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qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years ago

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i can’t hold you now (and god, it kills me)

rafael barba x female!reader. based on “townhouse incident (season 17, episode 10).”

word count: 12,500

rating: mature, for the pain that comes when someone you love is just out of reach (canon-typical mentions of rape, and tw: vivid depictions of assault and rapes in progress, blood, guns, hostage situation. not fun).

The call from Liv isn’t exactly unexpected – you’re about halfway across town to pick her up anyway, and you’d shot her a text that had gone unanswered about her preferred coffee order. The day is for the two of you. However, the request is an odd one, or at the very least, inconvenient.

You hadn’t anticipated the invitation, and like a lot of things in SVU, it came last minute. If anything, you’d thought Dodds would’ve gotten the invite, considering that he was her sergeant. But, something about your interest in the technical aspects of the jobs, the medical aspects of the jobs, hell, the lab as a whole, had caught Liv’s eye, and so when these innovations came up, a new way to look at DNA, your name was always on the list. It was an honor, and spending the day with the lieutenant never disappointed.

You answer her call with a smile. “Hey, I’m on my way, I promise. I just needed the caffeine boost for another day of lectures,” you tell her. Your voice is light, and the clock in your car tells you that there’s plenty of time. “Like, ten minutes?”

Your boss’s little chuckle is light, but there’s something strained in it. “Not a big fan of those seats personally, but. We’ve got to make a stop first.”

You reach down for your iced coffee, taking a long gulp. The sweetness on your tongue makes you smile, mainly because you can see Barba wincing at the sugary mess you insist on downing.

Rafael Barba. The A.D.A. for the Special Victims Unit, the transfer from Kings County, Harvard Law graduate, Bronx native… and your boyfriend. Even thinking it makes you smile around your straw.

It’d started off like anything else, you and Rafael. Meeting in the squad room after you’d joined up. Bickering and squabbling, different people with different worldviews in high stress situations. The amount of times Liv’s eyes had rolled at the two of you bickering could’ve broken world records. (Amanda was known for leaving the room with her hands up in the air when the two of you got particularly biting, especially if Carisi was added like a cherry on top.)

But then you’d watched him soften. Watched his way with the victims soften, watched his eyes soften. Watched squabbling and bickering turned into standing side-by-side and making snide comments from the other side of one-way glasses. Energy against turned into energy together, and the two of you became a duo that could convince a defendant of anything in those interrogation rooms.

(“At least they’re being productive,” Fin had snarked to Liv, as the two of them watched the interrogation unfold. “Last time they fought paperwork got held up for a week just to spite him.”)

And then the other shoe dropped, as it always did, with a case.

Squabbling turned into standing over his desk, facing him down over a file. You’d stared at him, eyes narrowed, hands gripping his mahogany desk.

“I will not stand by while people we promised to protect are thrown aside in the name of the law.” Your voice hadn’t even dared to waver, and he had stared right back.

His eyes had scanned you. Up, down. Narrowed, sharp, and you braced yourself for the return volley. And then he’d stared right back.

His hand reached out to cover yours. Squeezed it.

“Trust me. Neither will I.”

(The first kiss didn’t happen, then, but it came pretty soon after.)

Rafael’s a good boyfriend, even though sometimes his work prevents him from being as attentive as you know he wants to be. But there’s a catch, because there’s always a catch – you haven’t exactly told anyone yet.

At first it’d been just because it was easier. Because how can you tell the squad what you are when you don’t even know? But when long nights turned into early mornings, and conversations turned serious, it became the only way. To protect yourself, to protect the team, you needed to keep it separate. These two things could not mix, or else disaster would surely come of it.

(“I don’t even want to think about what Carisi will say,” he’d told you one night, fingers running down your arm, and you’d snorted before rolling over to kiss him, shut him up.)

So the now is like this: the day ends, he’s Rafael, and he teases you and tempts you and kisses you. The day begins anew, and he’s back to Barba, and you have to settle for good enough.

Even though he’s more, all you can be is colleagues in the squad room, in interrogations, during debriefs with Liv. Any affection you want to show has to be bottled up until those precious moments alone. It’s exhausting, but worth it, getting to know Rafael, and getting to really, truly care for him.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts back to the present. You finish your sip, raise a brow. “What kind of stop?”

“A favor.”

You slowly pull up to a red light. The coffee is down. The phone is in the passenger seat and jolts at little at the stop, so you reach for it, turn the speaker off. When you hold it up to your ear you can catch the little things: the rustle of Olivia’s hair against the microphone, Lucy’s voice behind her, something that sounds a lot like Noah babbling.

“What’s up?” You shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the gun on your hip.

“Lucy works with another family, asked us to check in one them. Said the mother had bruises around her neck, shooed her away after saying that the kid was sick and the husband yelled at her.” Liv’s voice is tense, and you feel your shoulders rise a little. Your jaw clenches, too. “So, can you pick me up?”

Domestic violence cases always have your anger flaring, the thought of those victims stuck and unable to get out. Your sigh is short, sad. “Yeah. I’ll grab you and we’ll head over.”

“Thanks.” She signs off, and suddenly the sugar in your coffee feels like it’s churning in your gut.

For a moment your hand runs over your phone’s screen. Wakes it up from its brief sleep, ready to text Barba – to text Rafael – the update. Might be a little late. Favor called in. But then the light turns green, and you toss your phone to the side, sighing.

You’ll do it later. After the visit. When all is said and done.

Olivia knocks. It’s loud, repetitive, sure to get the attention of whoever’s home. Your hands slide into the pockets of your jacket, your toe tapping on the concrete.

“Did Lucy say anything else?” you ask your boss, but before she can answer the door opens. Slowly, carefully, and you find yourself looking over every detail the woman who peeks out offers.

She looks exhausted, first of all. Her eyes are watery, and you can clearly see the bruising. One hand is holding the door open, the other hidden. You wonder if there’s bruising there, too, and your hands in your pockets clench into fists at the thought of someone hurting her.

“Hi, Lisa.” Your boss greets. Her smile is small, but there’s something urgent in the way she does the same scan. “Olivia Benson.”

“Right, Noah’s mom,” Lisa responds, and she’s quick to tell them that Lucy’s not there.

Liv has perfected the concerned friendliness, and her head tilts a little at the assumption. “Well, actually, I stopped by to speak with you.” With a gesture to you, Liv introduces you as a friend, and you offer your warmest smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Crivello,” you say. “How’re you doing?”

“Well, Luca’s sick, so – so it’s not really a good time,” she stammers out, and you glance towards your lieutenant, who seems unfazed. When you look back, though, you see the injuries add up. The span of the bruises. The little marks on her face.

“You have a little cut, over your eye,” you tell her. Your hand starts moving to your bag for something to dab at it, clean it up.

But Lisa just shakes her head. She looks even more teary, close to letting them fall as she pulls back a little from the door. “I should go…”

Again, Liv just looks at her, and you see her brow furrow for a moment. “Well… how about we come back later? Is that all right?”

Suddenly the two of you hear a voice from behind the mother. It’s quiet, but firm.

“Let them in.”

It’s like a switch is flicked. The uncertainty gives way, and suddenly, Lisa acquiesces. Glances down at her feet for a second before opening the door wide, and the two of you smile at her as you’re let into the apartment. But your eyes see almost nothing before something clocks you in the back of the head, and you hear Liv’s cry as she’s shoved back against the door.

There’s a clatter, but the room doesn’t go black. The hit just grazes you, fortunately and unfortunately, and you stumble forward into arms that are anything less than welcoming. A woman has Lisa, a guy with sweat on his brow has Liv against the door, and a third is the one who’s grabbing you. Your vision is blurry, and your ears are ringing, but you can see Liv lift her hands, see her look both of the captors in the eye.

There’s another girl, you realize. She’s young, a teenager, and when your eyes meet hers you can see her tears. The whole room comes into some kind of focus, and when you take it in your heart starts to sink.

Oh, fuck, what did the two of you get yourselves into?

Instincts start kicking in quick, even in your daze. Your hands test the strength of the guy behind you, which makes his grip turn bruising, and you hear the shouts of the men as they tell the two of you to drop your bags.

“Who the hell is she?!” one of them hisses, and your whole body shivers at the feeling of breath on your neck. “Who are they?!”

“My name is Olivia Benson.” There’s a shake in her voice, the adrenaline, the high, and your eyes blink a few times to focus in on her.

“Liv –“ you call out, but her eyes meet yours suddenly. She glares, and you go quiet, once again feeling those hands tighten on you. It’s as good as an order from her.

“We’re here by chance, okay, but the both of us are New York City police officers.”

The panic on them in clear, and you feel one of the hands holding you start to roam against your waist.

“Fuck, man, this one’s armed,” says the man holding you, and Olivia just sighs, nodding.

“I am, too. Okay? I am, too. I’m telling you now, do you understand?”

“Ralph,” the guy next to Liv says sharply. He’s jittery, and you see a bead of sweat drip down his brow. “Come take this.”

Your guy just stammers out something. “But I’ve got her, Joe.”

There’s no warning, from Ralph or from Joe. One moment, you’re being held to keep from struggling, and the next there’s another hit, this one against your temple. Liv’s voice is the last thing you hear as you crumple, and your mind goes blank, the room going dark.

When you stumble to consciousness again, it’s to the sound of sobbing. Your head is slumped forward, and the taste in your mouth is copper.

“Fuck,” you hiss. Every movement feels like fire, and when you blink your eyes open it’s to see one of the men, Joe, jostling the teenage girl in his arms, they’re moving towards another room. She’s screaming, Liv and Joe are talking, and Roxie is yelling. The cacophony of her voice and everyone else’s makes you wince and groan again.

“Roxie, this is on you. Let me in there,” Olivia all but snarls, and you see her get clocked across the face. Watch her stumble, get shoved on the bed. You’re pinned to the bed, you realize, as you try to reach for your lieutenant. Tied around it, your ass on the hardwood floor.

“Liv,” you whisper, and your voice makes her pause. You’re awake, after all. But the look she shoots you is sharp. She wants you to let her handle it, you realize. Throw herself in the line of fire.

Yeah, you think to yourself, unlikely without your company.

Joe. Ralph. Roxie. The trio that broke in. Ralph is… gone, now, nowhere in sight, and… where’s Lisa? Your eyes blink a few more times, the sounds around you ratcheting up to full volume as you wake.

There’s someone else here, another voice, so painfully young. A memory swims to the surface as your head swivels from side to side – Lucy takes care of their boy.

Liv hasn’t moved since she got hit, hasn’t said a thing, but the screams are raucous. They make your head spin, and Roxie only adds to it when her frustration reaches her limit.

“Can’t you just shut up? God, make him shut up,” Roxie snarls, and you blearily blink so you could turn to look at Liv. Her eyes are like daggers at the woman, who looks frantic at the noises Luca is making, the sound of… his sister…

Begging for his own sister’s life.

God. You feel sick, and combined with the concussion you’re trembling.

“You’re gonna need to untie me to do that, aren’t you?” your boss almost whispers. She’s frustrated, pulling at her restraints as her will battles Roxie’s. “Please, I’m not going to do anything stupid, just let me help the boy.”

When you look back at Roxie, she looks helpless. Even with the gun in her hand. And when she moves to untie Luca and Liv, cutting off her restraints, the sigh of relief you let out is audible, even with Roxie’s whisper threat over your head.

So Liv goes. Goes to Luca, quiets him, and her voice is so gentle. It makes your lower lip tremble, the way she cradles him against her, reaches for his iPad so he can send the world away. He doesn’t deserve this, not even a little, but Liv is there for him anyway.

Leaving you to stare down Roxie.

“You wanted this?” you mutter, and the woman’s attention shoots to you, her gun shaking ever so slightly in her hand. “It’s on you, like she said. All of this, right now.”

“Shut up,” she snaps, and Liv looks up, too, lifting from her spot next to Luca, who is thankfully engrossed in a movie.

“This can’t be the way you wanted things to go down,” she adds, and she’s able to stand to her full height, dwarf the woman who looks nothing more than a girl. Uncertain, even in her arguments.

“You don’t know me,” Roxie snaps back, and you scoff, shaking your head.

“I wouldn’t want to, if you’re fine with your boyfriend raping a sixteen-year-old girl,” you hiss. Her gun shifts between the two of you, Olivia staring her down, you glaring up from your spot on the bed. “Do you even hear that? Do you hear what he’s doing to her, that sick son of a –”

“Well, Joe does Joe, and I do me, so you better sit down.”

“You can save yourself,” Liv tries, but the girl just raises her voice, pulls back. You duck your head to hide the frustration on your features, the clench of your teeth as Liv’s phone chimes.

When Roxie moves to it, you look up at your lieutenant, who spares a glance down at you. You must look a mess, because you can feel the slow throb of your temple, the stickiness of your hair that’s surely from blood. You can smell it, on you, but even after all of it, you offer a smile. A small grimace. And when Liv turns toward Roxie again, her toe taps yours.

“Who’s Lucy?”

Liv freezes. You see her shoulders tense, and for the first time since you’ve woken up another name dances across your mind. Noah. Oh, god. All of this, and Liv has Noah, and your stomach rolls again.

Your boss is quick. Her minds works, and as you blow hair out of your face she’s reaching for the phone.

“She’s my sitter. She’s also Luca’s sitter, and she needs to talk to me. She needs to know about my son’s daycare pickup.”

Wait. Pickup? It’s… it’s what, 11:00 in the morning? Your mind swirls with confusion, but in shock you realize that Roxie is handing her the phone, that Roxie is letting her text back. Your eyes widen, and quickly you duck your head.

It’s almost in prayer, you realize. With your hands tied behind you, with the feel of them going numb against the metal that’s hot from your own body heat.

Please, Lucy. Whatever she tells you. Get it to the right people.

Suddenly, a face swims to mind, and your eyes widen, blinking away the sudden rush of tears. Liv is surely thinking about her son, but all you can think about is Rafael.

Please, Rafael. Please be the right person.

The wake-up call in the morning is a text, and Rafael Barba blinks blearily at the message. It’s almost habit that makes his lip curl up in a smile, and when he throws off the sheets it’s with a preparedness for the morning he almost never has.

Perhaps it’s just the expectation of coffee. These huge events usually have a few cups for him to help himself, too, and he knows the sight of him downing them will make your lip curl in disgust. Or maybe it’s the knowledge, knowing that going to this DNA conference will make him a better lawyer, a better advocate for the victims.

Or maybe, it’s just that the text is from you.

You’d been a surprise, when you’d met him. A veritable source of conflict on one hand, with snappy words soothed by smiles. A disregard for the courtroom, in more ways than one. A capable detective, who had a tendency to follow instinct whether it helped or hurt. At least, that’d been the pitch.

Of course, because it was Rafael, the start had been shaky. Bickering and bantering over everything and nothing. More than once Liv had to shut the two of you up with a raised hand and a raised brow, since gut collided with a man who wore suspenders and a belt.

(“If the two of you don’t get it together, I’m throwing both of you out,” she’d threatened one eventful evening, her voice very reminiscent of the tone she took with Noah. An unsteady peace was made through the end of the week.)

But just like the squad, just like Rollins, and Carisi, and Liv, all it took was one case.

One case to turn the tide.

From there, it’d grown. Moments alone, somehow snagged against all odds. Him and you in a side room in the courthouse, talking about deals. Visits to his office to break the monotony, banter and bribe with snack to take a break. You became a friend, first and foremost, and from there it slotted into place.

Didn’t take long for him to realize just how much he’d fallen for you. A kiss sealed the deal, Rafael finally working on instinct. But while the short-term was brilliant, the long-term was more… complex.

The ADA, together with a detective. Complicated to say the least, a disaster waiting to happen at most. But how could he stay away, knowing that you had a smile that was just for him? Eventually, the two of you had agreed – it would be a secret, from the squad, from the office. The only people that needed to know were you and him.

On the outside, you did your best to treat him like everyone else, treat him like before. Banter and bicker and bite. You’d slug him in the arm same as Carisi, and you laugh with him like you do Rollins, and you roll your eyes with him and Fin as the perps incriminate themselves.

But when the two of you were alone… when you knew you were alone…

Of course, that doesn’t mean that he can’t enjoy the thought of spending time with you even at work, can’t enjoy your morning texts in the privacy of his own apartment. Today is the DNA conference, after all, which is why your text isn’t surprising. He expects to see you there, you and Liv. You send him your itinerary, which matches his almost to the letter, and he thinks about you as he thinks about what to wear, thinks about you as he pours himself his coffee, and thinks to stop thinking about you as he pulls up to the conference.

And then… you’re nowhere to be found.

He double-checks the schedule you and Liv have planned out. It’s intricate, but there are overlaps. And in those sessions, he sits, thinks about saving a seat. But there’s no further texts, nothing, and that makes the lectures a bit harder to get through. He’s almost thankful for the text from Carisi, the one that pulls him up and out of his chair and out the door. Because surely this is what’s keeping you.

Got the push-in rapist.

When Rafael makes it to the precinct and immediately grabs a cup of coffee.

“What do we have?” he asks Dodds, who is the first to greet him. Not you. Or Liv. He gets filled in by the new sergeant, and by the time they make it to the one-way glass he’s noticed that the two of you are nowhere to be found. It makes his brow furrow, but soon he’s leaning against the window, watching as the man inside starts fidgeting.

“He was on top of the roof, got trapped. Had the weapon on him, too, tossed aside. It was clean,” the sergeant tells him, and Barba can’t help the lift of his brow.

“We’re sure?” he asks, letting the doubt creep in, and Dodds’ eyes narrow at the ADA.

Fin backs him up, arms crossed over his chest. “It was clean, Barba. We got him.”

There’s a bit of relief, and tension in Rafael’s shoulders drop. Fin joins the two of them in front of the window, and he nods at him. He takes a sip of his coffee, and the steps that stalk towards the squad are distinctly unfamiliar.

“Well, congratulations. You found another innocent black man.” The defense attorney is vaguely familiar, and his eyes scan the three of them with disdain (and some kind of sick glee at his own taunts). “I suppose we should be grateful that you didn’t shoot him.”

“He had a gun on him,” Fin says, no flair, just facts.

“Did he?” is the return, and Rafael looks between the two sides, brow raised. “Who planted it?”

That’s when the ADA decides then he doesn’t have time for this, and he lets his scoff sound over his coffee cup.

“Don’t troll. This is your client’s third rape. We have multiple IDs.” He says it with a confidence that he rarely gets to have, and it feels good to be able to reply with the knowledge that DNA will match, IDs will be made. Dodds again affirms the presence of DNA, forensics, and that’s that.

It could all go horribly wrong, of course, but he still has time to relish just a little in the assurances provided.

“Save it for the judge. May I?” The public defender moves smoothly into the interrogation room, and Barba watches him for a few moments before turning to Dodds again.

“Nice work.” Frank, but honest. And straight to the point. “Where’s Liv and Y/N?” he asks, casually, paired with another sip of coffee. There’s no urgency, even as he hopes that Dodds has some idea why you bailed.

But the sergeant seems unbothered, and Fin pipes up as he stands up straight, hands in his pockets. “They’re both still at the DNA conference.”

Barba stops. Pushing off of the window, stands up straight. Looks at the two officers in front of him. Smirks a little. Not a prank, he guesses. Something else came up, surely. “No, they’re not. I was there all morning. I would’ve seen them.” He doesn’t confirm how he knows he would’ve seen them, the texts from you on the cell in his pocket, but he does know that the two of you were nowhere to be seen.

And… well. That certainly catches the two of them by surprise. Dodds looks at Fin, and Fin looks back at Dodds.

“I’ll text her again,” Dodds decides. “Let’s wrap this case up, get it delivered to her signed, sealed.”

But at that point, there’s still a hesitant peace. A certainty that whatever is wrong will be resolved, wherever Liv is she’s there for a reason. Rafael finds himself hoping the same thing for you, hoping you are not far behind her, that soon enough your voice will be heard down the hall, in the elevator, your laugh pitched high among all else.

And then, the peace shatters.

“Guys, we’ve got a problem here.” Carisi’s voice is sharp, tight. His strides are long, and soon he’s across the precinct, at Fin’s desk. “Liv just texted this to Lucy, and… it’s bad news.”

Rafael’s brows inch up his head. His mind goes to the solution that’s obvious – that Carisi is overreacting. That nothing’s as wrong as the Fordham student says it is. He doesn’t even lift his pen from the paper.

And then Fin reads.

“Stuck at precinct all day. Pick up William at daycare. He has a playdate with Lewis and Y/N today.”

In a moment Barba finds his head spinning. He lifts up, looks around the room at the other men, watching as their own minds piece together the information.

William Lewis. Just the thought of him sets Barba’s teeth on edge, sets his body alight. He has to straighten so he can wrap his mind around the implication.

“William Lewis?” he repeats. Well. Says, out loud. “That’s… that’s not good.” But he remains calm. He has to remain calm. His voice is steady, even as it wants to tremble. “When did you last hear from them? From Liv?”

Barba tries to keep his cool, but he can’t ignore the way his heart is pounding. Can’t ignore the way that he turns to Dodds again. “Have you spoken to them today?” he urges, and the sergeant jaw is clenched as Rafael reaches for the phone Fin has in his hand.

His eyes scan the words. Over and over, just to confirm. He can’t help but hope against hope that Fin read it wrong, but everything is there, in black in white in front of his face. There’s a growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

“I sent Liv a text, let her know we got the push-in rapist,” the sergeant explains. “She responded.”

“Same with Y/N. I texted her, earlier, and I got a reply,” Fin tells Barba, but there’s still something that’s got him on edge.

“But did you talk to them? Hear their voices?” He hopes the others can’t hear the break in his voice, the worry in his tone. “You didn’t actually speak to them?”

The silence is deafening.

For once, he and Carisi are on the same page. Their eyes meet over Fin’s desk. “That sounds like a 10-13 if I’ve ever heard one. It’s gotta be. Lucy said that Liv checked on a neighbor this morning?”

Dodds’ voice cuts through before Rafael’s can. “Where?”

The four men find themselves all turning to the nanny, who stands off to the side. Her worry, that brought her to the precinct in the first place, seems close to crashing over her.

“Go find out.” It’s not an order, not really, but it leaves Barba’s mouth before he can stop it. And without a second to waste, Dodds and Carisi step towards Lucy, while Barba looks down to his own phone.

It’s instinct. One tap, two, three, and there’s your name. His thumb sweeps over the screen before he presses dial, and within an instant his phone is at his ear. He’s dialed your number, what feels like hundreds of times, but the ringing stretches on and on and on. Each time it goes off, he expects the call to connect, for you to tease about calling during work hours. Can’t get enough of me at work, Barba?

When he hears your voice, he starts, wants to feel that relief, but the automated message is the only thing that’s going. His heart climbs into his throat.

One more time. He pulls back, taps a couple of times. Another call, this time to Liv. The same thing. Ringing, ringing, ringing. Message.

Nothing. He tries both numbers again, with all eyes on him, with the same result.

Two of them. Two of their own. Gone without a trace. And all Barba can think about is the name William Lewis, and the sight of it so close to your own.

Nausea rolls, and he tries one more time.

“Barba,” Fin tells him. Reaches out, fingers on his desk. “Barba.”

When he looks down, Fin’s eyes are piercing him. There’s something in them, something that makes the lawyer think the old blood knows more than he ever lets on. That Fin knows exactly what the day looks like now, and what the next case will be.

“Find out,” he manages, and tries not to think about how he’s dialed your number yet again, the sound of your automated message the definition of insanity.

Your phone is in Roxie’s hand. It buzzes, over and over again, and then the same thing happens with Liv’s phone on the chair next to her. Your captor watches it, reads the name and then the notifications on your own phone. There’s a back and forth, a pause, and then she looks at the two of you with confusion.

“Barba keeps calling. And this guy, Rafael. Why?”

Your breath catches. Liv is on the bed, her feet planted next to you, and you hear her words, vaguely. Something about work.

Then you realize Roxie is staring at you, raising a brow your direction. You swallow, blink a few times. Clear your head, offer a tight smile.

“Just… probably calling to ask about a case. Let it ring. He’ll get the… the message,” you say, and her eyes narrow at you before setting your phone down.

You feel Liv’s toe tap your leg. When you look up at her, her eyes catch yours, and you feel her gaze sweep over your face before you shake your head.

Not now, Liv.

She taps your leg again, but you refuse to rise to the bait, and that’s when the door bursts open.

Joe says something, but his voice fades away. All you can see is the girl, the way her face is vacant now. The faraway look, in her eyes, and your chest tightens at the sight of her hair, limp around her face.

Your sympathy turns to anger in an instant, as she limps over to the bed. Liv’s voice is soft to the girl, but your mouth twists into a sneer as you look up at Joe, who sneers right back.

“What are you looking at?” he scoffs, and the rage is blinding.

“Untie me and you’ll find out,” you shoot back.

“Playing hero, huh?” Roxie spits, but Joe beats her to it, glancing toward your phone.

“Got someplace you gotta be? Someone at home waiting for a detective who’ll never come back?” His threat isn’t lost on you, and your instinct is gone, replace with the impulse to lash out, kick at his legs.

A third tap, a warning shot, but it’s too late. Joe reaches for your collar, and Liv’s hands reach out to stop him, press against his chest as he lunges.

“You’re okay, Joe, it’s fine,” she urges, and his mouth goes a little agape as he stumbles back.

“What the hell, Roxie? What is she doing untied?”

“She was helping with Luca –” you snap, just as Roxie says that Liv isn’t going anywhere.

“If she does, she’ll never see her son again,” Joe sneers, and he moves to retie Liv just as there’s another phone ring. But it’s not Rafael, and it’s not your squad. It’s the third wheel, it’s Ralph, and you watch as Joe’s anger is stoked again. It’s like watching a train you know is going to crash, your eyes drawn to the disaster as it happens. Joe’s frustration is only peaked by Lisa’s demands, and your admiration for the will of a mother is tempered by the way that Joe’s voice grinds on his last sentence.

“Now get the cash, or they’re dead.”

One thing after another. Your head, still pounding, can barely keep up, your energy gone from the kick. There’s a ring at the doorbell, and Joe’s corralling Tess downstairs. You strain to listen, to hear anything, but the muffled voices aren’t ones you can recognize. When Tess comes back up, she’s shaky, and Joe screaming at her doesn’t help.

“They were cops! What the hell did you say?!”

Cops? you think to yourself, and for a moment images of your team swims across your vision. Oh, god.

“Nothing, I just told him Luca and I were sick!”

Joe’s pacing now, and Liv is standing. She reaches out for them, and her voice is so strong, so calm. You’re still on the bed, attached, but you force yourself to breath in and out, to look up at Joe with Liv and try to talk him down.

“Now is the time for you guys to go,” she whispers.

“You need to stop talking,” Joe hisses, but your voice chimes in before he can think too much.

“This is only the beginning,” you add. It’s what you have to do. Make him think, make them second guess. Your hands pull at your restraints to no avail, and you huff out a breath to move the hair in your eyes. “You guys should get out of here, while you still can.”

“What do you mean?” Roxie asks, but she’s silenced by Joe. Your anger at him only grows at the way he grips her tight, enough to bruise her wrists.

“They are cops – both of them, do you fucking hear me? She is lying to you, and everything that comes from her mouth is a lie.”

“Joe, there is no perimeter,” Liv urges. “Look outside. There’s no one out there. If you sneak out the back, they won’t find out who you are.”

The conversation ends with one last word from Joe. A knife in his hand pointing at all you, even Roxie. “And we’re not going anywhere until we got the money.”

The next hour is ruthless. Your concussions settle in, and you keep having to force your eyes open as Liv moves to sit next to you. The lights and the sirens are relentless, and every so often you can’t help the groan that leaves your lips at the pain.

Liv’s at the bed, too, with Tess and Luca, and a hand reaches out to you. You hear Luca’s voice, soft and gentle. “Is she gonna be alright?” he asks your boss, and before she can answer you look up at them with a shaky smile.

“Hey, buddy. Yeah. I’m – I’m fine. Just. Just got a bit of a headache. Go back to your movie, okay?”

You try to ignore the way that Liv’s hand presses on your shoulder, the way you can feel her urge for calm through the touch. Try to forget that for a few minutes, that’s the only thing grounding you, her fingers on your skin and the knowledge that your friends are out there. Your family.

And Joe? Joe’s on the edge. His fingers keep messing with the blinds, keep pulling them down and shoving them aside when the sight of the cops steadily piling into the street overwhelms him. You watch his hands go to his hair, pull, and drop back down to his sides, watch his sweat drip down his forehead. He looks manic, he looks pissed, and Roxie’s whispered doubts only do that much more to drive him mad.

“Let Richard go,” Liv urges, at one point. “Let the kids go. Keep me – I’m your best asset.”

Oh, no, you don’t, Liv, you think. Not while you’ve got Noah.

“Keep me,” you press. Your hands are still tied, so you push forward with your shoulders. “I’ll do whatever you need to do, but if you let the kids go, if you let Richard go, use me as a bargaining chip.”

“Y/N,” Liv warns, but you pull forward again, the zip-tie digging into your skin.

“They won’t come after you if I’m inside,” you urge. “Liv’ll make sure of that. Keep me, Joe. Keep me, and… and I can get you out of here.”

But before you can push anymore, Joe is shaking his head. Roxie looks frantic, and their voices drown each other out.

“Just shut up!” is the shriek that stops her, but Liv is reaching out to him again.

“Joe. Just let the kids go.”

“Will they stand down?” Joe snaps, suddenly, at Liv. You sigh out a groan, as Liv just shakes her head. “No. Not unless they hear it from you. You’ll call them, tell them to stand down. You’re going to get us out of here.”

“Joe, they’re not going to stand down,” Liv tries, but soon her phone’s in her hand, anyway, and there’s a gun to your head. You wince, tears springing to your eyes as you squeeze them shut. Liv’s voice catches in her throat.

“There’s – there’s no need for that, Joe –“

“But I’m not playing. Call them.”

“Okay. I’m calling my sergeant. Speaker is on.”

When the gun is pulled from your head you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You gasp for air, and when the phone call goes through, Mike’s answer is drowned out by your own breathing.

At the mention of a negotiator, he loses it. There doesn’t seem to be anything that doesn’t set him off, and Roxie can’t calm him.

“No, I want to get out of here,” he snaps, and your voice comes out raw.

“We have to negotiate, Joe.” You’re begging him, begging him to see reason. “We have to, if you want to survive.”

Liv fills in the gaps. “You have a family in here, Joe. You have two police officers in here. They will burst in here if you do not negotiate. That is where we are.”

“So – so who do you trust?” the asshole sneers, and the gun points to Liv, nudges against her shoulder. “At the NYPD.”

“My squad,” she responds immediately. Your heart warms, for a moment, before the chill of Joe’s voice freezes it again.

“Oh, no. Someone with more pull.” You watch Joe lean close to Liv, watch his breath puff in her face. “So I’ll fucking ask again. Does anyone at the NYPD care if you both live, or if you die?”

You look up at her. You can see her thinking – her eyebrow twitches for a moment, her gaze drifting over the scene before her.

“What about that Barba guy?” Roxie asks, pointing her gun between the both of them. “He called both of them, he obviously seems to give a shit –”

Your heart climbs so high in your throat you choke on it. Liv’s eyes widen at the suggestion, and thankfully speaks before you can stammer out an indication in the negative. “No. Ed Tucker. He has pull.”

You try to hide your shock, the way his name twists your lips. There’s history there, more than you know, and Liv looks to you, brow furrowing, a silent plea. Something passes, between the both of you, a mutual understanding. About what it means to be someone that either of you care about.

This is what needs to happen. To get the both of you out. The both of you safe, to those who care about you the most.

“Ed Tucker, Joe. He’ll get you what you want.”

The street outside the brownstone looks like a battleground – the armored vehicles and lights flashing on closed windows.

Rafael’s steps are quick through the organized chaos, shouts from other officers as they directed the traffic around the area filling his ears, exhaust from engines rising up into the cool air. But there’s no time to linger, catch his bearings. He can only feel lost among the uniforms and bullet-proof vests. There is only the task at hand, the thought of you pushing him to keep one foot in front of the other.

And if his hands start shaking, well, that’s what pockets are for.

He sees Dodds in the distance, the man standing half a head above any others in the area. He makes quick work of the terrain, weaving through armored bodies, and soon he’s beside the man, who greets him with a tense nod.

“Where are we?”

“Ralph Volkov. Assault, drunk driving. Fired by the Crivellos’ after two failed drug tests.” Dodds is to the point. His steps are quick, and Rafael feels like he has to take two keep up with him. They’re on a fast track to the command center, and Rafael tries to ignore the pit in his stomach.

“A revenge plan?” Rafael hisses. It’s in disbelief, in horror. All of this because of some grudge? Your life over a job as a truck driver? “Do we think he’s in charge?”

“He’s not the ringleader. Through here,” Dodds tells him, but before the sergeant can reach for the door the counselor’s voice stops his hand.

“Dodds. Where… where are we?” When he asks again, he doesn’t mean for his voice to tremble, but it’s fraught with the emotions he knows he’ll need to put away.

The sergeant takes a moment. Ducks his chin, before giving an answer. One without fluff, or pomp, or poise. Just the truth. “As far as we know, they’re both there, conscious. Okay, as of a few minutes ago,” he murmurs. “But we don’t know what okay means. They’re alive. We caught a glimpse of them, both of them, through a second-story window. Some bruising, bleeding. But… the one with the phone is hopped up on something, and. We can’t get a rapport. Not a real one.”

“But we’ve heard them?”

When Dodds glances back, it’s with a sigh. Rafael tenses. “Just Liv. Her phone is the one they’ve been using. To make the calls. But she’s told us that they’re both okay, and I trust that… she knows what she’s doing.”

Rafael’s eyes widen, just a fraction, but Dodds doesn’t see. He’s already pushing forward, into the armored truck, leaving the lawyer’s thoughts scrambled. Your voicemail message seems to sing in his head. But the spiraling has to stop, and so he forces himself forward, through the door, chin lifted and steps long.

He can see him, at the end. One of the assholes responsible for taking you, for beating you. His shoulders straighten, and that fury is used to stalk close, tilt his chin down and glare. His presence makes the man shrink, and he relishes in that pleasure.

“Hello, Ralph. I’m Assistant District Attorney Rafael Barba. Who’s we?”

He’s pathetic, the man in front of him. Voice a mumbled mess, clothes dirty. His hands are cuffed in front of him, and he can barely look Rafael in the eye. But he answers, slowly, blinking up at the lawyer. “Me and my sister, Roxie. We needed money, for my ma, she. She needs a new hip, she can hardly walk.

Dodds says something. Rafael’s mind is on the name. Roxie. Roxie. Roxie and Ralph, the fucking dynamic duo.

Suddenly Ralph is pushing back. “Yeah, but she didn’t want to hurt anyone either. And Joe came along. All of this was his idea, man, not ours.”

Rafael takes a seat. He’s level with this guy, and it makes him sick to his stomach. “Uh-huh.” His voice is hoarse. Bitter. “Joe’s his real name?”

The man doesn’t respond, seems to shrink back, and Rafael finds his temper flaring, his voice going sharp. His hand reaches out to snap under the man’s nose. He sits down, and the only place he’s looking is at the dumb son of a bitch in front of him. “Ralph. Look at me. Anyone dies in there, you’re on the hook for felony murder.” He doesn’t want to think about you, about your body coming out, not your life. His vision goes a little red, and he leans close with a tight tone. “You help us or you’re gone.”

That seems to get his attention, and Ralph nods, swallowing down his fear. “Joe’s his real name. Joe Utley.”

Fin moves to the laptop quickly, looking at his sergeant. Their glance is exchanged, but Rafael’s mind is fixated on the three names he has. Ralph. Roxie. Joe Utley. All of them responsible for taking you. For taking Liv. He finds himself squeezing his knee under the table, praying for a moment that the crime he prosecutes them for doesn’t have – fuck, doesn’t have murder in the damn headlines.

And then he gets a text from Carisi. His hand goes to Ralph’s phone, next to him, and the latest text shines up. The two kids, huddled together on the bed, Liv to the side, and you… sitting against the bed on the floor, looking up. There’s blood, on your forehead. Some down the side of your neck. Your eyes look glazed, dull, and all the blood drains from his face.

When he holds up the photo, he can barely speak.

“This photo.” His voice is raspy, and his hand is almost shaking. “Is this the last time you had contact with Joe and Roxie?”

Ralph confirms it, and that’s when he has to step away. He just hears a fraction of what Dodds says. It doesn’t matter. It just confirms the filth that has you captive in that fucking building. Has to pull back, take a breath. There’s a fury within him that only builds as Ralph pushes back, refuses to cooperate when you’re inside that damn townhouse –

Fin’s voice cuts through the chaos, goes straight to the point. Tucker and Dodds and Rafael watch on, as the detective leans close, scowls at the perp. “Let me ask you something, man. Do you ever want to see your sister alive again?”

Rafael swallows at that. Looks down at his phone. Can’t watch as Dodds holds up the phone to Ralph, can’t do anything but close his eyes and turn as the hand is dealt.

And then Ralph stammers. There is nothing more useless than a juris doctorate in that moment, watching as the man turns. Admits that he’s caught, that it’s done. Nothing more horrifying than the sound of Joe’s voice on the other end of the line, a furious shout of a curse before the line goes dead. And nothing more nauseating than knowing that whatever happens next, Rafael can’t do a damn thing.

“Son of a bitch!” Joe screams, and you can’t help your wince. The noise seems to rattle your brain, and when you open your eyes again the man is leaning on the fireplace.

The four of you – including Liv and the kids – had been moved downstairs as Ralph’s absence stretched longer. And no matter how much you wanted these bastards ended, you couldn’t help your prayer that Joe would just get what he wanted. Anything to keep him sane, to keep him from using one of the kids as a punching bag, or from hurting Liv.

But with Ralph out of the picture, caught by the police… you can’t help but notice the way that your chances get slimmer and slimmer. Your eyes flick toward your lieutenant, the strongest woman you know, and you can’t help but feel the doubt. Doubt that trickles down your cheek with a couple of tears, a mixture of blood and sweat joining it.

And Rafael… your throat closes up at the thought of him, swimming around in the back of your mind. Usually such a comfort, and now the guilt kills you. The knowledge that you’d – fucking hell, that you could’ve seen him for the last…

You have to physically shake your head. Enough that Liv’s hand reaches out for you.

No. You have to see him again. You have to.

Joe and Roxie are yelling now. Back and forth, back and forth, and you want to sink further into your chair but can’t get far enough away. It all bounces in your head, and everything just as you hear Joe’s voice scream into the phone.

“What?”

The silence is deafening. Joe’s ultimatum more so. And then the phone is shoved into your hands, along with a threat for your life, the gun pointed at you.

“Ralph, and the cash, or your pretty little girlfriend dies. Or what about… what about this one? This useless bitch, huh? Not much stopping me from putting a bullet in her head.”

Your energy is used to glare up at the man. You feel Liv freeze beside you as you lift your mouth to the speaker.

“He… he really wants Ralph back in here, Tucker.”

“Yeah. I, uh. Understand that. But that’s not something we can do right now.”

Your head drops. The phone and your hand drop. And Liv’s voice is next to you, soft. “He’s telling you the truth, guys. We’re not allowed to send civilians inside.”

“All right. Then I’m done talking.”

There’s a hitch to your breath at the end of Joe’s statement, and Rafael’s hands are limp at his sides. He can picture it so vividly – he knows what Joe looks like. It’s not hard to visualize him lifting a gun and aiming it at you. Barba barely notices he starts to tremble as he anticipates the sound, that one final sound.

Luckily the finality is something that Tucker doesn’t accept. And at the sound of Joe’s request to talk to Ralph.

After all, he knows what that look on Tucker’s face is trying to tell him. He sees the way the man turns to him like he understands. With Liv on the other end, perhaps that’s what he’s hoping to convey. The urgency, the knowledge that he’s doing everything he can.

Little does he know.

There’s yelling, fighting. Tucker tries to talk them down again, but Roxie and Joe on the other end of the line are going off at each other, and then there’s a clatter. The whole room seems to wince at it, and when there’s silence on the line no one can breathe.

“Everybody okay?” Tucker asks. But even when the silence breaks, the tension is still thick. Rafael feels it clawing at his throat. And Liv’s voice on the other end, shaking, makes him lift a hand to his hair.

“Okay. So we know that Ralph’s not coming in here, but do you have his money?”

The trade develops. Slowly. Too slowly, and your name doesn’t come up once. It makes Rafael’s twitch, and by the time the final deal is made, he’s had enough of it. One person. One person, and it’s not you. It’s not you.

The door is opening, and Rafael is gone before he can think. He’s pushing out of the van and starts pacing behind the command center, muttering something to himself. He’s halfway through the recitation when he realizes it’s a prayer, and almost done with it when he sees Carisi just a few feet away, making his way to where Rafael just left.

He doesn’t stop the detective from coming closer. If anything he almost welcomes it. Carisi looks almost as harried as he is, and he can’t help the way his lips twist at the familiarity of Carisi’s “counselor” in his mouth.

“How’s it goin’ in there?” For a first question, Rafael is struck by how little he can bear to answer.

“The… the father’s in bad shape. They’re organizing a trade,” he whispers, and hates the way that his voice cracks. The way he looks up at the row of townhouses and has to swallow his fear so he doesn’t vomit with it.

Suddenly Carisi’s face softens, somehow, even more. He looks at Rafael with pity. And while the counselor wants to bristle at it, he can’t.

“We’ll get them out, counselor,” the blond promises. “We’ll get Liv, and we’ll get them out –”

But when Rafael lifts his hand, it’s to silence him. To just glare, work his jaw, and try not to shatter so completely.

“It’s not just Liv,” he spits, and the admission takes even him by surprise. “It’s not. So. Please, just.”

He doesn’t know what Carisi is seeing when he looks at Rafael in that moment. He doesn’t know what the detective thinks. But no matter all of his words, his teasing, he knows that the man isn’t stupid, and can put the pieces together on a simple puzzle.

Who else is in that fucking room? Who else could the squad lose?

“I can’t lose her.” Carisi’s jaw clenches, his whole body tensing in Rafael’s periphery. But there’s no answer, because the detective isn’t stupid.

Not enough to make empty promises.

Mike’s eyes meet yours first when he comes through the door. He reassures Joe that his demands are being met – the money, the car, the goddamn plane – but he can’t stop looking at you. Maybe it’s the blood at your temple, the way your hands are gripping armrests on the chair you’re basically strapped to. Maybe it’s the dazed look in your eye that you’re sure you have, a concussion wreaking havoc on your system. But it doesn’t matter. He can’t help you.

Joe’s orders to strip had made too much sense – forcing them down to the bare essentials to come in and get the father out. But seeing it, seeing how vulnerable Mike it makes your chest hurt, and as he stands before Joe and his fucking assault rifle basically bare, you can’t help your desire to reach out to him.

“Everything is on its way,” Mike tells Joe, meeting his gaze head on – a steady lift of the chin while Joe fidgets.

And then the vests come off, too. And you have to watch Mike leave without any protection, his back so vulnerable, and you have to watch Joe’s eyes follow him, and once he leaves the breath you let out is audible. Audible enough to earn you a glare.

“What?” he snaps, and you just shake your head, offering a smile that feels like

“Nothing, Joe. That was a good thing you just did, letting Richard get the helps he needs,” you tell him.

There’s a beat, and then before you can react he’s lunging forward, his fist and thankfully not the butt of the gun smacking you across the face.

The kids scream, a horrific sound as your head is whipped to the side, eyes closed tight as you groan and try not to look at them.

“I’m – I’m okay…”

“You’re laughing,” he hisses, bending forward. “You’re fucking laughing at me.”

“Joe,” Liv says with a sharp tone. She doesn’t come to you, but her eyes are wide as your body pulls in on itself, barely able to look up and see her through the tears in your eyes. “Joe, look at me. That was good, getting Richard out of there. The car is… is coming, okay? It is, and… when it’s here we can start working on an exit strategy.”

“I have an exit strategy. For me, and for Roxie,” he snaps. His voice is hoarse from yelling, and then the phone rings again. Joe picks it up, and he’s moving from the hall to the table and back again, the end of the line approaching steadily.

“I’m gonna send someone out to check the car. I want the keys in the ignition, I want the engine running, and I want all those ESU guys gone, y’hear me? I want a clear path!” The phone is tossed away, connection gone, and then Joe’s in front of you again, bending forward, grinning. “About time to make yourself useful.”

“Joe,” Liv murmurs, trying to reach out to him, but the gun is quickly pointing at her.

“Shut up, boss lady!” he snaps. “The both of you are gonna put the vest on Roxie, and then she’s gonna go out there and check the car.”

What else can you do but comply? Joe’s release on your restraints has you stumbling forward, but when Liv goes to get you she’s pushed away by the firearm. You slowly rise to your feet, and there’s blood falling steadily from your nose as you stumble forward.

There’s no affirmation. Joe can only hiss out a curse, and then he’s stumbling away towards the back of the house.

The front of the house feels cold. By the time you make it to Roxie it feels like an eternity, and you and Liv have to get to work buckling her up. You’re so disoriented, the world spinning, that when you realize Liv is talking she’s already halfway there.

“Roxie,” she murmurs. “You can save yourself. You realize that? Right now. your brother is out there, and you don’t have to die. All you have to do is drop to your knees and put your hands up.”

Your hands are finally free. It feels good being able to roll your wrists, but you can barely focus as you realize you’re looking up into Roxie’s eyes. Your brain stumbles through its recollection, and when you do manage to speak it’s small. Soft. So Joe can’t hear.

“Save yourself, and your brother, Roxie, okay?” you whisper. “Get out of here. For him, you understand.”

“Just – just shut up,” she snaps, and Liv buckles her in.

It’s torture watching her leave. Joe’s back now, and the phone is at his hear, while Liv’s at the window, watching. But the light from outside makes your head spin. All you can do is stumble back to a chair, count to ten, and try not to cry.

You wish you had a hand on your back right now. Someone rubbing small circles into your skin. You can hear his voice, Rafael’s, in your ear, low hums as the two of you relax on the couch…

No.

You blink a few times. You can hear Roxie’s voice over the phone. Her sharp gasp, the long pause. You hear Rafael, then, too, urging you onto your feet, urging your mind to come together for just a bit longer…

No. He’s not – he’s not there. He’s outside. He’s not on the phone, he’s not on a couch, he’s outside and waiting and you’re stuck in here. It makes you want to scream, and your fingers lift to curl in your hair.

And then Carisi’s voice filters in over the phone.

“Hey, hold up, she’s surrendering. We got her!”

Something in Joe seems to snap at that moment. His eyes are wild, the assault rifle draped over his body, and when he lifts to gun to direct it between you and Liv.

“We’re almost there,” Liv tries to tell him. But you know she’s telling you, too. You try to nod, but there’s a flash of light as you struggle to stay conscious.

We’re almost there, Rafael whispers in your head, his little smirk so clear.

Okay, Rafa. Okay.

“It’s your terms,” Liv’s saying. “You tell Tucker how to do this… we’re so close to getting out of here.” Even as your head hangs you can’t help your smile. That’s your lieutenant. That’s Olivia fucking Benson. Allying herself. Protecting you. Your everything aches and she knows it and she’s still there.

The phone rings. Tucker’s voice filters over all of you.

“Now I’m gonna need something. The kids, Joe, okay?”

But Joe’s ready. Joe’s fired up, thanks to Liv. She’s there with him, she almost smiles at him, as he ends the negotiations. He’s ready to get out of there, he’s ready to live.

She’s got him, you think. She’s got him, right where she wants him.

“Joe, we kept our side,” Tucker says. “We’ll need at least one kid.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “You get the boy. When I get into the car you get the boy.” And then his smile goes rancid, evil, cruel.

“But I’m keeping my girls.”

Rafael’s leg can’t stop bouncing. He’s made his way back inside the command center, and the hustle and bustle never stops. People are in, people are out, and all he can think about is you. All he can hear is your voice is his ear, all he can focus on is getting you out safe.

Which sucks, because he can’t do a damn thing about it.

He shouldn’t even be here. He should be home. He should be home but he hasn’t been able to move since he made it to this chair.

His fingers go to your tie. It’s around his neck, but it’s yours. One you bought for him, the burgundy something you said brought out his eyes. You’d handed it over with a wink, at the end of a day that’d had you both in the office for longer than you strictly should’ve been.

Just for you, you’d said. It was basically calling your name.

God, what’d he give to hear you calling his name.

He doesn’t have an earpiece in his ear. So he doesn’t know why the cops all around him suddenly tense up, he doesn’t know why they file out of the command center and start loading their guns. What he does know is when Dodds peeks in, Carisi’s eyes visible behind him through the doorway.

“Barba,” the sergeant barks out. “They’re coming out. Stay down and stay behind, Joe is coming out –”

Rafael’s throat closes up. “With who?” he asks, but Dodds is already gone. Carisi peeks in.

“All of them, Rafael,” he says. “Liv, the kids, and –”

Rafael doesn’t need to hear your name. He’s already up. He’s led by Carisi to a vest, he’s led by Carisi to a spot behind the line of armed officers, and all he can do is watch as everyone watches the doors.

“They’re coming out by the garden level!” someone yells, and guns are aiming before Rafael can think.

He sees you first. It’s not hard to miss you. Your hair is whipping around your head a little from the wind, and there’s...

“That’s blood,” he whispers to himself. “God, that’s blood.” It’s dripping down your face, or it was – from your nose, all over your face and mouth.

“Barba,” Carisi whispers back, and that’s when he sees the gun.

No! his brain screams. His body is motionless. The gun is against your head, and you’re walking, no, stumbling forward ahead of him.

He sees your lips moving. You’re talking to Joe – Joe, surrounded by you, and Liv, and the kids. Your hands are up.

Joe starts yelling. “Farther back! Get farther back!”

“Get back,” Carisi says, and he shouts it a little louder for the group. Everyone starts backing up. Everyone does, and Rafael watches as the four of you creep towards the car. Liv is talking now. She’s right in his ear.

And then the kids get let go. He seems a small smile play across your face, as Joe looks back at Liv.

“He’s letting both kids go!” Dodds shouts. Someone rushes up to meet them, carries them away, and Rafael watches as Joe is flanked by you, by Liv. The kids are rushed away, and the breath Rafael can take after that is minimal. It’s minimal and you’ve still got a gun to your head.

There’s talking. There’s more talking. The car is only inches away.

And then your elbow swings.

“Joe,” you whisper. “Keep the gun to my head.”

You feel the pressure against the back of your head. Right against the bruise from this morning. “Good, Joe. We’ll keep pushing forward, okay. I’m gonna keep my hands up, and you…”

“Shut up.”

Your mouth closes tightly. The inching forward is tedious, but you creep with every step. And then Liv starts talking.

“You don’t need the kids, Joe,” Liv whispers. “You don’t need them. Let them go, all right? It’s just about you and us, no one else.”

And then they’re gone. The kids. They dart away, and your eyes close tightly, the smile on your face momentary. One step closer. You can almost hear Rafael still. Almost there.

You feel Liv’s foot tap against yours as the group of you come to a halt. And when your eyes meet hers you can’t help what happens next.

There’s a mutual understanding. One that the two of you come to, in that moment, surrounding Joe, protecting him. His voice is still in your ear, but it doesn’t matter, in that moment. In that moment, it’s just you and Liv, and you see her eyes flick to Joe’s head before glancing down to your elbow.

“Get in,” Joe snaps, and you nod.

You know what she’s asking of you. You what she’s begging for. Safety for the kids, for the parents, for the nightmare to end.

“I will, Joe. I’m just gonna tell Tucker the plan.”

And you know that while she thinks of Noah one last time, steeling up her courage as the two of you shuffle towards the car, that you think of Rafael Barba.

“Get in!” he shouts, and you swallow tight.

Three fingertips against your hand give one tap.

“I’m just gonna tell –“

Two fingertips.

“Get in the damn car, you bitch!”

One finger, one more second.

His gun lifts from your head.

One smile staring up at you from his contact photo, one kiss that he gives with his hand tangled into the hairs on the back of your neck –

Go.

You throw an elbow, and Liv throws herself to the side while you drop. You hear the command, the gunshot, and everything stops as it rings in the air.

And then Joe’s body crumples. There’s a thud as it hits the ground. and you wait for the other shoe to drop. Liv’s own body falling, a new radiating pain in your side. But there’s nothing. Fucking nothing. It’s over.

“He’s got a gun,” you murmur, but it’s so quiet it’s just to yourself. You can’t speak up louder, the sound of the shot that killed him ricocheting in your head, rattling around until your eyes cross and you can’t think.

The yelling of the officers around you can’t stir you from your daze. Nothing seems like it can. You’re holding your hands over your ears to try and quiet what you can, your eyes wide as you stare at Joe’s dead body. And then it hits you, all at once. Like a fucking tidal wave.

It’s done. You’re free. And as you turn towards the crowds around you, shaky legs and a migraine making you stumble, one name is on your lips.

“Rafael?”

It starts out small. Low. Quiet. You can hear Liv next to you, calling out for Noah and people start crowding before you can think.

“Rafael?”

Another time. Louder, fiercer. You can’t see him, but you need to. You know he’s here, he has to be. Your throat almost can’t push the sound out, but it goes, fierce and brave.

“Rafael!”

And then you see him. There. You see him, you see the bright purple tie, the way he’s turning any way he can to find out where your voice is coming from. It’s almost comical, and you start laughing, a lot hysterical at the same time tears start coming down your cheeks.

Laugh. Cry. Same thing. It doesn’t fucking matter. The next thing you know you’re pushing towards him, and it takes one more turn for him to see you, to start moving through the crowd. You throw your arms around him as he does the same to you, and everything inside of you seems to fall apart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “Lo siento, mi amor, lo siento, estoy aqui.” But his apologies mean nothing more than just hearing the sound of his voice, pressing your lips to his mouth and neck and shoulder as you press as close as you can, hug as tight as you can, hide as much as you fucking can.

“I – I was so sc-scared,” you sob out, and that’s when your legs give out. Rafael has to try and catch you, and almost can’t, the way you go dead weight on him. But there’s nothing left to give, no more strength, and in the end he holds you as the medics rush you.

Liv’s voice fades in behind you. “I’m fine, go to her, I’m fine. Where’s Noah?” Tucker’s voice is trying to assure her that they’re getting him, that he’s coming, but then everything fades out again.

You’re so tired. God, you’re so fucking tired.

Your head hurts so bad.

Shit.

“Rafa,” you whimper out, and his shushes are gentle, one of his hand lifting to shakily push through your hair. There are other bodies around the both of you, and you try not to think about how when his hand pulls away you can see your own blood on it. Blood. Like your nose.

“Cariño,” he murmurs. “What happened?”

“Got… hit. In the head,” you whisper, and that’s when everything goes black.

You wake up in the hospital. You wake up, and things are still a little fuzzy, but you wake up at all, and that’s a minor miracle. You could’ve slept for another week, you think, if the way your head is pounding tells you anything.

“Fuck,” you hiss immediately, when everything hits you all at once. The lights, the beeping, the feeling of your body, somehow weightless and heavy as hell at the same time.

“They wouldn’t let me in.”

You have to blink. The lights are still too bright, and the voice almost doesn’t sound like it’s coming from in the room. After all, Rafael’s voice was in your head throughout the last few hours of that damn mess.

Right. The townhouse.

You blink again. Rafael is sitting next to you. His eyes are on you, and he’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

You try not to think about the way his sleeves are rolled up, the way he looks like he hasn’t slept. There’s a bit of stubble on his face, and you want to reach out and touch it – he’s never not clean-shaven.

“What’d you say?” you murmur. Your mouth feels like cotton.

“They took you away,” he whispers, and reaches out to grab your hand. “They took you away, out there, and… they didn’t let me in because I’m not family.”

Everything slowly comes back in.

“You’re here now,” you whisper, and he shakes his head.

“I wasn’t. Not the whole time you were... I wasn’t.”

“You were... you. You were.”

You struggle to sit up, but there’s oxygen in your nose and you can’t pull at it. You’re so weak, and everything, everything hurts. But. But the kids, Liv –

“They’re okay.” That’s when you realize that you were talking out loud, and Rafael reaches up to brush your hair back. Leans forward to kiss your forehead. “They’re okay. You’re okay.”

“Rafael.”

“The squad didn’t know. No one knew. So no one could vouch… no one knew, when your name was on there, too, with Liv, with... fuck, William Lewis...”

You’re blinking. You’re blinking a lot. Something is prickling at the corners of your eyes, and you let the tears fall. “Rafael. I’m here. I’m…”

He leans up to kiss your forehead again, and you realize he’s crying, too. You can feel something wet against your skin, and he’s holding you so close.

“You almost weren’t, and. They know now,” he whispers. “I told them. If anything ever happens, I – I need to be in here first.”

You don’t have time to process, and frankly, you don’t want to. Because Rafael is here, in your room, holding you gently, and you hear his voice in your ear just like you did earlier. You hear his little murmured prayers against your head, thanks to God, in Spanish right at your collarbone.

You didn’t tell anyone because it was safer. You didn’t tell anyone because it was easier. You didn’t tell anyone, and it still ended with you in a hospital bed.

He told them. And you can’t help but… but feel grateful.

No more uncertainty. No more secrets. No more, if it means that he gets there just a little bit earlier. If it means you know that he’ll be there.

“If anything ever happens to you,” you mutter back, “you best believe I’m beating down the doors. Family or not.”

It’s slurred, your words. Things are getting a little fuzzy, again. You think it’s something about the medicine that’s dripping into your arm. It doesn’t matter. Rafael’s holding you so tight.

“Of that I have no doubt, cariño. Now get some rest for me.”

tag list - @writefasttalkevenfaster // @hurricanejjareau // @crazyshannonigans // @goldenxreid // @teamhappyme // @chasingeverybreakingwave

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #female!reader #olivia benson #law and order: svu #my fic #tw blood #tw guns #tw rape #tw rape mention #canon-typical violence #hostage situation

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ironhusband · 3 years ago

Note

ironhusbands for the ship meme!

How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET?

What non sexual activities do they like to do together? Workshop time!! Also trashing sci-fi movies together while cuddling. Doing crosswords together on Sunday morning. Going for a flight with their suits. Sometimes just spending time together in silence.

Who does chores around the house? Mostly JARVIS.

Who’s the better cook? Rhodey. You will not convince me that Tony is able to cook, YOU WILL NOT. Rhodey is an amazing cook though, he was taught very well by his mama.

Who’s the funniest drunk? I want to say Tony but because getting near any alcohol these days is basically a relapse for him, which is Not Funny, I'd say Rhodey. He's more of a wistful drunk, but Tony thinks Rhodey misquoting Popeye is still very funny.

Do they have kids? Yes. They're both father figures to Nebula. And they adopted Lila after Jeanette died. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

Do they have any traditions? Every winter and every summer, they win sand castles building competition and snowman building competitions. They both judge robot competitions during the robot season. They come back to MIT every five years, just to see the old campus. They make breakfast in bed for each other for each of their birthdays (Rhodey's birthdays go horribly but he appreciates the effort, and Tony is getting slightly better every year). They always spend Fourth of July at barbecuing at the Rhodes's and they climb up to the roof to watch the fireworks and kiss.

What do they fight about? They never fight about anything but really important things. Morals kind of things. Mental health kind of things. But they squabble. They bicker. They playfully argue. But they don't fight.

What would they do if they found their paring tag on tumblr? (If they have one) IF THEY HAVE ONE IS RIGHT - but no, Tony would be very amused, and Rhodey would be slightly less amused because he isn't used to media attention as Tony is, but he wouldn't really care.

Who cried at the end of Marley and me? Both of them. They're big softies at heart.

Who always wins at Mario kart? It's pretty much a tie FOR NOW, the Mario kart tournament is not over and will never be over until one of them wins (they've been doing the tournament since MIT).

One thing I like about this ship? God. ONE thing??? I can't chose. How devoted they are to each other, staying together as friends through all those years. How fond they are of each other, calling each other ridiculous nicknames and giving one another heart eyes. How they can stand up to each other, and it's part of their healthy relationship. How they're genuinely best friends and love each other so much oh god I love rhodeytony so much oh god.

One thing I don’t like about the ship? The writers' treatment of them since Civil War 🔪 let them speak again please but now it's too late :(

The song I would say fits them? John Legend - Conversations in the Dark

Another headcanon about the paring? (Free space) They each hold each other's MIT photos as blackmail material.

#ironhusbands #asks #ask game

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tahitianmangoes · 4 years ago

Text

Absolution

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary: Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment, ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. Smut | Not canon compliant

Chapter One - Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter Two

It was hard to believe that less than a day ago, they had been in the sticky New Austin heat and now, Micah Bell was spending the night freezing his balls off in some godforsaken outhouse half way up a mountain with Bill Williamson snoring loudly beside him.

Things turn on a dime, Micah knew that better than most.

Micah doesn’t sleep. He’d been part of the Van der Linde gang for around six months and that was probably one of the few things that people really knew about him. No one cared to ask why he didn’t sleep, not that Micah would tell them anyway. He would usually sit around the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife or cleaning his revolvers. Sometimes sleep would get the better of him and he’d be woken up by the sudden jerk of his head falling forward onto his chest and that’s when he would hear it - that voice that still struck fear into him even twenty years on: Do it!” The voice screamed at him, “prove to me you ain’t the yella bellied coward you say you aint, boy!”

Just one day ago, Micah had been doing just that, sitting at the campfire in their camp outside of Blackwater. His hat was pulled low but he was listening, he usually was; he could hear John Marston and Abigail Roberts squabbling as usual, he could hear Lenny and Jenny twittering like lovebirds and Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing off in the distance somewhere.

It was Dutch and Hosea that Micah was listening to, though. They were arguing in Dutch’s tent. Dutch was playing his gramophone in a bid to muffle them but Micah didn’t have to hear them to know what it was about; Hosea didn’t think they should do the ferry job the next day. Hosea and Arthur had a lead, what it was Micah hadn’t asked but probably something akin to a theatre vaudeville performance if he knew Hosea Matthews at all. Micah wasn’t a fan of all of the conmanship - it felt underhand. Of course doing what he did, going in all guns blazing, was no better but it didn’t feel as sly - you knew where you stood with a gun being pointed at your head.

Micah was told that Dutch and Hosea used to have more of a united front, in more ways than one but it looked to Micah as if this had run its course.

To Micah, Dutch and Hosea seemed so very different; Dutch was charismatic, charming and spoke such pretty words and had big ideas. He was an optimist, believing that he could change the world and Micah believed him, so did everyone else for the most part. Hosea on the other hand was a pessimist. He sat around the camp with a dark cloud over him, picking Dutch’s plans apart and doubting him at every turn. Dutch, of course, was as patient as a saint with his partner - more than lenient with him in Micah’s opinion - but even a saint has their limits.

So Dutch had proceeded without Hosea this time, entrusting Micah with helping him with this job. It didn’t go unchecked by Micah that this was a big deal; he had been part of the gang for less than a year yet Dutch trusted him to help him with this job. He had to do his best to impress Dutch because who knew where this could lead…

Micah had never known the gang so quiet or sombre the night before a big job. Some people retired early but Micah knew they weren't sleeping, they just didn't want to talk about it. Charles disappeared for guard duty, Javier wasn’t playing guitar and Arthur lay with his hat over his face so Micah couldn't see him but he had a feeling that he was listening hard to Dutch and Hosea too.

For a few moments, Micah let his attention settle on Arthur Morgan - Dutch’s right hand man. Arthur didn't like Micah much but Micah got the impression that Arthur didn't like many people. Arthur had intrigued Micah ever since Micah had joined the gang. From what he understood, Arthur had been taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he was just a kid - it sounded like something out of a boyhood dream, to be taken care of and raised by outlaws… Whether Arthur was grateful or not, it wasn't clear; he was sullen and surly, got that moody cowboy thing down to a T. Always complaining about something or other. He was as stubborn as a mule and as dumb as a dog yet Micah was drawn to him inexplicably.

Maybe if things had worked out differently, he would have been more like Arthur. If his daddy had been a fine man like Dutch. Maybe Micah and Arthur were two sides of the same coin… Micah wondered if Arthur saw that they weren't so different, too. Regardless, Arthur avoided Micah wherever possible, especially after what had happened out at Gaptooth Ridge…

Micah let his thoughts settle back there for a while. It wasn't a particularly happy memory but one he played over and over to himself, trying to work out what it meant. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. So why did he keep thinking about it? Letting himself get lost in the gentle morning sunlight again and again when he closed his eyes, imagining Arthur lying beside him, feeling the heat coming from the younger man and remembering the look in those brilliant blue eyes...

He often wondered if Arthur thought about it too. Right now, in the small, delipidated building on the mountain, he thought of Arthur in the next building over and wondered if Arthur couldn't sleep either.

****

Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong and boy oh boy, did the ferry job go wrong. Maybe they'd been set up because no sooner had the ferry been too far out for them to retreat, there were Pinkertons and lawmen everywhere. Everyone had been whipped into a frenzy, John Marston , Mac Callander, Davey Callander and Jenny Kirk had all gotten shot and the latter hadn't made it out alive. Charles Smith injured himself and Sean Maguire was taken captive by some bounty hunters. And then Dutch shot that girl...

It was a mess. Micah had never seen a job go so wrong so quickly, not since him and his daddy...

They'd managed to flee to camp, to pack up in record time though things were lost and misplaced along the way and Dutch told them that they were heading north. "North?" Hosea repeated looking sceptical. "North." Dutch replied firmly. "We gotta get outta here and we got get outta here fast." "What... What happened on that boat, Dutch?" Hosea asked sheepishly. Dutch turned his dark eyes to his partner and said solemnly, "nothing good."

Dutch had meant north as they headed deep into the mountains of Ambarino. Soon, a terrible storm set in. The snow swirled around them and Miah could hardly see three paces in front of him if it weren’t for his lantern. He followed the caravan blindly, his loyal Missouri Foxtrotter Baylock stepping carefully through the snow that came almost to the horse’s forearm.

He accompanied Arthur and Dutch in the hopeless pursuit for supplies once they found somewhere to settle. All they found was O'Driscolls and another mouth to feed, a woman named Sadie Adler. Exhausted and freezing, Micah curled up on the floor of the building he'd been delegated to with Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers and Charles Smith. He dozed for a short while but he heard that voice again, piercing his slumber and jerked awake to find that light was seeping in through the cracks in the rotting wood of the structure.

That next day was calmer, as if the storm before had never happened. Outside was bright, the cold sun reflecting off of the untouched snow.

Javier Escuella shivered around a small fire. He’d been outside all night on guard duty. Javier was warmer to Micah than Arthur or even Hosea. He wasn’t brooding or stoic, he could take a drink and a joke and Micah liked that about him.

He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a poncho slung over his shoulders and a denim jacket the only thing between him and the sub-zero temperature only made worse by being sent up a mountain earlier that morning with Arthur to rescue John Marston who’d gone and got himself lost in the storm.

“Are you taking me off?” Javier asked, tired eyes looking hopefully at Micah. “Dream on,” Micah replied gruffly. There was no way he was taking up guard duty out in the cold without orders from Dutch. Javier narrowed his eyebrows, looked like he might want to argue but maybe didn’t have the energy.

Micah warmed his hands briefly by the fire, not that he could feel them and if he didn’t hold them out in front of him, he could have sworn that they had fallen off in the night. Javier muttered something inaudible before disappearing towards the stables.

They had managed to find a place up on this godforsaken mountain, a place that could hold all of them - for now. It looked to have been a mining town at one point but long abandoned now, most of the buildings still stood but were derelict, some beyond repair. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long - sure Pinkertons might not be dumb enough to follow them up here but they’d most likely starve, freeze to death or both if they didn’t leave soon.

Micah never thought he’d miss their camp out of Blackwater, god knows he’d been complaining about wanting four walls and a roof over his head but he hadn’t factored in the snow...

As Micah moved away from the fire, he could hear voices coming from the next building. He recognised the familiar low rumbles of Arthur Morgan. Before Micah had time to move, Arthur and Dutch spilled outside, Hosea hovering in the doorway.

“Arthur, we’ll starve up here,” Dutch was saying. His voice had changed over the past couple of days - he sounded tired, desperate in a way but not yet defeated. “Dutch, I ain’t no hunter.” “I know, son. But we got no supplies here - Miss Grimshaw and Mr Pearson did their best but… We got a few cans from the Alder woman’s homestead and we can’t ask Charles to hunt with his hand in the state it is…” “I don’t know what I can do.” Dutch looked up and caught sight of Micah “Take Mr Belll here with you, go scouting. There’s gotta be something else up on this miserable mountain,” he said. Micah knew he was grasping at straws if he was suggesting that the pair of them went out scouting together. Arthur heaved a sigh, not needing to say anything. Dutch continued, “You’re two of the fittest men we got …I wouldn't normally ask like this. Please, son. We gotta try. People are dependin' on us.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, he usually used that voice when he wanted something from Arthur and Arthur usually fell for it. This time was no different. “Fine.” Arthur muttered in a tone that suggested that it was anything but fine.

The pair of them looked at each other; it wasn't the fact they were being asked to go scouting but the fact they were asked to go together.

****

They rode in silence for what seemed like a long, long time, Arthur just up ahead of Micah, obviously not interested in small talk.

These mountains were all but barren - they saw some deer that fled too quickly for either Micah or Arthur to pull their rifle out, heard the echoes of a distant grizzly bear washing over them periodically but nothing else.

"Maybe we should just head back now." Micah suggested after over an hour of them riding away from camp and seeing nothing but more snow. The sun would soon be going down and the last thing they needed was to be stumbling about in the dark. "Jus a little further…" Arthur muttered. Micah knew Arthur didn't want to let Dutch down - he never did.

So they carried on, climbing and following a trail so buried by snow it was barely visible. Once they reached the top of the climb, a basin came into view - a frozen lake surrounded by trees whose leaves had never cared to grow back and at the top of the frozen lake was a small cabin.

The pair urged their horses towards the cabin, a spark of hope for the first time in days. Arthur went to knock on the door only for it to swing open at his touch. The cabin consisted of one room: a small cot was pushed up against one wall, a table was in the centre of the room beside a fireplace. There were various cupboards and chairs but not much else. It looked like someone had been there once upon a time but not now. Everything looked to be covered by a thick layer of dust but there were provisions - mainly canned goods. On the table was rancid bread and cheese that was covered by mould and newspaper clippings that when Micah inspected them, saw they were from three years prior.

"Well, looks like they won't miss this stuff," Micah said more to himself than Arthur as they set about taking whatever they could. It wasn't a huge haul but it would be enough to feed them for a day or two when added to what they found in the Adler house. “This oughta keep us goin’ til we get off this goddamn mountain.”

There was a pause before Arthur shot back, “we wouldn't be stuck on this goddamn mountain if it weren't for you."

Micah turned to look at Arthur now. He was older than Arthur by around five years, they were around the same height, give or take an inch or so, both blond however Arthur’s hair was more a fawn colour and looked soft to the touch. Both had blue eyes, Micah’s icy and Arthur’s rich like the ocean. He was broader and more muscular than Micah who was perhaps thirty pounds heavier than Arthur and couldn’t boast of the same brawny frame as the younger man. Arthur was handsome, even if he couldn’t see it. Maybe Micah resented that, resented the way that his uncomplicated good looks often made things easier - women around the camp didn’t look at Arthur with the same repulsion they did Micah and maybe even Arthur’s looks meant that he was treated more favourably by Hosea and Dutch - not having to go on guard duty, always getting a tent with a cot and having any mistakes he made glossed over so easily...

Different sides of the same coin

Micah drew himself up to his full height before responding. “And how'd you come to that conclusion, cowpoke?” Micah asked, rolling his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always had something to say about him or the way he conducted himself.

“If you hadn’t egged Dutch on with all the ferry crap, we’d be well on our way to gettin’ ourselves some land. Me an’ Hosea had it covered-” “Sure looks that way,” Micah retorted with a sneer, “what was it this time? Hosea pretendin’ to be an college professor or maybe a magician? And you his pretty assistant? Or maybe you was both dressin’ up as ladies and stealin’ from a church fund?” “I have had enough of you!” Arthur snapped, “all you done since you joined us is cause problems, an’ now we lost Jenny, Davey, maybe Sean and Mac too!” “Less mouths to feed don’t sound like a problem to me, cowpoke.”

Arthur made a sound similar to a growl. Micah saw his fists ball, Arthur was the type to settle his scores with fights rather than words, maybe because words so often illuded him. Micah smirked. “Go on then cowboy, show me what you got.”

Micah saw the thought flicker through Arthur’s eyes briefly like lightning in the night’s sky and then he decided against it.

He turned, heading back to the door of the cabin muttering about going back to camp. When he flung the door open, the light had dwindled considerably quicker than either of the could have imagined and snow was coming down in thick, heavy flurries. “Shit!” Arthur hissed. “Well,” Micah sighed, heading to the door too and surveying the magnitude of the situation, “don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere fast, sweetheart. Jus’ you an’ me now.”

****

There were logs that had been left by the previous tenant that Arthur threw into the fireplace and proceeded to light. The pair of them sat close to the fire, the night had drawn in fast and not only was it the only source of heat in the small cabin, it was also the only source of light.

Micah could see that Arthur was shivering, his arms folded flush across his chest and jaw tight. He glared into the fire. “I’m freezin’ my ass off,” He grumbled. “Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Micah replied with a hint of snideness about his voice. Arthur shot him a look colder than out in the storm but Micah continued, maybe because he liked to see Arthur squirm. “You ain't cuddlin' up to me to keep warm if that’s what you want.” “I’d rather die o’ hypothermia than let you anywhere near me.” But they both knew that wasn't true.

Both knew the other was thinking about Gaptooth Ridge again now. It was all Micah had thought about since the day it had happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their tent, panting and moaning softly with Arthur’s lips on his like nothing else in the world mattered, and perhaps didn’t even exist anymore. He could hear trains rumbling in the distance and condors circling above, the warm air enveloped him just as Arthur’s smoky scent did and everything in the world was still aside from his racing heart.

“When we gonna talk about it, Morgan?” Micah asked without even thinking. He’d wanted to ask Arthur for weeks but Arthur had been avoiding him even more than usual. He felt so weak caving and asking first. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be; did he want this to be a thing? No. That wasn’t Micah’s style… Yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about Arthur. About the way they had been together that day.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Came Arthur’s gruff reply. Micah let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, “ain’t there?” “No. There ain’t.”

Arthur got to his feet now and walked to the back of the cabin, Micah's eyes followed him. Micah watched as Arthur leant against the wall and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette and smoked it, not looking at Micah but watching the tip of the cigarette burning down in his fingers between drags.

“Bullshit.” Micah said hotly, squaring up to Arthur. “You’re talking bullshit as usual.” “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, Micah. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t even happen. It was nothing.” A twisted smirk crept across Micah’s face. He wanted to play it the hard way, huh? “That ain’t what you was sayin’ when you had my dick in your mouth.” Arthur’s eyes flashed and his face turned stony. “You watch what you say to me.” He growled. Micah wasn’t about to back down, his body pumped with adrenaline. “What would ol’ Dutch say if he knew what you got up to? Or does he know you like to get on your knees-”

Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur had grabbed him by the collars and pushed Micah up against the wall with such force that his hat toppled from his head. Micah would have laughed if the wind hadn’t been knocked from him. Arthur threw his cigarette to the floor and that hand found its way to Micah’s throat. Micah’s eyes flickered, Arthur was panting, they stared at each other wordlessly. Micah still wore his lopsided smirk, as if willing Arthur to do it.

Arthur’s brows were knitted together, eyes mean and jaw clenched. He looked like he would kill Micah. Micah didn’t doubt that he could.

Before Micah knew it, Arthur had pushed his lips to Micah’s in a kiss. Micah made a sound - a groan. Oh, how he’d longed for this again, thought maybe it would never happen and that their time out at Gaptooth Ridge had been a one off, one of those crazy things that never happen again no matter how hard the yearning. Arthur kissed hungrily, one hand still pressed against Micah’s throat and Micah kissed back eagerly, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur permitted it with a sigh, as if he had been longing for this too.

Micah brought his hands up, cupping Arthur’s face, the skin cold, the stubble scratching against his fingertips and Arthur shivered at his touch. Arthur removed his hand from where it rested now so Micah could breathe again and tugged Micah’s head back by his hair, exposing his neck so he could kiss it bruisingly, making Micah gasp.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s broad shoulders, fingers curling around the thick material of Arthur’s winter coat, submitting to the younger outlaw, almost paralysed in pleasure at the feeling of Arthur’s hot mouth - tongue licking and teeth grazing - sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck.

He felt Arthur wedge his thigh between his legs and his hips moved instinctively before he could stop himself. The friction was delicious, Micah was uncomfortably hard in his pants already and he let out a soft moan at the relief Arthur’s leg provided. He heard Arthur growl into the crook of his neck. They remained like that, Micah shuddering as he rutted against Arthur and Arthur biting at Micah, hard enough to leave bruises, hands groping at him through his clothes, making Micah sigh and moan.

Suddenly, Arthur ripped away from him. Micah panted, whimpering quietly- unsatisfied. His breath visible in front of him in the cold, cold cabin but the heat between them was like a furnace. Micah stared at Arthur, for once lost for words. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. Had Arthur come to his senses?

Perhaps not. Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the bulge in Micah’s pants. He was hesitant as he reached to press his hand against it but Micah didn’t stop him, of course not. He had wanted this, hadn’t he?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Micah that Arthur’s fingers seemed to tremble as he unbuttoned Micah’s pants and freed his erection. Micah turned away at this, slightly embarrassed at how hard he was. He could hear Arthur’s breaths heavy and hard before he felt the other man’s hand wrap around his cock.

Arthur held him firmly. Micah let out a sound, higher pitched than normal. He felt his cheeks burn but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed, the feel of Arthur’s hand on him so starkly made him quake. And then Arthur’s hand moved, grip strong as he pumped Micah’s cock. “M-Morgan..!” Micah choked. Arthur's shimmering eyes met Micah's, as if asking for permission to continue. Micah didn't say anything, he leant his forehead against Arthur's shoulder and let his hips rock into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stroked him fast, making Micah's breath catch in his throat. He found himself clinging to Arthur, clawing at the other man's wide back as he tried to stop himself calling out. He felt Arthur's lips on his neck again, kissing along the exposed collarbone to his shoulder. Arthur's name tumbled from Micah's lips like the snow from the sky outside.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Micah's orgasm to coil in his stomach. He found himself moving faster, rutting helplessly against Arthur as he began to shiver, knowing he couldn't hold on any longer. He tried to stifle himself as he came, burying his face in Arthur's neck, taking in Arthur's strong musky scent of gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey.

He stayed like that for a few moments, blood pounding in his ears, eyes closed trying to compose himself. Arthur didn’t move either, they leant against each other. It was Arthur that moved away first. Part of Micah wished Arthur would stay like that just a little longer.

Micah’d gone soft now, his release was on his pants, on the floor and on Arthur’s pants, too. When he looked back up at Arthur, he could tell that the younger man wasn’t finished with him just yet. He had a dark look in his eyes that Micah wasn’t sure he had seen before. Arthur didn’t say a word, his eyes still fixed on Micah’s. It was his turn to unbutton his pants now and then, he laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Micah down to his knees. Micah didn’t resist.

Arthur’s length was strainingly hard and tip slick with precum as he freed his cock from his undergarments. Micah'd seen it before, of course; part of him had known that Arthur’s cock would be generous in size and he had been right about that in both length and girth. Micah had never felt an urge quite like it, an instinct almost, to take it into his mouth and suck. Tentatively, he touched the reddened skin of Arthur’s throbbing erection, it was burning hot under his fingertips. He wet his lip before he opened his mouth and as he did, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair and stuffed his length down Micah’s throat without giving him a chance to adjust. Micah made a choked sound and tears instantly filled his eyes at the stretch from the sheer size of Arthur. Arthur didn’t relent. Micah knew this was punishment but part of him didn’t even care, there was something about having Arthur above him like this , powerful, doing his best to repress his moans that turned him on.

Arthur didn't talk, just fisting Micah’s hair and snapping his hips forward rhythmically so he can fuck the older outlaw’s throat. They didn't talk last time either, just their touches had been enough. Micah's gags and heavy breathing filled the room along with Arthur's low growls and soft curses. As the length hit the back of Micah’s throat, Arthur hissed and fuck, that sounds made Micah’s own cock twitch awake again. Micah felt his face redden, he could feel the drool and precome spilling from the sides of his mouth and his jaw ached. He tried to steady Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s strong thighs, using them as an anchor so he can bob his head back and forth on the length, sucking as best he knew how, using his tongue to pressure the underside of the shaft like the whores he��d used before had done to him… like Arthur had done to him before.

He closed his eyes now, getting used to breathing through his nose. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing back to pay attention to the tip and then taking as much of the length in its entirety at a time. He used his tongue to flick the tip, let his throat and jaw go slack so Arthur could press in further until he felt the younger man shiver.

Arthur groaned softly, when Micah looed up, Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was sheer portrait of perfection - lost in a rhapsody of bliss. Micah took hold of his throbbing cock now, needing some relief and as he did, Arthur gasped, hips stuttering, eyes open now, a flash of blue as he cursed loudly, "shit, Micah!" and spilled himself into Micah’s mouth.

Micah retched at the taste but was taken by surprise, swallowing the majority of it and coughing as Arthur pulled out. Arthur’s breathing was hard as he moved away from Micah and tucked himself back into his pants. Micah remained on his knees and wiped his mouth. He stared after Arthur who returned to the fireside, composing himself.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he spoke. “Now we’re even.” Arthur said almost emotionlessly. Micah didn’t want to admit it to himself but it hurt.

#morbell #rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #micah bell #writing

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rooksilver · 4 years ago

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made a sequel to my first jrwi oneshot because why not. yes i am aware that the vengolor brothers’ reunion is canonically inaccurate but i took a couple of artistic liberties. enjoy

The Great King’s Wharf stinks to high hell in the summer, broken-down sewers and half-rotten barrels of fish taking full advantage of the heat. Sylnan barely notices as he paces from one end of the docks to the other, as he has taken to doing in the mornings and evenings when the ships come in. Not many visitors come to the Wharf, but he keeps his rigid patrol anyway, occasionally stopping at a glimpse of tousled fair hair or glittering green eyes, but nothing ever holds his attention for long. The fishermen along the harbour recognise him now, bloodshot eyes following him as he passes, low murmurs of a lover lost at sea. The rumours almost make Sylnan laugh. Nothing else changes. He spends his days feeling out the rare gold lining the pockets of more fortunate citizens and avoiding the rat king back at the warehouse. When he is not doing those things, he is at the docks. Pacing, watching. Waiting.

Across the ocean, Br’aad stands at the docks of the small port town whose name he has forgotten. Unlike Sylnan, he doesn’t move or pace. He stands silently at the water’s edge, watching the ships dock and set sail. His gaze is less expectant and more yearning, a secret wish buried deep inside himself. Life’s not so bad here. The town is much more diverse, and it is nice not to have anybody staring at his ears for once. Br’aad gets by on the old routine, the unsuspecting townsfolk making much easier targets, but it doesn’t really seem complete without Sylnan, and often he finds himself running after people to return coin purses they dropped. He tries not to think about his brother too much. It still stings, the scars, in the form of his aching tattoos. He doesn’t look at them anymore, stops trying to comprehend the language. Obnockshai visits him every so often, with games and deals and gambles at hand, but Br’aad declines them all—the trickster god has nothing he desires. For weeks, Br’aad prowls the quaint streets of the town, agitated, some unknown emotion perpetually simmering just underneath his skin. A few months in, when the feeling seems to bubble up, ready to erupt, Br’aad takes a desperate turn and finds himself at the docks. At sight of the ocean, the restlessness inside him calms a little. Since then, he spends most of his time there. He never boards a ship, never approaches the sailors or fishermen. He stands apart from the people, quietly watching the sea. Rumours spread here too, less far-fetched than in the Wharf, half-formed speculations about the young half-elf standing at the docks day after day, staring at the horizon with a faraway look in his eyes.

They say time heals all wounds, they say distance makes us wise. And they must be right, because almost a year later Br’aad gazes at the blue-green waters and realises that he misses his brother very much.

One afternoon, Sylnan trudges down to the harbour. He fingers the meagre earnings of the day in his pocket and sighs. A crumbling fishing boat pulls in nearby. Seagulls squabble over rotting scraps. The sun is unrelenting, bathing him in baking heat. Sylnan pauses a few steps into his usual patrol and rubs a hand over his face. He is tired. He is so, so tired of everything and just doesn’t have the energy to walk along the docks. Just a little further, a voice pipes up in his mind, just a little way. Just in case. Just in case what? Sylnan doesn’t know the answer, but he keeps walking anyway. The tabaxi catches his eye first. Then the pink-skinned tiefling beside him. It’s unusual, foreigners in the Wharf. He stops and stares for a second, and then walks on. They don’t interest him as much as they would have a year ago. Then his gaze lands on the half-elf beside them. Long, messy brown-blonde hair. Gleaming green eyes and a goofy grin. Strange purple tattoos crawling up the length of tanned arms. Sylnan stumbles forward. It feels like he’s in a trance as he hesitantly approaches and calls an achingly familiar name. And a face he knows well turns to look at him, eyes he has missed dearly light up, and then Br’aad is running at him and throwing himself into Sylnan’s arms, and oh, gods, it is him, he came back, his brother came back, and Sylnan’s vision is blurring but it’s okay because Br’aad is choking back tears too, and there’s no need for apologies because they are both forgiven, have been forgiven for the longest time now, and they will always be brothers and they will always love each other and that is all that matters. And when Sylnan returns home that night, Br’aad laughing and joking beside him, he is, for the first time in a long time, smiling.

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imaginaryelle · 5 years ago

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Take This Piece of Me as Part of You

For the day 5 Untamed Winterfest prompt, “ribbon.” ~3.5k, wangxian, post-canon. This one is rated Mature, mostly for implied offscreen things that accompany heavy kissing. There’s also some biting, and a marriage proposal.

This fic can also be read on AO3 and is part of the same series as Light a Fire They Can’t Put Out and Kiss Me, Keep Me (Never Leave Me), but does not require reading either of them. Many thanks to @roamingjaguar for giving this a quick read and setting my mind at ease, and to @soundsaboutrighttumblr for this lovely picture prompt.

Note: xingan (心肝), according to what I’ve read, is a quite serious term of endearment that means ��heart and liver” or “one I cannot live without.”

Wangji commissions the forehead ribbon as soon as he’s sure, which corresponds roughly with his first night back in Cloud Recesses without Wei Ying.

He doesn’t sleep much. Even two short weeks of Wei Ying pressed against his side in the evenings, of warm skin and soft lips against his own and fingers trailing through his hair, is enough to change his habits. The Jingshi is too quiet. He finds himself listening for Wei Ying’s breath. Reaching for him in a space he’s never occupied. Expecting him to turn up with a fresh supply of water or some treat he’s purchased from a street seller, even though this is Cloud Recesses, and Wei Ying hasn’t so much as stepped across the threshold since Wangji was named Chief Cultivator over a year ago.

He meditates. He cleans his guqin. He thinks, quite seriously, about retrieving the rest of the Emperor’s Smile he’d hidden away and drinking some, just to pass the time, but he sets that aside fairly quickly. He combs his hair and polishes the pin and ornament, and dresses for the day, and waits.

At five, he leaves the Jingshi and makes his way to Lan Shu’s workshop. He brings tea, to facilitate matters.

Lan Shu listens to his request, and drinks the tea, and doesn’t ask questions. She hadn’t asked questions about the ribbon for Sizhui, either. And she’d never mentioned anything to Uncle.

“A marriage ribbon will take several months to complete,” she tells him, which he already knows. “I can’t guarantee delivery before Qingming.”

He won’t see Wei Ying until after Qingming anyway. It’s not an obstacle.

She gives him a long look, then shakes her head. “Go eat your breakfast, Chief Cultivator,” she says, setting down the tea. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

The weeks drag on. The Spring Festival is an extended trial that feels endless and is made longer by the sure knowledge that Wei Ying is in Yunmeng, not Gusu, or Lanling, or any of the other places the Chief Cultivator is required to be in the days leading up to New Year’s Eve. Xichen-ge agrees to break seclusion and help him hang decorations at the gentian cottage, and Sizhui returns just hours before the reunion dinner begins, but still Wangji feels keenly aware of a missing presence, despite the fact that Wei Ying has never spent the Spring Festival at Cloud Recesses and so he should have no expectation of such a thing.

Next year, he promises himself. Next year he and Wei Ying will clean and decorate the Jingshi together.

The close of the Lantern Festival brings a letter that speaks of Yunmeng’s beauty, of the promising young Jiang cultivators and their cleverness with fireworks, of papering over old wounds with new memories. There is also a gourd delicately painted with the Yunmeng lotus and several pages of sketches, but he hardly has a chance to savor them or think of writing back before he’s called away again, chasing rumors of something feeding on villagers and cultivators alike in the south.

It is a long, bloody hunt, and when he returns to Cloud Recesses to see the gourd still hanging where he left it and a new letter waiting, he knows it will be more than a year before Wei Ying joins him here. He will not make his father’s mistakes. He will not give less than all of himself, and he can offer nothing but a cold, empty room and his own repeated absence for as long as he remains Chief Cultivator.

He nearly resigns on the spot, but there is no one to replace him. The Jin sect is struggling to find its stride after a decade under Jin Guangyao with only the young, brash Jin Rulan to take on his duties. Xichen-ge has returned to seclusion and Wangji cannot fault him for it. Nie Hauisang insists on maintaining his distance from politics. Wangji doesn’t want to consider what might happen if Jiang Wanyin took the post. Perhaps he can start with the smaller clans, plant the seeds for a new shape of the world. One where a single cultivator can never again hold as much power as Wen Ruohan or Jin Guangyao, or at least one where more than one man might be held responsible for success and disaster.

Weeks turn to months. Long months, full of new duties and squabbles between cultivators who seem to have little else to do but pick fights and endlessly practice sword forms, waiting for spring thaws. He writes many letters, precious few of them to Wei Ying and nearly all of them terse and direct, but he receives new missives every day, complaints and ambitions and worries and petty rivalries besetting him on all sides from every household in the cultivation word. There are arguments to settle and ceremonies to plan, and to attend. Coming of Age ceremonies. Foundation laying ceremonies. Marriage ceremonies, which strike him as particularly unfair even though he’s told no one else of his intentions. The invitations threaten to engulf his writing desk. Worse are the genuine requests for aid, some of them from small clans scattered through the mountains and others from towns without a cultivation clan to protect them. He understands, quite thoroughly, why Jin Guangyao was so very insistent on setting up the watchtowers, but for all the man’s crimes and plans the system is still shockingly inefficient. Wangji spends more time visiting cultivators and convincing them to grant money, or food, or martial aid to their neighbors than he does actually night hunting himself. Worse, he does not have Jin Guangyao’s gift of pleasing words, and yet everywhere he goes people want to speak with him. Continuously. Exhaustively. No matter how far into silence he retreats or how firmly he refuses to adjust his position.

A week after Qingming, Lan Shu gives him a sandalwood box, subtly carved with clouds and mountains and symbols of longevity in love: butterflies, shuang-xi characters, and paired magpies. The ribbon inside is a close copy of his own, but the silk is freshly woven, the blue embroidery newly dyed; the embedded talismans glitter in the box’s shadowed confines.

He seals it away without touching it, slips the box gently into a qiankun pouch, and resigns himself to waiting.

Three years. That’s how long it takes him to get a working replacement for the post of Chief Cultivator in place. If Wei Ying thinks of marriage during those years, or if he resents the time Wangji spends on the rest of the world, he never shows it during their meetings. He could perhaps be described as clingy, when the weeks and months extend too long, but Wangji is no less possessive of their time together. He is sometimes melancholy, but neither of their lives has been easy and Wangji knows Wei Ying has regrets, for all that he rarely dwells on them. He takes hope from the fact that Wei Ying always returns to him. That his greeting is always welcoming, always eager. That even with so much time apart, his passions burn just as bright as Wangji’s. But hope is a poor substitute for certainty when such assurance is so immediately close to hand.

The sect leaders are displeased at his leavetaking, of course, but they’re always displeased. The ink is still wet on the agreement, red seals settling in cinnabar and silk, but Wangji makes it clear he will not be available for further discussion—he will return to Cloud Recesses for the official announcement, three days hence, and no sooner. In the meantime, they are all welcome to review the paperwork he’s accumulated. And even though it is already well past sundown, and even though his presence is not expected, he mounts Bichen and flies to meet Wei Ying as quickly as spiritual power will carry him.

It only occurs to him later, as he stands in the middle of the town’s main road, that he doesn’t know where, precisely, Wei Ying is staying, or even if he’s kept to the travel plans outlined in his latest letter.

The handful of people still out at night are very polite to him, but not very helpful. Despite years of night hunts, travel, and overlong political conferences, he is not nearly so efficient at soliciting information from strangers as Wei Ying is. Yes, they say, they remember a young man of that description. Yes he did appear to be a cultivator, though he carried no sword. He’d offered to look into a hungry ghost for one family, and disappearing ducks for another, and sold some protective talismans. No. They don’t know where he might be staying.

An inspection of the nearest inn’s stables shows no sign of Little Apple. Wangji grips Bichen tighter and hurries to check the next. Footsteps behind him suddenly speed up and he whirls, sword drawn.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying looks at him up the length of Bichen’s blade, a smile teasing at his lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a conference in Gusu?”

“It ended.” He sheathes his sword and studies Wei Ying, marking as many details as he can. His clothes are a little more worn than on their last meeting, months ago, but not badly so. His movements betray no sign of injury as he steps closer, a slight curve in his path and confusion drawing a line between his brows. He smells faintly of ginkgo and chrysanthemum, and his hands are slightly stained. Perhaps he has been gathering supplies.

He looks tired. Drawn thin, the bones of his face too-prominent.

“You’re not eating,” Wangji observes. Wei Ying rolls his eyes and leans in close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“I eat,” he insists, setting off again in a slow walk in the direction Wangji had been heading. “I eat plenty. I don’t need all that money you send me you know, I can earn my own.”

“You give it away,” Wangji reminds him, falling into step at his side. He’s witnessed Wei Ying’s generosity more than once.

“I do fine,” Wei Ying says, and then spins around to face him, walking backwards and changing the subject. “Lan Zhan, if anyone needs to take better care of themselves between us, it’s you. You’re letting all those Sect Leaders run you around, and then you still fly all the way here the same night? What were you going to do if I didn’t find you?”

“Keep looking,” Wangji says, both because it’s true and because he thinks it will make Wei Ying smile. It does.

“Even past nine?” he asks.

“Mn,” Wangji confirms, and Wei Ying laughs. He grabs Wangji’s sleeve and tugs him toward an inn’s brightly lit gate.

“You always wear so much white, Lan Zhan. People will think you’re a ghost come to haunt them.” His grin is teasing. “You should come inside with me so no one gets worried.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse. Wangji doesn’t bother to hold back his smile.

The inn is not the best in town, but it is clean and well-appointed, and the owner seems happy to supply a light meal despite the late hour. Wei Ying’s room is small, with little more than a table, a seating cushion and a bed, but Wangji hardly gets a chance to see it; as soon as the door slides closed behind them Wei Ying takes his face in his hands and kisses him, insistent and covetous like he thinks the opportunity will be snatched away.

It won’t be, but it wouldn’t be the first time that duty or disaster came unexpectedly calling.

“How long before you have to go back?” he asks, already slipping his hands under Wangji’s outer layer, pressing clever fingers down his sides to slide under his waist sash.

“Two days,” Wangji says, letting his own hands settle on Wei Ying’s waist and returning the kiss. But after that. After that... The qiankun pouch feels heavy in his sleeve. He wants to reveal it now. To know, immediately, but there’s a void opening up in his stomach, a swirling suction of doubts he can’t ignore any longer. Wei Ying may refuse him. He may be happy with what they have, despite his pout and the complaints of so soon, too soon, he’s muttering into Wangji’s chest. He may have a different vision of their future.

Later. He’ll ask later. For now he picks Wei Ying up—to a shout muffled against his shoulder—takes four steps, and spills the both of them onto the bed.

“Lan Zhan, if you tell me it’s nine already—”

“It’s not,” Wangji assures him, nuzzling his way up Wei Ying’s neck to his ear. “We have time.”

Wangji wakes at five, as usual. Wei Ying is asleep, curled in on himself with his back pressed warm against Wangji’s side. His eyelids flicker with dreams, and the dim light of the coming dawn paints him with soft gray shadows, smoothing away the worries he carries by day.

He’s beautiful.

He always has been.

Today, Wangji determines. He’ll ask today. This morning. As soon as Wei Ying wakes, or perhaps soon after, depending on his mood.

He allows himself a few moments to watch morning light move over Wei Ying’s skin as he breathes, to memorize, once again, the soft curve of his eyelashes and the gentle slope of his mouth. Then he sighs and sits up, ready to prepare for the day.

“Mnnnn, no, Lan Zhan, come back to bed.” Wei Ying rolls over and grabs him around the waist before he can stand.

“It’s five,” Wangji reminds him, even thought they have this conversation nearly every morning they wake up together and he knows that Wei Ying knows what time it is.

“This isn’t Gusu,” Wei Ying says against his back. Warm lips press against his skin. “Even the innkeeper’s family isn’t up yet. If you rise too soon you’ll disturb them.”

The statement is obviously untrue; Wangji woke to the sound of movement in the kitchens, and the both of them can clearly hear a child feeding the chickens and collecting eggs outside their window. But still, Wei Ying moves himself around on the bed until he can kiss Lan Wangji’s thigh and hip.

“It would be rude,” he says grinning and mischievous even as his hands slide over Lan Wangji’s stomach.

Wangji hesitates, which Wei Ying takes as surrender. He kisses his way up Wangji’s chest, to his lips. It’s a lingering, coaxing kiss that turns more heated as he slips himself into Wangji’s lap.

It makes a much better argument than anything to do with their hosts, and Wangji gives in easily, willingly. Wei Ying pushes at his shoulders until he lies back and then Wangji rolls them both over and catches Wei Ying’s hands between them. Wei Ying tugs at his grip, more playful than forceful, grinning wider and wrinkling his nose as Wangji’s hair tickles his face. He arches his back, seeking more contact, and rolls his hips and—and grabs the trailing end of Wangji’s forehead ribbon in his mouth.

Wangji bites his shoulder in retaliation and Wei Ying laughs through his teeth, no longer tugging at his hands, but wriggling as Wangji drags teeth and tongue over his chest and down his ribs, on his way to lick at his stomach and nip the curve of his hip bone. And then … then Wei Ying yanks his head a little too hard. The ribbon slides off Wanji’s forehead and keeps falling. The silver emblem smacks against his cheekbone on the way down, and then it and the rest of the fluttering white-and-blue length slips down to land on Wei Ying’s bare stomach.

“Ah!” Wei Ying spits out the ribbon end and looks immediately remorseful. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—here, I’ll—”

“Keep it.” The words slip out of his mouth without the permission of his rational mind, the weight of three years of longing and waiting pressing behind them, closing his throat to anything else.

Wei Ying goes still. His eyes are very wide.

Wangji is doing this wrong. This is not at all how a proposal is supposed to go, he’s certain, but he’s said it. He can’t take it back now. He can only keep going, struggling toward a future that suddenly feels as substantial as mist.

“Keep it,” he repeats, willing the intent to be understood, but Wei Ying is still staring. Wangji needs to do this properly. He wrenches himself off the bed despite Wei Ying’s wordless protest, finds the qiankun pouch, and shoves the sandalwood box rather unceremoniously into Wei Ying’s hands.

Wei Ying cradles it against his chest for a moment, Wangji’s ribbon still hanging from his fingers and his mouth slightly open, like he wants to speak but can’t think of what to say.

Wangji collects his own ribbon from Wei Ying’s unresisting grip and smooths it carefully. Then he kneels, and waits.

“What…?” Wei Ying sits up and looks down at the box, then frowns and looks closer. He holds it delicately, as if he thinks opening it could release a demon. Or perhaps like a firework that’s already been lit. But he must know what it means.

“This is for me?” he asks, the words sounding half-strangled.

“No,” Wangji corrects, holding out the ribbon he’s worn most of his life. “This is for you. If you want it.”

Wei Ying looks at the box again. His fingers trace over the carvings.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, almost at a whisper, “this is—Lan Zhan are you asking me to marry into the Lan clan?”

It occurs to Wangji, sudden and shocking as water from the Cold Spring, that he could have done this differently. They don’t have to follow the Lan clan’s customs in order to be cultivation partners. They could simply travel together. Live together. Perhaps start their own sect. They don’t have to go anywhere near Gusu or Cloud Recesses. He could have waited three days and then disappeared into the night with Wei Ying at his side and no one the wiser.

His hands clench tight around the ribbon. Cloud Recesses is his home, and being a Lan is woven into the fiber of his entire self. He wants to share that, not set it aside.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his eyes on Wei Ying’s face. “If you want it.”

Wei Ying sinks to the floor across from him. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if he’s now afraid to touch the ribbon he’s touched so many times already. That he had in his mouth. He sets the box on the floor, almost reverently, and stares at it for a moment.

Then he laughs, the sound turned strange and high. “I don’t think I’ll make a very good Lan,” he says, as if it’s a joke.

Wangji thinks the void in his stomach might engulf him whole. He looks away. Down at his hands and the ribbon stretched between them. His throat aches with words that can only make this worse.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s hands are on his shoulders, a warm, strong grip. On his face, coaxing his chin upward.

“Xingan, don’t look like that.” Wei Ying is smiling. Wangji feels the ribbon pull free of his hands. “I accept, I accept, I just—” Wei Ying laughs wetly. There are tears slipping down his cheeks. “It’s just that you really should have been part of the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect, you know. Attempt the impossible.” He laughs again. “I just keep thinking of your uncle’s face when he sees—how am I supposed to wear this?”

Wangji can’t speak. He wants to say, Are you certain?, and I don’t care what Uncle thinks, but xingan is echoing through his head, blocking out everything but Wei Ying’s face as he clumsily tries to tie on Wangji’s forehead ribbon.

“It’s crooked.” He reaches up to straighten it and ends up retying it completely, intensely aware of Wei Ying’s breath against his arms and chest, and the soft touch of his hair, and a sort of whole-body tingling that makes him feel slightly unreal.

He draws back.

Wei Ying is wearing his forehead ribbon.

None of the marks he’s left on Wei Ying’s skin the last three years made him feel like this. Like his blood is heating up too quickly. Like he needs to kiss Wei Ying immediately, which he does, doing his best to claim him with lips and tongue and teeth.

Wei Ying, gratifyingly, climbs into his lap once more and melts against him, whining slightly as Wangji bites at the hinge of his jaw.

“Lan Zhan,” he pants as Wangji mouths down his neck. “Xingan,” he repeats, sending a full-body shudder through Wangji’s frame. “Am I supposed to give you the other one?”

“Later,” Wangji tells him.

He is not currently interested in self-restraint.

#untamed winterfest #wangxian #wangxian fic #the untamed #chen qing ling #the untamed fic #chen qing ling fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #alex writes #light a fire verse #long post #winterfest2k19 fic

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skekheck · 5 years ago

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if your still doing character thing: skekmal

Yeah I’m still willing to do these: they’re a lot of fun!

Why I like them

There’s this lure about him like we know what kind of character he is, but there’s still an air of mystery to him. We get a pretty good idea what the other lords do in their day to day lives. SkekMal’s seemed way more interesting, battling against the elements and hunting whatever he could find. I really want to know the history with some of the trophies he wore. Not to mention, that unspoken relationship he had with Rek’yr. I mean they were on a name basis. As I recall, no other gelfling referred the skeksis by name, only as lord or by their title.

A lot about skekMal is so interesting. Like how there are legends surrounding him by gelfling and podlings, referring to him as “the Hunter”. How he lived off the lands instead of relying on the Crystal (at this seemingly). But his most interesting aspect is his obsession with the hunt and how it shows deeper roots into his hidden fear of death. SkekMal’s whole philosophy hunting down worthy targets and wearing their remains somehow giving him strength. Thus, keeping off death’s doorsteps. I also feel like, besides enjoying the carnage of his hunts, he’s desensitizing himself from death. The more he kills, the less he’ll fear it. This is also why he has a great distaste for the skeksis court and their way of life. SkekMal sees how much they deteriorated, becoming weaker, closer to death. How much they rely on weaker beings for resources, being pampered and drowning in useless trinkets. The endless squabbling that goes on in the court about things that in the end don’t matter. He doesn’t want to become like that. He needs to keep himself strong and get stronger. That’s why he dedicates his life to the hunt: it’s a way of self-preservation.

I’ve been thinking about skekMal wasn’t always this obsessed and that he may have had a better social life when he was younger. I’m under the assumption the skeksis are social creatures, seeing how they have their own cliques and friends. And while I think skekMal still had a similar bad attitude in his younger days, I feel like he was more mellowed out enough to have some friends. But as they got older and fears of their mortality sprung up, skekMal completely changed. He began dedicating himself to his profession, spending much longer time by himself. He grew more wild and untamable and the others began fearing him, maybe even moreso than before. No one wanted him around so they rarely summon him (and only do so under extreme circumstances). That doesn’t mean skekMal didn’t have any social contact. Despite how fiercely independent he is, he relies on the Dousan to guide him on hunts. And seeing how he and Rek’yr are on a name basis, I’m sure he has made similar connections over the years. But it’s not enough for him. I’ve read that social isolation leads to increased aggression and violence so perhaps this is why he’s so violent (and isolation probably amplified these traits).

Why I don’t

This stupid bitch is the reason why urVa had to sacrifice himself. If skekMal wasn’t such a feral bastard and maybe chill the fuck out, they’d both be alive.

Favorite episode (scene if movie)

Episode 4 is the best. Not only because he makes his debut here, but also features skekMal’s fight against Rian and Ordon. Which, in my opinion, is one of the best scenes in the series.

Favorite season/movie

I mean, AOR. I could count the book series, but he is a waaaaay different character there (even between books: he seems way different in Flames than he was in Shadows). Also he’s a by far more interesting character in AOR than in the book series.

Favorite line

“Nothing can stop the hunt!”

Favorite outfit

I do like him with the metal mask he wore briefly, but his bone mask is a LOOK.

OTP

It’s no secret that I ship MalVa. It’s the best one. You can fight me on that. I’m all about that self love!

Brotp

Talked about possible friendships he could have had in another post, but I also wanted to bring up skekSo. Like I talked about in skekSo’s post, I feel like the two would have an unspoken respect and fear of each other. SkekSo is the only one that can control the Hunter and that takes some skills considering how wild he is now. I can see that the two got into a pretty bloody fight and skekSo came out the victor, asserting his dominance over skekMal. Or he could have seen the Emperor beating skekShod to a pulp for even questioning his power and that might have gained some respect for him. Or might even be a combination of both. I also feel like out of all the other skeksis, skekMal might still see skekSo as powerful as he was in his youth and would hold him in high regard over the others.

Head Canon

The Dousan Clan heavily influenced skekMal, especially in regard to his philosophy. The Dousan already live a similar lifestyle: only living off the land and what’s provided for them. They’re nomadic and don’t have a permanent residence. Plus, they have a spiritual belief for the cycle of life and death. The skeksis fear the Dousan for this and therefore not only limit visits to them, but also are the only clan that cannot become a castle guard. I feel like all of this would at least intrigue the Hunter. The more he spends time with them, understanding their culture begins inspiring his lifestyle. When he saw that the Dousan wore bones and believed they were charms, he inherited this belief. All of his trophies are his own charms: charms that give him power.

Unpopular opinion

Every now and then I see people hypothesize that MalVa was Dark Heart, the urSkek that ultimately caused the Great Division. The Creation Myths imply that it’s SilSol, since you can tell it’s skekSil being torn from urSol. But even if they didn’t, it would suck if MalVa was the one and they both died without having that addressed. Or having it to be addressed and they’re already dead so what’s the point? Also since Dark Heart was a musician and urSol is the chanter, that’s an easier deduction. Additionally, skekSil has qualities of a musician, being able to pitch his voice and using words to sway others. Also on multiple occasions in the series he’s seen orchestrating/ordering the podling musicians. As dark and evil as skekMal is, he doesn’t hold a candle to skekSil’s own wickedness.

A wish

Seriously hoping that Rek’yr and skekMal’s relationship can be explored in the prequel series. Also flashbacks of young skekMal would be nice.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen

I mean he’s already dead so… it’s already happened LMAO.

5 words to best describe them

Wild | Persevered | Bloodthirsty | Unpredictable | Ambitious

My nickname for them

Feral with variations (like bastard, bitch, asshole).

#Anonymous #skekmal #asks for skekheck #once again I am reminded I can just easily write a character study on this guy

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thelazyhermits · 5 years ago

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After getting so many asks about Nighteye, I figured I’d share some HCs involving him haha

After the raid, Fortune and Nighteye exchange numbers so she can contact him if she ever has any worrisome visions about All Might. What she didn’t expect was for him to occasionally text her to see how All Might is doing, basically acting like a worried parent even though he’s younger than him lol

Fortune thinks it’s sweet how much Nighteye cares about All Might so she doesn’t mind giving him updates. She’ll also tell him about any funny events involving All Might that she happens to witness.

Also, regarding Nighteye’s birthday present for her in A Bright Celebration, Fortune takes a picture of it dressed as Dad Might and sends it to Nighteye after thanking him for the present. She also includes a caption of the words she told everyone else. Nighteye took a long time to respond cause he had to spend several minutes fighting the urge to laugh. He was literally shaking at his desk with his face buried in his arms.

So, I know that Midoriya ends up interning with Endeavor during the winter break. I don’t plan on changing that since I think that experience was good for him. The reason he wasn’t with Nighteye despite him being alive is because Nighteye was in the middle of an investigation that involved the LoV. Since UA wants their students to stay away from the LoV for now, Nighteye recommended that Midoriya intern somewhere else during that particular week which led to him accepting Todoroki’s offer.

Up until that point though, Nighteye has Mirio and Midoriya come do intern work. I figure UA wouldn’t temporarily stop the internships in TABF since things ended so much better with the raid as compared to canon. However, it becomes less frequent like they mainly go during the weekend or like in the afternoons.

During that period of time, Nighteye asks Fortune to come along every now and then since he wants to see her Quirk in action for himself. Since their Quirks are so similar, he figures he can offer some helpful advice. Even though he knows she’s technically a civilian, it’s obvious she’ll still get involved with fights as long as she’s staying at UA, so he might as well help ensure that she survives those fights lol

Naturally, Midoriya is completely fascinated with the idea of two people with foresight Quirks sparring. He wonders how that’ll work, and honestly, Fortune and Nighteye are wondering the same thing.

When they try to find out, they discover they can’t use their Quirks on each other at the same time, meaning if they try to fight each other with their Quirks the Quirks will cancel each other out. This makes sense to me since how else would a fight work when both fighters can predict the other’s movements especially since those movements are in response to those predictions?

I think their brains would have a fail safe for situations like that, so their Quirks don’t activate when other foresight Quirks are involved since it would overwhelm the brain if so many possible scenarios were being shown to it. It just seems like things could get bad quick, so no foresight Quirk battling for those two lol

As a result, whenever Nighteye spars with Fortune, it’s mostly hand-to-hand but sometimes he’ll get her to use his Quirk since he still needs to see it in action. He also has her fight Mirio and Midoriya, figuring it’ll be good training for everyone involved.

While they do get along better as compared to their first meeting, occasionally Fortune and Nighteye butt heads mostly when they disagree over something or when they’re both being stubborn. Mirio thinks it’s a sign of how well they get along that they can fight like that but Midoriya isn’t so sure. Midoriya always panics in the background when the two adults squabble while Mirio just laughs and enjoys the show.

So, you know how Nighteye knows pretty much everything about All Might? Well, there is actually something that Fortune knows that neither Nighteye nor Midoriya knows about, and it kinda drives them crazy since they hate not knowing everything about All Might lol Basically, it was an event that she saw in her vision that no one else but her saw since All Might was alone at the time. It was an embarrassing moment for All Might so he doesn’t want her talking about it even though Nighteye and Midoriya are obviously curious.

In regards to what the event was, I like to keep it vague so y’all can let your imaginations run wild. What I had in mind was either a costume malfunction happening while dealing with a villain or him accidentally running into something while on patrol XD

#TABF #bnha spoilers #figure I should use that #since I mentioned the winter internship arc #I was not expecting so many nighteye asks lol #of course I didn't mind #since it was fun answering the questions about him #it's always fun getting asks about tabf XD #TABF HCs

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drunkcnsunlight · 4 years ago

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Introduction to Lawrence Gordon

“DR. GORDON.... This is your wake-up call. Every day of your working life, you have given people the news that they’re gonna die soon. Now YOU will be the cause of death. Your aim in this game is to kill Adam. You have until six on the clock to do it. There’s a man in the room with you. When there is that much poison in your blood, the only thing left to do.... is shoot yourself. There are ways to win this, hidden all around you. Just remember: X marks the spot for the treasure. If you do not kill Adam by six.... then Alison and Diana will die, Dr. Gordon. And I’ll leave you in this room to rot. LET THE GAME BEGIN.”

[Look who just woke up- is that ALEXANDER SKARSGARD? No, I must have been mistaken, that’s LAWRENCE GORDON from SAW. I heard he is 40 and stuck here just like everyone else. Even in the 20’s, they still give off a STRONG-WILLED SURGEON, REDEEMING FATHER, STEADFAST MORALIST impression. They’re known to be quite INTELLIGENT, but have a tendency to be TIGHTLY-WOUND on their bad days. (alissa, 22, she/her/hers, est)]

Gender/Pronouns:

Cisgender male who uses he/him/his pronouns.

How long have they been in Sydney?:

As Lawrence is able to remember, he has been in Sydney for one year.

Job:

Larry works as a doctor and surgeon at the prominent Sydney Hospital.

In particular, he is a specialist of a department that attends to oncology and hematology. Given that the time period is the 1920′s, this area of specialization is new--- not mainstream--- and upcoming, but Lawrence’s expertise in his previous universe carries over well in Sydney.

Which suburb do they live in?:

Lawrence presently lives in the Rocks, and he recently moved in with his boyfriend Tom.

The pair of them are aware that at some point, they might need to move, given the possible threats that may be imposed by Tom’s brother, Adrian.

However, wherever Tom goes, Lawrence is set on traveling with him.

Memories of their real life:

Perhaps only fans of the horror/mystery genres would be aware of Dr. Gordon, formerly of Los Angeles, and the universe of the Saw films.

In the canon material, Lawrence is a pompous, oncological surgeon who is quite skilled in his profession, but who neglects his wife, Alison, and their daughter, Diana.

Lawrence is short with his patients, although he is not prone to make mistakes, and he is largely absent from his family members’ lives.

One of his patients turns out to be the infamous Jigsaw Killer, also known as John Kramer, who takes interest in him, and forces him and his family to fight for their lives in their own, separate life-or-death games.

During his torture, Lawrence is imprisoned in a room with a younger man, named Adam, and the pair of them were more connected than either of them exactly realized.

Lawrence’s objective is to kill Adam, and if he does so, then he is told that he will be freed, and he can reclaim his family. At the conclusion of their game, Lawrence cuts off his own foot, crawls across the room, and shoots Adam--- although he is purposeful, and ensures that the wound will not be fatal for his companion.

Lawrence crawls out of the room, and promises Adam that he will return, and that he will bring help when he comes back.

All of the above information is consistent with how I will write Lawrence. However, I will make major divergences from canon, as I describe these differences below.

In the canon material, Lawrence never returns for Adam, and Adam perishes in the room where they were chained up together.

Lawrence becomes an accomplice to the killer who forced him to dismember himself.

As I write Lawrence, he returned for Adam, and he sent help for him straight away; he never became an accomplice.

He recalls spending time with Adam, following their rescues and surgeries, and the pair of them became quite close. They found solace in the fact that they shared horrors together, and Adam is the man who awoke Lawrence to the fact that he is attracted to men.

Lawrence became set on becoming a better person. He was kinder to his patients, and set out to be less arrogant. While he still loves Alison deeply, both of them knew that they no longer were attracted to each other, so they divorced. Lawrence promised to be a better father to their daughter, and he began down this path with actions and words alike, until he was transported to Sydney.

What was their fake life like?:

Lawrence’s fake life resembles his real one in several ways.

He recalls being raised by parents who loved him, but who were always fighting, and who never made efforts to ensure that their son was not affected by their squabbles.

Lawrence recalls a lonely childhood without many friends, and most of the ones that he had were imaginary, and lived only in his books.

Coming up, Lawrence was an avid reader, and it was clear that he was highly intelligent. When he was accepted into medical school, and later practiced as a doctor, people began to take great interest in him.

He became an esteemed student and practitioner, and his arrogance developed to compensate for all of the other things that he lacked, but craved--- family of his own, friends, and a sense of belonging.

In the early days of his work as a medical doctor, Lawrence was driving with friends, and none of them were paying much attention to the road ahead of them. In a horrific crash, none of his friends, nor the other driver, were killed, but all of them suffered painful injuries. Most were pulled muscles, and broken ankles.

But Lawrence’s were the worst. He shattered multiple bones in his leg, none of which healed correctly, even with all of the best medical care. Lawrence came to use a cane in his thirties, and while he was grateful to later walk away from the incident, it never leaves his mind for long.

In his fake-but-turned-real life, Lawrence is dating a man named Tom, who he lives with in Sydney. In his fake memories, it was not until he met Tom, when he realized that he was attracted to men. Lawrence had his fair share of girlfriends during his youth, but he never stayed interested in them for long.

In his fake memories, Lawrence does not think that he had a wife or children. But once he realized that he held other, real memories, he learned about the roles that Alison and Diana played in his life, and he is desperate to have them back with him.

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darlingrutherford · 5 years ago

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Once Upon a Time in Thedas Update

Because I’m writing these in short scene-based chapters rather than longer ones, I went ahead and put out the next update for my DA Cinderella!AU :)

Trigger warnings for this series for mentions and scenes of mental/physical abuse.

Once Upon a Time in Thedas - Chapter Two | Cross-posted on Ao3 | DA Cinderella!AU with alternate world canon | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | Mature rating for this chapter for minor mention of abuse, much less than the last chapter though |

The Royal Palace in Denerim was large. Much, much larger than the mabari pens Alistair had slept in as a child. His entire life had been a whirlwind - of vying for the attention of those who were supposed to be family, of trying to impress them and do what was asked of him so he could belong - he had even suffered through templar training at the behest of his Uncle, Arl Eamon, who had passed him off at the behest of his wife, only to drag Alistair back to run a kingdom he hadn’t been raised to rule. Being King wasn’t easy. Not that Alistair had expected it to be, but when Eamon had brought him to Denerim and presented him as the bastard son of the deceased King Maric, he had expected that maybe he would have at least been okay at it. Why else would Eamon have suggested him for the job if it hadn’t been true? ‘Bastard son of the previous King, half brother of the deceased’ didn't exactly flow off the tongue otherwise. Alistair felt at a loss, though, clinging to the advisors that had been appointed to him at every matter thrust his way. Thankfully, everything to fall in his lap had been apparently on the easier side of things - small squabbles between parishes, lands arguments between farmers, no all out wars or large dealings with other countries as of yet. Still, it seemed like quite a lot for only having been crowned for a week, and Alistair was already exhausted.

“Maker’s breath, is it going to be like this every day?” Alistair sat at the head of the table in the council chamber, groaning as he and his advisors finished combing the stack of papers in front of Eamon. It had been a long day - the same as each the past week - and his brain found itself wanting to quickly vacate his body. He felt little sympathy being thrown his way, since everyone around him had been more groomed into a life of high service than himself, though the sympathetic huff from the mabari at his feet did make him feel a little heard.

“You have only just ascended the throne, your Majesty,” Eamon said from his seat to the left of Alistair. “The people of Ferelden have been without a king for months while others vied for that power. It will take time to return to the peace we were once at.”

“In the meantime, there is one more item on our agenda for today,” Teagan spoke from the other side of Eamon.

“Fine, what is it?” Alistair asked as he picked up his cup, looking at the water as if hoping it would gain him a sliver more of energy.

“It is most important,” Eamon said. “As King of Ferelden, you must have a wife chosen.”

“A what?” Alistair sputtered as he choked on the water that had been halfway down his throat. The mabari perked his head up, tilting his head in concern with a whine. “Maker, I’ve only just… Right now?”

“Not this very moment, but Ferelden must have a Queen with which you can continue the Theirin bloodline,” Eamon said.

“First you’re talking about marriage and then you jump right to babies? I can’t decide that all in one day!”

“You needn’t decide at all. As your advisors, we have compiled a list of eligible women. We may decide which would be best suited to -”

“You can’t expect me to marry some random noble woman you chose from a list?” Alistair asked, interrupting Eamon in exacerbation. A few of the other advisors sighed, as if growing impatient with how long the day had dragged on. “Maker, I’ve… Everything in my life has been chosen for me, surely I at least should choose my own wife if I have to have one? And not from some… list. What if I don’t even like any of them enough to love them?”

“Love is earned in many marriages of birth,” Eamon sighed, his patience with Alistair clearly waning.

“No. I won’t leave something like that up to chance,” Alistair said firmly.

“And how do you expect to meet your perfect woman while you are spending your days in these meetings?” Eamon asked.

“We could throw a ball,” Teagan suggested. Eamon looked at Teagan in disbelief, as if his brother should have been trying to convince Alistair to allow them to choose. Teagan glanced at Eamon with only a hint of an apology, before looking at Alistair and continuing. “To celebrate King Alistair’s coronation, and to allow him to choose a bride. A three night event all eligible women may attend.”

“Three nights? Is that all?” Alistair grimaced. Three nights seemed barely enough time to get to know a person, let alone the woman he was expected to spend the rest of his life with and make children with.

“It is either that, or our list,” Eamon sighed. Alistair paused, leaning back as he mulled it over. It wasn’t ideal, but, then, was any of this? Everything, from his title to the clothes he wore, had been chosen for him. If they would allow him to choose this, to choose a person who he could perhaps love enough to be a true partner to him, well, he supposed he would have to take it.

“And I get to choose anyone there?”

“Yes, but you must choose on the third night,” Eamon said firmly. “If you do not, we shall choose for you.”

“I want any woman allowed to attend, regardless of status.”

“Regardless of -”

“My own mother worked in the kitchens, or so I was told,” Alistair interrupted Eamon. His voice was more stern, unwilling to budge. Why should he limit himself to nobility, to people who would only want to be there for the chance to be Queen? He was sure it would be difficult to find anyone who didn’t have that as their number one priority, but perhaps then he would at least be able to find someone who meshed with him well. Someone he could have actual conversations with, rather than constantly bringing up the affairs of state and other subjects that bored him to no end.

“Very well,” Eamon grumbled in defeat. “We shall draw up the plans for the ball. Let it be held the third week of Harvestmere. Unwed ladies of all status shall be interested to attend. By the end of the third night, King Alistair will announce his choice, or we will, if none are chosen.”

“Does this mean he gets to choose one as well? Are you inviting all the eligible mabari in Ferelden? Since Bryn is King of the Mabari, and all,” Alistair joked. The mabari at his feet barked loudly and enthusiastically, his little tail wagging wildly. Eamon only groaned, muttering under his breath as Teagan choked down a laugh.

Two weeks had gone by since Lana had been locked in the closet by her mother. The offense had cost her an entire day, as her mother grew more and more frustrated with Lana's ‘outbursts’ of magic. Since then Lana's days had been rather uneventful, back to her normal routine, with some minor changes. As part of her punishment, Lana's mother had confined her to her room when she was not finishing her chores. She had been careful as ever, and spent as much time as possible in her room near her sunny window, knowing that if enough time went by of her behaving her mother would eventually allow her outside again. This particular day Sister Leliana had come by, and together they sat on her bed with legs crossed as they spoke with hushed tones.

“It's not right,” Sister Leliana was saying. Lana's hand was in her palm, and her fingers delicately rewrapping the bandage on Lana's pinky finger. The finger was slightly off-set and swollen, even after the two weeks had passed. Lana winced slightly at how tight Leliana was tying the bandage, although Leliana had assured her she knew what she was doing.

“Sister -”

“Yes, that's right. I am a Sister, and I say it isn't right. This isn't what the Maker wishes for you, Lana,” she said softly. She tied off the bandage gently before continuing. “Many parents must deal with the change magic brings to a family, but she needn't break your finger for it. It is vile… You should let me reset it. It is not healing correctly.”

“It hurts too much… I don’t want to upset her by being too loud.” Lana had spent the past two weeks being as quiet as possible. If she upset her mother now, she wasn’t sure if she would even be allowed the window in her room going forward.

“Maybe one of these days I will happen to stop by when she is not here. Then we may set it correctly.”

“You aren't like the other Chantry Sisters who have checked on me in the past,” Lana said with an appreciative smile.

“Want to know a secret?” Leliana smiled as Lana nodded. She leaned in closer, whispering more quietly for emphasis. “I wasn't always a Sister.”

“Really?”

“I was a bard.”

“What?” Lana clapped her hand over her mouth as the word burst loudly from her tongue. The two of them laughed quietly.

“It’s true. In Orlais, for some time. I traveled all over, performing at great palaces and learning all their secrets. I have seen enough to know the good of mages. I know you did not deserve this. The Maker knows too, I am sure.”

“Tell me about Denerim, please,” Lana asked as she wiped her eyes. Compliments were difficult for Lana. She appreciated every word, more than Leliana could know, but there was always a part of her that refused to believe it. Her mother had spent Lana’s entire life telling her just the opposite. How could it be true?

“Of course,” Leliana said with a smile. “Did you hear the King is to pick a bride? They will be holding a grand ball for his decision. Three nights, of parties, and music, and all the women for him to pick from.”

“Maker, that would be a wondrous sight,” Lana sighed with a smile on her face. Her eyes trailed up to the roof as if picturing it. “Can you imagine? All the ball gowns, the dancing, all the people. I wonder if there will be other elves there? What kind of food will they have? Have you been to such a thing before?”

“I have, yes.” Leliana smiled. She watched Lana for a minute, her face never changing from one of wonderment as if she were still imagining it. “Would you like to go?”

“Me? A mage?” Lana laughed incredulously.

“Why not?” Leliana asked. “I would be shocked if you were the only mage in attendance. Many mages are not kept within the walls of their home as you are, Lana.”

“I… Don't think my parents would allow me to,” she said. The smile faded from her face, her eyes moving to the bed. “It would be nice, if only to see it once. But, I haven't even been to the marketplace since I was a child. And I would stick out like a sore thumb among all their graceful clothing in my own.”

“What if someone were to give you clothes for it?” Leliana raised her brows suggestively. “You must live a little, Lana. I worry what will happen to you if you live your entire life cooped up in this home.”

“Not everyone has grand lives, I’m afraid… It's not a life meant for me. I'll just have to dream about it.”

“Don't give up on your dreams,” Leliana said with a sparkle in her eyes. “You never know when they'll come true.”

#dragon age #cinderella!au #alistair theirin #suranistair #leliana #alistair x surana #dragon age au #fanfiction #lana surana #ao3 #my work #my ocs

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blogmaria333ph · 6 years ago

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Almost Two Years Later

Still a fan of APH Veneziano.

Still not overly fond of Romano/Veneziano, Germany/Veneziano or HRE/Veneziano, but not a hater.

Thinking back, I've comprised a list of Veneziano pairings I liked/would still like to see/read.

And here they are.

*Breathe deeply*

Gosh... Here's a rather long list of ships for one character...😅 Feel free to reblog this if you agree with a ship😉

(PS: I made up ship names for a few of them. Ultimately, a lot don't have one...)

Angel Pair (England/Veneziano) - The Ship Name was bestowed upon these two by other fans. The ship originally came from the game, HetaOni, but I personally think they grew close during the days when Rome had England as a colony.

PasTea (China/Veneziano) - Ship Name equates to Pasta + Tea. I imagine China spent a lot of time with him during the Silk Road Days, what with Rome taking him along almost everywhere!

EngVeneChu (England/Veneziano/China) - Stern, parental China and (quite possibly) magical, protective England. Between the two of them, I think Vene would be well cared for, yes? Then, whenever they feel down due to any reason, Vene would cheer them up!

Scotland/Veneziano - Imagine that. "Ve... _____ is scary!" - Vene. "So, _____. Want to fight and lose?" - Scotland. Or "My people want to leave but England's politicians won't let them..." - Scotland. "I can try talking to England about it?" - Vene.

Wales/Veneziano - Wales, according to many a wiki, is apparently calm. I can see him just being a support for dear Vene during hard times. Vene would keep him from feeling down whenever he remembers the days he fought England.

VenezIre (Veneziano/North Ireland) - North Ireland is a bit less mature than the other UK countries, I think... I mean, if I were to decide his character, he would probably be more playful than work-oriented. They'd be great together, no?

UkVene - This ship is Veneziano with more than one of the four UK countries. Any combination.

Hongkong/Veneziano - Hongkong probably was just looking for something to do at a meeting until he noticed Vene being all forced smiles and shaky laugher. He'd likely set off fireworks just to fix that and then promptly get lost in the honest sparkle of happiness radiating from Vene. 😊

KimSta (South Korea/Veneziano) - Ship Name is a combination of the words: Kimchi and Pasta. South Korea would jump and claim certain parts, which Vene would laugh at and allow. South might likely take a while before admitting to any commitments, but once he sees how caring and positively fun Vene is, he might just settle down.😉

North Korea/Veneziano - Yeah. Imagine him just terrorizing all those who so much as pose a threat to Vene!😉😁 ([*muttering* I'd attempt to pull him out of isolation just for this]) He'd probably start their friendship just to annoy certain countries but Vene has a way of 'melting the ice', right? So, eventually, he starts to actually fall for the bubbly, cheery man.

PaShu (Japan/Veneziano) - Ship Name = Pasta + Shushi. Veneziano was Japan's first friend, even before America! They liked each other's culture and history even before officially meeting! (According to one episode, at least.) Not hard to imagine Japan protecting Vene, seeing as it does happen in the show.😉😉

Mentioned Asian Countries/Veneziano - More than one, that is. Any combination.

HamSta (America/Veneziano) - Ship Name = Hamburger + Pasta. America has a hero- complex, or at least something like it. It's actually not hard to picture him standing up against those belittling Vene. And when he feels like the pressure of being a World Power is crushing him, Vene would be there with smiles and pasta!

MapAsta (Canada/Veneziano) - Ship Name: Maple and Pasta. I imagine Canada as a sweet friend to Vene at first, gradually becoming more. They bond over not being listened to enough. Canada has a violent side, though, which comes up when friends and loved ones are threatened. Vene would always be there for Canada, seeing and hearing him regardless of the others' reactions, or lack thereof.

CanZiAme (Canada/Veneziano/America) - A sweet lover with a tendency to get be violently protective. A protective lover who loves to try out new things. An optimistic lover who is happy just being there for them emotionally and physically. Really. They're cute. 😚

Sonet (Austria/Veneziano) - Ship Name derived from my head Canon that Veneziano also loves music, like Austria. To be honest. I rarely think of them this way anymore, but I still find them cute and sweet together.

SwitZiano (Switzerland/Veneziano) - I like how I got this to have 'sweet' in it.😉😉 Switzerland had protected Vene as much as he could during the Italian Wars. I imagine he still has a soft spot for Vene, though rather pushed to the far corners of his mind. (A lot like his affections for Austria.) Vene might secretly miss the days when he and Switzerland would travel together.

PrussiAno (Prussia/Veneziano) - Ah, Prussia. A passionate man with a rather large protective streak focused on his brother and Vene. Truly, my head Canons are rearing their, well... Their heads... Anywho, Vene doesn't like the fact that Prussia gets sad, he also hates the possibility that either of them might leave the world at any time. Prussia does, as well. So they spend as much time together as possible.

Austria/Veneziano/Switzerland - Both of them are strict. Both have a strong sense of duty, due to the military style upbringing. Both, also, have a soft spot, though for different things. Vene is well aware of the soft spots and uses them to stop any conflict between the two. ((Also, he is more than happy to sleep between them to be sure they don't fight in their sleep.😂))

Austria/Veneziano/Prussia - One is strict. The other is adventurous. Both like music and art. Vene acts as a buffer in their squabbles and is happy that they at least tone down the shouting and cold shoulders.

RussiAno (Russia/Veneziano) - A cute pairing, I think. Russia wants friends but everyone just tries to avoid him. Vene finds out and tries to overcome his fear-filled thoughts about the large nation. They become friends, and more, and Vene swears the rest of the world don't know what they're missing due to fears. Russia is content with the development and is more than happy to show exactly how he feels when anyone doubts his feelings. (Pipe and chilling atmosphere, anyone?😉😉)

Poland/Veneziano - They started out as close friends, bonded over love for artistic pursuits, and before they knew it, they were in love. Of course, they don't talk about it for years, until others point it out and push them into tackling their feelings before they start experiencing any regrets.

Lithuania/Veneziano - Poland introduced them to each other and Poland pushed them together because they are both his best friends, first and foremost. So, if they light up like bulbs when they so much as hear of each other, well. Poland certainly won't be getting in the way.

Lithuania/Veneziano/Poland - Poland introduces them to each other and sees the happiness radiating from them when they're together. Poland knows that Lithuania still loves him. He knows that he at least cares for Vene. So, without any more hesitations, he does all he can so the three of them can be together. Vene is happy being with them and Lithuania is grateful for his two lovers.

Estonia/Veneziano - *shrugs* Seems like an interesting pair... (To me, at least...) Estonia might actually try to fight Russia for Vene's sake and Vene might try it, too. For Estonia's sake... Maybe?

NordIano - This is more than one Nordic country with Veneziano. Any combination.

DeNe (Denmark/Veneziano) - I imagine he would try convincing Vene to stay a bit at his place for winter. Then, he would use the cold as an excuse to cuddles and warm kisses.😘 Vene would probably try to show him the soft, pretty snowfalls in the Mediterranean, prompting even more cuddles and warm kisses.😊

SwedEziano (Sweden/Veneziano) - Sweden appreciates how Vene does not mind his silence. Vene likes how Sweden actually, truly, listens to him.

FinVene (Finland/Veneziano) - A cute pair, really. I can honestly see how Finland would show his more violent side in response to anyone who poses a threat to Vene. And I can see Vene being all subtle about keeping those like Russia away from Finland.

ZiaNor (Norway/Veneziano) - Norway would, maybe, appreciate Vene's sweet, happy gestures in public (brief touches and chaste kisses). He might also enjoy the cuddling they have in bed. Vene is right there whenever Norway gets bad days (like having Iceland ignore him). He does a lot to keep Norway happy and optimistic about his relationship with Iceland.

VenIce (Veneziano/Iceland) - Iceland has a bit of insecurity problems regarding Norway and the other Nordics. Vene helps him see he has nothing to worry about in regards to the Scandinavians. Vene Has self-esteem issues. Iceland does everything to help build up Vene's confidence. (I especially like how this ship spells the name of Italy's Floating City. 😉😍)

VeneRia (Bulgaria/Veneziano) - Bulgaria had been Vene's Ally since before the World Wars, although it was a decision he did not initially like. Vene is all smiles and positive opinions about Buglaria. Bulgaria, eventually, gets caught in the roller coaster of emotions and happiness that is Veneziano.

RomanIano (Romania/Veneziano) - He heard of Vene from Bulgaria and decided to meet the bubbly Italian. He is quickly taken by the warm smiles and positive outlook in life the other bestows upon everyone.

Romania/Veneziano/Bulgaria - Really. They would want to keep Vene safe and Vene would want to keep up the positive vibes around them.

England/Veneziano/Norway - I imagine England would focus on cursing those who speak badly about them. Norway would probably just get trolls to take care of any annoyance. Vene would just sigh and leave them be for a short while before ultimately coaxing them into a cuddle.

England/Veneziano/Romania - basically similar to the above Trio, actually. But Romania deals with problems using potions.

Romania/Veneziano/Norway - similar to the two above.

Magic Trio/Veneziano - Honestly, the three of them with Vene.

Greece/Veneziano - Lots of nap time with cats. Greece also finds it easy to replicate his mother's warrior side for Vene's sake. Vene, on the other hand, finds he can easily cheer up Greece.

OttoZia (Turkey/Veneziano) - started as a rivalry and turned into something else, entirely.

Greece/Veneziano/Turkey - Vene (again) acts as a buffer between his two lovers. They know he doesn't like fights so they do their best to get along.

Greece/Veneziano/Japan

Greece+Turkey+Japan/Veneziano

Egypt/Veneziano - I got this in my head cause of that one scene where Vene went to Egypt and he was caught.😉😊

Any of the aforementioned countries forming Vene's harem.

Last, certainly not the least: Top!Vene or Seme!Vene with any of these countries.

#hetalia #hetalia axis powers #aph north italy #aph veneziano #aph rare itaships #my aph itaships #list of ships

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regrettablewritings · 7 years ago

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Bruce Wayne x Reader Ship Meme

Author’s Note: Super big thanks to @twisteddamselartwork for her kindly donation for not one, but two ship memes!! Here’s the first one!! Be on the lookout for the bonus question that I got too carried away with and thus had to create an entirely separate post for 😘 Happy reading!!

who is more likely to hurt the other?: Bruce, without a doubt. Not physically, but emotionally. It isn’t even like he intends to, but Bruce is already an emotionally stoic man. Frankly, it’s a trait that’s only gotten worse with time, alongside his emotional welfare. During the events following the Kryptonian attack, he became hypervigilant and all the more bitter and suspicious towards people and less agreeable towards those who may hold a slightly more sympathetic view towards the Superman, so if you happened to be one of those people there was a decent chance that he might coldly insult you or scold you. Of course, being that you’re his significant other, he tries to be a bit more reasonable with you than he would with others but that doesn’t necessarily do much. Post-Doomsday Attack, however, as he works toward regaining his former principles, Bruce also is working toward controlling his temper far better. He owes you that much.

who is emotionally stronger?: You’d think it’d be Bruce, but it’s honestly most likely you. (For crying out loud, the man’s response to his parents getting gunned down in front of him was to put on a bat suit, play ninja, and beat the shit out of people who wear brazen makeup and ridiculous clothes!) All jokes aside, though, the circumstances surrounding Bruce’s emotional stability is complex. Because on one hand, the fact that he’s withstood all that he has and more without collapsing in the traditional sense is pretty astounding. But on the other, enduring all that he has at the frequency with which he has, coupled with his unhealthy coping mechanisms, makes for the chance of his emotional state being a true ticking time bomb. You may not be the scarily enduring soldier of sorts that Bruce has proven to be, but you’re at least more likely to confront and sort out your feelings.

who is physically stronger?: Oh, Bruce, without a shadow of a doubt. The man has been training for ages, pushing his body to its limits to assure himself as a commendable fighter for Gotham City. Even in his older age, he doesn’t show any sign of slowing down his intense regimens: He does chin-ups with heavy weights tied to his hips, he pulls bigass truck tires, he lifts dumbbells restrained by chains to produce resistance – his 6’3” ass had better be physically strong after all that!

who is more likely to break a bone?: Despite all of the coverage that armor gives him, Bruce always manages to find a way to get a broken finger, rib, toe, tailbone, etc.

who knows best what to say to upset the other?: As stated before, Bruce isn’t exactly the best when it comes to softness all the time. When he’s in business mode, he’s better at holding his tongue because it’s what the job demands. But a both good and bad thing about Bruce being able to be himself with you is just how easy it is for his more lax nature to let something slip out and frustrate you. That isn’t to say that you’re completely innocent, however: You can say some things that Bruce finds just as hurtful (i.e. that he’s being a complete asshole of a brute, that he’s being inconsiderate, nothing he’s doing is working, etc.)

who is most likely to apologize first after an argument?: Bruce is. Even though his image will always be associated with that of a playboy (it’s hard to scrub that image off even years after the fact), Bruce still knows the right and wrong ways to treat a lady, especially the one with whom he’s in a relationship. He can get fired up at you all he wants, but he’ll hear the voice of his father in his head scolding him for being “an uppity jackass” and begin to truly weigh in on just how unimportant the argument probably was in the grand scheme of things. After he’s taken some time to cool down and think up the right words, he’ll ask if you’ll listen and gently try and explain himself and ask for your forgiveness.

Of course . . . there are some arguments between the two of you that are, regardless of how minuscule in general, feel mighty big to you both. In which cases, apologizing becomes a lot more difficult to do, even with Bruce’s typical consideration for being the bigger man. The two of you can probably go for days just ignoring one another, with you tending to sleep at your old apartment or Bruce preferring to spend his nights in the Batcave or even patrolling way past his usual hours until the sun is coming up and you’re due to be on your way to work.

It’s moments like these that require a little “nudge.” That is, if Alfred threatening to strangle Bruce or drag him by the ear as though he were twelve again counts as a nudge. In which case, it’s still technically Bruce apologizing, but it was kick-started by Alfred getting irritated by watching the both of you silently squabble like children. He’s done his time raising wee ones: Unless you’re planning on bringing a Wayne heir into the mix, he’s not going to be dealing with two big children! He is firmly Done™.

who treats who’s wounds more often?: You barely do anything warranting wounds to begin with, so it’s easily you who treats Bruce’s wounds. Thankfully (though perhaps more worryingly), Bruce is so used to being busted up all over that he barely flinches through the entire ordeal, making him the perfect wound patient.

who is in constant need of comfort?: Don’t be fooled by his cold, independent exterior: Bruce is in desperate need of comfort, far more than he would ever readily let in on. He needs it on all three levels: Physical, mental, and emotional. While Bruce isn’t what many would consider touch-starved (after all, all those women who came before you sure were rather handsy with him), he’s been starved of touches that communicate genuine affection; an intimacy no one-night stand or even year-long fling could conjure up to the fullest extent that you can. Mentally, Bruce is canonically described as “morally bankrupt” – and who could blame him!? He’s been at this essentially thankless job for decades, becoming more and more exhausted to the point of cutting corners to assure that the people he puts away stay away (or, in the cases of those branded, down). With the things he’s seen and done, the things he must live with the consequences of, it’s a surprise Bruce hasn’t had a complete mental breakdown at this point and forced himself to check into a rehabilitation center to calm down.

Linking with these things are his emotions: Bruce has trained himself to be a stoic of sorts, and isn’t too great at expressing emotions beyond collectiveness and anger. As a result, he tends to bottle up a lot of his real thoughts and feelings and it’s sort of corroded him from the inside out along with the passage of time. He desperately craves constant relief in the form of gentle touches or speaking his own truth to the fullest extent that he can. And you would gladly help him with those things – if only he would just admit to it more often.

who gets more jealous?: Honestly, the both of you tend to display traces of jealousy. Even though Bruce has put his playboy days behind him, labels are sticky and therefore are difficult to shake loose. As a result, some women still haven’t quite gotten the picture that he’s perfectly happy in a committed relationship with you. And honestly, you try to remember that last part. You really do. But when you accompany Bruce to a gala and see those socialites gathering around him, smiling with those pearly whites and fluttering their mascara-caked lashes as they press their breasts against his arm in ways so obvious that a person on the other side of the room could feel them . . . you just can’t help it! Thankfully, Bruce is pretty good at reading you and can essentially sense your frustration. He has no qualms with calmly excusing himself from the women’s presence to take you elsewhere.

This calm and collected appearance also accompanies Bruce when he’s the one experiencing jealousy, though it’s far less amicable. Unless you were originally a part of Gotham’s elite, it’s very unlikely that you’re familiar with these sorts of events. This sort of innocence coupled with how dolled up you look tends to make you catch the eyes of sleazy attendants whom Bruce is all too willing to keep you out of reach of. Unfortunately, with the crowds and people constantly stopping Bruce or pulling him to the side to talk or be interviewed or establish a business connection, it would only been a matter of time before the two of you became separated. Almost immediately, like piranhas to an unsuspecting animal, the previously mentioned sleazeballs would approach you, offering you drinks, eyeballing you as one eyeballs a tender porterhouse steak.

Thankfully, this predicament doesn’t last long – the shadow of your towering boyfriend is cast upon them, brightened by the glint of his smile (which you almost swear has a sort of menacing hint to it). Once the pests bug off, Bruce takes extra care to assure that you don’t venture too far away from where he can see you and make sure that you aren’t getting harassed.

The truth of the matter is that while many may consider Bruce to be a catch, he places your value above his own. He’s grown too accustomed to your presence to suddenly be without it. And even though he knows you’d never go for any one of these creepy, arrogant asshats, some part of him still fears the possibility of you somehow uncovering somebody better than him. Which brings us to . . .

who’s most likely to walk out on the other?: All things considered, you. Bruce is a difficult man to be with, even without taking his moonlighting job into account. On his own, he’s an often aloof, very busy man who’s developed a bit of a drinking problem over the years. But then you add in the fact that he’s the Bat of Gotham and everything gets a lot more complex: The long hours, constantly keeping secrets “for your safety”, the fact that your life is now even more in danger than what it already was by just being with a billionaire . . . It could be overwhelming for anybody. Dating a vigilante, no matter their abilities or resources, is not for everybody. And the sad truth is that if it ever gets to a certain point, it may prove not to be for you.

who will propose?: Bruce does. Honestly, deep down he sort of wishes you would, but he also understands that he doesn’t exactly communicate “I want to genuinely settle down with somebody and I want that somebody to be you”, what with his philanderer past still wisping about on his association (plus, being a vigilante who honestly can die at any moment does little for your confidence in his desire to wed). However, you’d be surprised to find that marriage is something Bruce has thought about more than you assumed. Certainly, the two of you had discussed it before, but never to the extent that Bruce implies he’s been thinking on it for.

He wants to connect your name with his, to show the world who he’s with and vice-versa, but on a level that states commitment more than moving out to his place in the middle of nowhere could. On top of this, from a slightly more business standpoint, Bruce just wants to make sure that you’re taken care of in the event of his death. As soon as the events involving Steppenwolf have been settled, he wastes no time getting ready to pop the question. The only thing stopping him from marching right up to you, still damp from the much-needed shower, and bluntly going, “Marry me? I nearly died today and maybe it’s the adrenaline still in my system but I just really think now’s the time to tie this down” is that Alfred dragged him to the side for a talking to. (Though, if such a brusque proposal is more your bag, you can fuss at Alfred’s sabotage later.)

What he winds up going for is renting one of the finest restaurants on this side of the Gotham-Metropolis Bay just for the two of you. If we’re being perfectly frank here, a man with Bruce’s financial status could easily afford to do a lot more for his proposal. Sometimes showy like establishing an entire festival in your honor. But he doesn’t: He just wants to keep it as simple as possible, as intimate as he can. Besides, he’s honestly still a little sore from Russia; he can’t have the paparazzi or other prying eyes looking in on such a life-changing moment, now can he? You initially think that maybe this is a celebratory dinner, considering the mission was a success and he didn’t die. However, this makes you wonder why he’s not spending it with the newly found group; after all, all you were able to do was assist in the Batcave here and there, pose as a superior-than-Bruce host. Little things. So why was he spending this with you – Oh.

As Bruce lowered himself down to one knee before you, you finally understood why the only person he wanted to be with after the incident was you.

You’re not sure how the news was able to spread to fast (maybe somebody Snapchatted from the kitchen), but you frankly didn’t care. Not when a small group of cameramen and women gathered outside of the eatery and began barking questions at the two of you, not when the engagement was suggested as a rumor by that evening’s late-night talk show, not when your coworkers gathered around you asking if it was true the next time you came into work.

All you needed to show was the ring on your finger. Martha Wayne’s ring had been mangled in the heat of the fire that consumed Wayne Manor, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to part with it. But luckily, by combining it with a newer metal and placing the newly conceived ring on the finger of his fiancée, it appeared he’d never have to part with neither the heirloom or you.

who has the most difficult parents?: Yikes.

who initiates hand-holding when they’re out in public?: You do. Bruce doesn’t mind light PDA, he just doesn’t really initiate it unless it’s at a gala (“Gotta feed the damn paparazzi,” he mutters, though he won’t deny enjoying the contact with you). You like holding his big, calloused hand. It makes you feel nice and safe.

who hogs the blankets?: You do. Bruce is a big, walking bag of heat and often sleeps in next to nothing – a ballsy move for somebody living in a house that’s 98% glass. As such, the covers are typically all yours, something which you take full advantage of.

who gets more sad?: Both of you do, but it’s easier to tell with you. You haven’t trained yourself to express an air of calm the way Bruce has; even when you try to hide the feelings of dread and worry that you bottle up every time Bruce goes out on patrols, or displays mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion, the man can tell that they’re there. But Bruce is the one actually enduring these things, and he’s been going through them for a long, long while. By the time of the events surrounding his battle with Superman, Bruce was essentially depressed at the notion that all of his work towards a better, brighter future had been for naught. However, he doesn’t translate his sadness very well; usually it comes out in the form of aggression, the most of which he takes out on perpetrators.

who is better at cheering the other up?: It’s kind of weird between the two of you but to anyone who knows Bruce, they would be able to tell that you make him feel a whole lot better than what he normally would be. He doesn’t smile a whole lot for one reason or another, but sometimes just hearing you talk about your day as though you belong to a normal relationship, or seeing you wiggle around in one of his button downs (of which you drown in) is enough to crack a smirk out of him. And let’s be real: A smirk to Bruce is like a huge grin on regular people.

who’s the one that playfully slaps the other all the time after they make silly jokes?: You don’t really slap him when he makes a joke, either because Bruce’s joke are silly but in a different way or just because it’s not really in your nature to. You prefer to squeeze his arm instead.

who is more streetwise?: Bruce. Don’t let his status as the Prince of Gotham fool you – this man has had to learn all that he could about seedy urban underbellies. The man attends underground fight rings for God’s sake!

who is more wise?: You are, at least in the way that you take more time to consider all the options or potential circumstances. Bruce is mighty gung-ho for a man his age.

who’s the shyest?: Definitely you! It was a wonder you were even able to talk when you first met Bruce. You’ve gotten a bit better, but you still have a slight tendency to cling close or even try to hide behind him whenever he’s approached by other high society figures. He doesn’t mind it much and actually finds it quite cute. He just worries that this will make you even more easy to be taken advantage of.

who boasts about the other more?: Bruce does, though not often. It’s not that he isn’t proud of you (far from it; the man simply adores you), it’s just that he prefers to keep his private life exactly that: Private. This may be ironic considering that the man has a history for flaunting himself and that his decision to reconstruct a home resulted in a house made out of glass but remember: That glass house is in the woods, way out of city limits. Even when being showy, there’s an air of limitation to how much people get. Plus, it’s not as though there are many opportunities for Bruce to bring you up within reasonable conversation: The League keeps in contact regularly (in fact, Arthur seems to prefer communicating with you than with Bruce, much to the latter’s ire), leaving no real reason for him to bring you up to them. And Alfred already sees you as his daughter-in-law before marriage is even considered as a possibility; in short, he doesn’t need Bruce to boast about you, he’s practically trying to sell you to Bruce as a worthy mate.

At most, this sort of situation will likely pop up during conferences or when Bruce is meeting with CEOs from other companies looking to partner up with Wayne Enterprises. Maybe during lunch or dinner, some of the honchos will talk about their women at home, maybe jab a joke or two at her expense. But when Bruce is asked about you, he keeps it brief but makes it very clear that he has no intention of making jokes about you. How could he when he finds that there’s so much more to crow about? He’s got a devoted woman who loves him for him, who makes him smile, who makes coming home a lot easier and life less lonely.

“Plus, I’m pretty sure she could cook a better blackened catfish than this,” he chews thoughtfully before popping another piece into his mouth. And that was the end of that. If he had less control over himself, he just might’ve gone on a bit more about you, but frankly he wants to be out of this thing and back home to you as soon as possible.

who sits on who’s lap?: Bruce is a 6’3” pile of muscle and meat: I sincerely hope you don’t plan on having this man basically terminate you lap by sitting on it. But in all seriousness, this man loves having you sit on his lap, especially after a long day at work when he can just wind down and breathe for a little while. (Plus, on a naughtier note, it really plays into his daddy kink if the mood is just right.)

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader headcanons #bruce wayne headcanons #batman x reader #batman imagine #batman x reader headcanons #regrettablewritings #ship meme #dceu imagines #dceu imagine #bruce wayne imagines #batman imagines #bvs imagine #bvs imagines #justice league imagine #justice league imagines #character hc meme

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fantroll-purgatory · 6 years ago

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Calvis Duvide - Troublesome Tyrant

@chaoticevilfantrolls

(Heard you were doin Trollsonas)

Planet: Alternia, AU where Cusp Bloods exist and are considered more or less average trolls, and the age of conscription is 10 sweeps.

Name:Calvis Duvide To be honest, Calvis doesn’t have much of a specific meaning, beyond being a preferred lengthening of my own name. Duvide comes from the term L'appel du Vide, which means Call of the Void in French. In psychology, L'appel du Vide is a term referring to the urge to do self-destructive things without a distinct cause, like the urge to swerve off the road while driving or to jump off of a high place. Additionally, Calvis is a void player who feels drawn to the void as a sort of comfort.

Calvis is a good name and I definitely prefer to keep it around. Now… keep track o’ this leap of logic I’m going to do here to also justify it, but Calvis is also plural for Calvus, which can serve as a reference to Constantine Calvus, a Scottish monarch who attempted to change the rules of succession of the throne and who qualified as heir, which fits with some of Calvis’ behaviors. It can also be a reference to Altolamprologus calvus, a common aquarium fish. And, lastly, a reference to Cumulonimbus calvus, a type of cloud that can look a little, uh… eldritch, sometimes.

Yay for retroactive justification!

Age:9.25 sweeps

Strife Specibus:This one is a little tricky. Because Calvis is a trollsona, I’m drawn to giving him either bladeKind or knifeKind, as those are actual real weapons that I own and am reasonably skilled with? But at the same time, something more thematically relevant like cardKind (tarot and playing cards) might be nice?

I’ve also given him pipeKind before, using both a smoking pipe and also literal lead pipes ala Russia’s cane from Hetalia. That’s more relevant to a massive trollsona generator me and a friend of mine made that was based on the natal astrology chart.

I definitely think in the case of trollsonas, you should go with what you feel a draw towards. If you like blades, if you feel an affinity towards blades, I’d go with that.

You could also do the very void player thing and not have a traditional strife specibus so to speak. You’ve got a character here who seems good at talking his way into things, and who’s good at justifying his logic and having a lot of information, so maybe he could primarily rely on talking instead of fighting?

OR you could have him utilize the tooth he wears, since that’s a nontraditional weapon that relates to his title and because it could be utilized in a way that’s a nice callback to his/your interest in tabletop games. You could utilize it like a fear spell, an intimidation roll, or even something like vicious mockery or hideous laughter. Do that psychic damage, Calvis.

Fetch Modus:Polyhedral Modus

Calvis’ items are stored in a set of polyhedral dice (1d4, 1d6, 1d8, 1d10, 1d%, 1d12, and 1d20). It’s sort of a relic from when he was much more into playing tabletop rpgs. It’s purely random what item he receives, which is why he puts items he retrieves more often in the lower-sided dice. Funnily enough, his modus becomes more troublesome to use the more he embraces his aspect, stepping away from fortune to accept the unknown and nebulous.

So many spots in his sylladex are filled up with items based on former or current interests, among other things that he would rather just… hide from others in general.

Oof, I’m imagining the frustrating ordeal of rolling a d4 and landing on 1 six times in a row.

Blood color:Violet-Fuchsia cusp. The blood color is based on a blood color test that determined a hexcode value from numerical values based on personality traits of each color group (red, green, and blue). He’s kind of in a tricky situation, being just below the cut-off for fuchsia, but definitely redder than most violets.

In the session he’s from, he’s actually in a kismesitude with the proper fuchsia (seeing as they don’t have the biological imperative to kill each other, only really squabble like idiots), who has abdicated his position as heir and given it to Calvis.

Hmmmm… I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re talking au where the cusps are still viable instead of the more established canon, so that I won’t have to fiddle with this and ruin your good fun.

If I were going to push it into the canon range, though, I would say that him just bein a standard violet who picks up the fuschia helm for his kismesis can work about as well.

And if I were suiting him to your au where dual blood traits present in trolls, I could definitely argue that with nowhere else to try to represent both sets of traits uniquely, his body just kinda fell in the middle.

Symbol and meaning: A combination of Eris and Pittarius from the extended zodiac. Eris is the goddess of chaos and discord from Greek mythology. Eris is also the name of the second largest dwarf planet in the orbit of the sun, just after Pluto.

Erises’ ma is Nyx, The Night, which is extra fitting. Child Of The Night is a great way to describe a void player. The planet Eris is also part of The Shattered Disk, which sounds cool as hell, and also means the planet has high eccentricity. Relatable, really.

Trolltag: cynicalTeuthida Cynical: Concerned only with one’s own interests and typically disregarding accepted or appropriate standards in order to achieve them. I mean. He kind of manipulated his kismesis into naming him the heir, just because he could.

Teuthida: Name of the taxonomic order containing squids. Mostly a reference to his lusus and 100% absolutely wholesome appreciation of tentacles.

I think we all need to wholesomely appreciate tentacles more, if I’m being honest. …But now I can’t stop thinking about Calvis having those weird New England Aquarium ad campaign posters hanging up in his room totally wholesomely.

Quirk:Because Calvis is a trollsona, he has sort of a simple quirk, based primarily around my personal manner of typing.

He types in almost exclusively lowercase, only capitalizing the first letter of words to emphasize them. He also has a tendency to misspell things by cutting off the last letter or last couple of letters. He surrounds his text in pointed brackets, but otherwise uses little punctuation besides commas. Expect a lot of typos from him in general, which he won’t really bother fixing.

CT: <the quick brown fox jumpped over the lazy dog>

Hmm. I do like it but I wonder if something more tentacly might be fun. {like using curly brackets instead}. It’s not really a big enough deal to stress over, but just a thought. }}=o Also check it out I Just made a betta fish.

Special Abilities:Like most seadwellers, Calvis is ridiculously strong. Probably even more so than average, given that I myself, as a puny human being, can lift about 400 lbs. He’s also able to withstand changing between salt and fresh water, actually preferring the briny water in the lake surrounding his hive to anything else.

The idea of an extra strong seadweller scares me because Feferi is capable of dragging a whale.

Lusus: L'lythro, a minor eldritch being that lives in a fish tank in the underwater portion of Calvis’ hive. L'lythro is known as the Denizen of Madness, and the source of the horrible whispers that fill the forest surrounding Calvis’ hive. Because of L'lythro’s terrible mutterings, the forest is believed to be haunted or cursed, known for driving lowbloods to madness or worse.

It’s hard to describe L'lythro as anything besides a graphical glitch in the universe, sometimes taking the form of an amorphous puddle of eyes, teeth, and slime, and sometimes taking the form of an abstract concept of patterns. Calvis doesn’t mind. He loves them no matter what nebulous and unknowable form they take. He actually wears one of L'lythro’s teeth on a chain as a necklace, which carries enough residual psychic discordance to give him an unsettling aura.

…A fun fact here is that while trying to google this name I discovered a “fossil fighters” character named The Gore King. That’s not relevant I just had to share or the knowledge would eat at my mind forever. Anyways I like this, continuing the tradition of eldritch lusii pals.

Personality: The best way to describe Calvis is ‘ecclectic’. He finds it hard to focus directly on one pursuit or another, flipping from interest to interest to endeavor to interest. Even now, as he nears the sweep of his conscription, his interests tend to branch out so much that it’s hard for him to even begin imagining what he could possibly make of himself…

So he doesn’t.

He spends most of his time collecting knowledge on whatever bits and bobs he can find, no matter how trivial, looking for some kind of validation of his intellect and talent. He reads and writes extensively, creating entire worlds he scraps once he’s become bored of them. He picks up games and hobbies like tabletop gaming and knitting only to drop them weeks or moments later. The only real consistency to him is the fact that he’s outright unpredictable.

He can come off as a bit cold and callous, not really caring about the emotional aspect of things until it directly involves him, in which case he will get much, much too involved. He can come off as overbearing in some situations, forcing his good will down others throats so he’ll have something to parade as evidence of his virtue.

Despite all of this absolute poncery, though, Calvis has quite a few good and sympathetic traits, no matter how much he lets them get overshadowed. He’s insightful and careful. He’s legitimately kind and gentle with the few trolls he can be bothered to care for (even including his kismesis at times). He’s just going through a bit of a rough time, nudging him gently toward his Crisis in one way or another.

I like how a lot of his traits come through as validation-seeking- which is a trait you mentioned up top but which really manages to carry through. I think if you want to carry the light/void theme and push his inversion, definitely increase his desire for Attention more. For Acknowledgement.

Interests: Calvis has many, many interests, but not so many that he’s actually stuck to.

He legitimately loves betta fish, especially for their bright colors and feisty attitudes. He has multiple fish tanks throughout the above-water portion of his hive, each tank filled with a small ecosystem dedicated to each of his fish. Most of them are named after snack foods. Don’t worry, he doesn’t eat them… just the fish flakes he feeds them. Don’t judge.

Calvis also enjoys collecting and decorating his hive with items of significant eldritch imagery. Teeth and eyes and tentacles are the motifs he chooses to decorate the walls of his hive with. Some of it comes off as quite lewd, not that he cares or notices much.

The rest of his interests, like collecting bladed weapons, knitting or crocheting, playing tabletop games, or writing, tend to be on-and-off. He picks them up again whenever he’s bored of what he was working on before.

Oof, cycling through interests is also relatable. He’s a fantroll, so I can’t exactly recommend More Interests. ……..Maybe roleplay-

Also sorry I’m just going to share one more of these ad posters because I can’t stop fucking looking at them.

Title: Bard of Void

Calvis acts more like a Maid of Light initially, relying on his kismesis for any real chance of power, yet finding luck and fortune a natural and powerful tool to his whims. He will leap at any opportunity to provide information about any topic he’s even remotely versed in, and he has a peculiar penchant for getting the right card or number when he needs to in games of chance, smirking sadistically all the while.

As he progresses in a session, or even matures as a person, he begins to accept the role of the unknown and mysterious, letting himself let go of his aggressive need to know everything, learning to go with the flow. He embraces the potential of the void, learning more about the origins of his lusus in the process. He loses out on some of his luck in the process, but like, yaknow, who cares about the outcome, man? It’s all the same in the end.

I know you’re not so keen about suggesting alternative god tiers for Trollsonas, but I did want to provide my reasoning.

I think even if we did tend towards suggesting alternatives for trollsonas, I definitely wouldn’t. Learning to embrace the void and kind of accepting the solace of the blank sheet and getting out of the need for the limelight, the need to take the reigns and try to guide others, the despair at not Knowing what the future holds or what he wants the future to hold… It’s definitely a good route for this trollsona, narratively.

Land: Land of Butterscotch and Tentacles

A massive desert of sugary tan sand populated by light purple Illithids, full of incomplete temples to the denizen Cthulhu. Calvis actually has two possible routes for his quest: completing the temples and receiving Cthulhu’s blessing, or dismantling them to free the Illithids from his control.

Ooh, always interesting. I do have to wonder why butterscoth tho, LOL. Sounds tasty.

Dream Planet: Derse? I prefer Derse just for the void connection and such.

Oh yeah, he’s super derse. Derse is in his blood.

Design:

Hhhonestly there’s not really a lot I would edit about his design? Violets/fuschias are high enough up that they can get away with wearing just about anything, really. If I had any recommendations, it might be to adjust the color of the undershirt or try out horns more similar to the traditional Heir Horns (hehe), but then I don’t know what Horn Rules you’re going by in your au.

Here you see me playing with changing his shirt color to a true tyrian. I think it makes more sense- it’s a way to acknowledge his kismesitude with the fuschia- and, since he’s trying to overtake the heir position, it makes most sense for him to try to visually associate himself with the fuschia role.

He’s a really well balanced trollsona! Thank you for sharing!

-CD

#chaoticevilfantrolls #calvis duvide #calvis #duvide #violetblood #fuschiablood #?#review #cd review #submission

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