#its not a violent outing bc no one who heard her shadow is like that but chie apologises to yukiko for that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chironshorseass · 3 years

Note

hello yes i’m OBSESSED with your writing so if you’re still taking prompts maybe “please look at me” bc i also have an unhealthy relationship with pre-tlo percabeth angst and live for pining percy

SYD U GAVE ME THIS AND I JUST HAD TO PUT ALL MY PROMPTS ASIDE!!! because how could i not!!!

for what i wrote, i kind of mention this clarisse one-shot.

anyway enjoy <3, since I sort of went crazy with percy being powerful :) like i always do :) and of course, pre-tlo percabeth :)

read on ao3

The waves had grown restless these past few days. Violent, brutal. The night was quiet, the moon hidden beneath darkened clouds, drenching the camp in heavy ink. Percy knew many demigods proclaimed it as the quiet before the storm. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

All he heard was noise.

He’d been like this—unsteady, overwhelmed—for some time, now. Everywhere he went, he felt like a ship sailing into giant waves, water crashing against his deck, threatening to bring him under.

Grover would’ve understood, maybe. But Grover, like the moon, had vanished. That only left a few of his other friends—and of course—Annabeth.

Percy couldn’t avoid her gaze, no matter how much he wanted to. She was always there, watching. Maybe she awaited the day when he’d sink to the power of those waves that plagued the beach, that plagued him. Maybe she anticipated with bated breath on the day when he’d turn sixteen and he’d have to make one decision that would change everything.

Nevertheless, she’d drift away from him. Then come back, again and again.

It drove him crazy, how much their relationship had changed with the times and circumstances. Only now, Annabeth wasn’t what bothered him.

His gut was.

It tightened and loosened, the same way the currents flowed to the rhythm of his rushing blood. He could hear that now, too.

His blood. The sea. The clashes against rock.

Everything was beating to a powerful symphony of drums.

But worst of all was his gut.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Percy knew there was a war. He had nightmares about it, in fact. Nightmares leading to frantic waking-ups from the feeling of lava burning into his skin. But he hadn’t sensed the war’s presence so strongly in all his three years of attending camp as he did now—and he felt it, because the source of conflict had to do with the sea.

The shadows of cabin three clung to his skin in a comfortable blanket, but he couldn’t ignore this dread. It had trickled patiently into his system for a week now, culminating to this exact moment. He couldn’t sit still. He had to leave. Now.

Not long after stumbling outside while shoving his armor on did he hear the conch horn ringing as a warning. The lookouts had seen something. His legs moved faster.

Doors of other cabins began to smash open, and with it came the spilling of panicked campers. He was already way ahead of them, though.

“To the beach!” someone cried.

Percy arrived just in time to see Chiron assemble with Michael Yew and Austin Lake. The sons of Apollo. They’d apparently been the ones on night duty. The centaur saw Percy before the others made out his heavy footfalls.

“Percy,” Chiron said. “Thank the gods you’re here.”

“There’s something,” he gasped, doubling over once he’d reached them. “There’s something out there,” he finally managed to say, gulping mouthfuls of air. “The sea.”

They already knew, however. The conchorns were signal enough. But what was more obvious was the glimpse of the giant tail, jutting out of the water like a spear cutting through flesh.

The breath he’d managed to find from his mad dash was stolen away at the sight of the monster.

“Yeah,” Austin said, swallowing. “There’s something out there, alright.”

Chiron eyed Percy warily. “My boy. We are dealing here with something I fear that you are only capable of stopping.”

“Yeah, well...it looks like a pretty big fish. I—”

A howl punctured the atmosphere—probably the same sea monster he’d seen earlier. Percy gasped, feeling a stabbing jolt in his stomach. He didn’t know why this sudden change of the sea was affecting him so, but he had to stay strong. So he stood up straight and concentrated on his breathing.

“Are you alright?” Austin asked, studying him.

Percy looked at Chiron, who met his eyes as well. You have to be, his teacher seemed to say.

“I...I think so.”

Michael chose the moment to turn his back on the sea, blowing the conchorn once more. He shouted at the incoming campers, “Greek fire! We need Greek fire!”

The rest of the multitude showed up right away, Hephaestus kids priming canons while others exchanged weaponry. Through all of it, Percy’s gut became a pressure cooker, a fist closing around glass, about to break. He cried out in agony just as a tidal wave shook the world. Falling to his knees, his arms encircled his middle, muffling that pain. He wanted nothing but to make it stop.

He vaguely heard a sound of surprise, coming from someone nearby, then the rush of hands holding onto his shoulders. They helped somewhat, a comfort to the madness.

The hands were warm and soothing. The voice of the person became clearer. He knew that voice. He knew those hands.

Annabeth appeared in his vision, all worry lines and pinched eyebrows. She said something to him again, but the words might’ve been ghosts; the stampeding blood behind his ears was too thunderous to make out anything else.

He closed his eyes and concentrated like he had earlier.

Sharp as a blade, his senses switched to the outside world.

“Are—are you okay?” Annabeth was saying. “You doubled over, and I…”

“No.” He opened his eyes to meet hers. They matched the storm that raged across the sea. “I—I’m not okay. I need to stop this, I need—”

“We were just discussing strategy,” she said. He was glad for the distraction she’d offered. “The Scolopendra isn’t just any ordinary sea monster.”

“The Scolo what?”

She helped him stand up, steadying him with her arms.

“The Scolopendra,” she repeated. “A child of Keto. It’s one of the biggest sea monsters in existence, and it won’t leave the camp border.”

“No shit.”

Annabeth ignored him, glancing backwards at where the monster had last been seen. “There’s no telling what it can do. There’s barely any recordings of it.” She swiveled back to him. “Chiron says that it can control the tide. It might be capable of drowning the camp if we don’t kill it.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“I told Chiron that we needed to try my strategy first. As in, bombing it with Greek fire before we go with the last approach.”

“And what would that last approach be?”

He had some idea, but before Annabeth could speak, the creature shot out of the water, faster than lightning. He only caught a glimpse of the crayfish-like tail and rows of webbed feet before it disappeared again.

“That looks like a giant shrimp,” he declared.

A giant shrimp that was probably capable of crushing a decently-sized trireme. Shrimpzilla, he was about to call it, as a way to lighten the mood. But he thought better of it, once he saw the hard line of Annabeth’s lips as she watched the campers rev up the Greek fire.

The Scolopendra dared to peek out of the waves for the third time, giving the chance for Beckendorf to yell out an order. Instantly, canyons discharged the green substance directly towards the monster.

It roared defiantly, maybe in pain, maybe in anger. No one was sure, because as soon as the night sky lit up with green flames, the Scolopendra crashed against the water like a wrecking ball. For a moment, all was silent.

No one dared breathe.

Annabeth squeezed Percy’s shoulder. She looked hopeful, as if relieved that she didn’t have to go with the second plan.

Chiron’s tail twitched. Beckendorf held out a hand, urging the campers to wait. Some stood anticipatedly, swords ready. He saw Clarisse in the front line, her electric spear aimed at the sea and crackling with energy.

Percy sensed what was about to happen next before he heard it.

“Annabeth,” he said frantically. “Annabeth, we have to go. Now.”

“What? But—”

“NOW!”

He’d already separated himself from her, yelling at the rest of the campers to leave. They didn’t have the chance; milliseconds later, the Scolopendra appeared. It bellowed with the power of a thousand hurricanes. Many campers covered their ears.

To everyone’s horror, it had closed in on the shore, its back legs likely reaching the sand floor as it rose to its full, terrifying height. Lightning crackled, and with it, came another roar.

“No,” he muttered. “No, everyone get out!”

Too late. The monster had already spit out a million gallons’ worth of salt water.

Instinctively, Percy let out a yell and threw his hands out.

The water halted in midair, rippling like a broken mirror. It was as if time had slowed down, as if Kronos himself had been the one to interfere. But Kronos wasn’t interfering. It was all Percy—with nothing but his willpower. A bead of sweat rolled down from his temple.

Annabeth reached him just as he cried out and threw the water back to the sea with everything he had, forcing the giant shrimp to hide as well.

He caught his breath while Annabeth looked back and forth. From him to the sea, from the sea to him.

She shook her head at no one in particular. “The plan didn’t work.”

“No shit.”

Then she gazed at him again. “Thank you for doing that, Perce.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “No problem.”

“About the second plan...”

“I have to kill it, don’t I?”

“I...maybe. But we can help—”

“It isn’t a maybe. It is a certainty,” a voice said, strong and firm.

They both turned around.

“Chiron,” Annabeth said. “How can he possibly—”

“He’s the only one capable,” the horseman said. “You know that better than most.”

Her eyes flicked to Percy. Memories flashed through his mind. A quick, burning kiss. A promise. Then, the way fire engulfed him. The call of the sea. An explosion, strong enough to wake one of the most dangerous monsters of all.

When the bombard was over, he understood. He had to face this monster alone, like he had with the telkhines.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Okay, what?”

Chiron nodded at him, ignoring Annabeth’s question. Without glancing back, he retreated to where the rest of the demigods were watching by the sand dunes as a precaution.

“I need to face him alone,” Percy told her, once Chiron was gone.

“No! Percy, that thing is bigger than—”

“I’m the only one that can’t drown, Annabeth!” He grasped her shoulders so that she was looking directly at him. “If anyone can do it, it’s me.”

“Don’t think I can’t see what’s going on with you,” she said, voice bitter and rough. “You’re distant, like, like the ocean is—”

“We’re both growing distant, ‘Beth. That’s not the problem right now.”

She pushed his hands away. “And that’s not what I’m talking about, and you fucking know that!”

Before he could reply, the monster's call came again. A reminder that this night wasn’t over.

“Please. Just trust me on this, Annabeth. I have to try. It’s our last option. You said so yourself: it may be capable of drowning the entire camp.”

She said nothing, not even sparing him a glance.

“And—and I don’t know why I’m like this! Maybe it’s because I can feel the ocean getting agitated, or because the war is getting worse, or—”

He realized it, then. Annabeth's tears. They were silent rivers, flowing gently down her cheeks and into her mouth. Flowing down to where everything ended up, to the sea.

“Hey,” he said, approaching her slowly. He took both of her hands in his, but she repelled away from his touch. “Please, ‘Beth.”

This time, he cupped her damp cheek, moving it in his direction. “Please look at me.”

And when she finally obliged, her gaze was fractured with glistening tears, like diamonds.

“I can’t lose you again,” she whispered.

Percy had yearned for too long; he let go of that rope tugging him in the opposite direction and instead let Annabeth in. They melted into each other, both shamelessly giving away the little warmth they preserved. It was the kind of hug that felt like a lifeline, the kind that made them both sway like the tide.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into her curls.

She held him tighter. “I missed you, too.”

“But I have to fight this one myself.”

Annabeth pulled away slightly—and when he saw the look on her face—he knew that she knew.

“HEY, SHRIMPZILLA!”

The Scolopendra reared its head, even uglier up close. Its nostrils flared with hairs, beady eyes staring down at him. When he charged, the monster bellowed and threw itself in the water, sending sprays taller than a house.

But none of it touched Percy.

He didn’t stop running, a plan in mind. Meanwhile, the sea churned around him in one giant mass of power, but it parted with each step he took, forming a trail of now exposed ocean floor. Water collided with the sky, flying with the salt in the air.

Hello, friend, it seemed to say. Or rather, hum. The sea was a song, and he was just there to dance to its melody.

The Scolopendra had disappeared again.

He didn’t look back, though he knew the entire camp was there, watching—maybe in awe, but he didn’t care enough to find out. He kept walking, alone, surrounded by a pool of green and blue. Was this how Moses felt, In those stories he’d heard? Bricks of ocean water, flinging up into the sky, just so that Percy could pass. The feeling distracted him from the objective.

That’s what he’d argue later, because Percy can’t explain how the monster managed to sneak up to him that easily.

The pool of green seemed endless. There was a moment where nothing moved, not even the water. But then something did tug him violently, up, up into the sky.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream out, the breath stolen from his lungs and the icy rush of air when flung into the sky nauseating. The only feeling he knew was of the Scolopendra and its death grip on his entire body.

With each second, the roiling waters grew farther and farther away. The Scolopendra’s growl, however, couldn’t have sounded closer. Sharp claws sank into his chest and arms. If he didn’t react now, he’d be eaten before the next flash of lightning struck the sea.

Somehow, he managed to uncap Riptide.

And with a scream, he stabbed, as hard as he could.

“Hey. Want company?” A soft voice said.

He craned his neck around.

Annabeth subconsciously made the world easier to look at. Especially now, as she stood behind him in the pier with the last vestiges of harsh sun striking her back. Her stance was stiff, hesitant. He understood why.

So instead his eyes bored into his lap. He shrugged.

That was a sign enough for her. She crouched next to him, pulling her legs under herself and then flinging them out to where the wooden planks ended and the open air began, toes nearly kissing the placid lake.

She sat next to him, quiet as the wind. It took a few seconds or minutes or hours before she decided to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

From his peripheral vision, he could tell that she’d been studying him instead of watching the reflection of herons flying above the water. Something he’d thought she’d been doing. Apparently not.

It also took him seconds or minutes or hours before he could respond.

“What for?”

She exhaled, “Letting you go alone. Being a part of the campers who…”

She didn’t finish that sentence. He knew why.

Being a part of the campers who abandoned you alone after what you did.

“S’okay. I get it.”

A lie. He didn’t get it.

“Doesn’t make it right.”

He stared at his hands. “Guess not.”

The details of the fight were yet to go away. The memories were still fresh—like his mother’s batch of cookies whenever he came home from camp. Teeth were ever-present in his mind. And those webbed hands. Those twisted sounds as a monster choked on its own blood.

Afterward, everyone had taken a step back. Even Annabeth and Chiron seemed to contemplate him as though he were doomed. Maybe he was.

“I wish Grover were here.”

“Yeah,” Annabeth sighed. She kicked her leg up, swatting at some mosquitos. “Me too.”

“He’d pull our shit together, fix everything.” He found himself sounding wistful, longing for a missing piece of himself all of a sudden.

She didn’t reply to that. They both missed their best friend. Now, more than ever. Percy tried to not dwell too much on the fact that Grover hadn’t responded to his Iris Messages or to his calls from their shared empathy link.

“I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“No, Percy. I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Just look at me.”

He did the opposite, gazing at the trees to his left. They were a deep, mystical green. The colors looked like the ocean, where he’d displayed his powers for everyone to see. Worst mistake of his life. He realized that tears had begun to form in his eyes; he quickly blinked them away.

“Percy,” Annabeth insisted.

Her tone wasn’t hash or demanding—but rather, a light pink sky. A hand brushing his, sweet and tender. He noticed that it wasn’t just his imagination; glancing down, he found her fingers ghosting against his knuckles.

“Please look at me.”

This was eerily familiar. It hit him, then, that he’d said those exact words when she’d panicked about him going alone to fight the Scolopendra.

Hesitantly, his eyes focused on her face. Her freckles were there, golden like the rest of her. Only now, her eyes were rimmed with tears.

Something changed inside them both. She stared at him, he stared at her. Her face contorted, and the both broke down, crumbling like ruins with the slightest gust.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, clinging to his shirt.

“Me too,” he murmured back.

He held unto her as if she were a life force, breathing in her lemony scent. Tears were exchanged, mingling in the other’s hair. They held each other, an embrace that didn’t deserve to end. It only made him cry harder, while Annabeth held him closer.

“Why are you sorry?”

He couldn’t say it out loud.

I’m sorry for why we’re like this. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for leaving.

Instead, he pulled away. He studied her, every single feature, from those grey eyes and that upturned nose to those curls that no longer appeared to look like a princess.’ They were just Annabeth’s.

“I scared you,” he said.

His arms loosened around her, just now realizing how long they’d hugged, but their hands stayed interlocked—like some sort of middle ground.

She regarded him, eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t ever be scared of you,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re my best friend, Perce.”

He looked away. “Everyone else was.”

“I should have gone to you after—I just...I thought you were angry at me.”

Their hands separated. “Why would I be angry at you?”

“Because I let you handle all of it alone. The monster, the campers—”

“‘Beth.” He took her hands again, cupping them with his. “I couldn’t ever be angry at you.”

“That’s not true,” she said wryly.

An observation, not an accusation. Still, that didn’t make it hurt any less. He recalled the shouting, the fights. The only thing they looked for in those moments was to hurt the other, twist and pull at any chink in the armor they could find.

She winced, remembering that, too. “Sorry.”

His mouth twitched. “You’ve said ‘sorry’ too many times. It’s getting repetitive.”

She hit his shoulder playfully. “Well, I mean it.”

He didn’t retort anything back. They found peace in this lake, once again gazing at the horizon.

“It’s not true what you said, either,” he said, his mind lingering on what she’d told him earlier. “You’re scared, as well.”

The sound of the incoming crickets carried on in Annabeth’s hesitation.

That is, until she said, “I am. Scared. I’m scared.” He glanced over. She was staring in his direction, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Neither did I.”

She laughed, breathless. “See that’s what scares me. What else can you do? Honestly?”

He shrugged, turning away from her.

“How’d you do that, anyway?”

“I defeated it, didn’t I?” It was better to deflect than to answer her question.

Defeating the monster should’ve been what mattered, anyway.

“Percy.”

“Annabeth,” he said, in the same condescending tone.

“All I’m saying is that you could hurt yourself. You don’t know what you’re capable of. And then when your birthday happens—”

“You think I’m going to destroy Olympus or something?” He shook his head. “I should’ve known that you’d side with the gods on that, too. You think that they should kill me?”

“What? Percy, I’d never—”

He whirled, facing her, and finally let go of all those pent-up thoughts that just like the sea, wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Just admit it, Annabeth! Admit that it freaked you out that I blood bended or whatever the fuck Chiron called it! Admit, that it freaked you out how I killed that monster! That I’m fucking cursed!”

“Percy Jackson, you are not—”

“Yes, I am. Why would my dad give me powers like that? Huh? Just say it with me: you’re scared—of me.”

Her eyes were red, face hard as stone. Just like her voice when she said, “Look. I just wanted to help. But if you want to sit in your self pity, then go for it! You clearly don’t need me.”

She made no move to leave, however.

Their eyes held, until the anger from both of them melted. He huffed out a breath, shoulders hunching. “We can’t ever stop fighting, can we?”

She sighed.

“Guess not.”

“I won’t do that again.”

She lifted her chin. “Why?”

“Like you said. Scared you.”

That made her purse her lips.

“You’re not cursed, Percy. You know that, right?”

She reached for his hand. It was becoming a strange routine. Finding comfort in hand holding and then dismantling it as if it never happened.

“You’re mostly right all the time, so.” He squeezed her hand. “I s’pose I’m not cursed, then.”

“I’m right most of the time?” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Okay, fine,” he conceded. “You’re right only sometimes.”

She opened her mouth in mock-offense. “Percy Jackson—”

He cut her off with his laugh, a laugh that fit with the music of the crickets. She rolled her eyes, something that he’d missed achingly, now that he saw her do it for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Scooting closer, she nudged him. “I could help you. Alongside Clarisse.”

His eyes widened. “You knew about that?”

“She’s my friend, too.”

“Of course she is,” he muttered.

Him and Clarisse...they might’ve had a rocky relationship when he’d first arrived at camp, but now, he didn’t know what he’d do without her help—without her friendship. They both understood the other in a bizzare, not very common way. She’d helped him hone in his powers, but it had yet to be something he’d wanted to admit to Annabeth. To everyone else, for that matter.

“I get why you didn’t want to tell me,” she said. “But...I do want to help. You’re my best friend, and, and I also want to spend time with you. If...that’s alright.”

“It’s alright by me.”

Annabeth gave him a look.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He tried for a smile. “I guess you could come along, then.”

His grin was shared with her, though her eyes were serious. “You’ll see. We’ll figure out your powers. What you can do, why you can do it, why the sea is affecting you…”

“All of it?”

She nodded. “All of it.”

They left it at that, though what they didn’t leave was the canoe pier. Not until the sun hid under the trees, spilling its ink of reds and oranges across the horizon.

The golden of the sun was replaced by the silver of the moon for the night, then it rose again for the day.

And in between, the waves lapped against the shore, constant and content. The ocean had calmed. For now.

#percy jackson #pjo fic #percabeth #percabeth fic #powerful percy jackson #look mom i can write #pre tlo #percy jackon and the olympians #chb #also don't judge i just finished this #i pormised syd i'd post it today and i did!!#pogo🤸‍♀️

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criticofallthings · 3 years

Text

SO IT’S 5:12AM BECAUSE I’VE BEEN TYPING AWAY A NEW HEADCANNON PIECE OF CRACK IDEA THAT WOULDN’T LET ME SLEEP IF I DIDN’T. edit: bc tumblr mobile app is dumb I had to restart in a web browser and it is now 6:03 AM.

Anyway yeah so that Hawkmokn lore tab where we see Guardian lad and Crow get drunk and be merry (brain’s a little scramble rn, but I’m preeetty sure its the Hawkmoon lore tab)?? Yeah so that and trauma bonding / healing bc if I haven’t said it a thousand times and then sme yet, Imma say it again: POOR TRAUMATIZED GUARDIANS OMFG 😭😭😭

No title no beta bc literally just shat this out the past couple of hours:

cw/tw: ptsd, referenced major character death, death, implied depression/major grief, self depreciation

ps. usually I write nonbinary Guardian, but today we got lady she/her Guardian

pps. this fic is a heckin chonker compared to the previous ones

———————————————————————

Crow’s lips were gentle against the Guardian’s own, a bit dry, but sweet and heady with the lingering wine. The kiss was sudden. It was spontaneous. And it made something warm and so soft and so, so very fragile, hatch within the Guardian’s chest.

Until she opened her eyes and saw those golden eyes, glowly softly in the dark, beneath dusky white and raven black fringe. The pale smokey blue of his skin, luminous where it reflected the warmth of the campfire, and cast in deep shadows where the night’s darkness fought to shade his face. The smell of ash suddenly weighs much heavier in the air.

That warm, soft, and fragile thing in the Guardian’s chest goes cold and sharp and hard. Time slows and speeds up at the same time within her mind, stealing her away to a prison of memories. Blood rushes to her ears, drowning out the warning from Ghost to Crow and Glint.

The Guardian shoved Crow away and stood up, a heavy handcannon with a white spade on the stock materializing into her hand, aimed at Crow’s heart. An errant blip of data-Light to Crow’s left is all that hints at Glint’s swift dematerialization. Crow stays prone on the ground, spawled on his back, one hand raised up, in an attempt to pacify —unwittingly making it harder for the Guardian to snap out of that memory.

The stench of burnt oil, sweat, and soot fills her nose. She only hears the crackles of flames and electric buzzing as her heart pounds, coldly staring into Crow’s bewildered eyes. Those deep golden eyes that had haunted her waking hours and chased her down in nightmares. Those eyes filled with cruelty as they watched her stumble to Cayde’s dying side. She doesn’t realize yet, but the tears she couldn’t shed before, now weep from her eyes. The handcannon trembles slightly in her grip.

Ghost floats over into his Guardian’s field of view. He’s careful to let her know he’s doing so by giving her shoulder a bump as he glides to a rest above the stock of the handcannon. He hovers there, his one eye searching both of hers, glow dimmed slightly. His shell gives a soft whirl before he speaks, leaning in gently towards her.

“That is not him.”

The silence is deafening, every second only increasing the tension. Ghost clicks his shell, uncertain if his words were even heard. He tries again, bobbing in the air.

“Crow is not him.”

The handcannon trembles. But the Warlock doesn’t move, bound by so much tension you’d think she was a Hunter about to leap into the air to throw a Blade Barrage.

“Crow is not him.”

Ghost speaks again, insistent, shell whirling softly as he flits closer to his Guardian. A flicker of recognition crosses her face. The handcannon falters, no longer aimed directly at Crow’s chest. Ghost nudges her hand, bumping the Guardian’s aim to the ground.

She trembles, a full body shudder and the handcannon slips from her grasp. Suddenly she’s aware, all too aware of what happened, and the tension holding her still dissipates. She falls to her knees, energy completely spent.

“I, I-I’m so sorry.” She’s barely able to whisper the words in his direction.

Before her, Crow watches, eyes wide and doe-like, shocked and unsure of what to do. Of what just happened. A sinking feeling blooms in his gut.

He knows he wasn’t a good man before he died. Plenty of guardians had made that clear through their boot heels and fists, gunfire and knives, with their Light in three different energies: arc, void, and solar. As did the Eliksni, who cursed him in their language while their Captains tore him apart with their four arms.

Crow knows it’s an understatement to say he wasn’t a good man in his previous life. Even if he could never learn about who that man was, what he did, and would only by the number of shattered bones and bruised flesh just how much pain that man had caused —Crow decided early on that he could take it. It was penance. It was justly due and therefore he couldn’t call it painful.

But this? This hurt.

It hurt because now he knows that the man he once was had struck an incomprehensible blow to the Guardian he had come to know more of. It hurt because he had been holding on to a small hope, an indescribably small bit of hope, that of all the people he had encountered in his previous life that he had never met the Guardian. Because if they had never met, then maybe, maybe there was someone he didn’t hurt. His first friend. His savoir. His now not-so-secret-crush. And the longer he thought about it, the greater that sinking feeling in his gut grew.

He could no longer deny the shock and subdued anger and almost very well hidden grief he had seen flash across her face when he revealed himself to her and Osiris. He could no longer deny the way they had kept him at distance while easily in sight with a hand hovering over their gun every time they met him for a Hunt or to study a newly sprouted Cryptolith. Why his attempts at humor and jokes were met with cool silence. Why whenever he saw that handcannon, he instinctively recoiled away from it, phantom pain bursting sharply in his heart.

——————

Crow remembers the first time he saw the Guardian wield that gun. How she had effortlessly cleared a pack of thrall in one clip, each headshot exploding in a flurry of solar. How his body reacted: legs collapsing beneath him, his heart burning painfully, lungs gasping for air that never seemed to make it into him, retching pathetically, as tears streamed down his face.

Why was he crying?

Why did he feel an insurmountable wall of sorrow and regret?

She had seen him fall and before the last thrall had burnt away completely, she came running towards him. All he could see in that moment was that gun getting closer and all he felt was an innate desire to get away.

Run, run, run, run, run before you die!

Run you before you burn!

The Guardian came close, hands splayed before her, voice speaking in soothing tones, words lost upon his panicking ears. He had screamed then, in abject terror. It was a garbled and pitched sound as he tried to breathe and vomit and scrabble away all at the same time; his eyes riveted to the handcannon now holstered at her side. Her Warlock mind, keen to details, quickly realized what had triggered his panic and she deftly threw the gun to her Ghost who transmatted it away mid-air.

Crow doesn’t remember what the Guardian said to him, but he remembers how carefully she reached out to him. How she framed his face in her gauntleted hands, so gentle, so lightly, as if he might shatter into glass —just to touch her forehead to his. How the puffs of her outward breaths ghosting by his cheeks helped calm his own.

And he knew then, in that moment that no matter what that gun meant that he was already in too deep. When with a simple touch, the Guardian could soothe away old terrors he himself knew nothing of, Crow knew then. He loves her.

——————

Crow slowly got to his feet, mindful of the Guardian (who was despondently staring into her open hands while Ghost hovered on her shoulder). He looks at that gun, chest starting to burn, heartbeat increasing. Clenching a fist at his side, Crow takes a tentative step and then another until he’s close enough to pick up the handcannon. He gingerly picks it up by the barrel, keeping his hands off the stock on purpose. It’s another small step towards the Guardian before he kneels in front of them.

He pauses there, unsure of what he can do —of what he did that caused the Guardian to react so violently before. He doesn’t think it was the kiss itself...that seemed to be fine until she looked at his face, into his eyes. Ah. Crow rests the handcannon on his thigh and pulls up his hood, jerking it to cover more of his face. Cautiously he grabs the handcannon by the barrel again and with his other hand, slowly reaches for one of the Guardian’s own. She lets him guide her hand to the handcannon and once he’s sure she won’t drop it, Crow gently pushes both towards her again. The Guardian looks away, but cradles the handcannon in her lap.

More hesitantly now, Crow raises his hands to cup her face just as she once did for him. He can’t exactly see with his hood covering so much of his face, but he slowly gets nearer and carefully moves his hands over the side of her face. He leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, the edges of his hood brushing across his nose as he did so, fully obscuring his vision. Crow doesn’t know of anything he could say in this moment —what could he of all people say to her, Guardian of guardians, that could possibly make a difference? So he doesn’t say anything. Instead, Crow softly hums.

It’s an old melody, a lullaby he found while exploring abandoned freighters and passenger ships in the Reef. When Glint discovered his fondness for it, the Little Light would often hum the tune, sitting on his chest, to soothe him on several sleepless nights in Spider’s Lair. Crow hopes that this at least, can help ground the Guardian in the present and away from the painful memories in her past.

They stay like this for a while. The Guardian’s breath evens out and somewhere along the time past, Ghost had dematerialized. It was just the two of them now. Crow stops humming when he feels the Guardian raise a hand to cover one of his over her face. She leans into his palm, then forward against his forehead for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Crow, I’m so sor—“ She starts to apologize and it’s a whisper until she says his name to apologize once more. Crow doesn’t want to hear this, he doesn’t deserve an apology. So Crow cuts off the Guardian by dropping his hands to her sides and pulling her into his chest.

The sudden movement sends the Guardian toppling onto Crow. He curls forward to protect his head, but keeps his arms around her, falling flat on his back. The Guardian doesn’t move to get off of him and Crow takes that as an okay sign. He keeps one arm around her, the other he moves to card his fingers through her hair.

“Of all the people in this world, Guardian, I am the last of anyone to whom you owe an apology.” Crow let’s his words hang in the air, trying to keep his breathing even so his heart would stay less frantic too.

“If anything,” he pauses to admire a particularly silky strand of hair as it slips through his fingers.

“I am the one indebited to you.”

There’s another pause as he sorts his next words before speaking. His hand idly resumes carding through the Guardian's hair again.

“So much so that I wonder if it’s selfish greed that makes me want to stay like this.” Crow sighs, looking straight up into the star speckled sky above them. At this angle he can’t see the Guardian, but he feel her shift slightly in his arms.

“Even though you’ve done so much for a worthless stain of a being as me…Even though I can never atone for the things I’ve done befo—“ He’s interrupted by the Guardian slapping a hand over his mouth.

“You are not him.” She shifts in his arms, sitting up, moving a leg over to straddle him properly.

Crow grabs his fallen hood in a panic, pulling the fabric so swiftly up around his face he hears the fabric creak as its seams struggle to stay sewn. Still, he doesn’t let the material go, trying to keep his face hidden.

“You are not him.” The Guardian repeats herself, lifting her hand from his mouth. Crow can’t tell with what emotion she said it with and he’s too afraid to check just yet. He doesn’t want to cause her harm again, regardless of how circumstantially accidental it was.

“Crow…”

He freezes at the way she calls his name. It was different from how she usually said it. It sounded soft and so warm in her voice. The Guardian prods at one of hands clamped on his hood. He turns his head to the side, trying to escape beneath a look he could practically feel brushing against his hands.

“I...I-I don’t want to hurt you...again.” Crow’s heart beats skittishly within his chest, causing a lump to form in his throat. He’s barely able to say these words out loud without an audible whimper to them. He tries to speak again, but fails.

The Guardian leans forward over him and a shifting moment later he feels her tap her forehead against his. Her hands rest, half-covering his own, but exerting no force to push of pry his fingers away from his hood.

“Crow.” She whispers his name, just as soft and warm as before. Her lips ghost across his clenched hands when she spoke, sending goosebumps down his arms. Crow tenses.

It’s a full body reaction as Crow completely freezes up. Once more he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat with little success. His tongue feels dry and too heavy in his mouth. He can feel his heart rate spike, beating so hard now he’s unsure if the metaphorical ache that had been nesting there is becoming a real one.

“Please, Crow?” The Guardian pleads softly, leaning back and letting her hands slide from his face to over his chest.

“You can’t hide your handsome face forever.” She tries to make it sound light hearted, an easy joke, but the anxious tapping of her finger against his chest reveals her anxiety. Crow takes a deep, shaky inhale, holding it a second before letting it out.

“I-I can’t.” Crow sputters, the breath he had taken just before speaking seemed too little for all the things he wanted to say. Did she really just call his face handsome right now? Oh Traveler, why was that now all he could focus on??

He feels the Guardian shift in his lap again. The movement snaps Crow out of his thoughts and inadvertently he tightens his grip on his hood again. Somewhere behind his head, a seam in the hood gives way and the fabric tears from the stress.

A small chuckle near his ear catches him off guard and Crow isn’t able to stop his head from jerking sideways. This gives the Guardian an advantage and she presses against him, letting her head rest side by side to his. It keeps him unable to turn his face again. Even still, Crow maintains his hold over his ruined hood.

“Well then...” The Guardian pauses. Her voice, low and smooth, is right next to Crow’s ear. Crow flinches slightly, swallowing rapidly again, not expecting her to be so close.

“...how am I supposed to kiss you back?”

“Huuh??”

Crow lets out a confused sound, brain derailing instantly, but also cutting some of the tension out of his body. Certainly, he must have heard the Guardian wrong. But the sound of two ghosts re-materializing interrupts the Guardian (who Crow is now very aware is straddling him) from speaking as she suddenly freezes.

“OH. Oh! Oh...well uh, w-we’ll come back later!! N-n-not too soon, ofcou—” Ghost’s shocked rambling is halted by metallic clinking as Glint’s shell collides with his. In the background, Glint’s hurried whispers of “Just go! Just go!” are just barely audible before the two Little Lights decompile once more.

Above him, the Guardian lets out a heavy breath once the two ghosts are gone. Beneath his hands, Crow breaks into a brief smile at that. The brief interruption had brought a measure of calm to him and he didn’t want to waste the moment.

“I, well...the man I was did something pretty horrible to you, didn’t I?” Crow lets the question hang in the air, but pushes on. If he lets the Guardian speak now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say these words again.

“Not just you, to all the guardians...the Vanguard, and even the Eliksni, maybe even to the Scorn.” The Guardian is still above him, listening, but against his chest Crow can feel the heavy, measured beating of her heart.

“A-and I know. I just know. That that handcannon --the one with the white spade— I know that man died to that gun...This body remembers, but I also think it’s much more than that.” Crow stops to take a shuddering breath in. He focuses on the steady feeling of the Guardian’s heart against his chest to center himself.

“When I see that gun...it’s like I can feel that final shot burning again and again. But then there’s so much more to it. So much pain that isn’t from that bullet, so much grief, and fear, and even anger. Anger at myself, knowing I —all I did was —all I caused was…” He trails off, not able to find the words to describe how those moments felt. When he speaks again, it’s all in whispers.

“But when I see you, I know it’s not right, I know it’s selfish, I know you didn’t even like me at the beginning….but when I see you, I know I’ll be okay. Because the Light gave me a second chance to be okay and you did the same.”

Crow stops when he feels the Guardian shifting again. She grabs him by his elbows and slides off of his lap, tugging on him to join her in a sitting position. His knees are now tucked under his chin and he can feel her legs framing his own. It’s silent for a moment, but then he feels her edge closer to plant a chaste kiss to the back of his hands.

“It was an accident, a trick of the light and shadow…I—you are not like him in many, many ways.” For a moment Crow’s heart plummeted to his gut, wrenching at her first few words. Her hands cover his own again and Crow’s heart grows light.

“Please. Look at me.” The Guardian asks Crow while gently pressing against his knuckles. She rubs her thumbs over the side and backs of his hands, small soothing gestures.

Crow clenches his jaw, then decides against it. He releases his hold on his cloak’s hood, fingers stiff and aching from how tightly he had clung to the material. Crow doesn’t let the hood fall from his face and keeps his eyes shut. The Guardian takes his hands into her own, warming and massaging them to ease the stiffness.

Once she deems his hands warm enough, the Guardian lets them go. Crow rests them at his side, not confident yet to open his eyes. He focuses on the way the air moves instead, trying to anticipate her next move so he doesn’t jump.

Slowly, the Guardian moves the hood off of his head. She cups his face with one hand while the other strokes his cheek before tucking several stray strands of hair behind his ear. Throughout it all, Crow is still. However, his heart beats fast within his chest.

“Wha-“ Crow’s questions are cutoff before he could even start to ask —the Guardian smothering them beneath a passionate kiss. She teases his bottom lip with her teeth and in his surprise, Crow opens his eyes.

He’s immediately consumed by the Guardian’s smoldering eyes, half-open to catch his reaction. Crow’s not one to be outdone, and he raises a hand to cradle the back of her head as he presses into the kiss. He teases the Guardian back with a lick of his tongue, half expecting nothing, but pleasantly surprised when she returned in kind. It’s a sweet and warm moment and once again the Guardian feels that soft and fragile thing flutter in her chest.

“See,” the Guardian whispers against Crow’s lips as she caresses his face, maintaining steady eye contact, “all okay. You are you.”

Crow’s brows upturn at her words, feeling almost overwhelmed. Those words offered more solace to his heart than the kisses —kisses which he could hardly believe happened. He’ll have to make sure she was on the same page as him later, because any further and Crow would fall even more inextricably in love with the Guardian.

They lean into each other for some time, letting the comforting silence speak for them. Beside them, the fire pops as it fades off, nearly just embers now.

Crow’s the first to move, stretching behind himself to reach a spare log. He tosses it onto the middle of the fire. It doesn’t catch right away, but the Guardian flicks a bit of solar Light at it and soon the fire cackles warmly again.

Adjusting himself, Crow scoots closer to the Guardian so that they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Could you tell me—only if you want to—about…” Unsure of how to ask and knowing it’s taboo for guardians to learn details of their past, Crow trails off.

“I-I just want to listen...if that would help.”

The Guardian catches his hand at that and brings it to her lips. She plants a gentle kiss on his palm. Looking into Crow’s eyes, she slowly nods. He leans forward to give the Guardian a chaste peck on her lips. Crow adjusts how he’s sitting to embrace the Guardian from behind and she shifts to lean into him.

“No questions about details related to your past, alright? Only if you don’t understand something like time or place.”

Crow nods several times, suddenly feeling shy and too anxious to speak. He hugs the Guardian tightly before easing up to let her speak.

“Alright,” She sounds a bit tired now, the exact kind of weariness that only comes from raging against a deep grief and losing the battle, but accepting the scars and moving on. One foot in front of the other. “it’s a Golden Age saying that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

“Let me tell you the story of how a beloved space cowboy, an enigmatic jailer, and a terribly misguided, but utterly-devoted-to-his-dead-sister brother collided into absolute tragedy.”

74 notes · View notes

ichorai · 4 years

Text

cellmates ; one ; j.wy

pairing ; jung wooyoung x reader

summary ; stuck in jail after stealing a necklace off the princess, what happens when your new cellmate with an impossible escape plan comes along?

words ; 3.1k

warnings / includes ; medieval au, blood and grime and death and everything in between rip, wooyoung being handsome despite being in a filthy cell djkdfj, wooyoung being a smartass, reader being petrified half the time lol, future suggestive / mature content, cellmates to (future) lovers !!

a/n ; i’ve been meaning to write a medieval au for the longest time bcs im an absolute sucker for them and i finally got around to writing part one !!! pls be patient for part two !! i hope yall enjoy :3

cellmates masterlist.

The jail cell was cold. You shivered violently, breath misting in front of you as you blew out a tired sigh. They had stripped you of all your clothes except a thin beige tank top (that had actually once been white), and ripped tights. Dried blood matted your hair to your forehead, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. It was too damn cold.

You found yourself wishing that you hadn’t stolen that necklace off of the innocent little princess. The silver glinting against her pale collarbones were just too enticing, the angry grumble of your stomach far too loud. That much silver would’ve cost a fortune; you wouldn’t have had to worry about food for years. Unfortunately, the guard caught you before you had time to make your escape, by effectively knocking a heavy baton over your head.

And the result of your desperate endeavor? A small, icy jail cell in the farthest and darkest corner of the dungeons. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen the sun.

A life sentence for attempting to ‘harm’ the princess. Oh please, all you really wanted was to go to bed without your belly twisting painfully in hunger. At least they weren’t barbaric enough to hang you for that.

The thought had tremors running up your spine. Or perhaps it was the cold.

A dim amber light appeared from the corner of your eyes, echoing footsteps gradually getting louder with each thump. Was it dinner time already? You hadn’t even eaten yesterday’s yet.

The same guard you’d seen just about a thousand times by now appeared in front of the frigid metal bars, melting candle in hand. Grizzly beard blanketing his chin and jaw, faint scar mark running over his left cheekbone, and slanted eyes the color of the princess’ silver necklace. A daily reminder of your worst mistake, it would seem.

He muttered something unintelligible before shoving a tray through the narrow slot, wintry water sloshing about in the small wooden cup with the same chunk of stale bread on the side that always tasted like metal.

How delicious. The cold had numbed you to the point where hunger was the least of your problems.

You remembered when you had first gotten here, croaking out a wispy ‘thank you’ to the guard whenever he had given you your food, hoping that he’d take sympathy and give you a bit more, or maybe even get you a blanket. You were foolish back then, you thought solemnly, curling up tighter and burying your face in between your knees.

Perhaps one of the worst things possible about being in jail was that you had absolutely nothing to do. Sometimes you would try to exercise to keep your blood running through your body and make sure your muscles hadn’t frozen over, but exhaustion constantly hung above you like a stormy cloud. More oftenly, you would make up fantastical stories including dragons and elves and faeries. But after hundreds (or maybe it was just around twenty, but who was counting?) of different stories, your creativity would run short and you would find yourself pausing mid-story, trailing off into a disappointing end of ‘and they lived till they died’.

Turns out you weren’t going to be bored alone, at least.

You had been in a fitful slumber when you heard the footsteps approach. That was strange, usually there’d only be the one guard to deliver your measly dinner.

Curious eyes grew wide when you took sight of two guards holding up an unconscious man, the toes of his worn leather boots dragging against the damp stones of the dungeon ground.

What you wouldn’t give for a nice pair of leather boots. Your toes twitched in your worn socks at the thought.

They began stripping him of his clothes, much like they had done to you in the beginning, grunts of exertion leaving them in misty huffs. They left shortly after, grumbling about being ‘fuckin’ cold’. As if they had any right to complain.

In the dim light of the candles, you could barely make out what the new prisoner looked like. He was slumped up against one of the icy stone walls, dark hair tied into a short ponytail. A low groan escaped the man, foot twitching as he slowly aroused from unconsciousness.

“Fuck,” His voice came out hoarse and raspy. He pushed against the floor to prop himself up at a better angle. More curses left his lips in a rapid flurry. You watched in timid fascination as he raised a pale hand to dab against his forehead, hissing when he pulled away with crimson staining his skin.

Looking upwards, he finally caught your curious gaze.

The two of you stared at one another for a second before he huffed, reaching up to his head once more. This time, his fingers didn’t only pull away with blood, but with a thin hair pin that glinted against the candle’s small flame.

You hadn’t noticed that your mouth was hanging slightly open when he struggled to his feet, limbs shaking with effort and cold.

And he started picking the lock, stopping every minute or so to blow his breath onto his quickly numbing fingers.

After less than ten minutes, the frozen bars swung open with a rusty creak.

At that point, you yourself had gotten up, eyes widening. You shuffled closer to your own locked bars. It was as if the man had forgotten you were there, flinching when he turned and saw you pressed up against your cell.

“Don’t leave me here,” You whispered, starting to feel the familiar feeling of desperation clawing at your throat.

For a second, he looked conflicted. A hard, determined film passed over his eyes and he tore his gaze away.

“Sorry,” Was all he said.

And he left, just as quickly as he had come.

Strings of foul curses left his mouth once he was dragged back. And this time, he was far bloodier than before. He barely looked like the same person.

You had to hold in a breath as they threw his limp body back into the cell, one of them spitting at his feet. Grimacing, you looked away and scowled.

Perhaps if he had let you out as well, the both of you would’ve been able to escape.

Ten minutes after the guards had left, the man across from you reached behind his back to pull something out. He didn’t have another hair pin, did he? Would he let you out this time?

Probably not, you thought bitterly.

The object he pulled out was small and round, a shiny red ball that seemed to glisten beneath the candlelight.

It made a resonating thud against the stone of the cell, echoing down the halls.

And he did it again. And again. And three, four, ten times more.

“Please stop,” You found yourself saying, a headache brewing behind your temple. But your voice was too soft, drowned out by the incessant bouncing of his rubber ball.

Downing what was left in the damp wooden, you mustered the courage to croakily shriek, “Stop! Please, stop!”

Startled by your sudden noise, he hadn’t been able to catch the ball’s last bounce, and crimson streaked past as it hit the wall behind him, ricocheting past the jail bars and out into the hallway. You watched silently as it rolled away, until it was far out of your sight.

“Bitch,” You heard him mutter under his breath.

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise as you sneered at him, “You’re a fool, you know. Thinking you could escape a place like this.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyebrows raised while he shuffled closer, pressing his pale face against the cold bars. Now that he was out of the shadows, you managed to get a proper look of his face. He was all bone and skin, dark hair grown a little too long, hazel eyes glinting along with the dim flames. “At least I managed to get out of my cell. That’s probably more than you’ve ever done.”

If he was trying to pick a fight with you, it wouldn’t work.

“What’s the point, anyways? There’s only so much out there for people like us.”

“People like us… ?”

Your eyes darted to him, and you immediately averted your gaze. It’d been a long time since anyone had properly looked at you. Perhaps under all the blood and grime, he’d actually be quite handsome.

“Commoners, peasants. We grow up stupid, work until our fingers bleed, and then die from a disease because we don’t have the money for a healer.”

A low rumble that could pass as a laugh worked its way out of him, “You’re telling me you would rather stay locked up in here than back outside? You don’t want to feel the sun on your face, the taste of sweet fruits, the warmth of another human being?”

“Of course I do,” You retorted. “I’m just saying that it’s pointless.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, “How long have you been here?”

“Too long to keep track.”

At this point, you couldn’t really tell whether it was refreshing to talk to someone after so long, or just plain annoying. He stayed silent for a moment, before speaking up once more.

“What got you here?”

You huffed. There was no harm in telling him, right?

“I ripped a priceless necklace off of the princess because I was hungry.”

It was as if his volume tripled when he yelped, “You’re Y/N L/N?!”

How he had that much energy after getting beaten up twice, was still a mystery to you.

“The one and only.” You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. It seemed that you were quite famous in the outside world.

“That’s amazing,” He breathed out, eyes wide as he leaned further into the bars. “My name’s Wooyoung. I’m your new cellmate.”

Your eyes flickered to his once more. If you were going to be stuck here with him, might as well get to know him a little better.

“I’m not your cellmate,” You deadpanned, despite Wooyoung’s disappointed pout. “You’d need to be in the same cell as me to be my cellmate.”

One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug.

“So why are you here?” Part of you was afraid of what he was going to say. He didn’t really seem to strike you as someone who’d do anything seriously terrible… right?

“I… I just threw one or two punches at the crown prince, is all. And maybe a kick to the groin. And gave him a couple broken ribs.” He laughed a little at that last part, as if the memory amused him.

“You what?”

Scoffing, Wooyoung flicked his hair out of his eyes, “I think you heard me perfectly clear, sweetheart.”

A strange feeling blossomed in your stomach. You shuffled a bit closer to your own bars, until the light hit your face.

“Was it worth it?”

Wooyoung paused at the unexpected question.

“Yeah, I would do it again. A million times over.” It was the first time he looked away, a distant glaze over his eyes. “He was touching a servant girl and she was begging him to stop. But he didn’t. So I intervened.”

A palpable silence laid over the two of you, thick and heavy.

“Good,” Was all you said. “I’m going to sleep.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s morning.”

You ignored him. Time didn’t matter anymore, not to you. Soon enough, he’d stop caring as well.

Hours and days melted into weeks and months, along with the frost on the bars and the icicles hanging off the ceilings.

At least it wasn’t cold anymore. Everything was wet.

“Okay… would you rather live knowing how you die or live forever?” Wooyoung asked in queer tone, laying down on the ground with his bare back pressed against the damp stone.

You bit into a chunk of stale bread, pausing to chew around the hard crust before swallowing, “No one wants to live forever.”

“Rich people do,” He murmured, flipping over onto his stomach to do some push-ups.

You averted your eyes. He was right; if you were rich, you would’ve probably chosen the latter option too.

“I’ll choose to live forever when I get out of this goddamn cell. But for now, we’re sticking with knowing how I die,” The raven-haired man huffed out through each strenuous push-up. He’s been getting weaker and weaker by the day, living off of nothing but crispy bread and metallic water and the occasional measly slice of dry apple.

“You’re not getting out,” You scoffed. “We’re not getting out. Why do you keep saying that we will?”

Wooyoung falls flat onto his stomach, blowing his hair away from his eyes in frustration, “And why do you keep saying that we won’t? Do you really think we’re going to die here?”

Throwing your hands up into the air, mouth full and bread crumbs rimming your lips, you nodded vehemently, “Yes! Look around us, Wooyoung. How on Earth would you plan on getting out? I’ve been trying for forever before you came around. I’m still here.”

“Yeah, but that was back when I wasn’t here. Now I am.”

“That’s absolutely great, genius. But guess what? We’re still stuck here!”

Wooyoung scowled at your salty remark. He crawled closer to the bars looking down the hallway to make sure no guards were near.

Glancing back to you, he whisper-yelled, “I have a plan.”

“That’s a stupid plan,” You sneered, deadpanning.

The man across from you rolled his eyes, “It’s the only one we’ve got.”

“You do know they’ll find out eventually, right? We can’t just go back to our normal lives.”

“Then let’s run away.” His gaze bore into you as you felt yourself flush heavily. “You and me. We can sneak our way onto a fishing boat, sail off to someplace… not here.”

A shiver ran up your arms, gooseflesh prickling your skin, “Stop.” You mumbled. “Don’t get my hopes up.”

Wooyoung grasped the bars tightly, knuckles turning white, “Y/N, listen to me. We can do it. I swear, I’ll get you out of here.”

It was stupid, you knew it was. But you couldn’t help the small spark of hope flare in the middle of your chest, heart pumping just a tad quicker at his words. Hope was an intoxicating drug; you either get sucked into some sort of deluded fantasy, or live without the illusions of false happiness.

However, The words left you before you even had a chance to hesitate. “You promise?”

“I swear on my next slice of dried apple.” He said, eyes twinkling with excitement behind the shaggy, overgrown hair.

“Okay.” You breathed out, somewhat satisfied. The dull ache in your spine was ignored as you slumped against the stone wall, closing your eyes and imagining what outside was like. All you could recall about outside was how terrible it was. Of course, not as bad as being in here, but not much to look forward to.

Cracking an eye open, you glanced to Wooyoung, who had curled up into himself in the corner of his cell, slightly obscured by the shadows.

Life outside seemed better when you imagined yourself with Wooyoung.

“Remember the plan?”

Wooyoung snorted, rolling his eyes, “How many times have you asked me that now?”

You scowled, “Just making sure you won’t mess anything up. Can you really guarantee you’re strong enough to knock him out?”

Biting down on his lip, he shrugged in a nonchalant manner, “I’ll try my best. And if that’s not enough, well… it was nice meeting you.”

The two of you waited in tense silence for a couple minutes, the expected thudding of boots coming down to give the two of you your meals for the day. The familiar grey eyes of the guard swept over the two of you, bending down your cell first to shove the tray through the narrow slot like he had hundreds of times before.

Then, he turned to Wooyoung.

“What’s on the menu today, sir?”

Stormy eyes narrowed, the guard’s nose wrinkled in distaste, “Th’ same shit you eat every day.” His gravelly voice rumbled, clearly not used to prisoners being able to talk, much less form coherent sentences. “It’s what criminals like you deserve.”

A gasp of mock-offense left Wooyoung in the most dramatic manner possible, “Why, if stopping a rapist from raping is worse than being a killer and killing, then I must be the worst criminal alive.”

“You better shut your mouth before I get half the mind to carve your tongue out for you.” The guard spat, nearing closer towards the bars menacingly, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He wasn’t below leaving a prisoner bleeding and tongueless.

Wooyoung did nothing but raise an eyebrow, “Oh, come now! I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of kills. Especially when you swore an oath to protect a murderous king!”

Your eyes widened slightly; you had no idea he would go as far as to claim treason.

The guard, however, cackled the ugliest laugh you’d ever heard. “You seem really not to like your tongue, boy. Only, for that comment, they’ll be taking your head along with it.”

It all happened so quickly, you wouldn’t even have the time to scream if you wanted to.

Just as the guard leaned closer tauntingly, nose almost brushing against the rusty metal bars, Wooyoung grabbed the front of the guard’s steel collar, yanking him forward into the metal columns with all of his might.

A sickening crack echoed across the stone.

It happened again, and again, and three more times after that. Wooyoung was panting, eyes wild.

“Is he dead?” You craned your neck to try to get a good look, but it was too dark to make out much of anything.

“No. He’ll wake up with a nasty concussion in a couple hours, give or take.”

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” You asked, heart pounding far too loudly in your ribcage. The faint sound of jingling almost had you bursting into tears of joy. He had the keys.

A small, non-committal hum emitted from Wooyoung’s cell. “You learn from dreaming about all the different ways you could’ve done that to the crown prince. And thankfully, I got the chance.” Suddenly, Wooyoung appeared in front of your cell, a ring of small keys hanging from his pointer finger, the widest grin spread across his face. “Told you I’d get you out, didn’t I?”

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missturtleduck · 3 years

Note

hi i saw ur requests were open and i would love if u could do a sokka x reader :) where reader is really shy and he likes to tease her and flirt with her to see her all flustered but she denies him actually liking her bc she thinks it’s just his personality to be funny like that. but then there’s the classic oh no there’s only one bed thing? thank you!

Ooooh I loved writing this! Tropes? Love them. Fluff? So fun, so sweet. I hope you enjoy, anon, and have a very happy holiday! <3

Teasing

Sokka x shy!Reader

It was a well-known fact that Sokka was a tease.

Now, he wasn’t a tease in the common sense, more that he took some joy in being a so-called comedian. Y/N seemed to be the person in their gang that got the brunt of his teasing. Every time he came up with some sarcastic quip, she would laugh along with everyone else – though most of the time she was the only one who found him funny – but then there were the other times.

She had been sparring with Zuko, who was surprisingly adept with swords for a bender, when Sokka had come by whistling with faux innocence. As he took a seat on the floor, his eyes were trained on the fight. Feeling his blue-eyed gaze boring into her, she felt her entire body flush. Steadying her breathing, Y/N pushed down the flustered flutter bats inhabiting her stomach. A frustrated cry escaped her lips as she pinned Zuko’s blades to the floor with her own.

“Sokka,” She breathed out, hating how hot she felt. “Sokka, w-what are you doing?”

He grinned. “Just enjoying the view. You know, I always thought red was Zuko’s colour, but you are boasting a lovely shade today.”

Absently, Y/N put a palm to her face, only becoming more flustered as she realised her skin had in fact became darker. As the blood rushed faster through her body, she looked desperately at Zuko for some reprieve.

“Sokka, are you here for any reason other than being a complete clown?” Zuko said, sighing in pure exasperation even as Y/N had him pinned.

The boy ignored him completely. “Has anyone ever told just how adorable you are? Because you really are.”

“Sokka,” Zuko said again, his voice less patient. “Go away before we make you.”

“Alright, alright,” He tutted, hands in the air as if in surrender. “I’ll leave you two to your dance lessons. Call me if you fall; I’ll come and catch you.”

Waiting for him to be out of earshot, Y/N groaned, dropping her sword and freeing Zuko. Her entire face was on fire. Sure, it was a metaphor, a hyperbolic one at that, but if Zuko decided to shove his ignited palm in her face, it would not manage to be as hot as she was feeling now. It might be slightly less sweaty. Ew.

Lowering herself to the ground, she sat, stretching out her aching limbs, pouring water over her roasting head. Y/N, needless to say, was mortified by Sokka’s teasing, but when was she not? She was somewhat shyer than her female friends; Katara had this maternal instinct about her that kicked into overdrive as soon as someone seemed needy. It was honestly scarier than the Avatar State. Toph was just... Toph. The girl was at least four years younger than Y/N and utterly terrifying, approaching people and situations with no fear. Then there was Suki. Suki had a knack of getting people to like her, being the loveable, charismatic leader, she was.

And that left Y/N.

Y/N struggled being heard in many a conversation. Ask her to take a compliment? No. No. Not happening. No thank you. Her shy demeanour was labelled cute by a few different people, though they all seemed to be joking – especially Sokka.

“Do you want me to sort him out for you?”

Y/N looked up, meeting Zuko’s very serious gaze for just a moment before staring at the ground. “No, it’s okay. He’s like that with everyone.”

“What?” Zuko frowned, slumping to the ground too. “What are you on about? He doesn’t flirt with everyone!”

“That wasn’t flirting!” She insisted, feeling that bashful flush creeping in again.

“He was just teasing, like he does with everyone!”

Zuko’s lips quirked. “He called you adorable.”

“Yesterday, he called Momo adorable.”

“He said you flushed was your colour.”

“And he said that red was yours, sunshine.”

“Oh, Y/N, I’ll catch you if you fall!”

Y/N stammered. “He could have been talking to either of us!”

There was some silence between them. Y/N didn’t usually mind sitting in silence with Zuko, who was just as awkward as her most of the time. However, the wide, toothy grin like a catgator’s was highly disconcerting.

“Zuko, I don’t know what you’re seeing, but he wasn’t flirting,” Y/N said finally, quietly commanding. “He’s just messing around like he usually does.”

The prince sighed, suppressing his mischievous grin. Raising his swords, the pair charged each other again.

✦

In the midst of a war, there wasn’t much space for fun. With the constant movement between the Western Air Temple and many significant locations to build their defences after the Day of Black Sun, Y/N found she hardly had time for anything other than training and strategizing. Sure, she may be considered meek when compared to her peers, but her mind was sharper than her blade.

After watching Aang master firebending, Sokka masterminding a prison break, and Katara nearly murdering a man – all with Zuko’s help – she had some whiplash. She might even say that she had been somewhat blindsided by them, but she didn’t particularly mind. It was when they moved onto Ember Island, however, that Y/N found there to be an issue. In all the excitement, or terror, of being separated from Haru and the others, and possibly murdering Sparky Sparky Boom Man, the gang ended up hiding out on Ember Island.

Spirits, did Y/N love the sunshine. The sand? Not so much, nor the swimsuits. Nevertheless, she much preferred it to Aang’s beloved ancestral temple.

“Okay,” Zuko said as they all collected together in the house, “So there’s a bit of an issue.”

“Fire Nation?” Katara asked, eyes narrowing.

“Worse,” Zuko said, voice grave. “There are seven of us, and only six beds.”

The teenagers all looked between each other with varying looks of embarrassment and disgust. It was Toph who spoke first.

“Well, I for one do not want to share a room,” She scoffed, stomping her foot – a reminder of her power. “I can already hear all of you when we sleep on the ground. I am not missing out on my chance for a quiet night of sleep.”

“That seems fair,” Zuko hummed as he pulled a hat off of a dresser. “Everyone else, unless they have some reason why not, will put their name in here.”

Sokka whined, pointing his finger at the heir of the Fire Nation. “Fine! But they should get the biggest bedroom.”

Y/N swore Zuko smirked. “Done.”

Sat on the floor watching him write names, the group waited anxiously to see who would be sharing a room at least for that night. Mixing up bits of paper, he seemed to be building up some bravado, akin to a showman about to pull a jackalope out of a hat.

“Sokka.”

The boy cursed under his breath as Zuko continued on with his little show, the piece of paper disintegrating as easily as a leaf floating in a breeze.

“And Y/N!”

She met Zuko’s eye, entire body hot, sending a psychic message along the lines of sprits, no, Zuko, no, please, Zuko, don’t do this.

Despite the fact that Y/N knew Sokka was only joking with his teasing, somewhere along the line she had ended up falling for it – for him. It was sudden and violent, the way a meteor crashed through the atmosphere, roaring, brilliant, and completely obliterating anything in its path. Currently, Y/N was that metaphorical meteorite, burning up and crashing into the earth.

Since Zuko apparently couldn’t read minds, she chanced a glance at Sokka. She expected some sort of joke, a quip, anything. Instead, he was deadly silent, stony in his face, staring too at Zuko. Was he blushing, or was she making it up in her head? This question soon slipped from her brain as she those baby blue eyes were staring straight at her.

Tui and La, Agni, spirits above; he hated her.

“Cool!” She said, though it came out more like a squeak. “I’ll see you tonight, I guess.”

“Y/N, we have the entire day before- “

She cut Suki off. “Yep, busy today! Busy, busy, busy. Plenty of strategic planning to do before the big day!”

And she was gone. Even Aang, renowned creator of the air scooter, had never seen a person move so fast, and Y/N wasn’t even a bender. In her haste, she didn’t catch the sly looks, nor the disapproving one courtesy of Katara. She definitely didn’t catch the shy grin on Sokka’s face, muddled with complete embarrassment. Getting as far away from the house as possible was her current goal, and she achieved it with insane speed – and longevity.

For an entire day, Y/N managed to see none of her friends, excluding Appa and Momo. Her animal friends seemed very concerned and very interested in her noughts and crosses diagrams in the black volcanic sand of Ember Island. It was only when Yue began to rise above the horizon that she thought it would be safe to come out. With what felt like a walk of shame, she trekked back to the beach house, a sleeping Momo cradled in her arms like a baby. Even Appa, who had been occupied with all sorts of made-up games throughout the day, was beginning to sway, eyes drooping, weighed down by sleep. Settling them down in the warm sand, Y/N climbed the wooden stairs.

Being quiet used to get her everywhere unseen; it didn’t work that night. Wordless, her friends’ good night wishes falling on deaf ears, she entered the biggest bedroom, alone. Falling face first onto the bed, she muffled a frustrated scream into one of the too many decadent pillows adorning it. Heaving herself onto her back, Y/N groaned dramatically with the effort it took. This bed was so soft. She tried to think of a more comfy, luxurious bed she had ever been on – and failed. The four-poster frame was casting odd shadows across the dark room. It felt especially lonely.

She felt especially lonely.

Sitting up, a low rumble filled the silence. Her stomach was apparently rather unhappy with the distinct lack of food during the day. Y/N had forgotten about that. She weighed up the options; go out and face embarrassment, or skip dinner for the first time in her life. Fortunately, she needn’t think long.

“So, everyone’s going to bed, and I remembered you hadn’t eaten.”

Sokka.

Of course.

“Oh,” Was all she could manage, mentally kicking herself for her utter lack of articulation. “Th-thanks, Sokka.”

Flicking on the light, the shadows no longer seemed odd, nor did the room feel lonely. There, in the doorway, stood Sokka. He was pretty – something that always took Y/N by surprise even though she saw him every day. Sure, he hadn’t grown into his gangly limbs yet, but he was getting there. His shoulders had gotten broader, his arms larger from training. She couldn’t help but imagine how comfy he’d be to lie against, how warm his hold would be.

“I brought snacks?”

Opening her mouth only to close it again, Y/N felt like a fish thrown mercilessly out of water. Instead, she managed a timid pat on the bed. He was slow to react, slower to move, and she only felt more inadequate. Whatever Zuko thought he saw at the temple was wrong.

“Wow, this bed is soft,” Sokka gasped, bouncing lightly on it like a small child. “It’s like sitting on a cloud!”

Y/N couldn’t stop the giggle that passed her lips as she took a slice of fruit from the platter he had brought in. For the briefest moment, infinitesimally small, Sokka ceased with his childish antics and just looked. Brightening, he seemed to thrive – delight – in her laughter, continuing to goof about with the numerous pillows and posh looking decor.

“Whoa.”

Y/N looked up at him from her laughing, stomach aching with joy. “What?”

“I didn’t know you could get prettier,” He said, brows furrowed, eyes sparkling.

She turned mute in an instant, feeling that all too familiar flush again, only this time it was close – more intense. Silent, she took another piece of fruit, eating it in moments, anything to give her time. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”

He frowned. “What? No. I’m not- “

“It’s okay if you are!” Y/N insisted, her smile plastered on and her heart aching. “I know you joke about with us all, and it’s just how you are. It’s not a bad thing, and I know you’re just joking and- “

“Y/N,” Sokka said, almost incredulous. “I’m not joking. I have never joked about that kind of thing with you.”

She stopped dead. “What?”

It wasn’t a question – well, not to Sokka at least. That one word was her address to the universe. It was astonishment, frustration, incredulity, sheer joy, so many emotions all wrapped into one simple word. The moments that passed between that word and their locked gaze spoke a thousand more words, sang a hundred more emotions.

“You didn’t know?”

Her head was empty. “Prettier?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Sokka chuckled weakly, moving the platter to the side.

“Prettier,” Y/N repeated slowly, looking up at him, “As in I was already pretty?”

“Erm, yes?”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Tui and La, yes.”

Oh.

“Okay,” She said, testing the waters, “And you like it when I blush?”

“Yeah, you look cute,” He admitted, sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Looking down, bashful, she recalled training with Zuko. “The word you used was adorable.”

No words came in response to that, only a gentle hand on her cheek. Guiding her face up, Sokka looked at her and saw her. Y/N could see him reaching for words that danced in his mind and away from his grasp, so many more pretty, teasing words he could say. But he wasn’t teasing, not really. He certainly wasn’t when he pressed his lips to hers. It was sweet and easy to melt into; she didn’t need to be shy, not with him.

They shared more sweet kisses, laughing under the moonlight in that fancy bed they got to share. Fruit, a bed, kisses; they shared them all, drifting into an easy sleep as the moon began to slip away into daylight. Basking in the prospect of a lazy morning, they made the most of it.

They weren’t even mad when they found out Zuko rigged the entire thing.

#atla #fic request #anon request #sokka x reader #sokka x shy!reader #the beach #sokka #platonic zuko x reader #fluff #aang #katara #toph #suki #oneshot #missturtleduck

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signorformica · 4 years

Photo

Image: A perturbed young woman fast asleep with an incubus sitting on her chest, symbolizing a suffocating nightmare with paralysis. Engraving by J.P. Simon ~ 1810 Wellcome Library London

Derived from Late Latin incubo ("a nightmare induced by such a demon"), from incubare ("to lie upon"), this weird figure and its variations, that are often said to be responsible for unwanted pregnancies (especially in unmarried women), has received many names around the world and through the ages: the Southern African incubus demon is the “Tokolosh” or “Tikoloshe”, a dwarf-like supernatural entity; in Bolivia it is known as “La Sajra”, with appearance of a cat; in Brazil and the rainforests of the Amazon basin: “Boto”, a combination of siren and incubus; “El Trauco” in the traditional mythology of the Chiloé Province of Chile: a hideous deformed dwarf who lulls nubile young women and seduces them; “El Mohán” in Colombia; “El Sombrerón” in Guatemala; “Chusalongo” in Ecuador: an entity dressed in black, that suddenly transforms into a clawed dwarf; in Turkish culture an incubus is known as “Karabasan”: evil beings, thought to be spirits or jinns, that descend upon some sleepers at night. In many cases the victim's health gradually deteriorates and in some cases develops suicidal tendencies.

In Swedish folklore there is the “Mara” or “Mare”, a spirit or goblin that rides on the chests of humans while they sleep, giving them bad dreams; in Mexico it is known as “Jarel” (referring to the sleep paralysis with the words «se te sube el muerto») ; in Philippines they call him “Tikbalang”; “Dorlis” or “husband-in-the-night” in Martinique and some African regions; “Liderc” in Hungary: here, a Satanic lover that flies at night and appears as a fiery light (an ignis fatuus); “El Kuripí” in Paraguay: a creature with a gigantic male member; “Baku” (“Eater of dreams”) in Japan; “Popo Bawa”, in Zanzibar.

The “Alp” of the Germanic folklore is one of the better known (sometimes likened to a vampire, but its behavior is more akin to that of the incubus), as well as the “Mårt” or “Mårt-pressure” (also called “a Mårt-ride”); “The Popobawa” is the name used in Swahili language, which translates literally as "bat-wing": a sort of dark shadow cast by mischievous and evil spirits when they attack at night.

Nevertheless, the earliest mentions of an incubus come from Mesopotamia, ca.2400 BC • via Bibliothèque Infernale on FB

Nachtmahr— Nightmare. Johann Heinrich Füssli ~ 1781 Detroit Institute of Art

Nightmare, by Nicolai Abraham Abildgaard ~ 1800 Vestjaellands Art Museum, Sorø

Nightmare. Édouard de Beaumont. Paris ~ 1871

Sogno di Ecuba (The Dream of Hecuba). Fresco by Giulio Romano ~ 16th century Palazzo Ducale di Mantova

Mareridtscene - Nightmare. Ditliv Blunck ~ 1846

A woman fast asleep with devil on stomach. The night mare. M.J. Schmid fec., & Henry Fuseli Wellcome Library

Nachtmahr— Nightmare. Johann Heinrich Füssli ~ ca.1790 Goethehaus (Frankfurt) collection.

Front cover of “A treatise on the incubus, or night-mare, disturbed sleep, terrific dreams, and nocturnal visions; with the means of removing these distressing complaints" 1816, by John Augustine Waller

https://archive.org/details/treatiseonincubu00wall/page/n6/mode/2up

Medical photographs depicting hysteria as the root cause of the visions of incubus and demons. Women under Hysteria. Between 1876 and 1880

***

BITING A GHOST —Pu Songling (1640-1715) Shen Linsheng once told me this story. A friend of his, an elderly man, was taking a nap one summer’s day and had drifted into a dreamlike state, when he perceived a woman raising his doorblind and entering his room, her head swathed in a length of white cotton and her body clothed in the hempen dress of mourning. She walked on into the inner apartments of the house, and he thought she must be his neighbor’s wife come to pay his own wife a visit. On reflection he found it strange that she should be making a social call dressed in full mourning, and was still puzzling over this when the woman came out again. He looked at her more closely this time, and saw that she was a woman of some thirty years, with a sallow complexion, bloated features, a pronounced frown, and a strange expression on her face that struck fear into his heart. She hesitated a while and then slowly approached his bed. He feigned sleep, but secretly watched her every movement. The next second, she hoisted up her skirts, clambered on to his bed, and pressed herself down on top of him with the force of a ton weight. His mind was still clear, but his hands when he tried to lift them seemed tied fast, and his feet when he tried to move them were paralyzed. He would have cried out for help, but try as he might, he found he could make no sound. The woman now began to sniff her way all over the old man’s face, rubbing her nose in turn on his cheeks, his nose, his eyebrows, his forehead. Her nose was cold as ice, and her chill breath penetrated his very bones. He conceived a sort of desperate plan: he would let her work her way down to his jaw and then he would bite into her. Soon enough she reached his jaw, and he sunk his teeth deep into her face, summoning up every remaining ounce of strength. She tried to pull away, struggling and yelping in pain, but the old man bit into her harder than ever. He felt the blood dribbling down his jaw and dripping down on to the pillow. He was still struggling to hold on when he heard his wife’s voice out in the courtyard, and cried out: “Help! There’s a ghost in here!” He relaxed his jaw in order to speak and thereby released the woman, who flitted from the room. His wife came hurrying in and, seeing nothing whatsoever, made fun of her husband for having been deluded by a nightmare. The old man told her in detail about the apparition and protested that the blood shed by the strange woman would be proof that it had been no mere nightmare. There was indeed a great wet stain on both pillow and bed, as if a large quantity of water had leaked through the roof, and when he bent down and smelled it, it gave off such an extraordinarily foul stench that the old man began to vomit violently. Several days later, he could still taste the lingering stench in his mouth.

*Image: Winged guardian, China, 550-600 AD, glazed earthenware - Royal Ontario Museum • via Bibliothèque Infernale on FB

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merrysithmas · 5 years

Note

you may have talked about this before but do you believe boris already knew he was queer and first approached theo bc he liked him or that he started crushing after they developed a close friendship and theo was what made him question his sexuality? i think theres reasons to believe either side- boris being bold enough to cuddle him in bed seems like he was making a move but him suddenly “loving” kotku seems like an impulsive move out of fear bc he realized he might like a boy. oof idk

I think Boris knew he was attracted to boys — which is evident by his playful, charming, almost teenaged-desperate pursuit of Theo. I think he probably inherently knew this about himself for a long time. I think Boris has always been physically attracted to boys since he’s entered puberty and since he’s still a young teen it is kind of a fun, funny, interesting, enlivening thing for him.

He’s never had a stable life and despite being all over the world he’s led an extremely sheltered existence in a certain way with only one terrible person as his constant (Vladimir). Boris lets it slip to Theo that everywhere the miners go they are hated — this includes Boris. Boris is hated by the public everywhere they go. So long as he is part of their unit, he is hated. That is mortifying to intelligent good-natured Boris. That is why he learns to slip out and around, to be so personable and friendly. His world travels have not been so glorious but probably rather extremely lonely and isolating (as with Judy in Canada), hurtful, and damaging. That is why Bami and Judy (and eventually, Theo) stand out to him so much — people who were kind to him in a childhood of isolated misery and directionlessness. Boris has no moral hang ups about his same-sex attraction - why should he? This directionlessness in his key developmental years is also a good thing: He never grew up around any sort of organized belief systems or stayed bound within an orthodox culture for too long for it to indoctrinate him as its own.

I think people really underestimate how incredibly remote and friendless Boris’ life must have been. Boris is a cheerful boy who Theo says is often plagued by black moods and sullen attitudes. He is an abused and secluded child dragged from location to location with literally no love or stability and constantly brutally beaten to the point where it does not even phase him. Boris actually equates love with that abuse — and nonchalantly claims his father loves him. That is painful to read, that amount of damage.

Living with a bunch of derelict miners whose leader was HIS FATHER (so surely then mostly assholes) and who are “hated everywhere they go” Boris has probably seen any NUMBER of things a conservative-minded person would (likely often erroneously) see as “morally unacceptable” — it’s like Boris is traveling the world with a crew of pirates. He’s probably seen drinking, all kinds of drugs commonly used in front of his face. He has esoteric knowledge about drug use that a child of his age should not — so he was taught by the miners: roll like this, dont include the stems, never mix this, tuck snuff like this, you can get this kind of drug here here and here, it isn’t safe if it doesn’t look like this. His young child’s mind eager to learn sucked up this black information from men who probably didn’t have a second thought to a child or what his developmental needs were. He’s probably first hand witnessed sex workers copulating with his father’s crew (how else would be have learned about the opportunity to lose his virginity in an Alaskan parking lot to a sex worker?), definitely thievery, and said he saw his father murder a man in the mine once and cover it up. Boris’ mind is full of a lifetime of this morally shadowed behavior being presented as normal, or at least secret but common.

I think he understands his attraction to boys in this same way. I think he feels it isn’t “appropriate” to share with Outsiders but it is something that Happens, something that is no one’s business but his own, and something that brings him pleasure and happiness and therefore something he will look for. However he knows it isn’t common or visible or “appropriate” to be showy about it in front of others — especially not people who could judge him (kids at school), kick him out (society), or hurt him (his father). Boris treats his attraction to Theo like his other vices and “bad” habits - barrels head first — but secret: deep dive into happy drug use (but don’t show his dad), steals everything he ever needs (but don’t let them see, put it in my coat), lies when it suits him (lies to Xandra and Larry and his father and Theo too), happily sleeps with Theo and has sex with him (but this is between you-and-me).

He knows other people might have a problem with his actions — but he does not. So that’s his hangup there. He is aware of and ever-vigilant of his surroundings. School: a safe place isolated from his father. He is free and happy to do what he wants at school — including crush on and go after Theo who he clearly likes. He thinks Theo is cute, flirts with him, tries to get him to notice him, talks to him after class, sits next to him on the bus, begs him to come over his house, tries to impress him with far-flung stories, gives him alcohol because it’s what he’s seen his father’s men do in pursuit of romantic partners or as a bonding ritual with one another.

Theo’s house is also a safe place. So safe in fact that Boris starts to leave behind some of the maladjusted development of his childhood and become more of a happy, clear-minded person. Boris and Theo suffer from arrested development and one of themes of the book is childhood lost. They are forced to mimic adults either knowingly or unknowingly, and act in ways that children should not have to in order to survive this Adult World alone. With one another they begin to heal from their traumas, their affection for one another the catalyst. Theo cooks for him, talks to a babbling eager-to-talk Boris (imagine how few people have listened to or understood the ideas of a smart boy like Boris, often surrounded by oafish alcoholics, his violent father where he is expected to keep quiet, or cultures where he does not speak the language), Theo sleeps next to him willingly, he likes Boris, a boy from New York (the top of the world!) he think Boris is funny and smart and worldly, shares his dog with him, hangs on his words, becomes his companion, cares for him if he drinks too much, tried to tend his wounds, welcomes him gratefully into his broken family, watches his favorite movies with him, celebrates holidays with him, inherently values him — and so starts to mend Boris’ broken heart.

A lot of things and viewpoints Boris has are clearly repetitions of things he has heard his father or the miners say — “Christmas is for children” (of course they’d say that to a tiny Boris longing for the magic of Christmas as a child stuck in a mining camp watching the peripheral joy of children around him and coming back to bleak hunger and a dark home), or “god yes I loved having sex with her” (about his hooker in the parking lot — Boris then says he knew she didn’t enjoy it and never shows enjoyment but rather avoidance towards women and girls in any genuine way afterwards, yet covets Theo’s physical company).

Theo on the other hand, who for a short while and then so painfully ripped from him, grew up with love. His natural disposition in Vegas comes from a place of being so recently loved and cherished by his mother and he here, in this lonely place, turns the focus of this disposition onto the one person who is kind and protective towards him: Boris — his one light in a life that has turned very dark. This is like an alien world to Boris. Lonesome and neglected Boris is touched and startled and soon changed by this kindness. So much so that Theo, unknowingly, alters the rest of Boris’ life (Boris feels Theo saved his life).

So that is why I believe the Kotku Gay Panic came about. After their climactic Vegas pool scene where their abuse and trauma is opened to one another (their wounds from their fathers, from fire, literally pouring into the purifying chlorine of the watery womb - mother - pool as they try to drown one another, angry at their attraction to one another, but then cling to and save one another instead) Boris begins to not just have fun and have sex and have freedom with Theo (all okay things by Boris’ standards as long as it is secret) — after that scene and they sleep together and Boris satisfies that teenaged human sexual need... they continue to hookup and be at bliss for a very long, happy time where they both begin to psychologically heal— Boris doesn’t just have sex and fun with Theo, he realizes he starts to love Theo.

Love - an extremely foreign concept to Boris who literally freaks the fuck out because he has no baseline for it. It isn’t the type of “love” that his father gives him (violent, untrustworthy), it isn’t the type of “love” the men who grew up around valued (cheap parking lot sex), it isn’t the kind of “love” his idol Larry has with Xandra (Larry lies to Xandra all the time), it isn’t the kind of “love” Boris has seen in his favorite movies (men and women over and over). No, this love with Theo is very very scary to him. Very perhaps dangerous. He doesn’t know.

I think Boris accepts his physical attraction to men as nbd. I think he probably feels most people feel such attractions or some other harmless private desires that certain people may see as an aberrant from “normal” for whatever reason (either typical kinks and silly hush hush sex shop porno stuff - or other far more despicable things he’s witnessed his father’s men do) and so thinks nothing of his own innocent, consensual goodtime-centered desires. Boris, who likely grew up with little exposure to healthy LGBTQ representation and has a very isolated POV in some ways, likely to some degree at the Vegas point in his life (however casually self-accepting he is) equates same-sex attraction with hush hush taboo sex activities — nothing to be ashamed of, but you’re not going to tell your dad.

As long as it is a personal thing, for him only, Boris embraces it. But it is the emotionality, the healing, the care, the love that freaks Boris out and makes him make a run for it to Kotku — only to recede to what he knows and repeat the exact kind of fake “love” he was taught by his father: unbelievable exclamations of devotion (Boris’ dad sobbing and telling him he loves him + “I love her I love her! She’s beautiful and perfect!”) coupled with the black truth (Boris’ dad beating the shit out of him + Boris beating Kotku).

Boris knows he likes boys but when he starts to love one — that’s when he runs away. Because that means something totally different: societally and personally.

#ask #anon #the goldfinch #boreo

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unpeumacabre · 4 years

Text

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 6

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting + more extensive author’s notes on the story)

Count: 8k

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“What do you mean,” Lee Chang says stonily, “when you say that my father is sick?”

“It is exactly as I have said, Your Highness,” Cho Hak-ju says quietly, and his voice is obsequious to the extreme. “His Majesty fell sick with smallpox two days ago, and he has been bedridden ever since. It is extremely contagious, and the Empress has asked that Your Highness refrain from visiting your father, for fear of catching the pox.”

“And yet she visits him without fear,” Lee Chang says, unable to stop the bitterness from slipping through to his voice. “If I may express my concern for my mother’s health… Surely it is too treacherous for her and my unborn brother to be exposed to such danger.”

“The Empress takes all necessary measures to keep herself safe,” Cho Hak-ju says, still in that odious tone of his. “Furthermore, she is young and healthy. Your Highness has just returned from a difficult trip, and you must take care of your body. It would not be advisable for you to expose yourself to the king as of now. Please be assured that we have employed the best of physicians to care for His Majesty, and they have assured us that he will recover soon.”

“I am his son!” Lee Chang shouts, finally unable to contain his fury. “I must see him. Is it not permissible for a son to visit his bedridden father, especially when this son is the Crown Prince of this nation?”

He whirls around and storms in the direction of the palace, but it is not long before the clear peal of an unsheathed sword rings through the air, and he stops as he feels the edge of a blade at his neck.

“Your Highness,” Beom-il says, “The Empress has issued her command. No one is to enter the king’s palace but the Chief Councillor and the Empress.”

Lee Chang turns around, very slowly. He looks at Beom-il, whose eyes are alight with some kind of unholy glee, despite Mu-yeong’s sword also levelled at his neck.

“You dare?” he says, softly. “You, a mere general of the army, dare draw your weapon on a member of the royal family?”

“Your Highness,” Beom-il murmurs again, “The Empress has given her orders. You are to obey, or I will have no choice but to defend the Empress’ command. It is for your own good, you know,” and he adds this with a small smile which shows far too many teeth.

“I am not afraid of you,” Lee Chang whispers. “I, who have been through hell and back. Draw my blood if you dare.”

There is a moment of silence, and Beom-il draws back marginally, as if in surprise at his sudden bravery. Lee Chang seizes the chance to continue striding briskly in the direction of the king’s palace.

He throws open the doors with little further resistance, with Beom-il, Cho Hak-ju, Mu-yeong and an entourage of Beom-il’s subordinates following closely behind. Lee Chang makes his way through the corridors of the palace, through the paths he knows all too well from his childhood.

When he thrusts the doors to his fathers’ chambers open, somehow it is anticlimactic to see the king seated there on his bed, reading a scroll and sipping tea. He does not look severely ill at all.

Cho Hak-ju and Mu-yeong follow quietly behind him, and shut the door – thankfully, Beom-il stays outside. Thankfully, because if Lee Chang has to look one more moment upon his smug smirking face, he does not know what he will do to him. Throttle him, perhaps, or punch him in his smiling face – both options sound terribly appealing to him at the moment, in his current state.

The king looks up in surprise at their entry, but when he sees it is Lee Chang, a weary smile crosses his face, and he puts down the scroll.

“My son,” he sighs. “You have returned. What news do you bring me from Dongnae?”

“Did my messages not reach you, father?” Lee Chang says, with some surprise. A frown creases the king’s brows.

“What messages?” he asks. “I have not heard from you since you left, almost two weeks ago. I did wonder why it was taking you so long simply to visit Dongnae and bring back news, but I assumed nothing could harm you with the palace guards by your side. … My son, you look rather pale. Whatever is the matter?”

“Your Majesty,” Lee Chang manages, the story of his entire past weeks on the tip of his tongue, but he pauses, and remembers that Cho Hak-ju is still by his side. He turns to him coldly. “Lord Cho,” he says, “Leave us. I must have my audience with my father alone.”

Cho Hak-ju bows, so low that the shadows cover his face, and walks backward out of the room. Mu-yeong shuts the door again behind him, and stands in front of the gap between the sliding panels, his face grim.

“My father,” Lee Chang presses on, “there have been grave events in the South. There is a plague ravaging the towns, and it is a man-made one. And now I find that you have not received any of my messages - and my way here was barred by members of the Haewon Cho clan! I have heard that the Empress has even barred entry to all but herself and her father. I was worried for your health, but I had to fight tooth and nail for entry here. What on earth is happening in Hanyang?!”

The king’s face tightens momentarily, then he exhales a deep, fatigued breath. “I began vomiting and experiencing body aches and pains two days ago,” he murmurs. “At first I thought it merely a result of stress, or a lack of sleep, but the Empress brought the physicians to see me immediately. They told me it was a mild case of smallpox, and that I was to stay in bed for the next week or so. Yet I do not know how I could possibly have caught this disease. Is this the plague you speak of, that now ravages the South?”

Lee Chang shakes his head furiously. “The contagion in the south is something far darker,” he says, and his voice has hardened. “It is a disease that allows for the persistence of the body after death, without persistence of the mind. Plainly-speaking, the disease turns all those it touches into mindless monsters who crave human flesh, and who cannot be turned aside by anything less than beheading and fire. Even a dozen arrows in their body will not kill them.”

The king’s eyes widen, bloodshot. “The resurrection plant,” he breathes. “No – it is not possible – I thought, three years ago - ”

“Father, you know of this disease?” Lee Chang asks, his voice suddenly high and reedy with disbelief.

“It was – our mistake – we had no choice - ”

The king begins to choke, and Lee Chang realises that there is something very wrong.

He starts to cough; loud, hacking coughs that tear at his throat and bring tears to his eyes, and he convulses on the bed in front of Lee Chang. Lee Chang surges forward, but almost immediately the doors are flung open and there are hands at his chest, his arms, pulling him away from his father – who is dying in front of his eyes.

One of the men who has entered goes straight to the king. From his robes, he is a court physician, and he checks the king’s temperature.

“He has a high fever,” the man announces, and carefully lays the king down onto his bed, one hand at his back and supporting his movement. “The pox has gotten worse. He must rest.”

No! Lee Chang rages internally. Not when they were so close to an answer! Not when his father… when his father had known…

And then Lee Chang looks at his father, frail and pallid and still coughing feebly into the air – for he had not the strength to lift his arm and cover his mouth – and Lee Chang realises that there is a very real possibility that his father will die.

“Father,” he whispers, at first, and then the word comes again as a roar. “FATHER!” he yells, but it is no use; he is dragged out of the room by the guards. The thud of the slamming doors jars his ears, and echoes with finality through the hallway.

Chest heaving with breaths he feels he is ill-equipped to take, he turns to Beom-il, who is still standing there in the middle of the hallway, hooded eyes watching him.

There is a very faint trace of a smile around his handsome lips. Lee Chang has never before felt so strongly the urge to commit violent murder.

“How dare you,” he rages. “How dare you lay your hands on me! How dare you separate me from my father! I am the Crown Prince of this nation!”

Beom-il does not react to the vitriol flung in his face, but stands there patiently as Lee Chang lambasts him with everything he can think of. It is only Mu-yeong’s hand gripped tight around his wrist that brings him back to his senses.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong shouts, and Lee Chang spins around to look at him. The face that fills his vision is an honest one, a face dear and familiar to him, and its eyes are filled with fear and worry. Lee Chang’s breaths echo like thunder in the hallway, and he becomes sharply aware of the silence that has descended upon the few people in the vicinity.

“Do not give him a reason to put you away!” Mu-yeong hisses, under his breath so the others do not hear. “Remember, they are looking for any excuse to take you out of their way. Do not give them that reason.”

Mu-yeong’s words are like a calming breeze, and slowly, Lee Chang feels his breaths return to normal, and he places a hand on his chest to steady himself. He glares at Beom-il.

“We are not finished,” he says coldly, drawing himself up to his full height and infusing all the imperiousness he can possibly muster into his voice. “I will return to see my father again, and you will not be able to stop me.”

“I welcome Your Highness to try again,” Beom-il murmurs, his voice soft and poisonous. “Indeed, your… care for your father is admirable, but then again, it is this care which has worsened your father’s condition and unnecessarily burdened his already fragile mind.”

“Your Highness, ignore him,” Mu-yeong says in an undertone. “There is nothing more we can do here.”

Lee Chang nods shortly, and storms out of the king’s palace, with Mu-yeong at his heels. He turns his head for a final glance at the compound, and Beom-il is standing, still, on the steps to the palace, flanked by his entourage of guards; his face a wooden mask, and his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Only when they are out of reach is Lee Chang able to fully relax. He slows his stride, and cannot stop himself from thrusting his fist into the nearby wall. It leaves a sizeable dent, and his knuckles broken and bleeding, but it manages to dissipate some of his fury.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong says in alarm, moving to stop him, but Lee Chang holds up his hand, a hand that trembles before he is able to get it to still.

“I am fine,” he manages, after a beat, forcing himself to breathe slower. It helps unclench the vice around his chest. “Thank you for your worry, Mu-yeong, and your guidance earlier. I am alright now.” He turns to Mu-yeong, and manages a weak smile.

Mu-yeong hesitates, then retracts his arm. “It was nothing,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I only wish to apologise for touching you earlier. Please do not annihilate my entire family for my sins.”

That gets an unwilling laugh out of Lee Chang, and he shakes his head. “I would never,” he says. “It was always a joke! Just a joke.”

“Jokes are meant to be funny,” Mu-yeong grumbles. His petulant words force another quick, startled laugh out of Lee Chang, and he cannot stop a fond sigh from escaping his mouth.

“Mu-yeong,” he says musingly, “Indeed, what would I do without you?”

“You’d be dead a few times over, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong answers primly, and with that, they begin to make their slow way back to the Crown Prince’s quarters.

Yeong-shin and Seo-bi have been given rooms there, and so they meet them at the door. Seo-bi is wringing her hands, although her face has an expression of forced calm. Yeong-shin is seated on the steps, picking at his nails with a knife, to the horrified glances of the palace maids.

Lee Chang has to restrain another laugh. It was not long ago that such actions would have repulsed him with their crudity, but now, he finds that such prudish notions matter little to him anymore. Instead, he finds it endearing.

Yeong-shin tilts his head up slightly to look at them as they pass the gates to Lee Chang’s palace compounds, and his eyes are dark with loss of sleep. Lee Chang feels his laugh die an early death in the back of his throat.

“Did you report the news to the king?” Seo-bi asks, her throat working as she swallows.

Lee Chang sighs, feeling the tedium of the morning come upon him again. “I conveyed some of the matter to him,” he replies, “but a violent fever came upon him in the midst of our discussion, and I was unable to speak to him further.” He glances around him, and it is only when he is certain that they are alone, that he continues.

“Seo-bi,” he murmurs, moving closer to her so that his voice does not carry, “my father did not appear to have signs of the pox when I saw him then. I have seen bodies of patients dead from smallpox, and my father lacked the boils and swellings that were typical of such patients. His only symptoms were vomiting and bodily aches and pains.”

The edges of her mouth turn downwards as she thinks. “When did he fall ill?”

“Two days ago.”

She sighs. “It is not unusual,” she answers. “During the initial onset of the disease, a high fever and vomiting are common symptoms, and the swellings will usually develop two to four days after.”

“So he might actually have contracted smallpox,” Lee Chang says, somehow feeling relieved.

Contrary to his expectations, Seo-bi shakes her head. “These are also shared symptoms for various poisons,” she continues. “Smallpox is common in these parts, and therefore physicians often diagnose smallpox pre-emptively, for the patients are then sent into forced isolation and bedrest, and therefore easily monitored from then on to see if it truly is the pox. However, it will be difficult to tell if this is indeed the case until the swellings and other characteristic signs of the disease emerge.”

“Poison?” Lee Chang says, in disbelief. “I had thought the timing all too convenient, but for them to use poison… How dare they!”

“We must find a way to check on him in two days time, when the symptoms become clear,” Mu-yeong says. “Your Highness may continue his report to the king then.”

Lee Chang grimaces. “At the moment, we have Physician Lee with us, and the plague in the South is more or less contained. While waiting for the chance to confirm my father’s symptoms, we must speak to the physicians and servants taking care of him. Perhaps they will know something. You have kept Physician Lee somewhere safe?” He directs this question to Mu-yeong, and the guard nods soberly.

“I have placed him secretly under the care of one of my friends, who is also a trained palace guard,” Mu-yeong replies. “The Haewon Cho clan – or whoever is behind this terrible plot, although I cannot begin to fathom who else would be capable of such evil – will be unable to touch him.”

“Good,” Lee Chang says approvingly. “Then we must initiate our investigations, although they must be kept absolutely secret. We will begin tomorrow – it is too late now. And perhaps,” he says quietly, almost shyly – although he would never have thought of using this word on himself – “we can break fast tomorrow, together.”

The others nod. “I will visit my dear wife now,” Mu-yeong says, his voice brightening, and his face visibly lifting at the prospect. “It has been long since I have seen her, and she is near term – I hope that I will be gifted with a precious son very soon.”

“Take the desserts from my table, and give her my regards,” Lee Chang answers. Mu-yeong’s smile is somehow infectious, and it is a slight balm of comfort in these trying times. It reminds him that there are things they are fighting for, each of them.

“Tomorrow, then,” Yeong-shin says, his voice quiet. “We will see you tomorrow.”

***

The morning brings jeongol, kimchi and kalguksu – dishes Lee Chang has missed the past few days they were on the road. The rich broth and taste of the meat is a welcome luxury he’d only appreciated when it had been lacking. Seo-bi and Yeong-shin dig into the food with relish and a distinct lack of manners, but as it is only the four of them in the room – and the occasional servant bringing new dishes – Lee Chang makes no object. It is probably the first time they have tasted food so savoury in a while, and it is only right that they enjoy it to the fullest.

They are silent at first, as they eat, but then Mu-yeong gets started on the topic of his wife, and it has always been difficult to stem the flow of words that follows such a beloved subject of his.

“The midwives say that she is close to labour,” Mu-yeong shares effusively. “Ah, I only regret that I will not be able to be there while she gives birth… but I do not think I will be able to stand the sight of her in so much pain. She is left in good hands. The many cousins she has in Naesonjae are good midwives, and they have promised to notify me the moment she goes into labour, so that I may head there with haste to greet my newborn child!”

“Do you think it will be a son or a daughter?” Lee Chang asks.

“It does not matter to me,” Mu-yeong answers, his smile almost splitting his face, “whether the child be male or female. I only pray that it will be a beautiful one – although with my dear wife’s looks, that is a given!”

“Ah, but Mu-yeong, you must remember, the child is your own as well,” teases Lee Chang, feeling himself settle and relax into the familiar rhythm of their conversation. “I would be more concerned about its looks if I were you.”

“Your Highness - !” The utterance is full of shock and betrayal, and it does not fail to elicit an amused huff from Lee Chang at the return of Mu-yeong’s theatrics. The conversation moves on smoothly from there, with even Seo-bi contributing a word here or there when it comes to her areas of expertise.

Yeong-shin, however, stays markedly silent.

“Did you sleep well?” Lee Chang finally ventures, attempting to draw him out of his shell. “Was the room to your liking?”

Yeong-shin utters a non-committal sound of assent, digging with renewed fervour into his rice, his eyes trained pointedly down.

“Oi,” Mu-yeong snaps, jabbing at him with his chopstick. “When His Highness asks you a question, you’d better answer properly. You listening?”

“It was good,” Yeong-shin says, the word guttural in his throat, and he says nothing else. After a beat of silence, during which all three of them watch him with varying degrees of annoyance and confusion, he chances a glance up at them, and sighs, an extremely put-upon sigh.

“I am tired,” he mutters. “Please excuse my silence.”

“You - ” Mu-yeong starts again, furiously, but Lee Chang places his hand on the table next to Mu-yeong, and he shuts up abruptly.

“It is understandable that you are tired,” Lee Chang says quietly. “You should get more rest then. You’ll need it if you wish to help with our investigations.”

“Rest assured I will be more than up to the task,” Yeong-shin answers, his voice brittle. “A few nights’ poor sleep will not hinder me from performing up to your expectations. You needn’t worry.”

“There’s no need to be so ornery, even if you’re tired,” Seo-bi speaks up sharply, and the disapproving glare in her eyes is enough to shut all three of them up. They continue to eat in silence, and this time, the air between them is fragile and thin.

When they are finished with his meal, Lee Chang lays down his chopsticks and waits for the servants to clear the plates. When they are finally alone, Mu-yeong checks outside the door and shuts it behind him after ensuring that there is no one in the vicinity.

“What would you have us do today?” Yeong-shin asks, in a more neutral tone. He seems to have recovered somewhat from his earlier, dourer mood.

“I will speak to some of the ministers and scholars who I know are loyal to me. I will need assistance,” Lee Chang says gravely, “if we are to take on the Haewon Cho clan. Seo-bi, you should speak to the palace physicians and see if you can find anything amiss. Yeong-shin and Mu-yeong,” he pauses for a moment, considering that it might not be the most ideal combination; but then again, he has little choice. “Speak to the palace guards and servants, especially the ones serving the king.”

The other three nod and raise no objection, apart from an unwilling glance Mu-yeong casts towards Yeong-shin.

“Stay safe, and keep this absolutely secret,” Lee Chang says. “We will see each other tonight.”

***

When they meet again later that day, they have little new information, and few new alliances. The same goes for the next day. While Lee Chang has many sympathisers among the ministers, they are unwilling to pit themselves against the power of the Haewon Cho clan. The only bright light remains that the scholars he had previously been plotting with are amenable to aiding him. With their bookish ways and tendency towards politicking, he does not think they would be useful if any open conflict were to break out, but they are useful political allies nonetheless. The situation is too precarious to allow a revolt of the sort he had been planning prior to his departure, what with his father’s sickness and the ever-present threat of Cho Hak-ju spreading the plague further, but any ally they can gather on their side is beneficial.

As for investigations around the palace, Seo-bi has made little inroads with the palace physicians. There are only two or three of them senior enough to treat the king, and they are constantly busy with his treatment. The other physicians know nothing – or, if they do, they will say nothing. The guards and servants Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin had spoken to are similarly tight-lipped, and they had not wished to risk raising excessive suspicion by prying too deep.

Yeong-shin’s awful mood has continued. He has not said anything rude or untoward, but Mu-yeong had never taken well to ornery tempers, and it is only the mediation of Seo-bi and Lee Chang that has prevented their shared meals breaking into a fight. Tensions run high at their lack of headway, and Lee Chang is glad when the sun rises on the morning of their fourth day in the capital, for today, he is sure they will finally uncover the truth of his father��s disease.

“I must see my father today,” he says determinedly, as the four of them break fast together again for the third time. “It is the fifth day of his disease.”

“However,” Yeong-shin says quietly, “What proof can you present to him?” He looks up from where he has been poking half-heartedly at his noodles, and his eyes meet Lee Chang’s. There is something in those eyes that makes Lee Chang shiver. He pauses, and considers his words carefully.

“I truly believe that there is no other plausible suspect,” he says at last. “Only Cho Hak-ju would have the knowledge, the power and the courage to carry out such a plan. Why else would his messenger to Dongnae disappear? Who else would have the motive to keep me away from Hanyang by sending me to Dongnae – most likely with the knowledge that a plague would be unleashed in the south, with little chance of survival for myself and my guard? It was only pure luck that we avoided dying during that first attack, before we found Jiyulheon.” Mu-yeong’s face tightens, and his shoulders shake at the memory of the guards – his friends – who had died for Lee Chang.

“Physician Lee said something, when he was drunk,” Seo-bi pipes up quietly, catching everyone’s attention. She recounts the story of her master’s uncharacteristic drunkenness a few days before the plague had hit Jiyulheon. “‘It was my mistake three years ago’ – that was what he said. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now it strikes me as odd. Why three years ago? What was his mistake?”

Something comes to Lee Chang’s mind then, something he too had missed. “My father mentioned something of the sort as well,” he exclaims sharply. “When first I told him of the plague, and before he was overcome by his fever, he spoke of the resurrection plant, and of ‘three years ago’ as well. Three years ago…” His fingers tighten around his chopsticks. “The end of the war. That is what they mean. Something happened three years ago at the end of the war, something that is related to the plague, and I must find out what.”

“Do you think Lord Ahn Hyeon might know?” Mu-yeong suggests. “He was in charge of the armies, and he won the war, after all. He must have been privy to everything that happened.”

Lee Chang nods. “He probably knows,” he says grimly. “It makes sense – his men knew immediately what to do with the monsters when they attacked Sangju. I thought little of it at the time, but now it seems out of place to me. But we do not have the time to write to him and wait for his reply. We must find out today, by speaking to my father.”

“Then we must leave right away,” Yeong-shin says, standing from the table in a swift, explosive motion. “There is no time to waste.”

They hurry to the king’s palace. Seo-bi stays behind, but Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow closely behind him.

“Your Highness,” Beom-il says coolly, barring the way to the gates of the king’s palace, his sword unsheathed and pointing directly at Lee Chang’s throat. “I thought you learned your lesson two days ago, but apparently not. Here you are again to torment your father who – may I remind you – is fighting for his life on the sickbed, and hardly in any state to tend to your childish tantrums.

“And who, dare I ask,” he murmurs, casting a cold glance over Lee Chang’s shoulder, “are your companions? Mu-yeong I know, your faithful dog, but this man… this man is new. Do you make it a habit of yours to surround yourself with paltry rabble from the south, now? My, how far the Crown Prince has fallen, such that he takes even a mere peasant into his entourage. Are there insufficient guards in the palace to keep you company? Or insufficient whores?”

“How dare you speak to me and my companions in such a manner,” Lee Chang says, his voice infused with quiet fury. “You are merely a hunting dog of the Haewon Cho clan. You serve little purpose other than the lick the feet of your master and pray for scraps to fall from the heavens. What gives you the right to speak to the Crown Prince of this nation with so insolent a tone?”

He unsheathes his sword, and the glint of sunlight off its blade out of the corner of his eye comforts him, although it will do him little good if Beom-il actually decides to strike.

Beom-il’s face tightens. The words have found their mark.

But then something strange happens. Instead of stepping aside to allow Lee Chang entry, a smile spreads over his face, and his teeth flash.

“Has Your Highness not heard the joyous news?” he says, a hint of manic glee in his voice.

“What news?” Lee Chang snaps, already at the end of his patience. The blade at his neck does not tremble or falter, so steady and arrogant is the hand of its owner.

Beom-il pauses, as if to savour the words, then:

“Her Majesty has gone into labour,” he purrs. “Soon she will grace us all with a son, a Crown Prince of true and pure royal blood. And soon,” he steps closer to Lee Chang, so close that Lee Chang can feel his breath on his cheeks, “soon will come the hour that a mere general of the army may draw his blade against your neck, and cause you to bleed.”

With that, he lifts his blade and slices swiftly at Lee Chang. There is a cut-off cry of anger behind him, a beat, and then the blade stays its movement in Lee Chang’s shoulder.

First he feels nothing. Then, as the blood trickles down his arm and pools in a puddle on the ground, a sharp streak of lightning rips through his nerves, followed by a dull thunderous ache that spreads through every fibre in his body. He feels his body begin to shudder.

But this pain is nothing compared to the agony, the fatigue, the hopelessness, the feeling of being so close to dying that he could practically taste his last breath on his lips – emotions which had been an everyday part of his life for the past few weeks.

This? This is nothing.

Calmly, so Beom-il cannot see his composure broken, he lifts his other arm and wraps his fingers around Beom-il’s wrist. It is probably the surprise, he thinks dully, that renders Beom-il’s sword arm temporarily robbed of strength, allowing him to lift the arm and drag the blade out of his shoulder. It hurts like a fucking bitch, but his pride keeps the hurt out of his face, and his hands unwavering.

There is a clang as Beom-il’s sword falls to the ground, and a rush of feet that only dimly permeates Lee Chang’s hearing. Instead, keeping his eyes locked on Beom-il’s, he rips a piece of silk off the bottom of his coat, and binds it tightly round his arm. The blood dyes it red in an instant, but the tightness of the cloth blunts the pain.

“I will see my father,” he says, through clenched teeth, “and it will be in spite of you. A mere general of the army may now lift his blade against my neck, it is true, but it does not mean that I will not return the blow. Nor will I bleed. You will not find me so easy to kill.”

Beom-il’s eyes are white-hot with fury, and the handsomeness of his face is curiously diminished by the anger distorting his face.

Lee Chang is fully intent on storming the palace now - now that he has the upper hand - but hands on both his arms stop him.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong cries out, the anguish in his voice plain. He is the one restraining Lee Chang on the left. “There are too many guards. We cannot possibly fight our way through them.”

Only then does Lee Chang look up and realise that their spat has amassed a larger audience. Beom-il’s compatriots, skilled soldiers and guards in their own right, have assembled round their group. Their faces are as stone, and their blades are sharp.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says again, this time in a quick, hushed whisper, “Let us make a tactical retreat. You are injured, and we are outnumbered. This will not end well.”

Lee Chang maintains his stare with Beom-il for a moment more, and the man must see something different in his eyes, for he takes an involuntary step back, his own eyes shuttering with bitter hate. Lee Chang savours the moment.

Then he turns and strides off without a backwards glance. Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow quickly.

But the moment they are out of sight and hearing of Beom-il and his pack of stooges, Mu-yeong does an unexpected thing. He spins around, seizes Yeong-shin’s collar, and throws him up against the nearest wall. There is an audible crack as Yeong-shin’s head slams against the wood; he bites off a gasp of pain.

“YOU!” Mu-yeong roars, shaking Yeong-shin by his collar.

“What are you doing, Mu-yeong!” Lee Chang shouts. “Have you gone mad?” Dizzy from the blood loss and infuriated by having to back down from Beom-il, his temper is frayed enough already as it is without Mu-yeong adding fuel to the fire. He does not grab Mu-yeong like he wants to, but storms to his side instead, and levels a glare at him.

“Why did you hesitate?!” Mu-yeong yells, continuing to shake Yeong-shin. The man’s teeth rattle as his head lolls back and forth. Surprisingly, he makes no move to retaliate, and it is this strangeness of his actions which gives Lee Chang pause.

“I saw you lift your hand to defend His Highness – you were closer, you could have defended him – and yet you hesitated,” continues Mu-yeong, in a tone that is quieter, yet no less fearsome. “Your hesitation could have cost him his life, if Beom-il’s cowardice had not raised its head at the last moment. How can we trust you when you have committed such a great breach of our faith?! Your Highness!” and Mu-yeong turns his imploring eyes back to Lee Chang.

“Do you not see?” he pleads. “We have trusted this man too much and too long, in my opinion, and finally he has now shown his true colours - as nothing more than a dog which bites the hand that feeds it. We cannot put our faith in this man any longer. He must be an agent of the Haewon Cho clan, set upon us to kill you.”

Lee Chang turns to Yeong-shin.

“Is this true?” he says quietly, and his shoulder burns like fire.

Yeong-shin meets his eyes. His mouth is a thin line, and underneath his hooded eyes, his gaze is as fierce as ever.

“If I had wanted to kill you,” he rasps, “you would be dead by now.”

Lee Chang holds his gaze, and he reads no lie in those clear eyes.

“Your Highness, he has not answered the question,” Mu-yeong says furiously. “Remember, he is a mercenary for hire. They do not care for allegiances, only for who has the largest purse. I saw it clear as day – he raised his hand to stop Beom-il’s blade, but at the last moment something held him back.”

“Let him down, Mu-yeong,” Lee Chang says calmly, and Mu-yeong’s eyes fill with betrayal.

“Do you not trust me, Your Highness?” he whispers. “After all my years of service?”

Lee Chang lays a hand on his shoulder. Mu-yeong’s body jerks at the sudden touch, and he looks down at Lee Chang’s hand with an expression bordering on complete bewilderment.

“It is not that I do not trust you,” Lee Chang says quietly, “but this man – Yeong-shin – I cannot count the number of times he has saved my life. In Jiyulheon, in Dongnae, in Sangju, in Jecheon – each time, he has been willing to lay down his life for me. As have you,” he adds, as Mu-yeong opens his mouth to interrupt. “How could I doubt you, my dearest and most faithful of my servants? But Mu-yeong, we need all the allies we can find, and Yeong-shin has proven himself true so far.”

“But - ”

“Have some faith in my judgement,” Lee Chang continues swiftly on, with a tired laugh. “I am no longer a child. I can make judgements on my own, and this is my verdict. Let Yeong-shin down, Mu-yeong.”

Slowly, unwillingly, Mu-yeong’s hand lowers, and Yeong-shin’s feet touch the ground. As Mu-yeong’s hand loosens from Yeong-shin’s collar, he glares daggers at the other man.

“Hurt a hair on His Highness’ body,” he hisses, “and even the crows will find nothing of your body.”

Yeong-shin dips his head in acknowledgement, his fists clenched at his side. Then his gaze turns to Lee Chang.

“I apologise,” he says stiffly, but Lee Chang can read the true meaning of his words in the tightness around his mouth, and the weary set of his shoulders. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry I hesitated. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me.

He wonders when it became so easy for him to read Yeong-shin.

“Your shoulder - ” Yeong-shin makes an abortive gesture towards the wound in question, and Lee Chang becomes dimly aware of the throbbing pain and the gradually-spreading stain across the silk wrapping his injury.

“Yes,” he says vaguely. “My shoulder. It does not hurt as much anymore.”

But it hurts, hurts even worse than before, when Seo-bi is pressing a cold compress against the raw edges of his wound, and he is muffling his screams with a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth. Has there ever been such ignominy, he thinks with regret, in his short short life? Even the alcohol he had consumed beforehand – pressed into his hands by a very insistent Seo-bi – fails to dull the pain.

“Keep still,” Seo-bi says calmly, holding him down with just one arm and her stern words. Lee Chang stops squirming, even though the fire in his shoulder is now gradually spreading up his neck and down his sides.

When she is done with the stitches, she lets him up so she can fetch the bandages. Lee Chang stares at the wound, now an ugly gash across the meat of his shoulder. The stitches are neat and efficient, but they do little to hide the scar.

Lee Chang thinks perhaps he should be more concerned. He has always been good-looking, after all, with unblemished skin and a good body, and even the bouts of sparring he had had with Lord Ahn Hyeon or other trainers in his youth had left no permanent scars. He had prided himself on his handsomeness, taking it as his due as the prince of the nation.

And now he has allowed Beom-il to mark him.

He waits for the shame at his ugliness to sink in, but strangely, he feels nothing.

It will remind me of what I have to do, he finds himself thinking. Of what it will cost me to protect myself, and my companions, and this nation. It is a mark, not of shame, not of courage, but of duty.

Seo-bi returns, and the gaping wound disappears gradually under the pure white fabric of the bandage. Lee Chang watches the movement of Seo-bi’s hands, small and graceful, yet decisive and firm in their actions. She removes her hand only when the gash has been tightly bandaged up, and it can no longer be seen.

Yeong-shin and Mu-yeong enter the room then, as if in response to some unspoken signal. Mu-yeong’s face is a grim mask.

“We must sneak in tonight,” he says. “Physician Lee has disappeared from the home of the man I assigned to guard him. The guard says he never let Physician Lee out of his sight, but he was taken from the room in which he was confined early this morning.”

Lee Chang does not blame him, but he feels the anxiety raise goosebumps on his skin. It baffles and angers him how far-reaching the Haewon Cho clan’s network of spies extends, so much so that they are always one step ahead of his plans.

“Then you are right. We must enter the palace tonight,” Lee Chang answers sombrely. “We have lost a crucial witness. I cannot deny that it is a setback, but there is still time to upend the Haewon Cho clan’s plans, if we can get the approval of the king to take the villains into custody.”

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong protests. “Surely you are not planning to sneak into the palace with us? You are still injured!”

“He is my father,” Lee Chang says decisively. He suddenly realises that this is the first time he has fully meant the word. In his mind, the king of Joseon had always been just that – a king. A distant, vaguely-commanding figure who had been larger than life, and yet barely present in his childhood. Lee Chang cannot say that he does not resent the man for it, but now that it is clear that his father’s days alive might well be numbered, something burns in his chest.

“He is my father,” Lee Chang repeats, softer this time, but no less certain. “This matter is a grave one, and he must hear of it from my mouth – especially when it concerns treason on the part of such a respected clan as the Haewon Cho clan.”

Mu-yeong looks as if he wants to argue further, but after a moment’s pause, he subsides reluctantly. All of them know the truth in Lee Chang’s words – with news such as that they bear, only the Crown Prince can deliver it to the king, for it would not be believable from any other person’s lips.

“Then we will come with you, and protect you,” Mu-yeong says finally. “The guards change their shift at yushi, and it will be easy to sneak in then, just when the sun is beginning to set. I know the guards on rotation tonight, and they are a relatively more lax bunch than the rest, even when charged with protection of the king’s palace.”

“That is hardly good,” Lee Chang says reprovingly, but he feels his mouth twitch into an unwilling smile. “That is a good plan. We must rest and recover our strength for tonight’s foray, then.”

“Especially you,” Seo-bi speaks up suddenly, arresting Lee Chang with her glare. Lee Chang winces under her stern eye. He’d been planning to do some extra reading to consolidate his thoughts… and send some letters to potential allies… but that can wait, he thinks, as Seo-bi’s gaze pins him to the ground.

Later that night, they follow Mu-yeong’s lead, and find their way into the king’s palace. The guards are incautious, and spend minutes exchanging bawdy words and banter before the changing of the guard is complete, allowing the three of them to make their way unseen into the palace. The doors shut silently behind them, and Lee Chang lets out a soundless exhale of relief. He makes eye contact with Mu-yeong, who nods with approval.

There is a faint whoosh of air next to him as Yeong-shin unsheathes his blade. He had opted not to bring his musket, for it would not be useful in these close quarters, and is far from subtle in its action.

Lee Chang takes quiet comfort in knowing they are both by his side.

The floorboards do not creak as they pad their way stealthily through the corridors, for they are well-kept and clean. Lee Chang knows the way through the palace like the back of his hand, even from the side entrance from which they had entered, and soon, it is no time at all before they reach the king’s rooms.

Surprisingly, there is no one guarding the way, and Lee Chang feels his suspicions rise. A shared glance with Mu-yeong confirms for him that he is not alone in his feeling that it has been far too easy a process of gaining entry. He feels his fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword, and the rough edges cut into his palm.

Lee Chang places his hand on the handle of the door. He hesitates, just a moment, before he draws the door back and takes his first steps through.

The scene that greets his eyes tears a horrified gasp from his throat. There is a figure crouched down, its clothes matted with blood and his fingers buried in the intestines of a woman lying on the ground, with gore splattering the floor around him. The contents of her guts spill obscenely from her open stomach; her mouth is open in a silent scream of agony. Blood trails from her lips.

Her tongue has been cut out, and her body is still convulsing. She is still alive.

As Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow Lee Chang through the door, Mu-yeong exhales sharply in shock and disgust. There is a metallic ring as he brandishes his sword and steps forward, as if to bar Lee Chang from further entry, but Lee Chang lays a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back. He unsheathes his own blade, and his hand trembles – not from fear, but from a deep, raw anger, for the monster turns its head at that moment to stare right into his eyes, and its face is the face of his father.

“Your Majesty,” Lee Chang rasps. “Father. Oh god – father - ”

He had been alive but two days ago. Two days ago, he had been seated on the bed, his eyes bright and alert despite his fragile, bedridden state. Two days ago, he had spoken to Lee Chang in his rich, cold voice, and two days ago, Lee Chang had called him father.

Now, he is no longer alive.

“Your father he is,” says a smooth, sinuous voice, as Cho Beom-il steps out from the shadows, his blade pointed towards Lee Chang’s neck. “But the king, he is not. At least, not for much longer.” A vile smirk splits his face from ear to ear, and he steps closer.

Lee Chang’s shoulder aches. He forcibly suppresses the pain.

There is suddenly a discordant shriek as the monster-that-was-once-king throws itself at the new victims which have entered its territory, and chains wrapped around his ankles stop him before he gets very far. He falls to the ground with a painful thump, and his arm jerks to the side with a crack. Bones have broken, Lee Chang thinks dimly, and yet his father – this monster – does not react. It prostrates itself on the ground, clawing desperately at thin air, its arm dangling loosely and swinging from side to side, and Beom-il spits on its hair.

“This is the rightful position of your clan, Your Highness,” Beom-il says, returning his attention to them. “At the feet of the Haewon Cho clan, grovelling for mercy. You have always been arrogant, Your Highness, and you’ve always thought yourself above me. That all changes tonight. Go,” and he gestures towards the corpse with his other hand.

Lee Chang looks at him in disbelief and confusion. Beom-il sighs, an extremely put-upon sigh, and gestures again towards the monster, carelessly.

“’Tis a monster, is it not?” he says. “You know how to kill it.”

Lee Chang’s mind races. There is something wrong here, but he does not know what. Why would Beom-il be allowing him to slaughter the king? What purpose does he have for turning the king into a monster? Why is Beom-il alone?

“Go!” shouts Beom-il, more forcefully this time. The tip of his blade grazes Lee Chang’s neck. But he does not flinch, even as he feels the warm trickle of blood begin to drip down his skin. His jaw hurts, with how tightly it is clenched.

“Fine,” Beom-il says, with a shrug. “It does not matter, anyway. All that has to happen tonight is the discovery of your body and the king’s, in the same room, with your sword buried in his chest. It does not matter who actually beheads the monster. I suppose I will have to do all the dirty work, as usual.” And with that, he lifts the sword, and brings it down.

There is no doubt about it. This time, the blade is aimed at Lee Chang’s neck. The movement is so swift, and so practised, that while Lee Chang lift his own sword to defend himself, he knows he will be too late.

Survive, he hears his father’s voice ring in his ears. Even if it all seems hopeless, remember that you were born as the heir to the throne, and that it is your birth-right.

So he does not falter, does not close his eyes in acceptance of his death, for to do so would be giving in – would be surrendering to the dominance of the Haewon Cho clan. Even in death, he refuses to give them that satisfaction. And so he watches while Beom-il’s blade descends, in slow motion, even as his own arms lift futilely to defend the blow.

But the death he is waiting for, never comes.

He staggers backwards as a body collides with his, and it is Yeong-shin who places himself between Lee Chang and Beom-il – Yeong-shin who catches the blow on his blade. There is an awful screech as the blades collide at an angle, and Beom-il’s sword slides off. Lee Chang feels a hand close around his forearm and thrust him bodily away from the line of attack, and Mu-yeong places himself grimly by Yeong-shin’s side.

Dazedly, Lee Chang wonders how Yeong-shin had managed to avert the blow. Even Mu-yeong had moved a second too late to defend him – even Lee Chang himself, who had been the closest, had not been in time. Yeong-shin would have had to foresee the blow coming, to have defended against it.

He is a warrior indeed, Lee Chang thinks to himself, dimly. Worthy of the title of chakho.

And now it is Beom-il who is pinioned by Yeong-shin’s blade at his neck. He is caught off guard for a just a moment, his handsome dark eyes widening in surprise at the turn of events. Then, surprisingly, he laughs.

“Why do you laugh?” Mu-yeong demands, roughly. “As if there is anything to laugh about at this moment in time!”

“There are many secrets in this palace, Your Highness,” Beom-il says, completely ignoring Mu-yeong. “Surely that was one of the lessons Lord Ahn Hyeon taught you. And if there are secrets, that means there are people who guard those secrets jealously.”

Lee Chang feels an itch begin under his skin. He knows he must not listen to Beom-il’s poison, but still, something keeps him silent, and keeps him listening. He feels a sense of foreboding begin to trickle into his mind.

“Be quiet!” Mu-yeong roars. But Beom-il does not obey.

“I shall tell you one of those secrets for free,” Beom-il whispers, his smile turning sly and smug. “This secret concerns one of your friends. Would you like to guess – which one?”

“Either of these men,” Lee Chang says, and his voice is rough, “I would trust with my life.”

“You might change your answer,” Beom-il says viciously, “when you hear what I have to say.”

“Do not listen to his venom, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong hisses. “If you say the word, we will cut off his head like the foul beast that he is. Just say the word.” Yeong-shin emphasises his words by pressing the blade deeper into Beom-il’s neck, and it makes the man shudder involuntarily.

“One of your friends,” Beom-il repeats. “One of your warriors in arms. Who will it be, Your Highness? Who can you trust?”

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selfships-in-spanish · 4 years

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UH YES HI HELLO CAN I GET ALL THREE ROBO BOYS AND ONA GETTING IT ON BC CONNOR, 60, AND RICHARD ?? WITH ONA ? FUCK YES, BRING ON ALL THE ROBO DICKS - filth anon 🍆

JFORGHFASD FILTH ANON!! I MISSED YOU AROUND HERE MY FELLOW SINNER. WELCOME BACK MY FRIEND!!!! But jesus fucking Christ, Ona is about to get thoroughly fucked by three very horny robots. RIP her pussy.

Also MILLION APOLOGIES for taking this long but the horny braincell didn’t want to cooperate. AT LAST! IT IS HERE! :D also a bazillion thanks to @tinmiss1939 for being such a sweetheart and helping me out when english also didn’t want to cooperate. I love you girl ❤️

But this is filth. Pure, unadulterated smut for your reading eyes :D enjoy!

Whoever had the idea of making a field day for the police station as a fundraising with activities and such, was both a genius and a sadist. Especially in summer.

It was hot, you could hear the bugs chirping and people seeking the shadow of trees and tents if they were not engaging in any activity, cool drinks in hand. The water-gun fight was a godsend, helping those who were battling to cool down under the unforgiving sun.

But Connor thought it was absolute torture to be involved in the water-gun fight. Not for the fight per se, he actually loved spraying water directly into Detective Reed’s face, but because he had to fight against Detective Boix.

Detective Boix who is a complete drenched mess.

She’s laughing, ducking behind a barrel while another officer tries to soak her even more. Connor cannot remember the name, and right now he couldn’t care less. All his processing power is currently occupied with preconstructions about sneaking behind her, aim with an unmatched precision, soak that patch that is resisting so bravely, making her turn around so he can add even more water to her front and–

“If you continue with that train of thought, you’re going to self-combust.” Richard, the RK900 that was found, awakened and deployed on the DPD, spoke behind him. He was close too, and judging by his red LED, he wasn’t fairing better.

“The same could apply to you.”

“I still have more processing power.”

“All that mighty power goes south when dear Detective Boix is near.” another voice identical to Connor spoke on their left side. This was the RK800-60, the version generated to confront Connor at cyberlife tower. He liked going by the name of Killian, trying to distance himself from his double and his upgraded model. It gave him a sense of self.

Richard looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a glare that clearly indicated “that is utter bullshit and you’re not immune either”. He would never admit to his bratty predecessor that he, indeed, had certain malfunctions when the detective was near. He was designed to be superior than them, faster, stronger, more resilient…

Killian and Richard heard Connor produce some sort of noise, a mix between a whimper and grinding metal. They looked at him, a little bit concerned, and then at Connor’s hands gripping tightly the gun. If he added a little bit more pressure, he would break it. His eyes were glued ahead, watching Ona squealing and then laughing again when Tina aimed right at her butt.

Ona was wearing shorts that hugged her… assets rather nicely. Her legs were on display, honey skin glistening with water. If the three RK prototypes focused on the freckles and cute moles sprayed on them like constellations, nobody could blame them for that.

The sound of footsteps alerted them, but they were more focused at the view in front of them. Ona ducked another water spray and aimed her water gun, hitting Tina right on her stomach. The droplets moved down her skin, their eyes following the paths and even preconstructing where would they end up. The RKs knew the footsteps belonged to a male, judging by the way the person moved, and as their processors detected, they belonged to a coworker. A young male.

Without looking away, the three androids raised their water guns and with deadly accuracy, sprayed the poor soul who thought they could sneak on them. They heard a yell and colourful curses, their victim stomping away.

“Fuck you, you plastic pricks!” Gavin shook the water off his face, blinking rapidly as Richard’s jet hit him right in his eyes. Connor hit his torso, while Killian soaked the front of his jeans, leaving Gavin to feel very uncomfortable every time he took a step.

“That’s what you get for sneaking behind three state of the art androids, you fool.” Hank laughed while making his addition to the soaked mess that was Gavin. He aimed to his shoes, knowing they would do squeaky noises until they dried. He walked over the three androids, chuckling to himself. “I know better than to try to soak you three, but I must tell you that you look creepy as fuck right now. I suggest moving your asses and join the battle and stop ogling our darling detective over there.”

Connor gasped, slightly offended. “I am not ogling!” At least he had the decency to slightly blush.

“We are merely assuring Detective Boix is alright, should she need reinforcements.” Richard knew Hank was staring at him with his bushy brow raised and giving him the “oh really?” face. He had to try.

“Oh yeah? Then why not assist her now? She clearly needs help.” Hank nodded in Ona’s direction.

Ona ran away from the combined power of Chris and Tina, laughing and blindly shooting jets of water. Somehow, Chris managed to get a Super-Soaker model with way more water capacity; he could drench you in seconds.

“I guess I’ll have to be her knight in shi–” Killian took a few steps forward until Connor shoved past him, Richard sprinting behind him. He cursed and ran after them two, not wanting to be the last to arrive.

Hank looked at the three of them, crossing his arms and chuckling. “State of the art my ass.” He went back to the forgiving shade of a tree where Fowler and her wife and kids were chatting with Ben, who was being victim of the kid’s water guns. Hank saved him and sprayed them lightly, making them squeal.

Meanwhile, Ona managed to escape from Chris and Tina and took this opportunity to go refill her gun and take a breather. It had been a long time since the entire precinct had a good time. With the whole android revolution mess, the changes that came after and everything… it had been chaos, stressful. Everyone was on edge, everyone was confused and trying their best, so this was truly an opportunity to wind down and forget about the stress for a while.

She entered the visitors locker room behind the courtyard where they were having their fight.

Detroit’s high-school lended their facilities, the trackfield and locker rooms too, to the DPD’s fundraiser. Even the kids helped with some decorations and they proudly showed the artwork, making sure no jets of water hit the decorative paper garlands and banners. Richard would make sure the murals survived, he still didn’t know how to react with the fact that some kids decided to draw him, but he would protect it.

Ona hoped nobody was there; she just needed a little bit of quiet. She sighed blissfully, smiling as she felt the cool air caress her wet skin, and walked to one of the multiple sinks while opening the water-guns’s refill chamber. The sound of water splashing inside the empty plastic filled the locker room, the sounds of children giggling and screaming muffled and in the distance. She looked at herself in the mirror, letting out a soft laugh at her appearance. Her t-shirt was completely drenched and her white curls were glued to her forehead and face, some droplets falling down. She thanked whatever deity that was there that she decided to wear a bikini, knowing Chris and Tina had a massive competitive streak and would absolutely target Ona.

She did not hear the door of the visitors locker room opening and closing, too busy thinking about strategies to fight back against Chris and Tina. Once the water-gun was filled to the brim, Ona closed it and left it on top of the sink, stretching her arms and back like a cat, even letting out a sigh when some parts popped into place. She was suddenly hit by an ice-cold water jet on the last dry spot on her back.

Ona let out a loud shriek, jumping and bumping her hip on the sink. Colourful curses followed while she went for her water-gun, turning around to see Connor, Killian and Richard standing right there with Connor’s water-gun raised. He had the decency to look a little bit guilty about it. Ona left the gun back on the sink.

“Me cago en la leche, you scared me!” She had her hand on her chest, feeling her heart beating wildly while the other one cradled her bruised hip.

“Sorry Detective.” Connor lowered his arm and kicked at an imaginary stone. Ona marvelled at the completely human reactions he had sometimes.

“You are not sorry at all, Connor.” Killian crossed his arms, smugly smiling at Connot for being scolded.

Ona sighed, ignoring Killian and Connor’s guilty face for a second and noticing Richard way more silent than he already was.

“Everything okay there, Richard?”

He stood into attention, nodding, but all he could process was ‘wet shirt, bikini top, wet skin, freckles, wet translucent shirt…’.

“Yes Detective Boix, everything is functioning at its optimal—“

“He’s about to fry his CPU.” Killian stopped Richard mid sentence, trying to stifle a laugh at Richard’s murderous expression thrown at him.

“What?” Ona gasped, stopping whatever action Richard may have done. She ran to his side, carefully grasping his uniform jacket. “Oh my God Richard, did something happen? Did water get in someway? Do we need to take you to a Cyberlife technician? If it’s this bad we need to take you to one.” Ona went on and on, alarmed at the led spinning violently red.

The three androids internally cooed at her, her distress making them feel appreciated. Richard tried to say something but all his processing power was focused on to not accidentally overheat and the wet white t-shirt that clung to her snugly, not leaving anything to the imagination. Now that she was closer, he could see her glistening skin, feel the warmth of her body, and he honestly was only a good little android trying so hard to be a good little android.

Killian wasn’t a good little boy scout like Connor or Richard. He was a handsome devil and he knew it. He approached them and stood right behind Ona. Grinning, he let his lips brush her ear as he spoke.

“This is solely because Mr. ‘Faster, Stronger and more Resilient’ is having his processing power go south.”

Killian made Ona jump and gasp as he tugged her t-shirt back, tightening and gluing itself on her body. Her bikini top pattern became more apparent and Richard let out a soft frustrated sound, raising his hands but not daring to touch yet. Killian chuckled, sending pleasant shivers down Ona’s spine.

“You have been a bad girl, Detective,” Killian sneaked a hand around her body, exploring her belly and toying with the hem of her shorts. “A bad, bad girl, teasing us three with such indecorous clothing.” Killian knew it was a very cheesy line, but Ona’s sharp intake of air made him grin, knowing she was getting on with the program.

On the corner of his eye, Killian saw Connor silently move, walking to the visitors locker room entrance and locking the front door. The click of the lock felt as if a rubber band snapped. Richard dropped the plastic gun to the floor and grasped her face in his big hands, pulling her to his lips. Ona’s little moans were engulfed by Richard, her hands desperately holding onto him on his passionate onslaught.

Richard knew humans needed to breathe and Ona was not an exception. He let go of her lips, feeling her pants on his wet ones. Killian wasted no time, he let go of her to turn her head to him, crashing his lips into hers hard. He was demanding, hungry, needy, desperate, and Ona couldn’t help but be consumed by the pure lust he emanated.

Her moans fueled him further, his hands touching and grabbing all the flesh he could. Ona felt Richard go to his knees, his warmth disappearing momentarily. He unfastened her trousers and pulled them down, looking up in time to see Killian give her a moment to breathe. She looked down and whimpered, her blown pupils swallowing her green irises. Richard was a sight to behold, all disheveled and visibly affected, opposite to his usual composed and perfect self.

Connor sat down on the bench close to them, enjoying the show in front of him, for now. Killian was always impatient, wanting to go quick and dirty, while Richard wanted to take all the time in the world to make sure Ona wouldn’t be able to even lift a finger. He was patient, alright, but her heaving chest and arched back was bewitching him.

Maybe he accidentally projected some of that eagerness to join in the fun, because Killian looked right at him while leaving a sloppy trail of kisses on her neck, perfect teeth nipping the soft skin. Connor frowned, not entirely happy with that.

“Don’t leave marks, Killian. At least not on visible places.” Killian groaned, upset that Connor discovered his intentions. He loved to mark her up and let everyone know she was his, to see her flesh react to his actions. It was such a treat to hear her sweet moans.

“Party pooper…” Ona could feel Killian’s whispered words on her neck, his tongue following after.

Richard busied himself with her thighs, kissing the droplets away and following the pattern of freckles on her skin. He took one of her legs and lifted it gently, placing it down on his shoulder. He left a trail of more kisses and soft brushing of lips, raising goosebumps on its wake. Richard’s hands traveled up until he found the strings of the bikini bottoms, toying with them. He decided to leave them on, for now.

Ona’s leg trembled, followed by a whimper, and Richard decided it was time to do what every single biocomponent was begging him to. Slowly he traced a finger on the bikini hem, travelling up and down until he hooked it and pulled the fabric to the side, just enough for him to see what he was looking for.

She was a soaked mess, her juices dripping out of her. Richard licked his lips in anticipation.

A soft mewl tore itself out of Ona’s mouth, her hands going immediately to Richard’s head and gripping his hair tightly, the moment Richard’s tongue shyly lapped her up. He gave kitten licks, enjoying her squirming and trembling thighs, and pleasedly sighed when he buried his face between her legs. He loved to be surrounded by her warmth, her scent, her taste… and to pull the most lovely sounds from her lips. Richard decided he could be bolder, lick a stripe up and busy himself with her clit that was begging him for attention. The response was immediate. Ona moaned loudly, a curse following after as the hands tightened their hold and pressed him even closer to her.

Connor loved watching Ona get eaten out by Richard. He was meticulous, he always gave everything to it and left Ona an absolute mess. But her fucked out expression was a treat. He could feel himself constricted in his clothes, his biocomponents begging for fresh, cold air. He could wait. Okay, scratch that, he couldn’t, her moan made that patience fly out the window.

The sound of Connor’s belt buckle being undone made Ona look to the side, letting out a soft mewl when she saw Connor touching himself while focusing all his attention on her. It felt exhilarating, to have these three gorgeous, brilliant men (who happened to be the most advanced prototype androids ever made) having their way with her and enjoying every damn second of it. Killian didn’t like how her attention was on Connor, and he made sure she knew by biting her exposed neck. Connor’s growl made Ona wetter, which in turn made Richard let out a pleased groan at the feel of her juices coating his mouth and chin.

“I said no visible marks, Killian.”

“Oh c’mon, don’t deny how much it turns you on to see everyone look at you green with envy.”

“I don’t like to cause distress to the Detective.” Connor stopped his hand, a cutting edge on his words.

Richard had enough of his predecessors’ bickering. With regret, he tore himself apart from her sopping wet cunt and smoothly stood up. He could hear Ona mutter a breathy curse at the sight of his glistening mouth, his tongue unconsciously swiping over his lips. Killian knew he got himself in trouble judging by the angry frown the RK900 unit sported. Richard shoved him away, making him release the detective’s body so he could sit her next to Connor. Reaching behind him, he took out his issued handcuffs.

“You are being a brat,” Richard grabbed him by his shirt and shoved him to the bench behind them. “On the floor. Now.” One would be wise to not question Richard, even less when he was horny.

Killian thought about spitting a retort, but Richard’s angry scowl made him rethink his life choices. He obeyed, sitting down.

“Hands behind your back.” Killian put them and pitifully whined when Richard blocked his perfect view of Connor making Ona sit on his lap after getting rid of Ona’s shorts. He had the beautiful sight of her ass in front of him, full and plump.

Connor knew how much he liked it, so after Richard finished cuffing him to the iron bench leg, Connor grabbed a handful and squeezed, making her whimper. Killian groaned, really wanting to do that himself.

“Don’t you dare break them.” Richard warned him as he went next to Ona and Connor.

Connor busied himself with peppering her neck with soft kisses as he played with her ass, grabbing her with both hands so he could grind his cock up at the same time he pushed her down. Ona wrapped her arms around his neck and began moving on her own, pressing down desperately, needing more. But Connor wasn’t going to move along soon, loving the feel of her bikini bottom’s fabric on his cock, so she had to take matters into her hands. Literally. With an annoyed grunt, Ona unglued herself from Connor and grabbed his cock, positioning it right where she wanted it. With her other hand she pushed aside the slippery fabric of her bikini and sank herself down. Connor moaned out loud, his cock twitching at the burning sensation engulfing him.

The three androids loved when Ona rode them. She took what she wanted, riding them with wild abandon. And right now Connor let himself be used. She had been played with by them, teased, edged, and now she really, really needed to have her brains fucked out. Connor helped her when he was able to gather his wits, thrusting up at the same time she went down. That made her moan out loud, a breathy “fuck yes” whispered out right after.

The sight was maddening for Killian. He had the most perfect view right in front of him, he could see the jiggle of her ass as Connor pounded into her, Connor’s cock disappear in that wonderful tight heat… he felt himself throb inside his trousers, probably staining the front of his dark jeans. Ona let Connor take the pace now, falling to his chest and taking what he had to offer. She turned her head, hair plastered on her forehead, to Richard. Her coy smile invited him to join them both. And he couldn’t refuse, not when that mouth was so tempting and open, letting the three of them know how much she was enjoying it.

Richard unbuckled his belt and lowered his trousers enough to free his aching cock. Ona was both surprised and pleased that Richard decided to forgo underwear today. Richard stood astride the bench, feeling Ona’s warm breath on the exposed tip. She let her tongue playfully lick the tip, using the rocking motion of Connor’s hips to let her tongue taste more of him.

Connor decided to slow down a bit, to grab her hips and pull her down so he could slowly grind up to her. Ona moaned softly, closing her eyes at the feel of Connor hitting all the right places. The feel of her plush lips kissing and and brushing along Richard’s cock made him mutter a curse, biting his lips and using all his willpower to not thrust into her mouth. Ona liked to tease, the three of them knew it all too well, and now it was Richard’s time to suffer it. She slowly wrapped her lips around the tip, applying the lightest of suctions, while her tongue shyly curled around it. Connor kept moving, watching enraptured as Ona took more of Richard’s cock inside her mouth. Richard was made to be bigger, more intimidating, and their designers made sure every part of him matched. So it was always a wonder how Ona managed to take him all in.

Killian’s fingers twitched, itching to just break the handcuffs and join them. He would show them. He would teach them how to thoroughly debauch her and—

“Don’t you even think about it, RK800-60”. Richard’s growl made him freeze, like a deer in headlights.

Connor’s eyes had a dangerous glint too, watching Killian like a hawk. But while Richard was distracted, Connor took that opportunity to tear Ona away from Richard’s cock with a wet pop and take off her soaked t-shirt. He was hypnotized by the way her breasts bounced, and he needed to see them without any clothing in the way. Connor pushed aside the bikini top, and he cursed when he saw the perky nipples begging him for attention. But what made him lose it was the visible tan line. It fascinated the three androids, but it was Connor’s weakness.

A hand on Ona’s back of the head reminded her of the aching need in front of her, and while Connor was still distracted, she inched closer to take Richard back inside her mouth. She tore away one of her hands holding her in place to grab whatever was closest to her hand and urge Richard to take what he wanted. She could take it, and right now? She needed it.

Richard could never deny her anything, and he began moving his hips to a comfortable rhythm until her hand tugged at him again. Connor regained his senses and started moving again, bouncing her on his lap while his hands squeezed her breasts. But his hands weren’t enough, he needed more, so he bent until his lips brushed her skin, kissing and nipping the tan line until his mouth engulfed a nipple. Ona moaned around Richard’s cock, and Connor could feel her walls tightening on his. By the mess Ona was making between her legs, Connor knew she was close, and judging by the way Richard’s hips stuttered on his perfect rhythm, he needed more than her mouth. Connor sneaked a hand between them, his thumb rubbing her slippery clit. The reaction was immediate.

Ona arched her back, making Richard’s cock slip out of her mouth. She moaned without a care, rocking her hips. Connor kept playing with her nipples and found himself with a mouth full of it, making him groan pleasedly, when Ona wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer, lost in the onslaught of pleasure Connor’s thumb was making her feel. Thank God he didn’t need to breathe.

Connor kept snapping his hips up, but he was losing his perfect rhythm as he felt his own orgasm approaching. It felt as if every single biocomponent was on fire, burning with electricity that pooled down his groin. Connor chased that euphoric sensation, the slapping of skin against skin echoing inside the locker room and only arousing him more. Ona kept moaning his name as she felt herself be close, bouncing on his lap. Connor knew by the way Ona said his name, breathless and as if she was devoting herself to him, that he could not stop now.

Ona cried out one last time, her nails digging into Connor’s skin as she went still, feeling herself dissolve into a pleasured puddle. Connor followed her, letting go of her nipple and groaning into her feverish skin, feeling her squeeze his cock and milking him dry as he buried himself deep inside her, moaning a mixture of curse words and her name. Their panting felt loud in the now quiet locker room. Connor searched for her lips, whispering a soft “I love you” just before he kissed her reply away, a content and sated feeling washing over him at her “I love you too”.

Killian softly cursed at the mess that trickled down her thighs, the sight right in front of him, as Richard helped her get up after letting her bask in the afterglow on Connor’s arms. Still dazed, Ona let herself be guided by Richard’s hands, using him as support as her legs were threatening to give out. Richard softly kissed her lips, so sweetly at first, just a chaste press where he enjoyed the velvety feel of her lips on his. He kept kissing her slowly, taking her breath away by the passion behind every swipe of his tongue, every nibble. The hand that was on her back slowly made its way down, caressing the naked flesh until Richard squeezed her buttock, making her giggle and prompting her to lift her leg up. Richard’s hand caressed her flesh and held the leg in place while he kept kissing her.

“You are just plain cruel. Both of you.” Killian kept staring, hypnotised. He licked his lips, squeezing his bound fists in frustration. Richard made sure Killian could perfectly see the globs of cum trailing down Ona’s thigh, and like the saucy little minx she was, Ona spread her cheek further, knowing it would only drive Killian up the wall even more. He could see her pleased smirk. “So fucking cruel.”

“You deserve it for being a brat.” Connor spoke from the bench, already tidying himself up and tucking his now soft cock inside his pants. He got up and sat down on the bench Killian was cuffed to. “And for that, you only get to watch.”

“Oh, c’mon! You have to be kidding me!” in his frustration he tugged against Richard’s handcuffs again, which made Connor lean in and coldly warn him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If this is cruel for you, we haven’t even started then.”

Killian swallowed hard at Connor’s phrasing—he didn’t need to swallow at all he was an android for fuck’s sake! But Connor’s angry frown, the freezing cold stare he gave him… Richard was down right terrifying, but Connor knew how to exactly exploit your weaknesses, and right now Killian was his target. Connor distracted him long enough so Killian didn’t see Richard hauling Ona up and walking them to the nearest locker, resting her back on the cold metal. Her pleased groan as Richard filled her echoed around the locker room. Richard chose to undo a few buttons of his shirt earlier and Ona took that opportunity to sneak one of her hands under the layers of clothing Richard wore like armor.

Richard set a fast pace, already too pent up to take it slow. Killian could only watch and listen. The absolutely filthy but arousing squelching sounds of her filled up cunt only served to rile him up further. Ona opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on Killian’s one as she rested her head against Richard’s neck, panting against his exposed skin and sending pleasured shivers down his spine. Killian unconsciously mimicked her, opening slightly his mouth too to help his biocomponents cool down as he panted. After a perfectly spot on thrust from Richard, Ona’s eyes closed as she moaned loudly, biting his skin to quiet herself down. She kissed the abused flesh, apologising for being harsh, but it spurred Richard on, pressing her harder against the locker and thrusting into her with wild abandon. Ona’s legs squeezed his body, a dead give-away of how she was close again. The three androids always made sure to take advantage of Ona being multiorgasmic, and right now it wasn’t an exception. Richard kept pistoning in and out, whispering to her ear all the praises he could think of, and letting gravity help him in filling Ona up. Richard sneaked a hand between them, much like Connor did earlier, and rubbed his fingers against her clit in the same rhythm his hips were snapping into her.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck– I’m so close, so close!” Ona was feeling light-headed, drunk with pleasure. Her nails dug into his jacket hard enough for Richard’s sensors to feel the pressure, mewling softly into his skin, as her other hand gripped his short hair and tugged. That made Richard let out a pleasured grunt as he shoved harder his hips against hers.

Richard jerked his hips a few more times until he went completely still, pressing her body against the locker with his body. He let out a low groan, his big hands squeezing her heated flesh, as Ona came around him, crying out his name. She could feel Richard’s cock pulse inside her, filling her up to the brim and adding more to the mess left by Connor. It was sinfully perfect.

Ona sighed, content and sated. Richard carefully let her down, not missing his chance to run his hands up her legs and caress her ass, holding her close to him when her legs trembled. She couldn’t help but to snicker, resting her sweaty face on Richard’s chest, not believing they sneaked off to have some sort of a sex-marathon in the middle of work hours.

Honestly, it wasn’t the first time it happened. But it still made Ona feel a little bit guilty. Just a little bit.

“Are you alright?” Richard whispered in her ear, kissing her neck as he still held her in his arms.

“My legs feel like jello. And I’m sticky.” Ona didn’t want to look down. “And I need to clean up ASAP.”

Connor and Richard looked at each other, an idea already forming in their heads. They both glanced at Killian, who stared at them back. That wasn’t going to end well for Killian and he knew it. When those two played masterminds and he was the victim, it wasn’t fun. Usually.

“I think someone may be able to help you with the cleaning.” Connor stood up, dusting off his clothes.

“After all, you have been obedient. You deserve a reward.” Richard kept kissing her shoulders, following the trails of freckles.

“Let’s put that tongue to good use, shall we?”

Richard helped Ona walk over Killian, who was eagerly awaiting her with his mouth slightly open and eyes glued to Richard’s cum trickling down her thighs. Killian licked his lips, ready to blow her mind with his devilish tongue. He unconsciously tugged at the handcuffs.

He’d never say it out loud but he fucking loved this.

When Hank finds them later, going on their merry way to join the water-gun fight once again, he completely ignores the red mark on Ona’s neck, having an idea of why they disappeared for so long. Also, Richard forgot to button up the last button of his shirt.

Hank snorted, taking a sip of his beer. Kids. Let them have their fun.

#dbh #detroit become human #rk800 #rk900 #rk800-60 #ficlet #lemon

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ton-e · 4 years

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Lol ok so I didn't wanna do aesthetics so I wanna brainstorm possible scenes instead

Ok so the premise is, basically, Viktor, an aspiring kid looking to enter this straining affair of the boxing world. He's young and impressionable and he's got something to say. Something that old underground New York pubs and junior gyms don't provide enough eco for.

Barnes, a big shot star in the 80s, is pretty much known as the best of the best there, holding the impressive score of 34-1. (Tho I don't know if it can count as a victory since he wasn't even there for the fight, anyway) but after a near fatal shooting which happened right before his big championship match with Rollins, a bullet piercing his right shoulder which leads to the amputation of his limb, he dissapears into the shadows. The world moves on.

I like the idea of Barnes being trained by Mary who was in his exact same spot years ago but had to give up her career to have Anthony which she doesn't regret! Between her heart problems and the growing annoyance of public attention, a baby is practically a blessing and if it puts Jarvis and Howie to rest then it's a bonus. (I also kind of like the idea of her having only losing once and it was against Maria lol)

And maybe Viktor goes to her first but, while she does seem fond, like she's looking at an old memory twice, she refuses. "Kid, I'm gonna tell you exactly what I told my old pain in the ass when he stood in your spot: I can't."

"Why?"

"Because us Carbonells train to kill, not fight. Alright, what you think boxing is, - this cookie-cutter bullshit version you kids have today? The civilized conversation, the heavy editing, the contracts promising defenses, - that doesn't mean shit. Apollo Creed had a contract.

Muhammed Ali had a contract. So did Jimmy Doyle, Frankie Cambell, and Brad Connels. A sheet of paper can't protect you from the ring, and I'm not having another kid on my conscience. Besides, these guys? They have purpose. Whether it's money, or sport, or just to chase the high - they have it. You just want the glory."

"Yeah? So what?" So what if he wants to be seen? So what if he's doing all of this hoping to impress? So what if he has to prove he's worth someone's time. "If I die I die. Big deal."

For some reason, he wants to both cry and retaliate at the look of pity that crosses her face. "Go home, kid. You're gonna break your momma's heart." Are his last words to him before she closes the door.

In a Viktor fashion, he does the exact opposite.

He likes the street fighting, - the vibrations under his fists, the crack of his bones, the violent taste of crimson metal blossoming in his mouth, it's liberating. He doesn't think about anything. It's just him and his adversary, not an enemy, just someone seeing him as Viktor sees them. That rush could ruin a man.

It doesn't hurt he's making pocket money on the side, either. Certainly better than watching some snotty kids or mowing laws, in his book.

No, what kind of hurts is seeing the sharp scrutiny in Aleksei's sharp eye and the soft disappointment uncovering Ryurik's Dad Stare when they come pick him up from the station.

He and his mother are alike a lot in that aspect, - really he's pretty sure the five, Sasha and him have had an agreement to collectively throw themselves off a cliff if they disappointed Ryurik in some way. A broken arm, bruised ribs, and black eye? Pale in comparison to what Ryurik's power really holds.

I refuse to believe Aleksei doesn't freely parent other people's kids sksk Aleksei only stops scolding him when a police officer says ''He's going to spend the first part of his life in the streets, and the other in the grave. I put my life on it." Well a certain fashion teacher is gonna design the outfit for your funeral BITCH-

"You're so damn lucky Talusha was busy digging her medicure through someone's intestines right now. Do you even know how bad you look right now? Of the mountain of trouble you're into? Are you? Viktor Iosef Novak, you look at me when I'm talking to you, -"

"Relax, relax, take it down to a two, " Viktor pushes back a laugh watching Ryurik placate his husband bc it's just cute, and ignores the shush river of Russian pet names bc they're not for him to hear. It makes him feel vulnerable tho, that Ryurik feels the need to somehow hold Aleksei back. He can take the heat just fine.

He can take it and give it just as good, because every battle he's been into before has been on his own name. But this is harder because it was never a fight, to begin with.

Fighting is easy. Stopping is harder.

It doesn't stop feeling bad when Sasha bandages his wounds and his back doesn't cool town from the target five pair of eyes fixate on. Yasha's burn the hardest thought. "The fuck you looking at?" He playfully glares, the good part of his shoulder bumping against the other boy's, who tries to small but it lifts with a strain.

"An idiot."

"Are you looking for a mirror?"

"Fuck you, Vitya."

"Hard pass."

"Okay, Viktor you're not getting away that easy, " Ronin says, arms still bound tightly around Antoska's slender shoulders and Sasha's frail middle. Despite his easy going tone, Viktor uncovers the touch of concern underneath. "Why can't you just ask your mom to teach you? Or Papa? I mean, you want to be on a knuckle sandwich diet be my guest, but it's not really good for digestion from what I hear."

"It's not the same. Your father knows another kind of style."

'He doesn't want to learn from mom and uncle Ryurik because she's a girl,' Sasha signes irritably, eyes making an impressive tumble. 'My brother, the 14 year old, making sexist comment. What a never heard of fact.'

"I didn't say that!" He exclaims, flushed. Hissing when Natalia kicks him in the tender bruise he sports on his hip. "I just said, that I want to learn boxing! And that's not the same thing as what Ma does, or you guys do. Boxing is special. But if I can't learn from Barnes specifically, then there's no point!"

The red head huffs in indignation. "Okay, so, boo hoo, some washed-up Rocky Balboa doesn't want to train you. You have options, V. People give up over worse."

He doesn't feel like being home anymore, so he flees, the call outs to his name going ignored. in the street or just outside, he doesn't know. He just knows red follows him, that concrete shakes under the stomp of his heel and that the wetness on his cheeks freezes on his face. No one gets it, no one gets HIM. It hurts, that a part of him, the part that tells him he's worthless and insignificant and forgetful , really does think Barnes has better things to do than train him.

A sleek car, long, vintage, a touch too expensive for the streets he's haunting right now, stops beside him. He continues. It follows him, engines unusually quiet.

"Mr. Novak?" A deep voice, subdued, but persuasive nonethelesss coerces him into stopping. The windows roll down, revealing a man with a smile too friendly to be true and eyes too kind to be nondeceiving. "My name is Alexander Pierce. And I happen to have an irresistible offer."

"It's in the process of extension, " Pierce expresses later, as he leads Viktor through the underground fighting bar. Its practically a huge stadium in a molehill and his mind struggles to compute how Pierce pulled it off. "I'm looking for capable young talents to craft into tomorrow's brightest stars. I'm assuming you've heard of Rumlow before?"

"Crossbones? 23-2? Yeah, I heard. He's currently heavyweight champ, right?" Barnes should have been, he wants to say, but reading the room better he thinks against it. "I don't... Actually think I've seen him around much. Maybe since '98, but that's his most recent match. What's ... Up with that?"

"He's kept that belt around him for closer than two decades. Id say its time for some adjuments in the records, don't you agree?" He doesn't like it when Pierce smiles. Bad things happen when he smiles, of that Viktor is certain. "That being said. I think you could be our following breakthrough. What do you say? I'd love to see a performance. "

"I'd be surprised if you guys had a Juniors league." He snorts, expecting a smart retort, but all he gets is a sinister grin. All of a sudden he's in the ring, without even noticing he was moved, and before him stands a beast of a man, two heads taller and promise of pain in his eyes. "... What juice do you give this kid?"

"You're charismatic. You'll need that in this world. He's your adversary for tonight. I'd suggest an old fashioned glove bump for the sake of sport, but, seeing as you're barehanded id advise against it. "

"You can't do that, " nervousness bubbles in his throat. "That's against the rules. I can't fight like that."

"Oh! Don't worry. You don't have to fight. You just have to die."

The last time Rumlow sees Barnes is on a stretcher, arm bathed in blood and with the press around an ambulance.

He doesn't know what they were. Fuck buddies to almost friends to friends with benefits? He doesn't know what he had, but he knows he lost it. All he has is a sheet of paper with scratched blue ink, digits that no longer call, and some gold on leather.

"You should treat that belt with more respect. " Rollins scolds him. Rumlow uses it as feet rest next, and doesn't flinch at the sharp slap he receives. Instead, he smiles mockingly, lower lip sticking out in a tempting pout.

"Hit a bit harder next time and maybe it'll be half close to how Barnes used to do it. Just because it felt good with him doesn't mean you'll receive the same response." The pout slips into a smile that drinks into the frustration sizzling around the air. "Besides, I don't listen to cowards, Jackie. Thought we established that."

"Oh, please. Are you ever going to let that go? I ain't gonna repeat it a thousand times till you get It through that hard head of yours, but I didn't shoot your boy toy."

'' I didn't say you shot him. Pussy like yourself, I'm thinking you hired someone. Why did you do it? Hm? Were you that scared to fight him that you wanted to kill him? Hell, I don't blame you. Man sprints like Ali and serves like Creed. "

It's Jack's turn to return that grin, that fucking blood-curling grin. " Used to, for sure. Remember when he fucked up your pretty face in '84. Now? He's a street rat barely getting by, sniffing after junk and scraps just to stay alive. Must be hard to think about, I guess, that he used to give it so good and now he can't even hold you, can't he? Not with his cripple self. "

The beer can in Rumlow's hand spills over. Neither comment. "I ain't afraid of no half-man, Brocky, " Honey-sweet words make him sick. He wants to kick Jack out, but they both know he won't stay away, and that Rumlow won't keep him away. He's too dependent on him at this point. "And not stupid enough to think he's coming back."

"... You're right. You're not afraid to fight him. You've got a lot of words worth to point the finger at, but chicken shit? Ain't one of them. You know what I think?" Rumlow sits back, smirk wide and nasty, contradicting the sadness on his tongue, the venom, the tired. " I think you were afraid to be him. That he just? Didn't give a shit. Just like I did. That he could fuck me whenever and wherever he damn well pleased without giving a shit about who had something to say about it.

You were afraid I'd say something about you, even if we both damn well know that never happened, that he found out. I think you were terrified he was gonna tell the world Jack Rollins was a faggot just like his daddy."

He can't snapshot the moment his body makes contact to the floor. He doesn't count the punches either, letting them numb over his face, no longer present for the beating. At around one point, his neck snaps to the TV screen, in sync with Jack ceasing his onslaught, and his eyeballs follow his stunned gaze.

Rumlow can recall the time Barnes lost his right hand.

And he'll brain engrave the image of him kncoking some goon out with his left.

#yeah its rushed but jsjsjs #i was impatient T-T hope this is half decent :>#earth 518 #boxing au #viktor soklov #mary #aleksei vasilliev #aleksei orlov #ryurik orlov #yasha orlov #natalia orlov #ronin orlov #sasha nikolaeva #talia novak #barnes #rumlow #barneslow #tw homophobia #tw slurs

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corinthbayrpg · 4 years

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NAME. Deimos Migonitis AGE & BIRTH DATE. Appears 32, released from the veil December 26th, 2019. (2,000+) GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Sphinx OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Chad Michael Murray

BIOGRAPHY

Greece’s history is vast, and the power of Sparta was known throughout the classical period. The Spartans were the dominant military land power of Ancient Greece, a title they held on for centuries until the Romans conquered it in 146 BC. Deimos was born before this – around 215 BC, or if his math is at least correct. From a young age, Deimos knew what was expected of him. He was a Spartiate, part of the agoge – or one of the highest classes of a Spartan citizen. Their family was one that could be traced back for centuries, and his younger sister, aptly named Hippolyta, was just as fierce as the rest of them. Deimos trained for hours upon end; he’d mastered the sword, and moved to the more grueling tests that the agoge required of him. He’d survived – something that seemingly awarded him with full citizenship – and a path towards the seat of the oligarchy that he never truly wanted.

The Laconian War of 195 BC was Deimos’ first true taste of the brutality of war. He’d learned his histories; of the men who had fought and died before him, and the rest of the Greek world that never dared to attack them after the Macedonians had left so long ago. The city of Argos was still under Spartan occupation, and a coalition of armies entered the Spartan land to wage war. Sparta’s ruler, Nabis, overtook many unheard of feats during his rulership. As it was, the Migonitis family was one of the few full citizenship families of its time. So many had lost their own citizenship, unable to pay what was required of them. The Migonitis family – though they had no such last name back then – was under the patronship of Aphrodite. Deimos’ sister had been pledged as a priestess so long ago, destined to live her life worshipping the goddess and eventually wedding another Spartiate.

Deimos, however, hardly got to see much of his life back home. He’d left behind a wife, a daughter that he was certain he’d adore if given the chance. He’d entrusted their safety to Hippolyta, having secretly taught her the ways of a male Spartiate. She could handle her own with weapons, and Deimos could rest somewhat easier while he was away for such long periods of time. Even as the war ended in a defeat that successfully ended Sparta’s military power in the region, Deimos found himself grateful to see his family again – to see his sister. Though it wasn’t without a price. He hadn’t been released from his bonds until 189 BC, having survived most of the war only to become a prisoner of war with Nabis. Even as the Achaeans abolished his ranking and his power, Deimos found that there was nothing more unsettling than returning back to a decimated Sparta. Citizens had been massacred, houses and treasuries sacked and razed. The city was nothing like it used to be, and his home was no more. There was nothing left to the life he’d had. Hippolyta had vanished, the bodies of his wife and daughter seemingly buried in only a way his sister would have done. The Spartan rites were brutal: only women who passed in childbirth and men in war would get a marked grave. Yet there they were, chiseled in stone – the names of a woman and a baby that Deimos had loved so earnestly.

The grief and the hopelessness was what took him to the same temple of Aphrodite that he’d grew up worshipping. The goddess was supposed to look after his family, and despite the suffering he’d felt, Deimos was certain there had to be a purpose to his life. He already felt so old. Aged by war, and put through a rigorous amount of suffering that seemed to make him feel older than he could fathom. His prayers were earnest, they always had been, even as he set his blood stained helmet at the steps of the armored goddess, it wasn’t a woman’s voice that he heard in response. No, it was a man’s. A booming voice that praised him for his loyalty and his strength, and a promise that not all would be lost. Ares gave him a gift, one that he’d learned from an ancient race of riddlers and protectors that were long put to rest. Their powers were different now, and the Greek blood within Deimos’ veins would surely be worthy enough for the gift of a Sphinx.

His task was different than the life he had already been living. At 26, he’d already lived a life worth a Spartan. To retire peacefully to the mountainside of Taygetos, or to find another battle to die honorably in, Deimos no longer had to make that choice. Ares had instead chosen him, and to his surprise, his sister, as well. Knowing she was alive gave Deimos the last bit of hope he didn’t know he’d needed. His newfound abilities sometimes clashed with his aggressive nature. The grief he’d carried on his shoulders for the past few years of his life was difficult to mask, and it was with the help of Hippolyta that he learned how to harness what he had been given.

The role of a sphinx was malleable, in his opinion. Ares had made them defenders of the gods, of the temples and ruins that were cherished by the greeks. When one burned, Deimos would move on to another. The idea that he would be pulled to a veil never seemed to bother him. He’d stopped questioning the gods the moment his wife and child had been struck from the earth. Instead, he focused on causing torment to those who thought they could better him. Few could solve the riddles, and those who didn’t were given a curse that Deimos thought fitting – even if he strayed away from the patron he had been guarding at the time. Throughout the ancient world, Deimos found himself wandering every inch of Greece. Places he’d never imagined seeing, and people he’d remember even as the history books left them out. It was then that he’d met someone, a creature full of their own tricks and trades, that Deimos knew what it was like to feel again. The Kobalos was the missing piece, one he was sure that he didn’t know he had been missing, and the prospect of meeting him in each life he had was one thing that made Deimos more careful than he usually was.

Though with happiness was also loss. Even as Deimos met the end of a blade, or was pulled back to the veil, it would be either two decades or ten that he’d had to be separated from his lover. And sometimes, Deimos would be too late to find him before the other was reincarnated into a different body and a different life. Either way, their souls were destined to meet in the middle at times, with decades turning to centuries, and the modern world shadowing the one they used to know. Even as they found one another, there was lost time – lost memories, and parts of their lives they’d have to go without sharing.

To Deimos, this meant he had time to unleash that rage that he’d kept up inside. His tricks were destined to make people spiral into madness. Defending long lost tombs, rewarding those who deserved to find what they most desired. The tomb of King Tut remained protected for decades, until a riddle was bested and Deimos gave one archaeologist the answer he’d been looking for.

Now, Deimos has been called to Corinth Bay by Ares. While the Sphinx never really cared for the god like he had Aphrodite, there was still a need to obey. This city is filled with remorse and a history long lost and buried, and Deimos has no plans to uncover it any time soon. Instead, he’ll do what’s required, and nothing more.

PERSONALITY

+ absolute, persevering, bold - brash, violent, calculating

PLAYED BY LAUREN. PST. She/Her.

#lauren

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natsutodoroki · 5 years

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Shouto's insecure yet determined attempts at getting to know Natsuo, #1: getting his number from Fuyumi and keeping it for two days until he gets the courage to text Natsu... and the first text just reads: "hey, it's shouto, fuyumi gave me your number". And he stares at it for a good ten seconds before he adds: "i hope you don't mind".

you’ve got your hands trained in front of you writing something small because you’ve trained yourself to withhold. because you think about him / them / family too much & the tv station / the static / hums its tune out loud. in your veins, your body slow & even / you made a mistake playing a chorus on your head. you’ve made a mistake & your pointed stare sacrificial mouth. glory haunts you like 5 - o - clock shadows, like school yard voices, like a promise you made 15 years ago. something tender / mistaking family for knives / so that everyone forgets you too / were anything other than a smile / lamb to the slaughter / gone.

( nothing rests easy on your mouth, silent nothing / violent nothing. the silence of this room, the pitch of a thrum, fuyumis last texts, the plead in her words: your shaking hands / your graceless hands the restless / restless / restLESS guilt that threatens to eat you whole: natsuo todoroki, 19, never had mothers nature like touya, never held fuyumis gentleness like so. the only boy to fester with your fathers rage & bitterness. the reminder of your mothers love / your disagreements. the word family rests uneasy on your tongue, mixed in with the regret, held at knifepoint a loss, how could you ever make up for that ? )

not moving feels like an act of forgetting, the taste of saltwater in your mouth a mere constant. the blood on your shirt washed out. sorry tastes bitter on your tongue, sorry tastes like the guilt in your blood, sorry tastes like

PING !

( they say your life can change in 60 seconds, but the emotions you take in 30 are so fast you’re unsure you’re suffering whiplash. with this aching, aching soul you’re not even sure if it’s scientifically true . )

TEXT - UNKNOWN: hey, it’s shouto, fuyumi gave me your number TEXT - UNKNOWN: i hope you don’t mind

in the end, it always comes back to this. you, a dark glass thing, seawater stuck on your tongue & only kitchen knives for words. guilt curled like a dragon in your mind, all claws & teeth & fire. here, you’d take his hand & let the salt drain behind his ears: both electrolyte & sea. but what’s family, when everything shatters? you’ve always known, somewhere in a locked heart, what it is to unmake your own name, to stitch something new out of hand - me - downs, to call it your own like it means something, & god, you want it to mean something, you want a heritage that doesn’t taste bitter when you swallow, doesn’t stuff black leaves on your tongue & choke you when you try to breathe. there’s alarm bells ringing in your head, but all of them feel like singing. it’s a sound you’ve grown accustomed to living with, this melody of death.

( don’t look at them shouto … your brothers, they belong to a different world to you… )

where is this world ? where is home ? ( it’d be more honest to ask what home is, but all you know is what it is not. home is where the shadows curl heavy, where footsteps have fallen silent. the dead air screams chilling to the bone & the crying to ice where you never could stand being awake without the pain, the sting, the cut of something sharp & reminding of just what you could never stop, you never could ) where is home ? ( home is where the broken games & stifled laughter somehow let you make it through 16 years even when everyones leaving including you. the ending already written, the reminder of an older brother never able to make true on the promises he held for years. who could’ve meant something, which could’ve meant something. ) no, where is home ?

sea things will change with every tide & suddenly you’re grateful that everything regenerates so you never have to be that kid again, that boy again you pull your hunched back firm against your headboard with something of a determined sigh, fingers chilled to the bone:

TEXT - UNKNOWN [ DRAFTED ]: hey, ur more than welcome for my number, mum mentioned ur a fan of writing so we could do that instead maybe cuz then id have more to say without sounding like one of those annoying strangers bc i dont know much [ MESSAGE DELETED ]TEXT - UNKNOWN [ DRAFTED ]: hell yeah u go for it bro! a heroes gotta keep in contact with his family somehow. ure the only number i didn’t have so! ive wanted to ask fuyumi for urs for years but i felt it was inappropriate when i only knew about 2 things relating to you that dont involve him so [ MESSAGE DELETED ]TEXT - UNKNOWN [ DRAFTED ]: hey yeah sorry if i scared you the other night i bet i sounded just like him and freaked u out or smth. u dont deserve that. don’t feel like u have to know me out of pure diligence or so cause u dont i havent told you so much in 16 years but i love you so much and ure gonna be the best hero out there without him i want you to shove it up his ass [ MESSAGE DELETED ]

TEXT - UNKNOWN [ SENT ]: hey!TEXT - UNKNOWN [ SENT ]: i’m kl w/ it, i wanted to ask you the other night but didn’t get the chance.TEXT - UNKNOWN [ SENT ]: i heard ur a man of letters, tho! u should help me in my quest to make mum go modern too 0:) TEXT - UNKNOWN [ SENT ]: we should visit her together soon!! maybe afterwards i can take u out for some soba and u can stay the night if ur skls ok w/ it!

#icyht #ANSWERED.#u can tell i havent written natsuo in like. months o -o #long post /#death ment /#abuse ment /#endeavour /#ANYWAY LENA I HOPE U LIKE IT :')#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #NATSUO ALWAYS FEELING GUILTY ABOUT SHOUTO? MORE LIKELY THAN U THINK!

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iamanartichoke · 6 years

Note

I don’t know if ur still taking prompts but I saw this prompt once that was like “ur ship is in a situation where one kisses the other & the other is just shocked bc it’s not the situation that would happen in & they don’t expect it from them” like using it as a distraction or something?? Okay honestly it didn’t say that it explained it much better but if u .. kind of understand .. can u do it with valki? Or something similar

So this prompt inspired some Loki and Thor feels, which came out, in order to let Valkyrie pick up the pieces (kind of) so … I hope it’s in line with what you had in mind! Also, this is not particularly flattering to Thor, so I apologize, but I still love him, truly. Some of my prompts have been set in the Sanctuary ‘verse, but this is very much not, just as a disclaimer. Anyway, I hope you like it and thank you for the prompt and your patience!

Word Count: 2126

Loki’s biggest mistake, he would reflect later, was believing that Thor was at all capable of treating Loki as an equal.

It should not have been a surprise. Even after Loki had fallen, Thor had not seemed to understand - had not seemed to care - what drove Loki’s actions. Thor, who called Loki’s grievances imagined slights, who turned to throw blame at Loki’s feet quick as lightning when things went wrong, who had not hesitated to leave Loki writhing in immobilized pain on Sakaar.

You’ll always be the God of Mischief, Thor had said. Loki heard the truth behind the words - you’ll always be lesser, Thor might as well have said. You’ll always be a weaselly trickster up to no good. Returning to Asgard with the ship to save them all meant nothing, in the end. Loki thought he could die trying to prove himself to Thor, and Thor would only look at his corpse and scoff that his death could have been more glorious, had be bothered to try harder.

Three days after they’d set course for Earth, Thor gathered his tiny council - Heimdall, the Valkyrie, Banner, Korg, and Loki - to discuss preparations and logistics for their journey. While Loki appreciated that Thor included him on the council, he could not help but bring up the fact that Earth might not be the best destination for the Asgardian refugees.

“Surely we might be better received on Vanaheim, perhaps,” he suggested, “or Alfheim. Somewhere we’ve already got an alliance.”

“Earth has an alliance with Asgard,” Thor countered, “and it is where we have friends. It’s like a second home to me.”

“To you, yes,” Loki said, “but not to the rest of your people. Earth is a chaotic world, brother. Its governments are often in opposition to one another. Wars between the humans are on-going and violent. They are fickle creatures.”

“You think too little of them,” Thor said, clasping his fingers together. The others had grown quiet, watching Thor and Loki volley back and forth like it was a sporting match. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki noticed the Valkyrie bring a flask to her lips. “I have lived among them, brother; I know how they operate.”

“You know how your Avengers operate,” Loki refuted, keeping his voice even, though irritation was beginning to prick at his nerves. “Not humans.”

Thor tilted his head slightly, and the corners of his lips tilted in what Loki was beginning to recognize as Thor’s new smile. It was not borne of amusement or good-nature; it didn’t reach his eyes. (Eye, rather.) It was a smile that revealed an impatience Loki had never realized Thor possessed; it was a smile that said Thor believed he was right and that to try to convince him otherwise was to waste his time.

With a pang, Loki realized that it reminded him of the way Thor’s arrogance had taken hold before his first coronation.

“Do you mean to say that the Avengers are not humans?” Thor asked, with a lifted brow.

“I mean to say that they are not representative of Midgard as a whole,” Loki returned evenly. “Have you even considered the humans’ innate hostility toward a superior race? How much trouble it can cause?”

“You still think us above them.” Thor’s voice was flat.

“Of course I do,” Loki snapped. “We are above them. That is simple fact.”

“What’s simple fact,” Thor replied, his remaining eye darkening, “is that you are willing to put the remainder of Asgard in peril so that you can hide from the consequences of your crimes on Midgard. Don’t pretend that’s not what this is.”

Loki blinked. The words were cruel, even for this new Thor, and Loki’s guard was lowered enough that they hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. “Is that truly what you think?”

“I think that you always act in your own best interests, Loki,” Thor replied, “everyone else be damned.”

Loki’s anger sprung up so violently that it was a visceral shock to his system. He felt heat rush to his cheeks as he glanced around the table. Everyone was making great pains to avoid his gaze. When Loki looked back at Thor, he saw something that might have resembled regret, as if Thor realized he’d gone too far, but he did not take back the words.

“Clearly,” Loki said tightly, as rage began to build up beneath the surface, pulsing in his veins, “my opinions are not welcome here, so I shall take my leave.”

“Loki -” Thor began, but Loki was already pushing away from the table.

“Do as you wish, your Majesty,” Loki said. He spun on his heel, fists clenching at his sides. His anger radiated palpably off of his skin and several of the electric lights in the room burst and shattered as he passed. He paid them no mind. He just kept moving like a walking statue - eyes straight ahead, shoulders rigid, features frozen into a mask of impassivity. Anyone who looked at him, however, would have seen the dangerous darkening of his green eyes and been wise to stay away.

Loki didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he had to put as much distance between himself and Thor as possible. He thought of going to his quarters, but he did not wish to be cooped up in the tiny, empty space. He thought about going to the Commodore and simply taking it, Thor and the rest of Asgard be damned. He’d fly far away from this wretched ship, seek out Xandar or someplace similar, where all he’d need was his wits and a bit of gold to start anew.

In the end, he went to the observatory deck, where just a few days ago Thor had been crowned king and Loki had felt balanced and centered, for the first time in years. They’d all been riding the high of a battle hard won, he supposed, and the reality of Asgard’s destruction had not truly set in. What a fool Loki was, to believe anything had truly changed.

He stood at the window for a long time, long enough for his anger to simmer and cool, receding back under the surface. He wished that he could lose himself out among the stars - that he could simply be swallowed up by the glittering darkness and disappear into the void. It was such a tempting thought, until one remembered what terrors lurked in the folds and shadows of the void, unseen. Loki shuddered.

Soon, he heard footsteps approaching. He listened to the shuffle of the person’s walk, light and a bit uneven, before he determined it was the Valkyrie. “Are you lost?” he asked, without turning around.

“No.” The Valkyrie continued her approach until she was standing beside him. She folded her arms across her chest and gazed out the window, not looking back when Loki glanced at her. “Just seemed like a nice view.”

“View’s the same at any window,” Loki told her, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m not sure why you chose this one.”

“Perhaps I wanted the company at this particular window,” the Valkyrie replied, lifting her shoulders. “Do you mind?”

“Yes,” Loki said honestly. “I do mind. I’d rather be alone.”

“Hmm.” Valkyrie did look at him then, something measuring in her gaze. “I think you’re right, you know.”

“About being alone?”

“No. About Earth.” Valkyrie reached into her pocket for her flask and offered it to him. Loki accepted it and brought it to his lips. He took a long swallow, his eyes never leaving her face.

“You could have said so,” he replied when he lowered the flask, handing it back to her. “In the meeting.”

“I could have,” she agreed, “but I don’t think it would have done much good. You and Thor are both so stubborn - when you get going, there’s nothing anyone can say.”

Loki scoffed and looked back out the window. They were allies in battle, perhaps, but being in their presence for a few days did not mean she knew either Loki or Thor. Not truly, not enough. Behind his back, he pressed his thumbnail into his palm, relishing the sting. “You must know,” he said, “that Thor is always right. Even more so now that he is king.”

Valkyrie said nothing. Not that Loki expected her to. He sighed, unclasping his hands so that he could examine his fingers. “Thor’s changed,” he went on, more quietly. “He’s always been arrogant, but I thought he’d outgrown it. Circumstances necessitated he outgrow it. Now … now he seems to be regressing into the hothead he’d always proven to be in our youth.”

“Maybe not,” Valkyrie countered. She tipped her head back, downing the rest of her flask. “He’ll seek you out,” she added, tucking the flask back into whatever pocket it came from. “After you stormed out, he was regretful. Said he didn’t mean to upset you and he’d grown too defensive. It’s just a quarrel, Loki. All siblings have them.” Valkyrie smiled a little. “You’ll kiss and make up, sooner or later. Thor does value you, even if you can’t see it.”

Loki felt a lurch in his chest. “Why do you care?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows at her. “I don’t even know you. Nor do you know me.”

“Call it turning over a new leaf,” she replied dryly.

They were quiet for a few moments, and then, as if on cue, Loki heard Thor’s heavy footsteps drawing near. He closed his eyes, wanting to neither argue with Thor nor work it out. Not yet. Either option seemed exhausting.

Perhaps, Valkyrie could tell. “You wanna talk to him?” she asked in a low voice, leaning in.

“Not really.”

“Loki!” called Thor, and Loki started to turn, but then the next thing he was aware of was Valkyrie’s lips against his.

He let out a sound that might have been a yelp, had she not swallowed it down. Her fingers went to his hair, gripping the strands and, even though everything rational in him screamed at him to pull away, Loki felt himself respond. She pressed against his lips, seeking entry; he granted it and her mouth felt molten against his tongue. Loki felt dizzy and somewhat faint, his heart thudding in his ears.

“Wow, um, okay,” Thor said, sounding very far away, and only then did Valkyrie pull back. For a long moment, she and Loki stared at one another. Loki noticed her cheeks were flushed and her eyes seemed much brighter than they had a moment ago.

Then Valkyrie turned her head enough to look at Thor, without letting go of Loki. “If you don’t mind, your Majesty,” she said, cocking an eyebrow, “we were hoping for some privacy.”

“Oh, um, right.” Thor looked nothing short of bewildered as he looked from Loki to Valkyrie and back again. “Loki, I just thought we could talk, but - uh, I guess … I mean, I can find you later. If you want.”

Loki managed to nod.

“Right. Okay.” Thor took a couple of backward steps and then shook his head. “I’ll just … see you two later, then,” he added, and then all Loki was aware of was the quickening of his steps as he all but fled the deck. When he was gone, Valkyrie finally let go and stepped back.

“What in the Norns was that?” Loki finally asked, backing up as if he expected her to fling herself at him again.

“Distraction,” Valkyrie said simply, and then laughed. “My God, you should have seen your face. It was hilarious.”

Loki was still having trouble finding his words. He could not remember the last time he’d been kissed. It had not been a priority in a very long time. “Distraction?”

“Yeah. Not only did I put off your inevitable talk with Thor,” she said, “but now, you’ll have something to talk about besides how much you two hate each other. Or love each other. Whichever.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to thank you.” Loki’s tone was laced with a dryness that he did not quite feel. His heart was still beating too quickly for his liking.

“You kissed me back,” Valkyrie said with a shrug. “That’s thanks enough, if you ask me.”

“I -”

Valkyrie grinned and tossed her ponytail. “You’re welcome,” she said, and then she was sauntering off before Loki could respond. He watched her go, suddenly aware of her in a way he had not been before. He watched the swing of her ponytail, the shift of her walk, and then he brought his fingers lightly to his lips, and he smiled.

#tumblr prompts #charlotte writes #loki fic #valki #valki fic #thor and loki fic #brodinsons #angst #post thor ragnarok fic #a nonny mouse

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sleepy-and-anxious · 6 years

Text

Good For Something excerpt:

Seen as people had an interest I’m gonna post an out of context scene from the beginning of Good For Something <3 Keep reading to read the scene. Please be kind bc its still my first draft lol

Tag list: @tawnywrites @seraphicscribbles @danafaithwriting @mademoiselleink @thekingsstudy @hawksnbooks @elliewritesstories @lachiffon @hpsinspo (sorry It wouldn’t let me tag your writing blog)

Hepton: Where are you?

Me: Work

Hepton: Come home. I need to talk to you.

Me: I’ll be back later

Hepton: It can’t wait. Cato, Please.

Me: I’ll be back when I’m back.

Frustrated, I logged off my port screen and zoned back into what was happening in The Lounge. I’d managed to finally change out of Hepton’s coffee stained t-shirt and into my usual work wear; A large black long-sleeved button up shirt, leather pants and a pair of thick boots. I’d slicked back my short hair with hair gel, calling attention to my sharp features. As usual for these kind of meets, I kept my tattoos covered with either clothing or makeup. I didn’t want to give away too many features that would have me easily identifiable by the Noble Policing Union if the meet was a bust or if the job ended up going south.

I was stood with my back to the office’s closed door, I had a good view of all possible exits, and the many love-seats and chaises around The Lounge would make useful barriers if it came to any form of attack. The room was bustling with patrons happily drinking with girls on their laps or watching one of the many dancers on stage. Other patrons were nicely occupied in a room of their choosing with a partner of their choosing. The amount of nobles in the room, as usual, set me on edge, but I knew some of these northerners were the reason a lot of the girls could afford to live a healthy and comfortable life. I didn’t like it but as long as they didn’t come any where near me, I pretended they weren’t here. The Northern Noble accent makes me skittish.

It was usually a mutual dislike. Northerners didn’t like me either.

But, this was the South and this was my home ground. I had the advantage here. Always.

I had my eyes fixed on the entrance that I’d come through a few hours ago, thinking of all the things that could possibly go wrong, when a pale palm waved in front of my face. My head snapped to the left to find a tall blonde trying to get my attention. Fabienne Osrund was one of the newer girls, had probably been with Raven since the end of last year. She was a pretty lass, just a bit too quiet for my liking. I always felt like she could stare right into my soul.

“Sup, Fab.” I said, quiet enough for just her to hear. I looked to the clock to see I had three minutes before the anonymous requester arrived, my skin had started to feel as if it was covered in tiny paper cuts and I had to stop myself from searching for my necklace. I was still wearing it, it was just hidden - I never took it off.

“Sup, 1.” She whispers back. She always refused to call me anything other than the number on my left forearm. It was an odd thing to do, but I didn’t mind too much. Occasionally, Hepton and I refer to each other with our numbers and apparently, according to him, the boys still did so too.

“What needs met?” I quietly gave her the Common’s standard greeting, with a tense smile.

“Be calm. You’re pushing.” She said making sure to look me in the eyes - something she didn’t do very often.

Eh?

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking her over with my brows drawn. Though, I did take note of her request to calm down and made sure to let my muscles relax and let the edgy feeling fade. Much to my confusion, she just gave me a small smile.

I was still paying attention to Fabienne when the guest of honour walked in, but I knew when they’d arrived. I heard the small twinkle of someone coming through the beads and the relaxed mood of the room instantly changed. I couldn’t explain it. It was as if the entire room’s hair stood on end at once. As if the entire room, but me, held its collective breath. My gut told me something was wrong instantly. Every single self preservation instinct went haywire.

My eyes quickly found our visitor and I wasn't really surprised by what I found. Still stood in the entrance, proud as a peacock, was a middle aged lady. A middle aged lady whose clothes were typical Noble business lady fashion - a violet midi skirt, blouse and brief case - with her obviously dyed black hair tied back tightly in a ballet style bun and her lips painted a deep plum. She shouldn’t have been causing the anxiety that she was. Her face was plain and non assuming, but as she looked around the room and viewed the now frozen employees and clientele, her eyes held an amused glimmer and her lips turned up in the snobbiest smirk I think I might have ever seen. What a bitch.

The violent paper cut feeling had come back, but this time I welcomed it over unease.

Her hazel eyes quickly found me in the sea of people and, if I hadn’t have been watching her like she was my prey, I would have missed the deep swallow she took as looked me over with wide eyes. The lady’s lips pressed into a tight line. I tipped my chin up in challenge.

Yeah, Bitch, you say shit about my turf and I’ll make you wish you never stepped foot over the fucking border.

I felt a tight pressure on my left wrist. I broke eye contact with the snobby woman and, as nonchalantly as possible, I turned my head to look back at the blonde clutching my wrist like a life-line.

“One…” Her quiet voice trailed off. Her face had blanched and her eyes were wide and watering but her lips were pursed in anger. I’d never seen such a variety of negative emotions on her face. The concerning thing was that she wasn’t the only person in the room to react this way.

Across The Lounge, most of the girls and even a few of the Noble men here to enjoy the entertainment were having similar reactions. I spotted Raven across the room, perched on a love-seat with Momo, both seemed to have forgotten their wine in favour of desperately clutching each others hands. Though not obvious to most in the room, I’d known them long enough to know that was definitely a fear reaction. Self control has never been one of my strong suits but in that moment I managed to keep my face as neutral and emotionless as possible.

I needed to handle this now and I needed to handle it quickly.

I tilted by chin up sharply again letting my brows rise high on my forehead before slowly, and as patronising as possible, gestured for her to come towards me making sure the woman understood that this was a command and not a request.

I had no idea who this old lady was, but I’d make this a damn hard pissing contest if she was going to come in here and scare my girls. The room was slowly coming back to life around us, with only a few of the girls remaining panicked and looking to me.

With her head held high, she slowly began walking towards me and I let a manic grin take over my face. Her poker face had fallen back into place and her gaze hadn’t strayed from mine. I knew this was going to be fun. Beside me, Fabienne had begun to hyperventilate, so without breaking eye contact with the visitor, I reached up and gently tugged on her ear until her attention snapped back to me.

“Go and get a drink, Fab.”

Fabienne didn’t need to be asked twice as before the sentence was finished she took off towards the bar, admirably maintaining her composure.

When the lady was a few feet away I reached back and opened the office door, to let her in. She walked in without greeting and sat down on the red velvet armchair I was sat at only a few hours before, evidently she had no issue with having her back to me.

Stupid or arrogant. Jury was still out.

Ravens's office was now free of paper stacks and holo-screens, revealing her large metal desk and rows upon rows of shelves stacked with thousands of tea light candles, that she'd helpfully lit before vacating her office for me. Raven liked the vibe that the candles gave the room and insisted that electric and neon lights and lamps killed her work ethic. I watched as the shadows danced along the walls along to the beat of the flickering flame.

Taking my place in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, I kicked my boots off and crossed my feet on top of the desk, maintaining my own poker face. Her top lip curled and her nose wrinkled in distaste before she raised one perfectly painted eyebrow. The waiting game. I knew this game well; I had learnt this game from Saintly long ago. I raised my brow back. The candle light made her plain face look angular and sharp, it elongated her nose and sharpened her nose. I presumed it was doing equally scary things to my own face.

"Mr. King, My name is-" she started, breaking the silence.

"I don't care" I interrupted quickly, being sure to keep my voice emotionless.

Her mouth tightened into a thin line once more at the sound of my voice. I don't know what she was expecting of me but I knew a South Commoner wasn't it.

"My name is Desdemona Snow." She began once more and this time I didn’t interrupt her, "I am here on behalf of my employer."

I blinked. Employer? It was a rare occurrence that I worked through middle men. Usually, people who felt strongly enough to pay for my services wanted to meet me to talk the details in person. You know, to build trust, or whatever.

"Who's your employer?"

"My employer would like to keep his anonymity, ergo, why he sent me." She replied.

Fair enough. I tilted my chin up for her - an order to continue. I watched as she ground her molars together giving me a tight closed mouth smile. She really didn't like taking orders from me it seemed. It made me smile something wicked.

"My employer heard that you're the person Southerners come to in order to get rid of problems. They say you are the best." She said, shifting to place the brief case she brought with her on top of the desk.

Well, that was one way of putting it.

"Lady-"

"Ms. Snow." She interrupted me, her North Noble accent a hiss in the room.

O-hoho. I really was getting under her skin.

Taking my feet off the table, I turned so that my body now directly faced hers.

"Ms. Snow," I started, finally getting to business, "I'm who people come to, to kill criminals." I shifted to place my elbows on the cold metal of the desk-top and leaned forward before clasping my hands together in front of my lips.

For a snap second, her eyes widened at my admission before she quickly reverted back to her.

Interesting. It seemed she wasn't exactly comfortable in her employers decision but she was doing it anyway.

She reached for the briefcase and nimbly undid the clasps to open it. From inside of the case, she produced a small information file that seem to only contain a few pieces of paper. This paper, I knew before looking, would be a profile. Gently, she slid the file across the table towards me.

"Then, this is your criminal." She said.

I'm not sure what I expected to find when I opened the file.

But it certainly wasn't this.

The file was filled with three sheets of paper. That was probably about the only normal part of the profile. Quickly, I sifted through the short pages and the first thing I came across was a picture of a crime scene. The image depicted the aftermath of an attack in what looked like a barracks. It was a savage scene; blood covered practically every inch of the area photographed. No inch of wall or floor was left clean. Limbs had been roughly torn from torsos and strewn across the scene. This wasn't just a messy kill. This was a massacre like no other I'd ever seen. It looked as if it was the leftovers of a rabid animal attack.

"Blood curdling, is it not?" Desdemona mused, her expression neutral.

I didn't respond, instead I chose to move onto the next item in the profile.

The next piece of paper was an info profile, it contained a variety of basic information about the killer. I skimmed the information quickly, without taking anything in, then looked to the last item in the folder. A photo.

My mouth felt dry, all of a sudden. The guy in the photo obviously had no clue someone was taking his picture. The image depicted a young man, sat atop the hood of quite an expensive looking car smoking a cigarette. If it had been a posed photo it would have looked incredibly pretentious, but there was an air of dark realism that I couldn’t help but drink in. Cars weren't my strong suit, I'd always preferred bikes, but I appreciated motors enough to know that the car was a modern com-tech muscle car. State of the art, fast and famously hard to handle. The car seemed to be parked in some hidden underground garage that was common up north, due to the northerners rejection of modern tech in favour of more archaic forms of transportation.

But, even though I registered all those things, it was the boy I couldn't take my eyes off. He was around my age with messy dark hair. Even with the candle lit room and soft focus image, I could make out the strong line of his jaw, the heavy ridge of his brow and his almost feminine nose. His clothes showed a noble twist on the more Common goth-grunge look. He wore a fitted black dress shirt that was left unbuttoned to show a black vest top, dark ripped jeans and a pair of black shiny brogues. The picture was taken from too far away to me to get anymore details so I went back and kept flipping back and forth between the glossy image of the boy and the information sheet. His profile told me that he was in fact my age, he was only five foot six inches tall, weighed 177 pounds, had 9% body fat, 20/20 vision, blood type was AB Negative, wasn't allergic to anything. Apparently, his eyes were blue.

Tearing my eyes from the glossy image, I lifted my head back up to look directly into Desdemona Snow's hazel eyes.

"So, who is Mr. Short, Dark and Handsome?" I asked with an unimpressed smirk. Her face didn't move from her cold poker expression as she answered,

"The boy is known as Fire Demon." She stated simply.

Say what now?

“Okay.” I respond, feeling my eyebrows draw together. I looked back to the photograph. Fire Demon, huh? I got the picture of the crime scene back out and spot something I didn't notice on my first observation due to the mass of blood. Scorch marks. "He some kinda pyromaniac?" I asked.

Snow blinked.

"Yes." She replied.

Okay then.

I did a Saintly, and silently waited for her to carry on with my brows high.

She evidently wasn't used to someone my age demanding things from her, but she broke again after a few minutes.

"As you can see from the crime scene, he is a dangerous individual who needs to be gotten rid of."

"Okay." I said. "Is there proof that it was him that did this?" I asked.

"He was found at the crime scene, covered in blood. He also readily admits it." She admits, looking me straight in the eyes.

Fair enough.

"Why wasn't he given to the police, then?" I enquire, curiously. She remained quiet for a beat too long.

"My employer believes the police wouldn't be able to handle him." She finally said. Her word choice was careful and calculated in an obvious attempt to not reveal information. Little did she know that I'd find out anyway.

"Is this a vendetta on behalf of your boss? Who're the victims?" I ask, carefully trying to gauge the motivations for this action. Usually the people who come to me openly admit that they believe that the mark would pay off police or that they have no chance of changing their ways. But this didn't seem like that kind of situation to me.

She shakes her head, breaking eye contact.

"My employer wishes to take this course of action in order to protect more innocent people from being savagely murdered." She said, her voice void of emotion.

I nod in understanding but before I can ask anymore, she continued.

"My employer is willing to considerably compensate for any trouble you will go through." She states, carefully.

That caught my attention. My average monetary charge was around 2,000 RC; sometimes a bit more, sometimes a bit less. It really depended on the difficulty of the job, whether I felt killing the person would solve a problem and whether I felt it would benefit the Commons.

So, I played the waiting game, leaning casually back in Raven's chair.

"My employer is willing to offer you fifty thousand republic counts if you can make the boys death look like an accident."

My jaw dropped.

What the fuck.

#writing #my writing #writeblr #wip #work in progress #oc #original characters #fantasy #urban fantasy #cyberpunk #good for something #first draft #Im going to run and hide now

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crossgartered · 4 years

Text

P5R Liveblog (13/?)

Haru arc

[[MORE]]

Oh...? Are you hung up on Wakaba, too, Doctor?

Oh, Rumi. ...Who's Rumi?

IS IT KASUMI'S SISTER??? bc you know there's weird stuff going on there

Probably not but this is for wild guessing anyway

If we can believe Kasumi then her sister is younger than her

And that'd be pretty weird to talk about in a romantic context

The problem is if kasumi is to be believed

she's dead I know she's dead I don't think she knows she's dead but she's super dead

Or in a coma I guess but let's be real here

I don't trust Shibusawa in the slightest. He's definitely going to try to take that research. I wouldn't be surprised if he was one of those men in black suits, either. He's rich - he goes to the Wilton on a whim, with his "buddies" - he could definitely be one of Shido's men.

OMFNDJD THIS LES MIS KNOCK OFF FILLS ME WITH JOY

Hoo boy. Maruki... I don't think you'll be very pleased with our answer. I do think you have good intentions, now, but you will definitely be an antagonist here.

I'm still really impressed with Chihaya. She really thought that the protag would hate her once she told her story, that her fortune said he was supposed to hate her, and she "never thought [he] would overturn even that fate". And yet, she told him anyway.

A Yusuke & Ann showtime!! : D I wonder what it'll be like?

THATS SO INCREDIBLY ANIME I LOVE IT

Haru idolizing superheroines vs Ann idolizing lady villains fight

I cannot waittt to see what they do with cognitive Haru, if they decided to make her this time around

YUSUKE CAN DUPLICATE IN PALACES?!?!?

A Will Seed with lasers barring the way? Interesting.

FUTABA FINISHING TOUCH FUTABA FINISHING TOUCH!!!!

Huh, it's kinda goofier than I was expecting.

"When a person is continually faced with oppression, they come to welcome its presence." Yusuke : (

"Such psychological trickery is being used here. I... experienced it first-hand for many years." YUSUKE : C

It's kinda nice that those workers are being blocked by lasers instead of us being too intimidated by their number to just go after them. ...Am I remembering this correctly?

Oh, Noir... I'm glad I get the option to ask if she's okay.

The Yumizuki High uniform really does suit Yusuke.

I wonder if there's a way to talk to people about their outfits.

Does Futaba's thing happen in place of Joker's, now? That's kind of a shame

HEY DO YOU THINK IT'S POSSIBLE TO HAVE FUTABA SHOWTIMES?!?????

Airlock time.

Man I want to see robot/cyborg Haru so badly come on Okumura I know she's here

This stuff about being okay for 30 sec as long as you close your eyes and mouth sounds wrong but I don't know enough about the condition of the human body in space enough to dispute it so okay I fuess

Anyway this is run by clap your hands if you believe kinda magic so it doesn't really matter anyway (also, thank god for Futaba saying that it'd work)

It's interesting - space factories/stations aren't a typical heist target (nor are castles, tbh, but museums, banks, pyramids, casinos? Naturally) (space stations in general can be, in the right genre. But this is set up a bit unusually for that). Corporate offices of shady companies, however...

Spaceeeeee ahdskdjs this is SO COOL

what the fuck what the fuck was something else going through the airlock?!?!

Ugh, how aggravating. I had been able to get the Will Seed the entire time until I pulled the lever that allowed me to progress

What is this shadow???? I'm not sure I know it! "Pagan savior", huh?

No, guys, there's another airlock room. Stop saying 'the treasure is just beyond that door!' when there is a whole other area/floor to go through. Especially since you have a map

Futaba gets motion sickness...oh no I'm so sorry ;u;

I...actually remembered the first half of the solution to the transfer line. I got out of there in practically no time. Heck yeah!

"Thou hast to awakened to the ultimate secret of the Sun, granting thee infinite power..." Yoshida...! TAT

I always end up maxing him right around the end of Okumura's Palace. I feel so bad. His newfound popularity is gonna absolutely tank soon. ;-;

Man, who even gets elected after the populace starts caring again? I don't know how Japanese politics works, really, like at all, honestly, but probably he has a subordinate who can take his place. But like, his whole crew's gotta be corrupt, right? Especially someone who'd be his replacement. Though honestly, considering how paranoid he got by the end, he probably chose someone weak-willed in order to prevent

Oh wait hold on I just looked up how this works. Apparently, uh...

Huh. I'm not sure if the cabinet resigns if the prime minister does usually or if that's just if the house passes a vote of no confidence. But, the prime minister appoints the ministers, so if the prime minister changes then there could be an issue there, probably?

But anyway. Looks like the Diet would immediately try to vote for a different person once the prime minister seat is vacant.

Huh, I wonder who gets voted in, then. Well, we only know of 2 candidates other than Shido, and Yoshida doesn't have the funding or even (yet) the popularity to become prime minister, so Matsushida is really the only other choice unless they pick someone we haven't heard about.

Oh my GOD I hate the school. They're being such assholes to Kasumi. She got 3rd place!!! That's amazing!!! This isn't even a school specializing in gymnastics!!!!!! YOU SPECIALIZED IN VOLLEYBALL AND EVEN IF THAT WERENT THE CASE YOURE TERRIBLE

*ahem* Anyway.

You can tell that Maruki is quietly pissed and honestly? Valid. Super valid. Same, Maruki, same.

She's not gonna get that text, with how her phone is.

"we took in those sisters to improve Shujin's standing, but at this rate, we're only going to end up suffering for it." Oh??? Oh??????

"not only have we lost one of them, but the other ones not doing us any good. Talk about a waste of effort..." Hooooly shit you asshole

Wait, hold on, it's October already????!? November's just a month away!! I have less than 3 months for social linking! And I still haven't maxed knowledge or kindness! (Or guts, but whatever) I've only maxed 1 person! Although I'm close to maxing Ryuji & Ann & Yusuke. And some npcs

AHHHHH CUTSCENE CUTSCENE!!!!

So the keywords - lab, stadium, and ... Either Maruki or Kasumi for the person. OH MAN AND EITHER WAY IM ALREADY IN MY PHANTOM THIEF CLOTHES

ONE OF THEM DOESNT TRUST ME

It's probably Maruki, right? Bc of the lab... But also I thought the whole wish fulfillment thing was going to be his cogpsi project... With the help of Jose, maybe...

Speaking of Jose, Jose looks like a toy, especially with that hair and those ears. I wonder what material he's supposed to be? Based on the ears I'd say plastic, maybe, but the hair looks more ceramic to me.

Anyway, back to the relevant FUCKING PALACE WOOHOO

I haven't even sent a calling card for Okumura yet so we're not dealing with this anytime soon

Ooh, this music... <3

Oh man, I totally forgot I had Morgana in the maid costume. I gotta get him into something more serious

Why is dancewear not the p5dsn costume??

This is...really empty...

I am suddenly really scared at what the people are going to look like

There are pigeons here...

But wait, if this is Maruki's Palace, then this is bc of all his grief... He doesn't want anyone to hurt, ever again. The people will be their ideal selves, probably...

...I'd love to see a cognition of myself, tbh. That won't happen, but I'd love it.

This place is really beautiful... With the music it seems like a sad place...

Look at all these wires

That's probably the sister, right?

Unless that's the cognition of Yoshizawa when she was alive and her current self is her ideal self.

The shadow attacked the cognition???!?!

YUP this is definitely Maruki's Palace

Hmm. Interesting.

Oh, Cendrillon really is perfect for her, huh.

SHES DOING A MAGICAL GIRL TRANAFORMATION WHAY

WHAT

WHY????

IM NOT UPSET ITS JUST A LITTLE WHAT????

Does her outfit look like mine a little bit bc she's using me as a role model for her source of confidence - confidence that she is using/interpreting for her inner rebellious spirit?

Wait, lost my train of thought

Aww, I mistimed that. I was hoping to get a Kasumi finishing touch

MORGANA-SENPAI

It is definitely an unfair consequence

Oh, so that's why, narratively, her phone sucks. It's to prevent us from figuring out whose Palace it is.

Yeah, this time it's entirely on you, Morgana.

... it's because of gymnastics? And not because you disagree with us on an ideological level? ...okay. sure. Whatever.

Hoo boy. This is gonna suck when Okumura has his mental shutdown. I wonder how she'll react.

She is of the Faith arcana, whatever that means. Maybe she'll keep faith in me? I did max her half-confidant

It's cool, Kasumi. I really didn't do much. You may have a debt of gratitude or whatever but like you don't actually need to repay it. Just keep being my friend and maybe one day you'll quit keeping score

*sigh*

If only. Too bad you're probably dead.

SHOWTIME WITH HARU? SHOWTIME WITH HARU? PLEASE?

Oh, Mona-chan. I figured as much, but I was still hoping...

Anyway, Haru&Mona showtime still very good!

Man, I would kill to hear their explanations for what they're doing.

...this is incredibly violent, isn't it? I anticipate it with bated breath

Oh man, can you imagine a showtime with Kasumi? Maybe with Akechi, if Atlus isn't going to give me one

Which, fair enough, from a gameplay standpoint

Still. : (

"the Phantom Thief Basic Training"?

Oh, good, we're actually addressing cognitive people with Haru.

Oh, this is either gonna suck if they address the implications, or we're gonna see cognitive Haru. >: 3

Dream world, huh...

THE YUSUKE-HARU FRIENDSHIP IS SO UNDERSTATED AND UNDERRATED I WANT MORE CONTENT

THERE SHE IS!!! THERE SHW IS!!!!

Oh, man, I had a lot of feelings during that fight. That time limit though

I like how they updated this fight

Although I think I'm a little underleveled, potentially. I could not destroy her before she self-destructed, and it took me a while to beat the chief directors and executive director. Oneshotted Okumura himself, though.

OH MAN I SHOULD HAVE READ THIS BILLIARDS BOOK EARLIER

I DIDNT REALIZE I COULD INCREASE MY TECHNICALS????

I already thought that technicals were beefed up from how they were - I guess this is part of that!

Wish I had another book on kindness, ugh.

SO THATS HOW THEY CHANGED POSITION HACK

Ann & Haru have such similar colors. I wish they would have darkened Haru's a little bit more

Wait I never got to see the Haru-Mona showtime

I even had both in my party : (

GOD IWAI YOU'RE SO SHADY

I forgot to start his social link until now whoops

Although I've only had my guts high enough for past ~2ish weeks so there's that at least

Guh, I have to get to Mementos and start up Shinya's...

How many part-time jobs does this have? Like, 5? Maybe 6, if you count him helping out Sojiro? The convenience store, the beef bowl place, the flower shop, Crossroads, and now the gun shop. Anything I'm missing? I feel like I'm missing one.

Desire & Hope is really pretty. The Desire underneath is kinda weirdly desaturated compared to the hope, though. Not sure if it actually works as well as Desire did by itself. Idk. They're both good, but I liked how Desire looked a bit more. I understand that D&H has personal meaning, though. Who knows, maybe in person I would feel differently

I kinda really like that Yusuke tends to go more abstract with his stuff, even if he does try out a bunch of different styles

Maxing Yusuke. And thank god for Affinity Readings. Finally got Ryuji at a point where I can max him.

Oh. I had forgotten how Kamu Susano-o looks. ...

#p5r liveblog #p5r #p5r spoilers #persona 5 royal #long post #this one gets emotional at video games

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