#only compromise so much with the bear since it very much is his own dream that he shared with mikey and while i think the point of the show | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

risingsouls · 2 years ago

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Recruited: Chapter 45

[I needed a little bit of fluff but also some neat(?) shit going on with Nabs??? It was also hard not to make them smooch, but that's normal.

As always, Lila belongs to @synthetixflora and you can read the rest of this over on @momowritesshit!]

Vegeta

Vegeta resurfaced from the depths of the crystal blue ocean, blinking in the unimpeded sunlight bearing down on the body of water. Heaving his catch over one shoulder, he used the other arm to drag him through the gentle waves to the shore of the secluded island he decided to place the borrowed Capsule house from Nabooru on. Though it wasn't his first choice of location, and he previously carried the capsule with him and set up where he saw fit, the Gerudo mentioned once in passing her affinity for the ocean and occasionally pitching the idea of moving her own home to a beach every now and again. Tiring of his aimless travel anyway, he decided he could compromise and settle on a secluded island where his visitors consisted of her and the local but sparse wildlife. He had no real attachment to any particular location on the planet after all.

He waded through the shallow water and onto the warm sand, tossing the gargantuan fish off to the side. A whip of his tail rid it of excess moisture, and he used the towel he brought along with him to dry his face and body. In the months that passed since Cell's demise–how many he could only guess; for all he knew in his state of going through the motions of daily life, it could have been over a year or more–he adjusted to his new life on Earth, guided by his stubborn declaration against engaging in combat or anything combat adjacent for as long as he lived. For a time, he avoided all physical activity outside of necessities. He refused every offer from Nabooru to so much as stretch with her or watch her training sessions. For it, his physique and health suffered, he could both feel and see it. But he didn't care enough. Nothing moved him, not even the concerned pity he witnessed in Nabooru's stare, the way she bit her lip on troubled protests and considered ways of wording them that would perturb him the least. For a good while, at least.

While severe lack of motivation played its role and aided in keeping him true to his word, a combination of other factors blistered his resolve. Fighting his very nature proved more difficult as time wore on, the itch for battle winning out against his most well-rooted nightmares and poisoning his very dreams. One particular dream featuring a raucous gauntlet of facing off with a myriad of opponents he faced all the way back to his childhood had him waking covered in sweat and laughing, the simulation of combat dragging out the first ounce of joy or invigoration he felt since denouncing his title as a warrior. Or perhaps since he achieved his goal of becoming a Super Saiyan. Too long, he surmised, but he still refused to budge. He still didn't deserve to call himself a warrior.

But soon enough, the uncompromising Saiyan Prince once again found himself making concessions. Since the dream and subsequent ones of similar theme, he found himself searching for the rise in Nabooru's ki signature and tracking her down to watch her train. While never particularly vain about his looks, not long after, he caught a particularly potent glance of himself in a mirror and balked at his reflection. With the lack of physical activity of nearly any kind and his nutrition questionable and irregular, he lost much of his muscle mass, leaving him looking thin, sickly, and nearing on corpselike. Though, instead of the usual brand of cynicism his mind typically resorted to such as suggesting he dig his own grave and crawl down into it to fit the motif, he recoiled in shame and disgust. A surprise, considering his overwhelming lack of care or consideration for anything let alone his own well-being, and he still couldn't place its sudden appearance. A combination of that occurrence paired with the other holes gradually forming in his resolve, he allowed it all to convince him that certain exercise would not be subverting his declaration and would serve as a better time waster than aimless flights around the planet or sitting in silence in the time not spent with Nabooru, either by choice or her insistent but occasional invasion of his space. As long as he didn't throw a punch or kick or sling a blast of ki in a combat-oriented way, it wouldn't count as training or fighting in his mind. Thus, it led to creative regimens of push ups, sit ups, squats, running, a surprise in swimming, and anything else he could think of to at least somewhat sate his need for physical combat and return him to a more acceptable physique. Combined with forcing himself to eat more regularly, his physical health had at the very least restabilized.

Vegeta pulled his gray sweatpants back on and, with a few quick slices of ki, fileted the giant fish into more manageable cuts for eating and storage. Another blast to cook but not disintegrate it. He did not deem domestic uses of his ki such as this and flying as infringement on his declaration, and the easier he made things on himself, he found, the more likely he was to at least halfway meet his basic needs.

Scooping up his meal, he headed back up the beach and to the Capsule house near the center of the island. He strode through the living area to the kitchen near the back of the first floor and tossed most of the fish into a series of containers and stored it in the fridge. Leaning against the counter, he munched on one of the two filets he left out for himself. As he ate, he cast his senses out toward the desert. His brow furrowed, and the lower half of his tail curled around his calf. While not out of the ordinary for Nabooru to train for entire days, he noted that, over the last two or so, her energy never tapered off as it usually did, signaling her retirement for the night, and he continued to sense it throughout the night when he woke from his own fitful slumber. He dismissed it as some new way she decided to mix her training up and push herself by training without rest for some period of time. However, now beginning a third day of this regimen, concern tickled the back of his mind. It reminded him of the days in which he desperately and ardently trained to become a Super Saiyan and, while he rarely listened to her or took her advice until his body forced him, he distinctly remembered her not only suggesting he eat or take breaks, but that she never typically trained for days on end like he did without ensuring she rested, even if only for a few hours at a time. The combination of her lectures and typical routine, even in a situation where time wasn't on their side, made him question that deduction.

But what business was it of his? With his own habits, what right did he, of all people, have to show up and tell her to take a break? Where was that cyborg friend of hers? Or Nappa or Raditz for that matter?

He huffed and finished off the first filet, picking up the other and devouring half in one bite. He really had to do everything around here, didn't he?

Finishing off his meal, he headed up to his bedroom and shrugged on a navy, scoop neck t-shirt. The spoils of Nabooru's attempts to find and supply him with clothes that he could bear to wear and that suited him. He slipped on a pair of plain sneakers and headed back outside, taking off for the desert with his senses clued in on her ki signature. A sudden surge and plummet deepened his frown and quickened his pace. Only when ocean shifted to sand and he neared the flicker of her weak energy reading did he slow. Dark eyes sifted through the landscape until he spotted a figure lying still in a deep crater created in the sand. The sun reflected off patches within it where the heat of her energy transformed the sand to glass.

Vegeta landed and knelt next to her. Her back rose and fell with her shallow breathing. Weak, but alive. Likely pushed herself too hard, as he suspected. He lowered one knee to the sand and reached out to slip an arm beneath her and heave her over his shoulder to take her home. The second his fingers made contact with her body, her arm shot out and latched onto his, her other arm lifting her from the sand and supporting her weight. He recoiled slightly on instinct, but even if he considered moving much further, her iron grip would have prevented it.

Her nails dug into his flesh, and he swore it burned beneath her palm. Her nails drew blood. He swallowed his protests to her overreaction as heat surged around them, forcing sweat to permeate on his skin in seconds, and a flame-like aura rose around the pair of them. Her eyes burned much the same, though not in the way he was used to. Not in the way fire sparked in her gold eyes in an intense battle or he sparked her temper in a heated argument. While his mind suffered in recent months, he didn’t doubt what he saw: flames danced out of her eyes. Her lips pulled away from her teeth in a vicious snarl. She pulled herself up and closer to him, face inches from his. He felt like he was going to burst into flames himself. She opened her mouth, and fire burned at the back of her throat. Her voice was deep. Menacing. Threatening. Only half hers, it felt.

“Il ra’aq vehvi vuriq.”

His mind only vaguely picked up the translation from his chip as it was far more concerned with whether he would need to fight or maim her to…what? Escape? Save her from…whatever was happening?

Fortunately, he would neither have to break his oath to himself nor knock her out with a well-placed chop to her neck (if he could pull that off). Quickly as it came, the light and heat surrounding them faded back to the normal levels typical of the west desert. Nabooru’s grip slackened on his arm and she slumped back to the sand, eyes closed and lying on her side.

He stared down at her, too stunned to move immediately. What the hell just happened? Blistering pain directed his attention to his forearm, the skin where her hand gripped him a gruesome pink. Blood dripped from the indentations left by her nails. He cursed under his breath.

"Il ra’aq vehvai vuriq…" The daughter of the sun will rise, his chip re-supplied. What did that even mean? Had her exhausted brain dredged up some old saying from her culture?

And her appearance, her voice…all of it was unfamiliar to him. And how did one explain an obvious spike in ki without being able to sense it?

Deciding he could question her about it later, he scooped her up. Even through her scorched clothing, he could feel immense heat still radiating from her skin. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises littered her skin, confusing when as far as he could tell she trained alone, but unrelated he imagined. His red energy surrounded the pair of them, and he took off toward his Capsule house.

—---------

He entered the house and carried the Gerudo to the couch, carefully depositing her on it. He dropped the house temperature down a few notches and fetched a cold rag from the bathroom to place on her forehead, all in the hopes of keeping her from overheating or setting his furniture on fire.

Once satisfied, he trudged up to the master bathroom and stripped down, hopping in the shower to rinse the sweat from his body, left arm held outside the stream of water to keep from agitating the burn further. Shutting off the water, he hopped out and dried, striding over to the medicine cabinet over the sink and wrenching it open. He pulled the first aid kit from it and sifted around for something called aloe vera and bandages. He quickly slathered the gel on the afflicted area–hand-shaped; it would leave an odd looking scar if it did in fact scar–and wrapped it, tearing the fabric with his teeth before securing it in place. He then changed into a fresh pair of sweats and a tank top, and grabbed a t-shirt and shorts for Nabooru before heading back downstairs, first aid kit balanced on top of the pile of clothes to tend to her wounds, minor as they seemed.

He slowed halfway down the stairs, dark gaze falling on the back of Nabooru's head and shoulders peeking over the back of the couch. Awake. He inwardly snorted; at least he wouldn't have to wait long for her to regain consciousness.

He traipsed down the rest of the steps and dropped the clothes and first aid kit next to her. Obviously out of it, the woman jumped, muscles tense as her unfocused eyes locked onto him.

"Finally awake, hm?"

At first, she merely blinked up at him, twisting the damp rag in her hands. Finally, she croaked, "How…how did I get here?"

The rasp and mere whisper of her voice urged Vegeta to the kitchen to make a glass of ice water for her. He thrust it into her hands when he returned to the living room. "Drink. I don't think I need to tell you to take it slow."

After a long second of staring at him, she did as he bid her, gingerly taking measured sips. In the meantime, he assessed her wounds and retrieved the necessary items from the first aid kit: antiseptic to clean and bandages to cover them.

"What happened?" she asked at last. "I…last I remember I said goodbye to Lila after we sparred and continued my solo training. And I was in the desert near home."

That explained the abrasions and why he never sensed her fighting anyone else. He grabbed her arm closest to him and dabbed a scrape running the expanse of her bicep with an antiseptic-drenched cotton ball, causing her to hiss in protest. Her skin had cooled to near normal levels again, but he could see the exhaustion in her hooded eyes and sloped posture. How long ago had she sparred Lila? If the cyborg noticed something off about the Gerudo, surely she would have addressed it, right? Or maybe he was giving her too much credit. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Obviously, I don't know," she sniffed. Her eyes caught sight of the fabric encircling his forearm. "What happened to your arm? Did an animal get you while hunting or something?"

He bit his tongue on asking if she considered herself an animal. He shifted his attention to a similar scrape along her shoulder blade, moving a burnt scrap of what remained of her shirt and her bra strap aside. "No, but you did."

"Me?" she repeated, brows dipping low in her puzzlement. She pinched the bridge of her nose, massaged her temple with her free hand. "I don't…but I don't remember seeing you…until now, obviously."

He slapped a wide bandage over her shoulder blade. He hummed, not answering immediately and inspected a gash in her thigh that appeared to be from an errant ki attack. He ignored her grunted protest and began cleaning it. "You don't remember anything after Lila left you?"

She shook her head, watching him and looking like she might pass out at any second. "Not really. I remember watching her leave and saying I planned to keep training because it was only late afternoon. I resumed training like I normally would, and next thing I knew, I woke up here."

"You were at it for two days straight."

He grabbed the bandages and she lifted her thigh from the couch to make wrapping it easier. She stared in befuddlement. "What? No I didn't. I…" She trailed off and glanced out the window then at the nearest clock. She swallowed, and he felt her muscles tighten beneath his hands. "I…I don't understand. How could I be so out of it for that long? I mean…I know I have my moments of getting lost in my thoughts or emotions or training but…not like that…"

He glanced up and swore he saw fear in her gold eyes, the tightness of her jaw and how her fingers sought refuge in her ponytail. Panic, at the very least. He tied the bandage off and described her odd behavior, from her nonstop training session that convinced him to investigate to her collapse and the strange behavior she exhibited when he found her. She said nothing throughout or when he paused to take stock of her other side. Nothing that needed tending to outside of wiping a few scratches clean.

"Does 'il ra’aq vehvai vuriq' mean anything to you?"

She stiffened and stared at him, eyes wide in surprise again, though, until she answered, he couldn't decide if it was because she recognized the phrase or it caught her off guard to hear someone other than herself utter her mother tongue. He knew hearing Saiyago these days would catch him off guard, at least. Outside of using it to speak with her when there were nosey heiresses, servants, or other Earthlings slinking about, he never heard it spoken.

"'The daughter of the sun will rise…'" She trailed off again and stared at the opposite wall, searching the blank whiteness of it for an answer. "I don't think so? Where did you hear that?"

"From you, obviously." He nodded toward the clothes, ignoring her half-hearted eyeroll. "Think about it while you change."

Vegeta returned to the kitchen to offer her privacy and to wash his hands and fix himself a glass of water. His typical indifference suggested he let it go and write the situation off as some strange side-effect of heat exhaustion, but he couldn't deny how it unnerved him. Then and still in that moment. How it had his senses on high alert, his tail tight around his waist and the fur bristling, as he listened to her struggle to change out of her damaged clothing in the next room. She had felt…different in that moment in ways he couldn't explain, and not simply due to the changes that physically manifested. Between what he experienced and her response, it all had him questioning if he had been dealing with her at all…

He inwardly cursed himself. How preposterous. Perhaps peace was making him paranoid. Or desperate for something remotely interesting to happen. That had to be it: the lack of a threat looming over him after spending his whole life playing the survival game had him making too much out of nothing.

He forced his tail to uncoil from his waist as he moved back into the living room. The appendage stiffened and he nearly crushed the glass in his hand when he spotted what she held in her hands.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Obviously far less observant in her current state, his sudden reprimand made her jump, and she nearly tore the page she turned in the sketch book from its binding. "I didn't know you were into art. These are really good." She paused to look down again. "Hey, is that me?"

He stomped across the room and snatched the sketch book from her hands, a pout all she could manage in protest. His face and ears felt like they were on fire. "You're supposed to be thinking, not snooping through my personal effects!"

"Well, maybe if you don't want people snooping, you shouldn't leave stuff on the table like that," she huffed, falling back against the couch cushions like a spurned child. "It's not a big deal. I think it's interesting that you have a talent for something other than combat. And, like I said, they were all very good in my opinion."

Her sour expression shifted to a cheeky grin. "Besides, I do make a perfect muse."

"It was one dr–would you just drop it?" He set the sketchbook on the side table next to the chair he lowered himself into. Out of her reach and she would have to get past him to get it again. "Did you come up with anything besides idiotic comments about my hobbies?"

Nabooru worried the bottom of the dark gray t-shirt he gave her. Drab compared to her usual, colorful garb. "No. I honestly have no idea." She crossed her legs atop the cushion she perched on. "All I can think of is something from our religion. We had a sun god, Karaaq, and prayers and myths often referred to him as simply the sun. And I didn't pay the best attention to every last detail of our myths, but from my understanding, none of our gods had children in the literal sense, and any 'child' of Karaaq would likely refer to the male born to the tribe. So a son, not a daughter…"

"And you haven't produced any sons, have you?"

"Of course not!" she snapped back. "It hasn't been a century since Ganondorf even if I had the chance to get pregnant. I've only had sex with two other people since you, and one was a woman, so no. I haven't had any kids."

"Two?" he asked before he could stop himself and with far more incredulity than the number called for. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to continue. Too far in now, and perhaps seeking a hint of revenge for her snooping, he pressed on. "I'm going to assume that Lila was the woman, so who was the other? Ugh, don't tell me it was Nappa."

Her nose scrunched in distaste, and he could just see a hint of color in her tan cheeks. "What? No! Nappa's great and all but–I don't need to explain myself to you! So what if it had been Nappa? Why do you care? Are you jealous or something?"

"Please. Don't flatter yourself," he snorted, though her accusation might have hit closer to the truth than he would ever freely admit. His too quick response to even the slightest revelation of her sex life proved it clearly enough, but he couldn't deny the instinctual flare of annoyance he felt, the way the fur on his tail bristled. Ridiculous to be possessive over her when they only recently started sharing conversations longer than a few minutes again.

"I only ask because if you can snoop around my personal belongings and into my personal life, what's wrong with me asking about yours?"

Nabooru huffed again. "I don't need to snoop around to hear about your sex life." She folded her arms. "Your sex life comes running to me to tell me she's pregnant with your kid, and then wants me to tell you to come back to Earth to care for her and the baby. I don't even have to ask you."

“Hmpt. I’m less surprised she would pull a stunt like that than I am that she thought it would actually work. Or that you would make the call in the first place.”

“Fortunately for you and unfortunate for her, I thought your training to become a Super Saiyan and defeat the androids was just a little bit more important.” Nabooru reached out and picked up her glass from the coffee table, taking a sip. Despite some pep returning to her demeanor, her movements still seemed sluggish. “It’s not like she really needed you around, anyway. She’s rich and has plenty of support around her. You probably would have just made the process more miserable for her.”

Vegeta grunted, but couldn’t refute her. If the wretched heiress nagged him enough or used her scientific knowledge to force his ship to return to Earth for as asinine a reason as doting on a pregnant woman he wished he never bedded in the first place, his mood would have soured tenfold. He would have made damn sure she regretted her actions, if he let her live at all. Stability and reason escaped him more often than not those days, and it only worsened each day the long sought after transformation eluded him. The depths of space proved the best place for him as it minimized unnecessary collateral damage. And if he killed Bulma or any other Earthling in his frustration, his fight with Kakarot would have ensued prematurely, resulting in yet another embarrassing defeat at the Earth-raised Saiyan’s hands.

"You look good, by the way."

His eyes snapped to her, gaze narrowed and eyebrow cocked. Warmth in his cheeks and his tail's gentle thumps against the arm of his chair betrayed that the compliment meant anything at all to him. It still confused him nonetheless, a senseless remark made out of nowhere.

As he forced his tail around his waist, she caught on and amended her statement. "I-I mean you look better. Than you have recently, at least," she said, fingers tapping against her ankles. She bit her lip, glancing away as she finally stilled her nervous hands. "You…you had me worried. But you're looking like yourself again, at least."

The Saiyan remained silent, caught between shame and…appreciation? To this day, her care baffled him. But he didn't hate it. The dark, murky parts of him wanted to, wanted him to push harder to maintain his solitude and keep her away for good. Lately, though, he found it easier to push those thoughts away because her company had become an overall positive to him. Similar and wholly different from the acquaintanceship they formed while on the force. All of the comfort and redeveloping trust–for both of them, he imagined, if her own willingness to seek him out and stick around for more than simply checking in on him suggested anything–without the tenuousness, the extra care taken to keep it looking strictly professional, and the looming sense of doom that always lingered over them with Frieza in their shadows.

“I know you freaked out about me looking at your drawings, but can I ask you something about them?”

He rolled his eyes at her description of his reaction, but waved a hand for her to continue. The worst she could do was bring up the one of her. The image that burned itself into his memory and one he couldn't rid himself of since their battle on Trimbon. He had seen her fight countless times before that and in the throes of battle many times after, so why did this one stick? Why when he picked up this new hobby, did he feel the strong urge to put it to paper?

“Those landscapes and buildings…were those from Planet Vegeta?”

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Nabooru shook her head and Vegeta growled softly. He grabbed the sketch book and tossed it over to her, taking a small amount of vindictive joy in how she struggled to properly catch it in her drained state.

"Yes, they're all places on my home planet. I started with easier locations to try my hand at it, like the Moon Desert and the Treeless Grasslands. I wanted to see if I'd even care to take up drawing as a pastime at all," he began as she flipped the pad open and examined each page. "I remembered finding it relaxing in my youth when I had to draw out star charts or planetary maps for my studies."

She hummed, holding the pad up to eye level. "Were those places significant to you at all?"

"Nappa trained me in the desert on occasion. I hunted the Great Griffors with mother or father in the plains when they had time away from their duties. They're the creatures I drew on that particular piece."

The desert was as barren as one would expect of an area baring such a title, with sand a reddish hue and only the hardiest of wildlife growing or roaming the area. It received its simple name due to legend, that it was there where one of the ancient Saiyan ancestors witnessed the full moon and first transformed. Before allying with the Colds, festivals were usually held there. But, being in such close proximity to where they built the base and the Colds essentially outlawing much of anything of cultural significance to the Saiyans, he only heard about all of this secondhand. Through stories and in history logs.

The grasslands sprawled for miles, but its name only mostly fit it as there were certainly trees that dotted the landscape. A river cut it straight through the center. Plenty of beasts of every variety roamed these lands, but none as infamous as the violent and cunning Great Griffor. Many grew to outsize the dinosaurs he saw on Earth, and they made the most vicious of them look tame when provoked. Quadripeds with tough, armored hides of varying metallic shades and markings and fur that grew around their ankles and at the base of their long, sturdy necks and the ends of their dual tails, they proved admirable foes for beasts, their size easily fooling an adversary into assuming them slow. They were powerful omnivores and extremely adaptable, capable of living on any terrain despite preferring the grasslands. They kept mainly to themselves in pods of four to five, but they did not take lightly to those infringing on their territory. Despite the Colds' influence, killing one remained an unspoken rite of passage for Saiyan children of all classes.

He crossed his right ankle over his left knee and perched his elbow on the chair's arm, cheek resting against his fist. He trained his gaze on the window opposite him. Lost in his memories of his home, he nearly missed Nabooru's next inquiry.

"What about these? Are these from the palace?"

She held up the sketch pad to show him, but he didn't need her to. "Yes. I drew the exterior and a few of the places I spent most of my time."

The first of the series after the exterior was the throne room. He considered drawing his parents seated in their respective thrones, but couldn't bring himself to do it, whether he thought he could do them justice at the time or not. Empty thrones symbolized the truth of the matter: the Saiyan royalty was no more.

The others were a collection of places he spent his shortened childhood. The courtyard and gardens where he could usually find his mother for a play spar or a story if she was home. The training rooms where he could fight Saibamen or other unlucky guards that passed by to his heart's content. And the dining room, the memories attached to that room both pleasing and tainted. While it was the place he most often was able to harass dignitaries both foreign and local, it was also where his father and Frieza revealed his fate to him.

Her silence as she pored over his work withdrew his attention from her, but after several minutes, he could feel her eyes resting on him again instead of the pad in her hands. When he cast her a sidelong glance, she snapped out of whatever thoughtful reverie he caught her in and closed the sketch pad.

"I wish I could have seen it," she said, offering it back to him. He nodded toward the coffee table and she placed it there. "I think I would be interested in seeing what Saiyan life was like."

He draped his tail over the arm of his chair. “You did say you thought myself, Nappa, and Raditz would likely get along well with your people. Perhaps you would find yourself fitting in more than finding much difference there.”

She brought a knee into her chest, wrapping her arms around it.“You’re probably right. I guess…I guess I’m still just nostalgic for our homes and our old lives for all of us.” Her gold eyes drifted to the bandages around his forearm. The corners of her lips twitched, and she gave her leg a gentle squeeze. “I really did that, huh?”

“You act as though you’ve never injured me before,” he rumbled. “Do you really feel that guilty about it?”

“Yes, and it’s even worse that I don’t remember or understand why or what happened.”

She stared at the injury a moment longer before rising to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her weight, and she took a moment to steady herself before approaching him. “You have those bandages on a little tight for a burn. They need to breathe a little more.” She knelt down next to the chair and her hands hovered over the place he tied it off, hesitating. She lifted her gaze. “May I?”

Vegeta gave a curt nod, watching her with mild interest as she untied the bandages and carefully unraveled it from his forearm. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in first aid,” he half teased, tail swishing back and forth next to him. She peeled the last bit of the bandage from his skin. “Did Frieza force you into learning how to patch up his loser soldiers?”

She chuckled and held her hand over the wound, comparing it. “As if Frieza would care enough about his soldiers to ask anyone to learn even the most basic forms of first aid.” She began rewrapping the bandages, looser than before. “I learned a fair amount while working in the healing ward as a teenager. After a Gerudo is officially initiated into the tribe, we take several months to sort of try out different areas of our society. Since there was no doubt that I would be a warrior, I spent my mornings working in the healing ward for several months to learn some first aid to tend to my own or others’ injuries on the field.”

Vegeta hummed in thought, watching her tie off the bandages again. “I see. Unless you were an Elite, that would have been seen as a waste of time for Saiyans.” He flexed his fingers and examined her handiwork. “That mindset likely worsened when the Cold Empire took over. As I’m sure you remember, they tended to bring in their own experts and professionals in every field that kept the Empire and planets running. And I’m sure they would have viewed Saiyan medicine, no matter how advanced it had become thanks to Tuffle technology, as inadequate and backwards somehow.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” She lowered herself to the floor to sit properly, legs stretched in front of her and leaning against the chair for support. “You know. Bulma said something similar to me when I was tending to your wounds after you blew the ship up while training that one time. Said you needed a proper hospital and doctor, not some backwoods medicine.”

Vegeta sniffed, remembering the incident in question but not the details considering his lack of consciousness. “I take it you understood it wouldn’t have ended well if I woke up in some strange hospital?”

“Mm, sure did,” she mumbled. He peered over the side of the chair to find she had closed her eyes, though an amused if not sleepy smirk lingered on her lips. “She also seemed adamant that you and I were a couple, and at first I thought her assuming and asking about it was just weird, but I guess she at least had the decency to make sure you weren’t committed to someone else before luring you to bed.”

“Oh, ha ha. Were you some kind of comedian on your homeworld, too?”

“I was decent at making people laugh. Guess it’s just a natural talent.”

A growl rumbled in his chest, his tail gripping the arm of the chair. “I hope your humor keeps you comfortable down there, then, because I’ve changed my mind on helping you to a bed.”

“It is better than baking in the desert.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “Thanks for bringing me here, by the way. Even if I woke up, in the state I’m in, I’m not sure I could have dragged myself home.”

Another grunt of a reply before he stood, wrapping his tail around his waist. He turned around and opened his mouth to announce he intended to go for a swim, and that if she could pathetically shuffle her way to a bed, she was welcome to stay until she regained her energy. He quickly closed it when he noted her chest rising and falling steadily and her eyes closed once again. Asleep in seconds, another sign of how fully her experience in the desert drained her; she had as much trouble sleeping as he did from what he gathered.

He contemplated keeping his word, leaving her to sleep propped up by the chair and in a less comfortable position than a bed would offer for all her teasing. But his feet seemed to choose for him, a silent reminder that she would do the same for him, deserving of it or not, and carried him to her side. He bent down and gently picked her up. She stirred upon being lifted, and, when he was satisfied she would not wake, he transported her to the nearest bed in the ground floor bedroom. He laid her down on the mattress and adjusted the pillow. Still, she slept.

He backed away and lingered for a moment, considering her transformation of sorts and if he would return from his swim to a charred house. If what he witnessed was some one-off oddity or something more, and if either of them should be concerned about getting to the bottom of it. The warning she uttered sounded prophetic, a further concern when she claimed to only pay enough attention to their religion as much as she felt necessary. He supposed it could have been something she subconsciously picked up from some other zealot's rambling, and in her potentially hallucinatory state she felt the need to speak aloud, but that explanation felt subpar as well when it didn't line up with the facts she did know about this sun god with certainty. Nor did it explain the fire, the physical signs of a surge in her energy without the actual surge, her voice. The feeling of awe, dread, fear, and discomfort he felt in that moment he never experienced around her or anyone else before, and not simply because he wondered if he was going to have to fight her after all. And every explanation that came to mind as he tried to piece it all together felt equal parts ridiculous and terrifying.

Vegeta huffed and turned quickly on his heel, closing the door behind him. No sense in dwelling on a puzzle he obviously didn't have all the pieces to. If it affected him again, he would deal with it then. Nabooru seemed fine blowing the ordeal off for her own reasons, so if she didn't seem worried about understanding it, he saw no need to figure it out himself. Satisfied for the first time that day with his reasoning, he headed out the front door to the shoreline.

He did, however, have one idle thought related to the events of the afternoon as he waded into the ocean: he wanted to try his hand at drawing that scene and see if he could capture what he saw with any accuracy.

#fic: recruited #:: nabooru ☀#// vegeta ♅#we love that slow burn

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astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

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"Hi kinda new. I don't know if this is where requests go, but if you haven't done it yet can I request an MC sneaking into the boys beds?" ~irenethehotdog

The MC Sneaks Into the Brothers' Beds While They're Asleep

@irenethehotdog don’t worry, I found ya anyway. 😁 Sooo there was a kind of tender way I could have played this… but then there was a funny way. I hope you're alright that I went with the funny way. 😅 I got two bed requests that are kind of similar-ish but how I’m interpreting them makes them just different enough to warrant two different asks. Here's the first one!

Check out my Masterlist for more!

Warning: Comical nudity? Is that NSFW-ish?

Intro:

Sometimes everybody needs a little comfort, especially in the middle of the night. Any number of things could have drawn the MC out of their bed: bad dreams, nagging thoughts, just general fear of the darkness of Hell that surrounded them, but they decided to try to soothe their unease with the company of their demonic housemates! Wonder how that turned out for them..?

Lucifer

I mean, if you’re feeling a little alone at night, maybe a little scared, it would only be natural to want to seek solace with the strongest person in the nearest vicinity, right? ...Right?

To say it was maybe ill-advised to just climb into bed with Lucifer would be an understatement… Frankly, if the enchantments he had on his door weren’t specifically meant for Mammon then they might have ended up in a very compromised position. But somehow, they managed to infiltrate the demon’s private sanctuary and get right up to his bed.

Now, Lucifer is not a heavy sleeper. Not at all. He’s grown pretty accustomed to waking up at all hours of the night because of his brother’s antics, so he felt the shifting weight on his mattress almost instantly.

They probably weren’t expecting him to suddenly jerk upright and spin towards them, fireball in hand ready to lob at their face... but that’s what they got.

After realizing that it was just the human and not Mammon coming in to take his stuff again, he made them sit down in front of his fireplace while he gave them a looong lecture about personal boundaries and how it’s really not smart to sneak up on demons like that…

But he was still sympathetic to their sleep-deprived state so he offered them some tea and Devildom sleep remedies in hopes of getting them back to bed. ...Just not his. Back to your bed with you, MC.

Mammon

Mammon was their “babysitter.” Their protector. Their guardian. So why wouldn’t they want to go to him on a difficult night?

Getting into Mammon’s bed was hardly a challenge, sure they had to tiptoe through the garbage heap that made up his bedroom floor but it wasn’t Mission Impossible or anything…

What did catch them off guard was just how… not clothed he felt after they slid in under his covers. Like, pretty much wearing nothing at all. Not even a pair of courtesy boxers. 😓

It was their squeal as they flung themselves out of the bed that actually woke Mammon up. They had him ripping the covers off, ready to leap into action and everything, which definitely didn’t help matters. (Or maybe it did, depending on your point of view 🤷‍♀️).

Both parties pretty much turned into a cursing/blushing mess as he shot them embarrassed, rapid-fire questions while desperately trying to pull on some sweats. Meanwhile the MC stayed plastered up against the wall of his bedroom, answering him in equally defensive shouts.

Eventually, their fuss woke up Lucifer who was quick to send both of them back to their respective beds. The House teased them mercilessly for weeks… How were they supposed to know Mammon slept naked??

Leviathan

Levi might be a… strange choice for bedmate at first glance (he doesn’t really even sleep in bed, but a tub hardly meant for two people). However, there’s a certain level of approachability to him, isn’t there? Considering his own struggles with anxiety, maybe they thought he could relate…?

They tried knocking on his door first, thinking he might have been gaming, but there was no answer. When they walked in and found the otaku actually asleep for once, it seemed like their wishes might have actually been granted!

...But then came the actual trouble of trying to get into bed with Levi to start with. There wasn’t really an easy way to squeeze their body in past his because the tub was so dang narrow…

Any rational person might have just given up on the venture, but not MC. Whatever's possessed them to want to sleep with this awkward shut-in has a pretty good hold on them yet.

Lack of sleep might have been what gave them the bright idea to just try and lay on top of Levi veeerrry sooooftlllly…. Which is how the poor demon woke up to them halfway straddling his waist in the middle of the night.

His remarkably high-pitched scream woke up the whole dang House and the sheer amount of force he used when trying to jerk out of the tub toppled it over… Even after many apologies (and a trip to go buy a new tub), Levi still double locks his door at night to this day… 😓

Satan

Really an odd choice there, not going to lie. They’re well aware of the possibility that they could accidentally wake him and he maaaay not be the best waker (what being Wrath and all) but if it’s irrational worries that got you down, why not go to the most rational person in the House? Sounds like a perfectly logical decision, right?

That might have been what their half-baked disillusions were telling them on the way to Satan's bedroom but actually standing in front of the sleeping man was a whole other story. They felt crazy, genuinely crazy… But they still slipped in under the covers anyway.

Satan stirred almost immediately and turned to face them… but his eyes could hardly keep focus and the look of dopey confusion on his face could have honestly made the perfect screen background. "Huuuuuh…? MC…? What're you doin' 'ere…?"

They kind of had to hold in a laugh while they explained that they just wanted to sleep next to him that night. Satan beamed them an oddly serene smile and just nodded. "Okaaay…" With that he seemed to roll over to go back to sleep… but his mind caught back up with him before his drowsiness did.

"Wait a minute..." Ah shit….

Like Lucifer, Satan ended up giving them a pretty good lecture on boundaries and the like when he finally snapped out of his stupor. Thankfully he wasn't mad, just a little embarrassed that they had seen him like that. He offered them a good book or two to pass the time if they couldn't sleep, but sent them back to bed all the same.

Asmodeus

Asmo probably doesn’t get people coming into his bed with completely chaste intentions very often, but he’s by far the most emotionally in-tuned demon in the House. If they're after a little sympathy, best just go to Asmo right?

They weren't really sure what to expect when they walked into his room... Does Asmo sleep like a Disney Princess, hair and makeup done perfectly in defiance of all laws of beauty?

Does he sleep like a '60s housewife, with curlers in his hair and leftover chips of mud mask on his face?

Does he sleep like the god of all sex that he is, sculpted chest for the eyes to see and everything underneath laid bare like a honeypot of temptation??

The MC doesn't really get to know, because when they pulled back the covers to climb inside they were met by the sight of someone else's very naked ass taking up the spot where they thought Asmo should be.

They go back to their room willingly, dejected and maybe a little scarred... Apparently they were just too late to the party...

Beelzebub

Okay, everything about Beel screams “Hello! I’m a warm comforting teddy bear!”...aside from the hungry parts. It’s really not hard to see why they’d want to go to him if they’re feeling a little vulnerable.

They didn't worry too much about being quiet when they walked into the twins' room. Belphie could sleep through a rock concert and Beel wasn't too far behind him (as long as he wasn't hungry).

They figured that the tall twin wouldn't mind too much if they just crawled into bed with him… He had make a similar request of them before, it was only fair right?

As they were preparing their tired body for a good night's sleep, they gently pulled the covers back next to Beel but they probably weren't expecting to find so many food wrappers surrounding him… or bags of chips… or packages of cookies… or-

Apparently Beel had yet another sleep-eating run and this time he seemed to have brought the whole kitchen back with him. There was hardly enough room left for Beel anymore, let alone the MC!

Considering their options were to either wedge themselves between a havoc roast and a bag of jerky or just brave one more night on their own, they cut their losses early and went back to their own bed...

Belphegor

They didn’t have to know Belphie since Day One of being there to pick up on how hard he slept. The man was pretty much in a coma for most of the day and that included his nightly rests too. Would he even notice if they… per say… slipped into bed with him to get a little comfort from their nightmares? Surely, he’d stay asleep, right?

When they didn't see his sleeping form in the room he shared with Beel, the MC eventually found Belphie up in the attic room. His little hideaway with a plush-ass bed to boot.

They didn’t bother being quiet at all. They figured that Belphie could have stayed under for anything short of banging pots and pans in his ears so why try to mask their footsteps?

They never expected him to be awake. 😰

The moment they lifted the covers, Belphie struck like some kind of blanket crocodile! He grabbed them by the waist and dragged them into the spot of the bed right under him with a impish grin on his face.

Turns out they weren't the only ones having sleeping problems that night and as they felt the full weight of his worn out body settle in nicely up against theirs they knew that maybe, finally, they'd get a good night's sleep… 🤭

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me asmodeus #obey me requests #obey me scenarios

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kumaradosha · 3 years ago

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I’m seeing a whole lot of bad takes and ignorance of past/present content and lack of critical thinking or ability to understand character motives regarding this most recent Dream SMP lore. So please, allow me to lay down some facts, some sense, and also some speculation of my own. This’ll be really rambly, because I’m tired, and I want to say a lot. Rewatching ALL the streaming perspectives now, my thoughts start here:

Considering Sam doesn’t want to enter the cell to dirty his hands himself, he clearly has some aversion or moral qualms about torturing prisoners, but Quackity has convinced him to go along with it. Quackity spends a lot of time before he goes into the cell repeatedly making sure Sam won’t have a change of heart and intervene, which indicates Sam probably has some misgivings. Quackity feels he has to remind Sam that this is for the greater good and to stand back and let him do his thing and that this will probably be the last time. These are all reassurances and instructions that would not be necessary if Sam were known to be totally cool with it all already.

Sam believes the stringent measures Dream put in place for the prison are just desserts for him to suffer, but Techno doesn’t deserve the same cruelty, because Techno didn’t enact those rules. And that’s why Techno gets baked potatoes from Sam, and Dream doesn’t. Sam clearly believes this harsh treatment is justified, because Dream was going to do it to someone else. He thinks he’s being just. Of course, allowing the torture, though not his idea and not really comfortable to him, was still crossing a line, considering physical torture was not something Dream did to his victims (and besides, there’s the argument that not everything a criminal has done is morally correct to be done to the prisoner regardless). That, he was convinced, was for the greater good, to get the revive book. Quackity manipulated him; he thinks he’s doing what’s best, but no, of course that doesn’t make him right or his hands clean.

Sam wanted the dog dead because it’s a security risk, especially with Quackity entering the cell with two other people. He killed it later for the exact same reason. Y’all act like nobody else has ever killed an animal in Minecraft RP; get it together. Is Sapnap also evil? Tommy? He killed his own cat. Random animals are not treated with the gravity you guys are giving them; it makes no sense to call out this one time.

When Techno raised the point that he would be fine if Quackity killed him, because Dream could just bring him back, Dream countered with his warning that Techno doesn’t want to experience death, judging by how messed up it made Tommy. What motive would he have to argue that, aside from actually caring about Techno’s well-being? If Dream was only thinking of himself, he would benefit from Techno being willing to die and be brought back to life by him, giving him an easy reason not to give the resurrection knowledge to Quackity. I honestly can’t think of a reason he would argue other than the fact that he doesn’t want Techno to die even temporarily or experience death--that he cares. Interesting...

Dream hiding in the escape tunnel to make it look like he disappeared too was 5,000 IQ, but he didn’t do it just to be silly or smart. Quackity literally threatened to kill Dream when he came back. Dream HAD to pretend to disappear, because he was legitimately in fear for his life. You saw how terrified he was when Sam found him, how he just immediately begged him not to tell Quackity. He was afraid Quackity would come back and kill him before Techno managed to come back and break him out. He believed that would be his fate and had to make a last ditch attempt to avoid that outcome.

Phil confirmed on stream that the blueprints Techno was led to via coordinates are for the prison. Not Tubbo’s missing nuke, like I’ve seen speculated.

“Steve is your polar bear” was written on stream during the “Prison Podcast” Technoblade lore. This is not a mystery. Dream said he wrote it down when Techno started talking about Steve rescuing them.

If Sam doesn’t approve of Quackity killing Dream, why doesn’t he just tell Quackity Dream is still in the prison but not allow Quackity in anymore? Quackity needs Sam to lead him inside, to let him in. Since when did he have any power against Sam to force him to let him in? I don’t understand why Sam has to keep it a secret just to keep Dream alive. Just don’t let Quackity into the prison anymore. Clearly it was a bad idea, since all these security risks happened while Quackity was getting a free pass to not follow the rules of the prison.

Dream casually walking in the way of Sam’s pickaxe to disrupt his swing once Sam almost had the bell broken gets me every time.

The rapport between c!Dream and c!Sam in prison fascinates me. Clearly Dream is much bolder with Sam than Quackity and still seems to trust his sense of duty to a degree. Sam is also more malleable, convinceable, his fatal flaw being actually listening and talking to Dream, even after it clearly messes with him psychologically. He let Quackity manipulate him, too, and he compromises too much. That might seem weird to say, considering the harsh conditions he has Dream in, but. He does give in to a few things.

I’m wondering if Dream wanted to go to the courtyard hoping it was less secure and easier for Techno to break him out of.

Sam has no reason to lie and gaslight about Dream being the one to suggest raw potatoes and sealing up the courtyard. That’s not in his character to do. So clearly Dream suggested these things. In fact, we have proof. Search for the clip of Dream revealing a teaser for future lore, with him telling Sam the hole in the courtyard ceiling for the light is a security flaw. He straight up says that. Update yourselves. Furthermore, are the recordings we have of Dream suggesting nicer features for the prison even lore? Are they in-character, or was it cc!Dream and Sam making plans? I’m genuinely asking, because I don’t remember/am not sure. In any case, clearly the plans changed at some point, and they were Dream’s idea.

Dream said he didn’t realize how bad it was until after he experienced it. This could very well be a lie. However, it could also be a wake-up call. We just don’t know. Dream clearly possesses low empathy, and every person at some point doesn’t fully realize how poorly another being can feel in a bad situation. Sometimes it actually does take experiencing it yourself to realize how it feels. People can do cruel things to others before the empathy fully clicks. It is possible that Dream really does only now understand how harsh his plans were. Unfortunately, it’s just as likely he doesn’t care and is pretending to, because he has a history of acting, lying, and manipulating. We just do not know, and I think that’s part of the fun, the speculation. Note that none of this is excusing what he’s done; that bores me. I just like understanding characters and their psychology and motives.

Sam is ASKING if Dream had this prison built for Tommy. He is suspicious that that is the case. Dream did not TELL him this, because OBVIOUSLY Sam would have absolutely nothing to do with building a prison he knew Dream meant for Tommy. So no, Sam thought it was for something else. And guess what? It was. Back during the disc war finale stream, Dream told Tommy and Tubbo that the prison was originally intended for someone else (maybe multiple people, the number was not specified), but that he changed his mind and would now put Tommy in it (ha ha punny). Tubbo asked who it was originally intended for, and Dream wouldn’t tell him, preferred to keep it a mystery. Dream had zero reason to say this if it weren’t true. In fact, it would have been more impactful to pretend (or admit) he intended it for Tommy all along. Think of the horror, or even the betrayal finding out Sam, his friend, helped make it. So yes, there is every indication that it is the truth--Dream meant the prison for someone else at first.

And Dream didn’t argue with Sam’s accusations, because why WOULD he? If he didn’t tell Tubbo who it was for, he wouldn’t tell Sam now. Plus, he wouldn’t want to argue with Sam, make him more heated and less sympathetic, and risk him deciding to tell Quackity Dream was there after all. Dream has no reason to speak up. Let Sam think what he wants. Dream’s silence does not mean confirmation. This is not a new thing with him. He keeps things mysterious, and there is a lot about his planning and mindset he does not disclose.

Now, whether Dream made the prison harsher before or after he decided he wanted Tommy in it is up for speculation. We don’t know that timeline.

Anyway, Sam’s speech about Dream getting what he deserves is really delicious. All these people out here mocking Dream fans for Dream still being in prison (like Techno’s not imminently coming to break him out, hello?) and being told off by Sam, yet plenty of us are enjoying it, too, like?? Bruh, what kind of Mary-Sue-touting asshole likes characters who are flawless who never go through strife? Can’t be me. I love watching my favs through triumph AND despair, so this is all just a win for me, thanks.

It is possible to sympathize with a bastard who is highly flawed and wrong AND to understand his motivations without justifying his actions AND to realize he deserves punishment (though to what degree I don’t care to argue). All the black and white morality and taking one extreme stance of “this character is perfect!” OR “this character is wholly evil and only ever does things to be sadistic!” and polarizing the community is cringe, yo. You need to calm down. Enjoy the ride or like...get off?

Anyway, Dream is my favorite, Techno is my second favorite, I adore Sam, I really enjoy Quackity, and the SMP wouldn’t be the same without Tommy. So much love for all of this creative work and its creators. I’m having a blast.

#Dream SMP #DSMP #Dream #DreamWasTaken #Technoblade #Awesamdude #Quackity #TommyInnit #Tommy Innit #fandom discourse #Dream SMP lore #Dream SMP theories

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noobsomeexagerjunk · 3 years ago

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"MAKE THE SERVER BETTER. This is what I need to do."

An Analysis on Ranboo's Philosophy and Vision for the Dream SMP

One of the most consistent traits about Ranboo is his inconsistency, especially in his beliefs and choices, all influenced within the moment.

Now I was thinking back to when Ranboo had that explicit desire for a "happy family" when it became clear to us that he and Dream seem to share similar goals and desires for the server. It's been a few months since that stream, and Ranboo's gone through some changes as a character. Through experimentation, he relearns and rediscovers himself, most of it away from us particles. He now has the experience to choose people more discriminatingly, having a gauge on who still believes and/or benefits from his optimism and those who don't.

With a better grasp on his more persuasive and ambitious self, as well as a slightly stronger spine, I am going to attempt to make sense of what Ranboo's opinions most likely must be by now, having been in the server for half a year now.

1. "You have to think for yourself sometimes."

(from Ranboo’s first conversation with Slimecicle, 06/18/2021)

So you know how Ranboo is an anarchist, or at least identifies as such, at least within the context of the Anarchist Syndicate, right?

One of the most significant things we must pay attention to is Ranboo's anarchist tendencies. Based on his general experiences but particularly his conversation with Slime and his initiation to the Syndicate, Ranboo cares heavily about personal autonomy and the right to self-expression and self-preservation. His aversion to factional sides was initially derived from the existing factions he was exposed to being unfair and demanding of its members, as reflected in his experiences in New L'Manburg.

It's upon further inspection that these sympathies constitute his concerns over People. It's why he fights for and sides with People in general, as a concept and principle.

2. "Why can’t I have friends on opposite sides?!"

(from Ranboo’s Pre-Doomsday speech after the Community House confrontation, 01/05/2021)

Something Ranboo also believes in is the idea that everyone is valuable and capable of many things unique to themselves. Therefore, he recognizes and gives (as much as he could muster) care to Peoples' needs, concerns, and beliefs, most especially when he is demanded of it by whoever asks of him. He values loyalty toward friendships and relationships in their base form, as opposed to causes. (Especially relationships made from and because of causes.)

Another reason why Ranboo despises factional sides, especially the ones he was a part of, is that these sides' own beliefs and principles believe themselves to be above the other and vice versa. Ranboo's ability to recognize two (if not more) sides of an argument leads him to value both sides to such an extent that he believes one is not above the other. To him, People—individuals with inherent value and free will—are more than the causes—whose necessity changes over time and can only be a solution to specific, changing problems—they believe in.

3. "When the leader gets corrupted, then...we'll see what happens."

(from Ranboo's monologue after speaking with Ghostbur on the topic of killing Dream, 03/15/2021)

Something of particular fascination is Ranboo's dislike for leaders as a concept, a belief shared only by Technoblade and the rest of the Anarchist Syndicate. For them, and Ranboo, leaders are at the end of the day People. They are infallible and capable of making wrong choices. The very concept of a leader, too, suggests superiority in the ability and the dependence on only the causes of that leader, chosen or not. To them, no one should be above or below anybody. A leader creates that distinction.

An ideal SMP for Ranboo is one without leaders, where one's choices and manner of living, as dictated by their beliefs, is not above one or the other. In comparison, many characters who have expressed their visions of an ideal Dream SMP all have a leader in them!

We have Dream, who wants a server that fits his specific vision and needs and desires, a server that serves him, with his and only his vision of an ideal SMP—one where he has total control over all of the server. A less extreme version of this is held by the de-facto head of the neutral Badlands, BadBoyHalo.

Characters like Quackity, Schlatt, and Jack Manifold all believe in the concept of adherence and obedience to order and law as means to get something done. It also makes sense why these three also have a history of being quite literally Presidents of countries, whether corrupt like Manburg, discarded like Manifoldland, or ambitious like Las Nevadas.

There are also other leaders like Wilbur, Eret, and Tubbo, who have a partiality to order and leadership. The difference with them is that they believe in relative leeway in priority towards the ruled-over people. They believe in an SMP wherein a leader and their people share a mutual obligation towards each other's benefit and progress. Whether a cause that can help should be involved may be of consideration too, because as far as I know, these three mastered each of the 3 facets of the Greek art of persuasion:

Wilbur, in particular, is a heavy advocator of the use of cause in leadership, hence his use of speech to give rise to emotions, aka pathos.

Tubbo leans towards common sense and reason, having a tendency to use logos.

Eret is partial to a more general sense of righteousness, therefore basing many of his actions on the character of the people around him and having a strong focus on their and their subjects' own ethos.

4. "Who am I?" "I am somebody who stops conflict."

(from page 12 of Ranboo's current memory book)

Despite these differing ideas on what is good for the SMP, the one thing everyone has in common is that they all want a server where peace, to their standard and contentment, is achieved.

For Ranboo, this means no Conflict.

Bear in mind that he admits in his pre-Doomsday speech that Conflict can never be truly eradicated, acknowledging that personal conflicts between individual persons are still bound to happen.

Though, as stated in his various monologues in regards to killing Dream (particularly when he was grieving Tommy and after talking with Ghostbur) the Conflict he desires to get rid of is the big, overarching kind.

These are Conflicts that disrupt the happiness of, if not all, significant numbers of People. Conflicts that perpetuate a cycle of unnecessary violence, conflicts that escalate from the pettiest of disputes, conflicts rooted in a refusal of a person/faction/cause to simply coexist with everyone else.

This is Ranboo's major goal in reference to the whole of the server. This is a major motivation for all of his decisions and actions too.

5. “It should be all of us working together.”

(from page 14 of Ranboo’s first memory book)

When Ranboo explicitly repeated wanting "one big happy family," words that came out of Dream's own mouth, he's describing his vision of an ideal Dream SMP. It can be argued that he and Dream have the same goals, right?

Well, obviously, not quite.

Dream and Ranboo have very different visions for the server, the common thing being their determination to get everyone to cooperate with their vision no matter what. We see the vague and ominous actions of Ranboo while Enderwalking, how much bolder and aggressive he can get. He's seemingly more dedicated to this goal that way.

Based on the previous points, Ranboo's vision of a better Dream SMP is one where everyone exists as they are, freely and without division, where no one is above or below the other, and that they can put their dedications to causes aside for care and love for each other. People regardless of skill or situation just living together peacefully! where the Conflict is not big enough to harm but big enough to constitute what it means to be alive! No one's telling the other how to live because they understand and respect each other's choices and differences!

With how he approaches the fulfillment of this ideal, I dare say he does indeed fight for something, and it's the cause of all causes.

But what about those other people who aren't so compromising? Well, I wager those are the people Ranboo ought to snap against. Ranboo's ideal SMP is rooted in coexistence, therefore it demands compromise and tolerance. Funny just how many people on the server fight for causes that refuse to give that.

Ranboo definitely knows he can't achieve the server he wants alone, and knowing everyone else, he knows getting everyone to get along will be much harder in execution.

#dream smp #dsmp #dream smp analysis #dream smp character analysis #ranboo #long post

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semischarmed · 4 years ago

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Cocktease

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes...” mused a deceased Harland as he eyed a future acquisition.

The specter licked it’s lips in greedy anticipation, taking note of the sun-glazed man in front of him building a substantial fort in the sand.

Beautiful curves baked in golden sunset outlined the man’s every muscle. Harland gawked as he followed every bend and bump of the man, committing his form to memory. He continued to hover his intangible mass near his future skin. The man’s hair was jet-black, and gently spiked from ocean water. The man’s muscles moved expertly beneath his skin, revealing their strength. This was a body sculpted through years of work, hard-earned and built for power. Unable to control himself further, Harland began to caress the man’s body from behind, causing him to jolt in a shiver.

“You alright there, Marco?” A small petite woman waved from afar.

“Y-yeah, just a breeze.. Sorry for the scare Val!” He shouted back, reassuringly as he shook off the odd sensations.

This only prompted Harland to continue further, deeper. Harland was as ruthless of a businessman as he was effective. In his day he was never one to compromise. He loved a good, dirty fight. He relished in the struggle. A vessel of this much resistance was made for him. This time around, he dug his spectral fingers into Marco’s golden arms, causing a slight ripple in its muscled flesh. He watched in glee as he traced the outline of those forearms, causing the fine hairs he dragged his intangible hand through to glow briefly and settle white. Property of Harland.

Marco meanwhile went from small jolts to a slight convulsion, as he felt something inherently wrong penetrate him. There was something otherworldly to the sensation he had just felt. Moments later a stream of vile, negative emotions flooded him, causing him to laugh uncontrollably.

Marco knew something was wrong. These were not the bright, sunny laughter he normally gave off. They were cruel, callous laughs which sent chills down his spine. He had no idea his body could even make these sounds. He glanced at his biceps and recoiled in shock as he viewed stray muscles writhing and moving on their own. Marco felt an enhanced sensation in his arms, like an increased awareness in his control of them yet by that very same sensation was an unnatural numbness to them. By all accounts, they were his arms but something was off. These appendages attached to him could hardly qualify as his arms. There was something not-Marco to them that his brain couldn’t quite resolve. Every movement he felt was unnatural, like he had to actively focus on moving every single muscle just to get his arms to move the way he desired.

Marco began to worry in his head, as more and more of his body began to follow in the same feeling. He ran through the day’s events, trying in vain to discern what could have caused these sensations. Then, his legs buckled and he collapsed into the very fort he had built earlier.

In sweat and sand, in struggle and sun, Marco began to convulse on the ground. His desperation unseen by others, shielded by the pile he excavated to make the fort.

He thrashed and shook vigorously, as more unfamiliar sensations flooded him.

The feeling was moving throughout him. It was unmistakably living. And it was drawing closer to his head.

A stream of drool left Marco’s mouth, as his shaking quickened. Veins bulged in his face and throughout his body as seconds later, his eyes began to roll back.

“F-Fuck!!” He shouted.

“Mmmm yes, ‘Fuck’ indeed” an elderly voice inside him spoke.

“What the-“

“Pleasure to finally meet you... I’m Harland”

——

Marco grasped his head in pain. “W-what the fuck do you want?!

“The answer to that question should be quite obvious.” Marco’s own lips spoke this time. His pained expression loosened and all visible struggle drained from it, as Harland commandeered Marco’s pretty face as his own. A hand still half-controlled by Marco shook in place until it eventually relented and caressed his face in rough unnatural motions. “I want this”.

“GET OUT” Marco shouted in protest. His body shook violently in one swift motion before settling.

In a brief instance, Marco again found full control of his body. He let out one sigh of relief before passing out.

——

Stirred awake by the sound of gently rolling waves and the vibration in his pocket, Marco awoke from a nap that had gone for far too long.

He viewed his phone, taking note of the hours lost in slumber. A new text from Val.

“Today was fun, had a client booked. Was gonna wake you up but you looked way too cute like that. Let’s do this again sometime. Maybe no giant sandcastles next time ;)”

He laughed gently as he spoke to himself “Damn, quarantine has really done a number on your stamina, eh Marco?”. He continued to slowly get up from the hole he had created himself- stopping every few moments as if to anticipate another fight for his body, despite writing off the entire event as a dream. “Must have dozed off or something.” He kept repeating rationalizations to himself, chalking the whole thing up to an illusion born of fatigue. Yet somehow deep down, he knew it was all too real. Something foreign, something unnatural was still there with him. Still Inside.

All reservations aside, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have occurred since waking up and Marco began to even slightly believe his own little lie.

“Of course it was just a dream”.

As soon as Marco began to truly relax himself, his body shook into rigid, unnatural poses, defiantly showing its owner his error.

He attempted to get his bearings, grasping at whatever he could, only to catch loose sand with his arms. In the midst of Marco’s writhing, a toothy sneer pulled itself from his lips.

Harland spoke using Marco as his mouthpiece. “You didn’t seriously think I would just leave all of this?”

Marco’s own struggling hands began to grope and fondle his body.

“Don’t worry, having me inside will a whale of a time- you’ll see” he spoke, trailing of in a moan as his fingers circled sensually around his nipples. “Being my new body will make you successful beyond your wildest dreams”

Marco felt an odd warmth build inside him.

“Get the hell out of me!” He shouted in desperation.

In that moment, he was hit with a tremor of earthshattering pleasure- burst from deep within his abs, pulsing and delivering into the rest him. His arms splayed out, his hips swung into unnatural angles, as he was forced to ride the wave. In the aftershocks from the initial burst, his limbs couldn’t help but twitch slightly in unprompted delight. Marco had never felt anything like that before. His body couldn’t help but leak a little precum in anticipation.

“Some propriety is called for, young man. At least try to hide it.”

Embarrassed by the small stain that now appeared on his underwear, Marco began to shout back.

“Shut u-sh-shit… oh shit… holy shit holy shit” attention was immediately drawn to the second tremor inside himself. Once the second wave hit, he could only manage to barely contain an unprompted moan in his throat.

Marco tried to readjust himself, to acquaint himself with the pleasurable feelings and fight Harland’s onslaught on his senses. Instead, the pulses were getting quicker, stronger.

His abs were in pain, body sore, veins engorged. Muscles strained from their fleshy confine as they involuntarily contracted and relaxed in rapid succession from the increasing frequency of the pulses.

Marco laid in the ground shaking, riled up in pent up fury and ecstasy, expecting sweet, sweet release- only to be met with disappointment as his body, the very body he worked so hard to sculpt, betrayed its master. There would be no respite from the onslaught of pressure inside him. In fevered, labored breaths he cried out to his tormentor. “J-Just do it…. ah ah a-Holy shit. Take me. FUCK. We’re so close… please”.

Marco’s head hung back while his mouth contorted into a pained expression. The corners of his mouth twitched in place as the Harland new face took on a dark, lecherous expression.

“No, you were made to please me! You’re not getting a drop of this!” In that instance, something inside Marco’s body clicked into place.

This was it, Harland could see himself begin to manifest through his newly-acquired Marco-template. Marco’s eyes took on an evil, soulless demeanor. His hair began to flush white before settling into a dark gray color between Marco’s and Harland’s. All along his body, similar changes had occurred, cementing this new flesh as not-quite Marco and not-quite Harland.

Of course, the mind was a vastly different matter. Marco was no more- his body only the template from which Harland had fashioned his new corporeal form. Harland devoured his mind, connecting the new body to its sole owner.

Marco was no more- for he was now fully Harland incarnate. Lewd fingers began to explore the body they were attached to, tracing over Marco’s biceps, his shoulders, and his thick neck. His fingers continued to drag themselves among raw other crevices in his body, before gliding down his abs, down the treasure trail and landing gently around his cock. Harland scooped the bit of precum still on Marco’s dick from earlier.

The newly-minted man let out a smug, venomous smile, as he sucked his new fingers clean.

“Quite a delicious partnership”.

…

Though his mind no longer existed, Marco’s body was still pent up in lust and pressure, still attempting to shake and still yearning for that sweet release. With Harland in command, it was subjugated to stillness. Marco’s body continued with build in near-orgasmic heat and pleasure, further amplified by Harland’s mental fortitude.

But even Harland himself could not deprive this new virile body for too long. His hand went back in and quickly grabbed his engorged cock.

With closed eyes, he gave it a light, sensual tug, nodding in approval as he let out a short moan.

“We’re at the home stretch, bud”.

Another tug. This time, with a slight roughness. There was no hesitation to it- this was now his body after all, he knew how to please it best.

“You-this flesh was built for me, you just didn’t know it….and as for myself, I was built to control this to rule you… sorry I took so long to get home. You must have been so lonely building up all that muscle, sculpting all this without me inside to wear it” Harland stated as his free hand began to caress random parts of his body. The tugs began to quicken and his eyes fluttered in sheer delight.

“One final piece…” he moaned

…

In a quick jolt, Harland stopped dead in his tracks. Cum rapidly pooled over his hand, but he paid no mind to it.

He muttered but one word to cut the silence.

“Incompatible.”

In a flurry of feathers and a burst of red light, the two men finally realized their true form:

April Fools!

---

Note: Not actually a huge fan of the fried chicken company in question.

#male possession #male transformation #notaKFCad #recipieforsuccess

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razrbladekiss · 3 years ago

Text

Tyrants | Chapter Five - Consolation

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Mentions of murder, grief, the aftermath of that death...all that Jazz! Plus a lil moment I’ve been fucking itching to include.

Chibs's breath was stuck in the middle of his throat, jutting thickly the more he thought about Opie cradling Donna's sallow cheeks as she bled out onto the gravel.

It'd cut deep, this one.

So many bodies he had bared witness to over the years. So many lives lost and souls snatched and whatever else right before his undaunted eyes--but nothing really hurt as much as that.

Because he knew what it was like. How it maimed a man. How it felt like his world was hurtling toward the chasms of hell during the moments after arriving at the scene and seeing his wife there. Dead.

Cold and dead and lonely. And completely gone.

Guilt resided, too. It was true tangible remorse for the simple proficiency of; that should've been me.

It happened with Diane--it happened to Chibs's wife, the mother of his kid, and the one true light in his life right after Isla. And it should've been him.

It was brutal, the way it happened tonight. It was fierce and heartless and Chibs knew in a flash that those bullets struck the wrong skull.

He couldn't bear the reverberation anymore, the gutturals from Piney's son who'd just lost his wife for no good reason during a drive-by in their quaint little town. The town that'd swelled wickedly with corruption these last few weeks.

Stahl was at the scene before he left. Looking pensive, actually. She looked guilty.

Chibs's basic instinct had landed the blame at her door--put the blood on her hands--but he kept his mouth shut for fear of what'd happen next. He didn't think that SAMCRO could handle this.

Because this wasn't a product of Mayan or Niner rivalry. He wasn't stupid--he knew that his President had something to do with this.

This was cultivated from the seeds sown by June Stahl, the pips planted so very deeply into the mind of Clay Morrow which forced him to believe that Opie Winston was a rat.

And he wasn't. He'd never sell his club out--no matter the damage, the pain inflicted upon him--and he'd never dream of pinning the fault on his brothers.

But he had to look a little bit closer to home if he wanted those answers. If he wanted to know just who sniped Donna--a completely innocent woman caught in the most ferocious of crossfires--he had to turn to someone that he knew was culpable of such activity.

Chibs's heart ached. It impaired him so very deeply that the only thing he could visualize on the ride back to Jax's house was her face.

Her face that dripped blood. Saturated crimson plagued his thoughts and forced his stomach to churn vociferously. He felt sick now.

He felt sick because Opie had lost his wife, Piney had lost a crucial member of his small family, and her kids had lost their mother. The woman that had worked so tirelessly to provide a life for them, to love and care for them unconditionally no matter what.

Opie was strong, he knew that--but he didn't know if he was strong enough to handle this. This crippling weight, this hurt and the idea of what could've been done differently.

Because so much could've happened to prevent this.

His tongue had become inoculated with bile, acrimonious ire for whoever the fuck was to blame for such unnecessary brutality--and, really, Chibs knew that he didn't have to look much further than Isla's favorite blue-eyed heathen this time.

And that broke his heart because of the pedestal she held that man upon. The pedestal she'd always held him atop, so fucking highly, too.

She knew that he was bad--an inherently bad human being--but he was just Tig. Her buddy. Clay's right hand that, really, he'd always count on. No matter what. And he'd always deliver the king's request, too.

Tig was the one that Isla called when her car broke down on the freeway and she needed to get home in time for Gemma's dinner.

The one she turned to for cheering up because he always knew how to crack a smile and get through to her.

The one that she strangely respected the most. Nobody really recognized what it was about that man that had Isla overjoyed when in his presence, she just was. And that was part of his charm.

But her father was anxious, now. Worried that she would take this news--if it came to light--badly. Because it was going to break her heart, regardless.

It was how she would handle it, which was the true hardship.

"Christ." Chibs's voice struggled to materialize, gesturing to his daughter passed out on Jax's couch. "How long's she been sleepin'?"

Mascara and eyeliner and whatever the fuck else she'd painted onto her face had started to melt away, trails of black and grey faintly running her cheeks.

"'Bout an hour." Gemma responded, sniffling back the putrid emotion she'd so obviously let flood the moments leading up to their arrival.

Jax's stomach was doing backflips at the thought of Isla crying herself to sleep in his living room--after everything that he'd put her through, too.

He feared that this was going to be the tip of the iceberg. That this was going to pulverize her sanity and compromise everything she had sought to fight off these last few days.

And he couldn't help but harbor those same suspicions as her father, either. Jax wanted to keep his mouth shut until he was certain that this was an inside job, but he was teetering toward that conclusion regardless.

It was the only viable explanation.

He, too, worried about what this would do to her. That finding out Tig was the potential culprit and reason why Opie's children were officially motherless.

"How's Ope?" She continued, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. Jax's head shook. "Oh."

"Not good, ma. But he's home now."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah--I followed him back to make sure he got there in one piece. He wanted to leave the second the fuckin' ATF stormed in."

"Oh." Gem repeated herself, running her fingers through Isla's hair as she rested in her lap. "What about Clay? Where'd he get to?"

Chibs took a seat at one of the wooden chairs that'd been positioned around the coffee table, and Jax sank into the couch opposite the girls.

It was pitiful. Darkness enveloped them as Isla slept, innocently resting as the world shattered around her.

She wasn't oblivious to the happenings. She hadn't slept through it all, but she was done. Isla had been distant for days, had been fretting over the unimaginable and Gemma was worried that she was going to make herself sick if she continued the way that she was.

So she twisted her fingers and nails through the flowing waves of golden blonde, and soothed her the same way that she always did.

The same way that she found comfort as a kid.

He sighed. Exhausted. "Dunno. Last I saw he was with Tig."

"Aye." The Scot agreed with a nod, too. Hating the thought of Trager being responsible for something like this.

But it was merely a suspicion that Chibs hoped and prayed would get debunked sooner or later.

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. He talked a little to Unser--seems to think it was a hit on Ope gone wrong--so, I guess they're gonna be lookin' into the Niners."

"Aye." Chibs spoke again, gesturing to Isla. "Did she say much when we left?"

"Not really--she just busied herself and cleaned up with Wendy. Seems like they're getting along now."

Jax smiled a bit, happy that his best friend and the mother of his child were starting to accept the presence of one another in Abel's life.

Truly, that's all he really wanted. That and his mother finally being able to turn the other cheek, and quit castigating his kid's mom.

"Did Clay leave before you?" Gemma asked, antsy. She was itching to get home, itching to see and comfort her husband because she knew that he was going to be fretting over this.

"I told you, the last I saw, he was with Tig. Dunno if he left after us, or if he's still there."

She looked away, smoothing her thumb over Isla's cheek.

"He'll be home soon--I should take off."

"Not on your own." Jax upheld, simply terrified of what could've happened to his mother had she left alone.

As far as Jax wanted her to know, this was bad blood between clubs. This was a hit put out on an innocent bystander because they knew it'd jolt SAMCRO--and it did.

It shook them to the very fucking core, jutting them repeatedly--mere moments away from crumbling and completely disintegrating into Harley Davidson dust.

And he really didn't want to admit that this was the work of his step-father and Alexander Trager. But he feared that was the only viable explanation.

"I'll--eh--I'll take her back." Chibs offered, getting up to ghost a hand over Isla's blushed cheek. "I was gonna take her home with me tonight, but I think she's better off stayin' put."

Jax agreed with a nod, smiling weakly at his mother. Though, she knew it was a coverup. A not-so-brilliant facade and attempt at showing that he was okay during this barbarous time.

"I don't wanna wake her." She mused, pushing strands of hair from her face. "She looks so damn peaceful."

Gemma hadn't a cozy moment with Isla for a while--not since she was recovering from a broken heart four summers ago.

The last time that she turned to Gemma--the same way she would as a child--for that motherly comfort.

"I know." The older man crouched to the ground, tracing faintly along her arm. Isla grumbled, slowly rousing. "C'mon petal, it's gettin' late."

He kept a hand against her, running this thumb over the freckled skin softly. Diane's crucifix caught his eye as she shifted, impairing him that little bit more tonight.

"What time is it?" She asked roughly, feeling a sting in her throat. Isla lifted herself off of Gemma's lap, rubbing at her eyes. "Is it late?"

"It's about one o'clock."

"Shit." Her hiss was sharp, galled that she'd been allowed to rest for so long whilst there was a literal wildfire sweeping its way through the club. "Ope--oh my god--Opie. Is he okay?"

Isla knew the answer. She knew what Jax was about to say before he even opened his mouth, and so tears ensued. Crystalline hues weeped and watered, and he was unsettled.

Unsettled because she was so strong in the face of such tragedy, rarely shedding any tears before an audience.

Unsettled because, up until the Kohn incident, Jax hadn't seen her cry since she was shot in the knee after three Mayans decidedly stormed the T M lot and strived to gun down each and every person on the premises.

He never forgave himself for that, actually. Because those bullets--though completely un-fatal and leaving a simple mark that, really, Isla referred to as her battle scars--should've been for him.

"He went home. To be with the kids." Jax cleared his throat, kneeling in front of her when Chibs got to his feet and gestured for Gemma. "He's--uh--he's in a bad way."

"Understandably." She mumbled. "Any ideas on who did this?"

Your favorite son.

"No. Clay thinks it might've been the Niners--shits been off since they decided to pull their fucking guns on us after the warehouse was raided."

"That was their rationale?"

"I guess so." He added. "It'd make sense. We lost their guns, so we lost a life--"

"But Donna." Isla argued, sitting upright. "Donna was innocent."

"We know that, love, but Laroy was probably under the impression that Ope was the one behind the wheel." Her father spoke over Jax, heeding his uncertainty. "It wasn't meant to be her."

Chibs had to blow his theory out of the water, firstly.

"A life is a life. To them, so long as they've got one of ours--someone close to us--they've succeeded with somethin'--"

"All they've succeeded with is leaving two kids without a fucking mother." Isla spat, throwing away the small blanket that Gemma had draped over her as she stood up. "And you've gotta stop being so fucking insensitive."

Jax stumbled backwards, watching her storm out of the room in her pretty little summer dress. He couldn't surmise whether following behind or leaving the woman to simmer alone, was the best idea.

It was a touchy subject, the loss of a parent. It was prickly and raw and it never ceased to strike Isla's heart. Because she understood.

She understood how much it hurt. The uncertainty of it all. Not knowing what to do next. How life changes more than what anyone ever prepares you for and, really, how nothing is ever the same again.

Isla knew it all too well. She'd been there, done that, and refused to go back. But with Chibs's life, his line of work, she was never granted that security.

And it wasn't particularly the security that she wanted, more so the knowledge of what--god forbid anything--would happen to her father. Because that's what bothered her the most about Diane.

She never knew anything about her mother's passing.

Jax got a pretty tight grip on the concept, too. But it was different with Isla--it was something she never quite grasped.

"A life is a life," Gemma mocked the insensitivity from the baffled Scotsman, shaking her head. "That wasn't just any life, Chibs. That was Opie's woman, the mother of his children, and one of Isla's oldest friends--she was family. She wasn't just a life."

His lips twitched before he exhaled sharply, knowing that she was right.

Knowing that his response was much too unsympathetic and heartless and, really, he was an idiot to forget how upset she got whenever something that pertained to the death of her mother was brought up.

"Your kid is grieving. She's grieving for Ope, for Piney, for Kenny and Ellie--for herself because this--" she gestured to nothing in particular, but he understood, "--is something she knows all too well, ain't it? Diane?"

"I know." Tersely, he responded. He pulled a hand through his hair. "I fuckin' know how she feels, but I didn't think she'd storm out when I said it!"

"Well, she's always been unpredictable."

"I know." His riposte was braided with anger, pure fury.

"Then why'd you say it?" Gemma jabbed. "Isla has been about six thousand miles away from us these last few days, and you thought that saying such a stupid thing wouldn't tip her over the edge?"

She was defensive of the blonde--always had been.

And Jax was sick of it.

Sick of the back-and-forth between the two. Sick of that holier than thou bullshit from Gemma--pretending that she wasn't thinking the same fucking thing--and sick of the way Chibs cared more to argue than to go after his daughter.

"Make sure Wendy stays if you two leave--I'm going."

"Where?" Chibs demanded.

But Jax just glared at him, stuffed his hands in both pockets, and walked straight out of the house.

It was cooler, now. The breeze had hit him square in the face the second he stepped over the threshold, and it was nice. To feel a little breeze that'd inevitably take the edge off of the lament sizzling away inside of him, was nice.

It was short lived, though. The second he realized that he couldn't see Isla--that she was completely out of sight--dragged him straight back down to earth, and the panic had set in.

He trusted her, of course he knew that she wasn't going to do anything stupid because she valued her life too much, and she wanted to do great things. So many great things.

But Jax also knew her too well. Well enough to know that the first place she would've thought about storming toward was the Clubhouse--the place that she'd find Tig.

And under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have rushed to get to her before she had a chance to get to T M. But the possibility of walking in and discerning Trager's inconsolable fury--his resentment and self-loathing--was much too great a risk for Jax to take.

He had to intercept.

He had to save her before she got the chance to set foot onto the property.

But, realistically, Jax was more than aware that Isla was probably already halfway there by now, and weaving through the unusual bustle of traffic in his small town just wasn't worth it.

"Shit." He growled, hopping onto his bike regardless. Saving a sliver of hope that he'd find her tonight.

He wasn't exactly optimistic, though. Because she'd already stormed four blocks.

Isla wrapped her cardigan tightly around her body--feeling the cold a bit more than what Jax had earlier--and hastily made her way downtown.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't fear the short walk toward the garage, but it was chilling. The thought of Donna's killer roaming freely, parading around that neighborhood, was daunting.

But she wasn't scared.

Or, at least, Isla wasn't scared until she heeded the red and blue flashing lights right in the middle of the intersection. The apparent murder scene.

Her heart sank, actually. The organ dropped to her stomach, pulsating slowly--barely--at the sight of Charming PD, CSI, and her. The group scattered, conversing, and speculating.

It was horrible. Sick.

She'd seen this before. She'd seen deaths and murders, and whatever came during the moments following. But she hasn't felt this way before.

The incapacitating throb. The discomfort and grief for such a horrendous--albeit freak--accident. And she wasn't stupid. She was as cognizant as her father and as empathetic as Jax, and she knew just as well as those two that this was not a purposeful attack.

Whether it was a consequence of Mayan or Niner misconduct, it was a wrongful onslaught that was about to cull an entire family. An entire charter.

If it hadn't already, that was.

She choked around the swell in her throat, padding along the sidewalk. She took her time, but she wasn't slow by any means. She had a place to be, and a specific person that she had to see--to talk to because she didn't know how to cope with this.

And it wasn't exactly her place to mourn for Donna. She hadn't been involved with her for some five years and she felt bad about the pair unable to rekindle their friendship. She felt bad about grieving the loss of Opie's wife--about taking the focus away from him.

But it hurt. It hurt so much--it sliced deeply, through flesh and tendon and bone--and she knew that Tig wouldn't judge her for this inveterate sorrow. He wouldn't see her as selfish or stupid for wanting to project her sincerities, her emotions.

Her heels clicked across the yard and she smiled a little bit when she passed Juice and Tig's bikes beside one another, letting her know that she wasn't going to be alone in there.

She was scared now, though. Because she hadn't talked about this yet. Hadn't talked about how she felt and how she was going to approach Opie the next time she saw him.

"Juice?" Isla squeaked from the doorway, waiting for him to turn around and run to her, or something. But he didn't move, didn't lift his head.

It was dreary inside. The lights had been dimmed, the men surrounding the tables and bar were downtrodden, and Isla felt as though she'd just walked through the gates of hell.

The vibrancy and boisterous nature of SAMCRO had come to a complete standstill, and she was actually yearning for the sleaze that usually enveloped the space.

Her sigh was defeated, forlorn. She sniffed as her nose ran, making her way to the bathroom to go and clean herself up--because she knew that she looked dreadful, and didn't want anybody to really see her that way.

"Is anyone in here?" She asked softly against the locked door, knowing that the answer was yes and that Tig was the occupant--but she persisted, anyway.

The mellifluous rhythm bled through the oak, jolting him still as blood poured from the gash in his head, and shattered glass surrounded his frame and the sink.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, glaring monotonously at himself in front of the mirror. Glaring at the fucking monster that was about to welcome Isla into open arms, comforting her because he knew that she'd need it.

"Yeah," He opened up, smiling down at her. "But I'm done, if you wanna--"

"What happened to you?" She put a hand against his chest, pushing him back into the room. Her brow furrowed when he didn't respond. "Tiggy?"

His entire body winced at Isla's soft touch. At the way her pink nails traced over the patch of skin on his chest, uncovered by his shirt--the shirt he was going to burn after tonight.

She gently gripped at his chin, turning his face to the right to get a better look at the incision on his left. Her eyes filled again, lips turned downward.

"Let me clean you up."

"You don't gotta--"

"I do." Isla cut him off, blinking away her tears. "If it doesn't get treated, it might get infected."

Like father, like daughter--always the first person to tend to an injury. She was so loving, so benevolent. Nothing like him, he thought.

Tig watched her maneuver around the tiny bathroom, admiring her desire to patch him up. To care for him and help make him feel better.

Not much would've helped at that moment, but she was trying her best.

"How'd you get over here?" He asked, leaning against the sink.

"I walked--"

"You walked?" Pissed, Tig spat. "Jesus fuck, Isla, you can't walk these parts alone, anymore."

She looked up at him from the spot she was crouched at, sifting through a small first-aid kit in the cabinet. "Who said I was alone?"

"Were you?" His eyes narrowed. She got to her feet, putting the small plastic box beside him, looking his face over a few times.

Her head shook. "Nope. Never alone with these thoughts."

Tig couldn't not chuckle at her response, but he was still worried about her. He didn't worry often--he was too selfish for that--but anything to do with his favorite blonde saw him panic like a madman.

"And the voices, too." She mused, breaking out into a genuine smile the first time all evening. "They always keep me real good company."

"Yeah?" Isla's head bobbed, cupping his chin again. "Me too--me 'n you don't seem to be too different after all, baby."

"Never said that we weren't." She poked her tongue out a little bit, surveying the damage. "Never said that we were the same, either."

"We're not the same." He confirmed, curling his hand around her wrist as she held an alcohol pad above his cut. "We are not the same, Isla."

Her head tilted, trying to discern what he meant. But she couldn't, and it caused an uncomfortable shiver to flicker down her spine.

"This might hurt." She whispered in an attempt to dissipate the small tension, gently running her thumb over his chin.

The other was--alongside her pointer finger--tapping the small antiseptic against the wound. She frowned the more he winced, though Tig's smile and hold on her wrist was still present.

"I like the pain."

"I know you do, Tiger." Isla joked. But she couldn't help wondering how the fuck he managed to do this to himself tonight.

Why he would do this to himself tonight.

"I don't wanna have to stitch your pretty face up," she pursed her lips and got him to hold the cotton in place.

"You think I got a pretty face?"

"The prettiest." Her retort was instantaneous, missing that usual glint of something resembling a joke.

She was serious--she wasn't engaging in that usual banter with him today. She was too run down for it, actually.

"Gonna have to give you a couple of butterfly stitches, if that's okay?" Isla looked up at him, holding out the small bandages with a smile. "It won't hurt. And they'll probably dissolve in, like, a week or so."

"Go for it. I love when you play nurse."

She lightly whacked at his chest, laughing as she got him to sit on the closed toilet lid to get a better reach. He wasn't tall, but neither was she. Isla needed him to lower his height if she wanted to successfully repair him.

The comfort, the aid and assistance had him forgetting about tonight--had her forgetting the real reason for her impromptu arrival to the clubhouse--but not forgetting about the newfound misery that encircled SAMCRO.

"You alright?" He asked when she hadn't made a movement, when her eyes seemed to focus on the shelves above the tank of the toilet. "I can do it myself, if you don't wanna--"

"I wanna." The smile she produced was fake--uncomfortable as tears rolled down perfectly blushed cheeks.

It broke his heart. Everything she was doing and saying--and even feeling because her pain was palpable--was breaking his heart and Tig felt like hell for doing this.

"I'm sorry," she stuck the first stitch to his forehead carefully, getting him to rip off the back of the second because her fingers were too shaky to get a solid grip.

"Don't be." He handed it to her. "It's been a tough night."

Her laugh was humorless, dull. "You can say that again, Tiggy."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She sent him an apologetic look, but he got it.

Isla trusted him with her life--for some reason--but she found it hard to open up sometimes. In regards to something this serious, she struggled to get a solid handle on her emotions and how to express them.

He understood her, though. Understood her well enough, her mannerisms and thought processes, and he just wondered if she felt like divulging her pain tonight.

She didn't, though. And Tig didn't particularly mind that. He didn't want to feel that twisted pang of regret, the vehement churn of his stomach whenever she said Donna's name--which she was yet to do, and she probably wouldn't at this point, either.

"I just wanna cry." She stated plainly, not even reluctantly anymore.

Like Gemma, he hadn't seen her cry for a long time. And it wasn't a nice visual, actually.

But he was supportive, and just wanted her to do anything that'd make her feel somewhat better--so he encouraged it.

Isla put everything down, gave his face the once over for the last time, and set herself on the tile with her back to the door.

"You wanna cry? Do it, baby. If it'll help, just do it." He assured, getting to the ground beside her. "I know you don't like doin' it in front of me, but I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want."

"You make me seem like a battle ax." Isla quipped, sniffling. "I don't care if anyone sees me cry--everyone knows that I do. It's just..."

"Showing vulnerability ain't a nice thought. I know."

God. She hated how well he understood her. How he knew what she was going to fucking say. All the time.

Tig wound an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Instinctively, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"I get it." He stated mindlessly, pushing tousled blonde strands from her forehead. "But y'know you can always trust me, kid. I'll never tell anyone that you feel emotions--"

"I'm literally the most emotional person you all know." Isla protested weakly, hoping he didn't mind the feeling of her tears bleeding through his shirt.

He didn't.

"I just don't really like crying. It's not a true testament to my character--I'm supposed to be the happy one around these parts. The sickeningly optimistic Irish girl--"

"You can still be a crier, too."

"I know." She finally wrapped her arms around his middle as they sat together. "But people just don't take girls seriously when they cry. And I don't want my position here to be compromised, I guess. I don't want my dad, or Gemma, or Clay to think I can't handle being around the club anymore--because I can. And I always will."

"They wouldn't think different of you for that." He promised, rubbing circles over her shoulder the more he felt the navy cotton dampen. "This is a real tough thing, Isla, nobody is gonna chastise you for shedding a tear. They'd probably think different of you if you didn't cry."

"You think?"

He nodded.

"Crying shows that you got empathy and a heart. We all know your heart is bigger than..." Thick eyebrows crumpled together before he let out a little chuckle. "Bigger than Clay's ego. It's huge, your heart."

"Well, it's gotta be. If I wanna love all of you--warts 'n all--my heart has gotta be huge."

"Exactly," he drew out his response, earning a laugh and something reminiscent of an optimistic smile from her.

Trager never saw himself as the kind of man to make a girl smile or laugh after a little pep talk--after or before incredible sex, perhaps, but never as a result of his unusually comforting nature.

But he just had that effect on Isla--something she wasn't able to extrapolate verbally. Something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to comprehend, either.

"You've just gotta try not to make yourself too vulnerable, that's all, 'cuz people will get used to coddling you. And I know that's now what you want."

"That's what I mean." She frowned, pulling herself away a bit. "I don't wanna be seen as inferior for being able to cry about the things that you, or Gem, or dad, are able to keep a poker face over. I'm just...I'm just thin-skinned sometimes, and I'm yet to be desensitized to this stuff, I guess."

"You're not thin-skinned for crying tonight." He scolded, knowing that she didn't want to elucidate her thoughts about the happening, but he just couldn't help himself.

"Desensitization don't mean shit when you've lost someone you care about--it's always gonna hurt, sweetheart. Always. And there ain't nothing you can do to stop that."

He was the one with misty eyes, now. He was the one trying to bite back tears, trying to conceal the spread of his sadness--the uncomfortable soreness in his chest. In his heart that wasn't anywhere near as big and full as hers.

"You're never gonna grow immune to grief--I promise you'll always feel that. Whether you show it--how you show it--is another thing, though."

"You feel it?"

"Tonight?"

"In general."

She couldn't seem to recall the last time that she saw him cry--if she'd ever seen it, actually. Aside from this moment, of course.

Tears fell to the apples of his cheeks and she, without any reluctance, used the pad of her thumb to brush them away.

And he got it, now. The idea of showing vulnerability being a fucking liability. Because the pity washing over her soft, beautiful features made him feel fragile.

"All the time. All the fuckin' time."

"It really never goes away?"

"No." Tig sniffed harshly, forcing a smile. "But you learn to cope. You learn that it ain't the end of the world and that life just goes on after death."

"Profound." She chuckled once again. "That's some deep, deep shit, Tigger. Almost made me forget about how much I wanna hysterically break down."

"Do it. That'll make me feel better about my injury."

"Your self-inflicted injury." Isla stated knowingly, but she didn't clarify just what she meant.

Because it could've been an array of things, but he liked to think that she was just referring to his little forehead aperture.

"I like it. It makes you look badass." Isla held a hand out to Tig when he pulled himself upward, and she wanted to follow suit.

"Does it make me look hot, too?"

"Absolutely." Again, it wasn't laced in a tease. It was honest, and the small smile she produced was sincere. "Be careful with it, though. Try not to get it wet or anything, because it'll dissolve too soon--"

"I've had them before, y'know?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Isla rolled her eyes. "You're a super scary, malicious, calculating guy when you've gotta be. But I know that you're accident prone."

He curled his eyebrow upward. "Scary?"

"Totally. I've seen you hold a gun to a guy's head." A chill impaired her, frightening her. "Shits terrifying, Tig. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

"You think?" Her qualm was unexpected, almost challenging him as she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. "I think I could."

What's she playing at? She was sobbing two minutes ago.

Oh, I get it. This is her facade--actin' all care free, and shit.

Tig followed behind--every step--as she clicked along the wooden floor of the clubhouse.

"You couldn't. Trust me." He stated lowly, reaching for her hand when she stuttered a little.

Isla noticed her father next time Juice, drinking at the bar with their backs to the duo. She didn't want to see him, right now.

Talking to Chibs would've ignited whatever fucking fire inside of her that'd started to blaze out of control earlier tonight, and she'd worked hard to contain this inferno.

"What you can do, though, is turn your pretty little ass back around, and go get some rest in the dorm. It's been a long night."

She didn't refute, she didn't try to get out of it because she didn't want to. Isla couldn't bear the thought of waltzing past her father, talking to him about her tiny outburst, and resuming as normal.

Because she couldn't do that. Not tonight, anyway.

"Tig?"

"Uh huh." He responded, his eyes glued to the back of Juice's cut as he slammed yet another shot back.

Probably wondering what the fuck had gone down tonight.

"Can you stay with me?" Her retort forced his focus to land on her, and the defenselessness--sheer exposure--in her attitude.

It wasn't the simple fact of wanting to be alone.

She couldn't be alone. Not anymore.

Ringed fingers squeezed her hand reassuringly, guiding her into the back room, holding her close. Because that's what she really, truly wanted.

"'Course I can. Anything for you, Isla."

#tig trager #tig trager x oc #tig trager fic #tig trager fanfiction #sons of anarchy fic #jax teller #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller x oc #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy fanfiction

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blrush · 4 years ago

Text

If Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding was a serious drama with hour long episodes. Part 4: Everything Is Torn Apart.

[The final part of my fic, enjoy! It gets dark but has a happy ending]

As Ki Wan looked at Ho Seon’s open and trusting face, fragments of a scene play out in his mind like a dream …

… Ki Wan is in beautiful robes, he can feel the weight of jewels in his hair, just like on his wedding day. He is in the palace grounds, splendour and opulence engulf him, women in bright gowns, stairs with gold and red carpets lead up to the king and queen who sit atop their pedestal like gods on a mountain. Hundreds of lords and ladies watch him with beady eyes. Tae Hyung is holding him, parading him in front of the king, his nails digging into Ki Wan’s forearm. Ho Seon watches on, held by palace guards. The crowd sneers and jeers, Tae Hyung’s voice echoes through across the forecourt, lecturing, accusing … then he rips at Ki Wan’s robes, jewels and silks cascade to the floor, and Ki Wan is standing naked – the crowd is gasping, Ho Seon is yelling for his wife, the guards beat him into submission …

No. That won’t happen. He won’t let that happen.

“Ho Seon, I have to tell you. I …. I’m not really your wife. What I mean is … I’m not a woman. I’m a man. And Tae Hyung knows...”

~~~

“I don’t understand.”

Hwa Jin was looking at Ho Seon with such earnestness in his face, that Ho Seon knew he must pay attention, he must take this seriously. But he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t comprehend the words forming on Hwa Jin’s lips. After everything that had happened that afternoon, he was still pre-occupied with Tae Hyung’s order that he join the palace court. Now his head was spinning!

“I don’t understand” he fumbled again. “You’re my wife. I mean, you were betrothed to me by my uncle – why would my uncle marry me to a man? …Oh. Oh I see!” his voice began to raise in anger and derision. “Is this some sort of joke?! To teach me a lesson? Who knew? Did my mother tell him? Are you all playing a trick on me!?” He withdrew his hands from where Hwa Jin was still grasping them in his lap.

He brought his hands up to face, shaking his head in dismay. This was all too much to bare. He trusted his wife implicitly, completely. Had she betrayed him? No, HE had HE betrayed him?

~  Ki Wan was taken a back, he had predicted anger, but Ho Seon’s reaction was totally unexpected, this defensiveness and barrage of self-pity. What was he talking about, and why was his anger not directed at Ki Wan? Whilst he knew, rationally, that any attempt at physical contact in such a moment was unwise, and may invite a violent reaction from Ho Seon, Ki Wan felt pity swelling in him – the man before him was hurt and confused, his friend and companion, who needed comfort. So, he reached out and gently put his hands over Ho Seons’, softly guiding them down, away from his face and back to his lap, where he held them tight once again.

“Ho Seon. Please” he begged. “Listen to me. No one knew of this. No one! I don’t know what kind of plot of ploy you think has been concocted here, but believe me it was all my doing. You were betrothed to my sister, Hwa Jin, and when she ran away, I decided that I must take her place – it was the only way to save our families name and to save my father from dept. And …” Oh no, it was all tumbling out now, everything he had bottled up so tightly all these months. “I had to leave. There was nothing for me at home, I had no one, and I thought maybe I could have a better life here … with you…And I was going to tell you and I kept waiting for the right moment but it never came, and the longer I stayed with you and the more I got to know you the more hurt I knew you would be and I couldn’t bear the thought of you hating me, and I know I was selfish and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ki Wan was crying now, how abysmal. All these months of effort and lying and torment, for what? So that he could fall to pieces at the mercy of Ho Seon, just as he feared he would on his wedding night in the first place.

They were both sitting still, looking down at their clenched hands between them. Neither one pulling away. The only sound Ki Wan could hear was Ho Seon’s breath and his own pathetic sniffling.

“I don’t hate you.” Ho Seon broke the silence. “I hate myself.”

“Hm?” Ki Wan looked up at Ho Seon, who was still miserably staring down.

“I hate myself for being so stupid. For not knowing. For not realising what was right in front of me. I hate myself for hiding from you, for not telling you the truth. We could have been honest with each other so long ago. I’m sorry you had to go through all of this, because of me.”

“It’s not your fault!” Ki Wan was appalled, how could sweet Ho Seon be blaming himself for anything in this mess? He was completely blameless, the victim in all of this – surely?

“The only reason my mother was so desperate to marry me off, the only reason my uncle was involved – and I suspect, the reason your family was paid off – was because of me. Because I would never marry. If I had been less stubborn, or maybe if my mother was less stubborn – this could have all been avoided. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for lying to you, to your mother, to everyone. I’m sorry for taking the place of someone else – you should have married a beautiful and accomplished noble-woman like my sister. I’m sorry.”

They sat in stilted silence once again, until Ho Seon’s face began to change, and to Ki Wan’s surprise, was smiling.

“It’s ironic really.” He scoffed. Ki Wan knew Ho Seon to be good natured, but to find humour in this situation was beyond reason!

“What is?”

“That I couldn’t marry because I like men, and that – without my knowledge – I then married a man.”

“You… like…. Men?” Ki Wan was stunned. Though it made sense, given Ho Seon’s disinterest in ever consummating their marriage, he had never heard someone state such a secret in this matter of fact manner.

“Yes, well I suppose since we are sharing secrets, it shouldn’t matter if you are the first to know mine and I am the first to know yours? We’re even I guess!” He was smiling broadly.

“You’re not the first” Ki Wan remembered with a sinking heart. Just when he thought he had avoided disaster thanks to Ho Seon’s implausibly open heart, reality struck.

“Tae Hyung knows.” He continued. “That’s why I had to tell you. He caught me this afternoon, bathing – remember?”

“Oh.” Ho Seon began seriously, “I see. Well – I mean, I suppose we could speak with him? He’s and old friend. I’m sure he would understand.”

“NO!” Ki Wan startled them both in the quiet space.

“No.” He began again, whispering. “Ho Seon, this afternoon he … I don’t think he’s such a good man. I don’t think we can trust him.”

“Why not? He seemed to like you, he told me himself how jealous he was of my wife. Wait, but you said he saw you at the baths – are you sure he saw that you are a man, he seemed convinced that you were a woman when we spoke over dinner. He said how pretty you are…”

“He knows, Ho Seon, believe me – he was toying with you.”

“Don’t be paranoid! He is an important man – I doubt he has time to worry about such matters. He was here on business anyway, and why would he ask me to come to the capital as his confidant if he thought I was harbouring a secret male-bride?”

“HO SEON!” Ki Wan ripped his hands away and sat up on his haunches. “You are not listening to me! He is a cruel and power-hungry man. You may have been friends as children, but you do not know this man. He has worked his way up in the royal courts, he is ambitious and cunning. You have lived a cloistered world with your mother in the country, Ho Seon, you have no idea what kind of man you are dealing with!”

He knew he was sounding harsh. Perhaps if he were still pretending to be Hwa Jin, he would have been forced to take a softer approach to persuade Ho Seon – but now that he was speaking as Ki Wan, he felt free to speak his mind, and this onslaught of truth was more than he had spoken in months. He felt drained and his head was pounding. Sweet, sheltered Ho Seon was going to get them both in deep trouble, and Ki Wan felt like he was throwing pebbles at a stone wall. He sat back down, exhausted in a heap.

“It doesn’t matter much anyway.” Ho Seon sighed. “He is my senior, and has given me an order. So, we will move to the capital, and we will have to take each day as it comes. Together.”

“I cannot go Ho Seon. Don’t you see? There is no way I could show my face in court, it is liking walking into a bear trap. Ho Seon. We cannot leave.”

Ho Seon sat for a moment, and Ki Wan could see he was thinking deeply.

“No, I must go. It is my duty, and if I don’t – he will pester us. Perhaps if I leave, it will be enough to keep good standing, and no one will question you remaining here with my mother.”

He spoke in such a finite manner, Ki Wan knew there was no more discussion to be had. They had reached an impasse and they both knew there was no other choice. Ki Wan, suspected that Tae Hyung was playing some larger game they could not see, and who was using his old friend Ho Seon as a pawn. But he knew this was the only compromise that might save them from Tae Hyung’s curiosity or meddling. Whilst Ho Seon, believed with his naïve noble spirit, that following his superior’s orders and abandoning his family was the right thing for a gentleman to do.

It was late into the night by the time they went to bed. Ki Wan had begrudgingly helped Ho Seon pack a trunk of clothes and necessities. They spoke very little, as Ki Wan folded Ho Seon’s robes into neat little bundles and Ho Seon pored over his books, deciding which he might need to take with him to the city.

“I am leaving all these behind” he motioned to his shelves of books, “you can read as many as much as you like whilst I’m away.” He smiled warmly. He radiated his usual positive outlook, as if he was simply going on a short holiday. Whilst Ki Wan could not shake the sickening feeling of dread and fear that Ho Seon would never return.

They silently fell back into their nightly routine, almost as if the revelations of the evening had not occurred, and that they were once again just ‘husband and wife’. They changed their robes, doused the candles and tucked themselves under the covers.

Lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling, neither of them fell asleep. Ki Wan was too exhausted to speak or move, and he could feel Ho Seon lying tense beside him. He moved his hand under the blanket slightly, and felt Ho Seon shift too. Soon, the back of their hands were touching under the blankets. Ki Wan closed his eyes, and focused on the single point of connection between his skin and Ho Seon’s. Ho Seon’s skin was warm and smooth, and if he focused harder he could imagine warmth radiating from that single point outwards throughout his own body. Ho Seon’s hand moved slightly, and he carefully laced his fingers with Ki Wan’s. Ki Wan wondered, if he turned his head slightly, would Ho Seon be looking at him too? Would their eyes meet? What would happen if he leaned closer…? But they remained still and silent, holding hands under the covers, and Ki Wan felt his own breathing begin to match Ho Seon’s until he slowly drifted off to sleep.

~ ~ ~

Early in the morning, at the news of Ho Seon’s imminent departure, his mother kicked up a fuss over breakfast. Demanding to know when this decision had been made, and by whom – she was quickly silenced by the notion of a “royal decree” and Tae Hyung’s position as Defence Minister.

“I’m sorry Eomma,” Ho Seon pleaded, “I didn’t want to leave but I must, it’s my duty. I will come home soon I promise!”

“And what of your wife?!” She interrupted. “You’re going to leave your wife here all alone! How are you going to have children if you don’t even live with your wife Ho Seon! You fool!”

“Eomeoni,” Ki Wan placated, “It’s okay, I want to stay here and look after you. I don’t want to move to court, it sounds scary and besides, I like it here with you. Please.”

Unsatisfied but suitably calmed, Ho Seon’s mother agreed to stay home with Hwa Jin. The servants took away the breakfast that had barely been touched, and all that was left was for them to see Ho Seon off at the gates.

Tae Hyung was waiting with the horses saddled up, a cart with Ho Seon’s luggage affixed behind one of them. Ho Seon went ahead to check on his horse, and Ki Wan stood in the courtyard, supporting Ho Seon’s mother on his arm. The picture of a perfect filial daughter in law. It was all too surreal, like a scene from a play that Ki Wan was watching from the crowd, rather than partaking in.

Tae Hyung came over and gave Ho Seon’s mother a formal greeting, followed by a swift farewell and a joking apology about stealing away her son. He charmed her over easily, before addressing Ki Wan beside her.

“Lady Hwa Jin. It is such a shame you couldn’t be persuaded to join your husband at court. I was so hoping to get to know you better.” Again, his charming voice was undercut with a threatening gaze in his eyes. Ki Wan did not curtsey or offer his hand, but clung to his mother-in-law stubbornly, as if completely subject to the weight of holding her up, and Tae Hyung walked away – seemingly unbothered and above it all, to mount his horse.

Ho Seon approached them, head hung low, holding his hat in his hands – as if putting it on would be too final.

“Eomma,” he pulled his mother in for a hug, her shrinking stature swallowed up in his mammoth embrace. “I’ll see you soon.”

His mother, for once, was quiet. Her pride overpowering her emotion, she pushed him away toward Ki Wan, though still clutching the robes at his waist with one hand – whether to steady herself from falling, or to stop him from leaving.

Ho Seon turned to Ki Wan, looked briefly into his face, and though it seemed at first like he was hesitating – Ho Seon suddenly dropped his hat to the ground and Ki Wan was hauled into his arms.

Ho Seon clung to him, his hands on Ki Wan’s back were grasping at the material of his dress, and he buried his face into the crook of Ki Wan’s neck. Ki Wan barely had time to respond, he reached his arms up - hooked them over the top of Ho Seon’s shoulders, let his fingers slide into Ho Seon’s hair, messing up his tight top not, and held his face against Ho Seon’s.

In that moment, he saw an alternate life before him; Their life if Tae Hyung had never arrived, if he had told Ho Seon the truth earlier, they were happy and laughing in this alternate life - two men holding each other, reading together, swimming, sleeping…

“Please.” He whispered desperately into Ho Seon’s ear. “Please come home.”

With that, Ho Seon peeled himself away, clenching his jaw and looking more serious than Ki Wan had ever seen him.

Ki Wan bent down to pick up Ho Seon’s hat. He dusted it off, and placed it carefully on Ho Seon’s head. He neatly tucked away some stray hairs, and tied the ribbons under Ho Seon’s chin – allowing his hands to linger a moment longer than necessary on Ho Seon’s chin. Ho Seon was watching him steadily, and he looked - for the first time since Ki Wan had married him – not like a boy, but like a grown man, a serious man with burdens and pain and a sense of honour – like a fire was burning behind his eyes. He leaned closer, and softly touched his lips to Ki Wan’s forehead.

Then he was gone. The horses disappeared out of the gates in a plume of dust and dirt. And Ki Wan was left standing with his mother-in-law in the empty courtyard.

~ ~ ~

At first, life in the home remained steady – Ki Wan cared for his mother-in-law and they kept each other company. He kept himself busy reading, or helping the maids with the chores. Though Ki Wan was free of his lie, and the fear of Ho Seon finding out his gender – he was filled with a new fear, that Ho Seon was lost to them forever. He could never shake the feeling of unease in his stomach, and at night, he tossed and turned, without the warmth of Ho Seon’s body beside him, or the sound of his low snoring. He lay awake imaging all sort of ill fates that could befall Ho Seon in the city. He imagined the plots of every play and story he had read, of bandits, and court intrigue, of war, poison, treason, fire.

But every fortnight a messenger arrived with a letter and a large sum of money.

“To my dear mother and my darling wife, all is well.”

It always began with this same refrain.

He would then go on to briefly update them on his work and something novel to tell them about the city, such as;

“I continue with my work with Tae Hyung on the defence of the northern border, and today I saw acrobats performing in the streets of the city! I wish you had seen them!” or “I have been tasked with a new administrative job in council, to do with military funding, it’s very dull, but last week I tried crab meat for the first time – very stringy, I would not recommend.”

It would always end the same way.

“I hope to return home soon. Your adoring son and doting husband, Ho Seon.”

And so, Ki Wan would sleep more soundly for a night, until the anxieties returned.

Seasons came and went, and the garden looked more splendid than ever as Ki Wan threw himself into its care, as his mother-in-law shouted instructions from the balcony, as she could no longer manage the physical labour herself.

The funds from Ho Seon’s new position were enough to keep the family in good food and other than Ho Seon’s sorely felt absence, life at Ryu manor was tranquil.

Then one day, the messenger stopped arriving. Perhaps there had been bad weather, his mother-in-law suggested - a landslide acorss the road perhaps?

Another fortnight passed and still no messenger. Perhaps Ho Seon had been held up at work, overrun with important court business and didn’t have a chance to write? Impossible.

Ho Seon tried to be patient, and on one evening, he half convinced himself this was some sort of cosmic sign – perhaps this was his way out? Perhaps his life as Hwa Jin was over, and he should move on? Finally, he could be free of this mundane country life, and he himself could move to the city as a nobleman – why should he wait around moping like some forlorn housewife?

But he knew he was only trying to trick himself into feeling less afraid. Somehow, without intending to – he had bound himself to this place and to Ho Seon. There was no turning back, and for all the pain he had suffered working so hard, pretending to be Ho Seon’s wife there was no way he going to let anyone else to take Ho Seon from him.

One morning, he announced to his mother-in-law that he was going to the imperial city to find Ho Seon. Though she did not seem against the idea, she was fearful for Hwa Jin’s safety.

“It’s alright Eomeoni” Ki Wan said. “I will not go as a noble-woman, but as a man. I will disguise myself as a man and no one will pay me any attention. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” His mother-in-law demanded that the maids pack him some food, and that he be gone for no more than a week – otherwise she herself would send out a search party.

A week gave Ki Wan very little time to find Ho Seon, as the journey itself took 2 days. But, as his mother-in-law had said, if Hwa Jin arrived to find Ho Seon in fine health, there was no reason to linger – and, alternatively, if there was a problem, and Ho Seon could not be found, or the city proved dangerous, Hwa Jin was to return immediately and they would send word to Ho Seon’s great-uncle instead.

Ki Wan wore the plainest clothes of Ho Seon’s he could find, so as not to draw attention to himself and the ride to the city was uneventful. No bandits or landslides, just other travellers and tradesmen selling their wears along the imperial road.

The city was as Ki Wan had remembered it from his childhood, busy, messy, loud, confusing and full of a horrible odour. He wasted no time, a headed directly for the palace.

On the road leading toward the imposing palace gates, beggars and dogs lined the street, stopping wealthy gentry on their way past, begging for food or money, and usually getting a slap for their efforts, or an occasional coin tossed at their feet.

Ki Wan felt sorry for them, and felt the weight of his money purse at his hip. A boisterous man with very few teeth bounded up to Ki Wan’s horse.

“Good sir! Are you feeling generous today? My friends and I are starving, a warm cup of tea would do us good – it’s cold out here at night you know Sir!?”

“Here,” Ki Wan, reached into his purse and pulled out several copper coins. “I don’t have time to treat you to a meal or tea, but I hope this will help. Please share it among your companions.”

“Oh Sir! How generous! How wonderful! What a kind fellow!” He exclaimed, and bounded back to his friends sitting by the side of the road. For beggars, Ki Wan thought, some of them looked rather well dressed – perhaps they were con artists – he thought. Though, even if they were, Ki Wan could spare the coins, and who was he to judge them – he himself was a con after-all.

He made his way up to the guards at the gates and introduced himself as a “Nobleman Ryu” who was looking for his cousin, Ryu Ho Seon who worked under the Minister of Defence, Kim Tae Hyung.” He tried to sound relaxed, yet formal and assertive, but he suspected it came across as arrogant.

The guards sent off a messenger, and Ki Wan waited patiently. Soon, the messenger returned followed by a court official – a young man in fine robes and military hat.

“Lord Ryu,” he bowed, “I’m afraid no one of your family name works or lives in the palace at this time, you must be confused.”

“And what of Lord Kim Tae Hyung, is he here?”

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to give out such sensitive information.”

He was getting the brush off and he knew it. This was bad. Something was definitely going on. He knew he would get nowhere with these men, so headed back into the town centre.

He checked himself in to an inn, and put his horse to water before heading inside.

Sitting downstairs to eat, he tried to concoct a plan. But he knew too little. Had there been some sort of political strife, was Ho Seon caught up in some imperial controversy? Or had Tae Hyung simply done away with him? Had he ever made it to the city in the first place? Had the letters been real? His mind was racing and he began panic. He couldn’t return home like this without answers!

At the table beside him, a group of men were drinking and huddled around, talking in low tones about “royal” this and “imperial” that. Ki Wan began to listen closely.

“I heard he’s in the King’s favour. That’s why he has been promoted so many times.”

“I heard he’s sleeping with the queen, THAT’s why he’s so favoured!”

“Well that’s one way to get into the good royal graces, by getting INTO her royal graces!” They chortled together.

“My cousin said the king was so furious he demanded a purge of the imperial staff. That’s why my cousin got dismissed.”

“But wasn’t your cousin just a cook?”

“Well exactly! They just decided who was in and who was out, no trial, no reasons. At least he got out with his life! Others weren’t so lucky, I heard he beheaded half a dozen eunuchs!”

Ki Wan was trying his best to keep up with the conversation, but it was hard to hear, and he had no context for the topic of their discussion.

“But if it was Lord Kim that was in charge, how did he end up with a promotion and not punished?”

KIM TAE HYUNG?! Ki Wan tried to remain calm and listen.

“Like I said, it seems he can do no wrong by the king and queen, so he just picked some scape goats to take the fall, and the king turned a blind eye as he always does.”

This was it! Ki Wan knew there had to be a reason Tae Hyung had gone to all the trouble of riding into the country to recruit an old friend into a government position. He needed pawns he could play with and toss around. Ho Seon could be rotting away in some dungeon!

“You know what the mad king’s like, he has favourites who he treats like princesses, and everybody else is just cannon fodder.”

“What, so Lord Kim just names names and the king has them executed?”

“Not all of them, just some eunuchs. I guess the higher up people were in the court, the worse their punishment was. The lower staff like my cousin were dismissed, and some ministers and lords were tortured. Whipped, burnt, blinded, or drawn in front of the king and queen - then turned out of the palace, like old scraps.”

“All I can say is, I’ve never been so glad to be a carpenter!” They laughed nervously, and downed their drinks, before an old man a table over told them to mind their tongues unless they themselves wanted a lashing.

Ki Wan felt sick, like the world was spinning around him. Ho Seon could be anywhere! With lashings on his back! or dying of a fever, left in the gutter on the street…. Oh! OH!

He was up with a jolt, sending the contents of his table flying, the innkeeper yelling at him as he raced out the door. He ran through the city, retracing his path back to the palace. It was dusk now, and there were less carriages and horses, though he nearly got run over twice in his haste through the streets. The beggars were still there, huddled by the sides of the road like stone plinths marking the path the palace.

Ki Wan was floundering, but he stopped running, slowed to a walk, and tried to catch his breath. The man who he had given copper coins to earlier approached him excitedly.

“My friend! How nice of you to visit again! Have you come to drink with us!”

“Please” Ki Wan choked out, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Well you’re in luck my good sir, as I know everyone!”

“His name is Ryu, Ryu Ho Seon ... he’s young – my age, and tall. He used to work in the palace. Please, do you know him.”

“I don’t know any Ryu” The man scratched at his stubble, and Ki Wan’s heart sank. “But I know a Ho Seon! Maybe that’s him?!”

“Oh please! Yes, please take me to him.”

The man lead Ki Wan further down the road, chatting away merrily, whilst Ki Wan felt like he might be sick from fear and nerves. What if it wasn’t his Ho Seon? What if his Ho Seon was dead? What if it was him but he wasn’t himself, how badly injured might he be?

Down the road a way, a man was seated alone, his back against a wall, his face turned up into the setting sunlight. His eyes were covered in bandages, yellowed with dirt and brown with dried blood. The man called out to him “Hey Ho Seon!” and he turned his head toward them. It was him!

“There’s someone looking for you.”

Ki Wan could barely move. He had stopped in his tracks at the sight of Ho Seon and couldn’t make his feet move any further. The man motioned Ki Wan to go ahead, and he left them.

Ki Wan forced himself forward, shuffling slowly and Ho Seon turned his head slightly to hear better.

Ki Wan crouched down in front of Ho Seon.

“Hello.” Was all he could say.

“Hello.” Ho Seon replied, his ever-present dimples still there, playing at the corners of his lips. Even in this state, he was able to smile a little.

Ki Wan’s voice was trapped in this throat.

“My friend says you know me, Sir?” Ho Seon asked.

“Yes.” Ki Wan wanted to speak, but could barely form words around the lump in his throat.

“And how do you know me?” Ho Seon was leaning forward, reaching out his hands to find the figure in front of him.

“It’s me.” Ki Wan barely whispered, trying to hold back tears.

Ho Seon’s hands found Ki Wan’s face and he began to feel his features, delicately tracing the shape of his nose, his cheeks, his lips…

“I’m your wife.” He finally managed to choke out.

“HWA JIN!” Ho Seon hauled him in violently, Ki Wan almost fell onto Ho Seon. Ho Seon pulled Ki Wan’s face toward his, so that their foreheads were touching. All the while he moved his hands over Ki Wan, tracing his face, hugging at his shoulders.

Ki Wan was crying, and was aware of all the people watching them. But he didn’t care. He held Ho Seon tightly until the sun had set. Then he began to pull him to his feet, careful to steady him, and checking that he wasn’t injured anywhere else.

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk! I have legs don’t I!?” Ho Seon laughed.

“Well sorry for asking!” Ki Wan berated, sarcastically.

“Although… I can’t read now. So, I’ll be needing those bed-time stories from now on.” He grinned, boyishly, and held onto Ki Wan’s arm for guidance.

“Come on.” Ki Wan rolled his eyes, “Let’s go home.”

...

The End

Or maybe not... if I have time to come back to it maybe I’ll write some more or fill in some blanks, because this was very rushed, today was my only day off and I was waiting for the finale to air before I wrote it haha Hope you guys enjoyed it! as you can tell The King and the Clown is my favourite movie of all time and no I will not be taking criticism for using blindness as a plot device, because this is a melodramatic historical fanfic, thank you. Hope you enjoyed the angst, sorry I couldn’t make it longer!

#nobleman ryu's wedding #nobleman ryus wedding #korean bl #bl series #bl fanfic #fanfic #kang in soo #lee sejin #choi ki wan #ryu ho seon #wetv

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dreamingsnowflake2013 · 4 years ago

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The Marriage Argument: Tharn’s Perspective

Both Tharn and Type have valid arguments about the marriage so they have inevitably been bound to clash. The reason for the clash is that they’re two people who have been formed by very different experiences, including their individual past traumas, making them into the men they are now: an idealist with a streak for eternal optimism and a realist with a tendecy for negativity; an all-out gay and a former homophobe; a hopeless romantic and a cynical pragmatic, someone who’s loved before and was broken by it and a man who is in love for the first time in his life.

Season 1 focused on Type’s problems, flaws and character developemnt as he had come a very long way. And although Tharn’s issues were addressed, they have never been completely resolved, therefore the focus in Season 2 shifts towards him and delves deeper into his character: his insecurities, hopes and personality traits.

It’s not only their differences which divide them, but also what they have in common because like repels like, so while Tharn and Type differ in many ways, they are viscerally and uncannily similar in others, which is something many people don’t realise. THEY ARE BOTH FIGHTERS - strong, stubborn as mules and immensely brave - who have overcome huge obstacles, not only in their relationship, but also as individuals. For instance, everyone talks about how stubborn Type is, but it gets rarely mentioned that Tharn is as stubborn, if not even more. He merely isn’t so loud about it.

The most important and inherent aspect of Tharn’s personality is that he is an idealist who has always wished for the impossible and fought losing battles, ultimately having his wishes granted and winning those battles most of the times due to his dogged stubborness and refusal to budge and give up on what he believes in. He’s been like this for most of his life, even before we met him in S01E01, so when some people claim that the Tharn in Season 2 is not the same Tharn, they never really known him or understood him. Therefore, it there is one quote that perfectly describes Tharn in both seasons, it is this one:

Tharn’s always dreamed the impossible dream: to study music, for Type to love him and only him one day.

Furthermore, he’s fought against the odds and opposition: the prejudice against his sexuality, his parents’ initial refusal to allow him study music, Type’s bullying, Type wanting to keep their relationship a secret from everyone else,... and he has overcome and defeated all of them with his unrelenting optimism and relentless refusal to give up. He still believed in love despite all his terrible breakups and didn’t give up on Type no matter how badly Type treated him, believing Type is a good person.

The very qualities that stopped Than from moving out of the dorm when Type harassed him 7 years ago, leading to them being together, and enabled him to live his life the way he wanted and to win Type’s love, despite the fact he was fighting a losing battle each time - tenacity and pride and insane stubbornness - are both his greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses. So once again Tharn hopes for the impossible: this time, it’s marriage.

Tharn accepted himself a long time ago, coming out to his parents when he was in 12th grade, openly admitting that he was gay in school and later, in work, as well. Unlike Type, he is an all-out gay, therefore he is in a very different place than his lover. However, he, too, had struggled with it. It took him 4 years before he dared to come out to his parents and publicly reveal he’s gay. So ever since, he’s been dealing with everything that comes with it, both the positive and negative. There must have been times when Tharn was marginalized, discriminated against and felt inferior due to his sexual orientation, most noticebly while being bullied by a certain homophobic roommate.

On the other hand, while Type told his family and friends about his relationship, he’s never come out publicly, so he still lacks the final step and the experience that comes with it.

Performing at his own brother's engagement party the love song he wrote for Type and seeing him propose to the woman he loves, still hurting because Type has refused his own proposal many times and doesn’t want to get married to him, break something inside Tharn.

He wants the same thing, but he can’t have it and that makes him hurt, desolate, bitter and envious. He’s been with Type much longer than Thorn with Aom and they’ve been through so much, earning their right to be together, yet marriage seems like an impossible dream, the only thing that Type has refused to give him. Not only does he feel cheated of something that should be his, but it makes him feel inferior, marginalized and not good enough.

Because if he were a woman, Type wouldn’t refuse to talk about him with his co-workers and would have agreed to marry him a long time ago. Instead,Tharn has to come up with excuse why he won't introduce his boyfriend to his collegues. This has been an ongoing issue since season 1.

And this is where those who argue that if Type doesn't want to get married Tharn shouldn't make him completely misunderstand the problem - the marriage is only a symbol, representing equality and Tharn's desire to be like any other couple in all the things that matter.

While Tharn can compromise a lot, he is no doormat and has a certain set of morals and beliefs he will never break. He has enough self-worth to know that he deserves better. Once again, it’s the same quality which didn’t allow him to move out of the dorm when Type bullied him. So it says a lot that the only time Tharn seriously contemplated breaking up with Type was when he thought Type slept with Puifai. He couldn’t bear to be treated as second rate, a spare tire, a mistress and a dirty secret and share Type with someone else. It’s a line he will never be able to cross, his pride and heart won’t allow it. Tharn wants equality, thus he wants it all, wants what everyone else has. And being denied marriage to the love of his life makes him feel incomplete, deficient, depraved, as if he were somehow undeserving of it.

Speaking of inferiority, Tharn has never gotten over his abandonment issues: being dumped by all his past lovers, including Tar, his first love,... In fact, it has actually become worse when Type broke up with him 7 years ago. It might have been fake, but Tharn didn’t know that back then, so the heartbreak he felt was real - his body, his heart and his mind went through a real breakup and they remember it all.

The thing with traumas is that while you might heal and overcome them, you will never forget about them because they leave behind traces, scars that will hurt from time to time and never let you forget about them. During his formative years, Tharn got used to being thrown away and Type’s abandoment was the one that cut him the deepest. Because of all this, Tharn developed a deeply-rooted and hidden inferiority complex together with his fear of being left behind. Deep down, he always worries that he isn’t good enough and that no matter how hard he tries, he will be abandoned in the end.

The scar caused by Type’s breakup has never healed and was left to fester, staying latent over the years, and it’s always been only a matter of time before it reared its ugly head. There is always a price to pay eventually and the consequences of that breakup have been merely postponed.

The mere mention of breakup is enough to trigger Tharn, but hearing Type explaining to Thorn that marriage would make things more messy and difficult when they broke up shatters him, it’s basically the ultimate trigger.

Tharn knows what it feels like to lose Type, he lived through it and it almost destroyed him, so he doesn’t want to experience it ever again because he wouldn’t survive it. Therefore he has been doing everything in his powers to prevent it and bind Type to him in every way possible, desperately trying to stop him from leaving and himself from being abandoned once again.

And marriage is one of those bonds, actually, it’s a real palpable bond that binds a person’s life to another. It involves people making a sacred and legally binding promise, proclaiming their love publicly, in front of eveyone, and they exchange rings, the symbol of the bond and eternity, as well. In some cultures, the couple’s ahnds get literally binded together. So it’s no wonder that Tharn desires to get married to Type so much.

Moreover, a proposal, an engagement party and a wedding ceremony are incredibly romantic moments and Tharn is the ultimate romantic with a penchant for grand romantic gestures and declarations, organizing glamping dates on rooftops, giving his boyfriend red roses,... therefore he does want to do it all.

Finally, the primary reason for the inferiority complex and fear of abandonment comes from the fact that THARN IS A MIDDLE CHILD. His family is very loving and he’s never been neglected, but being a middle child means he is neither fish nor fowl, neither the oldest or the youngest. He’s grown used to taking himself out of the equation, to compromise and to share the love of his parents with his siblings. So he desperately wants someone to be only his, someone who he doesn’t have to share with anyone; HE WANTS TYPE AND HIS LOVE TO BELONG ONLY TO HIM, COMPLETELY AND UNCONDITIONALLY. It’s a visceral need on his part and the reason behind his strong jealous streak.

#tharntype #mewgulf #mew suppasit #tharntype 2: 7 years of love #gulf kanawut #analysis

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unohanadaydreams · 3 years ago

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I was working on requests but then I was like y’know what I should do? Flesh out and write down my Mayuri headcanons because I can not bear the weight of this obsession alone.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi Origin Headcanons (incomplete but long)

features: uuuuh not overly disturbing. One instance of suicide, experimentation on a fetus.

The woman who raised him was elegant, ambitious, and dutiful. But she was not a mother. The care she gave Mayuri was toward his talent for sewing—he had an eye for detail and a competitive nature that compelled her to pinch his cheek and smile at his handiwork. Always, she smiled at the fabric. Never at him.

When he was very young, they worked for the local theaters. His mother—she told him over and over she wasn’t his mother, but Mayuri wanted her to be so badly that, in the secret of his mind, he called her that—was sought after enough to be choosy. They followed the actors before pay. She taught him that money was fleeting, but talent was everlasting.

She gave him books on educational odds and ends. Some were not to keep, on loan from someone who owed her a favor. Others were his, taken from those steeped in debt but unwilling to strip his mother’s wonderful kimono from their back. His favorite were of the natural sciences. He so wanted to keep a book on Reishi that he tossed it in the fire pit when his mother demanded it back, not wanting anyone to have it if he couldn’t have his way. She smacked his head against the wall until he bled.

His mother loved to be obeyed. Conditions were what she valued over coin. It was as close to power as could be gotten by someone with so little to begin with. She watched rehearsals, was ‘gifted’ favored seats, and was given a voice when it came time to pick the next play.

He was urged to nurture his curiosity; it would suit him when his mother sent him off to be a soul reaper. She always said she would, even when his entire face became a wrinkle at the thought of fighting on and on for nothing he cared about. At least the actors had grace, built up by makeup, masks, and finery.

Mayuri wasn’t fond of the actors as a rule. Their egos and posturing annoyed him. In opposition, his mother’s eyes followed them endlessly. The exceptions to his ire tended to moonlight as jesters; they came and bid him ask his mother to dye their kimonos or to copy the latest en vogue brocade—but better. That was her specialty—brocades.

He was often bored and lonesome, so when the actors spoke to him, he spoke back despite the cool facade he gave them when with his mother, which was often. The room in which he wove and dyed fabric was often filled with his chatter, to himself. But silent when his mother was there, which was often.

Mayuri pushed limits like all children do, but with himself. How far could he poke a needle into his skin before it became unbearable? If he sewed an eye shut, would it fuse together? His mother seemed very occupied and payed him little attention, until she noticed that his eye was, indeed, fusing shut.

She had a real son by an actor most beloved for his roles as heroines and not long after they were called for by a 1st rukongai theater, where the actor could not follow. His mother accepted, gave her conditions, and stayed for a few last shows. Playing a woman determined to follow her lover in death, he gave a long, wailing speech and did not get back up after twisting the knife to his gut. His mother smiled, looking satisfied that he had done it as the audience leapt from the pits to crowd the dying body.

Thereafter, he seemed to leave his mother’s side for good. Even if his little brother was too young to weave and was bland to everyone including Mayuri, he had an eye for color. His mother wove, aided his brother with dyeing fabric, and told Mayuri it was time for him to do more. “You think it’s only fighting, but my sister became a soul reaper. And now she lives in the clouds, doing as she pleases. No-no, not dead. Just dead to me.”

Mayuri left for the academy before he could watch a 1st rukongai production, his spiritual pressure growing well under instruction. But he hated the large emphasis on battle. Strategy interested him, but his questions soured many teacher’s attitudes toward him.

So used to his hands always being at work at weaving, Mayuri began to tinker on things during class simply to help him think. He sat in the back as a thin courtesy, but was known to dissect animals during lectures. His row was often empty but for himself.

Reishi, again, became a large focal point for him and Mayuri had more than a single book at his disposal. Texts both aged and modern were poured through with hunger. If all living things contain Reishi, then could some form of reishi revive the dead? Could life be made of reishi not through natural processes? Could the essence of the soul exist if pried from the shell, would there be enough reishi to support that?

He understood the concern behind the meetings meant to discourage his questions and lines of study, but he resented them all and burned his theories for show, every wondering word fresh in his mind. His logic was sound, his questions legitimate, and his ability up to the task. How could a soul reaper do as they please in such an environment?

Mayuri went to his mother when he neared graduation, pausing his education, years having past with much frustration, at her call. She sought opportunities for him, now that she served nobles, and he hurried back at the illusion of freedom.

His brother still wore an expression as blank as unmarked paper, but he hugged Mayuri round the legs whenever he entered the room. His mother scolded him for it.

It was here that he once again turned his wondering in on himself. Skin opened and tested for the conditions that would allow regeneration. Could healing Kido be broken down into a liquid or pill? Was there an alternative to healing Kido? With few tools or funding, Mayuri found his conclusions compromised. His skin became scarred, but healed well enough under his skilled needlework to cause no harm.

Not that Mayuri was afraid of harm. It hurt immensely to experiment on himself, but he was greater than the academy would let him be and beneath the pain would be the glory of discovery. At times, he had his little brother do what he could physically not. It worked well—though young, his brother seemed largely unaffected and his needlework had improved enough that Mayuri did not scold him about it. Which was praise enough.

While serving the Shihōin family, his mother made sly introductions to several of the clansmen and one who was not. A soul reaper named Kisuke Urahara, a dear friend of the Shihōin princess , who seemed impressed with Mayuri’s work, but only enough to praise it. He was two faced and annoying and worst of all brilliant. Mayuri wanted the praise he got as much as he hated the man. He was too touchy, always patting his back or hair or shoulder.

Urahara’s words gave confidence to the clansmen, who worked out arrangements with his mother. Instead of paying in full for expensive kimonos and debt-inducing brocade, Mayuri would have funding and permissions. It was all unofficial, under the table, and unknown the clan head. The only ones on the line were he and his mother and Mayuri knew that meant he would take the blame, alone, if relations soured.

The work the two nobles loved best in the beginning were that of regeneration, which suited Mayuri enough since they also gave him freedom to do more. He, too, wished to complete his work in that area. It was, once again, when he wandered back into questions of artificial life—the limits of reishi and the ways to change reishi to break those limits—that he was warned by Urahara. “Any good mind wonders about life and death, Mayuri. But you’re not cute enough to break the rules! Maybe if you looked like your mom ❤️ Instead of an angry burlap dolly~! Good thing you’re a little genius in the making, huh?”

Begrudgingly, Mayuri took the condescending advice and kept his work that did not suit the nobles at a minimum and extremely private. His notes were few, coded, and progressing badly without workable experimentation. What the nobles wanted were likewise becoming more petty; looking to outdo the humans on this or best another clan on that. Unbearable, demeaning work considering the fewer freedoms they gave him—the funding was running out.

He became more restless. More reckless. The Shihōin family and his mother parted ways. Mayuri’s freedoms were gone. He stuck holes in his little brother’s forehead until his face was covered in blood. Made horns. Tore off his own ears. Made better ones. Dug out his own fingernails. Tried to carve himself into something better—someone above these circumstances. His mother sewed his skin shut wordlessly one night, the one he’d rid himself of his ears, and pinched his cheek like he was a toddler again.

So too did his approach to his appearance change. Like the actors and jesters of his earliest memories, he painted his skin white. Covered his eyes in a strip of black. Set his blue hair stiff and neat like a wig. Unique to him were the metal improvements that replaced his ears.

His little brother began to follow him everywhere after he was given horns, his mother once again occupied. One day, they found their mother dead together, murdered body tangled in a weaving loom.

Mad, for sure, Mayuri took her body to his lab, determined to find out as much as he could before discovered. His mother was unsalvageable, but the fetus within her could be something extraordinary. A third sibling. A first sister. A wonderful dream. Someone to take his mother’s place, but better. Always better—always striving to be more than before.

The data was invaluable even if it was coated in failure. Not that he had truly expected to breath life on the first try, but he had wished to not be caught. The Shihōin were famed for their leadership of the secret police, though, and caught he was. Even his most ingenious traps could not stop an entire force.

Unlawful tampering of a soul, theft of Shihōin funds and equipment, unlawful creation, and the murder of secret police, mother, and unborn sister. He was sentenced to the maggot’s nest, no access to anything but a cell. Too valuable of mind to be die, but too dangerous to be free.

Too valuable of mind to die. He always knew he was. It was nice to hear it, though.

#Mayuri Kurotsuchi #bleach imagines #don’t look at me oh my god #i have so much brain rot for this fucker #also of course I’m right about Akon because I will not leave him out of anything ever #his mom is like horrible but also such a bad bitch

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tokoyamisstuff · 4 years ago

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Betrothed Ch. 11 - Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Chapter 11: Broken

Summary: Illumi cannot escape his past - but sometimes that fact isn’t all that bad.

Warnings: Death, Blood, Angst, the usual.

Words: ~2500

A/N: Sorry guys, this chapter probably sucks. When I’m working night-shifts I become erradic and can’t think straight, but I still wanna write, so...

Story Masterlist

No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man To be the sad man behind blue eyes. And no one knows what it’s like to be hated. To be fated to telling only lies. But my dreams they aren’t as empty as my conscience seems to be. I have hours only lonely. My love is vengeance, that’s never free.

- Limp Bizkit: Behind Blue Eyes

“Keep good care of Alluka, okay?”

He only nodded in response. You never doubtet him to protect her, yet also couldn’t help reminding him either after everything he’s been through.

After all, his fear of Illumi made him forget about his locked away sister for such a long time...

“And you’ll be listening to your brother, right?”

“Aye!” the little girl cheered, pecking the flustered boy on the cheek.

It was actually very adoring to look at those two siblings who were finally reunited, now able to make up for the time they’ve lost.

The only companion you’d take with you was your familiar Luna, and you also didn’t want to rely on Alluka’s powers now that you had a hint to your husband’s whereabouts.

Your sister-in-law had been through enough, and she also was way more than just someone to grant wishes. She had desires, dreams and a future to look out for. Both of them.

Gladly, Killua could tell you about all safehouses in Yorknew City so the Zoldyck family wouldn’t notice about you prying around. That information was more than enough for your search.

“What are you going to do from now on?”

“Getting my husband back, obviously” you shrugged at Killua’s words, clutching the ace of spades you were holding. Hisoka had given it to you - infused with a powerful nen, you could contact him whenever you felt it necessary.

“I know that’s all very much for you...” Yes, Killua had struggled with his brother’s mental illness ever since his birth. And now to act like all of that never happened just because you told him he had a change of heart? It seemed almost impossible. “So take your time processing things. We won’t bother you until you’re ready.”

Rumpling up the boy’s white hair, you grinned widely at your friends before you boarded the airship.

You were already halfway across the ocean when you got a message from Killua, warming your cautious heart:

“I’m glad you’ve joined our family. Save him.”

Days passed by as you searched safehous after safehous, as well as every shady corner of the city. Much to your dissatisfaction, your husband had always been gone as soon as you reached the scene of crime.

“I’ll find him, no matter what!” you thought just before you reached the next safehouse, deep in the mountains surrounding the great city. He had seemingly destroyed the Zoldyck Personal Transmitter, just as you had - both blessing and curse.

The view was breathtaking, yet you didn’t bother yourself with wasting any minute enjoying it. Luna’s cry told you that you were near, and that was all that counted right now.

Because there were only three spots left, and what if you’d search for him in vain and he had already left Yorknew City? Your guts twisted very unpleasantly at the thought, making it a lot harder to climb the last pile of rocks.

And there it was - a small brick house, nothing more than a one-room-apartment with the most needed items to survive a short time.

There were lights on inside, you clearly saw them from afar.

Fearing that he would leave if he noticed you, there was no other option left than to surpress your Nen completely, leaving you defenseless against every possible threat.

But when you entered, there was no one there - except...

“Oh?” As you stepped into the dim cancle light of the room, a small cat stumbled in between your legs, purring happily. “Who are you, sweetheart?”

Seems like Illumi made a friend, huh?

The thought alone made your heart feel like it’ll burst out of happiness as you pet the animal’s head, noticing that Illumi had treated it’s wounds.

Leaving Luna and the cat get to know each other, you roamed around the room, searching for any possible hint on Illumi’s location.

The house seemed to still be occupied, so should you just wait here for him?

But then, the TV that he seemingly forgot to turn off bursted the local news:

“The auction is only expected to take place in a few weeks, but the preparations are already in full swing. Even though everone is talking about the possibility of the Phantom Troupe blowing up the occasion, rumors about ‘special measurements’ have been spread. The organizers did not want to comment, however they assured us the auction will run safe and peaceful.”

“Organizers my ass” you gritted your teeth. Everyone on the world knew the legendary Ten Dons were secretly holding an Underground Auction, with the ‘legal’ one just being a distraction.

But now you could very well imagine where your lover has headed up to...

It’s the same every year. Many assassins would gather to protect the auction, very well paid by the Dons.

A very good occasion to start wiping out the profession of assassins completely.

Finding the place of action was no problem. A quick research and you knew that the tallest hotel in town was in their possession, where the assassins would probably be allowed to stay until the big occasion.

The hardest part however was what in the world you could do if you arrived there...

“P-Please, have mercy!”

As you broke into the building and entered the conference hall, the blood-bath was already in full swing, the true strenght of your husband unfolding in front of your very eyes.

“Sorry, but I cannot make exceptions” Illumi spoke calmly, hitting his enemy’s head with a needle.

There were twenty-five - no, thirty corpses laying around.

Did he really single-handedly kill all those highly professional assassins? Then again, you had never seen him go all out before...

Even though your husband seemed to have granted them a quick death, everything was a mess. Broken furniture, scattered bodyparts and puddles of blood everywhere.

Illumi obviously didn’t need any help, but the moment you saw another enemy try to attack him from behind, you snapped.

Before you could even comprehend what happened, your body had acted before your mind, leaving you only able to watch as the man fell to the ground.

That wasn’t right. Those assassins were mostly hunters, who arrested or killed criminals. They weren’t guilty or worthy of death.

And yet you did it...it was a reflex, your inherent wish to help Illumi being stronger than your rationality.

So you stood stock still as your husband turned around, furrowing his brows at the injured person laying at his feet - and finished him off.

"Oh? Y/N...” Why did his tone have to be so cheerfull, even at times like this? “What are you doing here?”

As if this was a casual chat, he stepped over several corpses until he faced you, while still remaining his distance.

You gulped harshly, even after all this time not prepared for this moment. “I-I was searching for you.”

“What for?” he plainly retorted, stepping harshly on one of the twitching bodies. “I’m glad to see you’re alright, but you shouldn’t be here.”

Folding your hands to keep them from shaking, it made your following words seem only more as if you were praying. “Because I want you to come back to me. Please...”

“I can’t do that, Y/N” he said and his pained smile ripped your heart in thousand pieces. “I’m too dangerous to be with you. I see that now. It’s no wonder you didn’t trust me back then - since I can’t even trust myself.”

Seeing your face stained with tears made him struggle with the wish to cradle you in his arms, soothing you like he always did. But he refrained from doing so.

“Don’t be sad.” He rose his bloodied hands in the air, gesturing across the room. "I found something I want to do. See? I’ll cleanse the world of other monsters like me and make it more safe for you!”

“Lumi...” Hearing this familiar nickname in your most alluring voice made him drop the facade for only a mere second. “...are you crying?”

“Huh? So that’s what it is.” Only now Illumi realized that he had been weeping as well, touching his face in surprise. He had already forgotten that he was able to cry as well."Yeah. It happens a lot lately.”

“Illumi, love-” you now pleaded, breaking out in convulsive sobbing. “You’re sick, you know that. But that’s not the right way...”

“No need to worry” he tried to compromise, pointing to his neck. “I used a needle on myself, in case my parents should get the better off me again. If I ever hurt someone innocent again, it’ll tear my aorta apart and I’ll die.”

You dared to take a few steps in his direction, but he backed off. “There’s no other way, Y/N. You’re the only one allowed to put an end to my life if you wish, but nothing else.”

“If I die, I’ll make up at least for a fraction of my deeds” Illumi thought to himself, his face now contorting to a rather mad smirk. “Y/N will be safe.”

You said nothing - no, you were left unable to speak.

Seeing the love of your life suffering so much was just too hard for you to bear.

“I’m not worthy of your love, Y/N.” God knows when he managed to appear right in front of you, but somehow he did, softly raising your chin. “I’ll never be” he added, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

“Y-You...” Softly sniveling, you embraced your husband, face wetting the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t need to be ‘worthy’. Love doesn’t work that way, Lumi. I’ll always love you! That’s up to me and you can’t just change that fact!”

“I could” he suggested himself, struggling with the temptation to kiss all your pain away. A needle could make you hate him, or even forget it all.

But he had promised himself to never manipulate other people or cut their freedom, even if just for their safety.

It was your own decision how to feel, or how you’d deal with it.

“Do you really still not remember, Lumi?”

“What exactly?” Your husband didn’t move an inch as you grabbed him tight, afraid he’d leave as soon as you let go.

“You spared me back then” you whispered, shivering as you tried to get a hold of him again. "We were still young, but you were already under their influence...”

Illumi clearly began to shake too, making you regret the previous words. Of course they would cause a flashback...

“Do you remember?”

“Vividly.”

Your husband must’ve been sixteen around that time - yet already a completely trained, fearsome assassin.

Who was his target again? He couldn’t remember.

All he knew was that the orders were to “kill the target as well as it’s allies and leave no witnesseses behind”. The job was precize, requiring to act quick to clean up every proof.

And then there was you.

Still in midst of your hunter education, you were assigned by your family to become the bodyguard over that certain politician, following him on his every step.

But now you saw it all in front of you: Illumi, with his hands firmly strangulating your airway.

He hadn’t developed his Nen abilities at the time, therefore having to do the job with his bare hands. And since you were the last one he had to get rid of, there was no need to hurry.

It was a strange feeling to have such a beautiful person writhing underneath him, piercing him with their pleading look.

Somehow it was a shame you had to die so early, and under those circumstances...

Just when you felt yourself passing out from lack of oxygen, you refrained from trying to pull his hands away - and placed one softly on his cheek.

Illumi froze, shocked by your deed. He had taken so many lives, made countless people suffer already...

But you were the only one who looked at him with such kind, sad eyes...absent of any hint of grudge.

You coughed heavily before you were able to corak out the question burning on your tongue: Why did he stopp fulfilling his mission?

"Yes, why...” he asked himself as well, rubbing the cheek you had just stoked. That sensation, the gentleness and affection of your touch was so foreign to him that he completely lost himself for a moment.

“Why didn’t you struggle?” he turned the interrogation around, almost forgetting about the severe situation both of you were in.

“Dunno” you shuddered, just now realizing that you had given in to your fate just seconds ago. “You seemed kind of sad.”

What?!? This must be some kind of trick!

“Does someone force you to do this?” The compassionate expression on your face scared him, making him want to run away from what he did not know. “You don’t seem happy to do this.”

“I don’t feel anything” the teenager scoffed, taken aback by your worry and care. “I am a highfunctioning tool of darkness and nothing more.”

"How sad...” You cracked a weak smile, and it’s brightness was enough to make him flee, your last words still spinning in his head. “I think under different circumstances, I would’ve loved to become your friend!”

You really were something else...flirting with an enemy that tried to kill you?!? Talking about being insane...

“I get now why my family was so much against our marriage...it’s a joke, really...”

It was a mystery how you didn’t recognize him right away, and how you only now remembered. They had to change all the facts, spending a huge amount of money to silence anyone knowing the truth.

Your name got changed, and everyone would have to act like you were their second child - because the one on the mission had died back then.

So the wrath of the Zoldycks wouldn’t caugh up with you to finish their job.

“You liked me...” Illumi let out a shaky breath, “...even back then.”

“Sure!” you now chuckled weakly, trying to brighten the mood. “How could one not fall for those eyes?”

“I tried to kill you.”

“You didn’t.”

Leading his hands to your neck, you wanted to show just how much you trusted him. And immediately, his hands, wandered up to your face, softly suqeezing and stroking it as if he was making sure this wasn’t just a dream or an hallucination. “You’d never hurt me, Lumi. I know that.”

And finally, he cupped your face, hesistantly moving his own closer to yours.

“Is it really okay for me to love you?” he whimpered ever so slightly - but you already pushed your lips onto his until they were inseparable.

“Yes, it is.”

_____

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bibliocratic · 5 years ago

Note

If you’re in the mood for a prompt I’ve been thinking about Jon getting hurt during the apocalypse and trying to hide it from Martin in a manner very similar to what he warned Martin not to do to him. I enjoy your writing very much! Have a good day!

I am always in the mood for some good old apocalypse hurt/comfort! Thanks for the prompt <3

jonmartin, series 5 adjacent but no spoilers, hurt/comfort

It's been a long two days.

Jon's breathing is hard-won, gravel-scraping up a dry and scream-torn throat. If he is sleeping, and Martin can't tell, even now if that's what to call it when the Archive's Eyes are closed, his head is mercifully free of dreams.

Martin's hands are sweat-lathered, muscles taut with a wired and overworked exhaustion. The scabs on his arms are itching from where Jon's blunted, gnawed nails dug and scored in a senseless panic, as the rest of his body convulsed, set upon some feverish pyre.

Martin doesn't even think Jon knew who he was. Doesn't know how long it will take for Jon to claw himself back.

It's been a long two days, but then days don't exist any more, so maybe he's getting the times wrong again. Martin shakes his shaggy head free from the dizziness building up, dust and grime clogging the smooth-running of him, adjusts his tremulous hold on the cricket bat, already soiled and discoloured dark along its edge. The sky hasn't taken on a night-pall since the world crashed sideways; it's the perpetual grey of an un-tuned station, studded with the great flexing, conjoining, bifurcating pupils that are now all staring at their beleaguered Archivist as he sweats and burns and cries out and whatever Martin can do for him, it is clearly not enough.

They'd thought it was the Hunt when it had attacked. Slaughter at a push. Jon had cast his face in a dissatisfied, pained expression, bemoaning his own slowness as Martin disinfected the snag-toothed wound of the now decimated beast, cleaning off the blood as thoroughly as possible, bandaging the area as Jon shook jittery with adrenaline and pain they'd no remedy for.

It was clearly sore to walk on. Jon had grunted as he stood, waved off Martin's fussing, trying to grind down any insurrection of his body even as they went mud-trudge slow across the vacant domain.

He'd grown ashen as his steps lost their stride and turned to shuffling. Martin had been the one to set his jaw and put his foot down, setting up camp in that nether-grey of something that would never be night again, shoring his spine with his own brand of stubbornness. Jon had agreed, but clearly not happy about their lack of progress, and they compromised on resting for a few hours, see if Jon's body would heal the injury on its own.

When Martin had asked Jon later if he was feeling better, Jon had said yes. Had said it was all healed up even as he shouldered his backpack, that they should really get moving. Martin had made a quip about Jon's super healing abilities and Jon had, he'd smiled like he was in on the joke, hadn't he?

Jon had said he was fine, and Martin believed him because he trusted him to tell him the truth.

They'd walked and walked through mire and moor and Jon had ploughed on, hadn't winced and stumbled. He'd been quiet, but then there were days like that for the both of them, that wasn't – should Martin have said something? Had the lines around his eyes been tighter, had he turned away from Martin as they walked, had there been anything he'd failed to see? As they walked, when they set up camp and Martin had helped Jon with the zip that was always getting stuck on their sleeping bag, when Jon had encircled his arms bodily around Martin and grunted a weary goodnight.

Martin had tussled free from the greedy, fog-banked maw of his nightmares to Jon panting and spasming next to him. Eyes all open, pocked across his body like boils, rolling sightless, his pupils shot wide in the damp frame of his skin, frothing spit at the corners of his mouth. His skin shiny, fish-scaling with sweat, his outward front of humanity losing ground as his flesh becomes more eyes than skin, his voice crackling like corrupted tape, his words, when they slicked garbled and gibberish from his lips, all stolen from other people's tragedies.

He throws his body around storm-wrecked and insensate, and he burns when Martin puts a hand to his forehead, and he won't wake, not for Martin's calls and shakes, not for anything.

When Martin goes to check, the wound on his leg has rooted from ankle to thigh, festering rot-black branches of something sludgy and swollen and varicose tracing the same lines as his veins.

The Corruption wars with Beholding upon the battleground of its Archive, and there is nothing Martin can do.

Their camp transitions to medical bay, but Martin is not a doctor. He tries to use the limited water they have to quench the fire-brand heat across Jon's skin; Jon flinching and fighting every pathetic gesture to comfort. Martin's mouth runs itself down shushing and failing to soothe his scalding delirium, Jon who sheds tears and pleads forgiveness and begs mercy for those he has lost. The dark lichen that is ensnaring the veins of his hip, his stomach grants him the cruelty of being able to see his burden of ghosts made material before him.

He cries at whatever Tim says to him. He tries to follow a phantom Sasha from the tent, struggles against Martin as he tries to keep him from walking out, from hurting himself more, Jon's slurring words barely understandable but for his moaning desperation that slips into anger for Martin to let go, it's Sasha, Martin, let me go, Martin!

He scratches and bites and Martin makes himself immovable, insurmountable. Jon's struggles always boil down to a grief-drowned sobbing eventually, and Martin can carry him limbless and half-collapsed back to bed.

Martin treats the yellow-weeping wound with what little antibiotic ointments they packed, cleans the swollen, reddened skin, and Jon wavers between the ghosts and shadows of his lying brain. Martin prefers the tearful, mourning Jon in some ways, because at least, there, in some ways, he at least remembers who Martin is, even if he might as well be as wraith-like as his hauntings.

It is better than Jon's terror.

When Martin looms large and unknown over him, Jon's legs scatter to push away. His eyes recognising nothing, staring up at him with suspicion. Jon's body has not been kindly used, these past years, and Jon won't let him touch his wound, kicks and pushes him away, tries to run even as his legs give under him. When every question is laced with the command of the Archive, and the compulsion tears answers Martin didn't want to give from his throat, the static in his head too much like Elias' violation and still Jon is panicking, asking his questions and not understanding the answers, and Martin dutifully retches up every horror Jon wants to be privy to, even if he's not sure it's only Jon asking, it's only Jon who wants to know any more.

Martin's body heaves up every unwanted honesty, peppering them with hysterical apologies of his own as he holds his hands over Jon's mouth to gag him, muffling the sound painfully as he presses his hands to clench Jon's jaw to immobile, even as Jon fights him, even as every eye stares and finds him wanting.

Martin is exhausted being a prison, of being so held as hated in the eyes of someone he knows loves him. But one of them has to be stronger now. Martin has never wanted to think of Jon as dangerous, but he watches the eyes grow rounded and alert as they feed on his dredged up horrors, the static ringing howling and hungry in his head. He's not entirely sure Jon will be able to stop himself from going too far.

When Jon calms, slips back into fever-dreams, there are bruises in the shape of fingertips around his mouth, and Martin can hardly bear to look at them.

The roots have receded their front lines, the puncture wounds puckered smaller when Martin checks again, and he can't look at that either.

It has been a long two days.

Jon's shivering has settled now. He rocks and frowns and breathes shallowly, but he doesn't bawl and sob names at the air. He doesn't try and ask any more questions. His fever broken, Martin thinks he's dream-walking again, for the roots continue their retreat steadily, the Archive feeding somehow.

Some pawing, creeping things have chanced their luck at an embattled, weakened Archive, and Martin's responsibility teeters between nurse and soldier. He's not a good fighter, but he's desperate for them both to survive this and that serves him well enough. There's blood scoring a bandoleer down and over his shoulder, a crest of viscera coating his shirt from some misbegotten creature of worm and want. He can't put weight on his right foot properly. He is so so tired, but still he sits, half folded, his grisly cricket bat over his knee, directly in front of the open mouth of their tent and the dreaming Jon, whose eyes scatter misted and blind under his eyelids.

Jon returns as Jon maybe a day later. Disorientated, groaning as he sits up, only two eyes in his head again. He calls out Martin's name, dry-throated, in his own voice again. He sounds sluggish and cautious. Not accusatory or betrayed or scared.

Martin kneels down by the sleeping bag, checking the untroubled skin of his calf is free from wound or infection. Jon's eyes are staring at him, nervy, over-bright, but he ignores them for the moment. Exhaustion has sanded down all his edges; he doesn't have the energy he wants for his anger, not yet, not when the worry has yet to pass from his system.

“How long was I, um, out of it?” Jon asks slowly. He looks uncomfortable. The tent is permeated with the unflattering smell of sickness and blood, both of which he has noticed if the slight wince in his expression is anything to go by.

“Three days, I guess,” Martin throws out, packing up the medical supplies now he's sure they won't be needed any more. “Not that time works any more, but you know. Estimate.”

“My leg...?”

Jon has the good grace to look guilty, and Martin feels a petty, digging stab of satisfaction. Good. Good that he knows he fucked up there.

“It got infected,” he replies shortly, shoving the supplies down to the bottom of his rucksack, kicking some clothes in a bundle near the mouth of the tent. He'll fold them separately in a minute; they're going to need to be cleaned at the next place they find water. “The thing that bit you, I think it must have already been aligned to Corruption, or whatever.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“...Martin?” Jon's voice is low and tentative. He looks as weak as Martin feels. Martin closes his eyes, because he can feel what is coming, and he can't do this, not now, not with his thread-bare temper, the panic that's not unknotted from his bones. “Martin, why won't you look at me?”

Martin straightens from his hunch. Breathes out long and hard through his nose. Turns.

“Better?” he asks. He knows it comes out as a snap.

Jon's eyes go wide as they properly take him in, a blood-tainted furious wash-out of a man.

“You're hurt,” he breathes out, looking at the marks left by things Martin didn't kill fast enough, the little smarting wounds Jon dug in himself in his terror.

Martin wants to snarl at Jon to stop looking at him.

He doesn't.

“Yes,” Martin replies instead.

Jon's hands are taking on gestures of panic.

“Martin, will you – God, s-sit down, I-I-I'll get the medical supplies, take a look at them, make sure they're nothing – ”

“No,” Martin says. He's struggling to remain impartial, to remember how to be gentle to those he wants to treat gently. He breathes out another jagged exhale. “No. I'll sort them myself.”

Jon's pushing himself up to standing, staring critically at the disastrous image Martin makes, motioning to the rucksack.

“If you just let me – ”

“No,” Martin snaps. “No, I don't want you to help me, alright? What I want, ok, is to make sure you're all healed, and then I want as close to a bath as I can get in this bloody hellscape, and then I want to get some fucking sleep for a bit. That at the moment, that is the limit of what I am capable to wanting.”

There's a tense pause.

“You're angry at me,” Jon says in a small voice.

“Ten points there, Jon, really perceptive,” Martin snarks back. He can't look at Jon because he knows that would have stung, and he knows he wanted it to, wanted Jon to know a fraction of how much these last few days have hurt.

“Because I didn't tell you about my leg?”

“Oh, I'm not sure. Do you think that's possibly something I might be a bit upset about?”

“Martin...”

“If you're going to – to give me excuses, I don't want to hear them. Of course I'm upset! I'm furious actually. Because you told me it was fine. You told me it was healed, and I trusted you to tell me the truth, because unlike you, Jon, I can't read people's bloody minds, s-so trusting you is all I have to go on. Apparently that was asking too much from you.”

Jon flinches at that. Martin bites his tongue so hard it hurts, and tells himself that Jon deserves his honesty, not, never his cruelty. That this is not the man he wants to be.

“I am angry,” he repeats, deliberately quieter. “And we will talk about it later. But I – I cannot deal with it right now. Not without saying something I'll regret. So I want you to drop it, and just – leave me alone for a bit.”

Jon nods jerkily, looking cowed and miserable.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, I'll – er, go, have a scout around for any water?”

It's as open an offer for space as Martin's going to get.

Martin must have collapsed onto the sleeping bag first before anything else because he wakes up with his shirt still starchy with blood what must be hours later. He blinks, turns over, groaning at his protesting muscles. Jon's eyes immediately swivel to him from the other side of the tent.

“You fell asleep,” he says quietly. He's clearly been sitting nearby, waiting for Martin to open his eyes. “I didn't want to – There's a stream, not too far, and I, um got water, if you want to wash... I've used some, so it's er, it's safe, and I've, er boiled it in case of, er bacteria and things. I'll – I'll get it and then give you some privacy....”

He's stumbling up. Martin reaches out a scratch-marked hand, and murmurs 'Jon'.

He doesn't know what he wants. He feels gross and sluggish and wrung-out empty, and the ashes of his anger are still embers he could stoke into expression.

Jon lingers. Looks from Martin's eyes to Martin's outstretched hand. He still has bruises the shape of fingertips near the side of his mouth, and he strikes an ill, frail figure in this light.

Martin's had enough of Jon looking scared of him these past few days.

Martin repeats his name.

Jon comes over. Kneels down where Martin has sat up so they're almost the same height.

Martin's hand settles on Jon's wrist, and he exhales shakily.

“Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?” Martin asks. This is not the question he wants to ask. The question sat poisonous behind his teeth is why didn't you trust me enough to tell me the truth? Neither of them can stomach that sort of question right now.

“I thought it would go away on its own,” Jon replies, shame coating his words. “I thought I could handle it. I didn't want you worrying.”

I worry anyway, Martin does not say. Does not need to.

“You were so sick,” Martin whispers instead. “You were so sick and you weren't getting better for such a long time, a-and there was nothing I could do but watch.”

“I'm sorry,” Jon says. “God, Martin, I – I'm sorry.”

“I know you are,” Martin replies quietly. “I know.”

Martin might offer up forgiveness if he wasn't so tired. His head so thick with all the things he is powerless against in this world.

“Let me,” Jon says, at Martin's side. His fingers hover over Martin's shoulder. “Let me, please.”

Martin nods.

Jon helps him strip out of the disgusting, blood-ruined armour he's been stewing in. His movements are faltering but methodical, light-fingered and exploratory. He soaks a cloth in water that's cooling down from boiling, dabs at every small mark scattered like anvil sparks across Martin's chest, his arms, the deeper wound at his shoulder that's begun to blossom with bruising. His eyes keep flicking to Martin's face, like he's double-checking something.

Martin, for his part, turns dozy and biddable, straining to keep conscious while Jon apparently tries to put plasters over every single mark on his body.

“What did this?” Jon finally asks as he presses gauze to the slash over his shoulder.

Martin blinks slowly, rouses.

“The usual,” he says. “Bunch'a monster things, wantin' to take a bite out of you.”

Jon hums.

“I saw what was left of the cricket bat,” he says. “Very gallant of you.”

Martin huffs a laugh. Jon continues wiping the grime and dirt down from Martin's arms, stopping every once in a while to soak and wring out his cloth.

“What did this?” he asks again, peering at the imprints where fingers wrapped around the meat of Martin's arm and tightened, the crescent curve dig of nails.

Martin thinks about lying, but he doesn't have the strength. He can't shoulder it, and neither of them should have to. Secrets have never served either of them very well.

“You,” he replies, lowly. “You were, you were feverish, you didn't know what was happening.”

“I didn't...?” Jon starts, but then he reaches up, touches his own bruise-marked jaw with a dawning realisation.

“I hurt you,” he says, slow and horrified.

Martin remembers every horror and honesty the Eye dragged from his unwilling throat to bolster the crumbling body of its Avatar, and murmurs: “You didn't mean to.”

He doesn't say that he thinks it helped. He doesn't say that if anything like this happens again, it'll be an option. He doesn't think Jon wants to hear that right now.

Jon pulls away as his mouth shapes another sorry, but Martin cuts him off, enfolds his arms around his scarecrow limbs and buries his face in Jon's throat. After a moment, Jon's trembling arms complete the circuit.

“You can't do this again,” Martin says, throat thick. “I can't – I can't do this on my own. I can't do this if you don't trust me.”

“I do,” Jon breathes in, damp and hitching. “I do trust you, I'm – I'm sorry. Martin, I'm sorry. You're not on your own. It won't happen again, I-I promise, it won't.”

They spend a long time holding each other up in that small, cramped tent, murmuring promises this life might not let them keep.

Martin crushes down the cynicism this world has tried to teach him, and chooses to believe in every single one.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #fic #cw depictions of fever #cw nonconsensual compulsion #martin blackwood #jonathan sims

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aceofpandas · 4 years ago

Text

What-if for Season 4

So at the end of season 3’s episode “Ladybug” we see that Adrien "asking” Lila to get Marinette back in school and what not. Words are spoken and wow just look at how they’re spoken:

That line right there! Okay so I watched this episode in English and in [Latin American] Spanish and wow the way that line is spoken. Both voice actors really conveyed how Adrien would channel his anger. It’s not an emotion we really got to see in Adrien before but in both languages the barely contained anger is something I feel is in line with what we know about Adrien who controls and is conscious of his emotions. It got me thinking about how passive aggressive this boy really is and man oh man how I wish that it get’s worked into season 4. Passive aggressive Adrien Agreste vs. resident liar/manipulator Lila Rossi. Yaaaas sign me up.

Hopefully, this side of him is explored next season and we can finally give Adrien some rivals who can help us explore his character a little more. This ending suggests that Lila is completely in Adrien’s danger radar and he’ll be in Protect Marinette Mode (similar to his Protect Ladybug Mode). In fact, the scene pictured above aligns with his self-sacrificial tendencies that he has as Chat Noir. Lots of people have mentioned that agreeing to the photoshoot is him selling his soul, but he also establishes that he won’t ever have a genuine friendship with Lila. Bring on the war!

I personally think that Adrien, who we know isn’t too confrontational, will take a subtle approach. And how can he do that? Well, he could channel his inner actor where he can certainly play the part of “friend” while simultaneously working to discredit Lila.

Like you can not tell me that Adrien, who’s enrolled in a bunch of activities, was not enrolled in acting classes at some point in his homeschooled life. His mom was an actress, so it’s not like his parents would be against the idea of acting lessons. He was even the VA for his own superhero persona in canon’s LB+CN movie lmaoooo. Yes, he’s a model and very much loved by the people of Paris so perhaps being chosen for the role isn’t too surprising, but that also doesn’t mean he has no talent or training for it. Let’s be real, modeling could be the compromise to his parents wanting their son to follow in their footsteps. Modeling is the fashion from his dad and the art of perfecting his facial expressions from his mom.

And like even if acting lessons were never a thing, his mom was around in his life. We know basically nothing about the woman, so really we can speculate that she showed Adrien a thing or two about acting. Let’s say it was through her that Adrien learned to be expressive, to be not expressive, and to be anywhere in between. His mom could have taught him to roll with what life has to offer through ad libs and improv. Adrien we’ve seen to have a dramatic flair as both Adrien and Chat Noir, and he honestly controls his temper waaaay better than we give him credit. Sure he makes mistakes, but really he’s human and he does learn from them (now if only the writing could keep character development for its characters but yeeaaaah).

Here’s a scenario where Adrien can start his stop Lila campaign:

Adrien and Lila are interviewed about the recent shoot and you know questions roll around about how was it working with together, they’re classmates right, are the two dating, yada yada

Adrien answering and not even trying to let Lila get the first word in because the boy is on high alert and knows this girl will try to spin it in her favor

“Oh, it was surprising my father even thought of letting one of my classmates model with me. In fact, I didn’t even know Lila was interested in modeling. Still, it was interesting to work with someone new to the field.”

Which on the surface seems like an ordinary, polite response; appropriate of Adrien but it’s also everything Adrien needs to corner Lila.

In all of three sentences Adrien says he played no part in making the photoshoot happen, effectively shuts down the possibility of dating Lila, and establishes to the public that Lila is nothing more than a classmate, one he doesn’t even know well.

Lila is annoyed but she’s not giving up because she’s under the impression that Adrien is far too agreeable and spineless therefore she writes him off as Not a Threat

Hahahaha jokes, Adrien plays on people underestimating him

“Well, I didn’t want you to think that I wanted to make it seem like I was using you because we’re friends and friends don’t do that.”

Or something along those lines I dunno

“That’s the great thing about our class everyone is so nice that we can all be friends. Lots of us are so creative and I love getting to know everyone. Nathaniel, Lila’s desk mate, is a great artist; sketching, painting, he’s your guy. He’s currently working on a superhero comic with Marc from the other class and I can’t wait for what else they come up with for the sequel. Ivan, who sits in front of Nathaniel, he’s a rockin’ drummer, and Rose, she’s another one of our classmates, killer voice and awesome lyrics. Her best friend, Juleka plays bass and I’ve actually modeled with her before. Nothing official, but since I know Juleka wants to be a model I honestly thought she was going to be the one I was modeling with for this shoot. Sure it wasn’t a huge shoot, but Juleka did such a great job. And the clothes we modeled were made by our everyday Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Marinette, she’s also our class rep by the way, is such a brilliant designer! Did you know that she actually won one of my father’s contests? Her hat was adored by Audrey Bourgeois AND she was offered the chance to move to New York. And you know…”

Basically, Adrien ends up spending the rest of the interview talking about how much he knows about his friends and “gee it’s such a shame I don’t really know much about you Lila.”

Read: you aren’t special, I have more friends, and I actually pay attention to them.

Bonus point: Alec is the one who interviews them and he picks up on Lila becoming more and more frustrated with Adrien.

Pretty in character for him to poke the bear *cough* Stormy Weather *cough* so for him to let Adrien take the reins of the interview for the sake of drama isn’t that much of a stretch.

Alec: What about Lila?

Adrien: I don’t know, I really don’t want to get anything wrong so she can answer

The next day, the interview is the only thing anyone can talk about

Adrien’s classmates gushing about how sweet Adrien is because he literally showed them that he really cares about them.

Adrien remembering all this information about all of them and hyping everyone up on TV!!

Friends know each other’s dreams and likes and dislikes and Adrien isn’t known to have lots of free time, but him making the effort to remember all that about each person is flattering to the class

Let Adrien show how much he appreciates and admires his friends pleeeeeeease

Lila can be in the background plotting how to paint Adrien in a bad light

But uhhh the class is going full Protect This Precious Boy at this point so your plan has to be fool-proof Lila

Bonus point: the class is now more sus of Lila after the whole Marinette-got-expelled-and-then-unexpelled (which is still fresh in their minds).

No one get’s an expulsion reversed unless they’re innocent

And dude Lila was in the middle of that whole mess.

Whatever Lila did shows she has the power to get any of them expelled.

If the kids aren’t at least wary of Lila in season 4, then the writers really be tripping because too many red flags around Lila for people to just wave them off.

In other news, Marinette starts to trend after enough of Adrien’s fans connect the dots that she’s the same girl who they chased around that time she and Adrien went to the movies

If the majority of Parisians weren’t convinced they were dating back then, oh boy they at least ship it by this point hahahaha

#miraculous ladybug and chat noir #adrien agreste #what if scenario #ml theory #marinette dupain cheng #lila rossi gets a new rival #let other characters have rivals that arent romace based you cowards!!#adrien gets a new rival #my one wish is character development #oops this got long #ml spoilers #maybe?#my headcanons

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a-libra-writes · 4 years ago

Text

A Dragon’s Fire - Daenerys x Red Priestess!Reader

heyo! this was requested by an anon who originally wanted an assassin w fire magic, and i compromised w a red priestess who was an assassin but decided not to hurt dany (bc that seems neat!) but ive been in the shit this week so ... i wrote something fluffy instead. I know, im a big fail, lol. I hope yall enjoy it anyway

Summary: Dany has a big gay crush. That’s it, that’s the fic

“Is she everything you hoped for?”

Y/N did not answer the man behind her. She focused on the flames in front of her, dancing in the brazier into familiar shapes. She had seen them for many years. It’s why she was chosen by the priests, and since the red comet fell from the sky, they whispered if she listened close. Here, in the dragon queen’s palace, she could hear the fire inside the dragons.

The bear knight’s metal armor and annoyed tone was not enough to distract her. Y/N reached her hand into the fire, it shaped into a dragon that sat in her palm. She didn’t feel the fire, but her red silk sleeve was burning.

Jorah disliked her silence, but he disliked many things about Y/N. When he first saw her fire tricks, he thought they were illusions, but the heat of them said otherwise. Then there was the first time she set upon Drogon…

He suppressed his shiver and set that memory aside. “The khaleesi wants to see you.”

Y/N closed her palm, and the dragon slivered out, flying back into the brazier. The flames glowed blue for just a fraction of a second. She waved her hand over them, and the fire smothered itself. Smoke rose out of the hot coals, but those too began to rapidly cool.

She wondered if the knight was still unsettled by her magic. Even the khaleesi had moments of awe and uneasiness, although she was fond of watching. Y/N stood, her silk robes gently scraping the marble floor. Jorah was already walking away, and she made no effort to run to catch up to him. She knew where Daenerys was.

The chambers Daenerys set aside for her council was well-lit and had an impressive, engraved table at the center of it. Its legs used to be harpies made of carved marble and ivory, but she had them removed for dragons made of onyx and rubies. Y/N liked the change, and how they glittered in the light. Perhaps she was biased - her own ruby hung around her neck, although it was far larger and smoother than any gemstone Daenerys had seen before.

The girl’s purple eyes lit up as Y/N entered the room. Y/N couldn’t help but return the sentiment, giving her khaleesi a smile. She was pleased there was no one else in the council room. “You wished to see me, khaleesi?”

“Yes. Jorah, you may leave us.”

Jorah didn’t protest, but he did shoot Y/N a look before he left the room and closed the doors. Y/N noticed there were no Unsullied in the chambers, either.

“I talked to him about what he said the other day,” Daenerys said after a moment of silence. “Ser Barristan, as well. They don’t … In the Seven Kingdoms, your sort of magic is seen as a dream. Unreal.”

“As unreal as dragons?” Y/N tilted her head, and Daenerys tried not to focus on how her hair slid across her bare shoulders. When Y/N first entered her service, she wore modest robes that covered nearly every inch of her. Since then she had adopted a more elegant, free style, at Daenerys’ subtle suggestion. She was pleased with the result.

Daenerys set her thoughts straight. “True. The reason I called you here was to locate Rhaegal. I haven’t seen him flying overhead in some time.”

“Nor have I.” Y/N touched the ruby that dangled by her collarbone. It was held with a simple gold chain, and anyone could have missed the way it seemed to flicker. It could have been a trick of the light, but Dany knew otherwise. “Would you like me to find him?”

Of course Y/N knew how to do that. She knew how to start and stop fire, how to dream about it, how to see into it. It was only logic that she could find it. She once told Daenerys that the dragons were beings of fire, swirling and living heat. She looked at them like …

… Well, not how others looked at them. It was hard to puzzle out Y/N’s expressions and thoughts. You could ask her something directly, and she’d have some sort of strange answer, or she’d just stay quiet. Daenerys could tell when Y/N was thinking something over, at least. Her pretty eyes would lower, and she’d touch that ruby - was it hot to the touch? It seemed like it - and she would be gone. Sometimes she stayed very still for hours, staring into fire, or staring into nothing.

But she’d always have an answer eventually.

Daenerys’ knights warned against Y/N’s counsel, telling her not to listen too closely to the words of a strange woman of a strange religion. Even Missandei had commented on the followers of Rhllor’s intent to convert King Robert and other places, and the strange magics they could possess. They warned her as if she did not know how to think for herself.

It upset her, but Y/N took such words in stride. She often seemed to know what others thought and said about her, and she did little to stop it. Missandei had warmed to her, Ser Barristan did not think she was any real threat, but Ser Jorah remained unconvinced and wary. Grey Worm did not like talk of magic or priests, but he had no real ill thought of Y/N, and Daario liked to ask her all sorts of ridiculous questions for his own amusement.

“I have found him, khaleesi.”

Daenerys couldn’t believe her thoughts had drifted again. Y/N often had that effect on her. “Where? Can we ride to him?”

“We could. He is in no danger, he is simply occupied with…” A soft smile came to Y/N’s red lips. “Something he has not seen before. That’s why he’s been away.”

“What could possibly interest him for that long? He’s been gone for days.”

“Shall we find out, your grace?”

Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah would warm her against this, ask her to take one of them or the Unsullied on the trip. Grey Worm would ask to escort them, Missandei would worry and send guards after them anyway. Daario would want to come along. Daenerys looked to the open, blue sky. There was still plenty of sun left.

“Let’s be quick,” She said, already giddy even if they hadn’t stepped a foot outside of the palace yet. “Missandei will keep them busy. Do you want to share my horse?”

Y/N was not an adept rider, but she still said, “That is alright, khaleesi. I can ride my own.”

Daenerys tried not to feel disappointed.

The danger outside the protective walls of Meereen was real, but Daenerys comforted herself with the fact that Drogon and Viserion often flew about these hills, and no one had seen them leave. Y/N said it would not take long, that they’d return toward the end of sunset.

Why do I keep believing her? Daenerys asked herself. She glanced aside, watching the woman reposition her reins. Her normally serene facade was broken everytime she rode a horse. She was not afraid of the creatures, but she had only recently learned to ride, and the beasts weren’t always fond of her.

“If you keep moving like that, you’ll make him nervous,” Daenerys said. “There’s no need to clutch the reins so tightly, either.”

Y/N nodded, and tried to relax her posture. Luckily, she picked an agreeable horse. Daenerys recalled the saddle sores and aches she received when she learned to ride. Her handmaidens gave her a balm to ease the pain. Maybe she could find that for Y/N.

I’ll ask someone to deliver it to her. I couldn’t give it to her myself - no, who says I can’t? But what would she think…

It was hard to tell exactly what Y/N was thinking, but sometimes she slipped, like now. Her brows were slightly furrowed as she righted her posture, and once she was satisfied with it, she kept glancing down at the ground, or at the horse’s ears. Y/N pet his soft neck, then slowly reached up to scratch between his ears. She jerked her hand back as her horse shook his head and made an annoyed sound.

“He didn’t like that,” Daenerys laughed, and it was adorable how Y/N gently laughed, too. She was usually so subdued, so quiet, so … what Daenerys used to be.

“But his ears are so cute,” Y/N went back to petting his neck, which he much preferred. “Doesn’t it make you think of a cat.”

“No, not at all.”

“Not even a little? There were some strays I’d feed at the temple. Their ears would twitch when I came by. They could smell the food in my pockets.”

Sometimes Y/N would speak of the temple she grew up in, or the other Free Cities she had travelled to, the friends she had known. Perhaps if she showed this side to the others, they would trust her more, but Daenerys was happy to have it to herself.

The grass thinned and made way for rocky hills and in the distance, orange and yellow canyons. The sun was beginning its descent, and soon the sky would match those oranges and yellows. Y/N stopped her horse.

“We can walk from here. Do you hear him?”

Daenerys stopped her own horse and listened. There was the slightest breeze, some distant bird calling, the sound of her horse’s nicker and …

She shook her head. “If he’s close, we would have heard him by now.”

Y/N dismounted with some inelegance, but she fixed her clothes and just smiled. “Maybe you will when we get closer.”

They tied the horses to one of the few trees in the dry area, and Daenerys followed Y/N’s lead.

It could be a trap. She could have men waiting there, or there could have been someone following us …

The thought was fleeting, and Daenerys fell in beside her. They both changed to more practical clothing, but Y/N still had a shimmering red cloak tied around her shoulders. As they walked, Daenerys began to hear something strange. It was faint, but as they came closer…

“Water?” She looked at Y/N.

Y/N’s sweet lips curled upward. She often smelled of smoke and spice, and Daenerys wondered if she tasted that way, too.

They came to the edge of a small canyon, which could be better described as a deep ravine. Water glistened at the bottom of it, and more importantly, the deep green scales of her dear Rhaegal. He lifted his wings high and water spilled on his back.

“What is he doing?” Daenerys asked, but she was answered just a moment later. Water spewed up from the ground in a huge geyser, all at once, and Rhaegal happily opened his mouth and snapped at it. The water fell in thick droplets all around the dragon, the ravine and the two of them.

Y/N pulled her red hood over her head. Daenerys wiped her brow. “You didn’t tell me to pack a hood.”

“Apologies, khaleesi.” Y/N giggled. She peered downward. “If we’re steady, we can walk down to him.”

Rhaegal’s long tail lazily swung back and forth in the water. He was resting, and it only submerged his arms and legs, but he was content. Daenerys noticed all the charred bones scattered around the ravine. She wondered how much was in the water. Her feet found stability, and she carefully followed a natural, steadying path downward. Y/N was just ahead, although she wasn’t as confident in her descent.

They came to a small landing and had to stop there. The rest of the way was simply too steep. Rhaegal seemed to just notice them then, and Daenerys’ heart swelled as her child lifted his head and gazed at her with his sharp eyes. They weren’t merely brown, but bronze, with all the steadiness and strength that metal held. She touched his nose and muzzle, marvelling at how much he had grown.

His eyes quickly flashed toward Y/N, and Daenerys felt his growl vibrate underneath her hand. She frowned and quickly said, “No.”

She remembered Y/N’s first encounter with Drogon. That was also the day she had taken the strange, beautiful priestess into her court.

Just like with Drogon, Y/N showed no fear. She stepped forward, but she didn’t make an attempt to touch the dragon. She lowered her hood, and Rhaegal’s long, black pupil tightened.

Daenerys felt the heat of his breath as he snorted through his nose. She tensed, forcing herself to stay calm as she repeated her order. “No.”

The geyser blew again, and Daenerys didn’t flinch. Rhaegal watched it rise in the air, then pulled away from his mother to open his jaws at the water again. His black teeth glittered in the setting sun.

Daenerys looked to Y/N. The priestess was so calm and steady, so unaffected … except Dany caught how her shoulders sagged in relief.

“He isn’t like Drogon,” Daenerys said, remembering that day. “He wouldn’t have hurt you.”

Y/N replied simply. “Drogon did not hurt me.”

Had you been any other woman, he would have killed you. Except ...

It took days for the servants to remove the char marks on the marble, and some of the melted pillars were still being repaired. Daenerys was half tempted to leave them like that, as a warning to any potential enemies, but it was unsettling to think it may have been Y/N that was burned away.

Except, she didn’t. Her red robes and long hair did, but her necklace and body remained unharmed. Daenerys and her court watched as the fire arced around her, singing away everything but skin and metal, and that ruby she never removed. Y/N looked Drogon straight in the eyes, even as they were obscured by his fire.

His temper always was the worst. She had done nothing but approach Daenerys too quickly. Jorah was the one who pulled her back behind one of the pillars, and Daenerys remembered how the heat licked her arms as it tried to reach around the marble. Daario had pulled Missandei to cover behind the other pillar.

Drogon almost never came to the palace, he always wanted to be in the sky, yet he came down on that day. And when the fire cleared and the floor was charred black except for a small circle … He stood back, and Y/N still looked at him. She only trembled slightly.

She isn’t any other woman.

The geyser blew again, and rained down upon them. The water’s heat didn’t bother her, but all the dust from the ride was stuck to her skin, and the water didn’t clean it off. She had dust in her hair, too, and probably some stray pieces of grass.

She smiled. It had been some time since she was properly dirty after a ride, and she looked forward to a perfumed bath and brushing her hair when she got back. Daenerys glanced to Y/N, who was occupied with watching Rhaegal. She also had dirt on her cheeks and neck, and some in her hair, and maybe if she wanted a bath afterward, too…

Daenerys reached forward and tried to rub some of the dirt off her cheeks. It didn’t work, but Y/N’s pretty eyes went wide. She didn’t pull away. “Khaleesi?”

Daenerys stepped forward, gently moving her palm so she had Y/N’s whole cheek. Just as she thought - as she dreamed? - the priestess’ skin was flushed and warmer than anyone she’d touched before.

“You can say my name,” Daenerys said. She tried to tease, but her beating heart and their closeness made her breath catch. She thought Y/N was wearing color on her lips, but perhaps they just always looked like that?

“Daenerys.” Y/N tried it out, and the dragon queen felt like a girl again, feeling her heart soar at hearing her name on those lips. She leaned in, bringing Y/N closer to her. Their foreheads brushed, and the warmth between them turned to heat.

A piercing roar broke through the sky, and cut straight between them. Daenerys recognized the sound at once, and it distracted her as Y/N jumped away. The woman’s cheeks were as red as her cloak.

Above them, Viserion broke through the clouds and bellowed down at his brother. The first cry was for Daenerys, and the second was probably a command for Rhaegal to move aside. The green dragon made room for his brother, and the water reached the top of the ravine as Viserion splashed straight into it. Y/N pulled Daenerys back before the muddy water could splash all over them.

Daenerys was far too overheated and flustered, and the sight of her children amusing themselves only gave her a little relief. At least Rhaegal was alright.

Y/N had pulled her hood back down, and it was a shame. At least her lips were still visible through the shadow, although looking wasn’t as good as tasting.

“We’ve been gone for a long time. Let’s ride back.” Daenerys led the way out of the ravine. Y/N said nothing until they were back to the horses, who were understandably spooked from the dragon that flew overhead not fifteen minutes ago. Y/N held her horse’s reins and tried to soothe it, and Daenerys helped, touching the priestess’ hands perhaps more than was needed.

Y/N didn’t pull away, and that gave Daenerys the courage to kiss her cheek. The soft dyed linen brushed her own cheek, and she caught a whiff of perfume.

The priestess giggled, and it was a better relief than the breeze that was slowly blowing across the hills. “Please, Daenerys. I’m covered in dust.”

“I am, too. Let’s wash up when we ride back - together?”

She caught Y/N’s bright eyes under the hood, and they sparkled as she blushed and tugged the hood further down. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

So it was decided. By the time they reached the gates of Meereen and entered the Great Pyramid, Y/N had dropped her hood and her easy, serene face had returned. She disregarded the suspicious looks, she gave an easy nod to Missandei, who returned a tentative smile. As far as anyone knew, Y/N’s mind was wrapped in her usual visions and prayers.

Until Daenerys brushed her dirty hair aside and smiled at her, then Y/N’s cheeks blushed and her eyes widened in that adorable way. She let the khaleesi take her hand, entwine their fingers, and guide her to the great baths. Y/N’s red cloak fluttered behind her, drawing attention to them. Some Unsullied guards probably saw, and surely others, but Daenerys didn’t care.

She’s like fire, and I am a dragon - how could she bring any harm to me?

#Daenerys Targaryen x reader #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #libra fics

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nicketynic · 4 years ago

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Prompt: Jon Snow falls in love with Sansa Rivers, Brynden's bastard.

Catelyn Tully Stark had never forgotten the strange, painful parallel of watching her uncle walking through Riverrun’s gates, her lord father’s bones in tow, cradling a babe bearing his look, imagining it eerily similar to Eddard’s return to Winterfell, the return that brought his bastard son inside the walls of his ancestral seat before his trueborn heir had ever graced them.

Her feelings for Jon Snow aside, Sansa Rivers was her dear uncle’s only child, bastard-born or not, beloved enough to be brought with him to RIverrun as he took up regency for Edmure. Through letters, Catelyn watched her grow, transitioning from sweet, spirited girl to kind, dutiful young woman, thoughtful and grateful toward every bit of advice Catelyn offered.

By twelve, Sansa had stepped so naturally into the role of Riverrun’s surrogate lady, just as Cately had before her, and remained so at sixteen when Robb’s march south saw armies and lords aplenty descend on the castle. Then Ned was gone, and sweet Sansa was a steady source of comfort and support in a sea of grief and loss. How could she not love this wonderful, giving girl, everything she would have wanted in another daughter if the Mother had seen fit, for all she never regretted helping Ned secure his bloodline, for all that Arya was a willful, spirited, irreplaceable gift?

Ned was lost to her, and a solemn specter of his likeness stood stalwart at their son’s side. While loss and his unwavering loyalty toward Robb had eaten away at the bitterness toward the bastard, nothing could stop her hackles from rising the first time she saw Snow’s eyes land on Sansa, widening with surprise and interest. So intent was she on diverting that attention, she nearly missed when Sansa began to return his gazes, until she was as moon-eyed as the boy. It was only the march into the Westerlands that relieved Catelyn’s vexation with the whole affair, and as the war raged on and months became a year, then two, she became certain the infatuation had long passed.

Now, Jon Snow was a Stark-born bastard of a different variety, no longer a political unknown but the last scion of a dead dynasty, poised to have his pick between several noble seats. Some argued Dragonstone was his right so long as he let the name Targaryen die, Robb stood eager to see him landed and titled in the north, and Uncle Brynden himself had mused whether Harrenhal would be an acceptable compromise (granted to House Tully by way of Whent blood), if only to keep his daughter close by.

Catelyn was wrong that time and distance would kill the attraction between Snow and Rivers, for all that Sansa had never spoken of or inquired about him within her hearing. Sansa herself had presented her desire for Jon Snow’s hand in marriage, and Brynden was showing no signs of refusing. Feeling the weight of his niece’s gaze upon him, Brynden raised his head, bushy silver brows over Tully blue arching expectantly.

Catelyn hesitated for a moment, straightening subconsciously in her chair before she spoke. “Uncle, are you certain this is the decision you wish to make? The boy has prospects now, but the Targaryen legacy is liable to haunt him for the rest of his days. His children as well. Is it wise to subject Sansa to that?”

Brynden studied her for a long moment, deep wells of Tully blue full of something impossibly sad and wise. “Trust me when I say, little Cat, there can be no better judge of that girl’s happiness than Sansa herself. Her life’s already been hardship enough since the day I gave her the name ‘Rivers.’”

For the first time since his fateful decision, Brynden Tully was fully certain he had made the right choice when he plucked up a little red-haired waif from obscurity all those years ago, Tully auburn a beacon to draw his eye among a group of war orphans at Fairmarket’s motherhouse. All the evidence he needed was the soft, besotted look in Sansa’s eyes, the confidence in the way she spoke of Jon Snow’s love being true. That was all he could have possibly wished for the child who held his heart even if she wasn’t born of his body, much like the clever Cat sitting nearby.

Let it never be said that the Blackfish of Riverrun didn’t look after his own.

Contrary to their elders’ assumptions, Sansa Rivers and Jon Snow hadn’t been blinded from the hardships of their world by infatuation or innocence, and had long since forged their own path ahead together.

This day, Jon sat quietly in the shadow of several large old elms in Riverrun’s godswood. His eyes were closed, whether in prayer or sleep his audience was uncertain, only that he paid her approach no notice until he felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder, warm breath tickling against his skin with a whisper in his ear.

“Perhaps it is improper to interrupt a man in such serious contemplation, but the solemnity on your face should be far removed from the beauty of this day.”

He jumped at the initial touch, glowering. Sansa allowed herself a few giggles at his disgruntled expression, leaning against his shoulder and letting her lips tease against the sensitive place below his ear.

Jon looked at her sharply, and she responded with a soft reassurance and a firmer kiss to his neck. “I circled this clever spot you found from every direction I could conceive of, love. I only saw you since I knew where to look. We’re safe.”

Jon relaxed, turning in her arms to shift her closer, Sansa settling comfortably in his lap. She circled her arms around his neck, drawing his mouth to hers in a lingering, adoring kiss. She drew back at the need for air, giving him a cheeky smile. “Husband.”

“Wife.”

For weeks, Sansa had felt the weight of eyes on her. Over the years of men coming and going from Riverrun, she had become accustomed to the hard, lustful stares thrown her way, unabashed in their audacity given she was bastard-born with no noble title to protect her modesty. The only thing that kept their stares as only stares, their hands from never daring to pinch or grope, rip or bruise, was the power of her father and cousin’s affection for her. Nothing more, certainly not through any virtue of her own, as barbed, gossiping tongues saw fit to remind her every season she was forced to play host to the ladies and daughters of Cousin Edmure’s bannermen.

When she finally distracted herself enough for the chaos of preparing for war, she was shocked to discover the owner of these particular eyes. King Robb’s bastard half-brother, taciturn, solemn Jon Snow. A man who seemed too serious, too stoic, too devoted, for any woman to draw his eye away from his intense focus on duty. She puzzled over his interest, and several times she felt the burn of his gaze, she turned around to seek the source. More often than not, his expression was carefully composed into a sullen frown, and he was quick to turn away, but once or twice, she caught him unguarded.

His expression naked and open, wistful yearning laid bare for her to see, unique to the entitled vulgarity she’d reluctantly grown used to over time. His was a quiet longing, appreciative and warm every time his eyes landed on her. Still he wouldn’t approach, not even as she began to return lingering looks of her own, not even when her smiles grew soft and inviting. He never came.

So she went to him herself.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, my lord. Please tell me if my presence is unwelcome, and I’ll leave you be.”

“Your presence could never be unwelcome, my lady. And I know we’ve discussed that I’m no lord. Please, call me Jon.”

“Then you should remember I’m no lady, but I know from experience you’ll demure. So be it.” She smiled, slow and enigmatic. “Jon.” She drew his name out, testing out the sound, and Jon could have died from shame at the flash of heat it caused him.

“Jon,” the sound of her voice, soft, husky, and alluring, was intoxicating, his name slipping from her tongue sweet as honey. “Jon, I’ve felt your eyes on me for weeks. Always watching me. Never approaching, Why? Am I wrong”

He couldn’t remember a time when his tongue had ever felt so thick and at a loss for words. “N-no, you’re not wrong.”

“Do you want me, Jon?”

She’d bewitched him, surely, how else could he justify actually giving voice to his next words? “Yes,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “Gods help me, do I ever.”

Her beautiful face hardened, something in her eyes growing cold. “So I’ve often seen, more through the years than I care to count. You’ve been kind, Jon. Courteous to a fault. Do you feel you have more a right to me because you haven’t resorted to slobbering and pawing?”

“No!” Jon went milk-pale, horrified at the very implication. “I would never dishonor you! I was never going to tell you, I swear it. Never belittle your worth with a delusion that I’d have any hope of your hand.”

“Hand?” In her confusion, something softened, peering at him with a puzzled, considering expression. “You mean to wed?”

Jon looked ill at the very idea of continuing to discuss his feelings, but he resolved to finish if only she could feel some measure of safety in his presence again. “A boy’s dream, my lady. I know that. I would never hurt you. Please believe me.”

“Oh, Jon.” She drew closer, and closer still, panic rising in him as he saw faint tears glistening in her eyes. “I do. I so wished I was right, that what I saw in you was true. You just proved that.”

Hands on his shoulders, lips a breath away from his, Jon trembled, fists clenched at his sides to keep from touching her. “I won’t dishonor you,” he ground out.

“Then wed me. But don’t leave me without knowing your love.”

“You can’t mean-”

“But i do. You return to war in a few days.”

“And you want to make yourself a landless bastard’s widow?”

“The hope is that I don’t become a widow at all. But where’s the stigma in being a bastard’s widow when I’m a bastard myself? I adore you for your honor, Jon Snow, but it’s not your honor I want to know before you ride into battle.”

“Gods help me. Gods help us both.”

It was the gods he prayed to save them that they wed themselves before later that night, kneeling before the sad-faced weirwood, then bedding down beneath its red-dripped branches.

He kissed his love with the virility of youth, with the guilty passion and love he’d been harboring. They separated only before the need for breath became too great. He exhaled softly, not daring to open his eyes as deft fingers threaded through his dark hair to pull him into another kiss. His arms tightening around her, his hands grew restless, aching to explore further. Desire raged through him in a sudden storm of longing, tantalizing him to the point of desperation.

He groaned, a low rumble resounding through his chest. At the sudden sound, they pulled away, each regarding the other with shy, darkened eyes.

It was Jon who broke through the tentative silence. “I cannot leave you with child, Sansa,” he whispered softly, touching his hand to her cheek.

She leaned into the touch, gently sighing at the contact. “There are ways around it, love, for all that I would love to have that piece of you with me.”

“I want that as well. Someday.”

“Then come back to me.”

Jon shifted closer, dipping his head to press his lips to her ear. “Always, so long as I am breathing.” He kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger for just a moment before descending in a trail of soft kisses down her jaw and neckline. Sansa responded with a breathless gasp, her hands working up into the folds of his tunic to meet bare skin. He groaned as she touched him, aiding her in allowing the garment to fall away from his shoulders. Drawing her into his embrace, her body molded into his as he pressed close. She gazed down at him, brushing heavy hair away from his eyes, tracing her fingers along the strong features of his face. The intensity of his dark gaze followed her every movement. “Love me, Jon. Please?”

He did not hesitate, his hands beginning to stroke and caress, his mouth seeking hers in a gentle, lingering kiss. Locked in a lover’s embrace, he pressed her back against the ground, the soft earth and the fragrant grasses of the garden floor cushioning their fall. Their world faded to the touch of mouth and skin, passion overwhelming every sense but that of each other.

Jon sighed contently as he gave into the moment. “I’ve missed you so very much.”

“I missed you as well. Thank you for keeping your promise.”

He kissed her softly, his eyes so warm and full her heart swelled with feeling. “I promised you always, as long as I breathe. I wasn’t certain you would still want this, knowing I’m not who you thought.”

“Nonsense. Jon Snow, Jon Waters, Jon Blackfyre, it doesn’t matter, as long as you remain Jon at your core. And Jon loves me still.”

“As long as I breathe,” he repeated softly, this time catching her mouth in a deep, soulful kiss. Sansa’s arms twined around his neck as she opened beautifully to his passion, his ardor, his devotion, fingers burying in his hair to drag him impossibly closer.

She pulled back just enough to speak, only a breath’s distance between their lips. “And if my kisses steal your breath away?”

“Then we’ll share it. We did promise to share this life together.”

“Then i can’t wait to share that journey with you.”

#jon x sansa #jonsa #asoiaf #my fic

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