#shes rarely if ever out of armour anyway but | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiivg · 17 days ago

Note

hey uhm. very respectfully. where can i find your gaspard/ alistair fic. for reaserch purposes.

.Okay so I wrote Peacekeeper back in 2016, and that’s over on Ao3, and this ~18k thing I never finished years ago, and I’ve not even reread it so bear with because it's probably awful idk 😬. If I do read it I will definitely want to rewrite it lmao, which is ??? Who knows 😘.

.I would like to say that I still do like Alistair/Gaspard even if I’m like one of very few, it works damn you IT WORKS!!!!!!.

.Enjoy ✨🤷‍♂️✨.

“If I don’t win your heart in a month we can call off the wedding.” Gaspard said, his normal tone seeming lifeless. He knocked back his brandy in a quick motion, shaking his head to accommodate the fiery ache it left in its path. He nodded to Alistair, and with a quick bow he marched from the room to deny the man his chance to respond.

It was Celene who was intended to marry the ruling King of Ferelden, to produce heirs and to promote a healthier relationship between the bordering countries. Maker knows that the people of Ferelden would never accept an Orlesian King after the tyranny that Meghren had wrought. But the softer, kinder heart of Celene? Her poisoned words would melt through their objections ever so easily, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Though through a duel that Gaspard had sorely lost, she had coiled his words so tightly that he felt bile rise in his throat and his blood curdle. He had been raised as an Emperor, and now he was being sold like a prized horse to some bastard King of the backwater. The whole idea was a farce, and it had seeded itself so deep in Gaspard’s belly that the man feared he would sooner carve it out than don the golden painted ring.

The King himself had never been part of the negotiations. Alistair had received a letter from Celene thanking him for a sense of open mindedness, rarely found beyond Orlesian walls. His advisors had scattered like mice when he sought to find out. Odella, who is arguably the bravest of them, had explained they could not survive an Orlesian invasion should his refusal anger Celene, or worse mildly irritate Gaspard. His military strength in the form of his chevaliers, and his own tactical mind would carve through Ferelden like the paper that made up the maps.

Gaspard’s journey was made with a sour face, irritated at being packed and presented like a trussed up nug waiting to be peppered by doglord arrows. The backwards people were too idiotic to build their own crossbows, ones that could hold more than one measly prick of a needle bolt anyway, and they had never truly mastered the ballistae in the ages past either.

Celene had, in an overt gesture of supposed kindness, had her seamstresses create several outfits lined with fur for Gaspard to wear in his future days. The Grand Duke had only kept them because depositing them on the road would seem petty, and damage his reputation more than actually being seen in the garments. Each outfit was made from bear hide or canine leather, a hilarious joke Gaspard thought sarcastically, and was surprisingly and embarrassingly comfortable. Quality if not hideous. His escort, two score of men armed and armoured and acting more like gaolers than guardsmen, had travelled with his carriage through the Frostback Mountains. He had been denied a horse, and had thought about simply stealing one from Celene’s men and bolting into the night, but his pride kept him caged inside the padded and mobile cell.

The journey through Ferelden had been just about as exciting and amicable as Gaspard had presumed it would be. The patter of rain came just as quickly as the patter of rocks, and through the dull sound Gaspard lost track of which was what. He knew how he was perceived in Ferelden, contrary to belief he did keep an ear to the ground in his neighbouring countries, and especially the one Orlais had so recently lost.

He wondered if he would be greeted with a soldier’s song. Old King Meghren, an Orlesian song to mock the faulted and failed King. Perhaps they would change it to Old King Gaspard, perhaps they already sung it in Orlais, or maybe Celene was having the lyrics rewritten for his wedding.

His escort had dropped him outside of King Alistair’s castle where he was received, not by the man himself, but his advisors. That was an insult, and Gaspard would not let it lie. The two score men had saluted and left, abandoning Gaspard in a foreign land that thought he was here to conquer, and insisted on using a mixture of backwater Trade and Noble Fereldan idioms which he would never admit to not understanding. Bastards. He’d start speaking in Orlesian and see how well they did. A foreign man with a foreign tongue, they’d piss themselves silly.

One of the advisors, a middle aged woman who’s hands gave away her age where her soft face did not, lead Gaspard through the halls. Her hair was braided and knotted in Rivaini fashion, though she lacked the gold which was common in that country. A short tour of what was where and which areas he was strongly advise to avoid. He had asked why, irate by being told what he could and couldn’t do.

“That wing belongs to the royal alchemist, he has his rooms inspected monthly to assure us that he is practicing safely. Do not worry, Your Highness, he is perfectly kind.” She smiled, her voice was a tune that he couldn’t place, it lacked the north eastern lilt he had expected from her. It danced between the fine line between sweet and bitter. He hummed his answer and the tour continued. She was pleasant to look at, and her knowledge of the castle belied an intimacy within the stone walls.

Gaspard had been gifted a royal guest room, attached were three additional rooms; a dressing room, a bathing room, and a storage room. The Grand Duke sniffed as he entered, in Val Chevin his room had high dome ceilings adorned with paintings and golden arches. This room had carvings of dogs around the fire place, an absurd amount of burgundy and, he sighed, a war painting complete with war hounds. The other rooms fared no better, he had to compliment the wood they had used throughout, dark and hefty, it’s sturdiness may be useful in later days.

He had bathed in the marbled tub built into the room with runes to adjust temperature. Gaspard made himself presentable, changing into fresher clothes and trimming his beard, and then strutted to where he had been told Alistair’s rooms were. The servants had all politely averted their eyes, obviously confused as to why an Orlesian man, wearing heels with glittering jewels over the toe, was caving in their monarch’s door with equally jewelled fists. They did however know exactly who he was, and the echoing whispers told him exactly what they thought.

“Ah. Gaspard, I’m sorry I couldn’t-” Alistair began; he was awkwardly fumbling with letters that left his fingers and cheeks stained with black ink. Gaspard had ignored him, opened a decanter of brandy, poured himself a glass and-

“If I don’t win your heart in a month we can call off the wedding.” Brandy drank, message received, back to bed. Gaspard had no true intention of luring Alistair into a marriage, perhaps into his bed; he after all was a pretty sort of man. Though a doglord nonetheless. The Grand Duke knew how Orlesians got their pleasure; he could make women quiver with a sideways glance and a nod of his head, and the men? He could talk low and deep from his gut and make them wet their breeches without even touching anything. He laughed to himself, halfway nude he supposed you’d just bark at a dog to get them into bed.

The Grand Duke, soon to be Prince Consort de Chalons or worse Prince Consort Theirin, found out quickly that King Alistair ate heartily. He ate more than a man his size should, assuming that the leathers he wore were padded and the man wasn’t actually that fat. He constantly made jests about cheese and dogs and how he once knew a mabari called Barkspawn, well not technically Barkspawn but it was a good name and Mahariel missed out on a good opportunity, right? Gaspard had ignored the man and drank to equalise how much Alistair ate. A drunkard and a fat man sharing the throne? He tipped his wine back into the large glassware and let his mood spoil his supper.

For all his faults Alistair was still ruling Ferelden, and doing a better job than Meghren ever had done. But still, whilst Meghren had been hailed a tyrant by the dogs he could hardly contain, this King seemed only to slap them on the wrist and send them on their way. Grand Duke Gaspard was forced, as he was soon to be a monarch of sorts, to sit through all of Alistair’s courts unless he was given permission to go. Gaspard was truly not in the habit of asking. So he endured, on a throne much smaller than the King’s, though he had six inches in height and a width to his shoulders which forced him to sag in the chair, lest he skewer himself on the protruding wood. Yes, wood, he thought irritatingly, he might as well be sitting on the privy. Alistair had sent a man to serve a night in the stocks; Gaspard would have taken his hand. A horse thief was a horse thief, and one was less likely to steal again if one couldn’t hold the reigns. Not to mention a man with one hand seemed a lot more grateful than men with two.

That night, the King had approached Gaspard with a nervousness he left at his bedchamber door. Hoping that perhaps the man would be kinder with a full stomach, even if half of it was the sweetened wine they had served with the freshly caught fish.

“I like your attempts to woo me. Avoidance is definitely adorable.” He jested lightly. It went amiss as Gaspard didn’t respond; instead he turned to look at the intruder and then went back to the letters he was currently writing. The servants had lit a fire beautifully in his rooms, allowing it to keep the oncoming winter chill away. Gaspard’s skin was a flickering orange, and it made lined shadows dance across his face, weeping into the corner of his eyes and dragging below his nose. Unlike Alistair, he had not smeared ink across his face, but it was slowly staining his thumb and forefinger a rich blue. The wooden surface beside the two seated settee already had rings where the pot had been lifted and reset. “One month.” Alistair said after clearing his throat. The other man’s silence made him nervous.

“One month.” Gaspard murmured. “And if avoidance is working then perhaps you should leave me be.” He stuck the end of his quill in his mouth and whistled low at what he had written. It was too thinly veiled, and his message was hardly obscure. The ink tasted foul too. He sucked his teeth quietly and swiped them with his tongue to rid them of the liquid.

“Touchy. Someone got out the wrong side of the bed.” Alistair said. More jesting, he always made jests when he was nervous.

“Wrong side of the Frostback Mountains.” He hissed through smoke stained teeth. Gaspard balled up the paper and threw it into the fire; he swallowed his wine roughly and sneered as it went down awkwardly. He took his time to glare at Alistair, mask-less in his new home, and to lean far enough that he could grab a bottle from the several which stood beside him. He didn’t care what it was so long as it got him more inebriated, his tongue had mixed a dozen flavours already so another could hardly wound him.

“For someone trying to win my heart you’re not really trying that hard are you?”

“No.” Gaspard let the whiskey fill his glass, and drank deeply before skidding the bottle along the far cabinet. It clinked as it hurtled into the others, forcing a few to wobble in anxiety. “If you want me to do something you can drop your breeches and sit on my face.” He let his head fall on the back of the settee, and grinned. His tongue snaked from his mouth, peaking from behind his moustache and pointing upwards as it wiggled. “I am all tongue.” He grinned and tossed his drink back.

“I think I prefer avoidance. Definitely adorable.” Alistair said. His faced pinched at the sight of Gaspard doing- well, surely the Orlesians didn’t think that was attractive. Gaspard’s bare feet hit the floor with a smack, marching towards Alistair with heavier slapped steps. He grabbed Alistair’s jaw so viscously that his mouth opened and his lips puckered. The hook of Gaspard’s nose dug strongly into Alistair’s scalp and his moustache tickled the shell of his ear.

“Then leave.” He hissed. Alistair wiggled from his grasp and massaged his face. It was reddening under his finger tips and he prayed he wouldn’t have bruises the next morning. He opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut under Gaspard’s gaze. No matter the years he had on him, Gaspard still boasted a well trained fighting form, even if his belly did fold and sag when he sat down. The King left the door open on his way out, a gesture of childish aggression, and apologised to the servants he startled on his way to his rooms.

Alistair ignored him over the next four days, proud of how well he was avoiding the Grand Duke. Until it was pointed out that Gaspard had not left his room since their argument, and there was no way Alistair could have bumped into him.

“It wasn’t an argument, and how do you know about it anyway? A little privacy wouldn’t go amiss Edmund.” Alistair said.

“Your Majesty, a servant saw Grand Duke Gaspard assaulting you, she was eager to tell me. It has me a little worried, if he means to take the throne here, after Orlais has abandoned him.” Edmund said. His hints were always a little too heavy; it came with the naivety of his age, and being thrust into a position after his father had passed. “It worries me, if he has access to poison- to your chambers.”

“He’s not going to kill me. I’ve fought Darkspawn, he can’t be much worse.”

“So has he.” Edmund bowed low and left the King to his training. With the thought of a lion in his bed Alistair fought harder than he had before. He should have convinced Mahariel to stay, elven or not they wouldn’t have let this happen.

Gaspard, on the other side of his newly acquired Fereldan prison, was busy nursing a four day hangover. Three quarters of the letters he had written had been burnt and he had found a dozen pages of colourful language written in large looping letters. He tossed them into the fire before he called for a bath. The letters which had survived the tantrum of a man half his age would be sent to friends in Orlais. He hoped to garner some attention on the marriage, praying that someone would find the whole idea abhorrent and kick up such a storm than Celene had no choice but to void it. Which would cause warfare and she would be blamed for the destruction of Orlais, leaving Gaspard to rise from the ashes and bring her to glory.

Odella had pestered Alistair to fix the problems between him and Gaspard, ignoring that their problems went back centuries, and it was not in fact a lover’s trifle. The King had stepped into Gaspard’s room, hoping to find the man passed out or unconscious. Not naked, and wet, and naked. Maker. Alistair had stuttered and mumbled and left before Gaspard could laugh him out the room. His gut had burned almost as brightly as his face, and he couldn’t exactly tell which head his blood was rushing to. The Grand Duke looked incredible for near seventy.

Edmund had come running towards him after they had eaten, sans Gaspard, and was breathless and slightly wet on his brow.

“Majesty,” He panted “Gaspard is trying to leave. The front gates. Horseback.” He groaned as Alistair jogged to find him, and he was required to follow. “You need to stop him- ah- we can’t risk war with Orlais so soon.” It was strange for Edmund to say such, Alistair thought, but he had to put his trust in his advisors. True to his word Gaspard was armed and armoured, and dressed in such Orlesian finery you could hardly mistake him for anyone else in the castle. Alistair would be sore if this was a distraction for the Grand Duke’s real escape. He doubted it as he approached, Gaspard’s fluent Orlesian echoing through the courtyard filled with guests who were thrilled to watch the red faced man spit venom on the guardsmen. More fodder for nightmares.

“Grand Duke Gaspard! What is the meaning of this?” Alistair quelled the image of him naked from his mind, once he had been told that was how to view your enemies. Now he wasn’t exactly sure how to view his enemies, or even if Gaspard was one. Maker it was too confusing.

“Majesty, if you would be so kind as to move your guardsmen before they end up with dirt between their crooked teeth.” He said.

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting. There may be no wyverns about but I suppose dogs will do.” The guardsmen bristled at his words, and Gaspard was thrilled to know his words hadn’t gone amiss.

“Then let him pass. Grand Duke Gaspard is not a prisoner here, though he may act like one, and he may come and go as he pleases.” Alistair spoke louder to make sure some eavesdroppers heard him clearly. “Within reason of course.” He added at Gaspard’s low chuckle.

“Thank you, Your Majesty, I’ll take pleasure in coming,” He paused “and going as I please.” Alistair cursed inwardly as Edmund stuttered out his objections; whatever his advisor had been planning he hadn’t played into it at all. Nothing had happened and yet the King’s face told a thousand stories in its hue. He had returned to his castle eagerly, muttering about cold baths, freezing lakes and bloody Orlesians.

Gaspard had enjoyed the first hour or so of riding, galloping into the woodlands which surrounded the castle and ignoring the way birds scattered before him. His stallion seemed eager to simply bound through the endless trees with him as well. That had been one of the many things he was beginning to miss, his personal stallion had been pure bred and groomed so brilliantly to be his. He’d gone to war on that horse and lived a dozen battles on his back. He could simply... go back. His mind whispered. He was a good navigator, and Celene hadn’t truly exiled him yet. With a grin he spurred the animal to ride north; he could get a boat from Highever to Val Chevin and be home within a month.

Alistair expected Gaspard to return that night, and had grown more and more anxious as the days wore on and the Grand Duke did not return. Edmund thought it was for the best, this way they have lost the prospect of Orlesian rule whilst keeping the threat of war at bay. If it could be proved that Gaspard left of his own accord, and not coerced into it. Though Odella urged Alistair to send out a party for him, better the man be found alive and embarrassed than dead.

The Grand Duke had been a day and a half’s ride before his stopped at an inn. He’d rented a room and eaten, surprised at the quality of meat they had served before he started listening to whispers. Orlesian, nobleman, must be rich. Gaspard snuck out before nightfall and camped in the woodland. He was not a coward by any means, but what was he doing running away from a throne? If that was not cowardly then- Gaspard kicked at the ground and climbed back on his stallion. No, Gaspard would not cower like a mongrel; he was a lion, proud, strong, and Orlesian.

“Perhaps it would be wise to let him go Your Majesty.” Edmund said. He was poised ready to write permissions to leave Gaspard alone, or to pen a letter to Empress Celene in Alistair’s place.

“No. Ferelden’s safety requires this match. Whether he is the monster we have been told or not,” Odella interjected, “King Alistair this is necessary, when you took the throne you did it for Ferelden, for your home. This is much the same.”

“She is right Edmund, and he is out there alone. What if he’s injured?” Alistair sighed.

“The only outcome worse than that is if the man is already dead. Celene could claim murder, and that would start a war or some sort of weakening of Ferelden. Whether it be compensation or a lack of trust between us and the rest of Thedas.”

“So we need to find him.”

“I’ll speak to the guards Your Majesty, and I’ll take my leave.”

“Goodnight Odella. Edmund if we-”

“Perhaps he simply doesn’t wish to be found. Perhaps we should leave him be.” Edmund was frowning now, his fingers paled against the brown of his writing board. “Perhaps-”

“Goodnight Edmund.” Alistair left the man standing in the private council room, too tired to continue the debate. He wondered if placing Edmund in his advisors was a smart move, his father had been kind and intelligent, leading honestly and truly to Kind Cailan even with Loghain’s poison. He wondered if Edmund had learnt more from the Mac Tir traitor than from his own father. The thought soured in his gut, Ostagar had happened years ago but it was fresh in his mind and the wounds still painful. Odella on the other hand had been a fantastic addition to his advisors. She kept her loyalty to her country strong in her decisions, for the good of Ferelden, she would often say, and was adamant that there was nothing between her and the King no matter how many rumours passed her by.

The castle gates were full of soldiers as Gaspard returned; all chattering and pointing at him as he passed. Odella had worked hard and quickly to track the man’s movements, even sending a few men to the north to investigate rumours. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, he felt like he was on an execution march. He may as well of been by the expressions Alistair’s advisors wore.

“Look he’s back now, safe and unharmed, we can all go back to normal” Alistair said, ignoring the obvious tension around them. “And look, he’s brought us gifts.” Gaspard had eventually gone hunting, bringing back three deer pelts and a full fresh deer. Odella had done her best to hold her anger, and Edmund had done his worst. The Grand Duke knew that word would get back to the castle eventually, perhaps the thugs at the inn hadn’t known exactly who he was, but they knew he was Orlesian and that could be enough.

Gaspard had bathed, and they had eaten meat that had been caught a few days ago by the resident hunters. The deer he had caught would be served in a couple days time, and it would be perfect, after all he had spent three hours tracking the beast before killing it.

As the hours wore on Gaspard grew tired of triple guessing his actions and scowling at letters which swam on the page even as he was sober. That had been one of his failings, reading, he could read, it just took him longer. He was much better at drinking and fighting; and a drunken man with a swollen eye couldn’t be blamed for struggling to read. The gentle knocking on his door was a welcomed noise, even if it was Alistair. At least he brought wine.

“The kitchen sends their thanks for the meats, and a few of the seamstresses wants to sew you a fur cape in thanks for the hide.” Alistair said. Gaspard waved him over to the settee, and grabbed two glasses for them before joining him. The King knew it was a peace offering, and he thought that bringing his own alcohol would stop Gaspard from raiding his own. The head chef had griped about how much the Grand Duke had drank in such a short amount of time, not to mention the cost of what he had consumed. One hundred year old Antivan brandy! Gone in minutes!

“Hang it.” He scoffed. He already owned enough fur to last him a lifetime, and that at least had been made by an Orlesian. Alistair thumbed the base of his glass; Gaspard clearly had no intention of speaking. He had to quell his laughter as he watched the older man’s eyes flutter closed and then snap open moments later. The fire seemed to be lulling him to sleep, and he had only sipped at half his glass.

“I should take my leave,” Alistair whispered, “I can see the six day hunt has left you exhausted.”

“My apologies, Alistair.” He grumbled. It was strange to see him like this, all those years of hearing how horrible Grand Duke Gaspard was, how he intends to conquer Ferelden and enslave her people. He’s just an old man really, Alistair thought, an old man whose voice is unfairly akin liquid gold. “I thank you for the wine, and bid you good night.” Gaspard stretched as he moved, his back popping and knees cracking. “You’re staring.” He said, voice clearer and slipping away from his sleepy haze.

“Am I? I mean- I’m not.”

“Why, Your Majesty, wine by the fireside, did you come here to seduce me?”

“No- I- No I came to-”

“Came? Already?”

“No! That’s not what I- Maker,” Alistair laughed nervously when Gaspard angled his body closer. “You received a lot of letters while you were away.” Diversions, brilliant, Alistair thought quickly for more but the subject seemed to have disgruntled Gaspard. All of his written replies from so called friends were completely useless. They spoke of neither an alliance towards himself or Celene, gave him well wishes for his future endeavours, and practically sent a two fingered salute. Bastards. He’d soon be calling himself a pariah or a martyr.

“Go to bed Alistair, rule your country, and send me a girl who’ll suck my cock and let me come on their face.” Gaspard huffed. He spread his legs and palmed the rise in his groin, the thought of fucking Alistair before had gotten him excited. Whatever jests fell from his lips the man was pretty, with darker skin which glowed in the firelight, his stubble goatee was ridiculous in Gaspard’s opinion, but that didn’t make him look any worse. What made him look better was the redness in his cheeks and the way he slipped onto his knees between his thighs.

“I can... do that.” He whispered, “It’s worth a try.”

“What exactly are you doing?” Gaspard knew, of course he did, the Grand Duke simply wanted to hear him say it. I want to suck your cock Gaspard, he could almost imagine it in the Fereldan drawl of his, please let me suck your-

“You know, lick a lamppost.” Gaspard was silent, his hand still on his cock covered by his breeches, the King’s hands on his knees keeping them spread open. He looked completely honest in his statement, not a single trace of embarrassment on his features. His laughter bubbled from his throat in short bursts, and Alistair soon joined him. “What? Have you never licked a lamppost in winter?” They’re both laughing, red faced and wheezing breathlessly. Alistair is leaning on the Grand Duke’s knee, wiping the wetness from his eyes.

“Maker have mercy.” Gaspard grunts. He had never heard something so absurd in his entire life. He tapped Alistair across the scalp and reached for the wine, he took his thoughts back. He liked the King jester. As the night wore on the men drank heavily, both creeping in closer to one another, and stretching to pour drinks. Alistair had left well into the morning hours, flushed from alcohol and stumbling in whispered laughter.

Court the next day had been agonising for both men. Alistair fared better for having taken a remedy for his pain whilst Gaspard insisted he did not need one. His souring demeanour was hardly out of place within the castle, and it was hardly different for people to entirely ignore his presence in the Grand Hall. He took his appointed seat beside Alistair, on the smaller throne made for the hips of a woman, and still the most insulting thing about it was the dogs that leapt from the armrests. He shuffled in his throne and spread his legs wide. His knee assaulted Alistair’s own as he spread his legs, and he felt his cock swell at the sight of offended nobles, aghast when Alistair’s own thighs closed. He could see the scandalised fear slipping from brow to brow; King Gaspard de Chalons of Ferelden, he grinned behind his fist and jolted when Alistair commanded his attention.

“What do you think Ser Gaspard?” He had one elbow resting on one of the wooden dogs, his fist squashing into his cheek; he looked more childish than ever even with the heavy crown upon his head. Gaspard raised an eyebrow in question and silent anger, Ser Gaspard, as if this was something worthy of being compared to a duel. He missed the days when he was His Imperial Highness, before Celene was born and Florianne still wet the bed. “What should be the outcome of this claim?”

“Flog them both.” He gestured with a loose wave to the two men. The room erupted into gasps of horror and then fell into silence.

“You can’t punish them for seeking help.” Alistair hissed under his breath. It had been a risky move to include Gaspard verbally, even Edmund from aside him was wide eyed and barely restraining himself.

“No. But you can flog them for lying under oath to the Maker and trying to defraud their King, kingdom, and country.” He snorted. Idiots, he thought, Gaspard had been playing the game since he had learned how to talk. Dissembling adults when he was a mere child. Granted he had lost his hunger for the Game when he found that hitting things was much more satisfying. He rolled his ankles in his boots in a display of laziness, acting like a cat in a field of mice. He sat up as best he could, avoiding the outcropping dogs, always dogs, and delved into his explanation. “The druffalo were not stolen but killed and sold as meat and hide. The money they had was probably gambled or used to pay off debts, aside his wedding ring and whatever thing casts that sort of absence of tan. Out of pocket and livelihood, and possibly a spouse, they want the crown to pull them from their own grave.”

Alistair was speechless; his brown eyes wide and face less-squashed by his own fist.

“My father served your father M’Lord, he fought with King Maric, rest his soul, and my brother died with our good King Cailan, rest his soul.” One of the men whimpered, crumpling a rough spun hat in sweating fists. The other was chewing his lips and glaring at Gaspard, the Grand Duke almost wanted to goad him into an attack.

“They are liars, Your Majesty, you should have tongues ripped out for less.” Gaspard hummed nonchalantly. The bastards have nerve, asking for money and the flaunting how their family worked against King Meghren, Gaspard’s own once removed cousin, albeit a distant one considering rumours that were whispered about his uncle. “And, they forget in whose company they speak.” Both men turned to Alistair, begging mercy with their expressions, knowing that Gaspard would give them none.

“It seems no true crime has been committed,” Edmund spoke loudly, clearing his throat, “I believe his Majesty thinks you are free to go. Do not make this attempt again.” Alistair nodded dumbly in agreement, the two men darted off leaving thank yous in their stead. Gaspard sneered at the advisor for the rest of the court, taking a victory when the younger man mopped his brow thrice. Alistair side eyed him once or twice when Gaspard cared to notice. He was torn between asking for his advice and obeying the very obvious signals that Edmund had been throwing his way for the last few hours. On one hand Gaspard had stopped him from being defrauded and embarrassed in public, not to mention it wouldn’t be something people made re-attempts of. But he did publicly tell him to rip out a man’s tongue.

“Craven aren’t you?” Gaspard sniffed to Alistair as they exited the court, he added a low threat to his following advisor. “Never undermine me again boy, or it will be the last thing you ever do.” His steps drowned out Alistair’s spluttering defence before he halted and turned. “I’ll have supper in my rooms, with a pretty girl to serve it.” His steps continued as if he had said nothing.

The girl he had requested was a pretty thirty something, with only the smallest signs of ages creeping across her temple. He’d kissed her with passion and grace and raw strength in his grip, she moaned as his hands crept across her thighs, spreading her wide and drowning himself in her cunt. She shook and wailed and felt boneless by the time he pressed his cock into her arse. He came quickly, her softened hands already having pulled him to the edge, and slapped her thigh as he sent her on her way with shaking legs. Dinner had gone cold by the time he came to it, but he ate what little he wanted and reread the letters he had been sent until sleep claimed him.

He remained mostly to himself for the following days, drinking, smoking, and writing more letters that only ended up as kindling for the fire. To the outside world he was sulking, to himself he was working against the marriage. Alistair was... Fun, he knew but this was an insult to both of them. Placing Gaspard on the Orlesian throne now would bring a stronger bond between the two nations than this proposal ever could. It also ended the true Theirin line and true de Chalons line, and he owed Florianne more than that. Lest he claim the bastards he sired decades ago.

Alistair, on the other hand, was trying to calm the fears that had risen in the alienages. They hand improved dramatically since the blight. Elves were free to intermingle with humans, to trade and drink with them, praised for their assistance in fighting against the blight when it spilled into Denerim. That had been Mahariel’s boon, to give the elves the rights they deserved, especially after what Loghain had done to them. It made him feel ill. He often wondered if his mother had been an elf, as a serving girl she wouldn’t have been out of place, and the pointed ears wouldn’t have shown on his own person.

The elves feared that all of this progress, and it had been hard won progress with nobles trying to squash them back into their poverty moulds, that it would all be undone with Gaspard on the throne. His public hatred for the people was widely known, and they were smart to be worried. Alistair himself did not know what Gaspard would want when he was gifted partial rule. Still everything would be deferred to himself, and anything could be overruled by his say so. But was it right to judge Gaspard before he even truly knew the man? He knew how people had judged him at first; the greedy hard done by bastard clutching for the throne with outstretched dirty palms, but now they loved him. Gaspard could surely win them over, elves and all.

The King himself had met with a group of elves, he remembered Shianni from before, wishing her well and greeting them all personally. He told them it would be fine, that Gaspard would not undo any changes that Alistair had brought to the Kingdom. It would bring dishonour to his right as King, and would deeply offend his dear friend Mahariel who had fought for the rights of Dalish and non-Dalish alike. Dropping the Hero’s name was a shallow move, but it worked.

He also told them rioting would make it worse, it was only when one elf spoke up about the elven rebellion in Orlais that the sector remained peaceful. Empress Celene, the supposedly kinder monarch had trounced them in practically a day, and in turn Gaspard’s army had destroyed her army. Another elf piped up that perhaps Gaspard was defending the elves, and Alistair did nothing to deny it. With that issue fixed for the time being, he had only to tell Gaspard that he had made an agreement concerning him, without him, and that the small alienage might have a few awestruck elves in it. He wondered what else the Kingdom might fault Gaspard for, there were a lot of negative things being said about his intended, most of them were probably true and there was no use in blinding himself to it all.

Odella once more advised Alistair to calm the waters between the couple, ever the voice of reason. The King had turned red and spluttered until Edmund rescued him by speaking out against Gaspard. Which Alistair denied, Edmund was starting to remind him of Loghain, and with that came memories that he didn’t want to relive. The fear of losing Mahariel to the Archdemon, and one of his first acts of becoming King was beheading Anora as she started to build a rebellion in the name of her dead father. Gaspard wouldn’t blink an eye, ripping tongues from liars and hands from thieves. Perhaps, he thought solemnly, perhaps Ferelden needed the poison that Gaspard breathed, and the gentle antidote that Alistair would become. He would be kind where Gaspard was cruel, and in turn he would be strong where Alistair was weak.

He was however, an Orlesian and still extremely distrusted in Ferelden. He had received letters of sympathy disguised as congratulations, messages that wouldn’t be repeated in kind company, and even an offer from Zevran to dispose of him. Alistair couldn’t say that the Grand Duke was making anything better in his actions. Almost constantly fanning the flames of fear he was creating, reinforcing the horror bound idea of another Orlesian monarch, and laughing at the ripple effect he was causing. Alistair dismissed Odella and Edmund, waving the others away as well. It was late, and he was tired, and confused by his own thoughts. Would Gaspard make him a better King? Or would it all be fake? A shroud of offering the worst only to see how good things were before.

The King made his way to Gaspard’s chambers with an oil lantern in hand. The castle still had several sconces lit for the ever working servants, but he was just being cautious in the night. He gently rapped his knuckles on Gaspard’s door and nodded to the servants who curtsied before passing him. Alistair waited until he heard shuffling and the pad of footsteps. He inhaled and stood poised regally to meet his intended. What little height his pose gave him melted away when he sagged to stare at Gaspard. Wet and naked, covered only by a fur blanket clutched about his waist, his free hand holding open the door and a half burnt cigar billowing smoke. His fingers were ink stained once more, the wetness dyeing the fabric minutely, his eyes burned as smoke was blown out through Gaspard’s nose and mouth into Alistair’s face. He stuttered and glanced away from the Grand Duke’s waist and into his bolt metal blue eyes. He held back his grin well at Alistair’s embarrassed stutter, and winked at the servants who scurried past with reddened faces.

“Majesty.” He whispered, inhaling from his cigar once more, his foot keeping the heavy door from swinging shut. Alistair swallowed thickly. He had spent the night before last vividly remembering the sight of Gaspard naked before, it was only fleeting, though it made him pink all over and sweat until his bed sheets needed changing. It was nothing compared to this. A mere foot away he could see the patterns in how his chest hair grew, where it split in favour of pink gashes and burns, the water droplets sliding down and- no.

“I wanted to- I- Make we speak inside.” He pushed passed trying to limit the body contact and also avoid the wandering servants. Gaspard closed the door and slid the latch shut, exhaling smoke as he took his seat on the settee. He stripped the blanket off and threw it over the back of the furniture and made himself comfortable before pilfering through his letters. “How has this castle been treating you?” Alistair spoke clearly and tried to hide the strain in his voice. He was stood in the middle of the room acutely aware of Gaspard’s nudity and the scars which lined his shoulders.

“Well. The entertainment a few hours ago was... Thrilling. Doglord or not, women are always the same under their skirts.” He chuckled at his own joke and turned to face Alistair. “Will you not sit?” Alistair felt sweat bead on the back of his neck, the days had been colder as of late so his coats were thicker, he was most certainly not nervous. He sat, awkwardly, and at the furthest point away from the Grand Duke, who was still unabashedly naked.

“Unless they’re a pirate.” Alistair laughed awkwardly; he made a hooked hand in place of the wooden leg he meant, though the jest was spoken far too late to make any sense. He felt as if he were chewing through his own teeth as Gaspard remained silent, save for the scratching of his quill. Alistair quickly glanced at the man’s rippled gut before returning his eyes to the fire. “I met a pirate once, in a brothel.” He choked on his own words, “Not- not that I was there f-for the- the- the women.”

“Men?” Gaspard replied without hesitance, half muted by his cigar.

“What? No. I wasn’t there for the... For the.. For anything.” He wished he hadn’t said anything, he wished he hadn’t even come here tonight, why Mahariel had needed him to go to the brothel all those years ago was beyond him. Gaspard fixed him a look which said a lot more than words ever could, and Alistair had to turn away. Talking about brothels in front of a naked man wasn’t something Alistair excelled at. The fire, still the object of his gaze, was littered with inked vellum. Rejected letters or private replies he didn’t know, Alistair had heard that clearing wax from the fire bed had become a chore for whoever tended to Gaspard’s fires.

“Brandy?” He stood and stretched, his bones creaking in protest, and grabbed two glasses. He poured generous amounts in both before returning, glasses and bottle in hands. He stood in front of Alistair and grinned at his flustered skin, and the way his hand shook as he took the drink and looked away. “You said something about lampposts?” He whispered. It made Alistair’s gut tingle and he knocked back his brandy quickly and steeled himself to stare at the Grand Duke.

“In Winter, always more fun in Winter. Oh look, outside, the trees still have leaves and the sun is shining. In the day, not right now. Still there’s no snow, no Winter.” He laughed. Gaspard deflated and sank back down into his seat. He spread his legs wide and knocked his knee into Alistair’s, he didn’t close his legs this time, but concealed the need to bounce his foot. He thought himself heroic for keeping it there, perhaps the other night he had been brave, bolstered by his own strong words and full of confidence. But now, in this very moment, after he had masturbated over the other man and imagined him in a dozen different ways? He had deflated quicker than a burst nug skin.

Alistair thought to tell him about the elves, how there had been reports of fighting within the alienage where most of them still lived. Some of them remained vigilant against Gaspard becoming their monarch, while one named Thalion had taken to praising the Grand Duke for attacking Celene who apparently sought to wipe out all elven kind. Others had started to follow Thalion’s opinions, and it was creating a treacherous valley between the people.

Edmund had advised Alistair to silence that young idealistic elf; he was causing most of the problems by preaching about Gaspard. But the King thought it wasn’t harming anyone yet, he would send someone to try and calm the sector, or perhaps he could even go himself. Odella told him to see what happens, to strike now would cause problems and reinforce the idea that Gaspard was truly a threat to the elves. The best they could do was to stop it before it turned to murder.

Alistair kept his mouth closed and chewed on his lip instead.

The silence remained, even as Gaspard poured him a second, and drinking himself a fourth. It made him anxious; the only reprieve was the Grand Duke standing to relieve himself in the other room. Even then Alistair had to listen to the sound of his piss hitting the chamber pot. He wondered if this is what people did in Orlais; sit around naked and getting drunk with friends. Were they friends? They seemed to lack any similarities bar a royal bloodline, himself a bastard and Gaspard branded with the wrong name. What a pair, he snorted as Gaspard came back in, he felt more comfortable with brandy in his belly.

“Are you well here?” He asked quietly. He tapped his nails on the rim of his glass before Gaspard refilled it. “I realise this must be difficult, a new country, everything must be so different.” He meant it, undoubtedly. He remembers how Mahariel had to adjust to living with people who weren’t Dalish, how strange it was to them. When he had visited and hadn’t needed to hunt for every meal every day. It wouldn’t be the same for Gaspard, but he would be used to Orlesian finery. Golden silks and silken gold, everyone wearing a mask at every moment, Alistair himself had heard people pondering over why Gaspard wore heels. The man was already tall enough, and he had stooped underneath several door frames since arriving here.

“I’m naked, knocking knees with the King of Ferelden, and you’re supplying me with enough whiskey and cigars to drink and smoke myself unconscious.”

“So... Well then?”

“Do not pity me Alistair. I did not learn how to play the Game for fun.” Gaspard sighs and pulls his knee away from Alistair’s. He swallows his brandy in one turn and grunts when the last of the bottle barely tops a finger’s width.

“I wasn’t- You’re so touchy.”

“I apologise if I am not enjoying my death march in a foreign land.” He spat.

“Who said anything about dying?”

“You have an alternative for this farce? Celene wants me to be the first male Queen of Ferelden. This is the legacy that I leave my family, a fur gown and a tin crown.”

“You still have fifteen days to-.”

“Yes, I do, and I will spend them fucking your servants and drinking your finest wines.” He drinks the quart and tosses it into the fire place, and it shatters under the strength behind the force. Alistair stays his flinch but holds his own glass closer to his chest, clearing wax from a fireplace is nothing compared to glass. “My apologies, Alistair.” Gaspard sighs and presses his fingers into his eyes. He’s too drunk to be doing anything right now, frustrated from the swimming words and itch of ink under his nails. He stubs out his burning cigar and pulls the fur blanket back around his shoulders, the cloth is cold on his shoulders but he bears it well.

From what little he knows of Alistair, the stories of him as King and Grey Warden, and from sitting beside him drinking at night, he knows he is a good man at heart. Naive and foolhardy perhaps, but deserving better than all this. Alistair was a victim of Gaspard’s own mishap, and that was dishonourable.

“When...” He began, stopping short to recompose himself, “When this month ends there are two options. Three perhaps.” Alistair nods with intent, entirely focused on the man beside him. “One, we marry and history writes us as lovesick fools or traitors to our homelands. Two, I refuse the proposal and flee into the night whence I am known as a coward and a deserter.”

“You’ve done that already.” Alistair laughs softly. “Hunting? At an Inn?”

“Of course. I apologise for that, I don’t truly know what overcame me.”

“It’s accepted, and forgiven.”

“Three, I refuse the marriage and Celene declares me an enemy of the Empire, wanted for high treason and lese-majesty. Which would no doubt bring your country great joy; for my head will be worth at least several thousand sovereigns.” He gently takes Alistair’s glass and swallows half of it. “Whatever happens I lose, marrying you or dying by you grants her the same result. I am no longer a valid player of the Game, and Ferelden becomes an ally of Orlais even if she is poisoned,”

“How? I-”

“I lost another duel, that lying bastard Michel. He- He ruined me.” He seethed. Alistair felt himself moving his lips but the sound was absent. He takes his drink back after a few moments, prying it from Gaspard’s white knuckled fist, and drinking what little remains. He places it on the floor soundlessly and shuffles closer to the Grand Duke, taking his prickled jaw in both hands. Gaspard’s anger leaks from his face when Alistair presses their lips together, softly, ever so softly, and lets his fingers slip into the man’s dried locks at the back of his neck. Gaspard’s hands remain clutching at the fur that covers him, his eyes sliding open when Alistair pulls away.

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His lips grace Alistair’s as he speaks, and he feels the King taste his own. The illusion is broken as Alistair pulls back and coughs into his fist.

“Kissing. I might not have done it before but I’m certain this is how it goes.” His laugh is stuttered and his cheeks tinged with red. Gaspard’s face pinched in anger, convinced that he was somehow becoming the punch line to a very exhausting jest. “Right. I’m ah, saving people is what I do, and if marrying you saves you then I have only one option.” He grinned widely, his teeth a shining white against his lips. “Lovesick fools isn’t the worst thing to be.”

“Idiot.” Gaspard breathes. Up close Alistair is rather beautiful, straight nosed with dark features, a small scar on his cheek and a few freckles from what little sun Ferelden is graced with. He lets his thumb linger on his lower lip before tapping him upside the head. “Fifteen days, ass.” He turned away and bit his thumbnail; if he was a simpering waif he’d have wet himself at that kiss.

“I bruise easily you know.” Alistair laughs and knocks their legs together again. The Grand Duke squeezes his knee and laughs with him in deep grumbles.

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

Gaspard awoke with a pain behind his nose and vivid memories of the night before. The letters he had received were borderline useless, the only one with some practicality was from Lord Cireron. It gave him details into Celene’s life from years ago, small hints that could easily be excused as anything else, but lead him in a direction where he could speculate and understand. He had spent time rewriting the letter in his own code and burned the original. It would be impossible for Lord Cireron to visit him without Celene thinking something was wrong, his only hope would be that he manages to get a place travelling with her to see the happy couple.

The Grand Duke preened himself through the morning, shaving his beard down to a slight stubble, trimming the ends of his moustache, and applying a sweet scent to his neck and wrists. He even made the attempt to don an outfit with some fur that didn’t entirely consist of a dead fennec across his shoulder. He’d huffed as he looked at himself, and redressed in Orlesian finery. He held his mask for a moment, thumbing the crevasses and the jewels it held, before setting it down.

He thought back to the kiss, and it turns his gut unpleasantly. Alistair was only doing this to save him. Gaspard scoffed to himself, he had never once been kissed out of pity and it felt horribly kind.

Alistair had been happy to see the Grand Duke walking the halls of his castle. He had found him in the Grand Library once, frowning into a stack of books. Thedas: Myths and Legends, The Battle of River Dane, The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden, The Heirs of Ferelden, Royalty: The Kings and Queens of Ferelden. Alistair’s face screwed up in confusion, some others were history books documenting wars across Thedas, and some were bundles of nursery rhymes. It all made him nervous.

All of them had been checked out of the library and sent to Gaspard’s rooms. The man who worked there had carried them all personally for him. He had asked him why he needed so many books, surely he couldn’t read them all at once, then he explained how angry the man had gotten. Red faced and gritted teeth, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough, truly frightening. Alistair apologised on his behalf before he was swept away by Edmund.

The Kind had noticed that whenever he was with Gaspard, whether it be eating or merely making an effort to be friendly, the people surrounding them would whisper and grin behind their hands. He thought momentarily about the kiss as they watched his guardsmen train. Had Gaspard told people about it? Had someone seen them? Neither man had approached the subject yet, it had been four days, though that didn’t mean Alistair hadn’t caught Gaspard staring at him a time or two.

“How many Champions are in your military?” Gaspard said. He was posed regally with his entire attention on the men below.

“I’m not sure.”

“You should demand a hundred Chevaliers or more from Celene. We are the finest warriors across Thedas, easily.” He turned his piercing gaze to Alistair and the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

“Perhaps you could train them. Once we’re married I have no issue in giving you some control of the soldiers.” Alistair shrugged and turned away from the Grand Duke. Would it be so terrible to have a mixed army? Already elves and surface dwarves had signed up, what harm could a dozen or so Chevaliers do?

“Marrying a General? Careful Alistair, you’re following Cailan’s footsteps a little too closely.” He frowned as he gazed back down to the fighting. He focused on the three men with great mauls, hefting large chunks of metal and stone around their heads. They were clumsy, and Gaspard felt his scowl strengthen as he remembered the battles he had won with one in hand. All for Orlais, all for Celene. It soured him to no end, the times he spent fighting darkspawn for Celene, fighting the Nevarrans for Celene, fighting all across Thedas for Celene. If one cannot find the Queen, one must destroy the hive. He swallowed thickly around his anger; perhaps he had spent too much time in Ferelden if he thought destroying Orlais, his home, was a suitable plan.

“When was the last time you fought?” Alistair asked, his tone was innocent but Gaspard bristled at him. The last time Alistair had engaged a foe who wished to kill him was beside the archdemon, a great beast of a hurlock with bloodied jaws and a shield three inches thick.

“The last time I truly fought I ended up with half a blade in my gut.” He snapped, his anger lashing out unprovoked. Alistair wasn’t to know the events how it had come about, kneeling in an ancient ruin, bloody and in agony, dying as a Chevalier. Only to have the noble death ripped from him, Michel was a fraud, and Briala had saved his life by calling in a debt. Back then he had been glad of it, thankful for another chance to destroy Celene. But now? The blade had broken inside of him, and a servant had found him passed out with a black swell on his belly a few days after it all. The damage it had done was irreversible.

The next few hours were kept in painful silence until they were called for supper. Even then Alistair remained quiet unless Edmund brought something to his attention; the chatter in the hall is as it usually was, save for the eyes he felt on him every few moments. Less than a fortnight away and they would announce their plans for the wedding. He had received word that Celene would make an appearance to show her faith in her dearest cousin; Gaspard hadn’t taken the news happily. He knew in the back of his mind that she would show up, more fun for her when she announced she wanted his head. The Grand Duke could imagine it easily, vicious slobbering dog lord nobles clambering over their tables to gut him, to be the one to give Celene his head and collect the prize. He wondered if Alistair would defend him, or perhaps skewer him on his own blade. In some sort of sick justice they may proudly display his body above the front gates of the castle, as Meghren did with his own enemies, as he had done with Alistair’s own grandmother.

Gaspard had returned to his rooms to freshen himself up, and to grab a bottle of rich Orlesian wine as an apology. It was cruel to have snapped at Alistair as he had done so. Crueller even to think of him betraying him for coin, with what Gaspard had learnt from his arduous research Alistair had been betrayed as Cailan was. To accuse him of that, even in his own mind, was unworthy. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, and reflected on their similarities as people. Both warriors, noble men with stolen destinies, their families so cruelly taken, he wondered if Celene knew this, or it had been dumb luck on her behalf.

The idea of marrying Alistair, a mirror of himself though younger and gentler, was slowly growing softer in his belly. It no longer curdled like milk but rather, he broke his thoughts with laughter, solidified into cheese. Perhaps he had spent too long in Ferelden, or the King’s jests were truly wearing him down.

Alistair was half way into his nightclothes when Gaspard arrived with an apology on his tongue. It felt strange to have him in his own bedchambers, his mind supplied that as soon as they had gone through with the ceremony they would have to share their quarters. At least for a short while. Throughout their nightly visits they had always met in the Grand Duke’s rooms, this was the first time, bar their initial meeting, that Gaspard had properly sought him out. He hoped it was progress, but the talk of soldiers and his choice in books left him anxious. He daren’t share his minor fears with Edmund yet, he’ll blow it out of proportion, again.

The Royal Quarters were incredibly large; triple the area of what Gaspard now had. Most of it was filled with ornamentation, the only purpose it has was being there to fill the room. Behind one door, Gaspard could see, were several suits of armour; Templar, Grey Warden, what he presumed to be royal armour, and a set of bejewelled ceremonial armour. Swords and shields to match each set, all others were hidden beyond the wooden door. Above the fireplace was a Grey Warden shield, it held his attention nicely whilst Alistair slipped on a tunic.

“This is yours?” Gaspard asked. He had already poured the wine into clean glasses and sipped half of his already.

“No, I mean eventually, it belonged to Duncan originally,” He paused and cleared his throat. “He was family to me.” He gladly took the glass the Grand Duke offered him and stared at the painted metal, the design was scuffed and scratched through years of use but Alistair couldn’t bring himself to have it fixed up. He felt like that would take away Duncan’s mark, and he had nothing else from the Senior Grey Warden.

“My own father was not a soldier, becoming a Chevalier made him proud. I gave him my first yellow feather, and he kept it on display in a glass box like it was made of gold.” He sighed and smiled. Alistair thought it was the kindest that he had ever looked, the lines on his forehead softened and those around his eyes pinched together. “I do not know Ser Duncan, though I cannot imagine a man who would not be proud of someone becoming a King.” Alistair tapped their glasses together softly.

They both moved on from sombre topics, opting instead to let the conversation carry itself. The spoke for an hour on darkspawn, arguing if hurlocks were worse than genlocks, and Alistair taking it upon himself to describe the horror of a broodmother. Gaspard ignored him entirely and denied that it was even feasible to have such a beast. They drank their way through Alistair’s cabinet, something which was rarely used, and sprawled themselves over Alistair’s bed like common men. It was, after all, comfier than the settee which had a hard back and swirling decor lining it’s edges.

“Have you made your decision yet?” Alistair slurred. He prided himself on keeping up with Gaspard’s drinking, though it seemed to have a stronger effect on the King. The Grand Duke was almost constantly pickled to some degree.

“I have ten days.” He wiggled his fingers as best he could around the whiskey tumbler. Having moved on from wine and brandy already, Alistair sighed as he rolled over onto his belly, spilling liquid as he moved. “Or nine, it is late no?”

“You’ll have to decide soon,” Alistair’s voice dropped down to a half covered whisper, “I need to pick out a dress.” He props his head up on his hand a sips at his drink. “I’m sure clashing is an Orlesian sin.” He giggled when Gaspard slapped him lightly across the scalp. They lay there for several moments more, basking in the glow of inebriation and tiredness. Gaspard’s hand still lay on Alistair’s scalp, fingers gently threading through his cropped hair, slowly cradling the man to sleep. “I’ll have to wear heels,” He yawned, “To kiss you.”

“Your height won’t change your ability.” Gaspard chuckled, he scratched at his chest through the gaps between buttons on his shirt. Alistair laughs with him, flushed and grinning. He knows it’s an insult but he doesn’t care, looking across at the man in his bed, looking nothing like the Orlesian monster he had always seemed. They had their disagreements on almost everything, but it brought a freshness that Alistair could not find in Edmund nor Odella.

Gaspard left his empty glass on the chest beside the bed and sat up opposite Alistair, with a sigh he leant down to kiss the King. His lips were slightly chapped with the winter weather approaching, but he tasted like sweet brandy and light wine. Purely intoxicating. Alistair hums into the kiss, his hands gentle in holding the Grand Duke’s face, his thumb shifting the trails of his moustache away from their moving lips. One slips to the back of his neck as before, and sighs when Gaspard opens his mouth ever so faintly. He pulls away to wet his lips before kissing slightly firmer, and Alistair cranes his neck higher to meet him at every tilt and turn of his head.

His manicured nails scratch down Alistair’s neck and leave the sensation of sewing needles in their wake. He huffs his breath out and grabs Gaspard’s neck tighter, pulling him closer so he is forced to straddle the King, lest he fall atop him. His tongue is wet with soured whiskey and ash, and he is briefly reminded of the first sexual comment he ever made. With Gaspard’s tongue pointed like a serpent’s, how he was inclined to place it somewhere other than his mouth. In that moment, with the heat of the Grand Duke above him, he would. Maker he would. Gaspard wouldn’t refuse him, sated with whiskey he would kiss the man everywhere.

Alistair’s hand moves from his jaw to rest on Gaspard’s own, following it up his arm and down the path of his chest, catching the fabric of his tunic as it slid over his collarbone and passed his belly. His fingers are warm when they slip inside his shirt, pushing it up and over his gut until it bunches up under his arms. The air is getting colder; he notices it offhandedly, the fire dwindling from the long hours they had spent together. It slips from his thoughts when a hand cups his chest. He moans quietly between heavy breaths, angling his hips away from Gaspard’s own, trying to stave off the swelling in his cock.

It doesn’t matter, Alistair realises, when he feels the Grand Duke’s own cock pressing against the length of his hip. He pays attention to the rise and fall of his own chest as his nipple is rolled under a wide calloused thumb, it’s new and incredible, and he pushes himself into Gaspard’s grip eagerly. Alistair thinks for a moment too long, should he raise his leg? To put pressure against the other man’s cock or lay still and continue simply kissing? He curls his toes in his socks and his thigh twitches.

But there’s a knock at the door. Three gentle raps that he can hardly hear. He doesn’t pay it any attention to focus on the hand gliding across the hair on his belly, but the sound of the latch hitting the top of the metal loop? He jolts up and cracks his forehead against Gaspard’s own. The Grand Duke pulling away with a grunt of pain, and a hand flat across his injury. He curses under his breath and sits at the edge of the bed.

“I’m here to tend the fire Your Majesty, Your Highness.” She curtseys and does her best to hide her reddened cheeks. It’s stark against the blonde wisps of hair and light brown bonnet she wears. She pokes at the flames and sets a few more logs down beside the fire. She places a few thin strips in the chamber to bring it back to a healthy state, and sets a log at the back. It will fall in place when the smaller kindling has burnt through, and keep it burning until the morning servants sweep and reset the fire.

Usually King Alistair is asleep, bundled up in several layers of furs and mumbling in his sleep. When there was no reply she had thought it was as usual. He slept heavily most of the time, and almost everyone knew in the castle that the nights he didn’t sleep that it was always the taint keeping him from peace.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness.” She curtseys once more and leaves with a heavier flush and an emptier basket to move on to another room. Gaspard is slipping on the overcoat he wore and lighting an oil lamp to make the journey back to his room, Alistair doesn’t know whether to stop him or not. The kissing was nice, more than nice, he’d never been kissed like that before in his entire life. But there was the ingrained fear that had been drilled into him as a child. How the Maker would cast him down, lightning raining from the sky to punish him for his sins.

“Goodnight Alistair.” He says from the door, he waits for Alistair’s stuttered response and grins as he leaves for his own chambers. He staggers slightly when no one is in the halls, meeting the fire wood girl who keeps her head low as he passes. Gaspard can easily tell she’s more than embarrassed. Her thumbs twitch on the handle of the wicker basket, and her toes scuff together. The fire in his room is blazing nicely, one log firmly blackening around the edges suggesting it couldn’t have been there long. He wonders whether she was the one to set it, whether she knew that the Grand Duke was absent from his rooms and thought to catch a glimpse of him elsewhere.

Disrobed and sitting on his own bed he could see the beginning of the sunrise stretching into the night sky. He stretched and groaned as his spine popped, delving under the furs and blankets, and rolling until he was comfortable. He glanced at his digits in the firelight, wiggling them with disappointment.

“Nine days.” He whispered. Whatever pleasure and companionship that lay with Alistair, he still could not agree to this marriage. He did not love the King, and he would not find love within the month he was to stay a partially free man. Damn Celene to the void. He thought through the terms once more, the ones he had been given no choice but to agree to. The marriage would be announced within a month at an engagement ceremony, to which she would attend to offer her congratulations, and they would be married before winter had passed. Divorce would not be an option, she had stated that as plainly as she could. He had wasted too much time writing letters, but he had no other cards to play save what Cireron had gifted him.

Florianne had always been better at playing the game than he had. What he could not do with words she could, and what she couldn’t do in strength he could. They were true siblings, and he missed her dearly. If he could have beaten Michel de Chevin then she could still be alive, but would she have played against him? Surely not, he thought, but his throat swelled in sorrow.

When the sun broke the horizon mere hours later the chambermaid entered silently to tend to the fire and empty the chamber pot. Gaspard slept through it all with grumbling snores and huffs of heavy breaths. At his age he should have honestly known better, but he was a soldier through and through, years of rising with the sun ingrained into his body. That didn’t mean he slept through it when the fancy took him, who would deny a prince such a thing.

The thought sliced through his mind like acid, prince, the title had once been a notion of pride now it grew as an insult. Mere moments awake and Celene’s polished nails had clawed through his day already. He stumbled his way over to his settee, a new set of letters had been placed there this morning, empty promises, belittling insults, and another from Cireron. It didn’t hold any new information and was merely to dissuade and suspicion between the two men. He penned a nice letter back, commenting on how dreadfully entertaining it was here, and how he had engaging conversations with the servants.

He had spent two hours going over the details of what Celene had told him, and no matter how strong his military mind was, he could not think of a way to outmanoeuvre her. The seedling that had rooted in his belly weeks ago had grown and was spreading through his gut, tangling around his crooked spine and knotting in his throat. He groaned and stretched, his back aching from slumping in his seat, and climbed back under the fur covers.

Alistair had slept until midday, Odella was the one to wake him after being told of what exactly had transpired last night, and the servants had been hovering around his door hoping to catch a glimpse of the Grand Duke sneaking back to his quarters all morning. She was glad to see the King alone under the covers, and even better he was clothed.

“Your Majesty, it is time to awaken.” She shook him gently, and received a huff and grunt in response. She sighed and pinched his cheek until he sat up and slapped her hand away, gently of course, and begged his way into a hangover remedy. She tidied for a few moments to keep her busy, collecting empty bottles and corks into a spare basket, before the King returned looking much fresher than before.

“Thank you.” He nodded and sat down to lace up his boots.

“If it is not too intrusive, one of the chambermaids told me that Grand Duke Gaspard was in here last night, if not this morning.” She sounded like a disappointed aunt, catching her nephew in her private drawers or trying on her powders. Alistair scratched at his nose and coughed, his cheeks flushing heavily as he remembered exactly what happened in their drunken fumble. “Neither of you broke your fast this morning either, which leads to more rumours.”

“I thought you supported this.”

“I do, but a majority of the nobles in Ferelden know you as the Virgin King, they would think it tactless if Gaspard came in here and took this from you.” She paused when Alistair gaped at her. Honestly the very idea that his innocence needed to be preserved was beyond him, what else had people been saying? “And I might point out you don’t technically need to be intimate with him, the action of creating a trueborn heir is impossible. I’m sure he knows this as well Your Majesty. He has hardly kept his... affairs hidden.”

Alistair chews his lip readily and sends Odella away. If, he thinks carefully, if Gaspard knew that the marriage didn’t require any form of that, then surely he wouldn’t have made a move to do anything at all. Alistair had initiated their first kiss, he grumbles the childishness of it all, but the Grand Duke had been the one to kiss him last night. Kiss him on the bed, to push up his tunic and feel his skin. Maker. He swallowed thickly around his tongue. He wondered what would have happened if that girl hadn’t arrived to stoke the fire. Would they have curled up together under the furs, sweating with their cocks pressed flush together? Or would Gaspard have left in the middle of it all anyway? Why the man left was still beyond him, The Grand Duke had never motioned that he required privacy about his more base encounters before, maybe it was because Alistair was a King. With modesty, and innocence he thought sourly, to be preserved.

Edmund was absent from the morning council, so he sat there alone listening to Odella argue with an elderly noble who claims he suffered at the hands of the Orlesians and would not stand by while his monarch met one with his legs splayed wide open. Alistair stopped his advisor from defending him and explained why the comment was inappropriate, insulting, and improper, and then proceeded to have him escorted from the premises.

It was not a wise move, he was informed later, if only because he had publicly chosen his absent intended over one of the most influential noblemen in Ferelden. It was unfair for anyone to decide he must choose between Gaspard and his own nation, simply because there had never been the option to do so. Alistair knew he was making the best of a bad situation, in time he may have found a nice woman to settle with, to sire children and give the country the much needed Theirin heir. But Ferelden needed safety and it needed peace with her neighbouring countries, the alliance with Gaspard gave her that.

So what if Alistair enjoyed the man in private. If Gaspard was simply human who got angry and upset like any other, who laughed until his eyes were wetted and his face red. Who held him like he was the first Chevalier feather he had been given. He might be over thinking things, falling in too fast and too deep if only because this was his first experience. Did it matter?

Gaspard, having awoken an hour ago, had sent for a platter of meats and cheeses. It came with a few sliced loaves and fruit on the side, why the kitchen thought one man could eat so much he didn’t know. He still had work to do; Cireron’s information had been truly enlightening. Not only did it tell him Celene had been forging allies far beyond Orlais’ walls, and not the kind of allies that Orlais would want, but far closer to home and now of a far more personal nature. He thumbed at the pages of The Battle of River Dane, watching how the tale of mighty Loghain Mac Tir, farmer’s son, made his way to father of the Queen. Such large steps for a pauper, he thought, such large steps he wouldn’t want undone.

The knock at his door shook him from his thoughts, he thought briefly to the chambermaid, and quickly packed away his books. Nobody needed to know exactly what he had been reading after all. At the door was Alistair, wine in hand, and Gaspard moved to let the shorter man in. The servants were suspiciously absent from the long halls, he wondered it a moment before shutting the door and bolting it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Majesty?” He grabs for two glasses and hints for the man to join him on the settee. The fire is still roaring, keeping the room lit brilliantly in the oncoming night. The Grand Duke had not expected Alistair to join him tonight; the King had been awkward about the first time they had kissed. Choosing to linger around the edges of his vision and almost deny that anything had happened between them. At first Gaspard had thought that Alistair wished he hadn’t kissed him, but with flushing cheeks and quickly glancing away whenever he caught him looking? It wasn’t too hard to figure out the kiss hadn’t been born of pity. This wasn’t Orlais, he had to remind himself, the Game wasn’t played as viciously or as cruelly here. The kiss itself had been at least somewhat genuine. With what feeling and how much of it he did not know, but last night, Maker, that had been something else. Perhaps it had been the whiskey, and the wine, and the brandy, but he had felt young and foolish.

“I’ve been thinking about last night.” Alistair started; he was picked up slices of cheese and stacking them five high on a slice of bread. It made Gaspard’s face twitch before he disguised it away; still the King’s hunger turned his stomach. “I was always told by the Chantry sisters that the Maker would strike me down for, well you know,” He paused and glanced away “Acting out of wedlock.” He bit down on the short diary wall he had created and swallowed it eagerly. “They never said how long I’d have to wait until he’d come for me.”

“Is that supposed to be a jest?” He frowned.

“What? No. Not the sort you’re thinking of. Maker is nothing safe?” He laughed. He scoffs the remainder of the bread and follows it with a gulp of wine. Gaspard has the decency to wait until he has at least paused in his feast before moving to relieve himself. He grabs an orange slice and slips it between his teeth as he passes the King. Shuffling his breeches halfway down his arse and sighing around the mouthful as he chews and pisses simultaneously. He leaves the door open an inch or three to save him from lighting any of the candles in the washroom, and Alistair finds the fire fascinating once more.

Gaspard ties his breeches, the ones he had slept in for most of the day, and sits down beside Alistair. He fingers his way through the sliced fruit to pick out more orange slices, using his nails to pick away the loosened with flesh that clings to them. Alistair couldn’t help but stare at the way his moustache moved as he ate, and how his bottom jaw moves so his teeth can pull at the hair above his lips. He felt a little jealous in all honesty, he had never been one to grow a lot of facial hair; the best he could ever manage was the little he had now. The minor stubble which grew upon his chin, thinning and fading as it crawled to the apex of his jaw.

“You missed the council today.” Alistair said, fingers tapping idly across his wine glass.

“I was kept busy last night.”

“Funny ha ha. There was a man who made me think about how to get the people of Ferelden to know you.” His eyebrows pinched and his lips pursed at Gaspard’s interruption.

“They already know me.”

“They know of you.” He stressed it urgently. “That man, he thought you were Meghren reincarnated. Almost everyone is afraid of you here, and that might work in Orlais, but here, Ferelden is not ruled by fear nor malice.” He paused to stare into Gaspard’s eyes, momentarily thinking to grab his hand to convey his desperation. Alistair knew that time was running out until the announcement of the wedding, after one month of courtship, and he knew that he had to calm Gaspard as much as the people. “The alienage is on the brink of splitting in two, the nobles don’t want you here at all, and the common people are afraid they’ll lose their homes to a tyrant once more.”

“None of this matters Alistair.”

“Of course it does.” He snapped. “These are my people, this is my country, and you Gaspard are not the man we had been warned about.”

“We will not marry Alistair, and that is why this does not matter.” He sighed. Alistair deflated in almost an instant, his face running through a dozen expressions before settling on confusion. “Perhaps I should tell you now, I have only eight days and a few hours left.” Gaspard’s gut churned and his mind begged him not to tell him. But did it matter what cards a dead man held?

“Tell me what? Gaspard.”

“I have been trying to overthrow Celene’s right to the Imperial throne, and by doing so I could release us from this engagement without causing warfare between our nations. So far I have two things, two paths and choices that Celene has taken which would turn noblemen and women against her.” He paused and swallowed. “But I fear it is not enough, and it will not be pleasant for you to hear.” Alistair urged him with the smallest of nods, his eyes wider and his hands shaking enough for him to place his wineglass on the floor. “Celene allied with the Qunari, or rather the deserters they have-”

“Tal-Vashoth.”

“Yes, those, perhaps she intended to make Orlais stronger. Duke Prosper de Montfort was angling for some sort of powder or poison, something strong and potent known only to the Oxmen. The meeting failed and the Duke died of an unbeknownst cause, and he cannot testify to what would have happened but there may be letters sent between them which implicate my cousin. Maker knows she has always been sloppy and sentimental with those sorts of things.”

“And the second?”

“Celene, she intended to marry your brother Cailan.”

“What? No. Cailan was married to Anora, how could he- Why would he-”

“Anora offered him nothing, the marriage was possibly born out of their fathers friendship. With Celene he would have set our two nations in peace just as we are intended to do.” He paused and waited for Alistair to signal him to carry on. “They sent letters to one another, whilst Cailan was married, and before the blight struck Thedas. Divorcing Anora, would have given her less than what she had as Queen, she would be a Teryna at best.”

“Loghain knew.” Alistair whispered.

“I believe so. She was influential in not only the death of the King of Ferelden, but the actions which lead to the death of her Queen and well loved General. With this knowledge, Celene would be decimated by her proposed intimacies with a doglord King, or Ferelden could be forced into war with Orlais by-”

“No.” Alistair stopped him instantly, Gaspard biting his tongue and narrowing his eyes in reaction. “There can be no warfare between us and Orlais.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes aggressively, flopping back on the plush settee. “So many died at Ostagar, but more will die within a new war. It, no matter how much this hurts, it cannot be a reason for revenge.” To be kind, where Gaspard could be cruel, echoed in his mind. The words ached in his chest as he thought back to Duncan. If Loghain had known about Cailan’s plans, then assassinating the man was the only way to ensure that Anora remained on the throne, and he had done it so smoothly. Hundreds had died beside Cailan, his family, Duncan, it had a miracle that he and Mahariel had lived, and it was all for greed. He wondered what may have been different, could they have saved Lothering from the blackened wasteland it now was? How strong could the army have been with a thousand or so Wardens against the archdemon?

“You have my sympathies, Alistair.” Gaspard said solemnly, his palm was heavy on the King’s shoulder, warmth burning on him where the fire did not. It was not spoken what either men would do with the new information, but he hoped the Grand Duke would stay his tongue. Surely the man did not wish to destroy Orlais to gain a crumbling throne, no matter his ego he could not want for that.

“You must excuse me, Grand Duke, I...” He swallowed thickly and looked away. His throat was aching and his eyes were prickling with tears. No matter how many years had passed he would not forget the sight of the signal fire burning, and how everything simply continued. He and Mahariel had been swarmed by darkspawn within minutes, distracted as they watched Loghain’s army marching away from the battle.

“It is late, Your Majesty.” Gaspard nods. His hand is gentle as it squeezes Alistair shoulder, and he takes no offence at the King’s rushed escape.

Death in Orlais is celebrated with passion and joy, to remember how the deceased had lived and to show that sorrow would not consume them. But he remembered the pyres lit for a dozen soldiers because they could not use the wood to burn them individually, he wonders if there had been bodies to burn at Ostagar. He knew that Darkspawn ate from the corpses, and infected those still living, there had been a time when he had almost been felled by one. He took it’s bloodied great axe as a trophy and had it mounted in his smoke room.

Gaspard leaves the food and wine where it is, a chambermaid will clear it in the morning, and settles in for the night. Alistair doesn’t fair as well, he tosses and fidgets on his settee staring up at Duncan’s shield, and sleep eludes him.

The King is notably absent from the morning meal once again, though Gaspard had been there. He didn’t go as low as to sit in Alistair’s place, though he would have enjoyed the looks on the noble’s much more than he was now. The guests in question were scowling and whispering, and on their minds was the fear of Gaspard ruling alone. Even if they knew the King was probably still alive and hopefully in his own quarters.

He dines on fish and blackened bread, with a sweet white wine to wash it all down with. The food was something that Gaspard was slowly becoming accustomed to. He had heard that all the Fereldan’s ate was slop in pastry, but he had seen nothing of the sort, and they served so much fish. In Orlais it was always hog or some wildebeest that the Grand Duke didn’t care to know the name of as much as the locations it nested in. But with the several docks which lined the Eastern coast fish was a delicacy, certain fish like mackerel, he had learnt, were commoner’s food and not to be eaten by such a perfected palette. It was a compliment, even if he thought it ridiculous, he had once been a soldier and had rationed his way through salted meat strips before. Still he did like rich foods.

With little to do, and no friends inside of the castle, Gaspard watched the soldiers train. A servant carried a small brazier to him and lit it to bathe him in the warmth; Ferelden winters were far colder than those back at home. There was no doubt in his mind that the troop of soldiers had skill, not as much as his Chevaliers did, but enough to cleave through an army. He thought back to the proposal he had given to Alistair, with rumours in the right ears he could cause enough uproar that the King had to act. It had worked magnificently with Celene, and he had worked on a mere whim that time. The only fault that he had in his plan is that he didn’t know who exactly the right ears were, but knew that they would not trust him on baseless speculation.

Gaspard rubbed at his eyes and frowned, a little over a week until he would sign his own certificate of death, and he was hardly any closer to pushing Celene off the throne. He knew it wouldn’t be an easy task, void he had spent years rallying against her and it had all fallen on a single duel true to Orlesian tradition.

“May I join you?” Alistair said from beside him. He wore a long burgundy cape lined with fur which dusted the floor as he moved.

“As King, I do not think I could stop you.” He nodded. A servant came quickly to tend to the brazier but Alistair waved her away, Gaspard would have to adjust to the weather at some point. Odella had given him reports of snow down in the South, slowly creeping northward, and estimated to reach them within a week or two. He’d thrown on one of his lightest capes after being told once more of the Grand Duke’s movements. It was frightening how much Edmund watched the man, with his own eyes or not, but he always kept someone nearby. Alistair kept scouring the area trying to pick out who was reporting back to Edmund, was it the girl who tended the fire? A guardsman? He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and Gaspard shot him that look.

“I thought we could go hunting before the snow comes in.” Alistair said, his eyes watching a few men running through basic shield drills. “It’s usually quite heavy so we tend to store a lot of meat over the winter.”

“Will I be accosted at the gates once more?” Alistair laughs and chews his lower lip when Gaspard’s eyebrows knit together.

“Of course not. Will you attempt to ride north again?”

“No.” Gaspard clacks his teeth together and looks away. It was embarrassing, and it had been a false glimmer of hope in everything that had happened so far. The Grand Duke felt frost biting at his ears and nose, a foreign feeling when his mask usually kept his face warm in the winter. He felt a stab of jealousy at the rosy patches on Alistair’s cheeks, the man looked like an overstuffed pheasant, but at least he looked warm.

“On the morrow then? I have to take council soon, but I will see you tonight?” Alistair’s gloved hand rests on Gaspard’s forearm, warmth heavy through the leathered fingers.

“If there is brandy, I will be there.” He laughs with the King as he dusts off his legs and bows his goodbye. But there is a part of him which glows at the thought. He scoffs under his breath and folds one leg over the other, young and foolish indeed.

Alistair’s cape is taken from his as he enters private council room, Edmund and Odella standing in the centre of one side of the large table, waiting for Alistair to take his place between them before he sat. Subjects were ran through quickly, stopping when more detail is needed, and skipping when things became too monotonous.

The alienage was still causing problems; some families had moved from their homes and were seeking new homes away from the tiny civil war that was brewing. On one side Shianni defended the elves newest strides, wanting to keep them in safety and to let the momentum of new economic advances continue. Which meant Gaspard could not be a part of any negotiations which would decide the outcome of the elves’ lives. Thalion on the other hand preached that Gaspard would bring a new lease of life to the alienage, raising them up further than Alistair had done so far. After all it had been a Dalish elf that had saved them, and yet the Dalish still denied them and thought of them worse than the humans ever did. The King was sorely beginning to regret not telling them the truth about what had happened years ago in Orlais. He thought about having Gaspard tell them, but Thalion was such a wild card that the boy could react disastrously.

The matter of the scorched noble was a pride of place in the meeting. Alistair told Odella to write him a formal apology, usually Edmund wrote his letters, but Edmund had not been there. He held him back after the meeting; Odella had left last and curtseyed at the door before shutting it behind her.

“Your Majesty.” Edmund smiled.

“I always have both my advisors in court, even Odella couldn’t give me a reason why you weren’t there.” He said, standing tall and proud whilst he clipped his cape back over his shoulders.

“I apologise, I was ill that morning.”

“Right.” He dragged the word out in a sarcastic drawl when Edmund looked away. His advisor offered no other explanation and waiting until Alistair said something else, but his lips remained closed. The silenced dragged on second by second and Edmund felt himself sweating under the intense gaze.

“It was a personal matter, Your Majesty.” He whispers with his head bowed low.

“Then I apologise. A bit of warning is never a bad thing though,” He shrugged, “Goodnight Edmund.”

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.” Edmund waited until Alistair’s footsteps could no longer be heard before slamming his board onto the table. It cracked and splintered, the capped ink spilling onto the several clipped pages of blank vellum now ruined. He sniffed and recomposed himself before leaving the room, locking the door behind himself. He stopped with his back against the heavy wooden doors, his eyes aching and straining to see in the low light, he needed rest. As of late he had spent too much time piecing together half burnt parchment, and compiling the movements of the Grand Duke. All for Alistair, he reminded himself, for Alistair.

The King, none the wiser to his advisors pain, had swiped a brandy and a small iced sweet cake from the kitchens, and made his way to his own rooms. He whistled as he walked, pausing every few moments to lick the sugar from his fingers, delicious. Alistair was tempted to go back to grab another three or four, but walked on in regret. He berated himself for not going back to them with each step, delicate little cakes, delicious, he could eat dozens. But Gaspard would be waiting, and the man was horridly impatient. He licked his lips as he walked, the sugar long since gone.

To his word Gaspard had been sat in Alistair’s chambers, the fire roaring and already pinking the man’s cheeks. He didn’t acknowledge the King entering, and stayed slouching on the fine settee until he was handed the bottle of brandy. It was a dark Rivaini blend, the liquid impossible to see through and incredibly potent. It had no scent when he unwound the ribbon and pulled out the cork stopper. He swiped his thumb over the damp side and checked for missing bumps, corked brandy was far worse than corked wine. Alistair picked two glasses and sat beside him, sans cape, and grinned as Gaspard poured them a third each.

“Good news from the council?” He hummed.

“Is there ever good news from something called the Private Council?” he laughed. “They’ve started arguing whether this match is good anymore. They had all been picking out what hats to wear and what cheese to serve for the wedding before you arrived.”

“Such a compliment, Your Majesty. I suppose fur is in high demand.” He swallowed his drink in one mouthful, and took his time to pour a second.

“There’s...” He bit his lip to hide his grin, “There’s bit of hero worship floating around in the alienages.”

“Pardon?”

“Some of them are rallying in your name, it’s all a bit of a disaster really, but they like you.”

“The elves? The elves like me.” He balked. Alistair nods with his eyebrows raised. Gaspard laughed in short breaths, Ferelden truly was backwards. He half wondered if he was trapped in some nightmarish coma, perhaps this was the fade and he died when Florianne attempted to gain him the throne. Wherever he was it definitely wasn’t the Maker’s bosom as was promised.

“They think you purged Celene’s army to save them.” Alistair halted his wandering thoughts.

“Do they now?” He hummed, Celene would have heard then. If there was somebody slandering his name he knew about it, or at least he did back in Orlais.

“In fact one boy, Thalion, he’s practically preaching your name.”

“The others?”

“They, ah, well...” Alistair scratched the tip of his nose and sipped at his own brandy. Gaspard laughed honestly at the King’s flustered cheeks, he thought back to the other night. Half of him wanted to stay, it wouldn’t have been the first time he was caught between someone’s thighs he shouldn’t have been. The King’s thighs would definitely be more scandalous than anything else he could think himself doing, less dramatic than he would want. He wondered if Orlais and Ferelden were picturing Gaspard on his knees with a mouthful of royal cock, he licked his own lips at the thought and swallowed another brandy to stem the thoughts.

Gaspard watched as Alistair poured a fourth and fifth and drank them both quickly. With his knee bouncing and his eyes flitting around the room, it was obvious the King was tragically nervous.

“I- Odella she- I- Why did we-” He chewed his lip and rubbed at the back of his neck, Maker was he sweating? “She mentioned that we don’t need to, ah, you know.”

“A pity.” Gaspard frowned before he realised he hadn’t donned his mask and was playing his face too clearly. “I suppose I’ll see you for the hunt tomorrow.” He stood and brushed his breeches down, abandoning the half full glass he bowed before taking his leave. His appetite easily forgotten. Alistair was left sat there with a sweating glass and disbelief on his face, he- Gaspard actually wanted to- Maker, that he hadn’t expected.

Both men had risen early for the impromptu hunt, servants and stable boys making sure their horses were properly groomed and dressed for the occasion. Despite status, Gaspard climbed atop the larger horse before the King himself could. One of the stable-hands opened his mouth to tell him that it wasn’t his horse, but staring up at the man atop the beast left him frightened and sallow. Alistair hadn’t taken any offense from it at all, even if the men and women surrounding him had.

A few others had joined them, hunters and guardsmen, and Gaspard was thrown back to a time when he had last been hunting with Celene. The memory didn’t do any king favours to his expression. It hadn’t taken that much to chase her off onto her own, to propose peace across Orlais in the form of marriage, though she had scolded his arm with a fierceness he still denied. So many years had passed and now Gaspard finds himself in the exact same position with someone else. He should have just toppled her horse then, crippled her so Orlais could see how weak she was.

“Do you hunt often? Ser Gaspard?” Alistair’s voice brought him from his thoughts.

“I’ve been locked inside a castle like a lapdog, Your Majesty, hunting hasn’t exactly been a viable option.” He scoffed.

“Sorry, I... I meant back in Orlais.” He shrugged and his horse whinnied at the pull of the reins. A few guards took the moment to fall closer to their King, Gaspard felt insulted at how stupid they imagined he could be to attack the King now of all times.

“It was mostly for sport, wyverns, dragons, tuskets, animals that make fine trophies.”

“You’ve hunted dragons?”

“Not high dragons, Your Majesty, those a few in number and as such are rare to find.”

“I’ve killed one.” He shrugged. Gaspard rolled his eyes and forced his horse to a faster pace. He felt absurdly foolish, last night he had made such a mistake that if he had been in Orlais he would have been personally run out by now.

Throughout his life he had scarcely fallen in love, not that he is in love with Alistair by any means, and he had made sure to leave only hints and trails about his affairs. As Prince he had vowed he would only marry as an Emperor, for nobody in their right mind could refuse him. Then his throne had been stolen and marriage became less of a duty and more of a weapon, it sickened him to think that blade had now been turned on himself through his own stupidity.

Several deer had been caught throughout the morning hunt, the huntsmen had carried them over their shoulders so as to gut them in the castle ready to be salted. Alistair had waved his guardsmen off as they approached the edge of the woodland. A few wanted to stay, inclined to notice their King’s nervous disposition.

From inside his hunting satchel he plucked a yellow rose, it’s fading petals made it look rusted but it had been the best of the bunch. He handed it, nervously, and as gently as he could to the Grand Duke.

“You’re having an affair?” Gaspard said, his face scrunching up visibly with his lack of mask.

“I- What?” Alistair mimicked the man’s expression.

“A yellow rose, infidelity, passion found outside of the marital bonds.” He turned it in his grasp, careful of its thorny stem. “Granted we are not married-” He rolled it again in his grip, “Unless I am the affair and you have previous engagements.”

“No, No I just thought, it was between a few red roses and it made me think of you, and you’re well, Chevaliers like yellow, don’t they?” Alistair stumbled.

“Some of them.” He sniffed at the rose, still sweetly scented despite having been sat beside a skin of ale in a leather satchel. “Do you know what this means in the Free Marches?”

“Something better than what it means in Orlais?”

“Nothing in the Free Marches is better than Orlais.” He scoffed and pulled the flower from his face. “They view it as a sign of friendship. Antivan’s see it as jealousy, and the Tevinter’s view it as a sign of death.” He grinned at Alistair’s pitiful choking noises, it was in fact a nice if not thoughtless gift no matter how tainted Gaspard was making it. “But you know how the Fereldan’s view this? Yes?”

“The Language of flowers isn’t that popular in Templar training, too busy hitting each other with sticks.” He laughs, “Maybe we should have been throwing roses at apostates instead of arrows.” He sighs wistfully and pulls at the loosened stitching on his reins.

“I means you’re falling in love with me.” Gaspard hummed, ignoring Alistair’s rampant babbling. He found it ironic, yet awkwardly prophetic that Alistair had awkwardly proposed to him just as he had to Celene. It didn’t escape him that he was Celene in the analogy, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. “Quite the confession, Your Majesty.” He slipped it into one of the belts across his hunting gear and willed his horse to gallop back to the castle.

Alistair sat astride his horse for a few moments more trying to figure out exactly what had just happened to him. He had attempted to make peace with the Grand Duke after last night’s stumble, but he was entirely unsure of whether it had worked or not. He had been remarkably sour throughout the entire trip, and his guards hovering so close hadn’t exactly helped him in the slightest.

Regardless of what his royal household thought, Gaspard still shone brighter in Alistair’s view. Some thought it was his childish optimism, or that he was just putting on a brave face. Yes he did admit that the Grand Duke was poisonous and could be outright horrible at times, but in private he was little more than an old man. Still admittedly nasty in some ways, but just a man.

The rose, to Gaspard’s overflowing enjoyment, had been adopted by the court exactly how he had wanted it to have been. He had dropped a few hints here and there that it had been a gift from his betrothed, quietly as if it had been a secret between whispering maids, but it had plagued throughout the castle within moments. At their late afternoon feast the gossip was reverent and seemed to fill the guest’s hunger as much as the roast duck and druffalo calf meats. Gaspard had adorned it inside of a button hole on his doublet, it stood out dramatically against the deep greens and silvers he wore and it brought all the more attention to himself as the minutes went on. No doubt it would create rumours inside of the pointed ears of Celene’s spies, filtering through a dozen lips before it graced her own.

#answer #anonymous #dragon age #gaspard de chalons #alistair theirin #alistair x gaspard #gaspard x Alistair #gasstair #fanfic #.Do NOT Judge past me okie dokie.#.im sure I could write it a million times better now but hey ho 🤷‍♂️💕.#.enjoy the research 👹💋.

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lesbian-knights-and-tragic-gays · 1 month ago

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So it begins…

The bells were ringing over the streets of Anadelle; there was to be a royal wedding. The streets were laden with fine white silks and all common folk of the kingdom were bustling around with excitement.

In a rare display of benevolence, the king, Henry De La Roche, had invited the whole kingdom to celebrate the wedding of his only child and daughter Jaqueline De La Roche. Most likely, he had done this to flaunt the match he had negotiated with the neighbouring kingdom of Braislelan with their middle son Tristan LeBlanc, who was often described as handsome as he was annoying.

Braislelan had recently discovered a natural cave in one of their surrounding mountains with an impressive vein of iron. Meaning that King Henry had gladly traded off his daughter for the promise of a healthy share of the metal mined from that cave. A more than worthwhile trade if he had to say so himself. Which he did in fact say, often.

However, none of that mattered much to Corbeau; they weren’t here for the festivities. With most of the kingdom in attendance, they sought out one person. They had heard rumours of a supposed attack from a creature of fire on one of the small villages near the border, and this village's lord was to be present at the wedding. They had come adorned–as was tradition–in their armour. It was only respectful as a knight–even if they may be stretching the definition of a knight–to present yourself according to the code. It was, however, catching the eye of more than one commoner as they made their way up the cobbled streets towards the castle’s courtyard. Perhaps due to its eye-catching golden colour. This wasn’t ideal but couldn’t be avoided, after all, it was their father’s and their face was covered anyways.

They would try to make this quick to avoid too much attention. However, fate seemed to have other ideas as suddenly they were barrelled over by a large white form, knocking them down.

“Hey! Watch where you’re–” the knight stopped short as they came to recognize who had barrelled them over. “You’re Highness!” They dropped to their knees again as soon as they had stood. “My deepest apologies! I was lost in thought. How can I ever make this up to you?”

The princess dismissed them distractedly with a wave of her hand, “Oh, never mind all that.” She looked behind her worriedly, getting to her feet, the sound of hooves hitting cobblestones had become apparent and was growing louder. The princess’s eyes widened and she continued down the hill, pushing past the knight.

Corbeau follows, taking in the princess’s unease and white gown, “Excuse me, but… are you not supposed to be preparing for your wedding?”

“Oh merde ça, no no that’s not happening”. Unexpectedly she spins around and points expectantly at Corbeau, “You're a knight. Do you have a steed?”

“Well, yes. But–”.

“Perfect!” Jaqueline interrupts, “You will escort me to the West Sea”, it was not a question.

“Um–”. Corbeau starts, but they are interrupted by Tristan and the rest of the armed guard bursting around the corner of the street.

“There she is! Guards seize her!” Tristan proclaims. Interestingly, his left arm is heavily bandaged, and the wound is leaking through the cloth.

“Quick!” shouts Jaqueline. She grabs the golden knight’s wrist and begins to run; an impressive feat in heels. “Where’s your horse?” She yells over the commotion.

“Just around the corner! Why are we running?” Corbeau, responds confused. They do not receive a response.

They get to the horse; Corbeau mounts first then they help the princess do the same. As soon as they are both mounted, they are off and are quickly outside the village’s borders and into the surrounding fields, with Tristan and the other guards in pursuit.

Corbeau spares a glance over their shoulder their eyes catch a previously unnoticed red stain along the princess’s dress sleeve. Through their helmet, their eyes flick up to the princess’s face. Her lined lips are pulled into an ecstatic grin.

Corbeau returns their gaze to the distant forest on the horizon. What have they gotten themselves into?

#ocs #my ocs #knights #lgbtq #can we blame Cor for trusting a hot princess no questions asked?#we’ve all been there #something something subverting gender roles #something something patriarchy #original non binary character

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madzilla84 · 1 month ago

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Finished the Veilguard! Early thoughts

(This post contains major spoilers.)

tl;dr - I LOVED IT SO MUCH

This isn’t a review or a master post or anything of the sort, just my first initial … feelings dump I guess, after finishing the game? (And no, I won’t be “disclaimer-ing” all my posts with ‘I know it wasn’t perfect but-’ every time because there’s no such thing as a perfect game.)

Short background: been a Dragon Age fan since playing DAO/DA2 in 2011, been obsessed ever since. My favourite of the first 3 was Inquisition, but I love them all dearly. The wait for Veilguard has been lonnnggggg and - chequered, to put it mildly - and as I said before, I mostly left the fandom a few years after DAI came out because it was just such a miserable place to be most of the time. I still have DA friends I followed then and still do, though many moved on, as people do.

(I went to an OFMD convention a week ago and was surrounded by people who love the show like I do and it was just SO refreshing to be in a fandom that actually LIKES the thing they’re a fan of and celebrates it?? Wow, what’s that like??)

But, anyway. I’m not here to talk about the fandom, I’m here to talk about the game, I just wanted to sort of underline that I - like so many others - have been waiting a very long time for this game, and as such have had ten years to build up hopes and expectations and wishes and everything else. As much as you try not to, you can’t help it on some level. So I was *very* nervous that a new game would come out and I just - wouldn’t like it. So much time has passed. Many of the old DA team worked on DAV but a lot had left. And then I found out about the fact you could only import 3 choices and only from Inquisition, and all in all I was NERVOUS for this game okay??

So I am very happy and relieved to report that I absolutely fucking LOVED it. I am in love with it. Obsessed. Over the fucking moon. I know it’s the honeymoon period but I just fucking lovveeeeedddd it you guyyyyyyys. When I finished it I felt so hugely emotional but not in a bad way, just very - full. I said on Bluesky my heart was full and that is true.

I had Hopes for this game and - often to my own great surprise - it met them all and exceeded many of them. Some of them were totally, like, Me things specifically, but that was why I wasn’t really expecting them??

I just love everything! Yeah, all the stuff people are bitching about everywhere! I love the story and the choices and the lore (some of those WBK moments were so sweeeeeet), the music is beautiful, the environments are GORGEOUS and so fun to explore (some of them almost brought me to tears, they were so beautiful), I loved the gameplay, I even love the “controversial” art style, I think it will age well and it allowed the companions/characters to be more expressive. The voice performances were absolutely stellar.

I’m so in love with ALL the companions. I think they’re such a strong group and I enjoyed each and every one of them so much, which is fairly rare for me haha. I was absolutely heartbroken by the loss during the final sequence; I thought that like ME2, if you had everyone as a Hero of the Veilguard, all the factions maxed out and made the right choices you could save everyone, but of course you couldn’t and it hurt so much.

I was so overwhelmed the first time (plus the mood whiplash of going from ‘my beloved friends are dead’ to ‘IN A COFFIN??’ 20 minutes later, bioware you mad bastards i love you hahaha) I didn’t cry much but the next day it hit me and then I did, and have been on and off ever since if I think about it too hard. I lost sweet Harding. :( I loved her story so much, she was so excited for the future, and her Hero armour made me cry, so when that happened… ooooooffff. Ouch. I can’t even say ‘eh I’ll just change it’ because I also love Davrin? And to lose Assan as well??

…I did say this wasn’t a review/in-depth post didn’t I, oops. I can’t help myself XD The short version: I played a Shadow Dragon mage (excellent choice given my Dorian-obsessing ways), saved Minrathous, romanced Emmrich, appointed Archon Pavus (! jeez I have Feelings about that), redeemed Solas. (Kinda won at Veilguarding tbh??)

I do wanna post more about it - I have a google doc draft started with like fuckin. 20 different categories or whatever, that I want to add to over time - and I will. I also want to play again IMMEDIATELY! And I also will, because even in my 112-hour ultra-completionist playthrough I somehow missed a bunch of stuff apparently?? But that’s first playthroughs for you. I just need to decide whether I start a new/different Rook and make different choices or if I replay my first again because I just ADORED her and had such a blast playing her. I just kind of want to do it again XD (I can do both eventually of course, but which FIRST??)

I also have to note that my like, biggest DA Thing I Obsess Over before this game was the relationship between my Inquisitor and Dorian, and I knew that a) he was the least popular DAI romance and b) this was Rook’s story, but I still hoped for Something… so when I got the letter I a) cried and b) assumed that would be it, and I was happy for the crumbs. So when I saw them together during the final battle, and even talking, I fucking lost it. I waited ten years for that moment, and I *got* it. I truly didn’t think I would. And they both lived!! There were a few other very sweet full-circle moments that just - settled really nicely in my heart. And I have a new Forever Fave to obsess over, yet another necromancer of course haha. His romance being so sweet and loving was just a comfort that I didn’t really know I needed. And I am not a Solas Girlie (though I love his character) but I cried SO hard during his beautiful ending. It felt perfect, and perfectly done, to me.

So yeah, I loved it. A lot. It felt sort of - healing, I dunno. Not to get too esoteric about it, at least not until I’ve had more time to think about it… I’m looking forward to digging into future playthroughs and discovering more stuff, and it’s just such an exciting, fun feeling to be loving the game this much, because even up until the ending I was like, ‘I’ve loved it so far but what if I fucking hate the ending and I never want to play it again?’. But I didn’t. I thought it was a towering achievement and it might be my favourite now?? (Uhhh I need more time to know that for sure, I think.)

[Happy hiss!]

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #game of all time

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lonewolflupe · 4 months ago

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aLoF ch15 | Ascension Of The Mind's Guilt

I hope you're mentally prepared for this chapter, because I'm not. This chapter's main event was actually one of the first scenes I came up with whilst creating Lupe's backstory (I know, I'm real fun at parties).

Summary: when Lupe finally finds the strength to accompany her squad on another mission, she finds herself in a new mess; one that affects the entire galaxy Rating: Teen and up (but please check the tags!) Tags: angst, hurt, dark thoughts, trauma, guilt, swearing (usage of slang); yeah this chapter's a real banger Words: 6.135 Characters: Lupe (OC), Trooper Ragnar (OC), Trooper Claw (OC), Trooper Fang (OC), Trooper Twist (OC), CT-7567 Captain Rex, CT-5597 Jesse, Anakin Skywalker, ARC-5555 Fives (sort of), unidentified clone troopers aLoF masterlist | AO3 ch14 < | ficlet < | ↓ | > ch16

19 BBY, Coruscant | GAR Barracks’ Hangar

Breathe in. Breathe out. Deeply in, slowly out. Breathe.. Don’t let it consume you..

Lupe opened her eyes as she blew her last controlled breath out. It was time for a new mission; the first one since Fives. She had prolonged this moment for as long as possible, since she hadn't trusted herself earlier. She felt like her connection with the Force had weakened since she lost Fives, since she started questioning her Jedi beliefs on a daily basis.

But there was still a roaring war going on throughout the galaxy, and if she didn't pull herself together now, well, she might not be able to ever again.

She was pulled from her thoughts when Ragnar put his hand on her shoulder. “You alright there?” he asked softly, making sure only she could hear his words whilst the boys behind them were readying their gear. Lupe shot him a quick smile. “As ready as I'll ever be.” He granted her another of his rare smiles, and she felt better instantly. “You're not alone; we’re with you,” he said comfortingly, before turning around again to finish up.

When they were all geared up and had gathered their supplies, the squad crossed the hangar towards their shuttle. Lupe let her gaze wander the premises, an old habit she had gotten used to, to see if she could spot Fives between the troops. A sharp pain in her chest erupted when she realised what she was doing. Kriff. She did notice a lot of blue though; apparently, the boys from the 501st were shipping out as well. At that moment, she laid her eyes on Captain Rex.

Without realising, she slowed down her pace, falling behind her squad. Ragnar was the only one to notice; he halted and gently touched her bare upper arm to get her attention. “It’s alright, go to them; we’ll be waiting at the ship,” he said to her, his voice low but genuine. She smiled at him, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’, before jogging off towards the Captain.

Rex was barking out orders to his troops when she reached him. She halted a few steps away, waiting patiently as she didn't want to interrupt him. “Jesse, no, not.. Not there,” he shot out, his voice becoming quieter and evolving into a deep sigh. He started rubbing his temples with his gloved fingers. A faint smile appeared on Lupe's face. “You look tired, Captain.”

“I'm always tired,” Rex mumbled under his breath, before realising who had addressed him. He snapped out of his fatigue and looked up at Lupe, a newly found enthusiasm on his face. “Lupe- General, sir,” he managed, slightly surprised at her sight. Lupe chuckled softly, folding her arms. “At ease, Captain,” she told him, trying to grant him a moment of tranquillity. “Yessir,” was his affirmatory reply, as if she had given him an order, but he managed a broad smile anyway.

At that moment, he noticed something about her attire; a new addition to the small collection of clone armour she used to wear during the war. He swallowed, as a bittersweet feeling took a hold of him. Attached around Lupe's neck, on top of her shoulder pieces, were Fives’ pauldrons. He fell silent, and she was afraid she had unintentionally put him in an uncomfortable situation. Her eyes darted around and she started fidgeting with her silver hair. “I-Is it inappropriate to wear them?” she asked him shyly.

He took a deep breath, making sure there was no tremble in his voice before he spoke. “No, no, it’s not. It’s- it’s perfect,” he eased her mind, the bittersweet feeling reflected in his smile, as she could feel the pain of loss behind it. Breathe in, breathe out, she thought to herself, trying to not break down on the spot. Without thinking, her fingers touched the ‘5’ tattoo on her upper right arm. Suddenly, as he had clearly regained himself, Rex chuckled softly.

"You've grown since Geonosis. I still remember that lost Padawan back in the corridor. It's been a while since then, kid,” Rex said as he brought back the memories, amusingly calling her the same nickname he had given her during their first encounter. But she was far from a kid now. "So much has happened since. It's been only three years, but it feels like a lifetime," Lupe sighed, her gaze sliding away from Rex’s, her mind wandering. A few seconds passed before Rex replied. "Yeah, I know. You've come a long way since.” Lupe’s gaze shot back to his instantly, and she managed a genuine smile on her face before replying: "We both have.”

Their moment was interrupted when Jesse came jogging towards them, addressing the Captain when he had nearly reached them. “Everything's prepped, ready for- General!” he interrupted himself, as soon as he noticed Lupe standing behind Rex. The brightening expression on his face lightened Lupe up immediately. “Pleasure seeing you ready for action again,” he nodded at her, after noticing the Lone Wolves waiting for her at their shuttle in the hangar beyond. She happily greeted him with a forearm shake.

“Those pauldrons look good on you,” he said to her, as he was checking out the newest addition to her attire. “Same for you, ARC trooper,” she chuckled at him, since this was the first time she talked to him since his promotion. He briefly stood at attention, proudly showing off his new outfit, especially his pauldrons and kama. “Proves they’re still promoting di’kute* into ARCs,” she said jokingly to him, remembering an earlier conversation at 79’s; a moment that seemed so far away now.

*di’kute = idiots, useless individuals

Jesse eased his pose and started laughing at her remark, a sound that mellowed her broken heart; it was good to hear a clone laugh again. With a smirk on his face, Rex shook his head. “What would that make the person promoting those di’kute?” he added to the light conversation. In a gesture of innocence, Lupe put her hands behind her back, before whispering in reply: “My lips are sealed.” It only resulted in more laughter.

The diverting moment was interrupted when the built-in comm device in Rex’s helmet started beeping. He activated the transmission, and they could all hear General Skywalker’s kind yet urgent voice: “Gotta go, Rex; Obi-Wan’s waiting for us!” After Rex shot his General a quick reply of affirmation, Lupe asked where they were headed. “Yerbana, sir. Somewhere near Christophsis,” he sighed, as he was remembering one of his first battles during the Clone Wars. Lupe shot him a comforting smile, shifting her eyes from Rex to Jesse and back. “Good luck out there. And May the Force be with you.”

Just when she started to turn around, ready to head off to start her own mission, Rex put his hand on her pauldron to stop her from leaving yet. “Sir, I, er- I’d like to talk about what happened. With Fives. And after. There have been.. developments,” he said nervously, shifting on his feet, not knowing if he had chosen the right words. Jesse tilted his head, looking at Rex wonderingly, whilst Lupe turned back around. Her eyes, being bright and alive earlier, had turned dull and hollow. “I don’t want to keep your General waiting any longer. Let’s have that talk when we’re all back; I’ll treat the both of you to a drink at 79’s,” she replied flatly, forcing a half-smile on her face, before she continued her course.

“R-right, sir,” Rex replied, nodding somewhat absently as he watched her turn around again. As soon as she had walked off and was out of hearing range, Jesse cleared his throat and positioned himself at Rex’s side. “You.. You didn't tell her about Fives or Echo yet?” Jesse asked reluctantly. Rex let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t. Seems like the timing is never right. And now.. I didn’t want to distract her from her mission,” he elaborated softly, briefly hanging his head. He took another breath before he looked Jesse in the eyes. “I'll tell her when we're back. Once we're all back. We'll find time then.” He smiled and patted the ARC trooper on his pauldron, determined to follow up on his words after their upcoming battle, before they headed to the ships to set course to Yerbana.

---

Outer Rim | Space

Lupe glanced over to the boys, as they were huddled together in the cockpit, laughing as they were enjoying some time together before they would have to focus on the mission ahead. She sat remotely in the back of their shuttle. She didn't feel like her old self, and although she felt slightly better getting back on a mission with the boys, she wasn’t sure if she was ready yet. Fives was still so fresh on her mind, and at this point, she didn't know if she would ever regain her spark of life. He was her spark, her galaxy, and now with his death, it was all gone.

Trying to shift her thoughts, she focussed on the missions she had been on with her squad. The memories they had made. But right now, everything reminded her of Fives, because every mission had a connection to him. Their turbulent first meeting when she was celebrating her Jedi knighthood, not long before her first mission with her squad to Raxus. How considerate he had been when she had found herself in the Halls of Healing after Basanos, sending her that fruit basket. The tension between her and Ragnar during Kepler, unintentionally caused by him. How he had pulled her from the darkness after Talbhin.. And now, how he could never pull her from her darkest thoughts ever again.

It didn't help that the clones shared the same faces, and her squad reminded her of Fives every time she looked at them. Without thinking, her hand touched the tattooed ‘5’ on her upper right arm again. She knew she would never forget him, but with the tattoo, she felt like she was carrying him with her. Always.

A deep sigh as she picked up the datapad, hoping informing herself on the mission's details would distract her mind. They would always just head over to the coordinates and check on their objectives on the way; it had never really been a problem, although she did start questioning some of the Jedi's motives behind their objectives.

As she read through the details, her eyes skimming through the words again and again, her breath caught in the back of her throat. This wasn't a regular mission; this was a kriffing suicide mission. She looked up from the screen to the boys, still brotherly together at the front of the shuttle, before she swallowed.

What was she supposed to tell them? As the Clone Wars had gained momentum, and odds finally seemed in the favour of the Republic, the end of all the destruction seemed near. How could the Jedi Council ask them to conduct this suicide mission at what seemed the final moments of the war? Didn't they deserve better, after all they had done for the Republic, all they had been through?

Lost in thoughts, the datapad slid out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud. Most of the squad didn't seem to notice, but Ragnar looked over towards her, immediately concerned when he laid eyes on the General. She looked so vulnerable, so small; so lost. He looked back at his brothers, making sure they continued their comradery before walking over towards Lupe. She didn't seem to notice him, which worried him even more. After all their time together, they had grown such a strong bond. She was more than their General; she was their vod.

Ragnar sat down on one knee in front of her, picking up the datapad and placing it on the seat beside her. He took her hands, holding them gently into his to warm them, as her fingertips felt cold. “Lupe, what is it?” he whispered, making sure the boys didn't notice, so Lupe would feel comfortable to speak her mind freely. She turned her gaze towards him, her eyes empty.

“I've got a bad feeling about this one,” she whispered, before looking at the datapad Ragnar had just retrieved from the ground. He swallowed, but didn't answer. They were clones; born for this life, born to follow orders, born to complete missions. What was he going to do, turn himself against the Jedi Order?

“Don't tell the boys,” she whispered even softer. “Not yet, at least.” He could swear he saw tears starting to well in her eyes, before she regained herself. He nodded at her, promising he wouldn't. There was no benefit in telling them their demise was near. She closed her eyes as she moved her forehead towards him, and he responded by doing the same. Their foreheads touched, and for a moment, they remained like that, easing both their minds.

---

Outer Rim | Albarrio sector | Gelida Nix (Separatist Occupied Planet)

They had landed on a harrowing icy planet. Patches of mist covered the air like a shroud. As they had neared their landing spot, they had seen stretching white hills, lakes frozen shut and vast coniferous forests. They departed the shuttle, and as they walked towards some cover, Lupe looked back at the shuttle. An ominous feeling crept up to her. She tried to shake it off whilst leading the squad forwards.

They positioned themselves in an old foxhole in the midst of a trench system, remnants of the Clone Wars’ earlier days. Lupe stared through the electrobinocular that Twist had kindly provided her, as always. She could see the commando droids hiding within the trees. With a sigh, she put the binocular down. There was no cover; no way they were going to get through to their objective unharmed. They were going to get injured, and not all of them might make it out alive. An invisible grasp around her throat made it hard to breathe as she thought about what would happen as soon as they would advance.

When she turned around towards the boys, her gaze briefly locked with Ragnar’s. He gave her an encouraging nod, and at this moment, she didn't know if she would be strong enough to continue if it wasn't for him. As her sergeant, he had always stood by her side, getting her up and having her back. Now that her world seemed to shatter around her, her galaxy already taken from her, he and the squad were her only safety net. She didn't know if she could ever put into words what that meant to her. What they meant to her.

“Alright, boys,” she finally spoke, thinking about how she would word this, trying her hardest to keep her voice from trembling. But she had to be honest with them; they trusted her, and no power in the galaxy would make her break that trust. “I have to be blunt with you; I'm not liking these orders one bit. This.. This seems like a suicide mission,” she sighed, as she noticed the boys stiffening and getting serious. “I'm afraid stealth isn't going to help us this time, and there's no cover to rely on.” She swallowed as she looked from face to face. These men, her troops, her brothers. The orders came from higher up, but it felt like she was ordering them to their deaths personally.

“Promise me one thing. If anything happens, if you get hit or can't continue, let me know. I will do everything within my power to protect you, to keep you safe, to.. To keep you from harm's way,” she continued, swallowing the lump as it formed in her throat. “I owe you that.” The boys looked at each other, before nodding, shooting her a slightly confused ‘yessir’.

“Alright, ready yourselves. I will search for the best opportunity,” she said, dismissing them from the mission briefing. As they started readying their gear, Ragnar walked over to her and put his hand on her pauldron. “Whatever happens, it's been an honour, Lupe. If today is our day to die, we'd be proud to do so at your side,” he spoke, before turning around and returning to the men.

Lupe stood frozen, nailed to the ground. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away with the palm of her hand. Slowly, she turned around to gaze through the binocular again, hoping she could find a point of access less tight than what she had seen so far. But she was fully aware there wasn’t going to be a better opportunity; she was merely prolonging the inevitable moment.

“Incoming message,” she heard Ragnar saying behind her, towards his brothers. She didn't reply, as the remark wasn't meant for her. But she thought it was odd, strange even; normally, any incoming messages would come through her. As she started to dwell on it, her stomach turned. A sudden darkness took over. Although there wasn't a change in the weather, a shadow fell upon her. She felt ripped from the inside, as she heard voices in her head, shouting and crying out, before they died down. As if hundreds of souls were silenced.. A great disturbance in the Force.

No.. Her nightmare.. Fives.. Not again..

As she grasped towards her chest, trying to protect her heart from shattering even further, she started turning around to the boys, searching for solace from her brothers and hoping their incoming message would clarify anything that had just happened. But as soon as she started to face them, her heart dropped, and her breath was caught in the back of her throat.

All four clones of the Lone Wolf Squad were pointing their blasters directly at her. Her mind raced as she searched for a logical reason, but nothing could explain this. “Vode..?” she asked confused, frightened, shaken. It was Ragnar who addressed her, his voice stoic and stern; the complete opposite from how he had addressed her just moments ago. “You have been branded a traitor to the Republic and are hereby marked for immediate termination by Order 66.”

No, this couldn't be true, this couldn't be happening. A traitor to the Republic? She tried recalling what she had done wrong to brand her a traitor to the Republic, but nothing came to her. Ever since the war had started, she had been nothing more than a servant of said Republic, risking her life day in, day out to do its bidding. And the love she had for the troopers of the Republic's Grand Army..

..the same troopers who were currently pointing their blasters at her. As the tension increased, she saw their hands starting to shake, as if they were trying to fight something within, trying to define what it meant to be a good soldier.

At that moment, Twist fired the first shot. As his hands were shaking, his aim slightly diverted, the shot grazed Lupe on her upper left arm. She cried out in pain when it hit her flesh, as the laser bolt burned away her skin, deforming the Wolfpack tattoo she was proudly wearing. Her instincts made her reach for her lightsaber, igniting it to protect herself. It was the very push the clones needed, and all hell broke loose.

A barrage of fire was being shot her way, being shot from the blasters the clones were aiming at her. She deflected the shots, but she found herself totally out of balance with the Force as she was completely taken by surprise, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of her troops. Her brothers. A few of the shots hit her armour and scraped her skin, and she grunted at every hit. She flung her lightsaber around, preventing any critical hit, but she wouldn't deflect the shots back at her men. She wouldn't kill them. She couldn't.

Tears were running down her cheeks as she stood face to face against her own brothers, trying to protect herself from them. She remembered all the lightsaber training she had given them back at the barracks; teaching them how to move and where to aim if they would ever find themselves against a lightsaber-wielding opponent. She could never have imagined it would be her. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with some clever trick, some creative way out, but nothing came to mind; all her wit and creative thinking was lost on her.

But she knew she couldn't keep this up forever, and she didn't want to hurt them. They were everything she had left..

With an immense effort, as it felt like she had now completely lost her connection with the Force, she sent out a Force-push towards the men, making them stumble and fall backwards. It wouldn't eliminate them, and it wouldn't keep them down for long either, but it gave her the distraction she needed. She jolted out of the foxhole, leaving the trenches and her troops behind her, as she ran for the forest, towards the Separatists.

She heard clanking sounds as the commando droids came jumping out the trees, trying to ambush her. But evading them was surprisingly easier on her own, when she didn't have anyone around her that needed cover or protection, no accompanying team. She didn't have anyone around her..

She slashed her lightsaber around, releasing a surge of rage that resulted from her confusion, her fear, her devastation and her losses. She felt cold when a darkness crept inside her, slowly growing larger. She took down droids, trees, and everything in between. She jolted forward, hacking down everything in her path, without looking back.

Appearing in front of her was the Separatist base that had been their initial target. She stormed forward, not bothering to check on any threats, as she didn't really care anymore at this moment. She barged into the base's grounds, slicing down every droid she encountered, both battle droids, astromechs and maintenance droids, not seeing any difference at this very moment. There was a haze before her eyes she had never experienced before.

As she progressed, she noticed a small Separatist cargo freighter. Without dwelling on it, she boarded the shuttle, powered it up and launched it into the air. She had to get out of here. Some shots from down below hit the freighter’s hull, but the droids weren't able to fully attack her; she had overwhelmed them completely by her sudden and rageful appearance.

Lupe made the shuttle fly as fast as it could before punching in some random coordinates. As soon as the navicomputer had calculated a safe route, she punched the switch and the shuttle jumped into hyperspace. The stars seemed to blur even more than usual during hyperspace, as her eyes filled with tears.

---

Unknown location | Space

Time crept away as the shuttle drifted aimlessly at its destination. There was nothing around it, except for the darkness filled with faraway stars. Lupe sat in the pilot seat, her knees pulled against her chest, arms wrapped around them, as she stared into the nothingness. Dried tears stuck to her scraped cheeks.

She had tried contacting fellow Jedi, but none responded. A static noise came from her comm device before she shut it off. Her mind drifted off, dwelling on the hundreds or thousands of voices she had heard screaming out. What did it mean? Had all the clone troopers turned against their Jedi Generals? Did this mean.. All those voices, had they been Jedi killed at that exact moment? That couldn’t be true, right? … Right? Was Master Plo Koon one of them..? She pulled her knees tighter as she sunk her face between them, trying to search for a logical, less painful explanation.

But she couldn’t find one. As the dark thoughts piled up into her already overflowing mind, and since her earlier rush of adrenaline had worn off, she found herself starting to panic. Every breath she took seemed to tighten her throat, making her gasp for air, as her heart was beating uncomfortably heavy inside her chest. She tried searching her pockets for a nervestick, but she wasn’t carrying any. The boys had been right, of course; she never carried her own gear. Twist had always been around to provide her with whatever she needed.

Twist.. Her hand slid to the burnmark on her upper left arm, a throbbing pain on the spot of impact. After everything they had been through, after everything that they had shared, how was it possible that her brothers had turned against her? What did she do wrong? Was it retaliation for all the clones she couldn’t save during the war? But surely, out of all the clones, the Lone Wolves knew how much she cared for them? How much guilt she felt for every loss?

Her hand slid further, until she reached the unimpaired skin, remnants of her Wolfpack tattoo still visible. Master Plo.. Had he been with the 104th, with Wolffe, during whatever had happened? Surely the Commander would have protected Master Plo against any threat, giving him a fair trial? Yes, they had such great respect for each other; Wolffe would never hurt Master Plo. He was like a buir* to him. It eased her mind, and she started to breathe more evenly again.

*buir = parent/father

She had to find out what had happened to the Jedi, but she knew she couldn’t just return to Coruscant to walk in the Jedi Temple, as she had the feeling she wouldn’t receive a warm welcome there. No, she had to find a different way. If something had happened to the Jedi, to the whole Jedi Order, it must be on the HoloNews. It must be known on the inhabited planets throughout the galaxy. She didn’t dare showing up on either a Republic or Separatist occupied planet, but she knew a few neutral ones. She let them cross her mind, as she decided which one would be least logical for a Jedi to show up.

Ah, Oba Diah. That one would do. The planet, home to the Pyke Syndicate, was surrounded by dark, dishonest beings. They wouldn’t come searching for a Jedi there, and as long as she didn’t stand out as one, she was sure she wouldn’t attract too much attention. She looked around in the freighter’s cargo hold, cursing herself for not wearing a cloak back on the icy planet she had just fled, when she noticed a dark cloth laying around. That had to do.

When she returned to the shuttle’s cockpit, she entered Oba Diah’s coordinates in the navicomputer. As the shuttle calculated its journey and eventually shot forward into hyperspace, Lupe sat back in the pilot seat again, contemplating on what she would find out on Oba Diah.

---

Outer Rim | Kessel Sector | Oba Diah

She didn’t like Oba Diah one bit when she walked through its capital’s alleyways. The place was filthy from the scum and villainy that resided there, dealing with their unclean businesses. The hair on the back of her neck was standing upright as she pulled the cloth around her face more tightly. Her lightsaber's hilt was hidden beneath the rags, but she made sure she could reach it if she needed it here.

When she rounded a corner, she noticed a cantina up ahead; she walked straight for it. Inside, she sat down at the cantina's bar, ordered a beverage and looked up at the screen behind the counter. No HoloNews, but flashy advertisements for best arm dealers, pleadings about the most popular spice consistencies, and the current top bounty hunters. This place was something else. With a subtle gesture, without anyone noticing, she changed stations to the HoloNews. At least the Force still granted her this trivial action.

“Today, in breaking HoloNews: the fall of the Jedi Order. It has come to the Senate's attention that the Jedi have committed treason against the Republic. With swift acting, the Galactic’s Grand Army was able to terminate the Jedi threat, resulting in the fall of the Confederacy of Independent Systems and thus the ending of the war. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, personally affected by the Jedi's treachery, has now declared the first Galactic Empire. We are entering a new age.”

As the irritated bartender switched the channel back, Lupe's breathing stopped as the words echoed through her mind. The GAR terminated the Jedi threat.. Her worst fears became reality as it confirmed what those voices had meant, crying out in her head. The Jedi had been killed, slaughtered, because they had been branded traitors to the Republic. And they had been killed by those who had been fighting loyally at their sides during the war; the clones. No Jedi would have seen this coming.

She staggered away from the bar, leaving her beverage untouched. She made for the exit, her head spinning. When she finally found herself back inside the shuttle she had confiscated from the Separatists, she had no recollection of her way back to it. She sat down in the pilot's seat, her chest heaving, her breathing heavy, as she gasped for air.

“No no no,” she cried out loud in disbelief, as her body started to panic again. How could this be possible? How in the known galaxy did the Jedi commit treason against the Republic, and how in the vast Wild Space beyond it did the clones turn on them? What sick turn of faiths was responsible for this? This couldn't be true. This couldn't be happening. She knew the clones; they wouldn't do this. They were loyal, good soldiers; they were the best brothers. They were.. They were everything to her.

Her body started shaking and she gasped for air, the lack of oxygen causing black spots before her eyes, her vision already blurred from tears.

It's okay, I’m here.

Fives’ voice echoed through her mind and pulled her back together. She focussed on her breathing, returning it from shallow gasps into deep, even breaths, clearing her head instantly. She closed her eyes and tried to picture him. Not like the last time she had laid eyes on him; his head shaven and his body on a pyrohover, engulfed by blue flames. But him during life, being honest and righteous, but also silly and mischievous, but mostly loving and caring. Oh, what she wouldn't give to have one last moment with him, just them together..

“Fives, I need you.. I- Everything's so kriffed up. I'm.. I'm losing my kark over here,” she said out loud, grasping her hands to her head out of despair. Her heartbeat was rising again, her body tensing and her throat tightening. Her eyes twitched vigorously behind her closed eyelids.

We didn't do anything wrong this time, right?

She huffed out of irony. “Well, it looks like we kriffed up big time,” she replied, putting her arms around her before she started cradling herself, rocking back and forth, trying to keep calm as her mind started overflowing again.

Then tell me about it.

His voice was so calming, so comforting, so soothing. She stopped her motions, her heartbeat dropping again, being able to breathe evenly. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I'm not sure what happened, Fives. The clones.. They turned on the Jedi. On all of us. Apparently, we committed treason against the Republic, but I don't know what we did wrong. What I did wrong.”

That sure sounds like a nightmare.

“Yeah, but it's kriffing real! And you know what? It's just like my nightmare, I even told you about it. Everything came true! And you.. You kriffing left me! You left me behind, just like that!” The tears were flowing from her eyes by now. She knew it wasn't fair to blame him for leaving her, to blame him for his own death, but she was so mad at the galaxy right now. She was just bawling her eyes out - and her sorrows along with it.

I didn't ask for any leave.

“You didn't just leave. You kriffing died, Fives! You.. You left me- You left me behind. I'm.. I'm so alone,” she started shouting, but as she progressed venting her feelings, her voice became softer, finally drowning in sobbing. It took a while before she heard his voice again.

That's the neat part when you're stuck together; you're there to support each other.

She sniffled before wiping away some tears. “But we're not; we're not stuck together anymore. You're not here anymore. Wait, are you still with me?”

Always.

Kriff. There seemed to be no ending to the tears after that; she would rather get hit by blaster fire again than continuing to succumb to this devastating heartache. But then it dawned on her: if she had the choice, she would do it all again. Even if she knew it would end with Fives’ death, she would gladly start over. Every moment with him had been an absolute pleasure, as he had painted the stars in her galaxy, warming her heart and had strengthened her life's energy. And now, she needed to be strong. She had to carry on for him.

This.. It's bigger than any of us, than anything I could have imagined. I never meant to.. I only wanted to do my duty.

The words hit her like an elevated speeder train. She realised she didn't know what exactly had happened to Fives. She knew Rex had been there, and she sure as hell knew Fox was the one who had shot him. But what had made the Commander do it? What had driven Fives to his actions? Why did Rex never tell her about it? She had wanted to ask him, but.. She always thought they had more time.

She cleared her throat and wiped away her tears. “Kriffin’ hell, Fives. Where am I going to start? What do I do now?” she asked him, trying to pull herself together. “We need to come up with a plan.”

Already got one.

She managed a smile on her face; she would never tire from that sing-song tone to his voice. “Alright my cyare, what's your plan?”

When in doubt, always use the Hutts.

She frowned her eyebrows in confusion. “You want me to go to the Hutts? What help can they possibly provide me with? I don't want to end up a kriffing wall decoration.” She swore she could hear him chuckle.

There's even toast.

“What? Fives, what the kriff are you talking about?”

Rex might be using it as a caf stand.

“Why would Rex use toast as a caf st- Wait, you want me to find Rex? I-I'm not so sure if meeting up with a clone is my best option right now.”

He'll live.

“I have no intentions of changing that, but since he's a clone and I'm a Jedi, I'm currently not too confident about my own chances of survival.”

Wait for my signal.

“What signal? Fives? Fives?!?” She finally opened her eyes, almost expecting to see him standing next to her or sitting opposite to her, but he wasn't there. With a sigh, she leaned back into the pilot's chair. “I don't want to be alone tonight..,” she whispered, hoping he would reply with something along the lines of ‘I can arrange that’, but there was nothing. His voice didn't return that night.

Everyone she knew was either a clone or a Jedi; and currently, the former were ordered to kill the latter. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. She felt terrified, shattered, and most of all, utterly alone. She had absolutely no clue if her ‘conversation’ with Fives had been anything substantial or if it had just been a fantasy, made up by her brain to comfort her from her sorrows. But since she had nothing to lose anymore, she didn't see any harm in following up on the trail.

So she entered a new set of coordinates into the navicomputer and set course for Tatooine.

…

Epilogue

The galaxy was changing rapidly. And although there had been signs and hints, Lupe could never have imagined anything would have led to this point. To this mess she had found herself in.

It seemed like her recent nightmares had been visions after all, and she blamed herself for not recognising the difference. She blamed herself for not being there when Fives had needed her the most. She blamed herself for not seeing any of this coming to prevent it. She blamed herself for every clone's death.

She blamed herself for all the misery in the entire galaxy as a dark cloak shrouded it. Her mind darkened, and at this moment, she could feel only one thing: guilt.

For the attentive reader: all Fives' lines during their 'conversation' are actually lines Lupe heard him speak in the previous chapters.

Next week's chapter (which will be published a bit later since I will be away for most part of next Monday) will be the last in a chain of angsty chapters; I'll try to be kinder to Lupe after that! I'll take a little break after chapter 16 tho (just label it as a mid season stop/break), but I'll try to get new chapters out as soon as possible!

Thanks for sticking with me and getting this far with reading my fic, I really appreciate it <3

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beloveddawn-blog · 7 months ago

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Writing Share Tag

Thanks to @leahnardo-da-veggie for the tag. If we're sharing snippets, I've got one I love but am rarely in enough of a Mood to work on. Everyone in it is running on adrenaline and rage, so I need to be somewhat worked up myself for it to mesh. It's the second part of a writing prompt I did ~15 months ago, when I was in a very different sort of mood in general.

I used to do bits and peices on my commute, because I hate mornings, but now that I have a car I have to focus on things like shifting and the lights and other drivers and I don't have time for writing first thing in the morning ;)

The outfit didn’t fit anymore.

Stupid. I thought to myself, irritated and <hurtscareddeterminedFURIOUS> fidgety. It had been almost two years, of course it didn’t hang quite right anymore. It was a stupid thing to be distracted by, anyway. I never used to have this problem. I used to go into combat, any combat, even verbal <tradingbarbswiththatGODDAMNASSHOLE> with all of my attention so tightly focussed that nothing else could bother me. Oh, it wasn’t that I had blinders on, I had always been prepared for a flanking maneouver or attack from behind, but more that I could go days without thinking to eat.

My record had been four days, and afterwards I’d gorged myself on Denny’s breakfasts at four AM until I was sick in the bathroom. The waitress had brought me mint tea when she came to check on me, then gave me a pep talk about exams. As if I would have taken advice on my education from someone working the night shift at Denny’s.

She had been kind, however, in a way I hadn’t recognized at the time. That I could think that now was just proof of how much time I had spent with That Asshole.

That was the focus point I needed, and it was as if the tension in me had just flowed out. I welcomed my old anger <fearfearFEAR> back and let it soothe me. I didn’t have time for nerves, or even reason. Nerves were for people who weren’t in complete control of the situation, and I was a master at running other people’s scenes.

It would be just like old times.

Except that my outfit didn’t fit.

My saunter was a goddamn work of art, though not one often appreciated. It combined insolence and complete domination together in a way that could make even those who should be my peers feel both disrespected and completely cowed. The cadence was unique to me and very recognizeable, though today it was… off. I should have practiced it in my exile, I thought, regretting that those damn ducks had never had the opportunity to witness my true splendor. I could feel the special armour plating cut ever so slightly into my thigh as I continued up to the dais where That Asshole was.

The violent lab experiment before me offered me a polite-yet-furious smile, but the captive bound before him was livid. Even I had never seen That Asshole as angry as he was now, and I had spent most of the last four years pissing him off on purpose <twoyearsthenanotherthenThatIncident>.

It was a little vexing that this was what it took to make him lose his cool, when I had captured him myself before. The punk-ass wannabe we had here didn’t deserve it.

I flexed my fingers slightly, then stilled them. The gloves pulled wrong, and besides, fidgets were tells.

I gave him a polite smile back, one that hid my own disdain much better. “Poaching in my woods, are we now? Awful bold of you.” I purred, enjoying the way it made both men flinch.

The villian responded first, but to be entirely fair to That Asshole, he was wearing a gag.

“Poaching?” He protested, drawing his self-righteousness around him like it would protect him. Like it was a shield.

Like it wasn’t a shroud.

I smiled back, sharp enough to cut. “Of course. Did you think I forgot my old arch-nemesis simply because he retired? You might have the memory of the goldfish you’ve somehow managed to splice yourself with, but I hold myself to a higher standard.”

That Asshole snorted, and I couldn’t help myself. I preened a bit. I played it off by nonchalantly checking my nails, completely disregarding the fact that my outfit had gloves. The clasp pinched slightly at my wrist, newly too tight.

My opponent gaped his big, stupid mouth and bulging eyes at me, obviously incensed. “Who are you to claim…” He began, before my incandescent rage poured out of me, responding to his jab in a way none of us expected.

“Who am I?” I thundered, the automatic reverberation built into my mask’s voicebox kicking in with the volume. “WHO AM I??? You dare to question me, and my credentials, as if the city isn’t still scarred from me? As if citizens don’t still quake in terror at the mention of me? As if the county hasn’t retired my colours like they were a goddamn number on a hockey jersey because of all the chaos they still inspire?” I had stalked closer as I spoke, venom so obviously radiating from me it may as well be visible.

Goldfish-Fucker cowered before me, and even That Asshole flinched back from my caustic vitriol. Give him credit, though, he rallied surprisingly well in the face of my terrifying visage and unnerving musical accompaniment.

Look, it was actually a great idea. Playing sub-audible music clues was such an easy way to sway people into the emotional range I wished them to be in. Currently it was The Imperial March.

“No one has heard from, or even of you since that last great fight.” He insisted, hideous bulbous eyes lighting up as he came up with a rebuttal. As if this was fair, or logical, or some sort of formal debate he could win if he only made the right argument.

As if this wasn’t simply his life hanging by a thread and at my whim.

I laughed at him, high and cruel and designed to drag claws up and down his spine, shredding him as they went. “The city is still scarred from that last great fight.” I reminded him, unable to help glancing towards That Asshole. I knew he still cried about it, the big baby. “I have no interest in a pyrrhic victory. The city is of no use to me if it has been razed. My reach is not contained by my physical dimensions, even if yours is. Similarly, I will gain no pleasure from watching my nemesis scramble while his beloved city falls willingly into my hand if he is pre-broken. When I have finished securing my power in areas a little less paranoid and gun-shy, I will delight in watching this protected metropolis attempt to hold out as some sort of supposed bastion of righteousness, the desperate defence led by this man. And he would have led it. I would have removed the foundation stones of his retirement one. Block. At. A. Time until he had no other choice." I smiled again, my mask twisting grotesquely to follow it. It had taken me weeks to make the Lovecraftian-style Uncanny Valley of it the right balance of effortless and disturbing.

Goldfish-fucker seemed properly cowed, but That Asshole was now just looking at me with these big, sad, soulful eyes, and I almost caved and started assuring him I didn't mean it.

Almost.

I winged out one shoulder blade, knowing the plating in my outfit would hide the motion. The whole thing tightened across the front, as the muscle I'd built building our house had never gone away. This time the reminder was purposeful, even if it still <hurtscaredproudnervous> annoyed me. I was the best damn villain around, and it was because of my plans and my follow-through. And also, for the first time ever…

I wasn't just in it for me.

I didn't need to foil this dickhead of a low-budget hot mess of a villain. That's what superheroes were for. Including the ones trying desperately to find us, for the sake of their beloved former leader. The ones that had ignored my calls and my advice. The ones that would have been too late.

Maybe this guy wouldn't have learned from the classic mistakes. Maybe it would be fine, and he'd monologue until the city’s less competent heroes foiled him.

Or maybe it wouldn't.

Maybe That Asshole would have been dead before they got to him.

It had been close twice, with me. The only thing that had saved him, oddly enough, had been my age. I didn't have as high of a body count as I probably should, true, but I had never worried about ending others' lives. What I definitely hadn't been able to handle was cold blooded murder. I'd been psyching myself up for it when he had escaped or been rescued.

This guy was a rampaging chaos sort of villain, though. He actively grew his body count.

And That Asshole wasn't going to be one of them.

I sighed dramatically, slouching artfully down to look commanding and comfortable while also peeved and crossed my arms. "You've ruined that plan now, though, so thanks for that. I was going to enjoy it. Savour it. But no. You decided to try and fill my shoes, as if I should ever be counted out without a body." I lifted one hand and gave a nonchalant twisting-wave. "Now I need to unfuck your bullshit, because I refuse to let a bottom-dwelling guppy like you prevent me from claiming my total victory when the time is right." Behind me, the nanites that had been flooding the room while I distracted Goldfish-fucker suddenly coalesced. It looked like writhing, pulsing black tentacles shot through with my neon green and purple accent colours had sprouted from all flat surfaces in the room.

Both men jumped, and I smirked, making sure my body language oozed disrespect. The tentacles grabbed both of them, and I laughed again. Goldfish-fucker was panicking and struggling, but I could tell That Asshole's fight was mostly for show. Oh, he was still restrained from his first kidnapping, but still. Even power-dampening cuffs didn't prevent him from being clever and slippery, as I well knew.

The smile I gave them then was specifically designed to look like rows upon rows of serrated shark-like teeth. It was a particularly unsettling one, I knew, because even That Asshole flinched when I gave it. I zeroed in on him, completely ignoring the other villain for a moment. The fire in his eyes was one I recognized from before: he was furious.

Good. I thought. So am I.

The wink I gave him was well hidden from my would-be successor, but it did nothing to diffuse the rage-fueled bunching of muscles or the way his jaw clenched so hard on the gag I could hear his teeth grind. I snaked out one hand to grab him by the face. The side the villain was on was too tight, the plating on my fingers digging into soft, soft flesh. Too soft, really, but his healing factor must be the cause. His skin never stayed damaged long enough to become tough. It would explain why his skin care routine was non-existent as well, as he naturally had flawless skin with no effort.

Asshole.

“You,” I purred, my voice just the right amount possessive to send shivers down my audience’s back, “Can come with me. We have some… catching up to do.”

For tags I'll do @evilgabe29 @acertainmoshke @stesierra @minnieposting @artistvicky and @poetinlovewithflowersonhisgrave

#tag game #my writing #adopted villain AU

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amiratalks · 10 months ago

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It felt cruel to think it, much less admit it, but there was something endearing to Amira about seeing Killian so... flustered. While there might be many areas in Killian’s life where others might not consider to be ‘composed’ - not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway – she knew better than that. Stoic to the end, Killian always managed to maintain a tightly set jaw accompanied by his signature scowl, never quivering under the gaze of those around him. His armour, figurative as it was, was sturdy, able to withstand even Saskia’s most bitter gripes. Yet, despite years of building walls and shutting himself off from the rest of the world, Amira had managed to do exactly what she does best; On tender footing, she’d slipped past arguably the best security system she’d ever encountered, chipped away cracks in shield, and gotten firmly under his skin.

So, there stood Killian Jordan Ford, debatably the most threatening person to have ever stepped foot in Whisk & Wonder, ducking his head, lips jutted out into a petulant pout, as he told Amira just how upset he was at having forgotten about Valentine’s Day. Naturally, Amira didn’t care what day in the year it was, so long as she got to spend it with him, but his current disposition was stroking her ego in ways she didn’t realise she’d been craving for so long. She beamed up at him as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, relishing in those rare, gentle touches that Killian was so generous in bestowing upon her, feeling as doe-eyed and smitten as all the other loved-up couples currently residing in the bakery – however far from traditional hers and Killian’s “relationship” might stray.

“Thanks, Seph,” Amira called out, absently sparing a glance for Persephone. She didn’t want the girl’s efforts to go unnoticed – as much as the two of them seemed to bicker back and forth, the blonde always went to great extremes to help Killian out, even if her unwavering friendship simply presented itself in the form of free baked goods every once in a while.

Amira’s focus was soon lost as she felt the warmth of Killian’s hand against her waist, tugging her in, carefully guiding her through the shop. The action seemed so natural to him suddenly, his gaze distant as his free hand fumbled around for spare cash. A wave of guilt washed over Amira as she watched him pay Persephone for the items, her stomach jolting at the mere thought of the predicament she was putting him in. While it was only a couple of slices of cake – and on Persephone’s discount, at that – she knew he was struggling to make ends meet for the two of them. She'd left him stranded in more ways than one when she’d left – both emotionally and financially – and she knew she needed to find a way to make it up to him sooner, rather than later.

“Hey, don’t,” Amira breathed, matching his lower volume, but aiming to keep her tone firm, all the same. Grasping at the front of his jumper, she fisted the fabric up into her palm, tugging him closer as she did. Her other hand slid up the front of his shirt, her palm resting against his chest, not quite daring to edge any higher – as close as the two had grown, she still hated to surprise him with unwanted skin-to-skin contact, not without any prior warning, at least. “What possible reason could you have for Valentine’s Day to even be on your radar?”

She was hoping for her words to sound reassuring – a misguided attempt to cheer him up, ensure him that he had nothing to worry about. What she hadn’t accounted for was just how self-deprecating her words sounded. It wasn’t as though she was oblivious to her feelings for Killian – nor was she completely blind to the way he felt for her, either – but Amira didn’t want him to believe he was under any obligation to give her something he couldn’t. They weren’t in a relationship. By no means did they resemble a couple, nor had they ever put a label on their relationship past friendship, and she would hate for him to think he had to conform to society’s stupid, unspoken rule just for happening to be a man living with a woman.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she told him, releasing her hold on his sweater and slowly turning on her heel to exit the shop.

Shooting one last glance over her shoulder at him, she shot him a playful wink, before nodding her head towards the street, bumping her shoulder against the door as she made her way outside.

“How about we go watch some shitty movie and spend our evening fighting off Wraith as she tries to steal our cheesecake?”

If the interior of Whisk & Wonder wasn’t mocking him - adorned as it was in heart shaped decorations, heart shaped cupcakes, heart shaped everything - then it appeared his friends certainly were. He missed the days when Amira was actually jealous of Persephone, now it felt more like the two of them were allies in a bid to make Killian feel somewhat ridiculous. Amira and Persephone wore twin smirks as they watched spots of pink appear high on each of his cheeks, so that Killian practically blended in with his surroundings.

Unable to keep his eyes on both women, intent on misbehaving in equal parts, Killian glanced over his shoulder as Amira threw her voice, capturing the attention of what felt like the entire bakery. From his position, half bent over the counter in a manner he was sure Persephone would comment on, he opened his mouth to apologise. He had shoved her a little harder than intended.

His features softened, eyes big and sorry-looking, lips parted in apology when he caught the sarcasm in her tone, and the wink she threw his way that made him feel hot all over. Amira was rarely so brazenly flirtatious, although he had to admit she'd gotten worse recently. But then again, Killian was rarely this frazzled and un-put-together. Maybe they simply balanced each other out.

"I-" Killian started, his cheeks only reddening furthur as Amira shouted something about being... taken in a manly fashion? Killian turned abruptly so she couldn't see the sheer horror on his face, and focused all his efforts on cussing out Sephy. A strand of hair fell into his eyes as she began to bat him away, and Killian tried his hardest not to picture himself as some kind of foolish, romantic hero, carrying Amira to bed somewhere in the 1900's.

"Yes, thank you for that." Killian spat, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he scrunched his nose up at her.

He forced himself to straighten up before he launched himself across the counter at Persephone, the young actress now the focal point for all of his problems pertaining to Valentine's Day. He smoothed his dark hair back, attempting to regain some composure, while Amira quietly slumped against his side, her hand moving under his jacket in a conspiratorial cuddle.

As much as Amira's closeness had the ability to rile him up, she also had the magic touch when it came to calming him down. She was always careful with her touches, discreet, drawing Killian into her orbit with very little effort. They weren't like other couples - well, they weren't really a couple at all, Killian had to remind himself - who felt the need to flaunt their affections for one another. It was enough for the two to simply be there for one another.

Leaning in, Killian dropped his voice to a low whisper, impassioned as he insisted, "But I'm upset."

And it was true. Even with Amira rubbing slow circles against his back, Killian couldn't help but pout down at her. He'd committed a cardinal sin, he'd forgotten one of the most important holidays of the year. Even though the holiday had never seemed to matter before, this year it felt as though it should. Amira was back, and they were happy, and wasn't this day a day to show the people you loved you cared about them? Killian could admit that much, he did love Amira. He just wasn't willing to admit how much.

Giving Persephone and her blonde friend glares in turn, a giggling Amira untangled herself from him, looking like butter wouldn't melt. The frown on Killian's face slowly wavered with Amira stood so close, and he couldn't quite stop himself from leaning forward to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"Alright." he said, looking over Amira's shoulder to ask Persephone, "Can you get Amira some cheesecake? ... Please?"

Whilst Persephone busied herself with reluctantly bagging up their order, Killian's hand found itself on Amira's waist, gently steering her out of the way of the queue that had formed while he'd been having a slight nervous breakdown. He nodded a little pitifully at her assertion, he couldn't help but think that Amira deserved something a little more on a day like today.

"I forgot." he murmured, voice low as he fished around inside his pockets for a few crumpled dollar bills, unable to meet Amira's glance. "I shouldn't have forgotten."

#thread: killian3 #ft. killian

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

Text

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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