#or well. single sideburn since the other side of his face is scarred

[astrocassette]

just finished rereading @jacqcrisis's 70's beach town hades au fic, and felt compelled to draw how i picture charon + hermes :]

gotta love 70's cable knit sweaters, dagger collars, and tiny jogging shorts

[darker-dc-dimensions]

Tim Drake Al Ghul

Heir of the demon

Emojis used:  ⚔️🕯️

(I know this is a picture of Damian but its just a placeholder for now)

General Information

 First name: Timothy

Middle name(s): Jackson

Surname: Drake Al Ghul

Age: early 20s

Date of birth: July 19th

Race: Wasian, Chinese from mothers’ side

Gender: Cis Male

Sexuality: Bisexual, leans towards men.

Current residence: Nanda Parbat. The hidden league bases in the deserts. Eth Alth'eban.

Relationship status: Single

Social status: upper class, head of the league of assassins, meaning he’s very influential and rich.

Universe (AU universe of origin): Heir of the demon

 Traits of Voice

 Accent (if any): Has no accent in any language, meaning he speaks languages perfectly.

Language spoken: English, Arabic, League Dialect, it depends on who he’s interacting with.

Other languages known: Romani, Spanish, Russian, French, German, Japanese, Cantonese, Turkish, Arabic, Farsi, League of assassin’s dialect, Swahili, Mandarin, Filipino, Korean, Polish, Latin, Greek, Italian, Portuguese, Hebrew, Thai, Vietnamese, Swedish, Kryptonian, Atlantean, Ancient Greek, Tameranean, Sign language. (Most taught to him by Bruce Wayne or Ra's al Ghul')

Volume of voice: Has a low and flat voice, very few emotions are ever expressed.

 Physical Appearance

 Height: 6´0

Eye colour: Bright Green (Lazarus pit)

Skin colour: a mild tan from living in the sun.

Distinguishing features: Heavily scarred body, the sides of his hair (think sideburn area) are white (think like Ra's), Almost glowing green eyes thanks to the Lazarus pit, minor tattoos around his body, mostly in Arabic or league dialect, though there are a few small tattoos that are pictures that seem connected to some people.

Build of body: Muscular but not overly wide, lithe, and more flexible to allow more extreme and quicker moves.

Hair colour: Black and white

Hair style: hair is cut quite short, depending on time and place his hair is either cut with a razor or knife, or has been styled by professionals.

Tattoos: minor tattoos around his body, mostly in Arabic or league dialect, though there are a few small tattoos that are pictures that seem connected to some people. Has some tattoos in memory of Kon, Bart and Cassie.

Piercings: has multiple piercings all over his body, some are cosmetic, and some are for celebrations.

Typical clothing: traditional clothing for whatever area he’s living in, or league dress. Clothes fitting of the head of the league of assassins, so its practical, protects him, but allows him to move and store weapons. Tends to wear a mask or face covering of some type.

Is seen by others as: a threatening unknown figure, as very few people know who he is, those people are Ra's and Talia. As seen as a symbol of fear, but is deeply respected by his people since he treats the league of assassins members with respect but still has an iron fist.

 Health

 Sleeping habits: Sleeps very little, since he doesn’t need it much since being put in the Lazarus pit.

Energy level: Has an average energy level, not too much and not too little, but has more than enough to defend himself.

Eating habits: Doesn’t need to eat quite a lot, thanks to the Lazarus pit, tends to eat very well-cooked meals, created by the league’s personal chefs.

Memory: Has a perfect memory, trained into him from very young. The Drakes wanted him to be perfect, so they worked him to the bone to perfect his memory, and working with the bats and later the league it only get better.

Any unhealthy habits: probably has a couple but doesn’t seem them as unhealthy. Works out for hours and days on end to better himself. One of his training methods is different kinds of torture.

 Relationships

 Parents:  Jack Drake (birth father), Janet Drake (birth mother), Bruce Wayne (Adoptive Father), Ra's Al Ghul (Adoptive father/grandfather)

Siblings: Dick Grayson (adopted), Jason Todd (adopted), Damian Wayne (Adopted), Cassandra Caine (Adopted), Duke Thomas (Adopted), Stephanie Brown (Adopted), Jean-Paul Valley (Adopted in spirit but not on paper), Talia Al Ghul (Adopted)

Any enemies (and why): Way too many to count.

Children: none

Friends: none

Best friend(s): none, Kon, Bart and Cassie were his best friends, but they are all gone.

Important friends/relatives (explain): Kon, Bart and Cassie were his best friends, but he lost them over the years to different reasons, though they all died to villains or in battles.

Love interest (if there is one): Was dating Kon before he died.

 Combat

 Peaceful or violent: He tends to stay peaceful for the most part, as he treats his people with respect. But he doesn’t accept any disrespect or anyone trying to cross him, so he will resort to violence if he has too.

Weapon (if applicable): Can use pretty much any weapon. Tends to rely on his Bo staff, a straight bladed Chinese sword (given to him by Ra's), a ninjato (given to him by Ra's), other gadgets or smaller blades.

Style of fighting: Has mastered pretty much any style of fighting so there isn’t one specific he relies on, so he will simply use what is best suited for whatever battle he’s in at the time.

 Others

 Occupation: Head of the demon, leader of the league of assassins.

Current home: Doesn’t live in one specific place. Nanda Parbat. The hidden league bases in the deserts. Eth Alth'eban.

Favourite types of food: has a secret love for potato chips or other snack foods. Different middle eastern meals, though he prefers meals he can eat with his hands. Likes goat meat the most in his meals.

Favourite types of drink: To no one’s surprise he likes caffeine, no matter what drink form its in. Quite enjoys tea as well, though he prefers the type you’d catch people like Ra's or Alfred drinking. Secretly loves fast food sodas, like McDonald’s sprite.

Hobbies/past times: Doesn’t have time for hobbies for the most part, as he spends most of his waking time bettering himself or bettering the league of assassins.

Guilty pleasures: Junk food, looking through his old pictures that he took of batman and robin as a kid. He can’t help but check up on his old family every now and then. Sleeps with Kon’s old shirts.

Pet peeves: When people try to suck up to him or act too familiar with him. When people touch him without reason, or just in general.

Pets: Has multiple pets, though they’re more like attack animals than pets. Think big predator animals like tigers, wolves, and panthers. Even has nonearthly pets or fantasy pets.

Favourite colours: League of Assassins green, gold, black and red.

[bipercabeth]

👀 anything + "does it still hurt to think about?"

(happy birthday alyssa i love u!!!) 

this is a bellarke fic so let’s pretend it’s on my sideblog and call it a day. s7 compliant until 7x10. then i do what i want. 

It all happens so fast. 

Bellamy comes back, ragged and worse for wear but alive. He and Echo meet an abrupt, messy end Clarke doesn’t catch the details of. And somehow, inexplicably, Clarke ends up alone with Bellamy in Octavia’s quarters while the others recuperate. 

Part of her longs to be with them—making plans, gathering information, maybe trying MCAP to crack Bellamy’s stubborn memories—but loyalty and guilt keep her rooted in place. It’s stupid to think she could’ve prevented Bellamy from being taken in the first place, but still. She should’ve been there. She should’ve known sooner. 

“Stop thinking so loud,” Bellamy calls from the bathroom. 

It earns a laugh in the way only Bellamy can. Laughter has been scarce lately. It always seems to be when they’re apart. 

She pushes the door open and leans against the frame, making eye contact with Bellamy in the mirror. He’s frowning, running his fingers through the long beard he grew on Etherea. Clarke wonders how much time he’s lost. At least she knew the number of days she spent in Eden. It’s a cruel trick of the universe to steal more time after everything it’s put them through. 

“How’d you know?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “I still know you.” 

He says it like it’s inevitable. This man has no memory of the past several months to years of his life, but he knows when Clarke Griffin is overthinking based on her silence alone.  

“Can I ask you something?” 

Clarke smiles. “Anything.” 

He turns to her, scissors in hand. “Will you cut my hair?” 

She takes in his unruly waves, which are nearly as long as her own. “I don’t know, I kind of like matching.”

“Just take the damn scissors, Princess.”

Clarke’s hand freezes, her fingers ghosting over Bellamy’s. It takes all she has to curb the shock from her face, but she doesn’t manage to suppress her smile. “Been a while since you called me that,” she says lightly. She drags a chair from the corner and motions for him to sit. 

She busies herself ruffling his hair. “How short?” 

“Like it was before?” 

It makes sense, wanting to return to who he was and how he looked before this. It’s not Clarke’s favorite cut, but she can do it. She measures the length out with her fingers. “Here?” 

“No, before. On Earth.” His voice is heavy with significance. Clarke learned long ago not to put words in Bellamy’s mouth, but she can almost hear him say with you at the end of that sentence. 

She swallows. “I can do that.” 

She works in comfortable silence, chopping off the longest parts before shaping up the rest. Bellamy’s gaze burns into her through the mirror, but she can’t bring herself to meet it. Regardless of how fun it would be to make fun of him with half his head shaggy, all Clarke can think about is how he’ll look when she’s done. The Bellamy she imagined for six years in Eden is about to be in front of her. That takes some priority. 

Six years of cutting her own and Madi’s hair has made Clarke something of an expert. Before she knows it, Bellamy is halfway back to himself, save the beard. 

It’s a bit shorter than before, she thinks as he looks in the mirror. Despite her experience, she hasn’t done a cut like this. A slight miscalculation meant she had to take in the sides a bit more than she’d have liked, but it works for him. She thinks most looks would, even the caveman thing he has going on on the lower half of his face. After all, it’s Bellamy. 

Bellamy’s responding grin is somewhat hidden under the beard, but Clarke sees it in his eyes. He tips his head back against her chest as she fusses and fluffs the front with anxious hands. “Looks good, Princess.” 

There he goes with that nickname again. This time Clarke can’t hide the way her hands still. 

“You haven’t called me that in 131 years.” 

Bellamy frowns, as if to protest, but quickly devolves into distress and confusion. “I don’t think that’s right. I think I called you that when I was... wherever I was.” 

The amount of baggage to unpack in that statement alone almost shuts Clarke down. She can’t look at him. 

Instead she moves to the medicine cabinet, distracting herself with the need to get rid of that horrific beard. “Does it still hurt to think about?” 

“When I push too hard, yeah. Sometimes the memories are buried so deep it feels like someone is bashing against my skull. Sometimes I can feel them, even if I don’t know what they mean. I’m just drawn to certain things. I think that means they were important to me there.” 

“Like what?” 

“You.” 

When Clarke’s breath stutters and she looks at Bellamy, she only finds quiet resolve. 

“I may not remember it, but there’s no way I was stranded like that and didn’t think about you. And when I came through the Anomaly, that was the one thing that stayed with me. Just you.” 

“I know how you feel. After Praimfaya...” Clarke feels her cheeks heat. “Well, you know how I got through it.” 

The misery of all the times fate has ripped Bellamy away climbs in Clarke’s chest, propelling her back to the medicine cabinet where she finds shaving cream and a straight razor. 

Bellamy’s face changes in an instant, morphing from something wistful and longing to his signature Big Brother face. 

“Why is there a razor in my little sister’s room?” 

Clarke simply smiles. “Little?” 

“I don’t care how long she spent on Penance. She’s my baby sister,” he groans. “Besides. I could still be older.” 

He moves to take the razor from Clarke, but she holds it close. “Can I?” 

“I can shave myself, Clarke.” 

“I know, but—” The misery climbs up her throat, now— “I thought I lost you.” 

That softens him. He leans back and offers himself to her. “All yours.” 

There isn’t much room for talking after that. Clarke wets his beard and rubs in some shaving cream, thankful for the towel she wrapped around him before she started this whole process. She doesn’t want to see him in the stiff Bardo robes or the parka he made himself on Etherea. Here, in the Henley she recognizes from before he left, he is almost her Bellamy again. 

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks as she lines up the blade with his sideburn. 

“No,” she admits. “But I have steady hands.” 

They’re less steady with body heat radiating in the space between Clarke’s body and Bellamy’s, but she won’t tell him that. 

The first swipe is a series of careful tugs with her left hand, assisted by her right holding his skin. Each inch reveals constellations of the freckles she so dearly missed. 

Clarke watches his face as she tosses the hair and wipes the blade. He meets her with unwavering trust as she brings the blade back to his skin, this time with more confidence. With each pass, the man she loves comes back to her. 

Bellamy’s cheekbones are easy, all sharp lines and simple angles. It’s one thing to watch the freckles bloom on his cheeks and another entirely to feel his breath ghost her fingertips as she takes off his mustache. Her fingertip traces the scar on his lip without thought or caution. Her eyes follow. 

Next comes the divot in his chin, freed at last. Clarke rests her thumb there to tilt his head back for the final strokes along his neck. He’s all trust in her gentle hands. He always has been. It becomes them, same as love. 

Love lives in Clarke’s hands as she holds his neck, feeling his muscles jump with anticipation. They have never let themselves get this close, and now she understands why. Clarke has been so strong for so long, but Bellamy is her undoing. 

“All done,” she breathes. 

He sits up, but Clarke is frozen in place. Her blade hovers near Bellamy’s throat while her hand cups the other side. A single drop of blood gathers where she nicked his upper lip earlier. She has the ridiculous urge to kiss it away. 

“Been a while since I saw you bleed,” is all she can say. 

His breath is warm on her lips. “I don’t think it’s been a while since I bled.” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to patch you up.” 

“You were,” he assures her.

“Bellamy, I...” 

“Yeah,” he eases the razor away and lets it clatter to the ground. “Me too.” 

The dam breaks, unleashing a flood of emotions Clarke never dreamed she would allow to surface. Bellamy’s hand tangles in her hair, and it’s unclear who pulls the other in first, but that doesn’t matter because his lips are on hers after centuries of waiting. She throws a leg over his lap and straddles him, her caution drowned in the wake of passion.

They part too soon for Clarke’s liking, but Bellamy’s hands stroke her back idly, like he has all the time in the world to touch her, and all that matters is that they get that time. They have seen the world end countless times, but it is reborn with each second Bellamy looks at Clarke like he looked at the sky that first day on Earth: joyful, disbelieving, reverent. 

“I never thought I’d get this,” he pants. 

“Me?” 

“Happiness.” He says it like it’s the same thing. 

Clarke kisses him for it, half because he’s sweet and half because she can. 

Their love has eclipsed entire planets, even outlasting the one where it was born, but he has always been Earth to her. The final journey home. Joy. 

And joy tasted better on Earth. 

[rideboldlyride]

ZW 2020; Reunion

So it begins.... This is a Modern/Gym AU. I swore I would never do a modern AU, but, as Edna Mode would say “and yet, here we are.” My plan for this week is to make these prompts all one story. As this is my first Modern AU of any kind, on top of my first Zutara Week, please feel free to leave all sorts of feedback. I will be adding an AO3 link in an edit in the fresh morning. I’m posting this tonight, because I have way too much crap going on in the morning tomorrow. Anyway. No more intro/distraction from my crapstorm. Here it begins.

[EDIT 1: I forgot to mention-- I aged them up realtime. This means that Zuko;Sokka are 31, Katara;Azula are 29, and Toph;Aang are 27, and all the correlating ages of the other characters accordingly. EDIT 2 will be the AO3 link, I promise.]

[EDIT 2: HERE’S the AO3 - finally. I’ve been super busy all day with a screeching toddler.]

It's the smell, Katara decides. It definitely wasn't the music - she always piped in her own mix of high-tempo, hard hitting music through her headphones. It's not the taste of the crappy tap water from their generic doctor's-office-standard water fountains. It wasn't for the sights of the people who were there.

Well, most of the people that were there. There was one or two…

No, she decided. It was entirely the smell that, no matter where in the world she landed, got her moving. A blend of sweat, rubber, and disinfectant, every gym she had ever walked into had the same smell. This realization settled over her as she entered the old gym. She had recently moved back from one of the old Earth Kingdom settlements at the coast, and was now participating in a research project with Ba Sing Se University, her old alma mater. Fortune had been on her side, however, when her old gym’s membership was reciprocal back again to one in the city. 

It had been three years since she had left Ba Sing Se for Selin Harbor, fresh from the university, a master’s degree in Marine Biology in tow. Now, she had been called back due to a troubling disease emerging in the dark, mysterious waters off the coast of the city. 

She had begun her workout running intervals, hopping from treadmill to resistance training to machines, and back, forcing the stress and worry of her new work out of her mind. Falling into her rhythm, time began to slip away. As was common, during her physical exertions, she felt the outside world fall away, and a single-minded focus overtook her thoughts, caught up only in the heavy beat in her ears.

Somewhere in between a few of her runs, she stepped away from the treadmill, took a pause to swallow down some more water, and turned to the next step in her pattern. She stopped suddenly. In her next station - a gym mat stocked with medicine ball and resistance bands - a fellow gym member was actively using her set up. A moment of frustration passed through her, but she swallowed it down. Instead, she moved away, trying to preoccupy herself with her next exercise, determined to come back after his set. But as she finished up and returned, she found him still in her spot, this time in between sets. Irritation pricked at her lips, but she sucked in a deep breath and plastered her best “people are oblivious” smile across her face. Pulling her headphones down, she rounded him.

“Excuse me,” she knew her voice was sickly sweet, but she didn’t care, “I hate to be that person, but…” 

A glint of gold in his eyes shot towards her motions, in contrast with his light skin and dark hair. It was obvious that he was no stranger to the gym himself, and it took a moment for her to remember what she was going to protest. (About those sights at the gym…? She ascertained that he was one of those exceptions.) Swallowing down the startling nature of his side eye, she pulled her indignation back to the forefront. He still didn't turn to her fully, preferring to shoot her a glare sideways. 

"But," she continued resolutely, "you're kind of interrupting my intervals. I need to use this spot before--"

"I'm not interested."

"...what?" It was only then that she noticed the white at his ears- headphones. Did this prick really think she was hitting on him? Her face turned sour, her voice rising. "Now, you listen here, you--"

He sighed, and pulled out the earbud closest to her. The music was just as loud as hers, she noticed abstractly. 

"Listen, I'm not in--"

"You're in my spot!" She spat out aggressively. 

It was his turn to be confused. "What?"

"My spot. You are literally in my spot. You've interrupted my intervals, but still managed to keep my blood pressure up. Congratulations."

He looks flustered for a minute, and Katara curses the spirits. The red on his cheeks only seemed to make him more striking under the iridescent lighting. She uses that disconcerting feeling to fuel more of her frustration.

"I don't see your name on this particular spot."

A bitter laugh escaped her, and she flipped the edge of the mat up. 

"Ka-ta-ra." She emphasizes the syllables as she points them out, written in her tight hand, on the bottom of the mat he was perched upon. 

For a second time, he flustered. 

"Oh." This time, however, he quickly moved off of it, a hand to the back of his neck. "I'm- I'm sorry. Didn't realize…"

She snorted, still not done with his brand of arrogance.

"You must be pretty narcissistic," she snarls, "to think that any girl who nears you must be ‘interested’." 

"It's not- I'm not-," he stutters for a moment, before regaining his composure. “Anything I say is going to make me sound like more of an asshole, isn’t it?”

A brow raised over a sea-blue eye, and he sighed. 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were here. I just figured somebody left the equipment after they were done.”

Her frustration fizzled a little under his apology. 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I could see how you would think that.” Her eyes scanned the free weight area, strewn with discarded equipment like dirty tissues. 

Sighing, she deflated. Blue eyes looked up at him, finally catching a honest look at the man she was unexpectedly not as frustrated with. His dark hair was cut relatively close, seemingly unaware of any attempt to tame it’s aggressive angles. Amber eyes followed her motions, one of them wrapped in an old, angry scar that ran back into his sideburn, hairline, finishing on the other side of his ear. Dressed for the gym, she was able to appreciate his evident focus on lean versus bulk. And appreciate, she did. She dropped her eyes again, reminding herself of his protest when she first approached him. Jet had been enough of a narcissistic asshole for her lifetime. She didn’t need a new one. 

But he had apologized and did seem properly chastised. Looking around, she noticed that there was no other open spaces for him to work in.

“Listen, I don’t mind you using it. Just- just let me run my sets? Not, like, sit here in between them?”

“Really?” a small smile pulled at one corner of his lips. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Thanks.”

She waved it off, keeping her head down, as she took over the space, and he moved on to another machine.

An hour later, she wrapped up her mat, replaced the equipment, and moved towards the door. He was on the treadmill near the door, and as she passed him, she nodded. A small smile pulled at his lips and he returned the expression. 

Buzzing filled her pocket, and she glanced at her phone. 

Toph.

“Hey, Sugar Queen, we still on for tonight?”

***

He was a bit breathless. It was hard to tell if it was from having been sick for the week prior and thereby out of practice, or if it was the brilliant blue eyes of the woman slipping out the door. She had nodded at him, and a glimmer of hope clung to him. Maybe he hadn’t completely screwed up that interaction.

“Yeah, we are. I’m excited! We going to meet at--?” her voice was clear, since he had kept one earbud out since they had first crossed paths. Incredulousness laced her words. “You’re picking me up? I’m hoping you’re not the one driving…”

Her voice faded away, and he couldn’t help the smile that stayed on his face, even as he replaced the second earbud and continued his workout.

***

“So where is it we’re heading?” Katara glanced at her passenger in the front seat, but the young woman’s eyes were unfocused and hazy as she stared blankly ahead. When she spoke, however, her tone belied her strength. 

“I already told you, Kat-uh.” Her emphasis merely snapped the blue-eyed girl’s dark brows together, but she continued. “It’s an old friend of mine- he’s playing at some small bar. The one we used to go to on Thursdays when we were all in college together.” 

“I’m guessing he’s a new addition to the line up?”

“Nah.” A smirk pulled at her lips. “I just never found a reason to go see him before.”

“Thats… sweet, Toph.”

“I know. So considerate, right?”

A sigh escaped the older woman’s lips. “At least tell me if it’s on the milder scale for your music?”

Toph wasn’t known for having the most laid back choices in music. Her worries were slightly alleviated when the blind girl scoffed loudly.

“No, he’s more your speed. Likes some of the heavier music, though, but only plays the nicer stuff.”

“So, covers?”

Her head cocked to the side. “Maybe one or two. From what I hear, his original music is actually starting to get popular.”

As she pulled into the parking lot, Katara bit back a groan. Had it always been this busy? She found herself asking Toph that. For the asking, all she received was a head shake back. 

“Nah, but we also came on Thursdays. Fridays are a whole other beast. And besides, I told you he’s getting more popular.”

Suddenly regretting her decision to come out that night, Katara turned the car off, but only started to move to get out of it when she spotted Sokka and Suki waving frantically after her. They had arrived earlier, and together. As she reached them, Katara sighed, and Sokka wrapped the arm he didn’t have around his girlfriend, to pull his baby sister closer.

“You’ll have fun, Katuh. I know it’s stupid busy, but it’s going to be fun. Just, ya know, relax. Have a drink. Listen to decent music.”

As the doors slipped open, her eyes suddenly grew wide as she instantly recognized the chords. Katara slipped away from her brother’s arm. The words to the songs were already on her lips, and she was surprised to find that she knew this band. She wasn’t one to obsess over the musicians, but their music was a whole other thing. They were an indie band, unknown, unrecognized, so she had never expected to come across them live. Despite her desire to bob and weave to see and get closer to the stage, it seemed like the crowd pushed in on them more, and she was impeded. A shot of disappointment shot through her as the music died off, and the drummer announced a break. Turning back to her friends, she dejectedly joined them. 

“Oh Katara, don’t get so down.” Toph smirked, propping her dirty sandals up onto the table. “You know that was their first set. Besides, the lead singer is coming this way as we speak.”

Blue eyes rolled hard into her skull, and she let out a scoff. “Toph, you know I don’t care about the musicians. I just love their music.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll test that theory right now. He’s headed this way”

“Your friend?” Sokka asked.

Toph nodded in response.

Katara turned in time to see a dark head dip and weave through the crowd, along with flashes of a dark button up, sleeves rolled up, and fitted jeans. However, when he finally slipped out of the crowd to join them at the high top they had claimed, it took all of her willpower to bite back the laugh that threatened to escape.

“Hey Toph.” His voice had an interesting grate, she had to admit, but she wasn’t sure she was quite over the way they had been introduced before. But if that was anywhere on his mind at the moment, he was good at not showing it. Instead, he followed the line of their friends as Toph introduced them. When it wrapped around to her, the closest to them both, she found herself sitting straight. 

“And this is Ka--”

“We’ve actually already met.”

A cocked head told her of confusion, and his eyes scanned her for a moment. Something like a glimmer of recognition started to blossom in the gold of his eyes. With a motion that was more abrupt, she gathered up her loose curls and pulled them back, as if to put them up into a ponytail. His eyes widened. It was impressive the difference a hairstyle could have on recognition.

“Oh. Yeah. Hey again. It was… Katara, was it?”

“You never did give me your name, you know.”

[the-wardens-torch]

Does your nameday influence you at all?

Falerin snorts and leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and looking in your direction.

Heh. I’m lucky I even know my name day… And I know for a fact that its added almost all the color to my life as I know it.  And I’m only sort of talking about astrology.   It’s a bit of a long story, but since you asked, you’re stuck hearing it.

He smiles and winks at you before exhaling sharply and breaking eye contact to look down at the floor.

Well, I was born on the 16th sun of 5th astral moon, and quite a few religious types say that particular moon is under the protection of Azeyma the Warden.

Nobody loves Azeyma more than Seekers of the Sun, and among the Seekers, no one loves Her more the N tribe of Wellwick Wood, and that was the tribe that my mother hailed from. She came to the Cieldalaes after failing her rite of passage, too ashamed to set foot on her tribe’s sacred lands, lest she offend Azeyma. Gods only knew she was the superstitious type.  Still is, no doubt. She’d been by herself in a strange land for barely a single summer when the choreography of coincidence brought us together, and got me my first scar and my first real family member.

He brushes his hair behind his ears and strokes the right side of his jaw. As his index finger parts the hairs of his sideburns, you notice a thin white, ribbon of scar tissue concealed beneath.

It used to be much bigger…  Thankfully the rest of my face grew around it. Getting this wound was actually my earliest memory, and its also the first time I can remember Ruby being around.

He clenches his hand into a loose fist in front of his face and slowly opens his hand again, revealing the aforementioned Ruby; an aetherial creature about as long as his hand in the shape of a honeybee. As she begins to spread her translucent wings, it becomes easy to see how she got her name. Softly, she takes flight, landing on his shoulder  without a sound.  He looks back at you.

Turns out when a self-exiled N tribe huntress sees a giant red bee on toddler’s face, her first instinct is to try and pick it off with an arrow.  Uh, the bee, I mean… Thankfully Ruby’s learned to hide a lot better since then, and the average Eorzean adventurer doesn’t bat an eyelash at random aether-creatures… so long as you say you carry a gaudy, impractical-looking book with you. Annnnd that doesn’t have too much to do with my name day, but I’m getting to it.  Its just hard to say anything about it without telling the whole story.

My mother had never planned on having children that weren’t of her blood, but when she found out that I was not only a foundling, but born smack in the middle of her tribe’s most sacred month, she felt like it was her destiny to protect me…

A warm smile crosses his face again.

I heard her tell that story to everyone who remarked - however politely or rudely - that we looked nothing alike, and weren’t even the same race. And every time she explained, she put her hand over her heart and looked up to the heavens, like she knew Azeyma could hear her. She was 17, didn’t have a home and hadn‘t even found steady work, but she took me with her that very day and thought of me as her own son. And she did… At least until Azeyma told her otherwise, I guess.

She said she didn’t even remember what day it was when she actually adopted me, but she never forgot my nameday.  I suspect she never will.

Though his face still wears a smile and his voice has not shifted in tone, he himself now seems curiously absent, having retreated somewhere behind dark blue eyes.

((So sorry it took me forever to get to this… I was a little tired from ffxivwrite2019 at the time, but thank you so much!  And thanks for the re-follow. I promise I’ll get to the other one you sent too… I like to save these prompts and do them a bite at a time like a box of chocolates.))

[batdaddies]

Shadows Of Freedom

warnings: explicit, violence, domestic violence, character death  

pairing: orm marius x oc/reader

about: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!! I was listening to All I Ask Of You from Phantom Of The Opera (which is my wedding song, the irony...) and had this idea, this is set when he was young, still a prince, my own canon. Kinda angst, kinda dark, kinda young love, kinda soft, I want this to be a journey of self-discover. A message about this or an ask is always well received! Let's get this long hair Orm bread!!!! (it is a prequel to another multi-chapter fic hihihi wasn't the plan, but where we are) part 2 coming soon. (it was fully x reader, but blame @lanthimo and @nropay in the oc character) (credit of gif to kingsorm)

SHADOWS OF FREEDOM - PART ONE

Feed your mind, feed your lungs, feed your beast.

I

It began with sharp edges down on the sideburns reaching the jawline, two hooks behind the ears to support, and they grew making fins in three rows, the first in a small size, the second in medium and third in large where both connected at the top, in the middle. Tiny alexandrites sparkled around the strong lines, as fooling from the afar the real color, depending the lights, it would be purple, or blue, or silver, or all of them. It rested gracefully on the blonde threads floating in long locks reaching the shoulders, a delicate braid made by the sides so the face could be clean, a straight nose, two arched eyebrows, heavy eyelashes contouring the ocean blue irises and pouty pink lips, the upper sightly laid on the lower, hiding it. A timeless beauty composed of such pretty traces the anger inside the eyes didn’t match, the calmness in the flawless skin was of a wild animal with claws waiting to hunt. The posture of an aligned spine, broad shoulders, strong arms and veiny hands resting on each of his thighs, the royalty was presented on the tight suit made of black scales reflecting red, the atlantean symbol between the hips in the same deep shade of silver the thick bracelets had. No cape, no trident, no armor, only supporting the King in the matters of the Crown, listening carefully, focused on the debate going back and forth of what went wrong in the borders.

A case of four of those crustaceans from the Brine Kingdom trying to sneak into Atlantis without clearance, the reason was unknown, and King Orvax was ready to fight over to discover, his voice of thunders ringing in the white walls, the spirals on the throne trembling, bending to his will, infecting inside with the venom of hate as always had been. Sometimes, it would condemn everything and everyone around, sinking the surroundings into the same emotion which Orm was familiar with, they were his father’s way, and even if in the beginning, when he was trying to understand how it worked, didn’t make any sense, he was taught the most important was the goal reached, not the path to it. Nobody left a word after the yelling, passing a gloved hand on his swinging black short hair without a crown, gold capturing the sun rays and flickering, Vulko stared concerned at the hologram pairing on the white table, along the other two generals.

“Father,” he finally called, composed, the voice coming directly from his throat, two tones lower than the King’s, the arms moved effortless in a soft impulse to stand, floating in the direction they stood on the clean ground, the black boots combined in a straight line just bending when his feet touched the floor, by the side of his father. Both were different physically, Orm was growing some inches taller already, Orvax was old in the wrinkles on the corner of his cheeks, one was blonde, the other was a brunette, one was youth, the other was old; but with strictly resemblances, the obscurity swallowing the eyes, the empowered posture, and the lips. Once all the pupils laid on him, Orm continued. “We cannot risk to go war because of a mere intrusion, we must deliver them back, and speak with their King. This is n—”

Before he could finish, a hand came for his profile in a slap, not in a perfect hit, the razor scales on the back of the gloves met his flesh, piercing into it and holding his face in the act, instead of sliding smoothly through the cheek. Orm cried aloud immediately, feeling his skin standing at their mercy, his eyes closed with the pain and surprise mixing, and his father didn’t hesitant to pull the arm back harder once seeing it stuck, bringing the flesh to stand more in the triangle shape the scales had, blood splashing into the water with bubbles, enough to pollute his entire head and crown. This time, his cry came in a hiss, his own hands coming to the wounds, while his shoulders trembled drastically with the new shots of pain through the veins.

“I did not ask for you opinion,” the King spat every word to his miserable figure, voice too close to know he was in the red thick cloud, right there on his ear, a reminder of the promise Orm made himself long ago to never let his father see him in that state, and took him a great will power to lower his hands, slowly, face turning back to the King, crown high, darkness dripping through his blue eyes, lips rigid in a line of pure anger, it was already easily to ignore the saltiness of water on the cuts. “Leave, and do not show your face to me for the rest of today.”

He heard, not changing a look to any other being in that room, vision blurred by his blood, and hair. It was for the better when his calves pushed up and his body towered over his father’s, but before leaving, the tongue came as an eel, tip curling to touch one of cuts, the closest one to his lip, where burned as soon he licked the drops of blood away. They were two beasts glaring at each other in a challenge, two sides of a same coin, past and present united.

The path of bubbles behind proved Orm was too fast, swimming away from the room of the palace to open waters of the sea, feet impulsing as the pain on his face was coming back to life, the speed ripping the wounds as he passed through the homes of his people. An itchy was born on the tip of his fingers, crawling as a disease into his veins, up to his arms, to the neck, to the mind where it spread in vicious want of carnage, of going back, taking the trident and, in a clean cut, making his father pay. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, and every single time, that itchy came stronger, and stronger, to the point, Orm almost wasn’t able to control it. He loved his father, truly, in his own way of doing so, and he was sure his father loved him back, in his own way too, yet it didn’t mean he would think twice before killing the King.

It was in the Old City he found shelter, in the degraded sunk boat in the middle of seaweeds, where the air conserved itself inside, not allowing animals or atlanteans in. A place discovered not long ago, in an unsettling night at the palace, since then, the tides would take him there to think, and hide. Orm didn’t like that word, he wanted to use another, but there was no other one to specify what he was doing. His body exploded on the huge hole to entered, landing with the left foot and right knee on the floor, standing right away, fingers twisting close to his wounds, where he yelled for them, at least. Yelling from the top of his lungs, chest expanding, too loud to his own ears, a ringing sounding where now he could feel the blood sliding to the jawline, and the neck in thin lines, the boiling anger he had inside coming out, the beast tamed escaping through his voice. For a second, Orm became blind. It was more of a roar, than a yell.

He stopped when breathing was missed, tired, letting his hands support his torso on the knees, panting. The wet long hair a funny feeling on his neck and forehead, the air was pure in his lungs. Orm gave three steps behind, the back on the wood and sliding to the floor, sitting down to calm and think. The wounds would probably turn scars after healing, they were too deep, maybe reaching the muscles, the marks of a King rage forever stoned on the cheek, even with his risen, his father would always be there, a ghost on his face. Orm needed to see himself, the symmetrical face of his becoming more of the darkness he contained down the hole of his heart, the pupils searched the inside of the boat for a mirror, found gold coins with treasures, old weapons, and the immensity of colorful plants pecking through the ends. The fingers went to the collar on the neck, one creeping on and pulling slightly so the adam’s apple could move freely when the lungs receive air instead of water. He was there quietly, closing the eyes and controlling his mouth to never hiss when the shots of pain came to his body every time the wounds decided to remind him they were still there, the lips were pulling at the muscles, and he didn’t want it to happen.

Minutes passed of the battle inside his thoughts, when a little slurp of water woke him from them, Orm raised an eyebrow and straighten his posture, ready to fight the soldiers his father probably sent for him, but his eyes only found a mere hand entering in the air, long lilac nails, delicate fingers, a small palm, a golden bracelet on the wrist and the soaked arm lowering to the ground. He watched as the hand touched around, nails as a tambourine on the wood, he knew it was seeking for something by the way it opened, stopping deadly close to his thigh, on top of one red plants, pulling hard from the roots until it succeed and retrieved. It wasn’t done, coming back, and Orm saw it close to where he was sitting, letting it. Opening the palm, seeking for more of the plants he was on top of, it came on his thigh eventually, a gentle touch on the thick, toned muscle. It noticed the scales of his suit in that same moment, and pulled back right away, however Orm wanted to see the owner, who could come to the Old City to steal some plants, and he was quicker to hold the wrist tightly.

The arm whipped to get away, and Orm forced his grip, holding it still, shifting his body so the barrier of water was in front of him, the currents blurred the figure, just a twisted format of someone on the other side, the colors of white, red and gold. The arm was pulled once more, and Orm pulled at it to show he wouldn’t let go, bending forward to greet whoever was there. A woman as he suspected, on her knees, a basket by her left arm with way more plants than just the red one, the attire was plain green, no scales of any kind, but a metallic texture finishing by the elbows, the hair was locked by two massive braids from the roots of the scalp with a golden headband on the forehead. The lashes blinked in curled threads over the brown eyes, giving a view of the sparkly lids, the same product used there was also on the top of her salient cheeks, nose and Cupid’s bow, on the feminine heart-shaped black lips, they opened when seeing her Prince in surprise, Orm could tell when shock fell on her face and she had a moment to think if she bowed, or not, if she explained, or not. He was too close to her, the crown high, shining all the colors with the blond locks dancing around the jawline, the stare of a powerful royal, cold enough to scold his own people, yet, he forgot what really caused her to wide her eyes, remembering soon when the blood flowed from his neck and cheek by sheer lines. His eyebrows arched to her, a growl, letting go of her wrist and pulling back to air, where a mere atlantean couldn’t follow him, he expected her to leave, swim away from the surprise of the Prince in that state hiding in the ruins of what was Atlantis, however her hand touched the floor between their knees.

“Your Highness,” her voice was muffled by the water, a strange sound, the greeting was more of a calling than a bow, careful wishing the attention. Orm didn’t say anything back, so she continued. “I can help you with the wounds…”

“Who are you?” his tone was serious, demanding, the shadow of a King, loud. The pretty lips almost pouting in every word, almost a behavior to cast out the inferiors from the royalty, almost a threat, what never suited Orm, not in that way, commoner or high-borns, all were Atlantis, he was only a Prince for what his people were there.

“I am Midra, a scientist,” the hand turned, offering the palm, the fingertips painted in the same lilac the nails had. “I can help you to heal with no scars.”

It was what convinced Orm, the possibility of his father cruelty not being a mark on him for the rest of his life, at least not where his people could see, the shame of never going to war, and still to carry visible scars on his face when crowned one day. His legs stood, not accepting the hand, giving the steps needed to exit the old boat, the woman was still on knees when he floated by her side, the posture of the Prince, and her eyes examined him, from the boots to the fins crown, taking her time to absorb the presence in front of her, it would help if Orm wasn’t so intimidating in only his hovering, in only his being.

She gave herself an impulse, braids sitting on the water and the basket falling to her hands, the free arm stretched up, leading the body to wave pass him and guide him to the capital. Orm studied her as she did, the form of her head, of her shoulders, and her waist, following when his chest on the level of her feet, wounds not hurting so much anymore, the saltiness of their seas helping his body to embrace it now, not burning neither when the tides passed by every now and then. They were quiet, the prince on the her shadows, circulating the bright towers, before they reached the traffic of ships on the regular dimension the homes where, she stopped by the beginning of one specifically, right hand pushing the plasma where it shaped the door, the substance changing into mere water to welcome them.

Orm gave a last stare behind and around before entering, a typical home for an Atlantean, glassy walls with a lot of lights, a table with holograms displayed in five or six researches, the logarithms in long studies, by the side, plants of every kind cultivated, a colorful arrange of a few he could name for the lessons about his Kingdom, some blocks connected close for seats, and fishes freely swimming on the ceiling, a manta pairing over his crown. She disappeared into another room with the basket, while Orm contemplated the idea of being into one of his people house, believing into a promise of a scientist to help him. Hours ago, he was by the throne, face torn apart by the King, then the Old City, in a hiding boat, now waiting for what he didn’t know, he thought about leaving, more scars on him wouldn’t be so much of a change. Not being able to, when the woman came back, feet taking her to him, a flask on her hands, the jewelry and makeup with a different spark under the lights of her home, her eyes a shade lighter than in the dark of the ruins, the contrast of her green suit on her golden skin, she seemed off when she also noticed what was happening, focused on the crown on his head a bit too much for his liking, she was staring and that was rude.

“Do I sit down?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t ask him to do it, knowing she was shy to do anything at that point, he didn’t know though why he was sounding so angry at his ears when she was trying to only help. She nodded quietly, eyes lowered to his boots. Orm went for one of the blocks and sat in the same high posture he did by the Throne.

He watched as she opened the flask, a transparent iridescent creamy substance was found at the end, her delicate fingers took a good portion, and she hesitated for a moment, her hand stopped by some inches of his cheeks, it would definitely be easier if Orm for some minutes didn’t stare at her with those freezing blue eyes, or didn’t wear the crown, or didn’t have his jaw and lips so hard. She touched him with a shot of courage, and Orm almost expected her to apologize for doing so, instead, he felt the soft and refreshing fingers caressing his skin back to the right place, causing both a hiss and a burning, while he studied her, every inch of her close face, the pointy nose, the heavy lashes, every thread of her pitch-black braids, every single sparkle on top of her skin, a bizarre taste on the tip of his tongue.

The fingers did the first time, and on the second, there was no more burning, the cautious not being something he was used to, it was usually the touch of combat, of trident, of his father’s hands, of Vulko’s hands around his torso in a training, but never like that; last time perhaps when he was younger, way too younger. Atlanna’s lovely hands embracing his face, combing his hair back, vanishing into his memories as the last kiss she gifted him on his forehead before she was gone. In the third, her baby finger rubbed on the corner of his lips and Orm swallowed the taste of his mouth with water hard, gazing at her black mouth, the frown she did in an extra dose of attention to him, and the twisting of nose, but never meeting his stare. He could recognize innocence instantly, immaculate, not only afraid of his high position, also the man he was turning into. It was… tempting, for what he learned from his father, innocence was the best virtue to conquer.  

Midra pulled her hand back, there was only silence when she smiled proudly, the feminine lips opening to show teeth. Orm didn’t understand, at first, he saw how her pupils focused on the cheek, so he reached for it, feeling the cuts not so protruding anymore, then the skin was sitting back, under his palm, the regeneration was reconnecting fast, and the cheek was flawless again, in a matter of seconds, no pain left, or burning, as it had never been there. He was so surprised it didn’t fail to somehow affect his expression, just his arched eyebrows softening, strumming the area like she did.

“It is healed already, Your Highness,” she stated nicely, grabbing a mirror on the table and offering him, head lowered. The fishes came to swim around her calves, and the manta close to the braids, shadow over her shoulders.

He accepted, feeling her fingers under his, smaller and softer under his callous, she stiffed lightly, breathing again when the contact was done, the mirror showed him nothing, only the cheek where his skin sparkled with the cream gone. “How?”

“I have been studying our skin properties, how easily it heals from burns, and light cuts, but fails when the muscles are damaged,” Midra said turning around apprehensive, floating over to the table, her curves always shining in the metallic suit, indicating he could follow to see the holograms, Orm did, placing the mirror where it was before, and took a look at them. “Some plants present perfect condition to regenerate themselves even if a part of them was lost. I made a combination to nourish our muscles.”

Orm was in silence, his arms were folding on the chest, paying attention to the notes, and writing. They started to flash in pictures of the plants she spoke about, an animation of how a root was cut, growing up immediately after. As being who he was, there was no need to excuse himself when his hand controlled the hologram up, more notes and the manta appeared in purple dots. Meticulously, he understood her line of thoughts and research. “The real medicine is not for us, it is for the animals.”

“Yes,” she turned to him, nodding with her head, and Orm stared at her for a while, how her lashes fell to stare at his neck, interrupted when the real manta dove between them, crawling up on the woman’s chest and shoulders revealing a long, white scar on the back. “Our skin is easy, it is bound to the recovery, but… They are more sensitive, I thought if I could combine our cells with the vitamins from the plants, it would help them.”

One of her lilac nail traced the scar exactly how it caressed his cheek, carefully, something about her was filled with sadness, telling the secret she didn’t, how her research was still failing when it came to the animals. It wasn’t hard to understand why, Orm imagined how difficult it how to combine the two different organisms together, it was true the atlanteans were bound to recovery, the plants were bound to regeneration, it could flow well if the person was able to do it without barriers, for example, not in the simply space of a common home, with enough resources to conduct the thesis, and a team of efficient scientists to help. The Institute of Science was also struggling with the new harmed animals, everyday another case of the surface dwellers killing many of them, hunting their whales, locking their sharks, hurting their system. Orm had the opinion Atlantis was not limited by the atlanteans, the kingdom was far more, everything the water sunk was part of it, the entire seven seas and the habitants under.

The manta changed the point of affection to him, creeping up his left arm, the slippery tissue of skin rubbing against his nude biceps, falling to the bracelet on his wrist, his hand tried to care the animal back when it was lower enough to his finger tips, but his palm was rough from the training, and it didn’t feel as good as hers, causing the manta to swim back to the little fishes. He admired her for a bit, the medicine she made was definitely something more than the team of scientists had, in his visits to the center, they would discuss how they couldn’t cure the cancer from the pollution, they would discuss how the damaged animals could be helped in small surgeries, not thinking bigger, of how actually to restore their lost members. It was extremely smart and virtuous of her, also going until the Old City to search supplements.

“Did you take it to the Institute?” his voice was rather cold, as discussing diplomatic matters in the Throne room, lips as pouty as before, and he almost asked her to look into his eyes, he wanted to see the innocence behind them, it was unique for him, fascinating.

“I am waiting for better results,” she trailed off, stare glued to the hologram, one of the braids accidentally touching his arm where the manta was, it felt soft, making his hands become fists, veins popping on the back of them up to the biceps. “The plants from the Old City show enormous progress, the ones in contact with also air, but...”

Her lips curled in defeat, leaving the rest unsaid, as there was much to say. Maybe such as her arms were too small to reach so deep into air, or she couldn’t see what she would found there, or couldn’t explore the inside of those air capsules by herself, or she was just a pleasant, unable to enjoy the perks of royalty. He wanted to say something, it felt right to do so, secure her of something, yet he said nothing, eyes crossed on the piece of hair clapping on that spot on his arm, right at the line of triceps, then the format of her profile, the lashes, nose and mouth.

Orm always found a woman the most interesting when in battle, or when engaged in intelligence. His own crown reflected translucent dots on her cheeks, blue, purple, and burgundy, he dared to say he liked the type of braids on her hair, seemed a fish tail, and found odd the long lilac nails with lilac fingertips, a good type of odd, it came from the culture before Atlantis sunk, from the atlanteans responsible for the cure of illness, the preservation of peace, and the animals. Of course, his omnibus knowledge of History wouldn’t just judge she did it for fun. It was sacred, it was why she had offered her palm in the first place, to convince him of protection.  

“May I?” he asked, calm and collected, pointing to the flask on her hand, she didn’t hesitate on giving him, carefully placing on his palm without any touch, bowing her head in heavy lids, noticing he would leave after doing so. “Thank you, Midra.”  

Orm left the home, a last look on the scientist circulated by fishes watching him from over her shoulder. Going for the tower on the palace, speeding through the faster he could, stripping from the tight suit immediately once in his chambers, the flask forgotten on his sheets as his hands quickly applied the cream on each one of his scars the armors hid, erasing the memory of King Ovax from him completely. One on the left ribs from the trainings, one on the inside of his right thigh from fury, and the last one on his chest from the trident of his father when he tried to fight the guards when they took Atlanna away.  

II

Didn’t take long for the flask to be emptied. The issues with the borders were increasing when another two invaders tried to sneak in, the reason was unknown, and as much as King Orvax wanted a war between the two kingdoms of the pure sake of himself, Vulko and the Generals kept him away from the idea, it was too risky, the Brine Kingdom hadn’t been disturbing Atlantis for over two decades now; the best solution was to return the prisoners, and talk to their King, if was a sabotage, he wouldn’t sacrifice the five, and if was made without his knowledge, he would kill them for trying to start something. It was also Orm’s opinion, base the situation on diplomacy, opting for a bigger war only if necessary, Atlantis was already suffering enough from the surface pollution, they needed to be united to fight against the real enemy, all the remaining Kingdoms. His father, however, had troubles containing his anger when he knew the Military Forces wouldn’t support him, the trainings with the King became more of a punishment session than a attempt of improvement, Orm was stripped from the bronze trial trident, Vulko was forced to stay on the wall, watching as his father would try at any cost to hit him, calling for his defense senses, Orm was a great warrior, greater than Orvax, but the King had a want of blood, specially his blood after he was the one who stated war wasn’t the best option, the sharp edges would pierce his flesh rarely, yet deeply, reaching the muscles, and Orm would finish the days of combat by the wall where Vulko sat, who smelled like the sand and the toxins from the surface, the blood floating freely, until he was excused to his chambers, wondering to the dark part of his mind, cursing.

His fingers tried to get the very last bit of cream he could the last week, when he noticed it was empty, two thoughts came to his mind. One being his life had been fine without it before, there was no really need in a medicine to cure his scars, his father would soon outgrow the rage and stop with the behavior, and the atlantean skin was made to recover with no scars, the raptures that turned into those were made to be that way, possibly saying it shouldn’t be changed, a reason for the scar to be there. Murk was a great example of that, face never fully recovered from the failed mission on Xebel, and he wore the scars with pride. The second being it would be nice to lose King Orvax in some degree, the spectrum of his father fading from the body, they were alike in much personality, mind and enough on the face features, at least something was only Orm’s.

The debating was confusing, and the victory came when he visited the Center of Technology in the Capital, his voice had sounded so much like the King when giving orders, Orm was sure it was for the best. It was from the soldier’s armors, extracted from the helmets, small enough for the area of mouth and cheeks, the glass thin for talking with no barrier, and a tiny mechanism to keep the currents in the water, everything exactly how he commanded.

“Is this what you requested, Your Highness?” the director of technology asked, curiously, a data-pad on his arms, behind the white three-dimensional table, the shaved sides of his hair revealing an earplug. The device between them was metallic red, the glass in bright blue, holograms on top showing writings of how it worked, the material it was made and the manipulation of water it was capable.

“We will soon find out,” Orm answered, eyebrows raising and falling, closing the box the device was on, the water lock interlaced the open line under his fingers, forming an unbreakable cube. “Thank you.”

Everyone in the room bowed as he floated away, carrying the box. Outside, a green, golden ship was located, small, space only for two, perfect to submerge into the traffic and not calling attention, functioned like fishes fins between all others, where Orm touched the top, the thick water forming the capsule gave him an entrance, and he was quick to get his long legs inside, sitting and placing the box on his lap. The location of the small house was under the towers of civilization, discreet, so the ship dove, reaching a shadow level where it became part of the capital, and no one could recognize him. While driving, he questioned himself another time, selfishness was not part of his traits, neither bribe, there was no other reason to take it, but those two. Orm being selfish enough to demand more of a medicine that only cured him, and bribing with a device that could save a research, both also an excuse to see the black braids and painted fingertips again, curious to see how long they would remain uncorrupted next to him, the most corrupted of them all. Instead, master of his own thoughts, he pushed them away, and fooled himself into believing he was doing for greater good.

He parked the ship deadly close to her door, getting out with the box and placing his own hand on the plasma, which brighten up and vibrated sending dense waves to the inferior to signal a visitor had come, he didn’t wait long until the door gave him access, the scientist in front of him with her hand still up, the long nails and fingertips now were black, the braids were combined into one long fishtail, her lids were sparkling in shades of golden with the cheeks, and her lips were adorned by a red shade. Her eyebrows were high in surprise for the royal appearance at her door again, as if it wasn’t odd enough to find the Prince in the Old City with a mutilated face, she was again finding him by the house, the blond locks swimming by his jawline like an halo, two tiny braids on each side to keep them from getting on the way of the pretty face, and he was really so pretty, the icy blue of the eyes saturated by the blue suit he wore, the broad shoulders straight with the scales reflecting green and white from the lights of the ship behind, almost dressed him with wings.

Midra was speechless, and Orm saw it, and liked it, his posture a frame of the highest royal, waiting for a reference; she didn’t fail to do it.

“Your Highness,” she whispered in surprise, coming to herself, a long bow from the waist, and her hand dropped to her sides. Orm allowed himself enjoy the courtesy, there was no crown on his head, but he accepted like it was.

“May I come in?” he asked serious, the tip of his feet rubbing on the floor with the soft currents, he didn’t miss when her eyes focused on his lips, then his arms, and finally she nodded, giving in space to swim pass her.

Midra still couldn’t believe Prince Orm Marius was floating in the middle of the room with the hard stare on her, the first time was luck, the second time was a denial. The plasma behind her restructured itself, the fishes on the ceiling came to flow around his calves, the manta pairing over his shoulder one more time, accepting the presence. He turned to the animal in an almost delicate way, the slippery skin in contact with the cheek that would be deformed to scars if wasn’t for her, Orm was, after all, worried about the sea lives.

He looked around, the holograms showing she was working with them before being interrupted, the plants by the table swinging in the colorfulness they had, and on top of the surface, some utensils. “Any improvement?”

“No, not yet,” she was quiet, nails clicking together as her feet slowly guided her figure to him, never looking into his eyes, the will of asking what he was doing there was on the top of her tongue, he knew, but she remained in her place, so he decided to help her.

“I wondered if there was more of the medicine,” he started casually, lips contouring the words while his teeth were glued together, not a hiss, actually a habit hard to let go even if he wasn’t angry, adopted years ago when he was younger, in the middle of his father trident and Vulko’s guidance, and even if he was there to ask something, didn’t feel like, never felt like. Orm wasn’t used to asking for anything, they gave him manners, yet never let him practice, placing what he wanted in front of him without needing to ask for them.

She bit her lower lip in a nervous act, and he wished she didn't. “No, Your Highness, I have been mostly taking notes the last days.”

“I want more,” his voice was demanding, and Orm corrected himself immediately. “Of it, if you can, of course. And, I brought you a token to help.”

His fingers were of crab’s paws, curling and creeping down the lock, the middle pressing the spot guiding the water to undo it, his hand opened it, showing her the device, he watched carefully her expression changing, the curious eyes, the little frown on her eyebrows, and the surprise dancing on top of her cheeks.

“Is it?...” Midra didn’t finish, admiring it with extreme excitement, understanding what he meant.

“Yes,” Orm didn’t notice his lips corners rising at her in a wicked, strange way of smiling. “It was tested twice, works perfectly.”

The scientist nodded, hands about to grab it from the box, but she looked at him before, asking for a permission, lashes hitting her eyebrows, and Orm saw how tiny she was close to him. The Prince gave a sign with his chin, and she got it, mouth opening in a big smile, teeth showing. Smiling suited her, dressed her face a little too well for her own good. There was no excuse, or petulance of being unworthy of such gift, he was glad she understood what it meant, Orm wasn’t buying her services, but requesting them with a reward later, a possibility perhaps of taking her research to the Institute, where it would grow and the Crown would finance it to help the animals in Atlantis. No connection at all to the strange taste in his mouth every time he saw her, or the growing greediness upon seeing her smile.

He thought it would be better for his interest test along with her for the first time instead of just leaving and coming back later to collect what was asked. So he tried to offered, yet his voice was still of command, “I will take you to the Old City, so you can test yourself.”

The smile got bigger, cheeks in high with the bones, and a simply nod, holding the mask with the arms too, a treasure in her sight, something so precious she was not believing at all. Orm left the box on her table, swimming by her in his strong physic, a tiny swirl when his waist as by her shoulders causing the braid to float up in the current. The plasma made itself into water, allowing him to get out, a hand on the ship again and the woman followed him, awkwardly getting inside with the short legs and figure, he took a good look at her cheekbone before diving the ship lower, into the ruins, finding the path to the Old City, to the air boat in silence, bright lines of Atlantis bathing her excited expression.

Both got out as soon as the ship paused in the barrier of water, a small waterfall with tides on the hole in the woods, the ground under the boots were of seaweeds and starfishes. Orm turned to her, calm, collected, anger thin under the layer of skin, reached between her hands for the device, his figure towering over her in an approximation of the glare, so close her long lashes had to hit her eyebrows to look at him. He swore his tongue asked to taste her mouth, the way she was so strangely intimidated by him, by what he represented, if she tasted the way she behaved. His gesture was slow, enjoying placing the mask on her face, feeling her flesh, the metallic red matching her lips, and he saw her parting them, lower teeth white, as requesting for more.

He didn’t think clearly as the palms were opening on her entire face then, so tiny, feeling the quiver she gave with the contact, and his thumb pressed the corner on the mask, where a button could be find only if searched for, not seen. The thin glass brighten up in blue, a low buzzing of currents being made specially to mimic the sea, and Orm didn’t swim away yet, the fingertips in the softness of her hair, the pointers on top of her ears, jewelry scratching them, and he almost forgot how to control himself. But he sucked all the dripping darkness leaving from his pores back, letting go of her, almost hearing a sigh. He went in first, the lungs accepting the pure air in replacement for water, the blond hair sticking onto his neck, shoulders and forehead, transcending the blue of his eyes, under his feet, the wood was still strange, and out of his own best intention, he reached a hand through the water, a guide to the Midra. Her delicate hand rested on top of his, nails digging on the palm, sending a shiver from his veins to his spine, and she joined him.

Gravity was funny, affected her in the tremble of her legs, the heaviness sudden on the shoulders, and her braid fell on her black suit, rasping the edges on the golden belt. Orm watched, supporting her to the news sensations, threads glued to her cheekbones, her eyes discovering the inside, side to side, and she was so thorough to give another step, adjusting herself to the pressure in the air. Under the mask, her lips formed another smile, this one accompanied by the sound of laughter, perfectly echoing around as the glass didn't muff it, pure. That was when she left his hand to cup her own jawline, surprised, appreciating the award.

“I will come back here in five days,” he said, arms crossing on his back, the posture of royalty adorning his frame, the lips pouting with the words, teeth lightly sinking into his lower one, the tone of warning.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Midra nodded, not so intimidated anymore, focused on the new opportunities she had with the device. Eyes still everywhere but him.

He left her, the short figure in the middle of the ruin of a boat, where air was presented, the view of her back composing of the tight suit on curves and belt, lost into herself to notice Orm spent long seconds there, just looking at her. It was obvious it wouldn’t end up good, but he was good at plotting, at planning, at strategies and conquering, well, good when he was only five. Orm would be twenty soon, he had mastered them now.

III

The path to Xebel was of corals, beautiful sea lives gracing the rocks between the bright colors of every kind, fishes swimming by, nature in the best place, they were almost high walls guiding the way to the civilization, a breathtaking paradise they were familiar with. But. Over the ship, a island of pollution paired, closer to the coast of where surface was, damaged from the garbage humankind discarded, it was the size of the transportation, no sun rays passing by the thick barrier, a shadow of the worst kind. Two extremes of beauty and ugliness, of perfection and destruction. It didn’t matter how much the xebellians pushed the dirty out, it found the way back, wouldn’t take long for it to affected the corals, or the golden gates. The Kingdom was close to Atlantis in architecture, the tall towers, the traffic of ships, and homes paying tribute to the classic construction they had before the Great Fall, Xebel was the one with the most references to the old days, it was brighter in green and golden tones, closer to the surface than Atlantis, hid too deep into the sea. Sun touched magically the treasure of their lives, and did wonders to the palace specifically, made of mother of pearls and gold. Modern, yet so ancient.

King Nereus and King Orvax were together, face to face, a long stare. One dressed in green armor, strong, trident made of bronze, a weapon capable of shooting hidro, upgraded as a gun, powerful, the age came to him as grey slicks sessions on the ginger hair. The other dressed in purple armor, trident made of silver, an undefeated weapon, tradition of the family, symbol of victory, the age came as wrinkles on the corner of the eyebrows and cheeks. Two sovereigns who had deals with each other, strings on the lives of their children.

Orm was behind his father, hands on his back, wrists crossed in the posture straight, the lights in Xebel shining over his silver crown as the alexandrites sparkled in blue and purple, the long locks a halo on them of decent prettiness, swinging in the currents, the clearness in the hall allowing his traces to smooth, however highlighting the dangers inside the blue irises, accentuated by the superior aurea in his breathing. The lips rising the slightly bit a somewhat smile, seemed peaceful at first look, then, it was genuinely a mocking at the princess behind her father. Mera, the xebellian, in her prime ages, colorful hair a hurricane on her clavicles, on her cleavage and on the three horns her crown was, it was so vivid, her skin was another level of paleness. Orm remembered it to be red, just not so red. Her face was empty of any reaction to him, the thin eyebrows high in her own royalty, the lips in a rigid line with the cheeks in a tone of pink to match. Neither minding their future being discussed so casually, it was their duty, of course.

“We must hurry with the ceremony,” Orvax was cordial, anger lingering under his skin exactly like Orm, trying the best excuses to force the marriage now. Mera came not only as a wife, came as a Princess, with soldiers, with an alliance, the best kind when his father was crazy to declare war to the Brines. Lying was easy to him, but Nereus knew better, didn’t appreciate the sudden visitation to his Kingdom, when Orvax himself banished the younger princess in the last time he had been there to seal the marriage deal, since then, his father was hated, yet Nereus was a King of word, and Orm wondered if the feeling would go any longer, after all, Mera was the favorite daughter, that was why she was the one promised to be Queen of Atlantis in the beginning.

“King Orvax, I ask why,” King Nereus tilted the head, beard following, and he hovered to the corner where the ancients of Xebel were, serious, inviting Orvax to join him, where they could talk with more opinions on the matter. It meant a defeat already, the elders wouldn’t support the idea of a desperate marriage, rumors of the intrusion in the bridge circulating, they knew his motives.

His father took a look at him before swimming to the others. How pathetic his father was being to believe he could do that, he was getting old, forgetting how to rule, going to Xebel to eat the left-overs anyone could give him. Orm wanted to laugh, loud enough to fill the hall with the dark sound, and he did in someway, responded the stare with a soft shake of shoulders, corners of his lips rising at extreme, another mocking, showing he wouldn’t follow the King to the conversation. He could be punished in the ship, or back in Atlantis, but he would take it if it meant his father had to taste humiliation.

Mera approached, attire of green scales, and golden jewelry, stopped to glare at their fathers along the elders in the corner of the room, they couldn’t hear them, only the small buzz they were making as discussing.  She grew some inches, he could tell, asides from that, still smelled of fresh seaweed, still so lean. Her sister was the warrior one, even when they were little, the three of them playing together under those waters, the shoulders, arms and legs increasing like Orm’s, while Mera trained, but was more focused on the control of water, and when they grew, her sister voice was the thunderous yell in the Throne, demanding her birthright, while Mera anger was seen in her witty remarks and words.

“I wonder why your father still accept this,” Orm pronounced himself, not looking at her, chest expanding in the purple suit, an inhale of water, the funny expression dropping from his traces quickly, giving way to the seriousness, the usual.

“He is fond of you,” Mera tilted her head just like her father, fingers interlacing on her hips, nails too short, no painting on the tips, voice somewhere between disgust and loathing, her upper lip twisting in the same way she said those words.

He turned the neck to her, only one eyebrow arching, and when she looked back, his lips rose up again, the same mocking from before, eyes greedy on her face and neck, as if he could strip herself from those feeling and those scales, seeing right through the pretending, the frightening beast inside him coming out just to play with her, who retreated to her space immediately with the way he stared at her. “Oh, Mera, don’t deny yourself, we know how it ends.”

The xebellian shaped an O with her mouth, shoulder moving away from him, outrageously. The words of a past not so far, of memories he knew she liked to deny, and the mere mention of it possible to irritate her, send her to her limits, what happened. Her face contouring anger with a frown, hands in fists by her sides, and her voice was poison. “I can barely remember it!”

“I remember very well…” Orm crooked smile was unaffected, if something, he flirted with her venom, bending his head to whisper into her ear, tiny currents from his straight nose hitting her neck, and his tone was malicious. “We never forget our first…”

Nothing compared to Mera gasping, glaring at his smirk. She was feisty, so Orm was surprise she didn’t reply, as if there was really how. Of course she remembered, it wasn’t so easily forgotten in the back of their minds, an act out of curiosity. They had been raised together at some point, Atlanna would embrace Mera as her own child since the Queen died in the birth to her younger sister, and Nereus would come to the capital to discuss politics with Orvax. With the sacrifice and banishing, they found each other alone for the crucial times of lost, a toll on both, Mera missed her sister, and Orm tried to ignore the existence of his mother. They were betrothed, and young. Orm wouldn’t lie and say he remember how it happened, because he didn’t, he knew Mera was staring at his lips for too long, and he decided to let her taste them, it wasn’t truly a loving manner, they were teenagers, hungry for the unknown and contact, didn’t mean it was awful though. Orm studied anatomy since he was three, his fingers were satisfaction on her body, practicing everything they learned, winning the sinful noises she made, and he took her as his thighs pressured her against the corals, her red hair mixing with the other colors, hands grasping the rocks, mouth suffocated by the sensation of his thrusts. Mera was a girl back then, and didn’t understand his dark thoughts, it was too much to copy, how his lips not only kissed her, but bit into her neck, licking the clavicles so obscenely, and her orgasm got her, who was prepared to anything, off-guard. Orm still remembered well how he had to kiss her mouth to shut the loud noises, hips helping her to ride the feeling until the very last bit.

It divided them right after, when he tried to help her with her crown and suit, she didn’t look at him in the eyes, legs trembling in the water and she was shy. Later, Mera became rigid, ignorant and bothered by his simple presence, Orm never understood why, until his father, in a night where Atlantis’ lights were dim and he was tired from training, watched his face in a frown for meticulous minutes.

“Be careful, Orm,” the voice was not of order, or repulse, just normal, didn’t suit him. “Life is about taming, you either change them or let them tame you, and you and I, we can’t be tamed. We break people.”

He wondered if his father knew, or how could he? They were alone, hiding deep in the corals. But it was clarity, and he understood the reason why Mera was so distant, afraid of falling for him, afraid of addiction to how he touched her, he had let her too close to his true personality, when too young to be comfortable with it. Orm didn’t blame her, sometimes he would look at himself in the mirror and wonder how he turned into that young man staring back at him. But it was three years ago, Orm and Mera outgrown that phase, now it was something they thought little about, a passage of life. Mera liked to use it against him, and Orm liked to used it against her.

“You think too much of yourself,” Mera finally said, eyes rolling from his boots back to his face, disdain in them, reducing him.

He didn’t need to say anything, his smile was the proper reply, which she wanted to slap away his pretty face, didn’t have the chance when the Kings came back to where they were, Orm almost remarked how fast it took to his father lose the cause, but he stood quiet, hands crossed on his back, posture of omnipotent.

“Hope you come to visit Xebel again, King Orvax,” Nereus gave while offering Mera his hand to hold, she did, face relaxing upon her father, and bowing to the King of Atlantis. It was a goodbye, a farewell to show Orvax they didn’t wish his presence there anymore. “Prince Orm.”

“King Nereus, Princess Mera,” Orm bowed with his broad shoulders and head in a small courtesy, his crown reflection bigger than his own father’s. And turned to leave when noticing his father wouldn’t greet the other king back.

They floated to exit the hall, the huge white ship with open doors and guards waiting for them, the red guns and armors. Orm hadn’t even the chance to land on the floor of the main cabin when the gloves of King Orvax came to his hair, threads mixing in the middle of his fingers and a strong pull he didn’t expected, forcing him to arch his back, his own hands came to the wrists to try to free himself, but before he could reach them, the hand forced his head against the wall, hitting his forehead hard on it, who hissed at the sudden pain, and his father pulled again, this time twice the strength to hit his head on the wall where he was held, fingers creeping on his father’s glove to try to free himself.

“Weak as always,” Orvax condemned behind. “I brought you to help, and you chose to be quiet!”

“You seek my help now, father?” Orm wasn’t dizzy, instead, used the pain to hold the wrist with strong fingertips, trying to cut into the scales with his short nails, find the real flesh of the hand, the surface on his cheek hard and cold. It was a slip of his anger not being tamed anymore, the itchy to fight back, he was trained for that, a swift move of his hands and he would be able to put Orvax against the wall, maybe the guards would let him do it, however he settled for only speaking. “This is not my war, my King, I do not fight for you.”

Orvax let him go after long seconds, absorbing what he was told, glaring at his son still on the wall, the hands holding close to his head now, back muscles reflexing as an animal preparing to attack, yet the attack never came, just the stare, Orm’s blue eyes over his shoulders, dripping the hatred from the lashes, the blond locks swinging close to his jawline and mouth. Closer and closer to the edge, to the promise of battle.

IV

The five days passed marking the date to collect his part of the bargain, a coincidence to the trip back to Atlantis the last day, it didn’t go as planned, so there were new bruises on him, one on the forehead, one on the neck and one on his thigh, they were red, purple, green and gray, his head against the wall from the ship, the choke on the throne room and the fist in the morning to wake up. A hiss after each, an itchy on the back of his palms and a twist on the upper lip. The darkness was consuming the organs inside like cancer, spreading through the veins, causing a tremble on the right leg, and a blurry vision every other moment when Orvax appeared, it felt as water was too dense on his throat, didn’t matter how many times tried to swallow, it wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t disappear. It began to rip, overflowing through the pretty lips, cutting the flesh into half to turn into the new skin, totally visible to anyone who took a look at him, the chest expanding and falling frantically, a beast from the Trench coming to the senses of an atlantean with want of blood.

It wasn’t the best decision to go to the Old City, yet he needed that flask, that power of erasing Orvax, and perhaps it would help him with the shake on his hands, asking to retributed the hits. It was the worst he had ever been, thoughts falling, never ending, the line losing itself, and there was a yelling on his ears, asking for anything, for something to make it stop. Orm thought maybe the innocence in Midra would help him, just a bit, a tiny, tiny piece of it could cure his disease.

The small waterfall on the hole of the boat gave only some blurs in movements inside, the ship didn’t call for attention, as they were going on without an interrupt, he decided to announce his arrival with a step further, the water running through the entire frame entering, on the silver crown, on the broad shoulders, down on the chest, the thick thighs and boots. His hair flied soaked to the neck where purple scales hid the veins there, and the soft lump his adam apple had with the sudden change of air and water in the lungs, wrists crossed behind the back as usual, hands into fists, holding the itchy steady.

Two massive braids of pitch black hair, reminding of horns on top and falling as fishtails until the hips, a minuscule fillet of her golden skin appearing in the waist where the metallic suit was cut into two pieces in the same shade her locks had, her tiny figure was close to an improvised atlantean decor table, because of course she would work from there, plants on top, her utensils, and holograms flashing the notes, she didn’t look wet, or damp, completely dry of hours and hours studying there. In the sound of his arrival, she turned the face back, over her shoulders, an arched eyebrow, the long lashes covering the harsh dark sparkles on the lids, and the bright red mask covering her nose and mouth with the blue light, but under, her lips opened a smile, the cure, the innocence glowing on her traces, the same thick layer he had of darkness on his cheeks, she had it of virtue, incorrupt. It was actually a bad decision, because it didn’t affect him for the best, but for the worst, his own voice inside his mind asking more, to touch, to conquer.

“Your Highness,” Midra turned completely, bowing with the arms behind her back, he heard it along the buzz of the tides in the device, and he knew his legs took steps closer to her, yet his vision dominated his senses in the way he just could keep staring at her pure eyes, wishing for what he didn’t have. Her expression fell in a degree when noticing the bruise on his flesh, and she was fast to grab the flask with the medicine from the table, offering it with her palms, long nails in red with her fingertips in the same color opening in delicate.

Orm stood still, admiring the new volume her dry hair presented, a crown of her own, the golden jewelry on her ears, being quick to count, seven on one, six on the other, shapes of shells, pearls, and tridents, and most important, he let her settle on his royal presence, feel his tension, and wondered if she could reach out, and actually touch it of how much evaporated from his pores. Midra didn’t fail, pupils on the precious stones from the fins on top of his blond locks, the straight lines of nose and jaw, the meaty upper lip, the salient chin, on the purple scales, the lights coming from the raptures in the woods shined on them in red and green, even black, looking like loyalty, sleeves stopping a bit over the biceps where veins creeped down the strong arms to be cover by the silver bracelets, and on the hands, black gloves made of armor. On the waist, an atlantean symbol reserved for the highborns, the thick thighs were flexed, weight supported on only one, and the black boots also made of armor, all wet. As his own people said, it was true, even when wounded, Prince Orm Marius was blessed by beauty gods in birth, yet was he even aware of that, when all the focus on his life was preparing for taking the throne? If any, his intimidating glare was simulating, not the true-self.

“No,” he denied, studying her stare not stopping at his, everywhere, but his eyes, what she did when hearing the harsh tone, the brown irises rising slowly to him, under the lashes, the traces with a fear of disappointment on, and Orm lifted just a corner of his lips, wickedly. “Will you do it for me?”

It was wrong, he knew, that was why he asked, not demanded, to give the opportunity of refusal, his head, neck and thigh itching tremendously for her caress, the soft, small fingers rubbing on them as when he was in her home, he needed that specifically touch, the touch of innocence, the touch his mother had when brushing his hair, teaching him songs, planning to betray him, teaching him treasons. Nobody else touched him the same, but Midra in his front, and he was practically begging for her to clean him from his sins, free him from himself. It was safe, he locked his hands behind his back, and bent slightly, donating the wound to her, watching her relieve on his request, her tremble to open the flask. He tried hard to contain the inaudible sigh that left his mouth when he felt the refreshing fingertips sliding through the forehead, his lids fell to the floor, sucking in the darkness spreading in his veins, noticing she was in tiptoes, the high heels on her golden boots not helping. The comfort came again, another caress on the forehead with the sparkly cream, the images of King Orvax leaving with the bruise, the senses calming themselves and lines of thoughts completing, starting and ending, itching disappearing, but the voice continued, asking him to possess it, to own it, and Orm listened to it when the touch was broken, his rough gloved hand pulling at the scales on the neck, three fingers entering inside the attire to expose the other bruise, tilting the head to the side, offering it to her. She bit her lower lip under the mask, unsure, and tempted of how the veins jumped to pump his blood.

“Please…” his whisper was to secure there was no issue in going out the boundaries there, the pink lips moving, the teeth gritted and when her nails did, Orm resisted the urge to close his eyes, shivers attacking where the hickey was, swimming down his spine. The voice was then quiet, and he felt numbed by the calming rubbing there, Midra was too delicate, tracing the jugular, forcing him to close his eyes and enjoy it, not remembering the last time he did something just for the sake of doing, and actually enjoying it.

His life up until the point were of lessons, practices, knowledge driving towards the goal of being King in the future, people in the middle of it being diplomatics, tutors, maids, either serving him, the Crown or Atlantis; he was around those waters more and more in the past few years, in what could be called contact to his people, after all, knowing their needs and their infrastructure supposed to mean he knew them, yet Orm was oblivious to certain degrees of relationships out there, born inside traditions and culture, preserved from failure and ordinary live. It was a blow on his face, a trident on his chest when after four times her hand caressed his neck, it came for a fifth straight out of kindness, and he knew it would be missed for a long period, something he wasn’t used to, but found pleasure in it. Being taken care of. A luxury the Prince couldn’t afford to have. The voice came again, a whisper, lost in the threads of her braids, piercing his ears in the tone of his mother lullabies.

“Midra,” he repeated what the voice told him, the sound being more of his lungs than his throat, a terrible tone of nasal, powerful, yet pleading, lost in the soft feeling on his neck, drowning into his own veins. He was decent enough to ask again, following the dark thoughts in the back of his mind, abusing power and titles was not one of the many flaws from his personality, not a simple help with a mask, it was more, much more, and if she didn’t want, he would understand, there were limits and he didn’t want to cross them, but if she accepted, he would gladly do it, breaking her if it was her wish. “May I touch you?”

Her palm ceased, cupping the neck and his eyes opened, glaring at her with many forbidden promises, watching quietly as her lips moved under the mask, forming something he didn’t quite hear as the voice began to shout, informing him she had accepted, informing him to take her, to sink himself into her innocence. Orm didn’t hesitate, a blank vision, letting the deepest obscure side of his take over. His gloves were strong, fast, big in filling themselves with the flesh on her waist, bringing her closer, it was different from Mera’s lean body, he squeezed to feel it better, while his lips wasted no time in claiming for her neck, not a kiss, just his teeth biting where her veins would be, worldly, for what Orm wasn’t familiar with care and gentleness, the voice hummed into his ears. The fingers sunk into her, clutching into the texture of her attire, and his mouth separated from the touch, opening to deliver the tongue, which replaced there, a strong, slow lick until the gold jewelry on her earlobe. Orm sighed with himself, the taste of his waters, the taste of her immaculate skin, the taste of possessing, conquering, his tongue explored the space, snapping wet sounds, along the soft moan Midra left with the shivers it sent through her, everything happening too fast for her to do something, but to forcing the grip on his neck to support herself.

He wanted so bad to kiss her, revoke her lips and mouth, drastically demonstrate how much he desired her, however the device couldn’t be taken off, so he settled for her neck and ear, licking down the area first, then kissing and biting everything, one of his hands finding a braid and pulling at so Midra could tilt her head back, give him more access to discover her. Under the buzz of currents in her mask, she made soft, almost inaudible little noises he could grow addicted to, besides hating the lack of contact she presented now. His builded frame applied more pressure on her, locking her tiny self between his legs and the table, one of the thighs finding the spot in the middle of hers, and squeezing up for friction. He wanted so bad for her to feel it, to inundate her everywhere.

“My Prince…” it was a calling, a supplication in the sensations of his arms, right on his ear, her cheek tried to rest on his head, yet the crown wouldn’t allow, the sharp edges of the fins poking and automatically, her braid was pulled again, harder, arching her back together, for his tongue left her neck, roaming on the clavicles, teeth sinking later on the right bone, where he whispered back.

“Orm. Only Orm…” the air of his nose hit the cleavage, where the tip of his tongue cared to enter, licking the space between her breasts as he wasn’t the atlantean prince anymore, or the future king, or a product of duty. He was just Orm, himself with no titles, the young man with the slightly bending to darkness, the voice inside his head which was only his to listen and speak, and he wished her to call him of that, see through the royalty of his attires, rather than his crown, the atlantean wearing it.  

He backed off enough to let go of her waist and hair, grabbing her wrists instead, staring at her heavy lids, the brown eyes under a mirror of his, shining of desire, the lips parted, sucking water in long breaths as her chest was rising and falling. Midra saw it too, as Orm’s jawline was too rigid, the sapphire irises of hunger, the pores oozing the beast inside, and on the corner of his rose lips, the tip of tongue clicking, running the upper lip until the other corner, the mouth opened slowly. He wanted her to watch, and she did when he guided her hands to his face, the right palm on his cheek, the left on top of his mouth, and for a moment, Orm closed his eyes, enjoying the softness, showing her it was what he wanted, to be touched, to be freed from the pretending vessel. A smile appeared, crooked, the whole white line of teeth presenting as Midra responded by craving the long nails on his eyebrows and on the soaked hair, it was even strange for him to do so, seemed something was off, the maliciousness of it with the real intentions, it wasn’t nice, or caring, it was victory in its best corruption, as the canines could grow into fangs of sharks. Orm continued to guide them lower, to his neck where her palms disappeared, and he felt only the scratches of her nails, then his broad shoulders, and his chest when Midra palmed to admire the hard muscles under the scales, and he opened his eyes again, another look at her, before allowing the last lock prisoning his true self to be crack.

The palms left her wrists, coming for the two massive braids, the roots on the back of her, holding it with the solid strength he fought with, where he pulled just to see how her eyebrows arched, how the bright blue mask reflected on the golden skin, the lines her neck formed. One fell, the glove texture rough on her shoulder and her neck, closing around it, and Orm came, offering his tongue once again, on the glass, a small lick, the signal if wasn’t for it, he would be kissing her. The other followed the path, not stopping on the neck, but one of her breasts, cupping in a slow squeeze, feeling the size his hand could fill it and watch the extra skin coming through his fingers, Midra moaned, ripping the air with the satisfactory sound, the chest expanding in delight with the feeling of his heavy hand. Orm accepted it as his fingers were of tambourines, lowering to the fillet of flesh in the middle of her two piece suit, the middle twisted in the hem, getting inside and pulling up, until her breasts escaped from the black metallic top, the round shape with nipples hard, he almost could already taste them, the vision of overwhelmed beauty, a female body always instigated more his interest than the male, the different lines of frames, the delicate looks of it, the nudity of the ancient paintings preserved into the Hall of Art, the type only the high borns had access, in the air capsules to not ruin the old style of paint. They would represent the females in both war and rest, not mattering if the model was holding a spear, or a book, the bodies seemed to endure life with elegance.

The height different obligated him to bend, the back curving drastically to reach his mouth on one of her hard nipples, the skin still soft even in the excitement form, his tongue tip flicked on it, earning another moan, and Orm sighed, a rapture of his mouth engulfing all it could inside, sucking while his thumb caressed a particular spot on her neck, sensing the throat breathing the water in as if it was too dense. Her small hands were insecure on his chest, unsure of how to grip him, of how to support herself into him, slightly overwhelmed by the wet muscle on her, for what she was dry, and he was damp, offering her a portion of the element from their land in form of saliva and desire. Midra would be diseased if she stopped to analyze what was happening, her close eyes giving in for her Prince, the obscure mind only knowing how he touched her, not remembering where they were, what she was doing before, who he was certainly, and what could happen if any discovered her wrapped in his arms, and mouth, she would be banished, or worse, sacrificed for daring to involve in carnal with Atlantis’ heir promised to a princess from Xebel, but it would be a good way of doing so, the forbidden act donated even more adrenaline to her blood, being consumed by the Prince Orm Marius, who had sex in the same want he fighted for his kingdom. But then, he was just Orm, and she was allowed to take pleasure on him.

And he was everywhere. On her thoughts, on her body, on her mouth, on her hands, on her vision, on her legs, on her heart, just everywhere, dominating her in long breaths of air, in armor hands, in promises to award her like no other could, the mere kissing on her breasts had her moaning in low tone, thighs pressing his against the core, where she felt herself flooding, an invitation for him, and she heard his groan, animalistic, raw, dangerous, when she began to grind on his leg, hips rolling in friction for more, meeting the signal of his own excitement locked in the purple scales, as his mouth never ceased destroying her. At some point, she tried to peak down to watch him, yet, the fins on the crown wouldn’t let, the very top where they met poking her chin and she didn’t mind that much, closing the eyes, lashes on top of the device, moans not muffled by the glass, neck held steady by his one of his strong hands while lips couldn’t decide which breasts they wanted to explore more.

They were rising and falling in every breath, Orm would kept up with the pace, feeding of the softness of her flesh, tongue roving through them with teeth to bite and lips to suck. The free hand fell to help with the task, squeezing one while his mouth took all it could inside and suck, pulling at the nipple and skin as his head distanced to let go of it with a loud pop. He groaned again, when her grind was hard on his thigh, meeting his covered member in a delight cry she left out, and he was tired of it.

Orm whispered her name as an arduous lover, once, twice, non stop in a slow thrust in her lower belly, friction of himself on her, even it wasn’t the plan, no, not at all. The plan was to taste, to devour only, there wouldn’t be any pleasure there capable of compare to the pleasure of just giving, for what Orm was a giver, not a taker, he’d give, and give, and give until she couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted her legs to tremble, her voice to rasp, to break any other atlantean in a million times, break the seek of any other who could pleasure her like him, he wanted to destroy the future partners, being the best of the occasion, not even love for another could bring her to forget how he treated her. Wasn’t it the best way of corruption? He was breed for it, to be the best at any matter, to make any who could come after him fail miserably.

Backing his face off, his hands raised to her cheeks, palms on top of the red metal, where hers followed to his wrists, fingers closing on the bracelets, the texture of gloves a strange approaching on the sparkly cheekbones, when she opened her eyes, she finally saw his traces coming close, forehead resting on top of hers, the evil eyes staring at her while his parted rosy lips were over gritted teeth, making her wonder if there was a second he didn’t look prepared to battle, then she felt it, another thrust, this time stronger, pushing her hips to the table, to offer more friction to her, what Midra granted, grinding faster, the fluids in her slipper tight pants helping the movement. He was admiring her expression, the low eyebrows, the heavy lids, the red lips sighing as she didn’t stop the grinding, he could smell her arousal in the air, and at least, he pushed her gently to lay on top of the table, holograms dancing around her torso, utensils adorning her surroundings, plants between the braids, and Orm was a figure of tall broad shoulders from that view, chest expanding in perspiration, crown high, shining in all its glory. Midra rested the elbows on the surface, nails now craving on it as the prince’s hands made her route of neck, clavicles, breasts, ribs and inside of her pants, the cold pieces of armor sneaking in, as he lowered it down, undressing her with patient, from the waist, to the thighs, the knees, and calves, where his fingers forced the boots out too. Her legs opened for him in automatic, feet coming for the table edges, on her left ankle, another golden jewelry, and Orm could hyperventilate from the vision only.

Their secret wasn’t over, it grew with the very first time Prince Orm would kneel for someone, not doing so for his own father, or mother, who died before having the chance, a bow to other was easy, any courtesy was, but kneeling never, a meaning behind it too powerful to do for any. Kneeling was a gift to the revered, a promise of dominance, subdued to the will of someone else. Orm was willing to kneel for Midra. The left knee dropped to the wood floor, his height changing to half, eyes on hers when the right knee pursued. His silver crown stones tinkled in the middle of her legs, and when he darted his stare to her core, his blond eyebrows frowned in both mercy and desire.

His hands were big enough to cup the shape of ass, lifting slightly as an award to himself, positioning it closer to meet him halfway, and his thumbs contoured the line separating those muscles to the legs, finding a way in, where they flicked in her fluids, opening her labias almost too slow. He licked his own lips, groaning louder than the moan she left when his mouth kissed her there, so wet, and so warm, the bittersweet taste his new vice, he knew he would crave for it for the rest of his days. The lips gave space for the tongue, which passed on the entrance, making her whimper, climbing to the clit, where it twisted and pressed against, making her back arch with a moan. Midra doubted to what God Orm paid his tributes for, Venus or Mars, Aphrodite or Ares. Her body betrayed her when he sucked there, greedy, torso contracting in the the sensation of such.

Maybe he was a god of his own. His name began to leave her lips in veneration when his tongue came back to explore more, in soft cries, in delightful moans, in reverent prayers, the feeling of him was becoming too much, however he engulfed her callings together with her wetness, pressing his face into her core harder and harder when listening to them, mouth devouring her intimacy, at some point, his tongue pushed through her entry to lick around the muscles and she almost screamed at the feeling, back falling on top of the table with a tug, the veins of her neck popping, chin high as her head sunk into the object. The blue eyes were focused on her, watching everything under the silver crown, a new darkness presented on them, dripping to meet her wetness when he opened his mouth to reach even deeper inside her, his cheek smashing against her thighs, dirty in the mix of her fluids and his saliva. He definitely made a mess for someone of such class. Back at kissing her clit with flat lips, rubbing the tongue on it, his hands left her, coming together to take one of the gloves off, electricity bursting in the spots of her buttocks where his skin connected to hers at least.

“Orm!” she pleaded, tone straight from her throat when his fingers fell, one drawing circles in her entrance, ask for permission, or just teasing, she couldn’t decide which when his tongue licked around her clit. Her hips soon rolled on him, granting the passage to his rough finger, an inch at a time, until it filled her completely, and Midra gritted her teeth when it twisted, falling out, and coming back in. “Please!”

He ignored, slowly penetrating only one finger in her walls, crushing his teeth down on her labias in gentle bites, enjoying the vision of her squirming, the wetness soaking his chin. Her hips continued to roll on his finger, on her own privilege, mouth chewing her virtue and swallowing it away. Yet Orm was in a mission, and the second finger presented itself in a new thrust of his palm in her, the nail forcing her to spread for it, the sensation was of suffocating, as if he took her mask off and let her without water, shivers running through her insides of when they twisted around, again, instead of backing off. Her back arched drastically when he curled them in the specific spot to send her away, in moves of calling her, tips pressing those muscles, as asking for her moans, more, and more, until she was a mess herself. And Midra was loud, deliciously loud, he was young, fascinated by dramas, could be lost in the shaking her legs on his head, her feet slide in a precise beg of his fingers to the scales on his back and shoulder. It was a clue.

Orm gladly took it, the intrusion of her taking a new rhythm, adjusting his mouth a little up, tongue flat on her clit, twisting there, while his palm shifted in movements of up and down, fast, hard, and severus, whole arm providing her all the pleasure he could, the wetness clicking in the old boat. Her palms clapped on the table, supporting not only her body, but mind, and he was kind enough to use his free hand to grab one of hers, interlaced the fingers, they were connected everywhere, he would not only push her off to her orgasm, also jump in the abyss together. Midra began to ride his fingers and mouth, hips consisted in push on him, the foot on his shoulder helping her in the grinding, the water failing at her lungs, and Orm was controlled in this oh-too-fast fingers, but she was erratic, thighs not caring to the sharp fins on them when they decided to close on the head. He groaned along, the beast greeting the orgasm with wild mouth, eyes not leaving her. She couldn’t even pronounce his name, beg for him, she was the one hyperventilating in her mask, and her back arched higher as her sounds were growing, not lasting, and she was almost sitting on his face when she came desperately, whole body shaking violently, almost painfully in doses of satisfaction so intense, the noise not possible in between shouting and moaning, hips breaking on his mouth that never stopped, sucking all of her he could, fingers powerful trying to make the sensation last, and Orm wanted to experience it everyday, listen to her everyday, eat her everyday.

Midra fell down on the table, defeated, spams disturbing the spine, down to the feet, crying in when Orm retreated his fingers, tongue licking up and down to not waste any of her, taste blinding him. She was stiff, tiredness drowning in her nude chest, but rest was a luxury when the prince didn’t let her breath, only capable when he backed off, raising in the tall wall he was on top of her, the lids opened just enough to see when he sucked at his own two fingers, the stare on her somewhere in malicious, and devilish, lips swollen and the blond locks pairing on the neck, under the high crown.

The bracelet on the gloved hand beeped in blue lights, telling Orm he only had 10 minutes to go to the Palace without anybody noticing his absence. It was his meditation time in the day, before training with tridents, when he was allowed to his chambers without any disturbs, or interruptions, every five days in the schedule. It had gone perfectly if Vulko or his father asked. He had never felt more at peace and centered since his mother was sacrificed.

[proheromidoriyashouto]

Quirkless Hero!Deku and Artist/Youtuber!Shouto AU expansion

Shouto was expelled from the Hero Course by Aizawa after the Sports Festival for his refusal to use all his might (neglecting half his quirk) when the chips are down. Shouto went to General Studies and after some serious introspection post-Hosu (he was dragged along by Ende*vore to do grunt work as punishment and happened to come across Tenya and an Idaten intern he didn't know facing off against Stain) began to find solace in art and writing classes and decided to take his life into his own hands.

Shouto started a gaming channel because Ochako- while introducing him to Super Smash Bros Ultimate- noted that he has a nice voice and he likes the story-telling capabilities of games, so why not? What does he have to lose? His striking appearance and slight fame will surely garner him a boost in viewership early on, and they do.

He initially has to run the channel from Tenya's home since Ende*vore would never allow it. He starts off playing multiplayer games because those are what his friends introduce him to so they can play together, but he inevitably shifts toward single-player games that devote quite a lot of time into compelling story campaigns and exploration. His first delves are into Horizon: Zero Dawn, God of War, the Fallout series, Portal 1 & 2, the Witcher series, and the Last of Us since these are the most prominent games at the time (remakes of games in 22XX tend to release in the same year and order the originals did to get the most playtime out of fans). He’s not good at it to start. He reads from a script and he’s stiff and uncomfortable in front of the camera. He thought he was desensitized to that given his time in the limelight thanks to his name but there’s something about talking to a small webcam that feels, well, silly, and... intense. Personal. It’s a serious detractor, and the comments he receives about it are almost enough to shut down the channel for good. His friends’ support gets him through though and he starts to develop a considerable following.

Before he realizes, he’s spending all his free time playing games with purpose, creating new videos on a nearly daily basis, brainstorming how to structure  theory and lore episodes, and worrying about how his uploads are perceived. He runs charity live streams, plays fan-picked hero games, scours every last hint of lore from side-quests, get those sweet sweet completionist Platinum trophies that only like 1% of players get for every game.

Ende*vore cuts him off from his money, and inheritance. Shouto tentatively starts support pages and is surprised by the number of people willing to shell out for him. He starts to really feel the burn-out as he struggles to create more video content for awards before Momo suggests making things. Real, physical things for awards that will give him a break for the grind, and that he can use to improve his art skills. He smacks himself when he realizes that he can also use art as a way of re-connecting with his mother.

Visits at the hospital become days spent drawing, painting, sculpting, and knitting. His mother shocks him in a display of lace-making and he feels a pang of grief when he learns that it was a tradition in her family that she hadn’t been able to pass down to him. She’d taught Fuyumi and Touya a bit but Ende*vore found out and put a stop to it, saying that his legacy was the only one they needed to concern themselves with. She was too afraid of the harm her husband would bring upon the children if she tried again with Natsuo and Shouto. After hearing that there’s nothing more Shouto wants to learn (lace-crafts are his awards for months, and then on occasion for years to come).

His channel, SpicyHeathenGaming, steadily grows over the years and once he graduates from U.A., he devotes himself entirely to running it. By the time he has the formal encounter with Deku, he has millions of subscribers and has become quite comfortable in the public persona he’d crafted (it’s easy to slip into given his natural penchant for straight-man-esque dry humor). He’s almost 25, successful in a precarious field, and... happy. Genuinely at peace. There are days when he misses the rush of a fight, the satisfaction of post-rescue, and on bad days, he thinks of all the people he never saved. He schedules an appointment with his therapist and moves on.

Deku is the one to note that the Day They Met wasn’t at the construction site as he thought, but during the battle of Stain vs Team Idaten Round 2 (and U.A. Students) as the media has labelled it. Shouto is shocked but not for long. The similarities to his then-Idaten costume are prevalent in Deku’s short white mask, midnight leg guards, and heavy black soles but the rest is substantially changed. He’s vaguely reminiscent of a teal/aqua All Might- especially with his cowl on- rather than the Ingenium line now.

He’d become infamous for becoming a hero “the old fashioned way“ through interning and shadowing directly with Pros for years, foregoing hero-high school altogether.

While none of the schools outright forbid quirkless students from applying, Deku had said in his debut press conference, despite passing Ketsubutsu, Shiketsu, and U.A.’s entrance exams, I was denied admittance. They all said something to the effect of ‘I had a “weak constitution”’, ‘my “supposed passion” had been deemed insufficient hot air,’ and ‘my “heroic spirit” wouldn’t be enough to match the rigor of a top-rated hero-course’s training.’ A good friend of mine, Tenya Iida, had been at the same U.A. entrance exam as myself and after learning about my struggles put in a word for me with his family. I didn’t ask for a handout, but when the legitimate options are not truly available to you, what choice even is there? I wasn’t going to turn down the one chance I had left. Team Idaten was good to me and I wouldn’t be the man I’ve become if not for them. In all honesty, Deku shrugged, an almost apologetic look on his face, almost. I was starting to fall into a pretty dark place. I might have become a villain.

Deku had faced ire from Pros, alumni and non-alumni from the schools alike for those remarks, and public opinion had been torn between disdain for slandering the institutions of hero education or support for him having become a hero despite all the odds against him- a true, old-school origin story. All Might had surprised many by showing Deku support, and many U.A.-borne Pros had followed in his example. Ketsubutsu and Shiketsu had not been nearly as kind, with few exceptions. Deku’s rivalries with Dynamic Blitz (one-sided feud in reality), Magnitude, Cloudburst, and Sideburn Tress were almost as well-known as All Might and Endeavor back when they were heroes.

Deku was a world-wide icon for the roughly 2 billion quirkless people in existence, only one of a hand-full of quirkless Pros throughout the world since the dawn of quirks, and the first ever in Japan’s history. He was leagues above Shouto. Shouldn’t have paid him any more mind than any other civilian he’d saved. If not for Shouto’s disastrous inability to handle situations like anything resembling a normal person. He’d seen a strong, handsome, trend-setting, status-quo defying, internationally known hero up close in person, who not only recognized him for his channel but his private art blog and shop, reaching toward his evidently panicking self and had activated his right side as though it was the neglected half, and frozen their hands together.

He’d made a fucking fool of himself... but still... wound up with a number in his pocket and a wink emoji. He never got such lascivious flirting sent his way. Curses, that wink emoji. Not with his scar and eye-straining coloration and lack of proper skin and hair care. No way. What if Deku winked at him in real life? In public? Scandalous. What was he going to do?

Fuyumi. Tenya, help me.

Um, sure?

With what?

...kill me.

-Shou-!

W-why would you-!!

Please, just, vaporize me right now, I’m staring at the moon just take me by surprise, I’m begging you. Actually call Aoyama I have money.

Little brother! What’s brought this on?

That’s not an explanation! If you need help-

I... I have a date.

(Shouto is verrrr out of practice with his powers and dating and is a complete disaster gay. Izuku’s kinda suave and you can thank Tensei’s Big Brother Influence for that. Izuku saved Eri and Kouta okay I promise I have an explanation. All Might was a dick and never found Izuku to apologize. Izuku’s kinda bitter about it but he’s living his best life so :///////. OFA? Never met her. Mirio would be OFA’s 9th in this AU after losing Permeation. Will expand into a proper fic and post to AO3 when its done- I already have too many AUs at once going on.

Population estimates put humans stabilizing at about 11 billion in the 2200s - BNHA was already in modern day when quirks came and its been 200 years since then as per canon- and 20% of the population is slightly more than 2 billion. 2 billion quirkless people.

Dynamic Blitz is that motherfucker. You know who Magnitude and Cloudburst are~. Three guess as to Sideburn Tress’ identity. He wasn’t outwardly hostile but something about him set off red-flags for me. Also strikes me as having a lot of school pride.)

[lakesandquarries]

You’re Around (Till You’re Not Around)

Characters: magnus, taako Other Tags: Angst, that’s it, it’s literally just angst Warnings: spoilers through episode 57 Summary: Magnus can’t feel. Taako pretends not to. Other Notes: Takes place near the end of episode 57, when thb is camping. Lots of spoilers.  title from “older and taller” by regina spektor.

AO3

He can’t feel the fire.

Magnus can’t feel a lot of things now, to be fair, but something about not feeling the warmth is especially bad. He doesn’t feel cold, either. He doesn’t feel the breeze or the fire or the air or the grass beneath him. He doesn’t feel anything. Hollow, maybe. Wooden and hollow and empty and blank.

He’s been in this body less than a day, and already he hates it. He can’t feel, can’t eat, can’t protect his friends, can barely sleep. They’ve been camped for an hour and still he’s awake, remnants of visions clinging to his mind.

Two suns. Purple sky. Nothing else unusual, but - two suns.

Was it warmer, there? Was it like a perpetual midsummer day? Was the world in a constant state of heat and light and fire? Other things must have been different, beyond the suns, beyond the sky. Was the ocean purple too? Why can’t he remember?

Was he happy? How did he end up here

He scoots himself closer to the fire, holding his hand up, pretending he can feel the warmth.

Will he ever actually die? He wishes he could shut his eyes, block out the emotions and thoughts he’s having, but his mannequin face is blank. He doesn’t even know how he’s seeing. Is he dead, now? How many times has he died? How long will it be until he can see Julia again, if he ever gets to see her again? Would she even recognize him?

And, the worst thought, the one he’s been pushing out of his mind as hard as he can: Was Julia even real? Is he even real?

Nothing seems real, right now. He moves his left hand closer to the fire, slowly, tentatively, inching it further and further, until his pinky catches fire.

He doesn’t feel it. The wood burns and turns to ash and crumbles and still he doesn’t feel it. When the fire starts to creep up to the rest of his hand, he shoves it into the dirt, until every sign and spark is gone, and he doesn’t feel that either.

A desert, a cup, two people. Jack and June, he can assume. The Temporal Chalice. He was the visitor that brought Jack and June, wasn’t he? He’s known that, or been sort of vaguely aware of the concept of it but unable to actually coherently think about it, since they got home from Refuge.

Home, he thinks. Is the Bureau really home anymore? Can they ever go back? The Director will be furious when she learns what’s happened, if she learns what happened. Can he even trust her?

Can he trust anyone?

He’d like to think he can trust Taako and Merle. He loves them, after all. Not the way he loved - loves - Julia, but it’s still love. Taako had thrown himself into the void to save him, and what else could that be considered? And Merle - well. Merle may be grumpy and gruff, but he’d have walked out long ago if he really wanted to. But he’s still here, and he’d pulled them back from the void.

They love each other. But trust? Trust is hard. Trusting them means telling them about his life before. Trust means telling them about a little dog and an angry crowd, about hands twice the size of Magnus’ teaching him to turn wood into art, about a beautiful girl who grew into a beautiful woman, about a mad and vicious governor and the rebellion that stopped him, about showing mercy to his worst enemy, about a hand carved gazebo and the words “I do” and that brief period of bliss.

It means telling them about leaving. About coming home to find it gone. About finding bodies and barely being able to recognize them. About the way he wakes up some mornings and turns to her only to remember she’s gone.

How does he put that into words? How does he explain the empty pit that opens up in his chest every time he thinks of Raven’s Roost?

And, with what he’s seen since being dragged back from the void by Taako, how does he even know it’s real?

A desert. A red jacket. A cup.

Who is he?

If he wasn’t in this awful shitty wooden excuse for a body, he thinks he’d be crying. As it is, he’s making these awful noises, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and he can’t even cover his mouth because of this stupid awful mannequin body.

“Yo,” he hears, and then he turns to see Taako, rubbing his eye and sitting up slightly, chest just barely poking out of the ridiculous sleep sack he insists on using.

The glamour he was using earlier was gone, and now Magnus really notices the differences in his appearance. The bags under his eyes are heavy, his hair’s lost some of its shine, even his nose seems…less, somehow. Taako, but slightly to the left. Not unrecognizable, but…unsettling, almost.

“Mags?” Taako says, sitting up fully now. “Might be the new face, or lack thereof, but, uh, you’re kinda staring.”

“Oh,” Magnus says, turning his gaze to the ground. “Right.”

“Are…you okay?” Taako asks, spinning a few strands of blonde hair, not looking at Magnus.

Magnus stares at him.

“Jeez, it’s just a question,” Taako says, rolling his eyes, but then he looks back at Magnus and he can see the faintest glimmer of worry in his eyes.

“I - I don’t know?” Magnus says, finally. “I don’t - this whole thing is just -” he waves his hands, unable to find the words. Taako stands, walking over so he’s standing in front of Magnus.

“It blows,” Taako finishes for him.

Magnus droops. “Yeah. How're…how’re you holding up?”

Taako waves his hand. “You know me. Taako’s good out here, right?” He grins. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Magnus doesn’t comment. Taako’s never the type to share, and it’s been a long day. Pushing him will just make him shut down more.

“We’ll,” Taako starts, then stops. Pauses. Stares off into the distance and thinks. “…Shit’s fucked,” he says, finally, sitting down next to Magnus.

“Yeah,” Magnus says. Taako looks at him, scrutinizing him almost.

“We should draw you a face.”

“Draw me a face,” Magnus repeats.

“Yeah. Like, no offense, but the whole “faceless mannequin” thing is kiiiinda creepy.” He leans forward and plucks a stick of charcoal out of the fire, then turns to Magnus and raises an eyebrow.

“Why not,” Magnus says.

He doesn’t feel Taako drawing. But he watches as Taako draws, and he can almost imagine what it’d feel like. Taako is focused, the kind of serious, deep focus Magnus almost never sees from him. He’s got his tongue sticking out a bit, reminding Magnus of a cat.

It hits him again how different Taako looks. Like some of the inherent Taako-ness of his face has been drained away. This close, he can also see Taako seems a little less healthy, too. His skin is desaturated, missing its usual vibrance. Even his eyes seem duller.

Taako used to glow. It’s not that he’s ugly now, just…

He’s lost his glow.

“Done!” Taako announces, stepping back, then frowning and stepping closer. “Hold up. Can you kneel down for me? Yeah, perfect.” He draws a few more quick lines, then looks over Magnus and gives and approving nod. He darts over to his pack, grabbing a small mirror from inside. “Check it,” he says, grinning at Magnus and handing him the mirror.

It’s…well. If Magnus is being totally honest, it’s not very good. The eyes are crudely drawn circles with little lines to represent eyebrows, the nose is just a triangle, and the mouth is just a single line.

But there’s a little line, right through Magnus’s eye, like the scar he got in that bar fight so long ago. There’s more scribbles on the side of his face, and the top of his head, almost like sideburns and hair.

Magnus looks up. Taako’s watching him, biting his lip, fidgeting with his hands, spinning one of his rings around his finger.

“So?” he asks.

“It’s perfect,” Magnus says. Taako snorts, rolls his eyes. But he looks away and Magnus sees the faintest hint of a glow in his eyes..

“I wouldn’t go that far, homie. But I’m glad you like it.” He flashes Magnus another grin - one that almost reaches his eyes, this time - before taking the mirror and putting it away. Magnus looks down at his hands, at the grass, and thinks.

“Taako?” he says, after a moment of silence.

“Yeah?” Taako says, glancing up at him. He’s crawled back into his sleep sack, face just poking out.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Taako says. “Things’ll be okay, right? We’ll figure something out. We always do.” He smiles at Magnus. Not his usual snarky grins, but…a comforting smile. Or the closest Taako can get, at least.

“Yeah,” Magnus says, but he doesn’t believe it.

“Get some sleep, dude. Want me to cast sleep on you?”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I’m fine.”

“If you insist.” Within a few seconds Taako is snoring. Magnus sighs, lies down on the ground, tries to get comfortable.

Realizes that being comfortable isn’t possible anymore. Sighs again. Looks up at the sky, the stars. Thinks about a different sky, with different stars.

Sleep, he reminds himself. Everything will be better in the morning.

(It’s not.)

[the-wardens-torch]

HEYYY its that awesome detailed character profile meme that was going around 2-3 months ago!  Which is when @theseventhdawn tagged me with it. Sorry for taking forever. Long work weeks and ShB have killed me but its lovely to rekindle those OC feels. As for people to tag who haven’t been tagged already; @luckiselki (whichever of your characters you like!) and @helboar

Pronunciation:  fal-uhr-in are-sit-uh.

Nicknames: Just… Fal.  His adopted mother was known to call him “Sunny Blue” now and then. Short-lived inside joke names include Local Fal and Lord of the Pants. (I wish I could say that someone once called him Fail-urine Fartcita, but he’s never had a 90s high school sit com bully.)

Height: 5’11

Age: 22

Zodiac: Virgo (Sept 16 - I chose September entirely because its Azeyma’s dedicated month in Eorzean astrology.)

Languages: Common, Seeker Miqo’te Huntspeak (woefully out of practice,) a few words/phrases/songs in other languages (he‘s particularly proud of the Xaelic folk songs he‘s picked up recently. )

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

Hair:  Black, straight and waist-length with messy fringe and sideburns. Usually worn in a loose braid or ponytail - he knows a few more complex hair-braiding techniques, but he somehow just can’t manage to do them on his own hair.

Eyes: Bright royal blue; hooded and on the long and narrow side.

Skin tone: A sort of burnt sienna with darker freckles on his cheeks, shoulders and back.

Body type: Especially long and skinny for a Hyur - he weighs less than most Hyurs his height. Has a bit of lean muscle on his arms and legs from doing a lot of traveling and archery practice as a kid.

Accent: South Seas

Dominant hand: Right

Posture: Very loose and casual with friendly, open body language and liberal use of gestures in conversation. Often shifts his weight from one foot to the other.  Rarely stands/sits up totally straight. Seems incapable of sitting in a chair and keeping both of his feet on the floor at the same time.

Scars: A very noticeable one over his left eye running from hairline to mid-cheek, a smaller one along his jaw line (usually covered by his sideburns) and a third horizontally crossing his right shoulder.

Tattoos: None

Most noticeable features:  Most people are taken aback by how deep his voice is if they hear him at roughly the same time they see him. Other than that, the color of his eyes is rather striking, and he’s kind of an odd dresser… Pointy mage hats, skirts, crop tops, leather jewelry, etc.

CUT BECAUSE I AM SELF CONSCIOUS ABOUT CLOGGING UR DASH.

CHILDHOOD.

Place of birth: Cieldalaes islands.

Hometown:  A small port town from which he derives his last name.

Manner of birth: Covert.

First words: “song”

Siblings: He has two half-brothers and one half-sister on his mother’s side, all older by at least 5 years… I haven’t named them or given them personalities, and they don’t know about him… yet.

Parents: Mother Roxane Seaborne; Inn manager living in the Cieldalaes whom he has never met. Father Uther Alcyone; Arcanist living in Idyllshire from whom he was estranged until very recently.

Parental involvement: He hasn’t seen his mother since his birth - it broke her heart to give him away, although she gave up her feelings for his father shortly after he was conceived.  She feels tremendously guilty for what she did and bemoans her selfishness to this day.

His father (despite knowing about him from his birth) only started to show an interest in him a year or two ago (when he started displaying magical talent.) Fal is trying to salvage a relationship from this but isn’t holding his breath - dad’s interest in him seems to be purely intellectual.

He was mostly raised by one N‘elyrha Kikitu, a Miqo’te Bard - she took good care of him and instilled in him self-assurance and a great passion for stories and song, but they were always traveling, and she tried to raise him tough and independent… Which is probably why he craves affection and intimacy.  

ADULT LIFE

Occupation: Freelance musician and leatherworker.  He’ll moonlight as an adventurer now and then, (Arcanist/Summoner) but only for a damn good reason.

Current residence: Eidolons free company house, the lavender beds… I forgot his address.

Close friends: Reonora Aestethe, Sunnthota Rymmharrwyn, T’Majaan Tia, likely your character if I weren’t so scared to RP.

Relationship status: Restlessly single.

Financial status:  Can afford food, a single room, and the occasional splurge… most of the time.

Driver’s license: He’s inexperienced, but he likes to ride and is getting the hang of it.

Criminal record: Trespassing, vagrancy, loitering, public nudity nuisance - all your basic hobo crimes.

Vices: Casual sex.

SEX & ROMANCE.

Sexual orientation: Pansexual

Romantic orientation: Panromantic

Preferred emotional role:  submissive | dominant | switch (he adapts well.)

Preferred sexual role:  submissive |  dominant  |  switch |  sex repulsed  (there I finally said it.)

Turn ons:  Fal’s a sexual character but honestly I’m just not any good at portraying that side of him.  Errr… if my tiny bit of writing that includes his sex life is any indication, he’s attracted to awkwardly sincere men and bold, witty women. Apparently he also has a thing for backless clothing.

Turn offs: Condescension, entitlement, dominant/pushy personalities, touching his hair without asking.

Love language: His hands will always be on you/all over you, whether those hands are chastely patting your shoulders or clamped lewdly on your ass.  Lots of reassuring pats, hugs, face touches, fingers in your hair, etc. Looking at you silently and smiling. Small, eclectic gifts (single flowers, pieces of brightly colored sea glass, handmade trinkets, feathers, scribbled out lines of old poems, etc.) because he “saw it and thought of you.” Lots of songs sung to you for the same reason.  

Relationship tendencies: He tends to think of sex and romance as separate concepts that fulfill different needs. He loves emotional involvement but believes it’s really hard to do and hurts a lot when it goes bad… Sometimes you just need to get railed into the next astral era without any strings attached (I’m sure there’s a shibari or generalized BDSM joke in here somewhere but I don‘t think that’s his thing hahaffff.) If he found a relationship where he could get both from the same person at the same time, it’d be the Best. Thing. Ever.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Hobbies to pass the time:  Leatherwork, dropping in at friends’ houses unexpectedly, occasional archery and botany - just to clear his mind and keep his skills sharp. He’s also recently started to read extensively - mostly poetry and literature from around the world (if he can find it translated into common that is.)

Mental illnesses:  None.

Physical illnesses:  Meat “allergy” - eating flesh of any sort causes him acute gastrointestinal distress. This annoys him greatly and he still tries to eat meat every few years to see if he’s “grown out of it.” He hasn’t.

Fears: Abandonment and loss most of all. He also hates walking on elevated flooring that moves (scaffolding, suspension bridges, etc.) especially if he can see the ground through it.

Self confidence level: Mostly good.  He knows that he‘s likeable and good at what he does, and is generally pretty comfortable with himself and his life. He’s totally fearless in social situations and while performing - its pretty hard to intimidate, heckle, shame, demoralize or embarrass him.  In combat situations is another story. He hasn’t enjoyed a single fight he’s been in, though he’s reasonably good at throwing his comrades off of his trail with quips and witty remarks - just because he likes being with them and doesn’t want them to worry.

Vulnerabilities: Doesn’t know when to shut up.  Emotionally impulsive. Hides/bottles up negative emotions with occasional disastrous results.  Can crumple under stress (especially battlefield stress.) Powerful but unrefined and uneducated when it comes to magic.