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acourtofwhatthefuck · 5 months

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Practice On Me — Part Fourteen — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Reader is readying herself for the ball. Hot Daddy Fin™️ opens up to her a little and shares some worrying truths (and then some). Azriel and Reader reunite, body and soul.

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: Adult content, 18+, NSFW, minors dni.

Tried my best with this part but sorry if it's a bit iffy! This girlie is ill as FUCK. Still hope you enjoy, tho, loves!

“You know, I have to admit, I was dubious at first.”

Mor is knelt at your feet, and you think this might be the closest you ever come to having a goddess on her knees before you. A strange part of you wants her to snap out and sink her teeth into your thigh, leave a bright red mark on the skin — but alas, her attention is fully on the hem of your gown.

“My uncle, love him though I do, is a calculated bastard.” She pushes to her feet, straightening out the fabric. “But I think he actually enjoys your company.”

“He does.” Roza pitches in from her place on the couch. “I know Fin. Y/N has him eating out of the palm of her hand.”

Though she smiles, her tone is laced with clear concern. Not because she cares about Fin, but because she cares about you. Doesn’t want you to forget that this is the High Lord of the Night Court you’re meddling with.

“Males are vapid and predictable, every last one of them.” You shrug your tense shoulders. “Throw them a few pretty smiles and they’ll do anything for you.”

Mor steps back, a low whistle leaving her. “Forget the males. I’ll do anything for you.”

Her eyes rake over your gown. So do Roza’s. And you…you want to crawl out of your skin and hide.

You’ve never owned a beautiful gown like this, never been able to afford one. The couple of dresses you do keep amongst your clothes are plain ones that just about do for special occasions. What hangs off your body now is…a work of art.

Almost feels like sacrilege for the beautiful fabric to touch your marred skin.

It’s sheer, showing off more than you’ve ever before dared to, and yet there’s a modesty, an elegance, to the many whorls and swirls made up entirely of little blue jewels and pearls and beads. It gives the gown a weight that makes it cling to you, and it outlines a body that…that quite frankly, you’d never considered beautiful until this very moment.

A body that commands the garment, and not the other way round. That makes you feel like far more than just another mistreated, unfavoured Illyrian female that will one day be lost to history.

This gown makes you think: I do not need the wings I have spent my life longing for.

It makes you think: There is nothing more beautiful than a good spirit and soul, and I have both.

It makes you think: Never again will anyone — friend or family or foe — make you feel less than worthy. Less than deserving. Less than strong.

You have always had strength. And this dress somehow amplifies it. Will amplify it to a room full of people who will see, through that sheer fabric, your scars, your lack of wings, and they may pity you, or not pity you at all, or may even laugh.

But you will still be beautiful.

Movement has you realising that tears have blurred your eyes. You swipe them away, and Mor is smiling at you, and Roza looks like she’s a little choked up, too.

“You are so godsdamned gorgeous.” Mor says earnestly. “Every last inch of you.”

Indeed, you glance over your shoulder at the mirror behind you, your gaze immediately finding your scars sitting brutal and undeniable beneath the sheer fabric. You don’t hurriedly force your gaze away like you have done your whole life, don’t try to avoid them.

You just…look. Look at what has been a part of you for so long, now.

“…Mor?” Roza says quietly. “Can you…give Y/N and I a moment?”

“Of course.” Mor agrees. “Time for me to find a snack.”

The stunning blonde squeezes your hand as she strolls past, and as she leaves the room, the door is pulled shut behind her.

Roza rises from her seat, making her way over to you. And as she stops before you, her hands move up to cup your face.

“Did you know,” she murmurs, “that I’ve always thought you were one of the prettiest females in all of Windhaven?” A soft scoff leaves you, but before you can glance down, she’s holding your face firmly. “I mean that — even when Azriel brought you to the cottage that very first time, and you were covered in dirt and mud, your hair all knotted, a leaf or two in there — you thanked me for feeding you, and you gave me a smile that was just like…sunshine. Such a rare thing in Windhaven. I remember thinking, this girl deserves to smile like that, always.”

A single tear spills down your cheek, and Roza wipes it away. She definitely looks like she might start bawling, too — a rare thing for her.

“I know you were never given much of a chance to feel worthy.” She whispers. “Your mother abandoning you…your father taking your wings…they were the two people who were supposed to love you more than anyone, and they broke you and left you broken.”

“You put me back together.” A lump in your throat fractures your words. “You and Rhys and Azriel and Cassian. Your love—”

“My little dove, you put yourself back together. We just loved you through it. I just want you to know that…I just want you to remember, the next time you feel worthless, that you are beautiful, and you have always been beautiful. You’re strong, and spirited, and determined. You have a resolve like no other I have ever seen, and you can do anything — which is why I know you will achieve whatever it is you’re planning with Fin.”

Only then does your gaze drop. “I only wish to appeal myself to him enough that he’ll value my opinion — that this Fenlaros business cannot go ahead. But I still feel awful…he’s your mate.”

“Gods, in the loosest definition, Y/N.” Her hands move to yours, then, liking them together. “Believe me when I say that if it weren’t for my children, I’d never see that male again. I think you know that I do not hold him in high regard.”

“I do know. But I respect you and care about you more than anyone in the world. And if you feel even a shred of discomfort about what I’m doing, I’ll stop. I’ll find another way—”

“The only discomfort I feel,” she squeezes your hands gently, “is at the thought of any harm coming to you. But I’ll feel that way through everything you do in life, because I love you. I also feel awe, because you’re brave and brilliant, and you’re doing what’s right. What I will teach this little girl,” she places your hands on her swollen belly, “to do — to stand up against what is wrong, and do so without a lick of shame.”

“I’ll protect her with my life, you know — the babe. I’ll love her unconditionally.”

“And she will love you, my dove, just as I do. So,” she steps back, eyes your dress again. A smile curves her lips. “Do whatever it is you have to do, Y/N, to change Fin’s mind — you have my full support. I only ask three things of you.”

Your expression softens. Anything — you’d do anything for her. “Of course, Roz.”

“First, don’t get caught with your scheming.” She says. “And second — you may feel like murdering Fin. Gods, believe me, I get it. But please do refrain. He’s my children’s father, after all, and Rhys isn’t ready to be High Lord just yet.”

You breathe a laugh, dipping your chin. “No murder. Got it. And the third thing?”

Roza steps up to you, her fingers finding the beautiful, jewelled material that clings to you like a second skin. She smiles.

“Go to that ball,” her fierce eyes meet yours, “and show everybody there that your father didn’t take one bit of beauty away from you.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

You pace the length of your room. Back and forth, back and forth. You’re restless tonight.

Day after day is swept behind you like the snow that blankets the mountains. Time is a racing thing. Starfall is fast approaching, and thus, so is the ball. But you still feel as though you can’t get a good read on Fin’s thoughts.

No matter how many dinners you share with him, how many walks through the city streets you take together, the shows you watch in the Rainbow…he does not offer you the candidness with which he spoke through that very first conversation in his study. Any attempts to talk about Tathaln, about Fenlaros, are promptly diverted. He wants to talk about you — wants to know you.

It feels like the opportunity to stop this shit show in its tracks is slipping through your fingers, and you can’t grab hold of it, pull it back.

So instead of sleeping, you think, and you pace, and you—

Gods, you just want to see Azriel.

How much space, you wonder, is enough space? You have respected his needs, have kept to Velaris, given him time to confront his innermost thoughts and feelings. But you don’t know how long he needs, and right now…right now, all you want is to see him. Look into his eyes. Hear that soft, quiet voice telling you that everything will be okay.

You need to know if he’s made a decision about Fenlaros. You’ve tried not to think about it, not to dwell on the possibility that he could choose to run from his feelings over embracing them. But the longer the silence stretches on…the more you find that hole in your heart gaping, threatening to swallow you whole.

You pace more and more, up and down in time to the ticking of the clock. It’s a wonder you haven’t worn a track through the carpet. You don’t know why you’re suddenly so antsy, but perhaps if you could just talk to Az, some of your worries could be allayed—

Before your thoughts can catch up with your body, you’re tearing through the drawers in the desk, scrambling for paper, a pen. Practically throw yourself into the chair. A letter — a letter will do the trick—

But you don’t know what to write.

You stare at the blank parchment like the words will simply appear by your willing. They don’t.

A love letter? No, no, not a love letter. Just a letter to…to remind him that you are still here. That you are reason to stay in Windhaven, and you think you could be reason enough.

Azriel… you picture him as you crawl his name. His honey-golden eyes and his silken hair. The sharp bone structure that could slice through paper, the full lips. The memory of how those lips feel is fading, and you want — need — it back. Your pen pauses, hovers at the parchment, and those lips are all you can think of, the urgency with which you crave them.

Azriel, you write again, I want to see you. I need you, too—

A soft knock lands on the door, and the pen clatters against the desk where you drop it.

The clock has just timed three in the morning — the knock is an unexpected obtrusion in the dead of night. One that makes you anxious.

But a second knock comes, and you shove the parchment and pen back into the drawer, scrambling to your feet. Perhaps it’s Roza — the more the pregnancy progresses, it’s not unusual for her to wake up in the night with need for something. You hurry over and tug it open.

Fin stands on the other side, looking…unkempt. His hair is mussed, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it. The first few buttons on his shirt have been undone, and a glimpse of a fine, chiselled chest peeks out. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He looks as though he hasn’t been to bed.

He drinks in the sight of you in your nightgown, bathed in the room’s glow. He swallows. “Forgive me, I…I saw your light on. Thought you might be having trouble sleeping again.”

You incline your head. “I was.” You admit. “…And you?”

“Too much in my head to even attempt it.”

You’re not sure what to reply with, how to help. Fin watches you closely like…like he needs to. Like gazing at you brings him comfort.

You are treading a very, very dangerous path. But you shift on your feet and ask him, “Would you like to come in?”

A tiny nudge of a smile pulls one side of his mouth up. “I was actually wondering if you’d allow me to take you somewhere.”

Your eyes widen a little. The surprise isn’t for show, and it seems to please him. “Right now?”

“The City of Starlight doesn’t sleep. Ever.”

A fact you’ve learned all too well during your stay here. There’s always some sort of activity, something going on that sends a constant pulsing through the city streets. For some reason, you hadn’t imagined Fin to be a participant in the night life.

“It’s somewhere I go when I can’t sleep.” He explains, as though you’ve spoken your thoughts loud and clear. “I think you’d like it. And from one insomniac to another, I…I would be honoured to share it with you.”

How can you possibly say no to that? For all Fin is mysterious, for all he keeps his cards tightly pressed against his chest, you truly believe that he finds a strange sort of solidarity in this one affliction that burdens you both. You may have wildly different reasons for pacing your room at night — and you’re not sure he’ll ever tell you his — but when the world is too quiet and thoughts are too loud…there’s comfort in knowing that somebody else is staring down those early hours, also.

It almost makes him seem…normal.

And perhaps that’s why you offer him a dazzling smile that isn’t entirely disingenuous. “From one insomniac to another,” you say, “I’d love to come with you.

The way his eyes light up makes you wonder if you’ve played your role, appealed yourself to him, a little too well. “Then I’ll wait here while you get dressed.”

You incline your head. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He waits patiently as you change from your nightgown into warm clothes that will shield you from the freezing night air. With no indication of where you might be going, a sweater and breeches and boots seems like the safest bet. You sweep your hair out of your face and shrug the weariness from your bones. When you emerge from the room, Fin’s gaze traces you like you’ve donned an evening gown and not the thickest layers you could fine.

“I find you so very intriguing.” He comments unexpectedly, and you’re not sure what he means.

You plaster a smile on your face, all the same. “Where are we going, Lord of the Night?”

Heat stokes his hickory eyes, and he looks as though he’s actually trying to tamp down on a broad smile. “It’s a surprise.”

You hold a hand out. He takes it. “Then surprise me.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“Tilt your head up.” The instruction comes from close behind you. Near enough that a warm breath tickles the back of your neck. You dutifully obey. “Now, open your eyes.”

Your eyelids flutter open slowly, cautiously. What you’re met with has your next breath catching in your throat.

A dome of starlight arcs high above you. The twinkling jewels in the sky feel almost close enough to reach out and touch, and they shine brilliantly through the glass roof, an occasional transient one cartwheeling its way past in pursuit of another place.

You can only stare. Gape. Your feet move forward a couple of steps, but your face remains tilted upwards.

You were in this building only a couple of evenings before, but it had been so packed, then, so filled with music and chatter and laughter and activity, that you hadn’t noticed what sat above your head. You’d been far too enamoured with the performers, their poetic verses and fluid dances, the tragic climax that had brought you to tears.

Now, the largest theatre in Velaris’s rainbow is empty and bathed in darkness, broken only by silvery moonlight. You and Fin are the only two here. And standing on the gargantuan stage, a mass of empty, folded seats staring back at you, you have the perfect view of the night sky that gives a performance all of its own above you.

There are soft footsteps, and Fin is also stepping forward, stopping at your side. “In over nine centuries, I’ve never tired of that sight,”

You shake your head, a little dazed. You’re lost for words. “I can see why.”

“There is so much unexpected, so much chaos and burden, in being High Lord. But no matter what I may face, what choices I make, and what reactions they receive…there will always be the night sky and its stars.”

Only then do you remove your gaze from the domed glass ceiling — to drink him in and wonder how many layers deep his true heart lies. This male who is as cunning and cruel as he is handsome and charming. How many dimensions does he have that you’ve never stopped to consider?

“I know it doesn’t exactly support the imagine of a calculated High Lord who shouldn’t be crossed.” Fin says, staring had at the surface of the stage whilst a wry smile graces his lips. “Sneaking off to an empty theatre in the dead of night when sleep evades me. But I find…peace here.”

You eye the ginormous building around you, dipped in shimmering moonlight and the shadows of twinkling stars. All those empty seats, the vacant orchestra pit, the stage that has trapped so many beautiful voices and words, guided so many dances and echoed so much beautiful music. There’s a haunting loneliness to the desolation. And you can’t help wondering if…if Fin relates to that, somehow.

When you snap out of your thoughts, you find he’s moved again. Now, he sits on the very edge of the stage, legs hanging down and palms bracing him. He stares out at the rows and rows of red velvet seats, not one of them disturbed by a spectator.

You’re moving before you tell yourself to. Sitting at his side and tucking your legs beneath you. You spend a short time in still silence, but the heaviness of the High Lord’s thoughts seems to spread to every corner of the building.

“When you brought me here the other night,” you angle yourself towards him, “it was my first time in a theatre — ever. I never saw a show before.”

A very slight frown pinches Fin’s features. He seems to consider that. “One of my flaws, Y/N, I have to admit, is that I often forget that there’s a world outside of my privilege. That people lack where I never will.” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. “Roza was right to take Rhysand to Windhaven. He’s grown with a humility that I very much do not have.”

You snort softly. “I spend a lot of time with your son, My Lord. I assure you he’s just as capable of arrogance. I’ve kicked his ass a good few times because of it.”

A quiet laugh rasps from him. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.” He pauses, and then his elbow is gently nudging you. “I told you, anyway — it’s Fin. I consider us to be friends. Don’t you?”

In some ways, you really do. Ans what a lying, using, devious little friend you are.

Especially as you scoot closer to him. And you’re softening your features and staring openly at him.

You don’t miss the way his gaze falls to your lips.

“I do.” You say, and he lifts his eyes to yours again. “And as your friend, I’d like to know what weighs so heavily on your mind tonight.”

His mile falters. And you don’t want to lose him, to let the moment slip away from you. You quickly grab his hand before he can tense up.

“I want you to talk to me…” You make your voice soft as butter, sweet as honey. “I like talking to you, Fin.”

There’s a beat. A tense one. And then his body is loosening, relaxing, his eyes becoming infinitely warmer.

His hand wraps around yours, the pad of his thumb tracing your nail. “I like talking to you, too.” He admits, and pauses again. “…War is…a great likelihood, Y/N.”

It’s your turn to go still, then, to tense up. Icy cold surprise bolts through you. That…isn’t what you were expecting.

“War?” You breathe, your mind already conjuring images of your friends on a battlefield. “With whom? When?”

“I do not know when. It could be in a year’s time; it could be in a decade. That all depends on how long it takes for humans to rise up and rally against our kind.”

“Humans?”

“There has been more and more pushback, in recent years, from humans. Humans who are enslaved by our kind and are sick of it. More and more of them are beginning to stand up against it, to protest how they’re forced to live. They’re willing to go to war over it. I don’t know when or where, but they will. In years to come, they will.”

“As they should.” You sit up straight. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say, but you don’t care. “They should revolt. I think it’s barbarous, the way our kind treat them. Their purpose is not to serve us. They have just as much right to live freely as we do.”

You mean it, mean it with your whole heart. You know what it’s like to be used for somebody’s personal gain, what it’s like to have freedom always lurking just out of reach. And you’ve heard about the treatment of enslaved humans. Most would rather die that live under the cruelty of their fae masters. That the practice hasn’t been outlawed utterly sickens you.

Fin says nothing for a while. His hand continues to hold yours. His eyes drink you down with a muted intensity. Like this is the first time he’s ever really taken you in.

“I agree.” He murmurs, much to your surprise. “And when war comes — and it will, and I’m preparing for it — when war comes, I will fight alongside the humans. To liberate them.”

You look at him, then — a male who has lived for almost a millennia, but doesn’t look a day over forty. Who is so universally feared, who carries a reputation for things you can’t even bear to consider. You will not fool yourself into believing that the darkness hides an inner light, or that the cruelty is a front. He is not soft and he is not kind.

But perhaps he’s not totally bad, either. That he would put himself in the firing line for the liberation of innocent humans…it has to speak somewhat to his character.

It almost makes you regret your scheming, your manipulating.

Before you can muster a response, the High Lord is leaning closer. Your body tenses as his face stops inches away from yours.

“You need not be afraid of me, Y/N.” He whispers. “I find you…magnificent. I like that you don’t filter yourself in front of me, that you’re not afraid to speak your true thoughts and feelings. You…you are an asset. Worth so much more than you’ve ever been given credit for.”

Your gaze dips, cheeks burning at the compliment. “I don’t know about that—”

“I mean it.” His finger hooks under your chin, soothing the skin there. “Magnificent.” He repeats, and he’s leaning in closer, closer, until his lips are coasting your flushed cheek. The kiss he presses there is cold in contrast, but you have no chance to react as his mouth brushes its way to the shell of your ear and lingers there. “Absolutely brilliant. And do you know what?”

“…What?”

“After the ball is over,” his breath tickles your ear, “I’m going to bring you back here, to this stage. And those stars above our heads will watch as I strip you bare and fuck you hard enough to shake the building.”

It takes every morsel of your resolve not to start at the words. You release a shaky breath — one that makes you seem eager, responsive. It’s convincing enough that you don’t think you’d be out of place up here on this stage.

Thankfully, you don’t have to drag words from your spinning thoughts. Fin lets go, and he pulls back, rising to his feet.

“But until then,” he holds a hand out for you, “there is much to be done. Starting with you and I getting a good night’s sleep.”

You wear a mild smile as you allow him to pull you up. “A girl can dream.”

“And so can a High Lord.”

You don’t say much else to each other as he tugs you close and spirits you back to his palace. You are both pensive, and you are both tired.

But when he bids you goodnight outside your bedroom and strolls off to his own, sleep seems further away than ever. You’re thinking too much at once. Humans. War. Fin. Azriel.

You still desperately want to see Az, talk to him.

You dig back into the drawer, meaning to retrieve the letter you’d started to write.

But your hand merely knocks against wood, and the letter is gone.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

You’re tempted — to write another letter, or note, or…whatever. You don’t even know what became of the first, unfinished one, whether it made its way to Azriel or not.

But days pass, and you…you begin to lose your nerve a little. Perhaps it’s better to live in ignorance for as long as possible than know, either way, what Azriel is thinking. Choosing. Can’t help feeling that the more time pedals on without a word…the worse the outcome will be.

Distractions help. But tonight, it would seem, there are none. And it’s strange, because everything around you is bathed in luxury, in excellence, but you find yourself missing the stripped back simplicity of Windhaven. The crumbling cottages, the mead hall, the rough-and-tumble way of life. There’s always something happening in that harrowing place, something to keep you occupied. As you stare down an evening in a huge, mostly empty palace, you’re actually struck by your longing for it. Both Roza and Fin are busy. Mor is away. Only the mountains and the distant sounds of the city are your companions tonight.

And once again, your thoughts take you to Azriel.

You think maybe this need for him is getting out of hand. And maybe it’s just the sugar-sweet things that Fin has been speaking into your ear, the knowledge that deep down, there’s only one person you want to make such promises to you—

No. It’s not just that. Not just a pathetic influence of suggestive words. It’s a need.

You need Azriel.

Your closest friend. Your safety blanket. The male who saved you and brought you into the fold of a loving, supportive unit. You stared down awkward adolescence together, faced such trying times by each other’s sides.

And you need him.

Your heart, your body, your skin, is hot and heavy with it. Restless. Like the craving is pulling you apart from the inside.

You need to do something, anything, to occupy yourself; take a late-night stroll, read a book. Anything to stop you from staring at the ceiling and being eaten alive by the fire that scorches your veins.

You’re so desperate to get moving that you don’t bother to grab a jacket — just shove your feet into your shoes. A spring mildness has blanketed the city, anyway. You’ll be fine. You just need to move—

But you yank your bedroom door open, and Azriel is on the other side.

His beauty punches you straight in the gut.

He’s a vision, stood there in casual clothing, a note — your note — clutched in his hand. He takes in the sight of you just as hurriedly.

“What are you doing here,” you breathe.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes rove you again, and he swallows. “I got your note.” He answers. “I wanted to see you, too, and…the High Lord summoned Rhys, Cass and I here…to warn us to be on our best behaviour at the ball.”

You can’t say anything. Can’t speak. You just gawk like a godsdamned fool.

A strange concoction of a frown and a laugh comes from Az. “I…snuck away after…to come here—”

Before you even know what you’re doing, your hand is bunching in the front of Azriel’s shirt, and you’re dragging him into the room with all your strength. He looks bewildered as you shove the door shut behind him.

“Az, have you lost your mind?” You round on him. “If Fin knew you’d come to my room—”

“He isn’t here.” He cuts you off. “Cass went straight back to Windhaven, and Rhys knew I wanted to see you, so…he’s currently having quality family time with Roza and his father in the city.”

There’s a lot to unpack. But all your mind wants to zero in on is that one little sentence — Rhys knew I wanted to see you.

Pathetic, how your entire stomach flips.

“…You call him Fin?”

It takes a moment for your mind to catch up enough to understand Azriel’s question.

“We’ve been living under the same roof.” You shrug slowly. “I…guess he got tired of me using his title.”

Az stares at you, assessing. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but you fidget under the intensity of his gaze.

“What is it?” You ask him.

“I’m worried about you. I know he’s taking you to the ball. I don’t want you playing his games.”

You purse your lips. “…That why you snuck here to my room, Az? To give me a warning—”

“I came here because you said you wanted to see me, and I want to see you, too.”

So open — for him. So straightforward that for a beat, you’re not sure how to react.

But then you’re moving, and so is he, and your bodies slam together in a tight, long-awaited embrace. Feeling his arms wrap around you is…everything. Everything you’ve missed and longed for. Everything you will ever long for. Whatever happens…Azriel is the only thing you’ll need, when all is said and done.

And that’s why you’re suddenly crying, clinging to him.

On instinct, Azriel’s arms tighten around you. He moves a hand up to cradle the back of your head, and he whispers, “Y/N…”

“Please don’t leave Windhaven.” The words choke out of you. “Please, Az, just…don’t go to Fenlaros. Please—”

“Y/N. Look at me.”

Tears and all, you do. You remain as close to him as you possibly can as you lift your head to meet his eyes.

You don’t know how you know, but you do — from that one, heavy stare, you can tell that things have changed. That he has changed. He looks like the same, stunning male that you’ve always admired, but something else sits on his face.

Emotion.

Determination.

Fire.

He opens his mouth. Takes a slow, shuddering breath that you feel through every inch of your body. And then he says, with utter clarity, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You almost break all over again. But he keeps talking, keeps sharing.

“I love you. No — I’m in love with you. I love you more than I can put into words. I want you and only you, and I’m not leaving you. The only reason I would ever walk out of that camp is if you were by my side, and we were leaving together.”

You are…weightless. Boneless. Held up only by Azriel’s arms. A tear rolls down your cheek, and you allow it to fall to the carpet.

“My handling of my feelings,” Az stares down at you, “has been one huge fuck up. I loved you long before you offer to let me practice intimacy on you. Experiencing those things with you…the things you made me feel…only brought those feelings to the surface. And instead of facing them as I should have done, I hid behind Kaeda to avoid them. But it was never about Kaeda. It was always you. It will always be you. And I’m scared, Y/N, I’m fucking terrified. But I’m done running. Done hiding.”

Silence sweeps into the room on swift wings, and you are suddenly incapable of thought, and of somehow turning it into words. Without Azriel’s voice to distract you, you’re aware of the tremors that wrack through his body. As though this is the scariest thing in the world to him, and he’s trying to hold strong against it.

It probably is.

He studies you closely. Croaks out, “Please say something.”

And perhaps it’s giving him the wrong impression entirely, but you’re stepping out of his arms and putting space between you. You just…need to gather your thoughts. To remember how to speak.

“I…” You blink. “I handled it badly, too.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“I made selfish choices. I…I acted out of jealousy because I wanted you, but you and Kaeda were…”

He shakes his head resolutely. “What I told you before was true. I never touched Kaeda like that. Even before I found out about all that Fenlaros shit, I think I knew that I wouldn’t. That I couldn’t.”

A fact that breaks your heart. Your eyes fill with tears again. “But I still did. Cass and I—”

“Cassian was there for you when I should have been, and I had no right — none — to react the way that I did. If anyone did anything wrong that night, it was me. But what you and Cass did…it does not matter. Not one bit.”

You’re pivoting on the spot, turning your back to him, before you can crumble entirely. He really means it. Really does not hate you for the choice you made, even though it hurt him.

“Y/N,” Az’s voice shakes behind you. “Please…look at me.”

Now you’re confronted with the situation, part of you wants to run — to hide.

But Az is being open. Honest. No matter how hard, how terrifying it is for him…he’s here. He’s trying.

And so you’ll try, too. And you think you might be shaking just as much as he is as you turn back to him.

The two of you stare at each other. Feel the situation out with your gazes alone.

Azriel is the one to break the extended silence.

“You said you need me.” He eyes you. He’s visibly trembling all over, and it has nothing to do with the chill in the room. Trembling like he’s trying to hold himself together against the weight of the situation.

“…Yes.” You swallow. “I do, Az…I think I’ve always needed you.”

“So show me.”

You pause. Blink, your eyes blown wide. “What?”

“Show me how you need me.” He steps closer, and though he’s shaking, he outreaches a hand and find yours. “Show me how to give you what you need.”

Your fingers brush his, and you’re forcing a lump down your throat. Drinking him in. He…he’s exquisite. “You mean…”

“I mean,” the gap is closed between your bodies, and his heat is reaching you, “I don’t want to practice. I want it all…everything…with you. I want you to take me. Only you—”

You’re surging forward with so much pent-up need that when your lips collide with Azriel’s, it almost knocks you both to the floor.

But Azriel’s arms are banding around you, and he’s a pillar against you, kissing you back with just as much heat.

You don’t know which of you makes what move. Your hands are all over him, and his are all over you, and he’s walking you backwards and groaning as the kiss deepens.

You find the hem of his tunic, dip your hands under, fingertips skating warm skin that shudders beneath your touch. “Can I take this off?” You murmur, and he swallows your words greedily.

“All of it — take it all.”

And so you do. There is no method to it. You’re a woman starved and crazed as you tear at his clothing, not caring about where it ends up, so long as it’s no longer on him. More and more tan skin is exposed, more muscles, more scars. And when he kicks out of his boots and breeches and his underwear is the only remaining barrier, you’re reaching for him, for the hardness that’s pushing through the dark grey fabric and taunting you.

But Azriel reaches out an arm to gently stop you. His hand brushes your cheek, and his eyes are pure hunger as he says, “Your turn.”

And it hits you just then that up in until this point, Azriel has never seen you naked — in this capacity, anyway. There have been plenty of non-sexual circumstances over the years in which you’ve gotten a glimpse of each other, but not like this. Even when he began practicing on you, you never took your clothes off.

And you’re fucking nervous. Even more so under the press of his gaze. He looks like he may combust as you slowly move your hands to your shirt and tug the front laces loose. You pull the hem out from where it was tucked into your breeches.

The fabric parts enough that it more or less slides off you and pools on the floor. You do not meet the heavy stare that watches you so closely. You may lose your nerve if you do.

But when the last few items of clothing are off and kicked away from you, and you’re left entirely bare, you hear a sharp intake of breath. Curiosity gets the better of you. You lift your gaze and resist the urge to fold your arms over your chest.

Azriel is staring at you like…like nobody ever has before.

Like you are the rare rays of sunlight that break through the grey landscape of Windhaven. Like the world around you was forged from your own two hands.

Like you’re beautiful, and worthy, and unruined.

“…What is it?” You clear your throat, shifting on the spot.

Azriel shakes out of a daze and takes a single step closer to you. “You are…” His throat bobs, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

You almost laugh. Almost. But something stops you.

The sincerity in his tone, his eyes. The realisation that he truly means that.

Your eyes travel from his face, down his sculpted chest and stomach. The firm, toned legs and what sits beneath him. You’ve seen plenty of his body naked. But…not all at once.

You think the air might be punched from your lungs.

He’s hard as a rock — from looking at you. The tip of his cock is already leaking moisture. His wings flare proudly at his back.

“So beautiful.” He cups your jaw, guiding your eyes back up to his.

There’s nothing else you can say, in that moment, than the words that tumble from your lips.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Emotion crosses his face, and both hands are gripping your cheeks. He kisses you deeply; so deeply that it steals your breath.

And then he pulls away, and he’s repeating his earlier words, his forehead pressed to yours. “Show me — show me what you need. No games, just…you and me.”

No games, indeed. You cannot wait any longer.

You rise on the tips of your toes and claim his mouth with yours, and you’re guiding him back, back, until his legs are hitting the bed and he’s gladly falling onto it. He sprawls out, watching as you climb over him. As your hand caresses his stomach and moves down.

And when your fingertips brush the head of his cock, a deep, delicious noises rumbles in his throat.

You mop the moisture up with your palm, using it to slick the length of him and slide your hand up and down. He hisses between his teeth, hips jerking, hands bunching within the covers on your bed.

“No games,” he repeats through gritted teeth. “This is about both of us.”

And you know that, and you’re not patient enough, anyway, for foreplay right now.

It dawns on you that there will plenty of time for that.

He is not leaving Windhaven — not leaving you.

You will have experiences together beyond this one night.

And with that very fact warming your heart and making it set to burst, you place your legs either side of his body and stare down at him. His cock brushes against your centre, and he can feel how wet you already are for him. His eyes travel down.

You watch, and you ask him, quietly, “You’re sure about this?”

His gaze flicks up immediately. “I’ve never been surer about anything in my life.” He reaches out a trembling hand and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “That doesn’t mean I’m not nervous — gods, I really fucking am. So scared. I just…want to do it right. To be good for you.”

The sentiment almost brings tears to your eyes. “You couldn’t do it wrong if you tried, Az. Do you trust me?”

“With my whole heart.” He sits up a little — angles himself closer to you. “And I love you with my whole heart, too.”

And that’s all either of you need, isn’t it? Love and trust. The need that exits between you. Everything that is just…yours and Azriel’s relationship in its entirety.

Your eyes remain locked with his as you gently reach down and position his cock at your entrance. He breathes shakily. Doesn’t look away from you once.

Not as you slide down onto him just a little. You pause at the first feel of your walls stretching to accommodate him. A pleasured frown furrows his brow. A moment passes, two, and then you slide down further.

More and more. Sinking onto him. Pausing. Adjusting. With every inch of his huge length that disappears inside you, you feel like every one of your nerve endings is struck by lightning. Azriel’s head lolls back, and he makes a soft noise.

“You’re okay?” You check, hovering over him.

“You feel—” He chokes on his words. “Fuck.”

It’s the encouragement you need to sink the rest of the way onto him. The last few inches slide into you quick, thanks to the slickness that soaks your folds, and then he’s pushed into the hilt and hitting a spot so deep inside you that you can’t stifle the noise that breaks from your throat.

“Did I hurt you?” Azriel gasps, and you can only shake your head. He seems to study your face for confirmation, before he’s pushing up to kiss you.

And you kiss him back. For a moment, that’s all either of you do.

But when he’s losing himself in your mouth, his tongue dancing around yours, seemingly distracted by your kiss…only then do you lift your hips and sink down onto him again. And then you’re falling into a slow, steady rhythm.

Azriel is gasping again, his mouth moving from yours to press kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbones — your breasts. As you rock slowly against him, the walls of your pussy squeezing him, coaxing him, he buries his face into your chest and explores you, lips and tongue paying attention to your nipples, teeth grazing with a gentleness that’s almost heartbreaking.

“So beautiful.” He whispers, and the hands that are sitting on your hips travel up your back — up to the scars that live in the place of your stolen wings. “Gods, Y/N, you’re everything.”

You moan, rocking harder on him and wrapping your arms around his neck. You just…want to hold him to you, to feel him against you. It’s like it all comes crashing down on you that he very easily could have left.

But he didn’t. He won’t. He is here and so are you. He is yours and you are his.

“Talk to me,” you breathe, raking your nails down his arms. “Tell me how you feel.”

“So good — feels so good with you wrapped around me.”

“Yeah?” You lean down, brush a kiss to his lips. “You like being inside me?”

“There is — fuck — there is no one, Y/N, that I want to do this with, besides you.” His mouth slants over yours, and he whispers two words — take me — before he’s giving himself to your kiss.

He’s so big, so deep. And the blood in your veins feels like molten lava as the pace picks up, as his trembling begins to subside, and he grows more confident. His groans are loud, and his hands roam over your body before finally landing on your hips. Fingertips dig into your flesh with a dizzying bite, and he’s rocking you, encouraging you to take him. To fuck him.

This is not practice. This is two bolts of lighting striking in the same place. The friction between your bodies is perfect, like nothing else you’ve ever felt. The pleasure may just finish you yet. It’s electric. Addictive. You want to feel like this forever, with him.

And more pleasure floods you as in one swift move, he flips you over — takes you entirely by surprise. You’re landing on your back, and he’s hovering over you. He stills as he stares down at you.

“This is perfect.” He says, dipping down to kiss you again. It makes him move inside you suddenly, and the different angle has you both gasping into each other’s mouths. “Gods.”

“Fuck me, Az.” You moan. “Just like that.”

What starts out slow quickly builds in pace. The roll of Azriel’s hips become thrusts — and the moans, the cries, the words that leave you, all guide them to be deeper, harder. You think you could stay like this forever, with him buried inside of you, wringing pleasure from every corner of your body. It snakes through your veins and zips up your spine, and when his hand travels down and his fingers find your clit, you fucking explode.

You cry out, bucking up from the bed as your orgasm hits you full force. Azriel fucks you through it, and his groans are growing louder, more desperate, as the walls of your cunt clench around him. He breathes out a fractured, desperate noise, leaning down to brush his lips over yours as he fucks into you harder.

“I can’t last much longer.” He chokes around his pleasure, pressing quick, nipping kisses to your mouth. “I can’t—”

“Come for me.” You gasp, locking your legs around his waist. “Come inside me.”

The noise that your words coax from him is downright sinful. He grabs your hips in his hands, slants his mouth over yours. He slams into you again, again, again, and then he’s roaring his pleasure with enough force to shake the bed, and you feel every rope of come that he spills into you.

You’re trembling. Or maybe that’s him. Or both of you. Both slick with sweat, and both shaking, and both unable to hold yourselves up any longer.

Azriel collapses beside you, his body still tangled with yours. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his heavy breaths heating your skin. You sink a trembling hand into the strands of his hair.

“That was—” His voice hitches, “I can’t…can’t put it into words.”

Neither can you. It’s all you can do to nod as you catch your breath.

“Thank you.” A kiss is pressed against your neck. Another. Az’s arm drapes over your chest, and he moves his mouth to yours. “Thank you.”

Still void of words, you settle on kissing him. Deep. Slow. Unhurried. Your hand cups his cheek, and your tongue strokes into his mouth. Lays out a litany of sentiments that you’re currently incapable of verbalising.

It feels like you kiss each other forever. But then you’re pulling back, pressing your foreheads together. And you stare into Azriel’s eyes as you tell him once again, “I love you.”

Emotion floods his eyes, and he holds you as close to him as he possible can, murmuring onto your mouth, “I love you, too. I think I always have.”

You know you always have. You tuck yourself into his side, content to feel his skin against yours. The rest of the world floats away. There is nothing and no one but you and him. Your Azriel.

Your eyes are growing heavy when he brushes his lips against your forehead, and he whispers the words you’ve needed to hear for so, so long.

“Whatever happens, Y/N,” another kiss joins the first, “you and I will face it together.”

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

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raphaellight · 12 days

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The mindset of Light Side in Star Wars

This frame is possibly the clearest image of how Jedi win their fights.

But lets start from the beggining.

Recently it hit me how little of the actual force is in the Original trilogy of Star Wars. Let's see first movie:

Ben firstly makes his iconic "These aren't the droids you are looking for"

Luke stops the bolts while covering eyes

Vader chokes snarky admiral

Ben feels the destruction of Alderran

Ben's body dissappears

Luke shots down the death star

No flashy effects. No jumping, no pushing people around. Up until a finale, it seems Force is nothing special, trickery of sort, something to overlook. Until it proves Vader right: "The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force." and destroys the said Death Star, exploiting the very weakness that, althought the weakness in theory (planted intentionally according to new canon) shouldn't really be an issue, as it required miracle to work. And Force brought the miracle.

That's how Luke destroyed the Death Star, marking his first highlight of his road to become the Greatest Jedi in the Galaxy. But how would Sith come about destroying the Death Star?

Well, I say, if there was another Sith in the Galaxy, that dude would probably gather resorces and slaves and build his own Death Star, but bigger and deadlier. Or looked around Sith teaching and spells to become strong enough to crush it with his mind. Because that's how Sith mind works. "Unlimited POWER!!!" is their goal. When they see someone opposing them, they thing how to overpower them.

The Dark Side is "easier, quicker, more tempting". Because it's natural. Because Luke does exacly that, when he trains. He focuses on his strenght. Because his goal is to defeat the powerfull Empire. So he needs to become powerfull himself. And that is an invitation for dark side to enter the mind. The same way it entered the mind of his father.

Anakin wanted to gather enough power to save those he loves. And because he was also wronged by Jedi enough times not to trust them with his pet parrot if he had one, he was open to other advice. Don't get me wrong, power is sometimes an answer. But it should never be a goal.

That's the mindset Luke enters his fight with Vader. And he can't do a crap. The Dark Lord is to powerfull to overcome with strenght.

Jedi don't do that. Jedi deals with issues. Jedi helps others out. And in the process they learn and make friends. That's what Jedi wins with. Patience, wisdom and allies, not with power.

Every greatest victory of Jedi over Sith or any other villain is about Jedi bringing the miracules to life. Jedi always win when dark seems the darkest. Because that's when pride of villains comes full circle. Small things left behind gather together, teaching of mentors, friends and happy coincidences combined create the victory for good guys.

When Obi-Wan cut's Maul with a sword Sith forgot was lying there.

When He cuts his former apprentice legs off, because Anakin couldn't accept, that even he isn't all-powerfull.

When Ezra brings Purgils to fight, the one thing all-knowing, genius strategist had no way of predicting.

When Luke managed to break thru the mask of hate, inspiring his father to do the right thing in the most crucial moment in Star Wars history.

When on Endor, army of Empire fall under the invasion of literall teddy bears.

When Kanan, with no fear to cloud his mind, focused on simple tast of defeating Inquisitor, realised the sword that striked so much fear for how inventive it seemed, turned out to be extremely vulnerable.

Jedi don't gather strenght. And Jedi story is definitelly not about gathering the power of spirits or whatever to enhance the hero into overpowering the villain in the final showdown. Jedi win by performing small miracles here and there, patiently waiting for evil to dig it's own grave and then giving it just a little push with help of friends they made on their way.

That is the story of The Jedi, the greatest heroes Galaxy Far Away ever saw.

#star wars #original trilogy #star wars prequels #star wars original trilogy #star wars rebels #kanan jarrus #ezra bridger #luke skywalker #darth vader #why star wars are the best #jedi #return of the jedi #the force #light side

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indigovigilance · 7 months

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The Erasure of Human!Metatron

The elephant in the room is that Neil has [purportedly] denied the existence of a human Metatron. But I, for one, think an elephant really ties the room together. So let's get started.

First, I will address Neil Gaiman’s apparent denial of the Human!Metatron storyline (below the cut):

Caption: The Metatron in Good Omens wasn't ever human.

Which would seem to put the debate to bed.

Except.

Caption: That’s not really his father. It is. It is now, and it always was.

By Adam renouncing Satan as his father, we have in-story canon evidence that the past can be retroactively changed. So a storyline past can be divergent from an in-world past which has been modified. But only to a degree, because Aziraphale and Crowley clearly remember that Adam ~was~ Satan’s son, and Adam still retains some residual powers. Like pencil marks on paper, the past can be erased, but the shadow of its former self will always be there. But if that's not enough for you, there's also...

Lucifer!Satan

Neil Gaiman has also been pretty consistent with this characterization about the non-existence of the past in other characters, for example Lucifer!Satan:

Basically (not to be rude), if you think that these statements can be taken to mean that we will definitely not get a story about Enoch aka Human!Metatron in S3, you have fundamentally misunderstood how time, history, and identity work in Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens universe.

So what Neil said about Metatron never being human… can we just collectively set that aside for a moment?

Caption: Work with me, I’m extrapolating here. Yes? Good. Read the rest of the meta.

Evidence of Human!Metatron

Now that we have established that a former, no-longer-existing version of Metatron could have been human, let’s examine the in-world evidence. The best direct evidence is:

Caption: I’ve ingested things in my time, you know.

This is weirdly important in the Book of Enoch. Food is mentioned in the Book of Enoch at least fourteen times, and consistently it is associated with being human, and having earthly desires, and subsequently with sin, whereas the angels are described as not needing to eat food but instead being nourished by faith alone. Enoch!Metatron’s own relationship with food is also explicitly elucidated:

Enoch answered to his son Mathosalam (and) said: Hear, child, from the time when the Lord anointed me with the ointment of his glory, (there has been no) food in me, and my soul remembers not earthly enjoyment, neither do I want anything earthly.

I propose that "in my time" is a direct reference to Metatron's prior existence as a human, and the fact that this time is over serves to underscore his current inhumanity, making him all the more sinister.

Other Evidence Pointing to Book of Enoch

This next bit is somewhat dubious evidence, but the entire reason I wound up investigating this is that I was actually investigating Baraqiel:

…and for the God-fearing life of me, I cannot find any reference to Baraqiel except in the Book of Enoch. So this is a pretty big ✨Clue✨ to just leave hanging out there if it’s not supposed to lead us to this text.

The Scottish Mason

Okay guys, this the part where it all comes unhinged, but I promise the payoff is worth it.

The Book of Enoch was recovered from Ethiopia in 1773 by a Scottish explorer named James Bruce, who also happened to be a Mason. In 1774, upon his return, he was made a Fellow of The Royal Society of Edinburgh. And if this quote doesn’t get you, I don’t know what will:

Amazingly, Bruce brings back not just one copy, nor two, but three! Three copies of this text, which was previously thought to have been lost to the West forever. This inevitably led to all kinds of accusations as to where he had come by them, and more importantly how? Add to this that Bruce was a Mason in one of the most influential lodges, a Bruce descendant, and an imposing physical figure and 6 feet 4 inches tall, with dark red hair and an irascible temper, it is no wonder that so much excitement and mystery surrounded the man. [source]

So, you know, this guy:

In summary:

There are reasons that we should be looking to the Book of Enoch, and the story surrounding its reintroduction to the Western world, as source evidence for Good Omens S3.

If you enjoyed this, you may also like my meta on Baraqiel and Azazel, which draws upon the Book of Enoch.

My original (in retrospect, kind of terrible) Metatron meta is here.

#good omens meta #good omens #good omens 2 #the metatron #metatron #book of enoch #crowley #satan #lucifer #baraqiel #book of life #ivoc #erasure theory

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labellefleur-sauvage · 19 days

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Tempests and Urges

Chapter III of my gift for @stickyelectrons! I'm so very sorry for the delay (it was a surprisingly busy winter for me!) but I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

Fic summary and current chapters here

XXX

III.

Lucien had never been to the Continent. Growing up, his tutors had dutifully lectured him about the intricate and long—and dreadfully boring—histories of the Faerie kingdoms across the sea, and how foreign their lands were from those in Prythian. Lucien remembered absolutely none of it. He was the youngest son of a High Lord, with no hope of ever needing to retain this information—why did he need to know of the economic policies of Rask, or whether Vallahan was experiencing a lower crop haul than average? No, he would be much better off learning all there was to know about the six other Courts that comprised his home land, to make allies and friends with the fae who might actually benefit him later on.

He mentally cursed himself for the hundredth time just that morning and tried to remember as much information from his studies of this strange Fae land as possible. Any information would be a boon at this point. All he and Elain has tried to do was enter the great walled city of Montesere’s capital early in the morning, and been immediately stopped by the city’s guards.

“Good morning,” Elain had murmured demurely to the faes holding swords longer than her torso.

The sharp clang of the guard’s metal armor straightening met their greeting. “What business do two Prythians have in Montesere?” a guard asked in a guttural accent. Her dark sharp eyes were narrowed with distrust, her frowning lips framed with deep grooves of disgust.

Elain stared wide eyed. “Apologies,” Lucien quickly replied. “We’re here to visit the sights of Montesere.”

“Yet you come from the east, from the mountains. Very little to look at over there.”

Damn this perceptive female. Lucien put on his most charming smile. “We went hiking in the mountains. We both love nature and walking, and wanted to experience the grandeur of Montesere’s famed peaks.”

The guard cast a disbelieving look over Elain, over her physique that suggested she’d never walked that much in her life. “And both of you went on a days long hiking trip?”

Alright, if niceties wouldn’t work… “Well, I suppose I got to view more than Montesere’s natural beauty, you understand,” Lucien said conspiratorially to the guard, lowering his voice and grinning slightly. Behind him, Elain gasped in outrage.

Miraculously, the guard chuckled. “Yes, a very lucky male you are.” She stepped aside. “Tide’s blessings. Enjoy the city.”

“How dare you!” Elain exclaimed as soon as they were far enough past the city’s walls. “Implying that we—that I—!”

“What would you have me do, Elain?” Lucien asked, annoyed. “From the moment you said ‘good morning’ and not ‘tide’s blessings’ or whatever they say here, they marked us as outsiders. There aren’t too many innocent visitors from Prythian at the moment, and I had to make us appear as non-threatening as possible. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s someone following our every move even now.” He unclenched his jaw. They needed to keep a low profile, and they’d already spectacularly failed.

Elain looked around wildly, like she might spot some cloaked figure skulking menacingly in the shadows. “Surely they have enough visitors here that we wouldn’t raise any alarm.”

“Any normal visitors to Montesere would arrive by ship. We clearly aren’t merchants or farmers, so our method of entry was already a bit unusual.”

“Well,” Elain asked slowly, “what else do I need to know about Montesere?”

A great question. Lucien spent the next several hours wracking his brain to recall anything about the local customs of this far off fae kingdom. They made their way slowly around the bustling commercial districts in the city, generally making their way towards the docks. He remembered hearing from Eris, during some stuffy meeting in his youth, that Monteserens haggled and bartered for everything, which only came to mind when Elain had purchased a small pastry for breakfast and handed over the five coins without complaint. The baker’s eyes had bulged with disbelief, then he yelled something in a foreign language to someone at another stall, who openly laughed at him and Elain.

It was no use. Lucien decided that watching people would be easier than trying to recall something Armand, his oldest tutor, had tried teaching him over 300 years ago. Montesere, being surrounded by the sea on two sides, owed much of their livelihood and wealth to the ocean, and thus, paid respectable homage to their bountiful yet cruel god everywhere. Small bowls of seawater were placed inside the entrance of every building they ventured into, for people to dip their fingers in and continuously receive the sea’s blessings, he assumed, observing a gaggle of females perform the practice when he and Elain entered a tailor’s shop. Elain was about to begin wondering the store when Lucien surreptitiously guided her back to the bowl to perform the ritual.

She adapted easily though, gracefully dabbing the salty water on her wrists then floated amongst the racks, selecting a modest wool cloak and haggling the price down ten silvers with a satisfied smile. There was no future for Elain as a spy—she was far too kind and free with her emotions for that line of work—but as an emissary, charming potential allies and adapting to new situations…Lucien could see a glimmer of potential.

“It’s been almost an entire hour since someone openly laughed at us or mocked us,” Elain remarked drolly as they exited the shop and took a random turn down another busy street, stuffing her new cloak in her bag. “A rousing success.”

Lucien gave a half grin. “At this rate, we’ll be proper Monteserens in no time.”

Elain looked around. “Besides booking passage on a ship, what else do we need to do?”

“Find accommodation for the night, but there should be enough guest houses around town that it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Her eyes gleamed and she sent him a sideways grin. “Since we most likely won’t be back to Montesere for some time after this, want to explore and see if we can avoid being the laughingstock of the city?”

If Lucien felt like a fish out of water—damn these seafaring Fae for making him think in puns—then at least Elain had grown a pair of gills and was flourishing. Ever since she told him off after entering the city, her eyes were wide and her mouth open in near permanent wonder and awe. Lucien couldn’t blame her. The city was built onto the hills and cliffs overlooking the impressive sea and docks, with the wealthiest inhabitants living so far up the hill as to be in the clouds.

Most fae in Montesere were wealthy, and the city shoved its opulence in its visitor’s faces. The roads were paved with hand-painted bricks of various shades of blue, so that the streets themselves resembled flowing rivers and streams that led to intricate marble fountains in different central squares. One of these squares, adorned with an enchanted marble statue of a dolphin that moved and bobbed around its pedestal on its own, held a host of fine jewelry artisans. Elain watched one Lesser fae, her gray fingers nimble and quick as she worked the fragilest of materials—opals, obsidian, sea shells—into necklaces and dangling earrings. Elain’s fingers grazed a small pearl ring, longing clear on her face, before she turned around to watch the dancing dolphin.

Lucien picked up the ring. It wasn’t the largest pearl ring, and even had a few imperfections: it was dull, and oddly shaped. Its price tag was more modest as a result, and he certainly had enough savings stashed away in Prythian to purchase it, should he wish to.

He set the ring down. No use thinking about buying an extravagant gift for a female who said she wanted nothing to do with him after their journey, as much as his inner beast begged him to throw away all the coin Rhys had given them away on a trinket that would likely be lost should he purchase it.

They continued exploring the city and what it had to offer. The architecture was unlike anything he’d ever seen in Prythian. Buildings of all shapes and sizes made out of a sand colored stone with red tiled roofs surrounded them as they walked the city’s narrow and windy blue streets, with perfectly manicured trees and hedges lining the boulevards. High Fae in fashionable and daring outfits strolled by. A few wore ensembles that wouldn’t be out of place in Summer or Dawn, but most wore so little clothing that even Helion would be shocked. Females in scraps of nets and gauze leisurely walked the streets with equally immodest and barely clothed partners, their hair in extravagant updos and paper-thin parasols resting on their shoulders.

“Stop staring!” Elain hissed as Lucien’s eye darted to and away from the swaying hips of a curvaceous High Fae woman covered in a blue chiffon dress that was nearly see-through and resembled the ocean’s waves, her heeled boots clacking against the brick.

“Like you weren’t ogling that shirtless male that just walked by.”

“I wasn’t ogling,” Elain retorted. “I was merely…observing the vastly different fashions of the Continent.”

Lucien shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s alright to look. Although,” he lowered his voice and leaned into her, noting that she imperceptibly leaned towards him, “I think that blue dress would look so lovely on you.” Her mouth formed a little ‘O,’ and Lucien walked down the street with a smile on his face.

The smell of the sea was vibrant here, but especially so the nearer they got to the docks. Lucien had little sea experience, as Autumn only had a few rocky and briny shores along its eastern coast, and he had never been to a dockyard, much less the largest in a seafaring nation. The smell of salt and fish was strong, nearly overwhelming, but tempered with enough richness and freshness that prevented him from burying his head in the crook of his arm.

Faes of all kind—High and Lesser—rushed around the crowded docks, shouting orders, carrying cargo, and preparing their huge ships for sail. It was hot and congested. Someone knocked into Lucien as they rushed by and a throng of workers swarmed around him. By the time he fought his way out of the crowd, Elain was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit.” Lucien looked around wildly. They’d only been in the city for half a day and he’d already lost the only fae he had to keep track of. He jogged along the docks, looking for that familiar head of brown hair. How had he lost her?

There was no trace of Elain; even her scent had vanished under the fresh smells he’d just been admiring. His heart quickened furiously as he shoved anyone in his way. Lucien had not just lost his partner on this mission, but the female who could ruin him with a few words, his—

The beating in his chest was even stronger and louder now. Not with worry, he realized after a second, but with something deeper, something he’d only felt once before: the mating bond. His chest thrummed with recognition as Elain tugged on their bond, whether she realized it or not, drawing him to her. Desperate, Lucien followed the bond to its other half.

Lucien found Elain at the far end of the dock, partially obstructed behind stacks of crates, staring up at the largest male he had ever seen. Lucien wasn’t necessarily a small male, but there were plenty of males that were taller or wider than him; the Night Court’s general, for example, or even his oldest brother Eris. Both either taller or more muscular than himself, but Lucien hadn’t lied to Elain—he was a trained warrior, and knew a fae’s strength was more than just one’s muscles. He was lean but muscular, fast, and his fire magic was deadly.

Still, Lucien wouldn’t have said no to a few more inches or an additional twenty or thirty pounds on his frame, just for some extra assurances in this instant. The male towering over Elain was at least 7 feet tall, with more tattoos covering his pale, scarred skin than was on the three overgrown bats of the Night Court. One of his biceps was wider than both of Lucien’s put together, with a thick, barrel chest and thighs thicker than a tree trunks.

Despite the fierceness lining her face, Lucien could feel Elain’s fear through the bond. The male crowded further against Elain and leered down at her. “And what’s a pretty lady like you doing here, all by yourself on the docks?”

“Let me pass, please.”

“Oh, a foreigner.” Lucien could hear the sick delight in the male’s voice. “Has anyone showed you how we welcome visitors to our lovely city?” The male reached a hand out, and Lucien struggled to quietly sneak past the crates blocking him from Elain.

Elain sneered. “I didn’t come here to look at your ugly face.”

Lucien couldn’t help his small smile at Elain’s sass, even as his heart sank and he struggled to get to her. The male’s broad shoulder’s tightened. “You wench—”

She gave the male a condescending look from head to toe. “How does any ship you board manage to stay afloat? Do they just throw you overboard to serve as an anchor?”

“You fucking bitch, I’ll make you regret that.”

Summoning his fire magic in his hands, Lucien lept up behind the male and wrapped one burning hand around the male’s mouth and another around his throat, his legs firmly wrapped around his opponent’s midsection. He held on tight, tighter than he’d ever grasped anything before, his rage at someone threatening and insulting his mate fueling his desire to hurt and maim and kill.

Lucien smelled burning flesh, the scent so acrid that not even the calming smells of the sea could mask the terrible odor emanating from the male’s body. The fae struggled against Lucien, tried to break the death grip that was threating to suffocate him, but found no amount of muscles and raw strength could compete with a male who needed to protect his mate.

“Apologize,” Lucien demanded, ripping the hand over the male’s mouth away. Lucien didn’t need to look at his hand to know that the warm liquid staining his fingers was blood.

“S-sorry!” the male gasped. Good enough. Lucien slapped his spread hand over the entirety of the male’s face again, his flames melting the male’s fresh and sinew away from his skull. The fae’s defeated groan was one of the most delightful things Lucien had ever heard.

The male’s body trembled underneath him. He needed to finish him before his legs gave out. Lucien leaned into the male’s head, so close his lips grazed the male’s pale, pointed ear. “Get the fuck away from my mate,” he growled, low enough that Elain couldn’t hear, then lept off the male and pushed his swaying body off the docks into the sea.

It took a few moments for Lucien to calm down enough to remember himself. The sounds of the busy dock gradually drifted to his ears as he took one calming breath after another. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d lost control and his inner beast took charge like that. A frisson of emotion split through his chest, and Lucien looked to Elain.

“Elain,” Lucien said softly, her fear making him sick. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her body stiff as she stood watching him. Fear, and another, barely perceptible smell, emanated from her slight forn. He held up his hands before remembering the blood staining his flesh. Reaching over the docks to swipe his hands into the sea, he held up his clean hands and slowly approached her.

“Are you alright?”

Elain barked a short, high pitched laugh. “Am I alright? I just watched you melt the skin off a male’s face with your bare hands! Of course I’m not alright!” She glanced into the sea. “Did you kill him?”

“I don’t care,” Lucien answered truthfully without thinking, but grimaced when Elain flinched. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Elain, but what that male was saying to you…what he was going to do to you, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

“But did you have to be so, so…violent? It was ghastly, barbaric—”

“It was Fae, Elain.” Lucien took another tentative step towards the female. “That violence is within each and every fae, always lurking just under our skin, looking for any excuse to break free and punish those who threaten those we care about.”

“You’re wrong,” Elain whispered, looking devastated. “I’m nothing like that, like you. I’m not Fae.”

Her horror roiled his stomach, but better for her to face the truth now. “That’s where I think you’re wrong, Elain.” Slowly, he reached a hand out, blood still under his fingernails, and entwined his large hand with her small, clean, perfect one. She tried to pull her hand from his but he held on. “Whether you accept it or not, you’re no longer human. You’re as much Fae as I am, and you have your own inner beast waiting to escape. Cauldron, were you even aware of the things you were saying to that male, how you were taunting him?” He studied her hand and the long, slightly pointed nails on each finger. If she so desired it, she could easily rip someone’s throat out now. “Would you have said those things as a human? You’re fae now and your beast is raring for a fight. "

Elain was quiet, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t want to destroy the world or be violent.”

“Then let me be your protector, Elain.” He moved their twined hands together and lowered his voice. “A higher being connected us for some reason—take advantage of it to do want you want within reason, find yourself, with the knowledge that your mate will be nearby to keep you safe.” He darted a quick look up to Elain’s face at her small intake of breath. “Which is, I suspect, at least part of the reason why you insisted on joining me, correct?”

She hung her head. “I don’t want to give you any false promises about…us.”

Lucien’s chest ached but he gave Elain an unaffected grin. “Of course not, my lady. We’re associates journey towards a common goal, right?” He frowned. “Even if you had ulterior motives for joining me.”

Elain withdrew her hand from his grasp, her gaze cold. “You cannot fault me for trying to find my place in the world I was unfairly thrust into.”

“Fault you? Of course not. Do I perhaps think you foolish for attempting to do so during a critical and dangerous mission?” Lucien shrugged, rather than state the obvious.

Elain stepped away on wobbly legs. “We’ve already established you’re not a gentleman, so say what’s on your mind!” she snapped, all fear of him forgotten.

Lucien was glad—he’d rather see Elain furious with him than afraid of him, or afraid of herself. “Fine. While I commend your courage and need to find yourself in this new world, I think you may be in a bit over your head and are too stubborn to admit it. No, I know you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

She paused. “You don’t think me too weak to accompany you?”

“There are many things I find you, Elain Archeron, but weak is not one of them.”

They stared at each other, unmoving, for several seconds. “Everyone else always thought me too quiet and reserved. Nesta and Feyre are bold; I’m supposed to be the quiet one.” Elain cocked her head. “It’s nice, not having that expectation.”

Lucien could relate all too well to other’s idealized expectations and the pressures it created. “Well, one benefit of being fae: you’re strong enough now that you probably could have punched that male and sent him flying off the docks, so I don’t believe you have to worry about being weak.”

“I didn’t mean weak in that way.”

“I know. I don’t think you’re weak in any sense of the word.”

Elain bit her bottom lip, but Lucien could see the corners of her mouth raise slightly all the same. “You overestimate my ability to fight. I’ve never hit someone in my life.”

“That’s alright; we still need to find a ship for passage. Perhaps you’ll find some other poor soul to antagonize and I can teach you.” Lucien lightly grabbed Elain’s wrist and pulled her out of the cover of the crates. He looked around; no one was staring at them, so it appeared nobody saw—or cared—about their altercation. Lucien dropped her hand as they began walking down the docks, but Elain stayed next to him.

“Let’s find us a ship that can take us where we need to go. The sooner it leaves, the better.”

“Any requirements?” Elain asked, her eyes wide again at the unfamiliar sights surrounding them.

“Large enough that it won’t topple over, and preferably without any holes in its hull. Truthfully, I know very little about ships.”

Elain hummed. “My father was a merchant, and worked with several different ships and crews to transport his goods to and from the Continent. That ship, for example,” pointing to a large boat to their right, “probably wouldn’t be comfortable for us.”

“Why is that?” Lucien had been eyeing that ship as an option for them, and could see no obvious issues. Its sails were intact, the hull complete, and though a bit plain, it looked clean enough.

“Look at its gangway, see how it’s all dirty and covered in…filth? That means they’re probably transporting a large number of animals, so it will be messy and smelly and loud. If there’s nothing else it will work, but…” Elain shrugged. “We could probably do better.”

“I see,” Lucien said slowly, watching as several large oxes were indeed shoved up the creaky gangway onto the boat. “Well spotted. What about that one?”

Elain looked at a ship further down the dock Lucien pointed out. It was larger than the first, its sails bright white and hull shiny. Someone had even painted the wood in bright, colorful paints.

“Definitely not. That ship has never sailed before. It’s bad luck to journey on a ship’s maiden voyage.”

Lucien hummed. Must be a human superstition. They continued leisurely strolling down the dock. “In that case, what do you recommend?”

Elain scanned the dozens of ships around them as they continued to walk, her eyes sharp and quick. Eventually her gazed focused on one ship. “That one.”

“That one?” Lucien’s eyebrows raised in surprise. It was a plain and unremarkable ship, not the largest or smallest, with no finery or distinguishing features. “What makes it suitable for us?”

Elain nodded her head to a gruff looking male studiously inspecting several crates loaded with spices. “Because the ship’s cook has ordered a large number of different spices for food. If the captain cares that much about keeping their passengers happy, they must run a decent ship. Plus, look at that trunk.” They watched as a large, painted chest was brought onto the ship. It was decorated with gold accents and had small, brass feet on the bottom corners, to protect the chest’s painted bottom. “That’s the personal chest of a very wealthy fae. Those with money don’t trust just anyone to transfer themselves or their goods long distances. We want this ship,” Elain finished, looking pleased with herself.

“How do you know that’s the ship’s cook?”

“The grease stained apron and burn scars on his arms look convincing.”

Lucien hummed. “If you’re sure…”

But Elain was already off, moving towards the male wearing his dirty apron. “Tide’s blessings! We’d like to inquire about booking passage on this fine ship.”

“Main deck, talk to the female in the blue jacket,” the male said without looking at either Elain or Lucien. He gave a grunt of dismay when he opened a black tin overflowing with a red powder. “And where is my Raskian paprika, Szechka? I know authentic Raskian paprika straight from the fields when I see it, and this shit isn’t it.”

Leaving the angry cook and his stuttering supplier, the pair walked up the sturdy gangway to the ship’s main deck. It was controlled pandemonium, much like the state of the dock: faes hurriedly carrying supplies and parcels onto the boat, performing last minute cleanings and mending. Lucien looked up to see a small winged fae hovering in midair while carefully patching a hole in the main sail.

It took them several moments to find the female. Shorter than even Elain and even slighter, the Lesser Fae had light gray skin and black hair. She stood near the helm, watching the movement of every being on the ship with a keen eye. A cracked, brown leather notebook was in her slightly scaly hands, and she occasionally jotted something down in the book.

“Tide’s blessings,” Lucien said, approaching the woman. She looked up at them with wholly black, narrowed eyes. “We were told to speak with you concerning booking passage for ourselves on this ship.”

“Aye, I’m the one you’d wish to speak with.” The woman’s voice was soft and wispy, each word floating away on the sea breeze as soon as it left her thin lips. “We’re set to leave tomorrow morning, making our way down the coast to a neutral village in the mortal lands then back north, along the eastern and northern coasts of Prythian to arrive in Hybern 43 days after settling out.”

Lucien kept his face blank, though the ship being bound for Hybern unsettled him. Rhys was right, that the Continental Fae were indeed more comfortable with Hybern than previously thought. “Are you planning on stopping at the Slevibor Islands while making your way down the coast to the mortal lands?”

The Slevibor Islands were several small, nearly uninhabited islands along the western coast of the Continent, due west from Koschei’s Lake. The islands were near the start of the river that he and Elain would take to get to the death god’s lake. Only one small port town, rumored to be filled with dangerous pirates, occupied the islands, though perhaps the rumors held some truth to them, based on the way the Lesser fae’s eyes widened. “We weren’t planning on stopping at Slevibor, no. Very few reputable ships do.”

“And is there any way we could convince the captain to make a special trip?” Lucien asked, subtly flashing his full coin purse at the female.

The fae pursed her lips. “Interesting that two faes from Prythian need to visit the Slevibor Islands so badly that they’re willing to pay extra for the trip.”

“Nothing that interesting, just doing a bit of travel.”

The female gave a noncommital ‘humph’ and opened her aged notebook and a quill. “Spring Court, I’m assuming?” she asked, not looking at either of them. “You, especially,” she pointed at Elain, “have the look of Spring about you.”

Elain blushed, but Lucien had to admit the fae was correct: Elain looked as fresh and innocent as many of the Spring Court nobility, especially with her wide, brown eyes and lovely hair. “Er, that’s right,” Lucien said eventually when he realized both Elain and the fae female were looking at him expectantly. “We’re from Spring. How could you tell?”

“My mother was originally from Spring.” The female continued taking notes down in her book, the quill resting against the webbing between her fingers. “She fled shortly after the old High Lord was murdered and the new one ascended. She could see the writing on the wall about the new High Lord, knew nothing good was to come from him. From what I hear from the waters, she was correct, and my sisters who remain are not prospering like they once did.”

Lucien started. Of course the female was at least part water-wraith. He knew little about the treatment of Lesser fae in the Continent, but if it was anything like Prythian, the fact that this female appeared to have a high ranking position on the ship meant she had beaten many prejudices to get this far. Unease at hearing someone talk so crudely yet accurately about Tamlin—at one time, his dearest and only friend in the world—settled low in his gut.

“My father was a merchant,” the female went on conversationally, seeing the earlier surprise in Lucien’s face. “I was born on his ship—this ship, in fact—and inherited it when he retired. Decades now.” She tapped on her notebook with her quill and looked up at them from the corners of her eyes. “How much coin do you have?”

Lucien told her, and though the female tried to remain stoic, he could smell her excitement at the sum. “We won’t stop at Slevibor, but I can have some crewmembers row you two to the Islands, provided you both pack light. No trunks. Meals are included while you’re on the boat. Depending on our timing, we may even be able to send you off with some provisions, but no promises. We’re tight on space, but I’ll find room for two extra hammocks. Any questions?”

Elain and Lucien had none, and the woman smiled, her mouth full of pointed teeth. “Then let me welcome you to the Eueteria. My name is Thetis, and I’ll be your captain. What are your names?”

Lucien and Elain provided fake names to Captain Thetis. “Oran and Phoebe,” she said, adding their names to an already long list of others. “Reason for travel?”

“Uh,” Lucien began. He didn’t think anyone would particularly care why he and Elain were joining the ship, as long as they paid, so he didn’t have a specific backstory planned. “We’re… um…”

“On our honeymoon!” Elain gave Captain Thetis a wide, eager smile at the same time she forcefully grabbed Lucien’s arm. “Newly married. Oran here,” Elain said, squeezing Lucien’s arm for dear life, “knows it’s my life’s dream to visit every inch of the Continent and like a good…husband…he’s giving me the best wedding present I could have dreamed of!”

Lucien was positive that their new captain did not believe them. “Alright,” Thetis said slowly, looking between Lucien and Elain’s flushed and awkwardly smiling faces. “I’ll put ‘pleasure’ as your reason for travel.”

Lucien was sure his face was as red as his hair for several minutes after they provided a deposit and were given instructions for the next morning. They left the docks, each refusing to look at each other, and made their way back into town, all while Lucien wondered: why?

Why had Elain said they were newly married? She had made it clear to him that she wasn’t interested in him in that way, even if her body sometimes thought otherwise. Perhaps she simply panicked—loath as he was to admit it, the cover story of two besotted, hapless fae on their honeymoon was a decent explanation for why there were traveling alone together.

It probably didn’t even matter, Lucien thought as they stopped at a colorful flower market. Based on the long list of people already traveling on the boat, he and Elain would be lucky to each have their own hammock in the large shared sleeping quarter. Nothing would happen. They would be on the ship for just a few days, get to the Slevibor Islands, then make the arduous journey along the river that would take them directly to Koschei’s Lake.

Directly to the most dangerous being perhaps in the world.

#elucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elucien fanfic #lucien x elain #my fics #my fic #acotar #guess who's back #with worldbuiling #if there are any errors or issues #you didnt see them

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dmwrites · 1 year

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In the kind of strange hustle and bustle that was randomly getting dumped into a new world and being forced to live on it, there were the odd moments of peace. Times when the hermits, all busy or far-flung, found themselves working with their friends once more, and got to chatting. Whether it was campfire gatherings at night or gathering the same material together, it was just nice to talk to one another. Comfort in similar circumstances, perhaps.

Cleo ran into Pearl in the storage area of Hermittopia. Cleo had been swearing loudly about some redstone she couldn’t get right on the dripstone farm she was tasked with making, and when she turned the corner, it was to find, and hear, Pearl cursing the hermits. The both stopped at the sight of each other, then giggled.

“Good lord, Pearl, I know you’re, like, out in the empires wild learning all kinds of new words, but what did we ever do to you, miss sunflower princess?” Cleo asked, smirking, not unkindly.

“Oh please.” Pearl snorted. “I am no ruler like these people. I was cursing you hermits because this storage area is an abomination, frankly.”

Cleo giggled. “Fair, fair. It is a bit of a disaster, but it’s fine. Do you know if we have any more observers? This damn farm is going to be the death, or should I say, death two electric boogaloo, of me.”

Pearl reached into a chest and handed her a few. “You need some help? I’ve done some redstone in my time. I also know Impulse, which should count for something.”

Cleo nodded, and they flew up to the small outcropping on the hermittopia building that was marked with Cleo’s name. They got to work, Cleo laying out the redstone and Pearl tweaking it as they went.

“Alright, go on then.” Cleo said after a while of comfortable silence. “What’s the outfit change about?” Cleo nodded to Pearl’s frankly stunning green dress and crown of sunflowers.

“Dunno. Maybe the rift decided I needed fashion help. The trash lady aesthetic didn’t match the dnd vibes of empires or something. Lol.” Pearl joked, fidgeting with a bit of redstone dust.

Cleo chuckled, but she could tell that Pearl knew more then she was letting on. “It’s just interesting. I mean, I feel like you’ve adjusted a lot better then a lot of us. And the empires people, they look at you just so funny, don’t they?”

Pearl hesitated, then nodded. “They seem to, yes. It’s odd.”

Cleo gave Pearl a long, searching look. The silence between them was a silence not unfamiliar to either of them. Cleo and Pearl seemed to often end up on opposite sides of the battlefield, both scary, both scared, both powerful. For only knowing each other for a few years, their history ran deep. And Cleo knew Pearl was lying to her.

“It is odd, isn’t it.” Cleo said quietly. They both returned to their work, and only spoke when Pearl made her polite excuses and left.

#November 21 2022 #fic #hc x empires #pearlescentmoon #zombiecleo #long post #the Cleo and pearl dynamic is my chew toy

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ask-de-writer · 8 months

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Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Science Fiction

SUBMARINE! 1812 an Alternate History

Chapter 6 : KRAKEN

(Part 3 of 5)

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5462 words

This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

“I am attempting to deliver a formal protest, to the President, about the conduct of the war. He has been refusing to see me.”

“Would you like to meet him, then? Nothing easier.”

“This seems fun,” muttered Jean in my ear. “May I follow along?”

“Please do. Come on then, both of you.” Trailing ambassadors in my wake, I made for Benedict Arnold, across the room.

“Uncle Benny,” I began, an innocent smile on my face, “I was working over the buffet when I happened on to the stuffed crow. I would like you to meet Sir Lional. You know, the ambassador from the Court of St. James?”

For a moment it appeared that I might be in danger of having my bottom paddled, as the President had done so many times in my youth ... Then he grinned.

“If ‘Cumsie’ here vouches for you, that is good enough for me.” I winced. I had not heard that nickname since I was ten.

The President held out his hand. Sir Lional took it and bowed stiffly. “May we speak privately, Sir? It is a matter of some delicacy.”

“I am here to meet with these folks, all invited. Speak openly or not at all.”

“Very well, Sir, if I must. This is a note from the First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir Robert Hood, himself, and signed by King George III as well. In it is a protest of the vile, stealthy means that your navy is using to destroy ships of the British Empire.”

“Is that all?”

“Basically, we are asking you to refrain from your ungentlemanly tactics.”

“I see. There is a reply. Tecumsah, may I use your back as a writing desk?”

“Yes, Uncle. Jean, you always carried a small writing case at the Academy. Is it still with you?”

“Indeed it is,” he answered with a mocking smile, “would you like to borrow it?”

“Yes, please. Uncle Benny needs it.”

Jean reached into his waist-coat pocket and produced a small writing case with a carefully trimmed quill, ink in a cut glass well, and a blotter.

“Thank you, sir,” said the President, opening out the note upon my back and scribbling briefly. He blotted the writing dry and handed the note back. Sir Lional read it, eyebrows raised in surprise and puzzlement.

“‘Tell it to Copenhagen?’ What do you mean, sir?”

“Your navy and army have never considered a more powerful weapon ‘ungentlemanly’ unless you were the ones on the receiving end. You used Congreve rockets to burn Copenhagen while staying out of range of their guns. Lt. Tecumsah, here, came to me years ago with the notion that Congreves could be made better. A whole lot better. He was right.

“We made some ships of the line armed with them. Two frigates and a Capital ship, the Maryland. You ran into them and you lost. We are now making even more and when you run into those you will lose again.

“I will entertain surrender terms.” President Arnold smiled slightly as he took a firm stance, arms crossed over his chest.

“This is a gross insult!” huffed Sir Lional, in a rage.

“Is it? I thought it plain fact.” Turning to me, he said, “Tecumsah, would you be so good as to get me Commodore Marks?”

I found the Commodore deep in converse with a lady that I knew to be the daughter of Delaware’s Representative of the Morning Council, intelligent, witty and politically savvy.

“Melinda, I beg your pardon, but the Commodore is needed by Uncle Arnold. It is sure to be interesting. Why don’t you come and watch?” I invited.

“Even more interesting than what you people are going to show later tonight?” she asked, head tilted in interest.

“Very much so.” I responded, offering my arm. She took it, and we went back to where Benedict Arnold was facing Sir Lional.

“Commodore Marks, I have heard that you have a present for me,” stated the President.

“I do, but I am not sure if this would be a good time,” began the Commodore, eyeing the furious Sir Lional.

“Please.” It was clearly an order.

“Very good, sir.” He raised his hand in signal to a pair of midshipmen who brought a long, large package into the hall and held it for President Arnold, who cheerfully pulled the wrappings loose. Sir Lional’s face went white as he watched the ornately carved board, painted gay blue and white emerge from the coverings. Gilt letters spelled out Admiral Hood.

“What is this?” he gasped.

“I have been lead to believe that it is the name-board of the late flagship of your Home Fleet,” said Arnold with a smile. “She had two hundred guns but never fired a shot at the ship who sank her. Lt. Tecumsah, I believe that you were responsible for this victory, our first of the war. How many weapons did you discharge to get this for me?”

“One,” I replied, thankful that the phrasing of the question allowed me to answer without a lie.

“Many witnesses say that the Hood was holed below the waterline, some submarine device,” hissed Sir Lional, trying to make me a liar.

“Under the circumstances, I was lucky to hit near enough for the charge to hurt her at all,” I replied levelly. True again, but misleading. We were the center of all eyes.

“I will not stay to be so affronted, both personally and as the representative of the King,” said Sir Lional in high dudgeon.

“Sir Lional,” commanded Arnold, “stay a while yet, or you will do your King a grave disservice. We are tonight, putting on display and making public our rocket missiles. If you fail to see with your own eyes what is laying your fleet low, and will soon be striking your home island, you will be remiss in your duty.

“Someone get the Ambassador a drink, I think that he needs it.”

To be continued

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#Submarine! 1812 Chap 6 #Part 3 of 5)#Science Fiction #Alternate History #Written by De Writer

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cosmo-watches-movies · 4 months

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Timeline (2003)

Plot: American dude joins an archeology team in france because he wants to get at a girl. However his dad dissapears and the team find a note he wrote 600 years ago. They use a newly developed teleporter turned accidental time machine to rescue him.

I’m trying to find the right word for what this movie is. It does what it sets out to do allright, but its not particularly extraordinary or memorable. I think calling it a flick might cut it. Yeah, it’s a time travel/medieval action flick, but in a good way. It’s watchable, okay for a sunday evening, you know what I mean?

As I said in the summary we have the american dude (Chris Johnston, played by Paul Walker) who joined the excavation, and his father (E.A. Johnston, played by Billy Connolly) who dissapeared. The excavation team travel to the place where the scientists accidentally developed a time machine and set out to travel back in time to rescue Chris' father. Included in the rescue team are also Andre Marek (Gerard Butler) and Kate Ericson (Frances O'Connor), who worked at the excavation aswell.

So an amazing thing this movie does is, it tries to be as scientifically logical to an average audience as possible. They explain everything about the timetravel so it makes sense to every averagely educated viewer (i.e me) and I think it’s all around plausible. They did a pretty good job as long as you’re not further educated in quantum physics I think, but I am not so I buy it. If you want to know how they explain it in detail watch the movie, short to say they use a worm hole to travel through time and they even explained how they found out where and when the wormhole ends and it’s all very clever if you don’t think about it too much. 10 year old me would’ve gone crazy for the science part of all this. I think it’s great.

Aaaaanyway, just putting this here. If you already lost someone in the past and don’t quite know how all this wormhole stuff really works, is it that clever to send a whole team of people into a medieval warzone to try and save him? I don’t know, but I think it’s gonna be reaaallly hard to find an insurance that covers this situation.

As it turns out that out of all the possible places and all possible moments in the history of the entire universe, the wormhole, just so happens to end in Castlegard in 1357, which is a for human archeologists very convenient time and place. Of course this is the site where the earlier excavations took place and that was the initial reason the scientist called for Johnston to help. Promptly loosing him in the past quickly after.

“But Cosmo,…” I hear you ask, “where is Michael in all of this?” Oh, my sweet friend I am getting there very soon, just you wait. It will be worth it believe me.

First tho we have to get our team to the past, of course they need a way back aswell, so they get a little pendant each, that when pushed sends all of them back to the future (lol) at the same time.

In a very painful process they travel 600 years to the past and arrive in Dordogne, France. Oh, by the way, they took only one (1) guy who speaks french. His name is François. (I’m crying, 100% effort on the scientific explanations, 0% on naming their characters)

So now we have a group of english passing people and one french passing guy in a place where a french castle is occupied by the English. Fun times will not be had. And we see this immeadiatly because the two security men they took with them get shot with arrows immediately. One of who presses their mark and while dying gets transported to the future. But oh no he had a granade and it goes off in the lab so the time machine is now in shambles.

In the past our team flees to the french camps but get captured by the English. And this is where Michael as Lord Oliver de Vannes has his big entry. Somehow…It takes almost 40 minutes before we meet his character, which is fine.

He is the main villain, but only technichally so, because he exsits mainly to give the opposing English force a headfigure. He doesn’t really get a big introduction, I assume because at this point the audience already knows what the deal is and that the English are the enemy. Exposition has been delivered, Oliver just gives them a main target to oppose. In the first scene he’s in we just see him amids swordfight training with his fellow men and then be an ass towards the protagonists and their team. That’s basically all he does and is. This is not one of Michaels deepest roles, but I’ve found him very entertaining nonetheless, mainly because some of his line deliveries just crack me up. I can’t even say what it is, it’s just funny to me. Obviously I can’t really show this here, I'll give you one example later, just watch the movie and see for yourself. Maybe it’s on purpose I don’t know. Maybe it's me.

Let’s take a closer look at the scenes he’s in, there aren’t that many. (I think he has less screen time than Miles had, even though he’s the villain for the main storyline of the movie)

As I said we meet Lord Oliver during a training swordfight. They use these funky swords with yarn around them and tassles at the tips, I love them, I want one. Now, is the fighting they do realistic? I don’t fucking know and I don’t really care, it looks cool.

I’m a big fan of this move especially:

Again, 10 year old me would’ve loved this

The hero team are brought to the place where the English are currently training (or just showing off their coolest tricks idk) and after proving he’s the most awesomest and strongest dude in the room Oliver introduces himself to them and of course wants to know who they are. Upon learning that they are scottish he decides to be an ablsolute prick about this whole situation.

He does some more awesome(tm) sword moves and afterwards asks them if they know “the old scottish man”. Chris then explains that the old man is a magister and they where several days behind him and didn’t know that they where following him. After Chris is done however Oliver decides he doesn’t give a shit about that and asks about the tall young man (oh no, we as the audience think, thats Farncios)

Now the dynamic in the room shifts, as the only conclusion the English can make now, is that he’s a spy. Oliver could have Francois killed at the spot, but he’s an ass, so he decides to humiliate him first.

Poor guy :(

In another ass move Oliver has the poor guy executed and thus the epic story of Francois, the frenchman comes to an end...

Then the hero team are shoved into the attic, where they find Chris’ dad who tells them that he promised Oliver Greek fire (an incedairy weapon), so he wouldn’t be killed on the spot. We shortly see Oliver again in a short scene where he has small quarrel with a young french woman, who’s absolutely not having any of it:

If you ever wanted to see Michael Sheen actually get slapped in the face, there you go. I’m not joking she really slapped him. You can see his curls bounce upon impact and if you watch the scene it sounds…just ouch

The next part of the movie is them escaping, being split up because Merrick saves the french girl.

Also we learn that the french girl is Lady Claire, who is intregral to the history of this place, because the English killed her, which rallied the French so they could win the battle. But Marek already fell for her so that’s terrible news for him. I would’ve skipped explaining this, but it will be important later.

(For some reason the plot of this movie is really complex. I have to give it to them, this film is 2 hours long and there is literally zero filler. I’m sorry if I skipped some important storybeats, but I don’t want to transcribe the whole movie in detail for a character who’s in like four small scenes)

In two different raids first Chris Dad and then Claire and Merrick get recaptured.

The English assume a defensive position at castle La Roque and the french position themselves right in front of it. While both sides prepare for battle Chris and Kate try to find a secret entry into the castle to save his dad again.

The battle starts, reenter Oliver. LMAO I love this, the castle is being attacked by catapults flinging huge flaming stoneballs into the walls and Oliver DOES NOT MOVE A MUSCLE!

(F’kin Dark Lord coded mf)

The English answer with their first Greek fire spear thingy, but at first it seems very dissapointing. Oliver is not impressed…

But then the French try to extinguish the fire with water and that ignites it further. Job well done Lord Oliver is happy. The battle goes back and forth as one would expect with archers and fire and everything. (Fucking love these shots, again, don’t know how accurate, but they look great)

Battle commences. I don’t know why, but Oliver giving the battle commands brings me great joy. He commands a row of night arrows to be shot after the fired ones which kills a whole lot of frenchmen, he’s quite pleased with himself.

>:) < literally him

Chris and Kate get stuck in a tunnel that is supposed to lead them inside the castle.

Meanwhile the French earn two good chances, first they learn of the tunnel that leads into the castle and send a troup to investigate and then they hit the front gate of the castle with one of their trebouches (very lucky hit)

This leads to the best line of the movie imo:

Delivery on point, this line is part of a balanched breakfast

We shortly see the scientists in the future desperately trying to fix the transporter. There is a subplot with one of them kinda giving up and rebelling, but honestly idgaf, I think they added this just to raise suspense. There would be nothing really missing if they hadn’t added this.

In an attempt to have the French surrender Lord Oliver puts up Claire to be hanged right in front of them if they don’t lay down their weapons. Merrick sees this and decides to confront Oliver in an attempt to stop him by threatening to blow up the whole arsenal. This almost works, but Olivers second in command thinks he sees through this apparent bluff and stops him from falling for it. But it wasn’t a bluff. Merrick throws his torch in the arsenal, causing a huge explosionthat throws everyone wildly around the castle. The french cheer and Chris and Kate now have a free entryway to the castle, so do the french, they storm in from the outside and inside. Arrows and close combat.

Here’s where my favourite action shot is in this movie:

Watch this a couple of times, what was supposed to happen here? First he swings the sword, unfortunately very obviously, miles in front of this guys head and then the dude falls like he had a rug pulled from under him? How? What? And the sound they played! You can’t hear it, but it’s not a *swoosh-klonk-aaaargh*, like as if he's actually hit with a blow that could swipe him off his feet, it’s just a tiny *bink* and then he dramatically throws himself to the ground. Great action shot, I love it.

Marek runs to get Claire free while the french leader fights Oliver. Now those of us who payed attention earlier, know that Oliver is really, really good at swordfighting, so he will be very hard to beat. I live for this scene, Oliver is giving it all, fighting multiple people back to back, not showing any weakness. He has the french leader on the ground and raises his sword for the final strike, but Chris slides into his legs and throws him to the ground. They scuffle and Oliver throws Chris to the side. Chris scuttles away, Oliver gets up quickly and follows him menacingly. Chris is cornered but finds a battle axe (?) and tries to stab his opponent. This plan fails, Chris already sees his end coming, again Oliver raises his sword, but he is stopped by the frenchman, who doesn’t hesitate, he grabs Oliver and stabs him (right in the heart I assume). Oliver collapses and, triumphantly, his killer states:

Fuck yeah, If I have to see a character who’s played by my favorite actor die, this is THE ONLY WAY!!!

Yadda, yadda, yadda, the French win the battle, our heros survive. Chris, his dad and Kate get back to the future and Marek decides to stay with Claire.

The scientist, who rebelled is accidentally transported back to the past and is immeadiately stabbed or (beheaded for all I know) by an english rider.

The protagonists discover a message Marek and Claire left before they died and all is well. (Exept for the four innocent people of the excavation project who died on this adventure, they are dead)

Yay, fun, enjoyment, happy times, this movie is entertaining.

I think this movie is allright, the writing is solid enough and they put some great effort into the action scenes. So why did it bomb at the box office? Well… this movie was kind of doomed upon release. This film released to theatre 26th of November 2003. And guess what film released just one week later!?! Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King! (!!!)

I’m so sorry they had no chance. This is so damn sad, but also so fucking funny. Generally there is absolutely nothing wrong with it this film. Maybe, if it had been made like ten years earlier it would’ve been a great success? But not in 2003, unfortunately.

Back to our main focus though: I LIVE whenever I see Michael in an action scene! I can’t even explain the excitement these scenes cause me. I don’t even care if he wins or looses a fight as long as he’s in it. You can see that he gives his all in these scenes and it’s very captivating. I was indeed shouting at my TV because I was so in it. (If you can you should avoid watching any kind of Sheen movie with me in one room, because I will be very obnoxious about everything he does. Who would've guessed?)

All in all, there is not that much depth to Lord Oliver as a character I think? As I said he’s pretty much just a personified version of a general opponent. More of an obstacle than a character.

He’s also barely in this movie. He has like ten lines, the (great) fighting scenes and then he’s killed. All of this is fine, he serves his purpose very well and once again Michael gets everything out of this character that he can I think. It’s just that beyond him being the obstacle for the heroes, there isn’t much else. To me he’s memorable enough but he’s not very deep.

I’d like to point out again that I find it very funny that Oliver is an asshole just for the heck of it. I mean of course he is, he’s the villain. As flat as he’s written, for the story he accomplishes what he’s needs to. But I sincerely hope I wasn’t supposed to take him seriously, because I just can’t. I don’t know what it is about him but he’s so cartoony that I can’t help but find him hilarious at times. The first time I watched this film I was very much in the story, don’t get me wrong, but on my second watch I kind of lost it. Maybe I’m in too deep with the fandom atp but I can’t find Oliver that threatening anymore. Or it could be that with the way this movie is shot, they managed to make him look kind of small? I know Michael isn’t that small, he’s like average height, but the way he’s framed and when he then always stands next to actors who are taller than him, it makes him look kind of smol. And that goes right against any kind of threat level he built up with his evil demeanor. They got it right in the end fight, when they film him from a bit if a different perspective, but the rest of the movie? He be tiny. (I have not felt this effect in anything else before so I don’t know exactly what’s going on here)

So he had his cool moments, but all in all I’m certainly not scared of him really. I know he could kill me in an instant, but I’d ask him to say something in a scottish accent for me and then die laughing my ass off.

What brings me intense joy aswell is, watching the bts material of this movie, we have Michael explaining how doing action scenes like in this movie is a bit like playing pretend when you’re a kid and that sounds like (as exhausting as it probably is) he has a lot of fun doing stuff like this. You go Michael, live your best life!

That’s it. This movie is allright. If my description intrigued you, I think you’re gonna enjoy the film. Now give me my knights armor and my fake sword I have to go battle one specific englishman and his entourage.

RIP Francois

#with this I leave 2023 in real life and conclude the year of 2003 in Michaels filmography #Happy 2024 for me and happy 2004 for this blog #can you believe that the four last movies all released in the same year? And Michaels roles couldnt be more different from each other #timeline 2003 #timeline lord oliver #filmography #michael sheen

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sinnabee · 2 years

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Prompt: Character A tilting Character B’s chin up to get a better look at their face and the evidence of the fight. A delicately thumbs away the streak of blood by B’s mouth, saying nothing as they examine it. After a brief pause, B’s heart skips a nervous beat as A looks them dead in the eyes. Their voice is quiet and tense, their anger barely restrained.

“Who did this to you?”

Ship: Megawave

‘Verse: Transformers Prime (vaguely lol)

—-

It wasn’t often that Soundwave returned from a match injured, or marked.

In fact, in living history - it had only happened once.

Once out of hundreds of matches was a track record worth remembering. Worth being proud of. Worth fearing.

So, it stood to reason, that in the time since their orns in the pits, Megatron had grown accustomed to a certain level of consistency in regards to his third in command. Soundwave went into the field. Soundwave returned to base unharmed.

Soundwave performed some of the most high-risk missions that the Decepticons had to offer. And yet, inexplicably, he had always come back in perfect condition, and often times with more success than some other members of the Decepticon ranks that came to mind.

It was one of the things Megatron could always rely on, in the oft uncertain vorns of endless war. It was a steadying, subtle kind of comfort. Much like Soundwave himself. There was no need for meaningless chatter or blatant attempts to impress or appease him. Soundwave always knew Megatron’s mind - as well as how to ease it.

The problem with growing complacent, Megatron would soon be reminded, for that was what he had become -

Was that it made you soft, and weak, and -

No.

For Megatron, it just made him angry.

—-

“Report.”

Megatron’s voice could barely be considered words. In honesty, it was really more of a growl.

The Vehicon in front of him did their very best to keep their paneling from rattling where they stood.

“No sign, Lord Megatron.”

Megatron slammed a clenched fist onto the arm of his throne.

”Then KEEP SEARCHING!”

Megatron leaned back into his chair with the same dangerous kind of slow, controlled movement of a predator stalking prey. The Vehicon was already gone, having fled the moment the order left his Lord’s mouth.

He would be complacent no longer.

—-

Knockout, while a good actor, couldn’t hide the flutter of nervousness that wove it’s way through his EM field. But, surely - Megatron was far too…preoccupied to notice.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Surely, Lord Megatron, these - operations have become an - an unnecessary strain on our resources?”

We hardly have enough energy to keep the Vehicons functioning as it is, and-“

“Are you saying that our efforts have been a waste of time, Knockout?

Megatron’s optics narrowed dangerously, and the red medic began backtracking immediately. His expression and EM field held more promise than threat.

“N-No! Of course not, Lord Megatron! Why, I would never throw dispersions on one of such excellent judgement as yourself!”

Megatron stood up, slowly, and approached Knockout with a serene calmness that only served to make every mech on the bridge tense.

For every step Knockout took back, the Warlord took two forward. Either Knockout would run out of floor or Megatron would run out of patience. Whichever came first.

“If I have to tear up every last inch,” Megatron growled, still stalking forwards with that same, uncanny calm, “of this worthless, mudball planet, Knockout, then I will.”

Knockout nodded frantically, fear bright in his optics.

“Of course! Lord, Megatron, of course! We will continue the search until he is found! As you command, my liege!”

He swept into an awkward, rushed bow, and at no further comment from Megatron but a harsh exvent, quickly fled the room.

Megatron returned to his throne.

He felt tired.

—-

It had already been a vorn.

—-

In the end, things did not turn out the way Megatron had ever imagined.

Despite searching tirelessly, accusing and interrogating Autobots and humans alike at every turn, Megatron never found his missing third in command.

Rather, Soundwave found him.

Megatron, leaking and coated in layers of his own energon, with a damaged optic and an ill-functioning leg, knelt on the same dirt he had sworn to upturn in search of his… friend.

Even now, his spark tapped out an accusatory beat in response to the thought. The pain he felt was more than that of merely a lost friend.

His breathing was ragged as his frame attempted to cool overworked systems, and his auto-repair attempted to provide what aid they could.

He almost wanted to laugh, again, at how the Prime had ever so thoughtfully honored his request.

At least he was alone.

He knew he was alone, and that the slow, familiar trod of footsteps heading towards him was nothing more than the last delusion of his mind, the last feeble hope that, once shattered, would finally bring him to his knees. He was halfway there already.

Megatron admitted to himself that it was a cowards refuge, when he could not make himself lift his helm to look.

He didn’t fully process it when the slow, familiar steps that haunted his every waking moment, made more obvious by their lack at his side, suddenly picked up in speed.

He was crazy, then. Soundwave didn’t run.

This time, Megatron did bark out a laugh, destabilizing the delicate balance of his servo on one knee in the process. He nearly tipped himself over, except -

except -

someone caught him.

He found himself incapable of dragging his optics away from the familiar, delicate servos now gripping his chassis. It was impossible, after all. One final, cruel trick of the mind before it sent him hurtling off into oblivion.

But then there was the feeling of something near-forgotten - gentle digits that carefully brushed away the energon bleeding from his lip. The servo lifted his chin in time with the light swish of a visor being retracted.

And there he was. Standing before him, unharmed, untouched - pristine and as whole as the day he vanished.

“Soundwave.”

The sound of Megatron’s vocalizer was harsh, and his words laced with static. The damage wasn’t enough to disguise the thick layers of emotions piled into his third’s name.

Soundwave’s optics never strayed from his. There was an anger there that Megatron wasn’t used to seeing. His spark seemed to ache in his chassis, and his EM field responded in kind.

It’s the greatest relief when Soundwave’s is finally there to answer the wordless request, and entwine itself with his.

“Inquiry: Who did this to you?”

Megatron couldn’t manage to hold back a strangled laugh.

He reached up with one servo and gently traced the side of Soundwave’s face, some part of him still not quite convinced he wasn't seeing a dream.

“I’m afraid I’ve done it to myself, my friend. In search of you.”

Soundwave’s optics softened. From his perspective, he had only been in the shadow dimension for one Earth month. It quickly became clear to him that the same was not true for Megatron.

“You were right, Soundwave, as always. I’ve lost my way without you. I-“

Soundwave didn’t bother to let him finish. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed Megatron into a kiss. One that was gentle, and breathless, and felt like coming home.

When Soundwave pulled away, Megatron realized that perhaps, that was exactly what it was.

Soundwave smiled at him.

“No more searching. I’m home.”

#tfp #megawave #megatron x soundwave #maccadam #one shot #transformers #tf #tf fic #writing #fic writing #my writing #writing prompt #prompt fill #looking through my old writing and enjoying what i wrote????#makes me want to write again SO BAD #it’s really motivating;;;#:D #i know a lot of my new followers are here for sun and moon content #don’t worry we are still on that train i’m just posting some old stuff lol

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ryuzakemo128 · 9 months

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Call of Duty MW2 Headcanons Part 01

Dividers Used: Link

Other stuff I have written: Link

Masterlist: Link

General

Oksana is 6'5 and towers over most individuals like a giant. Giving her a natural edge and advantage when it comes to intimidation, her tall stature allows her to have a wider field of view and better cover behind certain obstacles, making her a formidable force during combat.

Oksana's Cat: At some point in her career, Oksana adopts a stray cat she encountered during a particularly challenging mission. The cat becomes her unofficial mascot, and her fellow soldiers affectionately call it "Sergeant Whiskers." The cat's presence brings comfort and companionship to the team during their most difficult times.

Cat Whiskers: As a nod to her beloved feline companion, Major Oksana Volkova paints her balaclava with whisker-like markings around her eyes, creating an amusing resemblance to her cat's whiskers. The unique and somewhat humorous design becomes a symbol of her connection with "Sergeant Whiskers" and earns her a reputation among her comrades as the stoic soldier with the whimsical cat whiskers.

Oksana's cat, Sergeant Whiskers, is a Russian Blue cat. He is a calm and gentle cat, and he provides Oksana with much-needed comfort during her nightmares.

Sniper: Major Oksana Volkova is renowned for her exceptional sniper skills. She has an uncanny ability to make long-range shots with pinpoint accuracy, earning her the nickname "White Death" among her enemies. Her tall stature and calm demeanor make her a master of stealth, blending into the environment like a ghost. Many of her fellow soldiers believe that she has an almost supernatural connection with her rifle, as she seems to anticipate her targets' movements with eerie precision.

Oksana's Collection of Rare Books: Outside of her military life, Oksana has a passion for collecting rare and ancient books, particularly those related to mythology, history, and esoteric knowledge. During her rare moments of downtime, she can be found engrossed in one of these ancient tomes, finding solace and fascination in the tales they hold.

Oksana is her middle name and her first name is actually Octavia. Named after her great grandmother Octavia, who was a Russian sniper in World War I and World War II. Named after her in the hopes of continuing her great grandmother's legacy of exceptional marksmanship and bravery.

Faith and Rituals: Deeply connected to her Russian heritage, Oksana practices certain ancient Slavic rituals and maintains some superstitions, believing they bring protection and good luck to her and her team. Her faith serves as a source of strength during challenging times.

Oksana's Tattoo Story: Each tattoo on Major Volkova's left arm has a special significance to her. Cthulhu, the cosmic entity, represents the unknown and the mysteries of the universe, symbolizing her fascination with the enigmatic and unexplored. Nyarlathotep, the crawling chaos, represents her ability to adapt and maneuver through unpredictable situations with ease. Azathoth, the blind idiot god, represents the chaos and unpredictability of war and serves as a reminder of the ever-changing nature of combat. Ammutseba, Devourer of Stars, represents her understanding of the destructive power of war and the need to face the consequences of her actions. Xirdneth, Maker of Illusions, Lord of Unreality, represents her ability to deceive and outsmart her enemies through cunning tactics and strategies.

Sketchpad with Sergeant Whiskers as the main subject: Major Oksana Volkova also carries a small sketchpad with her, filled with various drawings of her beloved cat, "Sergeant Whiskers." The sketches capture different moods and poses of the cat, showcasing the depth of their bond. During lulls in between missions or during moments of downtime, Oksana often finds herself sketching her furry companion as a way to relax and momentarily escape the harsh realities of war. Some of her fellow soldiers have even requested her to draw their pets as a token of camaraderie and a reminder of the warmth and normalcy they left behind in their civilian lives.

Oksana's Ivory Leather Bound Journal: Major Oksana Volkova keeps an ivory leather-bound journal with her at all times. Inside, she documents her experiences, reflections, and thoughts about her missions and the world around her. The journal serves as a way for her to process the emotional toll of war and to retain a sense of humanity amidst the chaos and violence. The pages are filled with sketches, notes, and poems, revealing her artistic side and providing an outlet for her creativity. The journal also contains writings about her cat, "Sergeant Whiskers," who she considers her confidante and source of comfort during the darkest times.

Relationship with other Characters

Ghost and Oksana get along pretty well, much to the dismay of some of their fellow soldiers who find it surprising that these two seemingly serious and stoic individuals can form such a strong bond. They share a mutual respect for each other's skills and have a dry, sarcastic sense of humor only they seem to understand.

Oksana is drawn to Ghost's sense of humor. She finds his dry wit and sarcastic remarks refreshing. Appreciating his ability to lightening the mood. Despite the fact his humor is pretty dark.

Gaz and Oksana: They rarely work together because of differing missions and objectives. So they don't know much about how one works or interacts in combat. Whenever they do, they have a somewhat tense relationship, even after 10 missions, as they wouldn't be familiar with each other's tactics and communication styles.

Soap and Oksana: Oksana thinks of Soap as a giant puppy, both eager and enthusiastic to prove himself. Soap thinks of Oksana as a silent, mysterious force to be reckoned with. Oksana appreciates Soap's determination and dedication to the team, while Soap admires Oksana's precision and calm demeanor during combat.

Captain Price and Oksana: Oksana holds immense respect for Captain Price despite her being a Major, speaks to the reverence she holds for experienced and wise leaders. Captain Price, on the other hand values her skills as a sniper. hey have a professional and amicable relationship.

Nightmares

Oksana's Nightmares: Beneath her composed façade, Oksana occasionally struggles with nightmares and the emotional toll of her experiences in combat. During particularly difficult nights, she quietly observes her cat, Sergeant Whiskers, whose calming presence helps her regain her composure and find comfort.

Oksana's PTSD: Oksana is very chill about it, too chill about it one could say and the way she talks about it baffles people as if she either doesn't take it seriously or couldn't take it seriously. There wasn't one or the other, it was either carefree no thoughts or it was eerie silence and sitting in her room all day.

Difficulty Falling Asleep: She has difficulty sleeping at night. She often lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.

Vivid Nightmares which are way too real: Oksana experiences vivid nightmares that are incredibly realistic and often involve reliving traumatic events from her past missions. These nightmares are so intense that they leave her feeling disoriented and emotionally drained upon waking up. Sometimes, the line between reality and the dream world disappears, causing her to be on edge even during her waking hours minutes after waking up.

Nightmares: They come in from being in a crowded place for too long, really loud unexpected noises and often triggered by certain scents that remind her of past missions. Certain moment sent her spiraling or hyperventilating because of the flashback of incoming memories of the past.

Ghost's Support: Ghost is one of the few people who understand the true extent of Oksana's struggles with PTSD and nightmares. He has seen past the carefree façade and recognizes that it's her coping mechanism. The first time he noticed was after a nightmare, where he found her in the shower in her pjs, shaking and trying to hide her vulnerability. She was hoping the cold water would wash away the memories.

Other Nightmare Types: She sometimes has nightmares about being captured and tortured by the enemy. She wakes up in a cold sweat, her heart racing, and the feeling of helplessness and fear still fresh in her mind.

Oksana's nightmares often start with the feeling of dread of both anxiety. The creeping feeling of something bad was about to happen. Even if she doesn't know what it is. In these nightmares she often is powerless, unable to move or change past events or when she does, they happen anyway.

These nightmares follow up with sitting in the shower at three in the morning and hoping it would be enough to wash her nightmares away. Oksana's heart pounding in her chest, and the cold water pelts down on her, soaking her clothes and hair. She clutches her knees to her chest, trying to find some comfort in the familiar embrace of her own arms. The water mixes with her tears, the darkness of the night enveloping her in its suffocating grasp.

Ghost heard the faint sound of running water in the middle of the night. The sight of her wide-eyed, shaking and huddled with her arms wrapped around herself pretty tightly as she sits in the corner of the spacious shower.

Seeing her like this, he knows he can't just leave her alone. As the sight tugs at his heart strings, he slowly stepped into the shower and sat down next to her.

"Oksana," he said softly. "Are you okay?"

She didn't answer. She just continued to shake. Ghost's heart sank even further at Oksana's silence, he reached out and put his arm around her, she flinched thinking she was being attacked by an enemy.

"I'm here, Oksana," Ghost reassured her, his voice gentle. "You're safe. You're not alone."

She saw see her friends and comrades getting killed in her recent nightmare so seeing Ghost there, alive was very much there and next to her. So she poked him, slowly reeling in the fact that he was very much still alive.

"I saw you die." she stated. "It felt very real, too real."

Ghost closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew this was going to be a difficult conversation, but he had to be there for Oksana. "I'm not going to die," he said. "I promise."

Oksana looked at him in disbelief. "How can you promise that?" she asked. "You could get killed at any moment."

"I know," he says. "But I'm not going to let that happen. I'm too stubborn to die."

"I hope so,"

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