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vermillionwinter · 2 years ago

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Fever Dream

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian f!reader

Summary: How many chance encounters can you have before you decide fate has intertwined your threads? With the 141 on leave pending an investigation, you appear to Simon, a lighthouse in the distance calling him to safety.

Warnings: Mutual attraction, slow-burn series (our boy's got a lot of work to do), Spicy thoughts-not explicit.

Note: I haven't had the will to write like this in years, but Simon Riley has reawakened a beast, and I need to get all the words out. So, this is a very rusty piece of work, but hope y'all find some enjoyment! Tattoos are the only physical descriptions I believe. the 2nd POV's are bringing me back to middle school Quizilla days.

Quiet. Everything in Simon’s Manchester flat was too fucking quiet, and the air stagnant when he was home. And that silence gave his thoughts the freedom to creep and dance to the murkiest valleys of his subconscious. Wrapping its tarry tendrils around the very memories Simon wanted to keep locked behind the chained door, dragging them out of him to relive every excruciating moment the darkness saw fit to unleash.

Sitting in the single chair of his small, round table, Simon could catch wafts of soil and decay wrapping him in the tight confines of the damp wooden coffin. His lungs tightened, constricting the oxygen he needed. The fear of no escape webbed its way through the calm fog the prior glass of bourbon provided. It was as if the darkness narrowed in on him, boxing him into the point of full paralysis. The arms of his chairs he gripped tightly in his fists began to transform into the feel of the corpse that once was buried with him.

HONK!

Simon’s eyes shot open, and he took the deepest breath he could muster as his lungs got used to the feeling of a full inhale and exhale. His eyes darted around in panic taking in every detail of his barren flat. It was sparsely furnished with essentials, one of them being a bed large enough the behemoth of a man could stretch upon comfortably. As comfortable as one could get when they're accustomed to the hard ground or the scantily padded cots.

Simon shot back the bourbon he originally poured to savor and appreciate relishing in the slow burn it made down his esophagus. What he wouldn’t fucking do to get back out on the field.

“As soon as we're back, gents, we are boots on the ground finding these bastards. We’ll find Shepherd and every lost Shadow.”

Ghost hadn’t been deployed since he took the last shot at Hassan in Chicago- weeks have passed. Bloody fucking investigation into Shepherd’s and Shadow Company’s off book deals called that all operators on the ops related to Graves’ and Shephard’s stolen missiles had to take mandatory leave pending investigation. Shadows were still getting wrapped up for questioning. There were few still on the run. But they’d find them. They didn’t deserve the courtesy of living their lives in fear. The face of death is all they were due.

Betrayal. Betrayal got his family killed. Got Simon Riley killed. And now good soldiers lie dead in fields, their graves forever empty; and families lie dead in the streets of Las Almas. Innocent lives taken by those he once defended, defended the 141.

Glass shattered against the opposite wall before Simon realized he threw the blown sand from his hand. Shoulders sagged, defeated, depleted, ready to give into the quiet of his home. The benched operator stood from his chair and made his way to the shower. He’d clean the mess later. He was alone after all. Always alone.

Simon walked through the small crowds, prolonging the journey to his destination to walk to a path he didn’t have to squeeze through a throng of people. Wisps of the fresh air sauntered over him, releasing threads of tension into the open. Easing him from looking over his shoulder and checking his surroundings more often than they stayed in front of him. To his relief, no one was following him. Venturing out into society felt like an op in its own way. Having to blend in when you lived your life in anonymity. He wore a different mask in the calm of the world. One fewer people were familiar with than the ominous mask he donned on the field.

And Las Almas was proof of why. Shephard was a loose-end that needed to be handled yesterday, and Simon couldn’t shake off the constant feeling he would be found. Just as Roba had found him. He couldn’t very well walk around with his most distinguishing feature on full display, a beacon where to strike next. Simon had to stay vigilant. For himself, but most importantly for them. Nothing could get to them.

Sleep was an elusive luxury Simon would not allow himself since he was dismissed on leave, not that he had the best slumber before then. Running on cat naps, caffeine and spite. The blame and guilt eating away at him, letting those bastards go unseen. And all he wanted was five minutes alone with Shepherd. Ghost wanted the ex-general begging for his life as it left his very body.

To…

All of Simon's plans of vengeance were halted when you stepped out onto the patio of the bakery he found a form of solace in on leave- emerald lace dress billowing around your body, combat boots peaked through with each step you took. Ethereal. A goddess among man. You were divine and entrancing as you stepped lightly, despite the clunky footwear you chose. He was in the door before he could notice where you sat, but hell he found himself praying at your altar you would be in perfect view.

La Gouter was one of the few havens Simon had found in the area. The crowd was moderate, but constant. Tea was always fresh, and the man could not resist the warm, buttery treats. Today he sat with a chocolate croissant with his black tea- two sugars, no cream. Balance.

A book tucked under his arm, he leaned against the mural of Paris- where he had a clear view to the left, right, patio door adjacent to his table, and the entry of the cafe itself. Which also gave him the view of his tea shop muse, and a sudden warmth rushed over him when you looked towards him, eyes honing in on his eyes. Target locked.

Looking down quickly, he cracked open the book that accompanied him. Laying there waiting to be read, to transport the reader to another realm. A world where he didn’t have to be Simon Riley. Now he could get lost in the spice filled sands of Arrakis. Simon let his eyes settle on the pages behind the orange cover.

Twenty pages in, half the tea gone, he felt his eyes drifting again. Black nails adorned your lithe fingers-wrapped around a pen you used to write in the notebook splayed on the table. Legs shifting, the slit of your dress exposed more tattoos scattered on your smooth leg. Wouldn't it be nice to run his fingers over the lines of each piece of art that was displayed there? To feel those hands wrapped around him instead? To lay you out in front of him the way your notebook was exposed to you. Lines of intrigue covering both flesh and paper. He wanted to know the webs of thought spinning from your head to paper. The sounds your lips would release at his touches. Were they soft and airy? Low and rough?

Fuck, he shook himself from the lasvicious thoughts (swirling in his head) throwing back the rest of his tea that he dearly wished was bourbon, and left for the gate. But as he threw his trash into the bin, he had that feeling. There was an energy when eyes bore into you. Watched your every move, like you were prey. Their target . Taking in even the smallest of twitches.

Chalked it up to being on edge after Las Almas, but fuck he needed to get back to his flat now. What if Shephard had found him? Ghost had no shortage of enemies that would crave nothing more than to spill his blood. Were the others still alive? Gaz. Price. Soap. But Simon wasn't met with a bullet when he turned around to face whoever was trailing him. No. Simon found curious eyes glistening in the sun- following his every move. Down to the smallest twitch.

Simon felt his heart stutter, a catch in his throat when you flashed a disarming smile, painted in dark red. Stomach in unfamiliar knots, he froze for a moment soaking in your warmth in the moment of vulnerability. He wanted that warmth to blanket him in its softest rays. It was terribly disarming. Blinking out of his stupor, he found tantalizing eyes paired with a shy smile greeting him. But, the brute didn’t know how to respond; his mind was still in conflict. And he left without another glance in your direction, all the while wondering how someone could glow in the dull skies of London. There was enough sunlight to bathe you in its golden rays. The shimmer upon your skin was like nothing Simon had ever seen, your beauty enraptured him.

You watched the giant of a man turn-hands shoved in his pockets-and leave the cafe, and you couldn’t help the appreciative gaze as your eyes roamed the backside of the man who stopped dead in his tracks and stared at you for an agonizingly small amount of time. Whom you had caught staring at you minutes ago. His gaze, through red lenses, overwhelmed you, a vehement aura exuding and reaching.

He was statuesque, a gargoyle in the flesh wrapped in the darkness of his fabrics, sitting at the small metal table against the bright paints of the Paris mural. You certainly appreciated the contrast. Auburn beard covered a strong jaw, but his face was mostly obscured by the black Everton cap and red lensed shades. The hoodie did little to conceal the firm bulk of his arms, broad shoulders. When he broke eye contact to read his book, shades went to his hat, but angled his face to further obscure your view. A shiver chilled you. Why was he hiding? But you didn’t let your attention linger, though you did want to. You wanted to watch him read, and immerse himself in whatever tale he was venturing through.

In. Out. In. Out.

The mantra on loop to keep his thoughts focused. Singular. Not focused on red lips pressed against his neck. Teeth grazing a path over a protruding vein. So he ran faster. Faster. Faster, until all he could think about was how to get enough oxygen to his lungs, Lamb of God blasting through his headphones. The opening notes of Walk with Me In Hell leading him through the end of his run. Spent. Overexerted. Exactly what he needed. He’d finally sleep, and just not fucking care what happened next.

Simon released a breath he had not realized he was holding until it left him. Disappointed relief. The tea shop siren was absent from his visit. It was strange. The wanton desire to be in the presence of another being. He was used to alone. It was easier to work when you didn’t have the reminder of how many lives were in your hands. It was effective, and he was damn good at it. You had his mind in a whirlwind of confusion. Not even the women he's fucked stayed with him the way you have. You've never even said a damn word to him, and he was crumbling. Under a spell you were unaware you cast. Synthesizing his dreams to your every whim.

“Fucking Christ.” A soft growl met his ears, eyes slid toward the culprit. And there you were, just as gorgeous and warm without the infrared glow of the burning star above. Even with the snarl across your painted lips, coffee spilled in front of you as you picked up the few items you dropped. The espresso color accentuated the shape of your plush lips, and he wanted to know what the supple flesh felt like between his teeth, tongue sliding in sync with yours. And fucking hell he’s heard your voice, further fueling his mind. Simon’s base instincts were bleeding through more than he would care to admit. Like some horny school boy seeing tits for the first time. He didn’t care for it, wanted it gone. Made him feel compromised. It was consuming him in a time he couldn’t afford distractions. When could he ever?

Your morning started out shit, and seemed to become progressively shittier. You had an assignment due by midnight. The internet at your place was out, and the company had been very little help with an ETA. It had been your day off, but Deana was out with some virus her kid picked up from school and you were the lucky winner to be on rotation that week for the store. All you wanted was the comfort and warmth of a white chocolate mocha, and now that was also ruined as the caffeinated beverage seeped into the porous concrete of the patio.

You had been set and determined to complete your assignment covering the impact commercial farming has had on the environment and global economics. Then, you saw him. Shades sat atop his same hat, the once full beard had been trimmed, hugging the shapely jaw. You liked it, so much so that you stumbled on a table, coffee slipping from your hands.

You wanted to scream, cry, kick the chair, but instead you blinked back the tears and picked the empty cup from the puddle of cream, sugar and caffeine. Feeling like a bloody idiot for being that damn distracted by a bloke you’ve not actually seen yet. If he walked around without the hate and sunnies, you’d most likely not realize it was him. But hell if the mystery wasn’t all the more enticing.

You sighed, paying no more mind to the gargantuan on your left-dizzy from the distractions- and set your workstation. Three hours. That’s all you had before your shift at the shop.

You sat with one earbud playing music as you began cycling through your notes finding topic points and sub plots for your outline. The angelic voice of Florence Welsh guiding you through the motions of the ebb and flow of your homework routine. And deep in your concentration and will to see this task complete, you did not notice a dark figure leaving its perch.

“Excuse me?” you looked to see one of the younger baristas standing with a coffee. “Uh…some dude ordered this for you, and wanted me to bring it out to you?”

You quirked a brow taking the drink from the nervous kid and thanked them. When they skittered back into the building you took a look around seeing Paris missing one of its Gargoyles of Notre Dame. A jolt of excitement warmed you when the sweet velvet flow of the caffeine hit your tongue. A perfect coffee to lift your spirits from a perfect stranger.

#eeeeeee i'm so nervous #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley x f!reader #simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader #simon riley x you #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #lieutenant simon riley #lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley #lieutenant simon riley x reader #lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley x reader #slow burn series #domesticating simon riley but he has trauma #lots of trauma #a war criminal and i don't care

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threeletterslife · 2 years ago

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26 | Legends of Darlaria

⨰ summary: You wake up in yet another unfamiliar place. This time, however, these strangers seem to recognize you. With your previous judgments and aspirations thrown out the window, you're now forced to face where your loyalties really lie. Who will you betray? And which General will you choose to stand by his side?

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader & jungkook x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 70% angst, 30% fluff | war!au & magic!au

⨰ warnings: profanity

⨰ wordcount: 4.7k

⨰ join the taglist! (pm/send in an ask/reply/reblog)

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⧖⧗Circa Opal⧗⧖

Purple. You see purple. Such an unnatural shade of it too—a hue you’d never see in the wilderness. Purple. It spreads across your vision, swirling in deep pools of violet, mauve, mulberry. At first, you think you’re imagining it—the swirling, the shift in hues. But you soon realize that the ceiling itself is moving.

No, not the ceiling.

A canvas. A woven canvas on the ceiling. The purple threads are in constant motion, rippling across the canvas and back, mirroring the waves of the Aranian lake. It’s mysterious. Majestic, too. You wonder if you’re still dreaming. The last thing you remember is being on the battlefield.

A gasp leaves your lips.

The battlefield!

You were attacked by a Darlaean soldier. Are you in Darlae? Have you been captured? Do you still have your memories? You quickly sit up, only to realize you’re no longer in your Solarian uniform. Instead, you’re wearing a frilly, off-white nightgown. The fabric is silky, soft and delicate when you run your fingers across it, but it feels so wrong on you. In fact, everything feels wrong. There are one too many plush pillows supporting your back, the luxurious bed is uncomfortably supple underneath you and the blankets covering your legs look excessive with their extravagantly embroidered designs made from silver thread.

Then there are the people. There are so many people. People who you don’t recognize, people who have gathered around the bed three times the size of your cot back home. Not to mention, there’s also a stranger sitting at the edge of your bed.

No, not a stranger. Upon closer look, you realize he’s the man who attacked you on the battlefield. The man from your dreams. But it can’t be… He’s wearing a long cape with a fur collar draped over his shoulders. A silver sword sits sheathed around his belt. And his uniform… It’s black with silver and purple accents.

Why haven’t they killed you yet? Why haven’t they begun their torture? Is this all part of a larger scheme? Will they soon take away the nice clothes, the comfortable bed and make your life a living hell?

Your eyes dart around the room you’ve been captured in. It’s quite large with oak-paneled walls and smooth, stone floors. A beautifully carved escritoire sits at one of the corners and on it is a colorful collection of candles, books, bottles of ink and parchment paper. You remember this exact room from your dreams. Could it be that you’re dreaming now? Maybe you’re dying and this is what your mind decides to conjure up in your last few seconds to live.

But then why does everything feel so real?

“You can give up the act now.”

Your head jerks towards the man sitting at the edge of the bed. He’s frowning, but it’s strangely not the murderous kind.

“A-Act…?” you whisper.

What act? How could any of this be an act? When you don’t even know what’s going on?

What is he even doing here? Why are you in a frilly nightgown? Why aren’t you being tortured? Why are you in a familiar room with unfamiliar people surrounding you? And why… Why do they look so worried?

There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach.

Your hands shake as they reach up to clutch the diamond pendant around your neck.

No. It can’t be.

“They did something to you.” The man sounds accusatory. They? Does he mean the Solarians? Does he mean you?

“I…” The words won’t come out.

“Did they do something to you, Y/N?”

His voice… It sounds so light and silvery. So familiar. And your name. Your name had fallen from his lips. You don’t remember ever giving it to him.

Tears well up in your eyes.

It feels like you’re drowning and the waves are crashing over you.

You can’t seem to say anything. Can’t seem to register his questions, either.

But maybe you’ve always known. Maybe it’s time to finally fucking admit it.

You’re Darlaean.

Things make sense now. Why no one ever recognized you when you woke up in Solaria. Why you had to reconnect with fire. Why a Darlaean war prisoner recognized you. It all clicks into place.

Your fingers tighten around the pendant.

Is this…? Is it really your gemstone?

You spent so long denying it, so long hiding it that it doesn’t feel possible anymore. But what about the dream where the man had gifted the necklace to you? Had he only been fastening it on?

Your hands begin to shake.

It is him. The lover in your dreams. It has to be. The same stance, stature, aura… It’s all oddly familiar but you don’t find comfort in it.

Who are you really? If you’re not Ryu Y/N, then who the hell could you be? Have you stolen someone else’s identity? Someone else’s name?

Suddenly, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Your hands cover your face as you hunch over, tears streaming out of your eyes.

Cold hands press against your back. Someone leans in. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. “Get a hold of yourself,” he whispers. “There are people watching.”

The words bring chills down your spine.

Does he know? Does he know that you don’t remember anything? Does he want you to pretend that you do? Will he kill you if you don’t comply? His demeanor, his near-threatening words… At one point, did you really love each other?

You choke back your tears, wiping them away with the lace handkerchief that the man hands you. “I’m… I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I’m just so… happy… to be back.”

There are gasps and sighs of relief as a low, happy chatter begins to fill the room. You might’ve fooled them, but the man watches you with cold eyes. He knows you’re lying.

“Everybody out,” he orders. “I’d like to talk to my girlfriend alone.”

Before you can even register what he’d called you, the room quickly empties. And suddenly, it’s completely silent. He stares at you emotionlessly, yet you feel him scrutinizing your every breath, your every blink. And after a long, tortuous time, he speaks again.

“You don’t remember anything.”

Your hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. Your grip around the handkerchief tightens as you attempt to stop, but it’s no use. You’re terrified. Will he kill you if you admit it? Past girlfriend or not, are you nothing to him now that he’s seen you fighting for Solaria? Will he kill you if you lie?

“You’ve always been a bad liar,” he says. His countenance is impenetrable, but he seems to be able to read you like an open book. “So tell me the truth. What do you know?”

“I-I…” Your voice quivers though you don’t want it to. “I woke up in a Solarian medical tent,” you squeak, “with my memory completely wiped. I… I only remembered my name. T-They didn’t know where I came from either, but… but they were kind enough to take me in.”

Silence.

Except for the rapid heartbeat in your chest.

“You thought you were a helluvian.”

“S-Sorry?”

“A tree hugger. A fire licker. A fucking Solarian.”

He looks menacing. And for the first time since you’ve met this man, you see emotion on his face: anger. But you can’t lie. He knows you can’t do it. If he catches you in one, you might as well have been killed in battle. You have no choice but to tell the truth.

“Y-Yes,” you whisper. “Up until now… Sir.”

The anger morphs into distress. “You can’t call me that,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “For fuck’s sake, Y/N. We’ll be keeping this a secret, do you understand? The king has already arranged a celebration in the name of your return. If the people find out that you’ve been willingly living with those helluvians, they’re going to start a riot. I don’t want to send another army to one of the cities.”

You’re rendered speechless.

“There’s a potion that can expedite the memory-recovery process,” he continues. “It normally takes circas to make… But if I get a few hand-selected, trustworthy royal healers to work on it from day to night, we could get it done in three days’ time. I’ll convince the king to postpone the celebration until then.”

Just like that? You can get your memories back? But you spent so long trying to repress them. Even when they came as dreams, you spent circas convincing yourself that they were just that: dreams—nothing more. You don’t want your memories back. But you can’t really refuse, can you?

“For Sooht’s sake,” you murmur, hands reddening around the balled-up handkerchief. You don’t have a choice.

The man visibly stiffens. “No Darlaean wants to hear helluvian dialect. They could kill you for that.” He pauses slightly. “They could also have you killed for treason. For fraternizing with the enemy for three years.”

He’s trying to scare you. To show you how serious the situation is. But you know that already. You know you’re in deep trouble. You also know that he’s helping you in his own way, even though it doesn’t seem like it. He wants you to pretend to be on Darlae’s side. He needs you to remember who you were before. Urgently. But why? Are you someone special? Because you’re the Darlaean General’s lover?

He shakes his head. “Y/N,” he says. “You were our General. General Kwang.”

It takes a moment for his words to register in your head. And once they do, shock takes over your entire body. You feel frozen in time, unable to move, unable to react. It’s preposterous. There’s no way. No fucking way.

The world spins.

And once the spinning starts, things begin to make sense. It’s why creating battle plans felt like second nature to you. Why you were able to write them without remembering the terrains of the battlegrounds—because your subconscious remembered. It’s why you were so seamlessly able to rise up the rank of the Solarian Army—because you had experience.

Oh no.

You used to fight head-to-head against the General. Your General. How many Solarian deaths have you indirectly caused? If he knew, would he have wanted to kill you?

And oh, oh how betrayed the Darlaean General must feel! You’d taken Darlaean war strategies and then used them against Darlae! Does he know? Did he suspect? Should you confess? Repent what you’ve done?

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

How does he always know what you’re thinking?

“I already know what you’ve done.”

Your hands have become white from your tight grip on the handkerchief.

“I-I’m sorry.”

And you are. But you’re also sorry to your General. To all of the Solarians you hurt when you used to lead the Darlaean Army. To all of the families, friendships, relationships you ruined unknowingly.

“I don’t need an apology,” the Darlaean General says. “The only thing you need to do is pretend you never lost your memories. Follow along, don’t arouse suspicion, keep quiet and don’t look so clueless all the time. Unfortunately, I’ve already notified your parents of your arrival. They, of course, haven’t answered my message yet, but I’ll try to keep them from visiting you. It won’t be too hard.” He glances at you for your reaction. There is none. At least none that are visible. “The real complication would be convincing the king to let me keep my position now that you’re here.” Upon your inquisitive look, he’s generous enough to clarify: “I was your lieutenant general. I’ve only been appointed as the temporary General in your absence.”

He might be the temporary General, but he created permanent damage during his reign. He’s the one who undoubtedly endorsed all those cruel spells. He’s the one who refused to have a winter truce. And was he also the one who sent the monocodes? The codes that did nothing but aid the Solarians in victory? But maybe you were right. Maybe it was a message after all.

The words begin to unscramble in your mind.

Jewel. Usurp. Nineteen. General. Kwang. Opal. Orchard. King. You and the other officers spent circas trying to understand what they meant until you all gave up. But maybe you were thinking too deeply. Maybe it was something simple. Something so simple that everyone missed it. You run the words in your head again.

Jewel.

Usurp.

Nineteen.

General.

Kwang.

Opal.

Orchard.

King.

Your eyes widen and a shaky breath leaves your lips. It had been right in front of your damn face this entire time! The message! His identity! It had been an acronym!

“Jungkook,” you whisper. Something about his name feels so familiar. “The codes,” you say. “You sent them.”

“I knew you’d decipher them,” he says. “I never thought you’d use them against me.”

“I-I’m sorry.” It sounds as sincere as you mean it.

“You shouldn’t be,” is the surprising answer. “It was my mistake. I believed that you would come back for me when you figured out the monocode. So I repeated them, hoping you’d give me a signal that you were okay. I was wrong.”

You didn’t even figure out the full code until now. And even if you did figure it out in Solaria, what would you have done with a single name? Would you have connected it back to the Darlaean General? Maybe after some trial and error, but you and the rest of Solaria would’ve assumed it was some egoïstical move—not a desperate message to call for you.

Solaria.

Even thinking about it makes your heart clench.

How could you leave it behind so suddenly and without warning? You have friends there, dead or alive: Doyun, Nayoon, Hana, Suhyun, Wonmi, even Heli… The healers, the officers, the soldiers—your soldiers. You had a whole sector to run, for Sooht’s sake! And your General… No, not the Darlaean General but Yoongi.

You can almost hear the echo of his scream in your head. When you were falling, when your vision had been crowding in black, he’d shouted your name. Not Officer, not Captain, but your actual name. You haven’t heard him say that since three years ago. What was the reason? Does the reason even matter? He called you by your name. And you don’t know why you’re so caught up on that detail when you have so many other things to be worried about, but you can’t help it.

He must be worried sick.

Unless… Unless he already knows you’re Darlaean. What if he always knew?

Oh, for Sooht’s sake! Your gemstone! The necklace! You’d stupidly asked him to fasten it on for you. It can’t be, can it? Why he suddenly went silent, why his expression became so unreadable. When he said he trusted you… Is that what he meant? Did he know? Did he know and still let you fight for Solaria? You imagine the ghost of his touch on your neck, his fingers gently parting your hair out of the way… You want to see him. You desperately want to tell him that you didn’t betray him. That if you were given the choice, you’d choose Solaria in a heartbeat.

But no! You couldn’t possibly do that. You’re Darlaean by blood. You’d be betraying your birthplace… Yet, if you choose Darlae, you’d be betraying the only home you know.

You can hear your heartbeat in your head. It feels like it’s about to burst. Things you’ve wondered about for three fucking years—your family, your origin, your lover, your dreams—have all been answered within the span of several minutes. But it’s not enough! It’s not enough to change your mind. It’s not enough for you to swear yourself to Darlae. But you’re not Solarian, either. So what the fuck are you? Where do your loyalties lie now?

When the Solarians interrogated you to see if you were a Darlaean spy, were they right all along? Should you have been locked away years ago? Would that have been better for everyone?

“I’ll leave you to process everything.” The Darlaean General’s voice interrupts your thoughts, and when your vision focuses, he’s already standing up, making his way to the closed door.

“W-Wait.”

He halts immediately.

“Was I supposed to be a spy?” you ask. You don’t know why. As if the answer would make you feel any better.

“No.” The Darlaean General shakes his head. “You disappeared in battle. It’s all I know.”

You frown. “But…” You’re hesitant, wondering if you should reveal more. But for fuck’s sake, this is your real home. He’s the man you’d shared so many memories with. He deserves to know, doesn’t he? “I woke up in a Solarian soldier’s uniform. I don’t understand. If I wasn’t a spy, then how…?”

The Darlaean General arches an eyebrow. “I see,” he says without so much of a shift in his expression. “You were always an excellent alchemist.” And before you can say anything more, he walks straight out of the commodious bedroom, slamming the door behind him. It rattles everything in the room.

You stare at the dip in your bed—the one the Darlaean General had left. Is he acting cold and distant on purpose? He was or is your alleged boyfriend. Why isn’t he acting like it? Where is the worry? Where is the affection? Is it because he knows you don’t have your memories? Or is he usually like this? But then again, of course he would be wary! You lived with the enemy for three years! And for fuck’s sake he knows you fought against the Darlaeans. He knows you planned against them.

Yet… he’s still protecting you in his own way. He could reveal what you’ve done to the king, but instead, he’s choosing to postpone the celebration to buy you time. He could have you killed for treason, but he’s keeping your involvement, your memory loss a secret. He lied to all those people. He made it seem like you had been in Solaria against your will.

But why? It doesn’t even seem like he likes you that much. But maybe it has something to do with his past love for you. The way he can read you so easily, predict your thoughts… He knows you better than you know yourself.

An excellent alchemist. If only you knew what the hell that’s supposed to mean. Your knowledge of Darlaean magic is severely limited—the only thing you’re familiar with is transformation. What more do you need to learn? What more did you forget?

You collapse back on the bed, sinking into the pillows as the pliant mattress underneath swallows you whole. You feel a migraine seeping in.

If your Solarian friends knew you were really Darlaean, would they have shown you the same kindness? Would they have treated you with nice words and compassion? Would they have killed you?

The answer hurts. Back when Yoongi had been suspicious of you… when he had ripped your stitches… Back when Hyojung, Jeonwoo, Jaeno all believed you were a Darlaean in disguise… They’d treated you differently. As if you were the scum of the earth. Three years ago, Hyojung had called you a witch. Who would’ve thought she was right after all this time?

But are you really Darlaean? Sure, this was your home for possibly decades of your life, but if you can’t remember it, does it really matter? As far as you know, you’re Solarian. You spent three years thinking the Forgotten Kingdom was your enemy. So how can you possibly live here? In some sort of castle? With its oak-paneled walls, stone floors, and luxurious carpets and tapestries?

You slowly sit up, bringing your knees in to hug them and surveying the large room. There’s a wide window right next to the bed that’s partially hidden behind purple velvet curtains. You catch a glimpse of an upper-level view of a reddening orchard. Strange. Somehow, you must be above ground. There also appears to be a reflective material on the window—something you’ve never seen before. It creates a bit of a barrier between the outside world and within. As if you’re trying to keep the nature out. Feeling a little uncomfortable, you look away.

With the curtains obscuring most of the outside view, the room is void of natural light. It feels too dark, too regal. The crackling of the countless number of candles on the desk should calm you down, but it doesn’t. You miss the simplicity of your oil lamp. You miss the hardness of your cot, the small yet coziness of your tent… You miss the bareness of it, the scratchy straw mat, too.

For Sooht’s sake, you miss the color red.

Everything is tainted in purple here: the intricate carpet underneath the massive bed, the woven canvas above you, the curtains, some candles and books—even the large oil painting on the wall next to the window boasts a purple palette.

There are three subjects in the painting: two older women standing and a younger woman sitting between them. All three of them have on elegant, violet dresses as they pose quite rigidly in front of a dark background. It takes you a moment to realize that the woman in the middle is you. Is that what you used to look like? In Solaria, there were never many mirrors, so the most indication you got of your looks was in the water basins. Still, you look younger in the portrait—cheeks a little fuller, eyes a little rounder. When you turn your attention to the two women standing behind you in the painting, you realize you seem to resemble much of their features. You’ve got someone’s nose, someone’s eyes, someone’s lips. Are you…? Are you their daughter? If this is your room, then it would make sense that there is a large family portrait here.

So this must be the family you’ve yearned to meet. The family who wasn’t present when you woke up. The family who the Darlaean General said wouldn’t need much persuading to postpone seeing you.

You have to look away.

In front of your bed is the wooden desk. Your heart aches for the trees that have been injured for it to exist. It’s perfectly fine to work on the ground, which is what you’ve done in Solaria for the past three years. Why is everything in excess here?

Slowly, you rise from the bed, your balance a little wobbly as you make your way over to the desk. The wood is dark, smooth, almost unnatural. There are books neatly stacked, and there is a bountiful collection of mauve-colored quills and black ink bottles. It all seems so familiar. You run your finger along the desk, expecting to see dust, but you don’t.

Even after three years, it seems that your room is being cleaned regularly. Or maybe they cleaned it upon your arrival. Maybe they let the dust collect back when they didn’t know if you were dead or alive.

You slowly back away from the desk, turning your attention to the massive wardrobes against one of the walls of the room. They’re made of wood too, engraved in elaborate designs and towering over you in height. Back in Solaria, you had two sets of your officer uniform, one set of your soldier uniform and your old healer’s assistant uniform. How many clothes could one person need? Is this all really yours? Curious, you reach out to caress the knobs of the giant doors of one of the wardrobes. Then, you pull.

Immediately, a pleasant smell wafts into the air. You catch a hint of wisteria and white willow. Maybe a little bit of sage. Strangely enough, it feels undeniably you. But the clothes in the wardrobe—the dresses, gowns, frocks and robes—do not. You cannot fathom why anyone would need so many outfits. Aren’t two enough? Still, you can’t stop yourself from reaching out and admiring the different fabrics. There’s a handful of everything: silk, velvet, cotton, lace, wool, satin. But you stumble back in shock when your hand grazes fur. Then leather.

Your legs suddenly feel weak, so you walk over to your bed and slowly sink down on it, cradling your head in your hands.

You feel sick. Is this who you were? Someone who neglected the outside world, exploited plants and animals, someone who was spoiled rotten, someone who was okay with this special treatment just because she had power? It feels so wrong—like you’re a fire tiger in water. All of this—the riches, the luxuries, the splendors—might have been you in the past, but this feels odd to you now. Solarians make do with what they have. It’s wasteful to take more, to have more than what you need. Yoongi taught you that. Even as the son of the General of the Solarian Army, even with a home as big as his, even with so many servants, he never used more than he had to.

Yoongi.

His name feels so foreign to you, after having addressed him as “sir” for so long. But you’re not his captain anymore. You’re not even Solarian, for Sooht’s sake.

I’m sorry, you think. I’m sorry, Yoongi.

He must think you’re a traitor. That you lied to his face. That you fought so damn hard to be able to fight in the war because you needed an excuse to come back home to Darlae. He knew you were Darlaean, most likely as soon as you showed him that damn gemstone of yours. Yet he still let you fight, thinking you’d still be loyal to Solaria. You still are, of course, but he couldn’t know that. Now, he probably thinks you tricked him. If you ever did see him again, he’d probably kill you, wouldn’t he? You’re the exact thing he despises.

What if he thinks you swindled your way into his heart? What if he thinks you did it to lower his guard? What if he thinks everything you’ve confessed to him is a lie?

You can’t bear the thought.

And so you cry. It’s the ugly kind. The kind that has your shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The kind that’s loud. The kind that drowns your face in tears. And you don’t stop for a long, long time.

“She’s crying, sir.”

“I know, Seokjin,” Jungkook sighs. “I can hear her too.”

The man frowns. “Will you comfort her, sir? We’ll need her in the right mental state to extract the information we need. She must know a great deal about the Solarian Army. She even knows their magic! This could be big, sir. We must move quickly.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “She needs time to heal by herself. We’ll let her stabilize first. Then, we can ask questions.”

“But sir,” Seokjin says, frowning deepening, “you must be careful. If she really does think she’s Solarian, she may take the opportunity to assassinate you and get to the king.”

Jungkook doesn’t even move a muscle. “No, Lieutenant. That would never happen.”

“But sir, with all due respect, you don’t know her as you did before,” Seokjin says. “Three years is a long time. A lot can change.”

“That, I agree with,” Jungkook says. “But her kindness is innate, Seokjin. Such inborn traits don’t change so easily.”

“But you and I both saw her controlling fire out there, sir! She’s dangerous.”

“We think very differently, Lieutenant,” Jungkook sighs. “Don’t you think that her, a Darlaean, being able to control fire will work out to our advantage? If we beat those helluvians at their own game, victory will be ours.”

“I… I don’t know, sir,” Seokjin says. “With all due respect, what makes you think that she’ll be willing to help us?”

Jungkook ignores Seokjin’s question as he often does if it’s a stupid one and instead refutes it with an order. “Tell my personal healers to halt their current projects. From now until it’s finished, they’ll be expected to work past breaks to brew the memory potion. Don’t look at me like that. This is a crisis, Lieutenant. I want her to get those damn fucking helluvians out of her head.”

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⨰ a/n: the long-awaited chapter! i believe it confirmed many of your suspicions :) also what an intro for jungkook! he's my favorite character in this series :0

please consider telling me your thoughts with a comment, an ask or a reblog :) i love hearing readers' impressions/rambles/predictions! if you want to join the taglist, send in a private message, ask, reply to this post or reblog with your request!

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jaggedwolf · 1 year ago

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TSCOSI Ficlets #5

Waking up in the body of your AU self

Sana woke with a cough. That and the clanging of metal was almost loud enough to camouflage the small voice going "oh, fuck." It took only a second of steady breathing to place the voice as Violet's and another of opened eyes to spot her.

Sana may have been the one lying on the med bay cot, but Violet was the one who looked wrong - a ponytail her hair should be too short for, Arkady's IGR guard jacket instead of her own sweater or crew jacket.

"Captain Tripathi." One of Violet's hands was shoved into her jacket pocket, an upturned chair behind her. There was an intensity to Violet's gaze that didn't seem entirely medical. She'd seen Violet calmer when faced with an actively bleeding patient.

No blood here, only a growing headache. "Violet, an update? Last thing I remember is piloting the ship. How long was I out for?"

"Less than an hour." Violet frowned. "I-I had to shift here to monitor you."

The door slid open with a beep, Arkady striding through. At least she looked as Sana expected, tank and tactical pants and close-cropped hair.

"Thought I told you to comm me as soon as she woke up, Liu." Arkady glowered as she leant back against the end of the cot.

"It hasn't been that long." Sana lightly nudged the small of Arkady's back with her foot. "I'm sure Violet was about to."

Arkady froze. Something sick curled in Sana's gut at how Arkady's shoulders relaxed once Sana jerked her foot away. It curled tighter at the wary looks Violet and Arkady traded.

"I was," Violet finally said. "Your scans were normal, Captain. It could've been simple dehydration."

"Dehydration." Arkady crossed her arms, apparently ending whatever shared moment they'd had. "Seriously?"

"Why exactly would I lie, First Mate Patel?" snapped Violet, shoulders hunched. "I know it wouldn't end well."

Arkady made a sound of frustration. "Wasn't an accusation." She stepped in between Violet and Sana, making eye contact with the latter. "Wasn't. I was the only one near you when you fainted. Anyway, need anything else from Liu?"

"No?" Sana's headache wasn't subsiding, but if asking for painkillers would trigger more of whatever she witnessed, she'd rather hold out.

"Great!" Arkady swept Violet out the medbay with an unexpected swiftness, though Sana caught sight of Arkady scanning something to open the door. Shit. That was the final straw. You didn't lock exits on a ship.

Only an hour, impossible. Who's turned her crew against her and each other? Who's managed to turn Arkady against her? Made them willing to keep her prisoner on her own ship?

Arkady must have noticed her growing panic, because she approached the cot with her hands up and a grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Captain, it's Liu. She's completely harmless. Even if she wasn't"-Arkady snorts-"she knows you've got eyes and automated systems on every part of this ship."

Arkady jerked her head towards a table where a tablet and gun lay. "Everyone else has been at their stations. Jeeter's in his room, and Krejjh is sha-"

"You left a gun here?" asked Sana. The tablet unlocked itself at Sana's touch, displaying a single camera feed of the mess hall. A swipe showed the airlock. Another Violet walking down a corridor. Another a small bedroom.

"Already feeling good enough to test me, Sana?" Arkady's fingers twitched. She tapped the single holster on her hip, no others to be seen (how had Sana missed that, she shouldn't have missed that.) Arkady forced her grin wider. "Come on, we solved my little paranoia problem ages ago, right?"

"Right," said Sana, letting the instinct to reassure her best friend take over as the full realization of what she held in her hands hit her.

Sana wasn't the prisoner of this ship. She was its warden.

Salacious Rumors

elionated: hey hey hey GossipGeneral57: No. elionated: but whyyyyyyy elionated: how could you betray me so, best of friends and best of admins? GossipGeneral57: You could file an appeal via the link on the deleted thread. GossipGeneral57: I would reject it, of course GossipGeneral57: This is a *celebrity* gossip board, the FAQ specifically outlines the requirements for discussing someone.

elionated: yeah well your requirements are dumb if people dubbing some dwarnian soap opera count as celebs and not the FRICKIN CREW OF THE RUMOR elionated: do you have any idea how much time I spent putting together that post? gathering theories from all over the net? listening to those reports? elionated: my post had citations man, mr yusof would be proud GossipGeneral57: I don't want to think about our old lit teacher reading your list of crew combinations ordered by how likely they are to be sleeping together.

elionated: so you read it then? :D GossipGeneral57: Obviously. It was one of your posts, after all elionated: :D GossipGeneral57: I have qualms on ranking (3) there. I think (4) and perhaps even (5) are likelier candidates given the opportunity of time.

elionated: are u kidding me what about my evidence GossipGeneral57: You mean the part where you came very close to breaking our doxxing rules via a partially covered profile screenshot that as you said, proves "she's okay with sharing"? elionated: research! the very bedrock of this board! GossipGeneral57: The name and anagrams of it aren't even particularly unique. elionated: gotta give the people whatever i can find

elionated: you know who else might have an opinion on this? the other people who left comments before you DELETED all my hard work GossipGeneral57: You always have backups. GossipGeneral57: I would also like the board to not get purged via government order elionated: ugh fine elionated: i guess if we're all gonna die in some dumb war i'd rather be able to post gossip during

GossipGeneral57: ...I don't have objections to discussing this topic in our encrypted messages, however elionated: ha I KNEW IT elionated: ok who do you think is banging other than the obvs GossipGeneral57: Hold on, I'm pulling up your list again and-seriously, the entire crew? Didn't Mr Yusof also cover not taking giant inferential leaps? GossipGeneral57: (Mr Yusof I'm so sorry) elionated: you gotta read the archive on the structure of dwarnian emrehs, the one in footnote 11 elionated: i'm just saying that krejjh seems like they'd be all about sharing cultural traditions ;)

Awkward Comfort

“There’s nothing to be done,” Park says, and he knows it’s a mistake as soon as the words leave him. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

Captain Tripathi doesn’t snap at him. Instead, she lets out a shaky sigh, head leaned back against the wall that separates her from the medbay where Patel’s fighting for her life, Liu and McCabe doing their level best to help her.

Park needs - wants? - to expend at least a similar level of effort in monitoring the captain. He has never seen (or heard) her so unsettled, or so despairing. He sits down next to her on the hallway floor. The movement is not very graceful, and something in his right knee twinges.

“You’re not wrong,” the captain finally says. Her voice is as wry as ever, but with none of its usual mirth. “The time to do something would have been before leading Arkady to an ambush.”

“Captain Tripathi,” Park reasons, “with the intelligence we had, we all thought the deal was legitimate. There was no way we could have-”

Her gaze turns steely. “My best friend got really hurt because of that ‘legitimate deal’, forgive me if I’m not in the mood for IGR-standard ass-covering.”

Park flinches.

“Park-that wasn’t fair of me. It’s-”

“No,” Park interrupts against his instincts, fingers curling around his scarred knee, “I think that’s a fair assessment.”

He pauses for a moment, turning his next words over in his head. He often wishes Shelly was with him on this strange turn his life had taken, but especially now, when she would’ve at least gotten some joy out of his struggles to offer comfort, if not having any advice of her own.

Park slowly says, “I also believe my ass-covering to be accurate as well. Not even Patel could blame you.”

Captain Tripathi snorts. “You did a poor job listening in if you thought Arkady wouldn’t be the last person to blame me.”

“She has some degree of self-preservation. And an excellent medic working on her.” Park thinks back to the few files he’d dug up on Liu’s time by O-11, the hours of work rewarded with little actionable intelligence. “If there was a warning sign, I’m sure Patel will regale us on the matter when she recovers.”

“She would.” The captain shakes her head. “She will. I’m going to stick around out here, Park, but you don’t have to.”

“Is there something that needs to be done elsewhere?” An easy opening for her to dismiss him. He rather hopes she doesn’t. Getting up would be a far less graceful process than sitting down. Worse yet, Park finds he doesn’t like the idea of her waiting alone, even if the alternative is his stilted company.

“No.” Sana’s eyes focus on him. He has the uncanny feeling she’s figured out something about him. “Not at all.”

Mundane AU

"It can't be that bad, dude," said Brian, sounding very reasonable as he took a sip of his hot chocolate. "Wasn't it already kinda bad?"

"Yes." Violet stared out the cafe window. The bright sunlight only aggravated her hangover, but it was far too late for her to hide from the day. "I also thought the week couldn't get worse than the department chair telling me that the direction of my dissertation was completely pointless. While my advisor said nothing."

Brian winced, even though she'd already told him this. He had his own horror stories about grad school, from before he'd dropped out. But that wasn't why Violet had texted him this morning.

"What happened?" asked Brian. "Did your advisor say something?"

"No," said Violet, almost wishing she had. "Your friends, the ones I met last night?"

"Arkady and Sana, yeah." Brian grins. "It seemed like you three hit it off. Sorry Krejjh and I had to head out early, moving has us beat."

"We did," admitted Violet. "After the bar, they showed me the flower shop and tattoo parlor." She grimaced. "I think I drank too much - I vaguely remember them insisting on walking me home?"

"Dude, that doesn't seem like that big a deal," said Brian. "Arkady's had to sleep it off on our couch plenty of times."

Violet cut to the chase. "Brian, when I woke up today, there was a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. And next to it, a sketch of a tattoo design."

"Tattoos like the kind you swore off forever?" joked Brian, who had heard all about the very ill-advised hip tattoo decisions Violet had made in undergrad.

"It, um." Violet blushed. "It incorporated my current one. It actually made it look pretty good? The point is, I texted them this morning. Only I...thanked Sana for the flowers, and Arkady for the tattoo design."

"You didn't," protests Brian.

"I did. I didn't even realize until they texted me back." She leaned across the table to show him their replies. (Sana: You should thank Arkady for those! :D, Arkady: uh what liu? think you meant to text tripathi)

The disbelief was evident in Brian's eyes. "I introduced you guys to each other, Violet."

"Yeah, and you said 'this is Sana and Arkady, they run the flower shop and the tattoo parlor down on Rumor Street'. You never actually said who ran what!"

"You were in their shops!"

"We didn't actually talk about work that much. And they kept bouncing ideas off each other, I just thought they knew each other that well."

"Well, they do," said Brian, frowning. "But Sana's tattoos!"

"What about them?" asked Violet, taking a big gulp of her coffee.

"Isn't the woman with tattoo sleeves more likely to be the tattoo artist?"

"Arkady has a tattoo too, a number on her shoulder," argued Violet. Embarrassed, she mumbled her next defense. "I...thought of that puzzle. You know, the one where a town only has two barbers and-"

"-and you have to pick which one to get a haircut from, and one of them has a great haircut while the other one doesn't?" Brian's face lights up in recognition and amusement. "Kinda only applies in a town that only has two barbers, Violet. I think Sana got hers before she even moved here?"

"I probably seem like a complete idiot," said Violet, fidgeting with the handle of her mug. "Or worse."

"I don't think they'll hold it against you." Brian glanced at his phone after it lit up with a notification, smiling at whatever it was. "Not their style."

Wrist Kisses

When Violet returned to Arkady's room, her first order of business was falling back on the bed. Her second was a bone-deep sigh.

A snort of amusement came from where Arkady's desk stood. "Another talk-through?"

"Yeah." Violet closed her eyes. She would be eternally grateful for Dr Robinson's crash course. But the universe was still short on doctors, let alone non-IGR ones, and Violet hadn't helped that shortage when she'd decided to leave Telemachus for a spot on Sana's new ship. The least she could do was consult over calls. It meant squinting through poor video and only being able to offer her words, not her work.

She didn't mind. Even for the worst of those calls, she'd found it terrifying and satisfying and thrilling all at once. She hardly knew which of those were the best ways to feel.

"Bad call?" asked Arkady. Closer, this time.

"No, just some long ones."

Arkady hummed in acknowledgement. Violet blinked her eyes open in time to find Arkady hovering over her, the mattress sinking a little deeper with their combined weight. She grasped Arkady's face in her hands. Ran her thumb over the short hairs around Arkady's ears. It was grounding, holding Arkady, in a way that made Violet feel uncomfortably selfish.

"Sorry," said Violet, "I was planning on showering before I swung by."

"Yeah, Liu, you're absolutely filthy from uh, spending all day talking to people. Really contaminating my room," teased Arkady, who then turned her head to press a slow kiss to Violet's left wrist.

"I could go shower now." Violet shifted her arm to give Arkady better access. "There's still time before dinner."

Arkady shook her head, and responded between kisses that made their way up (or was it down?) Violet's arm. "Well, you've already ruined the sheets. We shouldn't waste it."

#now in 2023 #tscosi #starship iris #ficlets #sana tripathi #park and sana #violet and arkady #violet liu #vas

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hatigave · 3 months ago

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TIME SLIPS AWAY FROM trembling hands. Cuts flesh like a rope held on too tightly. One moment he is laying in the dirt, and the next he is standing in a camp he's never set foot in before. The heavy weight of Ben has disappeared, but his heart remains frantically beating inside his chest. HE BLINKS. Once. Twice. Until the world slowly regains its focus. His gaze moves around the tent, trying to focus on anything but Benjamin's face. 'I'll decide what should and shouldn't be me' ⎯⎯⎯⎯ a brave sentiment. Not one he could follow.

He is back on trial, watched and judged as he tries to steady his breathing. Being scared is not going to change anything. When his hands finally still, and his voice manages to squeeze past the lump in his throat, the twang of unease lingers. ❝ What can I do for you ? I have over thirteen years of service — ❞ Not at all a complete lie; he was only thought to be lost at sea and later declared dead for five of them. ❝ — a lieutenant before... before my transfer to these waters. I still have friends in England, and I can work and fight. No matter how poorly that one failed shot made me seem. ❞ He tries to laugh it off, casually sitting down on the offered cot while waving his hand Still there is no joy reaching his eyes.

❝ Your men are lucky to have you. I am glad to hear you made it to Major, you were always one people were willing to follow. ❞ If he is honest with himself he is trying to buy time. He needs a moment to run the offered options through his mind. A room would provide privacy during the night terrors so sure to come but would equally cast the shadow of doubt as to his presence. A MAN USED TO A CRAMPED SHIP and at least 800 souls at his side should not be in dire need of privacy. ❝ If you'll have me, I'll gladly sleep on the floor here, lest people assume that British deserters receive any special treatment for their troubles. If word were to get out half their barracks would empty out with soldiers seeking lodgings in your room. Besides, the floor cannot leave me any more sore than the cots on the ship. ❞ Or the floor of a prison in Spain for that matter.

The word deserter makes him want to retch, still, it claws its way out of his throat until it hangs heavy in the air between them.

❝ Let me see if it can be mended. It is perhaps not the skill you would expect, but I am quite proficient with a needle and thread if need be. ❞ He rises from the cot in favour of holding out his hand waiting if he'd be allowed to touch the coat. Please ignore the way it trembles. His eyes seek out Benjamin's as he forces his mouth to take the shape of a smile. ❝ I am absolutely fine. It was just the shock, I suppose. Nothing to worry about, for I assure you that the damage to your coat is a far greater concern. ❞

Even within the scant moonlight, Benjamin could make out a glimmer of panic in Archie's eyes. The other man tapped at his chest, the desperation palpable, and with a grunt, he released his friend's lapels and sank back onto his haunches, still breathing hard from their prior pursuit.

"I'll decide what should and shouldn't be me," he hissed. "If we're all to withstand this fight -- if we're all going to survive -- we have to work together."

Brushing the dirt off his knees, a hint of remorse overcame Benjamin's features, but the look faded nearly as soon as it had come. "Let's go," he entreated. "It won't be long before Rogers alerts those lobsterbacks that we're here."

With Archie not wearing a traditional uniform, his entry into camp was relatively seamless. Caleb took Selah off to get his own lodgings, so that left Benjamin to care for the new addition.

"What can you do for us?" he asked, ushering the other man into his tent. "As in, what skills do you possess? I'd gladly let you stay on without issue, but His Excellency will never approve of a hungry mouth that doesn't give his fair share."

With a weary sigh, Benjamin shrugged out of his filthy, leaf-ridden coat and draped it over the back of his chair, only pausing to crack his stiff neck. Nodding to Archie, he indicated that he have a seat on his cot, should he need a place to rest. "I'll have to see about sleeping arrangements, but in the meantime, you can either stay here with me, or up at headquarters. I have a room in there... I don't use it." Catching the other man's gaze, he shrugged. "The way I see it, if I can't endure what my men do, I don't deserve the position of Major. I could never live in comfort while they wallow in squalor."

His tent certainly had its own fair share of perks and amenities, but Benjamin would never choose a room with a fireplace over the outdoors -- not when he knew even one man might be suffering.

Rolling his lips inward, he assessed his uniform for notable damage -- a tear on the left coat sleeve, and a slight rip along his shirt -- before looking back to Archie. "You all right?" Benjamin asked. His voice was softer, more leveled. "I nearly caught a bullet back there... It stands to reason that you might've 'caught' something, too."

#honorhearted #ii. stardust memories ( kennedy : ic )#yapping corgi is back (it's fake. it's soooooo fake)#I'm holding them both between my teeth and shaking my head like a dog tbh

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notesfromdruchan · 2 years ago

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Aji tales

There is but one thread that connects me to my maternal grandmother who passed away on a confusing, no-time-to-brood day at the peak of the second Covid wave in India in 2021. We do not know what really killed her – pneumonia induced by severe downfall in Hemoglobin levels or possible-Covid – but death descended on her amidst a flurry of strenuous running-around to get her medical care. Around 2am that night, the family having decided to let her pass away instead of putting her through a protracted misery of sickness and treatments to lymphocitic leukamia, my mom woke me up to let me know that aji, on whom I had affixed the oxygen mask from the concentrator just a few hours ago, had passed away. She lay motionless, somewhat awkwardly, with her right arm across her neck, her bony elbow propping up, one of her legs bent, on the steel cot that my brother and I had assembled with some help from my father... the same cot on which I had lied next to her, watching old Tamil movie clips, or pattimandram speeches with her, not knowing when it was her turn to leave us all.

I've always nurtured this idea that aji was more fond of my other two cousins than I. That they got to spend almost all of their growing-up years with aji around them, almost being a second-mom to my brother and often being the first-mom to my sister, helped cement this notion in me. I'd only get to interact with her during the summer holidays when my mom would take me to the grandparents' place, or when the gramps visited us. And in those days, there was a side of aji that remained, in my knowledge, completely hidden. It took my brother's coming-of-age (and his prodding) for her to reveal that she had an outrageously smart, witty side to her and once that happened, there was no stopping her, even during the times she was in the ICU, fresh out of a near-death experience when the first sign of leukamia started rearing its head.

Sometime by then, we were all grown-ups and there was no causticity to the feeling of being the grandson she had spent the least amount of time with. As dire the situation was – she had to come stay with us because, at the time, only mom had the time to take care of her – the silver-lining to it (for me, personally) was that now this merchant-of-unexpected-wit would be living with us. Living with me. Just a handful of years before this was when I found in aji the perfect person I could talk excitedly about old Tamil songs, their nuances, their composers, their tales and more (besides my school friends R and S). It didn't strike me then as to why it was such a glorious moment but retrospectively, it's because I could finally, finally connect with aji in a way that was exclusively mine. While aji was a great aficionado of the songs themselves for the lyrics (and the lyricists), I went after the music and the arrangement and the history. She'd often quip, in response to me asking and then telling her that such-and-such song was composed by such-and-such person (usually MSV), that back in her day, she hardly paid any attention to who the composer was and all they cared about was the actors onscreen and the people who penned the lyrics. I felt proud (vain, I know) that I knew more about a song that came out when aji was in her prime than aji did.

I eventually discovered great acting (and greater dialog) in comedy scenes of old Tamil movies and, soon enough, these became a topic of conversation as well. Aji had a bad back that prevented her from sitting for more than a few minutes so she had to often lie down. You could try a lot of things to keep her entertained but there's only so much that could be done with the vagaries of a daily life lived as a middle-class, salaried household. Everyone of us tried ways to help her while away the time as she lay on her steel cot. Mine was to lie next to her, open up YouTube on my phone, clip in the earphones – one in my ear and the other in hers – and watch, with her, a Nagesh-Balaiah scene, or a Chandrababu one, or a Cho-Nagesh one (the options were endless, really). I'd often pretend that I was doing it because I was bored and that I just wanted to lie down and watch something and only plugged in and shared the earphone for courtesy but now that I think of it, I wonder if she was clued in to the pretense all along.

For many months after her passing, I avoided anything black-and-white like the plague – no old Tamil songs, no old Tamil movie clips, and sometimes not even anything that goes back to the 60s and 70s of the Tamil silverscreen era. But it had to give eventually and so I weaved my way back through contemporary artists talking about those days, few stray clips thrown in for emphasis and exemplification. At long last, I could watch everything again but always ending with the absolutely crushing emptiness of not having aji to talk, discuss, or share with.

I was never as close to my aji as my other cousins were, in all my life. But that one thread was plentiful enough to quench an inexplicable want to connect with her.

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cassandraward · 2 years ago

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Mary was a mother before she learned how to walk.

When it was night and Noah started to cry too loudly she would crawl over to his cot to shush him, well aware that it would be her to bear the brunt of their family’s ire if he woke anyone up. When they got older she would tell him what the rules were, the lines they could toe before their aunties and uncles and parents would start to get angry. She was the one who kissed his skinned knees better and put plasters on his cuts because God knows no one else was going to do it and Mary loved her brother almost as much as she resented him.

She’s the one who taught him how to sew. Her mother likes to pretend she did it but everyone knows that’s a lie. Mary is the one who taught Noah how to wield creation with a needle and thread. She’s the one that made him something powerful.

When she’s sixteen and her family starts to talk about who her husband will be and how many children she’ll have in far less abstract terms than previously she thinks to herself, I will never be a mother, if only to spite you. I will make myself unlovable.

She thinks this knowing that it’s a lie. She knows that her family has already made the choice for her, because fourteen years ago they gave her a brother to love and if she hadn’t taken care of him then he would be even more terrible than he is today. Motherhood was never a choice for her, it was the sentence that came with being born a girl.

When she makes the decision to leave she doesn’t tell Noah. She’ll bring him with her, of course. Both of them are the only ally the other has. But for a moment she wants to pretend she’ll be alone for the first time in her life. She’ll no longer have to be a mother, or a sister. She’ll be able to leave this family behind in every way imaginable. She loves her brother so much but she hates him too. She loves him in a way that acts as a barrier. Her hate is a reservoir and her love is the dam that keeps it from spilling over. Mary doesn’t like to imagine the sort of person she would be if she didn’t love her brother.

It’s easy to imagine the sort of person Noah would be, because he would be dead. Mary knows she has capacity for great violence and she knows she could inflict that upon her brother. But she loves him, so she doesn’t.

So Mary lies awake at night, planning their escape without her brothers knowledge. She knows that he will come with her but she wants to fantasise for a little while longer. Noah’s been quieter lately, likely sitting on his rage at what their family is planning to do to her, and it feels like permission for her to lose herself a little in her thoughts.

When Mary is sixteen she doesn’t know that Noah’s using those silent night to figure out his own escape plan. It’s only later that the consequences of this fact truly come to fruit.

#tapestry #writing #mary harrow #noah harrow #mary and noah are the characters the next part of tapestry is about!#it’s called ‘I could never stand you sober’ and i'm going to try and publish it on february 1st

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nat-20s · 4 years ago

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for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #AHHH this is just over TWO THOUSAND words #i really was like for the last prompt i will not Shut Up lmao #also fun fact! part 4 was specifically designed to not be clear whether it was from jon or martins perspective

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iwaslut · 4 years ago

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— silence

synopsis: the aftermath of an assassin’s bullet.

note: acts as a sequel to “a moment,” but it’s not necessary to read it beforehand.

ft. jean kirschtein, mikasa ackerman, and connie springer.

warning: season four, episode eight spoilers, angst, referenced character death, blood.

the quiet is deafening.

the solemn atmosphere that’s now replaced the once jovial celebration of the scouts is nearly suffocating. it’s difficult for you to believe that only a little while ago, your comrades were reveling in paradis’ supposed victory. this doesn’t feel like one.

the soft whirring of the aircraft’s engine and the slight shuffling of soldiers around are all muted to you as you sit alone in a darkened corner on the harsh wooden planks of the floor.

your knees are drawn up close to your chest as you blankly stare at your hands outstretched in front of you. with your palms turned up, you can’t tear your eyes away from the redness that stains them. you can’t look away from the blood that once belonged to your sister.

you ball them into fists and let them drop onto your kneecaps, and lean your forehead against your knees.

when will it end?

a warm hand gently lands on your shoulder and without even looking, you already know who it is. with your head still firmly pressed against your knees, you allow jean to slowly unfurl your clenched fists. dark crescents mar your palms and you feel a trickle of cool liquid drip onto them before jean drags a damp washcloth over them, cleansing your hands of the dried blood that coats them.

he works slowly, dragging the cloth over every crevice of your palm and in between each of your fingers. he pretends to not notice the way your shoulders begin to shake or the muffled sobs that escape pass your sealed lips. once he’s sure that your hands are entirely clean, jean takes a seat down beside you and tiredly sighs.

after taking a few deep ragged breaths, a futile attempt to regain some composure, you turn your head to the side to look at the man you’ve loved since you were trainees.

his knees rest against his chest, similar to you, and his hands are firmly pressed over his ears as strands of his grown out hair are harshly entangled in between his fingers. his stare is directed towards the ground, but you can make out the tear-stains that are still in the process of drying on his cheeks. you reach out, gently tugging jean’s hand away from his face and forcing him to loosen his grip on his hair.

“who’s going to steal food off of my plate now?” you blurt out. you rub your thumb over the backside of jean’s hand, an action that brings comfort to the both of you. tears blur the corners of your vision once more as you focus your attention on the action of moving your thumb back and forth over and over again.

jean lets out a watery chuckle and leans his head against yours. he flips his palm upward and folds his fingers over yours before sighing heavily.

“i don’t know,” he admits.

the silence that fills the room is unsettling.

ever since your first encounter with a titan all those years ago, you’ve suffered from nightmares and insomnia, but that’s not what’s keeping you away from sleep tonight. no, the distinct lack of a certain sound is what’s causing sleep to elude you this evening.

you don’t know whether you want to laugh or cry at the fact you can’t fall asleep without sasha’s obnoxious snoring.

turning onto your side, you pull the thread-barren blanket that’s pooled around your chest back up to your chin and look out the window. your eyes follow the thin trail of moonlight that seeps through the glass of the window. the faint light dully illuminates the interior of the room, and your eyes fall upon your remaining roommate.

you know mikasa can’t sleep either.

if one were to just briefly look over at mikasa, they’d think she was fully asleep. lying flat on her back and completely still on top of her cot, one might even mistaken her for dead. but after being roommates for so long, you’ve come to know the subtleties that distinguish whether she’s awake or not.

it’s almost unnoticeable and you have to strain your ears to even hear it, but mikasa’s breathing pattern is off. if she were asleep, her breaths would be nice and deep and there’d be a certain rhythm to it. right now, her breathing is erratic, a mesh of shallow inhales and deep exhales as if she’s trying to catch her breath.

neither of you can fall asleep without the cacophony known as sasha’s snoring.

it’s something that worsened as sasha aged. when you were kids, you used to threaten that you’d smother sasha with a pillow if she continued to make so much noise at night.

but now as you lie awake in the middle of the night, you miss it more than anything.

you sit up straight in your bunk and toss your legs over the side. the ground is cool against your bare feet, but you pay it no mind. curling your blanket around your body, you patter over to where mikasa is.

“c’mon,” you whisper, placing a hand on her bare arm. her gaze shifts from the bottom of the empty bunk above her to you. “i’ll make us some tea right now.”

mikasa doesn’t reply, but gives you a small nod before hoisting herself out of bed as well.

you both will have to learn how to become accustomed to the quiet.

out of all of your friends, there is nobody who can really understand how you feel right now besides connie.

sasha was family to the both of you - your other half.

although you loved your sister with all your heart, you were overjoyed that she managed to find someone like connie to stick by her side.

you fully believe that connie and your sister were soulmates if such a thing were true. whether platonic or romantic, there’s no arguing that the two complemented one another like no other. you couldn’t have connie without sasha, just like how you couldn’t have sasha without connie.

they brought out the best in each other and never failed to lighten the mood amongst your friends whenever things got too dreary.

god, you miss your sister.

it doesn’t go unnoticed by you how connie will turn to the side while your friends are walking around town with some remark on the tip of his tongue just to clamp his mouth shut once he realizes no one’s there. or how his eyes linger on the spot to your left for a few seconds longer than necessary before flickering back up to meet your gaze when he greets you and jean.

mealtimes are the worst.

you used to look forward to them; you may not have had the same appetite as sasha did, but you appreciated the opportunity to eat as well as the time to spend with those closest to you.

now, you nearly dread them.

an effort at minimal small talk is made at the table before it quickly dies off as you all push around the food that’s been prepared for your meal. the quality of your meals has improved since the days you were cadets, but not by much.

“sasha would’ve loved this.” the sound of connie’s voice breaks the silence. with his elbow lying on top of the table, connie’s head rests in his hand as he spoons through the porridge in his bowl.

“yeah,” you agree quietly, looking down at your own meal, “she would’ve.”

jean places a hand over yours, and you shoot a grateful smile his way. another gap of silence fills the air once more as you all soak in connie’s words.

“i think we should enjoy every meal we’re able to spend together.” the firmness in your voice startles both jean and connie who turn to look your way. “and once this damn war is over, we’re going to travel all over the world and taste all the food there is.”

tilting your head up, you look at connie sitting across from you. his eyes are still filled with weariness, but he gives you a small, but genuine smile in return.

“okay,” he says while nodding. jean squeezes your hand in agreement and you all go back to eating your food.

mealtimes will forever remind you of sasha, but the quietness that proceeds isn’t as stifling as it once was.

#aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x you #attack on titan x reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #connie springer x reader #mikasa x reader #connie x reader #jean x reader #mikasa ackerman x reader #celeste.scribs

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hongism · 4 years ago

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mists of celeste ➻ 33.5

➻ pairing for this interim: seonghwa x hongjoong ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, fluff ➻ word count: 4.0k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act four ➻ part 8.5

“You need rest too, Seonghwa.”

Said lieutenant lets his eyes flutter open at the sound of the voice, and he shifts to glance back at the person who just entered the room. It’s Jongho rather than Yunho for once; the damn healer won’t quit popping in to chastise Seonghwa for his less than stellar sleeping habits, but the lieutenant could not care less to be frank. If it’s for his captain, he would do whatever it takes no matter the sacrifice.

“Did you just come back from visiting Yeosang?” Seonghwa inquires instead of addressing the issue at hand. He pulls back a bit from Hongjoong’s bedside, knees scraping hard on the floor in a way that should burn, but his legs have long since gone somewhat numb. It’s a pointless pursuit really because Jongho already saw him pressed so close to Hongjoong’s side with both hands clasped over one of his captain’s clammy and cold ones. Still, it offers at least a bit of peace of mind to turn away and look at someone who is both conscious and responsive.

“I did, yeah.”

“And? How is he today?”

Jongho sways his head from side to side for a moment. Seonghwa doesn’t need to be a genius to understand what that means, but it does help in deciphering the lingering emotion behind Jongho’s red eyes.

“That bad?”

“I wish I could say he was better today but… nightmares.” Jongho inhales sharply. Perhaps Seonghwa should be the one tending to Yeosang’s mental state, but there is a bit of hesitance there because he feels quite a bit of failure himself when he looks at the Elitist. Once upon a time, he had sworn on pain of death that he would take care of Wooyoung and help keep him safe. He failed beautifully at doing even that simple task. Just as he failed you in his promises to keep you safe. As well as the endless promises he gave to Hongjoong about protecting him from harm.

Maybe that is the one thing Seonghwa is doomed to fail at time and time again without cease.

Still, this burden is a lot to put on Jongho’s shoulders, especially as a Berserker and especially since he lost someone himself.

“And you? Are you having nightmares as well?”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m even sleeping,” Jongho quips in response without a drop of hesitation. It stabs a deep gash into Seonghwa’s heart, one the emanates off his shoulders in waves. No doubt Jongho can feel that pain, but he doesn’t let his features shift in the slightest. “But no, I’m not having nightmares. Mingi is… I trust him. I know what he’s capable of and how much he’s willing to fight not only for himself but also for the crew. He is stronger than he knows, and his protective instincts are stronger than the bloodthirsty ones. He will keep them safe, and he’ll keep himself safe in the process. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in Yeosang’s room to help when he wakes up from the nightmares. Hard to sleep when he can barely go ten minutes without having bad dreams.”

“Ah,” Seonghwa exhales, and he needs no further explanation than that.

It is something Jongho used to do for San as well: stay in the young man’s room not long after the mutiny happened because the trauma and horrifying memories that the event resurfaced for San were nearly too much to bear. Jongho stayed in there for several months just to keep the man sane through the night. Seonghwa has never been on the receiving end of Jongho’s comfort, but he has seen the impact of it. Allowing someone to come so close to your heart and trauma is a special thing already, but having someone feel everything you feel while going through those traumatic memories is far more intimate. Despite his all too keen ability to help the crew through moments of emotional turmoil, Jongho rarely remembers to look after himself as well. He still absorbs those negative and overwhelming feelings, but he conceals the pains that he is left with as not to worry anyone. Seonghwa has watched the boy grow up — he knows him well enough to pick the pieces of his cracked shell away and see what’s underneath.

“You ought to sleep here tonight.” It isn’t an offer or something to be considered. Seonghwa might phrase it as one, but the command is in his tone and on his lips. “I’ll sleep in Yeosang’s room in case he wakes up from nightmares.”

“Seonghwa—”

“It is not up for discussion, Jongho.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” the Berserker argues, leveling Seonghwa with a pointed glare. “I’ll ask Yunho to sleep in there tonight, if that’s what will make you feel better. But Hongjoong… Captain could wake up at any minute, and if your face isn’t the first he sees—”

“That’s enough, Jongho.” Seonghwa doesn’t quite like the implication behind that comment. There are too many emotions tied to it, too many past memories that should stay buried in that, and Seonghwa has to swallow to push the growing lump in his throat down. “That will work fine, as long as you give yourself a night off to actually rest.”

“We didn’t leave these empty cots in here for no reason,” Jongho tries again. “At least try to sleep some tonight, if nothing else. We need everyone at high alert for whatever is to come out of this shady ass Spectre and the recovery mission.”

“Okay… okay, I’ll rest too,” Seonghwa relents. Jongho has a point, but the Berserker has always been both quick with his wits and on his feet. Perhaps if Hongjoong doesn’t awaken then —

That thought comes out of the blue, intrudes on his mind, and leaves him choked. Seonghwa clasps a shaky hand over his mouth as a gasp slips out. There is no hiding the sudden wave of emotions that washes over him, not with Jongho in the room, and the Berserker rushes forward to meet Seonghwa on the floor. His knees hit the wood so roughly that it hurts Seonghwa’s ears.

The easiest thing to do would be to get rid of the weak link and ascend to power.

Seonghwa can’t help but slam the heel of his hand down roughly on his temple. It is enough to drive that maddening voice in his head away for now, although moderately concerning to the man kneeling across from him. These thoughts come too easily these days; without Hongjoong there to keep him grounded with constant reminders, Seonghwa finds his hold on the thin thread losing strength with each passing second. Maybe that’s why he can’t truly rest, because he is in the same boat as Yeosang in terms of nightmares.

“Seonghwa…” Jongho’s voice holds warning in it, but the older man pushes that concern to the side and fixes his gaze on the young Berserker.

“I’m okay.”

“You know you can’t lie to me.”

“Yes, but I also know that there is nothing you can do for me, Jongho,” Seonghwa murmurs the words through a smile, and Jongho’s gaze turns almost melancholic.

“I could take it away,” he says, daring to look the lieutenant in the eye.

“Hongjoong gave you orders not to do that.”

“I’ve done it for San in the past. I… did it for Y/N once without her knowing too.”

“That was different, Jongho.” Seonghwa pushes a new resolution into his stare, hoping that it will be enough to dissuade the man. “The emotional and mental pain it would cause you is not something we need right now. Do not think to do it to me now, and certainly do not think to do it to Yeosang either.”

Jongho shakes his head a bit.

“Yeosang will be okay. I trust that. As awful as the nightmares are, it eases a bit to see Wooyoung even for a few seconds in his dreams. You on the other hand…”

Is he weak in Jongho’s eyes? Is that it? Seonghwa lets his gaze drop to the floor, then quickly pushes himself up to his full height. His legs are a bit wobbly at first thanks to how long he had been kneeling before Hongjoong’s cot, but he manages not to make a fool of himself and fall over on the spot.

“I’m perfectly okay, and I will be even better when Hongjoong wakes up. Now please go get some rest.” Jongho exhales a deep sigh but doesn’t fight the lieutenant’s words. Just as he is turning on his heel to leave the room though, a new thought flashes across Seonghwa’s mind, and he calls out after Jongho to stop him. “Also, Jongho — if you could please check in with Y/N, just to see how she is? I think… I think the combination of seeing a person from her past and the stress of the others being gone is weighing on her more than she claims.”

“Of course. I was going to head over there regardless.”

If the relief shows on Seonghwa’s features, Jongho decides not to comment on it and leaves without any further ado. Seonghwa doesn’t turn back to look at Hongjoong’s reclining body until the door snaps shut behind Jongho. The silence that returns is thick and palpable, almost choking the lieutenant with its strength. He weaves around the side of the empty cot beside Hongjoong’s and nudges it carefully forward until the bed lies directly beside where his captain lies. Yunho will surely make his rounds again later, but Seonghwa cannot find it in him to care, even if his actions are grossly pathetic and pitiful on many levels. He doesn’t want to think about how sad it must look to see the renowned Lieutenant of Death stooping so low as to lie beside his captain simply because he cannot handle this prolonged unconsciousness. He isn’t sure there has ever been a period of time like this before where Hongjoong was absent in such a way, not since before Seonghwa met him at least.

Seonghwa slips onto the cold and empty cot, tugging the blanket atop back so he can situate himself underneath, and once he’s fully reclined, he dares to let himself look over Hongjoong’s features.

Relaxed and calm for once. Too often does he see the man with brows knit together in concern and worry. This is a welcome change, even if it comes with having to see scratches and bruises on Hongjoong’s otherwise flawless visage.

Seonghwa twists onto his side and faces the man before stretching a hesitant hand out to comb Hongjoong’s unkempt hair down.

Get rid of the weak link.

There goes that nagging voice again. Seonghwa has to remind himself that it isn’t him necessarily; rather it is the result of amassing rumors and things people have made him out to be over the years.

Hongjoong is many things, but weak is not and could never be one of them.

People call Seonghwa the Lieutenant of Death for a reason, and sometimes he lets himself be consumed by their words and beliefs. According to Hongjoong, that is what caused that little voice to rise and gain power in Seonghwa’s mind. The lieutenant has found himself thinking about the initial conversation that happened well over a year ago more and more these past few days. It is that same memory that comes over him and lives in his dreams when his eyelids finally droop. Seonghwa falls asleep with his hand falling to rest over the steady rise and fall of Hongjoong’s chest, right over where his heart beats on and on beneath the confines of his body.

…

“Do you… do you ever get that voice in your head? The inhumane one who can only be cruel?” Seonghwa asks, tone shaky and unsteady as he presents the question to Hongjoong. The young captain stands across the room with hands trailing over his shelves in search of one book in particular, but Seonghwa’s question stops him in his tracks.

“Yes. Always. More often than not, I listen to it. Kim Hongjoong is not the Scourge of the Black Sea. They are two separate entities — one is merely a captain trying to do what he can for his crew. The other is a monster, cold and heartless who does not know the meaning of mercy or kindness. He kills for sport because it’s fun, easy, ruthless. It’s what he is good at. He works towards a revenge that can never be achieved.”

“That’s not true, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa insists through a slight sigh. He lets his weight fall onto the edge of Hongjoong’s desk, arms coming up to cross over his chest in a way that is meant to chastise his captain, but the other man barely spares him a glance.

“No, but it is what people believe me to be. And if I cave in to their desires and believe them for even a second, then that nasty voice in my head wins. I will be all those things and more. But most of all, I will lose everything I have worked towards all these years. I will lose all the care I have for this crew, the passion and determination I have for my goal, the sheer will to keep on living. The Scourge of the Black Sea has no need for anything of those things, but Kim Hongjoong does. I have to remind myself of that every single day to keep from losing my mind.”

“That’s all it takes?” Seonghwa’s tone holds a certain suspension of disbelief to it.

“Are you Park Seonghwa or are you my Lieutenant of Death?”

“I am yours. Whatever that entails.”

That catches Hongjoong a bit off-guard, and the man actually sputters and fumbles with his next words upon hearing Seonghwa’s quick-spoken statement. He recovers just as quickly though, not leaving any further cracks in his composure, and steps closer to where Seonghwa leans against the desk.

“Allow me to rephrase that question then.” Hongjoong keeps moving forward until there is minimal space left between their bodies, and Seonghwa tries not to be haughty in the way he has to look down to meet his captain’s gaze. “Are you merely what others make you out to be? Or is the Seonghwa who stands in front of me now more than that? More than a bloodthirsty and heartless grunt who cannot think for himself. A failed soldier who is only good at following orders. Someone so cruel that even death itself would turn his back in shame because of the destruction you leave in your wake. Is that the Seonghwa I know?”

“Never,” Seonghwa whispers into the space between them. Hongjoong squints a little and presses ever closer. The elder of the two can feel the other’s breath panting hard against his own lips, and the sensation sends chills down his spine and leaves goosebumps to trail over his arms.

“Never,” Hongjoong echoes through a small smile. “Because my Park Seonghwa is one who is kind and compassionate. A person who loves without fail or error, forgives with too much ease, cares for others more than he cares for himself. Cherishes the loyal and spurns the betrayers. Looks for the good in others yet is quickest to judge himself in times of distress. My Park Seonghwa gives… and gives without even thinking to stop something for himself, and should he ever do what is necessary for his own good, he calls it selfish desire. So no, you are not my Lieutenant of Death. And as long as you remember that, remember why you are not and can never be that entity — that monster who resides deep in your heart and soul — that voice will never win. It will never take over. You will never be what they make you out to be.”

“I cannot remember that without you, Joong,” Seonghwa murmurs. Perhaps he lets too much emotion slip into his tone or he is overstepping his boundaries in their little hierarchy. Hongjoong doesn’t chastise him or ridicule him for the words, though.

“And luckily for you, we spend nearly every minute together. I will — I’ll remind you of it however often you need me to.” Hongjoong draws his lower lip between his teeth and chews at the skin a few times. “I trust you to remind me that I am more than my failures, as you have done so every day since the mutiny.”

The mutiny. They don’t discuss that event. It is too raw, too emotional, too sensitive for Hongjoong. How long has it been now? Three months? Two? Most definitely two, maybe less. It isn’t that Seonghwa doesn’t understand why it is a touchy subject — he merely learned early on not to grow too attached to people in his life. He supposes he is making a mockery of that lesson as he looks deep into Hongjoong’s dark eyes and regards the man with so much care and affection.

Hongjoong begins to drop his chin, but Seonghwa is quicker, hands stretching out to cup the man’s face just under his jaw. He isn’t sure why exactly he does that; something comes over him and causes him to reach out. Hongjoong blinks back at him with wide eyes. The lights in the room reflect off those dark orbs and make Seonghwa see stars in them.

Seonghwa doesn’t realize that his jaw is hanging open until his mouth goes dry, and he chokes on a parched throat as he tries to swallow around nothing. Hongjoong pushes the flat of his hand to Seonghwa’s chest. For a moment, the older man thinks he is trying to push him away and he starts to withdraw his hands, but the Hongjoong pushes ever closer until his knees push between Seonghwa’s.

“You were the first to trust me. The first to join me. The only one who didn’t look down on me. You didn’t treat me like a slave, didn’t amount me to being a former slave, nor did you judge me when you learned of my true class. You, Park Seonghwa, who had nothing in life but a will to live, gave me everything. I may not be able to give you the same in return, but I don’t take that sacrifice lightly.” Seonghwa’s jaw stutters as he tries to come up with the right words to say. All his mind can do is repeat ‘I’m not him, I never will be, I cannot be what he was, I cannot replace him’.

“I’m not Jin,” he says without thinking, and that causes Hongjoong to draw back all of a sudden. Seonghwa’s hands slip away from his face. He draws back so much that the space between their bodies is suddenly infinite, and Seonghwa regrets speaking so fucking much that the sensation nearly cripples him. “Hongjoong, that’s not — I didn’t mean—”

“Perhaps I have done something wrong along the way if you truly believe that is all I would amount you to,” Hongjoong bites out, cutting off the apology on Seonghwa’s lips. “I do not think you to be a replacement of any kind. Yes, Jin and I had a special relationship, we were close, I trusted him. But you, Seonghwa, you have always been more. I told you that when I asked you to be my Lieutenant. You asked why I chose you over him and maybe it is just as simple as the fact that I trust you.”

Hongjoong heaves a deep breath and shifts to blink at the ceiling. Seonghwa gnaws on the inside of his cheek with shame burning his neck and face. When Hongjoong speaks again, he draws closer to Seonghwa once more, this time with more haste and force. He grips Seonghwa’s chin harshly between his fingers, squeezing the skin so hard that it stings a bit. Seonghwa doesn’t dare to move under the captain’s touch though; he lets Hongjoong yank him down to be eye level and stares back without blinking.

“You are treasure, Seonghwa. You have always been a treasure to me, since long before I ever learned that you’re a Siren. Before you, I had nothing to live for or protect except a desperate need for revenge.” Hongjoong’s eyes glisten now. Seonghwa can’t recall even a single instance where he saw the man cry, not even in the aftermath of the mutiny, and that shatters his resolve more than anything else. “I came to want to protect you. And as the crew grew, you taught me to care for them as well, to protect them and cherish them. Jin never taught me that, you did. My Park Seonghwa, my lieutenant, my treasure.”

Seonghwa can’t help himself. He brushes the pads of his fingers over Hongjoong’s cheek as though to merely confirm that the man is real and standing before him. Before he can blink, Hongjoong twists his neck and presses a soft kiss to those lingering fingers. Seonghwa finds himself stunned into a frozen state. The man before him keeps kissing along the length of his fingers, his free hand pulling up to interlock their fingers when he reaches the bend of Seonghwa’s wrist. It is certainly not their first kiss — they shared many fumbling and awkward and meaningless attempts at kisses in their early years along with several small drunken pecks that were given merely as comfort and nothing more. They never had much emotion tied to them, not any romantic ones in the very least. Some went just like this, some were ghosting touches on the head or nose or cheek or even on the lips, few and far between but they certainly added up over the years.

Hongjoong pulls Seonghwa down the rest of the way. When their lips collide, the taste is salty and wet on Seonghwa’s tongue, but he doesn’t stop to think about that. Instead, he throws his arms about Hongjoong’s waist and pulls him to his chest as though to kiss the tears away just like this. Seonghwa hates to say that this one feels different because it could just be something meant to comfort each other now. It could only be different because Hongjoong cries against him now, hands dropping to fumble and grasp at Seonghwa’s shoulders and back as he tries to lessen the already minimal space between their bodies.

They have to pull apart because Hongjoong sobs into Seonghwa’s mouth, and the latter detaches their lips so they can catch their breath. Rather than hiding his face, Hongjoong blinks furiously against the tears and stares Seonghwa directly in the eye without shame or insecurity.

“You once swore to stay by my side for eternity. I never answered you then but I will now, and I won’t ask you to stay or demand that you do that. Whether I live or die, however this journey ends, whether we succeed or fail, I will do it with you no matter what. We do this together or not at all. Whatever together means — should it be as simple as you being on the crew and not caring for me in the slightest, or with you at my side like this.”

God, that hurts so much. It burns Seonghwa’s chest and leaves him with a deep gash that festers and boils over. He can’t bring himself to say anything in response. He knows his own tears are ready to spill down the balls of his cheeks, so rather than making them fall faster by trying to speak, he merely tugs Hongjoong back to him and seals their lips together once more.

✧✧✧ a/n: hi :3 surprise :3 guess who :3 seongjoong time :3 insight time :3 hints and bread crumb trail throughout :3 im playing but fr there are hints there are insights there are emotions and lots of serious talk and i’ve been wanting to write another piece on seongjoong for the longest time so i’m glad this idea came to me and i am even MORE glad that it turned out the way it did! fr this hiatus has been too good to me, i’ve never been more proud of my work than i am now!

taglist: @faeriewoobin @sugarrimajins @atinyinwonderland @2504-life @lil7bluedragon @sparklychangbin @jeong-uwu @jeonartemis @anothershorthuman @xxbluestrifexx @haotheheckk @noonawriter @lostscenarios @nlost21 @mirror-juliet @okokokok123-45 @purple-aeon @theoinkypiglet @toothlessshiber @atinyarmyx1 @simpforhyunjin @hwangwoosan @vampire-jimin @softyubi @drumboydowoon @chatsgotmytongue @just-a-starfruit @babydolljo @scintillating-souls @khjssss @felixity @rawrrainn @hewwo-from-the-other-side @icekdy

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bvccy · 4 years ago

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Tenderness and Ferocity | 3. The Dream and the Third Day

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Reader Fic Synopsis: The Winter Soldier is starting to make stupid mistakes in the field, which is Bucky's way of trying to wrest back control and sabotage his handlers. Hydra brings a new doctor to figure out what's wrong with him and fix it. As she spends time with him, she becomes fond of the Winter Soldier, and he becomes fond of her. Bucky has other ideas. Or, a fic in which the Winter Soldier is the good guy and Bucky is actually the bad guy. Warnings for this chapter: Angst, Smut, Noncon Word count: 2334 Read on AO3: [link] [Previous Chapter] [Fic Masterlist] [Next Chapter]

"Life in essence can only be sustained because of the discontinuity. Why else does one sleep? Not to rest, but above all to forget. [...] If one could prevent mankind from sleeping, I am convinced that a massacre without end would ensue; it would mean the end of history." — Emil Cioran

All the useless gadgets clattered, without clattering, to the floor. The exposed skin of her back shone against the pressing dark, under a light that wasn't there. Her arms stretched out in front of her to grab the table, to clench in little fists, to crawl away from him... He clasped both her wrists in one heavy hand while he held her by the hip with the other. The stranger looked unfamiliar and out of place, yet boyishly handsome, a lissome thoroughbred cut from pale stone.

He'd already yanked her shirt halfway down her back, leaving a delicate pair of peachy straps to cut into her shoulders as she tried to pull herself up and away. With his other hand, he raised the black flag of her skirt inch by hurried inch. Two flesh hands, pawing at her squirming silhouette.

Those legs that had teased him so were now buckled in a tangle of red lace, at once parted and constricted and leaving her fully victim to him. Above her he loomed, then leaned, slowly down to feel her warmth, his dark green shirt sticking against her back.

In a voice dry with disuse he taunted her to say that she wanted it, to beg for it, though he sounded utterly disinterested and his eyes — he couldn't actually see his eyes, but he could hear that same disuse and disinterest ringing in their glare. She whimpered underneath him but said nothing, insulted from both directions by his grimy touch and transparent insults.

"Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?" said the stranger — but not to him, nor to her — as he buried his face in her fragrant hair and his hips into hers and himself into her... But no relief came, nor satisfaction, and it felt like no matter how close he got to her, couldn't be further away.

He battered and battered and broke through, with great delight at just the effort, and he made tremors rise then relent in her tense legs. Her high heels tapped against the floor in a trembling rhythm that undercut her plaintive moans until he stopped, and settled inside her, and laughed against her shoulder in a harsh exhale. He taunted her over how she sounded, how she felt, how he felt in her.

The more she withdrew, the more aggressively he followed, always fighting her and pulling the fight out of her in honeydew dollops that had nowhere left to go but to seep and stain his nice trousers. Her shoulders went up in a useless attempt to hide, but he squeezed her wrists in warning and bit her shoulder, the nape of her neck, anywhere he could reach that would punish her until she learned to stay still.

"Oooh yesss, that's it... I hate you so much." he laughed in manic joy, eyes falling closed against her throat.

The hand that held her hip squeezed her closer, pressing her so desperately against him like he was trying to crawl up inside and never leave. She whined in pain, muffled by her arms and the table. The stranger cooed against her ear and teased against her hips, turned her inside out and back together, discordant with her mewls and wails as he clung to her and she unconsciously to him the more his galloping pace opened her up and brought her out to meet him.

He wasn't so much pleasing himself as punishing her, and only interrupted his focus to laugh or hiss at some new-discovered throbbing, a frisson to rub against, a frothy surrender that he worked hard to push through until she took it again.

"I'm gonna kill you," he snarled down at her. "I swear I'm gonna kill you..."

No amount of resistance could carry her through his punishing thrusts, and no surrender was enough, and it all went on and on until the threads holding her up started to unravel, leaving her a blushing rough and bloody shade that the stranger could claim as an extension of himself. He rubbed away the parts that weren't base and grimed up what was left. Only thoughtless sounds came out of her now as she struggled to fit him, and fit into him.

The stranger heaved hotly with the effort of holding still, feeling over and through her deliberately and seeking still more, pressing his body down to suppress her new, aching, wet shivers.

With a pain melting through her surrender, down, down into pleasure, she tried to plead with him and she moaned his name, his real name, but after the first flush of recognition he stopped caring because he knew he wouldn't remember it anyway and —

Wait, why wouldn't he remember it?

Eyes shot open only to be greeted by the cement ceiling of his cell. The Soldier sighed and turned his head, looking at the corner where the bulbous little camera was. He looked to the door and saw the parting screen still closed shut — he was awake too early. With a groan, he turned over in his cot and pressed the cold metal hand where he ached.

On their third session, after the guardsmen left, he stepped into the room to find a collection of strange equipment and wires on the table, and a mix of subtle scents coming from two wooden containers. She sat in her chair, waiting for him with a smile, her sleek legs crossed together tightly. She wasn't wearing her lab coat anymore.

"Good morning." she said as they closed the door. "Come on in, sit down. None of this stuff is going to hurt you, I promise."

Reluctantly, he obeyed, his boots sounding slow and heavy through the room as he made his way toward her. He let himself fall in the seat and rested his hands on his tense thighs.

"It's just a GSR monitor. I'll only strap these around your fingers, you won't feel a thing." She demonstrated by wrapping one around her finger, wiggling, holding it up for his doubtful eyes. He had no choice anyway, so he rested his right arm on the table. She took his hand and opened the palm up, holding it gently while her other hand went to a little tube and scooped up a salty-smelling goo.

"For conductivity." she explained as she rubbed it just barely in his tough skin. "Be grateful it's not an EEG, otherwise I'd have to rub this stuff into your scalp. You'd look like a punk that got lost in the rain." she laughed, but it died quickly as the Soldier frowned and shifted in his seat.

Then she took two of the straps and wrapped one around his index, another around his middle finger, and turned his palm back down. She clicked the machine on and it beeped in confirmation, beginning a reading of his skin and what was going on underneath.

In plain terms it was a rudimentary lie detector, meant to scan for stress and some primitive emotions. Maybe he knew that or he didn't, but she could tell she had to work him into it, calm him down before she could get an accurate reading of what moved him.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"You have a watch." he grunted, looking at the worn leather strap around her wrist.

"Yes, but do you know?" she smiled.

"0803 hours."

"Yes. Do you know where we are?"

"Headquarters Alpha 3."

"Good. Do you know what day of the week it is?"

"No."

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Yes."

"Did you have any dreams?"

"No." he said with a sardonic smile. The line on the monitor moved ever-so-slightly, but it could just be a reaction of their tiff about it the other day. Or, he was lying to her again.

They spent the rest of their session with him strapped up to it while she made use of a couple of boxes and the little things inside. With eyes closed, he had to guess what she placed between his fingers: a piece of velvet, silk, a pocket watch, a cufflink, a snow globe.

The edge that separated the Asset from whoever he was before was smudged only so slightly, by necessity, the way it was with all the other soldiers in the program — they could still talk, after all, and read and write, and still employ the complexities of hand-to-hand and armed combat, all things they learned in a past life and used now for Hydra's ends. What made her soldier the best was how sharp that edge was, how steady — until it wasn't.

He retained good coordination, if his finely drawn clock was anything to go by, a steadiness that an unbalanced brain would have found difficult. They had tried, with past soldiers, to split the two brain hemispheres physically, severing the membrane that bridged between them in an effort to isolate the old soldier from the new.

The right hemisphere housed contextual perception and feeling, while the left was honed and focused and precise. They even grew to slightly different sizes, in parts, even though the skull that covers them is evenly shaped. It remained in mainstream medicine a mystery, one that Hydra explored with relish.

But all that resulted from their experimental surgeries were monstrous malfunctions. As it turned out, the left hemisphere dominated most of the body even when separated, and Hydra's soldiers were left imprisoned in the right brain, at best controlling one arm and some eyesight.

Removing the whole left hemisphere also didn't yield any improvements, even after recalibrating what remained. There were even more extreme experiments suggested, but they were deemed too damaging to put the soldiers through, too harmful for staff morale, and too uncertain in their results.

It was clear that a successful subject had to keep all his faculties, all the useful memories in whatever form, while imposing the dominance of the right hemisphere over the left. In a way, the Soldier had been there all along, growing with the unwitting owner of that body, learning, judging for himself and reaching, inevitably, different conclusions.

There always was something slightly more sinister in the right hemisphere, which only emerged when it was freed from the left, or when the left was in a dream state and its control dropped. So it was clear which side Hydra drew its soldiers from, when it freed that part of them with their infernal brain-machines.

The wavering of that edge also explained why her Soldier had such excellent memory, remembering even obscure European countries well, but also their capitals, which Hydra never saw fit to teach him. And as she went through more little things that stood out against the strictures of their base and his missions, it emerged that, though steady, the line that separated her Soldier from someone else was kept at his convenience.

The man underneath was generously lending his memories of what fancy little cufflinks and snow globes felt like, just so the Soldier who had never seen them before could give the right answers. But what she needed to figure out was how much of the control was the Soldier's intention, and how much was unconscious reflex. If the man aimed to sabotage his missions, would the Soldier even know? Worse, if he wasn't aware of anyone else sharing his brain, could he really control him?

Would he want to?

For Hydra, her mission was simple: root out the part that dissents, make it submit. They were too focused on efficiency to know what they were truly asking for. They had no idea how bad it could get, or how good...

"That's enough for now. You can open your eyes while I get the next batch, we're almost done. This last bit is just some food tests."

"As long as it's not from the mess hall."

She was halfway to the sink, a small wooden crate in her hands, when she started laughing. "I promise it's not. So it's true what they say? Way to a man's heart..."

"Is through his rib cage."

Her laughter rang through again, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the sound of her running her hands under the water, arranging things on a plate, and wiping her hands dry on the threadbare cloth that hung there.

"Close your eyes now." she spoke as she stepped closer from behind. The plate clinked as it met the metallic table, right by his hand, and he smelled and felt the heat of her as she stood right in front of him.

"I'll give you some things to taste, and you just tell me what they are. And they're all pretty soft. Alright? First one. Open..."

Something was nagging him from the back of his brain again, jeering at him for the childish position he was in, but he couldn't think of anything to feel ashamed over.

"Strawberry."

"Good. Now, swallow and... again..."

"Grapes."

"That's right. This next one is a bit, well... Just open and tell me."

He bit into a soft and shapeless thing that tasted like, if anything, a green paste. "I don't know what this is."

"Avocado. Maybe you've never had it before. Better make a wish, then."

"What?"

"Never mind. Open for me again..."

"Mint?"

"Yes, that's a mint leaf. It's perfectly safe, you can swallow. Now, this one will come in a spoon, so open wide." She let the cloying thing slip on his tongue and the taste spread in his mouth in a way that was familiar but unusual.

"Tastes like... roses."

"Yes, that's rose petal jam. If the Director only knew what I spent my funding on, spoiling you..." she giggled, but it died quickly as he kept frightfully still and his jaw tensed. From the corner of her eye she saw the GSR give an angry twitch.

"Right, one more and we're done. Open, and tell m—"

"Plums."

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sinsbymanka · 4 years ago

Photo

Hello! I uh. Got so many Fenders prompts guys. Like. A lot.

I combined three of them because I really wanted to try this ship and I really liked writing it a lot. I hope I did them justice! Thank you to @dalish-rogue, @morganlefaye79, and @wardenari for the prompts! This is for @dadrunkwriting!

Title: Not What Was Intended Ship: Anders/Fenris Rating: T Word Count: 1561 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crimes & Criminals, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Bickering, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Fenris doesn't mean to go to the clinic. But when he sees the windows smashed in, he has to check it out. He is not doing it for himself, he is doing it for Hawke. It's a good lie. Almost believable.

Read on AO3

Fenris does not mean to stroll past the clinic.

It is nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgement. He is too used to walking these darkened streets so the chain link fences, the broken street lamps, they all weave a background tapestry he hardly notices. His feet drag him onwards down the path he usually walks with Hawke, despite the fact that Hawke is not with him.

Fenris could have gone home. Instead he turns the corner to find the clinic’s windows smashed, broken glass littering the cracked sidewalk. Fluorescent lights flicker inside, although whether the bulbs themselves are finally reaching the end of their life or Anders has not paid the bill again, Fenris can’t say.

He hesitates a moment, his contraband ammunition heavy against his chest where he tucked it inside his coat. If he is caught with it, the papers Varric somehow obtained will be useless. He’ll be back in Tevinter before he can blink, and for all Fenris knows Anders is about to be dragged out by the Templars kicking and screaming, blonde hair falling wildly about his face, eyes crackling…

That image forces him into movement. He ducks quietly through the ajar door, suspicious eyes darting into every corner. He tells himself he is there for Hawke, for Varric, for all those who for some reason believe the meddlesome doctor and his idealistic opinions are worth the wrath of the rich and powerful.

Fenris almost convinces himself. It is a good lie. One Varric himself would approve of.

But the truth shrivels it the moment Fenris slips past the abandoned reception desk and into the triage area. Because standing in the middle of the room is Anders, surrounded by debris and refuse.

Something loosens in Fenris’ chest immediately. He crosses the wreckage of the clinic easily, voice dropping to a low growl. “What have you done?”

Anders finally lifts his gaze from the trash littering the floor. Fenris expects a flash of irritation, a scowl to match his own, but it does not come. Instead Anders rubs his stubbled jaw and shakes his head.

“Just what I needed. A lecture. Andraste’s pillowy tits. Could this day get any worse?”

There’s a bitter thread of hurt in his voice that makes Fenris uneasy. He does not pull his gaze from Anders, jerking his chin to the destruction surrounding them. “You were raided?”

“I wish,” Anders snorts. “I expect the Templars to fuck me over cause of what I’m doing. Who I’m helping.”

“Varric pays the Coterie. And the Carta. This was not them.”

“I’ve told him to stop but you know how he is.” Anders puffs out his chest in mockery. “Me? Annoyingly taking care of your problems? I’d never do something so blighted risky and-”

Anders bends down, stumbling to stop in his impression as he picks up a long, ruined piece of unravelled gauze. He sighs hopelessly as he looks at it before he shakes his head and lets it drop in defeat.

“You’re right, you know.” Anders looks up, a bitter grin twisting his lips into something monstrous and out of place on his warm features. Something that brings the dread from when he saw the broken windows back tenfold. “I’m down here risking all our asses and for what?”

“Justice and the greater good, or so I’ve been told,” Fenris replies dryly.

“So a bunch of kids whose bullet wounds I stitched up last week, no Templars involved, could come back and steal thousands of dollars worth of medical supplies and ruin even more. All while I was out doing home visits for a solid thirty hours.”

Anders closes his eyes, agony breaking over his features, making him look three times his age. “Maker. I’ll never recover from this.”

The statement rings too loudly in the heavy silence. It stretches on and Fenris waits for the other man to crack a flippant joke, but it doesn’t come. It is up to Fenris to fill it as best he can.

“This is unnecessarily dramatic,” he sniffs. “Hawke will gladly resupply you.”

“I’m not living on Hawke’s charity,” Anders snaps.

“Then you’ll live on Varric’s. How long have you been awake?”

Anders finally shows some sign of his own temper, straightening up. “Sorry, should I call you daddy or-”

“Fasta vass, you are impossible.” Fenris surges forward and grabs Anders by the cuff of his coat. The other man is so dizzy from exhaustion it takes almost none of his strength to drag him from the triage area deep into the clinic.

Fenris himself has been stitched up in this location enough times to know it like the tattoos in his skin. He shoves Anders toward the showers with a growl. “You smell of disease and stale sweat. I will secure the clinic.”

“You say the nicest-”

Fenris slams the door shut behind the other man and turns grimly to the clinic to survey the damage. He doesn’t bother with the ruined supplies or the evidence of the ransacking. Instead, he begins the slow, methodical business of checking the exits. Securing the bolts. The windows are, of course, a problem. He drags clean sheets from the cupboards and pins them in place to keep out the wind and cold, but Anders needs new windows.

And perhaps an alarm system. Or a dog instead of the fifty stray cats that linger in the alley.

When he’s done what he can, he makes his way back to the bathroom. The water is running and Fenris thinks only to pop his head in and announce that he will return with boards for the windows.

He’s stopped short, once more, by the sight of Anders. No longer standing, but curled into the corner of the shower. Knobbly knees are pulled to his chest, sandy hair plastered to his skin. His shoulders shake with silent sobs.

Fenris should leave.

Yet again, he doesn’t.

He closes the bathroom door behind him and slips his coat from his shoulders. By the time Anders looks up, blinking water from his eyes, Fenris is laying it and his illegal purchases on the counter.

“What are you-”

“You are clearly incapable of taking care of yourself.” Fenis lifts the hem of his cotton shirt over his head, not daring to meet Anders eyes. He knows the other man is tracing the elaborate designs, a brutal reminder of his life before, and he doesn’t wish to see it. “If you drown in your own shower, I will have to explain it to Hawke.”

Anders’ silence is more maddening than his constant babble. Fenris braces himself to turn, only to find that instead of staring at him, Anders is gloomily examining the grout in the shower.

“I know you think I’m pathetic.”

Fenris climbs carefully into the shower and grabs one tiny bottle of expired shampoo donated from a cheap motel and a limp sponge. “I have never said that is the case.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do not have to justify things I have never said.”

Fenris squirts the sickly sweet shampoo on the sponge and rubs it between his fingers. Anders’ eyes latch onto the movement quietly. Fenris thinks his words over before he turns to Anders.

“I am envious of your desire to help others. I believe that is a part of me that is gone.”

It had been ruined, as so many things had. Before he can think too much about his past or about the pale freckled skin slicked with water, he brings the sponge to Anders’ chest and swipes it over his collarbone.

The motion is soothing. Dull. Repetitive. Soap beads on his skin and falls to the drain. Anders is silent, the only noise the lukewarm water streaming from above and the sound of their quiet breaths.

“They should not have abused your kindness,” Fenris finally says, flicking his eyes up to meet Anders’.

A moment of silence, fragile as the soap bubbles. Fenris takes hold of Anders’ thin, lithe arms and hauls him to his feet. He tries not to think of the way the other man sways on his feet, the brush of their chest together. He carefully does not look at the golden hair decorating his chest or the taut muscles beneath his skin.

Fenris tries not to hear the soft whisper against his ear as he drags the sponge down Anders’ stomach.

“They shouldn’t have abused yours.”

Everything passes in a blur. He does not remember how he finishes washing Anders, only the brief tantalizing flashes of skin and warmth that are seared into his memory. But the other man is almost limp with exhaustion as Fenris drags him to a cot.

Anders trips into it, taking Fenris with him. He curses under his breath and Anders chuckles, warm and real and so much better than the heartbroken man he found.

“You can’t stay here,” Anders murmurs sleepily, lips twitching in amusement.

“I have no wish to,” Fenris hisses between his teeth.

The cot is soft, just barely big enough for both of them, and his arm is trapped beneath a man who is rapidly letting exhaustion overtake him. Fenris means only to rest there until he can free himself without waking him.

He does not mean to fall asleep beside him, arm over his waist, face pressed into his shoulder.

Yet he does.

#manka writes #dadrunkwriting #anders showers bring mage flowers #fenris #anders #fenders #anders/fenris #fenris/anders #dragon age #dragon age 2 #alternate universe #modern

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rainbowvamp · 3 years ago

Text

Choices made, Roads Taken

babe wake up new princess bride au chapter just dropped.

Full text beneath the cut. Warnings for talk of marriage as a necessary step in a woman's life, fear of homelessness, and I don't think anything else but I've written 20k since I last edited this, so if there's anything else let me know and I'll add it.

5k for the red team weekly prompt ""In life you always have a choice. Sometimes it's easier to think that you don't."

Relationships: Mergwen (platonic), and Gwen & Elyan (siblings)

Elyan tells Gwen that she has to be married by Summer's End because he's selling the forge to pursue vengeance on their father. Gwen doesn't particularly want to be married to some man she doesn't love. Enter Elyan's friend Merlin.

At least she doesn't have to get married.

---

She is 17 when Elyan tells her she has to be married soon. They have been barely scraping by for 2 years, but they have been making it. There’s no reason that Gwen can think of that anything should change, that Gwen should move on. Elyan has shown no signs of taking a wife, and who would take care of him when she was gone?

When she asks this question, he doesn’t answer, face stoney and set against emotion. She has a terrible clawing feeling that she knows what will happen once she is married.

He starts making inquiries around the village. Plenty of men are interested, but in secret, Elyan always asks Gwen “yes or no,” always gives her the choice. She refuses to be married to a man who will not treat her kindly, or is too old or too young, and eventually she runs out of men in nearby villages to marry, and Elyan loses his patience with her.

“There has to be someone, Guinevere. Someone! I can’t search the five Kingdoms for your husband, and your time is running short. You must be married by the end of the summer.”

It is already middle spring. Gwen’s blood is audible in her ears as it rushes through her, carrying the heart sinking knowledge with it.

“What have you done, Elyan?” She whispers it, afraid to say it any louder than she must.

Elyan won’t look at her, finds anything else to set his eyes on while he thinks up an excuse. “I just think you’re getting old.”

It’s a cruel thing to say, and he knows it, but his voice is distracted, and his eyes shift from place to place, never quite settling while he speaks. He lies, and she knows it.

“Again. The truth this time.”

When she sets her hands on her hips like that, it reminds him of their mother, and it makes him feel contrite. She knows this, because he told her once, as a joke, and she’s used it against him ever since.

“I’ve sold the forge. The new tenant will take the house and the forge come Autumn. You have to have somewhere to go by then. A husband will take care of you.”

“And what about you?” She glared at him, biting her cheek to stop herself from yelling. “What are you going to do? Unless you’re courting some woman I don’t know about?”

Elyan’s eyes settle at their feet, hands behind his back, childlike, caught completely in his lie.

“I’ve been studying.” Elyan said, but his eyes never left their feet. “I’m going to travel, learn more.”

“To what end?” She asked, and Elyan still did not look at her.

“I cannot tell you.” Finally his eyes meet hers, and Gwen had this terrible, sneaking suspcion that she dared not speak.

“You’ll get yourself killed.” She said instead, and Elyan’s shoulders squared.

“And if I do, I’ll know you’re taken care of. You choose a husband by midsummer, so you can be married before autumn, or I choose one for you.”

Gwen sets her jaw and fists the fabric of her skirt to keep her nails from digging into her palm, drawing blood as they seem to do so often these days.

“If you force me to marry someone I do not care for, I will hate you forever.”

Elyan looks away from her and grabs this leather forge gloves. “Maybe. But you will be cared for. That much I will assure.”

Elyan leaves, goes to the forge for the day, and Gwen is left with the day’s chores and the laundry of two other families to attend to. She starts with the laundry, because she needs to have it back by tomorrow morning. The chores can wait. They often do. The house is nowhere near as clean and tidy as it was when father was alive, but they are making it, and making it is as much as she ever hopes for anymore. She loves her brother, but if he marries her off, she will never forgive him.

—

She says no to three more men before Elyan comes home from the forge one day with a dark haired man who must be older than her by a significant amount. He looks 25, at least, but Gwen doesn’t look at him much. She hopes that if he thinks she’s rude, he’ll lose interest.

“Guinevere,” Elyan rarely uses her full name to introduce her, but he is trying to sell her off like a prize pig, so it only makes sense that he would use it now. “This is Merlin Emrys. He’s a merchant, and a physician, passing through town. He’ll be having supper with us tonight.”

It goes without saying that he’ll stay the night as well. She and Elyan have shared their parents bed numerous times to give lodging to a traveler. It’s easy money, good money, but Gwen is tired from washing all day, and angry besides because Elyan had chewed her out for not choosing a husband again that morning and she was still miffed about it.

“I’ll set an extra plate,” Is all that she says to her brother, taking more vegetables from her stock to cut up and add to the stew she’d just put on. It would stretch a little longer with the vegetables, but wouldn’t be as filling. She could’ve added more of the dried meat, or even baked a quick bread, but she was trying specifically not to impress this man who was traveling alone and hadn’t mentioned a wife yet. While Merlin and Elyan talked, Gwen got out the guest linens and made the cot, set the little house to rights as much as she could, and stirred the soup regularly.

“That smells excellent, Guinevere. I’ve had road rations for so long, this meal will be a treat.” Merlin tells her, and she doesn’t turn from where she’s stirring the pot when she answers.

“I’m glad.” Her tone is curt and she doesn’t sound glad at all. She doesn’t feel glad. She wished this man would just disappear. She wished Elyan would keep the forge and they could continue on as they were. Gwen didn’t care for boys, or for marriage, and why she should have to, just because Elyan wanted to study swordplay and kill-

She stopped her train of thought there. It was treason to even think it.

At least her brother wanted her married off and far away before he tried. It was a kindness as much as it was a cruelty.

Gwen wondered if she’d ever see her brother again once she married. It’s not like the King is an easily accessible person just waiting around to be-

“Guinevere, tell Merlin about your sewing. The embroidery you were doing for the Henrick’s bridal gown.” Elyan is trying to show her off, make her brag. Politeness dictates how she behaves, but it doesn’t dictate her tone. She leaves the spoon sitting on the little fire burning stove and goes to the back of the cottage where her needlework is kept. She’s nearly done with the embroidery for the future Mrs. Henrick, and it’s very beautiful, even if she said so herself. She brings the whole basket over and plops it on the table unceremoniously in front of Merlin. He doesn’t even flinch, which aggravates her, but she pulls out the embroidery carefully, making sure the needle stuck in the fabric is right by where his hand will grab it, hoping he’ll stick himself.

He does not, unfortunately, stick himself. His hands are ginger, delicate, as he handles the soft blue fabric. The embroidery thread is as white as anything the Henrick’s can afford, and Gwen has been working on it for weeks, her labor a wedding gift to the bride-to-be. The stitching is some of her finest, delicate flowers in the soft white thread, birds and a few trees scattered in among them.

“This is beautiful.” Merlin’s fingers trace a bird, following the bird’s life cycle from the youth, through the bird of it’s young, to a tree that symbolizes it’s death. It had been a good idea, but she hadn’t thought anyone would notice.

Elyan probably told him about it.

“It’s a shame you won’t have time to make something like this for yourself.” Merlin smiles up at her like that’s not the most tragic thing he could have told her.

She turns her glare to Elyan, because she can’t very well glare at a man she’s just met. Elyan refuses to meet her eyes and she knows that at the very least he’s told this complete stranger that he’s looking for a wife for his sister, and at worst he’s offered her up to him.

She wants to call him a bastard, but she holds her tongue. She’ll let it all seethe inside for a while, and yell at Elyan when this man leaves in the morning.

“Times are hard.” Is all she says before taking the basket back to it’s corner and going back to the stew.

Usually Elyan helps her cook, but he’s entertaining their guest, and probably trying to show off how skilled she is, how domestic she is, all the wonderful wifely thing that she can do.

She hates her brother in that moment. It heats her skin and makes her nose twitch, her shoulders tense and her fingers keep losing their grip on the spoon because she wants to throw it at him.

She wants to throw a tantrum, is more like it. She is almost 18 though, and she can’t afford to gain a reputation like that. Throwing spoons, cursing at guests, those are the sorts of thing that leave women spinsters, and she doesn’t have that option anymore. Elyan is selling their home, and if she doesn’t get married she’ll be homeless right along with him.

Maybe that would be preferable, even if Elyan would hate it. He’d never abandon her, leave her alone on the streets. At least then they’d be together. Elyan is barely 19 as it is. How ready could he possibly be to be alone?

“Guinevere?” Elyan’s voice is amused, concerned, when he calls for her, but it startles her just the same, and she drops the spoon in the stew. It’s too short for the pot and she curses under her breath when it sinks beneath the stew. She’ll have to fish it out now, and Elyan is calling her again, and what does he want, what could he possibly want!

“Here,” Merlin puts his hand on her shoulder and gently, softly, coaxes her back from the stove. He smiles at her, even as she feels tears starting to well up and she’s so angry with him, and Elyan and the world. “Let me.” He mutters something softly under his breath, and spoon… floats out of pot, settles back against the side. Her mouth falls opened, awed at the spectacle, but Merlin just smiles, shrugs like this isn’t a giant, terrible secret that he should be keeping.

Magic is illegal in Camelot.

She looks at Elyan who levels her with a look that she can’t quite read. At once it tells her to be quiet, and to accept it, and to trust him. She swallows back her fear and nods, offering a half smile to Merlin before grabbing a clean towel to pull the hot spoon from the pot, dunking it in dish washing bowel to get some of food off the handle.

Merlin sits back down and continues whatever conversation he was having with Elyan while Gwen gets out flour. She hadn’t wanted to bake a bread, but now she needs something to do with her hands and she needs something to settle her stomach. She was having trouble swallowing, or she’d have gotten herself some water, maybe even a bit of ale to settle her nerves. She feels lucky that her knees don’t give way beneath her.

A magic user. Elyan had brought a magic user into their home, told him about how he was trying to marry Gwen off. The man had blatantly brandished magic right there at her stovetop and hadn’t even batted an eyelash.

Elyan was trying to get them both killed.

Personally, Gwen had always believed the rules around magic users were far too harsh and the consequences overblown, but she had never imagined that she would be harboring one. If this man is wanted for magic use, and they come looking for him here, they’ll kill all three of them. She can’t help anxiously glancing over her shoulder at Elyan, whose face is relaxed and posture so at ease considering they could very well be in mortal danger.

She sees a flash of red, her father’s lifeless body covered in blood, having to re-dirt and pack the floor of the forge to remove the stains. She remembers the merciless way the King killed their father for demanding a fair price for a sword and wonders how much they’ll all be tortured for Merlin being here if they come, when they come. Of course they’ll come. Camelot’s ruler is cruel and hateful and they will come and kill him, and them, and maybe everyone in the village.

“Gwen,” Elyan’s hand is on hers, darker than hers, like their father, and she looks at it and sees him, for a moment, sees her father touching her hand and telling her everything will be okay after mother died, promising her a bright future, squeezing it in joy-

“Gwen,” Elyan says again, lower this time. “Guinevere, I need you to let go of this.”

She looks from his hand to her own beneath it. She’s holding a knife dangerously close to her own hand, like she meant to cut her palm. She doesn’t remember even grabbing this knife. She’d been grabbing the flour, to make bread. She was going to make bread. Why did she have a knife-

“Guinevere.”

“I hate it when you use my full name.” She whispered, her hand still clutching the knife, knuckles becoming pale from the tight grip.

“I know. Can you let go of the knife please.”

“They’ll kill us, if they find him here.” She can’t stop herself form saying. Her mind is gone, somewhere else, the only thing left the part of her that had worked like a dog day and night for two years to keep them afloat.

“No one is looking for him.” Gently, Elyan takes the knife from her hand by the handle, setting it aside. She finally feels the sensation return to her body, her limbs feel heavy and her head feels empty and she needs to sit, she needs to sit.

Elyan takes her by the waist when she starts to fall, and guides her to the table, sitting her down.

“I’m not wanted for my practice. No one knows about it, except you two and old friend from back home.” Merlin speaks quietly, but Gwen doesn’t look at him, watches Elyan as he tends to the stew.

Gwen realizes that her body is shaking. She’s sitting still but her whole body is shaking, even her eyes, at the thought that she might lose Elyan.

“It’s been a hard couple of years for us. Please forgive her.” Elyan says from the stove, and Gwen doesn’t even speak up to defend herself. Her hand is shaking where it rests of the table, and she jumps nearly out of her seat when another hand, not her brothers, rests over it.

He is so pale for someone who claims to be a traveler. Is all that she can think. “Guinevere. I have a potion that helps relieve pains of the mind. Would you like some?”

“No, we don’t-“

“She’ll take it.” Elyan spoke over her, and she has at least the mental soundness to look over at him and glare.

He says nothing back, just nods to Merlin to confirm what he’s said. Merlin goes to a bag that Gwen hadn’t noticed, a beautiful shade of deep green and pulls out a little glass vial from it. He unstoppers it and puts a couple drops in the glass of water beside her hand and swirls it around.

“A full dose would put you to sleep. This is just to take the edge off, calm your nerves. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Gwen’s lips purse, and she feels like she wants to speak, but she doesn’t know what to say. What could she say? This man is helping her, which is kind of him, but he’s putting them in danger.

“I won’t marry you.” Gwen says without reaching for the cup in front of her. “Whatever Elyan has told you.”

“He said you’d say that. That’s why I don’t intend to marry you.” Merlin smiled softly at her, and she looked at her brother, confused, now.

“Merlin is a physician. He’s been looking for an apprentice for some time.”

“I don’t know anything about medicine, or potions.” She looked at the medicated cup warily.

“Apprentice usually implies that I teach you.” Merlin tries to laugh with her, but she doesn’t laugh along.

“Magic is illegal in Camelot.” We could both be executed goes unsaid, but is still heard clearly in the room.

“I’m very careful. I never use magic unless I have to, and up until a little while ago, only two people alive even knew I had magic. Now it’s up to three.” He smiles, but it doesn’t make Gwen feel any better.

“You’re going to sell me to this man.” Gwen asked her brother, her fear making her far more candid than she usually would’ve been.

“I’m not selling you to anyone.” Elyan’s voice is tense, and Merlin pushes the potion laced cup toward Gwen again.

Gwen can’t decide if she should drink it or not. She doesn’t want to, but if they’ve paid for it, it feels wasteful.

“I’m just looking for someone to help me. It’s nothing nefarious. Most of what I do is legitimate medicine, science based, not magic based.”

“What about the part that isn’t ‘most of it?’” Gwen crossed her arms over her chest and leaned away from him in her chair.

Merlin should be caught out, but instead of looking upset, he smiles. “Elyan said you were quick.”

“And a good pupil. Mrs. Henrick even taught her to read.”

Merlin raised his eyebrow. “A woman who can read isn’t exactly uncontroversial.”

“Reading is not a crime punishable by death.” Death by fire, on a pike like terrible horrible criminal. They don’t even kill you first, just set your body aflame.

“No, I suppose it’s not.” Merlin leaned forward a bit. “You’re very practical. Stubborn. You’ll keep my on my toes, keep me from getting complacent.”

“So you’ll take her on?” Elyan asked from the stove, and Gwen scoffs, outraged.

“Yes. Assuming she’ll have me. We’ll have to get you a horse.” Merlin goes back to his bag and pulls out parchment, a tiny glass bottle of ink and a pen. “Traveling clothes, I assume, a good pair of riding boots.” He opens up the bottle and dips the pen, using nicer penmanship than Gwen has ever seen outside of a book to pen the list. “Warm undergarments. A bed roll. I’m sorry the road won’t always be very comfortable, but I do have a home in Ealdor where I stay during the winter. It’s very comfortable at least.”

Gwen looks from Elyan to Merlin, and back, but she doesn’t catch either of their eyes, both too caught up in what they’re doing to look at her, to even notice her.

“Was I ever going to get a say in this?” Gwen asked, her throat dry and cracking, tears welling in her eyes at being completely ignored and pushed over.

“Gwen,” Elyan said, stopping stirring the soup and looking at her. “You’ve made it very clear you don’t want to marry. I can’t support you after the end of the summer and you have to have somewhere to go. Merlin has very graciously offered to give you a job and housing in exchange for working with him. He’s not asking to marry you doesn’t even want to marry you, he just wants to be able to tell people you’re married so no one gets suspicious of a man and woman traveling together, so you can keep your honor. Maybe once you’re on the road, you’ll meet someone you love who you can marry and make a family with.”

Gwen can hardly believe what she’s hearing. She isn’t getting a choice, is what he’s saying. She’s not getting any sort of choice in how the rest of her life goes, and he’s acting like she should be grateful.

“How dare you.” She said, teeth gritted. “You didn’t even ask me first.”

“I can’t afford to keep asking you, Gwen, or you’ll be out on the streets, homeless and begging. I won’t let that happen to you.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ll be just fine on your own? What’s so wrong with traveling together, Elyan. You’re fine with me traveling with a strange man with gods only know what intentions, but heavens forbid I travel with my brother who loves me?!” Gwen stands, but she’s shaky and has to use the table to catch herself. She can’t even stand up straight she’s so upset. Merlin gets up and comes around the table, but she back away from him, angry that he would even presume to come near her. She stumbles and Merlin waves his hand and a chair is beneath her, keeping her from hitting the ground.

“Stop that!” Gwen yells and she gets up again, more successfully this time. “Stop it!” She yelled again when Elyan tried to grab for her. “You can’t just dictate my life for me Elyan, I’m almost 18, and I deserve a say in how I live, where I live, and who I live with. I’m not going to risk my life for a stranger. You don’t even know this man. What if he doesn’t want a wife because he’ll just take from me what he would a wife? Do you even care about that? Did it even occur to you? I’m not a dog that you can give to the neighbor when it’s time for you to go away, Elyan, I’m a person.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Elyan raises his voice now, in his sister’s face like he hasn’t been since they were children. “I need to know that you’re safe, and Merlin owes me a life debt. He will keep you safe. He will protect you when I can’t.”

“Why not? Why can’t you protect me, Elyan? Say it!” She puffs her shoulders up, her lips thin and her jaw aching where her teeth clash together and grind, helpless and pulsingly angry.

“Because I’m going to kill the king!” Elyan finally admits it, and Gwen is satisfied at the admission, but equally as horrified to know that her prediction was correct. “I’m going to kill the bastard that murdered our father in cold blood over 300! I’m going to kill him.” The last words are soft again, and Gwen feels her anger become cold, abate a bit.

Their fathers death has always bothered him. Of course, it bothered Gwen as well, and she had been angry too, but not like Elyan had been. Elyan had always regretted losing that fight, not being able to avenge their father’s death. She knew that he hated Uther, but this… she was afraid for him.

“It’s almost impossible to kill a king. Greater men than you have tried.” Gwen whispered, but Elyan shook his head.

“I have a plan, but they’ll catch me. I need you to be far away, and safe.” He takes Guinevere’s shoulders in his hands and looks her straight in the eyes. “I’ll visit you every couple of years for a while. By the time it’s done you’ll have nice, sweet, beautiful children, and a husband, and you’ll be settled. But for now, I need you to go with him.”

Gwen swallows hard. How can he ask this of her? To abandon her brother? It just doesn’t feel like an option.

“You’ll be all alone.” She finally said, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s always been us. You’ll… who will you have, out there, on your own?”

“I’ll have my memory of you, and mum, and father. Please Gwennie.”

“You swear he won’t ask me to marry him?”

“Not unless you want him to.” Elyan nodded, and Gwen sniffed, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves.

“And he’s honorable?”

“One of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.”

“How did you meet him?” She asked, swallowing around the lump in her throat again. She feels insane, even thinking about agreeing to this, but Elyan was on a death wish of a mission, and Gwen couldn’t go with him. Being a physicians assistant did sound a lot better than being married to a man she didn’t love.

“He was attacked by bandits in the woods a year before father died. I helped him fight them off, took him to his horse so he could patch himself up. He promised me he owed me a favor.”

“A life debt.” Merlin added. “I would’ve died if not for your brother. I promise, I only want to help the both of you.”

“Why have I never met him before.”

“He has magic. I thought it better he not be involved with you.”

“You knew about his magic?” She looked over her shoulder at the man who was smiling at her, far too warmly for a man she’d only met today.

“I removed an iron cuff they were keeping on him. It was practically red hot.”

“Magic and Iron don’t mix.” Merlin explained. “It dampens my abilities. They got it on me and I was basically powerless.”

Gwen took a deep breath, and then nodded, final in her decision. “I want one.”

“One what?” Elyan asked, but when she looked back at Merlin, she thought he already knew.

“I want an iron cuff, or something iron that I can put on you, in case you try something. Elyan may trust you, but how men behave amongst themselves and how they behave with women are not always corresponding.”

Merlin… smiled, of all things, and with another wave of his hands, his parchment and quill were in his hands again.

“Done. An Iron ring, I think. So you can always wear it.”

Gwen looked at her brother, who was smiling far too much for someone who had just given his sister away to a stranger.

“Fine. But I still don’t like it.”

Elyan pulled her into a hug and she was powerless to resist it. She wanted to be angry, but she was just exhausted, empty from the emotional whiplash she’d just experienced.

“I still think you should take that potion. To settle your nerves.” Merlin said.

She looked down at the cup wearily but then, as a sign of trust, picked it up and drank it’s contents down, eyes never leaving Merlin’s.

“Thank you.” She said, and Merlin smiled.

“I think dinner smells ready. Let’s eat, shall we? You can ask me any question you still have, if you like.”

—

Gwen, Elyan and Merlin burn down most of a candle that night, talking through the logistics of Gwen’s stay with Merlin. Everything from sleeping arrangements, to supplies, to clothes is set to parchment agreed to. Gwen racks her brain for anything and everything she can think of to make him agree to in front of Elyan, who he owes a life debt to. Gwen knows that Merlin owes her nothing, and she doesn’t trust that he’ll agree to anything more than what she he does right now.

“I think that’s everything.” Merlin says, smiling wide despite the bags forming beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re both ready to sleep, and so am I. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Thank you for taking care of the washing.” Elyan laugh, looking over his shoulder to the dishes had been washed and dried by Merlin’s magic. It had been remarkable to witness, even though Gwen’s skin had crawled with the fear of being caught the entire time.

“It’s the least I could do after you fed me. I’m going to go and check on my horse one last time.” This is just a way to let them talk alone, Gwen is sure, and she appreciates it.

She goes to put on her night dress behind the screen and Elyan changes as well. The night air is still cool, not yet the sticky summer heat that will soon come. So much for married by summers end.

“Thank you for agreeing to this, Gwen. It means the world to me.” Elyan smiled at her where she was climbing into bed.

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“In life you always have a choice. The you’ve made is for the best.” He plants a knee on the bed so he can kiss her forehead and then goes to turn the candle out. Merlin takes this as his cue to come in. He settles on the cot in the kitchen without tripping or fumbling, which irritates Gwen just a little because she’s lived in this house all her life and still sometime stubs her toe on the kitchen table in the dark.

“Good night, Gwen, Elyan,” Merlin said to both of them, and Elyan returned the sentiment, but Gwen did not, huddling down into the covers.

Maybe she had had a choice, but her choices were limited, severely, by Elyan’s will. As she laid there, trying to fall asleep, she remembered what mother had told her once, about how excited she’d been to marry her father, and how much her mother and father had loved each other. She thinks about how her father won’t be there to hand her off to her future husband, as silly that tradition seemed, and even Elyan might not be there for it. Who would stand beside her at her wedding, if she married, if Elyan was dead?

Maybe she should get married, if only so Elyan can be there.

But to who? Who could she possibly marry? She wasn’t in love with anyone, didn’t even really fancy anyone. There weren’t that many people to fancy, in all honesty. Pickings were slim, and she liked plenty of the boys in the village, but not nearly enough to marry them.

She always had a choice, Elyan was right. She chose this, even if Elyan orchestrated it. She would just have to live with it.

Traveling with an illegal sorcerer was better than being married, at least.

#pbau proper #pbau #lysa's pbau #mergwen #bbc merlin #merlin #elyan #gwen pendragon #forgot to tag #albionparty21 #pbau au proper

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krabstick32 · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! I love your writing so much!!! May I please request a self indulgent giyuu fic where the reader has some self esteem issues, like having long hair to cover most of her face and is plus size but has a good heart! Thank you that would make my life!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Wardrobe Malfunction

Requested by: anon

Pairing: Giyuu x Reader

Synopsis: Dress up was supposed to be fun. Your clothes say otherwise.

Tags/warnings: This work does have slight implications of self-esteem issues and body dysmorphia/body dysmorphic disorder. I’d like to say that this is not meant to offend anyone, and also to apologize for any faulty interpretations.

A/N: To the anon who requested this: i’m so glad you like my writing 🥺💖 bUT I AM SO SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG WITH YOUR REQUEST :(((((( I feel terrible for taking an actual month to finish this, and i’m not even 100% satisfied with it :(( As an explanation though, I was working on something entirely different for you. It was a modern high school au, 5+1 sort of fic, which was almost finished but for some reason felt wrong...so I thought up of a new idea aka this.

Anyway, i hope the wait was worth it anon, and i hope ya’ll enjoy it too!!

Blood Demon Arts were a complicated skill set that special demons possess. Some use it for fighting, some for catching humans, yet some were just downright weird.

A fight with a low-level demon teaches you that.

Barely five minutes into the fight, and you were already sheathing your Nichirin Blade back in its scabbard. You were fine, if not a little uncomfortable from the weird slime-like substance that came from the demon coating your uniform. The fight wasn’t difficult, but the demon was a little perverted. It didn’t even try to fight all that seriously, and instead kept trying to sneak glances under your skirt.

There were only minor scrapes around your skin—though now, you wish you could say the same for your clothes, because it starts melting.

Maybe that demon wasn’t as low-level as you thought because the corps uniform was made to withstand damage from low-level demons, but this odd liquid was enough to let parts of it disintegrate and expose your skin. Fortunately, it didn’t sting, burn or give your skin rashes—only melt off the fabric that covered your decency.

That was your last spare uniform too, because you’ve been sent to a lot of dangerous missions lately. This was the only one you had at home, but thankfully, you’ve placed a quick request for a few new ones to be sent to you.

You were lucky to have been able to beat it, so once you quickly lopped of the stupid demon’s head, you panicked and whistled for your bird to bring in kakushi. You didn’t know if this was Oyakata-sama’s foresight’s work, but you were grateful that three female kakushi pushed through the treeline, and quickly rushed to you once they noticed your predicament. One of them took care of the demon’s remains while the other two moved to you and wrapped you securely in a blanket, protecting your dignity and easing your panic.

Even if you were pretty much healthy and good to go, the girls—Chiyo, Tsune, and Hatsuko were great company as they escorted you back—ushered you to one of the many rooms in the butterfly estate. You argued that you weren’t injured and that you didn’t want to burden the butterfly nurses and the kakushi, but the girls told you that the estate wasn’t too busy, and that there was plenty of room for you.

The room was standard with a cot, a bedside table, and a few chairs for visitors, where a spare set of clothes for you was folded over. You were fine, but you were still grateful for the short time you could use for rest and for the girl’s thoughtfulness. Spending the time worrying about what you wear on your next mission would be a waste, so you lie down and try to close your eyes instead, to calm down your nerves.

The sound of shuffling doors brings you out of your light nap just in time to see a head of jet-black hair pop in.

A smile makes its way across your face as you watch your boyfriend slide the door close as quietly as possible. Giyuu looked good—clothes the same, hair unruly with the bare thread of his hair tie attempting to keep it tame—but what was new was the small package under his arm.

“Are you feeling okay?” He asks when he sees you sitting up, and takes a seat on the nearest chair. Your smile sweetens when he looks back up, feeling your heart beat a little faster as his eyes soften out of its usual steely, and impassive gaze.

Dragging your mind out of its haze, you wave off his concern and reply, “Oh, this is just a formality—I’m fine.” Well, physically you were, but you’re reminded that all is not well when he glances around the room only to find the folded tatters of what remains of your previous clothing sitting innocently on the bedside table. “Wish I could say the same about my uniform though.”

“This should solve that.” Giyuu hands you the mysterious package and it gives you a moment to notice how nicely it was wrapped.

Lightly, you run your fingers over the black ink your name was written in, on a small tag attached to the white twine wrapping around brown packing paper. The twine intersects in a small tied ribbon right at the middle, and is sealed with a piece of wax stamped with the corps’ insignia. “Ah, is that why you’re here?”

“No, I was on my way to see you when I heard you were here. That—” He gestures with his chin “—I just brought in from the kakushi.”

You choose to ignore the way your cheeks flush when he mentions his intentions and instead show surprise. With how busy the kakushi were, you were pleasantly surprised that it took them only four days to make your uniform. “Oh, thanks, that was fast of them.”

“It’s your uniform right? I can wait outside so you can try it on.”

Already flustered from his previous responses, you try to answer, “Ah, yeah, yes. Thanks, I’ll just—um, yeah.” Only to sound like a bumbling idiot. Eloquent as always.

Embarrassed by your mess of a mouth, you look down at your hands and feel your hair come to cover your heated face. Looking at him in the eye right now would reduce you to a pile of flaming ashes, so you’re grateful your long hair has saved you yet again from his piercing stare.

Before Giyuu leaves though, you hear a light chuckle until he’s gone and you’re left with the sound of the door sliding back shut and the thought of how unfair it is that he can easily get you to smile and then flustered at the next second.

The moment you let the uniform unfold, something tells you that there was something…wrong. For one, there were too many holes in it—one on each shoulder, and an entire chunk around the stomach. The fabric felt silkier than what you previously had—even the skirt was much, much shorter than what you remember requesting for.

But a quick double check on the wrapping paper confirms that this was your uniform, so you try it on. It’s been a while since you’ve ordered a new one, maybe you just…weren’t used to it? Or maybe there were new rules in place?

If it wasn’t already bad when you first looked at it, it was even worse when you were wearing it.

How is this even supposed to protect me?

The only thing covered was your chest (not even counting the skin in the middle!), your forearms, and half your thighs. The uniform was too revealing and boy, did you want to crawl in a hole right now. You felt exposed—too exposed. You've rarely felt good in your own body, and now was no exception.

Just the thought of somebody else seeing you like this? What would they think?

A pit forms in your stomach, and something black and slimy wraps around your shoulders and around your neck. You feel constricted, like you couldn’t move or breathe, and your nails were digging in too hard into the clammy skin of your palms.

You weren’t like Mitsuri or Shinobu. You didn’t have a great figure like the love pillar, or a petite frame like the insect pillar. Instead, you found yourself staring into a mirror more often than you’d like, only to feel disappointed in your oversized body. In fact, you’re extremely lucky to have gone this far without a demon catching up to you given how slow you feel your body makes you.

You shouldn’t be crying over this—it was childish to throw a fit over something like this, but you feel horrible.

A knock from the door interrupts your thoughts and Giyuu’s voice carries over through the wooden door.

“(F/N), are you okay? Should I get Shinobu?”

No, he can’t see me like this.

Quickly, you scramble back to the bed where you placed your hospital clothes, and yank the stupid uniform you requested off your body and shove it under the bed. “Ah, no! I-I’m fine, I’m just changing again!”

You slip the button through the last opening and walk towards the door to let Giyuu back in.

Maybe I should send him back?

You could say that you were feeling sleepy or that you weren’t feeling too good, but he came all this way and… or maybe he was here to see someone else? You were his girlfriend, but that didn’t mean he was automatically here for your company.

You were too far gone in your own fears that you completely forgot that you were the reason why he was even here in the first place.

Hopefully, he leaves without question. Your hair will hide your face so he shouldn’t notice how it was burning or how there were small drops of tears in your eyes. But this was Giyuu, the Water Pillar, one of the strongest demon slayers in the entire corps, and your boyfriend. Nothing gets past him, especially if it concerns you.

He doesn’t even get through the threshold before he notices. “He—(F/N), what’s wrong?”

“...It’s nothing,” You say, angling your face away from you. I just feel tired all of a sudden. How about we see each other tomorrow? If you’re free of course. I know how busy you can get.” And you rarely saw each other too. It was a shame your issues just had to swoop right in.

“It’s fine with me if that’s what you really want, but are you sure it’s nothing?”

You feel warm fingers caress your chin before his hand moves back up to cup your cheek, and that’s when your walls chip and break. You lean into his touch and peek through your bangs to see a soft look in his eyes—a look you only ever saw on the rare chances you catch him looking at you or when he had a plate of freshly-cooked salmon daikon.

“You can tell me anything if you want to, I’ll listen.”

Of course you knew you could tell him anything, but actually telling him about something so stupid had you fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “I know this will sound stupid, but my uniform is wrong.”

“The uniform?”

Further hunching in on yourself, your body starts sweating, and you feel like your tears were about to spill over. “It looks terrible. There was no fabric around my entire stomach, it only covered half my things and—! Ugh, I know, I know it’s really childish of me to be complaining so much about it but I didn’t feel comfortable in it at all. I hate it—” and i hate my body “—It doesn’t look right on me, I’m too big for it.”

You breathe out a small sigh and look down at the floor. Melting through the floorboards sounded nice. “Maybe it’s just my fault—if I was thinner or prettier it would probably fit me better. I don’t know…I thought it would be similar to what I had before.”

“...Look at me,” Giyuu says after a while, and takes your hands when you don’t seem to reply any time soon. “Do you trust me?”

Immediately, you look up to him and answer with no hesitation. “With my life.”

“Then I hope you’ll believe me when I say that it's not your fault.” His lips curl slightly upward when your gaze moves from the floor to him. He’s glad that he caught your attention, because he wants you to see how much he means the words he’s about to say.

“I don’t care if you’re thinner, or prettier or about anything else. As long as you’re happy, healthy, and alive, it’s more than enough.” Giyuu places his forehead against yours, and for a moment, you forget why you’re worrying so much.

“To me, You’re the kindest, prettiest, most perfect person in my eyes, and I hope you see yourself the way I do. You have a heart of gold, and you’re plenty perfect just the way you are. You don’t need to change for anything or anyone.”

Giyuu wasn’t really good with words, and he knew that. In fact, at the moment you were seeking comfort, he was in over his head. He thought he was being redundant and talking himself in circles, so he did panic a little when the tears started slipping from your eyes. Panic changed into relief though when you wrap your arms around his torso.

You were well-aware that he wasn’t good with words, so you were caught off-guard by the reassurances he was giving you. You never knew how much you needed to hear those from him, to be reminded that he liked you just as you are.

As easily frazzled you were with a somewhat constant need for reassurance, you’ve gotten used to the fact that receiving verbal assurance from him would be rare if not nonexistent. So you’ve gotten used to his quiet support. He was always there when you needed him, and tried to comfort you the best way he knew how. You appreciated it, and even came around to care for his silent quirks, but hearing him say how much you meant to him, was incredibly comforting, and

“If you hate your uniform, I've heard that Shinobu had problems with hers too at first so I'm sure we can ask Shinobu what she did with hers. I can even place a request for a new one for you.”

Giyuu was never very good with words, but he always made it up with his actions.

“That would be nice.”

BONUS:

You really appreciated that Giyuu was with you the entire time your horrible uniform was alive on this earth. As promised, he helped you handle the uniform issue, and came with you to Shinobu’s office (who was more than willing to hand you the oil and matches).

“Oh? (F/N)-chan? Tomioka-san?” She greets when she ushers you two in her office. “I haven’t seen you two in a while! I’m surprised Tomioka-san is here with you though. I thought he avoided social interaction?.”

Giyuu grumbles at her teasing, but you know these two were friends, even if both of them didn’t want to admit it. “I’m still here.”

You squeeze your boyfriend’s hand, before smiling sheepishly at Shinobu. “It’s been a busy few weeks. We should catch up sometime, but that’s not really why we’re here.”

The Insect Pillar tilts her head in curiosity, and asks, “Oh? Then how can I be of service?”

“Well, you see, all of my uniforms were ruined from my past missions, so I requested for a new one, but um…” Giyuu handed you the clothes you’ve placed back in the wrapping paper which you bring out and let unfold to show Shinobu how it was clearly not your style.

Air seems to freeze over as the seconds tick by with your ‘uniform’ hanging from your hands.

Giyuu was standing behind you, so you couldn’t exactly see his reactions, but you could see how Shinobu’s ever-present smile turned sinister, and looked like she was ready to stab someone with her sword.

“I think they got my size wrong. Giyuu told me that you mentioned having the same problem before, so I was hoping you could tell me how you got yours fixed.”

Without any hesitation whatsoever, Shinobu’s smile stays eerily plastered on her face, “Oh, it’s simple! You can just burn yours. Don’t worry, I burned mine too and I lent the oil and matches to Kanao and Aoi, so you don’t have to feel bad—I’m more than willing to lend you the oil and matches I used. How about I join you two to go to the kakushi? I have a vague idea of who the tailor might be.”

As per Giyuu’s words, It wasn’t your fault. One of the kakushi in charge of making the uniforms was too blame and decided to take some… creative liberties with yours.

When Giyuu saw the scraps of cloth Maeda-san—or scum-glasses as everyone promptly nicknamed him— back in Shinobu’s office, you thought his face didn’t change or move an inch. Shinobu wanted to laugh, because unlike typical Giyuu fashion, everyone who saw him the entire day could see the pulsing vein on his temple that seemed like it would pop any minute. It was clear that he was pissed off, as he handed you the oil to douse the clothes in and gave a readily lit match, but she found it a little sweet that he was a bit more transparent when it came to you.

After the fabric was reduced to ashes in front of Maeda-san, a new agreement was made about your uniform, and as a temporary solution, Giyuu lent you a few of his spare uniforms for you to wear on duty. You had plenty of kimonos and hakamas to wear, but you primarily wore those for training and didn't particularly provide the same protection the corp’s issued uniform did.

It was a little tight around your chest and your hips, and a bit too long for your arms and legs, but you could still move around comfortably without busting a button, so you took it gratefully, and wore it for the week your uniform was being made.

He was with you when your new uniform arrived. The two of you were eating snacks on the Water Estate’s engawa when a kakushi—in a nice surprise it was Tsune—dropped by with a new package, similar to the one Giyuu handed you before. You thanked them and hurriedly went in one of the empty rooms to change, leaving Giyuu to drink his tea alone as he waits for your return

“Giyuu!” You call as you join him back on the engawa. He turns only to be blinded when he sees you smiling to high heaven. “Look, it’s perfect! They got the measurements right this time.”

The uniform you wore right now was just like your old one, and he could see that it clearly made you happy. You even twirl in place, gleefully modeling your new skirt and uniform blouse to him.

“I’m grateful you lent me your uniform, but I;m more used to wearing skirts.” Laughing lightly, you look down at your clothes, carefully running your fingers across the fabric. “I’m so glad this one’s perfect!”

Without an ounce of shame or hesitation, Giyuu tilts his head towards you and says, “You’re the one who’s perfect.”

Oh my god, your heart is going to explode.

Looking down at your tabi socks, you let your hair fall over your face, if only to hide the red flush on your skin. “Giyuu, are you sweet talking me right now?”

“No, I’m being honest.” From the sound of his voice, he was being one hundred percent, and a quick look on his face confirms it, even if there was a little mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew you were getting flustered and in extension, knew what he was doing to you.

You sit down at your previous spot right beside him before taking your teacup from where you placed it on the tray to hide the small smile on your lips. “Okay, okay, you can stop now, you’ve made your point.”

“But I’m serious, you look perfect.” Giyuu leans over, wrapping an arm around your waist and places a soft kiss on your cheek. He tugs you closer to lean against him and watches how your skin changes into a deeper red. It makes him think that he should voice his thoughts about you more often.

“Ah, Giyuu! Stop it!” You giggle, but ultimately return the favor, peppering his face in kisses and smiling at him in a way that makes his heart beat faster.

He may have been a little sad that you won’t be wearing his clothes anytime soon now, but seeing you comfortable and smiling…

Well, that was more than enough for him.

A/N: A gentle reminder to those who reached the end: please know that you are a beautiful and wonderful person. You are loved, you are valued, and have people who care for you, okay?

A huge thank you for reading! online classes are being a little pain, so even if I really missed writing (and reading) fanfics, I might be a little rusty :(( hopefully ya’ll enjoyed it 🥺

Again, to the anon who requested this, i am so so sorry that it took me this long. i hope you still liked it tho 🥺🥺 (i also might post that modern hs au i was talking about earlier, so keep your eyes peeled for that <3)

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treatian · 3 years ago

Text

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Magical Loopholes

Chapter 76: The Space Between

It was a long, quiet walk back to the shop. She hadn't said a word to him since they'd left the ship, but he tried to think positively…she also hadn't stopped touching him since they left the ship. He dared to hope, to deduce that was a sign of some kind.

He also took it as a sign that she didn't leave his side once they'd arrived back at the shop. When they returned, they'd both gone inside, looked at the damage that the pirate had done, and sighed. He'd deal with that in a moment, for now, the shawl was the critical thing, and for that, he immediately wandered out of her grasp, across the room, and placed it safely back in his vault. The safe was damaged, unable to lock, but just having it in its place was a relief. Only once he was done did he allow himself to look back at her across the room. She avoided his gaze, cast her eyes to the ground and around the damage, and then he snapped his fingers so that magic filled the shop, and just like that, all was well. Only not. The shop was repaired, he was able to turn and lock the shawl away in his safe again, everything physically between them was in order, but everything between them…

It felt like there was an ocean of space between them. It was hard to believe that only hours ago, he'd had her in this room and felt closer to her than he ever had, and yet now he felt distant, not just physically. There was space between them, a crevice of silence where there hadn't been one before. Not because of secrets…but because of truth.

"I'm uh…going to lay down for a bit," she muttered, motioning toward the curtain. He meant to give a slight nod, but the gesture never came, and the sound of her heels on the floor, the sole noise in the room, threatened to undo him. He was happy that she wanted to stay, glad that she was going to stay, but the fact of the matter was he suspected it was far more a sign of distrust than affection or even fear as it had been when Archie had died.

When Archie had died…

He waited until he heard the cot groan under her weight before he sighed under the weight of it all.

Archie was alive. Where? He didn't know. He didn't rightly care. He'd probably gone right for Emma, or Mary Margaret and David, knowing him. They'd figure out about Hook, decipher whatever the fuck he'd been babbling about an older woman while Belle had been at his mercy. They'd probably come to find him before the day was out for details he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to give to them, but it wouldn't matter.

She already had the truth.

He replayed the day over again in his head, recalled what he'd said to her before they'd come back to the shop earlier, remembered what he'd refused to tell her about how Milah had died, stating that it didn't matter. And he remembered what Hook had shared on the deck of his ship, right in front of her. "Rip my heart out. Kill me like you killed Milah." Any other average woman might not have caught that, given the situation. But Belle was more intelligent than that. She'd heard. She'd know what it meant. And any other ordinary woman might have been easy to persuade that it was a lie, that he hadn't done anything even if he had. Any other woman would trust him. She wouldn't. She would see straight through it and into the truth. She knew that he'd been the one who killed Milah. She knew that he'd crushed her heart. Hell, she was so bright she'd probably even deduce that he'd done it in front of Hook.

He'd listened to her in the end, obeyed her command instead of the Dark Ones', but was it enough to salvage what was between them? He'd stopped listening to Zoso for her. Because he wanted her more than he wanted to kill Hook. But listening to the silence between them, he wasn't sure it would do any good. They might have broken anyway.

But it was the fact that he wasn't sure that she was still here, that they might still have a chance to put this together that he didn't leave the shop, give in to his desires, and kill Hook now that kept him there. That was probably part of why she stayed. To make sure that he did.

They had to talk about this…

He'd come this far. They'd come this far. He couldn't lose her now to his base nature, to his utter stupidity, to Hook!

He moved and, in the back, he caught a sound that suggested movement from the cot. When he moved through the curtain, he saw that she was settled into the cot, eyes closed, body relaxed, as if in sleep.

But she wasn't asleep.

No…he knew her too well, watched her sleep enough to know what she looked like when she was truly at rest. That wasn't it. Aside from all that, her heart was racing, and she smelled not just of salt and sea and brine but anger and sadness as well.

He swallowed hard as he looked her over. They'd been in this place before. They'd been to a place where they'd been angry at one another because he hadn't shared information, and she'd gone to bed, and he'd stayed away until he decided it was the right time to talk. She'd pretended to be asleep, but he'd insisted and…

Problems. The conversation that followed had been fine, but the false deal that ensued because he'd pushed had only created problems. And now it felt like history was repeating itself, and he knew the solution for it. The solution was to change. The solution was to be different. They were both so much different than when they'd had that first fight, unbeknownst to her, about the curse at the town line. He'd changed. She'd changed him. And she wasn't the same person that she'd been then either. She was still brave and fearless, just as she'd always been at his castle, it was that same bravery and fearlessness that made him want to kill her on days like today for getting herself into trouble on his behalf, but now she was also wise. She knew this world, knew enough to survive today when he was sure she wouldn't have weeks ago. She wasn't innocent or virginal anymore; she was his anchor when he was adrift, the one thing in this world that kept him going when the voices inside threatened to overwhelm him, and he was damn sure that if he was to find Baelfire and bring him back here, he was going to need her. He was going to need her guidance and wisdom, her body and her soul. So, he was going to change.

He wanted to talk to her. But he knew the route that they might take if he forced it. So he'd wait for her. He'd wait for her to decide she was ready to talk. He'd give her the first word. And until then…

He summoned his wheel down to him with his magic, sat down before it, and began his work. It was a ridiculous habit to have at a time like this. He'd nearly killed a man, lost his son, lost his love, all barely an hour ago, and yet now he sat and, instead of destruction, chose creation. Wool into thread; not gold. He breathed deep as he monitored her, waiting for her body to show signs she had actually dropped off to sleep instead of pretending. It never did. And so, he sat and spun and waited. Waited for her to say something. Waited for Emma and her parents to storm in. Waited for someone to demand answers there were no use in hiding. He waited for what would come next, realizing too late that it was surely not what he'd had in mind when Belle had suggested they test the potion and then go back to his house for the night. Yes, that was certainly no longer a-

"What time is it?"

He reached out to still the wheel at her voice behind him. He wanted to cry out for joy that she'd spoken to him. He wanted to take her in his arms and apologize. He wanted to talk. It took every bit of control he had to simply turn his head in her direction and not his body.

"Nearly sundown," he whispered, his heart suddenly slamming against his breastbone so he was confident she could hear it from there, even with her human ears.

Suddenly she rose from the cot, straightened her clothes, wiped at her face, and took a step closer to him. She laid a hand against his shoulder. "We should probably head out to the town line."

There was a lump in his throat, something hallow that wouldn't allow him to speak. Head out to the town line…as they'd planned, as if nothing had changed?

He couldn't stop himself from turning his body to look at her, to search her face as if anticipating a trick. He expected it even at the same time that his head told him she wouldn't do such a thing, that she was incapable. She didn't fool or trick; she never lied or cheated. With Belle, she said what she meant. It was what he loved about her more than anything in the world.

She sighed then, and he watched a shiver pass over her body as she leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck. "You need to find your son."

He sat up taller, leaned his head over so that he could press himself into her touch, suddenly overwhelmed beyond words at how much he loved her and adored her. Oh, he didn't care what Baelfire thought, when he got home, when all was finally settled, he was going to marry her. Or, at the very least, he was going to ask her to marry him. After Milah, he would never have thought there would be another person in the world he wanted that with. And yet, after a day like today, her still here; if they could conquer this, then they could conquer anything. Baelfire, the boy who would undo him, maybe even his curse. If it meant an eternity at her side…that was what he wanted.

#Rumbelle #Rumpelstiltskin #Rumple #Dark One #Mr. Gold #Belle #Baelfire #Captain Hook #Killian Jones #Milah #ouat #ouat fanfic #fanfiction

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