail. “I suppose we can leave them up for as long as we want to now, can’t we?”

“This is our place, we make the rules.”

He smiled at the very thought, you both shared the same smile for that matter, and you knew for a fact that you’d been thinking of the same thing. You could make the rules. You could stay up past midnight to read without complaint of the glow of the lamps light streaming through floorboards and waking one of his siblings. He could practice quidditch with you in your very own backyard without his mother worrying over you both from the sidelines, though you’d done a well enough job worrying over him when she’s not around. Ice cream can be had for breakfast and breakfast can be had for dinner, dishes can be left in the sink and you can sleep in together till however late you wanted.

“Yeah,” he smiles, “yeah, we can.”

He takes a moment to look around the small living room, at the bookshelves encompassing nearly the entirety of the far wall. You’d filled that readily with your shared books, taking little effort to fill the old wooden shelves with stories read at least two times over. Scattered amongst them sat picture frames and trinkets, photographs of the two of you so gingerly placed behind glass frames to display a moment forever captured. Some of them were polaroids labeled haphazardly with the date they’d been taken, a brief caption scrawled at the bottom. Some of them had been family pictures taken by his mother, gifted to him for the time the day had come that you two could display them in your own home and you most certainly did.

Tiny treasures sat amongst them—bookmarks still tucked in books, little gifts from hogsmeade tucked atop shelves. Even the since emptied bottle of broom oil you’d gotten him for his birthday in fifth year. You knew he’d been eagerly excited to be a part of the quidditch team, his dreams of being a keeper rapidly becoming more than just dreams. He opened that little gift and saw that little bottle, something that might have seemed so awfully simple and practical to just anyone else. But the thought behind it was something more than just simple and more than just practical, even if your shared feelings hadn’t been known just yet. So there, in front of old books and photos, sat a little glass bottle, it’s label worn and faded as dregs of broom oil sat at the bottom.

He looked to the couch, it’s fabric frayed and worn in a few spots and edges. His cherished Chudley blanket taken from his childhood bed lay strewn across the back of the checkered material. The blanket you made after you insisted you could crochet lay splayed beside it, put together in uneven squares of colors that didn’t match as much as you’d hoped. Regardless of the outcome, Molly had been quite proud of it, and she adored the time well spent with you in the making of it.

He thought of how Harry could come and stay the night, for old times sake, Hermione too. There weren’t any guest bedrooms, so the living room would have to suffice. The couch and the loveseat hadn’t been too terribly comforting for slumber, but you suppose with a few extra pillows and blankets it’d be just fine. They never seemed to be one to complain anyway, always simply happy to spend time as a group without worry of danger or life changing events anymore. That very moment was put behind you six, nearly seven years prior.

It was fine, and everything was okay.

Your gasp had pulled him from his thoughts once more, his gaze finding you as you tugged his old quidditch sweater from a box labeled ‘Important: Do Not Lose’.

It was torn at the collar and a few strings of yarn had been pulled free from their stitching, and certainly it was washed more than a few times to rid it of its smell. You loved the tattered thing to pieces, he knew that. He knew from the very first moment you’d worn it that it’d been more than just a sweater to you. He remembers the way you smiled upon slipping it over your head, and the way you let the cuffs curl over your hands. He remembers the way you nuzzled into it that very night, the smell of cinnamon and a bit of his cologne still lingering on the fabric. He knew from that very first moment that it wouldn’t be the last time you’d stolen it from him, he knew you loved it and for that very reason he’d stopped his mother from turning it into a commemorative blanket.

You pulled it over your head, that very same smile on your face as there always was when you wore it. It hung from your shoulders in heaps of maroon and golden yellow, effectively staving off the cool September breeze. He’d had plenty more quidditch sweaters and jerseys considering his once fond hobby had turned to a career, but none of them seemed to hold as much sentiment as this.

He couldn’t help the way his heart swelled with pride when you wore it, when he thought of just how proud you’d always been. Even when he hadn’t had a successful match, even when he hadn’t been at the top of his game—you still cheered for him fiercely and boasted so highly of him that his cheeks burned at the mere thought. Whether it was just the two of you on the quidditch pitch the night before a match against Slytherin or it was from the stands at a match hours from home, you had always done it.

You looked so utterly beautiful, so completely radiant he felt his heart just might burst in his chest should you be anymore ethereal. He hadn’t known how he’d gotten quite so lucky, but he had.

You look to Ron across the unfinished living room, his smile soft and beaming and focused entirely on you.

“What is it?” You ask, laughing softly as your cheeks flush under his gaze, your hands smoothing over the yarn. The look on his face then is photo worthy, but holding it in your memory will have to suffice.

“Dance with me?”

Your smile widened, heart hammering in your chest with lovestruck excitement at the mere thought of it. Not to mention the grin tugging so cutely at the corners of his mouth that made it absolutely impossible to keep from mirroring it. It was often that Ron Weasley’s actions spoke far louder than words, that a simple look could declare a thousand ‘I love you’s’. It was then, in that very moment as he stood contently amongst a dozen boxes yet to be unpacked, that the look he so lovingly held just might’ve spoken a million.

You walk to him without a second’s hesitation and take his offered hand, squealing when he pulls you close. His own laughter soon fills the room as he twirls you once, twice, the action wonderfully dizzying as you settle into a rhythm not quite in sync with each other. His smile was beaming and bright as the sun streamed into the room, everything it landed on golden and orange.

“Ron Weasley, I thought you hated dancing?” You say, your smile just as teasing as your words.

“People change, right?” He shrugs, quick to rain a flurry of kisses across your flushed cheek as his laughter presses into your skin. That is, until he’d parted from you just enough for you to see a glimpse of realization cross his face. “Don’t tell my brothers.”

Your laughter is immediate as you kiss him, his brief moment of panic simmering into a smile that’s nearly too fond for his own good. “I can’t make any guarantees.”

He groans in protest against your very kiss, lifting you up to spin you in his arms in the sweetest of retaliations. Somehow, he believes the lifetime of teasing from his brothers would be entirely worth it if only to see you smile, if only to hear you laugh.

“I’m only kidding, my love,” you giggle, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, sure,” he grins, kissing down your cheek.

Can I go where you go?

This very moment was one that’d stick with him for the rest of his life, happily, one that he’d get to live each and every day and the thought alone was unbelievable. It was your house, your home, a place entirely the perfect fit for the two of you to flourish and thrive and spend for seasons in. It was a culmination of the very things that made the two of you who you are.

Truthfully, he’d follow you anywhere without hesitation. He’d travel to the very ends of the earth if it meant he’d be with you, and you the same. He knew since he was sixteen that he’d wanted to be wherever you were and wherever you will be. He hadn’t thought at the time that he’d wind up in a home amongst the rolling hills, tucked away to yourselves. He hadn’t thought he’d even have the nerve to tell you he loves you. His future had been far brighter than he could have ever imagined it to be.

And you, you were right where you wanted to be, right where you needed to be. Ron Weasley was the love of your life, a dull moment never shared. You felt you could do just about anything so long as he was with you, go anywhere so long as he was there. He was loving, he was kind, he was true.

Can we always be this close?

The laughter had since dulled to breathy sighs and soft smiles, a gesture you’re very aware of when you lift your gaze to look up at him once more. A smile that’s shared most tenderly in the close proximity, noses brushing and breath sweeping warmly over lips. It was then that you lean on your toes and kiss him, his very grip on your hand tightening a fraction and your swaying becoming distracted and stilled. His smile was immediate against your lips, telling of just how profoundly giddy you’d made him, how wholeheartedly he loved you.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, his lips brushing over yours as he kisses you once more. The softness of his laughter dances across your skin, his forehead resting on yours as he makes no effort to hide his smile. “I love you. I really, really love you.”

Your nose scrunches against his and your own smile widens and soon you find yourself kissing the very tip of his nose, his cupid’s bow, his lips. The warmth blossoming in your chest is a feeling most unbeatable to all else; it was love. It lanced through you with certainty and settled permanently within your heart, a feeling so frighteningly wonderful, and so dizzying in its wake.

The two of you began to sway softly again to music unheard, hands clasped as your other rests on his chest as the sun dips lower in the sky, the long yet happy day soon to be put behind you. One more kiss is pressed to his cheek before you dip your head to rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed with all the contentment in the world. And softly, you murmur, “I love you. I really, really love you.”

You’re my, my, my, my,

Lover.

—

Tags: @anchoeritic @vogueweasley @ch0colatefr0gs @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @dracosathenaeum @harrysweasleys @awritingtree @writeroutoftime

#laniestaylorswiftwc #ron weasley #ron weasley one shot #ron weasley fanfiction #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x you #ron weasley fluff #ron weasley fic #ron weasley headcanon #ron weasly imagine

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jean-kayak · 4 years ago

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This is a weird idea I’ve had but can I request a smut drabble of Hawks crushing on a black!fem!reader who’s a twitch streamer/gamer (that’s a fan of his) and they start meeting up a lot until they start dating? He’s not bothered by the thirst comments she gets despite how open she is about being taken but Hawks is possessive (thanks to bird instincts) and he fucks her after her stream talking about how those horny bastards would never be with her cuz she’s his.

A/N: Anon, I love this idea! It’s not weird at all! Here it is, and I’m sorry it took so long, but I hope you like it!

Pairing: Hawks (Keigo Takami) x black!fem!gamer!reader

Word Count: 1,356

Warnings: possessive Hawks, (smut 18+!!), unprotected sex, fingering, ass slapping (once)

Hawks doesn't really know how he managed to find your channel, let alone learn about Twitch, but once he found you, he couldn't find a good reason to not watch your streams.

He had the app downloaded on his phone so he would get notifications every time you went live. He decided to come up with some random username, opting to not use his real name, though he doubts you'd believe it was the real Hawks.

He was completely hooked, and he didn't even know it until he realized that he would be racing home to make sure he was on time to tune into your streams. He thought at first that maybe he just enjoyed the gaming content that you put out, but he slowly started to realized that he was quickly developing a crush on you.

He noticed that he would be engrossed in your stories about how your day went or stories from your past. He found himself smiling fondly at how happy you would get whenever you won a round of whatever game you were playing. Or how cute he thought you looked when you didn't put much effort into your appearance, especially when you were doing hour-long streams, a bonnet on your head, and a ratty old t-shirt covering your torso.

He really starts tuning in when he finds out that you're a huge fan of his after someone had asked you who you're favorite hero was. He couldn't help when his confidence rose when you excitedly talked about him.

It gave him enough confidence to try and actually contact you, hoping to eventually meet you in person. He messaged you on social media while you were on stream, and you just happen to glance at your phone, and he couldn't erase the smile on his face when he saw your reaction.

You both hit it off instantly, exchanging numbers which led to the both of you finally meeting each other in person, and you definitely look way better in person.

His crush only continued to grow bigger, and he'd never thought he'd actually have the chance to date you, but here you both are going three months strong.

Of course, your relationship was kept secret, for his sake, and mostly for yours mostly, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't get jealous by the thirst comments you constantly receive.

He knows you're beautiful, that's what drew him in besides your personality, but he can't help the feeling stirring at the pit of his stomach when he sees the comments on your social media. Especially on stream.

One day, he tuned in to one of your streams while he was at work, and that day, the comments seemed to be more forward than they usually were. You've mentioned that you were taken, but that only spurred some of them on, and Hawks couldn't ignore the anger rising inside of him.

You weren't wearing anything spectacular, just a simple tank top, but that appeared to be enough for all of the horny people in the chat. He wasn't even paying attention to your stream anymore, he was focused on the comments flooding in.

Some saying how hot you were, others saying that they could treat you way better than your boyfriend could, and for the rest of his shift, Hawks was a little bit tougher than necessary, needing to take out his frustration somehow before he could see you.

You've just finished your stream, massaging your ears once you take your headphones off before you hop into bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone.

You jump out of your skin as you drop your phone when you hear something landing on your balcony. You physically relax as you sigh, putting a hand on your chest as you scoff lightly. "Keigo, oh my God, you scared the life out of me."

You don't even get a chance to move, Keigo already on top of you, his lips covering yours, his body encompassing yours. You easily accept his tongue, your mouth opening easily as you moan into the kiss.

You pull away, realizing that he's shirtless, the only clothes remaining are his pants. You look up at him to ask him what's gotten into him, but when your eyes meet his, the words seem to disappear.

His eyes are filled with lust and primal hunger, and you can't help the shiver that goes down your spine as you feel wetness pool at your core. "You're mine, right, kid?" he asks, not waiting for an answer as he attacks your neck, his hands trailing down to your shorts, ripping them off in a second.

His fingers are stimulating your bundle of nerves as soon as he gets them off, and the last thing you're thinking about it is answering. He bites down on your neck softly as he repeats himself. "Yes! Yes, I'm all yours," you sigh as he puts marks all over your neck that you know you're going to have a hard time covering up.

He's already able to slide in two fingers easily, your back arching off the bed as he curls his fingers, hitting your spot instantly. He works in a third as he thumbs at your clit, your hands gripping his shoulders as he smirks at how easy you become undone under him.

He can't help the sense of pride he feels as he watches you cum on his fingers, his name coming out of your mouth breathless as you gush all over his fingers.

You barely have enough time to come down from your high when you're flipped over on your stomach as he guides onto your knees, arching your back before getting rid of the rest of his clothes.

You try to turn your head, but you're stopped short when you feel him pushing into you, the stretch making your mouth drop open as you moan loudly. He's already pounding into you, your body still sensitive from your first orgasm as you cry out into the room, the noises you're making almost drowning out the sound of the bed frame creaking.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he growls, his grip on your hips tight, and you can already feel the bruises starting to form. You can hardly get out the words, the last thing on your mind is attempting to form a coherent sentence.

A smack vibrates through the room, the pain blooming on your ass making you whine. "Who's making you feel this good?!" he repeats as he picks up his pace, and your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grip the sheets underneath you.

"Fuck. You are, Kei," you manage, and you can hear his wings puff up, opening your eyes to see the shadow spread across the headboard.

He reaches around you to rub at your clit harshly, and you jolt, feeling that knot getting tighter. "Shit, who owns this tight cunt? Fuck," he swears, and you don't answer fast enough, and you let out a small scream when he pinches your clit. "Answer me," he demands.

"You do Kei. It's all yours," you sigh, and he doesn't even try to fight the satisfied smile that finds its way onto his face.

"Say my name, baby bird. Scream it." The only thing coming out of your mouth is chants of his name as you drool onto the pillow, and he fucks you faster as he thinks about all of those comments that he read, and how none of them could make you like this.

"Kei!" you shout, the knot snapping as you cum hard, your body going taut then limp, the only thing holding you up now is the rough fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he grits as he fucks you through your high, chasing his. He cums with a low growl before folding over you. You wince at the overstimulation when he pulls out, and you flop over on your side, your breathing ragged from exertion.

"You read the comments again, didn't you?" you ask with an airy chuckle as he looks at the bedsheets.

"...No."

#hawks smut #keigo takami smut #hawks x black!reader #keigo takami x black!reader #takami keigo smut #my hero academia smut #boku no hero academia smut #bhna smut #mha smut #bhna hawks #mha hawks #🛶.hoarny

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wri0thesley · 4 years ago

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Smutty but also fluffy and cute scenario of pesci and his afab s/o having their first time together? (and maybe with some hints of prosciutto being jealous of pesci's s/o?)

first time - pesci x fem reader (3k)

NSFW. 18+ only ! afab reader, fem pronouns. sweet vanilla PIV sex; brief mentions/allusions to cheating.

You’d always thought, when the time came, that you’d be the nervous one. That you’d be the one with the bitten lip and the fluttering hands, falling over yourself to laugh and stammer and try and take away some of the awkwardness in the air. You’d left it a while, after all - your friends and your peers would tell you of their exploits and you’d raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes and gasp at the appropriate moments and kept your secret held close to your chest. It felt silly, saying it out loud; ‘I’m just waiting for the right person’. Eventually, you’d realised that the right person wasn’t going to come. You’d made your peace with it. You’d looked forward to quiet nights in, alone, and tried to ignore the fact that (whilst it was a perfectly good choice that many people were happy with), you didn’t really want to be alone for the rest of your life.

And then Pesci had walked into your life.

He might not have been the tall dark and handsome stranger you’d once envisioned, but you couldn’t deny that you wouldn’t change him for all of the world. You look at him and your heart swells; he says you look beautiful tonight and you’re a flushed, blustering mess. Other people might not see him as handsome, but for you . . . you cannot get enough of his mouth, or the broad shoulders, or twisting fingers through his hair. Your first times for everything had been nervous affairs - your first kiss, snatched as he said goodnight to you in front of your door, his cheeks red as he pulled away.

“I-I’m sorry,” he’d said, stammering, as he looked into your wide eyes. You’d seen him begin to pull into himself - his shoulders drawing in, teeth dangerously close to biting his lip, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. And instead of letting that happen, you’d taken ahold of his shoulders and kissed him again, scarcely believing in your own courage.

He’d introduced you to Prosciutto after you’d been nervously dancing around the concept of dating for two months. The severe blond had raised his eyebrows, ice blue eyes flicking up and down your form, before he’d curtly nodded at you and gone about his business.

“Don’t be worried,” Pesci had said, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. “He’s kinda like that with most people. He saw your picture on my phone and said I’d done a real good job, so . . .” Your poor boyfriend reddens, suddenly aware that perhaps he shouldn’t have shared that tidbit of information, as you felt your own cheeks heat up in response. He probably shouldn’t have shared it - still, the knowledge that Prosciutto felt as though you were at least good-looking helped assuage your fears that he wouldn’t think that you weren’t good enough for his fratello.

(“He’s not really my brother,” Pesci had fallen over to tell you. “He’s kinda like . . . my mentor, I guess. I-if you were wondering why we don’t look like each other or anythin’, I know he’s a lot handsomer than I am--”. You’d kissed Pesci on the nose, silencing his spluttering, as you’d reassured him that actually, Pesci himself was far more your type anyway.)

You and Pesci go out with Prosciutto sometimes and you notice that he’s . . . off with you. He lingers a little too long beside you, a little too touchy-feely, a little too much treating you like Pesci treats you. He smirks at you and his eyes travel down your body and you blush because you’re not immune to all of his charms - but you realise what it is one day when Pesci is sick and Prosciutto drops by to give you a jacket you left at their place (Pesci shares a house with several of his coworkers; by all accounts his job isn’t well-paying and he has roommates to help keep costs down) and he hovers in your doorway for a fraction too long.

He’s jealous.

You guess that nobody has ever preferred Pesci over him before. You guess seeing Pesci happy makes him want it for himself - but any good will you have toward him dissipates at the thought that he’s betray someone he cares about for it, and it flees completely as Prosciutto places a hand on your arm and smiles a crooked smile you’re sure has had people falling at his feet in the past.

“Can’t I come in for a drink before I head back?” He says, his tone slightly lower than usual. His fingers stroke over your wrist. The flush comes unbidden to your face - he’s Prosciutto, after all - but you wave him away and force a smile.

“No, I really have things to do--”

“Cara,” he steps forward even so, toes just brushing the boundary of your home in stylish expensive leather shoes. He smiles at you again, sickly sweet. “Pesci tells me everything, you know. And you and he have been an item long enough that if you wanted to--”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you snap nervously. You do know what he’s getting at. The thought makes it feel like cats are clawing up your insides. Prosciutto continues to smile at you indulgently.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted it,” he says softly. “You’re very pretty, you know . . . I’d be lying if I didn’t say I envied Pesci a little. He doesn’t have to know--”

You’re not proud of slamming the door in his face. You spend the entire night stressed you’re going to get a text from Pesci about how rude you were, encompassing some wild story that Prosciutto’s concocted to make you look like you’re the one at fault in the situation. But nothing is forthcoming.

Maybe he felt bad about it. You hope he did.

What it does do, though - the whole situation with Prosciutto - is reaffirm that you love Pesci. Prosciutto’s right in that you’ve been dancing around one area of relationships, but it’s not for lack of attraction to Pesci. God, no.

It’s fear that you’ll be bad at it, or that Pesci will see something in you he doesn’t like, that you’ll be left tear-stained and alone after something goes wrong. But as Prosciutto had made the insinuation he’d very much like to be invited to your bed, you’d had the realisation that you wanted Pesci. Beyond all reason, you wanted to kiss him and hold him and find yourself under him and drink him in, in every way possible. So the next time you two had a date planned, you asked if perhaps he wouldn’t just like to stay in with you and watch a movie.

You’re both crackling with nerves. Your first attempt to kiss Pesci, after you’ve made it to the bedroom, is broken by your shuddering breath as you look at him from under dark eyelashes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you tell him, nervous and scared. Pesci’s hands come up to hold your waist, making you feel safe in his embrace. His own smile is nervous, his lip bitten just as much as your own.

“Neither do I,” he confesses. “So . . . that means we get to find out together, r-right?”

Right. You take a deep breath and kiss him again, and as his teeth gently nip at your bottom lip and you trace the lines of his own lips (his lipstick tastes like watermelon), you feel his hands travel down your back to your shirt. Your gasp is caught in his mouth as fingers gently work under the fabric until he’s touching your bare back, and you push yourself into the kiss. Your own hands go to rest on his shoulders, gently guiding yourself until you’re sat beside him on the bed.

“I can take this off?” Pesci checks with you, fretting, before he goes any further. You nod and duck your head to hide the way your cheeks are giving you away.

“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “I’d like that--”

The shirt is gently eased over your head and tossed aside. Pesci’s eyes travel down your body; his gaze lingering longest over your chest. His own cheeks are just as damning evidence as yours. He’d already shrugged off the coat-gilet hybrid he wore when he’d come into the living room,and you’re aware asking him to remove the body suit at this point would be unfair - still, you tug gently on one strap.

“At least roll it down?” You ask him, voice small. “Just to make me feel less exposed?”

Pesci smiles nervous and earnest at you as he does just that - you see the fear that you won’t like his body reflected from your own eyes into his, and before he can apologise for the light covering of softness you kiss his collarbone.

“You’re so handsome,” you tell him,” trailing kisses to his clavicle. His breath catches. He is soft - but beneath the layer of softness, you can feel what is unmistakably broad and hard muscle. Despite his appearance, you know that Pesci is strong, and the evidence of that is in how he holds you and how he feels and how effortlessly he holds you against him, pulling you slightly closer so he can unhook your bra.

That fabric falls from you and though you want to pull yourself in and hide from prying eyes, you make an effort not to - an effort that’s rewarded when Pesci’s eyes darken. One of his hands comes around, cupping the weight of your breast in his hand, thumbs working over your nipple so you bite back a whimper of desire. When he hears the noise he leans in, and - checking it’s alright before he does it - he kisses your nipple, licks at it, until it hardens beneath his continued attention. You moan as he transfers his concentration to the other, fingers gently tangling in his hair. You tug slightly as he brushes the sensitive bud with his teeth, and he moans against you in turn.

He pulls back from you, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed and his mouth slightly open.

“Should we . . . both?” He asks, and you bite your lip.

“Maybe . . . together?” You reply, halting. Gratefully, Pesci nods, and for a few moments you busy yourself with jean zips and buttons and the sliding down of fabric of your thighs, peeking at Pesci from on the floor. He peels his bodysuit off his skin - and you’re surprised to see how scarred he is. Emotions well up in your chest. You want to kiss every single scar he has, reassure him of how handsome you think he is, make him sigh and gasp and bend into your touch . . .

And then you see the bulge in his tight underwear and your entire face is suddenly awash in heat. You don’t know what you’d been expecting - but you’re not sure you were expecting that.

Pesci sees your reaction - you’re expecting him to apologise and worry and pull his clothes back on, but he surprises you by just smiling bashfully. Oh, he knows why you’re responding like that . . . the confidence on him imbues you with some confidence of your own, stoking the flames of your arousal low in your stomach, and you lose your jeans completely.

“You’re beautiful,” Pesci says, entirely honest, as his eyes drink in the sight of you bare before him. “I can’t believe . . .”

His hands skim over your hips, your breasts, your thighs.

“Do you wanna help me take them off?” You ask, motioning to the scrap of silk and lace that’s passing as underwear. Hey - this was a special day! You wanted to wear something nice!

“Yes,” Pesci breathes. His hands are warm on your thighs. You feel the fabric stick to the slick valley between your legs and you know from the way that pesci looks at you and bites his lip, all dark-eyed and desiring, that Pesci feels it too. “For me?” He asks, his tone almost teasing. You nod, embarrassed, at the tent in the front of his underwear.

“If that’s for me too,” you say, and he grins.

By degrees he pushes you onto the bed, gently parting your thighs. He looks between your legs for a moment; the glint of light on your slick folds, the way your clit peeks out, swollen, from between plump labia lips. He breathes in, deep and needy.

He touches you first, coaxing you out with soft strokes, the flicker of his fingertips against that same swollen clit. He’s clearly unsure of what he’s doing - but God, how you love him for seeing your anxiousness and taking charge. God, how you love the little smile he gives when you moan or gasp or your hips buck up helplessly to get him to touch you more.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he says, dry-voiced, as he pushes down his own underwear. You bite your lip looking at his cock - thick, flushed, tip ruddy with need. You’d thought you’d be afraid of it - even you, with your limited experience with them, knew that Pesci was packing a sizeable heat - but as it’s revealed to you, and as Pesci bucks his hip against yours so his cock slides slippery against your sex, you find that you’re longing to have him inside of you.

“I’m the lucky one,” you say, reaching up, winding your arms about his neck, your fingers once more tangling in the green strands. “You’re perfect.”

“No,” Pesci says, smiling. He leans down, rubbing his nose against yours, at the same time as you feel the head of his cock gently breach the first few millimetres of your entrance. Your fingers tighten. “You’re perfect.”

He slides himself in slowly, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you. Every so often, he pauses, letting you take a deep breath, readjust - and as he reaches his hilt, where you two are pressed most thoroughly against one another, he stills entirely.

“Tell me when I can move, amore,” he breathes, his voice cracked and straining. You can hear the desire for more in his tone - and you’re glad that he, too, wants to fuck you until you can’t walk straight. The stretch of him inside you is slightly uncomfortable, yes - but more than discomfort, your body is crying out for more stimulation. For Pesci to claim you utterly.

“Please move,” you reply, instead, and as he pulls out with a slick stroke, you pull him into a messy kiss to hide the needy whines that are issuing from your mouth. There’s nothing, for a time, aside from the sound of his skin slapping against yours. The slick noise of your sex welcoming him with every stroke. Yours and Pesci’s heavy breathing, the way your lips press together and go slack as each of you are overwhelmed by sensation.

He strokes places inside of you that you never knew needed stroking, alights fire where you didn’t realise one could even be aflame. He fits inside you perfectly, and your body knows it. You breathe out soft epithets of how much you love him and how good he feels interspersed with breathy little pleas. A little faster, a little harder--

He’s eager to please, and he responds to every single request by readjusting himself and making sure that you’re as satisfied as you can be. In return, you grind your hips against him and nip at his neck and kiss and run fingers over his skin, delighting every time he sighs or groans inside you. And through it all, a tight ball of heat in the middle of your stomach makes itself known. It tugs and pulls at you, stoked by the feel of his cock against your inner walls, edging at your vision and your throat until you feel like you’re going to fall apart.

“Pesci,” you whimper against him, sweat-soaked and breathless, “Pesci, I’m going to--”

“Please, cara,” he says, “I want you too, please come for me--”

And you cannot hold it back anymore. The tides wash over you as the ball inside of you explodes into a hundred pieces, pleasure washing over you as you feel yourself pump slick over Pesci’s cock, your inner walls spasming and clenching around his cock like a vice.

He growls low in the back of his throat, a noise that might have been a swear dropping from his lips, his hips snapping into you in quick succession three, four more times--

He comes inside you, his face more animal than man, and your body gives another low throb of desire at seeing your shy, nervous boyfriend embrace his instinct more. You’ve always known he had the capability to be more than the nervous, stammering wreck that he thinks he is - but seeing it written so clearly on his face . . . You whimper as the rock of his cock and the emptiness when he pulls out of your soaking sex sends a shivering aftershock through your body, your breathing coming in needy little gasps.

Pesci murmurs your name as he lays beside you, settling down, pulling sweat-soaked skin against sweat-soaked skin to whisper his adoration of you into your hair. Exhausted, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and let your eyes drift closed as you settle into the comfortable and familiar embrace of your boyfriend.

“I love you,” you tell him, before you let the sleep claim you. Your thighs feel sticky from both his come and your own; your body feels exhausted from the rocking against him, from the intensity of your orgasm - but above all, you feel happy. Pleased. Relaxed as Pesci settles beside you. You’re glad you waited for him - a thousand lonely nights would be worth one perfect night with Pesci.

And you feel very glad that you didn’t take up Prosciutto’s offer.

A little part of you, deep inside, flares with a thought, recalling Prosciutto’s exact words when he’d tried to cajole you into his way of thinking: you hope that Pesci tells him about this too.

#writing #not sfw #pesci #jjba #afab reader #fem pronouns #Anonymous

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regardingseas · 4 years ago

Text

Ttile: Echoed Vexations (Part One, part two linked)

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Rating: Teen and up audiences (violence warning)

AO3: here! (Full story at once)

•••

Plot Summary:

It's all too easy to turn a blind eye to the past-- to believe that because someone has been shielded from harm's way, they should no longer fear the wrath of their opponent's creed. They're safe now, after all, so why would they..?

Yes, Scar and Cub are certainly "safe", but they're still haunted by memories of the Vex and their deals all the same.

An average afternoon during the HCB Base Swap is cut short when Mumbo accidentally digs up a remnant from Scar's Vex partnership days, and unfortunately for the town's mayor, the other Hermit is far from aware just how triggering the topic can truly be. Things only dissolve from there, and in the end, Grian lends a helping hand to console a friend.

•••

Additional Content Warnings:

Depictions of trauma disorders, panic attacks, flashbacks, paranoid thoughts/delusions, manipulation, gaslighting, threats, injury, and violence. Mentions of religious themes, unintentional self-harm, and non-permanent character death.

Do be careful, but otherwise, enjoy!

•••

The sun was still high in the sky even as Scar finished decorating the monument's support chains, sweltering rays beaming down and adding to the oppressive humidity of the jungle around him. With his usual jacket set aside to fight the heat, he wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead and grabbed a stray bucket from the sidelines. He'd nearly finished the waterfall aspect of the design-- crystal blue streams cascading over the edges of four white spanners, all joining together in the octagonal pool at the base's foundation. It was looking quite spectacular, if he were to say so himself, with the vine-coiled braces and additional water currents tying the otherwise juxtaposing themes together nicely.

Scar scooped up a fresh pail of water, filling it to the brim and hauling it towards the last pillar. He glanced down at the container as he carried it, catching a glimpse of his reflection from the liquid inside. His face shone red with effort, misplaced strands of hair having clung themselves to his tan skin.

Though unsurprised, he still couldn't help but laugh at the rippling image. "It's just my luck I'd swap with another jungle dwelling Hermit. I swear, I can never escape this climate for long. First the island last year, then all this."

With a shake of his head he returned his gaze upwards, continuing to muse aloud to the landscape before him, "You tropics are wonderful and all, but it sure would've been a nice change of pace to set up camp in somewhere like the mountains. Or pull total 180 and have landed in the tundras!"

Concepts for each design raced through his head, each idea fighting the others for dominance and tacking details onto itself, trying to land its place on the metaphorical pedestal of his imagination. A cottage with medieval influences? No, that would be far too typical, amp both of those components up. An entire village with a steampunk driven aesthetic, built into the mountainscape itself; no doubt with custom terraforming to integrate the buildings into the natural environment. That was more like it.

Scar could envision working windmills and waterwheels accompanying purposefully makeshift farmlands, historic blimps having reclaimed skies where they'd soar high overhead. Below them, eye-catching pops of colour, shining through as floating lanterns that hover above connective rope bridges.

As for the arctic concept? Something more grand would be ideal. In his fantasy, he'd created an absolute oxymoron of the words cabin and mansion jumbled together, and he adored it that way. A bottom floor made of bricked stone, the top made of logs and large windows to oversee the view. Accompanying them in the same manner would be a balcony, propped on columns that hugged the building and curved around its corners. The top deck would be open for clear days, and the space below it safe on harsher ones. Sloped roofs would be adorned with chimneys, and the interior warmed by cozy flames that were kept organized with inviting lofts. The living area could be split leveled, sinking down to create its own margin where guests could comfortably gather by the fireplace and--

There was a tug at his ankle, and next thing he knew, a bemused Scar went crashing to the ground, having been too caught up to notice the trailing plants blocking his footway. His hands shot out to catch himself, palms scraping against the concrete floor in a way similar to the childhood stunt of crashing and burning on the pavement. A stinging snapped up his arms, and the water bucket dropped from his grasp, clattering down with a metallic rumble before spilling its contents across the floor.

Scar pushed himself upright with a hiss of air through his teeth, shaking off his grazed palms and wiping them on his jeans. Pulling his foot free from the greenery and gathering himself up was no problem, what was a problem, however, was the troubling sight now before him.

The water had spilled all over one of Mumbo's redstone contraptions, causing the device to short circuit and emit a sort of maroon-grey smoke. The wires fashioned from the compacted dust had been all but washed away, any remaining pieces hanging on by threads and failing miserably whenever a signal attempted to fire; more so sizzling rather than surging alight with energy.

"Oh, crud!" he shouted, racing towards the machine and yanking on the shut-off switch to divert any further input from the broken setup.

It powered down, but Scar was still left swatting the coloured smoke from his face, coughing as the scent of burnt metallics filled his nostrils. When had he gotten so absorbed in possible building opportunities that he'd managed to miss the foliage in front of him? Why had he even been wondering so deeply about it, anyway? This event was about improving one another's bases by adding their own personal touches, not starting a new project entirely.

Scar sighed, he wasn't sure why his mind had begun drifting so far. He'd like to blame it on the wild imagination of a builder, but he had a feeling there was a little more to it. Sometimes, when the world wasn't too much to handle, it was too easy to let fall away. Maybe he spent too much time daydreaming-- he was sure there was a word for that, when trances became so all encompassing, so engrossing.

"But I don't have time to think about that right now," he reminded himself, "I really need to fix this. It doesn't look like most of this redstone is salvageable, I'll have to get new supplies to repair it. Maybe some of the circuits are okay..?"

Scar nudged a repeater with his shoe, the device making an unnatural sloshing noise in his attempt to change the feed-in. He scrunched up his nose, "Okay, nope, gonna need to replace that, too."

Running a hand through his hair in defeat, he glanced towards Mumbo's storage system before shaking his head. It wouldn't be right to use the other man's supplies without asking, let alone waste them on a mistake made due to Scar's own carelessness. He'd have to make his way back to his original base and gather the materials from there once more. When he dropped by initially, he figured he'd gotten everything he needed, but apparently hadn't accounted for dissociation-induced redstone mishaps.

"I guess we're making a trip back," Scar announced to no one, finally picking up the empty bucket to set it safely aside. He made his way over to his tent, temporarily discarding any excess materials and bidding adieu to Jellie before grabbing his elytra and setting off.

Taking to the skies, Scar squinted against the wind as it roared in his ears. His hair parted itself from where it had stuck, short locks brushed back by the flowing breeze. With arms extended for balance, and maybe a dash of amusement, he lit his rockets and propelled himself into the distance.

-----

It wasn't long before he encroached on his base again, allowing his faux wings to glide him downward where he kicked out his legs to come to a soft landing. Scar stopped before the massive drill site just on the outskirts of the forest, heading towards the agglomeration of crates and boxes he had haphazardly stowed aside. He was certain there had to be the necessary hardware in one of the many containers, though which that may be was lost on him. At least, thanks to Mumbo and his new storage system, the chest monster he'd created would soon be a thing of the past.

"I wonder how that's going for him..." Scar pondered, striding over to a random shulker and beginning his sure-to-be protracted search.

"Scar?" a familiar voice interrupted, making him peer ahead to see the moustached man himself rounding the corner. "Hello there! I see you've made yourself rather at home at my base," Mumbo teased.

He couldn't help but chuckle, "That I have. I just needed to stop by and pick up some redstone and iron. With all the ore this place has quarried up, I was sure there's bound to be more of that here than back at Larry."

Mumbo faked surprise with a hearty grin, "Getting into mechanics, are we? Have the inner workings of the temple really had that much influence on you after only a few days?"

"Now I wouldn't say that," Scar shook his head and closed the lid of the grey shulker, seeing no point in hiding the truth. "I took a tumble holding a bucket of water and it kinda spilled on one of the contraptions. I'm sorry for the trouble-- but don't worry! I came here to fix it right up. I just didn't wanna waste your materials fixing my silly error."

The suited man waved his hand dismissively, "Nonsense, it's no trouble. Have you seen the improvements you've made to that place? I mean, of course you've seen them, you built them, but rhetorically speaking--" Mumbo cleared his throat, "Just don't fret over it, I trust that you'll have it fixed right up in no time."

Scar smiled, "Thanks, dude. Now I just have to find where on Earth I put those ore…"

Mumbo gave another laugh, "You know, you can feel free to use some of my things if need be. I have no idea how you expect to find anything in this mess. I'm only trying to do a basic look through so I know where to begin when it comes to the item sorter, but even that doesn't seem to do much good. I swear, it's like trying to play a very intense game of memory, with thousands of nonsensical cards all scattered about."

Scar snickered sheepishly at the comparison, "Yeah, no kidding. But being able to use some resources without flying all the way over here would be great. Thanks again, Mumbo. I don't know if there's anything you'll need here while working, but hey, consider it free range. We're doing these things for each other in the long run, anyway."

"I'd say, 'unless we don't switch back our deeds', but in all honesty? I'm beginning to miss the ol' living monument already."

The two exchange a chuckle before returning to their previous tasks, both going back to digging through the pile of chests in preparation for their projects.

It took longer than Scar wanted to admit to finally find the crate stocked with valuables-- sighing in relief at the sight and immediately beginning to pile the items into his inventory. There were pre-smelted metals from an iron farm, so he didn't have to bother with the ore, and the redstone he'd gathered was already in dust from, meaning all he'd have to do was craft the items after returning.

"I wonder if it would've been easier to stop by the shopping district and buy these directly, instead of making them by hand..." he said, "Oh well, saves on diamonds, and these had to be used some time, I guess."

"Talking to yourself over there?" Mumbo asked.

"Just thinking aloud is all."

"I see," the moustached man nodded, pushing himself up from where he'd been examining the supplies. "I found something neat from last year! Do you wanna see?"

"Sure!" Scar agreed, setting aside his intent of flying back in favour of seeing what it was Mumbo had to show him.

He smiled and stepped over to Scar, holding out a faded piece of paper for them both to see, "I found it stuck to the bottom of a shulker box! Can you believe we used to be competition so recently?" He joked.

Scar could only stare at the advert before him, a steele blue page embellished with a vault-like ring in the center. It meant nothing to the untrained eye, but to him, all of the company's horrors were sealed underneath. ConCorp read bold text in half-connected lettering, the logo finalizing its signature with a black bow tie adorning the bottom.

"Hardly," managed Scar, having just remembered he'd been asked a question, "But it wasn't that recent."

"It was practically yesterday if we're talking business," Mumbo snickered, "but we aren't. I'm not very good at business."

"Me neither, I prefer mayorship," he said in an attempt to change the subject.

Mumbo, however, didn't seem to notice, only turning to stare at Scar with eyes wide. "Are you kidding me? You were quite literally the richest Hermit of all last year! You're wonderful at business. Sahara was amazing, and I don't for a second doubt it was the most ambitious project of our group to date, but she had plenty of bugs, being the machine powered industry that she was. ConCorp, however? That was an utter monopoly! The thing lasted two bloody seasons!"

Scar chuckled awkwardly, "I know, I know, Cub and I worked very hard. But it wasn't all us, we couldn't have done it alone."

"Give yourself more credit," Mumbo insisted, "I'm more than convinced you could have gotten your business up and running even without the help of your Vex friends. Weren't they less prominent in your company last year, anyway? You did change your guy's name from ConVex to ConCorp, after all. I think that would imply less input on their part."

"Not really," he explained, though the tension building in his body was becoming harder to conceal. He had to keep his arms rigid so that they wouldn't shake, forcing in deep breaths to avoid the shaky ones that threatened to take their place. "We just thought it would be better for business, rebranding to something more gentlemanly and all."

Mumbo nodded, "Ah, that makes sense. Though I still don't understand how you managed to work with them to begin with. I likely wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes. I mean business partners with the Vex? Friends, even? How'd you do it? Not to mention why? With all due respect, what makes one seek that out?"

Scar blinked hard at the influx of questions, "Oh, it's- it's really complicated, you might not understand. Cub started it, though. I joined the team not long after, but I wasn't there when he first struck the deal with Them."

"Huh, some deal," Mumbo remarked thoughtfully, and Scar nodded.

He had no idea.

"So what made you leave that behind?" Mumbo continued.

"What?" he asked, finding his thoughts hazy. They were static nothingness, but somehow also crashing into his skull. He found himself having to dig his way through them, while at the same time trying to bury them once he passed. The last thing Scar wanted was to do was hark back to the Vex, to beckon forth Their memory with his own.

The other man simply chuckled, oblivious to Scar's inner turmoil. "ConCorp, the Vex. Did you two just get bored? Having done the same thing for too long?"

"In a sense, you could definitely say we were tired of it. It just- well, it wasn't what we wanted to do anymore. We wanted to move on to new things."

"That's fair enough. Do you blokes still get along? Or did they take the corporation's end like a sour breakup?"

This time, Scar couldn't contain his wince. "We're still friends!" he insisted, "Of course the Vex are my friends."

Mumbo finally quirked a brow, "Are you sure about that? You don't have to worry about hiding some burnt corporal bridges from me, I'm not here to judge."

"Oh yeah, I'm positive," he nodded eagerly, "I'm just- I'm gonna go work on fixing that contraption I damaged, best to get it fixed before we have to switch back."

"Buddy, are you sure everything's alright? I'm sorry if I upset you or anything."

"Nah, I'm just peachy!" Scar announced with far too much false enthusiasm, internally cringing at his failed masking abilities. Not allowing any more time for his ruse to be cracked, he uttered a quick goodbye before adjusting the straps on his elytra and dashing off, leaping into the air and back towards the ruins.

"Scar, wait!" Mumbo tried, but he was already gone.

------

The returning flight was far from the peaceful journey he'd made to the excitation site. His artificial wings beat frantically, struggling to keep up as he charged forward with excessive firepower. He paid no mind to the safety protocol regarding the rocket's cool-down period, simply heralding through the air as fast as his elytra would carry him. Scar arrived back to the monument in a trip overall much faster than when he'd left, but it seemed to drag on for an eternity. The entire excursion consisted of a battle with his own mind-- a war in which he knew he was bound to lose, but he had to hold down the fort until he was on solid ground.

Scar was lucky not to crash into the debris upon landing, frantically stumbling to the dirt and having to grasp onto a piece of wreckage to maintain his balance. His legs nearly buckled under his weight, form trembling in spite of the deep breaths he gave it his all to draw in.

He grasped hard to the rubble, trying to anchor his brain into focus. He couldn't let his thoughts spiral, he couldn't think about Them. He knew grounding techniques, and he tried to rush his way through them.

Five things you can see.

He could see the golden heart, plants, stone, the golden heart again-- the thing was too anatomically correct, he'd seen horrors too similar to it before. And the sound, it was too damn loud, too hard to ignore. Its unsteady rhythm hammering in his ears alongside his own faltering pulse.

Forget visuals, four different noises?

Scar squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to listen, focusing hard on the world around him. Still, he could only hear the heart. He could only hear it pounding, its once melodic notes like nails on a chalkboard. He could remember far too many times when he was left alone with nothing but his heartbeat and his pleas.

Tactile. Texture. What can you feel? Three things you can feel.

Internally, he screamed at his dulling senses to return. God, he didn't want to think about Them, it wasn't worth the risk. They'd been inside his head before, and the mere idea of having his thoughts broadcasted again made his stomach churn. Scar tried harder and harder to suppress the images bubbling to the surface, festering like maggots in an old wound. The more he tried to push them down, however, the fiercer they'd rise back up, and he choked down a sob in attempt to list the sensations he could currently identify.

He could feel the stone-- but he already said the stone, didn't he? He could also feel the sun. It was hot against his back. So hot. He was overheating.

The notes should have been a success, but the drops of sweat felt too akin to tricking blood. The sting of his hands felt too much like the friction burn of a rope. It felt too much like he was back with the Vex again, and as he finally sunk to the soil, he could no longer swim against the onslaught of memories crashing over him like a tidal wave.

They could still hear him, They could still hear him, They could still hear him, They could still get him--

------

The day he and Cub first found the courage to try and cut ties with the Vex had been a hellish one, and the two men weren't even successful in their attempt. Hence, of course, it being the first.

Still, it had taken ages for Scar to persuade Cub that it was even worth trying, the other man having believed it was impossible to sneak anything past the Vex on their own. Scar was persistent, however, and eventually convinced his friend they had a shot if they played their cards right, if they made the right proposal without their intentions being discovered.

They'd constructed their plans in secret for weeks; discussing them only inside of untold locations with hushed whispers, or in the form of coded scrawls they'd burn immediately after reading. They couldn't be too careful, that's what they'd tell themselves whenever they worried their precautionary measures may be over the top. Even so, when a so-called conference was put on the schedule --such events were far from any type of cordial meeting, despite having been assigned the title of one-- the men were hardly prepared for it.

Their conference room consisted of a needlessly grandiose suite, with floors of marble and walls carved from deep umber wood. The polished lumber was adorned with expensive paintings in aureate frames; antique laden shelves taking up the spaces they did not. Aesthetically pleasing decorative tactics were discarded in favour of showing off their riches in a possessive cluster, with the only average items being the table and its chairs sat in the dead center of the area. A chandelier of gemstone and gold swung from above, dangling by the same chains fated to one day bind their vassals.

"Concordats, greetings!" A Vex declared as the men were led through the doorway, hovering in the air at the opposing end of the surface.

"Greetings," parroted Cub minimally, Scar giving a plain nod beside him. Fewer words meant less chance at letting their guard down.

"We've been needing to speak with you," a different Vex chimed.

"Speak with you about the business," yet another visitant confirmed.

"We actually need to discuss similar matters with you all," Scar noted, voice and expression a façade of tranquility.

"You do?" the first asked, wide smile replaced with inquiry.

"Yes," managed Cub, "we want to make you an offer, one you can't refuse."

"I do like the sound of that!" the second snickered.

"We'll hear your offer," the Vex grinned, "we only have one question first!"

"Of course, what is it?" asked Scar, in mental awe of how well their exchange was going.

"Do you recognize these?" it asked, gesturing towards the white table where a blue light flashed, fading away to reveal a small pile of ash.

Cub and Scar glanced to one another in evident confusion, the latter of the two speaking once again, "Forgive me, but we're not sure what you're talking about."

"Oh, silly me!" the Vex giggled, another flash of luminesce encompassing the soot and leaving a stack of papers in its place. As if caught in a controlled gust, they blew from the surface and organized themselves midair; levitating in a cloud of magic.

All of their once burnt notes were lined up before them, cyphers needed to crack their messages included.

Still beaming with innocence, it continued, "How about now? Look familiar?"

The blood drained from their faces, and Scar could have sworn his heart was going to burst from his chest with how hard it was drumming. He wanted to wake up, because this had to be a nightmare.

"No, we have no idea what those are," he tried.

LAIR!

Overlapping voices screamed in his head, all sounding in haunting unison. Scar hastily clapped his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to silence the uproar emanating from within.

You try to break our contract then lie to our faces?

Foolish concordats.

Terrible secret keepers, terrible subjects.

Cub seized hold of Scar's arm and made a break for the door with the brunet in tow, reaching the exit and tugging desperately on the handles. They refused to turn under his grasp, and his eyes darted back towards the Vex; floating creatures growing ever closer to their imaginary bubble providing them with the illusion of safety.

More of Them were phasing in through walls, forms non-corporeal and having no need for the sealed entryway.

Apologize.

They all ordered, Scar flinching at the simultaneous projection. He lowered his hands and turned towards Them, watching Their unmoving grins with wide eyes.

Kneel before your gods and divulge your prayers, we may just show you mercy.

"I'm sorry-" Scar whimpered, but Cub was having none of it.

"No!" the man barked, "Screw this! This isn't worth it! None of this is worth it! He's right! The business, the money, the power, it-- it means nothing! Not when you treat us like this!"

They watched him step forward, his furious yells echoing through the expanse of the room, "We're done! And we mean it! You're going to get us go or else!"

An orchestra of shrill cackles filled the air.

Oooh, it's angry.

They're fighting back!

Teach them a lesson.

"You won't dare make another-" Cub's retaliation was cut short with a cry, the bearded man dropping to the ground in a swift crash.

"Cub!" Scar called, but his attempt to step towards his friend was met only with a searing pain through his legs and the subsequent buckling of his knees. He fell to the marble, limbs heavy as if they'd been weighted. It took considerable force to balance on his arms, appendages left shaking as he peered back up towards the Vex.

He regretted it instantly.

•••

(Part two)

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanfic #goodtimeswithscar #grian #mumbo jumbo #mcyt #the vex #cubfan135

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tarithenurse · 4 years ago

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Stolen - 10

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: Angst. Feels. Plot. Regerts. Fluffy inclinations. Mentions of torture. References to past MCU events. A/N: *radiates love to everyone* *begins singing Tina Turner’s “You’re simply the best”* Ask or reblog if you want a tag.

10. Leave a Scar

… Reader …

Two days later and you’re still praying that Loki has no idea what you’ve heard even if the chances seem remote. He’s grown quiet. Brooding. Most of the time he’s off somewhere without you but when he returns he finds a secluded corner and a carafe of wine to wash down his gloominess with.

He’s plotting how to kill me. It makes sense – haven’t you done what he wanted you to? The talk about keeping you safe must have been nothing but a ruse to eventually break your spirit completely before delivering the final blow. On the other hand, it seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to if he was just going to waste the effort by being emo. Plotting to kill someone else? Now, that would make sense considering his track record.

On and on your thoughts run in circles and not even the beautiful view from the balcony can provide enough of a distraction today.

“Tell me, mortal.” His voice startles you, coming from right behind you. “What’s plaguing your mind, hmm?”

There’s nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from those piercing, green eyes boring into the back of your skull. Pulling at the sleeves of the purple dress (kindly lend to you by the Älfir), you consider how to out-lie a liar.

“What...what is going to happen now?” you manage to ask, forcing your voice past a lump in your throat.

The sigh that fans your shoulder is chilling. “It seems I have to change my plans.”

Unsure of anything, this isn’t what you had expected. Turning towards him, the somberness clings to his face and cuts his already sharp features from ice. Only now do you realize that there had been a spring in his step and a softness to his gaze a short week ago but since then something has extinguished the light.

Your hand twitches as you restrain yourself from reaching out to stroke his cheek. “What’s happened?” Did he see that?

If he did, nothing in his demeanour divulges anything as Loki steps as close as he can without the mossy greens of his clothing brushing against purple. A thousand worlds could come and go that second and you would never have noticed because the Asgardian’s presence is all-encompassing, sucking you into his personal vortex of pride and pain, stubbornness and deference.

“Why would you care what has happened?” His words are cold like blades of ice, but this time you see through it and wait him out. He resigns. “The Älfir’s magic is not strong enough. They cannot restore Jotunheim.” Deflated.

“If they could’ve then they would’ve healed the Priestess too.” Biting your tongue off suddenly feels like a really good idea.

The silence is oppressing, drawing out the seconds as the man looks you over as if you just dropped from the moon. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. The sensation is far from comforting, something that’s enhanced as the thin lips begin to curve into a crooked smile revealing white teeth.

“You did that.” Man, you hate the way he practically purrs.

“Barely.” You step backwards, bumping into a pillar.

Even now, you can’t help but notice how smoothly he moves as he follows in your footsteps. “But you did.”

Somehow managing to sidestep the god, you make it two steps into the shade of the room before his hands have gotten hold and you’re twirled, forced against the cold wall.

“Don’t -”

“Shush.” He places a cold finger on your lips, making you comply automatically. “We all have sacrifices to make.”

A smidgen of logic in the back of your skull is screaming at you to shut up, to let him have this victory while you figure out a way to get out of the situation. Of course you don’t listen to it, deciding instead to pull yourself up to your full height (as unimpressive as it may be compared to Loki) and glare at him. There’s even a moment there where you impress yourself by how calm your voice is when you answer.

“No. I won’t be your puppet anymore.” Black eyebrows shoot upwards at your words. “And if you kill me, at least I know you’ll still be crying every night.”

That’s the instant the sense of heroic pride dies.

The emerald eyes you secretly admire change into a sea of blood while a flood of blue, broken by ridges and lines cover what skin you can see and causes you to gasp, drawing in air so cold you can feel the lungs crackle in complaint. If at least Loki would snarl or growl, then it would somehow make sense, but he just smiles, the white teeth suddenly similar to the fangs of a predator. A wolf...and I’m the lamb.

“Mortal. Pet.” A claw traces along your cheekbone before scraping down your throat. “I thought we were coming to an understanding? You would obey my every wish in return for the life of those you love?” Nodding is the only option. “Tsk tsk. Perhaps I have underestimated you, wench, thinking you had a soul, a heart. Hoping you would recognize real evil when held up against the light of truth.”

Well...I’m already doomed. “You told a story -!”

“A story?!” This time he does snarl. “I’ll show you story!”

The cold of his hands burn the skin on your forehead, wrist, and palm as he slams your hand against his brow and mirrors the movement.

... Loki ...

The first glimpses are simple until the events fully unfold. Falling – he will hate the sensation forever. Falling through nothingness for half an eternity until he lands more dead than alive...except this time he’s watching it from the outside. We’re watching it. Though the Jotun can’t see it, he knows that [Y/N] is there with him, a spectator without the option to look away when the actor is found and brought to the Titan.

What were months or maybe years at the mercy of Thanos and his Children flash by in a few minutes, perhaps. Torture, mind games, hatred twisted and turned until it points back to the outcast prince and penetrates his soul, leaving it to fester before he finally succumbs to the touch of a sceptre. From there the events unfold in a blur only occasionally brought into focus when a part of the fallen god tries to rebel against the shackles.

It’s only when the Loki they watch is lying at the feet of the Avengers that clarity is fully restored, though one kind of shackles is replaced by another. Then: a speck of blue grants an opportunity impossible to dismiss.

A vision. A memory. A nightmare.

Loki’s hands fall to his sides. It’s over. The wall in the Älfir temple looks less real than what [Y/N] and the Jotun have just witnessed, but the wide eyes staring up at him brings reality back like a kick in the balls. She knows. Everyone knows when they witness the recollections of someone else – no amount of so called rational thinking can convince them they have hallucinated because they feel it as if they lived it themselves.

“[Y/N]...”

Tears are welling in her eyes, lips quivering as she tries to root herself in the present. “He...y-you...” What I wouldn’t do to take away your pain. “That was -” A sniffle interrupts her.

He hates it. Hates the despair she’s drowning in at his hands. Truly, he has proven to be the monster he claimed not to be. Losing control and forcing [Y/N] through this nightmare serves no purpose at all.

“I will...I will ensure your safety and then you will never hear from me again,” he promises shamefully, “now...get some rest.”

...

Flat on his back and with the hands behind his head, Loki’s gaze is fixed on a point far beyond the ceiling above. Dawn is nearing yet sleep has evaded him, chased away by memories and guilt. It served no purpose. Priding himself of his logic, the turmoil raging inside his heart is has pushed the Jotun to act rashly and he hates it because he wishes to be more than a beast that simply lashes out when cornered. He doesn’t want to be the monster he behaved like. No, the man in him has to find a way to -

“Loki?” The whisper is hesitant, almost too quiet to hear. “Are you...are you awake?”

He sits up, bare feet on the stone floor as if to ground himself. The covers slides from his chest, revealing the pale skin in the darkness but [Y/N] probably can’t see it with her human eyes as she stands in the doorway.

Draped in the soft-flowing silk from a borrowed shift, she could almost pass for one of the ghosts from the fanciful tales children enjoy to fear. Loki can see her better than that. He can see her face straining as she tries to find him in the dark, and her arms wrapped tightly around the ribs below her bosom perhaps to find some comfort.

“Yeah...I’m awake,” the god rasps softly in return. Is that regret or relief in your sigh?

Sitting there, waiting for the unknown, a tension begins to permeate the air and send tendrils to every nerve ending of Loki’s body. A coil tightens in his chest and it becomes nearly unbearable when [Y/N] tentatively walks towards him, her feet careful as they seek out the right path. A few steps before the goal, her hands reach out to locate the Jotun and he has taken them before thinking to stop himself.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, the mortal braves the silence. “This doesn’t mean we’re okay, but...I believe you now.”

“[Y/N] -”

“Shut up.” He does. “I’m trying to say that...that I get it a-and I trust you.”

Loki has no answer. Gaping slightly at her, he tries to come to terms with the woman’s foolishness. Once or twice a sentence nearly forms in his mind only to dissolve before it can be uttered and the task increases in difficulty as she shyly shifts her weight from one leg to the other, toes intertwining as best they can while she bites her lip.

He obviously startles her as he stands. Yet you don’t run, my dear? A shiver rolls through her the moment he embraces the lithe form.

“Oh! Oh, we’re...hugging? Okay, we can hug,” she babbles, unknowingly making the god smile into her hair.

It’s impossible to say how long they stand like this or when [Y/N]’s warm fingertips start a slow dance across his naked back. Then again, time hardly matters as the Jotun pulls back enough to study her face, smelling her hectic breath that fans against his skin.

“Thank you,” he says, but means I think I love you, “you should rest.”

Her hands retreat, and right away Loki misses the scalding touch and the heat of her body as she navigates the darkness to find her own bed.

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98prilla · 4 years ago

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Falling Apart: Part 3

Final part of Dark Side Logan, chapter 5

A03

...

He's with everyone, when he feels the familiar tug. A bit surprising, given that no one else seems to feel it, and it makes his fragile heart beat just a bit faster.

He feels so cracked, still.

Everyone is being nice, everyone is making sure to spend time with him, spend time together, as groups or one on one, dark side, light side, it’s mattering less and less by the day. Instead of there being an endless chasm between the two worlds, it’s more like a two story apartment.

When Remus appears, he's met with a small smile from Patton, a quiet hey from Virgil, and wraps him in a hug before he has a chance to say a word. He comes around more often now. Roman feels badly, for how much he scared everyone, but especially Remus. He's been spending more time with his twin, who understands him better than anyone, and these days they spend more time together than apart.

Janus always pretends to be annoyed, visiting the light side, even though he’s the one that chose to stop by. He’s spending more time with Virgil, the two of them mending whatever fence had been broken. Often, he finds them in the living room, Virgil curled against Janus, eyes closed, if not fully asleep, Janus smiling softly as he pets Virgil's hair. It’s sweet, he thinks. Makes him think of Patton.

Patton has been making an effort, too. Not just inviting the others up for dinners or movie nights, but going downstairs, playing board games, debating, in a constructive way, with Dee, or listening to Ambition. Working with all of them to find a healthier balance of work and self care, both for Thomas and all of them.

It’s… good.

For the first time in a long time, things feel good. Everyone is being heard.

Which is why this call makes him afraid, because he hasn’t spoken to Thomas since he’d fallen apart in front of him, and he’s doing better now, too, but the wounds are still there, still a barely a closed scab over his heart, and he feels… raw.

“Roman?” He looks up at the question in Virgil's voice, he no doubt can feel the anxiety prickling under his skin.

“Thomas. He's calling me.” He answers. Virgil nods, slipping his headphones off his ears, around his shoulders.

Patton and Janus are in the kitchen, having a baking competition (who knew Dee had a guilty pleasure for cooking shows, his favorite, of course, being Cutthroat Kitchen?), Virgil is sitting on the steps, listening to his music and meditating. Ambition is on the couch, reading a book, softly discussing it with Remus, and he himself is sitting on the floor in front of the table, coloring idly while listening to Ambition, occasionally asking a question or adding his input. He can feel Ambition's surprise and spark of happiness each time he does, proving he's been listening to every word, and he wishes he'd started listening sooner.

But there's no point in regrets, just in doing better, which is what he's been trying to convince himself of.

“I suggest you go answer him, then.” Ambition replies evenly, though he can hear the soft concern in his voice.

“I should.” He says, making no move to leave, and he feels Remus squeeze his shoulder.

“It’s ok, Ro. I promise. It’ll be good.” He sighs at that soft assurance, pushing himself to his feet. He doesn’t know if Remus is right or not, but he knows not going now will only make his own anxiety worse. Like a band aid. Just gotta rip it off and pray the sting fades. “And if it isn’t, I’ll haunt his nightmares!” Remus adds cheerily.

“You'll do that regardless, you insufferable gremlin.” He says fondly, ruffling Remus's hair, grinning, sinking out before Remus can retaliate, hearing Ambition laugh at the squawking duke.

He sinks up into the living room. No dramatic flourish or loud sing song declaration, his voice seems stuck in his throat, and he feels oh so small again.

“Hey, bud.” He looks up, a bit surprised to see Thomas sitting on the couch, wearing comfy clothes and chilling out, a soft smile on his lips.

“Hello.” He replies, a bit strained, a bit awkward.

“Wanna come hang out?” He furrows his brow, plucking at his sweater. He's wearing the Christmas one, he hasn’t put his prince outfit back on yet. He doesn’t feel like he's earned it. Like he is a prince.

“Why?” he asks, watching Thomas closely as he frowns slightly, clearly thinking over his words carefully.

“Because I've been hurting you without noticing, and that needs to stop. I care about you, Roman, and I… haven’t been very good at showing it, lately. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, walking quickly to the couch, kneeling before Thomas, taking one of his hands. A knight swearing fealty to his noble.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I should be better than this, that’s the problem, is I’m not, I’ve never been… good enough. You’re so… amazing, Thomas, you can accomplish so, so much, but I’m just not good enough to get you there. Maybe if it were still King, maybe if there were only one of us, but alone, I can’t, and I’m the one who’s so, so sorry.”

Thomas is looking down at him, brown eyes surprised, as he fumbles for words. He settles on leaning forwards, wrapping his arms around Roman's neck in an all encompassing hug. His breath hitches, and suddenly he’s crying, burying his face against Thomas.

“oh, buddy. I’ve really broken you, huh?” Thomas murmurs, slipping off the couch and onto the floor with him, rubbing up and down his back, hugging him closer.

“I’m so-rry. I t-try so hard but it's not enough and I d-don't kn-know what else I can do.” He stutters out, pressing tighter against Thomas's shoulder, feeling guilty for accepting this comfort, this contact, he’s supposed to be the strong one, supposed to be the defender, not the one falling apart.

“I know, God Roman, I know, I can feel it, everyday I can feel how hard you try and it’s not your fault, you are always good enough, you are always enough. I know how much you give up, I know how utterly selfless you are, I know how hard you try to cover up all your fears and flaws and that’s fine, but it’s fine to be hurting, too, it’s fine to be sad, it’s fine to be selfish. It’s ok to fight for yourself, Roman, not just for me.” He lets the touch soothe him, lets his tears slowly stop, though he doesn't move from where he's practically curled against Thomas.

“It isn’t. Not when I fail. At everything I do, I fail. Every romance, every audition, every dream and hope and goal, I have failed. I failed to look out for Remus, I failed to accept Deceit, I failed to reach out to Logan, I failed to be kind to Virgil, I failed them, I failed you, I’m a failure.” Thomas pulls back, hands on his shoulders, fiery warmth in his eyes that he knows used to be reflected in his own. But his fire has burned low, barely an ember, and that aching tiredness is back in his bones. “you deserve so much better.”

“No. Roman, you’re my hero.” He jolts at those words, denials ready to fall from his lips, but Thomas shakes his head, forcing Roman to look up, look at him. “you are. You are not a failure. You are the reason I go to every audition, the reason I make my own videos, the reason I have the amazing career and life that I have. You are the reason I have all my friends, because you push me to talk, to meet new people, to be spontaneous. You’re the reason I dream big, the reason I sing for no reason, the reason I doodle, the reason I love art of all kinds. All my passion and dreams and love! How could you ever have failed me, when you’ve given me all of that? When you continue to give everything you are, even when it’s tearing you to pieces. Even when you’re so hurt, you still try and smile and lighten my mood, and act brave and strong even when you feel anything but. You make me better, Roman. You make me happy. Even at your worst, I love you. I will always love you and need you and want you. You’re my hero, Roman. You are.”

He can’t breathe. It feels like his lungs are on fire, and he finally sucks in a breath, something tight in his chest unknotting itself at Thomas’s declaration, the cold, hard pit of despair and self loathing starts to lighten, and he's gasping in air like a man nearly drowned because for the first in time in nearly a week he can breathe again.

He lets his head thump forwards, forehead resting against Thomas's chest as he exhales a huge, shuddering breath, letting Thomas rub up and down his arms to ground him. He’s not crying, exactly, it’s somewhere between euphoria and crushing doubt, gasping and shaking as he tries to steady himself.

“Roman? You ok?” He’s not, not yet, not really, but he’s better, he’s so, so much better, but he can’t find the words to express what it feels like to have this incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, these shackles he hadn’t even realized he’d chained himself to, to be released, and it’s impossible to remember the last time he felt this light, this almost dazzlingly happy.

“Yes. Just… tired. The normal kind, not… not the existential dread kind.” He replies, smiling at Thomas’s small laugh, more weight freeing itself from the pit of his stomach at that sound, a small reflection of how he himself feels. “thank you.” He whispers.

“Always, Ro. I’m here for you, alright? If you’re not feeling heard, if we’re being too harsh instead of constructive, if you just need to talk, I’m here.” He pulls back finally, wiping at his eyes, unable to help the grin on his face, feeling a thousand beams of light shining inside his chest at how Thomas grins right back, warm, soft, care and hope in his eyes. “Another thing. I know you work hard, for me, too hard, for your own good, sometimes. I know creating things is literally your role, but it doesn’t always have to be your job, y’know? It… it should be fun. It should be something we love doing, even when we are doing it for the show, or a video, or whatever. So, we’re going to start writing together, okay? Anything we want, anything we think of, no matter how silly or nonsensical or stupid it is, even if it doesn’t have a plot, even if it’s just word vomit on the page. Just… doing it together, to do something together. For fun. Yeah?” He almost breaks, he can feel tears threatening again, because god, when was the last time he felt this happy, this stupid with joy, because Thomas is right, he misses questing for fun, not frustration, he misses writing short stories or poems, not panicking over late scripts or forcing ideas. He misses writing or drawing whatever comes to mind, instead of narrowing his scope so specifically he can’t find a single idea in his sea of millions. And to do that, with Thomas, together? They’re going to make worlds upon worlds of curious, wonderful, quirky creatures. He’s already more excited for this than he has been for anything else in years, already ideas are springing to mind, and he loves it.

“yes. Please, yes.” He near whispers, afraid this is a dream, afraid this is a wonderful, beautiful dream, that will shatter any second along with his heart. “I would really, really love that.” Thomas beams at him again, slipping back up onto the couch, patting the cushion next to him.

“Cool. Good, I didn’t want to pressure you, but I’m kinda super excited about it.” He laughs, sitting next to Thomas, realizing Kingdom Hearts is pulled up on the screen, the very first one, and he sees Thomas looking at him out of the corner of his eye, with that silly, stupid grin.

“What is it Thomas the dank engine?” He asks, borrowing one of Patton’s nick names. Thomas shakes his head, grin growing somehow wider, grabbing the controller.

“It’s just good to see you looking like… you again, Princey.” He looks down, realizing he’s unconsciously shifted himself back into his prince attire, katana and all, and he dramatically sighs, leaning back into the cushions.

“Yes, well, a prince’s work is never done. For now, we must vanquish the vile villainous, the darkest shadow, the mistress of all evil herself! FOR DISNEY!” He cries, brandishing his weapon, Thomas snorting, laughing.

“Dude, she’s like one of the last bosses we fight. We’ll get to Hades waaaay before her.”

“Well, it’s the intention that counts. ONWARDS!” He cries, Thomas shaking his head fondly as he presses start, both of them on the edge of their seats even though they already know by heart what is about to happen, bantering back and forth over the dialogue, doing their best impressions of the characters to read their dialogue.

It’s fun and silly and stupid, and every moment of it is a balm to his sore and broken heart, until by the time he returns to his room, far, far later than he should, well past midnight, he is smiling and his stomach aches from laughing, and he suspects that’s the reason none of the others fetched him sooner, told him or Thomas to go to bed, because his laughter had echoed through the mindscape for the first time in months.

He feels solid, again.

He feels right, again.

And the next morning, when Patton wakes slowly to the smell of waffles and bacon, and he stumbles into the hall, running into Virgil, who holds a finger to his lips, tilting his head towards the kitchen, he stays silent, first out of confusion, then out of awe and relief strong enough to bring tears to his eyes, as he finally realizes what he’s hearing.

Singing. For the first time in nearly four months, Roman is shamelessly, joylessly, singing.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #character thomas #roman sanders #sympathetic roman #roman angst #fluff #mentions of deceit #mentions of patton #minor virgil appearance #minor remus appearance #minor logan appearance #Darks side logan #Ambition!Logan

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jadekitty777 · 4 years ago

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Doomsday Dinner Party: Chapter 2

Me? Updating a story from 2018? It’s more likely than you think. I’ve been wanting to write a continuation to this one for a long time.

Day 3: AU Day @taiqrowweek

Rating: T

Words: 9,000

Summary: The world might be over as they know it, but that didn’t mean their still wasn’t time for a road trip.

Ao3 Link: Doomsday Dinner Party (This link leaks to chapter 1, since reading it is kind of required and it’s been a long time)

June in the south was miserable and Qrow had not missed it one bit. Especially when that meant waking up with his clothes sticking to him like an uncomfortable, sweat-soaked blanket. It didn’t help that Tai was practically a furnace, and such an extreme cuddler it was as if he was trying to make it into the next Olympic sport.

He carefully wiggled his way out of the other’s grip, his efforts proving successful when he stirred but didn’t wake. As he sat up, he bit back the groan as his entire body ached in protest, every muscle sore from last night’s desperate escape. His shoulders were particularly knotted up, but he didn’t dare try to rub at them. Not with his fingertips still scraped raw from the failed attempts to grab the edge of the concrete wall he’d tried to vault himself over.

Qrow glanced over at Tai, still slumbering away.

He remembered that split second of dread that had shot through him, when he called for Tai’s help and the man, already safely straddled on the fence, looked the other way. He had thought, this was it. Tai was going to jump to the other side and leave him to die. He couldn’t describe the feeling that overwhelmed him when Tai only chucked their bags over before joining him back on the ground to help him over, putting himself in danger to save him.

After every other loss Qrow’d endured – friends, coworkers, his father, civilization itself – he was certain that nothing else could faze him. Oh, how the universe loved to prove him wrong. For the dread he felt when he was in trouble was nothing compared to the all-encompassing terror that engulfed him when it was Tai’s life on the line instead.

He’d almost lost him last night and the thought alone still shook his very soul.

It wasn’t even supposed to be like this. His plan had been simple: Team up with the trained soldier and travel from Montana to Texas. Try to locate his sister in Wichita Falls. Then, get a free pass into the military safe haven in Archer City. He was just supposed to use Tai’s connections to save his own skin, not fall for the guy.

And yet, here he was, a foolish man gently stroking his knuckles across Tai’s face, heart jumping at the little smile that elicited.

Damn it.

Qrow pulled away, before getting to his feet and picking up his scythe as he headed for the door. He opened it only a crack at first, listening carefully for any out of place noises – shambling feet, hissing breath. Anything that might indicate a Stalker nearby. When nothing caught his ear, he widened it, took a quick visual sweep of the area, before determining it was safe and walking outside.

Though he had no skill in reading it, the sun wasn’t too high yet, so he guessed it was only a bit past eight. Despite the early hour though, the summer heat was already settling in thick. He turned on his heels, getting another gander of the area. Even in the light, there wasn’t much to the facility. The wall surrounded the perimeter, only broken by an iron wrought gate that was probably only ever opened for vehicular traffic. He spotted nothing beyond the metal bars, so the horde that had chased them had thankfully continued on, rather than lingering in wait for them. Within the walls, there was only the small office building they’d holed up into and the white tanks that potentially held some water.

Possibly a back-up supply in case of a tornado emergency? He wasn’t sure, but it would be worth investigating after Tai got up.

For now, he had a different task in mind as he settled on the ground in the shade of one of the tanks and rested his weapon in his lap. Having been so exhausted, he hadn’t cleaned the blade last night like he should have. It was going to be a chore to do so this morning, now that the blood had had time to dry and crust over. It would have to be done before they moved out though, so he set himself to work on the arduous task.

It wasn’t until he was nearly done that Tai finally emerged, lumbering his way over to sit down beside him.

“Breakfast?” He greeted, shaking a bag of almonds at him.

“Sure.” Qrow accepted a handful, throwing them all into his mouth before picking back up his grit stone and moved it along the sharp end of the scythe. With the sound too grating to talk over, they shared the meager meal in silence. Not that there was much left to sharpen. Only a few more strokes and the task was done.

It was worrisome that the bag was empty in just as little time.

To avoid thinking about it, he rapped his knuckles on the tank behind them. “Was thinking there might be some water in here.”

“Doubt it.” Tai said, appraising the unit with a skeptical eye.

“Oh yeah?” He challenged. “What makes you so sure?”

Without breaking eye contact, Tai pointed to something above Qrow’s head. “Well that, for starters.”

He looked up at what he was indicating, spotting the bright yellow sticker with big, bold letters that said: Caution – Fire Hazard.

Not missing a beat, he said, “Could still be water. It’s a hazard to fire.”

Tai chuckled. “Oh, I see. It’s one of those badly translated stickers from Peru then.”

“Peru? Why not China?”

“Because my people have standards.”

“Your people?” Qrow arched a brow. “Tai, you’re like the whitest Chinese person to ever exist.”

He gave him a once over. “Kettle, black. Or in this case, white.”

“Hah. Clever.” He mocked. “Least I got the Asian eyes.”

“And they’re very pretty.” Tai reached out, roughing up his hair until most of the shaggy locks were covering his vision. He laughed Qrow off when he tried to swipe at him in retribution, scuttling back and getting to his feet. “Come on, we should get moving before the sun gets too high.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stood as well, pushing his hair back into place, grimacing at the grime and grease that kept it into place like a self-made hair gel.

God, what he wouldn’t do for a shower.

As they headed back to the little metal building, he said, “So my thought is we head back to the car. Salvage it if we can. Ransack it if we can’t.” They’d left a lot behind in yesterday’s escape, including a canister of gas and some spare water.

Tai nodded stepping inside just long enough to grab their packs. “Shouldn’t be a problem. The freeway should be mostly clear now, so we can probably hotwire something new if need be.” He headed towards the gate, handing Qrow’s bag over as he passed. “We can probably go scavenging in a few of the small towns on the way, but if all goes well, we can definitely make it to Wichita before nightfall.”

Qrow froze.

It took the other man almost a dozen steps before he noticed. He paused, glancing back, “Qrow?”

He shifted his weight uncertainly, dropping his gaze. “Yeah, ‘bout that. I was thinking maybe we should just… skip Wichita and head straight for Archer City?”

The silence that followed allowed Qrow to feel lower than the dirt he was staring at. And though Tai wasn’t a violent man by nature, at least where the living folks were concerned, he still flinched all the same when the man approached him.

But the most Tai did was lay a hand on his shoulder, voicing softly, “Are you sure?”

“Last night was the first time we’ve encountered a crowd of that size. We barely made it.” He replied. “If we couldn’t handle that, how are we going to handle Wichita being like that from end to end?”

“You don’t know that.”

He finally rose his gaze. “No, but I do know better than to gamble on a losing hand.”

“But,” It was hard to catalogue the pinched expression that formed on Tai’s face. “But she’s your sister.”

He swallowed down the sudden grief that was trying to crawl its way out of his throat. “Yeah. Truth is though, I know she’s not there. She either got out, or she didn’t. I only wanted to go for me. To find peace with it, I guess.” He laid his hand over Tai’s, feeling the scars on the knuckles and the warmth of his skin. Alive. Here. “But I don’t want to lose you by chasing ghosts.”

Those soulful, blue eyes searched his face carefully. Then, for no reason at all, Tai pulled him into a hug, whispering into his hair. “Okay.”

It was almost like he was trying to comfort him. He didn’t know why though. He was fine.

Qrow buried his head into Tai’s shoulder.

…He was fine.

Qrow was nothing if not masterful at ignoring his own emotions.

“What do you think?” Qrow asked as he splayed himself over the hood of a Ferrari. “Perfect for the next calendar?”

“Qrow no.” The smile gave his partner away.

“Oh you’re right, the ladies like the open shirt look.” He teased, reaching up to undo a few of the top buttons.

Tai shoved a hand in his face, pushing him. “Cut it out porn star. We gotta actually work.”

He gave a mournful sigh. “My career, ended before it could take off.”

Qrow hopped down from the car, trailing after the other man. As they’d feared, their little hit and run last night really did a number on the Camry. The back wheels were now pitched up on a hill of squirming, hissing Stalkers. There was really no hope of getting it loose without a tow and even if they could, the potential damage the vehicle sustained probably negated the effort.

So they made their way to the freeway as planned, now eerily empty except for the few dead still stuck in their seatbelts. They made sure to avoid those ones.

“Oh, what about this one?” Tai pointed out a Jeep Wrangler, eyes practically sparkling. “Be good for some off roading, yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘cept that gas guzzler ain’t going to get us very far.” He nudged him onwards, peering into the windows of the cars they were walking by, trying to see if there were any abandoned snacks or water bottles to snag. Unfortunately, the best he could seem to find was a pack of Winterfresh gum, the sticks so old they crumbled.

They ate them anyways.

After about an hour of scouring their options and many failed attempts to get something working that hadn’t had something wear out from disuse and time under the hot sun, they finally managed to get a little Hyundai purring to life. Qrow eased it down the grassy slope, the whole frame shaking roughly as they made their way to the side road they’d been traveling on. Once they hit it, it was smooth sailing from there, Qrow pulling down the window to stick his hand out while Tai hummed showtunes beside him and mapped out the safest route to their final destination.

They reached Sterling within the first ten minutes. The small town, boasting only an original population of 800, was like a ghost town to drive through. A shambling straggler could be seen here or there, but mostly they went through uninterrupted – stopping only to check an already well-ransacked Dollar General. Temple, the next village down the 65, was not much more impressive and with tiny stores just as empty. They pulled over halfway down on the 70 to wash up in the Red River (not quite the shower he’d been hoping for, but it would do). They collected some spare water to boil later, before moving on.

Soon enough, they were turning onto the 79 and crossing the state border, driving through Byers, a town so miniscule, it wasn’t worth touring.

“Maybe we should just keep going.” Qrow said as they entered Petrolia, finding the show to be the same as the rest: lifeless streets decorated with only the occasional Stalker and nothing else. “We really aren’t getting anywhere with all these stops.”

Tai ran a hand through his hair, already dry as the early afternoon sun bore down from above like a heat lamp. “Suppose so. We’re only an hour or so away. Turn right here.”

He did as told, eyeing the signs as he did so.

Tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart as he realized they were turning away from Wichita Falls.

He focused twice as hard on the asphalt stretching for miles before them, avoiding the occasional abandoned car or, in one case, tractor. There wasn’t much to see on the countryside of Texas, even less so now. It was nothing but wide, open fields, overgrown with weeds that had gone untilled, interspaced by the occasional barn or house. Any livestock there had been seemed to have escaped from their pens or frozen during the winter season.

They both looked away from the dead horse still tied to its post in the corral.

It took only twenty minutes to hit the next city. Despite it being three times larger than the other towns, they made it through Henrietta without incident.

They were just going under the overpass of the freeway when Tai suddenly exclaimed, “Wait! Turn around!”

“What? What is it?” Qrow asked, U-turning in the middle of the road.

“We need to go there!”

He followed the direction he was pointing, eyebrows going up to his hairline. “Pecan Shed? The fuck you want to go there for?”

“It’s a gift shop.”

He waited a beat. “And?”

“It has things… and stuff?”

Qrow rolled his eyes. “What a concept. Next you’ll be telling me hardware stores have nails.” He turned onto the side street all the same, pulling into the parking lot within seconds. He gave the building a once over as they got out of the car.

It was a fairly large. Two stories tall and long as a barn, with a fancy awning in front that mimicked a shed roof and a patio with seating that stretched all across the front and down both sides of the property. The name of the place was in big red letters at the top story, something that would be easily visible from the freeway when passing by. The front doors were made of glass, surprisingly still intact and, more importantly, unlocked.

They stepped inside with caution at first, but a quick sweep of the open floor and a few calls to garner attention with no response told them they weren’t in any immediate danger.

Which meant…

They shared a glance, before immediately tackling the still semi-stocked junk food station in the middle of the room. He ripped open a package of Ruffles, stuffing half the bag in his mouth at once. It tasted like heaven. Stale, over-salted heaven.

Beside him, Tai was inspecting a bag of what appeared to be shelled peanuts while tipping back a bag of Fritos.

He swallowed down another handful, saying, “Save those.” They would keep better longer and they were good fillers when they had nothing else.

“Ye’I’no.” Tai garbled out, his normal southern politeness completely abolished in the sightline of food.

Qrow, who had no politeness at all, just tossed the empty bag over his shoulder and reached for the Funyuns next.

By the time they had their fill, there was a small collection of litter at their feet. He sighed, plopping down onto the nearby checkout counter, smoothing a hand over his belly. They’d had to ration for so long, he couldn’t even remember the last time he felt safe to overindulge. Too worried about what he’d need tomorrow to worry about the ache in his stomach today.

“Sir, how much will this cost?”

Qrow looked up, smirking as Tai stood before him with two hand baskets full of goods. “For what? The food or my sexy ass?”

He winked. “The food. Your ass is priceless.”

“Least you know quality when you see it.” He hopped down, taking one of the baskets and following the other out to the car.

They fell into an easy rhythm, scouring the shop top to bottom for anything worth nabbing. Drinks, trail mixes, jerky, matches, candles, blankets, batteries, knives. Even things like books and magazines were useful for campfire tinder – and maybe a bit of reading for those really boring nights.

Then again, Qrow thought as he placed a few shirt-wrapped bottles of wine in the back, there were always other methods of entertainment.

He slammed the trunk closed, before heading back in for one last sweep through of the back aisles. He zigzagged around the store, triple-checking the sections they’d already emptied. A selection of colorful novelty mugs caught his attention and he chortled over the one with the cartoon Corgi surrounded by a heart and flowing text framing it that said, ‘This is the Corgkey to my heart’.

Tai had always said he wanted a dog, hadn’t he?

He plucked it off the shelf and made his way towards where he could spot the familiar head of blond hair peeking above the displays. He wheeled the corner, about to call out – only for it to choke in his throat when he realized what the other man was doing.

Tai stood in front of a rack of wooden baskets, each one filled to the brim with stuffed animals. He seemed to be in a silent debate over whether to take the fuzzy teddy bear or the brightly colored unicorn, as if it were the most important decision of his life.

He looked so… lost.

Qrow inched forward hesitantly, moving loud enough that he knew he was there, but quiet enough to not disturb him.

It seemed Tai wasn’t completely stuck in his own head though, for when he finally stood at his side, he spoke, “I used to bring Yang here a lot.”

He tilted his head, surprised. “Your daughter?” Tai hadn’t talked about his girls much; whether it be out of a simple habit of privacy or a necessity to keep himself focused on survival instead of agonizing over his children’s fate was unknown to Qrow, but either way he’d never pried.

“Yeah. When I’d take her to go visit her mom, if the trip didn’t go well – and it rarely did – I’d bring her here. She loved the dinosaur exhibit that’s in front of the truck stop. I’d let her play there as long as she wanted and then we’d eat at the Steak N’ Shake.” He waved a hand at the store around them. “Then we’d come here, get some of the specialty fudge to bring home and Yang would pick out a stuffed animal for Ruby. Somehow, she always knew which one she’d love the most.” He laughed. It was a strained, wounded sound. “I’m afraid I don’t have her intuition though. I can’t even remember if Ruby was still in her unicorn phase before I left.”

Qrow swallowed down that same, awful grief from before that was trying to escape. Instead, he forced some cheer into his tone as he said, “Well you know what I do when I can’t make a decision?” He turned to the baskets in front of them and pulled one right off the rack, dropping it down between them, “I get them all.”

Tai blinked down at it, before a genuine smile broke free. It was like watching the sun come out after a rainstorm. “Qrow, we can’t bring them all.”

“Watch me.” He pulled another one free and balanced it against his hip as he hefted it towards the car.

Ten minutes later, they were peeling out of the parking lot, about a hundred pairs of eyes watching the road go by from the backseat.

And Tai didn’t stop smiling.

A semi-truck was parked sideways along the two-laned road that cut across the lake on the 172, it’s front fender partially submerged in the murky water, effectively blocking the way. Qrow didn’t think much of it as he turned them around to take another route.

He grew more suspicious when they encountered multiple semis parked in a line across the 174.

Tai lent forward, eyeing the trucks with narrowed eyes. “These are barricades.”

“And people don’t set up barricades if they aren’t trying to protect something.” Qrow determined, switching into low gear. “Come on, we can drive around it.”

“Wait!” He grabbed his wrist, keeping it from touching the wheel. “If the military set these up, then the fields are probably mined.”

He considered that for a moment, before shifting into reverse. “Alright then we’ll try up the highway.”

Around they went, the detour taking them nearly a half hour – and sure enough, right at the juncture that converged the highway with the freeway, another blockade halted their forward motion. But this time, there was a message left for them in bright red paint along the bodies of every truck:

TURN AROUND OR DIE

“The fuck,” He breathed, a shiver running down his spine. He looked to the man beside him, whose face had gone white. “Tai?”

Tai set his jaw, before pulling out the map. “Come on, let’s get closer than we’re walking it.”

“And what are we doing about that?” Qrow snapped, pretending his voice didn’t hit the octave of a screeching bat.

“You don’t have to come with me.”

The words were like a blow to the face. “What?”

He pointed out the frontage entrance a few miles south. “I’ll go, and then I’ll come back and get you if it’s safe.”

His heart slowed down from its 100-mile a minute pulse line to only about 80. He pulled the car around, grumbling all the while, “Like hell you will.”

Despite his words though, as they neared the off ramp, the desire to just hit the gas and keep going overcame him so strongly, it was like his foot was fighting against a two-ton weight. He looked again to the man beside him, tried to draw strength from his unwavering nerve. Tai had the look of a man who was about to go to war with the whole world if it dared stand in his way of him and his kids – and if Qrow just became another obstacle, he had no doubt on where he’d end up on that side of the battle.

He wished he’d had even an ounce of that same backbone for his sister.

He beat down his shame and jerked the wheel to the right, heading down the ramp and following the way back up to where the street met another. He turned onto it. The road was immediately rough, more dirt than asphalt, rattling the frame of the car harshly as they slowly trudged between the empty farming fields.

Halfway down the road, they came to a pair of dead ash trees, one on either side. Hanging from their blackened and brittle branches were about half a dozen empty nooses. But one was not.

Instead, in its snare, was the body of a decaying crow.

A promise and an omen.

An eerie silence fell between them as they passed underneath it, the air stifling, suffocating.

Qrow coughed and said, “I think that was my cousin.”

Tai snorted, smacking his arm. “Shut up.”

His own snickers were practically hysteric. The buzzing that had started in his nerves from the first warning sign had turned into a crawling feeling, like a line of ants were marching along his skin. To combat it, his grip on the wheel tightened.

This was insane. People had done all this. Blocked the roads, painted the warnings, hung the signs. All in an effort to keep other survivors from coming close. Was it all just the military’s doing? Scare tactics because they were overcrowded? Or was it something worse?

Just what were they walking into?

“Hey.”

Qrow sucked in a sharp breath, looking down at the hand now covering his own.

Tai ran a thumb over his knuckles, the movement as gentle as his voice, “It’s okay if you want to stay back, really.”

“Fuck that.” He snapped. “You would of come with me to Wichita, no matter what, right?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Was the immediate assurance, followed shortly by, “But that doesn’t mean you owe me your life.”

He thought, again, of last night. Their shared panic as they ran across the fields. The wall that loomed ahead, cutting off their escape. Tai’s frantic orders as he helped him over.

Had he been alone, that would have been it.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of Tai being in a similar situation – needing him to look out for him. And him just not being there.

“No.” He avowed, meeting his eye. “We’re in this together. So unless you’re gonna throw me out of this damn car, you can cut it out with the martyr shit. Okay?”

The hand over his pulled his off the wheel, Tai clutching onto it almost fiercely. “Okay.”

Qrow let him keep it, slipping his fingers between Tai’s own as he turned back to the road.

As they neared its end, he noticed an assortment of industrial standard wind turbines. Perhaps once in use to provide power to the few speckled barns and homes on the horizon. He turned north, driving between them, peering up at them. The blades were whirling lazily in the breeze as the metallic forest caught the bright, summer sun, gleaming harshly bright.

He had to wonder if the buildings out here still had power. Or, if not, if a bit of tweaking to the structures might be able to bring them back to life. He was long removed from his university days when he would dabble about in engineering, and he’d never actually studied the ins and outs of wind energy converters, but the temptation to try was irresistible. To be able to cook their meals on a stove again or, god, have a hot shower. He had to bet there were some independent water wells out here and the land was still prime for growing too; it wouldn’t be hard to get their own crops growing. With time, they might even be able to find some livestock again. And a dog, too.

Qrow got lost in the fantasy of it.

So much so, Tai almost made him jump when he suddenly spoke up, “Here too?”

He blinked away the afterimages of him and Tai playing house during the apocalypse, focusing on the reality before him.

Scoffed at the sight of the pickup truck parked sideways across the road. He rolled to a stop, eyeing a side street in the rearview mirror a short-ways back. It was even less maintained than the ones they’d been traveling down so far, promising a ride that would rival a go around on some bumper cars.

“What do you wanna do? Walk it or keep going?” He asked gruffly.

Tai hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the map once more. “We’re not too far off at this point. Ten miles at most.”

“Not far off, he says.” Qrow mocked under his breath, even as he parked the car.

His partner laughed, undoing his seatbelt. “It’ll be good for you. Your scrawny legs could use some definition.”

He opened his mouth to retort, reaching for the keys to turn off the car –

When the one in front of them roared to life.

They froze, staring at the truck.

“What?” Tai whispered.

To assure they hadn’t misheard, the engine revved loudly.

Then, the wheels rotated towards them, the axles squealing as the truck came barreling towards them.

“Oh shit.” Qrow barked, throwing them into reverse and slamming down on the gas pedal.

Tai yelped as he was thrown into the dash as they rocketed backwards several meters. Another quick gear shift, and Qrow twisted the wheel around, flying down the road he’d spotted before. They hit a pot hole hard enough to throw them up from their seats, but he didn’t dare slow down.

His arms trembled and sweat started to bead from his brow. “What the fuck.”

He looked at the rearview, seeing the truck taking the same corner, gunning after them.

“What the fuck!” He shouted again.

“I don’t know!” Tai shouted back, scrambling to get his seatbelt back on.

“There’s someone in there.”

“You think?!”

He smacked the wheel. “Well what the fuck do we do!?”

“Calm down.” Was the sharp reply, Tai twisting around in his seat to keep an eye on their pursuer. “We just need to lose him.”

“Oh, that’s all? Brilliant!”

“Qrow.” The commanding tone shut him down immediately, his partner leveling him with a look. “Listen to me. We’re going to be fine. Just focus on driving. We’ll find a place around here, a home, a barn whatever. Just something with some cover.”

He took a few deep breathes, trying to steel his nerves. “Alright, alright.”

Except, it became abundantly clear that plan was sunk, as they sped past the first side street, completely blocked off by rubbish and vehicles. It was the same story with the next one.

Tai cursed under his breath. “He’s corralling us.”

“Maybe we should ditch the car? Head out into the field and make a run for it?” Qrow suggested.

He shook his head. “We’ll be too exposed. I think our better bet is to figure out where he’s leading us.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll talk this out with whoever this guy is.”

“And if he doesn’t want to talk?”

Tai’s expression smoothed out into something cold. “Then you’re lucky I’m a good shot.”

Qrow swallowed, not arguing further.

He knew Tai could do it, if he had to. That’s how the military had trained him. But he hadn’t had to go through any of those tough regimens like his partner. Hell, up until eight months ago, he’d been living a rather lavish, uncomplicated life helping his old man upkeep the business fixing transmissions and rotating tires.

He was a mechanic! How the hell did he end up in a high-speed chase in the middle of fucking nowhere?

A blare of the truck’s horn made his heart jump into his throat. What was this guy gonna do, once he got them where he wanted them? Would he really start shooting?

God, he didn’t want to kill anyone. Not someone alive at least.

Another rough bump shook the thought down, so he tried to focus on keeping them steady instead. Another mile on, and the road ahead became blocked by another pickup truck, forcing them to take a hard right.

As he turned, he spotted movement in the front seat of the car.

A sense of foreboding swept through him and once they got far enough down the road, he braved a glance. Sure enough, the rearview told him they were now being pursued by two cars.

“Tai.” Qrow hissed in warning.

But Tai wasn’t looking at the situation behind them, instead pointing forward. “Look.”

He did, squinting a bit. Though still a good few miles off, he could just barely make out the shape of a large building of some sort – taller than any of the other buildings around these parts. Unnatural and out of place.

“What is that?” He asked.

“Dunno. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

The suspicion turned to truth as they continued down the road, the structure looming ever closer. Until he could make out it wasn’t a building at all, but rather a massive fence, at least two stories tall. It was made of a mismatch of materials, including timber beams, chain link mesh, and aluminum sheet metal.

It had to be sturdy though, because as they rolled up to the front gate, he could spot half a dozen people standing on platforms attached to it, three on either side of the gate.

Every single one of them held a rifle.

“What now?” Qrow barely got out around the knot in his throat.

“I…” Tai looked frantically from side to side, as if an escape route would just materialize from thin air. When nothing did, he looked to him, and for the first time since this all started, Qrow could see the fear in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

They both looked back as they heard the sound of car doors closing, the drivers of either car stepping out and heading towards them. One was a man with short brown hair, the front of it pulled up like a plumage of feathers. His shirt was sleeveless, boasting well-toned arms that promised an ill-fate for his opponents. Yet, even he seemed slightly dwarfed by his companion – a tree of a woman, solidly built, and tall. She was swinging around a giant mallet like it weighed nothing.

The two of them split, flanking their car from either side.

The man knocked on Qrow’s window, pointing down.

Getting the hint, he rolled it down.

The man rested a hand along the top of the door, leaning in. “Where y’all heading? The zoo?”

He blinked, confused – and then he remembered the army of stuffed animals in the back seat, and scowled. “Clever, asshole.”

That only seemed to amuse the other, as he chuckled. His voice was smooth and calm. He knew who was in charge here. “This one’s got some bite, don’t he Elm?”

“Sure does.” Elm replied. “And look, they’re just your type. A couple of pretty boys.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up uncomfortably. The fuck did that mean?

Beside him, Tai took a deep breath, saying slowly. “Look, we’re not trying to start any trouble. We were just passing on through.”

“Were you now?” The man drummed his fingers on the roof above him, the noise unusually grating with Qrow’s nerves so shot. “And you just happened to come this way? Didn’t happen to see any of our warnings or blocked roads?”

“You guys did all that?” Qrow realized too late the question only made him sound falsely innocent.

“Cute. Real cute.” The easygoing smile disappeared, replaced with something rigid and dangerous. “Alright that’s enough small talk. So, let me explain how this is going to work. The two of you are going to get out of the car. You’re not going to struggle or try anything stupid, ‘cause if you do…” He lent in even further, as if he were trying to share a secret with them. “You see those people up there? They don’t have the best of aim, but they sure do got a lot of bullets. Quantity over quality and all that.”

Qrow’s hands tightened over the wheel he still hadn’t let go of. Tai’s breath hitched.

Neither of them moved.

The man gave a longsuffering sigh. “Come on now. Don’t make us drag you out.”

Another beat passed.

Then, with a reluctant click, Tai undid his seatbelt. Opened the door slowly.

“Attaboy.” The man praised, before turning his gaze to him. “Now you.”

Qrow shut his eyes, counted down from five, and finally managed to pry one hand loose. Shakily, he pulled the car into park, before doing the same as his partner and stepping out of the car.

“That’s it, nice and easy.” The other coached. “Now, arms out.”

Once, when he was young and stupid, he got pulled over for drunk driving. So, he wasn’t unfamiliar with a pat down. This was a lot more… thorough. The asshole even managed to find the swiss army knife in his back pocket.

From where he was being given much the same treatment by Elm, he heard Tai ask, “Can’t we talk about this?”

“You can sing like a bird, but it won’t do you any good until the chief gets here.” She replied.

The chief? What kind of society were they running? A tribe?

“Alright, this way.” The man tossed all his weapons onto the seat of the car, before clapping a hand down on his shoulder, pulling him forward. “Gonna need you front and center.”

Qrow reluctantly followed, fighting the urge to curl away from his touch. He grunted a bit when the other forced him down, his knees cracking painfully on the ground. Tai was manhandled into the same position beside him, grunting a bit as Elm forced him down even more roughly.

The man called over them both, “Where’s the chief?”

The tiniest of the firing squad, a dark-skinned woman with boyishly short hair, called back, “Almost here!”

“Clover.” Elm said urgently from behind them. There was a light jingling noise that Qrow couldn’t place but recognized as something passed between them.

There was a few short seconds of nothing, and then suddenly Clover was marching around them, kneeling down in front of his partner. In his hand were Tai’s dog tags. “Where did you get this?” He asked darkly.

Tai looked between them and Clover, murmuring, “They’re mine.”

“Really?” He flipped the face of it around, reading it aloud. “So, your telling me your name is Taiyang Xiao Long?”

His lips pressed into a firm, defiant frown. “Yes.”

“Bullshit.” Clover spit in his face. “Who’d you take this from?”

“I didn’t steal it from anyone.”

“Fuck off with that you-”

Qrow’s fingers clenched into fists, his own temper flaring. “Hey! Why don’t you fuck off! It’s called remarriage jackass – or is that too hard a concept for you?”

It probably wasn’t the best thing to do, if the flash of panic that passed over Tai’s face was any indication. But Clover just leveled him with a glare before getting back to his feet, letting the chain dangle from his fingers. “You know, I heard her people liked to take souvenirs from the dead. But a soldier’s tags? That’s just vile. How many of my friends’ bodies did you desecrate back at the base?”

‘Her people’? ‘Bodies’? What was this guy prattling on about?

“Wait. Just wait a second. The base?” Tai took a shaky breath. “Archer City base? You’re from there?”

Elm smacked the heel of her hammer into the ground right behind him. “We both were. It was all real nice, until your little buddies came by and slaughtered the lot of us.”

Qrow felt his stomach plummet at those words.

Tai had gone pale, his composure barely hanging on. Desperately, he croaked out, “How many survived?”

Whatever he thought of his reaction did nothing to temper the acidic hatred Clover stared down at him with. “You’re looking at ‘em.”

Had Tai been one of his actual enemies, Clover may have been proud to know how devastating a blow he’d just delivered. Regardless of it all, the damage was done. And Tai?

Tai broke. It wasn’t loud, like the way glass shatters. Rather it was subtle and unfixable, like the snapping of a flower stem.

Qrow’s own heart fractured at the way he whimpered, curling in on himself. The fleeting sunflower, already beginning to wilt and die, now that his roots were gone.

He reached out for him, hand coming to rest on his back, not caring if the lumberjack of a woman behind him smashed his entire arm flat for it.

“She’s here!” One of the squad from above called. The chain link rattled as someone ascended the platform from the other side.

Qrow paid it all only half an ear and eye, more concerned with the defeated man before him then anything this chief was going to do with them. Though, when he heard the telltale stomp of boots from above, he offered a cursory glance skyward.

She was a tall woman, with wild black hair and a curvy, powerful figure. A bandanna covered the lower half of her face, and she seemed equally disinterested in them, instead speaking with the petite woman who’d spoken before.

“Not much to say about them boss.” Clover reported. “One of them’s got some stolen tags from a Taiyang though.”

That grabbed her attention immediately, her body jerking around as she looked down at them with intense interest.

Even from here, Qrow could tell her eyes were blood red.

And then he couldn’t see them at all as, without warning, she practically raced back to the ladder as she shrilled orders at her people, “LOWER YOUR WEAPONS AND LET THEM UP! OPEN THE GATES, NOW!”

There was a sudden, confused cacophony of voices. Another sharp command and then, an equally snappish retort that bellowed above them all, “You heard her, open it!!”

Qrow caught Clover and Elm sharing a worried look between them. He felt his guard rise higher, confusion and fear melding into one. What was going on? Was she coming down there to kill Tai herself? He shifted over, trying to block Tai’s body with his own as he heard the latch of the gate come undone, slowly starting to roll open.

The chief could hardly wait for it, practically squeezing her way through.

Except at some point on the way down, she’d ripped away the mask. This close, there was no mistaking her.

“Oh my god.” Qrow whispered. “Oh my god.”

Then he was on his feet, shoes scrambling for purchase and hands clambering over the dirt to get himself up as fast as possible, taking off at a run. The rest of the world fell away, the only thing left the woman running just as fast for him – and despite it being mere seconds, it was entirely too long when they finally collided.

Her name burst from his lips like a prayer he never thought would be answered. “Raven! Oh god, Raven.”

It was impossible. She was here. She was here!

His heart beat as wild as his sister’s hair, the mane of it seeming the surround him as she buried her face into his neck and sobbed. “Qrow. You’re alive. I never thought – How’d you even get here?”

His response came out in a stammer. “Me? B-But you-! And I, I,” Oh, he was crying too.

So he stopped trying, just held on tight and let the tidal wave of emotion hit him. The grief he’d been ignoring. The guilt of having given up. The hope he never let live. The relief of her being safe. The unbelievable happiness knowing she was actually and truly alive.

“I love you.” The words burst out of him, sudden and uncontainable. As if he needed to make up for lost time. All the years he should have said it more, after the divorce had split them across the country and the forced separation left them bitter even with each other. Until the phone calls went from every day to almost never. Until they only caught up on the occasional holiday. Until he thought there was nothing worse than becoming invested into something he was destined just to lose.

But he’d been wrong. Feeling like he was completely alone was much, much worse.

“That wasn’t an answer.” She spoke around tears. “But I love you too, you stupid idiot.”

“’Stupid idiot’? Really bringing out the big guns with that one aren’t ya?” He laughed and she shoved him a bit. It was just like the old days.

“It’s just such a strong character trait, it has to be said twice.” Raven assured, wiping her face.

He was about to retort when Clover cut in between them. “Hey uh, I don’t mean to interrupt your reunion, but I think there’s something wrong with your friend.”

Qrow’s head snapped around. Like that moment in the gift shop, Tai seemed to be lost in his own head – but even further this time. He didn’t even respond to the way Elm shook him or tried to encourage him to his feet.

“Shit.” He breathed, before racing back to his side. He waved the other woman aside, kneeling down next to him. “Tai, babe? You in there?”

Nothing.

“Come on, don’t do this to me.” He murmured frantically, reaching out to hold his hand.

His sister approached, and though she appeared to be oddly taken aback, her voice was sharp and commanding, “What happened?”

Qrow waved vaguely to his left. “Your little boy scout there is what. Told him his family died.”

“What?!” The soldier barked, holding up his hands, “I did no such thing.”

He leveled him with his best glare. “’You’re looking at ‘em’? That’s what you said about the survivors. His daughters were there, asshole.”

At least, that was what Taiyang was hoping. He had banked everything he had that his little girls had made it to the safe zone and were just waiting for him to return. The unshakable belief had been the only thing keeping him sane.

Now that it was gone, he had nothing left to hold onto. Qrow didn’t know what to do, or even had the faintest clue how to pull the other back from the sea of despair he was drowning in.

Clover looked horrified. “I, but I-I didn’t-!”

“It’s fine.” Raven asserted.

“What?!” Qrow shouted. “How can you just fucking say that?!”

She leveled him with look he couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Just. Let me.”

Without any further context then that, she settled on the dirt next to them. She reached out, gripping Tai’s jaw and turning his head to face her and in a gentle octave Qrow’d never heard her use, said, “Tai, can you hear me? I need you to come back. Yang and Ruby are here.”

At the sound of his daughters’ names, Tai finally blinked, some light returning to his gaze. Encouraged, Raven lent in closer.

“They’re alive. They’re safe. But you need to wake back up if you want to see them. Can you do that for us?”

He felt the hand in his slowly starting to grip back. Whatever his sister was doing was working – and while Tai’s brain was starting back up, Qrow felt like his was doing all sorts of mental gymnastics just to catch up. How did she know Tai’s kids? Were they really beyond those gates? Did they talk about their dad enough that she just knew who he had to be?

The real answer turned out to be exceedingly more simple and absolutely mind-bending, because Tai finally croaked out, “Rae?”

His sister smiled and responded as if it were the most natural thing on earth, “Yeah, it’s me.”

The words echoed on repeat in his ears. Rae. As in, Tai’s first girlfriend Rae. Yang’s mother? Was also Raven, his sister?!

Qrow felt like he was going to need one of these quiet-talk therapy sessions because now he wasn’t sure he was entirely all here anymore.

The world was still intent on moving on whether he was there or not though. Tai inhaled shakily, practically pleading, “And, the girls? They’re really-?”

“Come see for yourself.” Raven stood.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Qrow followed suit, pulling Tai up with him. He led him towards the entrance, shooting a look at his sister that promised they were going to talk about this.

She avoided his eye and fell in step with them, calling first to the firing squad still above them, “Hey, show’s over! Back to your jobs!” Then to the soldiers, “Clover, Elm. Bring in that car and then get back to your posts.”

“Yes ma’am.” Clover saluted. “And uh, Qrow, Tai?” Only Qrow looked back – holding up his hand to catch Tai’s tags when he tossed them his way. “Sorry.”

He nodded, pocketing them. He made a mental note to make sure the other man gave twice as good an apology to Tai when his lover was more present.

They stepped through the gate and it was like entering a long-forgotten world. The road continued on straight – but the acres of fields on either side were busy with tents, motor homes, and even a few trailers, everyone making do with whatever shelter they could find. People were milling about, doing all sorts of things. He could see some older men in lawn chairs, enraptured by a game of Chinese Checkers. A team was working with various gardening tools to clear up some free land. Another team was working on the skeleton of a structure against one of the walls that was looking like the beginning of a home. Pens were built towards the back, a few cows and a chicken coop in view and there were a few fire pits speckled around the facility, once in use as several people boiled and stored water.

A sense of surrealism enveloped him. They’d been on their own so long, he almost forgot what normal life could look like.

“This almost doesn’t feel real.” Qrow admitted, eyeing a young pair sparring in the shade of the wall.

“You get used to it.” Raven replied, leading them towards the west side of the colony. “We all keep pretty busy. Everyone’s got a job here; a way to contribute. We take care of each other, keep each other safe.”

He scoffed. “That why we got chased halfway to hell getting here?”

“It’s… preventative.” She explained. “We just want to make sure everyone comes to the front door.”

“So you can shoot them.”

“If they give us reason to.”

He gaped at her, aghast.

Raven sighed, walking in-between the space of two parked RVs. “This world doesn’t have rules anymore and there are a lot of bad people willing to take advantage of that.”

“Like at the base.” It was a surprise to both of them to hear Tai speak. “What happened there?”

Something dark flittered along his sister’s face, before she looked away. “Another group wanted what we had. So, one night, they rammed down the gates with a few semitrucks filled to the brim with biters to get it. There was over a thousand of us there. Now there’s only a little over a hundred of us.”

“Christ.” Qrow cursed. He couldn’t even fathom it. What kind of mindset did someone have to have to do something so willingly vicious?

“These people already lost everything twice over now. They’re looking to me to make sure they don’t lose more.” She stood a little taller, her voice strong and confidant. A voice people would find faith in following. “So yeah, I’ll scare even God himself away from our gates if that’s what it takes.”

If there was a concern to take away from all that, the day had been much too harrowing and long to put any honest consideration to it. So, he just let it lie, a gnat in the back of his thoughts for now.

He figured any other conversation was probably moot anyways, as when they rounded another trailer home the field opened up to what appeared to be a small picnic and playground area. In the center between the various tables and play equipment was a canopy tent, providing shade to the small gathering of children underneath it. They were all sitting in the grass, listening to the woman before them as she read aloud.

Tai’s grip had become iron tight, breath shallowing out.

As they drew near, Raven spoke up, “Summer, mind if we interrupt?”

The disruption drew everyone’s gaze on them, eyes wide and curious at the strange newcomers in their midst. Their teacher, Summer, seemed as equally spellbound, the book she’d been reading falling right out of her hands.

From the front, Qrow caught movement as one of the students stood, and he saw his niece for the first time. For even if the color was Tai’s, there was really no mistaking that wild mane for anyone other than a carbon copy of Raven’s – no matter how much those flimsy pigtails tried to tame it. She had to of been around eight or nine and she had a gangly appearance about her, the same way he had been during most of his childhood while he was still growing. He hoped she wouldn’t get his outrageously long legs.

Beside her, another girl stood. Had he not already known she was only two years apart from Yang, he would have mistaken little Ruby for being even younger. She was tiny, something that would probably follow her all the way through to adulthood. Unlike her sister, who seemed to be a mismatch of both her parents, she was practically a miniature version of the woman just behind her, right down to the silver eyes.

“Dad!” Yang shouted, shoving her way through the crowd recklessly. With her clearing the path, Ruby had no trouble following, letting loose a shrill cry of her own.

Whatever trance Tai had been transfixed in broke immediately, and he tore away to clear the distance between him and them, falling to his knees as they reached each other. Finally, finally after what had probably felt like an eternity to the father, he was able to scoop both of them up into his arms and hold them close, sobbing with unashamed abandon as he bestowed them with kisses and I love you’s.

Qrow heart melted at the sight, blinking away tears of his own as a delirium of happiness overtook him.

Raven wound an arm over his shoulders, pulling him against her once more. It grounded him, reminding him this was all actually happening. The little farm home he’d envisioned earlier crumbled away. In its place something new and bigger formed. His sister, Tai’s girls, and this little piece of land and community – their Beacon of hope in the middle of nowhere – was all part of his reality. Their reality.

They were home.

#qrow branwen #taiyang xiao long #Taiqrow #taiqrowweek #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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calenheniel · 4 years ago

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Queen of the Ashes, a frozen fanfic | Part IX

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | T+

They meet as children, each with a secret. Plagued by tragedy, their paths cross again many years later, and their secrets are unraveled.

Follow updates: #QueenoftheAshesFrozen

Read below, or find links to AO3/FF.Net/Wattpad on my Tumblr.

Author’s Note: The longest chapter to date, as I had to accomplish with Hans's backstory in one installment what I did with Elsa's in several. It is an intentional choice on my part not to refer to characters, for the most part, by their first names; in part, to give the overall story a more fairy tale-like atmosphere, but also to demonstrate the anonymity Hans assigns to his own brothers and father, as their cruelty is so all-encompassing as to be indiscriminate. As we Frozen fans often glibly ask of Hans, "who hurt you?" Well, here's my take on the answer to that question.

»»————-　❈　————-««

IX.

The boy was five years old when the king presented him with his first pair of gloves.

They were white and soft, made of the finest kid skin, and he stared at them in bemusement.

Are these for me?

Yes, the man said. You’re to wear them on your hands at all times, from now on.

He looked up at the king with a frown. All the time? Why?

The older man’s gaze narrowed. You know why. Now put them on.

The boy crossed his arms, the gloves tucked against his biceps. No. I don’t want to.

The king pulled his arms out until they were straight in front of him, seized the gloves from his grasp, and in two swift movements he forced one, and then the other, onto his small hands.

The boy wriggled under the older man’s grasp, flames shooting up and licking against the gloves and at the king’s skin.

The man let go of him with a grunt, pulling his hands towards his sides, and watched as the boy’s gloves slowly disintegrated within the fire that enveloped them.

Insolent child, he rumbled. I will have another pair made, and you will wear them.

I won’t, the boy exclaimed, shaking off the ash from his fingers. You can’t make me!

The king scowled and snapped the back of his hand across the boy’s face hard enough to make him lose balance and fall to the cold stone floor below.

The boy glared up at him with watering eyes, pressing one hand to the injured cheek and raising the other towards the king.

The older man grabbed the outstretched hand, his expression dark and hard even as the boy’s fire encompassed his grasp.

You will never raise this hand to me again. Do you understand?

The boy’s lower lip trembled as his fire sputtered out, smoke rising from the burnt edges of the king’s gloves, saying nothing.

The king released his wrist, putting out the remaining embers. Good. Now get up, and go back to your lessons.

The boy rose with effort, his arms straight by his sides, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

The boy received another pair of gloves a week later, but did not raise a fuss when instructed to put them on, feeling his father’s eyes boring into his small, shrinking figure.

He wore them dutifully every day after that, though they often made his hands sweat and slick from over-long use. He dared not allow the king to see him without them, for the risk of injury and humiliation was too great, hanging over him like a thundercloud.

His brothers, seeing the king’s animosity towards their youngest brother from an early, copied it in the hopes of winning their regent’s favor. After several entreaties to his father to make them stop were met with little more than a retort of sort it out with them yourself, the boy stopped asking, and retreated to the refuge of his bedroom.

There, he took to experimenting with his magic in-between lessons and meals, training his flames with his bare hands into the shapes of fantastical beasts and far-off places that he had read about in his picture books.

Eventually, however, many of his brothers intruded on this space, each with a new taunt or trick to play on the “Unlucky Thirteenth” prince. Whether it was placing a snake in his bed, horse manure in his boots, or dusting the insides of his gloves with chili powder, they performed each stunt with wicked glee.

Hardly sleeping through the night and instinctively checking every inch of his room each morning to try and discover whatever fresh horrors they might have planted for him, the boy’s erstwhile hobby of fire sculpting fell to the wayside. In his newfound vigilance, he wore his gloves so often, and for so long, that their fine and durable needlework began to fray.

Even as he grew more adept at neutralizing their threats, so did his brothers’ attempts grow in outlandish cruelty—and it was during one such attempt that his burgeoning ability to control his magic faltered.

Just after his seventh birthday, the boy returned to his room after supper to find a scarecrow stolen from the kitchen gardens laid out upon his bed, its straw stuffing strewn all over and tucked inside of his sheets.

Buried in its torn shirt were several daggers, and across its nondescript, yellow face was written “HANS” in animal’s blood, a fact he discerned from the heavy smell of iron which permeated the air.

In his terror, the boy dragged the scarecrow to the bedroom of his oldest brother by its neck, fighting back sobs. The oldest prince was one of his only brothers who never seemed to be involved in the others’ schemes, preferring to stay by the king’s side and focus on preparing for his eventual role as future monarch.

When the boy banged on his door, the prince answered with a scowl.

What do you want? I’m in the middle of my studies.

The effigy fell from the boy’s hand as he dragged it into the room. I think Magnus or Alfred did this, he said through sniffles, clenching his fists at his sides. I just want it to stop, Frederik.

The prince bent over the scarecrow and plucked a dagger from its body, eyeing it with interest, and then looked back at the boy as he slid it into his belt.

Are you really crying, Hans? Over a prank?

The boy shook his head, and his tears fell more freely. But they painted my name on its face with blood, and—

So what?

The boy was struck dumb by the cold indifference in his brother’s reply, his mouth agape.

The prince’s scowl deepened. You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

The boy’s jaw tightened, flames licking at his fingertips and burning up the gloves on his hands. This isn’t fair, he hissed through his tears, and in the next moment threw a ball of fire at the scarecrow.

His brother fell back against the door with a shocked exclamation, a mixture of fear and disgust swirling in his eyes as he watched the straw man burn. Sweat poured down his face as he turned his stare back on the boy, his mouth twisting.

What are you, devil!

The shout was loud enough to attract attention from a servant outside, who knocked on the door.

Is everything all right, Your Highness—

Get my father, quickly!

The boy’s face paled at the mention of the king, and the flames in his hand were extinguished as quickly as they had come. His effigy continued to burn on the floor.

The smoke produced by the fire caused the oldest prince to cough and flee the room, leaving the boy alone to stare helplessly at his handiwork as the fire swelled, erasing his name on the face of the scarecrow and eating into the antique Persian rug below it.

By the time his father arrived with several servants in tow, each with scarves tied around their faces and bearing two buckets of water, the fire had consumed over a third of the rug and had begun to crawl up a bedpost. With their intervention, they were able to save the bed from being turned to cinders, and the boy was rushed out by a guard into a private meeting room adjoining the east wing of the library, far from the site of the bedlam.

He waited for what seemed a year in the small room, lit by a single candelabra the guard had left for him, before his father reappeared.

The king wore a thunderous glower. I’ve spent the last hour lying for you, to make sure everything looked like an accident, he began as soon as the doors were closed behind him, staring down his long nose at the boy’s recoiling figure. Unfortunately, however, Frederik saw what you did, and now he knows what you are. And so do Antoni and Harald.

The boy’s skin turned pallid at the mention of his two other oldest brothers. How do they know? I didn’t show them it.

I told them, the king replied. I can’t trust Frederik alone to bear the knowledge of this. Between the three of them, there is a better chance it will be properly contained.

The boy quivered. But—but they’ll tell the others—

They won’t, the king interrupted, crossing his arms. They’ve sworn an oath of secrecy to me, for which they will forfeit their lives if they dare break it. No word of this curse can ever be spoken.

The older man’s eyes tightened.

Tell me the reason why, boy.

The boy swallowed the lump in his throat. The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he recited, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

Yes, the king affirmed, and suddenly seized the right arm of the boy, grasping it as he rolled up the sleeve of the white shirt. And you would do well to remember that.

He withdrew a dagger from his belt a moment later – a dagger, the boy realized, not unlike the ones stuck into the scarecrow – and sliced a long, precise cut into the boy’s skin from his elbow down the length of his forearm, drawing blood.

The boy shrieked and tried to jerk his arm away, his skin and the air around him growing hotter, but his father held him in place.

Every time you disobey me, I will mark your skin so that you will never forget it.

He wiped the blade on his pant leg before sliding it back into its leather scabbard, ignoring the pained whimpers of the boy as he released him.

The king glanced at the boy’s bare hands, still dusted with ash, and glared at him. The next time I have gloves fashioned for you, they will be the last pair you’ll have until you’re grown. Do you understand?

The boy clutched his arm to his chest, where the blood stained his shirt red.

He bowed his head. Yes, Father.

The king uncrossed his arms. Good. Now go back to your room. The others will become suspicious if you’re gone for too long.

The boy’s lower lip curled and trembled. But my arm—

A servant will come and take care of it later, he snapped. Now go, before I lose my patience.

The boy kept his eyes trained on the floor, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

In the aftermath of the fire, the king grew stricter with the princes, their schedules consisting only of schoolwork and daily exercise.

They were watched closely by their tutors, with corporal punishment for misbehavior enforced regularly enough that the brothers, one by one, came completely under the heel of their father.

The younger and middle princes, unused to such harsh penalties, blamed their youngest brother for these new measures. Though their father had been clear and adamant in his insistence that the fire was the fault of a clumsy servant – the same that had alerted the king to its existence – and the servant had been whipped for his mistake, the sharp and dark looks which the oldest three princes cast at the youngest alerted the others that all was not as it seemed.

A few of them also spotted the bandages under the boy’s shirtsleeve, and noticed his difficulty in keeping up with them in their fencing matches or other sports. This confirmed their suspicions that he had done something worthy of punishment.

Nevertheless, the heightened scrutiny of the princes’ behavior made it harder for them to do much more than jeer at the boy, or slip notes under his door and into his pockets wherein vulgar obscenities were written that disparaged his appearance and character.

Even with this relative quiet, freed from the more terrifying provocations that had plagued his formative years, the boy’s existence grew gray and dull—for of all his brothers, he knew that his father kept the closest eye on him, and was waiting for the boy to slip up again.

The king assigned an especially strict and cold nursemaid to watch over the boy, and she paid little mind to his grunts and whines when she would dress him, pulling his sleeve roughly over his wounded arm, or when he would cry out when given baths in ice-cold water.

Understanding that his pleas would lead nowhere, and seeing that they had equally little impact on the old woman, the boy withdrew into himself. He spoke only when spoken to, read voraciously, and the vicious remarks of his brothers became no more than passing whispers on the wind.

It was unexpected, then, when the king announced that the boy and his brothers would accompany him on a diplomatic visit to Arendelle, their neighbor to the north.

For many of the younger princes, including the boy, it would be their first voyage outside of the kingdom, and so they spoke about the opportunity with excitement; the older ones, meanwhile, greeted the news with apathy, knowing from experience how little time they would have to themselves outside of official meetings and events.

The boy, dreading the prospect of being quarantined with his brothers onboard a ship, steeled himself for months in advance. He paid close attention during lessons to the history of Arendelle, and memorized the names of everyone in the royal family going back several generations. Expecting that he might be isolated and kept apart from his brothers and Arendelle’s royalty so that he would not cause an incident, he prepared a small pile of books to take with him so that he might still have some semblance of his regular life.

They departed on his eighth birthday for the northern kingdom, with several servants accompanying them (including the old nursemaid, much to the boy’s displeasure), and the quarters were close enough that the other princes could not do much more than play the occasional prank on the boy without a tutor or servant spotting their misdeeds and reporting them to the king.

Aside from a dramatic bout of seasickness which plagued the younger princes during their first day on the ocean, the voyage was quieter than the boy anticipated. Once he had adjusted to the swaying of the ship, he found a measure of peace resting outside in the cool breeze, salty air, and warm sun, and was disappointed to leave it when they arrived after only a few short days at their destination.

Upon landing, he was kept apart from his brothers, and his nursemaid assigned to monitor his every move. For all the renown of the fjords, lakes, and mountains of Arendelle, he saw only dusty outlines of them from his bedroom window.

After a few days of being mostly confined to his quarters, he found himself wishing that they had never made the journey at all.

Midway through the first week of their visit, he was, without warning, shunted off to entertain the young daughters of the King and Queen of Arendelle. The girls’ wide-eyed looks and endless questions irritated the boy, unused to the attention or expectation to converse, and he refused their invitations to play as he read his books or pretended to sleep.

It was not until the end of that week that the boy discovered the great secret of the older princess by accident, witnessing as she conjured snow and ice from her fingertips, molding the elements into the shapes of animals and castles and snowmen.

At first, this amazed him, and he watched the spectacle in disbelief. This astonishment, however, quickly turned into envy, as he saw the girl’s freedom and joy as she played with her sister—and then to anger as he fled the room at the thought that he was unable to do the same.

The reappearance of the older princess that evening, along with her tearful pleas for the boy to keep her magic a secret, caught him by surprise. Recognizing the same fear in her that he held in his own heart, he acquiesced to her request, and stared at his door long after she had left.

In the days that followed, he became kinder to the princesses, and even joined in some of their games. It was a bond unlike anything he had known before, and though he still deemed some of their conversations and activities too juvenile to engage in (he drew the line at playing dress-up), their time together allowed him to relax and speak more than he had with anyone else in years.

His relaxedness in their company even led him to tell a tale of a boy who could make fire, modeling the story after his own life insofar as he could without revealing his secret.

But in the telling and subsequent pressing by the princesses for further details, he became reticent and cold, sensing that he had said too much. For all the comfort he knew it would bring to the older girl to know that he understood her troubles, the trained eyes and ears of his nursemaid and the scar on his arm kept him silent.

By the time he and his family were scheduled to depart for home, the boy’s heart was heavy with regret. He had kept himself apart from the young princesses in the days prior to his voyage, though his refusals to see them had resulted in several icy baths and hard slaps to his face. He expected that they would never want to see him again with how he had behaved, and after being told as much by his nursemaid.

Just as before, however, the older princess shocked him in her parting request and gesture, leaving him with a delicate ice sculpture of his own. When the object melted in his hands before he could admire its craftsmanship, he cried, feeling its loss more keenly than any other hurt he had weathered in recent memory.

Upon their return to the Isles, the boy’s brothers – finally free from the constraints of propriety expected of them as guests in a neighboring kingdom – once again made him the target of their antics and schemes, finding ways of getting around the tutors to plant nails on his mattress or needles in his hairbrush.

The maltreatment, while nothing new to the boy, startled him after going so long without it. He tolerated it without complaint for the first month following their return, but as their tricks escalated, he found it harder to control his instinctive reactions to them.

Burning small holes in his gloves with increasing frequency, he spent many sleepless nights learning to patch them up with sewing books he had discreetly borrowed from the library. His handiwork was rough, but decent enough to go unnoticed.

The nights spent in this fashion allowed him time to think on his visit to Arendelle, and to recall in vivid detail the way he felt when he saw the older princess’s ice magic—as well as her pleading to know more about his own, by way of the boy in the story he had told her.

The innocent curiosity and genuine sympathy she expressed for this character and his plight touched him long after they had parted ways, and he began to wonder why he was not allowed to feel the same way about himself as she did.

One evening, after falling victim to a particularly inventive prank involving his favorite dessert (in which his brothers had paid off kitchen staff to serve him eclairs filled with grasshoppers instead of cream), he had burnt his gloves badly enough that he stayed up well past his usual bedtime to repair them.

He worked by the light of one candle on the floor, his eyes straining against the growing darkness to perform the careful stitching required for the operation. He could not risk lighting more than one, should a servant passing by his room see any light under the door and report it to his father; but as the hours passed, it became more and more difficult to focus on his task, and his eyes drooped as the flame died.

The boy was awakened the next morning by a rough shake by his nursemaid, and then a hard slap on his shoulder as the king hoisted him up off the floor to stand, dismissing the older woman from the room.

The king shook the boy’s patchwork gloves in his face. Did you think no one would notice, boy? he asked, and threw them onto the floor. To think you would sink so low as to perform a woman’s work.

The boy recoiled. I just thought—

What? That you could avoid punishment? the king interrupted, and scoffed. He grabbed the boy’s chin and pulled it upward, examining the large bags under his eyes, and let go of him just as suddenly.

You know the penalty for using those accursed powers of yours. Take off your shirt.

The boy’s lip trembled as he stood in place, remembering the girl with blue eyes and snow-kissed skin.

But I’m not the only one—

He stopped mid-sentence as the desperate, crying figure of the princess appeared as clear as daylight to him in the room.

You have to keep it a secret, she seemed to whisper to him again.

The king watched his son object with a half-formed thought, and then pause as if frozen in place, with a frown. Get on with it, boy, he growled, jolting the boy from his reverie.

The youngest prince bowed his head, and began to unbutton his shirt. When it was halfway open, the king turned him around and pulled it down until it hung loosely around his biceps, exposing his entire upper back.

Expecting the cut to be sudden and precise like the last one, his shoulders raised in anticipation, the blades tense and shaking. Instead, nothing happened for a time, and only the sound of the boy’s sharp, terrified breaths were audible in the otherwise silent room.

I wanted you dead from the moment you were born, the king said at length, his voice low and menacing. For killing my Therese, my evening star. When I learned of your curse, I wished for it even more.

He paused to unsheathe his dagger from his belt. Were it not for the love she bore you, I swear I would have done it.

He pressed the point of the dagger into the bottom of the boy’s left shoulder blade. And for my weakness, you yet live, and cause our family great shame. And this you must remember, as I must remember it, and bear this curse as punishment for our sins.

The cut was longer and deeper and slower than the first, running from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back, the king yanking down the shirt as he went.

The boy bit back his cries of pain all the while, swallowing his sobs, waiting until he heard the dagger slide back into its sheath before he dared to pull his shirt back up over his back. Fresh blood seeped through the cloth.

His mouth was dry, but he turned to face the king, repeating the words he knew the man wanted to hear before he would finally leave the room.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he said, bowing, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

The older man stepped back a few paces, and grunted. Leave the gloves to the servants to repair, he replied. If I catch you doing it again, I trust you understand the consequences.

The boy’s head remained bowed.

Yes, Father.

The king stayed a moment longer, and the boy kept his back bent and stiff, though the gesture caused him great pain. When the older man left, the nursemaid was sent back in to wash and dress the boy’s wound, which pulsed and ached under the woman’s callous ministrations.

As he struggled to stay conscious, the loss of blood draining him of his remaining strength, the visage of the princess reappeared to him at the other end of the room.

Her face was wan and melancholy.

Please, she said, her voice a distant echo. Please don’t tell anyone.

His eyes drifted shut, and he nodded.

I won’t, Elsa.

»» —— ««

The memory of the snow princess remained fresh in the boy’s mind as the months and years drew on, the cut across his back fading to a pink line.

Though he continued to suffer injuries of a similar scale at the hands of his brothers (including an especially brutal attack that left an long, dark scar across his chest), he once again became inured to their monstrous whims, turning ever more resolutely to his private studies.

These consisted of long nights spent reading books on mythology, legends, and fairy tales that he had managed to sneak out of the library at odd times of day, examining them for clues or insights into his condition. Having recorded in his spare time the routes taken by the guards on their regular rounds, and knowing the exact times when the nursemaid would check in on him, he taught himself how to navigate the palace without being seen.

In spite of the king’s declaration during their last confrontation, and the general threat of being found out at any moment by his older brothers, the boy now knew that another child existed with powers like his—another child whose parents and sister were all alive and well and happy, and therefore did not seem to be “cursed” with her magic as punishment for past crimes committed.

With such knowledge, he felt his fear about the possible consequences of his actions dissipate, and he delved deeper and deeper into the far recesses of the library’s archives, finding older texts with references to shamanistic rituals and practices long since forgotten. Others were written in ancient runes whose meanings he could not discern, and dared not ask his tutors to decipher for him.

The texts hinted at the source of his powers, and, presumably, the girl’s: that they were elemental, of nature, and exceedingly rare. Though some tales and myths presupposed that they were the result of a witch’s curse, or borne of the sins of the child’s parents, others theorized that they were gifts from God, or passed down from ancient civilizations of trolls, elves, and wights who had intermarried with humans.

Even without a definitive judgement from the books, the boy grew emboldened by their notions and by their colorful, if faded, illustrations of this elemental magic. He tried to replicate the shapes and designs he saw in them with his own powers, and after many haphazard attempts resulting in some of his furniture, carpeting, and drapes being singed, he gradually developed an impressive degree of control over his abilities.

In the company of others, the boy showed an equal level of control over his temperament, asking for nothing and never complaining about the injuries he suffered at his brothers’ hands. Without any fight from him, they began to lose interest in their persecutions, and moved on to other, more mature fancies, such as playing cards and pursuing young ladies at court.

(In the latter activity, however, they continued to actively discourage potential partners of the opposite sex who might otherwise take a shine to him, whispering that the “Unlucky Thirteenth” would surely make a poor husband, and an even worse lover.)

By the time the youngest prince turned fourteen, even the king had come to begrudgingly acknowledge his son’s careful and studious behavior, rewarding him with a tan foal for his birthday.

It was not a unique or grand gift, as all of the princes had been given horses long before then, and at a much greater price to the king than the one accorded to his youngest son. Even knowing this, the boy recognized it as the first thing that he could truly call his own outside of clothes and books, and he raised the foal by hand, naming it “Sitron” after the sole lemon tree in the kitchen garden which had survived the harsh winter.

Ignoring the jeers and slurs thrown at him by his brothers, he visited the creature daily, combing down its mane, training it for riding, and checking its food and water to ensure that it was free of pests and parasites.

He whispered to the horse as if to an old friend, confessing to it his troubles, hopes, and dreams. In imagining that the creature could understand him and shared his burden, he found that the harassment of his brothers affected him less than before, and he directed most of his spare energy and time to looking after his newfound charge.

The king lectured the boy on smelling of manure, but otherwise allowed him to care for the creature in the manner he wished, pronouncing it a better use of his time than burning gloves and carpets.

The boy, in turn, grew less interested in his former studies of shamans and strange cultures, and no longer saw visions of the snow princess from his childhood. With little room in his schedule between his regular coursework, riding lessons, and chores in the stables, he hardly practiced his magic.

Nonetheless, he continued to wear his gloves out of habit, sometimes forgetting that they were not a part of his skin.

»» —— ««

As he grew into a young man, his thoughts increasingly turned to what careers the king might allow him to have, given his specific circumstances.

The memory of the open sea on the voyage to Arendelle, and of the liberation he felt out upon it, thus directed his efforts towards following in the footsteps of his royal predecessors by entering naval service.

Knowing that the king would be skeptical or even averse to the idea, the young man became warier than ever in keeping his public appearance respectable and controlled. No untoward word left his lips, nor did he utter a single sentence that was not deliberately weighed and chosen for maximum personal advantage.

When, by his seventeenth birthday, his father had not yet approached him about his future, the prince took the liberty of requesting a private audience with him.

The king, having become less severe with age, still cut an imposing figure in person. He eyed the young man with suspicion, but also undisguised interest, as he waved for him to approach the throne.

Yes, boy? What is it?

The young man bowed. I’d like to follow in my brothers’ footsteps, and yours, Father, he said. If you would have me, I would be honored to serve in your Navy.

And leave your beloved pet here, to be tended by the stable boys? the king mocked, chuckling. When his jab did not produce a reaction, his smirk dropped, and he sighed. I suppose you’ve comported yourself decently enough these last few years, though there is still the matter of your curse to consider.

The old man paused. However, it would look strange for a Prince of the Southern Isles to forego naval service, and I have no appetite for coming up with excuses for why you should miss yours.

The young man, expecting the king to arrive at this conclusion, could not help but smile a little when he did.

The king frowned. Do not look so pleased—I have not agreed to anything. But I will think on it.

The young man bowed again. Thank you, Father. I am grateful for your consideration.

The king grumbled something incomprehensible in reply, and waved for him to leave.

The young man complied and returned to the stables, greeting his grown horse with a triumphant smile.

It’s happening, Sitron, he whispered, resting his forehead against his friend’s. Soon.

»» —— ««

His orders to begin his naval education were delivered to him by the king’s page two weeks later, the ink still fresh on the page. It noted that should the prince pass the rigorous entrance examination, he would then gain admission to the academy, and upon graduation given his official commission.

It was a process he knew well from watching his older brothers go through it, and had prepared for in advance. He elected to undergo the examination only a month later, and though he had hoped to take it amongst his peers, the king forbade it, insisting that he be alone and monitored by a single tutor.

To his family’s surprise, the young man passed the test with flying colors, and was promptly admitted to the academy. The dean noted him for being at the top of the entering class, and even the king was forced to acknowledge this accomplishment during the welcoming ceremony.

He continued to excel in his initial two months of basic training, earning the hard-won respect of his peers as they learned everything from drills and loading firearms, to studying navigation and maritime law. It was the first time the young man could recall being in a group to whom he felt he could truly belong, and he dedicated his every effort to integrating himself with them while remaining a stellar student.

Slowly, however, his peers began to withdraw from him, and even mocked him from a distance. Eventually, they did so openly, undermining him through tactics such as sabotaging his weapons so that they would not fire during drills, or sending notes to the instructors signed with his name, causing him to endure additional, harsh exercise on top of their regular routines.

It was not difficult for the young man to guess at the source of the change. Two of his brothers and most active childhood tormentors, Alfred and Magnus, were upperclassmen in the academy and had disliked his entrance from the start. This disapproval was matched only by the eleventh and twelfth princes’ envy of his spectacular exam score and quick ascent to popularity within the freshman class.

The sixth prince, Stefan, served as a “special advisor” to the academy’s leadership, a role which amounted to little more than having the power to “strongly” recommend the sons of his political friends and benefactors for admission. He happened to be quite close to Alfred and Magnus, and had worked the levers of power on many occasions to grant them special privileges unavailable even to other cadets of high renown. Like his brothers, he had never been shy in demonstrating his antipathy towards the youngest prince, though he could not go against the king in denying him admission.

The young man’s suppositions were verified by one or two sympathetic classmates, who told him in confidence of the slurs and rumors they had heard about him from his older brothers.

These included stories ranging from the absurd – such as the one in which the youngest prince was actually born with mental deficiencies, and so had cheated his way to the top of the entrance exams with his tutors’ help – to the vile, wherein they claimed it was common knowledge within the palace that he had sexual relations with his horse.

While he was doubtful as to what extent everyone believed these cruel inventions, he realized that the powerful positions his brothers occupied inside the academy meant that his peers would sooner submit to the older princes’ wills, than to defy them by defending the youngest prince’s honor and integrity. As they were all sons of the cloying, obsequious noble families he had grown up observing at court, he knew that his low status within the royal family would not, nor could not, assist them in meeting their lofty ambitions.

Recognizing the source of his misery did not make it any easier to bear, and as the months dragged on and the sabotages and pranks escalated, the young man came to the conclusion that he would find no greater peace or freedom on the sea than he did on land.

Privately, he had decided to see the course through to the end, though he often longed for the solitude of his old life. Most of all he missed his horse, and whenever the students were given their holiday and seasonal leave, the palace stables were the first place to which he returned.

In the company of the affectionate, happy creature, well-tended to by trusted stable hands during his long absences, the young man was able to forget his worries at the academy for a time.

His second and third years proved more fulfilling as he pursued the master-line and became a full cadet. His classes fell in line with his own interests in history, economics, and strategic warfare, and he specialized in naval law, thinking he might be able to excel in such a field after graduation.

Remembering the grievances suffered during his first year, however, the young man took care to publicly perform at merely an average level in all his endeavors. He did not score too high or work too fast to draw unwanted, jealous attention, nor did he do too little and draw scorn.

The effort of disguising his true intellect and ability, while shielding him to some degree from continued harm, weighed on the young man in a way that his brothers’ schemes did and could not. He resented the smug looks his fellow cadets would shoot him when they saw how low the prince’s test scores had fallen from his initial entrance exam, and the triumphant smirks they would wear when they tied rope knots faster than him.

Moreover, his instructors at the academy – many of whom had once praised him as a natural and thoughtful leader for his peers – openly expressed their disappointment in his sudden descent.

Sometimes, when he was out at sea on an exercise, he would allow himself a stray thought, or two, or three, about how he could incinerate everything and wipe those smirks and disappointed looks off their faces, once and for all; but upon seeing the gloves on his hands, these violent fantasies would die as quickly as they had come.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he would hear his father say, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

»» —— ««

Pacified by the sight of the youngest prince isolated and with lower marks on his assignments, his older brothers gradually stopped spreading some of the fouler rumors they had started about him. They graduated one or two years ahead of him, and as each prince exited the academy, so did the burden on their young brother lift a little bit.

Wary of their influence and reach with the other cadets still enrolled, he continued to keep his work unremarkable.

By the time of his own graduation three years after entering the academy, the king who had once given him grudging respect for his high exam score now regarded him with a knowing frown etched into his aged, grey features. The old man, along with several of his brothers, attended the ceremony for tradition’s sake, sitting in their prescribed seats of honor along the sides of the stage.

The young man was unsurprised at seeing his father’s unhappy look, and yet it sparked an old, dormant anger within him. His hands crackled with hot energy – it was the first time in years, he realized, that he had allowed himself to feel his powers even to that extent – but when his name was announced to come forward and receive his commission from the dean, he forced it down.

The heat pulsed back up through his hands, wrists, and veins, causing him to swallow with discomfort as he collected the rolled-up document and saluted the dean and his instructors. His face shook from the effort of presenting himself with decorum, his gloved fingers curling and flexing around the paper as he moved to join his fellow, newly-minted officers off-stage.

He was almost taken aback at how smooth the ceremony proceedings were, with no pranks or jokes attempted at his expense; then, catching the eye of the king in front of him, he remembered that none of his peers – nor even his brothers – would dare to pull such maneuvers with their monarch present.

When he returned to his bedroom in the palace later that evening, the relief he had felt at the end of the ceremony was extinguished as he unfurled his commission.

His hands shook as he read it.

Next to the king’s royal seal, the words “WELCOME HOME” were hastily scrawled in tall, bold red letters—an addition made by one of his brothers at the last moment, he presumed. The young man lifted the page closer to his nose, sniffing it, and then recoiled as he dropped it, the paper landing on his desk.

It had been written in blood.

»» —— ««

The note was an intentional harbinger, as the young man soon learned, of fouler things to come.

It began with his first assignment following graduation to the Mercator, one of the oldest frigates in the Navy, a small, battered ship dating back to the end of the eighteenth century. It had been scheduled to be retired many times over, but the king had insisted on costly repairs to extend its service life.

The youngest prince’s appointment to it was a clear shot across the bow at his capabilities, with the king pronouncing that his middling finishing scores at the academy made him unfit to man any of the newer, more technologically advanced ships in the fleet.

And besides, the old man had said, the Mercator was my first ship—a fine one in her time. You should be honored to serve on her.

The young man did not protest, for part of him was glad just to be away from home. There, the king and his brothers, not to mention the council and courtiers, had easy access to him at all times in order to make his life a living hell.

Unfortunately, he fared little better with life at sea, as his position within the royal family – and his low scores at the academy – were communicated to the captain of his ship before he had even step foot upon it.

He was given tasks unworthy of his station and schooling, from scrubbing decks to repairing cables to rigging sails. He had trained, while in school, to concentrate in naval law; his current reality, being far from that, left him wanting for any work requiring intellectual rigor.

Unlike his brothers, he knew he did not have the luxury of cutting his minimum service time short to pursue a different career, nor was he even sure he would be able to after undertaking such a specialized education.

He thus languished in his first few months of service, begrudgingly performing his duties as assigned and taking advantage of the port calls in Europe to finally experience the opportunities that had been denied to him at home. Among these were visits to brothels and gambling halls and other institutions of disrepute; he frequented these places alone, having been ostracized early on by the captain and, therefore, all of his mates onboard the ship.

Word of his foreign exploits inevitably found their way to the palace whenever the ship returned home, confirming and enhancing the existing stories that circulated the Isles about the thirteenth prince. He received a lecture from the king each time, the old man chiding him through rattling coughs about the need to be discreet – especially with your curse, he would add – and an accompanying threat to have his commission revoked.

The young man would promise to behave better each time in turn, though he knew that his father’s threats were idle at best.

By contrast, his brothers used the rumors to their full advantage, denying him invitations to family events ranging from births to christenings to marriages and refusing him visitations with his nieces and nephews.

His oldest brothers – still, he hoped, the only ones who knew about his powers – were the unofficial ringleaders of this charge. The others (not including those whom had gone missing, were taken ill, or had chosen to become ascetics and abandon palace life) proved easy to recruit for this cause, as they were already poisoned against their brother from years of prejudice.

He thus spent most of his time at home exiled to the stables with his horse, just as he had been during his years at the academy, taking it for long rides through the towns and forests around the Isles.

As these rides became well-known, his absences from family gatherings were framed by his brothers as him declining to attend, his jaunts cementing his status as an irresponsible layabout.

With each fresh insult and snub, the young man became more and more driven to succeed in spite of his family’s determination to see him fail. He refused to play into their low expectations as he had while in school, no longer deterred by taunts or threats of expulsion.

By the summer of his first year in the service, he had become so dedicated to his work that even his mates and captain began to show him reluctant respect. He was assigned less of the grunt jobs on the ship, and even began to supervise some of the crew, though he was careful to be far more polite and tactful in giving feedback than other officers.

Soon, murmurs spread throughout the fleet of the “Unlucky Thirteenth’s” surprising prowess as a leader, with comparisons being drawn between him and some of his older brothers who were revered admirals still in the service.

When months passed without any sign of professional advancement, the men wondered at why the youngest prince had not been publicly recognized by the king, nor by any of his brothers, for his laudable work. His continued assignment to the Mercator when he had shown himself capable of handling a more difficult assignment was equally puzzling to them.

The young man, not expecting recognition no matter the caliber of his work, was unvexed by his fellow servicemen’s quiet complaints on his behalf. It was enough for him that they should express them at all, for he knew that these grievances would eventually reach the ears of his family—and when they did, that they would reignite his brothers’ ire and resentment towards him.

The thought of this would make him chuckle, and he waited impatiently for the day to arrive when he could see their irritated faces for himself.

»» —— ««

He was not granted his next full block of leave until the week of Christmas.

The king traditionally held multiple holiday fetes and hosted foreign dignitaries for the holiday, and by the time the young man returned home, these events were already in full swing.

He passed by the great hall to catch a glimpse of that year’s guests of honor – princes and princesses and ambassadors from Spain and England and the Ottoman Empire, plus some duke from a country he had never heard of – but otherwise kept himself out of sight as he dropped off his belongings in his bedroom, and then headed out to the stables.

He smiled in anticipation of seeing his old friend’s face, their latest separation being longer than usual. He thought of all the events to catch him up on, and carried a bag of carrots he had bought at port that afternoon to offer in exchange for the creature’s sympathetic ear.

Upon arrival, however, he was alarmed to find that his horse did not occupy his usual stall, nor any of the other stalls allotted to the royal family. He jogged to the ones given to visitors, thinking that perhaps his friend had been placed there by accident, and was startled a second time at the creature’s absence.

His eyes darting to and fro in the dark, he dropped the bag of carrots and grabbed a passing stable hand by the shoulders, making the boy almost drop his lantern in surprise.

Boy, have you seen my horse? Sitron?

The boy blinked. Sitron? You mean—

Yes, the young man interrupted. The horse of Prince Hans, the Unlucky Thirteenth, my horse. Where is he? He frowned as he scanned the boy’s face. I know all the stable hands, but I don’t recognize you.

Espen, Your Highness, the boy replied, bowing clumsily as he took a step back. I was hired just recently, you see. I mean no offense, sir.

None taken, the young man said, his tone cautious. Well, Espen, perhaps you haven’t been informed yet, but Sitron is my horse. Tan color, amber eyes, with a salt and pepper mane. I’m quite fond of him, and he’s usually in that stall over there, but I don’t see him there tonight. Do you know where he might be?

The boy swallowed. I, uh, yes, sir, Master Georg mentioned him. The thing is, sir, he’s been missing for a few days, and—

Missing? the young man asked, his frown deepening. What do you mean?

Well, um, Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir, and—

Impossible, he interjected again, scoffing. Sitron is too well-trained to do such a thing. Where is Master Georg? I must speak with him about this.

The boy fidgeted, his hand shaking on the lantern handle. He’s, uh, been given leave to spend the holiday with his family, Your Highness.

The young man’s eyes grew slatted with skepticism. But he’s always worked during Christmas, he mused out loud. Who gave him permission to—

He paused, shaking his head. Never mind. You wouldn’t know. He sighed, waving the boy away. Go on, now, and tend to your duties.

The boy took a few steps back, almost tripping over his own feet, and rushed off to assist late-arriving guests with parking and settling their horses.

The young man, meanwhile, scoured the area for any sign of his friend – an old horseshoe, a half-chewed carrot, or even a stray hair – but found nothing except well-worn hoof tracks inside of the stall and along the entryway. The disappearance was so thorough as to make him believe that the boy might have spoken the truth, and something had spooked his old friend so badly as to make him run away.

Knowing his friend’s calm and easygoing temperament, he wondered at what could have triggered such an extreme response; but the more he wondered, the more he worried. He searched the palace grounds for hours with only dim lantern light to guide his path, refraining from using anything stronger lest he scare off his horse.

His eyes were tired and near to closing by the time the palace steward found him and begged him to go inside upon threat of physical injury from the king. Though the young man was loathe to comply with the request, he had no desire to see the steward beaten for his perceived transgressions.

Relenting in his search for the evening, he followed the older man back into the palace, his head hanging low.

»» —— ««

He combed the palace grounds and surrounding towns and forests ceaselessly in the days that followed, though he took care only to do so in the evenings when he would not be found out by his father.

The old man had castigated him for disappearing on the night of the ball in a wretched, weak voice, telling him I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy over and over again until he had finally lost the strength to carry on.

The oldest prince was at his side always, assisting the king to his chambers or whispering news into his ear; he often shot his youngest brother looks so cold that they would make the ice princess tremble, staring warily at the youngest prince’s gloved hands.

The looks and warnings mattered little to the young man, who passed each day of forced meetings and celebrations with guests with the same false geniality from the edges of rooms and halls. Though he knew what they thought or assumed about him, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him as anything less than princely.

As time passed with no sign of his friend, however, his hope of finding him dimmed, and it became difficult to hide his disappointment in public.

What’s the matter, Hans? his brothers would ask, smirking. Rejected by the local whorehouses again? You know they don’t have any fillies for you in there.

He had been suspicious of them and the king since his first night back, when the stable boy had told him of his horse’s disappearance and of the stable master’s absence. However, with no appetite for a futile fight or argument with his family, he had kept quiet, seeking clues out on his own that might pin the horse’s vanishing on them.

This effort was made more complicated by the fact that the vast majority of the palace servants were fiercely loyal to his father and oldest brothers, and thus were of no help to him in identifying suspects. Their loyalty, having been purchased and maintained with adequate coin for years, was buttressed by the stories spread by his old nursemaid of the youngest prince’s burnt carpets, gloves, and “unnatural” attachment to his pet horse.

By the evening of the king’s grand Christmas Eve dinner, the young man was visibly sullen as he took his seat at the end of the long table in the banquet hall alongside his brothers, wives, their older children, and several guests of honor.

Of the latter group, one was seated directly opposite from him – an older man with scant gray hair atop his head but a full, bushy moustache atop his lips – and when the man recognized the prince, he bristled, frowning.

I could have at least been seated across from Prince Alfred, he grumbled loud enough for the prince to hear, adjusting his round glasses on his nose. The indignity of it all…

His voice trailed off to a mumble, which the young man ignored as he stared at his plate. Servants brought out one dish after the other to fill it: pickled cabbage, boiled potatoes, roasted duck and pork, and roasted potatoes with gravy. He picked at each in turn with an equal lack of enthusiasm, eating only as much as he could get away with without raising suspicion, and drinking his wine in moderation.

Once the main courses were swept away, he stared at the corridor from whence the servants carried the food, expecting dessert and glogg to follow.

Instead, the chef himself appeared with all of the dinner staff in tow, each carrying a covered bowl.

Your Majesty, he said with pride as he approached the king, I have created a special dish for you and your guests this evening.

The old man looked up. Oh? What is it, Birger?

The chef smiled as the servants placed the bowls down on the table, and took the covers off.

A rush of steam was released and the guests gave a collective gasp. A venison stew, Your Majesty. I know it is rather nontraditional, but your sons thoughtfully suggested its addition to the menu given your love of venison.

The king nodded, half-smiling at his oldest sons seated next to him at the head of the table. Yes, thoughtful indeed. Though I am already near to bursting, I cannot resist.

Very good, Your Majesty, the chef replied, and bowed as he departed. Velbekomme!

The appearance of the stew caused a spate of chatter to break out among the family and guests, who eagerly dug into the dish and lavished it, as well as the princes for coming up with the idea, with effusive praise.

The young man looked at the steaming bowl with apprehension. The chef never changed the menu for Christmas Eve dinners, always following the roasted duck with glogg and Ris a l’Amande, among other cookies and marzipan.

He glanced up at the other end of the table, and was surprised to find several of his brothers eyeing him in return. Some stared with amusement, chuckling under their breath or whispering to each other; others looked smug, their simpers small but obvious.

His lip twitched with a frown at observing this, and he looked back down at his bowl, his gaze becoming intense and focused.

Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir.

The words of the stable boy echoed in his mind as a gamy smell emanated from the stew, and the young man’s eyes widened.

I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy.

He fought the urge to double over and gag all at once, though he did grip the edges of the table suddenly, his face pale and his hands shaking.

Why aren’t you eating, Hans? the king boomed from his seat, causing a hush to fall over the table. You must, lest you insult your father and brothers by refusing.

The young man’s head shot up, his eyes meeting his father’s, and his mouth open and shut slowly.

His oldest brother, at the king’s right side as always, had a rare, wide smile on his face.

You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

He forced his hand to grab the spoon, dipping it into the bowl, and turned his gaze to meet his brothers’.

Yes, Father, he said, and brought it to his lips, swallowing the stew effortlessly. At his brothers’ surprised expressions, he smiled.

Inside of his gloves, his hands were burning.

#QueenoftheAshesFrozen #helsa #frozen #frozen fanfiction

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sad-sweet-cowboah · 5 years ago

Text

My Little Secret part 1

Summary: You’re a young adult attending grad school. It seems like any other normal night at your job, until someone in particular catches your eye.

Warnings: Use of alcohol and a little bit of violence, blood mention.

---

When you worked as a bartender at the local club, you certainly interact with clients from all walks of life.

You heard people’s life stories, complaints, rants and raves. You’ve been told secrets that wouldn’t be uttered from sober lips. Plots and plans spurred by an inebriated mind that never amounted to much past the initial conversation. Anyone from fresh twenty-one year olds to thirty-something’s past their prime, middle-aged people to treat their secret lovers, to senior citizens who were looking for a decent buzz to forget their fresh diagnosis.

You’ve lost track to how many people who’ve told you that you were a great listener, and all you would do is smile as you poured them a drink, pulling in the tips from their slippery fingers as the night wore on. It wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, yet it allowed you enough to work your way through university.

Tonight was busy, as per usual on a Friday night. The club opened its doors about an hour ago, and both you and your coworkers were pacing back and forth, handing drinks and taking money. The crowd didn’t bother you, and the busier it was, the more time passed quickly. You recognized most of the faces, the usual partygoers from your school. They always flocked here knowing it was the only cool thing to do in your little town. Sure, the bigger city was under two hours away, yet somehow the charm of this place always pulled people back.

For a moment, the drinking orders had slowed down as everyone made their way to the dance floor, awkwardly moving along with the fast paced hip-hop that blared on the speakers overhead. You leaned against the shelf, taking a deep breath before pouring yourself a glass of water.

Before you took a sip, a new face appeared amongst the crowd, making his way to the bar. Even in the dim light, the pale luster that encompassed his features caught your eye. He locked his eyes to yours, and you immediately stood up straight.

“What would you like?” You asked.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” his voice gruff and toned with a deep southern accent. It wasn’t unusual as you lived in the south, though this little college town had quite a few students from other states, as you were as well. “Please.”

You nodded, moving to grab a bottle of whiskey and a glass with ice. Quickly making the drink, you handed him the glass as he placed money in your palm, telling you to keep the change. Giving him a thankful smile, your attention was quickly grabbed by other customers.

As more time passed, and people kept moving to and from the bar, you noticed the patron from earlier hadn’t moved from his spot. He seemed to be lounging in the bar stool, arms propped against the bar itself as he watched the crowd.

His face caused you to glance twice. You hadn’t paid attention before, though he had sharp, handsome features set against a pale pallor. Judging by the faint wrinkles, he couldn’t be older than his thirties. He wore a black leather jacket, though the fabric did nothing to hide the outlined muscles. His sandy blonde hair was short and slicked back neatly. His eyes had almost a predatory glare to them, which surprised you.

One of your coworkers calling your name snapped you back to reality. Taking a final glance at him, your gazes locked again, a stare so sharp that made you flinch. Looking away quickly, allowing yourself to be absorbed into making more drinks.

The night went by quickly, with you stealing glances to this peculiar man who somehow remained still as a statue. He’d move every once in a while to bring the glass up, though never to sip. He always seemed to be captivated by the crowd, those intense eyes of his focused without a moment of falter.

It seemed creepy, and you had to wonder if he was trying to scope out anyone for…other reasons. You made a mental note to let the bouncers know if he started to flirt with anyone. Hopefully it wasn’t the case.

You pushed the thought out of the way for now, focusing on other aspects of your job. Maybe he’ll move soon, and you wouldn’t have to keep sneaking looks.

Before you knew it, you were clocking out for your break. The strange man had since moved, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. You still hoped he wasn’t after anyone tonight. Feet aching and hands sticky, you stepped out from behind the bar. From your view, the line for the bathroom wasn’t incredibly long. You made your way to the wall to avoid the crowd, easily dodging the mass of sweaty bodies.

Entering the end of the line, you leaned against the cool wall and let yourself space out. While bartending could be fun, on nights like these it was certainly exhausting. Drink after drink to demanding customers over and over with no time to let your mind settle. At least there were only a few more hours in the night, and you’d already accumulated a decent amount of tips.

“It ain’t polite to stare, ya know.” Said a familiar voice next to you.

The surprise nearly made you jump out of your skin. You turned to see that man again, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as if he were standing there the whole time. “Jesus!” you huffed, slapping your hand on your chest.

“Nah, not even close.” he chuckled without humor.

“Where did you even come from? You weren’t there a second ago!” you nearly exclaimed, off-put by his sneaky entry.

He smirked at you, a smile so bright despite the low lights. “You weren’t payin’ attention. I was just wonderin’ why you kept lookin’ at me all night.”

As the initial shock wore off, you ducked your head slightly in embarrassment. You thought you were being discreet about it. “How’d you know?” you asked quietly.

“Y’ain’t make it hard to tell,” he responded. “I know you were tryin’ not to make it obvious.”

The heat licked at your cheeks as your shame grew. “I…” you breathed in momentarily. “Sorry…”

“What’s so interestin’ about me anyway?” he asked, ignoring your apology. “Ain’t nothin’ but a simple man just tryin’ to enjoy his time out.”

The shame had dulled, a spike of suspicion beginning to rise. “Well,” you started with a cool voice. “I’ve never seen you before, most people here are regulars. And you never even actually touched your drink. You also just sat and stared at everyone dancing for a long time.”

“Didn’t realize it’s a crime not bein’ a regular,” he chuckled. “Or to just sit and watch people.”

“It’s creepy,” you said bluntly. “No one else does that. And frankly, who orders a drink and not drink it? Seems like a waste of money, and alcohol.”

“Can’t drink no more,” he answered simply. “Ain’t in a long time. I just miss the smell.”

“So, you’re a recovering alcoholic of something?”

“Or somethin’,” he mumbled, straightening himself off the wall. “Look, I won’t be creepy no more. Sorry for makin’ you think I am.”

“Well, good,” you said, unsure if you truly believed that statement. “Or else I’ll tell the bouncers to keep an eye on you.”

He snorted, shaking his head slightly. “Wouldn’t want that now.”

He left you a moment later, disappearing within the masses. You only shook your head and focused back on the bathroom line. What an odd man.

—-

By the time 2 am rolled around, the building was significantly less crowded, steadily emptying in the last hour. It was closing time, and the bouncers were slowly ushering the rest out. Your eyes scanned the remaining customers every once in a while in search of that man, though your efforts proved fruitless as he was nowhere to be seen. If he left, you hoped he kept to his word and wouldn’t try anything strange.

With the dance floor now empty and the only souls were you and another coworker, you finished up your final duties of the night. Your legs ached from standing for so long, your back tight from constantly having to bend over to grab bottom shelf drinks and other supplies. After a long day of classes and working this busy night, you were ready to collapse in your bed.

Bidding a goodbye to the other, you collected your stuff and headed out the back door. The parking lot was empty aside from your car and another. The sky was completely black, clouds completely covering the moon and stars. The humidity outside was stifling, a significant difference than what it was inside.

Aside from the crickets chirping, it was quiet. Not surprising for a small university town practically in the middle of nowhere. While you missed the atmosphere of your urban roots, you found some charm in this little one-horse town. The history of it is what attracted you in the first place.

Lost in your thoughts as you crossed the asphalt to your car, you were suddenly brought out of it when the sound of slamming metal caught your attention. You jumped and turned, expecting to see a raccoon rooting through the trash in the small alleyway next to the club.

Except it wasn’t some woodland creature looking for leftovers. The alleyway was casted in shadow, only partly illuminated by the light that hung over the back door. You squinted seeing some movement in the shadows. You heard…something…slam against the brick wall, the scuffle of shoes…

Your heart began to race, your fingers clumsily fumbling for your phone. It sounded like some asshole was taking advantage of a poor soul, and you briefly wondered if you initial suspicion of the man from earlier had turned out to be truthful after all.

You gripped your self-defense keychain in your hand, your phone up with the flashlight on in your other. You carefully approached the alleyway. The closer you got, the darkness seemed to loom out with a sinister aura. The source of the metal crash from earlier lay at your feet, a trash can that looked heavily dented.

An oddly muffled gurgle caught your attention. Your heartbeat echoed in your ears as you attempted to keep your breathing steady. Shining your light forward, catching the sight of two people in the beam.

It almost appeared as if they were kissing. One guy was pressed up against the wall, his head tilted back. Eyes wide and mouth hung open. The other guy, much taller…his head was turned away from you, his mouth pressed to the other’s neck.

Fucking drunks.

“Hey!” you called out to them. “You need to get outta here, save it for home!”

The taller man seemed to freeze, and his head turned slowly to you. Immediately recognizing him as the man from earlier, your eyes widened. He caught your gaze, that same predatory glare hot on you with even more intensity than before. It wasn’t until a second later when you noticed a dark liquid dripping from his lips, as well as it streaked against the other guy’s neck.

Blood.

You immediately spun around and sprinted back towards the parking lot. Feet hitting the ground hard, all you could think of was getting out of there.

Within a fraction of a second, a figure appeared directly in your path with such speed it was if they teleported. You tried to skirt around them, only to feel hands grip your shoulders, yanking you and spinning you around, feeling your body slam against the wall. The dizzying propulsion had knocked the wind out of you, gasping as your vision spun slightly.

A body was heavy on yours, an arm around your torso, keeping you pinned between them and the wall. You met the gaze of bright, burning eyes. The blood still stained his lips.

“I wish you ain’t have to see that.” He murmured to you, a growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

You still tried to wiggle out of his grasp, though his body proved too strong. He was a good head taller than you and seemingly made of all muscle. “Let me go,” you pleaded, your voice wavering. “Please. I-I won’t tell anyone what I saw!”

“Wish I could.” He responded, the coppery smell of blood wafting from his breath. You caught the gleam of sharp, elongated teeth. He covered your mouth with his hand, ice cold against your flushed face.

Your body shook from head to toe, pure terror pumping through your veins. You hoped your coworker would step out to see this, to call for help or somehow scare him away. Your eyes swiveled, trying to find any means of escape.

“Look at me.” He commanded.

You ignored him, not wanting to look into those inhuman eyes again. It may very well be the last thing you see.

“Look at me!” he repeated, the roar in his voice made you flinch. Reluctantly, you slowly looked at his face again. The anger still lingered, though softened slightly. “You’re a nice girl. Young and full o’ promise. I can’t let you go, but I can’t keep you either.”

The only sound you could make was a muffled cry. Would this be the last night of your life, or would he try to attempt something else? You wished someone, anyone, would turn the corner and see.

He continued to stare directly at you. His blue eyes were hypnotic in a way, steady and clear of any emotion at the moment. You began to relax despite the circumstances, a calmness washing over your body…

#arthur morgan #Arthur Morgan x reader #vampire au

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tunafishprincess · 6 years ago

Text

The Roads We Take

Chapter 1: Twenty-Five

(Art by @brothebro, writing by @tunafishprincess ) Sequel to Fallen Too Far. This is rated M for Mature. Proceed with caution.

She is twenty-five, nearly twenty-six, but she feels sixteen.

Years have passed but high school still feels like yesterday to Claire. How could it not? Ten years: it terrifies her how in such a short period of time the world she knows has disappeared.

All she has left are the remaining people who remember her for who she was, however even that has been distorted by time. They treat her like glass, as though she were some expensive piece of art that could do no wrong. Her hermano, little NotEnrique, looks at her with uncertain eyes; his entire perception of her is created by her family and friends. As if she was some paragon of goodness, a princess trapped by an evil witch; that’s how their parents explained it to him.

But wrong is the very essence of her now. Her parents try to pretend everything is okay, but the emotions that radiates off the medical staff and guards tells her another story.

They are afraid.

And so is she.

The woman in the bathroom mirror is not her, not really. Her hips are too wide, her breasts too full, her face too mature—and that isn’t even the worst of it. The rich dark brown her Papí used to brush for her has vanished, replaced with a white so bright her eyes hurt to look at it for too long.

Ugly dark veins run up her arms and out of her eyes, branding her, as if to forever remind her of the horrors she caused.

She hates it. This is not her body, her hair, her face. Morgana twisted the girl she knew into the woman she did not and she is terrified. So utterly terrified.

After a while, she turns away, too sick with disgust to remain. The white gown they placed her in clings to her body, making her so desperately wish for her old clothes, even if they could no longer fit her. She has changed too much now to go back, and dios mío, she wishes she could go back.

Yet even still, time ticks on.

Claire wants to say she’s better (wants to be better), but she never will be, not after what Morgana has done to her.

Guilt eats at her innards, her soul, her entire being. The deaths she caused weigh heavily. Breathing takes effort, so much so that at times she wonders if she’ll suffocate under its load.

So many ‘if onlys’ pass through her mind, thousands upon thousands each day. Before, she cried, day after day, but now, all that is left is a hollow shell.

And isn’t that what she is now? Morgana destroyed her inside and out, emptied the part of her that made Claire herself in order to make way for the sorceress.

A small part of her wishes for death. She deserves it, especially after what she did to everyone, to her family and friends, to Jim—God, Jim.

If she is the drowning swimmer than he is the life raft she desperately clings onto. How could he look at her so lovingly? She didn’t deserve him, not after what she did. Yet still, he stays at her side, her protector, forever and always.

How pathetic. What a selfish being she has become.

Look at her. Her old self would be repulsed by such desperation.

Claire knows it is wrong to dependent on him so much, but now the feeling is innate. She wonders if that is why Morgana never gave up on Jim, if Claire’s feelings influenced the witch to hold onto that last bit of sanity within the darkness.

Who knows. In the end, Morgana is gone and Claire, well…Claire is here.

She isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

The door opens, carefully, as if not to startle her. Claire’s hand clenches the railing she uses to walk between the bathroom and her bed, she tries to smile, even though it feels as plastic as the sheets she sleeps on.

“Toby,” she begins, clearing her throat. “You’re early.”

He approaches her cheerfully, a pip in his step that softens the fake smile on her lips. It reminds her of old times. Even though he has lost weight and aged, she can still see the excited gleam in his eye he got when he had good news. “I couldn’t wait for Jim to get here. The verdict just came back!”

Her brows furrowed.

“Verdict?” She asks.

Immediately, Toby pales. His hands freeze in the air.

The stench of secrecy is thick. Claire can feel the annoyance inside her rising, just below the surface of skin.

“Oh…Oh crap. I forgot,” he admits in a soft voice.

Claire tries to edge forward. “Forgot what?”

Unfortunately, her foot slips on the linoleum, breaking her trek towards the other. Her breath hitches as strong hands catch her. She blinks widely as her boyfriend came into view.

Her eyes flicker over to the open door.

She hadn’t even heard him come in. Another of Jim’s abilities perhaps? It is a surprising discover, especially considering his size.

“What’s going on?” Jim asks, worry in his sharp features. He examines her body like a hawk, lingering at her chest for a moment before returning to her eyes. Blood rushes to her cheeks.

“Claire, are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine,” she stammers out. As if reading her mind, Jim guides her to the bed, his hand encompassing most of her back. It is a comforting warmth. She is saddened when he removes it.

Toby’s mouth twitches. There is so much uncertainty in his stance. It reminds her of her previous question.

Fixing her gaze on her old friend once more, she reiterates, “What’s this about a verdict?”

She watches Jim this time, his expression closed off but the hairs on his neck and forearms rising almost instantaneously. Claire reaches out, settling her palm to his cheek. Softness spreads across his features. He cups her hand with his own, engulfing it in a steady, pulsing heat.

“Well, the good news is we can finally get you love-birds out of this place! I’m thinking beach, or, oh, oh! Maybe the countryside? I don’t know about you guys but I am totes ready for a vaca. Can I hear an amen?” Toby asks.

Claire frowns. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Nothing gets past you huh?” Toby sighs.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim asserts. “We’re safe. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Jim.” She leans forward, so close she can see the detailed texture of his skin. It is a strange mixture of pore and rock, the uncanny but beautiful valley between the two species. “Tell me.”

Jim’s face darkens. His golden pupils dilate, his gaze clouding over with a stormy grimace. Inwardly, she knows it is her fault he is like this now. Claire wonders what it is he is looking at: her or some past memory. Perhaps both.

“You know what happened,” he states.

She nods. Her other hand fists the fabric of her blanket.

“What I did as Morgana’s champion will never be erased. To most of humanity, I’m a monster.”

“But you’re not.” She shakes her head. “Morgana controlled you, manipulated you.”

“Claire, you don’t understand. I had a choice,” Jim stresses, his other hand resting at her knee. Selfishly, she moves closer to the warmth. Out of everything and everyone in the room, Jim is the only one who is warmest.

“What was the verdict about?” She asks again.

It is Toby who speaks up first, “Whether he would continue to carry out the duty of Trollhunter or…” There is a pause, one that feels like an eternity for Claire until he answers, “whether it would get passed to someone else.

Her boyfriend pulls out of her reach, as though on autopilot. Claire wants him to stay, wants to use his warmth once more, but the second he leaves her range it is freezing again.

They were going to kill Jim? The annoyance within transfigures into a freezing tundra of fear.

No. Never. Jim is hers, just as Claire is his. Why would they try and separate them? Didn’t they see how much Claire needs him to live?

“No, no, no, no—” She chanted, her fingers burrowed into her hair. “Why didn’t you two tell me?”

“Relax, okay? Everything’s going to be fine. The verdict went fine. Jim’s still here,” Toby tries to comfort her.

But it’s not. Nothing is fine. Toby isn’t fine, Jim isn’t fine—No one is. The cracks along her hands and arms ache. It is as though a million ants were inching up her body, underneath her skin.

She resists the urge to violently scratch them like she did the first few days. It is why the Doctors make her keep her nails short now.

When she finally regains control of her emotions, Claire brushes him off. “It’s not fine. None of this is fine. You didn’t even tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her heart breaks as Jim presses himself into the corner, as if trying to make himself smaller. Is he terrified of her?

“We were afraid of how you would react,” Toby says, hands up and facing her.

“So what, you’ll just treat me like some porcelain doll the rest of my life, is that it?” Claire snaps. She can’t help it. The emotions within are boiling over.

Toby presses forward. “No, Claire, it’s just, after everything that’s happened—”

“Stop it!”

Her water glass shatters. She doesn’t see how it happens, but she knows in her heart who did it.

Morgana left more than scars on Claire after all.

In the corner of her eye, she notices a long crack has developed in the window that was not there before. Another testament to her emotional state.

To no surprise, Jim has disappeared from the room. Because of her.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, and truly she means it. Everything is her doing.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Toby says, resting a hand on her shoulder. It is warm, but not like Jim’s. It barely heats her at all. “We know you didn’t mean it.”

“I want to be alone,” she whispers.

“You sure, Claire-Bear?” He says, leaning over.

A multitude of emotions pass over her friend’s face. This Toby is more calculative and calm, holding a maturity Claire wishes she could possess. Even when facing her darkest moments, he stands tall. She envies that confidence.

“Go. Talk to Jim. He looks like he needs it more than I do right now,” she suggests.

Toby’s lips smooth into a thin line, but he nods. As he turns towards the door, he looks back.

“I’m just a call away. Anytime, anywhere. Darci too.”

Halfway outside, Claire calls out. “Wait. Toby, be honest with me, what does the verdict really mean?”

And like that, the old vestiges of Toby are gone. The man before her leans on the frame, an age-old look crossing his features.

“The world has changed a lot since you last saw it, Claire. The new world government wants order.”

“They’re going to use him, just like I—Morgana did.”

Toby nodded.

“This is my fault.” How could it not be? She wishes they would just admit it.

“No it’s not,” Toby stresses, halfway back inside. “You’re not—”

“Go,” she commands. No more. Claire can’t stand the way he looks at her.

“But—”

“Go!”

The crack along the window spreads out like a spiderweb. A freezing wind envelops the area, blowing her hair around and pushing the door close with a sharp echoing slam.

The lights flicker, off and on, until she regains control once more.

As the magic disperses, her body loosens, tears running freely. Her arms burn from the use of magic. Everything hurts, but none approach the pain in her chest.

Morgana’s magic flows through her now. And for someone as broken as she, it is no wonder her friends are afraid both for and of her.

She wishes she could go back. She wishes she had fought harder. But wishing doesn’t turn back time. Believe her, she’s tried. Claire glances upwards, back in the bathroom mirror. She is a monster. And that’s all she ever will be.

Chapter 2: Coming soon

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insane-control-room · 6 years ago

Text

The Concept, Chapter One

The First Thoughts

How Johan Ramirez became Joey Drew.

This is the first part of Johan’s canon. This is not a happy story. This is not a fun story. There will be warnings at every turn.

Read at your own risk of deletion.

Chapter Two

Joey opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling of his “home”.

An abandoned apartment building, half rotted and falling apart.

Despite the quality, it was much better than the Ramirez Estate.

So much better.

He was alone and it felt both terrible and wonderful. The terrible all encompassing loneliness contrasted by the wonderful, exalting, beautiful, freedom. Freedom after being trapped for so long.

Terribly poor quality of living, merely an illusion of it, but at the same time, pure, glorious freedom to be who he was, who he wanted.

Was that not the definition of life? To be free and living, to breathe without fear, to love without being hit?

Or were those basic human rights…?

He shivered, tightening his tattered shirt around himself. He was hungry. Food sounded disgusting. He hated being so indecisive. He hated everything about himself. He was wide awake and exhausted, he was too feminine, he was too tall, he was too dark, he was too jittery, too hideous and malformed, too stupid, he was gay (that in and of itself was a curse), and this blasted headache and chill!

Joey groaned, tilting his head back.

Part of him said he never should have left home.

That part of him was wrong.

He got up, prying himself off musty floorboards, dusting himself off. He went to the unfinished bathroom, smiling at himself in the mirror.

Freak.

He looked horrible, tired, gaunt, like a half starved mongrel. He scrubbed at his face in the cloudy mirror, trying to fix his lengthy hair, pushed back his short - but getting long - beard. His hair fell back over his eyes. The dark blue black seemed to swallow him up, kept people looking away from him. Kept him safe and alone. It reminded him of ink.

His father, his real father, not his step father, said it was wonderful.

His stepfather said it was abominable.

So he grew it long.

Little rebellions.

He was never going back, no matter how much he loved Night Vale.

The world outside of his little town was so confusing and convoluted, but he changed, he adapted.

Brooklyn, huh.

New York.

Swell place.

Great state.

Noisy as hell in the city.

He hated it, the sounds scared him.

Made him feel like there would never be anyone’s voice masking it, no one’s touch protecting him from it. No one’s caress gently pushing it out of sight and mind.

So he hid away from it all.

Slipping down the creaky stairs of the empty should have been home, he exited out into the cold air outside, shuddering with the blast. He rubbed his head, walking briskly to the city, entering the post office and pulling open his box, not expecting anything within, simply going for the sake of the normality of it.

A dark letter was inside, unmarked.

He stared at it, taking it out with trembling fingers.

He glanced around, and upon seeing no one, he ripped it open.

Johan, come home for dinner at least. Mommy misses you.

Liar.

She hated him, otherwise she never would have removed him from the will.

She never would have conspired against his father.

And she would have never, ever, married the man she did.

He threw away the letter on his way out, going off to work.

It was freezing in the open air. Johan had nothing to shield himself, and so he gripped his pride pin.

And he walked to work.

The cold nipped at him and the wind snapped at his nose, and he tucked his chin in against the icy January air.

He briskly got to work as fast as he could, trying to get out of the freeze.

He slammed shut the door of the newspaper building, clocking in and heading down to the lower levels of the place, sighing with relief as warm air heated his neck and hands, spreading to the whole of his body. He flicked on the lights, the fluorescent painful at first, but he quickly adapted. He always adapted. He had no other choice but to change and flow with the world.

The ones and zeroes always were in the corner of his vision, but he always ignored them, not knowing what they meant, and they had not caused him any harm yet.

The warmth of the building made his eyelids droop as he worked, stocking the papers and editorials and dating each item properly. He could hardly read them at this poin….

“RAMIREZ!”

Joey snapped awake.

Shit shit shit shit!

He was at work!

His head ached and then pounded more with the smack it received.

“There are white people who can do your job, you know!” his boss roared. “Snap to it!”

“Yes sir,” he gulped, rushing to the papers, resetting the machine he hated so much. Goddamned printing press. The amount of ink used for the thing was ridiculous. Another hit made him work faster. Insults were thrown at him. He kept his cool in check. He made sure each edition of book or editorial came out correctly, adding new paper, making adjustments and the such. His head hurt today, and the rumbling of the machine kept making it worse and worse. He put all his focus onto the work, ignoring the pain in his stomach and head. A tap on the shoulder made him spin around with a flinch. One of the other workers looked at him with worry. “Can I help you?”

“It’s your lunch break, Joey.”

“What?”

“It is. Time. For you. To take. A. Break.”

“Oh,” the Chicano flushed, swallowing down the lump in his throat, the words ‘I need help.’ The statement ‘Can I have something to eat?’ ripped at his stomach. He said a quiet, “Okay.”

He grabbed a paper and a pencil, going out to a secluded corner. He drew. He drew the character that helped him through so many different situations and different problems.

A little demon smiled at him.

The little demon was everything he was not.

He was soft and round, fluid and bouncy, such a charming and charismatic character. Lovable.

He stared at it, folding the paper over and making a motion. Another paper was added. More and more. The motion became fluid, and soon he added a background.

An animation. So smooth and lovely.

“Ramirez! Back to work!”

He was about to get back to the monotonous machinery, but he looked back at the flipbook in his hand.

“Joey! Get your ass moving!”

It was something he could do that took his skill, not his lack of it.

“No.”

Everyone in the workshop looked up. Even the machines’ hum became quiet.

“What was that?” His manager’s voice was shook and angered. “No? How dare you?”

“No, I refuse,” Joey stood up, rising to his full height, towering over everyone. “I hate this job.”

A hand whistled through the air to smack him.

It never managed, and the boss stared in shock at Johan’s hand holding back his wrist from his face, gently, delicately, like a thorny rose.

He put no effort into it.

He tilted his head, clearing having a massive headache.

He yawned, still holding him back.

“I quit. This clearly is not something that I should be doing. I should be doing art, animation, nothing of this sort,” he rolled his head. “Please give me my final paycheck and I will be taking my leave of this facility.”

An hour. It took an hour.

“Good fuckin’ luck,” his boss bid him. He shrugged in a reply. “You’ll never get a job in this economy. We’ll be waitin’ for you to come crawling back.”

He snatched a pair of scissors before leaving.

He stood in front of the mirror.

Snip snip, bitch. His hair fluttered to the floor.

His head felt so much lighter.

His hair was still a mess, but so much neater.

He trimmed his beard as well, leaving it short.

Johan ran a hand over it, walking out of could have been bathroom. One grabbed his suitcase, flipping it open, rummaging through the few things he had.

Something black caught his eye.

He carefully pulled it out.

Oh.

He did not mean to take that.

One of Rico’s suit jackets, and it felt so weighty in his thin hands.

The black glared at him.

He stared at it for a long moment before un pinning his pride button, pulling the fancy, the too fancy for him, to regal, jacket on.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The jacket made him look bigger, more confident… better.

He swallowed roughly.

Ricardo Josef Drew.

He flinched.

He looked nothing like his step brother, but he knew - he knew - that Ricky would be a much better match for this suit.

It was too big on him by the chest, too short by the sleeves, but it was unnoticeable unless one would stare at it trying to see what was off.

He looked respectable.

He went off and saw to his bank account, buying a small studio for himself, and a mattress! An actual bed!

Joey Drew Studios.

(No one knew him. No one knew Johan Ramirez. Joey Drew sounded white. Johan Ramirez was clearly a colored person.)

That was the first day the facade existed.

The day he woke up with a headache in an empty abandoned building, snapping out of the grip of overuse, and then he became Joey Drew.

Joey Drew felt like a layer of skin not sitting quite right with the rest.

That was what he called the place, despite the crawling feeling of wrongness.

Joey Drew Studios.

For many months, he was the only person working there, in the small little place, him and a light table, his piano and guitar, his highly dangerous second hand projector, a pencil and a dream.

People loved Bendy.

(He bought a goddamn refrigerator.)

Those who saw him, at least.

(A new pair of glasses, rose pink, helping him see colors despite his color deficiency.)

Ratings were high for the amount that did.

(Ignoring his scars was so much easier now that he had something to push for.)

He was minorly successful, making enough to live off of.

(Eating when he wanted and able to actually purchase food and not swipe it felt so good!)

It filled him with happiness.

(He was finally at an uneasy contentedness.)

Henry Stein came into his life, an animator after his own heart, who wanted to see the man behind the Bendy cartoon.

A knock on the studio door.

Joey swiped a hand over his head, yawning and going to receive the visitor.

“Hello?” he greeted, rubbing his eyes. He froze as he saw his guest.

Blonde hair streaked with strawberry pink.

Flashing, bright, icy, spellbinding blue eyes.

Short, with the most beautiful curves.

Radiating confidence and the knowledge that he was just as good or better than you.

Pale smirking lips and twinkling pink cheeks, and such a dazzling smile.

Johan snapped back to reality from the smile growing wider. He stuttered, flushed, holding open his door for the man to come in. “My name is Johan. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of such a marvelous being as yourself?”

“I’m just Henry Stein,” the man, Henry, coolly replied, entering into the little studio. He rose an eyebrow at the bed and fridge, making Joey blush even more. “You live here?”

“Well, I ca-”

“I like it.”

“Excuse me?” Joey breathed, his eyes wide. “You… like the fact I live in my studio?”

“Of course,” Henry snorted, and Joey fell so hard for that little laugh, his breath hitching. He swallowed roughly, trying to keep in mind his age. He was so young. Henry had to be much older than him. “Shows your work ethic. You probably work on those toons every second you can, huh?”

“Yeah,” Joey confessed, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m not one to be afraid of commitment.”

“I like that in a man,” Henry hummed, flipping through one of Joey’s latest animations. Joey melted in his skin, for once in his life grateful for his dark color. Henry turned back to him with that alluring smirk. “Are you hiring? I’ve got two things going for me, medical school and my daughter, and a bit of extra cash would help.”

“I… I can’t pay that much,” Joey mumbled, looking off to the side. He has a daughter. Oh, Aramis…. “And I’ll have to purchase a second light table, so that may take some time. “Though I would be honored to have you working with me.”

“We can talk legalities later, eh Johan? Now, tell me…” Henry pondered for a moment. “How does one month sound? I’ll come back then if that’s how long it will take.”

“No no,” Joey shook his head, not wanting him to leave. “It’ll take me about a week to prepare. Can you come back in… let’s say five days? So we can discuss pay and the such.”

“Sounds great.”

He and Henry not only became employer-employee, but fast friends, and then business partners, and the studio was successful just between the two of them. While Henry drew Joey composed, and while Joey drew, Henry manned the projector. They made Boris together in that time. It was such a great year, 1925.

Joey was already like a second father to Linda.

Diane kept drawing Henry away from work, Henry often leaving Linda with Joey or her grandmother to be with his girlfriend.

It was a good time, more or less.

Years went by.

(Joey fell in more and more love, painful, aching, love.)

Linda called Joey Papa.

(He cried.)

Henry and Diane got “closer”, but Joey could tell she never loved him.

(He wished he warned Henry.)

The company grew into something stable, just them, but firm in the television industry.

(Joey would always freshen up the studio with various wildflowers he found as spring wore on, hoping and fearing Henry would know their symbolism.)

They were moderately successful, both comfortable in their living, both enjoying the other’s company, sharing the warmth.

(They woke up tangled together one hot day in the summer after passing out while drawing, and they laughed about it, neither uncomfortable with the situation.)

Joey, despite the weather getting colder, never felt warmer.

(Henry looked gorgeous in the crisp autumn air, his cheeks and lips an ensnaring bright red and his eyes flashing and smiling.)

Then the stock market failure.

(Good thing he did not release stock of his own.)

So many people who needed jobs.

(His old boss had asked if he could spare any money. He gave him fifty dollars.)

Not he.

(Their animations became more popular as people turned to them to assuage their pain.)

There were those in need though, and so….

(He knew what it was like to be hungry.)

He wrote out an advertisement.

(He froze at the name, again.)

Artists of all kinds, projectionists, musicians, and animators alike, apply to

Joey Drew Studios.

38 notes · View notes

giasonesdream · 6 years ago

Text

I Can’t Even

Pairing: Jeongguk x Taehyung, Taehyung x Jimin

Summary: A story where Jimin is the side-piece and he knows it, Taehyung is a shit boyfriend and he knows it, and Jeongguk thinks Taehyung is the best boyfriend ever...(Explicit)

Crossposted on AO3 and based off this still amazing FMV

tagged: Smut, taekook, vmin, cheating, videotaping, Angst, hella sad, read at your own risk

Word Count: 6679 (14 fucking pages what glue was I even on when I wrote this wtf)

You: hey I thought you were coming over??

Jeongguk sends the message without any hesitance. He is tired from the long day of classes and his part-time job at the university’s bookstore, and all he wants to do is cuddle up with his stupid boyfriend and preferably watch an even stupider movie (“I don’t think ‘stupider’ is a word, though,” Taehyung would say in retaliation).

But said boyfriend is not sprawled out over his couch when he gets back to his apartment, and he usually always beats Jeongguk home.

Not a minute later, his phone dings! in reply:

taetae<3: haha yeah..sorry? something came up. I’m pretty busy rn

Jeongguk isn’t given time to respond when Taehyung shoots back with:

taetae<3: ill come over tomorrow and bring your favorite cookies :))

Heaving a sigh, Jeongguk sinks into the cushion of his sofa. He can already feel the crumbs of the flaky almond cookies tumble from his chin, making him a proper mess that Taehyung will try to tease him for. “Now we match,” he would say back, feigning annoyance before placing a sloppy kiss on the other’s cheek, the evidence of his lips being the crumbs that stick to Taehyung’s golden skin.

You: oh okay, I love u bby

taetae<3: ill ttyl

taetae<3: <3

He tosses his phone onto the coffee table in front of him, only giving himself a moment of silence before he pushes himself off the couch, ready to wander around and enjoy his weekend freedom.

Meanwhile, Taehyung’s heart drops in his chest as the message shows that Jeongguk has seen it. He isn’t lying - he truly does love his boyfriend. But that is where the truth ends, Taehyung knows. He stares at the chat right as he gets a notification from a number saved conspicuously as Pizza Hut. When Taehyung clicks on the chat, the first new thing to pop up is a photo attachment that loads to show something very unrelated to pizza (though, maybe just as mouthwatering):

Jimin is lying on his bed, a black hoodie that looks suspiciously like one that Taehyung had left at his place on his chest and the hood covering his eyes, only to leave the view of parted, plump and full lips. Then the messages read:

Pizza Hut: Im waiting..

Pizza Hut: babe i need u

Taehyung still feels a bit guilty, honestly...but Jimin is so goddamn enticing, tempting. It’s hard for him not to shoot up from his table in the tutoring center, waving goodbye to Namjoon as he shrugs on his jacket and makes his way out of the building and off campus in the opposite direction of his boyfriend.

You: omw

Jimin busies himself with scrolling angrily through photos of a happy couple he has known for, what, two years now? If he recalls correctly (and there’s no interpreting this wrong, he fucking remembers) he was the one to help Taehyung and Jeongguk become friends. Taehyung had been the spritely young man in his general education calc class that had a voice deep enough to rattle in his bones (and he has no shame in admitting he’d wanted to drop to his knees instantly for him), and Jeongguk was the reserved, polite, adorable kid in his first level hip hop dance class that seemed to contain the upper body strength of someone twice his size. He hadn’t seen any harm in having the two meet each other especially since Taehyung had spoken to him first, shown interest in him fucking first.

But here he is, glaring at a picture of Jeongguk’s selfie, one that just so happens to show the hickies scattered on the side of his neck as if Taehyung has never done that to him either.

When he gets another text from Taehyung informing him he’s just five minutes away, Jimin slides from his bed to grab the equipment, heart beat picking up a little at the excitement of his plan. His dresser stands on the wall in front of his bed, and there he has a makeshift tripod constructed to hold the video camera he’d been gifted with before he started university.

When the red light signifies the camera is recording, he paces, unsure of what to do exactly. There’s some sort of adrenaline that pumps his veins even though he knows there’s more to come. He finally opts for sitting on the foot of his bed, flopping back. Words flow from his mouth before he even knows it.

“Jeonggukie,” he sighs. He hopes he’s speaking loud enough for the camera to hear. “I’ve been hooking up with this guy...he’s the best I ever had.” There’s a smile on his lips that he knows the camera cannot see. His mind wanders to the times he’s spent with Taehyung, getting fucked with his tongue, his fingers, his cock; the smallest moan escapes his lips, the blood traveling south. “So good…”and this moan isn’t as clipped.

He cuts his imagination short, sitting up and running his fingers through the black strands as he looks at the camera. He smiles, pinkie slipping between his lips. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

And by the grace of whatever deity looks down on Jimin fondly, he hears a faint knock on his apartment door. He gives one last wink to the camera before scurrying off to answer the door.

Jimin still isn’t used to the fiery red of Taehyung’s hair as it simply sits on his head, no need to be styled, unlike with Jimin’s hair. There needs to be some effort with Jimin. Taehyung is flawless, and Jimin is the luckiest to be able to witness that perfection.

“Hey.” Taehyung greets simply, though his voice is low and his eyes are dark. He takes a step forward, not waiting to be allowed into the living room.

“Hi.” Jimin smiles sweetly because he is always so excited whenever he gets to see this man in front of him. Oh, how he’s changed in the last two years that they have known each other. The thin sweater Taehyung wears now hangs nicely from his broad shoulders, clinging to his chest just a bit tighter than how they used to. His neck is thicker, so much room to mark him.

But he knows he can’t…

Jimin pushes those thoughts aside as he wraps one hand around that neck to drag Taehyung into a kiss. It starts out innocent enough -a happy greeting-, but when Jimin pulls back to breathe, the other is already chasing after him, slipping his tongue into the parted, full lips he spent the whole walk thinking about. He had a thing for biting, and the lips were never left unscathed...especially when they looked absolutely sinful when blistery and red, swollen from abuse.

Taehyung pulls back then, his eyes fluttering open to no more than half-lidded as he tugs on the fabric that practically swallows the other whole. “You have my hoodie,” he states simply.

They’re both panting, and Jimin is slowly starting to lose his train of thought, so he nods with a smile. “Looks good on me, right?”

“Shit, is that even a question?” Taehyung yanks Jimin forward so their bodies are molded together, every inch meeting from head to toe. “Gonna let me fuck you against the wall? Let my sweater keep you nice and warm while I work you open?”

God, that mouth. It’s the very thing that drew Jimin in and it wouldn’t be just perfect if it didn’t eat him alive with every word uttered. He shivers at the idea; it’s tempting, that’s for sure.

“M-maybe later.” His breath hitches. “But I need to show you something in my room first.” There’s a frown to Taehyung’s features that makes Jimin take his hand and lead him down a very familiar path to Jimin’s bedroom.

Taehyung doesn’t notice it first, his eyes staying on the back of Jimin’s head as they enter. It isn’t until he’s guided to sit on the foot of his bed that Taehyung realizes the camera looking him in the eyes. With an eyebrow arched, Jimin explains.

“I wanted to try something different.” Jimin sits on his knees next to him, facing his profile as he leans in to whisper in the other’s ear. “I want something to watch when you’re gone off playing ‘Boyfriend’ with Jeongguk.”

Taehyung turns his head at the name mentioned, face colliding with Jimin’s as he breathes the other in. Some part of him aches at the reminder of what he’s doing, but the lust burns more potently, and the idea of punishing this small boy comes to mind. “Told you not to talk about him.”

Their lips are hairsbreadth apart, and Jimin is too focused on how they are touching his. “I’m sorry.” The apology sounds sweetly insincere. “Should I turn the camera off?”

Taehyung’s head shake is subtle but enough since Jimin was on him again, pressing their lips together as the kiss turned open, desperate. He climbs to straddle Taehyung, a lick of fire trailing up his spine at how those hands encompass his waist so perfectly, so securely, like he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere even if he wanted to. And Taehyung swallows his moan when his hands move from Jimin’s hips and around to his ass, nails scratching into the denim fabric when he pulls the other closer.

Some part of Jimin wants to lose himself in the kiss, the way Taehyung’s tongue licks at the inside of his mouth and claims him; he wants to keep grinding down on both their growing lengths, but there’s too many obstacles. Too many layers of clothes. Taehyung must have the same thought as his hands push underneath the hoodie to find bare skin, dragging his fingers up the smooth skin of his back before pulling away.

“Off,” is the only word Taehyung gives, but Jimin understands, slides off the man’s lap to tug off the hoodie and go for the buttons of his jeans. He can feel those dark, deep eyes on him, watching his rather graceless stripshow and Jimin cannot stop the heat that rises up his chest. He plans on complaining once he’s naked, but after his underwear pool at his ankles, hands find their way back to Jimin’s waist, tugging him back into Taehyung’s lap and bringing their mouths together again.

“What about...you?” Jimin asks between kisses.

Taehyung rests his forehead against Jimin’s, panting and trying hard to find some semblance of control. “What do you want me to do?”

A surprised groan falls from Jimin’s lips. So it’s that kind of night, one where Taehyung will make it seem like the other has all the power. “Tell me what you want,” he’ll say; “How and where do you want me?” This kind of power is hardly ever in Jimin’s court, and it’s almost dizzying how fucking hot it gets him.

After a heavy sigh, Jimin says, “T-take your clothes off and sit back down. Wanna make you feel good.”

An obedient Taehyung is rare, Jimin knows this. But that’s what makes the times when the taller pulls out the choker, holds his wrist together, all the more worth it. Not to say that Jimin doesn’t absolutely love the Taehyung that likes to tease, laugh when he begs for more, pulls back just to edge the pleasure until it’s unbearable- no. Jimin has jerked off so many times to a memory of Taehyung pinning his body down and taking what he wants with reckless abandon.

Taehyung pulls at his clothes unceremoniously, subtle glances to the camera that the other catches every second. Jimin can see the cogs turning in that perfect head, and he’s about to ask what he’s thinking.

“Is this for you only?”

The question seems innocent, but a pang of worry creeps into Jimin’s mind. Had he put two and two together?

“It’s just that...you’d look so pretty and if the camera missed anything-”

Jimin promptly shuts the other up with his tongue in his mouth, both with happiness at how willing Taehyung is to try this out, but also at the twitch of his own cock at the idea of having the camera focused solely on him and what he can do to the other man. There’s no doubt about it that Jimin likes to watch himself given he plans on making a career out of observing and making note of the way his body moves and how it can be better, so it doesn’t surprise anyone that he may or may not have a few videos of himself masturbating, fingering himself or using some of his favourite toys (there was a prostate massager he bought and tried out with Taehyung. It was then categorized as a toy for special times because that thing was powerful).

When they finally part, Taehyung stands and reaches for the camera, plopping back down on the bed and ignoring the squeak as he turns to focus the camera on Jimin. “As you were,” he says with a chuckle.

There’s a sultry glint to Jimin’s eyes, a smile none too pure as he sinks to his knees, first holding Taehyung’s gaze before giving a wink to the camera as he starts of trail of soft pecks on the inside of Taehyung’s thighs.

It doesn’t even feel real when Taehyung watches everything from the viewfinder, can’t comprehend that the face he sees in the camera is the same one that is between his legs at this very instant. That is, until Jimin’s lips come to kiss Taehyung’s stiff cock. It’s a featherlight touch, one he hardly feels but it only makes him ache for more. Lucky for Taehyung, Jimin doesn’t tease all that much, and soon enough the other licks up the underside until he can wrap his lips around the head.

Taehyung nearly loses his grip on the device in his hand, stuck between wanting to watch the man as he actually takes his time to thoroughly coat his dick or watch it all unfold through the viewfinder. His brain chooses for him, opting to weave his fingers through the raven strands as he watches Jimin’s head bob up and down his length.

The elder revels in the low, husky sounds that come from the man above him, how his voice reverberates through his body, allows him to feel just as much as he can hear how much he affects Kim Taehyung. The hand in his hair tightens a fraction when Jimin feels he can take more of the other’s cock, fighting back his gag reflex and never stopping the swirl of his tongue as he goes further down. Curses fly out frantically and it encases the smaller man on his knees, the sounds going to his own hard member, and he needs some type of friction to alleviate the pressure. The hand not holding Taehyung’s dick sits in a fist on his own thigh, itching to just move and palm at his own boner- no. No, Taehyung will make him feel good. He always does.

Taehyung bucks his hips up just as Jimin finally manages him down his throat, swallowing thickly at the intrusion and trying hard not force him out. It feels too good, Jimin’s mouth. So wet, hot, addictive, Taehyung just wants to continue. But when he looks through the camera just as Jimin looks up, he knows they can’t keep this up for long. He wants to fuck Jimin every way he knows how; fucking needs to.

With the grip he has on Jimin’s scalp, he tugs the man off his cock, a string of saliva connecting his bottom, swollen lip to the red and angry head. He doesn’t give his lover a minute to breathe before he drags Jimin into a searing kiss, probably not getting a good angle with the camera, but at this very moment, fuck the camera.

Jimin desperately needs air but also desperately needs to keep kissing Taehyung, and a whimper bubbles in his chest as his body fights for its basic necessity. Taehyung tears them apart, pupils wide and focused on the dishevelled man in front of him. His voice is a growl when he speaks.

“Put the camera back and lay on the bed.”

When Jimin feels level-headed enough, he pouts, knowing good and well how great he must look right now. “But I thought I was in charge tonight.”

The red head laughs even though there’s nothing amusing about Jimin’s statement. He only gives a nod before standing up, the few inches he has on the other boy playing well into the dominant act as he leans down, their faces leveled with each other.

“Be a good boy and put the fucking camera back and lay on the fucking bed.”

Without a word, Jimin does as he is told, taking the camera to put back on his dresser and walking past Taehyung, ready to sit down when the other tells him to lay “on his stomach”.

He rolls over, lying horizontally across the bed so that the camera can easily capture their profiles. Jimin feels the bed dip underneath him and waits in anticipation.

He starts at the nape of Jimin's neck, a soft peck to contrast the hard member that slots between Jimin's cheeks. Taehyung loves when Jimin melts under his touch, becomes relaxed and sated with the softest touches. He keeps going, creating a searing path down the elder's spine, eyes focused on the way his muscles seem to simultaneously relax and tense with his actions.

When he gets to Jimin's ass, he stops, attentive to the boy of the other's head. "Why so tense?" he taunts, grabbing the globes of Jimin's ass and spreading them apart, kneading them just to hear how Jimin's breath stutter.

Park Jimin, the unabashed fiend he is, has the nerve to act shy, pleading with a small voice and reluctant to look back and meet the eyes of the man that makes him feel insane with pleasure.

And Kim Taehyung, the smart man he is, falls for it every goddamn time.

The first long lick to his hole leaves Jimin with tight muscles, as if he's never been eaten out before. On the contrary, Taehyung was the master at using his tongue in the most sinful, dirty ways imaginable. Every time would always feel like the first.

With his hands resting at Jimin's hips, Taehyung gives another tentative lick, making sure to start at his perineum, the tip of his tongue getting caught on his rim.

"Shit," Jimin hisses, clenching around air while his dick twitches where it's trapped between him and the bed. "Just...fuck...please."

He shivers at the responding chuckle, Taehyung's hot breath fanning across his hole. "Want me to fuck you with my tongue? Get you nice and wet for me cock?"

The heat that shoots up his spine leaves Jimin panting, the images in his head getting him even more eager for the other's tongue. He nods frantically , pressing his cheek into the cotton of his duvet. When he catches the red light of the camera, he grins, another bout of lust to fuel him when he thinks about how incredible they must look and-

"Oh, fuck!" keens the elder, jerking away from the pleasure as Taehyung dives in, sucking at his rim and dipping the wet muscle inside only to pull it out. Always the tease even when he's getting down to business.

His eyes are closed to the world, focusing on the pleasure the other gives him. He doesn't even try to hold back the noises, the moans, whimpers, groans, breathy cries. When Taehyung finally licks inside him, pushing his tongue in to stretch his walls, Jimin falls silent, mouth open and fingers curling into the sheets.

Taehyung groans low when he feels Jimin clench around him, hardly able to fuck him properly. "Relax, baby," he soothes before he's going back in to thrust his muscle in and out.

It's too much, the heat searing Jimin's skin and there is no relief in sight. His heart hammers in his chest, blood ringing in his ears and dick curled tightly to his stomach. He needs to relieve some of the pressure, rub against his bed, get a hand around himself- something. But when he tries to wriggle away, Taehyung only clamps down on his hips more, trapping him to just take whatever the other will give him, and Jimin is never sure if he's ready for the onslaught.

And then he feels a finger press inside beside his tongue, and a tremor racks through his body, burying his face in his elbow while white spots dance behind his closed eyelids.

Jimin's words are muffled, but Taehyung think the other is saying "please" over and over. He could stay back here for all of eternity, making the other fall apart on his tongue and fingers. But the way his walls flutter around him, he cannot exactly forget how incredible Jimin feels around his cock.

He needs to fuck him into the mattress. Fucking yesterday.

Taehyung pulls away, admiring the way the other whines but ultimately stays in place. He quickly grabs the bottle of lube he knows is stashed under Jimin's pillow (easy access is how Jimin explains it) and crawls back to hover over the boy panting with a slight sheen of sweat coating his fair skin.

"Want something, gorgeous?" taunts the red head, watching as the other arches his back in search of him while he slicks up his fingers. "You are in charge, after all," he whispers into Jimin's ear, faintly feeling the goosebumps that rise under his light touch.

There's a moment of silence where Jimin thinks of what to say: "get your tongue back in me", "tear me apart", "fuck me so I can feel it for days". But his brain doesn't work so well when he's already high like this, not being able to make his mouth work properly when his brain is damn near fried. "Fuck me," he commands simply, eyes fluttering to meet Taehyung's.

The answer must be good enough for him, a lazy smirk on his lips as he leans down to nibble at Jimin's neck, all the while running his lube coated fingers over his already spit-slick entrance. He can tell the elder is holding his breath, waiting to be breached. It would be amusing to Taehyung if he wasn't also holding some crazy amount of self-control himself.

The first finger goes in easily, a sigh of relief escaping Jimin's bloodshot lips. He looks sedated, calm. That changes, however, when Taehyung decides that Jimin can take another, the fit more snug as he curls two long fingers deep inside the silk walls of his ass. Black strands matting to his forehead, Jimin seems to be in some state of euphoria with Taehyung’s fingers massaging at his inner walls. Satisfyingly beautiful.

The furrow in Jimin’s brow deepens when Taehyung expertly grazes the other’s prostate, still thrusting slowly, making sure to stroke at that bundle of nerves every time. He allows the boy under him to twist about, trying to get his fingers deeper, make him go harder. With a frustrated sigh, Jimin snarls.

“Harder, please.”

And there’s that laugh, the one that both makes Jimin feel safe and riles him up all in one. “Since you asked so nicely…”

A slight burn comes when Taehyung adds the third finger, making Jimin clamp around him, inhaling deeply.

Fuck, he would feel so amazing around Taehyung’s cock.

The redhead leaves wet kisses on Jimin’s shoulder, helping him to loosen up so Taehyung can prepare him until all he feels is pleasure. Not a minute later and Jimin is back to moaning, his voice angelic and filthy all at once, making Taehyung’s neglected cock twitch in excitement. He doesn’t think he can wait any longer, burying his fingers inside to press at Jimin’s prostate until he’s drawn tight, only a squeak to get past his lips.

Jimin threads his fingers through the fiery tresses, yanking Taehyung down so he can whisper into the other’s mouth, “Get your dick inside me now.”

Taehyung obeys, quickly removing his fingers and grabbing the bottle to pour some lube onto his member, hissing slightly at the cool liquid that meets hot flesh. He coats his dick evenly, mixing in the lube with the precum that’s pooled at the head before he falls back over Jimin, grabbing his cheeks to spread him, watch the way his hole flutters.

“Shit, baby,” Taehyung hisses, taking one hand away to guide himself in. “Gonna fuck you open so you feel me for days.” He doesn’t give Jimin much time to respond with anything other than a whine as he thrusts forward, not stopping until he’s completely sheathed in Jimin’s tight, wet heat. A stream of curses leave him before he even realizes, his head falling to rest at the nape of Jimin’s neck.

The other isn’t faring so well, either, breathing uneven as his body tries to adjust to Taehyung’s size, the feeling of him bottoming out something he can never get used to. He stays deathly still for what feels like hours before he starts to push back even though Taehyung hasn’t left him much room.

“Move, Tae,” Jimin pleads, head dropped between his shoulders.

And, of course, Taehyung does as he’s told because he doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts slow, making sure Jimin feels every inch as it slides out and back inside. But with the way Jimin contracts around him, Taehyung isn’t sure how long he can keep this up. The elder seems to hold the same sentiment.

Taehyung feels a smaller hand scramble to grab to his ass, using his strength to drag Taehyung impossibly deeper. “Harder, fuck.” And again...who is Taehyung to deny his baby what he wants?

Jimin gets the breath knocked out of him when Taehyung snaps his hips harshly, but he loves it. Loves the sting when the other’s hip slam against his ass. Their bodies fit so perfectly together, uneven breaths synced to a rhythm that just flows. Jimin would be lying if he didn’t admit that he just loves them together. Thinks it’s perfection, just like the man pounding into his ass.

His vision goes white when Taehyung shifts and nails his prostate. His head falls to the bed, muffled screams and professions of “there, there, there,” leave his mouth with his eyes screwed shut. But Taehyung must hear him since he pulls back until he’s on his knees, grabbing the other’s hips to pick up his pace.

Jimin’s nails dig into Taehyung’s skin, and they both forget the younger’s rule of no marking, because how can he explain to Jeongguk why there are scratches on his ass like that? Jimin needs both hands to clamour at the sheets, though, white-knuckling the duvet while Taehyung shows no signs of slowing down.

He’s burning up from the inside out, fire prickling his every nerve, and he can’t take it. “Tae,” he mumbles weakly, his brain short-circuiting while he gets pounded into the mattress. There’s no way he won’t feel this in every muscle of his being. Fuck.

Eyes fluttering open, Jimin meets the camera that stares them down once again, and a wicked idea enters his hardly functioning brain. With trembling hands, Jimin palms at Taehyung’s hip, pushing him away.

Taehyung stops immediately, worry painting his features as he pulls away and examines the boy beneath him. “You okay? Something wrong?”

If Jimin wasn’t such an diabolical shit, he would probably find this adorable. But he has a plan set and he will see it through. “Let me ride you.” His voice is fucked, a mere croak from the abuse it’s gotten tonight.

The words seem to lag in Taehyung’s head, but once it all catches up with him, he groans, falling forward to capture Jimin’s lips in a frantic kiss that only uses tongue. He pulls away after a minute, flopping next to Jimin and grabbing at his waist. “Yeah, ride me, baby.”

Jimin musters whatever strength he has left to crawl into the other’s lap, not wasting a minute before he’s sliding down on the other’s cock. He sits there, barely moving his hips as he revels in how deep Taehyung is inside of him. He’s going to feel this, for sure.

Taehyung’s hands on Jimin’s waist urge him to move, and Jimin allows it, covering the other’s hands with his own as he uses the muscles in his thighs to bounce up and down on Taehyung.

Taehyung’s orgasm creeps on him, allowing him to enjoy the feel of satin walls massaging his hard member, sucking him in and gripping him tight. But when he feels it, it practically hits him like a freight train, and suddenly he’s thrusting up into Jimin’s heat just as the other sinks down, slamming into his prostate head on.

“Fuck, Tae!” cries out Jimin as he falls forward, thighs trembling while Taehyung continues to pistol into his hole. He thighs clamp around the other’s waist, forcing him higher and higher until Taehyung yanks him down by his hips, keeping him still. “Shit, shitshitshit- right there Tae, fu-”

Taehyung groans, enjoying the view of Jimin falling apart above him. “That’s it, baby. Fucking take it like a good boy.” The keen Jimin responds with is music to his ringing ears. He needs to cum, but he won’t until Jimin finishes first. “Gonna cum for me, baby?”

That seems to sober Jimin up just a bit, enough for him to open his eyes, pupils blown and staring Taehyung down.

“Say his name.”

Taehyung’s brain racks for understanding, still too caught up in ecstasy to understand the command. “What?” he pants. His head falls back into the covers when Jimin clenches around him so deliciously tight. He can feel it, his climax just standing there at the edge. “Who?”

Jimin rolls his hips languidly, reveling in how Taehyung’s pace stutters. “Say his name for me, baby.”

With a growl, Taehyung heaves himself up, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist to keep him seated, keep himself buried balls deep. Jimin’s jaw drops in a silent cry, walls tightening around the other like a vice grip.

“Fuck, Jimin,” Taehyung moans, voice reaching some deeper octave that vibrates through the other’s bones, makes him feel it in every inch of his being. “Cum for me, baby. I know you can.”

Jimin can feel it all over, the way Taehyung’s cock sits so perfectly inside him that his body screams for release; his toes curl just as his fingers grip at the other’s shoulders, some last effort to hold on for dear life as the euphoria drips from his pores, surges through his veins and leaves him locked tight. Cum spurts from his untouched cock, not like he can see it with where his face is buried in the other’s neck to muffle the litany of high pitched sobs and tears that threaten to leak from his eyes.

Taehyung can’t swallow back the hearty groan that rips from his chest, his dick suffocated in the burning walls that contract so exquisitely around him. He tries to focus on holding onto Jimin as he shakes violently, keeping him close while he comes down from his high.

“We’re not done,” he reminds the other, feeling the way he licks at the salt on his neck. Jimin pulls back to see his face, cheeks and neck flushed in a deep red, hair matted to his head and eyes wet. Cute, Taehyung thinks, holding onto Jimin’s waist as he rolls them over, keeping himself buried inside the other.

Jimin is weak, but he still grips Taehyung’s biceps as the other fucks him almost furiously, chasing his own orgasm and rubbing at his sensitive nub. The tears from before trail down, mixing in with the sweat on his face as he arches, unsure of whether he wants to get away or pull Taehyung closer.

“Shit,” he hears the other curse, bending down to encompass Jimin completely as his thrusts get sporadic. “Chim…baby -fuck- you feel so good.” He licks messily at the sweat on his neck before he bites down, eliciting a weak moan from the other.

Jimin turns his head, giving the other room to mark him like he knows Taehyung loves to do. For the time before, Jimin is okay with the one-sidedness. One day, he’s sure it won’t matter who marks who. Again, his eyes meet the camera, and he’s sure his grin does not seem all too innocent, all too playful.

“Taehyung,” he sighs, still looking at the camera. “Cum for me, baby.”

And, of course, Jimin is in charge tonight, right? It’s almost instant how Taehyung pushes forward, burying himself to the hilt as he feels his orgasm flow through him, muscles strained and shaking with every blow. And Jimin milks him beautifully.

Neither are sure how long they stay like that, both more than happy to stay connected like this. But there is a very present feeling of cool cum drying on their chests, and Taehyung pulls away, pulling out and flopping onto his back next to Jimin.

They lay there quietly, only a second or two passing before Jimin giggles lightly. “I won.”

Still letting his blood flow at a normal speed, Taehyung slowly turns to face Jimin. “Didn’t realize we were playing a game.”

Jimin giggles again. Taehyung doesn’t understand. It’s almost precious. “Can you turn the camera off for me? I don’t think I can move.”

Though Taehyung clicks his tongue, he still sits up. Jimin must still be in charge.

“And carry me to the shower!” he adds, plastering on a sickly sweet smile.

“Tch, why are we showering?” asks a very confused Taehyung. When Jimin mirrors back the same expression, Taehyung smiles sneakily. “Baby,” he drawls, tone deep and primal. “Did you think we were done? Put that hoodie back on and follow me.”

Now Jimin is the one to obey, sitting up and watching as Taehyung turns off the camera, staring through the lens as the red light goes off.

Jeongguk wakes with a start on Saturday morning, feeling well-rested after passing out at 11pm; quite the feat for a college student. Plus, the sun is shining through his window and really, who can ignore an obnoxious shining sun?

Speaking of shining suns…

Jeongguk feels at his nightstand, grabbing at his phone and rolling over to his side. He’s sure his boyfriend isn’t awake yet, always taking the opportunities to sleep in late. He still decides to leave a morning message, asking him when he’s coming over so he can figure out how much time he has until he’s bombarded with his crazy love.

The day is lazy, much to Jeongguk’s fortune. He parks himself on the couch after fixing a bowl of cereal, feeling his bones mold comfortably with the fabric and he knows he won’t have the energy to get up and put his bowl in the sink (that is what boyfriends are for).

And soon his laptop is pulled onto his legs, the white noise of the television filling in the empty air as he mindlessly goes through social media. He almost misses the Instant Message that pops up on his screen, saying it's from a number he didn’t even remember he still had: Park Jimin

Jeongguk contemplates leaving it unread, but it doesn’t seem to be one he can get away with reading whatever comes up in the notification because it’s a video.

Their friendship hadn’t lasted all that long, Jeongguk befriending the elder male in his first level hip hop class when he was just a freshman. He’d seemed nice enough, tolerant, eager to help him whenever he needed help. The thing was that Jimin was already pretty much classically trained, having gone to performing arts schools and studying modern dance for most of his life. He’d just signed up for the class to get a taste of the “other side” as Jimin had put it.

But not a month later, Jimin had set up a time to hang out with both Jeongguk and Jimin’s stunning friend from his calc class. Kim Taehyung was something out of a high fashion magazine, effortlessly beautiful and unique. Jeongguk had hoped he hadn’t seemed so smitten after just one meeting, but Taehyung will admit that he could tell the moment they had parted ways.

And Jeongguk remembers when he told Jimin that he and Taehyung were going on a date another month after that, the way Jimin tripped over his own feet and sputtered like a fish out of water. Jeongguk would have been lying if he didn’t mention that he noticed the way Jimin spoke of Taehyung, how Jeongguk noticed the way he’d bodily throw himself into the taller man’s arms when he laughed or how he’d always find a reason to whisper in his ear. Jeongguk may have been young, but he was not so oblivious. Jimin had a thing for Taehyung, and if the night went right (which, obviously, it did), Jeongguk would be the one holding Taehyung’s hand and hiding his hickies (or not trying at all) from the public eye.

That is where the friendship of Jeon Jeongguk and Park Jimin ended.

So, he’s quite surprised when he sees the bubble appear with Jimin’s admittedly handsome face.

Ignoring his better judgement, Jeongguk clicks open the chat, noting how it says they haven’t spoken in over one and a half years. The thumbnail of the video is pretty hard to decipher, but he thinks it’s Jimin, laying on his bed. He presses play.

The video starts out simply, Jimin walking back and forth in front of the camera before sitting heavily at the foot of his bed, then fall back with his arms splayed out.

“Jeonggukie, I’ve been hooking up with this guy...he’s the best I ever had.” His voice sounds airy, happy, and Jeongguk is left only slightly confused. Yes, that would explain the times Jimin has came to class with bruises all over his neck (and sometimes on his thighs, if he hiked his shorts up high enough). But why would Jeongguk care?

Jeongguk hears him moan, “So good…” and really, Jeongguk is about to pause it and just message Jimin when he sees the subject sit up, a tight grin on his face. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

Jeongguk almost expects Hoseok, one of their TA’s, because they had both speculated the older man’s sexuality, and maybe Jimin was trying to find a way to make up with the younger...funny way of doing it, but who is Jeongguk to judge?

Intrigued, Jeongguk continues watching as there’s the faintest knock at Jimin’s door. He’s gone for about half a minute or so, the time stamp reads out. And when he comes back in, Jeongguk’s heart drops to his stomach, probably trying to drag himself to hell. It’s not Jung Hoseok.

But his boyfriend.

Kim Fucking Taehyung.

No. No this can’t be real. Jeongguk wants to stop watching, doesn’t want to see it all unfold, but it’s like a trainwreck that he can’t take his eyes off of.

It’s when Taehyung has Jimin pinned to the bed that Jeongguk’s vision goes blurry, and he’s almost thankful for the tears the obstruct his vision because his boyfriend, his love, his Taehyung...has been lying to him.

His eyes are glued to the scene, so he doesn’t notice when Taehyung sends him a message that he’s heading up to his apartment. He doesn’t notice until the front door opens, and he finally tears his eyes away from the monstrosity in front of him to see the perpetrator, standing there with the same black hoodie Jimin had started the video wearing, holding a plastic bag of almond cookies.

The room is silent, safe for the video that plays.

“I won.”

A/N: Whew boy. I would say I’m sorry but a very tiny part of me feels bad. Actually some pretty good discussions happened in the comments of the AO3 posting. Any feedback is always welcomed ^-^

#bts #bts smut #taekook #vmin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #park jimin #bts scenarios #bangtan

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esseastri · 7 years ago

Text

Megan Reads Oathbringer (part 9)

Happy New Year, y’all.

“Heavy Fuel” by Dire Straits is a punk!Dalinar song, sorry, I don’t make the rules.

Part 9 encompasses pages 666-753 (previous parts)

Pray for the mountain internet, please, that it lets me do this liveblog without dropping tumblr every five minutes.

okay, but Elhokar is drawing a map and I’m suddenly vaguely desperate for Elhokar/Eshonai map buddies.

I s2g every time someone calls him “the bridgeman” I just hiss protectively. HE HAS A NAME

oh snap his baby’s name is Gavinor. that’s... listen bud, your dad doesn’t deserve to have anyone named after him, sorry.

“Nice work, Elhokar.” *Gloryspren* THIS CHILD NEEDS MORE ENCOURAGEMENT, PLS, HELP HIM. BE KIND TO HIM. HUG HIM.

“Storming lighteyes, Veil thought as she watched [the food distribution].” YEAH HON, THAT GOES FOR YOU TOO, NORMALLY.

Okay, no, not quite--Shallan would probably not go so far as to send her servants to get food that could be given to the poor instead of rich people, but like... the principle stands. Shallan does not recognize her own privilege half the time, and I guess?? that “Veil” noticing it... might? be a step in the right direction? But... probably not until she fuses her multiple identities back into one person.

And that doesn’t seem like it’s happening any time soon.

HOID

WHY ARE YOU WEARING SADEAS COLORS?

aw yis. storytime.

Aight, can Hoid see through Lightweaving, or can he just recognize Shallan by like... her stance and the way she moves or? HOW COOL IS HE, IS WHAT I’M ASKING HERE.

“You look like you could use the opportunity to buy me something to eat.” HOID, PLS.

“I’m not stupid enough to get mixed up in religion again.” Again. Hoid, wth does that mean.

but dear god, Hoid as a Herald would be hilarious.

THE LAST SEVEN TIMES HE’S TRIED IT. WTH, HOID, OH MY GOD.

“The sum total of stupid people is somewhere around the population of the planet. Plus one.” “Plus one?” “Sadeas counts twice.” GOD BLESS, WIT.

wait, so he wasn’t lying about the promise? About “always being there when needed” but not always knowing where or why? hm. Interesting concept. That I kind of love and wish I’d thought of first.

“Who came with you?” “Kaladin, Adolin, Elhokar, some of our servants.” I thiiiink the other bridgemen would take offense at that, but sure. Whatever.

I’m...intensely amused that chapter 69 is titled “Free Meal, No Strings.” Because I’m eleven and crude as fuck.

Idk, Kaladin, they have a point: the world is ending, so you might as well party. You can be miserable and afraid, or you can be partying and afraid. I’d go with the second.

OH OOOHHHHH OH ADOLIN CALLED HIM “KAL” AND I DIED A LITTLE BIT INSIDE

MY BOY’S GOT FRIENDS AGAIN AND HIS FRIENDS ARE ADOLIN AND I’M CRY

(but dear god, the Kadolin is real)

Also, Adolin being stupidly happy about getting a new wardrobe is giving me life, I LOVE THIS RIDICULOUS FASHION BOY

HEHEHEH Adolin is going to bring Skar and Drehy pastries from the lighteyes party, that’S SO CUTE I LOVE THIS

“What?” “What what?” “You’re going drinking with bridgemen?” “Sure. Skar, Drehy, and I go way back.” “We spent some time keeping His Highness from falling into chasms.” I’M LIVING MY CROPS ARE FLOURISHING MY SKIN IS CLEAR THIS IS ALL I EVER WANTED THIS IS THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME I LOVE THIS I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS.

“He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be. Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?”

The Megan-and-Kaladin-Think-the-Same-Exact-Way-and-It’s-Both-Comforting-and-Terrifying Trend continues.

Sometimes people ask me why he’s my favorite and I just. Have literally never related more strongly to another person ever, real life or fictional. It’s wild.

ADOLIN COMING TO CHECK ON KALADIN WHEN HE FALLS BEHIND WORRYING.

THERE IS TOO MUCH. STORMING. KADOLIN. IN THIS BOOK.

I love that the phrase “and you’re lighteyed today” is a normal thing now. That it changes and he can just. change it. and they’ve all accepted it. I love it.

PUNCHY GUYS.

IT’S THE ACADEMIC TERM

SWORDY FELLOWS OR SPEARISH CHAPS. AXALACIOUS BLOKE.

bless these two nerds

“Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.”

YOU REALLY REALLY DO. He’s infectious, this sunlight boy. And I adore him.

oh no

“Should have just gone to the party” YES YES YOU SHOULD HAVE. I’M WORRY.

also, why did the illusion wear off????? Shallan, what you do?

“The stew didn’t smell anywhere near as good as Rock’s.” HEHEH Nothing does, I’m sure.

I loooooove that Kaladin gets to tell the truth about Amaram now. Drag him, my boy.

the over-friendly wall guards are makin me nervous

I’m sure there are some good men here, and a lot of good soldiers, but... who are they and where did they come from and why are they all lighteyes and.... I have sooo many questions.

......I don’t remember if the squires’ eyes turn light when they’ve been flying with Kaladin.

I don’t think they do, but I don’t remember, and now I’m thinking...maybe the highmarshal is. some kind of Radiant whose squires are all...lighteyes?

AAHH!!!!??? AAAHH!!???? A LADY SHARDBEARER!!!!!?? A LADY!!!!

Okay. That was a pretty dang good speech.

But who is shhheeee

Is she a radiant or is that an Honorblade???

Mmmmmm, Kaladin also thinks she’s a Radiant, but WHICH KIND? If she’s got a bunch of squires, it could be Windrunner, but... dangit, I just... really want to meet a Stoneward.

“In every way, she was the perfect Alethi wife--and her unhappiness crushed his soul.” IT SHOULD. SHE DESERVES BETTER.

I’m reaaaally glad that Evi recognized the Thrill as a bad thing. A monster crouching in her husband’s body.

“...the Thrill was your reward.” Reward? Dalinar, listen to your wife. Please. That is not a reward.

Dalinar, look at you go. You did try this before, the talking thing. You are talking to this angry kiddo, and you’re bad at it, but you’re trying. This isn’t very punk!Dalinar of you. I like it. I can see the bits of presentday!Dalinar poking through the Thrill-encrusted shell of punk!Dalinar. I like it.

This is such interesting character movement, gaahh.

Evi still deserves better though. “Because of a good woman’s tears” ugh the fridge doors are slowly swinging shut, aren’t they?

whhhhhhhhaaaaat

I mean, I’m not surprised, because it’s Sadeas and he’s Sadeas and of course he’s a fucking traitor, but

whhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaat

...........gross.

Shallan needs to stop getting killed, please. This is really gross.

NO, DON’T TRY TO TALK WITH A CROSSBOW BOLT IN YOUR FACE PLEASE THIS IS REALLY UNNECESSARY

I DID NOT ASK FOR THIS LEVEL OF HORROR NOVEL PLEASE TAKE IT BACK, BRANDON.

Kaladin “Good at Making Friends” Stormblessed being all sheepish at making friends easily when it took so much effort to make friends with Bridge Four, like... listen, buddy. YOU are excellent at making friends and these guys were all ready to be friends with you. The Bridge was not ready and you had to wear them down with your charm, and you did, and doesn’t that make it all the more precious that you are friends with them?

Also, I miss them. Are my boys okay, Brandon? How are they doing?

omg, Adolin, pls. Yellow?

The Wall Guards making fun of Adolin’s new wardrobe is DELIGHTFUL.

Kaladin: HELLO, FELLOW LIGHTEYES, FOR I AM SURELY A LIGHTEYES, YES INDEEDY, LOOK AT MY VERY LIGHT EYES.

Hi, I love Kaladin, I am not sure you know this about me.

“Yes, his suit was a little bright--but if they would merely spend five minutes talking to him, they’d see he wasn’t so bad.”

Kaladin.

Babe.

You’ve come. So. Far.

I’m so proud of him, oh my god.

mmmm this food shipment stuff is so weeeiiirrd. where is it coming from? why is it going?? uuugghhhhh

Part of me is like, “I love that they call Azure ‘sir’ and use male pronouns because there is no gender on the battlefield! Everyone gets treated equal!” and most of me is like “fuck this, she’s a fucking lady in command and she deserves to be known.”

also, wtf, she had them attack a monastery? Okay, I get it, you want to control the Soulcaster, but like.... you didn’t just go in there a kill a buncha monks for it, did you?

OKAY, SO MAYBE IT IS AN HONORBLADE THAT WAS DEF MY THOUGHT

but which one.

We have the Skybreaker one.......so whose is this?

Unless it’s not.

I’m

confused. and worried.

Tell me things, Brandon!

OH. But then she wouldn’t need the Soulcaster...if she had an Honorblade for Soulcasting... so she went and got the Soulcaster to...keep up appearances? Hm.

....is it awkward that Stormlight Archive has, so far, been the story of several people slowly becoming atheist (Jasnah, Dalinar) or agnostic (Kaladin) as their lives fall to pieces around them and they slowly rebuild?

Kaladin is a Good, guys.

The best.

omg, okay, but the Swiftspren is just.... LISTEN, BRANDON, YOU CAN’T GO MAKING SHALLAN A ROBIN HOOD. DON’T DO ME LIKE THIS.

I feel so bad for Elhokar.

Buddy just needs some hugs, okay.

Okay, I know logically that Roshar is Bad At Horses, but somehow it never occurred to me that they wouldn’t have archers trained on horseback. Mounted archer is just... such a very Alethi thing, especially non-Shattered Plains Alethi. I didn’t realize, but of course they wouldn’t have that. Horses are too rare.

aight, I didn’t really think Sadeas had betrayed them THIS early on, but STILL, I was so hoping...

Still, rockslide ambush is... a pretty solid strategy for dealing with a Shardbearer.

Sucks for his elites tho. They did not deserve that. That’s shitty.

“They must know the punishment for broken oaths.” Huh. Even back then...

“for none shall remain to weep.” #YIKES, my dude. y i k e s.

punk!Dalinar needs to take a chill pill.

And maybe get some sleep.

Listen, if the Thrill is telling you not to sleep, yOU SHOULD PROBABLY SLEEP.

also, any time you are actually LISTENING to SADEAS? You should probably rethink your life and your choices.

Just saying.

So... presentday!Dalinar had a conversation with Taravangian, about sacrificing the few to save the many. That’s...sort of what Taravangian’s entire plan for world domination salvation rests on. But now here...at the Rift. This is 100% Sadeas’ argument: sacrifice the ten thousand commoners living in the Rift to make an example of their highlords to stop any rebellion further down the timeline that might result in more soldiers’ deaths. Which gives ...a really fascinating insight into just how incredibly far Dalinar has come. past!Dalinar is literally employing the exact plan that Taravangian is trying to do on a worldwide scale, and so he knows it. He understands the consequences that Taravangian can’t know and can’t anticipate and refuses to consider. And present!Dalinar learned from this, and knows what end these means lead to and...refuses. To do it again.

It’s SUCH an interesting character progression. And it’s absolutely fascinating to see it laid out in this order--to see the good, honorable man we know and love first and to see this...monster that he was and see exactly how very much he’s grown... It doesn’t excuse this bad period, the good he’s doing now, but maybe it explains it a little bit. Dalinar is getting a redemption arc and we didn’t even realize that he needed one until he’s almost done with it.

And that’s some badass non-linear storytelling for you.

Also past!Dalinar can get fucked by a cactus, holy shit, what an unbelievable fuck.

nooooo wonder Kadash leaves and becomes an ardent.

hoooooly shit.

“We’ve gone too far.” YA FUCKING THINK??

Meanwhile, Sadeas: “Nonsense!”

Fuck Sadeas, uuugghhhh I’m so glad he’s dead. UUGGHHH

what

the

fuck

THAT JUST HAPPENED.

Fun facts, y’all, the refrigerator is now on fire.