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spainkitty · 2 years ago

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How Much Symbolic and How Much Real?

Part 1 of 5

Tags: Arranged Marriage AU, also 'what if Arlathan never fell and the Evanuris were defeated' AU, Cullavellan, slow(ish) burn, mentions of past (like really really past) Sola vellan, basic DA fantasy setting with a lore-twist

There was something amazing about it. A whole world had sprung up while she had slept.

So many nations and races and peoples. So many stories and songs and legends. There were cities that could compare with her home, perhaps not in magic or depth, but in sheer scope and ingenuity. There had been heroes come and gone, wars fought and won. So many that it dizzied the mind trying to keep them all in order.

And something even more amazing was how little her own world had changed despite everything.

Arlathan was home. It was beauty and light and everything she'd ever loved about her People showcased in one place. Spirits taught in grand halls and Elvhen walked boulevards made of magic and crystal. With the Evanuris long defeated and the end of slavery an "embarrassing blight" safely millennia in the past, Arlathan was even more glorious than her earliest years of existence.

But Lanil Surana strode the paths and corridors and parks like one caged. Whether on the outskirts of the Arlathan Forest where her clan resided or deep in the heart of Arlathan itself, Lanil felt the same.

Desperately and absolutely bored.

She snorted quietly to herself. She knew exactly what that sounded like. Like a whining child not past their hundredth year. Bored. Bored. What would others say if they heard that?

You're a mage and warrior, Surana. Surely you can think of something interesting to do.

Bored? When the Fade is at your fingertips, when magic and life has no bounds?

Do you want another rebellion, Surana? Do you miss the glory of fighting at the Fen'Harel's side?

Lanil rolled her eyes and barely kept a snarl from her face. It always came back to Solas in the end, didn't it?

"Lane!"

She stopped mid-stride with a slight smile on her face and an uptick in her mood. Only one voice was so young and bright. She turned to see the young, dark-haired Elvhen running through the shimmering corridor of the Grand Hall.

Once, this had been called the Way of Elgar'nan. There had been a lot more ostentatious gold around, too. She liked the look of it now, with its living decorations of trees and flowers and dainty halla running riot and beautiful among the glassy white stone and gleaming blue Veilfire. The Elvhen woman running towards her matched this new look much better; her bare feet all but silent, her clothing of green and brown and black melding with her surroundings.

"Merrill. Or should I say First Alerion?" Lanil said, bowing with a flourish as her friend approached.

Merrill's fair skin flushed cherry-red as she laughed. The twining and complex branches of Mythal's vallaslin on Merrill's face was new, but not shocking. Many Elvhen continued to honor Mythal after her betrayal. Especially mages. It probably helped there was no actual slave binding in the action of it with Mythal long dead; the spark that lit the rebellion.

There had been talk at one point of creating a Fen'Harel vallaslin. Lanil still grinned when she remembered Solas' utter fury and disgust. It had shaken all of Arlathan's beautiful crystal towers.

"Just Merrill, don't be a twit," Merrill retorted, elbowing Lanil's ribs.

"Twit? Sounds like somebody's been in Kirkwall recently," Lanil noted with eyebrows rising, careful to keep her voice low. Merrill smiled happily.

"I have! I tried to invite you, but Keeper Lavellan said you were on one of your 'wanderings'," Merrill said. Her smile, usually brighter than sunshine, dimmed. Ah. Concern. From someone who was actually a youth. "You've been wandering the Fade a lot recently. You're not... you're going to leave again?"

"Not anytime soon," Lanil said, though she wasn't sure how honest she was being. "Maybe whatever the Council has called us for will be interesting enough to keep me awake for another century or two."

"Don't joke. We've barely started becoming friends. I never would've been brave enough to--"

"Not here, Merrill."

"Oh. Right."

Merrill glanced around warily and obviously. Lanil wasn't exactly subtle herself, but Merrill was a stampeding herd of gurgut in comparison.

"So you don't know what the Council wants?" Merrill asked as they continued onward. Owls were perched on the trees, their wide knowing eyes glinting with blue fire as they watched the two Elvhen. The boulevard branched in several directions and Lanil led Merril to the widest branch that twined on and on in a lazy spiral upward.

"No. Neither did my Keeper. She would've told me."

"If even the infamous Stormrider doesn't know, perhaps I should become concerned?" a voice remarked, dry and hoarse. And instantly familiar to Lanil.

"Tabris."

A figure somehow appeared in front of them as if from shadow, although this section of the Upper Walkway was much too bright for a sliver of shadow to exist. Like Lanil, her skin was dark tan, but there were no other similarities (that other Elvhen didn't also have). Her nose was strong and hawk-like, her eyes like pitch and slanted at the corners, her hair thick and straight and as black as her eyes and cut at chin-length. A scar cut all along leftside jawline, as if someone had tried to slice her throat and barely missed. Which was exactly what had happened; Lanil had been there to see it happen and helped heal it. Long, deadly daggers were sheathed at each hip, but there were definitely more daggers hidden out of sight. Despite her suspicious glare and stone-like expression, she and Lanil clasped hands warmly, tightly.

It only takes one time for someone to rescue your life to consider them a friend, in Lanil's opinion. And they'd saved each other countless times throughout the many horrific years of the rebellion.

"Mahariel was also summoned. She went on ahead," Danae Tabris said as their hands released.

"Mahariel? The Rynira Mahariel? The one who--" Merrill exclaimed breathlessly. She broke off. All three of them frowned at the same time, gazes catching.

"That's four of the youngest Elvhen currently alive, and only women," Lanil stated the obvious out loud.

"You think... that's on purpose?" Merrill asked, voice a little squeaky.

"Nothing else connects the four of us. Two mages, but also a dagger-wielder and an archer? Mahariel and I fought in the rebellion, but you and Danae weren't born yet. We both have sworn to Mythal, but Danae and Mahariel never retook vallaslin."

Danae snorted and barely kept from spitting in distaste. "I can't believe you kept yours," she muttered.

"I was a sworn initiate of the Well--" Lanil started hotly.

"Yeah, yeah." Danae rolled her eyes and cut the air with her hand sharply. "The Council is known for patience and all, but I want to suck out the venom and get it over with. Let's move on."

Without waiting, Danae turned on her heel. Merrill and Lanil followed quickly, the younger Elvhen sidling closer to Lanil.

"You don't think they know about Kirkwall, do you?" she whispered to Lanil.

Lanil hesitated, worry and its usual accompaniment of anger wormed its way into her head. She didn't need permission to do whatever she damn well pleased. After a moment of stewing, Lanil shook her head.

"Tabris wouldn't be caught dead sneaking out to play with the quicklings. I don't think Mahariel is fond of anything outside her clan, either. So that can't be the reason why we've been summoned."

Merrill pressed a hand to her chest and let out a relieved sigh. The rest of the walk was in silence, which scratched at Lanil's vaneer of calm. She wasn't good at silence. Or waiting. Or wondering.

Stepping in the huge, circular Assembly Hall and seeing every single Eldest in attendance shattered her calm more. Even honored Spirits of Command and Justice and Law hovered among the Elvhen. Was that a Spirit of Wisdom, too? Yes, in fact she knew that Spirit personally, the distinctly feminine-presenting Spirit was one of Solas' dearest friends. The four young Elvhen that had been summoned walked side by side into the middle of the room. Most of the gathered stood or sat along the benches in front of them and rising above their heads, although some were arrayed on either side or behind their backs.

"I'm sure you four have noticed the commonality among you already," stated one of the Eldest with an infuriating serenity and slowness. Halleon had been an Elder during the Evanuris' reign, and it made Lanil want to snap her fingers in his face every time they spoke. "Today we ask you to consider, with all the due weight and severity that it entails, a proposal from the quickling kingdom of Ferelden."

The four woman glanced at each other in confusion. But Halleon did not continue, just steepled his long, elegant fingers and examined them closely.

"Well? What proposal?" Lanil demanded, hands on her hips. Don't snap your fingers at him. Don't snap your fingers at him.

"A proposal of marriage, little one," said Rhona, one of the youngest on the Council and one of the few who was more warrior than mage.

"Oh," Merrill said on a confused laugh. Then, broke off abruptly. "OH!"

Danae, however, started laughing and didn’t stop, head tipped back and shoulders shaking. Not a single note of it sounded truly amused. Mahariel's blonde eyebrows were so far up her forehead, they'd disappeared behind the loose sweep of her bangs. Merrill had both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide enough to pop.

Lanil was stone. Completely and utterly stone.

A proposal of what?!

"Just so I understand the facts," Mahariel began. Her voice was always so lilting and musical, as if she were more bird than woman. It didn't help that her armor had feathered pauldrons and she wore feathers in her long, pretty, golden hair. For a woman so dainty and pretty, she was one of the most dangerous archers in Arlathan and had a kill count that rivaled Lanil's, probably surpassed it, since she'd once been a disciple of Andruil. "You want one of us to marry one of the quickling?"

"I knew the Ambassador of Ferelden had come, but I didn't know this was why," Merrill whispered.

"The Ferelden ambassador came with an offer of an alliance. A very... persuasive offer," Rhona explained.

"Quicklings are nothing, and we've never needed alliances before." Danae spat on the ground. Several of the Eldest sighed in resignation, although a few nodded in agreement.

"Before we were not surrounded on all sides by powerful nations and empires. Before the quicklings lived in the mud and barely patched together furs for clothing. Before they had no mages that could compare to ours, nor universities in which to flourish their talents. Most importantly, before there was no Tevinter and there was no Qun," Halleon pointed out mildly.

"As long as they continue to fight each other--" Danae started.

"No, listen to them. You live in the heart of the Elvhenan. Many clans do not. For the past few millennia, we have lost border territories while they've chipped away at us like rats nibbling cheese," Mahariel interrupted with her hand in front of Danae. "I've been in skirmishes and lost many good hunters and friends to these quicklings. Especially those that name themselves qunari."

"An alliance with one quickling nation would make the others hesitate," Rhona said. "Or perhaps seek to do the same."

"But why Ferelden?" Lanil heard her voice ask it, but hadn't felt her own mouth move.

"True, it is a young nation..." another voice said. Lanil's eyes darted over to see Tislain. Tislain had once been of Clan Lavellan, and her grey eyes mirrored Lanil's. Lanil wasn't sure it was calming, but she also wasn't sure what emotions were darting wildly in her head. "But it has managed to regain its independence twice despite its... shall we say, underdog position?"

More than several groaned and rolled their eyes at Tislain's horrible pun. Merrill looked at Lanil, who hadn't been able to help her snort of amusement.

"They have a thing for dogs there," Lanil muttered. Merrill groaned in disgust once the pun registered.

"More importantly," Rhona said with a warning look at Tislain, "the newest king has strong ties to Orzammar. The Ambassador has insinuated that a trade for lyrium could be made with their intervention."

Merrill and Lanil gaped.

Orzammar. Willing to trade lyrium. With Arlathan.

Lyrium.

Elvhenan didn't need lyrium. They interacted with the Fade and with magic like other races interacted with... with air. It was incomprehensible to be without magic, even if one weren't a mage.

But long ago, so long ago it made the rebellion feel like yesterday's news, they had access to lyrium. The artifacts they'd created, the spells they'd woven, there were traces of them all over Arlathan. Precious and few traces. Those bits and pieces were hoarded like dragons hoarded treasures and bones. Clans had fallen apart in schisms and blood oaths to never reconcile over debated ownership over lyrium-infused artifacts.

But dwarves despised Arlathan with a hatred as deep as their hidden roads. The Titans might have been lost to their Memories, but the Stone remembered anyway. To think that a quickling--a human kingdom barely out of its infancy could offer even a trickle of lyrium...

Offer a starving person a feast and they will gorge. Lanil herself felt the pang of hunger at the idea.

"But marriage?" Danae asked harshly.

"That's how those quicklings do it," Halleon explained with a negligent wave of his hand. "Their concept of alliances rely on marriage and progeniture--"

"Progen--No. I won't breed with them. I refuse," Danae snapped. She tightened her hands around her dagger hilts reflexively. "You slavering mages can get your lyrium without me."

"That is your right," Halleon agreed.

"Elvhen don't just... leave Arlathan, and elf-blooded quicklings aren't allowed in Elvhenan," Mahariel said. She cocked her hip to the side and crossed her arms over her chest. "How about you explain what exactly you expect from us? Excepting Tabris."

"Consider it more... symbolic. It'll be a human marriage and it'll last as long as the life of the quickling. Any..." Halleon's mouth twisted in distaste, "progeny will remain in Ferelden with no rights or allowances within Arlathan." Halleon paused and sighed. "As long as this marriage lasts, whomsoever agrees to it will not be allowed back in Arlathan. You are exiled as long as you're bound by their marriage contract."

"Exiled?" Merrill whispered.

Danae scoffed loudly. Mahariel frowned and shifted on her feet. Lanil, however, felt her heart beat for the first time since the word 'marriage' was said.

No more sneaking out of the boundaries like a naughty child just to see somewhere, something, new? No more of the same days over and over with the same faces? No more passing like a wraith from eluvian to eluvian to glimpse a world she wasn't allowed to experience and that despised her? No more walking purposeless in Solas' shadow? No more facing the awkward guilt for something that happened centuries ago?

"Me," Lanil said. Every eye turned to her. She squared her shoulders, tipped up her chin, and stepped forward. "It'll be me. I'll do it."

"I told you," Tislain said with a wide grin and glinting eyes. "Surana was the most obvious choice."

"There had to be choice, Tislain," Rhona said, as if she'd repeated it several times.

"You haven't even asked who you have to marry!" Merrill hissed from behind her hand. Uselessly, because everyone could hear.

Lanil raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

"Fortunately, the alliance will be with the commander of their army. You'll have much in common," Tislain said. "Ferelden seems to give their commanders the proper amount of respect."

Several Eldest nodded sagely. Many of them had been leaders in past wars themselves. It was expected of Eldest to have known true combat, to have faced death in a way most Elvhen never would.

Lanil cocked her head to the side. "So we'll spend the few years of this human's life swapping war stories?"

"Exactly."

Lanil snorted quietly and shook her head. But it didn't sound so bad. She hadn't picked up a sword in centuries, but maybe she could learn something new.

Learn something new.

A grin tugged at her lips.

...

Arlathan was more Fade than material world, but many of the clans were settled firmly on the earth. Elvhenan spread across what the quicklings called 'Thedas' like a splatter of inkblots on the map. Perhaps their adversaries would say their borders were like a stain seeping between the lines of all those mostly human nations. While a few clans, and Arlathan itself, had control of a few port cities, Lavellan did not. Lavellan's lands were south of Arlathan, so south most of the quicklings they met were simple Free Marchers who'd accidentally crossed an invisible line into the clan territory without even realizing it. Until they were surrounded on all sides by silent hunters who led them back into their lands like naughty chickens loose from the coop. The Fade made permanent borders tricky or downright impossible, so it happened often.

Merrill had hoped that leaving from Lavellan would mean their journey would lead them down to Kirkwall, but Rialto in Antiva was the closer port. Lanil had been a little disappointed herself. However, the entourage Arlathan had appointed probably would've been impossible to escape for a last night of revels with Merrill's strange friends.

Lanil glanced at the suspiciously glaring Danae and Mahariel's eagle eyes taking in everything around them.

No "probably" about it.

Although they'd denied being the sacrificial pawn in this newfangled alliance, the three other women were assigned to escort her to Ferelden and stay through the confirmation of treaty talks.

Which would end with Lanil's marriage.

She scowled as her stomach turned in knots and it wasn't the unfamiliar smell of the sea. She raised her face to breathe in deep the salty air. Lanil couldn't remember the last time she'd been on the open sea. These past few weeks on the ship had been... wonderful. The first shaking off of the cobwebs on her life. Had the sea air always been so warm and pleasant? The sea so alive? Not even the port city of Highever, greyer and muddier than Rialto had been, dampened her opinion. The gangplank was being set and she wanted to race off the ship, leap through the air and take off through those narrow, jumbled-looking streets. She curled her hands tightly around the railing to hold herself in place. Next to her, Merrill was jumping up and down on her toes. Danae and Mahariel stood like silent and disapproving statues on each side of them.

Lanil's eyes snapped in every direction, nothing too small or beneath her notice. So many humans! And look, dwarves! She didn't know dwarves could leave the Stone! Or sail? There weren't enough to sail an entire ship, so perhaps they lived in Highever or were surface-dwelling merchants? Great white gulls cried and swooped overhead. Ropes and sails creaked and cracked in the wind. A dog as big as a wolf ran down an alleyway, barking and hopping like an eager puppy before racing back the way it had come. The buildings were low, made of stone with wooden roofs and windows were made of foggy glass. The clothing was a mix of rough and undyed, and garishly overdyed with weird puffy sleeves. And everyone wore... shoes? Or were they called boots? Which were boots and which were shoes?

Antiva had been more lively and not so... brown. But even here, languages Lanil had never heard swelled up from the busy crowds. She didn't understand everything! Whole words and sentences that meant nothing! Her eyes widened as Elvhen walked by--No.

Elves. Bor'len

Lost Children.

She couldn't help but crane over the railing to watch them walk by. One of them caught her staring, a look of bewilderment quickly followed by a grimace, and then the Lost Child made an obscene gesture with their hand. Lanil reared back in surprise and scowled at Danae who laughed in her face.

"Look, look! There they are!" Merrill somehow began to bounce even faster. She grabbed Lanil's arm with a suddenness that almost had Lanil recoiling. "Which one is your husband?"

"You are too eager about this, Alerion. It's just a quickling marriage," Mahariel said.

"To a male one," Danae added with a grimace.

"Yes, yes, we all know why you said no, but Lanil likes men, don't you?" Merrill asked, shaking Lanil's arm. Lanil raised an eyebrow at her. "If you're going to have children, aren't you at least interested in what he looks like?"

"You mean she has to breed with it, because everything these quicklings do is about breeding," Danae muttered. Lanil and Merrill both ignored her.

"I planned on lying back and thinking of Arlathan, but I suppose a pretty face in the middle of that wouldn't be too bad," Lanil said dryly, and Merrill laughed. Lanil cared more about the horses and the return of that massive black hound. Everything about Ferelden was so... sturdy and big, not exactly tall or massive, but built on bigger lines. Lanil had never seen a hound so large it could probably snap her spine, not unless it were actually a shapechanger. Merrill barely smothered her laughter as the Ambassador approached them.

"I do hope everything is ready," the woman fretted, watching as the sailors unloaded cargo (most of it not from Arlathan). Strangely, the woman was Antivan rather than Ferelden, but she'd been kind and, no better word for it, efficient during the entire journey. She was also beautiful, sweet, and suffered fools with a cutting sort of grace. A few times, Danae hadn't been able to help the lingering glances she gave Ambassador Montilyet. When she thought no one was looking.

"I don't know how we'd be anymore ready," Lanil said with a shrug.

In Elvish, Danae muttered, "Let's take you to your jailer, then."

Mahariel rolled her eyes and Merrill frowned, obviously about to argue. Lanil shook her head and put her hand on Merrill's arm. Then, the four of them followed Ambassador Montilyet down the gangplank.

...

Cullen tried not to grimace as Cassandra hissed a steady stream of well-intentioned advice beside him. He was pretty sure she hadn't stopped giving advice since Arlathan approved of the alliance Ferelden had proposed with very little hope of success. Queen Aleandria had been sure the alliance relying on the symbolic marriage to a commander rather than a noble or royal would immediately be seen as the insult the council pretended it wasn’t, and King Alistair had been sure immortal beings of magic and mystery would want nothing to do with "that muddy dog country". When Cullen had been told he'd be married off like a pawn in a game of chess after all, Cassandra had been even more offended than him.

And then she somehow channeled his older sister's nosiness and followed him around for weeks to "prepare him" for it.

"Make sure you smile when you meet her. You don't look half bad when you smile--"

"Cassandra, please be quiet," Cullen begged, rubbing at his face.

"Don't do that." Cassandra grabbed his arm and tugged it back down. "What if she saw that? She'll think it's about her."

"Maker preserve me," he whispered.

By his horse's side, his mabari whined and shuffled, ready to run off half-cocked again. Cassandra had said to leave him in Denerim, he wasn't well-trained and barely more than a pup despite his size, but... Cullen had just adopted him. He couldn't let him feel abandoned.

A few sailors came down the gangplank from the ship--The Bodice Ripper? What kind of name was The Bodice Ripper for a ship?--and with them a woman who sauntered and rolled with each step as if she was still at sea. Her high boots and long tunic almost disguised the fact she wasn't wearing trousers. Where in the Void were her trousers? Cullen quickly looked over at the more familiar and more dressed woman speaking with her. Josephine always stuck out in a crowd, but in a good way. All bright silks and smiles and too many ruffles.

And then four elves--No, Elvhen, don't forget everything Josephine and Leliana drilled into your head--came down. He heard Carroll let out a quiet whistle and barely held back a grimace. He'd have to remember to reprimand Carroll later; even if he understood. There was something almost unearthly beautiful about the blonde woman who was all legs and a dancer's sort of grace. But she had a bow and quiver on her back.

Not Lavellan.

Hopefully the darker-haired and darker-complexioned woman next to her wasn't Lavellan either. Not because of the daggers she gripped at her belt. Cullen was more intimi--concerned about the curl of distaste on her mouth and the utter disdain on her face as her dark eyes scanned the crowd of horses.

The next two came down side by the side. The shorter, fairer one with an almost tree-like facial tattoo was tugging at the fourth's arm, grinning wide and pointing every which way. It was nice one of them looked excited... but she reminded Cullen uncomfortably of his little sister despite them looking nothing alike and the Elvhen probably being several decades older than she looked.

The last one, though. She was scowling like the dagger-wielder, but she was looking everywhere her friend was pointing. She was darker, but her short-cropped hair was the color of ivory, spiky and windblown around her face. There was something there, along her cheekbones that glinted, but Cullen couldn't quite make it out. More facial tattoos? He thought Elvhen no longer had them... She was almost as short as her friend and just as slender.

Both wore leather armor, one in green and one in blue. Both carried staves on their backs, one made entirely of wood and crystal, one of smoky grey metal carved into a dragon's likeness at the head.

Cullen couldn't take his eyes off the woman in blue. He wouldn't even let the words form in his head. What would it matter starting a thought like 'please be--'... Nope.

He was trying so hard not to make a fool's wish in his head that he forgot about the mabari.

With a series of loud excited barking, the dumb dog raced towards the women at the bottom of the gangplank. He'd probably caught scent of Josephine, or maybe the scent of a new creature suffused with magic. Cullen bit back an oath and threw himself out of his saddle, Cassandra right after him and not holding her own cursing back.

"Fetch! No!" Cullen shouted as they chased after the damn dog who, of course, didn't even slow down.

Josephine sighed and quickly held up her hands, begging the Elvhen to please not worry. The blonde Elvhen raised a single eyebrow, the angry one loosened her daggers, the smallest one clapped her hands together in delight, and the one in blue stepped forward and knelt. For a woman so small, Cullen winced and expected Fetch to bowl her over. Maybe knock her right into the bay.

Instead, the Elvhen barely moved an inch, gripping Fetch to hold him in place and talked to him in rapidfire Elvish. The mabari actually sat, wriggling in place, stump of a tail going wild, and let both the woman in blue and her happy-go-lucky friend coo and stroke him.

"Fetch, is it? What a perfect name for such a fiercesome beast," she was saying in a softly accented Common. Cullen skidded to a stop as Fetch licked right across her face. Her friend burst into laughter as she grinned widely.

This close, Cullen could see the subtle gold tattoos along her high cheekbones, the scar that cut down the right side of her face from under her eye, forking towards her jaw and down to her mouth, another smaller scar just under her bottom lip, and her obviously broken nose. It made her... look real. Like a real person, not some ethereally perfect elf goddess. When she looked up, her eyes gleamed silver as the early afternoon's light struck them.

"I wasn't expecting such a warm welcome," she told him, her grin becoming more like a smirk.

It's her. It has to be her.

"What's a Ferelden greeting without a mabari," Josephine said with yet another sigh, although Cullen could see the beginnings of a smile. "Enchanter Lanil Lavellan, this Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford. And his dog, Fetch."

"I should've left him in Denerim, I know," Cullen muttered. He tried grabbing at Fetch's ruff, but it was a bit hard to do when neither he nor Lavellan had looked away from each other.

"No. This is better," Lanil Lavellan said. She was the first to break the eye contact. So she could smile at his dog and scratch Fetch's ears. "It would've been all grand and stuffy otherwise."

"You mean it would've been a whole lot of etiquette while you tried to pretend like you cared," the blonde Elvhen retorted. She looked a bit like that ethereal goddess idea that had gotten into Cullen's head, even her ears were longer and higher, like in an artist's painting of the Evanuris War, compared to Lavellan's wider and lower ears.

Lanil Lavellan shrugged. She got to her feet and stepped around Fetch to hold out her hand. Cullen stared at her, then gratefully clasped his hand around her wrist and she returned it. His hand basically encircled the entirety of her wrist, but her grip was tight and firm belying her much smaller, thinner hand. He wasn't used to a mage displacing that much strength.

"That's a lot of names," she said, her head tilting to the side.

"Cullen. Cullen is fine."

She nodded. "Lanil is fine."

"What about us?" Her friend with the tattoos nudged Lanil Lavellan away. She went with a grunt, her hand dropping from his. "I'm Merrill, I'm an Enchanter, too. You can tell from the staff, right. Anyway. The other scowly one is Danae Tabris and she's Rynira Mahariel."

"This really isn't how it's supposed to be done," Josephine said, utterly mortified.

"It's too late now, precious," the ship's captain teased. There was a quiet thwap and Josephine startled in place and eeped.

"I'm Cassandra Pentaghast. I'm a Seeker of Truth working in the Ferelden court for a time," Cassandra said. She held out her hand and each Elvhen clasped it respectfully.

"Seeker of Truth? Isn't that the same thing as a Templar?" Lanil Lavellan asked with a frown.

"No, their little Chantry split into Seekers and Templars a few hundred years back," Tabris said dismissively.

"You know nothing, Tabris. It was an Inquisition that split into Templars and Seekers," Mahariel corrected with an eyeroll.

"Oh. That. With the bor'len," she said using a word in Elvish that sounded like an insult. Lanil Lavellan said something equally sharp and cutting, and Tabris crossed her arms over her chest and glared off to the side.

Cassandra and Cullen exchanged a look.

"We're not here to talk about the past!" Merrill clapped her hands together and then shoved Lanil Lavellan forward. Lanil Lavellan glared over her shoulder, but let Merrill push her past Cullen and Cassandra towards the end of the docks. Fetch jumped and hopped and ran in circles around them.

"Wait! We need to get your things!" Josephine called after them.

"We trust you to get it sorted," Mahariel said as she followed her compatriots.

"I'll stay to make sure it's done," Tabris muttered, still glaring at nothing. Mahariel trilled a few words in Elvish and Tabris snapped back. Mahariel only laughed.

"Well, this has been something," Cassandra muttered.

"Yeah..." Cullen agreed, watching Lanil Lavellan get shoved towards the squad of mounted soldiers. He startled slightly and rushed after them. "Your horse!"

Lanil Lavellan glanced over her shoulder at him. And she was still frowning. How is it that Fetch got her to smile and he hadn't yet?

He was not going to compete with his dog.

"I have, um, actually you have a horse. This one." Cullen held up a hand and Captain Rylen tossed him the reins to a Green Dales Feral. Cullen caught them to hand them off to Lavellan.

She took them awkwardly, eyebrows rising, only to immediately drop them. Cullen lurched to grab them while she stepped up to the horse. She stroked down the mare's nose, muttering in a mix of Common and Elvish. Like Fetch, the horse made her smile. Cullen dug in his pocket and cleared his throat. Lavellan turned those eyes on him, now a darker, stormier grey out of the sunlight. He held out his fist and dropped a lump of sugar onto her palm when she offered it. She turned back to the mare and grinned when it lipped the sugar right out of her hand.

"Does she have a name?"

"No, Dennet doesn't bother naming the ones he sells. It's up to the new owners. That's you," Cullen explained quickly.

Finally, she smiled at him. A closed lipped, slight thing, but it lightened her entire face.

She looked beautiful.

Cullen cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, quickly looking away.

"I can't ride."

He startled and stared at her. She was smirking at him now. "You... can't?"

She shook her head. "We travel by eluvian. They can cover long distances in seconds. There's no need to ride horses."

"I thought... the halla?"

"We don't ride halla. They were sacred to Ghilan'nain before... you know, all of that, and now they roam wild," Merrill explained, hands waving around.

Lavellan cocked her head to side, sizing up the horse silently. She walked around, stroking her hand along the mare's neck, then gripped the saddle horn and hoisted herself up in an easy, fluid motion. As if she'd done it a thousand times.

"She's well trained," she said, patted the mare's neck again. "We'll figure it out together."

"These will help," Cullen said as he handed her the reins again. Lavellan grimaced, but shrugged and took them.

"And us?" Merrill asked, bouncing up and down on her toes as her eyes lit up cheerfully. Cullen realized all four Elvhen were barefoot, their leggings that ended wrapped around the arches of their feet the only covering.

"Uh, right. Everyone has their own horse while visiting in Ferelden. It's a long road to Denerim." He motioned at the soldiers leading the other mounts, including Josephine's.

"How far?" Lavellan asked.

"A week at best."

She frowned and leaned towards her mare's ear. "You're beautiful, my friend, but you're not as convenient as an eluvian." The mare snorted and shook her head making Lavellan and the other Elvhen laugh.

Cullen stared at Lavellan, wondering what he was supposed to say or do next. The blonde one, Mahariel, caught him staring. The look of amusement on her face had Cullen's mouth thinning. He nodded his head once and turned away without a word. The Elvhen began to talk in their own language among themselves, sparing no other soldier their attention, while Cullen stood with Josephine, Cassandra, and the stone-faced Tabris to watch his soldiers packing all their supplies. Fetch darted back and forth between the Elvhen and Cullen, barking and leaping excitedly.

The last of the supplies were packed, Tabris was with her Elvhen comrades, and a few soldiers were assigned to stay back to guard the caravan with cargo from several ports. Not quite allies, but not enemies, willing to trade with Ferelden while they had their own sovereignty. As he walked away from the caravan and Captain Rylen, Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Josephine touched his arm and he glanced towards her, an eyebrow rising.

"Give it time, Commander. I've been travelling with them for weeks and this is the most Common I've heard them speak," she assured, squeezing lightly and briefly. Cullen huffed a laugh.

"Couldn't have been fun for you."

Josephine tsked and waved it away. "Their language is fascinating, honestly. But you must understand, Elvhen don't just leave Elvhenan. Enchanter Lavellan has agreed to become an exile for this alliance and it'll be decades before she'll be able to return home. She'll need time to adjust."

Cullen leaned in close, voice low and heated. "What? No one told me that! This was already a bad idea, and now she probably hates me, too." He scrubbed a hand over his face and braced a hand on his hip. Cassandra smacked his back hard enough to make him grunt. And he was wearing armor.

"She'll have decades to get over it," she said.

Josephine giggled and quickly stifled it at Cullen's look. She skirted away, her face carefully angled down to hide her expression. Cullen ran a hand through his hair, grimacing when his gauntlets caught. When he looked over at the Elvhen, Lavellan was already gazing at him. She didn't need to hide her face, her expression was already unreadable.

Fetch threw himself against Cullen's legs. Cullen let out an involuntary grunt and his stare-off with Lavellan ended. Shaking his head, he lowered to a knee and ruffled Fetch's ears.

"Yeah, I know. I'll get it together," Cullen promised. Fetch barked and proceeded to slobber all over Cullen's face. Because even his own dog laughed at him. Cullen laughed and shoved Fetch's head away, standing to walk over to his mount.

#i also call this What Not to Do When You’re Bored #Cullavellan #Cullen × Lavellan #Arranged Marriage AU #poor cullen is instantly smitten #lanil just really likes his dog #dont worry she'll get there #also cullens entire life is just being surrounded by women #let this poor man have peace he can make his own decisions

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pia-nor481 · 8 months ago

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Long night, Hard ride

Oscar Piastri x reader smut

1.3k words (sorry it’s so short I struggled with the actual smut)

It was made very clear from their first interaction that Oscar didn't particularly like social events; work social events were no exception. As much as he enjoyed working with, and for, Mclaren, he didn't like any of the launches or parties. This party did not evolve the car and so Oscar was especially angsty, his whole body felt heavy, and it was starting to get difficult to keep proper posture. "You will be okay." She said, trying to comfort him, running her hand over his bicep clad in the black blazer. His eyes were slowly begging to fall, "I know, it's just too much and I'm so tired." Oscar liked to sleep in as much as he could, but the training combined with the early morning to prepare for with event didn't help. The divers were there to secure sponsors for next season, Lando was capable of speaking with sponsors for hours, he was so full of energy that it came easy to him. But Oscar struggled and so was hiding in a corner with his girlfriend. "It will be over soon, at least we have some peace for now." She looked around quickly before pecking his cheek; he smiled wide as she rubbed the lipstick off of his face. "Do you think we could sneak out?" Their drinks have long been empty and Oscar was leaning against the wall for a few minutes now. "I think Zak might give away your seat." She giggled

"I think we can get away with it." He whispered, wrapping his arm around her waist, guiding her towards the door. They practically hugged the wall trying to avoid human contact. She had to hold him up as they walked down the stairs towards the car. She held her hand out for the car key, not letting him drive in such a condition and ever the gentlemen, he still opened the door for her. The drive home was long, Oscar definitely fell asleep a few time, but the roads were rather deserted at this late hour, his hand remained firm on her thigh as she continued to hold the wheel. "We are almost home, ten more minutes." She whispered, his only response was a quiet hum. Oscar could stay awake now, but he didn't have the energy for much more; Completely lethargic, he stumbled out of the car and in through the front door.

"Come on." She said, dragging him up the stairs towards their shared bedroom; It was still very much a mess from the morning, Oscar was in a complete rush after waking up for the third time, she helped him get ready, not that it would have taken him very long on his own. He took a brief moment to stare, the dress was beautiful, and it fit her so well, Oscar would say it made her look perfect, more than usual. But that was all he could think as she pushed him out the door. It was not often that they were late, a skill Oscar must have perfected in his early years. She looked at him with an almost smug look, handing him the car keys. "I know I drive for a living, but surely you drive fine." His statement fell upon deaf ears. Oscar did not expect his words to change her decision, so he proceeded to the driver's side, with a quiet whine.

Even now, quiet huffs left his mouth, making a poor attempt to walk up the stairs. She knew he was tired, yet she couldn't help the feeling of desire. Seeing Oscar in a suit really did get her going, even just the sight of him could do the same, but tonight in particular, she just couldn't stop the arousal from coursing through her body. Oscar reached the bathroom rather swiftly and slowly began to remove his clothes, struggling with the buttons. "Please, Love, I need help." She giggled, walking closer, seeing the dishevelled man pouting. Selfishly, she undid each button as slow as possible, staring at him with a sultry look. Oscar noticed, but chose not to say anything. If he was honest, Oscar would say he preferred morning sex, a sure way to wake him up, and have a good start to the day. He also understood that waiting wouldn't be wise.

She turned slowly, as Oscar motioned for her to, wanting to help unzip her dress. He did so as fast as possible with the little energy he had. He was shocked at the sight before him; the matching set before him framed her perfectly. He felt a rush of blood flow through his body, warming him up slowly, with a lightly blush painting his skin. She turned back around slowly, meeting his lust filled gaze. Already feeling fuzzy, Oscar grabbed her hips softly to pull her closer, desperate for close contact. He didn't say a word as she began to kiss his neck slowly as he wanted her to feel good, blissful even. Yet she was nervous, curious as to how this would work; Oscar didn't have the energy to fuck her the way she desired, the way she deserved, but that wouldn't stop him.

His hand found a home on the small of her back as he guided her back towards the bed. "As much as I want to, I can't fuck you tonight." Oscar whispered, laying down on his side of the bed with a loud sigh. She pouted at his remark as he smirked, closing his eyes. "Come here." There was a moment of silenced accompanied by hesitation, it took a while for her to register that she actually had to move towards him. He smiled up at her as she rested on the bed beside him, he was giddy despite the late hour, perhaps becoming slightly delirious. Oscar head the quiet pads of her feet against the floor and smiled, he got truly excited when he felt the bed dip slightly. "Be good...And straddle me." She was originally sat there peacefully, knees together, waiting for an instruction, so she was keen when she heard Oscar's voice.

With her knees around Oscar's hip, she smiled, endorphins running through her body. "No, no, Baby, I need one of your legs to be between mine." His voice had dropped an octave and likely some volume, not quite a whisper. She was confused to begin with, expecting to ride him. "Straddle my thigh, that's it." She listened carefully to every word, focusing on every syllable. She pushed her cunt against his thick thigh, enjoying the pressure. Oscar's hands quickly, made way to her hips, grasping lightly. "Now, I need you to slowly rock your hips for me." She did so in awe, moving slowly, feeling pressure build up in her lower abdomen. Rocking back and forth was easy, getting the right pressure and speed was difficult; She placed a hand on his chest, needing support. "That's it, Good girl." Oscar's grip harshened, he pushed and pulled on her hips, helping her grind faster and harder, heightening her pleasure. "Please, Oscar, need you." Her mind was too full, all full of Oscar and how he feels.

His thigh was covered in her, soaked in her wetness. Her whines quickly became moans as he edged her on, sucking lightly at her neck. Oscar could feel her cunt twitching with every movement. "So good for me, cum, cum for me Love." Her eyes were closed as her head dropped back, Oscar smiled at her legs shaking, struggling to keep her body up right. She collapsed on his chest, seeing stars while giving raged breaths. Oscar's hands began to draw shapes onto her skin as he hugged her close, pulling the blanket over their bodies he spoke, "I'm wide awake now"

#oscar piastri x reader smut #oscar piastri 81 #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastry #oscar pistachio #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #f1 x reader #f1 smut #f1 x reader smut #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic

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verysium · 11 months ago

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PLEASE DO BLUE LOCK ICKS IM BEGGING🙏😭🌹

😏 coming right up anon. gonna channel my inner critic and not hold back on any of these.

RIN

brother complex. not much else to say except that he needs to get a life. not everything is about metaphorically crushing your older brother's dreams and brooding in the dark hate of retribution.

competitive but only because he is a desperate whore for external validation. ignores everyone but craves the attention of a sole person named sae itoshi. was defeated by isagi once and has never let go of it since. has a one-track mind that is impossible to derail. stubborn when he wants to be.

probably a virgin and will continue to be one until his late 30s.

has not known a single day of peace ever since sae ditched him for the popular girlies. as a result, he has developed a very concerning case of social awkwardness. his idea of a conversation involves a brick wall and thirty minutes of you staring at his resting bitch face. constantly looks like that one grumpy cat meme. judges you for your poor decisions but then gets aggressively defensive when you point out his own mistakes.

reeks of so much teen angst that even metallica can't save him. the problem is that he has nothing to back up his emo persona. his insults lack creativity and, unfortunately for him, phrases like "lukewarm" and "half-baked" and "hell" do not make his words carry more weight. uses the f-word but in the most embarrassing context that it makes you facepalm and internally cringe.

SAE

zero social awareness. this boy's head is empty. the lights are not on up there. there are no picture frames or furniture. the curtains are drawn, and there is not a sliver of clouds or sunshine. cannot read body language and does not know what a filter is.

the source of all of rin's stress. he is the original trauma projector, creator of generational cycles. not even subtle about it. "turns out i was wrong. i thought japan was incapable of ever giving birth to decent forwards." sir....with the way you worded that, you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave rin false hope.

swears but it's even worse than his brother. literally called his elders a "fatso and bob cut duo" and "insect turd." i mean....there is a line between what is considered a legitimate burn and what is a first grader making up insults in his coloring book.

has a horrible haircut and no fashion taste. i already talked about this previously, but it was so bad it deserved a second mention.

a freak but tries to justify it rationally. like what do you mean you can tell a person's athletic ability from their buttock size? just admit you have a kinky fetish already.

somewhat of a coward but i'm gonna give him some leniency due to his tragic child genius backstory. tbh he's just an eighteen-year-old boy who needs a goddamn break.

KAISER

alexa please play clown music. this man sets himself for failure and then wallows in self-pity when he actually fails. like what did you expect? you knew what was going to happen the moment you challenged isagi like that. it was most definitely your fault you got violently humbled.

has a borderline god complex (currently calls himself an emperor but has not evolved into a deity yet.) unfortunately, he does not stand on business. cue the dramatic meltdowns when he realizes there is an actual gap between his ability and his reputation. if you're going to lie, at least make it believable.

insecure and mentally unstable. he probably cuts and re-dyes his hair every single time shit happens. no wonder his locks get shorter every time.

lazy when it comes to anything that is not football and expects others to do it for him. demands princess treatment wherever he goes. unfortunately, not all of us have servants with no self-respect like ness.

"it is not enough that i should succeed, others should fail" type of person.

does not wear shoes and even if he does, it's sandals. put them grippers away.

NAGI

a literal sloth who has so much potential but uses none of it. has no intrinsic motivation of his own, so if he's going to do anything, it has to be you behind the wheel, making sure he gets put to work.

does not have a close relationship with his parents, and so he has no sense of community, holidays, or traditions. no fun at all if you want him to do things like christmas shopping or birthday celebrations.

rots in bed all day and then has to nerve to ask you to carry him around. your back better be strong because his 190 cm body is not going to be light.

not loyal (need i say more.)

REO

second male lead syndrome. also known as that one popular guy who's always picked last.

acts like a victim but then when you realistically tell him to how to change his situation he refuses to do so. you cannot ask for advice and then take none of it to heart. no wonder you're still not over your ex.

"i can fix him" mentality. no, you can't. you are a seventeen-year-old child, not a licensed therapist and nagi isn't even all that.

NESS

touch-starved to the point he will stay in a toxic and abusive relationship in order to gain some scrap of affection. just because you were the black sheep of your family does not mean you can lose all sense of personal dignity.

probably stalks all the people he hates. has a burn book like regina george from mean girls. cuts out and glues little pictures of kaiser all over his bedroom. doodles hearts all over it with glittery gel pen. isagi's face and name are scratched out of every team photo.

delusional and prone to mood swings. medicated but at this point, he is beyond saving.

ISAGI

a home wrecker. has ruined more relationships than he can count on ten fingers yet still manages to smile like he's some angelic saint.

solves jigsaw puzzles for a living (not very cool if you ask me.)

has some unresolved anger management issues. probably repressed all his negative feelings when he was younger, so it all comes out when he's on the field. unfortunately, his twilight-sparkle-friendship-is-magic agenda is not going to work if he keeps cussing out his teammates like that. but then again, he is the main character, so i guess his plot armor makes up for his pitfalls.

says that he's a good guy but then holds personal vendettas against rivals he doesn't like. boy was so ready to throw hands when #kaisagi was trending on the internet. but when you actually think about, he's similar to kaiser in more ways than he'd like to admit.

BAROU

has the worst case of high and mighty "holier-than-thou" attitude. isagi put his ego in check, but it still peeks out from time to time.

he was the ugliest baby when he was born. i am not going to hold back on the child barou slander because it is true. no, he was not a cute and lovable bundle of joy. he looked like a demonic gremlin.

he needs to take more risks in life and try cross-dressing. simply imagining him in a maid uniform will not suffice. it needs to be made into a reality.

with how nit-picky he is, i doubt people can realistically stay within a 1-meter radius around him. unless you are a clean freak yourself, his constant complaints will start to get annoying after a time. even if he does have good intentions, he needs to let people have a little breathing room sometimes. a messy room is not going to kill you.

BACHIRA

this boy's brain is smooth. no folds. no gray matter. no intelligence either. his pencil and eraser have been left untouched since day one. if he wasn't crazily good at football, he would be unemployed and homeless in the future. not even a mcdonald's wants him.

one of those people who will do the literal opposite of whatever you say. you want him to stop talking? well, now he's never going to shut up. you tell him not to step on a pile of dog shit? well, now he's going to walk right into it. you want him to quit running around and act normal? well, now it's his life's mission to make you as annoyed as possible. please pray for your hair follicles because at the end of the day, you're not going to have many left with how much he makes you want to tear your hair out.

has the cerebral capacity of a toddler. if he thinks monsters are real, he's going to think anything is real. super gullible when it comes to any form of scam, ploy, or trickery. the only way he would not be fooled is if he's also played the same prank before.

SHIDOU

a brazen pervert. says the most out-of-pocket things and refuses to apologize for them. sometimes it comes out a little too sleazy for your liking.

"to me a goal is fertilization! a shot is the seed and the goal is the egg!! and the birth of that joy i call an explosion!! my genes are gonna knock you up!" let us give ourselves a moment of silence to digest this quote. only shidou ryusei would come up with a sperm and egg metaphor to describe football. (i guess protection means nothing to him.)

has no empathy. if you dislike him or cannot keep up with him, you're a literal nobody in his books. no sportsmanship. no compassion. no self-awareness.

you cannot say "balls" to him in a serious tone without him misinterpreting it as something dirty. that alone should tell you enough. stay the hell away from him.

where do men get the audacity? right here. from this little bastard. he invented the term "shameless slut." boy was getting off during the u-20 arc and on live TV too. no wonder sae said he was disgusting.

and finally, he comes from a long line of cockroaches. he's even got the antennae to prove it.

i think this might have been a little excessive, but i have no regrets about it. you're welcome anon ♡

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gangrenados · 1 year ago

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Mala sangre

Yandere!Miguel O'Hara headcanons ft. Fem!reader

@liurnia is owner of the gifs, they're not mine

•I 100% belive this man got some yandere tendencies going on. He's obsessive and determined and will not hesitate to fight for what he wants or believes (even if it means body slamming a poor guy into a train but ayways)

•Miguel it's the type of yandere who won't show his love, he's not verbal, you won't even realize his feelings till he acts on them.

•He might not be the hopeless romantic type, but he cares deeply and believes that he knows what's right for you. So yeah, Miguel doesn't really care about what you have to say.

•Is he violent towards his darling? Well, not intentionally...you see, he gets riled up easily and when he gets angry he doesn't really measures his actions.

•The only way he could potentially hurt his darling is if she tries to escape. Spider or not, Miguel would haunt you down and drag you back to him no matter the cost.

•During the chase he acts crazy, rabid. He's the predator and you're the pray; so good luck hiding cuz the thrill of the chase gets him going.

•Towards others then yes, there's not if or buts. Miguel it's aggressive towards those who harm you or try to take you away from him, he has no mercy or control with them.

•Miguel is down to kidnapping, he might keep you locked up in that techno-bubble trap or perhaps go as far to get a little warehouse for you to live in.

•Also I feel like he would go as far as web you to the bed to prevent you from even thinking about running away.

(In a nsfw take he might web you to the wall or even the ceiling to get his way with you and act on his low desires)

•Whatever the decision might be, Miguel it's going to have his eyes on you 24/7.

•Listen, he's aware that his behavior it's fucked up and all, but deep down his delusional too.

Miguel calms down his anxiety by thinking that maybe this was supposed to happen, it's the right thing to keep you close and safe.

•He has seen too much and knows that the world it's an unforgiving place where anything bad can happen at any time. Miguel doesn't want you to be at risk, he can protect you from all that, he knows he can.

•He's just doing what heroes do, it's his duty as a Spider-man.

•Sometimes, Miguel let his mind wander through all his delusions and daydream a bit.

• Is it selfish to want a peaceful life full of love? He knows he can give you a beautiful life, he can be a good lover, a good husband, a good dad.

•Being this close to finally reach happiness and get his own family makes him have a little bit of hope for the future.

•To be able to have his pretty wife and a baby. Maybe with a bit of luck he'll be able to have a daughter of his own, his Gabriella.

•Yeah, Miguel would surely try for kids. Deep inside he truly believes he can be good, that you both could have a good life

•"Esto es lo mejor para ti, trust me." Miguel repeats that phrase over and over again like a mantr, at this point he's not even sure if he's still trying to convince you or himself.

#miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara #yandere miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara imagine #atsv x reader

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gunnrblze · 4 months ago

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City Dweller, pt. 1

☾ Hesh x Reader, 2k+ words, SFW

New fic based on my little Roomate!Hesh drabble :)

Hello friends, so happy y’all liked my little drabble so much! Loved seeing the comments n feedback, I’m naturally pretty iffy about my own writing so I appreciate it a lot! Here’s this lolll :)

Santa Monica was beautifully warm. Palm trees littered around, sunshine beating down during the peak hours of the day. Only remnants of a past war, a ghost of what was. Your ‘fresh start’ as you’d been calling it felt almost…conventional, all things considered. Hallmark movie-like, the apartment you’d found yourself touring looking almost suburban, but distanced enough from what you imagine the suffocation of a cookie-cutter neighborhood would feel like.

Years after the Federation had been defeated, the world attempting some chance at peace and uniformity, you needed something new. With a decent job offer, and an already established friend living in the city, you figured it made more than enough sense.

Knocking on the door of a decently sized complex, you didn’t have nearly enough time to really zone in on your anxiety and attempt to squash it. Instead, your endeavor was halted by a large, athletically sturdy man appearing in the doorway with a warm, ice melting smile. Your eyes tracing over him instead of the 207 plastered on the door.

You didn’t know what to expect, honestly. Hell, you didn’t really have many expectations for meeting Hesh, other than the involuntary assumptions you made based on the bit of information your friend had given you. But all that information came from their friend Logan, Hesh’s brother. Considering that you’d hype up your sibling in the same scenario too, you were counting on having to gain your own footing. Going in blind to meet a man you didn’t know and touring his apartment almost felt like a poor decision. But hey, if this guy was a freak, you at least had a friend who knew where you were.

Of course, you couldn’t quite form any actual thoughts for a moment, a bit too stunned with how pretty he was.

A physique damn near sculpted from marble. A smile so gentle and welcoming it made your teeth ache. Bright green eyes that made you wonder how it was possible to have a simultaneously easy-going yet poised energy. A beard that was almost starting to border into mutton chops territory, that he somehow pulled off in your eyes.

It was no wonder your internal monologue blacked out for a moment.

He welcomed you in, introducing himself first as David, then explaining that you can call him Hesh like everyone else does. You only wondered for a moment how that nickname must’ve been born from ‘David’, before he insisted showing you around the apartment.

The apartment was nice and clean, almost verging on dull, but you weren’t too surprised after being told he was an army Lieutenant. Usually gone for work, absent more than he was present. It made sense the way the kitchen nearly looked straight out of a Home Depot display. All sharp edges and clean surfaces, new stainless steel appliances that almost made you swoon. But with enough personal touch to let you know he dwells here, at least.

It got even more convenient when he showed you down the hall toward what would be your room. You tried to breathe regularly, but something about him was both refreshing and suffocating. Your eyes swept over picture frames on the wall, both new and dated photos of him and his brother Logan. A man who he vaguely resembled, perhaps a father. A woman that looked eerily twin-like to his brother…you were starting to get the picture. He gave you a cursory peak of his own room just to acquaint you with everything, the details you caught before he shut the door again already conjuring more assumptions about him. What kind of games does he play on that setup? He must really be partial to the color green. How do you even make a bed that neat? Was that a dog bed-wait, was that an actual dog too?

You must’ve been daydreaming a bit, when his slight chuckle broke you out of the trance you’d tripped into.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know if Logan mentioned to your friend that I have a dog, Riley. Is that a problem?” He’d ask, voice smoother than whiskey, warm and heavy and settling into the few feet standing between your bodies. His tone was lacquered with kindness and welcoming, but his firm, assured nature stood next to you like a brick wall. Unwavering and almost comforting, for a stranger.

You explained that you didn’t mind, you liked dogs well enough, after all. And with the way he assured you that Riley was indeed, a very good boy, and went to work with him everyday, you suspected it wouldn’t be a problem. “You’ll hardly even know he’s here, usually stays in my room. He’s fully trained and housebroke, too” he followed up after seeing the quick mental debate you were going through. Just an extra, furrier roommate, no? Maybe a piece of info you’d like to know beforehand, but something inside you just didn’t care too much. Maybe it was how casual he acted about it. Just a dog, man’s best friend and all, you figured.

After the little German shepherd shaped surprise, he showed you to the second bedroom. Smaller than his, which you didn’t mind considering he claimed his stake a while ago, and it was just like the rest of the apartment anyways.

Perfect.

Or did he feel perfect? Did he, in this apartment, perhaps feel perfect? Were you being ridiculous, since you’d only known him for a mere 10 minutes so far? Surely a David Walker sized miracle didn’t just land in your lap like this. He’s just some guy, with a dog, and an empty bedroom.

There’s plenty of those. But you were starting to want this one.

Clean and spacious, perfect for all your belongings, you wondered how you lucked out. The light filtered into the room from the open blinds, and it all felt a bit tranquil and relaxing. Cream colored walls surrounding you, sturdy hardwood flooring that your shoes clacked on with every step. Hesh stood a reasonable distance from you the whole time, however you couldn’t help but feel as if his presence lingered closer. As if he were right on your heels, instead of being a respectable few feet away.

After showing you the rest of the apartment, the laundry area and bathroom just as seemingly spotless, you were already fantasizing about how you’d decorate your room and slowly worm your knickknacks throughout the rest of the apartment. When he asked you a bit about yourself, you almost looked unsure for a moment, caught off guard. Why you were faltering so much, you had to mentally blame on your lack of consistent human connection. Usually being holed up away from everyone else for work made you a bit of a recluse.

And how you could even begin to think about yourself when you had a large, square shouldered man leaning against the doorframe of his kitchen was beyond you. Those forest eyes narrowed in on you, and you only. Both staring a hole through you, and somehow keeping you all in one piece at the same time. His composed demeanor couldn’t possibly lack personality, though. His smile was something warm. That cup of coffee on a chilly morning, the one that you can feel blaze a trail all the way down your throat and throughout your chest upon first sip. So heedlessly friendly and hospitable, like a frosting that’s just a little too sweet. One that makes your stomach hurt a bit. But the ache is so tender, isn’t it?

You gave enough of an idea about yourself, not too much information for a stranger, but enough to hopefully warm him up to the idea of you moving in. And it seemed to help, or maybe it was that slight ‘when are you ready to move in?’ attitude he already seemed to harbor. As if he were just waiting for you to agree. Like he’d already decided it would work out the moment you stepped inside. It took you by a quiet surprise, the way he held the conversation in such a tone that he’d already made up his mind on you, and now it was simply your turn to decide how you felt. So self assured, so nonchalantly confident that it even made you want to stand up a bit straighter.

. . ・。 . ・゜ ✭ ・ ☽ ・ ✫ ・゜・。 . .

You weren’t expecting your first apartment touring to be so…immaculate, when are they ever? But you found yourself dotting your I’s and crossing your T’s on the lease paper by the end of the week, and moving your stuff in.

Not without his help, of course.

You’d insisted you could have a friend help, or call a moving company, to which you nearly watched him laugh at. The idea of paying someone money when you had him to help, seemed out of his scope of understanding. So he helped, not busy enough with work for once to assist you in moving boxes upon boxes up the stairs and into the apartment. Logan even came to help with the heavier furniture you had. You’d only briefly met him once through that mutual friend that’d recommended you as a potential roommate, and he seemed to be just as kind and friendly as his brother, only quieter. You could see clear as day how they were related, moving like a well oiled machine as they carried your bed frame up the stairs.

The two of them shared a couple looks when they naturally assumed you weren’t paying attention. But you had eyes in the back of your head while inside an apartment with two men who were technically, still strangers to you. Looks you couldn’t quite decipher, and decided to willfully ignore, lest you start jumping to conclusions and psych yourself out of this arrangement. A little smirk plastered on Logan’s face whenever he caught Hesh glancing at you. Always glancing, always looking. And you couldn’t help but notice. Your eye contact with him felt like a game, both eyeing one another and trying to pretend you really weren’t. How he managed to keep an eye and his focus on two things at once though, you just chalked up to his skills as a soldier, maybe. Because you couldn’t focus on much else whenever your eyes roamed over the back of his head, the slightly grown out brown hair that curled up around his ears, or the way his t-shirt fit across the broad expanse of his chest.

After all your things had been lugged up the stairs and into the apartment, you could take a little breather. Unpacking and really settling in would be another feat, and you wanted to start as soon as you could, despite the exhaustion from the busy day.

After thanking Logan again for helping, he left the, your, apartment. And it was odd, that this was also your apartment now. Boxes stuffed inside and name on the lease next to his. You felt like an intruder, like you couldn’t mark your territory properly since he’d done it first. Not that he felt that way, of course. It was your space now, too. Your room, your bathroom, your kitchen, your living room. Just with a man and a dog inside, too.

A man who seemed to have been harboring a spot in your thoughts since you met him a few days ago. Always on the back burner, always bouncing around like the ball in a pinball machine. That charming cadence in his voice, his little grin that seared itself into your brain. What was it about him? You didn’t know. You didn’t really want to know. He was your roommate now, you couldn’t have yourself swooning for a man who was simply kind and respectful towards you.

But now you were alone with him. And it almost didn’t even feel odd. Being alone with a man in a new city, a new apartment, would normally put anybody at least a little on edge. But he made it more delightful and pleasant than you thought he’d really even attempt to try. Was he even trying? Or did he just have the energy of a snake charmer?

It was difficult to tell, since he didn’t at all seem to regard you as a snake. No, he looked at you like you were the finest wine. Something he sought to cradle in his large hands, careful not to squeeze too tightly incase you decide to hightail it. He was charming and respectful and sweet but it felt heavy. He tried to be casual, or maybe he just was, and it worked, but his near reverence for you slipped from the cracks, and it sparked up something light and fuzzy in the bottom of your chest.

Maybe you were both being a little silly. Perhaps he didn’t get much personal social interaction outside of his own working hours either. Maybe that’s why the apartment felt both calm yet cramped with both of you inside now. You’d only known him for a handful of days so far, but he made it feel as if it were longer.

All you could do for a moment was sit on the edge of your unmade bed, and take a deep breath. You had mountains of boxes and emotions to unpack, one of which you decided to close the lid on for now.

#david hesh walker #call of duty ghosts #cod ghosts #call of duty #cod #hesh walker #cod hesh #hesh walker x reader #hesh hivemind🍯#call of duty ghosts fic #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty fanfic #gunnrblze rambles #gunnrblze writes

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fruitcoops · 1 year ago

Text

Dial Drunk

Fic O'Ween Day 1, for the prompt 'First Frost'! Many thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing and @lumosinlove for the best characters <3 Have some baby Sirius and James causing Dumo heart failure for your Thursday!

TW drunkenness (silly fun, not angsty)

Pascal enjoyed 20 minutes of a PG-13 movie (the first in three months) before stumbling, out-of-sync footsteps outside his house interrupted his peace. He should have known better than to think a quiet night in would live up to its name.

“Come on, man, work with me—”

“Shh.”

The kids were in bed. Why couldn’t that be enough?

“No, no, why can’t we just go back to your house?”

“Because—”

They had been gems this evening. Dinner passed without a fuss; a FaceTime with their mother riveted them more than a TV show, for once.

“James…”

“Don’t whine at me, god. Can I have my arm back?”

Pascal cursed softly to himself as he rummaged the remote from the couch cushions and paused the movie. Rustling became a scuffle—he opened the door just as the bell rang through the house.

James Potter stared at him, then broke into a broad grin. “Dumo! Hi!”

“Did you read the sign?”

James’ eyes flickered over the doorframe. Pascal got to watch him read the Please Do Not Ring Bell—Infant Inside! in real time. His smile slipped into more of a grimace. “…shit. My bad.”

“Bonjour,” Sirius mumbled blearily, listing into James’ side. “Ça va?”

Pascal sighed. He had been hoping someone on the team would keep an eye on those two. Parties were all well and good until the dynamic duo of poor decision-making was left to their own devices.

“We had fun,” James offered by way of explanation. Sirius’ hiccup jostled them both. “Maybe—maybe a little too much fun.”

“Got kissed on the cheek,” Sirius said with an enthusiastic nod.

The lipstick print on his face was glittery in the porchlight. “Congratulations.”

“Merci.”

Christ above. “Pots.”

James had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know.”

“Are you serious?”

“Non, c’est moi,” Sirius snorted, swaying toward the potted plant at the edge of the stairs. They both reached for him at once; Sirius made a noise of surprise, but was pliable as putty when James coaxed him back out of the danger zone. The sharp tang of alcohol and at least three different perfumes spilled off him in waves. Sirius was doe-eyed when he bent to rest his head on James’ shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

Pascal arched a brow; James gave Sirius a guilty pat on the back. “Any time, buddy.”

“Are you sure we can’t go back to your house instead?”

“Mhmm.”

Sirius huffed in disappointment. “Why?”

“Because my guest room isn’t unpacked.”

“Can sleep on the couch. Or the floor.”

“Lily’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

Sirius’ groan cracked as he pushed his face into James’ shoulder. “Just put me in the backyard.”

“One of us will turn the hose on you.”

Pascal shook his head and reached out. “Allez, mon fils, let’s get you—"

“You’re so mean,” Sirius complained, still fixated on James. “I don’t want to go home. Dumo’s going to be upset.”

James’ gaze darted to him for a beat. “Pads, no, it’ll be fine.”

“Non.”

Pascal’s stomach sank. “I’m not upset,” he tried, gentling his voice.

But Sirius just nodded. “Yes, he is.”

“Hey.” Pascal prodded his arm. “Hey, petit chou.”

“Don’t like cabbage. Crunchy.”

Pascal exchanged a look with James and fought an eye roll. Without initial surprise clouding his vision, James was clearly only more sober by a slim margin. His glasses seemed determined to balance on the very end of his nose, despite repeated attempts to push them up again. His sneakers shuffled sheepishly on the doormat.

“Just tell me you didn’t drive.”

“I don’t have a car,” Sirius said brightly.

James gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Fuck no, we took an Uber. Are you crazy?”

“Are you drunk?” Pascal countered. Sirius barked a laugh; James’ already-flushed cheeks darkened. A once-over revealed little he didn’t already know, only a comfort in the sense that they both seemed hale and whole regardless of their wobbling.

Oh, to be twenty again.

Pascal inclined his head toward the house and stood aside. “In. Don’t wake the kids.”

An attempt to fit through the door at the same time was admirable, but doomed, as they soon realized after a few seconds of fumbling. James eventually squeezed past with Sirius trotting close behind. Something about it struck Pascal as a particular poetic irony.

“Where’d you end up?”

“Place on sixth.” James’ hands were clumsy on his shoelaces. Sirius observed him for a moment, then kicked his own shoes into the closet still tied.

“Was it fun?”

“Mhmm. Hopping tonight.”

“We left early,” Sirius chimed in. “James said I needed to go home.”

“He’s smart. You should listen to him more.” Listen to me more, he added in his mind as he guided James’ jacket off his flailing arm and nudged Sirius’ phone away from the precarious table edge. Despite their clumsiness, their clear efforts to stay quiet did not go unnoticed. It was a common courtesy that some of the rowdier boys tended to forget.

“D’you want me to—”

“Guest room,” Pascal interrupted, tilting his chin down the hall. “Bathroom’s yours. Advil in the top drawer.”

James took a breath, then paused. “Does it have one of those kid-lock things?”

“Yes.”

He whistled through his teeth. A reluctant nod followed. “Kay. I can handle that.”

“Lame if you couldn’t,” Sirius mumbled.

“Like you’d do better.”

His lazy grin became offense in half a second; his back stiffened under Pascal’s palm. “I could—”

“Quiet,” Pascal reminded him.

“I could,” Sirius repeated in a harsh whisper, jabbing his finger toward James. “And you know it.��

James raised his hands in mocking surrender before raking one through his hair. His glasses had wandered down his nose again, and he gave Pascal a drowsy blink. “I’ll be out by, like, nine tomorrow. Lily’s coming over at eleven, so…y’know. Gotta clean my kitchen ‘n shit.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” was Pascal’s response of choice. He was fairly sure noting the late (or rather, early) hour was a poor course of action if he wanted James Potter asleep in the next five minutes.

James squinted at the floor for a few more seconds. “Fuck, I gotta wash my sheets.”

“Go to bed, James.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Pascal propped Sirius up on his shoulder as he watched James go. There was a hole in the heel of his sock that was only going to get bigger. James probably wouldn’t throw the thing out until it literally fell off his foot. Maybe it was a good thing Lily was visiting—she always shook some sense into him.

“Dumo.”

Pacal’s stomach swooped. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No,” Sirius snorted, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothin’.” Sirius wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out for a weak raspberry. “English tastes gross. Makes my head hurt. Regulus doesn’t like it, either. Mine is a lot better since because I was here but he’s pratiss—practick—pratique. In school. See? Dumb language.”

“You’re doing a very good job.”

Sirius beamed at him. “Really?”

“Ouais. Much better than I did.”

“Yours is a lot better than mine, though.”

Pacal was glad he didn’t protest the subtle guidance toward the basement stairs, if he noticed at all. “Well,” he began, grunting slightly at the weight imbalance on the first step. “I’ve been in the league for nearly twenty years. You’ll pick it up.”

“I wanna play hockey forever,” Sirius sighed.

“Give it your best, and you’ll do great things.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgment, though he seemed a little too focused on holding the railing for Pascal to believe it. They edged their way down two more steps before he glanced up again with an astonished look on his face. “You’ve been in the league as long as I’ve been alive?”

Holy Jesus fucking Christ. His tongue went dry and stiff as leather. “I guess I—” Pascal tipped his head toward the ceiling and let a breath siphon through his nose. He should’ve taken James up on the backyard offer. A spray-down with the hose would do Sirius some good. “I hadn’t, ah. Thought about that. Merci.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Isn’t it just?” Perhaps if he asked nicely, Sirius would kick him down the stairs. It would be kinder. He might even hit his head hard enough to forget the entire evening. Where was the shy boy covered in winter’s first frost when Pascal needed him, anyway?

He winced at the thought. As accidentally-devastating as Sirius was with alcohol coursing through his veins instead of common sense, he couldn’t make himself wish for the opposite. They had only just managed to get his shell open; James better than anyone. There really wasn’t a world where he would trade this newfound vibrancy for anything, but—

His lower back panged when Sirius lurched toward his bed. “Woah.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius muttered. “Tired.”

“Je sais.” Pascal shook his head against the glimmers of pain in his vision and made a mental note to ask Remus about that during their next session. “Pajamas, water, then bed.”

“But—”

“Pajamas, water, bed,” he repeated firmly. “Or skip the pajamas. I don’t care.”

Sirius frowned down at himself, scratching at his cheek. Glossy sparkles spread into an amorphous blob. Exasperation pressed against the inside of Pascal’s ribs; he sat Sirius on the edge of his desk and dampened a washcloth in the bathroom, then returned to his side. “Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Your cheek.”

Dark brows knit. “Not hurt.”

“Just—hold on.”

Sirius was flinching back before the cloth even got close. “Hey, hey, non.”

“You’ve got—”

A forceful push to his wrist made him pause. “Non.”

Pascal blinked. “There’s something on your cheek,” he tried. Sirius watched him with strange, alert suspicion. He held both hands palm-up between them and bit the inside of his lip against the urge to reach again. “Here.”

Silver eyes flickered back and forth in the low lamplight, towel to Pascal to towel to Pascal. Sirius shifted on his perch and took the cloth hesitantly. The rigidity of his torso eased once the gloss-print was gone under a few harsh scrubs, and Pascal took it back without issue.

“I’m not upset with you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not upset.” He watched Sirius take two large gulps of water from the bottle on his desk before flopping back on the bed. “I’m just glad you two got home safe.”

Sirius made a faint noise of agreement while he made himself comfortable, tugging at the sheets with little regard for their proper direction. A leg and most of his shoulders stuck out when he finally gave up and pushed the side of his face into the pillow. Pascal tucked the blanket around him on instinct; his heart tugged at the long, contented exhale that followed. “James is so nice to me.”

“He’s your friend.”

“So nice,” Sirius mumbled, almost to himself. His eyes were already half-shut. “Dumo?”

“Ouais?”

“Is James going to play hockey with me forever?”

“Ah.” Of all the questions you could ask. “I think you two do well together on the ice, so there’s no reason to split you up.”

Sirius tucked his knees up beneath the covers and shoved an arm under his pillow. “I don’t want to play hockey forever if James isn’t there.”

Pascal sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms across his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since he last checked his blindspot on the ice. There was no need—not while Sergei was there. They had talked about the end, of course, and the after. It went unspoken that they’d probably leave together. Too many jokes about PTA duels would be wasted if they didn’t.

How many nights had they dragged each other home, stumbling and giggling? They had walked nearly four miles the night they won the Cup in Colorado, those glorious quiet hours between being shooed home and when the taxis would answer their phones. Pascal couldn’t recall the last time he had fallen over the welcome mat with Sergei on his heels, instead of being the one holding the door open.

“Sirius?”

“Mhmm.”

“James will stay with you.” There was nobody Pascal would rather have at Sirius’ back, when he thought about it. Not even himself. “If you decide you want to play hockey forever, he will be the first person to sign up with you.”

“You’re not—” A yawn interrupted him, wide enough to make him scrunch his face. “—upset that we were loud?”

“Non. Promise.”

“Merci.” The sheets twisted in Sirius’ fist as he brought them close to his body. His mere twenty years made him look small without a frown and a ‘C’.

“Bonne nuit, mon fils.”

An incoherent mumble was all the answer he received, and more than he expected. He turned the lamp off with a gentle click, leaving Sirius to sink into heavy, even breaths.

New Message To: Vans

Pots and Black home safe

Lunch tomorrow @ usual. Kids included.

I’m buying. No protests.

New Message From: Vans

Why are you awake

New Message To: Vans

Lunch. Usual. Kids included.

If you bring your wallet I will kick your ass.

New Message From: Vans

Vans laughed at your message

:thumbs-up_emoji:

Can’t wait.

#pascal dumais #sirius black #james potter #sergei ivanov #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #fic o’ween 2023 #first frost #rookie sirius #fluff #drunkenness

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room027 · 5 months ago

Text

It's All So Incredibly Loud (Mayor Damien/ Actor Mark)

a/n : hiya! this is my first time posting a fic on tumblr please be nice, im experimenting with my writing style a lil so apologies if this is a lil weird to read :3 enjoy!!

Content Warnings: - Depictions of strangulation - Murder - Descriptions of a corpse

The aftermath of Damien's death, where all Mark can do is cradle his body and drown in regret.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words Mark never thought he’d have to say again had begun to spill from between his lips like a waterfall, repeating over and over in soothing whispers until they’d completely lost their meaning.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Mark looked down at his friend’s limp body. Without the blood and bruises around his neck, and without the sickeningly pale tone of his skin, it would be easy to imagine that he was just resting against the Manor’s wall – sleeping soundly and peacefully. His dark, long hair was damp with sweat and rested lightly on his calm face. He remembered how Damien used to sweep away any loose strands of hair that found their way onto his face. He’d complain about how he despised the claustrophobic feeling of it, yet refused to even consider cutting it short. It was that kind of stubbornness and persistence that, if it had remained, might’ve saved him from ending up the way that he did. But who knows? Mark was stubborn and persistent, and look where that got him— alone, kneeling over his best friend’s corpse.

Mark’s trembling hands found their way to Damien’s cheek, which had begun to lose its signature warmth and rosy tint. He let his fingers trace over every little freckle under Damien’s closed eyes, over all the little scars he had from playing too rough when he was little, over his pursed and soft lips. His thumb stopped at the end of Damien’s mouth, gently trying to push the corners into forming a smile. It ended up looking almost uncanny – lacking everything about Damien’s familiar sweet smile except its vague shape.

Looking at his misshapen curled lips that were being held up by the thumbs of an equally misshapen man, Mark felt a twisted and painful version of the warmth that Damien’s smile once gave him, nothing but the aftertaste of the joy it once held. The very sight made Mark’s stomach turn even more than it already had. As the disgusting and unfamiliar feeling of what he can only assume to be guilt began to set in, Mark pulled his hands off Damien’s face, and back was the peaceful, distant looking frown that came with his sleep.

Guilt. What an odd feeling. The human mind can feel grief over its own poor decision making, feel regret and responsibility at actions it chose to take — sometimes knowing how they would inevitably end.

And Mark didn’t know guilt very well. Guilt was more a white noise in the back of his head, ringing endlessly so much so that he’d learned to tune it out. Guilt was a distant friend that he only spoke to when he needed something, or when it needed something from him. Never, not even while he had his hands around Damien’s throat, did he expect this moment to be the time his conscience caught up to him.

Despite the fact Mark was not well-acquainted with guilt, one thing set it apart from the plethora of negative emotions he could’ve pinpointed at that moment. One singular thought that consumed his mind, body, soul and voice.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

It was hitting like bullets, a shot through the heart every time those futile apologies left his mouth. Damien is dead. He is dead. He is dead, his soul is stuck in the horrible void Mark had learned to call home, and he is not coming back. Damien is dead. He is dead, and by Mark’s hands.

And now it was those same hands that Mark put on the corpse’s cold back, gently massaging the points he knew Damien was the most tense – as if clearing his stiffening muscles of their tension would bring him right back to life, as if his muscle ache was the only thing keeping him on the ground.

Mark’s slender fingers found their way to Damien’s neck, placing his fingertips on the deep purple bruises that he’d left just minutes ago. He stopped, reliving the memory.

Despite the dreadful consequences, Mark would’ve been lying if he said that strangling Damien wasn’t exciting. Mark knew what it was like to feel a rush of adrenaline at committing violence, but this was something deeper. Feeling the last breath slip out of Damien’s throat in his hands was borderline euphoric. He recalled the way Damien croaked out his last few breaths; the way his futile little gasps for air gave up on him little by little. He felt the tips of his fingers push into Damien’s neck in remembrance.

There was gasping, choking, then silence. Pure and utter silence, even from the horrible voices that plagued his mind. The hauntings and time itself paused after his friend’s last little choke, giving the dutiful Mayor his well-deserved moment of silence. But the silence was deafening. Disapproving. The voices being quiet felt more like a mother’s punishment than a moment of peace, as if the universe was crossing its arms and saying: Now look what you’ve done.

Silence. Between the two of them, not one breath was taken.

Moving a little bit closer, Mark wrapped his arms around Damien and cradled his body just like he used to when they were young and in love. He stared at Damien’s unmoving pout and began to speak in a low, hoarse whisper.

“Shhh… It’s going to be okay.” He spoke to nobody and began to rock the corpse back and forth, as if comforting a lost child. “I’m sorry this had to happen, I’m so sorry…”

Mark slowly shut his eyes, grasping as much as he could onto an escape he could never get. “...I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I…”

He forced a deep breath before slowly lowering his head and planting a soft kiss on Damien’s lips – a last-ditch effort to wake his sleeping beauty from his rest.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

#marmien #canon compliant missing scene #actor mark #damien the mayor #damien wkm #wkm #who killed markiplier headcanons #how do i tag this help help\

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shovson · 3 months ago

Note

🔥 how do u feel about Logan Sargeant

uh oh

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion. (bonus points for a topic)

Okay. Gotta just say. Obviously some of the treatment Logan has gotten....been kiiinnndddaaa questionable. Even beyond the nuanced explanations about Australia this year and also all the rumours and speculation about everything within that team. I'm sure there's a lot that goes behind the decisions of JV but from an outside perspective....the emotional intelligence isn't really there. The fact I needed someone else to show me the James quote after the Carlos signing of him saying it was awesome of Logan to be on the team etc. etc...you know doesn't bode well. I feel like everyone has really said everything that needs to be said: really unfair treatment, thrust in too early into an F1 seat, etc. etc.

That being said. I cannot stand this woobification babygirlification he's just a sad puppy losing dog stuff any longer. Annoying as fuck. I feel there's kind of always been this narrative around him of his isolation which is just...I don't know man. I really have so much feelings about it I'm losing my mind a little but I never really understood this. There are so many other drivers with the same "foreign place, had to move and migrate to push my F1 career." Doesn't make it right. But I can't imagine being let's say Zhou or Checo in a similar situation.

Also there is (was, I guess now he's got a foot out the door) so much to talk about with the fact I've seen people try to co-opt social justice language to make him seem like his treatment is worse than it is is pissing me the hell off. Man oh, man.

In terms of fandom/fan reception, OBVIOUSLY can't control fans yk etc. etc. BUT i do think it does affect my perception of drivers sometimes. NGL I haven't looked in the James Vowles tag in so fucking long bc everyone thinks I want to read the haterism about JV and how he's mistreating Logie and how he should get his revenge on that middle aged man. And beyond that, I don't think the Alex heads who have probably more of a community around them don't want to fucking see the shit talking about their guy and would rather live in peace too (not to mention...wtf did alex do to deserve that huh? why are u in that space?). People can say this is just a general community thing but also...yeah I mean fucking seeing the same guy in the wrong fucking tag would make me insane too. Especially when ppl r like "look at how logan OWNS and alex is LAME AS FUCK -> #alex albon".

In my complex nuanced mind, I think it's easy to bring up the European treatment (loose) of American Racing (loose) as lame, lacking history or interest, basically dirty poor ppl shit. I think this is also part of why people are so protective about Logan. And while I do think this is such an ignorant take on Racing in the US (and America's presence in F1 period), I think ppl are really using this to dismiss the amount of privilege Logan has.

My ass getting tired you know I've ranted about this in DMs and also voice call but like...Logan got a chance. I hate that it didn't work out. But also, you know how many people don't get a chance? That's just the reality of the sport. And it sucks balls.

#asks #i didnt get everythang #tbh this is nonsense #oh well *posts*#tthank uuuu

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sawpaingsheadband · 4 months ago

Text

And sometimes inspiration directs your energy on a specific Pathetic Wet Cat of a Man.

There. There you go. Canon Divergent AU where Xia Ji gets his life together and finds a purpose by training hard in Seki's dojo.

I just felt like it.

Hope you enjoy.

Teen and up for foul language.

AO3 LINK

Katahara Retsudo has visited once again the prisoner - supposedly a big shot, supposedly the head of the South-eastern branch of the Worm, but all he is feeling now is disappointment.

This guy was beaten by Narushima Koga nonetheless, and whilst Retsudo recognizes that the boy is strong, that should have been a harder task.

He is even unsure whether this man is going to be helpful at all.

Katahara Retsudo lets out a sigh, exhaling out the smoke of the sigarette he is smoking.

And then he hears footsteps and it is none other than Tokita Ohma. The latter just leans against the wall, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and looks straight at the cell where Xia Ji is being held captive and in wait for a judgement of some sort.

"Still nothing from this guy?" Ohma asks in a calm and nearly apathetic tone. Retsudo replies in matching tone.

"Nothing. Zero."

Silence falls again, if not for the deranged mutterings from Xia Ji.

Retsudo adds, moments later. "Are you here for any reason?"

Ohma doesn't beat around the bush. "I have an idea."

"A good one?"

"An idea. Not necessarily a good one."

"Tokita, I trust your judgement, but I reserve the right to say no."

Ohma laughs lightly, then approaches the cell and Xia Ji.

"Hey."

Xia Ji doesn't wait - he has now eyes filled with rage, the cell barely containing him now. "What, have you come to do your little dance? Have you come to mock me, just like everyone else has done? What the fuck do you want now?"

Ohma is unfazed. "I am here to propose something. Or better, to Let Yamashita Kazuo propose something to you."

Xia Ji is taken aback. He looks at Ohma and then at Retsudo as if they both just grew another head. In that moment Yamashita Kazuo steps in, a little uncertain on his steps, but he is there.

And Xia Ji widens his eyes. "YOU! I tried to KILL you. If I had done that I WOULD BE THE HEAD OF THE WORM, I WOULD BE WHERE I AM SUPPOSED TO BE, you-"

Retsudo cuts him off with a quick elbow in his stomach. "Looks like no one taught you manners."

Yamashita Kazuo shakes a little bit. "Now, now, we are here for something relatively peaceful."

Xia Ji shots him a glare so evil that if glares could kill Yamashita would be already dead in a pool of his own blood.

Somehow the middle-aged man presses on.

"Xia Ji is your name, right? I may have a good proposition for you, if you would like to listen to me."

Xia Ji looks at him like a snake ready to bite. The other keeps talking. "I believe it would be beneficial to you if you started being trained as a Kengan fighter. Of course I still need to figure out more details, and also I would like to speak to Nogi-san and Katahara-san before making a decision, but I wanted to hear your opinion in the matter."

And Xia Ji is once again taken aback.

The gall.

The nerve.

The audacity.

How much further are these people going to humiliate him? As if he had not been humiliated enough? He so wants to cut off every single one of their heads.

"H-how dare you MAGGOTS? I should be the one forcing you to stand down! I should have had everything! I had power, I had an army, I had EVERYTHING and now BECAUSE OF YOU I HAVE NOTHING!"

He yells and he feels out of breath, the wounds have not yet healed fully and they hurt, but in that moment he is just. So angry.

"And to add to this, WHAT IS YOUR PRIZE, you Kengan FUCKERS?"

Retsudo may have caught on what Yamashita is proposing.

He steps closer to the cell and speak. "Hey. Listen here, you small hurt beast. How can you possibly do ANYTHING when you lack your own pride and your own depth? Can you even call yourself an enemy? Maybe being with other fighters will give you some sort of pride and depth, you poor excuse of a cartoonish villain."

And Xia Ji is silent, his head lowered down, as if thinking, as if weighting the pros and cons of this offer.

What could the Kengan association possibly gain by making him a Kengan fighter?

Could it be so that he can destroy them from the inside? This would mean that he would have an even easier time getting back what he wants.

He could even have a rematch against the wretched brat who beat him and also against the two bloody dipshits who beat him to a pulp in the arena.

To him it's a no-brainer.

"Fine. I accept. I am gonna kill everyone anyway."

And a few weeks later Xia Ji, healed and with clean clothes, is brought to Sekibayashi Jun's Super Pro-Wrestling Japan dojo.

Xia Ji is fuming.

The nerve, the gall, the audacity, etcetera.

He is greeted by none other than Sekibayashi Jun - h has been explained the situation, he knows he is gonna train a potentially dangerous assassin, he would not have agreed with this if not for very good reasons.

And as soon as Xia Ji is introduced in the dojo everyone is silent - of course everyone knows who is Xia Ji. The latter is pissed.

Sekibayashi does not waste time. "So, who wants to give us a show? Anyone offering to fight this guy?"

No one moves.

"Come on, do I need to do everything myself?"

"Are you sure he's okay?" Someone chimes in and Sekibayashi lifts a steel chair and hurdles it on the ring. "The brat beat him to a pulp, do you think so? Now which one of you cowards is gonna take this guy down?"

Xia Ji can't hold back. "AND why do you assume I am gonna be the one defeated?"

Sekibayashi grins. "Oh, did I hit a nerve, bitch boy? Then go on that ring and demonstrate your strength to us!"

Xia Ji just steps into the ring - everyone is going to pay.

The gall. the nerve, the audacity, etcetera.

And Josè "El Ninja" Kanzaki steps into the ring. "Come on, Mr. Assassin, let me see what you are made of!"

And the fight is brief, but intense. And it results with the utter and complete defeat of Xia Ji.

And he can't understand why, as Josè is hailed as the victor of the match. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. He points at Josè. "I-I don't understand! I am stronger than you! I have Superman Syndrome! I have experience! I am the most fearsome man-"

Josè cuts him off. "Well. You are not special, Wakatsuki Takeshi also has Superman Syndrome. I have seen him punch stuff."

That is Sekibayashi's cue to step in. He leans against the ring, next to Xia Ji. "See, Mr. Dangerous Man, this is the first lesson in pro-wrestling. When you take a hit, you take it head on and give it back with double strength. The first rule is: stop bitching and get to work. You wanna be someone, have something? Then work for it and demonstrate that you will get that."

Xia Ji looks at him dumbfounded. Sekibayashi keeps talking. "As you are now, you are just a pathetic rat lacking pride and self-respect."

"Careful, Mr. Pro-Wrestler, I-"

"You have just been beaten by my student. Do you want to mope a bit more or do you want to start working on those indian squats?"

And now Xia Ji, speechless and still dumbfounded, starts getting the whole plan - he should have thought about it.

"Do you pity me?"

"Pity is for the cowards. I raise up fighters."

Xia Ji doesn't want to admit it, but the man called Sekibayashi Jun is right, to an extent. Maybe he has lived too comfortably for too long. Maybe his dragon fangs and claws have been dulled by a life spent mostly delegating.

And before the Kengan association, he has to get back at Xia Yan for stealing his thunder, and to the "Connector" for mocking and ignoring him.

Maybe he needs to find his own pride and maybe he can understand some of it by staying in this place he doesn't like.

And so he starts working on those squats like his life depended on it.

He does hear Sekibayashi shout. "Looks like the new guy is starting to get it! Hey, new guy, from now on you eat with us and train with us! I'll make a grand fighter out of you!"

Sure, Xia Ji thinks, sure, let's see your face when I defeat you all!

Little does he know that his thoughts will be bound to change a lot from now on.

#kengan ashura #kengan omega #kenganverse #xia ji #sekibayashi jun #yamashita kazuo #katahara retsudo #tokita ohma #jose kanzaki

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slocumjoe · 2 years ago

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Actually, I'll take a moment to describe what my image of Gage is, as someone who has never played Nuka World and can't (poor), and hasn't dug through all of his in-game lines (time consuming)

My 'fix' of Gage was exclusive nuka-world (I think that was their user) and another tumblr user who posted Gage specific reacts. Nuka-world was the Preston stan who had Tracy, pretty popular artist. You've definitely seens remnants of their work, but they deleted i believe. They portrayed Gage as, like, a weird, lemme teach you crime kind of uncle/older brother who liked lizards and simple mischievous pleasures.

The other tumblr who I do not remember the name of portrayed him as this...very nuanced individual, full of contradictions that he justified to himself? So, that Gage was closer to Canon Gage, from what I can tell, but he was written to very clearly not belong with raiders.

That Gage had good people in his life, growing up, that taught him strict morals; some of which he kept. He held doors open for women, he hated raiders as much as he thought that way of life was the only viable one, he was loyal to those who earned his respect and trust. He wasn't a good guy, but he could have been. If you scraped off the raider shit, underneath that jaded exterior was just a normal guy.

So, my interpretation of Gage is a somewhat weird, off-kilter, but no-bullshit man who didn't want to be doing what he was doing deep down, but was never shown a different way to survive, and even if it meant being the problem, he refused to sit and let himself be a victim. If he had a choice between problem, victim, and solution, he'd have picked solution. But he never saw that choice. And maybe if there was a choice like that, presented to him now, and that choice had some real spine to it, he very well would still choose different.

Now, that's almost certainly OOC. But that was still a character I liked; it reminds me of many people I know IRL. Not people I'd call good, because they've made questionable decisions and have odd views of the world. But they aren't bad either, because they have heart and try to do their best with what they have, which is little. This version of Gage isn't a good person, or a bad one. He's just a person.

More specifically, the way I always described him, mentally, is that he's "a wolf trying to become a sheep so the sheep stop headbutting him."

So, my Gage doesn't care for any raider shit. He's concerned about hygiene, he has tastes for the finer things in life that you can't brute force, he wants to do his own thing and be left alone, and doesn't necessarily want to bother anyone else. My Gage thinks economics are important, understands politics, supply and demand, the benefits of raider life VS the life of peaceful communities working together. He just sees that the raider way comes on top.

The way it would play out in my Sole's story, if she ever went to Nuka World, is she'd fuck with him, and force him to make that choice again.

Isadora would go in, kill Colter, talk to Gage, and realize: Oh. This guy doesn't belong here. This guy doesn't want to be here at all, really. He wants something this life cannot provide and couldn't sustain, because it opposes it on a fundamental level. But my Minutemen and my cities, they could. But he won't come willingly.

So she kills Colter, and tells Gage: I am going to come back with my army, and do whatever I have to do to save the people you are oppressing. I have the ability to do this as a weekend vacation; my men outnumber yours 20 to 1, and they don't share my compassion and understanding for your kind. But I can see that you are not like 'your kind.' I will give you the chance to unite and prepare for a siege, or to leave Nuka World and come back with me, as one of my personal unit.

And Isadora walks while Gage laughs her out of the room. He hates that he's left as Overboss, now, but that's his only worry. Farmers with guns? Pfft.

Then he starts hearing talk of the Minutemen, the first bit being "one of our guys spied on one of their bases and they have a lot of sentry bots."

"...how many?"

"He cant count past ten, since that's all the fingers he has."

Because Isadora is a robots expert. She makes robots. She did this for a living before the bombs. 1 sentry bot? Bad. 2? Fucking bad. Three? Nope, you're dead. 4? 5? 10? More? Overboss Gage is worried about the bots, but they can outsmart them, use mines, maybe get an EMP thing going...the farmers will drop like flies then.

"Farmers? No, we're hearing its a military."

"Pfft, a military."

"They have trucks and shit. Tanks. Vertibirds."

"...w-well, those sure do explode nicely...which they will..."

"They're all wearing combat armor and are armed with guns that make our pipe shit look like kids toys"

"...fine. We'll partner with local raiders and take them out as one unified force"

"They killed all local raiders. There are no raiders over there."

"Fucking what."

"There isn't even merc groups anymore because the Minutemen deal with everything"

"Fuck sake. Okay. Well their economy and whatever has to be shit"

"They have no poor people, no rich, no one goes hungry, everyone is clothed, and has access to Healthcare and education. They're having a lot of kids and people get old there. Some people are writing books and music and stuff. Making art again."

It takes maybe a few people reporting back with info before Gage realizes who has plot armor and who doesn't. And Gage, as much as he hates everything that is happening, wants to be an essential NPC. He gets the gangs together, tells them they're fucked if they don't do this right, and they kinda just blow raspberries at him.

Gage is at the Castle doorstep cussing out Isadora's name within a week, and he's the newest adopted adult within a few days.

He fucking hates Isadora and she just kinda treats him like an aggressive purse dog. "Oh, don't mind Gage, he doesn't bite!" (GAGE SNARLING AND FOAMING AT THE MOUTH IN THE BACKGROUND)

"Isa. Is that a fucking raider"

"yeah I found him on the front door I think someone left him :( and it's so cold lately and he looked hungry" (GAGE PISSING ON A MINUTEMAN FLAG AND MAKING BARF NOISES)

"isadora that is a grown man who is a fucking raider"

#meanwhile danse in the background; haha okay honey i guess we can take him in #(hates this but thats his wife. whats he gonna do? not support her???)#meanwhile preston; already throwing hands

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bettsfic · 2 years ago

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Hey Betts! What are some of the techniques of character, pacing, and conflict that you picked up from brba and bcs that you have integrated into your own writing? Would love some examples, if you wanted to expand on that!

so i wrote some initial cursory thoughts a couple years ago but i have had many more since then.

character/conflict

the biggest lesson i've taken from brba and bcs is the power of character choice.

i don't know how exactly i internalized the rule that you have to *force* your character to act, that if they had to choose between conflict and harmony, they'd always choose harmony because that's the more rational decision. so you box them into corners, put pressure on them, make them move. there are so many stories i've stalled out on because i was trying to figure out a way for the external conflict to pressure my character into acting, as if that's the only reason characters will do something interesting and potentially irrational. not to mention, crafting something like that just sucks. it's hard for my brain to think in that kind of logic. i'm much more interested in characters doing batshit things because they're driven to, and they can quit but they don't.

if your story exists only to build character, then there really is no external conflict. your character makes their own fate. and if your character is strong enough, the consequences of their decisions make the story. peace and harmony is always waiting for them, and they never take it.

it's easy to think of gus fring as an antagonist, but it's walter who remains on the offensive, and gus is the one defending himself. but he's defending himself with a lot more firepower at his disposal and so walt thinks he's the poor little meow meow of the situation.

at any point in brba, walt could simply stop doing what he's doing, walk away from it, and nothing would happen. he'd return to his nice house with his happy family and there would be no consequences whatsoever. but he keeps pushing and pushing, because he's driven to be the Best at something. and because he's an asshole.

in bcs, character choices are compounded because jimmy, kim, nacho, and mike are the protagonists. nacho begins the story by working with tuco, but then goes behind tuco's back to start dealing on the side. not only does he earn the salamancas' ire, but gus's too, because to gus, nacho has committed the greatest sin, the ultimate dishonor: biting the hand that feeds you. not to mention the whole trying-to-kill-hector thing. that really sealed his fate.

(nacho is a very interesting character to me because we ally with him the same way we do with jesse, except in introducing nacho, who is with the salamacas but not a salamanca himself, we have a complicating force within the salamanca family, rather than them just being the bad guys, which would be too easy.)

((god i love nacho. talk about a blorbo from my shows.))

mike gets to a point in the plot where he's laundering his own money back to himself through madrigal, and then he gets bored and shows up one day and starts poking around in security stuff, which gets gus's attention, and that's how he gets roped into being gus fring's right hand man. he could have just stayed home and hung out with his granddaughter, but noooo, he had to go Do Stuff.

kim and jimmy are both given so many outs, but they're both addicted to the grift. jimmy getting stranded in the desert? that's not lalo's doing. jimmy had to *beg* lalo to let him go pick up the 7 mil. jimmy is like walt in that we're supposed to believe he's the little guy, he's down on his luck, we're rooting for him to succeed, but he's just too deep into being a con man. the big difference between jimmy and walt is that jimmy tries to be good. but walt only ever wants to win. in the last episode, we see jimmy and walt in the vacuum guy's basement, and it's a really wonderful moment that feels intentionally metatextual, in that it's asking us to look at the differences between them as protagonists. watching it, i get the sense it's maybe the scene that either gould or gilligan had in mind to inspire the show, the thing to work up to. get jimmy mcgill and walter white in a room together (in their underwear, because it's not a brba show if there isn't a middle-aged man in his underwear at least once an episode) talking about philosophy. and walt says, "so you've always been like this." he's saying, "i fell, but you've always been stuck at the bottom."

another difference is that walt acts selfishly almost always, but jimmy is often acting on behalf of kim and vice versa. on a second watch, i noticed that *every single time* anyone said anything bad about jimmy to kim, they immediately put themselves in her crosshairs and she was motivated to destroy them. kim wexler is far and away the best character in the brba universe, maybe one of the best characters on television. it's so thrilling for me to see a female character who is so fucking feral for her husband she's willing to burn the world for him. there are so many times she physically stands between jimmy and the conflict. over and over again, she chooses him. she admires him and loves him when the rest of the world doesn't. and so it's agonizing when she leaves.

the trick to making a story wholly character-driven, and the reason it's so hard to pull off, is because your characters need to be interesting and developed enough that their shitty decisions are believable.

ever since i started reframing character/conflict that way--character AS conflict, not as separate things--i think my stories have gotten a lot more interesting and nuanced.

pacing

seasons 1 through 4 of brba, standing alone, are a pretty good show. it's season 5 that elevates it, because it's what i call a victory lap. like, they did it, they won a bunch of awards, people love it, now it's the final season, they're going all out and having a good time. and then *all* of bcs is a victory lap. it takes its time. it goes everywhere it wants to go. it feels like nothing is restrained or restricted from us. every little detail accounted for. and el camino does it too, it's a character-focused story that takes its time. i'm particularly drawn to the pacing of el camino because of how contained it is. i can't explain it exactly, but i've always loved stories that have a smooth, slow build up and a payoff and nothing else.

what's really brilliant about this universe is that every character succeeds in their mission. all of them! and the story continues and follows the characters through the consequences of that success. because the characters are so interesting and complicated, their success is complicated too. even lalo succeeds in his mission. he finds the laundry business. he tells hector. but don eladio doesn't believe hector, and don eladio is so well built that we believe it. he's totally aware of gus's revenge plot, but it's so far beneath him it's not worth his time.

i first noticed the success arcs in brba, in the scene where skyler takes walt to the storage unit of money, and she's like, there's no way to count it. no way to spend it. i just make sure the bugs don't eat it. as a banker, i was stunned by this scene, because media never acknowledges the fact that cash in large quantities is nearly impossible to manage. any time you deposit over $10k of cash in a bank in a single 24 hour period, a report gets sent to the FBI. so i loved that the show addressed the reality of cash profit. and on a metaphorical note, it's a great way to see, tangibly, that walter white has won.

by the end of season 4, walt has everything. he's in remission from cancer, he's wealthy, he's made the greatest meth the world has ever seen, he hasn't lost his family, and no one is more powerful than him. the only one who can defeat him is himself. most stories end there, the character getting what they're looking for and everything is great and we've returned to a state of harmony. but when your characters are as messy as these, it's never that simple.

while watching bcs, i actually got pretty mad at my roommate because he's like, "it's season 5 and nothing has happened." and when i said that's not true, he argued with me, and i was like, what you're noticing is a steady escalation of conflict rather than episodic conflict, which is rare for tv to do, considering most shows are fighting for each new season. we're used to seeing each episode of something have a conflict, rising action culminating into a climax. and then we see that reproduced in a larger way across an entire season, every season. but bcs is just one long, seamless story, with no major breaking points until the very end. and that's amazing. throw away the acts. the key turning points. the stages. the story is just all one thing, characters fucking around and finding out.

initially, watching season 6 as it was airing, i was disappointed by the ending. partly this is because i didn't remember any of what happened in the first 5 seasons and so i'd forgotten a lot of the context. partly it was because i was wrongly comparing it to the brba finale. but watching bcs in full a second time, i think the ending is really brilliant, because it completes jimmy's character arc. in the end, he's not saul goodman but jimmy mcgill, and he makes the right choice. all the characters in these shows are so well established and the plot honors them so well. there's so much patience and maturity here, and they also still manage to be funny too. i'm just in awe of them. they inspire me so much.

it's so rare that a piece of media is both genuinely good and widely loved. for the most part, i'm just grateful these shows exist and that i can learn from them and apply the craft concepts to my own work. but a little part of me is envious that i'll never be able to write something that well or that patiently.

#bcs #brba #writing advice

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viscardiac · 2 years ago

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A season left of summer - VI

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 𝐗 𝐎𝐂

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: "But know this,” she rose an eyebrow. “I think Ceryse Hightower a poor match for the prince.” “And should Aella, a babe, suit him better?” He shook his head with a smile, pulling Visenya closer. “She just might.” “Let her be. Soon, Lady Ceryse shall give him an heir to care for, and this shall be long forgotten.” “I do hope you’re right,” Visenya sighed, leaning on his chest. But I don’t think you are, she thought.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.301

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Smut, blood, self-injury

𝐕𝐈 - 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋, 𝐏𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐄

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 || 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓

The maids opened the curtains, letting the sun into the room and on Aella's face. Queen Alyssa came behind them, with a huge smile and no doubt a full schedule for the day. And it was too early to be that cheery about a full schedule, Aella thought, sinking further into the soft covers. She put a pillow over her head, turning to the other side. Her mother had come early every day that month, and every day that month, she had gone to sleep late for a reason or another.

“We have a full day ahead of us today, my dear!” She smiled, joining her hands in front of her, though Aella knew that was less for enjoyment and more for a façade. There was concern there, sure, but there was also the overbearing control she had never needed to exert on Aella. Her mother wasn’t there to accompany her, but to watch her every move out of the room. It’s not working, anyway, she huffed.

“Mother, it is early. Can I not sleep in?” Aella whined, feeling too worn out to be up at that hour. Not that it wasn’t her own fault, though, but she thought she deserved a break from that. She'd remind herself to complain to her father, maybe Aenys could do something about it. A tonedown would be ideal.

“Aella, you said that every day this week. You must put away your books at an earlier time," she shook her head in a way Aella had seen her do at Rhaena a million times. The maids brought in water for a bath along with a tin, and she knew she had no choice. "Soon you'll be the lady of your house, and the lady of the house has to be up early."

Aella whined louder in response, and her mother crossed her arms. She was a child when she last insisted in sleeping in, refused to do as she was told. The queen couldn't say she didn't worry about it, but she supposed she had been acting like that since she had her request denied. The princess hadn't behaved like that in years, and yet, Alyssa could understand she was hurt, and the hurt had to come off somehow, somewhere. But better it came out as whining, better Aella was hurt now than married to her uncle.

"I'll leave you to your bath, but do sleep earlier today, dear."

Queen Alyssa left, and Aella sank further into the mattress. Her mother had never been one to let them sulk in peace, and Aella had never slept early a day in her life, thing she could have pass without further concern for as long as she was out of her mother's watchful eye. And though she felt over the whole thing, knowing there was no way a wedding could happen with another man without that man ending up without a head, Aella still felt entitled to peace. It was better when she didn't demand attention, she'd always told Rhaena that, but now she was in the spotlight, the very place she avoided being her entire life. And it was better that way.

The maids said nothing when she groaned into her pillow and got up, kicking away the covers. She would be better off if she didn't defy Alyssa's demands. Soon enough she would be making decisions on her own, and then she would sleep until noon.

***

“I’m still mad at you for even considering it,” Rhaena crossed her arms, watching as the seamstress made adjustments to the dress. Aella had her arms out, standing on a platform, while folds of fabric were pinned together and torn apart. It was one of many, and while she would need new dresses for the ceremony and every feast and formality that came with a princess’ wedding, she was sure her mother made excessive requests just to keep her busy. “I’m glad they denied you.”

“I’m not,” she pursed her lips, standing still even though she wanted to come down and argue. But then she would belate her mother's schedule and it would be one more thing to bother with. “What would you do if they hadn’t?”

Rhaena huffed, incredulous, as if it was an obvious answer.

“I’d scream at you for your terrible taste.”

“You already screamed at me for my terrible taste.”

“I suppose there would be nothing new then.”

Aella swallowed her answer, knowing there would be no productive conversation there and she'd end up with a bigger headache than she already had.

“What would be the difference? Mother wants me to be someone’s lady wife.” Why couldn't it be a prince, of valyrian blood like hers, when the throne's line of succession was that uncertain? Queen Visenya had said that time and again, but no one would listen. Rhaena scoffed.

“Yes, and I shall like anyone better than this one you want.”

“But I shall not,” she insisted, knowing her sister would’ve left everything there and stormed off if it was her in her place. Aella felt like doing it, but to what end?

Maybe Rhaena would scream louder at her than their parents would when they found what she’d been doing. But then again, Aella wasn’t the child that had to be screamed at. The disappointment often felt like punishment enough. Maybe this time they would scream. For ruining herself, for making terrible choices, for being naive and gullible. For choosing to be with the king's brother rather than the perfectly suitable match they'd found. For dishonoring herself and the man they'd betrothed her to. That was her choice to make, though, wasn’t it?

***

“What if I don’t have my courses?” Aella looked up at Queen Visenya, constantly feeling like she should look over her shoulder even though they were alone. She'd been hiding too much not to, and while it felt like no one was the wiser about it, there was no being certain about it. “Mother would suspect it, and the maids cannot keep a secret. None of them would choose me over the queen. Not even if they are threatened."

“We shall find them someone else’s blood to clean,” Visenya replied simply, as if it was obvious. Maybe to her it was. She had waited for long enough that the details would seem like a path she'd walked on before. Aella, though, was flying blind.

She knew by now she had been the only one stupid enough to think her wish would be fulfilled rather than denied, yet she had to try and do things the right way before they got out of her own control. Everyone else seemed to expect the denial, though, as if there was nothing to consider there. And she had done about it what she could to take matters into her own hands. But later was starting to become a shadow, overbearing and anxiety inducing. She had been kept busy at every hour of the day with whatever task her mother could find her, a tiring and frankly annoying endeavor, though that was, for now, a certainty that nothing could’ve happened because Aella had been busy and accompanied.

“What are we to do when father betrothes me and schedules a wedding?” Aella leaned on her hand. “Because he’s doing it, under mother’s watchful eye.”

“We will not disappoint him. A wedding he wants, a wedding he shall have.” Queen Visenya shrugged. “He just might have no bride to wed.”

***

Aella watched from atop her various pillows as Maegor closed her door. It had become a habit by then to expect him, though he didn’t always visit her. Unfortunately, though, there still had to be caution. Her door would always be guarded, but not every guard was loyal to her father, and Maegor had been sure to place his own men at the post to come and go as he wished.

She would have tried to sleep, but that time, she couldn’t, as anxiety ate at her stomach. They had told her earlier in the day, expecting her to be filled with excitement, but she just smiled mechanically until her face hurt. How fun.

“King Aenys has betrothed me to the son of Lord Baratheon,” she announced, turning only her head. “I’m sure you know, as he tends to announce these things to the council, and you're Hand of the King."

For a moment there was no response, only heavy silence. She kept looking up at him, and Maegor sat beside her on the bed, among her covers and pillows. He looked at her like she belonged to him, with some kind of primal possession, and it was like a magnet. Aella could not help but respond to it.

“He thinks this little mummer's show is his to control. Like he’s playing being king.” He leaned down to kiss Aella, but stopped short of her mouth. “What will you do when he announces he found me a bride as well?”

She grit her teeth and reached up to kiss him, though there was annoyance on her eyes, on her hands, on her lips.

“He cannot marry a man if he already has a wife.”

“Aegon had two wives,” Maegor teased, liking the taste of her anger. She was more like him than either Aenys, Alyssa, or even she herself would care to admit. Anger felt strong, and weakness was never an option.

“Two dragon wives. Are you to marry off Alysanne? I am sure she would hit you with ther dolls.”

Maegor laughed through his nose, pulling Aella to another kiss.

“I’m afraid only one dragon wife, then. A pity.”

Aella hit his chest playfully, though not that much, and crossed her arms. It was like watching a bottle of wildfire slowly crack at the seams. Her arms were soon thoroughly uncrossed and pinned to her sides, while she still stared back. He leaned back down to kiss her, and she sighed, seeming to soften slowly.

“You will not let the wedding happen, will you?” She frowned, looking for reassurance.

He let a huff through his nose. He would sooner cut down her betrothed than surrender her over to another man. Maegor picked Aella up by the waist, sitting her on his lap with her legs around him. He squeezed her thighs, hands under the white nightgown, up to her hips, and pulling her closer still.

“Aenys cannot have a wedding without a bride to wed.”

It was good to know he and Visenya were in agreement. Aella smiled, pulling him to another kiss by the collar of his clothes, her own kind of visceral possession painted on her face. She was, however, confused when he broke it off to take a dagger from its sheathe in his belt. Between them, Maegor closed his left hand on the blade, pulling it out of his fist slowly with the other, leaving a bloody, open trail behind. That hand, dripping red, he smeared on the spot she had been laying on. The bloody blade, he cleaned on the back of her nightgown, red on white. When the blade was clean, he laid the dagger on her pillow, careful not to bleed on it.

“If they put their hands on you,” he started, pulling off the nightgown with the bloody hand, “cut them off.”

“Does that not hurt?” She frowned, concerned, pulling his hand into hers. Maegor still held the nightgown to staunch the blood on the bottom part, that covered the back of her legs. It should be convincing enough, despite her worries about the wound.

“No. If Alyssa pushes you too much, you are to fake an illness and be put in bed.” It was not a request. Aella nodded softly, undoing the buttons of his clothes. She would ask if he would come bleed on her bed for four more days, but the answer would be yes.

He kept the cut hand on her hips, wrapped in the nightgown, but she felt the other one between her legs before she could get rid of his shirt. She thought it was unfair to be undressed so easily, but soon enough she couldn’t focus on it anymore, hands shaking around the buttons that she could hardly undo. Aella buried her face on his neck to muffle out her moans, still trying to continue.

She managed, though slowly and inefficiently, to undo all the buttons before she was too close to coming to manage anything. How shaky she felt seemed to be amusing for him, and he held her in place though she kept moving her hips on top of him. Aella came on his fingers, feeling herself too tight, too hot in her own skin, as if there were more layers of clothe on herself to remove, as if that was not enough.

Only then, with very poor coordination, she returned to removing his clothes, to Maegor's further amusement. Aella caressed him over his pants before she could get them out of the way. Quietly, feeling like she might lose her heart through her mouth, knowing she was not who was in control, she put his shaft inside her, moving her hips to better the fit.

Breathing hard, he lifted her chin to look at him with his left hand. Maegor let go of the nightgown on top of the bed, having been stained enough to warrant no concern from the maids. He then smeared the last of the blood on his fingers on her, from her lower lip down to her chin.

“For good luck,” he breathed, mouth a hairline away from hers, sustaining something that could not be put in words before kissing her. Only then he laid her on the bed, beside the dagger, beside the blood and the nightgown, as it should always have been.

ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ･✻･ﾟ

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @slytherisstuff

#my art #my writing #a season left of summer #asoiaf #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf oc #house targaryen #targaryen #maegor i targaryen #maegor the cruel #maegor targaryen #oc/aella #viscardi writes

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msfbgraves · 1 year ago

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Love your Mobverse so much! I for one, am dying to see the scene where Daniel decides to return to Terry! Like, when he decides and when Terry comes to pick him up. What do they say to each other after those difficult days apart and what Terry did? Do they hold each other, touch? Do they even speak? I wonder what that first night is back at the house. The pups will be so happy to have their sweet Mama back, but I am sure it would have been awkward and strange between Daddy and Mama. I wonder if they even slept in the same room, let alone the same bed. I feel like that would be traumatizing for Daniel…I just want my bb boy to be loved and cherished 😭

He hasn't slept all night. Maybe there's been some exhausted haze, but he couldn't find any rest, any comfort.

He has to come to a decision, because if he doesn't, Pop will make the choice for him. But what choice can he possibly bear? Condemn his mate? Provoke a war? Though Kreese is not likely to want that either, and could probably be bought off, also, the LaRussos are in much, much better shape, he might not even want to risk it –

His mouth is dry.

Terry must understand the consequences now, though? That he can't... can't...

Daniel doesn't have the peace for prayer. He used to do this for his mate, used to mean it with his very soul, as little as one week ago, and now –

He hugs his baby, but Gianni's fussy. It's not his job, of course, to care for Mama.

“Daniele, sweetheart?” That's his own Ma. “Your puppies are here!”

His babies, oh, his darling babies! He hoists Gianni up and races downstairs, he can hear them coming up the driveway, reaches out to catch a glimpse from the window...

But at the sound of Terry's voice his blood runs cold. Instinctively, he hands his puppy to his father. “Tranquillo, tesoro,” the man says, and it does help. He's safe here. He could stay here, surrounded by his little ones...

“Nonna...!” That's Yasmin at the door, but she sounds so quiet, he can't stand it, he runs into the hallway and of course it's Eli who sees him first. The poor thing straight up launches himself into Daniel's arms, and he falls to his knees to hold him, half a breath later there is Yasmin, sobbing, and he can't stop kissing her, she's so pale. He lifts his head for Sammy and Robby as his Ma takes Eli from him. Terry's holding Robby, who's crying to get down, and Sammy is staring at him –

He opens his arms wider. “Sammy, carina, come to Mama!”

She stands there, one moment, then runs into his arms and simply breaks. “I don't want you to go,” she hiccups, she can barely breathe, even Yasmin lets go, startled, and runs to her Nonna. “Mama, I need you,” Sammy continues, and Daniel dares look over to Robby only for a moment, who has gone completely still in his Daddy's arms. “I need you too, baby,” he whispers in her ear. “Mama loves you, he needs you so much, darling! It's OK, mi'angelina, Mama's here, Mama loves you...”

“Don't go,” Sammy keeps sobbing, clinging to him like she never has before.

He looks up and meets Terry's eyes, one second.

His mate averts his gaze.

He sits up, puts Sammy's face between his hands. “Sweetheart,” he says. “Mama and Daddy lost something. And we need to go find it. But I promise you, I will never leave you. You and your sister, and Eli and Robby and Gianni, I love you, baby. I love you more than my own life.”

“But why are you going?”

“So I can come home to you.”

She holds more tightly. “I don't understand!”

“Neither do I, babygirl,” he says softly. Then he kisses her, stands up, and takes Robby from Terry's arms. “Cuoricino,” he breathes against his neck as he holds him tight against his heart. “My big boy, look how you've grown, darling...”

I never want to let him go, never want to miss another second with any of them.

Pop comes in, carrying Gianni, and only then does Terry step in completely, to take the delighted baby from his arms.

Daniel looks at his father. “You told him to pack?”

A nod.

He gives Robby another kiss, cuddles Eli, Yasmin and Sammy once more. “Hold them for me,” he says to his father. “Keep them safe, make sure -”

“With my life, Daniele.”

He turns to the puppies. “Be good to Nonno and Nonna, ragazzi,” he says. “Give Daddy a kiss, too, now, quickly.”

As they turn to him, he takes Gianni, and presses the baby against his heart. “Topolino,” he whispers. “Don't grow too much, don't...”

It's too much for him then. He puts his baby into Lucille's arms, grabs a coat and hat and walks to Terry's car, checks for luggage in the trunk, tries to get his breaths even. He hears his mate behind him. “Danny, love...”

He looks him in the face. “Pop didn't want to let you drive me, even. In case you'd abduct me. Even though they'd come find me if you did that.”

He's very still. “Daniel...”

“And then I said, Pop, if he was going to do that, our pups would lose us both, and you wouldn't, for their sake.”

“Of course – ”

“And if you were that crazy, you could kill me on that boat too, so don't tell me I don't trust you, Terry, don't tell me I'm not risking anything.”

He's trying so hard not to cry, and his mate looks tortured, but he has to say it, doesn't want to live in his father's world of veiled, half spoken threats.

Terry reaches out, but stays his hand, shakes his head instead. “I would never -”

“I can't know that.” He opens the car door, doesn't want to see Terry's face, doesn't want to hear his puppies call his name, so he closes it, shuts out the world.

He hears Terry go back, say a few words to his family, kiss the pups and then return.

They don't speak the whole ride over.

#silverusso #knights and pawns #omegaverse #mob au #angsty #angst tw

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whhhhaaaaaaaaat · 10 months ago

Text

short/fictional story

[Location: Boston, 1774. Samuel Adams, a fervent patriot, and Henry Lewis, a hardcore Loyalist, meet in a dimly lit tavern named The Harpoon, and their discussion is charged with the growing tension of the day and age. The strain between the Colonies and Great Britain is high. ]

Samuel Adams sits, drinking alone in the back of The Harpoon, his mind elsewhere. He is on his third drink, and in the mood for a fight..or something else of that nature. Looking around the dark and relatively dank tavern, he is bored, bored of the repetitive music, the stifulingly heavy chatter, the lighting that is so poor he can barely read over his own notes from the towns people’s meeting the afternoon prior.

Sam Adams is bored. At least he is until he sees Henry Lewis, a man around the same age as him. He knew Henry was a loyalist from the tabloids spread about, and this was in hard contrast to Sam’s patriotic beliefs. However, something about Henry deeply intrigued Samuel, but he could not seem to put his finger on what it might be. He had seen him all around, at the parliament, the local college, bookstore, market, but never at the Tavern.

Well, Sam thought to himself, (although, it might have been the several drinks talking) now might be the time to try something new.

Sam waved him over.

“ Henry, it's been some time! I trust you're well?”

“As well as one can be in these troubled times, Samuel.”

He did not seem friendly in the slightest, yet not completely hostile, so next, Sam said

“Sit good sir! Let me buy you a drink…it's been a long time. After all”.

To his (pleasant) surprise, Henry smirked at him and said

“Well, I don’t see why not” and slid into the booth across from Sam.

For a moment, Samuel just stared in the eyes of the man across from him, at a loss of words. It seems he had suddenly forgotten everything he planned to say. It stayed like that until Henry broke the silence.

“The situation in the colonies grows dire.”

Samuel nods and takes a sip of his drink.

“Aye, the heavy hand of Parliament and the King grows heavier still. The Coercive Acts, or as we call them, the Intolerable Acts, they suffocate us.”

Henry leans forward, gets closer to Samuel’s face.

“ But these measures were necessary to assert authority. The Tea Act, the Stamp Act, were attempts to regulate trade and maintain the necessary order we need.”

Samuel pulls back from the other, shaking his head.

“Order? What they impose is tyranny! *he bangs his fist on the table* The Stamp Act, taxing our every document, the Tea Act forcing their goods upon us without representation!”

Henry chuckles, but his laugh is humorless.

“Representation? The colonies are part of the British Empire. Parliament represents the entire empire, including the colonies' best interests.”

He leans back in his chair before speaking again, a wry smile on his lips.

“Can one fault the Crown for maintaining order?”

Sam is almost ready to jump up to his feet now,

“ How can it represent us, how can you say it is in our best interest when we have no voice, no say in its decisions? The Boston Massacre, the bloody conflict that took innocent lives, all because of the heavy presence of British soldiers enforcing unjust laws!”

“Sit back down Samuel. You are making a scene. Passionate as always, I see”

For a moment, Henry smirked again, but his face fell as he continued, “That incident was regrettable, but it was not the intent of the Crown. The soldiers were here to maintain peace.”

Sam jumps right back up again. “Peace? Peace? By oppressing us? And now, the closing of the port, the Quartering Act, stripping us of our basic rights!

Sipping his own drink, Henry responds flatly;

“These measures are to restore order and ensure loyalty to the Crown. You are quite a smart man, Samuel.”

He tilted his head to the side.

“I thought you would understand that independence will only lead to chaos and ruin.”

“Independence is our path to freedom from tyranny. Henry, we have to fight for our rights, for the principles of liberty and self-governance!”

Sam was getting more and more flustered, his face reddening, partly from the intensity of the discussion, and partly from the alcohol.

Henry just shook his head,

“You risk everything you have, everything you are, for a dream of independence. The path you're on will lead to war, Samuel. Is that truly what you desire?”

“If it means securing the rights of our people, then so be it.” There was determination in his eyes.

“We'll face whatever comes our way.”

[The conversation grows more intense, each man defending his beliefs passionately, rooted in their opposing perspectives on governance and liberty. The tavern echoes with the clash of ideas, mirroring the brewing conflict between the Patriots and Loyalists in the colonies.]

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

Samuel Adams was not having a good morning. He had woken up entirely too late for his lecture at the town college, with a raging headache and no time for breakfast. In his hazy state, he was unsure of what books to grab, so he simply shoved them all into his folding bag and ran down the streets feverishly, despite the cold and harsh wind of the foggy January morning.

Upon arrival, Sam stared up at the large clock looming over the courtyard of the college.

Only…13 minutes late. He could live with that. What Samuel could not live with however, was the first face he sawn walking into the lecture hall, was that of Henry Lewis.

He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Sam knew they were in the same lecture hall, yet for some reason it had never registered to him before. Henry looked up at Samuel, and smirked the same way he had four nights prior. Sam scowled. He was suddenly aware of his disheveled hair and mismatched clothes, a stark contrast to Henry’s neat and rather put together look, his brown hair held back to show more of his face and almost amber eyes–

Sam had never noticed the color of his eyes. He shook it off and aimed to walk right past the man, but stopped when

“You look rough. Tough night, I suppose?”

Even though Henry had whispered the words, the others around him laughed, and then started coughing to cover it up. Samuel’s scowl deepend, and he decided the best course of action was to sit directly behind Henry, and throw tiny paper balls at the back of his head the whole lecture. As he was nearly 21 years old, it was surely the mature thing to do.

This went on until the lecture was split into groups for a more targeted discussion. Surprisingly to no one but them, Samuel and Henry were grouped together.

Sam wasted no time with formalities.

“ Henry, you cannot possibly defend the Crown's tyranny any longer. Townshend Acts, the Intolerable Acts, the unforgiving violence, how can you turn a blind eye to the oppression we face?”

“You fail to see the bigger picture. The King's measures aim to maintain order, to keep the colonies within the rightful fold of the Crown.”

“Nothing about this is rightful!”

Henry frowned.

“While your presentation is magnetic, can we not find common ground between the loyalties and liberty?”

Samuel narrowed his eyes and leaned in slightly.

“How can there be common ground when the Crown's edicts crush our livelihoods? The Quartering Act thrusting soldiers upon us without consent, and again, the Boston Massacre where drops upon drops of innocent blood were spilled…”

Henry raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, but those were acts of defiance, Samuel. Should rebellion be the answer to disagreements? Can't we find a way to reconcile without resorting to barbaric unrest?”

“Do you think I am a joke, Henry? Reconciliation is not possible when our liberties are at stake. The Continental Congress has spoken—we must declare independence!”

“Independence? How bold” Henry practically sneered. “But think of the consequences, Samuel. Chaos, uncertainty... And what of the Quebec Act? The Crown seeks stability, not chaos…unlike yourself.”

He said the last bit with particular nastiness.

It was at that moment the lecture was released. People streamed out the door like ants, yet as soon as they were back in the courtyard, Henry and Samuel continued to squabble.

“I insist that Stability at the cost of our freedom is no stability at all! The intolerable yoke of British rule must be cast off for us to flourish as a free nation–”

–Henry snorted at that.

What we need is a revolution! Fueled by the refusal to pay unjust taxes, the rejection of tyranny!”

“You speak of tyranny so often Samuel. But what you mean to say is misunderstood governance–”

“Governance devoid of our voice is tyranny, Henry! The Declaration looms, as our call for independence echoing the cries of a burgeoning nation!”

“But can you truly not be swayed by the allure of a compromise, a path less turbulent?”

“Compromise tainted by continued subjugation is no compromise at all.”

They continued their walk in silence for a moment.

“You know Samuel, that refusing of yours to even consider another perspective is un-American in and of itself, as you yourself might say”.

Sam hated the tone of voice Henry used. He sounded aloof, like he was so much better and so superior, and so above anyone else. He muttered something under his breath, something that clearly bothered the other man.

“What was that?” Henry inquired.

“Nothing.”

“What. was-”

“I said, sir, you are a coward, and are obviously deeply deeply afraid that–”

And Sam did not get to finish that sentence because Henry shoved him backwards, hands grabbing his shoulder and wrist tightly.

“You do not get to call me that., “ He hissed into Sam’s ear, “What are you? A petty child, resorting to name calling?”

Yet that also did not matter because Samuel was a much better fighter than Henry, evident in the way that half a second later, he flipped the situation so Henry was roughly shoved against the red brick wall behind them.

“You disgust me. So full of yourself, Henry, all the bloody time! Thinking that eventually it will pay off, when it won’t because no one in this damn city likes you!”

“Like I said” Henry was breathing hard “you are nothing but a petty child. Run along and play now.”

Samuel was seething, yet he did not miss the way for less than a fourth of a second, but he was sure that Henry’s eyes flicked

Right

Down

His

Lips.

His grip on the other went slack, and unsure of what to do, he muttered a simple

“I hate you.”

He pushed away from the wall, releasing Henry.

“Trust me,” Henry spat. “ it’s mutual”.

if u want more to the story lmk

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