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tessiete · 4 years ago

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Yeah, yeah, yeah another prompt fill that came from DMs. And also was my fault. @treescape asked for prompts and I um, offered this, and immediately took it back, and didn’t even do a very good jobby on it so. *shrug*

Anyway! A vague continuation of The Punishment of Silence, post Order 66

THE HOPE OF ORPHANS, AND UNFATHERED FRUIT

He wakes to silence. There is nothing except the sound of his own breath being scraped from his lungs like wax under fingernails, the beating of his heart against his ribs, and the creak of his bones. There is nothing else. Even his cry of terror has died upon his lips, unfledged and unrealised in this void. He is all alone.

“We’ll be coming out of hyperspace soon.”

He hardly recognises the voice, hardly hears the words as he reaches for the only source of warmth and light in space. Beside him, tucked securely between his chest and the wall, is a heavy bundle of coarse wool, and worn linen. Within it, the weakly struggling flesh of new life.

“Hush, Luke,” he whispers, and even his voice is absent.

But Luke...Luke is here. With him. Luke is golden. Luke is the sun, and he shines so brightly that for a moment, the absence of stars is obscured by the break of dawn, and he turns his face to meet it. Luke cries, his voice wet with the sorrow of Obi-Wan’s soul, and he weeps where Obi-Wan cannot.

“Master Kenobi?” The voice calls again. It is young, too, and threaded with uncertainty as it seeks a mooring in this black new world. “Master Kenobi, I need your help.”

He must answer it.

But he is wrung dry, having wasted it all in the desert of affection.

“They’re asking for a landing code,” the boy says. “They want to search the ship.”

“Let them,” he replies. “We’ve nothing for them to find.”

He adjusts the swaddling around the babe, pulling the folds up higher until the little face is barely visible, and drawing up his hood until his own face is shadowed and obscured.

The pilot fumbles for the comm, but hesitates before he makes the call.

“Master, we haven’t got the clearance,” he says. “I tried Republic codes but they’re all invalid, and I daren’t use a - a Jedi -”

“No.”

“Master, they’re waiting.”

Outside the viewport, Tatooine looms larger, and larger, round and golden, like the husk of a burnt out star. Just endless swathes of sand and stone. A barren rock. The twin suns watch, and Obi-Wan feels his hackles rise, as though he were prey under the baleful gaze of a predator in the night.

“Tell them whatever you must,” he sighs. His shoulders slump, and his eyes close. He is weary.

He cannot see the way his pilot stares at him, hopeful, and waiting. He doesn’t want to. The weight of his need is punishment enough. Luke is light in his arms, and he rocks him gently.

“This is the pilot of The Slip, Corellian class YT-1300 AUX requesting permission to land.”

“Airbase to Slip , have you got those docking permits yet?”

A single, shimmering breath, and the pilot answers, “No. But we - I can pay you.”

Obi-Wan does not object.

“What sort of payment we talking?”

“What do you care, so long as you get your money?”

“I don’t know,” replies the man. “You bargain like a pirate, but you sound like a kid. I ain’t convinced you got anything I want.”

He can feel his eyes upon him, but he cannot tear his own away from the babe. He is preoccupied with this one last precious thing. The pilot grits his teeth, and replies with all the arrogance of his past life. “Well, how about this - if you don’t like it, you can shoot me when I get there?”

There is silence on the other end, then the comm crackles back to life. The deck officer’s voice rasps with laughter. “Alright, kid,” he says. “You got a deal. Hope you ain’t got family to miss you. We’ll see you at Dock 3, on the south side.”

“Dock 3,” says pilot. “Copy that.”

“And kid? Don’t try anything stupid.”

He takes the ship in with a steady hand, but as they get closer and closer Korkie feels his breath quicken in anticipation. They haven’t got anything to pay with. They have no credits, no valuables, nothing personal which might tie them back to the Core, or worse, to the Temple. He doesn’t worry so much for himself, having no particular training in the Force, nor any distinctly Jedi affectations. His borrowed robes he discarded on Polis Massa, but his father…

Obi-Wan is unmistakably a Jedi in his sand coloured tunics, and thick, wool cloak meant for all terrains but a blazing desert. However, there is one appurtenance which may work in their favour -

Everyone knows that Jedi have no children, and he will not relinquish Luke.

“Slip to base: Docking clamps locked, and pressure restored to atmo baseline. Please advise.”

There is sweat beading upon his upper lip. Obi-Wan rocks Luke as he fusses, awakened by the sounds of noise outside. People are waiting for them.

“This is Squaddy Redsun. Lower your ramp, and prepare for immediate boarding.”

He looks to the Jedi, and gathers himself. There is nothing on the ship, and so there is nothing to pack or take as they leave, but still, he casts one last look at the cockpit. Then, he ushers his father forward, through the main hold, and to the head of the ramp. He presses the pair to the side, leaving them just out of plain sight, and so wrapped up in the folds of Obi-Wan’s cloak and each other as to be indistinguishable from shadow. He steps back. He strikes the button to lower the ramp with an open palm. Sunlight floods the hold, and he is left blinking and blind as a rough voice calls to him.

“You the captain, then, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. He can see a man clad in worn leathers, and decorated in the gleaming white bone of some fearsome beast. Beside him, two others with wrist guards, and pikes. He makes no attempt to resist as the guards approach, and does not fight as he is grabbed by the elbow and shoved down the ramp by the first.

But the second has discovered Obi-Wan, and grabs at him with the same barbarity. The Jedi flinches away, and curls around himself. One pale hand reaches back, and Korkie can feel the air turn electric.

“No!” he cries, startling both the guard and Obi-Wan, the warning clear in the fraught timbre of his voice. “He has a child,” he says. “He’s harmless. But there’s a child. Please. I am the pilot. This is my ship.”

“And who is he then?” Redsun demands.

“No one,” says Korkie. “A refugee of - of Mandalore.”

“He don’t look like no hunter.”

Korkie shrugs, watching closely as Obi-Wan descends untouched, the guard at his elbow. “I don’t know that he has enough left to look like anything.”

“Ha,” chortles Redsun. His men laugh, too. “Then I suppose it’s you what has my payment. Docking codes don’t come cheap.”

“No, sir,” says Korkie. “I - I haven’t any credits.”

“That Republican dross is no good out here, any way,” Redsun spits. “Now, where’s my pay?”

The guards edge closer, and Luke chokes on a feeble cry.

“Hush, dear heart,” murmurs Obi-Wan. “Hush, sweet thing. And sleep.”

“The ship!” says Korkie. “You can take the ship. It’s in fine working order, and the hyperdrive is good for your smaller jumps. I -”

His neck snaps, his teeth snap together, and he can taste blood as a fist connects with his cheek. It leaves him staggering, and spitting into the sand. Luke begins to wail. The sound rings out around him, but he struggles to place its source. Nearby, he knows. They must still be beside him. He reaches out and catches the edge of heavy wool in his grip.

“None of that banthashit, boy!” shouts Redsun, and he is near as well. He can smell the man as he comes closer, still. “That ship ain’t worth half the trouble you’ve caused. What else you got?”

“Nothing,” he pleads, struggling upright again. The guard at his side restrains him. “Nothing. But take the ship, and I can - I can work for you. You can garnish my wages -”

“Garnish your wages? What kind of -” A blaster primes. He hears the pitch rise with the charge until it disappears. “Now, we had a deal,” says Redsun. “You pay me now, or I take it out of your hide. Right? You pay me, or I shoot you.”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Korkie.

The barrel presses against his forehead.

“So you decide,” says Redsun. “Give me my money, or I kill you where you stand. You, and that screeching brat.”

Korkie tries to swallow, but all his tastes is the sour, metal tang of blood. It roils in his stomach. He feels faint. Luke screams, and screams but Obi-Wan only tries harder to sooth him, singing some sad lullaby. A Mandalorian lullaby.

Korkie recognises it. His...his mother used to sing it to him. He clenches his hand into a fist, tracing his thumb over the ring he wears, as a reminder. And he remembers -

“My ring,” he says, slipping the jewelry from his hand. It is a simple band, but thick and completely unblemished by age or use. “I can give you this,” he insists, holding it so that the suns set it ablaze, glittering like fire in his hand.

“And what’s that?”

“Pure beskar,” he says.

Redsun lowers the blaster. Korkie can see his interest pique, and greed replace fury in his cold, black eyes.

“Beskar,” he says. “And how’d you be coming by that?”

He nods at one of the guards, who swaps his pike for a techscanner. The ring is plucked from Korkie’s fingers, and the green light of the machine washes over it.

“Like I said,” says Korkie. “Mandalorian refugees.

The guard looks up. “It’s as he says, Squaddy. Beskar.”

Redsun regards him for a moment. He shifts his jaw, and rolls his tongue over his teeth. Korkie holds his gaze, even as blood drips from his chin. At last, Redsun gives the sign, and his man lets Korkie go.

“I’ll be taking the ring,” he declares. “And your kriffing ship, for all the good I’ll make of it. And you get off with a warning.”

“Yes, sir,” says Korkie. “Thank you, sir.”

Korkie gathers Master Kenobi in his arms, and pushes him towards the exit. Through the wide, rusted blast doors, he can see where the dockyards end, and the streets beyond begin. Their escape is at hand, but Obi-Wan is slow to move, fearful of jostling Luke who has settled tentatively once more. The guards make no move to assist, but Korkie is determined. He keeps between Redsun and the Jedi, he keeps him moving forward, and they are hardly ten steps from freedom when blaster fire rings out across the docking bay.

There is a blaze of fire along his side, and Korkie falls in a heap of fine, yellow dust. Breathing hard, he presses a hand to the source of heat, and cries out as agony is awakened by his touch. His fingers come away bloody, but he sits up, then stands, then stumbles on towards the exit, leaning on Obi-Wan, urging him to go, to move, to keep pushing forward. Step by step. He can hear the guards and Redsun laughing behind them.

“Don’t you try playing games like that round these parts, son,” shouts the man. “Not everyone’s as kind as Squaddy Redsun.”

The crowds are easy enough to get lost in, and soon Squaddy Redsun and the Mos Eisley docks are far behind them, but Korkie feels their ruin is closer than ever. His side aches, and bleeds sluggishly where the bolt hadn’t instantly cauterised the wound. He is hot. He is thirsty. But worst of all, he cannot speak or read a single word of Huttese.

“Please,” he asks of a woman hustling by with an armful of black fruits. “Please, can you tell me where to find shelter? An inn?”

She cuts him a glare, and hurries on.

“Sir, if you could - I need to find a place to stay.”

The man flicks his lekku, and shakes Korkie off.

He cannot tell if they’ve tried this street already, or not, all the architecture looks so similar to his unfamiliar eyes, and all the people are one massive murmuration of a society he is not part of. Then suddenly, a child stands before him. A little boy, with hair the colour of the sandstone walls of the city, and eyes like the sky reaches out a grubby hand.

“We need food,” says Korkie. “And a place to sleep. Please.”

The child nods, and Korkie takes his hand, fisting his other in the folds of Obi-Wan’s robe to be sure he doesn’t lose him in the crowds. They follow the child through innumerable streets, and darkened alleys before they are abandoned in front of a low building on the outskirts of town.

“Can we stay here?” Korkie asks. The child nods. The door slides open at his touch, and he is swallowed up in warm yellow light while Korkie hesitates on the threshold.

But it is getting dark, and he can think of no other alternatives. So he knocks.

“We’re all full up.” He hears the voice first, but it is soon matched by the scowling countenance of a woman worn old by the suns. The little boy clings to her skirts, now shy and retiring after his brazen rescue. She looks at Korkie and his charges from the doorway, and nearly turns away.

“Wait, wait, gedet'ye, jatne vod, vi linibar taap at nuhoy.” He’s slipping, and he only notices when her brow crinkles in confusion. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just - please, we need a place to stay. Just for the night.”

“We don’t have any more rooms,” she says.

“We have a baby.”

He clutches at Obi-Wan’s arm, until he steps forward, and the light falls across Luke’s sleeping face. The woman sighs.

“It’s five wuipui,” she says.

“I haven’t any money,” he says.

“Then I haven’t any beds,” she replies. He catches the door before it can slide shut.

“Please,” he says. “Please.”

And at that moment, Luke wakes and begins to weep. The woman stills, and Korkie thanks the stars for timing.

“One bed,” she says. “I won’t have a babe die on my doorstep. Bad business. Bad bly is what it is. But I can only afford to take the one of you with it.”

“Him,” says Korkie, shoving Obi-Wan forward. “He’s his father.”

“And where’s the mother?”

“Dead,” says Korkie. “It’s only - they only have each other.”

The woman nods, and reaches out to pull Obi-Wan into the shelter of her home. The wool slips from his fingers, leaving them clammy and sticky in the rapidly cooling night air.

“Thank you,” he says, and they disappear behind the door.

At once, the strange euphoria of a desperate flight deserts him, and he collapses in the sand against the wall. His side aches, though the bleeding has mostly stopped. He supposes that is the result of dehydration as much as anything. His lips are cracked. His tongue feels thick. His own blood sits uneasily in his stomach. The streets empty, the second sun slips below the horizon as he watches, and soon he begins to shiver. It’s difficult to stay awake, but after so many hours of preternatural vigilance it feels impossible that he should sleep. There is always some danger, now. They will always be hunted. He blinks, and sees three moons. Perhaps he is concussed, but then Coruscant had four moons, and Mandalore had two, so that is no measure of his injury.

He’d travelled once to Concordia, when he was a child. It was a beautiful place, and it felt, at the time, as though he’d been transported to some ancient world. There were trees. And grassland. There was water you could swim in, and could drink, and it ran freely over rock, and silt in unpredictable patterns, like the veins on the back of his hand. Though he’d been born in Sundari, there was something about Concordia that felt viscerally his. He recognized himself in the wildness of it all, as though it were a sort of mirror, as though if one were to pull up all the grasses and the plants they might pull up all his roots as well. The moons of Tatooine are white. They shine like stars, but there is no warmth to them. He doesn’t think he’ll ever see Concordia again.

Warm light illuminates the dark, turning the sand golden again.

“Alright, none of that. Can’t have Core soft boys dying on my stoop, either.”

“‘M not from the Core,” Korkie mumbles.

“That posh accent of your father’s could’ve fooled me,” she says. He feels her prop him up against the wall, and wonders when he’d laid down. She taps his face with her hand on the cheek that isn’t hurt. Water touches his lips, and he opens his eyes. “Drink up,” she says. “Heat’ll kill you faster than a blastoh will out here, lapti wermo.”

He drinks as quickly as she lets him, and until the vessel is empty. The clay cup is cool against his skin, and he presses his swollen eye against it, grateful for the relief.

“Now,” she says, taking it from his hand, and standing it upright in the sand. “Let’s see about that blaster wound.”

“It’s not bad,” he insists. She ignores him, and tugs his jacket down one shoulder, and slides his arm free. He hisses in pain, and she cuts him a look that says she has absolutely no confidence in his ability to self-diagnose.

Blood stains his close-fitting sark, and she draws back.

“I’m going to get some vibroshears,” she says. “I’ll need to cut this off.”

“No,” he protests. “Just lift it. I haven’t got anything else.”

“You haven’t got this , you stupa,” she grumbles. Korkie makes no reply, but leans forward and begins to tug at the hem of his shirt. In response, she leans forward to help him, and launches into a vehement stream of Huttese that makes no sense to Korkie. He comprehends the spirit of the words just the same. “Bolla rass tata, u beggybeggy brite lapti wermo.”

“On my world, we’d say ‘slanar nek gar shabuir’,” he says, grimacing as the shirt comes off. “Or something like.”

“Shabuir?” she says, letting the word bubble on her lips. “I like that one. I’ll keep it.”

“It’s yours.”

The fabric lifts away, heavy with dirt and grime. She is careful not to tear it further as she lays it flat to dry in the sand, and Korkie does appreciate that. Such a small measure of care, and yet already so coveted in this drought.

“I’ve a poultice,” she offers, withdrawing from the darkness a little bowl of sludge. “It isn’t bacta, but it’s better than nowt.”

Her fingers are cold against his side, or the wound is hot, but either way, he finds her ministrations soothing, and it’s not long before he finds his eyes slipping closed again. He fights it, and thinks he wins, but when wakes to her carefully tucking the ends of his bandages, the moons are much higher than they were before.

“There now,” she says, brushing back his hair, and giving his cheek a kind caress. “Let’s get you inside. Give you some food. Put you to bed.”

“I thought you said you had none,” he mumbles.

She smiles, and throws his arm across her shoulders. “That was before I saw how pretty you were. Now, come on.”

He grins, though it hurts, and rises to his feet when she pulls him. He staggers to the door, his feet made clumsier with exhaustion more than injury this time, and doesn’t fight when she leads him to a room, and drops him on a bed, and urges him to rest his head upon a thin pillow of sand and dry grass. The light goes out, and the door slides shut behind her. In the dark, he cannot tell if his eyes are closed, or not. But he is not alone. There is a voice.

Someone is singing a lullaby nearby. A Mandalorian lullaby. It is an old call and response. He used to sing the answers with his mother when he was very young. He hasn’t heard it in years. But when the singer gets to the end of the verse, he joins in.

“A ner kar'ta cuyir gotal ciryc, bal ni kar'tayl gar darasuum nayc or'atu...O meg, o meg, kelir ni vaabir?”

The voice answers back on a sigh, though the words are different than they ever were before.

“O, ner Kiorkicek,” it sings. “Ni kelir ratiin yaimpar bal cuyir saanyc be gar.”

A baby sniffles in the dark. There is another bed. And he recognises the voice.

“Buir Kenobi,” he says, his voice hardly more than a thought. “Cuyir gar pirusti? Cuyir gar morut'yc.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replies. “We are well. You have saved us. Now, sleep. We shall all begin again in the morning.”

There is a warm hand upon his brow, and the irresistible temptation of sleep, and Korkie drops off into dreams.

#my fic #prompt fill #star wars #obi-wan kenobi #luke skywalker #korkie kryze #korkie is a kenobi #gffa #tatooine #post-order 66 #idk #whatever friends

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inspired-by-the-music · 4 years ago

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For You

Chapter 7: Love

Taglist: @jineunwootrash

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Laying with Taemin should have been uncomfortable because a) I always slept alone, b) I had never been so (willfully) close to another person, and c) we hadn’t known each other long enough to justify my wish to stay so close forever.

When I pointed out in a whisper that we had only shared our first genuine conversation under the moon a few nights ago, I saw the outline of Taemin’s frown in the dark. His voice created small vibrations in his chest (where my head laid over his sky blue pajama shirt) when he asked, “Do you think I’ll have to love you for years before my feelings count?”

As evidenced by the ragged breath that fell from his mouth, I hurt Taemin’s feelings without even trying. All that kept me from apologizing immediately was the fear that whatever I said might deepen his frown; so, instead of speaking, I felt around for his hand, pressed my freezing palm against his— warm— and threaded our fingers.

“I really want to know what you think, Lei.” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

What did I think?

People rarely asked me, yet I tended to overthink my position on a given issue until I had exhausted every possible opinion. Maybe I was preparing for the occasion that never came— when somebody other than Lucas may value my outlook— until Taemin decided to wear my ribbon.

Although I had thought of little other than Taemin since that night in the garden— or maybe it started that night by the lake— I had no concrete thoughts. That’s why I stuttered, “I— I don’t know. I want you to love me or like me—”

Taemin said, “I do,” and I imagine that should have been the happiest moment of my life.

So why wasn’t it? Why did that ache in my chest return? Why did I long for him as if he were worlds away when I was in his arms? When would this— our bond— feel real?

“Then I want to believe you when you say that—” I didn’t pause to consider that I sounded like I was calling Taemin a liar— “but it sounds too good to be true.”

Taemin must have realized that there was nothing he could say. We were at another impasse. Silence fell over us, and I didn’t want it to stay, so I spoke through the discomfort.

“You have to understand who you are to me, Taemin.” Calling him an idol— stripping him of his humanity in such an intimate setting— was the worst thing to do.

Tracing my thumb along his knuckles, trying to feel that he was real, I carefully continued, “You are somebody I’ve admired for years. Yours is a voice I cherished long before you had anything to say to me. I loved you before I met you, and—” I hoped he wouldn’t think less of me for believing, “the problem with dreams coming true is that you always wake up or the dream becomes a nightmare.”

Taemin must have been shocked by my honesty. Seconds or hours or eternities passed quietly before he said, “I think that you should learn to enjoy dreams— if that’s what we are— as they happen. I think you can ruin the night if you spend the time worrying about what could happen when the sun rises.”

Of course, it occurred to me before that worrying achieves nothing. On some level, I always knew that I could benefit from learning to live in the moment— finding that balance between being a successful idol and being a happy person. Yet, it was as if Taemin had turned on the light with his gentle warnings that were always prefaced by the phrase, “I think,” because he was too humble to boast, “I know.”

I already decided that I didn’t want to be lonely.

Then, as silence fell again, I decided that I didn’t want to be incapable of appreciating beauty until it had faded out of my grasp. That’s why I lifted my head from Taemin’s chest: I wanted to admire him. I wanted to really see him clearly.

I didn’t expect that he would be looking at me as if patiently waiting for me to return his gaze.

Before I could sort through my thoughts, I was saying his name. “Taemin, I just really want you to be here when the sun rises.”

If he was as shocked by the mid-night declaration as I was, he certainly didn’t show it with that radiant smile. “Okay,” was all he said before holding my head against his chest where I heard it: his heart was soaring, racing, beating for me like mine was for him.

. . .

Interviews— although often uncomfortable— were never as unbearable as a solo artist as they were as a member of SuperM. Part of the issue was that, without my phone, I couldn’t scroll through social media to educate myself on the popular topics of gossip.

It wasn’t so shocking when the first interviewer asked if Lucas and I were a couple. That question had been following us for years and (I guessed) the rumors about our supposed undying love were amplified by LX2’s existence.

I was winded, however, when the rumors started to stray from Lucas. Almost daily, in my place between Ten and Mark (or English line, as the fans called us, since our knowledge of the language facilitated the American interviews), I sat with my hands clenched into tight pale fists, jaw set, as I waited to discover which member I was alleged to be sleeping with this time.

The interview started, as they usually do, with a relatively unoffensive question: “Who from Korea do you keep in touch with while you’re on tour?”

The host was a middle-aged man— bearded and wearing glasses and a t-shirt— who twitched with every frequent sip from his coffee mug. He listened with feigned interest to the other members who answered with some variation of the fact that they stayed in contact with the members of their individual groups (except Baekhyun, who replied, “Super Junior’s Donghae,” just to watch my fists tighten in their place in the lap of my black skirt), before fixing his stare on me.

“What about you? You’re a solo act outside of SuperM, right?” It was promising at first, the realization that he had done some research, but my hopes that maybe— finally— I was participating in a legitimate interview crashed with the following question. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Korea that you text every night, you know, just to tell him, ‘hi, I love you, I promise I’m not hooking up with any of my superstar bandmates?’”

Questions like that made my blood boil. He didn’t want to know my answer. He didn’t care who I talked to or who I loved. He just wanted to watch me squirm as he pried into my personal affairs.

“Yes,” I said as calmly as possible, “I am a solo artist. No, I do not have a boyfriend in Korea—”

He raised his eyebrows, probably, in preparation to ask if my boyfriend was touring America with me, but I continued, “When I’m on tour, I try to find time to talk to Joy of Red Velvet or Amber Liu. If I need advice on something related to my performance, I’ll waste no time in calling Girls’ Generation’s Taeyeon.”

Why didn’t anybody ever ask about my friendships with those girls? It seemed wrong that everyone should be so fixated on my romantic relationships — of which there had only been one that was held as our precious secret— when I would have been more than happy to share the friendships that shaped me as a person and as an artist.

That interviewer seemed to share Baekhyun’s recently developed interest in making me as uncomfortable as possible. He asked the group, “So, was it hard to teach your new girl all of the choreography? Just how long did it take her to get it?”

In situations like that, I liked to think that I was somehow misunderstanding the question or mistaking the tone. Sometimes, that was the only way to keep myself from snapping. Sometimes, that was the only way I could sit there, legs crossed, without shattering my perfect posture and perfect smile.

Ten’s temper was as bad as mine— worse, actually— so I didn’t fully succumb to my irritation when he rolled his eyes at the question. I didn’t acknowledge that I had a right to be uncomfortable, that the interviewer was truly being rude, until Kai leaned forward to tap Mark on the shoulder and request, “Translate, please.”

As soon as Mark translated the question, Kai replied in rapid-fire Korean that I couldn’t quite keep up with, “That’s a stupid-ass question. Lei isn’t in the group just because she’s a girl or because she’s pretty or because she’s popular. She’s here because she’s talented. And we’re not here to answer stupid questions that belittle our members.”

We all stared at Kai as he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting his lips. Ten and I, wearing twin stunned expressions, looked (along with the interviewer) for Mark to translate Kai’s answer.

“I — uh—” Mark stuttered— “Kai said, no offense— I added that part— but that question is kinda— no, really disrespectful to Lei.”

Ten agreed, jumping at the opportunity to strike the interviewer with his sass. “Yeah. For us NCT guys—” he gestured to the other NCT members— “although some of us are older, Lei is, like, our senior because she debuted first. We didn’t have to teach her anything. She teaches us.”

Mark translated Ten’s comment for the others, and Lucas and Taeyong murmured in agreement.

I shook my head despite the affection swelling in my chest. “No, that’s not true. You guys teach me a lot.”

The interviewer’s stare was all that kept me from saying that Taeyong taught me about leadership, integrity, and honest communication. Ten reintroduced me to the joy in dancing, which (for me) had become less of a soulful expression and more of a mechanical execution of choreography. Lucas taught me so much— too much to describe with words— but the most important lesson was to laugh like nobody is watching even though somebody was always watching. Mark reminded me that people— some people— even in the entertainment industry are good just for the sake of being good.

And I loved them for that, so I declared, “I love my members,” including (of course) Taemin, Kai, and Baekhyun (even though he was a little demon). I meant it so earnestly that I forgot to consider how my words could be perverted.

“Yeah, but which member do you love most?” The interviewer winked.

Gathering from my glare at his perversion of “love,” the interviewer redirected the question to the other members, asking, “So we all know it’s happening— who’s sleeping with Lei?”

Granted, I was technically sleeping with Taemin. We would never admit it in an interview, but we had fallen into the habit of falling asleep in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Maybe, then, my blush was caused by the embarrassment of a) having such an intimate aspect of my life aired publicly and b) having it questioned with so little understanding and respect.

Before I spoke my mind, Mark said the stupidest sentence in recorded history: “Look, man, as bandmates we’re all involved with each other, but we’re not, like, involved.”

Ten started growling, “What—” before I cut my eyes away from Mark to tear into the interviewer.

Of course, he didn’t shrink under my stare or burn from the flames flung by my narrowed eyes. It didn’t matter that he seemed to delight in my reaction; I spoke the truth not for his benefit but for mine.

“Aside from being disgusting— the fact that you can only look at me and see my worth as some sexualized creature— it’s appalling that you spread these rumors with absolutely no regard for how it affects my image and my career. These guys—” I shrugged in reference to the other members— “are expected to priorities their relationships with their fans above all else—”

“Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous, though?” The interviewer slurped into his microphone as he took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t you think these guys should date if they want?”

Yes. Of course, I did. They deserved to do whatever would make them happy.

“What they do is none of my concern.” The words were diplomatic, but my tone was not. “It is a problem for me, however, that this narrative painted by those, like yourself, in the media depicts me not only as a disgraced idol but— more importantly— as somebody willing to squander artistic opportunities by sleeping with everybody in a band. Learn to respect me as a woman, an idol, or a human being. Take your pick.”

My hand raised to detach the microphone from the collar of my white button-down top cut just above the navel, but it paused when he asked, “If the standards are so harsh on idols— especially women— don’t you think you’re obligated to challenge the standard?”

His question— spoken so casually as if he weren’t advocating mindlessly for the impossible— should have stunned me silent. It didn’t.

“No,” I said not because I was the perfect idol, not because I wanted to uphold that illusion in that moment, but because I was emboldened by the reality, “I am an artist, not a revolutionary.”

Before the interviewer could challenge me further— before I could act on the pulsating desire to rip the microphone off, throw it onto the ground, and stomp it under my unnecessarily high red heels, Mom intervened with the muttered excuse that we had other events to attend. She even thanked that bastard for his time.

I know that was her job— I knew that then— but I felt too angry, too betrayed, to look in her direction afterward. Our relationship wasn’t even remedied in the car when she returned mine and Lucas’s phone with the instruction, “Behave from now on. And brace yourselves for the incoming social media storms when that interview is broadcast.”

Lucas was so thrilled to have his phone, his true best friend, returned that he dropped his arm from its protective place around my shoulders.

Instantly my screen lit from notifications of fans’ reactions to that interview. It must have been a live broadcast. Not quite ready to face praise or criticism, I locked my phone and shoved it into the narrow space between mine and Lucas’s body.

With my face burning from the realization that there would be no opportunity to edit or retract any part of my outburst— not that I really wanted to— I rounded on Mark, who sat right behind me (beside Taemin who, of course, sat beside Kai).

“What the hell was that about, Mark?” My imitation of his voice was so accurate that in the seat ahead of me, Ten threw his head back in a bitter sort of laughter. “‘We’re involved, but we’re not involved? What kind of stupid shit—”

Taemin had been smiling when I first turned around, but his expression turned to one of complete bewilderment. His understanding of the incident must have been limited by the interview’s language barrier. He whispered to Kai, “What’s wrong?”

As Kai (who had been donning a scowl that rivaled mine since his outburst) tried to explain the situation to Taemin, Mark stared at me with eyes so wide and guilty that I would have forgiven him instantly if I hadn’t spent so many years swallowing my frustration that I could no longer package my emotions back into their appropriate internal boxes.

“I’m sorry,” Mark stuttered, “I didn’t mean to say something so stupid—”

“Well, you did!” Ten whirled around to yell at him, brows angled and ears crimson. “If that’s going to be your contribution in interviews, I’m kicking you off English line!”

Mark argued, “You can’t kick me off English line! That’s not how it works! As long as I know English, I’m on English line—” he laughed nervously and reached for my shoulder— “right, Lei?”

Usually, I probably would have laughed along with Ten before siding with Mark. Even in that moment of rage, I worried that I was being too harsh on Mark. It wasn’t really his fault that the media (and that interviewer in particular) was so problematic. Still, that concern didn’t prevent me from crossing my arms, turning around and tugging sharply out of Mark’s reach, and fixing my gaze on the back of Ten’s seat.

As if sensing that I wanted nothing more than to go deaf to Ten’s bickering and Mark’s incessant pleas for me to “please turn around” and forgive him, Taeyong tossed me a pair of earphones and an apologetic grin— if you can really call it a grin.

Even after I plugged the headphones into my phone and tried to drown my anger in the music flooding into my ears, I rolled my eyes when Mom’s voice raised to snap, “Be quiet back there! I’m on an important call!” before saying into the receiver, “I’m back, Heechul.”

I could only vaguely hope that neither she nor Heechul would say anything loudly enough for Baekhyun, sitting in the passenger seat (one of the perks of being the leader), to hear.

Although Amber, Joy, and Taeyeon had brightened my day with their support, I didn’t feel like running to the pool with the guys when we returned to the hotel. While they were immersed in excited chatter, I beelined to the elevator, rejoicing when Baekhyun told Lucas (who must have been trying to follow me), “Give her space. If she’s anything like Momager, you don’t wanna be around while her temper is flaring.”

I wanted to be alone, but not because my temper was flaring. My furious blush had been abandoned in the car hours ago. Mostly, I was sorry for snapping at Mark— too sorry to look at him or even think of him without picturing the pained expression that settled on his face when I yelled at him— and bothered that my relationship with Taemin had been so misconstrued by that gross interviewer.

Bothered wasn’t a strong enough word, but I don’t know how else to describe how I felt. It wasn’t quite anger; my face would have been burning still, and I would have been grinding my teeth and balling my hands into fists as I pressed my back against the cold wall. It was more like sadness (but without the pain in my chest) because tears were blurring the edges of my vision, and my lips were trembling.

The tears weren’t quite ready to fall, so I was standing there with hands ready to catch them when he forced his way through the closing elevator doors. I don’t know if the doors were even closed before Taemin had his arms wrapped around me.

Because I hadn’t expected him to be so close again until the moon rose, I gasped at the contact, too stunned to return the affection. It was over as soon as it started, over well before the sounding of the chime announcing that we had arrived on our floor.

Neither of us spoke until we were inside the room, safe from prying eyes. Although we were still wearing our clothes from the day of interviews, although the sun had not yet set, Taemin sat on the bed we called ours— which was still unmade because we had to run downstairs after ignoring our first alarm that morning— and opened his arms for me.

The version of me who crawled to him wasn’t the same person I had been for most of my life. The version of me who was comfortable with wanting Taemin, who didn’t feel weak for leaning on him— she was a good person. I wished to be her all the time. I was hurt by the outside voices that said I couldn’t be.

Taemin didn’t ask me to explain why tears were swimming in my eyes, but I did. “I know that we can’t tell other people what we have. I don’t want to waste my breath explaining things nobody can understand anyway. But why do people who don’t even know us have to try to take what’s our and make it into something— something less than what it is?”

Taemin’s fingertips that traced the skin below the hem of my shirt were uncharacteristically cold; they made me shiver. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, “and I’m sorry that happened. I’m sorry I can’t carry more of the burden for you.”

I looked at his face and saw it in the tensing of his jaw: the frustration that he hadn’t been able to understand when I was under attack, the bitter knowledge that (even if he had known) he couldn’t have defended me without arousing suspicions that we were in a relationship.

Unlike the Lucas rumors that, despite persisting through years of rejection, carried no real weight because they were untrue, rumors about Taemin would have been suffocating because, to some degree, they were true. How would I be able to deny an outright allegation against us? Even if my words lied, my face would convey the truth that Taemin was my first love.

I was going to tell Taemin that he didn’t have to carry any burden for me— I only wanted him to hold me like this every night to brace me for the next day— but when I looked at him, I couldn’t speak. He was dressed as Taemin the idol, and for a fleeting second, I transformed into the version of myself who couldn’t believe that he was real and in this place with me.

“They can’t take what’s ours, though.” He linked our hands, smiled brightly, and he was real. “And that means nobody can make it less than what it is.”

Taemin pressed his forehead to mine. I imagine that he was giddy with the realization that our relationship— although unconventional and undefined (‘soulmates’ who weren’t ‘dating’)— was as significant to me as it had always been to him. I imagine that he might have kissed me if Mom hadn’t knocked on the door.

As I leaped from the bed to answer the door, Taemin snatched something from his suitcase, slid into the bathroom, and locked the door.

I carefully swallowed the red-hot anger I had been harboring toward Mom (since she thanked that interviewer for his time) before opening the door. She was on the phone again, but she held it away from her ear when I ushered her into the room.

She sat perched on the edge of the still-made untouched bed, placed the phone by her side, and said, “You know, Lei, as your manager, I have to discourage you from ever repeating your behavior from that interview this morning.”

Had I been able to find my voice as I stood there, staring down at her with tightly clenched fists, I would have wanted to spit back that I would say exactly what I said that morning every day for the rest of my life because it was true. The thing is, though, I think that kind of honesty was a once in a lifetime thing. The circumstances that prompted that outburst were a perfect storm; placed in an identical situation tomorrow, my voice might fail me.

“But as your mother—” a bright smile overwhelmed her stern expression— “I have to say that I’m very proud of you for standing up for yourself!”

When Mom flew off the bed to throw her arms around me, I wrestled with the thought that maybe she struggled to find the balance between mom and manager as much as I struggled to find the balance between human and idol. I thought she was a good mom and a good manager, and I might have told her if she hadn’t released me to grab her phone from the bed.

“There’s somebody else who wants to speak to you too.”

From that mischievous glint in her eyes, I should have expected Heechul’s voice to burst through the speaker when I held the phone up to my ear.

“KID—” he would always call me ‘kid’ no matter how old I was— “I AM SO PROUD OF YOU! NOBODY HAS EVER BEEN AS PROUD AS I AM OF YOU—”

I smiled as I held the phone away from my ear, squirming at the realization that if Heechul was congratulating me, I must have been a rogue idol.

Had anyone been paying attention to us, they would have noticed that Taemin and I walked to the pool together. Of course, we were careful not to hold hands or allow our gazes to linger, but whenever Taemin was near me, I felt that there must be some outward evidence of our bond.

I knew that it was better that the others were too engrossed in their volleyball game (except Ten, who sat on a sun chair in a well-shaded corner) to notice us until Lucas and Kai wildly beckoned for us to join the game. Yet, although I hadn’t so much as whispered to Lucas that there was something between me and Taemin, I was always slightly disappointed when none of these people— who were my closest friends— noticed what (to me) was impossible to ignore.

Taemin, clad in black swimming trunks, dashed to Kai’s side, but I explained my reluctance to join the game. “I don’t wanna get my hair wet.” Really, though, I didn’t want to shed my denim shorts.

As I walked to claim the seat next to Ten, Baekhyun cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled, “Lei! Bring me a drink!” and pointed to a small blue cooler.

When I held a freezing Sprite out to him, standing a safe distance from the edge of the pool because I expected him to pull me into the water, I teased, “You should really use your manners, Baek. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are nice words.”

He swam over to me, opened the drink, and winked. “Thanks. Ya know, you should follow your own advice and go thank Ten over there.”

I wrinkled my eyebrows at Baekhyun as he gulped the drink down in one sip. “Why?”

“Ah!” Baekhyun beamed at the can as if it contained the best drink he had ever tasted or as if it had been his first drink after months of wandering through a desert. I rolled my eyes at his theatrics, and he laughed. “Oh! Because he came up with the best plan to get Momager and Donghae— Momhae, as I call them— together!”

Miraculously, nobody turned their head at Baekhyun’s hollering. I blinked at him as if that were an adequate defense against his devilish smile and feigned ignorance as best as I could. “What?”

Knowing that he had done enough to get under my skin— he had done enough to flash his hand without showing all the tricks he held up his sleeve— Baekhyun shrugged. “Why don’t ya ask Ten about it?” He suggested before swimming back to the volleyball game, leaving the Sprite can empty at my feet.

After tossing Baekhyun’s trash into the bin, I sat next to Ten. Pulling my sandaled feet onto the chair, I tried to study his expression to gather whether he actually knew about “Momhae.” Because he was wearing huge black sunglasses that covered most of his face, I couldn’t piece anything together.

I didn’t even know if Ten noticed me until a smirk tugged at his lips. “Like what ya see?”

I hadn’t even been looking at Ten like that, yet the suggestive lilt of his voice painted my face a pale pink. Maybe Ten couldn’t see my blush through his sunglasses, but I tore my gaze away anyway and sat back in my chair, arms crossed over my short cropped t-shirt.

Ten lowered his glasses to delight in my reaction to his teasing. Something about that sparkle in his eyes annoyed me— emboldened me to reply, “No, not really.”

Realizing that I wasn’t playing along with his flirtations, Ten’s jaw dropped (maybe to ask what was wrong with me), but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “You shouldn’t be talking about my mom’s personal affairs with Baekhyun of all people.”

Ten only said, pitch high from confusion, “What?”

And I realized that Baekhyun tricked me into bringing Momhae up to another member. When he waved at me (just before Taemin launched the volleyball at his obnoxiously large head), I thought I could have murdered Baekhyun.

Ten knew absolutely nothing about Mom and Donghae. He probably hadn’t considered anything about Mom’s life outside of being a manager until I opened my big mouth. Now, he was looking for me to explain my outburst, and I only had time to briefly thank God that I hadn’t mentioned Donghae’s name before Lucas plopped down onto the foot of my chair.

I could have barked at Lucas for shaking his head like a wet dog and soaking me with pool water, but I was too grateful that he had come to dig me out of this awkward situation with Ten. Once he opened his mouth, however, I realized that Lucas was there to worsen matters.

As if Ten wasn’t sitting right there, still staring at me, Lucas said, “Dude, Lei, I’ve been meaning to tell you since, like, the start of the tour that Taemin likes you.”

Had I not known, I might have been as shocked as Ten, who sat up so quickly that his sunglasses fell onto the ground. “What? Taemin likes Lei?”

When my instinct was to hiss for Ten to be quiet, Lucas narrowed his eyes at me. “Wait. You’re not surprised enough. Did Taemin already tell you he likes you?”

I never stopped being surprised by how perceptive Lucas was. Usually, that trait made him a remarkable best friend because it enabled him to know when I was troubled without requiring an awkward exchange of feelings. In that moment, however, I wanted to kick Lucas for somehow knowing everything.

I didn’t lie exactly. “I don’t think Taemin likes me.” I didn’t think; I knew.

Neither Ten (who just liked to tease everybody) nor Lucas (who just wanted to know every intimate detail of my life) was satisfied by that response. When they continued to pester me about Taemin, I had to adopt the same tone I used in the interview to scold, “Cut it out, guys. I still have to sleep in a room with him tonight and for the rest of the tour, and you’re making it weird!”

My heart was still racing after they ceased their demands for more information. I was so overwhelmed by the fact that I had almost shared my two deepest secrets— Donghae’s love for Mom (which was directly related to her true identity as the idol who never debuted) and my love for Taemin— that I retired to my room early without apologizing to Mark, which was the entire reason why I walked down to the pool in the first place.

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faewhump · 5 years ago

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Unseelie Pet: 10. Chapter

Still rattled from the illusion Alex gets a comforting bath. But when he recovers Malachi uses the opportunity to humiliate him further than ever before.

Previous Masterlist Next

Content warnings: dehumanisation, humiliation, non-consensual touching (not sexual), drugging (faerie food), mentions of torture

Tagging: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whumpsideblog @frnkieroismydaddy @slaintetowhump @thewhiteraven73 @galaxywhump

After a while Alex’s crying calmed down to a quiet sniffling, and his panic subsided.

“Look at how dirty you got yourself again, such a careless pet,” Malachi chided gently, picking a few twigs out of Alex’s hair.

“S-sorry,” Alex mumbled, feeling ashamed. Malachi was right, his escape attempt had left him and his clothes soiled with dirt and sweat.

Malachi tutted. “We’ll have to wash you again, won’t we? Would you like me to give you a bath again, just like we did yesterday?”

Alex nodded shyly. It was weird to hear the bath being referred to as having happened yesterday, to him it felt as if weeks had passed since then. He remembered not being happy about it at the time, but right now he craved the feeling being taken care of, an assurance that he wouldn’t be abandoned and left for death, as well as the warmth of the water. Even though the dark cell hadn’t been real, he still felt its cold in his bones.

He followed Malachi to the bathroom, obediently took off his clothes, not even hesitating this time, and slipped into the tub. Malachi was rummaging around in a cabinet somewhere behind him, and he turned to look over his shoulder expectantly. Malachi chuckled when he saw Alex waiting so eagerly for the part he’d hated the most less than a day ago.

“Such a demanding pet already,” he mused and knelt down next to the tub. “How delightfully adorable.”

This time Alex had no troubles relaxing right from the start as Malachi washed him, melting readily under the Fae’s soft touches. He had been so starved for any kind of touch or attention during his isolation and was almost overwhelmed to receive so much of both now. He also loved listening to Malachi talk, the soothing voice and gentle praise reminded him again and again that he wasn’t alone anymore. His calmness increased even further when Malachi began to feed him pieces of freshly baked bread and other delicacies.

Seeing Alex’s much greater enjoyment compared to the day before, Malachi decided to give it more time and washed him very slowly and thoroughly, making sure to praise him for his lovely behaviour ever so often. When he was finally done he almost had to coax the drowsy human out of the warm water. He took his time towelling Alex off until his skin was dry and rosy, then helped him into a fluffy bathrobe to keep him warm.

“Will you comb my hair again?” Alex mumbled, blinking sleepily.

Malachi smiled. “Of course, darling,” he said and gently guided Alex back into the bedroom. “I like taking care of my pet, and I’m very proud of you for asking so sweetly.”

Alex obediently sat on the pillow in front of the bed and immediately sunk back against Malachi’s legs once he felt the familiar sensation of the comb being threaded through his hair. After the horror of his punishment it now felt like things couldn’t possibly be more perfect. He was so happy to finally be out of the cell; he couldn’t find the energy to be angry at the Fae for treating him like a lesser person. All he cared about right now was that he was warm, clean, sated and most importantly, not alone.

Although it probably wasn’t even close to night, he felt incredibly tired. When Malachi put the comb away he slowly climbed up onto the bed and allowed the Fae to tuck him in, grateful for the sense of safety the familiar gesture brought. Even the before dreaded goodnight kiss was nothing but reassuring this time, and he fell asleep before Malachi even left the room.

Utterly exhausted as he was, Alex slept deep and long, waking up on the following day when the sun already stood high. Compared to the day before the illusion of the dark cell now felt more like a bad dream than a real memory, and his mind was a lot clearer. Looking back he was embarrassed, he had acted like an absolute idiot, crying, begging and even going so far as to seek comfort with the very person that had hurt him.

He also felt stupid for blowing his chances of an easy escape, he should have known that it was useless. Just waiting for and grabbing the first opportunity he got had been a tactic that had worked on Darerca, but Malachi was of a different calibre entirely. No, his next escape attempt would need to be planned carefully if he wanted it to succeed. He would have to collect more information on the palace layout and Malachi’s schedule, making sure that he would be safely out of the forest before the Fae even noticed he was gone.

Routinely Alex dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for him and fed his breakfast to the crows in the courtyard. He couldn’t let Malachi ever catch him again. This time he had only punished him with an illusion, and despite the extreme effects it had had on him, an illusion probably wouldn’t suffice a second time. The day before Malachi seemed to have forgiven him, but Alex wondered whether that really would be all.

When the Fae entered his room around noon, he nervously got up to face him.

“How are you today, little human?” Malachi asked, stepped close and gently ran his knuckles over Alex’s cheek.

Alex turned his head away. “I’m fine.”

“That is very good to hear.” Malachi smiled. If he was disappointed that Alex’s clinginess from the day before had disappeared, he didn’t let it show. “You were so distraught yesterday; it was quite piteous.”

“And whose fault was that?” Alex snapped, fed up with the fake concern.

Malachi fixed him with a stern gaze. “No-one’s but your own, of course. Or must I remind you of your appallingly ungrateful actions? Or the way you lied and tried to deceive me?”

Alex swallowed. “No.”

“No what?” Malachi pressed.

“You don’t have to remind me. It was my fault.” Alex hated this; his mouth tasted like bile.

“Very good.” Malachi nodded approvingly. “Since you did not manage to do so before, please do tell me your name now.”

Alex looked away. This was what he had feared, now that Malachi knew ‘Kieran’ had been fake he would force him to reveal his true name.

“Well?” Malachi prompted.

“No.”

“What was that?”

Alex took a deep breath and met Malachi’s eyes squarely. “No, I won’t tell you my name.”

Malachi tsked. “That does not keep the properties, does it? How should I address you without knowing your name?”

“What, as if you don’t prefer calling me all sorts of ridiculous nicknames anyways?” Alex gave back and immediately regretted his tone when he saw Malachi’s expression.

“You are aware that I could simply torture it out of you, right?” Malachi said matter-of-factly, causing Alex to take a step backwards. “But then again, you could merely continue to lie to me, pretending to be controlled by one fake name after the other, wasting our precious time.” He sighed. “Ah, well. It isn’t as if I’d truly require your name anyways. There might merely be a few inconveniences arising for you thereby.”

Alex didn’t like the smile Malachi gave him on that one bit. He didn’t dare to move away when Malachi stepped in close again and cupped his cheek.

“I felt quite betrayed by your unruly behaviour yesterday, and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to trust you again soon, especially not without knowing your name,” he said. “But it isn’t healthy for humans to stay inside for a long time, therefore we will have to make use of a slightly different method. Call it a precaution.”

Alex was confused as to what Malachi was referring to and stared in shock when he saw the Fae pull out a leash. He tried to jerk away, but Malachi kept him in place effortlessly with a hand on the back of his neck. Shame and humiliation burned through him as the Fae hooked the filigree gold chain into the front of his collar. He wanted to protest but knew it would be pointless.

“Now, now, cheer up, my sweet,” Malachi said good-humouredly and patted his cheek. “If you do well practising here today, I will take you outside again soon.”

What followed was one of the most humiliating experiences of Alex’s life. He wanted nothing more than to fight Malachi and refuse, but didn’t dare to upset the Fae even more than he already had. On the one hand he was very glad that no one else would see him like this while they “practised”, on the other he could barely imagine anything more humiliating than to be led around on a leash in a room. At first Malachi held the leash rather short and pulled steadily, forcing Alex to follow if he didn’t want to be chocked.

Eventually, Malachi stopped and yanked the leash down. “Kneel.”

Reluctantly Alex obeyed, internally dying of shame.

“Good boy,” Malachi praised and petted his head. “You are doing well so far.”

Alex swallowed and turned his face away; he didn’t want to see Malachi’s smugness.

“Well, what do you think? Doesn’t this just work beautifully?” Malachi asked, sounding way too happy for Alex’s taste.

“It’s awful,” Alex replied truthfully. “It’s humiliating and I hate it.”

Malachi forced Alex to look up at him with a hand twisted tightly in his hair. “Is that so? I think you should be more grateful that I allow you to walk upright and don’t make you crawl.” He smirked at Alex’s horrified expression, clearly enjoying himself.

Alex was so glad when shortly thereafter Malachi gave the leash a sharp yank again and said, “Up.”

Leading him around the room now, Malachi gave the leash more slack and seemed pleased that Alex still followed.

“Such a smart pet, learning so fast!” Malachi cooed, and Alex had to use all of his control not to punch him.

When they came close to the bed Malachi yanked down again, and Alex obediently knelt on the pillow at the foot, earning himself a head pat in praise. To his horror Malachi tied the leash to a bed post and strictly said, “Stay.” Then he left the room.

Alex shifted his weight, unsure of how long he was supposed to wait like this. He hated it, at least before he hadn’t been treated like a dog, but apparently Malachi had to humiliate him more every day. Even though he wasn’t in pain, Alex felt like crying. He hated the clinks the chain links made whenever he moved, despite their quietness each of them felt like a slap in the face.

What if that was it? What if he wouldn’t be able to escape and this was his life now? He was already a lot further gone than he would have ever expected; wearing a collar, tied to a bed post with a leash, kneeling obediently and waiting for his owner. He shouldn’t just sit here and accept it; he should fight every second and refuse to give in even one inch. But whenever he thought about fighting, he inevitably thought about the punishments as well.

When Malachi returned he was clearly pleased with Alex’s behaviour, immediately slid a hand into his hair and praised him.

“You’re doing so well, darling,” he murmured and sat on the bed, placing the tray of food he’d carried next to him. “You have earned yourself a treat.”

Of course Alex’s traitorous stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, rendering his hopes of pretending to not be hungry impossible. He obediently leaned in to take the sweet confection Malachi offered him with his mouth, closing his eyes in bliss at the marvellous taste. At any rate the faerie food would make it easier for him to forget the awfulness of his situation, at least for a little while.

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courtorderedcake · 5 years ago

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Hallow : ch xviii - CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.”

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns

Ch 18 / ?? - In which battles almost won are lost.

Emma slept as Killian guided the ship through the portal, and then into the sunlit turquoise waters of a palm tree lined harbor. She had slept the day before in fitful bouts of exhaustion, losing herself in fever as he looked on helplessly, the Darkness snapping its jaws. The black that pooled like ink across her chest had spread, Emma whispering the word parasite in hisses at him between remembering things she shouldn't be remembering. She was hysterical, warning him about 'the parasite', and 'to remember the Dark One', staring at him before begging him for help he could not muster.

It was clear that he was the cause of Emma's condition, both in action and in reaction to her. His ignorance in not noticing she was sick, throwing away her medicine, listening to the concerns over her cough so they had stayed on the isle for just enough extra time - it all fell on him.

Alice Jones had been sickly, her disease life long. A spore grew in the dank caves of the Blackwater and its surrounding village, the Ladies Reform Academy, or the Baelfire Hold that caused Lichenlung, a lung disease that took female Fae. The disease itself wasn't deadly, but the fevers caused by weakness generally were. His mother had died from such a fever, her coughing fits and inability to choke down breaths eventually strangling her. He'd studied cures in the Naval academy, his required duties bringing him to the bedside of over two dozen women stricken with the illness. Even Milah had succumbed to it eventually, the message she left him still haunting him.

Emma sounded and had symptoms like the people he had seen in their last days. He was honestly uncertain that the princess would survive, a thought that thoroughly terrified him and the Darkness. In the secreted corner where he harbored other emotions, terror was an understatement that threatened dire consequences. The Darkness finding he still felt whatever it was that made Emma so much more would break him, and risk it making good on its promises to hurt her. Even as panic gripped the small scrap of light left in him, the Darkness had only just begun to realize its precious shard would disappear.

How to help her was the issue. The Dark One being loose had most surely made it to places like this . He'd only heard of them in his naval career, been told tales from his Father as a lad when the Blackwater Lord had spared him a glance, and generally been too busy doing the Goblin King's bidding to know too much about his surroundings. But in his understanding of Agrabah's history, it was a blackmarket goods and information brokerage hub. Royalty turned a blind eye on what was good for keeping gold in its coffers and ships in its ports; the thieves, ne'er do wells, and bandits did their best to not rob everyone blind.

He could not bloody well run in the market carrying the Princess of the United Realms in his arms. Were their healers the type to recognize them, or ask questions? Would their ship be inspected? Would he get a knife in his belly or more worryingly, Emma's? Killian didn't have any idea of if they even had healers, or doctors - they knew nothing about the place. It was the blind leading the…

He found himself at her bedside more than he cared to admit, as if whispering apologies would save her from his spreading filth. As it became clear the waters were placid, he hauled pillows up beside him, laying Emma in the shaded corner. She woke briefly, fluttering her eyelashes against his neck and whispering his name. Steering them into the docks, he threw out his ties to the pier, knotting them with ease. A loud thunk threw off his precision as it reverberated through the planks, Killian on his feet with sword drawn in moments. Two pairs of startled brown eyes looked up at him, Anisapi dressed in embroidered kaftans standing in front of him on a great carpet.

"We mean you no harm," the first said, his maroon kaftan matching his fez, primate tail whipping back with nervous anxiety. He smiled, or attempted to, but his sharp canines did little to aid his welcome. His voice was slightly scratchy, but it wasn't surprising as he shuffled his body weight between his feet and knuckles. "Our Sultana, may her sight never fail us, summons you to the palace. Come at once!"

"And who the bloody hell are you, the petting zoo?" Killian flicked his sword upward, motioning for the Anisapi to back away. The monkey scratched at himself, but the jungle predator growled lowly. "I don't know a Sultana. I am here -

"Be still, Dark One," the larger of the beasts snarled, his whiskers twitching. His eyes were more tawny than the monkey, his orange and black fur bristled in irritation. His large tail flicked wildly, snakelike. "Your lady is in danger. Sultana Jasmine can help your princess."

Killian tried to lunge forward, but the tiger was quick despite its size, pinning him on the deck.

"How did you -" Killian panted, unable to push off its heavy weight as the Anisapi held him with ease, his paws massive. "How do you know about the princess? Who are -"

Emma whimpered, Killian turning his head to see the monkey resting its fur covered knuckles against her forehead.

Thrashing wildly, Killian swore as the monkey reached for her necklace and the shard. "Leave her alone, don't you lay a bloody paw on her -"

"Abu!" The tiger Anisapi growled lowly, and the monkey stopped short, pouting. "Don't even think about it. You are in enough trouble as it is."

"I just wanted to -" The monkey protested, but the tiger snarled viciously.

"You're upsetting our guests you furry toothpick."

"To be fair mate," Killian hissed, pressing back against the tiger's hold, "You're the only one who is upsetting me. Get off of me, tell me who you are, and how the hell you knew we were here."

The tiger's ears pressed lower on his head, but he sprung off of Killian to allow them both to stand. Killian pushed past them to check Emma, the monkey scooting away sheepishly.

"Our Sultana predicted that you would come, seeking her aid. I am her advisor, Raja." The tiger Anisapi bowed low, his stature even at half height impressive. Emma shivered against him, burying her face into Killian’s warm chest. Raja gestured at the monkey, with a twirl of his claw. "This is her…"

The tiger exchanged a nervous look with the other Anisapi, before the monkey spoke.

"I'm her new assistant. Abu, at your service." The monkey winked at Emma with a grin, and she laughed slightly. Turning carefully in Killian’s hold with little noises of protest every so often, he heard her stiff joints creaking from fever.

All your fault. You made her suffer, you make anyone who you are close to suffer. Imagine, thinking you loved her, or that she could love you!

You'd destroy her. Ruin her.

"I'm -" Emma attempted, but could not push any more words past her parched lips. She tried again, but doubled over instead as Killian’s guilt suffocated him without relent.

Do you think she remembers it was you yet?

Maybe she won't remember until she takes in her last gulps of air, wouldn't that be poetic? Certainly sounds like our flare for dramatics…

Imagine her final moments knowing that you were her murderer, the one who she tried so hard to trust. So much for choosing to see you at your best, eh vessel?

"It's alright. We know who you are, Princess… and we are aware of your companion. The Sultana knew you would be ill. Make haste to the palace, both of you, at once." Raja handed Killian a scroll, Abu unrolling another carpet onto the deck. "We have rooms made up for you both and healers at the ready. Hurry, Dark One."

Abu and Raja moved back to their carpet, which lifted into the air, its gold and royal purple threads shimmering in the sunlight. They sped away towards the city, leaving Emma and him alone again on the deck. She hummed against him, drawing her legs up into his hold before going limp again.

"I want to go home. I want my mom." Her forehead rubbed against his chest, dampening his shirt. "Please, stay with me. I feel so - please ---"

Killian couldn't reply, everything caught in his throat or tucked away from the Darkness. Emma didn't seem to notice, to his relief, her eyes fluttering closed. She slept soundly within seconds. Carrying her to the enchanted rug, he pulled her into his lap without comment, noticing how light she had become in only a week's time.

You knew she wasn't eating, she wasted away in front of you and you knew that it was your fault. You condemned her to die, another reason your love was imagined. You did this to her. You will be her demise. Get the shard, let her -

"NO!" Killian hissed, the carpet beneath him shuddering to life. It lifted itself, bright reds, oranges and turquoise dancing over the deck. He'd come back and grab their belongings, but for now, Emma needed whatever anyone was willing to give.

It was his hand that had caused this as he squeezed her beating heart, his hands that had tore her from the island, thrown away medicine into the sea, ignored her symptoms, and let her get this bad.

We get the shard then and we leave, never to hurt her again. She will beg for you to leave her when she learns this is all your fault. The quicker you can get the shard, the better… It would be a shame if she remembered how you crushed her heart with glee.

Her hair tickled his chin, blowing in the wind as the palace towers appeared. The scroll had been a very easy to follow set of instructions with a map to a far balcony where they would land. Once there, the carpet landed gently on tiled floor, servants appearing in procession. If this was an ambush, it couldn't have been planned better, the group surrounding them against a sheer drop. His neck hair rose, sweat beading there despite his best efforts. The Sultana was draped in blush silks, her dark brown hair seeded with pearls that lay in a golden mesh wrapped plait. She watched Killian warily, eyes darting to Emma as the princess began to wheeze. Taking a deep breath, he hoped beyond measure that they had not fallen into a trap of some kind.

"She's barely conscious." Killian moved forward, guards raising curved blades to protect the Sultana. "Please, if that's what you brought us here for, the princess needs help."

The Sultana looked at him, her deep brown eyes narrowing. She stared for a few seconds, blinking with a strange sort of unsure confusion in her eyes before finally straightening.

"I am the Seer of the Sands, Sultana Jasmine." Jasmine's voice was soft and melodic, accented words clipped with formality. "May my sight be your own, and may we see all."

Her guards lowered their weapons, making the symbol of an eye with their index and middle fingers while muttering some short devotion. Killian glared, grunting at the decorum happening in favor of Emma's health.

"Great, do you have a healer or help for her, or -"

"Yes, of course Dark One." The Sultana nodded. "Come, follow me."

Killian hadn't noticed before, but as he hoisted Emma further against his shoulder, he became aware of why the procession had unnerved him. The Sultana was clearly Fae of some sort, but the group surrounding her was made up of Anisapi, Elves, Fae, Nymphs, Mortals, and more frightening, a few Goblins. His nose wrinkled in disgust as he held Emma tighter to him.

The Sultana led them nearby, pushing open thick wood doors to reveal a courtyard with a small pool and fountain. A shaded set of chairs were canopied by gauzy linens, with two sets of double doors on the far end. One was open revealing a hallway butted against a balcony looking over the city. The other had linen drapes that blew in the breeze, providing some curtained privacy to another chamber.

"Down that hallway is your quarters, Dark One. Here," the Sultana opened the first set of doors, motioning Killian to enter, "Is where my Doctors and best healers will treat the Princess Emma."

The room was a polished sand colored marble, bed small but neatly made against a large stained glass window. Strange countertops on wheels were positioned with various bottles and instruments on them, and as Killian eased Emma into the bed he realized that a group of Fae were watching him expectantly in wait. Emma protested weakly when he let go of her to step out of their way, her soft exclaim falling to a sigh when a syringe filled with something the color of mud was injected into her arm.

"Come." The Sultana linked her arm with Killian’s, his body jolting. She stared deeply into his eyes, ignoring his hatred for her touch, walking him to sit at the pool. "You must have questions, yes? And you must tell us what you know to help save Princess Emma. We must speak."

"Not bloody likely." He wrenched away, pushing back towards where Emma lay still. "What did they just inject her with? I don't care if you're a sodding queen, what are you doing with the princess? How did you know we were coming?"

"I am Sultana Jasmine, Seer -"

"I know who you bloody are, how did you know!?"

"If you had listened , rude man in my kingdom, you would know I can see the future. I see its many paths, and I have premonitions. It is how I have kept my Agrabah so safe; the gift of my mother, a Djinn." She tried to lay a hand on him again, but he backed away, sitting in a corner where he could see Emma clearly. An Elven man with gloved hands was pouring a soft gel over her forehead that glowed a dulled color on contact. Others scribbled notes while a siren carefully peeled away the princess’s sweaty clothes with care, laying down a blanket of sheer silk. The Sultana cleared her throat expectantly, and his eyes flicked back to her with annoyance.

"A Djinn?" he asked, incredulously. Djinn did not have offspring as far as he knew; they were born of chaos or created.

"Yes. The premonitions are the reason I knew you would come." The Sultana hesitated, watching him carefully. He stared back, trying to ignore the Darkness and remain impassive. "If you had not come, the princess would have died in three days time. Here, you have a better chance, in the paths I saw."

The news brought an onset of instant relief and elation. He couldn't hide from the Sultana or the Darkness how happy it made him to know Emma would be alright, his words tumbling out without care.

"So you know she will be healed, and what the future holds -"

"Oh, God's no." The Sultana laughed, the sound lilting.

You pathetic simpleton. Your princess is as good as dead, and all thanks to you.

"No…?"

"We will do our best to help her, and she should recover."

"Ah." He swallowed hard.

"The paths I see are infinite, and I can only see so many. Like branches on a tree, I can see which direction the limbs go, or how large the tree is from a glance. It's when I need to see the branches and leaves that causes me to focus. You can only take in so much. So no, but I saw some outcomes, and what we are doing now will help prevent what negative outcomes I can." She smiled softly, her brown eyes warm.

"How can we know that you are trustworthy?" Killian asked, leveling a cold glare at her. Her smile didn't waiver, but grew wider.

"I suppose you can't, but if we wanted you dead, I have plenty of viper poison at my disposal that could kill you in mere minutes. Since you don't seem to be able to die according to the legend, it would be a painful way to suffer in unending agony, that's for sure." The Sultana shrugged, with a wink. "I suppose we will have to have faith in each other, yes?"

He nodded slightly, and the Sultana turned, taking her leave.

After an hour or so of watching different concoctions poured over Emma and watching countless Fae or Elementals write notes, he excused himself to his room. A dwarf with a shocking cobalt beard and studded eyebrows dragged in a large wash basin, not spilling any of the steaming water within. He grunted at Killian, dropping a few bottles and a large towel on a table before leaving. Without a second thought, Killian stripped to dip himself in the tub. The water was hot enough to pink his skin, but the heat felt right in the airy room as he scrubbed himself raw.

Eventually, Killian felt his thoughts slip to Emma, marveling briefly how well Jasmine and she would get on, even though he had only just met Agrabah's ruler. Of course, Emma loved everyone, because she was too trusting, too bloody good for her own well-being. The Sultana though, seemed genuine. She seemed caring. A person who Emma would find a kinship with.

If she survives to meet her.

He buried his head in the steaming water, wishing he could rinse the Darkness and the doubt that ate away at him clean.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The Darkness did not let him rest as the hours crept past, plaguing him with all manner of its devices, his teeth grinding as he tried to ignore it. It was easy enough to enjoy the heated water, the silks, the fresh fruit and drink that seemed to appear without end as servants politely knocked to leave tray after tray, even with the whine of it in the back of his head. But the unfamiliar feeling of wrong was wearing on Killian’s last nerve. It felt empty, as if the color was muted or his senses were dampened.

Your senses are as sharp as ever, you delusional idiot.

Killian chewed slowly on a date, trying to place the feeling while battling with the nasally voice. When he ignored it too long, it fell back on another of its old stand-by irritants sure to get a rise.

“You’re the picture of a Lord now, Killian. The Blackwater family name lives on as a Jones.”

He choked slightly, his father’s voice echoing in his mind, the sneer on the man’s face as he glared across his desk flashing in his memories. Brennan Jones, surrounded by stacks of papers in his paneled study. Surrounded by his portraits of their ships, the Jones men of the Blackwater fighting war after bloody war for whoever was warring with who, at the expense of anyone but the royals themselves. Survival was guaranteed at a certain level of nobility, his father all but too happy to have two fit lads he could send away to gain glory while he bought or sold ships of lesser born men. Alice Jones had fought to keep Liam and Killian from the truths of their worth and the world for as long as she could. They had always had her love, and her support.

When she had died, it was like the colors of the world had muted where there was light, allowing Liam and him to see what they hadn’t before. In the shadows, the truth stalked. It bore down on them as they grew - Liam into the serious next in line Lordling that fought with Father over lives lost or cut corners, and Killian, who hid his hatred poorly but was the easier target. Liam couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Brennan Jones, the master of all things in the Blackwater dominion, was keenly aware of Liam’s every limitation. He was more aware of Killian’s.

“Come now, m’boy. Waiting hand and foot on a Princess, and in the harem den of a Sultana feeding on sunned fruits - You spat on such futures when I presented them to you. You wonder why there is no color, no vigor in your blood… Your answer, is it hard to swallow?”

He threw away the fruit in disgust, the cruel laugh of his father a bellowing echo in his brain. Opening the doors to bring more air into his suffocating suite, he nearly ran headlong into a brightly colored mass of feathers. It squawked in surprise, raising arms ending in long plumess, the red and blue flashing in the light.

“I’m - My Lord I -” A platter of something clattered to its bird taloned feet, as it stared at him with beady eyes over a mouth that tapered into a beak. More bird than Fae, but not an Anisapi, the reptilian skin and strange stature was wrong. The creature took a step back, its ears poking out under its crest, and the pieces clicked together.

A spy, a snake, sent to watch you!

“Why are you here?” Killian snarled, kicking the tray out of the way, the Goblin flinching back further. “Who sent you? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize poison?”

Kill it! Kill it, and kill -

“My Lord, the kitchens - I simply work in the kitchens, my name is Iago -” The Goblin moved to grab the tray, but Killian was on him faster, wrenching his wing behind the creature’s back. “Please - I - what have I done, my Lord?”

Raja appeared from where Emma’s room lay, to Killian’s relief, moving towards them with purpose.

“This thing tried to -” Killian thrust the Goblin forward , twisting its feathered arm to turn it.

Raja cut him off, roughly tackling Killian to the floor. “Iago, did this Fae hurt you?”

Kill them ALL vessel, get the shard, take it and leave nothing but broken -

“No, no, Raja sir, I don’t -”

“Did I hurt IT ?” Killian roared, staring in disbelief. “That bloody fucking Goblin -”

“Has been in the service of the kitchens here, since before your enemy was born.” Raja growled lowly. “He served the past Sultan and the Divining Light of the Desert Oasis, the Sultana Aura. He now serves the Seer of the Sands, Sultana Jasmine, and will serve her until the day her sight should ever fail us, forbid it to happen. He is no enemy of yours, Dark One, or your Princess.”

"Do it, do as I command, son! You worthless, whining, awful child. Do it. Liam would have! Liam had honor! He should be alive instead of you."

Killian only grunted in return, Raja standing quickly and offering a large paw. He swatted it aside, glaring at the trembling Goblin as he stood.

“Do not send it up here again,” he hissed. The Goblin looked helpless, and Raja scowled.

“He will, or your princess will no longer have me as her guard,” Raja rumbled out, his dark eyebrows raising in challenge as he bared his teeth. “Your choice.”

Killian gritted his teeth, glancing between the two.

“Please let him stay, Killian.” Emma’s soft whisper was barely audible, but his gaze immediately snapped to look at her. She leaned against the door to her room further up the hallway, the wind blowing the gauzy white curtains behind her. Still pale and flushed, when she stumbled slightly, both Iago and Raja were by her side within moments.

"You are pathetic. Even Liam knew it, he told you he never cried when he took your lashes because he knew that you would never be anything more than a nuisance if you knew the truth."

“Princess, you shouldn’t -” Iago said softly, his Feathers bristling.

"Everyone knew you were pathetic, but Liam took the brunt of it so you could try and be something worthwhile. You failed everyone so completely, and now you can't even protect the key to your freedom resting on that chain."

“Iago, you promised me you would help with my dreams,” Emma moaned slightly as they helped her back through the doorway, the curtains tangling around her slightly. “I want you to stay. You are fine, like none of the Goblin folk I have ever met. Please, please don’t stay away. Killian should have been told - ”

"You could take it, you could make someone get it for you. You won't though, will you, son? You know she's going to die because of you. You don't have to be a failure this time, this time you could be free!"

“He attacked an innocent staff member because he is garbage specist scum,” Raja gritted out, Emma shaking her head emphatically in disagreement. “Iago could have been hurt -”

“I’m fine Raja, really,” Iago insisted. “My wing is fine, I was just surprised. Let’s drop it.”

“I don’t trust that thing, Emma,” Killian hissed. Raja stood taller, squaring his shoulders, but Emma raised her chin.

"She should not trust you. No one should."

“Leave us,” she whispered. Raja and Iago bowed quickly, leaving with a few of her medical team who were watching with confusion. Killian watched her slow movements, his fingers twitching when her hand rubbed hard against the column of her throat.

Get the shard.

"Yes, m'boy, get the shard. Get it and you will have everything you ever want."

"Well,” she said with a tired sigh, settling into her cot. She looked exhausted, but he noticed that more unsettling was her irritation with him. “Hey. I know we haven’t - I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but... Can you stop pissing off the staff and abusing them? It’s not exactly making an unpleasant stay anymore pleasant."

She coughed, looking at him pointedly.

"Nothing has been pleasant with her around."

"Fine,” he grumbled. She nodded and laid back, with a sigh of relief.

“Now… Good morning. Are you alright? I had wondered if you left. I hadn’t seen you in so long.”

We should have left. We should have taken the shard and -

Killian scratched behind his ear, frowning. “Good morning, Princess. If I leave I’ll say my goodbyes to you beforehand, but I - I haven’t made any plans,” he admitted, quietly. “How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?" Emma whispered, her voice a dry and shrill echo of her normal honey timbre. "Like shit."

Good. Let her perish. Once we get the shard, that is.

"You must be feeling somewhat better to forego your usual regal manner of speaking," he teased.

“You are one to talk. What you did - Killian, I can’t -” She pinched the bridge of her nose before violently wheezing into another coughing fit. “I’m so mad at you right now, and I don’t have the energy to be mad. Why? Just -”

“That thing is a Goblin! That’s why!” Killian interrupted, looking at her with disbelief.

“Just, can you please give him a chance?” When he didn’t answer, she shook her head sadly. “I’m so tired, and I can’t… I can't keep fighting with you. I can't have this dynamic anymore…” Trailing off, he felt a heaviness in his chest, the ache becoming more common. Was he sick as well?

"What is wrong with you?"

“I said - I said fine! Fine.” He shrugged. “Fine, it’s sodding fine. It’s your bloody funeral.”

“Would you show up to my funeral, just to say I told you so?” Emma chuckled lightly, but he didn’t return her smile.

“Depends on the menu you serve,” Killian replied dryly, shrugging. She smiled slightly, looking at him expectantly. His frown deepened as he carded his hand through his hair. “I’m just worried for you, and I -”

“I’ve been more worried about you,” Emma stated without irony. The Darkness scoffed in his Father's voice.

She hummed, eyes closing and a cough rattling her chest. "You've been acting weird, and not just because I'm sick. This whole fight, this attack, how awful you've been lately to me and anyone else crossing your path… It’s not the you I know. I thought honesty and a little bit of snark -" Emma broke into more hacking, taking deep gulps of air. She reached for his hand, but he snatched it away, making a point of not looking at her directly after he saw her face fall.

This is why you must leave!

"I'll go get you some more water." He stood, dusting himself off. The ache in his chest was sharper, coupled with a feeling of shame. The Darkness tried to press at him to be angry, to attack her again, to insult and belittle her as he had done on board the ship but he refused.

"No, wait - please stay, don't leave me here alone already." Emma reached out for him, but he walked away briskly towards a servant. She started coughing again, the steady decline of her health making it harder for her to breathe. "Killian, please?" she whimpered, but he rounded the corner as fast as he could get away from her. It wasn't the first time he had fled from her as she fought whatever illness had taken hold.

His room sat behind her own, the walk out of the wing putting him in full view of where she rested. It had worried him at first, the open air home to the wind, pests, and sand, but a caregiver had eased his thoughts by mentioning a protective spell around the room. Emma seemed eased by the breezes, which had given way to his taciturn reluctance to be anywhere near where she was. Several times she had called out for him, once even attempting to follow after him until she stumbled into the arms of a nurse.

When they were forced into conversation by Jasmine's crafty handiwork, Emma continued to question him about what came to pass in their shared dream. She was remembering more and more, specific details that made him squirm in his seat. She believed wholeheartedly they were simply dreams, but as they continued he caught her glances at him more and more. Her lingering looks, the blush in her cheeks that she tried to will away with a bite to her lip, the soft tone she said his name in - it all was entirely too much to be close to.

It was as if his body wanted her desperately, her closeness addicting, but the Darkness and his common sense screeched at the reaction. Running from her was cowardice, but necessary.

He spent time wandering the stalls of the market, numbly taking in the scents of foreign spices and the colors of vibrant silks.

Get the shard and leave. Run away to freedom, take your life back from the hands of the weak Princess. Leave her behind. You're doing her a favor by abandoning her before we break her.

The Darkness chattered non stop, its grating voice a low hum in the front of his mind. Deeper, there was an echo that he clung too, even if it was in whispers. It pointed at emerald pendants that caught the light, sparkling at him, and the patterns embroidered in the clothing the Agrabah people favored, hung on display. Golden swans swimming in unfurled blooms across damask and silk, a jeweled veil that went along to match made him pause, his fingers sliding along the fabric of their own will.

"Pretty silks for a pretty woman in your life, yes?" The shopkeeper grinned, eyeing Killian with narrowed eyes.

"No, I'm afraid I don't have -"

The shopkeeper scoffed, swatting at his hand with annoyance. "Then look with your eyes, and begone."

He blinked at the man's bluntness, turning away with a snort of laughter. Emma would have loved this. If she were here, she would have charmed the man into giving her the bloody outfit for free, just because that was the beauty of who she was -

The Darkness whined louder, as if it could sense his weakness. He fled, not to his ship where he had once felt nothing but comfort - no, that was filled with her too, her smell, her laughter; the bed was still a twisted mess of covers from where she had lain ill. He could see her there, or worse still, the images of them together, curled around each other in a gentle doze. Being there was like a candle being smothered, the air taken from every space.

It took a few days of wandering, but he found a makeshift place to rest away from the palace that suited him. It had been, or was, a home of some vagabond at one point, cloth rags curtaining what had once been a wall, a full view of the palace and sky, while broken produce crates had been placed to use as shelves. A threadbare rug lay on the dusty floor, next to a straw pallet.

Killian did not use the bed, instead sitting on the edge of the wall, looking out over the view as he tried to lose himself.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The voice startled him, his head whipping around to see the man approaching him cautiously. He was dark haired, a true shock of it that was swept back in a messy swipe, his large brown eyes regarding Killian with a wary curiosity.

"Sorry mate. Don't want trouble if this is your spot; just liked the view," Killian said evenly, not moving save to gesture at the palace.

The man nodded, moving to sit across from Killian, producing two apples from his pocket. He threw one at Killian, who caught it easily.

"It is one heck of a view," he said simply. After a long moment of silence, he spoke again. "Do you think that the people who live there are happy?"

Killian tilted his head, looking out at the gleaming towers of the palace, and taking a bite of the apple. Chewing slowly, he swallowed hard without looking at the man. "No. I don't think there is much true happiness to be found there."

More silence followed, both men eating their apples. It was broken again by the stranger.

"Name is Aladdin, by the way."

"Killian."

"It was nice to meet you, but a word of warning. Trouble is coming for those in the palace - and they deserve every bit of it. You're new here. Stay clear if you know what's best for you." Aladdin wiped his fingers on his patched pants, and Killian frowned.

"Fair advice, but not very specific," Killian mused, shrugging off his frown before slouching back with false amusement. "What if I like getting into trouble? Is it worth my time to go seeking some fortune in their golden coffers?"

Aladdin narrowed his eyes, jaw jutting up slightly. Anger rippled across his face. "No. No treasure," he said, the words dripping venom. His anger seemed to dissipate as he frowned, staring at the dirty floor. "There isn't anything there for a common thief of a street rat."

"Then tell me what is worth stealing, if you aren't part of the usual riff raff." Killian smirked.

Aladdin hesitated, his earlier energy gone.

"I won't know until tomorrow. I get the orders, and then I grab the object." He scratched his head, adjusting his fez cap. "I just know that any chance I get to punish the Royals is a chance I'm willing to take. The Sultana is heartless. She's a diamond that blinds you before cutting you into ribbons."

Killian arched an eyebrow. "It rather sounds like you and this Sultana are more than intimately acquainted."

Aladdin glared, turning red in his cheeks. "She's much too grand for someone like me," he hissed out.

Killian nodded slowly. "Fine, I'll stay out of your way. I hope the job is worth it."

"When we're done, it will be." Aladdin grinned.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Days passed slowly as Emma begged for company, particularly his. The Sultana and her had taken to each other as soon as Emma began to improve, giggling together as he passed, eating meals together, or talking long into the evenings. Jasmine exerted pressure on him to join them, but Killian dodged her with a practiced finesse he hadn't used since the days before Milah, escaping his father's rages.

The Darkness still slithered in his mind relentlessly, bouncing back and forth between the voice of his captor the Goblin King, and his accursed father. The lack of rest coupled with the descriptions of his mother or a gory ending to Emma's life in Brennan Jones tongue was enough to turn Killian’s insides.

It's fitting you lose every woman in your life to tragedy, isn't it? All three, sickened into an early grave.

"Luckily, your mother never lived to know what you become. You would have her blood on your hands as well."

His mother had died so much like this, her frail body lost among the bedding as a healer sat nearby.

Killian was beyond relieved at the absence of everyone in the palace upon his return, when he saw the princess hobbling towards him in the hallway with a determined look in her eyes. He tried to find an escape, but beyond leaping out of the window, there were none. She bared down on him, menacing even as he took in her exhausted countenance.

"We," she gestured between the two of them, "Have a meeting in 5 minutes."

Killian shook his head. "I don't think - I'm unavailable for any sort of counsel. I'm sorry -"

Emma cut him off, with an annoyed wave of her hand. "Jasmine has been turning away suitors, and she mentioned that she was housing a sick woman with no known cure. Now, my life is tied to Jasmine's hand in marriage." Her voice broke slightly, but she was quick to cough, looking at him with hard eyes as her words dropped with wry, unhappy sarcasm. "You know, just royal things."

"The Sultana did what?" he hissed, anger beginning to course through him steadily. " Bloody hell , Emma, we need to -"

"I tried . Jasmine is bound by the law here, and I am bound by… I need a cure. These suitors of hers may have something that can rid me of this. One of them says he knows what this illness is." She pointed to her chest. "The healers Jasmine has blessed us with can keep treating the symptoms of this, but not for long. I - There's nothing else that can be done. I need a cure, and quickly."

"This doesn't concern me, or you. We will stay here while they -"

"Killian, you're not understanding me. I have no other options. This - this is a last resort that I'll be lucky to have work." Emma bit her lip, looking downcast. She did not meet his gaze as his rage grew into a panicked fury.

Swallowing hard, she wrapped her arms around her frail frame. "We need to talk, Killian. I've tried - The treatment isn't going to do much more than make my symptoms better until it doesn't. I don't have a lot of hope at this point." The last sentence was whispered, and she closed her eyes before wiping away wetness. "I wanted your input. The situation here just didn't, well, pan out… Therefore, I have named you as my second. Should I die, you will be the shard's owner."

You've killed her, vessel of mine. Maybe I was wrong about your usefulness after all! You've freed us, and the United Realms will fall for it.

"Your vengeance is finally within sight."

Killian struggled to breathe, the Darkness triumphantly purring in his mind. The secreted feelings he held close burned, disbelief at the possibility that he might lose her, that he was the cause of her death, of her pain. He stared at her, trying to focus on her words.

"Jasmine has helped me prepare all the documents that will be needed if Fae law ever returns to the realms." Emma pointed to the space on her chest where the shard had laid, its long chain empty. The absence of the silvery pendant was as jarring as the black bruise-like tinge of her skin underneath.

WHERE IS OUR SHARD!?

WHERE HAS THE SICK, SPENT, BITCH PUT IT!?

The Darkness screeched in many voices at once, each enraged as his eardrums pounded inside his skull. His fingers balled into fists, the urge to bruise, to make Emma suffer for this crushing him under its weight. He couldn't, he would never -

FIND IT FIND IT FIND IT AND PUNISH HER. FIND IT AND MAKE HER PAY -

"You gave it to someone else!?" Killian growled as he moved closer, dwarfing her. She took an uncertain step back, her breathing catching in her throat.

Emma gasped slightly, but choked out an answer with wide eyes. "It's alright. I trust the safety of it. Please -"

"You trust - You trust ?" Killian laughed darkly, grinning at her with a malicious sneer. "When has your trust ever been worth a bloody damn? Your trust is meaningless, your faith is worth nothing, and now you have forced me to follow by your side if I want my freedom."

RIP HER APART, GET THE SHARD!

"I made the deal, I need the cure. I am sorry, but you have to trust me on this. I wanted to discuss it, but…" She pleaded, but he refused to hear any of it. The Darkness rose like a tidal wave, furthering every bit of him that sparked with hatred. "It's done. I need you to know my funerary needs, just in case the cure fails, but first we have to meet these suitors - "

"I don't care, Princess. When are you going to understand that I don't want to be here? We aren't friends, I am not doing this out of good will or kindness like your naivete expects. I want to be free of you," he snarled, watching her shrink into a coughing fit. "Does it please you to leash me, Princess? Do you relish in having your faithful pet at your beck and call? I don't want to have your blood on my hands, by tether or not, but if you insist, I will make sure that you regret it."

"Killian, please, I -"

"THAT'S IT, M'BOY.

MAKE HER SUFFER."

"I don't want to be your second. I wouldn't want to be your fifth, or even your sixty-third!" Killian spat, his anger pouring out of him. His father's voice taunted him relentlessly, egging him on, and he could barely think over its noise. Something quieter tugged at him too, begging him to stop. It begged him to look at her tearstained face, and her clear horror as her hands rose to cover her mouth in shock. At the way she flinched back when he moved, or made a gesture, obviously in fear. He ignored it, lashing out as his father laughed. "You are an absolutely infuriating and insufferable companion; once you are healthy, you will give me the shard, we will end this alliance, and you will never see me again."

Emma stood in stunned silence for a long moment as he panted, before giving a short, barely there nod.

"As you wish," she whispered, finally meeting his eyes. They were nearly as bloodshot as his own as she trembled.

THE PRINCESS DESERVES THIS.

The smallest, barely there whisper was almost drowned out completely as it cried, trying to get him not to listen.

The Princess does not deserve any of this, or any of this rage. She's scared of you. You hurt her .

You caused this. You .

"Now, where the sodding fuck are these suitors? The sooner we get this finished, the better," he seethed, Emma pointing in silence to a set of double doors with thick golden inlay. He pushed them open forcefully, coming face to face with a familiar man dressed in traditional finery.

"Ah, Dark One. Princess." Jasmine gestured from her throne for them to approach. A group of men stood before her, giving bows as Emma was helped to a smaller chair next to Jasmine's, Raja gesturing at him to move so that Killian stood by her side. The men drew closer beckoned by Raja as he stood in front of his Sultana.

"The kingdom of Camelot has demanded the laws of the open palm be laid out, here forward," Raja boomed out. "The offer stands at a cure for the mystery illness plaguing her guest, given with an open palm, in return for the Sultana's hand in marriage. One by one, please present yourself. Tonight we dine together, and tomorrow you will begin seeking a cure. If the guest is injured, made worse, or dies from a proposed cure, the offer is void. If the guest dies before a cure is found, the offer is void."

"Thank you, Raja," Jasmine stated robotically. Her face was solemn, no hint of any emotion.

Raja nodded, then set his sights on the first of the four men.

The first was tall, and somehow sinewy, his fingers long around a golden cane shaped like a snake. His deep, wine and dark garnet robes were elaborately lined in golden embroidery that made his dark skin and eyes seem to glow as if lit by embers.

"I am Jafar." He bowed low, the deep plum jewel in his tall turban glinting in the light. "I was the vizier of this kingdom at one time, and helped the queen navigate life with her Djinn powers. I have come to seek a place for my wisdom once more."

Jafar's thick, syrupy voice made Killian want to shudder, but what was more unnerving was that the man had spared no glance to his would be bride, or Emma. Jafar had leveled his gaze straight into Killian’s own, blinking slow, and never looked away even as his lips curled into a smirk.

Killian tore his eyes away with difficulty as the next man began to speak. He was dressed in a grey and blue chiton, the silver clasps accentuating his pale skin, red hair, and matching the ice of his pinched glare at Emma.

"I am Hades, named for the God and blessed by him to rule the Southern Hills. I conquered the Amazons, defeated the monsters this world let loose, and I alone tamed the great Titans of the old world until they grew too willful. I crushed them, and will crush anything in my path with ease should I gain your foresight." He knelt, dragging his glare from Emma to stare up at Jasmine. "You may not be my Persephone, but you will be a beautiful prize, hard won."

A knight dressed in leather studded mail bowed low next, dark hair and cheerful eyes matched by a blinding smile. He looked between both Jasmine and Emma with a prideful grin.

"I am Arthur, the reason we are all here, King of Camelot, Holder of the Sword of Pure Truth, given to me by the spirit of Lake Nostros. I come to ask for either of your hands in marriage." Emma visibly tensed, and Killian swallowed back the urge to glare. "I am in need of a queen who loves her people, her kingdom, and her king. I thought I had that once, but betrayal and hardship is not unknown to any of us. I hope to not only heal you, Princess Emma, but potentially bring you or the beautiful desert diamond Sultana Jasmine happiness. You both deserve it, along with the utmost peace."

Arthur's eyes flicked to Killian briefly, and there was a glimmer of something that felt dishonest and unclean. It was gone so quickly it had to be imagined as Killian looked at the last man once more.

His dark shock of hair was laid under a turban, the bright peacock feather in it held on by a glittering plum jewel. His face was familiar, large dark eyes and long eyelashes full of mirth and trepidation, as if he didn't quite belong. Killian looked harder, trying to place him. Was he a courtier? No, that couldn't be. Had he been in the market? The realization hit him, putting him immediately on edge. Aladdin winked at Killian in his disguise, as he purred out an introduction.

"I am Shah Ali of Ab'dua," Aladdin smirked up at the three of them. "And I will easily win your heart, as well as cure the Princess Emma. It's an absolute pleasure to meet you both."

#Courtorderedcake #18th #June #2020 #June 18th 2020 #Hallow #My writing #CSSNS 2019 #CSSNS #I'm so close to being done #God #What a relief #Fuuuuck #Captain Swan #CS AU #CS FF #CS AU FF #CS FIC

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sweetdeathwrites · 6 years ago

Text

If I Don’t Have You

Pairing: Howl/Reader

Summary: I have nothing. In which Howl is a coward.

Warnings: in which the whole thing is 2nd POV as always, angst, sadness, unrequited love... or is it?, vent fic, Let’s Keep Making Bad Choices Challenge!, mean but true depiction of Howl Pendragon Jenkins

Word Count: 2,719

(posted on Luna/AO3. Original A/N below.)

(his is p much just a vent fic :/ i'm really in love w Howl and have been feeling kinda low for a while. Inspired by I Have Nothing by Whitney Houston......I've been listening to Whitney on repeat for like 6 days straight and I cry every time to this song pls help also this is unbeta'd as usual so. yeah)

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“You’re not leaving again, are you?” You try not to sound too needy but it’s hard when everyone’s always walking out of your life. Howl stands with one hand tugging his red cloak tighter around him, smiling gently down at you– with pity. “No, love. Not yet.” Your shoulders droop with relief but still you can barely keep your stomach from turning over in nervousness. His fair blond hair floats around his face and he draws nearer, taking one of your hands and uncurling your fingers from your palms and pressing kisses to the grooves your nails left there. There’s never enough time with him. Howl is always running from someone or something and he always makes it out by the skin of his teeth. You want to tell him to stop running, be can’t run from himself, but you know he wouldn’t listen. He’s a coward and you love him for it. He takes your hands in his and pressed them to his chest so that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It soothes you just enough so that you can meet his eyes. “Not quite yet, but there’s something I need to check up on,” his clear blue eyes stare into you with an intensity that’s too intimate for you to bear and you want to look away, you want to never feel the lightness in your chest that comes with being by his side, but you are pinned like an especially interesting butterfly to a board when it comes to him. You want to stretch your powdery wings and let the sun catch in your many colors but at the end of the day, it’s Howl that gets everything. “It won’t be long, at the most I’ll be back in the morning.” He’s as selfish as you want to be. Apparently he can see the despair in your eyes because he coos and wraps his arms around you, kissing your hair and holding you tightly. “Oh, no, no, no, sweetheart, don’t give me that look– it hurts me more than you know.” “You don’t have to leave.” “Darling, please don’t.” “You can stay here, with me,” you tug on the sleeves of his poet shirt pleadingly and try to will the tears out of your eyes, “You can stay here, or we can hide– we can hide out deep in the mountains! Or by the sea! Doesn’t that sound nice?” You hold him even closer, begging to the cosmos to let him stay, let him stay. With tenderness enough to make you cry, he pulls you from him and brings his face to yours, kissing away your tears and brushing your hair away from your hot face. The doorway blurs into his face and you can see the wheel that dictates his location leering at you from behind him, answering you more directly than Howl ever would. “I have to go.” He smiles again and it breaks your heart. He’s such a charmer, a ladies’ man, an all around knock-out and you hate him for having to share him with everyone else. “It won’t be long– didn’t I tell you it won’t be long?” “You don’t have to,” you repeat, “You don’t have to do any of this. We can just run away! That’s what you always do, right? Take me with you this time!” Howl is quiet, still smoothing your hair down, and Calcifer’s flames crack and pop in the silence between the two of you. Calcifer is probably used to this happening– not only between you and Howl, but the countless others that he’s stolen the hearts of. Calcifer pretends to sleep and mind his own business. Howl says it in a small voice, “You know I can’t do that.” His chin comes to rest on your head and you want to enjoy his warmth but you are hurting too much for even that. “Why? Why can’t you?” Howl doesn’t answer but he does press one last kiss to the crown of your head before turning to the door and exiting, the chime of a bell unfittingly happy in this situation and cementing the weight on your shoulders with even more force. The silence kills you and you want to chase after him but you know that even if you did, he’d already be gone. “Why don’t you take a seat?” Calcifer’s voice creaks out and you slowly drag yourself to the rocking chair that sits in front of him. It’s warm there and you could recall the many times you fell asleep talking to Calcifer, laughing and exchanging outrageous tales with him, trying to out-brag each other. Now, Calcifer’s stare was too much for you. You buried your tear-stained face in your arms, sobs and wails finally escaping your body, too small to hold them all in. “There, there,” Calcifer muttered softly, “It doesn’t last that long. You’ll get over him in no time.” And when you didn’t stop your crying, “Hey, you could always give your heart to me, right?” You wanted to laugh at his quip but all that came out was another broken sob. When you had finally calmed down, you tried to ground yourself with your surroundings. The chair you were sitting in was a redwood rocking chair, smooth with age and well-loved. Calcifer sat in front of you, above a bed of stone and logs burned within him. A clock chimed somewhere that seemed far away in Howl’s magical castle, or maybe several– it was hard to tell him this distance. The castle lurched and hissed gently, moving like the sea on a calm, clear night. Moving far, far away from the people that were after Howl. “Hey, Calcifer?” “Hm?” “Why is Howl such a coward? Why must he run?” You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, patting the spots on your wrist wet from crying. The fire demon sighs heavily, flecks of red and gold rising from his mouth. “He has no heart. Howl doesn’t feel deeply and what he does feel comes from running from the world as soon as he gets his fill of excitement and cheap thrills.” “I wish he wouldn’t.” “I wish he wouldn’t, either.” Sniffing, you dry your tears with the back of your hand one last time and steel yourself for Howl’s return. He said he would be back before tomorrow. You had to trust in him. Calcifer picked up on your change in demeanor and recognized your desire to be strong, with or without Howl. “It passes, you know,” he says in a hushed voice, “Feelings always pass and rot away. You humans don’t live very long, so it’s best to forget them as soon as you can, before you get attached.” You laugh bitterly and Calcifer’s eyes widen comically at your strange response. You were supposed to agree with him! Or fight him! He’s never encountered someone as heartbroken as you to laugh in a situation like this. “I’m afraid it’s far past that, my friend.” “You don’t mean…” You lean back in your seat and let the chair rock you gently, holding you in Howl’s place. “Who knows? Maybe I do.” The fire sputters and Calcifer’s flames grow higher, brighter for a few seconds before his orange glow settles to a cooler temperature. “You can’t! Howl is a coward! If he finds out, he’ll run before you can say a word!” This makes you close your eyes– in surrender? In acceptance? You’re not sure– and you hum before replying. “I can’t help it, the same way Howl can’t help running away.” But Calcifer is relentless; maybe he picks up the concern that Howl lacks. “Howl might not be able to help it, but you can! You can run away before he can run away from you! You don’t have to love him!” You wince at having your feelings bared so carelessly in Howl’s castle, even if he wasn’t there to hear it. The walls have ears– or at least, the fire does. “I think,” you began slowly, “that Howl tries to fill the void where his heart should be with this. With fleeting glances and kisses in the dark. How desperately he wants to feel it burn as brightly inside him as it does for me. When it doesn’t– and when someone like me starts getting a little too close to that void for him to bear– his first instinct is to find another source of emotion. He just wants to feel something again, Calcifer– is that so wrong?” Calcifer doesn’t answer for a few long moments and you are content to rock in your chair slowly, letting exhaustion curl at the edges of your vision and pull you into a land far away, where you dream of moving castles and talking fire demons and steaming potions and a version of Howl that never leaves. “If he knows, he’ll run.” Your eyelids slide closed and your lips curl into a sad smile. “He already knows.” What rouses you from your slumber isn’t the morning sun or Calcifer complaining about the supply of wood he lives off of going low. What rouses you is the slam of a door and the violent sound of a bell being ripped from the doorjamb, clattering shrilly on the floor. As you jerk awake, a blur of white and red and yellow passes you, floorboards creaking loudly under his frantic paces. When you have the presence of mind to ask what’s wrong, Howl turns on you before you can open your mouth. “I have to leave.” “Wha–” “I have to leave, she found me– the Witch of the Waste, she’s found me again, I need to leave, right now.” Howl is suddenly in front of you and his clothes are torn and singed and he smells of smoke and iron. He looks more alive than you have ever seen him and urgency bubbles to the surface of his jewel-blue eyes, hands cupping your face desperately, starved. “I’m so sorry, my love, I’m so, so sorry.” He kisses you fiercely, teeth and tongue pressed against you and his hands are shaking and you think he’s crying but then you realize the wetness on your cheeks is coming from your own eyes, not his, of course, it wouldn’t be his. “Darling, sweetheart, my precious flower, I have to leave.” He presses kisses all over your face. “I have to leave and you can’t come with me.” You’re stuck in a haze, in an ocean of static and white-noise, and you hear this news with the cotton where your brain should lie. You want to scream and cry and beg him not to go, never to go, but he pulls you up and holds your waist tightly to him, as close to him as he possibly can, and steals all the love you have to offer before he disappears off the face of the earth for heaven knows how long. What you do know is that this is the last you will ever see of Howl. “Don’t leave me alone, Howl!” is the first thing to break from the seam of your kissed-pink lips. The next are varying begs and pleads and curses for him doing this to you. “You can’t leave me like this!” Howl shushes you and he’s still shaking, and a small part of you whispers evilly to you that he’s shaking because he doesn’t want to leave you behind. You know that’s not true. “Howl Pendragon, Howl Jenkins, Howl– Howl! Do not do this to me, please, Howl, don’t do this–” but you are being led to the door anyway, Calcifer sadly bidding you farewell and wishing you love and happiness in your life – “Take me with you, Howl! Howl!” Howl opens the door that held his multicolored, magical wheel and when he’s not kissing you he has his face pressed into your neck, kissing you there and wherever he can reach of you, hands clutching yours or squeezing your waist and hips or urging you to kiss him deeper with a hand between your shoulder blades or on your neck or tangled mournfully in your hair. Then you’re on the step outside his door, wind rushing by the two of you almost painfully exposed on his balcony, the gears and legs of his mechanical castle working double-time to escape the threat that will soon come to follow him. Your tears are drying before they can even fall, the wind is so strong, but Howl kisses them away anyway. “My dear, I will never forget you. I hope that you will remember me as I will remember you.” Then Howl leans in and kisses you one last time, slowly, pouring all the feeling he can muster in his existence without a heart into this last kiss. It’s so agonizingly lovely, romantic and sweet, enough to weaken your knees in any other situation. You kiss him back anyway, taking what you can from him while you can. You can understand why the Witch of the Waste chases after him so relentlessly. You would probably do the same, if you had the power to. “Howl, I–” he looks at you expectantly for as long as he can until there’s no time for soft words and he leans over and his may rings brush against your skin as he smooths your hair down, fruitlessly as the wind raises it again in the same second, and his opulent bracelets sing in a tinny voice and you never want to forget that mundane sound. “Goodbye, love.” And he steps backwards through the doorframe, trying to take in the your visage in as long as he can before he’ll never see it again, before it’ll fade from memory, before you’ll fade from existence. “Howl, I love you!” you shout, and the door shuts but you can still hear the sound of the lock sliding into place over the wailing wind. Howl has left you standing on the steps to the entrance of his castle and made it very clear that you aren’t meant to be a part of his life any longer. You feel an empty hole in your chest, aching and pulsing with each beat of your vile heart, and you wish you took Calcifer up on that offer of taking away your heart. At least you would be able to live without this pain. You descend the rusted steps of Horrible Howl’s living abode, trailing your fingers over every inch of peeling metal and every flower on every vine that crawls up the house. The castle lowers itself and slows down enough for you to step off that final perch, into a field of flowers and soft grass beneath an open sky, beside a lake so fresh and clear that it’s surface is as still and reveals the persistent life beneath it like crystal. The air that breaches your lungs in gasps is crisp and the house bids one last, sad goodbye to you, creaking miserably as it took large bounds away from you, much faster now that it does not have to care for your safety any longer. You sit down and cry in a field of lavender and bluebells and pink roses, not bothering to stem your sobs or the paradox of your achingly empty and too-full broken heart. The perfumes they give off, the picturesque scenery, the romanticism of it all; all of it was most likely one last gift from Howl, the ethereal lover that he is. There is one glaring difference between you and Howl that you can be glad for. You may have to live with a bleeding heart for the rest of your days, but at least you don’t have to live as a coward.

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lifeofanerdygirl · 5 years ago

Text

A Love Greater Than Potstickers

So I wrote a one shot from a prompt post I saw on @itskaradanversbitch and this is the original post that I reblogged/responded to:

https://itskaradanversbitch.tumblr.com/post/187227293858/post-reveal-and-lena-doesnt-want-anything-to-do

However, I also wanted to just post it normally as well. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

A soft knock comes from her office door and she looks up from the piles of paperwork that are scattered across her desk. She almost doesn’t register that it was a knock, as she was so entranced in her work, but luckily she had been acclimated to listening for the sound as time went on. A knock could mean something or someone important and she didn’t want to risk her assistant looking like an idiot in front of an investor by repeatedly knocking on her door. No, Lena Luthor was not going to be made a fool of. However, over the past couple of years that someone, more often than not, ended up not being an investor, but her best friend Kara Danvers. Someone, she loved looking forward to seeing and couldn’t wait to hear her knock.

However, as of three weeks ago, she stopped anticipating and hoped she didn’t show up. Lex’s revealing of Kara’s secret to her had been too much for Lena to handle and she cut all ties with her after an ugly confrontation that ended in a waterfall of tears and shattered hearts. Her stomach immediately begins turning and she quickly shuts the door on all the details that are rushing to make their escape, as she doesn’t want to relive one of the worst days of her life.

She hears another knock at the door, snapping her out of her thoughts, and finally makes her way across the room to open it. Who it could be at seven at night on a Friday was a mystery to her as everyone was gone for the day and enjoying their evenings. Unlike her, who had to finish up paperwork before she could even begin to think about the weekend. However, due to the most recent events, she’d rather be knee-deep in paperwork than at home where all she could think about was the fact that everyone had betrayed her and she had no one left she considered a friend.

Cautiously opening the door, she sees a delivery man wearing a grease-stained uniform standing there with a large bag in his hands with contents that smell oddly familiar.

“Delivery for Miss Luthor,” he says in a tone that is almost too cheery, at least for Lena’s taste.

“I didn’t order anything,” she responds, with a confused look on her face.

“Yes, I know. A special request came in to have this delivered to you. If you could sign for me please so I can be on my way.”

She didn’t want to accept the food, as she had no idea who it came from, but it smells so good and she realizes that she hasn’t eaten dinner yet. Plus, she didn’t want to be rude to the delivery man either, as he was just doing his job. She soon hears her stomach grumbling and decides that she has no other option but to take it.

She signs the slip and hands it back over to the man who gives her the bag, wishes her goodnight and heads towards the elevator.

Lena shuts the office door, locking it behind her, and makes her way to the couch, placing the bag on the coffee table as she sits down. Now that she is able to glance at it closer, she notices that Big Belly Burger is printed across the bag in large letters and her office is filled with the aroma of a burger and fries.

Kara Danvers, she mutters, knowing it could be from no one else but her. Of course, she would do something like this yet alone have it come from Big Belly Burger, one of her favorite fast food joints.

After a moment she realizes there is a note attached to the bag with her name scribbled on the outside. She carefully detaches and unfolds it and begins to read.

Lena,

I know you still hate me and it’s going to take time for you to forgive me, but I still can’t help but think of you. Especially, when it comes to your eating habits or should I say lack thereof. Anyways, I knew you’d be working late, as you always do, so I wanted to at least be able to feed you. Now, I wish I could be there with you, enjoying your company, but this is my only option right now so I’d rather it’d be this than nothing. I hope you enjoy the meal, as it makes me think of happier times.

Love,

Kara

Lena looks up from the note, tears forming in the corners her eyes and a mix of sadness and anger building within her. She did miss Kara, but what she did was inexcusable and she couldn’t forgive her just like that. Right now her anger and frustration were at the forefront and a meal wasn’t going to fix this.

She quickly makes her way over to the desk and picks up her phone. She finds Kara’s text thread, which is mostly filled with unanswered I’m sorry’s and please call me’s from the last few weeks, and types her reply.

You know food isn’t going to fix this so please don’t send me dinner again. I will not eat this. The thought of it causes my stomach to turn because of what you did to me and the times we have shared eating this same meal.

She quickly presses send and stares at the phone waiting to see if Kara would read the message. It’s only seconds later when Lena notices she has but receives no response.

Happy that she doesn’t have to deal with a reply, as she doesn’t have the time or energy, she plumps back down in her chair and resumes going over her paperwork from earlier. After ten minutes have passed, however, she can’t ignore the smell that is wafting from the discarded bag on the coffee table and goes over to pick it up. I will not eat you, she says to the bag and places it in her mini-fridge to give to her assistant tomorrow. Lena knows she doesn’t care about eating leftovers and will happily accept the offering, no questions asked. The bag, now out of sight and out of mind, allows her to continue her paperwork and she ends up leaving her office shortly after 9.

Over the course of the next few workdays, dinner, to Lena’s disapproval, continuously shows up around seven with a heartfelt note attached. Every night she accepts the meal and immediately places it in her mini-fridge to give to her assistant the next day, after removing the unread note and placing it in her desk drawer. On Monday it ended up being a steak dinner with mashed potatoes and veggies on the side. On Tuesday it was fettuccine alfredo with a side salad from one of the most popular Italian eateries in the city. On Wednesday it was a fresh chef salad from one of her favorite cafés and today it is Chinese, which of course is one of Kara’s favorite types of food.

Upon glancing at the containers, Lena notices one contains potstickers. Tears fill her eyes and she can’t help but think of Kara. She never shared her precious potstickers and Lena would always tease her about it. Even though she wished she could snag one once in a while, she knew how much Kara loved those things and was fine with not receiving any. She enjoyed watching her stuff her mouth full with a big, goofy grin plastered across her face.

She finds the note that always accompanies the meal, but instead of placing it unread in her desk drawer like she had done with the previous ones, she decides to open it.

Lena,

You know how much I love potstickers and don’t share them with anyone, even you. Well, it turns out I love and care about you more so to show this I am giving you all these potstickers to help make up for all of those times and for my secret I kept from you. I know it’s not enough to make up for everything, but I hope it’s at least a start.

Love,

Kara

Lena’s eyes fill with more tears, which now begin to cascade down her cheeks.

I can’t let these go to waste. As much as I hate her right now, I can’t bear to see them go to my assistant. Kara’s potstickers are too valuable for that.

Opening up all the containers, she begins to dig into her meal. Within a matter of minutes, most of the food is gone and there are no potstickers to spare.

Okay, Kara, you were right. I did need to eat, she says rubbing her now full stomach.

Now more content and energized than she was before the meal, she finishes up her paperwork and ends up leaving the office at 8, earlier than she expected she would.

Opening her front door, she places her keys and purse on the counter and walks towards the direction of her bedroom. She changes into an oversized sweatshirt and lounge pants and pulls her hair up into a messy bun. She walks back into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of red wine and then heads over to her couch, sits down and opens up her text thread from Kara again.

Thank you for the meal tonight. I didn’t realize how much I needed it. It meant a lot to me that you shared your potstickers. Have a good night.

After pressing send, Lena stares at the phone, waiting to see if Kara’s read the message. An agonizing 5 minutes later it shows she finally has. The text bubbles start to appear, but then disappear again several times, leaving Lena frustrated. Now she realizes that this is how Kara must’ve felt when she didn’t respond.

What are you doing Kara? Are you going to respond or not?

Finally, just as Lena is about to give up, she receives a message. It’s simple, but also Kara, especially given their situation.

A simple heart emoji displays on her screen.

Lena can’t help but smile and sets her phone down beside her on the couch. She takes a sip of wine and lets her thoughts wander. Maybe, just maybe, they can get through all of this and start to rebuild their friendship.

#supergirl #supergirl season 5 #supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #my writing #oneshot

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malecsecretsanta · 5 years ago

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Merry Christmas, @lightwoodbanemlm!

Have a very happy and Malec-y Holidays! Hope you like the gift!

Read on AO3

*****

Can't Live Without You, It Takes Me All The Way, I Want You To Stay

Magnus is pretty sure if he has to listen to Lorenzo explain the spell one more time in his pretentious, snobby, over the top Gaelic accent, he would personally summon his father to kill himself. It is hard enough that he had to leave behind a soft, sleep-rumpled, cuddly, and extremely clingy Alexander behind in the morning, on his boyfriend’s only day off in the next two weeks. The Spiral Labyrinth sent a fire-message this morning asking for his help to figure out a very complicated spell created by a talented Gaelic warlock who died at the hands of the Circle members. He is not the High Warlock anymore, but even Lorenzo Rey knows better than to refuse his extensive knowledge of magic and spells. But the random magic use throughout the day to find the perfect ingredients, and perfecting the spell, especially inside the Spiral Labyrinth, has left Magnus somehow magically exhausted, and having Lorenzo talk down on him, while displaying his massive ego is not helping the situation.

The current High Warlock of Brooklyn, as Lorenzo loves reminding him, repeats a portion of the spell for the fifth time, butchering the meaning, Magnus finally snaps, fed up with the Warlock.

“Lorenzo, you are over 200 years old right?” Magnus puts two fingers on each side of his temple, barely masking the frustration written all over his face.

“I turned 249 this year,” Lorenzo straightens his sleek ponytail for what it seems the hundredth time today. It’s only centuries of Tai Chi, and the thought of Alec’s pouty face this morning keep him from snapping his fingers and burning Lorenzo’s eyebrows off. He’d hate it if he has to stay away from his beloved Alexander simply due to paperwork.

“Well in your long, long life,” Magnus replies, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “Have you never had the desire to actually learn to speak Gaelic? It is, after all, a beautiful language.”

Lorenzo scowls, clearly soured by Magnus’ words. He looks more like a lizard when he's scowling, Magnus thinks, wonder if anyone has ever told him that before.

“Well, Bane ,” Lorenzo spits out his name like a curse, “Not all of us have the luck of living in luxury for years that we would have learnt every language in the world. Not all of us are you.”

Magnus would’ve pointed out exactly how much of pain and struggles there is in being him, but Catarina’s stern gaze makes him close his mouth before he starts to speak.

“Gentlemen, as much as I would love to go on with this lovely banter you both seem to share around each other, I do believe it is quite late, and I would like to go home to my daughter now if you please,” Catarina gives Magnus a pleading look, and Magnus decides to speed things along.

He quickly conjures up his personal stationary to put down the correct translation of the spell, complete with the pronunciation guide, and the necessary ingredients needed for performing it. It’s a long list, and he doesn’t want to keep Cat away from Madzie any longer needed.

“Cat, you go home, I can manage everything here.”

“Magnus, you sure?”

“Yes, of course, I’m sure,” Magnus assures her, kissing her cheek, “Go and get some rest, I know you had a long shift at the hospital today. And do give Sweet Pea my best regards, and an extra scoop of ice cream on my behalf.”

Catarina smiles in return, and starts creating a Portal. “You are spoiling her,” she shakes her head fondly.

“I’m her Godfather! Of course I am,” Magnus waves his hand with a casual flourish, “Besides, she deserves to be spoiled.”

“Please don’t tell her that,” Catarina says before stepping through the Portal, amusement thinly veiled behind her words.

“No promises!” Magnus speaks into the Portal as she steps through, and then turns to attend to the task at hand.

Alright, let’s do this.

Magnus notes the time after handing away the list to the warlocks in the Labyrinth, it’s been almost an hour since he sent Cat home and started working on writing it down. It would’ve been finished much faster if Lorenzo didn’t keep interrupting Magnus with his mostly useless inputs and comments.

But, now it is done, and Magnus is itching to go home and curl up with his boyfriend. The thought of going home to Alec makes Magnus smile. The mere flash of those lovely hazel eyes in his mind makes his heart beat faster.

Well, Magnus is sure that if he looks into it, there is so much of Alec in his heart, it is barely his own anymore. He smiles absently, and decides to pay a visit his wine cellar before going home. He picks up a Châteaux Margaux, the one he has been saving for a special occasion. And well, just the mere fact that Alec Lightwood exists, and more than that, that he loves Magnus, and that Magnus gets to go home to him, needs proper celebration.

Magnus�� Portal materializes in the loft, it’s almost 11pm, he notes as he steps through. He arches his neck, and stretches, trying to work out the sore muscles from sitting down all day. Conjuring up two wine glasses, he glances around to see if Alec has decided to wait for him in the drawing room.

The first time Magnus had been late from a warlock meeting, he found Alec sprawled on the sofa, his arms dangling from the edges, drooling into the material, as he had been trying to wait up for Magnus, but clearly, the day’s exhaustion caught up with him.

Magnus still remembers how his heart ached seeing the beautiful gesture. He had stood there, staring at the sleeping Shadowhunter, trying, in vain, to remember the last time anyone had done that for him.

Of course, no one had. Magnus had really been in a true relationship with two people, and Camille never took their relationship seriously enough to do that, or maybe she just didn’t want to. Then again, Alexander Lightwood is not just anyone.

All the more reason why Magnus goes over to the sofa in front of the TV to check for random dangling Nephilim limbs. But the sofa is empty, so is the armchair.

He checks in the balcony. His Shadowhunter has taken a keen liking to that particular part of the loft, sometimes choosing to spend his evening reading by the witchlight, with Magnus curled up on his chest, unless either of them decides for an impromptu date.

No sign of Alec there either. Magnus decides to check the bedroom next. Maybe he went to sleep , he thinks.

But the satin amethyst sheet is perfectly made, no sign of anyone sleeping in before Magnus came in. Worry coils low in his stomach, it isn’t like Alec to leave without telling Magnus. Even if there is an emergency at the Institute, Alec always remembers to text him dutifully.

Which is exactly what makes Magnus check the loft for Alec’s magical traces. A quick sweep tells him that he hasn’t been home since this afternoon.

Maybe something came up? Maybe he had to leave? Maybe-

If their life wasn’t a big roulette wheel of life and death, Magnus would’ve simply chalked it up to a walk outside. But, his boyfriend is a Shadowhunter , more than that, his boyfriend is the most protective Shadowhunter of his generation, one who would gladly stand in front of the fire, if it meant protecting the ones he loves, which now entails the entire Institute and the Downworld. Magnus loves him for it, for this, for how clear, determined he is, how he would lay down his life without a second thought to save an innocent, but it also means that every mission, every patrol, every battle he goes to, Magnus has to remind himself of his mortality. This also means that sudden unexplained disappearances are causes of extreme worry, which now clouds Magnus’ face like a shroud of death. He tries Alec’s cell, but the number only beeps out.

He puts the wine and glasses down on the nightstand, a calm night-in long forgotten, and decides to call Isabelle. The Lightwood sister has been one of the biggest sources of comfort for Magnus whenever Alec goes on a mission, knowing that his love is fiercely protected by her and his Parabatai almost as much as he protects them.

Isabelle’s number connects, one ring, two, and she doesn’t pick up. Magnus starts pacing the loft, his steps fast and erratic, worry and concern lining his brows. He calls Clary, but her phone doesn’t connect at all. After that, there’s only one person left, and probably the one who can best ascertain whether Alec is safe or not.

Jace picks up after the third ring, and Magnus exhales a little of the long breath he doesn’t even realize he’s holding. The blonde answers, sounding an odd mix of annoyance and concern, and Magnus decides to cut to the chase, and ask him about Alec.

“No, I haven’t seen him all day,” Jace answers, and the stomach in Magnus’ stomach tightens, “Why? Today is his day off, isn’t he supposed to be home? Or wherever you two go for dates?” Jace sounds confused, and Magnus decides not to waste any precious seconds, now that Alec is surely in some kind of disturbance, if not worse. He hangs up, after telling Jace to inform him if he gets any information about Alec, and decides to track Alec using the spare bow hanging from the bowrack beside the door, the newest addition to the loft’s quirky decor, little ways that show how Alec has fit into Magnus’ life like two pieces of a puzzle.

Magnus’ heart tightens at that, but he pushes that feeling aside, right now Alec needs him, he can’t let emotions cloud his judgement. He grabs the bow with both his hands, curling his ring-clad fingers around the middle, and closes his eyes, concentrating, pushing his magic to curl around it, to pick up the traces Alec’s use left on it through the years. Blue sparkles completely cover the bow, and Magnus sees a blue thread visible in the dark of the void, eyes still closed. He grasps at it with all the willpower and love he can muster, and he gets a faint salty and earthy taste in his mouth, just before he feels cold all over, and his skin feels heavy. He gasps out, eyes slam open, and he realizes exactly where Alec is.

Brooklyn River.

A Portal whooshes in just under the bridge, glamoured from Mundane eyes, and Magnus steps through, red battle magic crackling in his palms, ready to strike down anyone who dares to stand between him and Alexander. But Magnus is immediately thrown off by the eerie calm around him. Cars zoom past above him on the bridge, their noise fading as they go further away from where Magnus is standing. Magnus decides to try tracking again, in case he was wrong, but he hears faint muffled noises coming from the river side, and he rushes to find the source.

It only takes twenty steps or so, before he finds himself face to face with a humanoid, dark silhouette against the lights from the Manhattan skyline, jerking their hands around, covered in unrecognizable substances.

The figure mutters something under their breath, and Magnus would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been actively trying to listen.

“By the Angel...”

Magnus catches the words and his eyes widen, he can recognize that voice even in his sleep.

“Alexander?!” Magnus blurts out, half-questioning, half-incredulous, and the figure looks up, registering his presence for the first time.

“Magnus? Is that you?” Alec asks, taking a step forward to him, and Magnus uses his magic to create an orb of light in his palm. Alec’s face is more clearly visible now, though he is still covered from head to toe, by what seems like seaweed, and twigs, and garbage. He is dripping wet, his legs, arms caked with mud, and hair is sticking to his forehead, his face dirty.

“Alec, what happened? Are you okay?” Magnus asks, touching his face, checking him over for injuries, but there’s nothing more than some minor cuts and bruises. Magnus lets out a long breath he has been holding for the last hour, and he hugs Alec, worry bleeding out of him as Alec wraps his hands around him.

The strong stench of garbage hits Magnus, and he scrunches up his nose. “How? What? Why?” he asks Alec, who opens his mouth to answer. The cold December wind blows, and Alec shivers in Magnus’ arms, the wetness increasing the chill down his spine tenfold.

Magnus decides to continue the conversation later when neither of them look like they just got dumped into a wet garbage bin. He reopens the Portal, and drags Alec through it, this time stepping straight into their bathroom. Magnus wastes no time trying to undress Alec by hand, instead snaps his fingers, and Alec’s dirty clothes end up in the hamper kept by the bathroom door for Alec to put his usually ichor-ridden clothes in, after patrols. Alec shivers his sudden nakedness, and Magnus pushes him into the shower, making sure the water is scalding hot, just the way Alec prefers.

He thinks about joining him in the shower, to let the weariness of the day that he feels deep in his bones melt away surrounded by warmth of the water, and his Alexander , but Magnus immediately shakes his head, as if trying to shake the thought off like that.

A warm shower sounds great, yes, but it can wait till tomorrow.

Conjuring up the coziest one from the Alec’s endless supply of black sweaters, and similar black sweats, he puts them on the bed for Alec to find, and decides to change into something comfortable himself. He chooses one of his sweatpants, and decides against his usual flashy tank tops for one of his boyfriend’s blue henleys. He cannot wrap himself in Alec’s arms in the shower, so this would have to do.

He goes to get the two glasses and the bottle of wine, sure that Alec wouldn’t object to a glass or two after all this. He conjures up takeout from the Ethiopian restaurant nearby, making sure to leave a generous tip for them in turn.

Just then, two strong arms encircle his waist, pulling him backwards until his back rests against a rune marked chest. Soft, damp hair tickle his jaw as Alec burrows his head in the crook of his neck, Magnus sags against the comfortable and familiar warmth now engulfing him.

“Missed you,” Alec mumbles into Magnus’ neck, and pulls him closer. The smoky smell of sandalwood hits Magnus, and he inhales deeper, trying to breathe Alec in. He turns around, and finds Alec, standing with water still dripping from his damp hair, a soft smile on his face that never fails to take Magnus’ breathe away. Before Magnus even realizes, he’s kissing Alec, soft and slow, both of them simply revelling in the embrace of one another. Time melts away, and it’s only Alec’s lips entangled with his own, Alec’s arms holding him, Alec’s damp forehead resting upon his own as they pant for air. Alec Alec Alec. It’s like his entire life he has been waiting for this big bad Shadowhunter with a heart softer than butter to come by and make his heart swoon.

They kiss again, this time it’s softer, sweeter, taking time, finding each other, exploring their whole existence under the other’s gentlest of touches. After a while, when it’s only foreheads resting against each other, Magnus decides to retire to the bedroom for the rest of the ‘activities’. It’s only when he drags Alec by his shirtfront into the bedroom, that he notices the hamper with the dirty clothes.

Well, they do say that curiosity killed the cat, and Magnus can’t believe that he’s about to say this in the middle of this , but oh hell...

“Um.. Alexander... I um.. Damn I can’t believe I’m saying this right now... But,” Magnus swallows thickly, flushed, because yes, Alec Lightwood can make even the great Magnus Bane flush, “What were we doing in the Brooklyn River tonight?”

Alec has such a look on his face that if Magnus wasn’t so damn tuned with his emotions, then he would’ve thought that Alec is insulted by his question. But that look isn’t insult, it’s thinly veiled embarrassment, with a hint of panic.

“You.. don’t need to.. it’s not really important...” Alec starts to stammer, but Magnus’ curiosity only peaks.

“Alec? What is it? You know you can tell me anything, right?” Magnus assures Alec, but the Shadowhunter only looks more panicked.

“It’s stupid, you’re gonna think I’m stupid,” Alec mumbles, trying to hide his face in the crook of Magnus’ neck.

“Oh Alexander,” Magnus coos, holding Alec’s face in his palms, “Do you have the not-so-rare moments of gay panic? Of course. Do you turn the most beautiful shade of red every time I flirt with you? Without a doubt,” Magnus pointedly ignores Alec’s glare at that, “But, I can never think you’re stupid. You are the most brilliant person I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.”

Alec pouts for a moment, before deciding to concede, and sits back on the edge of the bed, folding his legs. “You remember how you told me that both you and Catarina would be in the Labyrinth all day?” Magnus nods, urging him to continue. “Well, around afternoon, I got bored, but I couldn’t just ask you to abandon work, so I decided to head to Catarina’s, to play with Madzie. I know she was with her sitter the whole day, and I figured maybe she’d like a new face, after all.”

Magnus’ heart soars at how fond Alec has gotten of his goddaughter. Between being a warlock with a mark that most people may find abhorrent and the entire situation with Iris Rouse, Madzie has gotten dealt a bad hand very young in her life. To know that there are people, especially someone as caring as Alec, to take care of her, warms Magnus’ heart.

“So, I got there at about 6, and then we played games. And watched Power Rangers. She loves the Red Ranger, though I really prefer the Blue one. She drew a picture of me by the way! She so talented,” Alec carries on, his eyes gleaming talking about his ‘little sorceress’ , “And after Catarina got in, it was almost a quarter to ten. She told me you’d be home soon, so I said good-bye.”

“Cat asked if I wanted to portal home, but I wanted to walk, because you know how rarely I walk home, without thinking that there’s a demon emergency that needs my attention, so I just wanted to walk without too much worry.” Magnus can relate to that thought, but he doesn’t say anything, letting Alec continue instead.

“So, near the bridge, there’s this flower shop, you know, the one where the florist is the nicest lady, and who always gives me a discount on the yellow roses, you know the ones that remind me of your eyes?” Alec turns red as soon as he realizes what he just said out loud, but Magnus snuggles closer to him, touched by the gesture, and Alec carries on, still red, “So I wanted to get some for you, um..because um.. I thought maybe you’d like them, but it was closed, so- so, I thought maybe I’d go home, but then there he was.” Alec’s face throws Magnus off the loop.

“He? A demon? Alec did you encounter a demon on your way?” Magnus grows concerned, but Alec looks ...wait, is that embarrassment?

“It wasn’t a demon, per say....” Alec waves his hand around, and then mumbles something that doesn’t quite seems clear to Magnus. “Alexander, you’re gonna have to speak up. What was it?”

“Itwasakitten,” Alec says, his ears red, and his voice low. Magnus looks at him incredulously, pretty sure that he misheard, because there’s no way that Alec just said what he thought he just said.

“Wait, did you just say ‘a kitten’?” Magnus says, and Alec turns redder.

“Yeah...” Alec drawls, and if the entire situation wasn’t so hilarious, Magnus would’ve jumped him right then and there with how adorable his pout looks.

“I just saw this black kitten, and I saw that you always miss Chairman so much, so I thought I’d bring him home, but then that devil-spawn decided to give me hell,” there’s absolute outrage written on Alec’s face, and Magnus bites his lip to make sure he doesn’t laugh.

“First I tried to coo and ask him to come to me, you know, like you do with the strays that visit the balcony sometimes,” Alec tries to explain, and Magnus almost melts from the cute puppy eyes Alec seems to be making right now. “And he came to me, but then, that little devil, decided to snatch my phone instead!” Alec whines, and Magnus can truly relate to Elsa, trying to conceal his laughter.

“That little demon!” Magnus agrees to Alec, amusement thinly veiled, but Alec doesn’t seem to notice,.

“So, I tried to follow him, but then he got up to the ledge of the bridge, and I was worried that if he jumped from there, he might hurt himself, so....”

“So?”

“So, I jumped after him. Turns out, he only threw the phone in, and moved away at the last moment. But I ended up in the river.” Alec’s pout intensifies, and Magnus cannot keep his laughter in anymore. His shoulders shake with the effort of trying to keep it in.

“See, I knew you’d think it’s stupid!” Alec stabs an accusatory finger at Magnus’s chest playfully, and Magnus’ laugh gets louder.

“I’m sorry it’s just- it’s just- I can’t believe that you got defeated by a- oh my God- I can’t believe you got defeated by a kitten!” Magnus topples over with laughter.

“It’s not funny, Magnus!” Alec grumbles.

“It’s a little funny,” the waves of laughter subside, but a grin is still plastered on Magnus’ face. There’s still a pout on Alec’s face, and Magnus kisses it off.

“Okay, Grumpy Cat Lightwood, let’s finish the food, I’m starving, and I’m sure so are you,” Magnus summons the food from the kitchen, then smirks, “I mean, battling vicious creatures like kittens must have left you famished.”

Alec glares at him, and Magnus smiles. They finish the dinner in companionable silence, and soon Magnus is yawning, and Alec cleans up, before snuggling close to Magnus on the bed, and kisses him.

“I love you,” Alec mumbles against Magnus’ lips.

“I love you too, Alexander,” Magnus replies, smiling, before adding, “Defeated by a kitten and all.”

“Magnus!” Alec shrieks, before glaring at him, without any actual heat behind it. Magnus giggles, and snuggles closer, and Alec wraps his arms around Magnus’ waist, pulling him towards himself.

It’s so domestic, and sappy, and frankly, overwhelmingly blissful. Magnus can feel himself drift into sleep, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up, but Alec’s face is right there, and it’s smiling, and it’s all for Magnus. Magnus can feel a very strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s happiness, the type that Magnus hasn’t felt in a long, long time. If ever. It feels unfamiliar.

After all these centuries, all this time, all that search, he has finally found it.

Right there, in Alec Lightwood’s arms.

It finally feels like home.

#lightwoodbanemlm #malecsanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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mollymauk-teafleak · 6 years ago

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come home with me (chapter 2)

Huge thanks to my beta readers, @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian, I love you both.

If you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment on Ao3 or even donating to my ko-fi

It was as if the evening had its own beating heart.

Perhaps it stood out so much because such sounds had never been heard before in Rexxantrum, at least not in living memory. Or maybe just not since the Empire had taken hold of the city. Either way, the sudden thrum and pulse of music called to the people of the district, drawing them towards the market square at the time when most of them would be staggering to their homes or the nearest pub.

With every beat, the heart that had just taken up residence in the dead centre of the district pressed music and colour out through the streets and alleyways. Lanterns with the same loud pronouncement of welcome as the ticket bobbed though the gathering dusk, their bright paper making them appear as oddly shaped, fantastical fish. The sprightly voices of lute, violin, flute, lyre and drum beckoned to the folk of Rexxantrum, causing feet to tap and heads to nod involuntarily for a mile around. And peeking above the tops of the buildings, the vast purple and gold expanse of a truly enormous sailcloth tent could be seen, swaying in time with the music, the centre of it all.

It wasn’t hard to know where to go.

Bren kept his coat tight around him and the scarf shielding his face. Any eye that so much as skirted over him filled him with a roiling, sickening sense of dread. All it would take was one glimpse by the wrong person and the word would fly back to Father. People loved to gossip about those on the rung above them so whether it was someone who despised Father or a toady looking to curry favour with him, the result would be the same and Bren would likely never feel outside air in his lungs again.

But his heart had never ached for something so much as it ached now, for just one night of escape. He felt like if he turned back now, if he returned to his tower room and that cold, empty manor house, then he’d know he was truly broken.

Bren wasn’t ready to let go of that little flame just yet.

The music grew thicker the closer he got to the market square. Now there were large bubbles like strange fruit dancing on the evening breeze, bright streamers thrown across the roofs, voices chattering, and not just in Common, and the scent of mouth-watering spice on the air.

A makeshift fence had been thrown up around the main plaza of the city with several openings through which the crowd was being filtered. Bren avoided the biggest and most central, being manned by a gnome gentleman with purple livery who was calling out friendly insults to the people who came through as he took their coins. Instead he went through the back where the press was thinner. The guard here was an almost impossibly tall woman with waist length hair, threaded with beads, and a placid face that somehow managed to hold just enough of a whispered threat to make her incredible at her job. Bren had no doubt that everyone filtering past her assumed she was a human but he’d read enough to recognise an Aasimar when he saw one. The fact that she was here implied all sorts, none of which were good.

“Five coppers for a ticket,” she announced as Bren came close.

“I…I already have one,” Bren showed her the ticket, which he’d been keeping up his sleeve, “But I can pay as well if you need me to?”

The woman looked sceptical, “We only give tickets out to officials and dignitaries. Which one would you be, pray?”

Bren felt his face go red and he stammered, “I’m…I’m…um…I’m the Archmage’s ward.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. Mutely, Caleb fished five coppers from his emergency supply of money in his pockets and tipped them into the woman’s hand.

“Enjoy the show. Please leave all weapons here and they will be returned to you.”

“I don’t have any weapons,” Bren mumbled, praying he wasn’t about to be taken by the ankles and shaken.

“Yes. I assumed so,” the woman replied simply, tilting her head.

Red as a winter berry, Bren ducked into the tent.

Inside, the smell of spices was even stronger and Bren soon saw why. A firbolg- the second person he’d seen that day who, until now, had only existed in storybooks- was wandering around with a banal smile on his face, exchanging coins held out to him for some of the small, squat cakes in the tray hanging from his shoulders.

“Made ‘em myself,” he said in an almost impossibly low voice, holding one out to Bren.

Trying desperately hard not to stare at the broad, almost bovine face, the long pink tresses of hair, the wide, expansive ears, Bren fumbled for his payment but the firbolg chuckled and shook his head.

“No charge. You look like you could use it.”

Before Bren could protest, insist on paying, the firbolg had wandered away, back to picking his way through the tiers of benches, trying not to step on the children already running excitedly through the stalls.

He took a seat on the bench with the most empty space around it. He didn’t do well in crowds at all, he got itchy skin if other bodies pressed to close to him; uncomfortable questions would surface in his mind like what would happen if there was a sudden fire nearby or if the roof caved in or anything else disastrous.

But his carefully laid plan began to fall apart as more and more people streamed into the tent. It seemed like everyone in Rexxantrum was here tonight- crownsguard, farmers, market folk. Even some of the people who ran in Father’s circles with their finely dressed children and wards, done up like little dolls and held on laps if they were small enough, hands held if they were not; bought cakes and balloons and hugged and comforted, confined in, how precious they were on display for everyone to see. Bren looked down at his hands.

The crowd began to cease its flow and settle into its place on the climbing benches, all eyes turned down to the centre ring, currently shrouded in a thick, black curtain embroidered with stars, looking how the night sky was always meant to look but could never quite get there in real life. But Bren’s eyes were flickering nervously, never settling in one place, realising just how close the crowd was pressing around him.

But he couldn’t run. He couldn’t. He could either be here or he could return to the manse and resign himself to being a coward and another man’s plaything for the rest of his life. Bren couldn’t imagine anything worse than the intermediate between those two, fleeing the tent and suddenly finding himself utterly adrift in the dusk outside with no plan and nowhere to go.

Terror was better than uncertainty, he’d always felt.

But he did have one last rope to cling to. Father didn’t know he knew this spell, Bren would bet his life on that. He would have called it frivolous magic, a waste of the precious, precious gift he’d been given. It was in none of the spell books around the manse, the ones where Bren could see the gaps in the bindings where pages had been cut away. He’d copied it from a library book in the dead of night, under his blanket, with paper and ink purchased from a passing tinker so it couldn’t be traced back to him. Of course he only used it sparingly but knowing he had the potential had eased the knot of tension he always carried in his chest by just a little bit.

Which, of course, was the best he could hope for.

He made the motions with his fingers and spoke the words in his mind. Bren had become an expert at silent magic, mostly for the security of knowing he wouldn’t be overheard. As difficult as it was, the sense of safety was worth it.

It took some effort, repeating the words over and over in his head but eventually, with a burst of soft blue light, a cat appeared in Bren’s lap. A beautiful cat with a wide, kind face and bright yellow eyes like two gold pieces, a dappled pattern on its rusty brown fur, rich and shifting under the low light. Immediately, just as he hoped he would, the cat put its paws on Bren’s shoulders and began to nuzzle at his rough, unshaven jaw.

“Hello Frumpkin,” Bren murmured softly, already able to breathe a little better. He pulled the flap of his coat over the cat, hiding him from view. If weapons weren’t allowed in the tent, he was certain magical familiars wouldn’t be.

He couldn’t say where the name Frumpkin had come. He knew it was the kind of name a child would give a cloth toy, something silly and nonsensical. But he also kind of liked it. He’d never had a toy, he’d never had something to cling to and comfort him. And now he did.

He just held Frumpkin to him, cradling him, using the soft purring to slow his heartbeat and keep him grounded as the crowd settled around him. The minutes ticked past and with every one, the sense of anticipation thickened until it was barely breathable. Excitement that was a hair’s breadth away from fear strung them all together, keeping them all tied and tense and waiting, eyes fixed on whatever lay behind that curtain. It got to the point where Bren thought there was no way the show could live up to the expectation it had built.

“My, my, my. What a wonderful crowd we’ve got here tonight.”

The voice was amplified, booming through the tent, making everyone jump. It wasn’t coming from the centre ring, where they’d all been looking, but somewhere else. A sudden spotlight appeared to guide their darting, rolling eyes, swinging across the assembled crowd and up into the beams overhead.

The tiefling from before was reclining lazily on a platform high above them all and Bren’s heart skipped a beat or two.

He was dressed much like before but with an extra flair to it. There was gold piping along the purple velvet coat and a plethora of detailed embroidery along its surface, the leggings were spangled with countless sequins and the boots were scaled elaborately. The hat was the same though, slightly battered and the ribbon around its base was frayed but so clearly loved.

He looked beautiful.

“We’ll have to work extra hard to put on a show deserving of all you lovely folk. A tall baton appeared from nowhere and sparks shot out playfully when he rapped it on the wood of the platform, “But then again…”

He took a step into thin air and plummeted. A gasp erupted from the crowd and Feather Fall was already on Bren’s lips until it became clear the tiefling was gripping a thick rope, flying not falling, effortlessly like a trapeze artist. He careened towards the focus of the tent, somehow totally in control of his movements even though all that was propelling him was gravity. He landed neatly on the sand of the centre ring, revealed in a rush as the curtain lifted and disappeared into nothingness, revealing a full ensemble of colourful folk, each of them poised and grinning.

“That’s exactly what we do,” Mr Tealeaf called brightly.

Bren, so usually ruled by time and routine and regulation, found himself completely and blissfully lost to it all for the first time in his life. Watching the Fletching and Moondrop troupe felt like all the things he’d never got to do coming back to him in one wonderful rush; it was like lying on his back in the middle of a daisy field on a warm summer’s day with nothing to do and nowhere to go, it was like watching snow fall outside a window while curled up in a blanket, it was like waking up to no alarm in a warm, comfortable bed and knowing your time, your life was completely yours.

It was like all the small places storybooks had told him happiness could be found. Bren had never understood the truth of that, he’d had no evidence of it in his own life, until he went to the circus.

There was a little goblin girl dressed up in colourful makeup and loud, bright patterns who told scathing jokes that made everyone howl with laughter. There was a blue tiefling girl and a lithe young human woman who moved through trapezes strung high up above as easily as walking down a street. There was a tall half orc who juggled large, deadly looking swords before finally dropping one down his own throat effortlessly, to the delight of the crowd. There was a terrifying performance where a beautiful, dark-haired half elf man faced down an enormous, roaring sabre toothed tiger with nothing but a whip, dancing around it, narrowly avoiding being savaged until, at the very last moment, when it looked like he was done for, the beast transformed into a laughing, red haired druid woman who caught her companion in her arms and bowed low, turning the screams of the crowd to a roar of amusement. There was another half elf who looked so like the first they had to be brother and sister who did fantastical feats of archery, firing arrows while on the back of a lumbering bear, hitting targets as they flew through the air and finally, in a particularly hair raising display, shot arrows at a target with a bemused looking, white haired gentleman tied to it, missing him narrowly but cleanly every time, earning a kiss from him every time she did so. There was a heavily tattooed strongman who lifted incredible weights, only then to be shown up by a white haired gnome woman who ran rings around him, to the laughter of the crowd. There was a sweet faced dwarven girl who sang so gently there wasn’t a dry eye to be found in the tent.

There were intervals scattered throughout the performance, where a seemingly never ending supply of cakes and sweet goodies could be bought from the kind firbolg from before. There was also an array of fantastic arcane goods to be purchased from another firbolg merchant who was practically a performance in himself, given that there were four of him, dealing with various startled clientele. Bren was in kind of a dreamlike state during those times, though he couldn’t help but be entranced by the wares he had. He could hear Father’s voice in the back of his head, stern and scathing, decrying each and every one as trinkets and wastes of arcane energy. But Bren saw the smiles on the children’s faces, the relief of tired looking folk who purchased healing potions at discounts, the shouts of awe and delight and amusement.

This was what magic should be, a part of him murmured, small and slight but somehow louder than the echoing voice of Father.

But then, thankfully, the show began again and he could ignore thoughts like that for a while.

It was the last performance of the night that left the biggest imprint on him. After all the startling, extravagant displays, the ending was simple and soft, exactly what was needed. Mr Tealeaf took the stage, alone for the first time since the very beginning. He’d been introducing each new act, weaving it all together into a narrative, their iridescent guide through it all. But now it was just him and a fine lute of deep gold wood that shone in the low light. He sat himself on a stool right in the centre of a spotlight the colour of moon glow and played a song that wrenched at nearly everyone’s heart and none more than Bren’s.

He sang of the importance of stories, of the doors they opened and the freedom they brought. He sang of a small boy who could never see the worth in himself, who was lost and scared and sad until he heard the right story. He sang with a voice that no one could call technically perfect, it was rusty and worn around the edges but it was warmth itself, it was safety and protection and light.

And in the middle of his song, as those shining eyes scanned the crowd, they fell on Bren. Everything around them seemed to fall away for a long moment, the moment in between the notes, and Mr Tealeaf smiled and winked. Even with all the faces between them, Bren knew it was just for him.

After his song, Mr Tealeaf bowed low and thanked them all sincerely for coming to the show. The curtain swept back into place from whatever nothing it had been residing in and the lights came up again.

The crowd filtered away, dozing children being carried by parents, sweethearts hand in hand, everyone chattering happily about their favourite performances. Bren didn’t move, still petting Frumpkin with fingers more flitting and anxious now.

Because now came the difficult part.

He’d done it, he’d proven he wasn’t completely lost to Father yet. Which was something. But now he had to sneak back into the manse, avoiding the warding spells and wiping any trace of guilt from his face or his mannerisms- a physically difficult thing- and return to his life, knowing everything he was missing out on- a mentally difficult thing. Of course he was glad he’d done this, he wouldn’t trade this experience for anything, no matter what the consequences were. Father could be waiting on the doorstep when he returned and Bren would still consider tonight a gain. It was the saying goodbye to it all that he dreaded. To the point where he was still sat there, with most of the people around him gone, massaging Frumpkin’s thick fur and willing himself to stand.

Just a minute earlier and they might have missed each other and everything would have been different.

“I’m so glad you made it.”

Bren started, turning around and finding Mr Tealeaf behind him. It was in that moment he was startled by just how close in age they were, there couldn’t have been more than a couple of years between them. Out of the spotlight, in nothing but loose, comfortable pants and a simple linen shirt, his makeup streaked and hair matted to his forehead with sweat, he looked so young. His smile was shy and sweet.

“I…oh, thank you…” Bren stammered, mind scrambling for something sensible to say, “I didn’t realise you…you’d noticed me yesterday…”

Mr Tealeaf smiled, turning his hat in his hands, “Of course I noticed you. You’re just the kind of guy I like to see in my audience.”

“And who would that be?” Bren had to ask.

“Someone who needs a night off.”

Bren gave a nervous laugh, “Well…it really was a brilliant show, Mr Tealeaf. You have a fantastic voice.” Compliments were always a safe way to go with a conversation.

“Mollymauk, please,” he put a hand on his chest, “Or Molly. And you are?”

“Caleb Widogast.”

He had no idea where the name had come from, how it rose to the tip of his tongue without a moment’s hesitation. He’d realise a little bit later that it was the names of two protagonists from two different books stitched together but how and why it found him just then, he’d never quite work out.

“Caleb,” Mollymauk smiled broadly, “What a lovely name!”

Bren felt absurdly guilty.

“Thank you…” he smiled, hoping it wasn’t too obviously fake, “This was a really special night. I’m so glad I got to see it. Honestly, five coppers don’t seem like nearly enough…”

He realised that he was starting to babble and clamped down on his lower lip, Father’s admonition echoing in his ears.

“Well, Caleb,” Mollymauk’s smile shifted a little, “I think I have a way you could…level the scales a little? If you were interested? No pressure, of course, simply an offer.”

“Oh?” Bren tipped his head.

“Would you like to spend the night with me?” Molly’s tail swayed from side to side, “In my tent?”

“Doing what?” he asked amiably, expression blank.

Molly blinked, looking a little nonplussed, tips of his teeth showing through his slightly dismayed smile, “Well…having sex was the idea…”

Bren wondered just how many times he could embarrass himself in one night.

“I…um…I…well, that’s, ah…”

He felt like his brain had been split neatly down the middle, into the half that was becoming more and more his own and the half that was mostly Father. A half that wanted to give a resounding, desperate yes and a half that was drawing back in panic. A half that was wondering if this entire night was one wonderful dream and a half that was wondering just how much more he could bear before he broke entirely.

The result of the war between these halves was complete and utter confusion.

“It was simply an offer,” Mollymauk insisted carefully, looking uncertain. It was such an odd expression to see on a face made for confidence and certainty, “Please don’t feel obligated, you’re just very handsome and just my type and…and I thought I got a vibe from you but I must have been mistaken…”

“No!” Bren managed to manipulate his tongue that suddenly seemed twice its usual size into making words, “I…I am interested. I would…I like men.”

Had he ever actually said that out loud before? He didn’t think so. He’d barely even thought it before, true as it was. But then again, some things were easier to say out loud than admit to yourself. It had been remarkably painless.

“Ah,” Mollymauk nodded, “Just not…tieflings?”

“No!” Bren wanted to tug on his hair but that would just compound the look of mania that was already pretty strong, “I just…I’ve never ever…done this. At all. With anyone. Of any race.”

Mollymauk’s expression cleared, eyes filling with understanding, “Oh. I see. Well, that’s perfectly okay, Caleb. I’d be happy to take you through it, as it were. If that’s what you’d like, I mean, not feeling ready is completely understandable.”

Bren had to fight a sardonic burst of laughter. There was not feeling ready and then there was the maelstrom of emotions currently crashing in his chest.

He tried to enter the cool, calm state of mind he entered when he was casting spells. The one that felt like sinking into ice water when the rest of the world was flame. He tried to let the honesty bubble to the surface, the very essence of everything he was, the part of him that spoke to the arcane.

“I would like to accept your offer,” that part of him answered, “If you’d have me.”

Well, for better or worse, there was the answer the deep parts of him wanted. He plunged all thoughts of the manse, Father, who might see them, what people might think to a faraway part of his mind. For at least an hour or two, they couldn’t follow him.

Mollymauk’s face broke into a broad, clear smile, “Mr Caleb, it would be my pleasure.”

Backstage was every bit as raucous as the circus in full swing. Clearly celebrations for a job well done were in fully swing.

The simple coat and muted colours Bren had worn to keep himself inconspicuous suddenly betrayed him and made him stick out like a sore thumb in amongst all the extravagant costumes, still on for the afterparty. He felt eyes on him from all around the small changing space behind the main performance area, sly, amused eyes that made him suddenly aware that they all knew why he was here backstage, with Mollymauk’s hand in his.

“My quarters are just through here,” the tiefling murmured under the rabble, “Benefits of being ringleader, I get my own space…”

The further into the press they went, the closer they got to the performers Bren recognised. The half elves that looked so scarily similar were lounging in one corner with glasses of wine, the scholarly looking young man who had been the female’s target lying back with his head in her lap.

“Molly, darling, come have a drink,” she called, raising her glass to him.

“Maybe later, gorgeous,” he called in reply, fluttering his fingers, “Got something to do first.”

“Oh, so his name is Something?” her brother returned, grinning, to a gale of laughter.

“Ignore them, sweetling,” Molly rolled his eyes with some fondness, seeing Bren’s face turn scarlet and holding the flap open so he could duck in, throwing a rude gesture in the direction of his performers.

A few more tunnels of purple silk and the noise of the party died down, muffled by more and more fabric. Finally, they squirmed out of the tent’s embrace entirely, the night sky above them. Carefully hidden from the rest of the square, sheltered by the tent was a little village on wheels. All of the caravans were functionally the same but had their own personality to them, sharing a piece of whoever lived within them. Molly’s was no different. It was painted gold and purple of course, a deep plum colour to the wood and gilded accents wherever they could be conceivably squeezed in. There were also stars painted all over it, in a paint that glowed in the dark.

Molly opened the door and gestured grandly for Bren to go first, “After you.”

There was even more personality inside, so much so that there was hardly room for it all. A miniscule kitchen was pushed down to one end with a small gas stove, pots and pans and mugs hanging from the ceiling overhead in a way that made Bren’s back ache just thinking about it. The other end was a large bed, plush and inviting with its hand knitted blankets and piles of silk pillows and gossamer hangings. The high shelves were completely devoted to books, candles, scarves, lanterns, jewellery, the collected nick knacks of a life spent on the road and the whole place smelled of rich incense.

“It isn’t much,” Mollymauk smiled, hanging his hat on a hook above the door, “But its mine.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Bren breathed, eyes wide, unable to quite believe all of the colour, the warmth, the comfort.

“You’re sweet,” he got a fond chuckle in response and a gentle hand on the small of his back, “Now, just to make sure you’re entirely up to speed…”

Bren have a soft affirmative noise, a little too lost in that hand on him, the first gentle touch he could remember in so long.

“I’m trans,” Molly turned him gently so he could look into his eyes, “So, what I’m working with, it might not be entirely what you’re expecting. I need to know if that’s going to be a problem for you.”

“Not at all,” Bren shook his head. His body was making it quite plain just how attracted he was to Mollymauk in a way that was unfamiliar and a little dizzying but he was prepared to just run with.

“Good,” Molly smiled. Bren had never met someone who smiled as much as this tiefling did. He was finding himself joining in, “Now you seem a little nervous, Caleb…”

“Yeah…” Bren bit his lip. The name was starting to sound less and less strange in his ears, “I’ve just never done this before…”

“And that’s okay,” Molly nodded firmly, hands now gently brushing his cheeks, “If anything happens that you’re not comfortable with, all you have to do is say so and I will stop immediately. I’ll guide you but you’re entirely in control. Talk to me, tell me what feels good, tell me if you’re not into something. This is about us, both having a good time. Okay, Caleb?”

Bren was still for a very, very long moment. He was casting his mind back, trying to think to the last time someone had been so gentle with him, when someone had told him he was in control, that he could choose what happened to him.

“Okay, Molly,” he nodded, heart ready to burst with gratitude.

Bren, who so rarely experienced anything more than a blunted contentment, discovered half a million new sources of delight that night. The trailing of soft lips down his neck, the movement of fingers, deceptively thin but hiding muscle and callus of hard work, threading thought his hair. A tail winding around his leg to anchor him and keep him secured when the pleasure got so intense he was scared he’d break apart at the seams. Heat and slick enveloping the most sensitive parts of him, parts he’d been too frightened to explore even by himself, knees squeezing around his hips, hot breath mingling with his own in between kisses. A name that wasn’t his own but meant for him leaving kiss swollen lips, sweat from another person’s skin speckling on his.

Just the presence of another body hopelessly tangled up with his, so he lost all sense of everything that weighed him down, all that was left was the sense that another soul wanted the best for him. That he was cared for, placed at the centre of everything, made the most important thing in the world.

And the last but by no means the least, the simple bliss of lying in an exhausted haze after nearly a full night of sex, with the arms of a lover wrapped around his middle, their head pillowed between his shoulder blades. Smiling like he’d forgotten how to stop, Bren watched a crystal turn on the ribbon it was suspended from, watching the moonlight caught and replicated within its depths, a whole infinity within such tightly set boundaries. His arms began to itch.

“Why did you keep these on?”

Bren turned, “I thought you were asleep…”

Molly pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, fingers still tracing the tight bandages around Bren’s forearms, the ones he didn’t even feel any more, “Nope. You tired me out, sweetling, but not that much.”

Bren raised an eyebrow, smirking, “Come on, I had zero experience. I can’t have been that good.”

“You were sweet and generous and honest. That’s all I require in my one night stands.”

One night. Bren knew that had always been part of the conditions but it was a dull ache nonetheless.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” Molly pointed out, “Why do you wear these? Healing tattoos?”

“No,” Bren murmured, “I…” A plausible lie couldn’t come to him fast enough and tired, vulnerable, he decided to trust the safety net Molly had laid out for him, “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that right now.”

The tiefling simply nodded, kissing between his shoulders again, “Very well…though can I ask something else? Not exactly related but…close.”

Bren stiffened a little and not in the same way as he’d done a few times earlier in the night. He gave a hesitant nod.

“Does it have something to do with the Archmage you live with? Mr Ikithon?”

His lower lip began to tremble. Everything was running closer to the surface tonight, it was all so much harder to control and keep contained, in the little boxes everything needed to stay in for things to be okay.

“And the…the scars and bruises…” Molly continued, voice softer and sadder like he already had his answer, “Are those to do with him too?”

“It’s only when I’m bad,” the ridiculous need to defend Father surged the words out of him, forcing Bren to speak even though his throat was tight and his eyes were already brimming, “He’s…he’s being so good to me, training me to be a wizard and I disobey him, I don’t do things right so he has to hurt me but it’s all to help me, to make me stronger…”

“Oh,” Molly’s voice was a whisper.

His arms were throbbing now.

“I was an orphan, I had nowhere to go, I would have ended up on the streets if it wasn’t for Father. He’s helping me, I make him hurt me by being bad, it’s all my fault…”

The words weren’t his. For all the times he’d said them, they’d never been his. Why was he only just realising that now?

“It’s my fault, it’s my fault-“

There was a hand on his hip, turning him around so they were facing each other, close enough for their noses to nearly touch.

“I don’t want to stop you,” Molly spoke in something like his stage voice, ensuring he could be heard and understood, “You need to get this off your chest, Caleb, I can see that but I want to tell you something first. Is that okay?”

He bit his lip and nodded, his breaths coming in shuddery tremors.

“None of this is your fault,” Molly held his face in his hands, “What that man has done to you is cruel and unfair and wrong. And I know that’s hard for you to hear right now and you might not believe me and there’s no reason you should have to seeing as I’m a stranger and all. But I have to say it. No one should ever hurt the people they’ve said they’ll protect. They should never make them feel the way he makes you feel. He’s been lying to you. You deserve so much better and…and I’d like to give it to you.”

He swallowed hard, unsure he’d really heard that last part, “What?”

Molly dropped his hands and sat up and a raw whine of panic ripped from his throat. Immediately the tiefling began to stroke his hair, “Sorry, sorry, it’s okay, I’m here. I just wanted to get…”

His hand groped further down the bed until it found his top hat, brought into the bed sometime during their escapades last night on a flirtatious whim where Molly had decided to introduce his new lover the way he introduced his performers. He tried to dredge up the way he’d laughed at that, tried to remember how it had felt but the sadness was too raw and too thick. Instead, he focused on how Molly turned the hat over in his free hand, the other still stroking his hair soothingly.

“Caleb, the reason I joined this circus was because I needed a fresh start too. And when it passed into my hands, I promised myself that I was going to make it a safe place for people to forget their troubles and leave rotten pasts behind. For our audiences and our performers too. Nearly everyone who works with me has something they’re here to get away from. I could make a place for you here, if you’d like that?”

He could see the line being offered to him, the way out of the darkness. He just didn’t know if he was brave enough to reach for it, when it could so easily lead to him falling.

“What…what would I do?”

Molly smiled, “You’re a wizard, huh? Our current arcanist gave his notice in a while ago, he’s running off with one of my better performers so they can go get married, the bastards. As long as you can make a shower of sparks on time and maybe do a little vanishing, that would be a huge help to me.”

“I’d…get to use magic? That’s allowed?”

“Of course,” Molly tilted his head, his smile growing as he reached out and placed his hat on top of his head, “You’ve been given a wonderful gift, Caleb. You’re allowed to use that to make people smile. I think that would be good for you.”

“But…my Father…you don’t know how furious he’d be…he’s a powerful man…”

Molly shrugged, “Not to blow my own trumpet but I know some pretty powerful people too. A writ of performance covers up a lot of awkward questions and lets us travel wherever we please. I can have everything packed down and loaded up in less than an hour, we’ll be away before dawn even breaks. Before your…father has any notion that you’re even gone, we can be lost in the northern forests. And…” his smile twitched up, “I don’t think Caleb is the name he knows you by, am I right?”

His cheeks darkened, the lie hadn’t even lasted a night, “No…”

Molly flicked his tail playfully, “And will he really want the news that his ward ran off to join the circus to spread all over the place?”

“No,” the realisation broke through like a ray of warm sun. Father would keep it as tightly under wraps as he could, the shame would be more than enough to guarantee that.

Molly reached out and took his hands, “Then come with me, Caleb Widogast. Come make people smile with me. Come see the world, see if we can’t find the happiness you deserve. And of course…” an edge of shyness crept into his smile, “As long as we were working together…my bed would always be available to you? Just until we get you a wagon of your own, of course…”

Part of him was still wailing about the risk. Behind him was certainty, even with the bite it had, it was the surety of a bed every night, food on the table, more lessons every day. Ahead was…shifting shadows. But in them he could glimpse a future, one where he was his own man, where he didn’t have to hide parts of himself or appear presentable, where he didn’t have to live with fear flavouring every moment. With someone who could make him feel the way he felt last night.

“Okay,” said Caleb Widogast, “I’ll join your circus.”

#rothfuss au #come home with me #the kingkiller chronicle #critical role #widomauk #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #trans mollymauk #cr: caleb #cr: mollymauk #vox machina #cr fic

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aesoswrit · 6 years ago

Text

Blitz/Rook Oneshot

This is for @magehir. I hope it satisfies your craving. (Rated: Fluff) Crossposted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200618

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Elias seemed to have a perpetual smirk on his face, and it was starting to eat at Julien. It was a similar smile to the one often sported by Elias' teammate, Bandit. Red flags went up, but he trusted his boyfriend.

When Elias had suggested that they have a night out, Julien had excited. Down time was rare these days, so time spent together was precious. Julien watched the road as Elias drove them through the countryside. He had no idea where they were going. He had butterflies of anticipation welling up.

"Elias, where are we going?" Julien asked.

"You know I'm not going to tell you. I love watching you squirm." the German replied, with a sidelong glance to his lover. The smirk warmed to a soft smile.

"That's what worries me." the Frenchman replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"We're almost there."

Sure enough, the car started to slow. Julien looked out the passenger side, and saw an old school, half boarded up and looking rather decrepit. Despite that, there was a lineup of people outside. A couple of bouncer types looked to be taking admission, and there were lights strobing from the few intact windows.

Julien's stomach dropped as a shrill scream echoed over the cool night air.

"Elias..." Julien began as he realized where they had ended up. "You can't be serious." he stated as he shut the car door behind him.

"Come on Jules..." Elias began, using the pet name to soften the impact of Julien's realization. "This will be fun!"

"For who? You?" Julien fired back, clearly unimpressed already.

Elias picked up on it. He walked over to Julien and put his hands over the defenders upper arms. "Hey now... You're an operator in one of the most elite squads in the world. You can't seriously tell me that some actors in masks and costumes are going to frighten you..." When Julien didn't respond right away, Elias changed his tone. "Just say the word and we'll go back to the base."

"I..." Julien paused, and took a deep breath. He almost took him up on the offer, but he after that pep talk, he realized that Elias was right. He could handle this. It wasn't real, just an act. "No. We're going to do this."

Elias grinned, and the sparkle in his eye was back. Julien just sighed and followed Elias, who had turned to get in line.

The wait was arduous and took forever. It had to be close to midnight now. Julien stood in stunned silence, having no choice but to listen to the shrieks and terrified yells escaping from the building. Some people in line laughed at them, others seemed revved up.

The line moved up. One step closer now, only 4 people ahead of them. Julien starting tapping his foot nervously, looking everywhere but their destination. Elias seemed unphased by the potential contents of the building, and bounced on his feet from time to time. He looked like an eager child, ready to get on the latest and greatest roller coaster. Julien almost couldn't look at him, and was starting to reconsider the offer of going back. He didn't want to disappoint Elias though. This was happening, and the sooner they got in there, the sooner they could go home.

"We're almost there." Elias mentioned, pointing out the obvious.

"Can't wait." Julien replied, trying to smile for him.

Seemingly before he could blink next, they were at the front of the line. "Next." chimed one of the doormen. He reached out his hand, and Elias stepped up to pay for the both of them. The doorman waved them forward. "In you go."

Elias wasted no time, and stepped through the carwash like panels of the entrance. Julien rolled his eyes and stepped in behind him.

The entrance was a well-executed anechoic corridor, with a faint light to the end of it, drawing them that direction. Very little sound could be heard, and Julien swore he could hear his own heartbeat... and it was getting faster already. When he looked at Elias, the man was beaming from ear to ear.

Elias looked back and saw Julien standing there, transfixed on their destination. He stepped back to him and softly took his hand. His grip was firm as he pulled the Frenchman down the corridor.

"Screeeeeeee!" shrieked a ghoulishly attired person that had leapt out at them as they rustled through the rubberized panel barrier. The overload of sensory deprivation to sudden immersion had the desired effect. Julien's breath caught and he stumbled sideways behind Elias and into the opposite wall from where the ghoul had appeared from. Before he had recovered, the actor had vanished, back to the secret recess he had been hiding in.

Elias almost stumbled as Julien's grasp spun him around. He howled in laughter at his lover's reaction. "Oh babe... That was..." he was out of breath from his fit.

"I hate you." Julien stated, his lips pursed while he tried to recover his breathing and retrieve his heart from his throat. The air was thick and unmoving, warm and detestable. Probably on purpose.

Elias just kept chuckling, but held on to Julien's hand despite the crushing pressure the younger operator was inflicting. He stepped forward, pulling him along again. Elias noticed Julien was staying a step or two behind him.

"Come on." Elias coaxed, giving Julien's hand a reassuring squeeze. He could hear his boyfriend repeating his previous statement almost like a mantra. It was endearing. He made a silent resolution to make it up to him.

The halls were almost pitch black, save for some glints of light around corners. Glow tape lined the floor though, giving them a path to follow. They inched through, step by step. Julien wished he had a weapon, any weapon, and his set of plates.

A fog machine went off beside Elias, but Julien only heard the hiss. He practically scrambled behind Elias, gripping at the German's hoodie, pulling him close. "You ok Jules?" Elias asked, only mildly concerned.

"Shut up and keep walking." came a terse reply. His teeth were clenched and his knuckles were growing whiter by the second.

"I'd say get behind me, but you're already there." he laughed, realizing the joke of it after he'd said it. He regularly said that on missions, but he didn't have his shield with him this time.

"I'll be your shield, my sweet juju bean." he said in a super hero voice, putting on an air of intense bravado. Julien scoffed at the mocking tone, and scowled heavily at this new nickname. He hated them... all of them. Without even thinking about it, Julien puched Elias' arm.

"Stop with the nicknames." Julien growled. He was becoming more annoyed, and panicked the further they went along.

"Or what?" Elias questioned over his shoulder. "You going to kiss me to death? What a way to go..." Elias mocked again, smiling. "You don't want that kind of bad juju on your head."

Julien sighed and punched him again. "I still hate you for this."

A few meters ahead, Elias spotted a glint of some rigging sticking out of the sidewall, and knew another jump scare was coming. He stifled the grin that threatened to tip Julien off. He barely managed it, and was deliciously rewarded for his efforts.

As the pair moved forward, a dangling array of silken threads descended from the ceiling. They were invisible in the dark, their thin ends felt like spider webbing.

"What the!?" shrieked a startled Rook, who grabbed the hood of Blitz's hoodie, inverted it, and threw it over his head with blinding speed. Though he was scared out of his skin, he breathed in the comforting aroma of Elias' cologne. Elias heard a faint, "I'm not coming out of here." from behind him.

Elias lost it. He couldn't help himself, and his arms wrapped around his stomach, trying to stop heaving from the laughter. "I'm sorry, but I'm not. I love you..." he sputtered between gulps of air.

True to his word, Julien did his best to hide in the hoodie, cursing Elias the rest of the way. He jumped, nearly to the roof when another fiend dared to claw at his feet from the floor. He shouted profanities, and his voice wavered when he spotted a rather convincing corpse lying on the ground. Having seen Doc with one before, it almost made him sick to his stomach. "We need to get out of here Elias..."

"The end can't be far away. We've been in here for a solid 10 minutes."

Another corner, another fright, another startled shout. Elias figured Julien would have relaxed the further in they went, but his nearly broken hand said otherwise.

They finally reached the end, and were greeted to the cool air outside. Elias looked proud of himself, until he turned and looked back at Julien. He was ashen looking, the colour drained from his face.

“You look like a ghost!” Elias barked, another chuckling fit starting. “You should ask them to hire you!”

Julien just stared at him, deadpanned.

“Babe…” Elias pleaded.

“Let’s just go. Please.”

“I…”

“Don’t want to hear it.” Julien finished.

They drove home in silence. Julien stared out the window, and didn’t even look at Elias. The German looked over at his love, thinking of every apology he could. This had been a monumental failure. He just wanted to have a good time.

At a certain point, Julien noticed that they were headed the wrong way, and not back to base. He was about to ask, when he spotted the golden arches. The car turned in, and he looked over at Elias. The German hated the place, but knew that Julien had an almost unhealthy love of it.

“What do you want me to get you? Sky’s the limit.” Elias asked.

“You know what I want…” Julien replied.

Elias smiled and pulled up to the window. Leaning out, he spouted the order.

“Can I get a cheeseburger happy meal, with fries, Coke and a boys toy please?”

#ritz #r6s #rainbow six siege #rainbow6siege #r6siege #r6s rook #r6s blitz #oneshot #fluff #haunted house

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

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Supersonic; Work Of Art (Shalaska) - shadyqueenie

A/N: Hi honeys! I know I said “see you at the end of November!1!!”, but I’m really getting bored here in Nagano-shi and I suffered a lot the jet-lag.

With this one-shot I went outside my comfort zone for two main reasons – first of all, it’s a Shalaska (💕✨) and second, there’s a small (small, small, extra small) smut scene. (Aaaaand I’m not going to do that again for a long time.) Bla, bla, bla, English is not my first language, bla, bla, bla sorry for grammar mistakes and so on. Kisses! Your Duh, Shady✨

“Work of Art” is part of the Supersonic Collection [Those one-shots are slightly connected with each-other, you can read them here . The common thread is the fact that almost everyone works at Vanguard Magazine, an important fashion magazine.] Alaska is Trinity’s personal assistant. She knows she doesn’t belong at Vanguard Magazine, but she tries her best because if you work there for a year then you can work wherever you want. So she wears pink haute couture dresses and does everything Trinity asks her. But Alaska is lonely at work, and declines every invitation from her colleagues. Because Vanguard’s Alaska is not the real Alaska.

SUPERSONIC – WORK OF ART

“Alaska?” Trinity Taylor’s voice sounded metallic and sassy through the intercom “Can you please come back to my office?” The blonde girl sighed, looking at her lunch box. She longed for her homemade egg fried rice since that morning – and her boss was ruining that precious moment. And why the hell was Trinity calling her through the intercom if the only thing that separated them was a glass wall?! She screamed every day, 24/7, but she had to play the bitch role with her through an intercom. Alaska shrugged, looked at her reflection in the mirror in her desk and checked if her ponytail was still up and tight (and of course it was) and headed towards her boss’s studio. “What is it?” she asked as she approached the door. She put on her face the brightest of her smiles, but something in the way Trinity was looking at her lunch made Alaska think that she’s going to scream in a minute. “I should be the one who asks question – what is it?” she asked, pointing at her bowl. “It’s the acai bowl you asked…?” “I asked for an acai bowl with tropical fruits” she lifted the spoon “Since when a raspberry is a tropical fruit?” Alaska tried her best not to insult her. Mangos, raspberries… who cares? Probably she was going to threw them up within a handful of minutes “The cafeteria run out of tropical fruits and I thought that berries were- “ “Well, my dear Alaska, I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to get me an acai bowl with tropical fruits” Trinity raised an eyebrow resentfully and pushed the bowl away from her sight “I’m done with lunch today” she sentenced. The clicking of Alaska’s heels sounded really loud as she approached Trinity’s desk and took with her the bowl. She dared to raise another smile but Trinity wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. Trinity made Alaska sighing at least twenty times per day. “What a fucking waste” she breathed as she threw the bowl.

Alaska paid a shit-ton of money for the art school and she was regretting it. In her college days she wanted to write about her fashion sense and art and a bunch of shits for a magazine. She didn’t care for what magazine – just an important one with a budget high enough to pay for her journeys. Almost everyone in her class wanted the internship at Vanguard Magazine, but in the end Alaska and her straight A’s won – and she didn’t even ask that place. “It’s a great opportunity, Miss” her professor said pleased “a year in Vanguard Magazine and then the world” she joked. When the internship ended, Trinity was so pleased about Alaska’s work that offered her a place as her personal assistant “My last assistant was dumber than lobster bait and spent her time counting calories. But you are naturally extremely skinny, don’t you?” Trinity smiled at Alaska’s nod “The paycheck is good, and the work room is full of those pastel dresses you like so much that you can have” added Trinity, emphasizing the words ‘pastel dresses’ with a disgusted tone. Alaska smiled as she stretched her dress’s folds. Yes, she wanted to be a journalist. She wanted to write about art and fashion and a bunch of shits. But a bunch of shits don’t pay the rent “All the dresses I want?” she tried. “As long as you don’t raid Bianca’s atelier” it was the first (and apparently last) time that Alaska heard a joke from Trinity “You will always stand by my side. Which means that if you look ugly, I’ll tell you and I will make you change and-” “I’m in” Alaska cut off the conversation. Alaska saw the same pleased smile that her professor had months ago in Trinity’s face. From that moment on, Alaska filled her wardrobe with expensive dresses and her mind with stylists’ names. She was about to finally starting eating when Detox’s assistant showed up “Are you busy tonight?” asked at point-blank range. Alaska looked at her for a full minute before replying. That woman looked bored. Of course she was bored – being the assistant of someone who clearly doesn’t need an assistant must have been stressful. As much as having three x in her own name. “Emh…” whimpered Alaska, trying to buying time “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry – but I already have something scheduled.” Roxxxy sighed while she tucking her hair behind the ears “Ok Alaska, I’ll try to make it clear. * I know you started working here recently, and so you might be a bit intimidated. But you can’t turn down all our invitations. We, all of us, are trying to be your friends” she pointed out “We – the assistants – have to group together, support each other. Otherwise working here will be like working in hell” Alaska looked up – to her, Vanguard was hell already “I know and I’m so, so sorry. But really, I can’t tonight. Maybe next week?” Alaska tried her best to look apologetic, but Roxxxy didn’t seem the kind of woman who takes a pity – especially because Alaska said the same thing a week before. And the week before that. “Sure” she answered before leaving. The blonde breathed a sigh of relief and finally she could focus on her meal. Not that she thought that Roxxxy and her clique were bad people – well, maybe they were, deep down she didn’t even know them. But she wasn’t interested in making new friends. She was well aware of the existence of the ‘assistants’ clique’, in which Roxxxy Andrews played Queen Bee’s role – but to Alaska’s ears sounded like the dumbest thing in the world. They weren’t in high school anymore.

Alaska was really careful not mixing her career life with her private one. Her work at Vanguard Magazine would have lasted for a year, maybe two. She didn’t want to be involved in that world made of excessively expensive dresses and calories reduced at bare minimum. She didn’t want to be subsumed in that crazy world, she was in it enough for her own tastes. So Alaska built up a character – she needed an armor to protect herself. Always dressed in pink tones (which she chose because she knew Trinity absolutely hated that color), always extremely efficient but at the same time extremely lonely. A nerdy Barbie. Alaska often joked with her friends about how that job was more like an acting game to her, but her longtime friend Jinkx could tell Alaska was always stressed as hell, and now and then asked her why she accepted that job in first place. Alaska has never really had a proper answer to her – she didn’t want to reply with the truth. Everything she knew was that she needed that job to be someone in the future. That’s what she was (always) thinking about – the future Alaska. And it didn’t matter if present Alaska has to work for the place she deposited the most, wearing hideous dresses and swallow some bitter pills. The only thing she could (at least) do was being disagreeable, so no one would have talked to her – and she was being successful, apart from the continuous Roxxxy’s invitations.

After leaving work at 6p.m., Alaska stopped at the restaurant in front of her house and bought a takeaway curry udon bowl. For a moment she thought about scolding herself – she was definitely too much into oriental food, but then she remembered one of the reasons Trinity hired her. She was naturally skinny, she can have rice for lunch and udon for dinner and still looking freakishly gorgeous. Or at least freakishly skinny. Suck it, assistants’ clique. With the bowl in her hands she crossed the street and entered her house’s building. She didn’t lie to Roxxxy – she had something scheduled for the night. Even if that meant eating everything she could find in the pantry and watching late night trash TV’s programs. As she put the key in her flat’s door, she heard a feeble meow from the other side “Ehy, Hairspray” Alaska smiled as soon as a little black fur ball came to cuddle against her legs “Are you ready for our night?” She put the udon bowl on the table and picked up the kitten, who replied at her affection by purring. The first thing she did when she entered her bedroom was throwing ungracefully away her shoes and bag (and by doing that gesture she imagined Bianca shouting “They’re MiuMiu, you ungrateful cunt!”) and finally Vanguard Magazine’s Alaska got replaced by the real Alaska. Yes, because Trinity wasn’t the only one who hated the pink color. While Vanguard Alaska loved pink and tight buns, the real Alaska loved the color black and messy big hair. At work she was quiet, polished – almost unremarkable, but deep down Alaska loved attending concerts dressed in nothing but a bra and a cut-off jeans and hopefully flirting with one of the band member (in which she often didn’t succeed, though). She enjoyed drinking cold beers and watching horror movies. And art, of course. She was, basically, an outsider – a freak. The real Alaska was someone the girls at Vanguard could easily made jokes about, like the ‘cool people’ did during her high school years – that’s why she didn’t want them to know her. After all, as she repeated herself every morning before leaving her flat “It’s just a year”

She was watching without putting too much attention a stupid reality on TV while eating her udon bowl. A bit of curry sauce fell into the sofa and Hairspray tried to lick it “No, no, no, no” Alaska scold him. She was going to go back to eat when the phone notified a new message incoming, which made Hairspray hissing “Calm down tiger – it’s just the phone” smiled Alaska, looking at the message. [Jinkxy 🔮✨, 8.12p.m.] Girl. What are you doing tonight? Alaska typed “Chocking to death” but she didn’t want to sound that melodramatic. So she cancelled the message and replaced it with a vague ‘Nothing’. [Jinkxy🔮✨, 8.14p.m.] Ivy and I are going to a vernissage in Williamsburg. Wanna join? She blew air out of her cheeks. She was already in her pajama, but she had a terrible day at work and really wanted to see her Jinkxy again. Alaska looked at her kitten “What would you do in my place, Hairspray?” she asked, hoping for a reply – but the cat just licked his paws “Sure” she rolled her eyes. Her phone rang again. [Jinkxy 🔮✨, 8.17p.m.] Come on, free booze and art… isn’t that so Alaska?!

An hour later Alaska reached for the couple. It didn’t take long for her to get ready – usually she just wore the first things that came out from the wardrobe, and every time she managed to make them work. The taxi left her in front of a former factory. Alaska rolled her eyes – reusing an abandoned factory for a vernissage? How original. At the entrance, the black sing with silver letters featured a single word. Needles. Her mind was elaborating a witty comment about that name’s choice, but her attention got caught by her friend’s voice “Lasky!” Alaska walked towards them with her arm crossed in her chest, the cold breeze made her legs shaking – November in NYC wasn’t suit for short leather skirt. “It’s so intriguing, isn’t it?” asked Ivy with a smile, referring to the event. Ivy was so optimistic and pure and genuine that gave Alaska cavities. Plus, she truly believed Alaska was a really talented art critic – and always asked what her impressions were. Flattering, but annoying. “Let me guess… New Gothic art?” asked ironically Alaska. She didn’t want to sound bored, but since she saw Ivy’s expression falling she added “I think it’s great!” The blonde watched her friends heading towards the building. She despised that kind of art since the day she studied it in her college years. But a lot of her friends thought she was into those gothic arts – wearing black dresses didn’t help that much, though. She sighed and followed them. The room was extremely big – even if the paints were enormous, they kind of disappeared framed to the wall. She instantly grabbed a glass of Prosecco and walked towards the paints. “Weber” she said softly after looking closer at a couple of them. “What?” “Nothing” Alaska shrugged “Those paints remind me of an artist I studied at school” she explained, tossing the glass in her hand. “Easy, girl!” joked Jinkx. “Round two?” Alaska asked ignored her friend. She couldn’t like the paintings, but she could get drunk at the expense of this Needles. Jinkx smiled softly – she always gave Alaska that condescending smile that made her feel very little “Stay. I’ll go” she offered after few seconds. Ivy excused herself soon after “I’m going to powder my nose” she said playfully. And Alaska was left alone. Alaska stayed still in front of a paint. They were all black, or white – some of them had a splash of burgundy paint but that was all. Maybe they weren’t that bad but God, she hated New Goth art so much. As if those artists didn’t have enough creativity to produce something new. “What to you think?” asked a voice behind her. At first Alaska jumped at the voice “Well,” she started with her usual slowness “What can I say? It is clear to me the tribute to Marnie Weber’s collages – even if those ones are darker and more decadent. Maybe a bit too pushed, I’d say. But what concerns me (yes, concerns) is the artist’s name. What kind of stage name is ‘Needles’? it’s pretentious as fuck. I bet if we’d ask him some explanations he’d talk our ear off about Sid Vicious and Sex Pistols. Like, we get it – you’re a punk/Goth/rebel and so on. Relax kid, your name is as anonymous as your works” she threw all those words up as alcohol after a shots’ night. The feminine and high voice behind her laughed out loud “I bet you’re right. I thought I was the only one that saw something about Weber inside there – yet I was wrong.” Alaska turned around and for the first time and saw to whom that voice belonged. She was a woman with extremely harsh features, her hair was half white and half black – like Cruella de Vil. And yet, throughout it all (that dark attitude, her thin figure and that strange hair), Alaska found her extremely beautiful. “Hi” she found herself babbling. “Hi, I’m Sharon” said the other holding out her hand. Her smile reminded a grin. “Alaska” replied the blonde, shaking that thin hand weakly. Trinity scolded her a million times for how Alaska shook hands “a strong shake means confidence” her boss always repeated her – but in that moment Alaska could barely remember how people do shake hands. “So, Alaska – would you like to keep on talking about it?”

Jinkx was coming back with two glasses of Prosecco, when she saw her friend talking with someone she has never seen before. “Who is she?” whispered Ivy in Jinkx’s ear, as curious as her friend. The redhead shrugged “I don’t know” admitted as she and gave Ivy the glass that was meant to be Alaska’s “Hopefully we’ll see Alaska again at the end of the night”

The conversation between Alaska and Sharon went ahead and their constant chat disturbed people in the room whose (in Alaska’s surprised) seemed to really like the paintings. So they moved towards the balcony, not until they got a new glass of Prosecco. Alaska played her fingers on the lip of the glass, waiting for Sharon to speak again. “So, what do you do for living?” Sharon finally asked. For a moment Alaska thought about lying to her. She could set a stupid lie like “I’m a salesgirl at American Apparel” and everyone would have bought it, but eventually she went for the truth “I work at Vanguard Magazine” “The one full of anorexic models?” “Yes, exactly” Alaska gave up defending the magazine month’s ago. Whenever someone made jokes about how skinny and sick their models were Alaska just nodded. She didn’t care. “And you?” Sharon smiled as she took a sip of Prosecco “Let’s say I work in the field of art” “You’re so lucky” said Alaska recklessly looking at the city lights in front of her. “Ehy, your job is about art too” said Sharon quickly as she catches Alaska’s glance “I do really believe that fashion is an art” added. Alaska sighed. Maybe Bianca and her clothes were doing art. Maybe Detox and her team. But booking Trinity’s appointments and bringing her lunch wasn’t so artsy “Today my boss scolded me because in her lunch – an acai bowl, which I find disgusting – there were berries and not tropical fruits. Where’s the artistic part in all of this?!” “Quit your job then” said out of the blue Sharon. It was so obvious to her she couldn’t believe Alaska hasn’t thought about it yet. “A year there and then I can work wherever I want” it was the first time that Alaska repeated her mantra to someone else – someone who wasn’t her kitten Hairspray. Maybe because talking about her problems to a stranger was easier than to Jinkx – that’s why people go to psychologists. Sharon realized she hit a nerve and soften her tones “I’m sure you are full of potential, and that you don’t need to spend a year at Vanguard if this makes you sad. In a way or another you’ll succeed, and you’ll get your dream job” she said, pinching softly one of Alaska’s cheek. “Do you believe it?” the blonde shivered at the gesture, and shivered even more when Sharon’s hand moved from her cheek to her bicep, stroking it gently. It was a new, strange feeling. She couldn’t believe the absurdity of the situation – a stranger was comforting her. A stranger that was definitely turning her on. “I know it” Sharon reassured her “You should have heard yourself talking about Marnie Weber and those works. You’re passionate, brilliant and smart. That’s what you are – you just have to fight for what you really want” Alaska really wanted to believe Sharon and not being scared about her future anymore. Being Alaska wasn’t easy – since the day she entered college her life was focused on finding the perfect job and feeling realized. Few friends, almost no relationships and an inexistent social life – she sacrificed her youth for something she didn’t know yet. But in that moment Alaska couldn’t care less about her future, her job, Vanguard or some stupid acai bowl. If there was something she would have fought for in that moment, then that thing was kissing Sharon’s lips painted in black. Her head was filled with questions – kissing a woman? She has never kissed a woman before… will she answer the kiss? What if she’ll reject her and scream? Screw that, Alaska kissed her. It was, by far, the most awkward kiss she has ever had. Because it took a moment for Sharon to answer the kiss, but when she did it Alaska felt her body relax. Literally – she feel into her arms. Sharon tasted like Prosecco and toasted tobacco, even if she didn’t smoke. While Alaska wrapped her arms around Sharon’s angular shoulders, she wondered if she tasted like Prosecco too. “Come with me” whispered Sharon against her lips, leading her back inside. Alaska followed her dutifully.

Alaska found herself trapped between the sink and Sharon’s body. She didn’t even realize they were in the toilet room until she looked away from Sharon’s body, when the latter turned to lock the door. She couldn’t help but stare at the other woman’s back throughout all the way to the toilet – as if everything around her went blur. As Sharon went back and kissed the blonde deeply, Alaska let out a loud moan. “Quiet” whispered Sharon, closing Alaska’s mouth with her hand “The exhibition is just at the other side of this door” and then she made Alaska sitting on the sink. Sharon didn’t even need to pull Alaska’s dress off, since she wore a ridiculously short leather skirt and no thights (which she thought it was such a brave choice). Without wasting a single moment, Sharon hooked her fingers to Alaska’s panties and pulled them down “Classy” she commented ironically, with Alaska’s pair of red lace panties intertwined in her fingers. The blonde grunted and rested her head against the mirror, breathing heavily as Sharon’s hands moved again towards her thighs, spreading her legs. Usually those kind of things happened on second-rate romantic movies – thought Alaska – the ones in which the protagonist has a one-night stand with a stranger at the very beginning of the film. Those kind of things usually don’t happen to someone like Alaska. She smiled at her own bravado. The last thing Alaska saw before closing her eyes again was Sharon making her way down her body. Sharon was impatient and in a handful of seconds she was licking the other’s girl clit roughly. When she started sucking too, Alaska had to cover her mouth and biting her lips to avoid screaming in pleasure. She was extremely disappointed as she felt Sharon’s mouth pushing away from her. Was she doing something wrong? Was she annoyed by her moans? Alaska opened her eyes and saw Sharon staring back at her, with an evil grin printed on her face. Definitely Sharon was enjoying it as much as Alaska “Relax, ok? You’re strung tight as a violin” she whispered as she could read her mind. Without a further word, Sharon substituted her mouth on Alaska’s clit with her fingers. She kissed and bite and sucked Alaska’s inner thighs, without taking her eyes off the other girl, who was now placing her legs over Sharon’s shoulders. The blonde’s skin burned under Sharon’s touch. Without any doubts she was leaving marks on her. “S-Sharon… I’m-” Alaska couldn’t add anything else because Sharon inserted a finger in her “Is that what you wanted?” asked panting. Alaska’s moan muffled by her hand was the answer Sharon needed to ear, as she putted other two fingers and moved them inside her partner. Alaska’s body was shaking and Sharon knew she was close, so she thrust more quickly. And she was so, so right – Alaska had to bite one of her hands when she came, the other one rested helplessly on Sharon’s head.

Sharon pulled herself away from Alaska’s body and looked at her own reflection in the mirror, trying to fix her lipstick “I think that those ones belongs to you” she said playfully, giving Alaska her panties back. Alaska’s glance was still on the floor while she wore them again. As her bravado faded away, her cheeks were so red she thought that they would catch on fire. She has never done something like that before. She wasn’t that kind of girl. All that embarrassment didn’t allow her to see what Sharon was taking out from her bra. “By the way” started the latter, giving her a black business card “Marnie Weber’s influence is obvious because she’s the artist I grew up with. Artistically speaking, I mean. Black is a stylistic choice. I don’t look for decadence, it just helps building up a character. And seeing your heavy eye-liner line I’d say it works for you too. Oh, and Needles is really my surname – even if I have to admit I really like Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols.” Sharon said all of that very slowly, as she previously absorbed Alaska’s cadence, and she seemed to enjoy every single word that left her mouth. On the contrary, Alaska felt the ground beneath her fallen away. Needles, the extra pretentious and dark artist wasn’t a man, but the woman with whom she just had a rendezvous. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She tried to get a word in edgewise but Sharon spoke first “I have to go, you know – I was trying to sell some paintings before a certain blonde here focused all my attention. But in the card I gave you there’s my gallery’s address written – come over when you’re feeling like you want to verbally destroying my work again” and after winking she disappeared. For all that time Alaska’s mouth was wide open – as if she got caught in the act. Well, she was really caught in the act. She waited two minutes before exiting the room. “Here you are!” Jinkx reached her out immediately “I saw you with that spooky girl and the next moment you disappeared! Where the hell have you been?” Before replying, Alaska looked around “Sorry,” she whispered still shocked “I didn’t fell well” Jinkx’s glance was painted with concern “Oh sweetheart, your cheeks are so red… Do you feel like you have fever?” asked, touching her forehead. The blonde shook her head “I think it’s just this place… it’s extremely hot in here! I’ll just hail a taxi and go home” “Are you sure?” asked her friend again, stroking softly her cheek. Jinkx knew how to be so sickly sweet. Not even Alaska’s mother has ever given her so many attentions – and Jinkx wasn’t about to give up “Ivy and I are going to a club… are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Alaska nodded. She needed her home, a hot shower and some cuddles from Hairspray.

Alaska spent the night with her face buried in her hands because of her gaffe. As she entered the taxi she put the black business card with address, email and site written in silver letters inside her wallet. Sooner or later she would have to write to Sharon, or come over her gallery, and she would have to say sorry. That situation also confirmed her biggest fear – she wasn’t ready to write about art. She didn’t even know artists’ faces. Next to her, the kitten slept peacefully. Alaska faced him and stroked gently his fur “My dear Hairspray, we’re going to die alone. Alone and at Vanguard”

The next morning, she arrived at her workplace an hour earlier. She put the most hideous pink tulle dress Bianca gave her and rushed towards the cafeteria. Not even her giant white-framed sunglasses could have covered her dark circles. As she went to the cafeteria and opened her wallet for paying her dark coffee, she noticed the black business card among the receipts. She was bored and she had a spare hour – she decided it was the perfect time to look at Sharon’s works. Alaska came back to her desk and turned her computer on. She ignored all the mails and the notifications from social media and typed Sharon’s website link. For every painting that scrolled down she let out a sigh. Unfortunately, Alaska still didn’t like the New Gothic art – though she started appreciating some of its features. “And what’s this?” Alaska didn’t even heard Trinity as she arrived. Why people loved talking behind her?! “it’s nothing, it’s just…” she tried to justify herself, but Trinity – as always – talked over her “Oh my God. One of those paintings could be the perfect gift for my goddaughter’s birthday. You know, she’s in that phase of every teenager’s life in which she’s obsessed with vampires and all those soft porn bullshits” Alaska imagined a little Trinity reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and did her best not to laugh. “Go to the gallery of this… Needles? – well, what a strange name, – and buy the most gothic paint you can find” stated Trinity, giving Alaska’s her wallet “There’s the checkbook inside. Any price will be fine” Alaska gasped “But-” “But what?” “That is not supposed to be my job” replied puffing her cheeks. “You are paid to be my assistant” said Trinity scornfully “If I want one of those paint, then you’re going to buy me one of those paint. Understood?” she threw her bag on Alaska’s desk “Put this in the wardrobe and don’t waste my time anymore” “Breathe, breathe, breathe” Alaska repeated to herself while sit in the back seat of a taxi, heading towards Sharon’s gallery. The taxi driver looked at the blonde dazed, but Alaska was too worried for guarantee her mental stability to a complete stranger. As she got out of the taxi she found herself in front of a gallery as so many others in Williamsburg, with one of the paintings in the window and nothing more showed. Before entering Alaska peeked into the inside – the furniture was black as the walls, the only point of lights were the light bulbs that enlightened every single piece of art and a computer screen that was hiding a girl with orange hair. Alaska breathe with relief. Maybe that was a shared gallery, and she was one of the other artists. Or maybe she was a salesgirl. But that girl wasn’t Sharon for sure. “Welcome!” said the orange head as soon as Alaska crossed the threshold “Oh, did you miss me already?” Alaska was mistaken – for sure “My boss saw me looking through your website and now she wants one of your work for her goddaughter’s birthday” explained rashly (which was unexpected even for herself speaking so fast), looking down at her MiuMiu’s pink satin sandals. She shivered at the thought that she was wearing a pink dress – what would have Sharon thought about her in that moment? Sharon looked up and down the blonde and then smiled “Sure. Please, have a round” she said as she brought her attention back to her computer. Alaska started looking at the paintings as she did the day before. She was glad Sharon didn’t ask her why she was looking at her website. For a moment that seemed last forever, the only sound that could be heard in the room was Alaska’s clicking of heels. Then, Sex Pistol’s Pretty Vacant echoed from the speakers. Definitely not a coincidence. “You look good in pink” started Sharon as she approached Alaska. The blonde smirked “And you in orange” Sharon run her hands through her hair “What can I say? Tonight when I came back home I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to dye my hair” she moved a hand in Alaska’s hip “I couldn’t sleep because I still was so excited” she explained, whispering in her ear. “About that” rushed Alaska, freeing herself from the other’s woman grip “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said all those mean things about your art. Pretty rude of me” and before Sharon could add anything, she continued “I’ll take this” she said looking the price tag framed next to the paint she chose. Sharon nodded and went back to her computer “Have a sit, I have to write the bill” she pointed at the empty seat at the other side of her desk “Would you like something to drink?” Alaska shook her head “I should come back to Vanguard soon” she said. She sat still and rested her hand on her knees. She has never felt so nervous before, and her posture made it pretty clear. “I hoped you had already quitted your job” breathed Sharon as she wrote the bill “I really meant what I said yesterday” “I’m halfway my goal” said automatically Alaska. She lost the count of how many times she said that line to herself. “Ok” acquiesced Sharon as she pulled the bill out of the pad “Then, that makes 1300 dollars” “But in the price tag…” started Alaska, but Sharon cut her off. “Yeah, the price tag says 1200 dollars. But since you don’t want to want to quit this hideous job, your boss owns you at least a proper lunch” she grabbed her coat, the bag and the keys “Come on. I’ll promise that where we’re going they don’t serve acai bowls” she joked. A grin appeared in Alaska’s face as she wrote the check. She quickly grabbed her bag and reached Sharon, who was keeping the door open for her “And I promise I won’t read your work today” she said playfully as Sharon closed her gallery. “Oh sweetheart” Sharon titled her chin up and brushed her thumb against the blonde lips “with this cute mouth of yours you can do everything you want”

* Yeah sorry guys – I had to.

#shadyqueenie #supersonic #au #cisgirl au #shalaska #sharon needles #alaska thunderfuck #smut #rpdr fanfiction #lesbian au

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cyarikryze · 7 years ago

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nostalgia

inspired by: @promptsforthestrugglingauthor

word count: 1164

warnings: blood, death

There was something oddly nostalgic about being threatened with a knife and being unable to defend myself.

My eyes flicker from the blade to the one holding it. My heart skips. I knew, deep down. I knew if anyone was going to bring about my end, it would be him.

I can hear my heart drumming in my ears. I swallow, my breaths small gasps.

“Well?” he snickers, circling me, the blade of the knife gliding gently along my throat as he moves. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

He completes his circle around me, and crouches down to my eye level. That dark, dangerous look in his eyes causes a feeling of nausea to rise in my throat. I look away.

“J-Julian’s going to be home soon,” I whisper, the raspiness of my voice giving away the dryness in my mouth. “If - if he finds you here…”

“Oh, come on, you really think that’s going to scare me? What a waste of last words,” he chuckles, the sound so sickening that it sends a shiver down my spine as if the temperature of the room had plummeted. My hands are shaking. I don’t want to die.

He brings the blade up to my face, and I wince as he gently touches to it, runs it along my cheek. It’s getting harder to breathe. “Such a pretty face. I’ve always thought so. It’s a shame, really, to destroy something so precious.”

“Please…” I beg quietly, barely able to raise my voice above a whisper. I keep looking to the door. Praying that Julian will walk in and find us.

“Oh, come on Mels, I know you’re not that pathetic.”

My heart lurches at the name.

“Don’t call me that,” I growl, my eyes snapping open. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Ah, that’s more like it,” he titters, bringing the blade down from my cheek, “I like a little defiance. Someone who’ll put up a fight. It makes it so much more exciting. The thrill is, after all, in the chase.”

“You… you don't have to do this… this won’t get you anything. You’ll just… you’ll just go to prison. That’s all you're gonna gain from this. Jail time.”

“Now you’re just sounding desperate,” he snaps, and he grabs me and pulls me up, shoving me against the wall, “it’s time to shut you up for good.”

“No…” I try to push him away, put the more I push, the more he presses towards me, the sickening smirk on his lips growing more by the second. I cry out, pushing harder and harder, until finally there’s a beat where he’s pushed to one side, where I have a window to escape. I tumble forward, rush for the door - I think I’ve done it. But he grabs me from behind. Turns me to face him. Everything seems to stop for a moment.

Then I feel it. The sharp blade piercing my skin, scraping against bone, burning through my flesh. I almost don’t feel it at first. But once he pulls it out, sharply, abruptly, and I feel the hot, sticky blood running down my stomach - that’s when I feel it.

My head is already spinning. I groan weakly - my knees buckle, and I start to fall. He has hold of me. He helps me to the ground. And then I’m lying there. My vision blurs - but I can see the carpet staining red beside me. I can’t breathe.

“So long, Melissa,” he chortles above me, and I think he steps over me on his way to the door. “It’s been a blast.”

There’s a slam.

My eyes burn with tears. I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not now. I need to say goodbye.

Zoe’s going to be so crushed. I promised her I wouldn’t leave her. She needs me. She needs me here. I can’t leave her. I can’t. I can’t…

I force my eyes open as I feel them closing. I need to stay awake. I have to stay awake. Just a little longer. Just a little longer, I tell myself, and Julian’s going to be home. He’s going to help. It’s going to be okay.

That’s a lie. I know that. I’m not going to make it, there’s no way he’ll get here in time. No way.

Julian. Oh God. Jules.

I roll to my back. I can see my phone, a few inches away. I take a deep breath, reach for it. The strain causes me to cry out in pain. My heart’s racing. I can’t breathe.

I blink a few times to try to focus my vision. Find his contact. I need to talk to him.

I bring the phone to my ear. He picks up within a few rings. Probably good. I don’t have much more time.

“Hey, Mels,” I can hear the smile in his voice - that breaks my heart. I can’t stand to think how he’ll react when he finds me. I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell him what’s happened. “Mels? Sweetheart?”

“Hey, sorry…” I catch the strain in my voice, try to push it away; I can’t let on the pain I’m in. “I just, um… I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Are you okay…? You don’t sound so good.”

Shit. He can tell.

“I… I’m alright. Just - just a little down, I guess…” my head’s spinning more and more. I feel sick.

“Oh no, Mels… do you need me to come home?”

His voice warms me. Comforts me. Almost as though he were right with me, holding me. I wish he was. God, I wish he was.

“I - argh -” I can’t hold back a moan of pain now; I roll back onto my side, gripping my stomach. “H-home…”

“Mels?” I hear panic in his tone now. I try to reply, but can’t find the strength. I only groan through gritted teeth. I’m growing cold. “Mels. Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“I - I love you,” I slur, my eyelids growing heavy. I can’t keep them open much longer. “So m-muh-”

“I’m coming home. Okay? Stay on the phone. I love you.” His voice is shaking. My heart shatters again.

The pressure I’m holding to my stomach lessens. My hand seems to become limp beside me. Not much time. Not much.

“Jules…” my eyelids flutter, and I can’t keep them open anymore; they slowly fall shut. “‘M sorry… luh-love you…”

“I love you more, Mels, okay? Stay with me.”

“Nuh…” my other hand falls down, my phone clattering into the ever expanding puddle of blood beside me. I can hear him calling for me. Over and over. I try to open my eyes. I can’t. I can’t breathe…

My blood is running cold. There’s an intense tiredness now, begging me to follow it. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t breathe.

I groan, and finally, the thread I’ve been clinging to snaps, and I fall into an eternity of nothing.

#writers on tumblr #writerscreed #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled words #spilled prose #my writing #my ocs #prose

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the-evolving-falcon · 7 years ago

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Second Blog Anniversary

[Soooooooooo~ I never thought I'd reach this point, but today, I am happy to celebrate my second anniversary as an Arc-V roleplayer on tumblr, with of course everything starting from this blog \(^o^)/

There's been many ups and downs, many involuntary hiatus, but in the end, I just love RPing as Shun and as Ruri (and even as Serena, whenever she decides to actually cooperate with me), so it is only appropriate for me to thank those who have made this experience a special one in particular:

@hxneyed-eyes: On your old blog, you were the very first person to follow me, as well as the second to put up with my clumsy first attempts at RPing in English- which were honestly horrendous- with so much patience and to still give me a chance in spite of my severe lack of experience. It is genuinely nice to see you back in the Arc-V RPing community, and I'm already looking forward to future interactions!

@kitameguire: The second person to follow me and the first to ever send this blog a meme, which then turned into the very first thread I ever had. Had it not been for your patience and your willingness to give me a chance as an RPer and to send me memes, I would've never been able to establish myself as a Shun RPer, and for that, you have my eternal gratitude. Your Yuzu muse is precious beyond words, and you, the mun, are the kindest person in this fandom without allowing for your kindness to be tainted by hypocrisy in a single instance. (And lemme just say that your taste in Arc-V ships is A++)

@sakakiyushou: It has been a while since I've last seen you around on tumblr, but your commentaries on my Hostage and Amethyst threads and your reactions were always such a pleasure to read as you were just so open and honest about your thoughts and feelings, making it all the more enjoyable to have you suffer and rejoice alongside us. I don't know whether you are still a member of the fandom and whether your hiatus is temporary or permanent, but I'd like to thank you for the smiles you put on my face, and I do wish you the best in all your endeavors in RL and online <3

@tsukikagc : Your take on Tsukikage is wonderful beyond words, elevating him from a plot device used to a multifaceted character of a beautifully gray morality and with a backstory in complete accordance with the earlier tone of Arc-V. I am deeply grateful to you for being one of the very few to give my alternate take on Ruri a chance and for being the first to actively take our threads between Tsuki and Ruri in a shippy direction- further proving that you do not treat her as inferior, and I greatly appreciate you being so accommodating in regard to my requested worldbuilding and timeline changes in our threads, allowing me to enjoy them without any kinds of restrictions. RPing with you is super fun, and of course, you are super nice OOC as well, so a definite 10/10 from me!

@sharmat-dreams: You're not even in the same fandom and yet, you encouraged me to do my best with what limited resources I had in my beginning stages as a tumblr RPer, giving me advice when I really wanted to stop for feeling inadequate, and really, in the circumstances of you having no kind of emotional connection to Shun and the world he resides in, what you did for me back then means all the more to me. You're an amazing person and an amazing friend – the only one I'd think of as a Senpai completely unironically – and I'm kinda semi-secretly hoping for the day of the two of us having more fandoms in common again.

@presidentakaba: What would I do without you?! You were the very first person to indulge me with this very specific wish list thread that I still love to BITS even today. It is always such a pleasure to RP and ship with you, and it was you who made me realize how much fun it is for a thread to not always be deadly serious, as in the communities I was accustomed to in my country, humorous RPs could basically be equalled 'gross OOC bastardizations of all characters involved'. Your Reiji is such a delight to interact with, as you so very skillfully explore what he could have remained, had he not been stripped of his intellect, his values, and agenda – at this point, you really are the only one to depict him in this light, and I always gush at how beautifully morally gray he is without being portrayed as misled. Thanks for playing along with my self-indulgent thread ideas, for allowing me to explore my canon divergent muses' potential without any kind of restrictions, for creating happy roleplaying memories of conditional fluff and soul-crushing angst alike, both together shaping meaningful bonds between our characters that are far beyond being two-dimensional – and last but not least, thank you for being a treasured friend I can always count on.

@kansuigyo: Oh goooooosh, roleplaying with you is just a complete and utter delight! I just love your work at developing and fixing butchered and/or underdeveloped characters whose radiance outshines their canon counterparts in both, canon divergent scenarios and AUs alike. And with the high extent of your thoughtfulness and the creative ideas you have, even the most meticulous of plotting and worldbuilding never feels like a chore but is always something I enjoy and actively look forward to. I deeply apologize for always taking so long to reply to you in particular, but please allow me to tell you this: Each and every thread we have demands for me to employ everything I have as an RPer, as the standards you set are incredibly high, compelling me to give you nothing but my absolute best, as even in a decent condition, I am still struggling to come even close to them. Talking to you about Arc-V's wasted potential and ways of fixing what went wrong by exploring what the more complex characters could have been has been one of the most soothing things for my declining sanity in response to the entire Konami and fandom nonsense – all thanks to your deeply-founded understanding and critical thought, making the act of conversing with you alone a treat every single time. Thanks for being such a wonderful friend, and for sharing your thoughts with me in such a delightful way!

..Of course, I’d also like to thank each of my followers in general- those who’ve been there from day one and those who stumbled across this blog just recently alike- for giving this blog a chance and keeping me company, but specifically those who have sent me questions, memes or commentary. It is people like you who have made me appreciate tumblr’s RPing format in particular!]

#out of options #second blog anniversary #long post

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specterchasing-a · 4 years ago

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Slay and Gainsay || Adam & Eddie

TIMING: Sometime last month.

PARTIES: @walker-journal & @specterchasing

SUMMARY: Adam saves Eddie’s life (twice) and is rewarded with ungratefulness, existential nihilism, being told he has rocks in his head, and the invalidation of his core beliefs.

CONTENT: Suicide tw, asylum tw, gun use tw, head trauma tw.

(This thread contains contains graphic descriptions of the topics listed. Please, let one of us know if you need a summary.)

Cemeteries at night felt like home to Eddie. Most nights, ghosts freely roamed the rows of derelict headstones with moonlight illuminating their paths. Tonight, however, he seemed to be alone among the graves. Wind rustled through the trees as disappointment planted roots in Eddie’s heart. He never knew what to do with himself when the dead weren’t talking. He let out a huff, fogging up the air with his breath, and shoved his hands into his pockets. As it was, he could see no reason to stick around. He turned on his heel and headed towards the cemetery gates. As he walked, he felt a strange sensation that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise to attention. Someone—or perhaps, something—was watching him.

Eddie stopped in his tracks and took a sweeping glance at his surroundings. “What’re you waiting for? I’m not even a moving target anymore, I can’t make this any easier on you,” he said to the shadows only to be met with silence. After a moment, he decided he must’ve been imagining the unfamiliar presence and kept walking.

Just before he reached the gate, he heard a twig snap from a few feet away. Eddie turned in the direction of the noise and was quickly knocked off his feet, onto his back. He felt the weight of a full-grown adult pressing down on him; the sight of fangs clued him into the species of his assailant. He wondered if this was it—how he finally wound up dead.

Eddie squirmed beneath him, instinctually struggling for his life. Adrenaline rushed through him as the vampire held him firmly in place. “This is what happens when you tell secrets that aren’t your own,” he hissed.

The vampire suddenly went stiff after a jolt of impact. The pressure of the predator’s grip vanished as cold skin petrified over the span of seconds. Cracks spiderwebbed up the arms holding Eddie down until they snaked up his assilenet’s neck. Luminous red eyes winked out like snuffed candles. Flesh wizened into finely ground dust, now only vaguely held in the shape of the undead hitman.

Adam unceremoniously shoved the vampire’s dust silhouette off Eddie like a burly kid kicking over a sand castle. The Hunter wiped a white oak stake on his pant leg before offering his free hand to help Eddie up. “C’mon, let’s haul ass, there’s more on the way.”

Remnants of the dusted vampire collapsed onto Eddie’s clothes. As he laid there and aggressively brushed them off, he made a mental note to burn his entire ensemble. It looked like ordinary dust, but he knew it would be impossible to cope with knowing his clothes were once coated in something that used to be alive. “I liked this shirt,” he mumbled, voice shaking.

A hand reached out for him—it took him a moment to summon enough trust to take it. With the help of the man who saved his life, Eddie hoisted himself onto his feet. “Yeah, I think you’re gonna need to tell me what you are before I follow you. Killing a vampire doesn’t automatically make you my hero.” More vampires didn’t sound ideal, but Eddie had a hunch this guy was a hunter of some kind. He seemed experienced with a stake and that left him on edge.

“...Uh, you’re welcome,” Adam said to the person whose life he just saved. Hero? The hell was he on about? “Dude look I don’t give a fuck about being your prom date, I’m just here to save your life.” The Hunter exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them with a renewed mien of urgency. “We’ll have to make a push to the south gate, they’re less clustered there. The plan is to get you somewhere secure to wait out dawn.”

Adam turned toward the directly with less vampires mustering before pausing mid-stride. The “Unless like...you are like chill will being someone’ red koolaid tonight?”

Eddie’s face scrunched at the hunter’s brusk tone. Why he cared so much about saving someone he didn’t know was a mystery. Maybe he felt duty-bound to lower White Crest’s body count. Eddie could respect that more than a god-complex, at least.

“I mean, that’s a possibility you kind of have to cope with in this town,” Eddie replied with a shrug, but he opted to play-along with his rescuer's plan and followed him closely. “You, uh, seem to know a lot about this kind of thing. I can’t believe I left my camera at home, I bet you’d give a great interview.”

Was…this dude ok?

Hating to waste precious time, Adam turned and began to snap his fingers in front of his companion’s eyes. “Did that vamp hypno-stare you before I got there,” Adam murmured absently as he watched go see if Eddie’s pupils reacted and if his eyes focused properly on the snaps happening at various points in his vision.

Perhaps figuring vampiric compulsion or shell shock were the only reasons someone could be so blasé about impending exsanguination through jugular tearing , Adam attempted to reach out and apply reassuring pressure to Eddie’s shoulder if he was allowed. “Look man,” Adam began in a gentler tone, “ we’ll get you somewhere safe and then it’ll all be…”

The attempt to shake Eddie out of the apathetic daze was interrupted by a sharp flare of icy heat in the black of Adam’s head. The Hunter whirled mid-sentence while drawing his machete as part of one fluid motion.

The Spawn hurtled down on thirty feet of leathery wings. It was a hulking thing of muscle and grey flesh, no longer proportioned in anything resembling a human frame. The taloned claws that’d replaced the vampire’s feet grazed deep bleeding furrows into Adam’s shoulders as he ducked and rolled out of the way of the Spawn’s hawk-like plummet. An unearthly keening shriek issued from the Spawn’s distended jaws as momentum carried it past where it tried to snatch the Hunter. The Spawn slammed straight through an angelic statue and several gravestones, the impact barely seemed to phase the vampire as it took a few seconds to shake off the pulverized stone like a dog might flick off water.

More chiropteran shrieks answered in the distance, echoing amongst the stooped willows and baroque crypts.

“Interview what?” Adam gritted through the pain in his bleeding shoulder, looking between the Spawn and Eddie before deciding that extracting the civilian took priority over eliminating these things. “A camera would slow you down! C’mon! This way.”

Eddie’s head reared back at the sudden snapping. “Can you not?” As far as he knew, his mental faculties were intact, both cognitive and non. Then again, he imagined he would think that even if the vampire did put the whammy on him. As Eddie mulled over the possibility, the hunter’s hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced at it with mild distaste, not understanding the apparent need to offer moral support felt by his opposite. The contact didn’t last long, however. Something seemed to be eager for the attention Eddie didn’t want.

A gush of adrenaline entered Eddie’s system as he stared slack-jawed at the winged-beast descending upon the man who saved his life. He winced at the sight of blood and staggered a few steps back. “What the fuck are you?” he breathed as he examined the leaf-nosed creature. Eddie knew about spawn vampires, but he must’ve glossed over the section of text that said they could have wings. His eyes followed the mindless monster as it collided with a statue, then some headstones. Watching the burial places be torn asunder, Eddie felt a swell of hot rage in his gut.

The hunter encouraged Eddie to follow his lead, and it seemed like he had no choice but to comply. “That rat-bastard just desecrated those graves,” he called out as he took off in the direction he’d been told to. “Also,” he panted, “you’re bleeding a lot.” He sounded slightly less concerned now.

Behind them, the leech-with-wings looked intent on a chase. “You’re a hunter, right? Super speed and all that,” Eddie clamored. “Aren’t I gonna slow you down?”

“Name’s Adam and well...yeah I guess,” the Hunter admitted to Eddie’s question as he stopped to let the youtuber run past him. Adam stepped behind Eddie to face the Spawn that was barreling towards them, wings starting to flap in the beginnings of take off. Adam drew a trusty SIG Sauer P320 military pistol and fired a quick barrage of gunshots into the vampire, the sound like thunderous whip cracks that echoed through the looming crypts.

Normally a bullet, especially from a handgun, meant little to the undead. However the incendiary rounds exploded into a flare of burning radiance as its zirconium powder payload ignited at five thousand degrees upon impact with the vampire’s flesh. The Spawn let out a screech whose pitch climbed beyond human hearing as its papery flesh ignited. The burning vampire flailed in panic, charging blindly through gravestones and heaps of gravedirt as it attempted to put out the power flames consuming its immortal flesh.

That might buy a little time a least.

Adam hustled back up to run alongside Eddie, leading him in a zigzagging path amid a maze memorial walls bearing the names of mass tragedies and sprawling family crypts whose elaborate gothic accoutrements spoke of wealth trying vainly to leave some lasting purchase on the inexorable march of time. “It’s not about me dude,” he continued, as if the shootout with an elephantine bat creature had just been a pause for breath in the conversation. “It’s about getting you out of here. Sources said one of the vampire clans was taking someone out, so I’m here,” the Hunter said, seeming to take it for granted that this was a reasonable explanation for risking gory death for a stranger’s sake.

Another Spawn swooped down from where it had been crouched on top of a mausoleum with hellenic pillars. It was a more lithe being then its burning fellow, gaunt to the point of being nearly a cadaverous skeleton with a lipless mouth of needle teeth. It came down on the pair of prey as they passed through a crossroads in graveyard, striking when they were briefly exposed without any obstacles to hide behind.

“Shit shit shit,” but Adam ran straight towards the path of the Spawn’s murderous descent. The Hunter unsheathed his machete midstride, favoring its weight in the uninjured arm. As he’d hoped, the Spawn shifted its trajectory to drop down towards Adam rather than the civilian.

The moment of aerial readjustment proved a mistake on Spawn's part as Adam preempted it’s plummet with a Olympics-worthy running jump at the vampire, machete raised over his head. Vampire and Hunter collided in midair a few feet above the ground and the precisely weighted blade cleaved straight through undead flesh and solid bone with mutant strength behind it. Adam broke the worst of the fall with a roll while the one-winged vampire crashed to the ground, carving long muddy furrows through the grassy turf with the force of its momentum. The Hunter flipped back up to his feet and sprinted over to where the Spawn thrashed like a dismembered bird, struggling to support its one massive frame on just one winged forelimb. One executioner's deathstroke later, and Adam was just standing in a sandbox of fine grey dust.

“So what’d you do to piss off one of the clans anyway,” asked Adam as he beckoned for Eddie to follow him back into the cover of some statuary rows.

A gun? Eddie attempted to curb his surprise by reminding himself that he was dealing with a hunter. As he ran, he cast sidelong glances in both directions. No one seemed to care that this cemetery was the closest thing its ghosts had to a home. The winged beasts were brainless, he couldn’t expect much from them, but Adam should have known better. His search for specters proved fruitless, but he didn’t have time for an extensive investigation. Eddie made a mental note to donate however much money he could afford to the cemetery in the near future.

“Me?” Eddie opposed. “Listen, dude, I’m the poster boy for acceptable casualties.” Chaos ensued, but Eddie refused to look back at the carnage. He needed to leave the premises, if only to guide his attackers away from the graves. When a spawn appeared up ahead, he skidded to a halt. It didn’t matter how little he cared about his well-being, instinct always overruled his wishes.

Eddie looked away in disgust, bile bubbling in his gut, as Adam wrestled with the creature mid-air. Impressive as he was, Eddie never had a strong enough stomach for gore. Even after the hunter dealt his killing blow, he couldn’t bring himself to look. The world around him spun while gravity beckoned him with a siren’s song. By the skin of his teeth, he managed to stay upright, but his knees wobbled and threatened to collapse.

Adam spoke, his voice was cavalier and effortless. Clearly, they were built differently both mentally and physically. “I didn’t—” Eddie stopped mid-sentence to heave oxygen into his lungs, trailing after Adam on reluctant legs. “I didn’t know they were so touchy,” he explained between ragged breaths. “All I did was make a video or two about them, nothing groundbreaking.”

Adam frowned at his companion as he walked beside him in the shadow of a family mausoleum. Statues in the image of this wealthy line’s ancestors, entrepreneurs, council members, grand dames, and children taken before their time all stood on either side of a small marble promenade. A ceiling covered in mosaics detailing scenes from their family’s history was held up by walls riddled with small shelves holding skeletal remains and dust behind glass inscribed with individuals’ names.

“My name’s Adam,” the Hunter said after time, brown eyes scanning the alcove’s shadows before alighting on Eddie again. “Why would you be an acceptable casualty? You do something fucked up? Or are you one of those cringey libs who feels guilty for existing?”

“You what…,” Adam took a few steady breaths of his own in the mausoleums, though perhaps more to steady his nerves than his heart rate. “Vampire clans are secret organizations that rely on secrecy and selectively turning people in power in order to push their agenda. How could you think that making exposure videos wouldn’t bring down the heat?”

Breathing gradually became an easier task for Eddie as they navigated the mausoleum. A breeze followed them through the entrance and dried the recent build-up of sweat against the back of his neck. A shower wouldn’t fix all that tonight put him through, but he imagined it would be a good start. Warm water, the comfort of his apartment, and a distinct lack of hunters with martyr complexes. It sounded like pure bliss.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Eddie responded dryly as he considered the passing inscriptions. “I’m Eddie.” Being on a first name basis with someone who brought guns to graveyards didn’t make his wishlist, but being unnecessarily rude and withholding his name would only make the remainder of their journey more awkward.

When Adam uttered the words cringey libs, Eddie’s eyes snapped in his direction with the added emphasis of incredulously raised brows. “The statues we just passed are jealous of the rocks in your head.” His expression relaxed and his gaze shifted forward. “No to either option.” He debated leaving it at that, but Eddie found keeping quiet difficult even when he wanted to. “I’m just not a worthy candidate for a rescue mission, is all. You should save your energy for someone who didn’t ask for a burial plot with a view on his eighth birthday.” His parents told him that he misunderstood their request for him to start thinking about his future and bought him a set of Star Wars LEGOs instead.

“See, the whole ‘agenda’ thing is kinda why I did it,” Eddie responded with a pointed glare. “It’s not my fault they’re petty enough to spill blood over a video sponsored by Dollar Shave Club. Y’know, if they bothered to dust off their antediluvian brains once in a while, they might’ve realized having it taken down was a simpler solution. Now, all they’ve accomplished is causing the deaths of their own worker bees and making me feel all kinds of special.”

“Rocks in my head,” Adam, frowned and considered that turn of a phrase for a moment, the apolitical Hunter not picking up that it might have something to do with having insulted Eddie’s preferred team color of suited sociopaths. Being stationed around the world with his parents had made Adam forget just how hard Americans simped for the cults that stole their money. “Y’know, I don’t think any other douches have ever actually used that one on me before,” the footballer noted.

Eddie’s following speal about purchasing graves and laughing off the threat of vampires that he’d just given Adam shit about killing not fifteen moments before managed to chip the Hunter’s usual cavalier demeanor. “Okay Tumblr-Gothcore-stan,” Adam said in slow low tone. “I don’t know what kinna trustfund dreamworld you’ve been living in, but these people are dangerous.”

Adam took a few steps towards Eddie, boots utterly silent on the sepulchral marble. “Look sorry I’ve cockblocked your death-boner or whatever, but these clans will also go after your friendsand family.” The Hunter raises both eyebrows at Eddie before returning his scrutiny to the graveyard’s shadow. “I’m not gonna to tell you what to do with a life you don’t value, but maybe take your mind off those suicidal blue-balls long enough to think that it might not just hurt you.”

Adam shrugged. “Or maybe that's just the rocks in my head talking, who knows.”

Adam grinned and attempted to clap Eddie on the soldier, as this had just been a rather amicable group huddle. “Annnnway, let’s haul ass out of here so you can start on the like Teen Casket Sonnets or whatever and get Byron-famous.”

With that, Adam led the way down a dias towards a garden flanked by several rows of cubicle sized crypts with pointed roofs whose entrances were guarded by rusted grates.

The more Adam talked, the more Eddie’s distaste for him grew. He sounded exactly like the highschool tormentors that made his teenage years hell on earth. The familiar anxiety of helplessness they caused him came crawling back even though he assumed the odds of Adam laying a hand on him were low. Emotions don’t always consult logic before dredging up the past. “If anyone’s a douche, it’s the guy using the word ‘douche’ as an unironic insult,” Eddie quipped.

The nickname caused Eddie to roll his eyes, and an urge to repeat the motion returned with Adam’s warning. “You people sound like a broken record,” he muttered under his breath. The number of times he’d been scolded for dabbling in danger was astronomical. Whatever effect people wanted it to have on him clearly didn’t take.

Eddie instinctively took a step back when Adam moved closer. He proffered another warning, but this one had more flair than the last. Friends and family, right. His parents rarely spoke to him and friends were few and far between for Eddie. He thought of the few he did have, his mind lingering on Alfie’s name longer than the rest, and a surprise blip of guilt emerged. “I’m not suicidal,” he snapped without thinking as soon as the hunter spoke the word. After years in therapy, the word scared him. Admitting he felt that way meant an instant trip to a mental health facility filled with miserable patients and disinterested nurses, and no contact with the outside world. The ghosts he met there were the saddest he’d ever known. “I just don’t care, there’s a difference.” He knew that wasn’t really true, he’d heard the words ‘passive ideations’ before. Eddie chose to believe that didn’t apply to him.

“No one will get hurt,” Eddie insisted. Adam didn’t know it, but he’d successfully convinced him to take down the videos himself in case the hunter was right. “Stop lecturing me.” As much as he wanted to sound commanding or intimidating, his inflection morphed the words into more of dejected request.

The sudden shift in tone felt like whiplash. “If I pay you, will you stop saying things like that?” He sounded more lively now as he forced himself back into the rhythm of barbed banter.

“Where exactly are we going, by the way?” Eddie questioned as he followed Adam. He was exhausted, all he wanted to do was go home and never think about his run-in with Chad the Vampire Slayer again.

“I mean yeah dude obviously definitely is a difference between laying down on the subway tracks and blowing your own brains out with a Glock,” Adam pointed out with bully club frankness as he took the first careful steps into the garden parameter of floral beds and stone benches. “Question is if it's like a meaningful difference. You want to die and buying some arsenic versus just being so numb that you let yourself get offed by vamps,” the footballer shrugged as he paced forward, machete at the ready. “It’s just doing the suicide slow and without a trip to the Pharmacy.”

Adam snorted at Eddie’s demand for him to stop saying true things and a jesting bribe to pay him to stop expressing himself. “Nah brah, I don’t accept money from irresponsible content platforms,” the footballer shot back with the smirking energy of a Twitter shitstorm.

“To my car, hopefully,” Adam said, voice a little absent as he frowned and slowed his steps, eyes flicking to the rows of crypts.

Eddie didn’t understand why Adam decided to lecture him on the subject of suicidality. He already performed his hunterly duties, why couldn't he have been the stoic type? He refused to entertain the topic beyond what he already said. “This isn’t 1932, you can’t buy arsenic at pharmacies anymore.” For once, having a pharmacist for a dad actually paid off.

His brow once again raised incredulously at Adam’s assertion that his content didn’t meet his standards for responsibility. “Well, that’s rich coming from the man who risked his life for the sake of, what, some guy? What if you died saving me? And I’m not even talking about my indifference to death making that a bad decision, I’m saying a hunter should ostensibly know how to pick their battles.” For someone with such a sense of duty, Adam didn’t seem to value the idea of keeping his birthright from killing him. “You guys get off on the salvation of humankind or whatever, I get it, but what happens when the big bad comes and all the hunters are on the wrong side of the grass because they made a mistake in a fight to save an accountant, or whatever?” Eddie scoffed and shrugged his shoulders. “But I’m the one with suicidal tendencies, right?”

Eddie glanced at Adam curiously while he eyed the crypts. “You lookin’ for the boogeyman, or did you confuse this for a parking lot when you got here? I don’t see any trucks nuts, so.”

Adam grinned at Eddie’s circular rant. “So you are saying that I should pick and choose which human lives to save?” Although he was smiling, something in Adam’s voice became colder, a subtle icey disdain hidden in the playful tone. “Here you just gave off the vibe that its not worth the risk to save an accountant,” he noted. “Why? Because their life isn’t as important as say...a CEO?”

The look Adam threw over his shoulder made the machete’s cruelly honed edge seem soft in comparison. “Dude, fuck off with the elitist bullshit,” Adam demaneded with a biting calm, “ther’s a reason why I’m sworn to value human life equally. Because otherwise bigots and self-hating cucks like you go on about how some human beings are worth sacrifice while others aren’t”

“You aren’t just ‘some guy’ Eddie,” Adam continued with a gentler sternness. “You are a human fucking being with the same worth as any other. Even if you were a celebrity or tech bro millionaire nothing would’ve changed,” claimed the scion of one of those Hunter lines that was perhaps endangered by being too bright a candle in a night. “Don’t LARP like you could possibly know what a Hunter’s priorities are when you can’t even see yourself as a person.”

“Truck nuts? Nah left them on your mom’s rig,” Adam quipped absently, meeting Eddie’s lazy stereotype with the equivalently lazy comeback it deserved as he felt a presence grow stronger.

Mist poured out of the crypts, slithering through the grated gates and rolling across the flowerbeds, benches, and artificial ponds like a wave breaking over an unprepared harbor town.

“Take this and hold it in front of anything that looks thirsty,” Adam said, reaching into his shirt and withdrawing a silver seal of solomon on a thin chain for Eddie to take.

Eddie’s lips pursed when Adam hurled accusations at him. “God, how did you miss the point of what I said that badly?” he asked with apparent exasperation written on his features. “It’s not about one human mattering more than another, it’s about keeping yourself alive so that thousands can live instead of dozens. You make one wrong move and you’re dead no matter how badass you are, so why do you throw yourself at every fight you can?” He assumed he wasn’t an exception and that Adam made a habit out of playing the savior role. “Today, you could have died fighting a handful of vampires. Tomorrow, the apocalypse could happen and then it wouldn’t matter how many individuals you saved, and there would be nothing you could do to stop your life’s work from being rendered moot.”

“For the record, I really am not more than just some guy, and I’m not saying that because I need some machete-wielding jackass to help me scrape my self-esteem off the ground,” Eddie said lowly. “Y’know, I really can’t wrap my head around why everyone is obsessed with a person needing to be worth something. I’m not a commodity, I don’t need a goddamn price-tag. I’m human, you’re right. That means I’m temporary and ultimately meaningless to the world as a whole, and that’s okay. My experiences aren’t meaningless, especially not to me, but my existence does not matter because the sun will rise one day and no one will remember my name. At the end of the day, we’re all tourists on vacation and we should make the most of our time here, but that doesn’t change the fact that we have a flight to catch in a few days. So, people caring as much as they do about meaning and worth just detracts from the time they could be spending having fun.”

Adam seemed distracted, which made bothering him less enjoyable. “I’m questioning your taste in women,” Eddie mumbled. A few moments later, something was being thrust into his hand, and Adam advised him how to use it.

Eddie looked down in puzzlement at the seal. “Oh, are you Je—” A figure leapt from the shadows and his jaw snapped shut mid-sentence. His entire body clenched as what he assumed to be a vampire lunged towards Adam with ill-intent. Eddie considered the seal for a moment, unsure if it would work for him considering he wasn’t Jewish. He wasn’t anything, really, but he didn’t want to be entirely useless. If Adam thought it would help, he probably knew best.

Eddie took a few hesitant steps closer to the hunter and the vampire with an outstretched hand brandishing the pendant. He didn’t know the range it had, but he figured the closer, the better. All he needed to do was avoid any potential blows not meant for him.

“You’re right I misunderstood your point,” conceded Adam with an eye roll. “It was dumber than I thought.”

“Do you know why we took that long maze route through the graveyard? It wasn’t for the parkour” Adam sighed, wondering if he’d ever talk to one of these objectors who actually talked to him like a thinking person trying to do his job rather than just a flesh-doll of some Hunter stereotype they’d already constructed in their head. “It’s because I don’t actually throw myself into every single fight,” sighed the young soldier. “I chose the route with the least vampires my Hunter-vibes picked up and only fought the ones I needed to,” Adam explained with the weariness of someone who had done his homework only to find someone else was just winging it.

“And yeah I guess I could just do like you suggest….let people die...and justify that with I’m saving myself for some bigger thing that might come later,” Adam mused with a dismissive pfft through his lips. “I mean my rock brain wonder if letting the population get whittled down without slaying the perpetrators in the small cases and then having a snowball effect of the locals being converted into….a bigger army of hungry vampires seems like the actual thing that would cause the apocalypse you’re worried about.”

He shrugged. “But hey man, you’re the expert.”

Adam narrowed his eyes at Eddie as he held out the hexagrammic star for him to take “So ultimately nothing has worth because it's temporary,” Adam bluntly summarized. “Look, I’ve been around the world and my take is that we need to have basic assumptions of innate human worth or people’ll get ripped to shreds by fascists and oppressed by people that use your dumbass take as justification to do what they do. That’s why we made those concepts dude, not so we can ruin your Beatnik ennui.”

Adam turned back to face the fog. “Besides you won’t be able to spend that time having fun if y’all are just eaten by giant spiders and skinned by Red Caps because no one is making sacrifices to protect the town” he pointed out.

Adam sparred with his opponent, a lanky figure with sunken cheeks and near transparent skin from which veins stood out like spidery leinsions. The vampire’s luminous scarlet eyes were swollen and bloodshot with brighter lines of red as if they might burst at any second. There were not forelimbs but rather masses of ravenous bat’s fused together. Adam ducked long arms covered in hundreds of biting and screeching mouths while he looked for an opening.

Initially, Eddie didn’t care for Adam’s tone and it showed in the way he furrowed his brows, but the longer he listened, the more he understood where the hunter was coming from. Sympathizing with someone born to kill never seemed like something he’d have to worry about, and yet here he was. His expression gradually softened. “Oh, shit,” Eddie said, his eyes lighting up with a dawning realization, while an out-of-place grin tugged at the corners of his lips. As much as he wanted to write Adam off as mindless, that clearly wasn’t the case. “Guess I kinda biffed that theory, huh?” Being told he was wrong didn’t always lead him to word-y tantrums. When someone made a point that got through to him, he accepted it more often than not. “I never thought about it like that, sorry for being a dick. I got kinda heated,” he admitted with a shrug. Eddie still didn’t fully agree with Adam, but he made a lot of points that deserved more than a knee-jerk response, so he held off on forming a rebuttal.

“Fascists have distorted ideologies to keep people subservient since the dawn of time. That doesn’t make them wrong, it makes fascists bigger assholes than they already are. If they think something has to be valuable to them to deserve respect, they’re going to act on that with or without cause. That rock over there is worth nothing to me,” Eddie gestured to the ground. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna set it on fire. I could, but I don’t want to, and that’s the difference. People will do what they want and nothing will ever change that. Not to say we should roll over for the urges of bigots, but that’s a fight that will last as long as humans do.”

“And, to be honest, it sounds like you’re talking more about dignity than worth. Equal respect for all living creatures is important because, like I said, experiences do matter. Experiences lead to actions, and actions shape the world around us way more than people behind them. If someone does something horrible, it doesn’t matter who they are, it matters that they did it.” Eddie didn’t see what wasn’t clicking. Then again, he spent most of his life obsessing over life, death, and the ‘why’ surrounding it all. Being surrounded by death since birth tends to do that to a person, and Eddie coped with it by answering the biggest question of all in the only way that made sense to him, same as everyone else.

“Oh, man, I’m so sorry, does the way I view life invalidate your superhero fantasies? Everybody dies, usually in a painful way as far as White Crest goes. Sacrifice as much as you want, it’ll never be enough,” Eddie replied with a blank expression.

Inching closer and closer, Eddie looked for a chance to do something—anything. The vampire before him looked marvellous in a way that made him kind of nauseous, but he didn’t let that deter him. As Adam ducked, he momentarily disoriented the bloodsucker while. While it recalibrated, Eddie got as close as he would to it. It shrieked when it sensed the pendant, rearing away from it in horrified disgust. It wasn’t much, but it might give Adam a chance to catch it off-guard.

Adam was a person of action of a mindset that weighed ideas more for their practical effect on the world than whether they matched some higher metaphysical truth. If an idea is so abstract that it has no practical effect on life that he really wasn’t interested unless it was fun to listen too. But inversely, Adam had little patience for ideas that might be correct in some higher sense but led to terrible outcomes if actually put into practice.

He shook at Eddie’s first apology to indicate it wasn’t a big deal. Adam was that kind of guy who didn’t have hard feelings after arguments or fist fights, even if he went all in during the actual scuffle.

However it was maddening for Eddie to just state declaratively that fascism and its ilk would always be with us, as if the suffering of the past were part of some abstract process rather than the lives of real people who didn’t have to be tortured and murdered. Adam was really getting the feeling that Ed-boi here liked sitting apathetically while watching the world go by, and had constructed a whole elaborate system of justifications on why he was in fact enlightened for being numb to suffering and consequences.

“Sacrifice as much as you want, it’ll never be enough,” Adam’s brown eyes rolled as he mockingly repeated Eddie’s comic villain words back at him in a suitably pho-menacing tone. “Hey Darth Ed. It ever occur to you that maybe a Hunter already know just a little about the inevitability of death and that victory might be ultimately unattainable?”

The bat-arm vampire reared backed by the hallowed symbol, papery skin igniting in white fire as it grew too close. The vampire reared back, the chioptean mouths lining its long willowy arms shrieking in pain.

The was all the opening Adam needed. The Hunter darted toward as the vampire reeled, drew a hot pink plastic sidearm and send a stream of holy water into one of the creature’s eyes.

The Vampire’s eye socket disintegrated with a hiss of pale steam followed by flesh sloughing off burnt bone. It swung of arm of hungry mouths into Adam but the Hunter placed the holy squirt gun against the vamp’s shoulder and the arm toppled to the ground as another squirt severed it like a jet of Fluoroantimonic acid.

Adam peeled the bad heads gnawing at his arm and ribs off like fanged nights and aimed the squirt gun at the downed vampire’s veiny head as it writhed on the ground. One squee of the pastel flower themed trigger, and Adam stood only on wet dust in the middle of a garden walkway.

“Hey Ed, ….thanks for the assist there, you really came through there,” Adam said wearily, the night's previous shoulder wound not having been any favors as it bled down his shit while one arm was now covered in lacerations for a solid mass of bat fands.

When Adam parroted him, Eddie realized his comment might have been a bit much, but the whole ‘I sacrifice myself so you can have fun’ schtick rubbed him the wrong way. Eddie wouldn’t tolerate a guilt-trip brought on by someone self-immolating. He imagined being born a hunter left him little choice in the beginning, but he was grown now and a new path could be chosen if the current one didn’t suit him. But maybe he didn’t do what he did purely for the sake of altruism. After all, the caliber of Adam’s heart didn’t make him a hunter, genetics did. Having only met him tonight, Eddie didn’t feel confident making a judgment call like that yet, but it was on his mind.

“I mean, yeah, I kinda figured I was preaching to the choir on that one. Kinda surprised we don’t see eye-to-eye because of that, actually. Not saying that’s a bad thing. I know all I’m doing is clinging to whatever gets me through the night, so y’know, you do you, man.” Aside from the comment about sacrifice never being enough, not a lot of what Eddie said came from a place of wanting to upset Adam. For the most part, he was merely explaining the way he saw the world and the role he played in life. And, partially because he had issues knowing when to stop talking about a particular subject. Let him loose, and he’d never get tired of the sound of his voice.

The sight of a hot pink squirt gun nearly knocked the wind out of Eddie as he stumbled backwards to give Adam ample parkour room. “Holy shit, that’s genius,” he uttered when he realized it contained holy water. “Oh, fuck me, that smells awful,” he groaned when a breeze carried the scent of the vampire’s disintegrating eyes and flesh to him. Eddie gagged before pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose. “Oh, it’s so bad.” He turned away from Adam’s acts of violence for the second time that night, unable to handle the sight of it combined with the smell.

When it sounded as if the job was finished, Eddie turned around in time to see Adam brandishing the ingenious weapon with an ash pile instead of an opponent. He pulled his collar down again and grimaced slightly at the lingering stench in the air. “Yeah, man, no problem. Thanks for, like, killing it, I guess. I mean, that squirt-gun technique—flawless. And you didn’t even desecrate any graves. I’m proud of the growth you’ve gone through in the past, like, fifteen minutes.”

Eddie noticed the additional wounds that now littered Adam’s body and frowned as a pang of guilt struck him. When an idea occurred to him, his face lit up again. “You should come to my apartment with me,” he insisted. “I have some Phoenix tears we can use to make you good as new. Just… try not to bleed out until we get there. Do you need me to drive?” His hand instinctively extended in case Adam handed over his keys.

“We’ll never see eye to eye on that I’m afraid dude” noted Adam, choosing not to follow up with the fact that he found Eddie’s perspective pretty insulting to everyone who had to watch their kids get ripped apart by monsters or found their parents’ blood-drained corpses.

Maybe Ed-boi operated in goldfish time, where by the time he was finished dismissing everything about you and your way of life was just a result of being incomptetant and delusional, he had already forgotten and was now thanking you for saving his life.

“Maybe I should just kill you and take the Pheonix Tears,” noted Adam with a morbid smirk as he headed to the parking lot, “they're extremely valuable and hey like...your life is meaningless right? People will do what they want and nothing will ever change that, right?”

Despite the dire threats used as wheedling, Adam opened up his truck and began to put the heaviest kevlar and machete inside without any sign of beheading Eddie for magic tears.

Adam’s response shocked Eddie to his core. One second, he was thanking him, the next he was aiming for the jugular. “Whoa, I was just being polite because I heard your point of view and have a better grasp on why you save people. I dunno, it would’ve felt kinda fuckin’ disresepectful to react the way I did last time after everything you said, is all.” His body tensed and his chest tightened at the unexpected return to verbal beration. He didn’t know what he did wrong.

Eddie waited a moment, deciding if he should follow him at all, before quickly hurrying to Adam’s side. When he reached him, the hunter met him with a pseudo-threat. At least, he assumed it wasn’t genuine. It made him feel sick to be talked to like that. “If that’s what you wanna do, obviously I wouldn’t stand a chance at stopping you.” He glanced over at Adam uneasily. Being dead didn’t scare Eddie, but the act of dying violently? That was a terrifying fucking concept.

While Adam put away his weapons, Eddie stood idly by trying to decide what should happen next. “Look, Adam, I’m sorry for being an asshole. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, I got carried away, and tonight’s sucked, and hunters scare the shit out of me. Some of you guys—maybe even you’re like this, I dunno, we just met— but, it’s like you’re programmed to hate supernaturals more so than to protect humans.” With a sigh, he realized how pointless his apology would be. Clearly, Adam hated his guts. The bridge was burned, if there was ever a bridge at all. “I didn’t know you’d actually care about anything I had to say, not this much, anyway.”

“Ed,” Adam sighed. “Maybe what I’m saying that maybe you should be a bit more tight lipped about the Pheonix Tears in your apartment?” The Hunter raised a livid bruised eyebrow. “Y’know...like what we were talking about with the youtube vamps?”

Eddie spilled his guts about the Hunter phobia. Wow what a surprise, who could have seen that coming. “Eddie, chill man,” Adam said as he placed explosives back into sealed containers. “I already knew what you thought about people like me from the second we met…..you're not exactly subtle my dude.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “I’m mostly teasing, I’m pretty used to having conversations with people like you….and saving them...all while they tell me what a fucked up monster I am. It’s chill.”

“Oh,” Eddie said with a look of mild embarrassment. He did that a lot; overreact when he assumed people were upset with him. At some point, he hoped he would learn the world didn’t end when someone’s tone sounded harsher than he expected it to. “Right, yeah.”

Hearing about his lack of subtlety didn’t come as a surprise, at least. Subtle had never been a word used to describe unless it was said sarcastically. But, when Adam told him how often that people reacted that way to him, his heart sank a little. Hunter or not, Adam seemed to be trying his best. He had good intentions, at least, even if Eddie didn’t share his opinions.

Eddie took a few steps closer to Adam. “That’s fucked up,” he said. “I’m sorry for contributing to a long line of assholes.” The after effects of Adam’s idle, albeit still off-putting, threat made him nervously struggle on exactly what he wanted to say next. “I shouldn’t have judged you for what you are. You didn’t choose to be a hunter and, even if you did, you seem to really care about people. We don’t agree on a lot of things but, I mean, I don’t think you’re a monster. Maybe I did at first, but that’s changed. You’re kind of a dick sometimes, but not a monster.”

Adam scrunched his eyebrows and shook his head. “Ed is not that you hurt my feelings...it's ok I’m a tough dude I can take it. It’s more like don’t you think it's a little weird that you automatically hated the guy who saved your life more than the people and Spawn trying to literally kill you? Don't you think the priorities might be a bit fucked up...maybe even alot fucked up”

Adam whipped his bloody face off on a towel from the passenger seat. “I’ll accept dick, its accurate.”

Eddie didn’t understand what Adam was getting at. He thought he made it pretty clear why he didn’t resent the spawn as much as he resented the hunter. “I guess it’s not, like, how most people would have reacted, but…” He shrugged, genuinely unsure what Adam wanted from him. “It’s just how my brain is wired.”

Adam suppressed the desire to point out the irony of the ‘just how my brain is wired’ coming from the guy who went on about how Hunters were ‘programmed’ to be evil not thirty seconds ago. “Look I know you’ve invested alot of like...energy rationalizing why it's okay that you are worthless”

“But I think it's complete bullshit,” Adam said flatly. “If you don’t wanna be one more in the line of assholes I deal with? Don’t give up your life so easily and make everything I just did pointless.”

Eddie felt a tinge of dread when Adam circled the conversation back to the subject of worth. If they hadn’t exhausted the topic by now, they never would. But, what he said next came as a surprise. He looked at the hunter questioningly for a moment. They only just met, and while Adam had saved his life twice in the span of one night, he initially felt an urge to meet his request with immediate rejection. He didn’t ask to be saved, he didn’t owe Adam anything. But, he didn’t actually feel that way even though he wanted to.

“I mean, old habits die hard, but I… I can try to be more careful. Hey, I already plan on taking down the videos that got us into this mess, for what that’s worth,” Eddie offered hopefully.

Adam looked at Eddie for a naked moment, dumfounded. “Wait...dude, that's what I wanted the whole time! Just take them down and that’d be amazing!”

Eddie blinked in surprise. Adam did know he only meant the two about this particular clan, right? His standards seemed pretty low. “Yeah, man! You convinced me to do that, like, forever ago.” It seemed like he’d finally done something right, which was always an intoxicating feeling for Eddie. “So,” he ventured. “Did you wanna swing by my apartment?” He intentionally avoided saying why. Adam already knew, of course, and he wanted to practice exercising caution.

Adam let out a long exhale and looked back at the graveyard gates behind them. With the adrenaline leaving his body pain was making itself known.

Truth be told, he was pretty worried about Cowlick here. The only people Adam had met who accepted worthlessness this deeply had been in the danger zone or zombies so numb with time they’d thanked him in the bitter end. Adam knew that given everything he’d seen and been through that he was probably the least qualified for psychoanalysis on the planet. Still, he couldn’t shake the impression that Ed-boi desperately needed something Adam maybe couldn’t give, and needed it sooner rather than later.

“Sure I’ll swing by,” agree the guy who was honestly bleeding too much to really pretend he had other good options. “Well....uh...you could drive,” Adam glanced at his lacerated shoulder. “That’d be amazing.”

When Adam agreed to Eddie’s proposition, he boasted a wide grin. He knew this was more about keeping the hunter from bleeding to death than hanging out, but it felt nice to be on the same page for once. Eddie extended his hand once more when Adam suggested he should drive. “You got it. Keys, please,” he requested, ready to put an end to an incredibly strange night.

#c: adam #wickedswriting #slay and gainsay #suicide tw #asylum tw #gun use tw #head trauma tw #// THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING #eddie is insufferable in this and i'm sorry

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