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nemycchi · 3 years

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Lumiere

An accompaniment to In Tranquility

A Childe X Lumine Fanfiction

Light Angst, Memories, New Beginnings

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Seven years.

Seven years of commemorating her victory and it stands as his first time to attend one.

Ajax smiles and places his hand against the cold marble statue.

“Hi there, ojou-chan,” he whispers.

The soft breeze that blew across the field prompts him to close his eyes and he feels peace wash over him as it hits his skin. It makes him think of her—of the times she would lightly expel anemo energy from her palms when he teases her too much, and it was during moments like this that he admits to himself that while he has come to terms with his feelings, he could not help but miss her.

Gods, this place really is reminiscent of her.

He opens his eyes and surveys his surroundings. Curious flowers bloom by the foot of the statue—exact replicas of the flower pins she used to wear. He remembers when they miraculously started blooming about three years ago. He remembers how he clenched his fists so hard when he heard of the news in passing from the Adventurer’s Guild. He remembers the emptiness that crawled into his heart when he learned that people named the flower “Lumiere”—clearly lifted from her name.

He remembered asking why.

Why would they name it after her—as if she’s gone, as if she’s dead?!

Ajax laughs in the present. Now with his mind clear, he can see why they chose that name as he watches how the petals seem to reflect the soft rays of sunlight. Not only were they copies of her pins, but they also capture her light, her radiance, her purity. It was quite a sight to see and he somehow regrets not visiting this place sooner.

His eyes trail upwards, to the statue in front of him, and he smiles warmly. There she is, standing tall, with her palms resting atop the pommel of her sword pointed to the ground. She looks just like the knight that she is—except she is not.

For she is an angel through and through, he thinks as his gaze lands on the two pairs of wings behind her back.

He silently applauds the sculptors who worked hard to build her memento. Her wings, quite unlike the feathery ones depicted in Barbatos’ and the wind gliders of the people from Mondstadt, were captured really well. They look just like the ones which materialized behind her that night. He remembers them seeming so fragile, like they were made of glass. But in his eyes, they were perfect for they framed her with a soft light befitting of her name.

He sighs. Though the cold marble will never quite capture her regality, he still finds himself mesmerized by her beauty. Even through the years.

A small part of his heart wants to cry because seeing her like this, even as a statue, fills him with something indescribable and he entertains the thought that maybe, he still isn’t as healed as he likes to think. But he shrugs it off. He has come a long way. He believes he has, for simply being here is proof that he is not the man he was when he refused to attend this yearly celebration of her victory. He is not the man he was when he threw away the Knights of Favonius’ invitation to be there when the seven archons blessed this statue with their elements. He is not that man anymore.

He is strong—and like what he once said to her, he will only get stronger and stronger by time.

“Childe?” a voice rouses him from his musings.

The Harbinger turns around to face the other person.

Zhongli.

“In the flesh.” He affirms, small smile on his face.

He watches as something in his amber gaze shifted.

“I am pleased that you made it here.”

The unspoken ‘this year’ was not lost on him. He just hums in reply and no more words are exchanged. They are silent but he knows that the man beside him acknowledges his presence well. In this tranquil moment, Ajax ponders.

Perhaps, aside from Paimon, it is this man who managed to follow the entirety of his and Lumine’s journey. He was there when everything started—when Childe realized his gazes lingered on her far longer than he intended to, and he was there when everything ended—when Tartaglia lifted his hand and closed it around emptiness when the bright lights took her back home.

Perhaps, he even noticed how Ajax would roam around Liyue Harbor, devoid of life—just wandering aimlessly.

And once more, this same man is here when he came back to her.

A friend. He supposes that there are no more bitterness or scorn to that title he once sarcastically bestowed upon him. Like the element he represents, he is there—unmovable, unyielding.

“I am quite certain, that she would be too—if she could bear witness of this moment.” Zhongli was the first to break the silence, in favor of continuing his earlier comment.

I know, he thinks of replying but before he could speak, the former Geo Archon turns around and starts to walk away.

Some things never change, he muses as he laughs a little at the fact that even after seven years, the man still has the tact of a teaspoon.

--**--

Ajax acknowledges that he has in fact been missing out on a lot of matters in the past years. The annual ceremony held on her name is indeed something to look forward to. It seems to him that a lot of people admires his princess, judging by the volume of people who gathered around earlier when Jean Gunnhildr, on behalf of the seven nations, gave her speech in honor of their savior.

Adventurers from all over Teyvat were also given the chance to offer their prayer to the Statue and it was then he found out that in his years of denial, she was unofficially hailed as a “Bastion of the Brave” and that travelers would often stop by on their journey in this very place to ask for her guidance.

It was quite endearing and he couldn’t be any more glad that she will not just be a piece of the past to most, but also a guiding light of the present—just as how she is to him.

He twirls the phial on his hand once and he watches the condensed light inside bounce around. He smiles.

“Stella Lumiere,” he mutters.

It is the name of the fairly new closing tradition of the ceremony, apparently. People—even the knights and the archons, gathered near the statue and released bright speckles of condensed light from their phials of Lumiere essence.

Of course, like how she seemed to emit brightness, her flora namesake shall shine as bright as her.

It was a sight to see, he admits. Like fireflies, they gathered around her, never disappearing nor straying too far. They bathed her in warmth—just as how it did to everyone there to witness.

But now, alone with the statue, Ajax gains a different appreciation of the rite as he watches the lights turn into faint wisps and he allows himself this brief moment of vulnerability with his beloved.

He climbs until he reaches her hands and there he settles. For the first time in seven years, he musters the courage to tell her how he feels.

“I love you, Lumine. I love you… and I always will.”

Opening the glass container in his palm, he watches in peace as the light floats, floats, floats and stops by the mysterious crest by her chest that used to glow with power when she uses the elements.

“I hope you’re happy, wherever you are, ojou-chan.” he whispers his one and only wish into the air.

He genuinely hopes for her happiness more than anything and he smiles as his light joins the curious wisps around. They settle near the crest and—

It glows like it used to before.

The flowers below seemed to shine ethereally with the same light and more wisps start to swirl around the statue. A harsh breeze sweeps across the field and Ajax is prompted to close his eyes.

‘Curious, does it always do this?’ he finds himself asking.

There is a blanket of warmth as the breeze settled and the moment he opens his eyes, he feels genuine tears welling in them as he fixes his gaze on the angel in front of him.

It can’t be.

His hand shakes as he reaches out to her—and he almost couldn’t believe when her soft skin comes in contact with his own. Her wings shatter gracefully like a rain of glass when she steps down next to him and caresses his face with her other hand.

“I’m home, Childe.”

#genshin impact fanfiction #chilumi #childe+x+lumine

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kryzobi-wan · 3 years

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Dancing in the Dark

"What kind of monster was he, to wish for beauty?"

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Just a whole lotta touch-starved, lonely Ben Solo feeling a lot of feels when the Force decides to connect him to Rey <3 Completely self-indulgent Reylo angst and fluff. Plus a little slow dancing 🥲

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Ben Solo had learned what it meant to be lonely. Growing up surrounded by droids instead of family taught a kid that particular lesson pretty quickly. Still, that aching longing for human connection never quite left him, even after so many years of immersing himself in the cool, unfeeling darkness in hopes that it would drown out that part of himself. He had everything he had ever wanted, he tried to convince himself. Power, control, strength… it should have been enough.

But that flicker of light—of warmth—within him that he never could quite get rid of felt like the piercing, burning bite of a lightsaber wound on his flesh. If the light was supposed to bring comfort and peace, then why did its presence hurt so much?

After his solitary childhood and early adulthood, it shouldn’t have been possible to feel any more lonely than he already did. Then she had come crashing into his life, entangling their respective destinies in a mess of unacceptable feelings and emotions, and leaving Kylo more unbalanced than he had ever been since joining the First Order. Her light had illuminated the truth of every crude approximation of connection Kylo had forged over the years in his chosen place of belonging. Where once the officers of the First Order, the Knights of Ren, even Hux, had provided some semblance of stability and companionship, he now saw them for what they were: hollow, resentful beings who couldn’t care less if he lived or if he died.

For a few brief moments he had thought that Rey might fill the gaping hole this realization left in the very depths of his soul. How naïve that had been. Now she had left him, scorned him, and he was truly on his own, with not even the sickening but constant presence of Snoke to keep him company.

Weeks passed. Hux had finally stopped reprimanding Kylo for his failure on Crait, and in fact hadn’t spoken to him in days, leaving him without even that sense of consistency. In the quiet isolation of his chambers, the weight of his father’s death at his hand finally settled firmly on his shoulders. With Snoke gone, his recollection of that fateful moment came with a different kind of clarity that was most unwelcome. This kind of introspection was dangerous, and he did his best not to entertain it. But he was weak. His thoughts involuntarily drifted to those peaceful moments in his childhood—as rare as they were—where for just one moment he thought his parents might really care, that he wasn’t truly alone. The ache of soured happiness came attached with those memories, now that he had been disillusioned from their lies.

Looking at him now, it was hard to believe that he had once believed in the beauty of the galaxy. Ben—Kylo—remembered a time when the stars seemed brighter, the air more pure and refreshing. When he could feel the bubbling of joy and frivolity in his chest, giving him the sensation of weightlessness as he passed through life ignorant of how truly alone he was.

Oh, how he longed for that beauty.

He had always been drawn to such things. The artful strokes of calligraphy, flowing from the tip of his pen. The feeling of soft, green grass between his fingers, and the touch of cold, crisp water on his toes. The gentle lilt of music playing somewhere in the distance, the tune floating through his bedroom window as he closed his eyes in sleep.

What kind of monster was he, to wish for beauty?

There was no such thing. Kylo Ren could never be worthy of it. Every beautiful thing he touched met its end sooner or later. He was poison to it, so fundamentally contrary to everything it stood for that it could be corrupted by his mere presence.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Rey had closed their connection. Since that moment on Crait when she looked down on him in his defeat, he had only seen her a handful of times, and only long enough for her to scowl at him and shut him out.

So he was alone. As usual.

Wandering the halls of the new flagship star destroyer, Kylo was acutely aware of this fact. Some days were worse than others, but this was bad as it got. Something inside him was begging for someone—anyone—to see him. To remind him that he wasn’t just some ghostly apparition with no corporeal form.

Not a single passing trooper or officer acknowledged him.

Perhaps it was his own fault. After all, you can’t have both the fear of your subordinates and the good opinion of them. He had chosen what made sense for the leader of an army, and he refused to consider any other option. He was the Supreme Leader of the First Order. He did what he had to do.

As it turns out, it’s lonely to be the one on top of the pyramid.

Kylo passed by a group of stormtroopers, his cape billowing behind him. They seemed to be celebrating something, perhaps one of them had received a promotion or passed a particularly difficult round of training. They patted each other on the back, excitedly chattering in low whispers about whatever it was that spurred this reaction. Despite the armor and helmets, he could see the camaraderie they shared. They were happy.

That was enough to trigger another episode.

They were coming more frequently now. It was different than his bursts of anger and violence, where he could reach some sort of catharsis by tearing apart his immediate surroundings with the slash of his fiery weapon. This kind of attack did quite the opposite, causing him to shut down completely, barely able to move or speak until he could manage to calm himself down to an acceptable level. His breathing quickened and he was forced to grab onto the wall to stabilize himself.

Kylo sucked in a deep breath as he willed the prickling of tears in his eyes to go away. He felt exposed without his mask. His traitorous expressive face betrayed every emotion that he felt, leaving him vulnerable. He couldn’t let his subordinates see this weakness, or he’d be ousted by a mutiny before the end of the day cycle. No, he had to get away before he went catatonic. Stumbling and suddenly dizzy, Kylo made his way toward his chambers. The lights on the walls and ceiling swirled in his vision like the flash of stars through hyperspace, and it was all he could do to remain upright as he burst into his quarters and shut the door behind him. Immediately upon entering, he ripped his cape and the outer layer of his tunic off, feeling suffocated by them. Removing his heavy boots, he focused on the chill of the cold durasteel floors seeping through his dark socks, connecting him to his surroundings.

With a flick of his wrist, he turned out the lights and collapsed onto the nearest chair, resting his head atop his knees, and clasping his hands behind his head as he tried his best to stop trembling. He allowed the quiet darkness to envelop him like a blanket, hiding the tears as they streamed from his eyes.

Whenever this happened, it felt as if the air around him was pressing inwards as it slowly crushed him. He needed something real, something physical to ground him. No matter how tightly he clutched at his own body, how much he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in an effort to stem the flow of tears, it was not enough. The pain radiated outward from himself. It was as if he were a bomb threatening to explode at any moment, at which point he would cease to exist entirely. He could be floating in the lifeless vacuum of space for all that he felt. There was nothing to hold him together.

Completely and utterly alone.

He was well-practiced by now in self-treating these sudden attacks. It may take several minutes, but eventually he would be able to breathe out one last shuddering breath and still the shaking in his shoulders and knees. The floor stilled beneath him, and he no longer felt like his screams were trapped inside his body, begging to be let out.

All he felt in the wake of an episode like this, was numb.

He stared tiredly at the floor, now propping his head up on his hands as exhaustion flooded his body.

It was frustrating, feeling so out of control of one’s emotions. Despite the fact that his master was now dead and gone, he could still feel the disappointment he would have had in his apprentice. The words Snoke would have said echoed through his mind.

Pathetic. Weak. You are too unstable. The darkness will reject you. Your emotions cause you to fail. Everyone who ever claimed to care about you threw you away like garbage, but you can’t stop needing them.

Perhaps he had been projecting a little when he said those last words to Rey.

As if his thoughts had caused it, he suddenly felt the familiar shift in the Force that signaled the start of a connection. The rumbling sounds of his ship faded into a comfortable silence that was, for once, welcome in the aftermath of his anxiety attack.

He breathed out a sigh of relief before opening his bleary eyes and lifting his head slightly to peer about his room. She was nowhere to be seen.

Just as he was about to stand to go look for her, Rey appeared in his doorway, looking irritated and disappointed as usual as her eyes settled on him. She promptly turned with a huff and disappeared from view as fast as she had come, though the connection remained open.

“Rey, wait,” Ben (because he was always Ben during these connections) called out to her before she could shut him out. He stood abruptly, rushing to stand in the doorway. She stilled, her back to him and apparently awaiting his next words before she decided to leave him anyway or not. “Please don’t go,” he hated how fragile the words sounded as they escaped his lips.

Rey let out a tired breath. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Panic began to rise in Ben’s stomach again as he felt Rey start to force the connection closed. “Stay! Please, just for a few more moments,” he said desperately. He was starting to feel dizzy again. He wanted to pretend just for a little while that he wasn’t alone. Once he regained his stability, she could leave if she wanted. He just needed someone for a few minutes to keep him from falling apart.

As if she could sense this, she turned to face him, setting her jaw firmly as she stared at him with caution behind her eyes. Relief flooded his veins, and before he could stop himself, he reached out with one hand and clutched Rey’s arm, using it to keep himself upright. She didn’t move a muscle, though she stared at him as if she wanted nothing more than to step away from him. He bowed his head, breathing deep, calming breaths in and out.

“Thank you,” he said softly after a moment.

Rey nodded once but said nothing. Her silence had become the usual ever since Crait, and as much as it pained him, he was grateful that this time she at least acknowledged his existence.

Once upon a time, she had told him he wasn’t alone. That had meant everything to him, even if it didn’t mean the same things to her. He just wanted to feel like he did in that moment. When they had touched hands, he felt a flutter of happiness and a spark of hope that he never thought he’d feel again. He saw a flash of beauty, like something had peeled back the dark shroud that obscured his view of the galaxy. For the briefest of moments, he thought he could be happy with her. That neither of them would ever have to be alone for the rest of their days.

Ben’s eyes flashed up to where his gloved hand met her skin, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a chill running up his spine. He lost himself in the feel of human contact, nearly becoming overwhelmed by the sensation after so long without it. Perhaps the only thing keeping him from completely breaking down was that layer of leather still between them.

Slowly, as if he were not even in control of his own movements, his other hand gingerly brushed against the same arm, inspecting the fresh scar there. His hands were trembling as they traced the contours of her arm, down, down, down to her hand where they stopped, cradling her fingers with the softest touch.

“Ben?” Rey finally spoke, breaking him out of his entranced state. He looked up to her, tears pooling in his eyes once more. His hand instinctively tightened around hers.

“Will you dance with me?”

His words were unexpected. There was something about being there, with her, that made him wish more than ever for the things of beauty in this galaxy. They seemed to have reached a temporary truce, considering the fact that Rey hadn’t ripped her hand away from his yet. He couldn’t help himself.

“What?” Rey asked incredulously. She looked at him as if he had grown a second head. Ben began to feel the tug of her hand against his, hesitating but wanting to let go.

“I just—” Ben stepped closer, patting her hand lightly with one of his and bowing his head again to look only at their hands rather than her face. He shook his head in disappointment with himself as it became clear that he didn’t have the words to articulate what he was trying to say.

I need you, he finished in his mind, but Rey seemed to hear it loud and clear. Her eyes softened, though a hint of hesitation remained.

“Okay.”

Ben’s gaze snapped back to hers, his mouth parted slightly in surprise that she had actually said yes. Something like nervousness or excitement fluttered in his stomach, leaving him momentarily breathless.

He nodded, speechless and blurry-eyed, and dropped her hand long enough only to remove his dark gloves, casting them carelessly on the floor. When he stepped into her space again, the corners of his trembling lips teased the smallest hint of a smile, which was reflected in his widened, somehow younger-looking eyes.

Slowly, in his disbelief that this was really happening, Ben scooped up each of her hands in his own, clutching them to his sweater-clad chest. There was no music, but the beating of their hearts seemed to be amplified in the space that stretched between them and their bond. It was the only sound they could hear, aside from the shaky breaths each was breathing in anticipation for this new closeness, this tender moment.

Rey moved one hand to Ben’s shoulder, allowing him to wrap his arm around her. His palm splayed across her back, reveling in the feeling of her textured taupe-colored wrappings on his fingertips. Electricity sparked where their hands met, and he saw it again. A vision of beauty. Togetherness. The rightness of it all.

He pulled her in close, resting his cheek against her silky brown hair and closing his eyes to soak in the peacefulness of the moment as they began to sway. Fresh tears trailed down his cheek, mingling with her hair. She hesitantly leaned her head into his chest and brought her hand up to the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking it comfortingly. It was almost as if she knew exactly what he was feeling, exactly why he had asked her to stay. Could she really see through him that easily? Or was the bond stronger than they thought? If so, what could that mean?

He knew who she was. She was a nobody, right? Then why did she feel like everything to him?

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

They danced, in the calming darkness of the night. Peace washed over Ben Solo, evening his breathing to quiet, content breaths. There were so many things he wanted to say; confessions he needed to get off his chest, apologies, explanations… but nothing could get past the lump in his throat. Instead, he contented himself with looking out the viewport behind Rey, taking in the majesty of the stars beyond. Long ago, he had lost the sense of wonder and awe he used to feel when immersed in the view of open space. The endless black expanse began to feel empty and cold. It reflected his own loneliness back at him.

How had he missed the numerous stars and planets that dotted the sky? They shone brightly, their warmth reminding him that there would always be life, hope, and a future—beyond.

Skywalker… Ben heard an unfamiliar voice, gravelly but laced with amusement. Still looking to the horizon…

The world around them had disappeared. The two swayed and twirled amidst the infinite vastness of space, and Ben felt weightless, like they were floating through the galaxy without a single worry or care. There was no Resistance, no First Order, no Jedi, and no Sith. There was only Rey, and the stars that illuminated her glistening eyes.

That same sense of awe, the hope and contentment of his boyhood innocence, filled his heart with every brush of her hand against his, every time their eyes met, the beating of her heart next to his own…

Rey pulled back a few inches, enough that she could tilt her head back to study his face. The hand he was holding in his dropped before she placed it on his other shoulder, her hands firmly but gently gripping them. If Ben were told that her touch was the one thing keeping him from shattering into a billion pieces, literallyholding him together, he would believe it without question. Her fingers tangled in the loose fabric of his thin sweater, rubbing soft circles over his skin. It was a comfort he was not used to, a balm for the crawling discomfort of starvation from human contact which he had felt for so long.

His eyes fluttered closed and he could scarcely breathe. They continued to sway as Ben moved his free hand up to Rey’s face, experimentally trailing his fingertips over her skin with a touch so light, she might not have even noticed had she not been so in tune with what he was feeling.

When he opened his eyes again, he observed her image through his lashes, unbothered by the sadness or pity she held for him in her eyes. He did not care what thoughts or emotions kept her here, he was just glad that she was.

In his exploration of the contours of her face, his hand brushed against a stray piece of her hair, drawing his intense focus away from her soft skin. He held it lightly between his thumb and forefinger in fascination and wonder, tousling it gently before following the path of her hair to the three buns at the back, which he threaded between his fingers.

Following his lead, Rey cupped a hand over his jaw, setting his nervous system ablaze. It was almost too much to handle. His head dipped forward until his forehead was practically touching hers, all the while they continued to sway. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, mere inches separating their lips from each other’s.

Before the situation could slip any further out of Ben’s control than it already had, Rey pulled back, her body stilling as she stared at him as if in study. His arms felt suddenly empty, but the sharp pain of loneliness from earlier had faded to a dull ache. He no longer felt like he was at risk of imploding, which was a relief to his tormented soul.

Eyes meeting hers, he silently conveyed his gratefulness for what she had done, finding words to be insufficient. He worked his jaw absentmindedly as his gaze flicked over her features, trying to gauge what she might be thinking in that beautiful mind of hers.

Without warning, she rushed forward and enveloped him in her arms, wrapping them around his neck and holding him tightly. The embrace was as short as it was sudden, but it was like heaven coming down to him. He had barely managed to reciprocate the action before she released him and stepped back, seemingly unsure of what to say.

Her voice came back in little more than a whisper, and he thought he saw a tear escape from the corner of her eye. “I understand,” was all she said, her jaw firmly set in that look of determination that Ben was so used to seeing.

And maybe she did.

Of all the people in the universe, Rey would know the heartache of loneliness better than anyone. All those years alone, waiting for the return of those who could never come back… Maybe she needed this as much as he did.

Rey stared intently into his eyes, and it felt like she was able to see directly into his soul. She nodded, perhaps in answer to his line of thinking. Perhaps it was just a gesture to reassure Ben that everything would be okay. Either way, he felt a part of himself melt away under the influence of her light, leaving him with a sense of peace unlike anything he’d ever felt.

With that, she closed her eyes and bowed her head, disappearing without consequence.

Ben breathed out a breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding, stumbling backwards to his couch to think. The ghost of her touch on his skin remained, and it brought him a lasting comfort.

He should have felt scared, or worried, that his mortal enemy knew his vulnerabilities and sorrows so intimately, but he wasn’t. He had shared with her a moment of beauty and of happiness, and something about it told him it would be a significant turning point in the story of the Jedi Killer and the Last Jedi.

As he drifted off to sleep that night, he could have sworn that he felt her gentle touch on his forehead, brushing through his dark wavy hair in comforting strokes. Tender words of encouragement graced his ears, and whether they were real or imagined, he took them to heart.

He dreamed.

Of the cool, still waters of a lake.

The light of the moon reflecting on its glassy surface.

The velvety blackness of the night sky,

Decorated with the pinpricks of diamonds glittering from above.

And the mountains,

Standing strong and steadfast in the distance,

A friendly shadow on the horizon.

He dreamed.

The woman in his arms,

Illuminating the world around her,

Her light shining like the sun,

Her smile a warm glow that nurtured his soul.

And he danced.

-.-.-

Comments greatly appreciated! I hope you all enjoyed! Much love, Reylos <3

#Reylo #reylo fic #reylo fanfiction #star wars #star wars tlj #post star wars tlj #ben solo #touch starved ben solo #kylo ren #ben solo x rey #ben solo cries a lot #rey #rey nobody #rey from nowhere #rey from jakku #pov ben solo #reylo dancing #my fanfic

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frumfrumfroo · 4 years

Text

Happy Valentines Day!!

Under the cut a ‘gift’. Which is to say, an incredibly self-indulgent half-formed reylo fic with some salt

Her first thought was that she couldn't possibly carry him. He was twice her size, limp and awkward, solid as a rock and heavy as a boulder. The journey to the ship seemed an impossible distance to bear even her own weight, but she hadn't spent her entire life scavenging to leave behind the one treasure she'd always wanted most. She'd decided she'd do it whether it was possible or not even before rational thought kicked in and she remembered she had the Force.

"Hang on, Ben," she muttered into his shoulder as she leveraged him up into a sitting position. He'd passed out completely and a sizeable part of her was shriveling in on itself in terrified despair, but there was nothing Rey was better at than compartmentalising despair into a locked container in the deepest corner of her mind. "I've got you. Don't worry, Ben, I've got you."

She couldn't stop talking to him even though he couldn't hear her, and the more she spoke to him, the more she used his name. It was as if all the conversations she'd ever wished she could have in her life were bubbling up and pouring out, all the little longings for a name to call, a person whose private signifier always belonged in her mouth: intimate and knowing. It was as if all the moments she'd wanted to reach out to him were pulsing beneath her tongue, demanding release, like she could make up for the years and years that no one had. Like she could make up for his own name being forbidden to him.

"You're not alone," she told him, and saying it made her throat close with the threat of tears. "You'll never be alone again, Ben. I'm here. I'm here."

It took hours. She'd had to support him physically with her hand around his back- his head lolling against hers as she draped his arm across her shoulders- and drag them forward on her own two feet while using all of her focus in the Force to actually lift his weight. It left her shaking with effort and her brain fried, but they were back at the ship now. It was not built for two, especially when one of the two was as big as he was, but being seated pressed against him, his chest at her back and his legs running alongside hers, was actually wonderful. He was very warm and his warmth seemed to envelop her entire being from every side; she could feel the movement of his every breath, he was alive.

"I'm taking you home, Ben."

Rey didn't know many pet names or which ones might be appropriate for her to use, but she couldn't help thinking that even if she did it would be very difficult to find one as sweet and satisfying to say as his name. She had felt his relief, his recognition and regret when she called him and his true self answered. When his buried, guarded, suffering soul leapt up and knew it had been seen. He was so happy to hear his name spoken without scorn or accusation- she knew, could sense- that it had been so painful, but so right to finally hear it again.

He fretted behind her, perhaps roused by the focus of her thoughts in his direction, and she reached up without looking to touch the side of his face with the backs of her fingers. His skin was so soft and touching it made her knuckles tingle in a way she'd never felt before, and for a moment her mind went blank under the intensity of the sensation.

She had to concentrate or she was going to pass out too. Rey had never been pushed to such an edge of her endurance, and that was saying something. The gnawing, single-minded slowness of starvation hardly compared to this jittery exhaustion, weariness encroaching on adrenaline like a rolling sandstorm eclipsing a searing afternoon sun. Her nerves burned, her eyes ached, her limbs were heavy.

Still. She patted Ben's hair and greedily considered its silkiness, tucking away the thought of running her fingers through it freely and for as long as she wanted. He had let her, when he was awake and she had finally kissed him, he had allowed her to touch his cheek and his hair and he'd looked at her with such… he was so beautiful. Rey's heart clenched and she wanted to turn around so she could see him, to reassure herself, but there was no droid to help her fly the ship and the moment the rest of her adrenaline ran out she would be in trouble.

"Just a little longer," she whispered to herself. "Just wait a little longer."

She was good at waiting.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

Her landing was less than graceful. The landing gear had been sheared off and they slid to a hard stop against a rocky outcropping and some huge trees. The minor whiplash finally snapped the frayed thread by which Rey's grip on consciousness was hanging and blackness descended.

When she woke, there was a blaster levelled just above her face with the business end aimed at something right over her shoulder and the sunlight was streaking in through the canopy of trees, shaded a twilight orange.

"Hey-!" she mumbled, confused and unable to snap to attention the way she usually would, her body as sluggish to respond as if it were submerged in sand up to her neck. Her head was swimming.

"Rey, I think that's… I think you have…" Poe's voice was steady and taking on that immoveable righteous quality which meant he was about to decide The Only Course of Action any right-thinking person could possibly take and impose it on the situation with reckless abandon.

"Stop right now," she ordered quietly, grabbing his wrist and pointing the gun away from the cockpit. "Stop thinking, stop-"

"Rey, I think that's Kylo R-"

"Rey!" Finn's voice carried from down the ladder, getting closer, "Rey! Let me see-!"

"Everything stops now," Rey said in a warning tone she didn't think left room for argument. She could sense Ben's mind surfacing, feel his pain and confusion building as awareness trickled in and her tense mental state drifted across their bond. He shifted in distress.

Poe's eyes widened hugely at the movement and he leaned into the cockpit to grab at Rey's shoulder and push the blaster under Ben's chin.

Her reaction times were shot or it would never have gotten that far, but things being what they were, she shoved Poe almost off the ladder when she managed to get her hands on him. "Don't touch him! No one touches him. Get me a medical droid right now."

"Rey!" Finn's face appeared over the lip of the broken windscreen, first relieved and then visibly dropping with his dawning horror. "That's-!"

"I know!" Poe snapped, clutching his hand where she'd smashed it against the X-wing's strut.

"Both of you will be quiet and one of you will get me a med droid." It wasn't a mind trick because she didn't have the will, but it had the force of one from her icy stare alone. In spite of these clear instructions, neither man moved and neither man shut up.

"What are you doing with him, Rey?"

"I'm asking you, nicely, to-" Her aggressive jerk forwards jostled Ben's definitely broken ribs and he made a tiny gasp of pain. She turned immediately and cupped his face in both hands, her voice trembling as she spoke to him, "Ben? I'm so sorry, flower, I'm sorry. You're safe now. You're waking up and I'm with you. I'm with you, Ben, and you're not alone."

If she had a spare fragment of energy left to be embarrassed or self-conscious, she would have deeply regretted the spontaneous endearment she'd just made up. Perhaps it was silly, perhaps it was inappropriate, perhaps she definitely didn't want any part of this to be in front of Finn or Poe or anyone else. But in her years of waiting on Jakku, the years of blurred sameness filled with the blinding monotone of shifting dunes, the years without colour or life or softness, the finding of a desert flower had been unspeakably precious to her. She'd kept them, every one, long after they were dry husks and only a fragile reminder of what they once were. And he was precious to her as they had been, a spark of kinship in an enormous, uncaring landscape filled with bleak expectation; it was an order of magnitude more powerful version of the same tender feeling.

He responded to her touch, moaning very softly as his eyelids fluttered. Rey could hear shuffling and whispers from Poe and Finn but they could have ceased to exist for all the attention she was willing to pay them in this moment.

"Rey?" Ben's voice, rusty and pained but unmistakable. Deep and soothing.

"I'm here, I'm here." She was helpless to say anything else.

His eyes opened to look at her, brighter than she'd ever seen them before, the sunlight showing golds and greens where she'd thought they were just dark, and her own eyes filled with tears.

"Are you all right?" he asked instantly, his gaze sweeping over her with concern.

She nodded, sharply, chewing at her cheek to keep from sobbing. She pushed up on her knees at the edge of the seat so she could press her face to his, feel the warm skin of his cheek against hers and the tickling of his breath in her hair. "I'm fine. We're safe."

Ben was probing at their connection, seeking reassurance that everything really was all right, and she embraced his presence in a way which seemed to throw open a floodgate between them and allowed sensations and emotions to flow like a torrent from each mind to the other. His arms came around her in response, holding her tightly.

"We're alive and I love you," she couldn't seem to stop herself from saying, whispering it into his hair, hiccuping on her words as the tears streamed down her face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispered back and feeling the vibration of the words through his sternum made her shiver with delight.

She was crying too hard to speak now, so she wrapped him in her arms and sobbed into his neck. She tried to keep her grip gentle, fighting the urge to clutch him with all her strength. She'd waited what felt like a hundred lifetimes to hear those words, first from anyone and then only from him. She'd tried so hard to be patient, she'd tried so hard to keep faith and live in hope, and in the end she hadn't managed patience but at least the moment had come.

At least she had this and would always have this. No one could take it from her.

By the time she'd gathered her wits and her storming emotions, Ben's hold on her had gone slack as he slipped into a healing sleep. The joy and contentment radiating from her mind had blocked out worry so completely that he felt too safe to stay awake, blissed out on her ultimate happiness. She'd done it. She'd saved him.

The sounds of an ongoing argument drifted up from the pair standing somewhere below her crashed ship.

"Well, he must have done something to her!"

"They can't mind trick each other, that makes no sense! You'd go back and forth forever like mind control hot potato!"

"You don't know how the Force works!"

"Neither do you!"

Finn's offended huff almost made her laugh but she decided she couldn't afford to let her guard down. Ben's safety was at stake and she'd promised him it'd be okay, she'd impressed upon his mind that he didn't need to worry or stay vigilant and no one was going to make her a liar.

She popped her head up out of the ship, slapping her hands down on the edge of the cockpit to make a sound as she pushed herself up so they would be alerted to her presence.

"Rey!" Finn called, surprised and uncertain, looking a little like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

"I'm not under mind control," she said flatly.

"What about torture?" Poe suggested, obviously fielding his personal theory. "He tortured you before."

"He never tortured me."

"You were interrogated, we were torture buddies, you told us-"

"I was interrogated, I wasn't tortured. He can look in your thoughts, he can't rewrite them. Well, he can't rewrite mine, anyway. The books say you can temporarily cloud the thinking of the weak-minded, but it doesn't work on Force-aware people."

The two men looked at each other. Poe said, "That's the Jedi, though. What about the Sith?"

"He's not a Sith."

"What is he, then?"

"He's Ben Solo."

Finn shook his head and Poe's face screwed up in confusion. "But-"

"He's more qualified to call himself a Jedi than I'll ever be if that's what he wants, but for now he's Ben Solo, General Organa's son, and he saved my life."

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

He was half awake as they brought him into camp on a hovering medical gurney and Rey was so caught up in enjoying the companionship of his groggy consciousness at the edge of her mind that she barely caught the distinctive sounds of hydraulics and clattering metal limbs before 3P0 staggered to an abrupt halt beside her. She knew it was impossible, but she felt like she could read the shock on his unmoving hard cast features.

Ben was much the worse for wear and the delicate skin around his eyes was bruised with fatigue, but he was an absolute vision- the most gorgeous thing she'd ever seen- when he smiled at the astonished protocol droid. It was only the second time she'd seen him smile and she thought it would be quite a long while before she stopped counting, before she didn't individually notice and mark something so important, hoarding the number in a secret place in her heart. If she ever did stop.

"Hey, Trois," he said, privately amused. She sensed a memory from him, of being a toddler who couldn't quite master the pronunciation of the droid's name and 3P0's constant, unrelenting corrections with his full title. The little boy who kept using his babytalk nickname long after he'd mastered his plosives, just to provoke the familiar, exasperated speech. The fondness he felt was tinged with pain. There was nothing he held dear untouched by regret. She would change that.

"Master Ben! Your Highness!" 3PO spluttered, completely flabbergasted at this sudden appearance. Rey's head whipped around to stare at him.

"Oh, 3PO, come on, we used to talk about saying that in front of-"

"Your Highness?" Rey repeated, turning her incredulous gaze on Ben.

Ben's cheeks flushed, even his exposed clavicle becoming rosy with embarrassment. "You know my mother's a princess, right? Human-Cyborg Relations was always a stickler for protocol in spite of her best efforts. Can't imagine why."

She was speechless. Then she grinned so hard her face ached. "Don't worry, I'll make sure everyone in camp is up to date on the correct address. Your Highness."

"You won't."

Rey took his questing hand and kissed his knuckles, leaning over the gurney to rest her forehead against his. "I probably won't have to with 3P0 around, but I am going to tell them who you are. Everyone. Anyone who will listen. I'm going to tell them the truth about you."

"And what's the truth, Rey?" He sounded distant but she could feel the ache of doubt in his heart, like a callous, like a bad habit.

"That Ben Solo was so full of the Light, the most powerful darkness the galaxy has ever seen couldn't snuff it out." She kissed his temple and the heat of his skin sent an electric pulse through her lips and down into her chest. Tightness gathered under her ribs and she wanted to touch him more, to keep him forever.

"Oh my," 3P0 announced when her mouth lingered, as if gradually realising he was being scandalised again.

Ben laughed and her heart fluttered at the sound. She'd never imagined him laughing, had no idea what it would be like. It was like water after a week of thirst, it was like rain. She stared at him, starry eyed, and he shook his head before finally returning her gaze.

"As is tradition," he said and laughed again. She didn't know what he was talking about but she had never been so happy in her life and she hoped that could be their new tradition.

#I might clean this up and post it on ao3 if you think it's worth it lol #suggestions for an actul ending accepted #reylo #fanfiction #I haven't actually seen this movie so apologies if nothing makes sense #yes this is a tros subtweet #(edited: second pass on this- maybe better??#I didn't want to get into the weeds on the whole 'who knows what about Ben' thing because I won't come out again #but we all know I'm dying to write that 'secret revealed!!!' scene so #perhaps it will come)#(and I'm still incensed they cared so little about the actually compelling drama of this story we know fucking none of this oh my GOD)

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secret-engima · 4 years

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Forged in Fury-verse Drabble: Mother’s Rage

( @sparklecryptid @an--angel--can--fly @ertrunkenerwassergeist @skyshinigamialchemist *slaps this down on the table* BEHOLD. THE CONTEXT FOR MY PREVIOUS POST. IT’S ONLY ... MILDLY ANGSTY. SURPRISINGLY. Also tagging @wolfsrainrules @ean-sovukau @rayearthdudette. Also also, I blame you for this Moose. Your HCs on Ramuh and Leviathan have INSPIRED me and that inspiration finally culminated in this ... and also a few other things that are still in progress *flails*.)

They had not come to Altissia seeking an audience with Leviathan. They had come because the Empire was there and because Regina was never one to waste a resource or a chance to earn another ally. Sylva had tentatively offered to speak to Leviathan, to rouse her and ask for her favor —Regina had already won the favor of Shiva and Ifrit after all, it was not impossible she would win the Hydraean’s— but Regina turned her down. It was too much risk to the city, and so long as the Astrals did not actively get in her way, Regina honestly preferred not to deal with them —she didn’t trust them, didn’t trust that actively seeking a Blessing rather than earning it by accident would not carry a price she refused to pay—.

So perhaps it was no surprise that when Regina made a point not to seek out the Hydraean…

The Hydraean came to her.

“Mortal.” Regina exhaled slowly, closed her eyes, inhaled the salty tang of the waterfront air and listened to the telling screams of terror and then reverent, petrified silence of the world around her where seconds ago there had been chatter and cheer. Then she opened her eyes and looked up into the looming features of Leviathan.

“Hydraean.”

Beside her, Sylva’s breath hitched, confusion and fear vibrating against Regina’s senses —because Leviathan was supposed to be slumbering, not here, rising out of the bay in front of the hotel Regina and her group had just stepped out of on their way to meet the Prime Minister— and Regina felt her Storm bristle at her back, ready to pull her away from the Astral before them and defend her even if it cost his life. She mentally thanked Cid for clamping a firm hand on Cor’s neck before he could to more than lay a hand on his sword hilt.

The Hydraean didn’t seem to notice or care about any of it. She only had eyes for Regina, “Mortal,” repeated the Astral with a twitch of her great, silver-blue fins, “Defier of Fates, She Who Spits in the Face of Prophecy and Walks With the Accursed, yet has earned the favor of both the Glacian and the Fallen Infernian. So you finally come to my resting place. Are you here to beg favor?” A flash of spear-like fangs, the already huddling, cowering crowd of civilians sobbed in terror, hands over their ears in pain at the booming, indecipherable tongue of the Astrals.

Regina wasn’t really all that surprised that she was an exception. That she could understand the Hydraean when a glance at her companions revealed all but Sylva and Ardyn watching on in uncomprehending confusion. She turned her attention back to Leviathan, “No, honored Hydraean. I am not here to beg your favor, I did not even intend to wake you from your slumber.”

“Yet you bring the Accursed into my city, bring him over the surface of my waters. Did you really expect me to stay silent?” One great eye tilted toward her and there was scorn in the slitted gaze, “Did you really expect to avoid confrontation with me when you have blatantly defied the will of the Draconian and dare to consort with the foul Accursed?”

Regina felt something inside her go cold and deadly, felt the soft pulse of Shiva’s ice in her belly and Ifrit’s counterpart hum of heat up her spine as she shifted to more fully stand between Leviathan and the cringing Ardyn, “His name is Ardyn, he is my kin and he is no more foul or accursed than I am.”

“Blind, ignorant, arrogant worm,” growled the Astral before her with a ripple of magic that made the waves tremble, “can you not feel his taint? Can you not smell the stench of the scourge on him?” Regina bared her teeth right back, refused to cower in shame or fear as Ardyn was doing behind her back, ignored Ardyn’s whispered plea for Regina to back down from the fight brewing between her magic and the Hydraean’s. Leviathan snorted, a great billow of steam and a swirl of magic that made the bay waters rise like open waves before settling, “He is the Accursed, foul and plague-ridden and tainted.”

“And who’s fault is that, exactly.” It took a moment for Regina to identify her own voice, so soft and cold, rolling with the oldest language she knew. She’d … almost forgotten she could sound like that. But now she remembered, and when she breathed, the salty air felt like shards of ice in her lungs. Leviathan reared back in shock and Regina repeated, “Who’s. Fault. Is. That.”

Leviathan narrowed her eyes dangerously, “You dare imply that the Astrals are to blame for the Accursed?”

Regina tilted her head, ignoring Sylva’s hands on her arm and the plea of her Lightning in her ear to stop, “What I am implying is that if the vaunted Guardians of Our Star had actually done their job, the Starscourge wouldn’t have been a problem and Ardyn wouldn’t have had to sacrifice himself trying to save people from something that humans are not meant to cure.”

Leviathan’s roar of rage churned the waves out in the bay to a frenzy, sending boats jolting and bucking against their restraints and making people scream as the Hydraean loomed even further out of the water, her coils seeming to stretch on forever into the sky even as her head lowered to snarl right in Regina’s face, “Insolent Mortal! What gives you the right to dare speak to the Hydraean this way? What right have you to question us and fight against prophecy?”

Regina’s favored sword was in her hand in an instant, rage in her blood and violet tinting the air with crystal fractals as she pointed the blade at Leviathan’s head and bared her teeth. She didn’t notice the ice spreading out from her feet to freeze the nearest waves, didn’t register the others scrambling back as her shoulders became cloaked in violet fire. She barely registered her voice deepening with magic to a dangerous, inhuman pitch as she snarled back, “I have every right! The Chosen King you plan to sacrifice is my son! My child! My beloved baby is on your alter of sacrifice before he is even conceived! What do you expect me, a MOTHER, to do BUT question your will and fight your prophecy?”

Leviathan’s head jerked back as if slapped, pupils blowing wide enough to swallow the color of her great eyes in black. Around them, the stormy waves stilled. Settled to soft, gentle ripples against the soaked Altissian cobblestones, reflecting the twisting storm clouds that had formed overhead in response to the clashing magics of the Hydaean and a single, desperate human mother. Leviathan stared and Regina breathed, deep and ragged and fragile in her own fury, blade still pointed accusingly at the Hydraean’s looming frame.

A slow blink and Leviathan’s pupils settled into something between the furious slits or wide-blown shock of before, “A mother.” Another blink, a slow hiss and a sudden, disbelieving softening of her voice from crashing ocean waves to far off thunder, “All of this. All this defiance, the freeing of the Accursed, the swaying of the Oracle, the winning of the Glacian’s and the Fallen Infernian’s favor, the defiance of prophecy and the spitting in the face of the Draconian who blessed your line … because you are a mother?”

Regina inhaled, exhaled, felt the inhuman power of her voice fade into something tired even as she kept her blade up and ready for a fight, “…Yes. That is why I fight. That is what everything I have done was for.”

“He is not even conceived in your womb. You do not even have a mate to help you bear him yet. You have never even seen his face or heard his heartbeat. And yet,” Leviathan’s head tilted very slowly to one side, “you love him. An intangible concept and yet your heart beats solely for him. How can you so fiercely love something that is still just an idea?”

Regina stared into wild, distinctly inhuman eyes in a face that was as far from human as could be. She stared at swaying, house-sized fins and spear-sharp teeth, the embodiment of the ocean in all its terrible, beautiful glory.

She lowered her blade and answered with a simple, “Didn’t you?”

The world went still. The tiny waves flattened to pure, reflective grey-black glass, the sea breezes faded, the storm clouds stopped rumbling. All of the world held its breath in shock. Crystalized in fragile silence of disbelief.

Leviathan didn’t twitch so much as a fin as she rasped, “I … I do not understand.”

Regina flexed her fingers over her sword hilt, repeated in a voice as soft as a breeze, “When you first looked upon humanity, upon the little sailors cobbling together their boats of fragile wood and cloth. The tiny children who looked at your waters and saw not just the danger but the adventure. When you first looked, really looked at the members of humankind who loved your waters as fiercely as if they had been born to them and not land. Wasn’t there a moment? Where something inside you went, ‘I could have children’? A moment where you looked upon your oceans, wild and terrible and free and realized that you didn’t have to be alone anymore? That these little, fragile creatures you had never bothered to pay attention to before could mean something? Could be your children, your little ones, your sons and daughters of the sea?”

Regina met Leviathan’s gaze without fear and whispered, “And then, before you ever picked out which humans you would Bless, before Blessing those humans and making them your children was anything more than just an idea, a concept in your mind-. Didn’t you love them? Didn’t you feel ready to do anything for them if it meant that when the day came that they did exist, they would be happy?” A breath, shaky and pained with memories she could not afford to weep over now, and her sword slipped away into armiger from nerveless fingers as she instead raised her hands from her sides in an unspoken plea.

“That’s why you’re called Tide-Mother, isn’t it?”

A breath. An eternity. A frozen heartbeat of time where Regina stared at the Leviathan and the Leviathan stared at her and the both of them saw, clear as a painting, the reality of the other. The reality of times unwound and betrayals unhealed.

Of children, loved and lost and gone, leaving nothing but memories and bleeding, broken hearts behind.

Then Leviathan threw back her head and screamed.

The storm erupted into a down pour and the glass-still waters surged toward the skies as the Tide-Mother wailed old grief and pain and rage to the heavens. Regina breathed past the flashes of memory-love-loss-pain that pressed against her senses through the heavy magic pushing and pulling through the air like a tide, past the images of a people Blessed and loved and then taken away by Steel and Fire and mistakes and greed.

As the rain pelted down onto the streets and soaked her to the bone in seconds, Regina tilted her head back to face it and let it mingle with her own tears.

Finally, the Tide-Mother’s head tilted back down toward the earth, the rain settling from a torrent to a mournful patter on skin and scales. Leviathan sounded so very weary as she said, “I was indeed a mother once. And my love reached from sea to sea. But my children are gone now, and those who traverse my waves are nothing more than the scattered bones of Solheim’s folly.” A blink and a contemplative, mournful look down at Regina, “I do not care for humanity anymore. They belong to Bahamut now, and when he saw fit to lay the Prophecy upon them, I felt nothing as I slept beneath my waves. I still do not care whether humanity lives or dies. But you do not fight for humanity, do you? You fight for your unborn child and your Chosen and them alone, even if it means burning down the world around you.”

Leviathan suddenly laughed, old and dark as the promise of a hurricane, “I do not care for humanity,” she repeated, “But I care even less for the arrogance of the Draconian that led to my children’s deaths.” Slitted eyes assessed Regina, and this time when she bared her spear-length fangs it was in a smile, “I will Bless you, Mother of the Chosen. I will Bless you so that you might save your child from the fate that befell my own.”

Regina narrowed her eyes, “And what do you require in return?”

Leviathan’s smile grew, “You will teach your children in ways of the sea, the proper ways, not the soulless metal things they use in these days. Do not lie, I sense the ocean in your soul, you were once a wave-rider. Pass that knowledge on so that I might once again have little adventurers upon my waters, true sea-children who can feel the heartbeat of my tides and do not fear the wrath of my storms for all they are wary of it. They will carry my Blessing through your blood and they will be mine indirectly. This is what I desire of you. I desire…” Leviathan tilted her head, growling and considering to herself as if in search of something, some word to summarize her deal.

Feeling a little bit disbelieving, but also not, Regina asked dryly, “You … will give me your Blessing in exchange for being able to pass that Blessing on through my blood, the same as the Draconian’s was passed to me.” A blink and a look at the wide-eyed Ardyn and Sylva, then she clarified, “Basically … you … want me to give you grandchildren?”

Leviathan seemed to roll the word over in her head a few times, then hissed, greedy and victorious, “Yes. That is what I desire. Grandchildren. New wave-riders and TideSingers.”

“I won’t let them be sacrificed to you. If they choose to live on land more than the sea that is their choice for all generations after. You will not put them on strings like puppets.”

“Of course not,” she snorted back, “I am the Hydraean of the Seas, not the Draconian of unbending Steel and Prophecies. They will be free to come and go from my currents as they please, so long as they keep the knowledge of how to truly traverse my waves. Well, Mother of the Chosen? Do we have an accord?”

Regina filled her lungs with salty air, felt the humming Blessings of Shiva and Ifrit and Bahamut —though the latter only through inheritance— already under her skin. Then bared her teeth in a smile every bit as wild and vicious as Leviathan’s, “Yes. I accept your terms.”

Leviathan laughed, deep and old and terrible and Regina forced herself to stay standing through the pain of another Blessing sinking into her blood and bones and soul, “I look forward to seeing what chaos you will sow as you break the Draconian’s Prophecy, Child. Do not forget your promise.”

“Don’t forget yours, Grandmother Hydraean.”

“Brat.” Snorted the Astral Tide-Mother in return as she plunged back beneath the waves, still laughing all the while. Just as the last of her scales disappeared beneath the water, Regina almost thought she caught a glimpse of a beautiful woman in the finest of sea-colored silks and coral jewelry rather than endless scales and serpentine features. The woman smiled and the expression was almost, but not quite human. Regina smiled back, just as fae and wild, and the vision faded as the Leviathan returned to her slumbers beneath the tides.

#Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #Forged in Fury verse #Regina Lucis Caelum #Leviathan (ffxv)

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cryptidqueerr · 4 years

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you said “but you criticize cassie clare all the time particularly for her misuse of queer characters” and I said “well yeah but anna lightwood make gay brain go ‘hnnnng’ so I stole her and picked up a free gift on the way out” and you said “oh right sure”

drink the sun like wine

Anna Lightwood knew sad girls.

She knew how sadness flooded a person, became the rain and the ocean and the blizzard that they lost themselves in. She knew how many ways girls could wear their sadness, how some girls cloaked themselves in tears while others packed their sorrow into beautiful little vials to keep in their drawers, only to be taken out and lovingly handled on the blackest, loneliest midnights. She’d known the girls who turned their grief into armor, their skin turned to ice and iron, and the girls whose misery turned them to snow and porcelain, fragile and collecting dust on some man’s highest shelf. The girls who came to Anna all came with sadness, and they often left with more than they could bear.

Anna Lightwood loved sad girls. Perhaps it was starting to take a toll on her.

Anna lifted her cheroot to her mouth, then let it fall again without inhaling. She’d made the mistake of leaving her flask lying on the table in her flat, filled with gin and now utterly useless to her. She briefly considered asking Matthew what he had on his person - Matthew Fairchild always had something on his person - then thought better of it. Matthew treated liquor like knives, as though if he poured enough down his throat it might one day show the world the damage he felt should be obvious. She liked Matthew; if she were being honest with herself, Matthew was likely her closest friend. Better to suffer the hideous boredom of another party than encourage his self-destruction.

The stone of the wall bit into her shoulder-blades through her clothes. Around her, the room swirled with brightly colored silks punctuated by dark jackets. At every wall, girls clustered around each other, hydrangea bloom dresses concealing whispers and giggles from the boys who lurked just far enough away to be admired. Matthew and his parabatai, James, weren’t among them, though that wasn’t uncommon. James Herondale didn’t have enough room in his head around all his romance and chivalry to think about preening for girls like Catherine Townsend or Rosamund Wentworth.

Ariadne stood with them. Anna always knew where Ariadne stood.

Pain pricked at her chest, a delicate reminder of what loving Ariadne Bridgestock had done to her. Sad girls, Anna mused, sad girls and their sad tales. She lifted the cheroot again, this time inhaling enough that she could pretend the constriction in her chest came from the smoke. Her eyes slid past Ariadne to Wentworth and Townsend. Both girls could be absolute vipers; there’d been more than one expensive dress that found itself accidentally ruined by Anna’s clumsy shoes, uncharacteristically smeared with mud, after she overheard them tittering amongst themselves about Matthew. On this particular occasion, they seemed to have snared a new prey. Laced up in a lavender gown trembling with beading, a girl Anna did not recognize gave them a thin smile.

There were not many ladies in London that Anna did not know. She shifted slightly against the wall, craning her neck as though searching out someone else entirely though her eyes stayed fixed on the stranger. The girl’s hair fell in dark curls, nearly black except where it glowed deep red in candlelight. Her golden skin spoke of a heritage rooted far from the hills of Wales and the sooty streets of London that gave Anna and most of her cousins their pale complexion, and the defiant lift in her chin might as well have been a beacon of her unfamiliarity with society. Her cheekbones were high, an elegant contrast to her striking eyes. Her hands, not delicately folded or fluttering like nervous birds as many girls’ were wont to do, occasionally shifted restlessly toward her hip. She must have been accustomed to wearing a sword, Anna realized. Another oddity, even for a Shadowhunter.

The cluster of girls shifted. Anna caught sight of Lucie, pressed against the girl’s side and going furiously red in the face as Wentworth and Rosamund giggled. The new girl’s brows drew slightly in confusion. Likely the girls were having another go at Matthew, or at the new girl’s dress, or Lucie’s continued disinterest in sharing their obsession with boys. Girls like that rarely went more than a half hour without finding something new to tear apart.

“Still doing all right?” A voice at her shoulder nearly made her jump. An evening full of new experiences, then - Anna hadn’t been properly startled in years.

“As well as can be expected,” she said smoothly to her father, who didn’t seem to have noticed her flinch. She turned her back on the girls to face him. “The Herondales do know how to provide an entertaining evening.”

Gabriel laughed. “At least your mother has been out of the party-throwing mood since the baby was born.”

Anna nodded her agreement and subtly dropped her cheroot into a nearby potted plant. Like many of Anna’s habits, Gabriel didn’t look favorably on her smoking, though he allowed her mother to deliver the blatant admonishments. “What is this one for, again?”

Gabriel frowned slightly out at the crowd, over Anna’s shoulder. “I believe it was to introduce the Carstairs, though I’ll admit the only one I’ve seen is the boy.”

“Carstairs?” The name rustled up a piece of news she'd heard and discarded as irrelevant. Lucie had told her, she recalled, about the friend who was coming to London to train to be her parabatai. There were other things, she remembered now, rumors of a disgraced father and a mother desperate to ingratiate her children into London society before a trial could be held and a name could be smeared. She followed her father’s eyes out to the dancing pairs, over Matthew and Lucie laughing together and Charles pretending to gaze adoringly at Ariadne, then looked back at where Lucie had been, where the new girl stood alone.

“Ah! There’s the girl. Cordelia, I believe Will said her name was,” Gabriel said. He lifted his glass to his lips and raised his eyebrows to subtly indicate the new girl, who now was accepting an invitation to dance from James.

“Oh, yes,” Anna said, practiced disinterest smoothing over her voice. “She and Lucie are to be parabatai, aren’t they?”

“I believe so. I expect her mother will want to rush it through, given her father’s trial.” Her father had caught sight of someone in the withdrawing room behind them, his attention already leaving Anna alone once again. “You’ll excuse me, dear. Come say hello to Arthur, when you’ve got a moment.”

As he left, Anna returned her attention to the dance floor. Now the pairs whirled in a waltz, the music swaying and rising with the ruffles and taffeta. There were likely hours left to this, and she found herself reaching the end of her limits to polite society. As much as Shadowhunter society tolerated her behavior, there were no girls here who would dare dance with her, and most of the boys avoided her out of fear or insecurity, she didn’t care which. Matthew, it seemed, had become entirely engrossed in Lucie, and James held Cordelia in a way which suggested he had little interest in finding another partner. Even her brother, one of the other members of their little troupe, was nowhere to be found.

Anna scanned the room one last time. She had spoken to everyone who would expect her to, she thought, but there was always one old tutor or friend of her father’s that she missed and heard all hell about later. But faces were blurring together, and she could see no one of importance. The only person who remained clear, her garnet hair flickering like embers as she danced, was Cordelia Carstairs.

Anna allowed herself a moment of respite, letting her eyes focus on the girl. She watched her dance, watched her staring at James with the hopeless adoration of a girl reunited with the boy she loved in childhood. She would grow up, Anna knew, and realize that the world was never so simple, that people did not remain still and wait for you to arrive to love them. Anna had seen enough of the world to know how the hearts of men and women moved. Countless girls arrived at her doorstep for this precise reason. The thought normally brought pity at best and scorn at worst, for the girls who wept and wailed over the boys and girls whose fickle hearts betrayed them, but for Cordelia she only felt a pale wash of sorrow. It would be a shame, Anna thought, for such a beautiful girl to cry.

Cordelia’s head turned, and over James’ shoulder her eyes swept the room, landing at last on Anna. Warmth rushed to pool in Anna’s chest, in her bones. The blurred faces around her turned to nothing more than painted wallpaper, a backdrop for the dancing girl in the center of the room. Out of reflex more than choice, Anna lifted one eyebrow in a silent greeting. For a single heartbeat, just long enough to tie Anna’s mind in an endless knot, Cordelia smiled at her.

Then she was gone, vanished into the bustle of dresses and dancing. Anna turned toward the withdrawing room. She slipped one shaking hand into her pocket. Anna did not live well with certainty; her world existed in gray spaces and emotions with no names. But the feeling that settled in her chest could be nothing less than sure, no word less forceful than knowledge.

Cordelia Carstairs didn’t carry her sadness. Whatever grief tried to fill her, she had wrested it into a weapon. It flashed out from her hip in shining gold, cleaving through bone and treachery. Her tears would not drown her but sustain her, provide soothing relief to her wounds before she returned to battle.

Anna Lightwood loved sad girls. Perhaps it was time to love a girl who burned.

#chain of gold #fanfiction #fanfic #the mortal instruments #the last hours #anna lightwood #cordelia carstairs #anna/cordelia #anna lightwood/cordelia carstairs #look I haven't even finished this book but....gay #consider this...cassie clare treats her queer women with respect #ha jk #text

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dontenchantme · 4 years

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garden of eden - part two

Rated E, Satan x MC.

[no rad au] he was the serpent who had lured her out of paradise. she ought to hate him, but she didn’t.

fics masterlist

She woke up gasping, still able to feel phantom fingers wrapped around her throat.

Cold sweat trickled down her forehead, and she found that her hands were halfway reaching towards her neck – with a sigh, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes, burying her face in her pillow. She wasn’t used to sleeping alone. She didn’t think it would be so…strange.

It had been a long time since she last had to wind down by herself. It wasn’t something that she particularly enjoyed doing. Sure, being single and independent was great, but – she was used to having a warm body lying beside her. And without that, she felt…empty. Incomplete.

She got off the bed and jammed her feet into her bedroom slippers, deciding to go and get a drink from the kitchen. It didn’t feel like she’d be able to sleep again anytime soon.

Shuffling out of her room, she switched on all the lights in the apartment as she walked down the hallway, the sudden illaumination making her feel a bit less lonely. But when she got to the entrance of the kitchen, she hesitated, suddenly thinking about the demon who had come to her earlier in the evening. Satan. Just the thought of his name made her shudder.

It wasn’t quite fear that she felt. She knew it wasn’t. Fear had an acrid stench to it. There was no way she could associate something so bitter with a man that beautiful.

Call my name and perhaps I’ll come to you. She was tempted, honestly. If he was a demon and demons were willing to do anything in exchange for a human soul, then could she ask him to spend the night with her? She peered past the doorway, part of her hoping that he might be standing at the counter waiting for her again, but the kitchen was empty.

Grabbing a glass, she poured herself some water, stifling a yawn as she raised the drink to her lips. She still had work tomorrow and she ought to get more rest, but as the cool liquid slid down her throat it seemed to clear the fog of exhaustion from her mind and suddenly, she was wide awake. Placing the empty glass in the sink, she wondered about what to do next – the thought of returning to bed just to stare at the ceiling was rather unappealing.

Her neck throbbed, and she winced, her hand shooting up to touch the tender flesh – she couldn’t help but dream about him strangling her, dream about how his hands made her nerves sing, how the ruthlessness in his eyes stoked something in her belly and forced sensation into something she long thought numb. Her toes curled at the memory of his smile.

Why was she so obsessed with him? Her eyebrow twitched as she turned on the tap, a flood of water gushing out into the sink – she wasn’t the type to fall head-over-heels for a man she barely knew, least of all when the other party was a literal demon from Hell. But when he kissed her all her normal good sense seemed to merrily throw itself out of the window.

She wanted him with an intensity she’d never experienced before, and that scared her more than Satan himself did. This made no sense. She had to get her priorities fixed.

Annoyed at him, at herself and her overall situation, she washed the glass and placed it on the drying rack, her eyebrows knitted as she tried to think of various ways to pass the time. It was three in the morning. She had a good few hours until she had to get ready for work.

She felt self-conscious, walking down the street with the dagger in her coat. It wasn’t so bulky that she couldn’t carry it around, but knowing it was there made everything feel…exciting.

Not that she had decided whether or not she wanted to use it yet. They were talking about her soul here. And everything she’d heard about sinners and the afterlife made Hell sound like an awful place to be. She’d prefer not to be eaten. Or tortured for the rest of eternity.

The dagger was still warm. She could feel it radiating heat through her sweater – not that she was complaining, the extra warmth was welcome in today’s crap weather. The past few weeks the chill had been relatively mild, but today it was finally cold enough to snow, and God, how she hated the snow. She trudged through the street, desperate to get to her office building.

When she finally stepped into the lobby, shaking the snow off her coat and beanie, she made her way to the lift, pleased that she didn’t have to share it with someone. She purposely came in early today so that she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone on the way to her cubicle.

At her desk, she surreptitiously removed the dagger from her coat and hid it in her cabinet. In truth, she didn’t know why she took it with her this morning. But when she was about to leave her room, some eerie impulse seized her and the next thing she knew, she had retrieved the dagger and tucked it inside her outer coat. She still hadn’t figured out what to do with it.

Once she locked her cabinet, she got up from her seat and headed to the washroom – her final moment of privacy before she had to check her emails. There was hardly anyone else around on her floor and no one stopped her to chat, which she was thankful for.

The washroom was empty, and she went to the sink, studying her reflection. Carefully, she unrolled her turtleneck sweater – the bruises were still there, dark and painful. She tilted her head. Underneath the stark lighting, the marks almost seemed to move.

“Pretty bruises, aren’t they?” A vaguely familiar voice suddenly rang off the walls – she whipped around and saw Satan leaning against the door, his hands tucked in his pockets. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “It makes me wonder what you’d look like when you bleed.”

She ought to be afraid of him, afraid of the dark threat that lingered behind his words, but all she could focus on was the curve of his lips and how soft they looked, entirely at odds with the violence that seemed to swirl around him. Satan was smiling, his posture calm and relaxed, but even so she’d never seen someone look so dangerous.

Why wasn’t she more afraid of him? Any rational human being would be. Maybe she had lost her sanity after catching her ex with that woman. “What are you doing in my office?”

“I noticed that you carried the dagger out with you today, so I was wondering if you intended to stab someone.” He shrugged, pushing himself away from the door as he spoke. “It’d be a shame to own something so powerful and not try to use it, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Thought you said you were giving me time to consider.”

“Am I not? After all, I’m not ordering you to use it.” His laughter was almost tangible, tendrils winding around her wrists and ankles, coaxing her closer. Rich, inviting, his voice was sin personified. “I just repeated the thoughts that were already on your mind. You know that much yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong, but she’d rather he didn’t say it aloud like that. It made her sound like the kind of person she didn’t want to be. “That’s beside the point. How are you in my office? I didn’t summon you or anything. I’m not even angry right now.”

Satan raised an eyebrow. “You’re not? Really?” He took a step towards her and she froze, her breath trapped in her throat. Was this what it felt like to be cornered by a predator? He walked with the languid grace of someone who had all the time in the world, and every step he took made her more nervous. More excited. More…everything. “You’ve been seething with rage ever since last night, even if you shove your anger below more boring emotions like comfort and satisfaction and glee. Anger isn’t something that can be contained so easily.”

His smile was wry, almost taunting. She wanted to find a way to wipe it off his face. “Right. You seem to do an awfully good job of containing it though, for a demon that represents wrath.”

“You truly think so?” He chuckled, his smile widening into a brilliant grin. He was dazzling. She almost wanted to cover her eyes. “Well, it’d be rather embarrassing if I lacked control over my sin, don’t you agree?” He reached her, and she felt his fingertips brush against her cheek – his skin was cold, so cold. Colder than the winter air outside. Colder than death.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. She had no idea what demons liked to do in their free time but given that Satan was supposedly one of the seven princes of Hell, she doubted he would just pop in to say hello. He must have better things to do.

“You’re a mortal who caught my eye. Nothing more, nothing less.” Satan shrugged again. “It’s been a while since anyone has been bold enough to approach me. To keep thinking about me. To even dream about me.” He leant closer, and her breath caught – she couldn’t move, helplessly transfixed by the tiny distance between their lips. “It’s foolish to be entranced by a demon, you know. After all, the only thing I’m interested in is your fragile mortal soul.”

His hand shifted from her face down to her neck, lingering over the fabric of her sweater. She could feel the iciness of his skin even through the thick material. “But I’ve always enjoyed this. Watching women get their revenge on their worthless lovers. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Melodramatic indeed, but no word rings false.” His fingers tugged at her turtleneck, exposing her blotchy, purpled skin to him. She felt strangely naked.

“Does that make me your newest plaything, then?” she whispered. She still wasn’t afraid. She should be, but she wasn’t. His dark eyes met hers, almost questioning, and then she dragged him closer and they were kissing again, the kind of kiss that devoured the air between them and set fire to her lungs. Her fingers pulled at his blond hair, greedy and uncaring – if he felt any pain, he didn’t show it. Instead, he gripped her hips and effortlessly lifted her so that she was propped on the sink. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist – at this height, she didn’t need to tiptoe to reach him, and something about his nearness made her dizzy.

His kiss was punishing. His tongue forced its way past her lips, and she whimpered, unable to help herself. His hands roamed over her body, untucking her sweater and sliding up her bare torso – she flinched at his touch. It was almost like being thrown into ice water. She wanted to push him away and tell him to go warm himself up first, but then his hands found the edge of her bra and suddenly all she could see was nothingness. Everything was white, pure white.

She could hear herself panting, her body trembling with anticipation – a wire drawn taut, almost ready to snap. She was only vaguely aware of him pushing her sweater up. Satan yanked her bra down, exposing one hardened nipple. He met her gaze and there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes that looked almost feline – that was the last thing she thought about before he took her breast into his mouth and began to suck.

She bit her lip, trying her hardest not to let out a sound – the last thing she needed was for a concerned colleague to barge into the washroom and catch her entwined with a demon. But Satan was so good. Where his fingers were frigid, his tongue was warm and wet and he knew how to use his mouth in a way that drew pleas and whimpers out of her, unconscious prayers for salvation falling from her lips. She tightened her grip on him, hooking her ankles together behind his back, and was pleased to feel his hardness grind against her aching core.

It would be so nice to just strip her pants off and let him take her right there. She wanted this. She wanted him. It’d been so damn long since she last felt pleasure from sex. In her previous relationship, sex was comforting but lazy, something neither of them put particular effort into anymore. Sometimes she didn’t even remember what sex was like. But this was different. She felt almost electric. Like she was being reborn somehow, pushed into a world filled with pain and violence, the erotic whispers of pleasure underneath it all – Satan sank his teeth into her flesh, and she jolted into his mouth, her fingers twisting in his hair. It hurt. It hurt so well.

“Satan, Satan.” She realised that was her voice, her breathy whisper calling his name with the kind of reverence normally reserved for the church. He growled in response, the vibrations of his voice shooting into her nipple throughout her entire body, and she shuddered, longing to whip off her damp panties. She wanted to take his cock into her mouth, graze the delicate skin with her teeth before allowing him to fuck her, the tip of him sinking into her throat. God, how badly she wanted this. She was burning with desire and want, and he was looking at her with that triumphant glint in his eyes, his pretty lips still wrapped around her –

Then someone banged on the washroom door, and she stilled, holding her breath. “Oi! I don’t know who’s taking such a damn long time in the washroom but get out already!”

That voice sounded an awful lot like her boss. She let out a groan, and Satan slowly released her nipple with a quiet pop, still looking amused. “This is all your fault,” she said, hopping off the sink and trying to arrange her clothes as best as she could – her lipstick was smeared and the feverish sheen of lust was still present in her eyes, but everything should be fine once she touched up her makeup and splashed some cold water on her cheeks.

“My fault? You seemed very into it,” Satan answered, and his coy smile made her want to slap him. “Maybe if you do something to get my approval, I’ll show you a better time tonight.”

She froze, wondering if she should clarify what he meant, but when she turned around Satan was gone and she was left alone in the washroom, heat pulsing through her veins.

Do something to get Satan’s approval. She twirled her pen between her fingers, considering her options – she had a few ideas, none of which would be good for her soul.

Was this what it felt like to be tempted by the devil? Satan made a very compelling argument. Some tiny, rational part of her mind told her she was stupid for even considering his proposal – to become a sinner just so he would spend the night with her? She wasn’t like that.

She wasn’t supposed to be impulsive or hot-headed. All her life she’d forced herself to study hard, to work hard, to do everything with the utmost effort she could muster because this was the only way she could succeed. But she was so tired. So sick of putting up this façade all the time. Sometimes she could feel tiny cracks forming in her carefully maintained exterior.

He found those cracks, his voice slithering into the fault lines which bypassed all logic, which gave him a direct path straight to her heart. He coaxed her, persuading her to close her eyes and just give in to the resentment that bubbled away in her chest, festering and malignant.

There was something undeniably powerful and dangerous about him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t bring herself to run away even when he approached her, filled with dangerous intent. She suppressed all instinct to flee, desperate to hear his voice. If Satan was one of the rulers of Hell, then surely Hell couldn’t be such a bad place. Could it?

She pressed her fingers against her temple. Ever since that episode in the washroom, she couldn’t help but feel like she was being split apart – one half of her reminded her that Satan was a demon; that all he wanted was to devour her soul and tempt her to sin. But the other half of her was drunk off him. She wanted his hands wrapped around her neck and his lips on hers, rough and unforgiving. And struggling between these two halves was exhausting.

It would be nice if she could just stop thinking, but probably the only way she could do that was if she went home now and drank until she fell asleep. Did she even still have wine?

Just then, two thick folders were dropped onto her desk and she jumped – when she looked up, she saw her colleague staring at her, chewing on some gum. It was the same guy they all suspected of sleeping his way to a promotion, and immediately she frowned, glancing at the folders he’d so unceremoniously deposited. “What’s all this?”

“Boss wants to start migrating all our data to the new system. We still have data from our old archives, so we need someone to transfer all this over.” He blew a bubble and popped it.

“Isn’t that your job?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. At least that was what she knew based on his job title. She’d never actually seen him doing anything related to data architecture.

“I work with bigger things. This is intern-level work.” He grinned at her – he probably thought he looked cute. She just thought he looked smarmy. “Don’t you have an intern? Just throw it to them. It’ll be a nice change from making coffee all the time.”

She bristled. “My intern left last month, just in case you didn’t notice. And don’t you have staff with capacity? You have an entire team working under you. You don’t need my help.”

Normally she wouldn’t be this confrontational, but something compelled her to stand up for herself today. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this. It was lunchtime, yet she was still at her desk, trying to rush out a report her boss wanted before the end of the day. She did not need an entitled prick trying to flaunt his newfound authority in front of her.

“You’re the fastest at data entry, though! That’s why everyone goes to you, isn’t it?” said prick replied, though she thought his smile dimmed at her response. She bet he had been expecting her to just suck it up and say yes, as always. “C’mon, I need your help. This has to be finished by next week and I’m already struggling with that other portfolio. Please?”

She rose from her chair, picking up the folders and pushing them back into his arms. “Not in the mood to help you today. I’m swamped. Try asking your temp staff – I saw one of them flirting with the receptionist in the pantry.” There was nothing more satisfying than watching his jaw drop, and she hid a smile by ducking her head and turning her attention back to her computer.

He tried to change her mind a few more times, but she was stubborn, and eventually, he left. Though he made a few veiled threats about reporting her to the higher-ups, she didn’t care much – at most she’d look for another job somewhere. Hell, she’d even take up babysitting again if that meant she could escape from corporate slavery.

Her gaze drifted to her cabinet and abruptly, she remembered the dagger she had locked away earlier in the day. She was giddy with triumph and maybe that made her more reckless than usual, but all of a sudden she found herself thinking about using the weapon on all the men who had let her down before, one way or another – starting with her stupid ex, then her asshole colleague, then the boy who had bullied her back in grade school, then the jerk who simply couldn’t stop playing his bass guitar in the middle of the night…

So many possibilities. So many ways to make herself happy. Why did she have to crawl up the corporate ladder just to obtain some illusion of contentment? Things would be much easier if she could just…get rid of the obstacles in her life. And she had the perfect means to do so right there, in her cabinet. She chewed on her lip. It was a frighteningly attractive possibility.

What did it mean to give up her soul? What would happen to her? What punishment should she expect? Perhaps Satan could tell her. She was aware he had no incentive to reveal all this to her, but…if she asked nicely, maybe he would let something slip. Reaching for the cabinet, she let her fingers linger on the lock, her skin brushing over cold metal.

Tonight. Tonight, she’d consider. She wasn’t going to make an impulsive decision, not even if every nerve in her body sang at the thought of getting her way.

#satan obey me #satan x mc #obey me shall we date #obey me

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pip-n-flinx · 4 years

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What Lay Behind Us

I know my first chapter didn’t get much traction, but here is second chapter of the Witcher fic I’m working on!

“Legend has it they wilt unless nourished with blood, and also if it’s ever sold… But give it to someone you love, and it’ll live forever.”

“This one’s for you Triss. If there’s any truth to the legend it should never wilt, even if you pluck a petal or two.”

Triss found herself staring at the Rose of Remembrance that Geralt had given her more than six months ago. No one would ever accuse Triss Merigold of having a green thumb, and indeed she left the growing of herbs to the alchemists her whole life. But it still bloomed, beautiful as the day they had found in, growing on the elven statue in the garden.

She’d carried it with her. Sentiment. Just couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind. Smiled every time she looked at it. Pulse elevated. Breathing ragged. And that bath afterwards. She missed him. So much. But he remembered Yen now. Heartbroken, she turned back. Too good to last. She’d known from the start. Even if she was beautiful, Yen was more. Much more. The Djinn had seen to that. Bound her crush to her friend. There were other men. Handsome men. Winsome pairings. Other witchers even. It didn’t matter. She looked into those gold eyes and her heart broke. Torn. Then she found him. He’d forgotten. Forgotten Yennefer. Forgotten the Djinn. And her emotions had swept her away. But she’d known, even then. Doomed, this tryst. Doomed from the very start.

Tears slid down her face and quiet sobs racked her chest as she clutched the rose close. It was almost too much to bear, seeing him again. “It’ll be nice?” She asked herself as she sat on the stump that passed for a chair. “It’ll be nice?! What was I thinking?” More sobs, more tears. Embarrassing, Triss thought. As an advisor to the king, before the coup, before the assassins, before the war, before the witch hunt, before all this, she could have had most any aspiring noble. Most were fine enough, but no. Her heart had seen fit to fall for Geralt. This all would have been so much easier if she had fallen for any other man. Damn, even Emhyr var Emreis was a more likely husband then Geralt, bound as he was by his own wish. Damn him, and damn Yen too. Clenched teeth, silent sobs now. Crying over a rose that would never wilt, never die. A constant reminder both of her lover and her own indiscretion. But she couldn’t just leave it. Not here. Not anywhere. She’d carry around her badge of shame until she died...

They’re writing songs of love, but not for me.

A lucky stars above, but not for me.

With love to lead the way,

I’ve found more clouds of grey Then any tragic play could guarantee.

I was a fool to fall, and get that way.

Oh woe! Alas! And oh so lack-a-day.

So while I can’t dismiss

The memory of their kiss

I guess they’re not for me.

Dandelion’s song had come back, unbidden. Damn that bard, his songwriting always hit too close to home. Prescient even. She’d even wondered if he had the gift of dreams, at one point. There were some things he had no way of knowing, but know them he did.

She remembered clearly the day she had heard. About the Djinn, about the wishes… She hadn’t had time to weep, not in front of Yen. It was hard, hearing Yennefer rail against the man Triss had her heart set on. Harder still to hear Geralt had chosen this. She’d been bitter, she knew. Her friend had come back beautiful, and scorning the love of “that scheming, manipulative, golden eyed abomination!” if memory served. That had hurt more than anything.

Later on, she’d taken the time to cry it out. Hell, she’d even taken Eskel to bed with her, trying to forget Geralt. It hadn’t worked, of course, and Eskel couldn’t have cared less. He just wanted the flame haired sorceress underneath him. So when she’d snuck into Kaer Mohren and to his bed, he hadn’t objected. Triss regretted the decision instantly. What was she trying to do after all? Make him jealous? All she’d gotten was a pale imitation of what Yennefer had. It was a mistake, and one she’d never owned up to. Not to Yen, nor Ciri. Not to the other witchers, and most certainly not to Geralt. She didn’t know if she could. No, she held that secret closer than she did even the Rose of Remembrance. That too, she would carry to her grave.

Then Geralt had returned, remembering nothing. Not her name, barely her face, but perhaps more stunningly not Yennefer of Vengerberg either. It was too good to be true. It wouldn’t last. Whether it was a curse or just a bump on the head, eventually he’d be back to normal. He’d lived so many years, there was no way this would be the undoing of the Butcher of Blaviken. Nevertheless she’d taken advantage of it. It almost hurt more, realizing just how right she was. Eskel was a shadow of the man Geralt was. He’d fought through hordes of soldiers to save her, for no personal gain other than her favor. Risked his life countless times, even treated her like a lady on occasion. He wasn’t the most romantic man, true, but he didn’t lack for spirit or passion. It ached to remember him. The elven bath in the ruin, that mischievous glint in his eyes, the smirk. He flinched when he saw her naked, then tore off his clothes to jump in after her, nearly tripping along the way. It was… cute to see him so frazzled. After the stunning beauty that Yennefer had become, she had thought she would never make him swoon for her. True, she was fit. Some men even favored red heads. It had hurt to think she was a wilted flower beside her friend though. An additional strain on the relationship. But Geralt watcher her with eyes that flickered from near predatory desire to childlike wonder for a time. Gods she had missed him.

And then back he strolled, right in on her meeting in Putrid Grove, bartering as if her life depended on it. Her life did depend on it, of course. It was hard to hide in a basement next to the fish market, the smell of fish and the stench of rotting meat never left her nose these days. A far cry from the oils, candles, perfumes and colognes of her past life. Into this, with Triss about as debased as she had felt since she was held tortured by Letho’s men, Geralt had walked. Memory restored.

She had tried to duck out then. It had been too difficult meeting his eyes. It was always hard to read those vertical pupils, but his expression had softened when he looked at her. Bedlam had noticed too, damn him. Triss wondered why Geralt would hold anything but suspicion and hostility for her. She had, after all, used his amnesia to worm her way into his bed. Triss imagined she wouldn’t have been so kind had their roles been reversed. If someone had used amnesia to trick her into leaving Geralt, she certainly wouldn’t have any sympathy for them upon waking.

But when she tried to excuse herself he had followed. Offered to help. Swam in the filthy channel to retrieve her lost implements. Haggled on her behalf with Brandon. Defended her when Radovid’s goons were set on her. Again, he risked life and limb for her. She hadn’t even paid him first! She was sure that was against some ancient witcher code somewhere. She smiled through her tears.

She paused a moment, considering the rose in her hands. Come to think of it, shouldn’t it have wilted now? Surely now that Geralt remembered Yennefer he loved her and not… Perhaps the magic only cared if the rose were given in love? But then what sustained the spell? Surely a flower so fragile it required a blood sacrifice to grow couldn’t be sustained by a discreet act of love. Yet there it be, blooming as if he still loved her. Impossible. Another sob racked her chest.

“What was I thinking, inviting him here!”

“I come at a bad time?”

Whirling, she saw him. Damn. Crying so much I don’t even notice the Butcher of Blaviken walk in.

“No,” she managed to stammer while dashing tears from her cheeks “now’s fine.”

She even managed to muster a small smile for him. Why now of all times. She hadn’t thought to see him until at least tomorrow. Never in her wildest thoughts would he come to her immediately. It had scant been an hour since he had set off, back fading into the dim sun and smog of the Novigrad evening. Candles flickered around them, on the meager desk and on the small bed frame that made up her abode. She was embarrassed, frankly. It was hardly the kind of dwelling she wanted to invite handsome men home to. Though she supposed, upon review, that this was preferable to him walking in on her chained to the wall, blood crusted on her lips and eyes swollen nearly shut. At least then she had felt relieved when he walked in the room. Now she was more nervous than ever.

“See you kept that Rose of Remembrance I gave you back in Flotsam”

“Seems so long ago. Probably because so much has changed.”

Setting the rose aside, not wanting to dwell on it with Geralt right here, she turned back. Now would be a good time to change the subject. Anything would be better than this. Well, maybe not stories of Geralt and Yen’s love-life. That might send her over the edge. Ciri. That was a safe topic. She opened her mouth to try and divert this before the conversation spiraled out of her control, but he beat her to the punch.

“How long you been in Novigrad?”

“Long enough to know how not to get caught, and to survive.” “And before you came here, where were you?”

“Oh, places… where I managed to get by without your help, too.”

Too biting, she could tell. He even averted his eyes at that one. Damn him, why did he have to pry? She was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Ready for his questions to get personal again. A sigh, a grimace. She didn’t want to chase him away, but she needed some time to gather her thoughts.

“Which doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you...”

Eyes averted, fidgeting with her hair, feet dragging side to side in the sand of the floor. Damn, he’s got me acting like I’m twelve years old again, nervous in front of a boy. It’d be too much to ask that he not notice. Witchers tended to notice everything. Even the dim light wouldn’t hide her blush from him, certainly not at this distant. She could tell he’d washed up a bit, he didn’t smell of river and sewage anymore.

“You know Triss, it's good to see you again”

Good? To see me? She could barely keep up with today. It’d been bewildering enough to see him again, but this? This was too much. She wanted nothing so much as to run into his arms again. What would he do? Triss hadn’t the foggiest idea what Geralt intended by coming here.

“Your rose is still blooming I see. Almost as red as your hair too.”

Compliments? She raised her head only to see the man blushing. Blushing! A nervous laugh escaped her lips. Was this a dream?

“Flatterer. Tis a far deeper shade of red than my hair. Your rose is far prettier too,” she said, gently caressing one petal with her left hand.

Taking a moment to revel in the feel, the texture. Soft as silk, nearly creamy on her skin, and redder than blood. A fitting memoriam of their time together. She’d always wished for more stable times, when great gouts of fire and magic were less necessary. She never wanted to live in such troubled times. Perhaps she’d been born at the wrong time, the wrong age. Maybe a hundred years from now….

She stifled the thought. She’d trade no amount of shame and suffering for her time with this witcher. Smiling broader this time, she looked back up at him. His eyes had followed her fingers, and she left a finger on the rose petal in what she hoped was a dainty gesture.

“Explain something to me, Witcher.”

#The Witcher #Wild Hunt #Triss x Geralt #Triss Merigold #Geralt of Rivia #my writing

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huronnade-moved · 4 years

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Completely AU drabble ahead. Set in a universe where, though the Crossover between Huron and Vide happened, Deeana is strictly Kuro’s squadmate. No cheating, no relationship drama. Also, though the drabble is written in English, all dialogue is in Hural.

_____ . ( 🞮 ) . _____

The theatre tended to be quiet after hours. The only sounds that filled it were quiet breathing and page turning. Occasionally, the quiet would ebb away with gentle voices, ciclicle carriages of conversation running their course before the atmosphere returned once more. Neither were bored; both were enraptured by the ambience that had always existed between them, even after they’d long since parted ways.

Tonight felt different in some way, though. For some reason, the air felt even more charged than usual.

❝ Well, ‘s gettin’ late. I should head home, ❞ Kuro muttered, folding his book closed and hopping from his perch on the end of their stage. Murr tried not to swallow too hard at the feeling of their knees brushing as he did so, heart leaping into his throat like a bear-trap attempting to catch something. It didn’t take long for it to sink back down, landing like a stone in his gut. It always sucked when Kuro had to leave.

❝ Yeah, I getcha. Ya probably gotta be up early, huh? ❞ Though he forced his voice to echo its usual ease, there was an undeniable pang of longing attached limply to the end. Please just stay. Just tonight. I’ll never trouble you again if you just stay with me tonight. ❝ Thanks fer comin’ over. ❞

❝ Y’don’t gotta thank me every single time, y’know, ❞ Kuro replied with a brow arched high, shrugging his coat on as he attempted to make eye contact with him. Though Murr’s face was often cloaked in static, much like everyone else he tried to look in the eye, there were moments where his image would come through, like a transmission finally reaching its designated station after a hell of a delay. Those times were what Kuro hungered for. Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Murr had grown into a beautiful man. It confused him greatly. He’d never looked at men like he was looking at his friend before; he didn’t think he had any interest. There were a lot of things he didn’t understand upon this whirlwind of a person inserting himself back into his life. Perhaps this was his punishment for wounding him so: an eternity of questioning. ❝ Yer my best friend. Of course I’ll come ‘n’ see y’whenever I can. ❞

❝ It still seems important enough ta be thankful fer. ❞ Though Murr’s face was concealed by that pesky shadow that hung over his shoulder, Kuro watched as his friend turned his head, breaking assumed eye contact almost nervously. ❝ I know what it’s like ta not see ya fer ages, so I’m happy ‘n’ grateful when I do. ❞

There was a strange pause, one filled with energy neither of them could place. Unsure of the cause, Kuro took in his slightly elevated heartbeat with some amount of chagrin, cursing himself for being so easily afflicted. So he’d had a crush on Murr in his youth… so what? They were changed people, far past the awkward phase that they’d left each other on. Things were different now.

If that’s so, why do you feel hot under the collar? Shut up. I don’t.

His hand hovered over the theatre’s door-handle, heartbeat thundering in his ears as he thought about how best to bid his friend goodnight. Why are you even thinking about this? Just say goodnight. His lips parted to speak, though no sound came out; his frame remained like a pillar in the doorway, hulking and dark.

❝ Uhm… everythin’ okay? ❞

❝ ... ❞ Was it? He couldn’t really make heads or tails of the feelings currently swarming him. For months now, he’d felt the tension in him rise to an unbearable level. He’d spent countless nights lying awake thinking about the terrible things he’d forced Murr to endure after leaving him without a word. He’d also spent a few wondering what Murr would look like in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy, quivering like a ripple in a pond, drooling like a dog in heat-- stop it. Stop thinking about that. ❝ … I just… I don’t wanna go home, Alé. ❞

He listened to Murr’s wordless stammer, enchanted by the sound, before he allowed his hand to fall from the handle. His body turned slowly in the other man’s direction, head feeling foggier by the second. You’re so close, yet so far away. I don’t deserve you, not after all I’ve done, but by God I want you. I don’t think you even realise.

❝ W-Well, ya don’t have ta… I don’t mind leavin’ the door open fer you... ❞

❝ Don’t leave. ❞

Though he couldn’t see his face, he knew for a fact that Murr’s cheeks had turned red. It was in the way his torso shrunk; the way his arms went rigid by his sides; the barely audible stutter as he stared at him, somewhat stupefied, wondering what he could even say in response. Eventually, he settled on a flustered: ❝ I-I wasn’t goin’ to! ❞

❝ Good. ❞

❝ What’s with you all of a sudden…? Yeesh... ❞ Murr tugged lightly at his collar, attempting to get air beneath it. Suddenly, he felt trapped in this beloved place, as if he’d poked a bear with a stick and had nowhere to retreat to. He attempted to mentally talk himself down, turning in place so that he could hop back up onto the stage. ❝ We can keep readin’. Or we can… talk. ❞

❝ Talk, ❞ Kuro echoed, tone slightly inquisitive as he began to bridge the distance between himself and the stage. All of a sudden, he was unable to focus on anything except his friend’s appearance, lit from behind by the dim stage lights as if a small piece of Heaven had opened up and chosen him. For the briefest of moments, Kuro saw his face. The way his mouth was pressed into a thin, confused line, teeth gently worrying his lower lip, had a pang of heat rising in his stomach. As he came to stand in front of him, head inclined slightly to look at him, he uttered a meek: ❝ Let’s talk, then. ❞

❝ O-Okay. Well-- ❞ He fell quiet, shoulders rising like a child’s when they were being scolded, before he suddenly exploded: ❝ Well now ya’ve gone ‘n’ made it tense! I can’t think of anythin’ ta say! You go! You say somethin’! ❞

❝ Nhm… yer so fuckin’ adorable sometimes, Murphy. ❞

❝ What…? ❞

❝ Murr. I can’t keep bullshittin’ like this. ❞ He wasn’t entirely sure of what he was doing. All he knew was that he felt positively untethered. His heart was a fragile thing, tampered with by darkness and shadow, but right now it pooled with light, emotions oozing like drip from a cake. His hands came to rest on either side of his friend’s body, sandwiching him between his own frame and the stage supporting him. ❝ Y’know, that crush I told y’about way back when? I-- ain’t think it’s quite dead yet. ❞

❝ B-But you said... ❞

❝ I know what I said, ❞ Kuro interrupted, almost grunting. ❝ I moved on. I let go of y’when I made the decision t’leave y’behind, right? Was a load’a shit, Alé. I just didn’t wanna make things fuckin’ weird. ❞

❝ ‘n’ now’s a better time ta make things weird…? ❞

❝ Is it weird? ❞ The silence that hung between them was heavy, as if they were both afraid of the answer to the question. They’d spent so long convincing themselves that they’d moved on, that they could see different people and let go of their childish fantasies, that being stripped of this thin lie left both of them feeling naked. After another thoughtful pause, wetting his lips nervously, Kuro continued, before his bravery failed him. ❝ Would y’really mind if I just… I don’t know, leaned up ‘n’ kissed y’? Would y’stop me? ❞

❝ I-I don’t know… Kuro, please just stop, this ain’t funny... ❞

❝ This ain’t a joke, Murr. ❞

❝ It seems like it is ta you! ❞ Though he couldn’t exactly blame his friend for feeling doubtful, Kuro would be the first to admit that Murr’s scorn stung some. ❝ Is this all my feelin’s mean to you…? Is it just some punchline? Some stupid tease? You know how I feel about you-- you know I never stopped-- c-carin’ about you, ‘n’ if you don’t know that then you suck as a detective. ❞

Kuro was somewhat flabbergasted. Though he’d been able to read between the lines on occasion, Murr was nothing if not a convincing actor. When they’d told each other that they’d gone on with their lives, Kuro had almost wholeheartedly believed him. There had been rare traces of doubt in him when the other had slipped up, revealing a little too much about what still resided in his heart, but for the most part the Sheriff was almost certain that there was absolutely no chance of salvaging what they once almost had in their youth. He suddenly felt very bare, heart racing, and though he wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line or not, he found himself unable to resist any longer. He pushed his head closer, their lips making the briefest of contact before he felt Murr jerk his head away.

❝ Stop it. J-Just stop-- ❞ He was unable to finish as Kuro grasped at his collar, tugging him closer once more. This time, their mouths connected with more certainty, and Murr’s cut off whimper was promptly smothered. The exchange was short, though they lingered close to one another long after it had been broken. In a quiet murmur: ❝ Kuro... ❞ It sounded as if he was going to tell him to stop again, so the Sheriff pressed close once more, kissing him harder. The shred of doubt previously on Murr’s tongue ebbed into a small, relieved noise, his hands-- fingers previously turning white due to how hard he was gripping the edge of the stage-- coming to rest on his shoulders as he finally allowed himself to give in. In a positively precarious whisper: ❝ S-Stop… nm.. ❞

Consent was something that Kuro took incredibly seriously ( especially after his unfortunate run-in with his own witch of a rapist ), but he could tell by the way that Murr clung to him, by the soft sounds that left him whenever they reconnected, that he didn’t want him to stop; that it was a pleasantry he was uttering in an attempt to save face; that he was as relieved as he himself felt.

❝ Stop…? ❞ He asked in between kisses, hands flat against the stage. The warmth of Murr’s palms on his shoulders was like fire, and he rolled one lazily in an attempt to provoke curiosity. Curious Murr was, but not without caution. His hands traced up his neck with hesitation, the drag of his fingers driving Kuro crazy. ❝ Is that… what y’want? ❞

❝ Mm… no... ❞ Murr whispered back, sliding from his seat on stage and onto his feet. It was much easier for him to press close, lips pressed fervently against his yet again, his tongue suddenly introduced into the equation as he wrapped his arms around his neck. Kuro hummed softly, meeting him halfway, an arm coiling around his waist. They grew wild from there, impatient, centuries of longing and pining escaping them in the form of wandering hands and exchanged saliva. They couldn’t get close enough, bodies on fire, hearts hammering, any trace of distance unbearably painful. It prompted Kuro to back Murr up against the stage at one point, body pressed into his, and Murr mewled sweetly while simultaneously pulling at his hair. Such an abundance of personality made Kuro shiver. Although Murr was trembling vigorously, hands shaking, voice quivering, his mouth was hungry, body receptive, movements demanding more; his fiery disposition would never be stamped out, not even by a man more domineering than he was.

At one point, Kuro felt his coat slip from his shoulders, and suddenly Murr felt closer than before. It prompted a charged change of course, his hands filing beneath the other man’s finely pressed shirt and making contact with his waist. His skin was warm, soft, and not even their furious pace could distract him from said facts. When he was feeling a little calmer, he’d have to take a moment to pay close attention to him. His body, though smaller than his, was lean and well-built, muscles clenching whenever Kuro’s fingers brushed over them. Even when the pads of his fingers curled around to the smooth canvas of his back, the thews tensed and squeezed in time with his soft gasps and shudders.

❝ Fuck... more-- touch me more... ❞ The needy plea fell hotly against his throat, a mix of tongue and teeth scraping along his skin, growing more and more familiar with the taste. The way Kuro rocked his hips into his had a breathless moan tumbling from him, face pressed tightly into his neck a moment later in an attempt to squash the sound. My voice sounds weird right now. He silenced the thought with a feverish buck into the other man’s body, listening to him grunt, feeling him attempt to push closer still. At one point, Kuro dipped his head low and recaptured his lips with his own, a deep, passionate kiss ensuing as the pair held onto each other for dear life.

It was a touch to his belt that awoke Murr from his drunken haze, a lick of sense returning as an abject bolt of fear ran through him. He wanted this, he wanted this perhaps more than he’d ever wanted anything, but the truth was that, at this point, he was afraid to lay with someone far more experienced than himself. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint him. ❝ K-Kuro… ❞

Either he didn’t hear him or he chose not to listen, lips dragging down his throat, a myriad of kisses and nibbles left behind. Murr’s head spun, throat willingly exposed, his hand clutching the back of the other man’s head as he wrestled with his inner thoughts, trying to decide whether it was a good or bad thing that he was half-hard in his dress pants. Maybe you can do this. Kuro wouldn’t hurt you. Kuro would never force you to do something you didn’t want to do. Kuro would look after you. Kuro would make you feel good-- so good-- like you always dreamed of-- but when he felt his pants loosen around his waist, belt tugged free from its position, he knew in his heart that he wasn’t ready yet.

❝ Kuro… ahn-- stop-- ❞ Though he shuddered delightfully at the hand that brushed along his outer thigh on its way to his hip, it also provoked the first push that Murr had thought to administer. It wasn’t hard, just enough to stop the other man from going further. ❝ Stop...! H-Hold on… I’m n… th-this’s goin’ too fast... ❞

When Kuro went still and held his silence for a moment longer than his anxiety could take, Murr thought for sure that he was going to turn cold. To his relief, the Sheriff pulled back panting, eyes unfocused, but he’d clearly resigned from the task. After a couple of seconds staring at him, trying to regain some level of concentration, the Sheriff cleared his throat and backed away slightly, reaching a hand up in an attempt to flatten his mussed up hair somewhat.

❝ Gods… shit-- sorry. I-- didn’t mean t’overstep no bounds. I just-- lost control’a myself. ❞

❝ You don’t have ta apologise... ❞

For the first time in a while, Murr felt like they were looking each other in the eye. Unbeknownst to him, they were. His face had become visible to Kuro in the moment, desire and a deep-seated form of love slicing cleanly through the dark and revealing him to him. He looked beautiful, already wild hair thoroughly dishevelled, russet cheeks flushed pink, lips parted in order to allow him to breathe-- very lightly reddened in the wake of such a feverish advance. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say, content to stare and heave for air, lungs aching, fingers itching to feel him once more, heart ablaze. His eyes flitted downwards briefly as Murr shifted to readjust his belt, fingers fumbling briefly before he managed to loop it back into place properly. Are you as excited as I am? Is it hard to focus?

❝ Uhm… I’m sorry. I want to, w-with you, but… I’m… I… don’tknowwhatI’m doin’... ❞

❝ Yer a virgin…? ❞

❝ SHUT UP! ❞ Murr crossed his arms tightly across his chest, frame shrinking somewhat. With a tad more venom than he meant to apply: ❝ Some of us don’t handle our grief by screwin’ everythin’ that has a pulse, idiot. ❞

❝ Ahah… noted. ❞ Though, something about Murr’s reluctant confession had a pang of warmth blossoming in Kuro’s chest. With a hint of a smile: ❝ So, I’d be yer first…? Hypothetically? ❞

❝ W-Well… yeah. ❞ He listened as Murr cleared his throat, a hand curling around the back of his neck. He tried not to focus on the blooming mark just above where his body tapered off into inky blackness, eyes attempting to fix on his face once more. The static had returned. ❝ I just… I don’t know. I was-- preoccupied with other stuff, ‘n’ I never met anyone else that was special ta me. Kinda hard ta when yer isolated up in the woods. Please don’t make fun of me. ❞

❝ Heh. I was more surprised that nobody had jumped on y’yet. I mean, look at y’. ❞

❝ Oh, please... ❞ he muttered dismissively, blush deepening. His hesitation was stark, bleached with uncertainty before he finally found his voice. ❝ What does this all mean? I don’t… think I could take a fling, no matter how much I want y-- ❞

❝ I ain’t want a fling, Alé, ❞ Kuro interrupted, albeit softly. ❝ ‘m sorry I jumped the gun. Maybe we should’a talked more about how we felt first. But I do… have feelin’s fer you. I thought they’d go away, y’know? As we progressed with our friendship? But the truth is that they’ve just gotten stronger. I just-- couldn’t resist anymore. ‘m sorry if it’s awkward now. ❞

❝ It ain’t! I just… know yer history... ❞

Kuro frowned, then sighed. ❝ Listen… no matter what y’may think’a my choices, yer gonna be my first in a couple’a ways too. I’ve never… y’know… with a man so, we can be fuckin’ useless together. ❞ He huffed, feeling slightly embarrassed himself now. ❝ Let’s not get caught up in all that. I’m sorry I rushed. But this ain’t about sex or whatever. I-- I don’t wanna be just friends, Murr. ‘n’ I know that I don’t really have the right t’say that but-- ❞

❝ Shut up. ❞ It was Murr’s turn to interrupt, though he did so with his whole body, arms wrapped around his dearest companion, head finding his shoulder instinctively. A small smile formed on his face, and for the first time in a long time, Aléjandro felt happy. ❝ Just shut up, Kuro. ❞

#🞮 ┋ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ sᴀᴅ sʜᴏᴡ﹐ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀɴ ᴇɢᴏ. ❜ ( kuro / ic. )#🞮 ┋ ɪ'ᴍ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇsᴛʀᴏʏ. ❜ ( murr / ic. )#drabble *#/ some long-awaited kuro/murr bullshit heh B)

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blindspot-repata · 5 years

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High School Blindspot

Chapter 3

I swear, I tried focus on Jeller, but Repata os everything for me. I promise on next chapter to Focus more to Jeller

Edgar opened the window of his room after hearing a crashing sound. He was home alone because Emma, his mother, was a nurse and most of the time worked at night and his 15-year old sister, Lis, had gone to sleep at a friend's house. The figure waiting for him outside reminded him a few years earlier when they were younger. She always did that, especially when she was in trouble and didn't want to worry about her grandparents, and even if she didn't want to say anything, she would come to him just for company. He always welcomed her, often without asking why, and he just welcomed her. Edgar helped her up and they both sat on the bed. Natasha had a tired countenance that made him feel a twinge of concern.

“It's all right?” The girl shook her head no. “Are you want to talk?”

Edgar watched in silence as Natasha unzipped and removed her sweter from the cold. The boy was startled by what he saw because he did not expect anything so shocking.

"Tasha..." He felt his voice crack and didn't know what to do. The girl had several bruises on both arms and part of her neck, and the rest was hidden under her t-shirt. “What happened?” He looked at her that remained silent and he knew. Ricky.

"Last night he was different and I didn't want to, because I got scared and he forced me, and..." Natasha couldn't talk about it with anyone, but she couldn't take it anymore.

“Did you go to the police? It can't be like this. We have to stop this guy. This is very serious.” Edgar got very nervous and felt his blood boil. Someone had to stop Ricky.

“Not worth it. I won’t see him anymore. Complaining will only expose me and I don't want that.” At some point he will get what he deserves.

Edgar didn't agree, he knew something had to be done, but showing his anger and nervousness now wouldn't help her, that wasn't why she came to him. She came because she needed someone she trusted, and he was there for her, always. The boy took her hand and gently touched the bruises along her arm. A lonely tear rolled down Natasha's cheek.

“It hurts?” Edgar asked and the girl shook her head.

“It hurt yesterday, but now I'm used to it.”

“You don't have to get used to feeling pain. Come here.” Edgar took her in his arms and comforted her and Natasha broke into sobs. Both remained in this position for long minutes until she calmed down and they lay on the bed. The boy just chose to give her his company and if she wanted to say anything else he would be there.

He watched her until she fell asleep. When he saw that she wouldn't wake up, he covered her with a blanket and brushed the hairs off her face. Her countenance showed the suffering she was bringing, perhaps for some time, and he felt terrible realizing that she hadn’t told him before what was happening because she didn’t want to worry him and that he was involved in other things and he wasn’t there for her. He wouldn’t let that happen anymore. He promised himself that he would pay more attention and try to be closer. She looked so small and fragile lying there in his bed that the looker couldn’t imagine the suffering inside her.

Edgar left the room and did what he needed.

“Mrs Amelia?”

“Hi, Edgar? It's all right?”

‘Yes, don't worry. Natasha is here at my home. She slept, I just called to let her know. I don't want to wake her up because she looked so tired.”

“Is she okay, my son? I didn't see her leave.”

“Now she's fine. She slept a little.”

“Thanks for warning me. Just take care of her.”

“I'm taking care her, Mrs Amelia.”

Edgar hung up the phone and went back to the bedroom. He took an extra mattress from under the bed and made it to sleep because she wanted to make room for her. When they were kids Natasha always did that and often they just watched a movie or played video games. When it was late, Edgar's mother came to his son room and if they were sleeping she would call Natasha's grandmother and let her know that the girl was at her house. Over time they grew and the visits decreased more and more. It had been a while since a few years, so Edgar was surprised to see her.

---------- ------------ ----------- ------------

“Dad!? What was it this time?” Kurt addressed his father who was drinking coffee in the kitchen.

‘What are you talking about, son?”

"You must have gotten drunk again and bumped into my car when you went to put your car in the garage." Kurt wasn’t a futile young man attached to material goods, but he was full of his father's drunkenness.

It was this life since her mother left years ago. Kurt was careful that his sister wouldn’t be harmed in all this situation, so he did his best to be a good influence on the 16-year-old sister who had always been a good girl. Now the boy was preparing to pursue a military career, he thought he would make it and would join next year.

Kurt pulled the car out of the garage and stopped for a minute to look home ahead. He could see the little girl running down the ever-cheerful stairs. And he remembered the night she was killed the victim of a brutal killer who was never caught. It was the worst moment of his life when he found her body in the woods, so he remembered Remi, the girl in his class, he didn't know why but Remi reminded him of Taylor, perhaps by the gentleness and the soft look.

The school was busy because it was game day and early on the cheerleaders were getting ready. Kurt had even risked playing for a while, but he didn't want to go, preferring to keep his fitness running, which he did almost daily. Then he saw her entering the school with her brother. She looked toward him and nodded, Kurt grinning at her as he disappeared along with the crowd of students.

When she got to the gym for the game Kurt saw her in the distance sitting with Patty and dared to sit beside them.

“Hello! Can I sit with you.”

The two nodded and prepared for the start of the game. Allie was in the crowd by the field. Kurt and she dated for a while, but they had few things in common and the relationship was getting cold, they still met sometimes but lately he felt less and less like seeing her. He looked at the girl beside him and returned her smile. She was truly beautiful and her bright green eyes seemed to mesmerize him.

Natasha joined them in the stands and was very excited to see Edgar in a great move, she didn’t contain and shouted to the friend who managed to score the touchdown giving the team victory. He was the best person she had ever met and she was very grateful to have him beside her. She had never thought of him as anything but friendship, but sometimes she felt her heart speed up depending on the way he looked at her. The way he welcomed her with his problems was different. Last night he let her sleep in his bed and even warned his grandmother. Her heart filled with his actions.

She didn't hold back and waited for him to leave the locker room after changing and greeted him with a hug. He didn't care because she had always been hugging her friends, but something seemed different and Edgar couldn't decipher what it was. Natasha saw him look sideways and followed her gaze. Sarah The girl was leaving the locker room with another player and she saw Edgar sadden.

“Let's get out of here.” Natasha said through gritted teeth and felt very angry at her friend. How can Sarah do this in front of him?

As they left school she had been approached.

“Natasha, I came for you.” Ricky had addressed her as if he owned it.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Go away!” The girl tried not to change the tone of voice, because she didn’t want to get anyone's attention.

"I will only if you come with me."

"She already said she won't go with you!" Edgar couldn't hold back and intervened.

“And who will stop me? You, you brat? When will you get out of her foot and realize it's me she wants and you'll always be just the little friend?” Ricky scorned their friendship. Edgar lunged at him and the boy shoved him, knocking him to the floor.

"Go away, man, you're not welcome here!" Roman arrived and decided that he should take sides in the situation.

“Now you have many defenders, Natasha! Increased your little group of friends?”

“I won't talk again. If you don't leave I'll hit you.” Roman was already pushing the edge of irritation.

“She has a lot of friends, yes. Get out of here!” Edgar got up and went to the other boy's side.

"I'm leaving, but it won't be like this. They will not always be around.” Ricky got on his motorcycle and sped off.

Natasha felt so much hatred and humiliation, because she hated drawing attention. She went to her friends who were already there, Edgar, Kurt, Patty, the rookie girl, Remi and her brother, and they all went home without much comment.

#blindspot fanfic #blindspotedit #blindspot #tasha zapata #edgar reade #repata #rapata #bshiatusproject

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sad-goomy · 6 years

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Lonashipping Week 2018 - Day 2

Fantasy AU

Check out @lonashippingweek for all the work created for the prompt!

There's an old legend amongst the fae that tells of a king who fell in love with a mortal, becoming humble in her wake and giving up his crown to be by her side.

Gladion could never stand that story.

His mother would recite it every night before he and his sister fell asleep. Lillie would grin the entire time before slipping off into a dream, happily sighing to herself.

Gladion would scowl and argue why any fae, much less royalty, would do something so stupid. To marry for something as fleeting as love is one thing, but to do so with a mortal is another entirely. He didn't understand how anyone could put up with them, could find anything more than fragility and naivete in any mortal.

And his mother would laugh, closing the book and telling him simply, "It's only a story. When the time comes for you to marry, I'm sure you will make the right decision."

He hasn't thought about that story in years – he hasn't had the time to, not when his father went missing and his mother fell ill, forcing him to take the throne much earlier than he'd ever dreamed. What was left of his optimism was buried next to his childhood as he began learning the true meaning of duty and the headache that came with the fae court.

It was Lillie who remained hopeful, who looked after their mother and sought out every cure she could find in the library.

It was Lillie who found the witch, organizing a handful of guards to follow rumors of a powerful witch in the woods with an owl familiar.

After a month of searching, she came willingly to the palace, nearly refusing the job until she heard the word 'poison' and jumped at the opportunity. She worked hard and diligently, spending long nights in the library and every day rummaging around the garden and apothecary. She's careful with the fae, like any good witch is – she never accepts their gifts and keeps their pride in mind as she speaks to all members of the court.

That doesn't stop Gladion from disliking Moon immensely.

They cross paths far too often for his liking, and she has this horrible talent for twisting his words against him. She's odd, from her interest in poisons to her seemingly constant disheveled appearance. On top of that, her owl comes and goes from the palace as it pleases, leaving feathers everywhere in its wake, and Gladion is beginning to suspect that he's allergic to the damn thing.

And yet after the first few weeks, something shifts.

When she laughs, he straightens. Her gray eyes hold an intelligence that he would never admit to anyone, but that entrance him for longer periods of time as the days pass. The nights when he stumbles upon her in the library, he marvels at how such a fragile mortal can keep pushing herself, seemingly never satisfied with a curiosity that hungers to know everything.

He finds himself remembering the childhood tale of the fae king and the mortal, and an odd thought occurs to him. The more he reckons with it, the more it makes sense, and so a month after Moon moved into the palace, Gladion goes and finds her in the garden in the afternoon.

She sits in her favorite spot just outside the greenhouse, taking notes in her leather-bound journal, an abandoned cup of tea on the table. He watches her instinctually brush away the glowing, carnivorous flowers trying to climb their way up her legs; her fondness for the deadlier plants in their collection still boggles him, but he pushes the thought away along with the uncharacteristic blossom of nerves in his chest.

Her owl notices his presence first, looking up from its perch on the empty chair across the table. He hoots at the fae, alerting Moon to pause her writing and look up. She raises a brow, closing her notebook as she mumbles, "To what do I owe this visit, Your Highness?"

He clears his throat and recalls the speech he prepared last night. Sensing the shift in the air, her familiar takes flight, deciding to avoid what is sure to be an ensuing debacle. Moon's brows furrow, but before she can comment on his odd behavior, Gladion states stiffly, "It has come to my attention that you are unmarried."

"...You've noticed it before. You have enlightened me as to several reasons why no one would wed me." Moon looks around the garden, as if looking for some sort of explanation. Realizing she won't receive any, she looks back to the fae king with something between exasperation and confusion. "What exactly is this about, Your Highness?"

"As you know, our kind age much more slowly than you. However, I am approaching the age in which I must consider marriage, now more so since I have ascended to the throne." He rolls his shoulders, breaking his gaze from her to instead survey the garden, a reminder of the vast amount of wealth and responsibility that he has learned to manage. She follows his gaze, biting her tongue even though it's clear she has several opinions to voice. He continues, "Though our courtship may have been brief, I have concluded that your intelligence and steadfastness are excellent qualities. Perhaps, with time, I may learn something from you, and having you in the palace is an invaluable resource. Lillie enjoys your presence, and our mother is on her way to recovery due to your diligence."

When he finally locks eyes with her once more, Moon's stomach drops to the ground, and she suspects the enchanted plants at her feet will begin feasting on it any moment. Then he takes a deep breath and says the very words she so desperately hopes he will not.

"And so I offer you my hand in marriage."

The silence that follows is heavy, and yet Gladion seems pleased with his soliloquy, waiting expectantly for her answer.

Moon blinks. "You think - " She shakes her head, cutting herself off and trying desperately to wrap her mind around this turn of events. Finally, she settles on asking incredulously, "You consider everything that's happened between us...to have been a courtship?"

He hesitates, thrown off when her immediate response isn't an enthusiastic agreement. "Somewhat."

She lets out a one-note laugh, not entirely convinced that this isn't all some fever dream brought on by working with too many poisonous fumes. "You threatened to kill me when I first arrived."

"I regret that."

He doesn't and they both know it.

Seeing that he's clearly losing the upper hand, he stumbles to collect himself and salvage the moment. The sun is suddenly much brighter than efore, and he can practically feel his pale skin growing flush with a burn. "Despite misgivings I may have had in the past, I now see that matrimony would be mutually beneficial."

"Misgivings?" she mutters, before her eyes widen in realization. Moon tries no to fix him with a glare, but her frown gives away her displeasure. "You mean the fact that I'm not fae and therefore inferior to you?"

"What are you getting at?" Gladion snaps, the rush of embarrassment at this conversation going so awry now morphing into frustration. There's no logical reason why she would refuse him, and yet here she is, defying him yet again even as he offers her the world.

"You'll have to pardon me, Your Highness, it's just that my lowly witch brain can't comprehend at what point your thinly veiled insults were meant to be taken romantically."

It's his turn to blink owlishly, taken aback at the bitter tone. He reacts without thinking, as he's prone to do with her, and matches her scorn with his own as he scoffs, "Why does it upset you that I recognize I'm of a higher station than you?"

"I don't understand why it would be a misgiving that would keep you from proposing." The glare she gives him nearly turns him to stone, and even the plants at her feet seem to sense her deadly intent, shrinking away from her.

Gladion laughs humorlessly, his eyes roaming her torn cloak and marred skin with distaste. "I am from a proud and noble line of fae royalty – to throw myself at some hermit is far beneath me. I have placed my status and dignity at risk to propose, and you dare to disrespect me in this moment, to treat me without my title?"

She opens her mouth for another attack before closing it quickly, silent and seething as she matches his scowl. Considering her next words carefully, she slowly collects her indignation below the surface, forcing her face into something nearly expressionless. "Your generosity knows no bounds."

Then she stands, and he smirks at what is sure to be his victory, her finally seeing his logic and agreeing that their marriage would be the best arrangement for -

"And so it is with a heavy heart, Your Highness, that I must refuse."

It hadn't crossed his mind that she might reject him.

Any fae would gladly accept his proposal, recognizing his physical beauty, incredible intelligence, and ubiquitous status. Surely a mortal would be leaping at the opportunity, no matter how roughly their relationship started. He considers the fact that she may have the silly notion that something like marriage should be concerned with love, but then hasn't she seen his charm? That should be more than enough to satisfy her, help her realize that he's made an offer she simply would not dream of refusing.

He tries not to gape, clenching his jaw as his eyes widen without his consent. Swallowing his shock, he demands, "On what grounds?"

"You've said so yourself: to marry me is far beneath you. I cannot have you wound your pride for my sake." Her faux-pout does little to hide the amusement behind her words, and he quickly understands what little game she's set up for herself just to add insult to injury.

"Don't you understand what I am offering you?"

"But of course, which is all the more reason to humbly refuse it – I know better than to accept a gift from fae." She tries to hide her smile as she watches him bite back a growl. Before he can come up with his counter, she holds up a hand and insists, "And please, I am healing the queen only because I know it's right, and I will refuse any pay for it."

Growing desperate he says, "Then I command you to be my betrothed."

Moon sighs, doing her best to look disappointed. "Ah, but unfortunately I am not a member of your court, honorary or otherwise, as you have said time and time again. Your words have no true power over me."

She's right, of course, but he refuses to admit it, instead stepping forward and threatening, "I would have you jailed for such insolence."

"What charges would I be imprisoned for, Your Highness?" Her voice is far too sweet, far too knowing in that she's won this little battle just by rejecting him. She raises a brow, watching him squirm for an answer and delighting in the fact that she can reduce a noble fae to an aggravated schoolboy.

"I need none."

She nods sagely. "Very well, but I would hate to put the strain on your resources. You, ever the pragmatist, have pointed out before that housing, clothing, and feeding me while I work on the cure is costly and such a waste. I would hate to have your kingdom continue to do so indefinitely in prison."

They stare at each other, Moon with her lopsided smile and Gladion with his scowl. Despite his irritation, there's something about the quiet confidence she has in how she holds herself that nearly makes him break into a surprised laugh; she's one of very few people who truly isn't afraid of him, who may see him as an equal. Worryingly, he doesn't mind, and even more distressing is the fact that he now plays into her game, lightening his tone and raising a brow.

"I could have you killed," he warns under his breath.

But she smiles impishly and steps even closer, a breath away as she taunts, "And then you'll have no cure, and you'll be condemning your queen to the same fate as the hermit."

Realizing there's no gracious escape from the grave he's dug himself, Gladion simply groans. "You are insufferable."

"Which is why I must save you from this temporary hysteria I find you in and refuse your hand in marriage!" She steps away, and a part of him aches at the distance as he watches her gather her notebook and writing supplies. With a curtsy, she says, "If you'll excuse me, Your Highness, I really must be going. Simple-minded hermit business to attend to."

And she brushes past him, leaving him to stand in front of the greenhouse with his racing thoughts, most of which now concern what to change for his next attempt at a proposal. He enters the greenhouse, ready to pace as he considers his next move, whether he should give her more time, or plant more of those carnivorous flowers that she loves, or perhaps offer his help with the antidote.

There may be more to that old legend than he would have ever liked to admit.

I guess Fantasy!AU also means something like Pride and Prejudice in my mind, mostly because I was inspired by the greatest smack down of all time

#lonashippingweek #enforcer gladion #trainer moon #lonashipping #mahinashipping #pokemon fanfic #me looking at a ship week prompt: how about something only vaguely romantic #tbh i think this is my subconscious ramping up for much ado again #im ready to get back to it after this week #and ahhhhh i continue to be late awesome #this has been a practice in me going real fast and loose with my writing

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gogogoats · 6 years

Text

Request Fic 8

For @keylimecliche, who knows what she did. For the rest of you, enjoy this ~~mystery ship~~ and don’t blame me!

ooooo

Four years is a considerable age gap when one party is eight and the other twelve. It is somewhat less insurmountable when one is eighteen and the other twenty-two. It is nothing at all when one is twenty-four and the other twenty-eight.

No, the difference in age was not what kept them apart. Other things did, certainly. His station in life, and hers. His duty, and hers. The importance of him marrying well, and the inconsequence of her marrying at all.

His lack of feelings for her.

Jane could not place the moment when it all began. When her straight-forward plans in life wobbled off their course, slowly at first, until suddenly they were careening wildly downhill with no means of correction, no method of arresting the momentum.

No, Jane was volunteering for royal guard duty and throne room service long before she realised, and by then the damage was done. No matter how many nights she spent laying awake, examining the workings of her own mind, the conclusion drawn was always the same.

She loved Prince Cuthbert.

It was a painful realisation, one that filled her with disbelief.

How could this be? How had he worked his way into her affections, so duplicitously, so effortlessly, so . . . unintentionally.

He was not a handsome man. Jane could not say that she had been swayed by his looks, caught off-guard by a miraculous post-pubescent blossoming. He was still too red, too pimply, too awkward.

He was not generous. A life spent watching his father haemorrhaging resources like a wounded beast at the end of a hunt had made him tight-fisted, over-correcting for the king’s generosity by reacting with scorn towards anyone asking for help.

He was not fair. He still envied his younger sister whenever their parents showed her any kindness or affection, still deflected the blame for his mistakes onto others.

He was not brave. Many a time Jane had shielded him from imagined danger while he cowered on the floor. The fateful day she had rescued him from Dragon had simply been the first of many that she would come to his aid, and he resented her for all of them.

Oh yes, he resented her. Jane was under no illusion that he felt any kindness towards her. If he saw her as a woman at all it was not as one worthy of his notice, only his contempt.

Which made the erratic beating of her heart whenever he drew near an even greater mystery.

There was no sense in making any effort with her appearance, no point at all in patting down her hair or tugging at her tunic before entering his presence. And yet she found herself doing so each time, as though she would somehow catch his notice that day when she never had before.

Cuthbert would have his choice of beautiful, accomplished, delicate women, and had in fact already rejected two princesses as not being ‘good enough’ for him.

If her fellow knights noticed her preoccupation with her looks around the Prince they remained silent, although Jane suspected that they would never imagine her harbouring such feelings.

Not for the prince who snorted when he laughed and sneered at Jane for doing the same. Not for the prince who insisted on addressing everyone by occupation rather than name. Not for the prince who had, in his late teens, gone through a phase of calling her it.

Yet there she was, helplessly, hopelessly in love. With that prince.

It was humiliating, to say the least. She could do well enough, if she had the inclination. Several young men had approached her over the years, and some did not even object to her choice of profession.

But no. Jane had eyes only for the prince, as much as admitting it made her want to pluck said eyes from her own head.

It was not that he was entirely without redeeming qualities. In her defence he could be a decent person when he chose to be.

The castle was filled with cats now. There was often one settled upon his lap whenever he sat down. They twined around his feet wherever he walked, meowing loudly over his conversations to demand the food from his plate or a scratch behind the ears. He knew them all by name and never, ever lost his patience with them.

In fact, Jane had never seen him show anything but kindness to any animal since the long ago incident with Smithy’s Pig.

He was protective of Lavinia, in his own way. When their parents first raised the subject of marrying her off to a neighbouring prince, Cuthbert had protested as loudly as his sister, insisting that she was too young, and not at all ready.

He was not entirely unsympathetic towards the plights of others. Although he curled his lip whenever a farmer or businessman came seeking financial aid, Jane had spied him on more than one occasion slipping a coin into the hand of a hungry child or destitute mother. It had surprised her, the first time, until she remembered how much he hated to see suffering. It seemed he felt even the commonest of people deserved better.

He was desperately insecure, far more aware of his own shortcomings than Jane would ever have given him credit for. He had been well in his cups one night when he had let it slip. They had been alone at the time and he had confided in her, slurring so drunkenly that it had taken Jane several moments to process his words.

He knew he was not handsome, or brave; that he was jealous and selfish. That no princess would find happiness with him, nor could he ever deserve one. He was desperately afraid of failing as king, convinced his people would hate him, if they didn’t already.

It was a knife in Jane’s heart, hearing him speak so badly of himself. If there was one thing Jane had always had on her side it was confidence, the belief in her own abilities.

She had done her best to restore Cuthbert’s confidence, lowering her guard at the risk of revealing her own feelings as she told him all that she admired in him.

There was no way of telling how much, if anything, he remembered the next day. By the time she had escorted him to his chambers and handed him over to the care of his servant he had scarcely been concious. But it seemed to Jane in the days and weeks following that he was just a little kinder, a little more polite, and perhaps even a little more patient with her.

She did her best to quash the fragile hope that bloomed in her chest, reminding herself that she was the opposite of everything he desired, and that he was so far from her reach that he might as well have been the moon.

But she never quite got past the stabbing pain in her heart when he smiled in her direction, never stopped delighting in the sound of his laugh, never ceased to enjoy his excitement when he found a new litter of kittens.

Because Jane loved Prince Cuthbert, she was his most loyal knight, and she could never quite convince herself that it was an entirely bad thing.

ooooo

That’s right, she requested one-sided Jane/Cuthbert!! What can I say? Some people are just twisted. >___>

#jane and the dragon #jatd #request fics #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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ikonislife · 6 years

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Shame 2

Junhoe x Reader

Angst, Smut, CEO!Junhoe

Warning: Mature content.

Somewhere in between his haughty smirk and sultry whispers, you let yourself lost in a path of no return with the man who doesn’t love anyone... Or does he?

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Final

“I think the whole party heard you by now, love. Didn’t peg you as a screamer.”

His voice echoed across the dark empty room, uneasiness rising within the pit of your stomach but at the sound of the low growl of neediness commanding an answer, you had no mind to care for the curious way the walls seemed to be amplifying every sound.

“Sorry..I can’t help it… Shit…”

But to your disappointment, Junhoe pulled away leaving you feeling empty and cold from the lack of his tongue. You pushed yourself off the table, wondering what he had gotten up to but was met with perhaps the most mesmerizing sight, Junhoe leaning back in his chair, chest heaving heavily and you realized just how immersed he was, how far he let himself get lost in pleasing you. His lips coated in your nectar, nose too was glistening with wetness that made you want to lick it all off of him… And so you did. He sat still, feeling the desperation in your little fingertips gripping at his crisp white shirt, tugging away his loosen tie and simply smirked when he felt your tongue cleaning up every bit of yourself left over on his features. His eyes cold and piercing, staring you down with almost disdain and haughtiness but he did nothing when you settled on his lap, arms locking at the nape of his neck. Your lips needy, moulding and sucking at his lips then trailing up his nose, you lap at his intensely sharp jaws before sucking a wet spot at the base of his neck. It was only now that his hands returned to your body, gripping your waist so harshly you could feel the blooming of bruises already on your once flawless skin. He nipped at your earlobe, dragging his tongue down to your bare collar bone before scrapping his teeth against it, bitting then sucking no doubt leaving his own marking, claiming you as his. Junhoe leans in closer, that dangerous smirk teasing on his lips as he whispered something you’d never in a million year could conjure up even with that gutter mind of yours.

“Did you think you were fucking special?” Suddenly you felt bare, vulnerable and exposed even though Junhoe was no longer intimately making himself acquaintance with your body.

“What?” Hands grasping at your loosely hung straps, desperately to cover yourself with what little fabric he had left you with.

“Did you think you were special?” He growled once more, the sharpness of his eyes, that distasteful curl of the lips whenever he was disappointed, disapproving were all back as those beautiful features slashes at your every inch of skin. “A doll good for passing time suddenly thinks she’s a princess? Give me a break.”

“N-No…”

“No?” He scoffs and never before had you felt so inferior, so degraded and there is no describing the pain coursing through your veins. “Did you think I was going to take you out to a nice fancy dinner? And what, live happily ever after? You must be daff, insane if you think I would just hand over my status and money to some stupid girl that couldn’t keep it in her pants. If all it took me was a few charming smiles and a well-placed white lies for compliment, I can’t imagine what else you’d do had I actually tried.”

Your heart sunk to the deepest depth they had ever been to, not even getting a glass of 1900’s exorbitant wine dumped on your head by that rich douchebag at your part time all those years ago couldn’t compare… Because this, this is a personal insult. At the least you know that pompous ass was only putting up a very pretentious front for the woman that was much too beautiful and graceful for the ugly person that he was. It was pointless drama over the wrong wine.

Without commanding them to, not the tear you’ve been holding back not from pain but from the pleasure derived from the torture but bitter tears. Bitter because you knew you shouldn’t but did, bitter because you thought he cared.

“I can’t imagine what else you’d do had I actually tried.”

The next moment your feet were already hitting the ground sprinting, you ran and ran but no matter how far, that hauntingly chilling sentence wouldn’t let you escape its cold fingers. No matter how much you tried, the contempt spewing from his lips, the dirty looks, you couldn’t escaped them.

“I can’t imagine what else you’d do had I actually tried.”

You screamed but all that came out was silent, a silent cry for help that only seemed to amplify the scorns and jeers. The hours long you had spent plastering your face with pounds of makeup wasted as the tears streamed down your cheeks. You thought the worst was over, the hurt had been done but what you hadn’t expected was where your feet had carried your dishevel self.

“Are you alright, Y/n?” A kind face, Mark from HR so gentle with that mesmerizing smile. “You look a bit cold, here take this!”

A warm jacket wrapped around your shivering shoulders as he lead you across the crowded lobby, people smiled and greeted the both of you but non seemed to be shook at your Cinderella-eques self, not the princess at the ball but the one that had lead to her meeting with the fairy godmother. Something in the way his hand so tightly woven around your aching shoulder, the way he’d occasionally gave it a soft squeeze as if reassuring everything will be alright got you in a trance. So you let your eyes fluttered close, letting yourself get lost in the vast ocean that was his addicting mix of whiskey and expensive cologne.

Mark is your fairy godmother.

“Look everyone, Y/n just came down from a “one on one” with the boss,” A loud cheer erupted along with whistles and catcalls. “We all know what that mean, don’t we?”

You couldn’t believe your ears, that soft voice that had been so caring suddenly raged with all the contempt, all the derisiveness the world could bestowed upon one person. You wanted to disappear, to blink and be back in your warm bed but when they opened, all you could see was sly smiles and gasps of judgment.

“Mark, what are you doing. No, I-“

“Don’t worry, Y/n. We all know what a good little pet you’ve been for the boss.”

No matter how much you pried, what force you gave, Mark’s hands around your waist holding you back for the world to taunt would only grew stronger. You begged but it went unheard as if a lonely leaf floating in the wind, useless and fragile, as if your words carried no meaning. Then at the height of it all joined the arrogant Mr. Koo with all of his scorn and condescending jeer.

“I can’t imagine what else you’d do had I actually tried.”

All you could do was screamed, screamed until your voice hoarse and throat sore. You screamed but their laughters always louder and before you knew it, your consciousness slipped through the crack of time and-

“Y/N. GODDAMN IT, Y/N. WAKE UP!”

Cold sweat breaking, you felt as if the weight of the word had just been lifted off your shoulders, as if you had just stepped away from the edge of a cliff.

“What? Irene? What are you doing here?” throat dries, funny enough you actually felt like you had just been fucked by the world as you stammered your confusion away.

“Well you screamed your ass off, so I came over. God, you’re drenched. Come on, let’s get these clothes off before you get sick.”

No mind nor strength to fight against Irene’s caring hands even if you felt sick to your stomach and wanting nothing more but to melt away into the night, your body limp as she tugs away the wet pieces of clothing and replaces them with fresh one. Only now did you notice the pants heavy in your chest and the shiver still coursing through your pale cold hands. Your mind hazy and has it not for Irene’s constant sweet chatter lulling you toward reality, you couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to distinguish whether this was a dream or the real world.

“I’m sure you don’t wanna talk about it so, drink this and get some sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow morning.” As understanding as ever, a mug of warm tea shoved into your hands and with a blink of an eye, Irene disappeared back out the door with one last understanding smile even though she probably has no clue what was going on in your brain. Although judging by the concern clouding those brilliant eyes and the questionable bit of the lip, Irene knows exactly the cause of your horrendous screams.

Somewhere across the city, across all the tax brackets and fortified private community walls, Junhoe finds himself tossing and turning with the guilt of words like knives eating away at his heart. Warm bed and heavenly soft blanket abandoned, he treks in search of the poison that will surely bring him sleep even if the price for a few decent snooze would be the hammering headache by tomorrow morn. As the cool breeze of a peaceful night brushing against his skin, he took a sip and marvels at the disgustingly polluted sky above with a sigh of disapproval. Not even a dot of stars, not even the moon could fight against the cloudiness as it shies away from the world below.

Suddenly but perhaps not unexpected, Junhoe’s mind flooding with euphoria as the lackluster sky above only reminded him of the insatiable craving growing deep within his heart to see once more the way your eyes shined so brilliantly as if they possessed the universe within them whenever a sweet smile was gracing his day, making it just a bit brighter. The way his name danced so beautifully even if the only two times he had ever had the pleasure of hearing you called him were either with the utmost respect during work hour and the sinful cries of overtime. Just the simple act of you uttering his name alone leaving his imagination running wild.

He wonders what it would sound like had you met at the age when first love was blooming and the only thing dictating his life was teenage hormone. Although if he must be realistic, you’d still be moaning his name by the end of the night so at least that part remained the same.

Would it be any sweeter, had you been the first girl he had learned to love. Perhaps the rowdy days of high school is a rather bad example for the way his heart now seems to be singing your name but that feeling within his gut, the churning and fluttering, that is definitely reminiscent of the good old teenage days.

Would it be much more endearing had you met when he realized the love he once experienced as a young lad had done nothing to prepare him for the pain brought upon his young naïve self, mistaking that love can conquer all. Junhoe is certain he’d have been head over heels for your adorable self just as he is now and no doubt in his mind you’d have teach him a lesson or two on love.

Nowadays, love for him resembles the sun… Not that he thinks of it as sunshine, daisy, and sweet honey but rather the sun to Icarus, the boy who flown too high. He loved and he flew, he was so high and he got hurt. It’s something grand, something magnificent but it’s also something impossible, something unobtainable. Happily ever after is only a fairytale and this cold, harsh life of a young CEO is anything but that as he closed himself off from all possibility of entrusting his heart away.

Your smile carried him to the moon and back but soon the cloud of solemn spread over the precious memories of happier days as those harsh words thrash about his consciousness. It was out of character, so bizarre the way he had behaved especially toward someone so special, the second those grand doors had shut out the fading clicking of your heels, Junhoe had collapsed, a shiver ran deep within his veins at the realization of what he had just done… He had turned into his father, worse, his grandfather.

In no way was his father anything but the most perfect husband and dad in the world but the man he was at work, that person was in every way shape and form someone Junhoe aspires not to be. It was as if his father had possessed dual personality disorder, a kind loving man turned into a monster the moment the perfectly polished shoes and impeccable suit meticulously cloaked over every last bit of humanity he had. Junhoe despised the way he treated everyone as if they were simply dirt beneath his shoesm the scowl that was permanent upon his lips, how everything and anything could become personal.

Now his grandfather, the legacy, or rather stain as Junhoe and his father liked to remind everyone, the stain he had left behind was something of the unsavory sort, something his father had worked to the bones to rid and Junhoe still doing his best to not falling into the beaten path. He was for lack of better terms, a sleaze and as faithful as the second hand on a clock. Junhoe had been appalled, revolted by the words spreading on the grapevine of his womanizing way even before he had step foot into the company. He didn’t understand the flirty looks and sweet words being thrown his direction regardless of the gender, the disrespects he had thought. It wasn’t until his father had officially handing over the reign that the dirty past got dredged up. Suddenly his father action didn’t seem so harsh, suddenly the preconceived reputation of himself didn’t seemed so farfetched any longer.

It had been a near three years since his dad had left the throne for sunshine and Mai Tais by the beach with the love of his life, near three years since Junhoe ascended into this vicious world. He had been good, he swears on his life that he was much more than his predecessors, and everyone would agree. Yet the moment Junhoe saw the fear flashing in your doe eyes, so scared, so terrified of the monster that had shadowed everything he worked so hard to achieved, he knew he had lost it all to a few moments of irrationality. The way your shoulders shivers and body so small against the cold metal of the elevator instead of his arms… Your tears… Maybe Junhoe isn’t any better, maybe him trying so hard to prove otherwise to a world already fearing a person he isn’t did just the opposite… And this curse, the Koo family curse upon the men is something inevitable, something out of his grasp. All he could hope to do now is to mend the bridge he had so cruelly broken yet for reasons not at all unknown to Junhoe, reality as he suspects much grimmer than the last flicker of pipe dream that you’d still look at him with those stars filled eyes. The bridge, after all might be nothing now but ashes and lingering pain that he will never be able to erase because what woman would willingly give her heart to a man that could offer nothing beyond his dick and unkind words.

Here’s a collection of Mr. Koo in suits to distract you from the fact that this part was waaaaay shorter than the first (:

#ikon #ikon scenarios #ikon junhoe #junhoe #koo junhoe #june scenarios #junhoe scenarios

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transparentpeanutdragon · 6 years

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Learning Lotor | 2.5k [Read on Ao3]

At the end of the war Keith sees in Lotor what Shiro saw in him.

There’s no way he can let him rot in a prison cell after that. --- Or, Keith finally gets to know Lotor a little, having missed his opportunity to do so while he was away from the team. The results are unexpected, for both parties.

Piece for the amazing Mixed Blood, Keitor Zine that everyone should be swarming right now. go check it out if you haven’t already!

[Read on Ao3]

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It takes years to quell the Galra. It takes a week to get Lotor to trial. By then, everyone is eager to have one of the biggest threats to the new, fragile peace in the universe gone.

The ship transporting him from Holding and to Intergalactic Court must be secure. There can be no greater comfort, no greater security, than the capable lions of Voltron for the job.

Unfortunately, no amount of insistence on their busy schedules, nor assurances in allied forces and other strong assets is enough to convince them. That’s how Keith finds himself taking a week from the team, just to transport Lotor, incarcerated in a pod, via the Black Lion.

He was never there to bond with Lotor. He never got to work alongside him, or plan with him like the others did. No broken bread, no formalities or introductions. He’d been on the outskirts all along with the Blade of Marmora. Unintentionally becoming Voltrons Ace in the Hole in the end.

He never thought about how confused their opponents must have been about it-- About how Voltron had still been formed successfully despite taking out Shiro,-- Until he meets with Lotor to transport him for the first time, and his expression changes minutely.

His brows raise, his eyes widen-- Not in surprise, but in recognition. No doubt in bits and pieces, in waiting carefully behind the cell to see who was it , if not Takashi Shirogane.

Maybe he remembers him as the random blade operative at the Kral Zera, crashing into him mid-jump. He looks like he wants to open his mouth, full of scorn, address him not by his name but as You and bleed all his secrets dry-- Each one containing his demise. Each one the reason he is here today.

And yet, he says nothing.

“I always wondered why the current Paladins armor did not match their Lions.” Lotor croaks, his voice nothing of the smooth and liquid textile it was the last time he heard it. It shocks Keith from his daze, making him jump a little more in his seat than he’d like to admit.

Quickly, Lotors clears his throat and starts coughing. Adjusting. It’s been three days since they started their trip, but who knows how many more since he’d actually spoken. It’s oddly scarier like that, knowing Lotors mouth is his most dangerous weapon.

Keith reminds himself that Lotors Pod comes equipped with a Muzzle, if he needs it.

His brain supplies him that he won’t be talking to anyone for quite some time soon, either.

“Your Green and Yellow Paladins, they match just fine. Just like the paladins of old. But your Blue and Black Paladins-- And then Allura, in Pink. I never quite got around to asking about it.”

And then there’s you.” He pauses, drawing in a breath. Keith adjusts his hands on Blacks controls, and feels the Lion coaxing him gently in his mind.

And then there’s me, He thinks.

The air grows still with Lotors admission, and stiller with Keith’s silence. If Lotor is used to fulfilling and exceeding expectations of others, then Keith is used to fulfilling and exceeding expectation of himself. He doesn’t Have to answer.

Lotor seems to get the hint, and continues. “Might there be a story there?” He asks. “It’s such a small inconsistency, really. Dull even, one might think, in a grander perspective. Perhaps it was just preferential, but it couldn’t help but bother me, for some reason.

“I thought initially, the Red Armor might simply be preserved. It was, after all, originally belonging to King Alfor, who Allura could only give so many respects to. Perhaps his armor was one of them. But then I later would find the armor you wear now, hanging on display, awaiting another wearer. No casket near, no ceremonial Altean respects decorating it. Nothing.”

“Primitive Humans might simply lack the proper coronial receptors, I thought-

-And then..”

“There’s me.” Keith interrupted, not needing any of Lotors preambles to know where this was heading.

“And then you came along.” Lotor confirmed.

“If you’re wondering how many-”

“No.” Lotor interrupts now, and then coughs again. Keith holds steady to his Lion, their connection strong, and keeps his eyes ahead on their environment. “I seek not battle strategies, or winning secrets. I have been incarcerated for pheebs. Do not make a fool out of me.” His voices seethes with indignation, the frown escaping his lips and into his voice.

“Then what are you asking for?” Keith snaps.

“A story.”

It’s such a simple answer it makes Keith stop, for a minute. The immediate, obvious response, is that this is just what Lotor wants. And then Blacks reminds him, a gentle calm in his mind, that he’s there too. Keith stays silent, and thinks it over.

This is, essentially, the last conversations Lotor will ever have. He goes over every detail of the story in his mind, looking for anything valuable besides what the Galra already know. That they are from Earth. That they are of the same species. That they are close. All things known. Not new by any stretch.

The only thing Lotor doesn’t know, is him. Personally. And there’s no real way to take advantage of that. Not when that person is Keith Kogane.

“We did match, at one point.” He starts.

There’s a tentative pause, after that. An interested, “ Oh ?” Like Lotor is licking the words up. He wonders if his governess deprived him of bedtime stories. What made him so thirsty for even trivial knowledge, like this.

“Pidge, Lance, Hunk, Shiro-- And Me. None of us even knew Aliens existed until about seven pheebs ago. We were all shot into space at once, thrust into the war and became paladins. Originally, I was chosen by the Red Lion. Lance was chosen by Blue.” Keith shrugs in his seat, though Lotor cannot see it. “Things happened. I left the team before they allied with you.”

“And you came back-- After the alliance broke?” Lotor asks, like he’s trying to grasp air. Like details are the bane of his existence, angry for the answers he does not have. Keith decides right then and there that it was all worth it, to be the trump card. Voltrons Ace in the Hole. To be the unexpected answer that caused him so many problems. To be once forgotten, and now never more important. To know he is the cause of all Lotor’s failure, right then there. Keith decides right then, that he likes it.

His hands leave the controls, his cockpit seat swinging back and swirling around to face Lotor, dead on. “No,” He says, assured. Calm. Mouth a smirk to meet Lotor’s scowl. “I came back before it broke, to break it myself.”

Lotor pieces more and more of it together as Keith talks, and Keith talks like an informal dictionary. He cites mission dates for Lotor to chart star maps to. He gives names like he should give identification numbers. Slowly, in the middle of the two weeks, Lotor learns a What. Not a Who.

Keith thought that was what he wanted.

“You’re… Galra.” Lotors breath is audible through his security pod. His voice says First Fireworks and New Life and World Wonders. When Keith turns to look back at him in his pod, his face matches, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He’d been in the middle of changing his armor. His helmet heavy on his shoulders, his suit in need of cleaning. His face was bright and uncovered, unlike the rest of his body.

“How can you tell?” Keith asked tentatively.

“Your eyes.” Lotor answers reverently. Nears towards the glass like Keith is a specimen captured, rather than he himself. “I was ordained with information during my time with the rest of your team. Your species does not naturally exhibit hues of that color in the Iris.”

“And?” Keith says, almost defensively.

“It’s beautiful.”

It catches him off guard, is what it does. Sends his skin prickling, his mind questioning. After a moment he turns with resolution, reaching for the controls on Lotor’s pod,-- “Wait!” Keith stops. His hand hovers over the controls. Lotor continues, “Violet is the most prominent hue of our people. Yet even in known hybrids, does it rarely end up in our eyes. Usually it infects the skin, the nails. The hair. I did not mean any offense.” Keith sighs, lowering his hand. “You mean your species.” Keith corrects, and Lotors face crumples into something not disdain, nor anger. Sympathy? Empathy? It’s… sentimental, of a sort. Keith tries to turn away, his Helmet too far from his skin now.

“On Earth, it’s not rare for orphans to have defects.” To be broken. To be freaks. To be doomed from birth. Keith rezips his suit, and dons his helmet.turns his back to Lotor. “There’s nothing rare about it.”

“On Daibazaal, we believed that our lightened eyes were meant to guide us towards it. That those without were unlucky. Yet to receive it. I’m not speaking on behalf of the Galra.”

Keith turns then, locking eyes with Lotor once more beyond his visor. “Then who’s half are you speaking on?”

“My own.”

Lotor places a long gloved hand over the glass in front of him. Keith is confused.

“Our species is complex. Resilient. Advanced. Most hybrids are rare to begin with, and do not breed well. Outcasted for existing alone. I was no different. Beauty is not a color, paladin. It is a difference. A strength brought on from it.” For a moment, Keith stares in dawning comprehension. He’s calling him beautiful not because he’s galra, not because he’s a hybrid, but because of how he is, who is, in order to be despite it. That his eyes signify that. Lotor isn’t the first to compliment them, but he’s definitely the first to phrase it like that . And Keith hates the way it captivates his attention for a moment. And that one moment turns out to be all Lotor needs to notice yet another thing about him. His brows raising, his expression becoming more endeared than admiring.

“Oh my,” He says, “Is that a blush?” Keith's hand shoots out and taps the controls quicker than he can breathe, causing a dark veil to cover the glass cell holding Lotor, blinding him. Behind it, a joyed charmed laughter comes fourth, and Keith quickly makes his way back to Blacks chair, trying to tune it out.

“Did you just-” Lotor chuckles. Keith's ears burn inside his helmet. “Did you just blind me, to hide your face ?”

It is the last day of their journey together. And now Keith knows why his team hates him. It’s because they like him. And it hurts, to like someone who is not up to any good.

And now, he’s beginning to like him too.

“You’re awfully small, for a half breed.”

He regrets saying anything at all. Black is a steady support inside of his mind, kneading biscuits into his back mentally. Lotors voice, however, is a little bit louder.

“It’s aggravating in one way. That someone of such small stature should defeat his larger brethren. In another way-- It’s cute.”

It’s clear now, more than ever, he was never planning to escape. He never fooled himself into thinking he could. He’s just having fun with his last weeks before his inevitable life sentence. And Keith, humiliatingly, has been exploited for that fun. It’s a small price to pay in the long run, he tells himself. But it’s steadily getting harder to not respond to than Lance himself, and he finds himself watching the estimated time ‘till coordinates reached with anticipation.

But his cheeks are burning again, and he’s not cruel enough to keep Lotor blinded forever. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up. Until Lotor says,

“I was the same way.”

It derails Keith's attention perfectly, to his chagrin. “How?” He asks, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice. Lotor is at least 8 feet tall. There’s no way he was ever stuck at this height.

“Alteans don’t reach much bigger heights than humans, I’m afraid. My father's genes just happened to be particularly dominant, I suppose. They kicked in after a couple extra years, and some particularly brusque environments. Perhaps yours will too.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Environments like quintessence camps?”

Lotor chuckles, laughing off the remark. “Environments like communities. Comfortable ones, enriched with copious contact. Since our species is so aggressive, being raised to battle, from battle, it actually activates growth hormones. I heard that your species activates those same hormones from similar, but less aggressive practices.”

Oh. Well. That explained a lot. Keith groaned. “I think I got into more fistfights than hugs when I was a kid. And we’re not supposed to fight.”

“I’m not telling you to seek more conflict. You want to grow into more a human, rather than more of a Galra, don’t you?”

“I-” Keith stops short, unsure if he knows exactly what Lotor is implying now. “But you just said you-”

“I know what I said. And quite frankly, I would’ve proffered the less violent route as the other half of my heritage would have it been. I had not affection nor much kindness in my rearing either, after all.”

“You’re telling me if I want to be taller… I just need to.. Ask for more hugs?”

“Yes. Although I think it might be better to ask for them because you want them, rather than to become a little taller.”

Keith's eyes widened at that, his face pinkening at the call out. “I, No, I have-” He sputtered. This was embarrassing. “I have-”

“Not enough, from what I can see.” Says Lotor, Close . Closer than he’s ever been before. Right in Keiths ear.

The breath on his skin is a death fortune that Keith can’t move fast enough for, sure he’ll see god before he can turn around in time to face Lotor.

And somehow he does.

In the time Keith takes to brandish his sword and get up and out of his chair, Lotor uses it to pull off his helmet and take Keiths unarmed hand-- and pull it close, close and closer, until they’re chest to chest.

And instead of a hit, a jab, a knee, or a strangle, Lotors arms pull at his back until their chests are flushed. And there is nothing aggressive about it.

He could stab him, right now. He could end Lotor right there, if need be. And yet, he’s frozen once more. Confused again, as Lotor gentles him into a more comfortable position.

“There we are,” He says, no longer constrained or muffled by his glass prison. Smooth and practiced from the weeks journey on board the Black Lion. One of his hands trails up and down the small of his back, exposed and without armor, sending Keith comfortable shivers up and down his spine, trying to relax him.

Lotor could just as easily pick up his bayard, his marmora blade, and end him here too, if he wanted. And yet, Keith remains still. Unsure if he wants to anymore.

“This ought to help you stand a little taller, hm?” He says, and when Keith looks up, Lotors eyes eagerly turn towards his own, devouring.

Lotor spends the remainder of the time with him outside his portable holding cell, and when that time is up, he goes right back in. No questions, no objections. No fights or pleas out. He goes willingly. Keith fixes the broken mechanism Lotor used to escape it. He delivers Lotor to his Court to remain incarcerated until trial.

When that trial comes, Keith is there to testify on his behalf.

The rest of his team is shocked and upset. But Lotor gets out with a lighter sentence, provided with mandatory therapy and the possibility to not spend fifty whole years if he behaves better. He’s allowed to take him out on visits, and slowly, he becomes better at learning Lotor. And Lotor comes to learn the ace in the hole.

#keitor #keitor zine #vld keith #vld lotor #voltron #vld #voltorn legendary defender #keitor appreciation zine #keith #lotor #my fic #mine

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butterflynotes-a · 6 years

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When It Rains

Fandom: Mystic Messenger Characters: Saeran Choi, Saeyoung Choi Originally Posted: February 9th 2018

AU where everyone uses a VR and a virus causes the system to break, people becoming unaware of the simulation. There are three ways to get out: disconnection, death and realising the simulation. If someone is disconnected, they lose memories of their real life, believing the simulation to be the true reality.

As per the nature of the game, there is implied/referenced abuse. Read at your own risk.

I wonder if the world stops to think of the tears in the eyes of a lonely child as the smell of petrichor fills the air after the storm, in the time when it rains because the storm is never truly gone in the eyes of the person who remains.

If those would look at the boy who sits in the flower garden even when it rains, pouring down on him, because he values the flowers more than his life.

The boy who does not deserve beauty, or so he convinces himself, because of the brother that left him and the cruel words of a mother who could never love him.

The time had turned to dust, changing beneath the sky, under which dreams fell apart, and the pictures taken show nothing but the darkness that has taken over his heart.

The child who cries only when it rains to pretend there were no tears streaming down his cheeks.

Droplets fall from the sky, dancing in the air as they descended down to the mortal realm. The clouds above were stormy, thunder booming from them and the distant flashes of light astounded him. His gaze was fixated on the sky above, despite how the rain fell from his eyes - was it truly rain if it came from himself rather than the sky? - and the way his heart pounded just like the thunder. He looked down at the flowers, watching how the rain ruined them. The petals grew damp, drooping with the weight of the weather. Flowers were so fragile, unable to handle the worst of this world.

The weather is odd. It hasn’t rained like this before. If it had, he had never noticed - most likely, he was too wrapped up in the flowers to care for such trivial subjects like the way the rain dripped onto the Earth or the way it reminded him of the tears that flowed freely during such storms. At twenty-two years old, the red head was a lonely man. His only friends were the flowers he adored and the sky that remained constant for him, changing yet never leaving.

However, there was always the feeling he was missing something. There was always the one puzzle piece of reality that eluded him, out of reach but in his mind. He often wondered what it was he was missing, what the empty feeling that burned through him could be caused by. His mind often wandered to such a topic, as it was beginning to now. However, it felt unnatural at this point, abnormal. His vision fell from the sky to an abyss of darkness as his body dropped to the ground, limp and unmoving.

Something was most definitely wrong.

“A virus…”

The voices were quiet, yet he could hear them perfectly fine. Snippets of a conversation best left forgotten reached his ears, though the words were spaced out and he could not make sense of the hushed whispers. They spoke of viruses and fake realities, as if all he had survived through was a software - he doubted they spoke of the life he lived. If they did, then they knew nothing, for such horrors could not possibly be fake.

Every atrocity was too vivid, too real, to be a mere illusion.

He felt weighed down, his limbs stiff from lack of use - or, at least, that was what he assumed the problem to be. He hadn’t the slightest idea how long he had been there, nor did he have a clue for the amount of time he had been awake, listening in on the strangers. Eventually, the conversation ended, one of them signalling the fact Saeran was awake.

His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling in confusion. Two faces came into sight, people he recognised almost immediately. Saeyoung, Jihyun… His eyes narrowed in suspicion, yet the lingering sense of curiosity at how they had found him was also present. He decided he needed to know, at the least, why they had taken him to this place before he made any further decisions regarding this.

“Saeran-ah..” His brother’s voice was soothing, though he knew it should not be. How long had it been since he’d had someone speak so softly to him? How long had it been since someone had cared for him and spoken his name with care instead of scorn? He didn’t know, but he wished he did, for if he had been able to remember, he was sure his heart would not ache the way it did.

“I’m so sorry. There was a problem with the virtual reality..” So it hadn’t been real. That world was fake, just like he’d overheard them mention. His experiences couldn’t be fake though, could they? His past, that childhood, it was more terrifying than everything else, the memories bringing him the most pain. Surely, that wasn’t false, was it? That had to be true, didn’t it? “.. There was a virus, it programmed everything and everyone forgot it was fake… I’m so sorry, Saeran- I unplugged you from it, but I didn’t realise the consequences. Everyone who is disconnected forgets the truth about the ages they were in the reality. So you won’t remember anything after we turned fifteen. I’m so sorry.”

There was remorse in Saeyoung’s eyes and torture in his own. Jihyun stood off to the side, as if unsure if he should engage or not to prevent the fight that may be sparked by the tension that was beginning to arise between the twins. Saeran would have preferred it if he could remember nothing before that age, while Saeyoung seemed to be heartbroken that he wouldn’t remember anything after.

He had been wishing, even if he knew it to be impossible, that the life he had lived as a child was fake.

Time goes on and the rain turns to sun. It is as if nothing had happened, as if all he had aspired to become was gone. The new Saeran, the one created by the disastrous simulation, was different to the old one. Saeyoung had noticed it quickly. This Saeran was shy, yet also much more rough around the edges. He wasn’t completely different from the brother he had known, for his twin had been quiet and reserved even before the simulation, but they had little in common.The old Saeran, as far as Saeyoung had come to realise, had died with removal from the situation, leaving the new Saeran.

The Saeran who knew he wasn’t ever going to be the brother Saeyoung wanted.

The seasons changed, but they did not. Saeran simply stayed the same, not falling into the void of emotions he desperately wished would cave in around him, but not surviving through the heavy silence that weighed him down. He was still nothing like the old Saeran, but he was beginning to piece together the lost past, the life he had lived instead of the one he was convinced he had lived due to the reality he had been in. It was tragic, many would comment from afar, that such an ordeal had happened to one of the kindest people they knew.

Saeyoung simply pretended as usual. Pretended to be happy, pretended he hadn’t lost his brother. He pretended his heart wasn’t shattered and that he wasn’t trying to pick up the pieces while trying his best to glue back together the heart of the brother that wasn’t his. It continued on for a while, neither truly aware of the time spent waiting for changes to happen.

It was Saeran, first, who begun to change. He became more joyful, more lively, and took up photography, despite it not being something he was previously interested in. At least, the man he had labelled the new Saeran had not shown any interest towards photography. The old Saeran had loved it. It was that simple action that gave Saeyoung the glimmer of hope that perhaps, everything would be alright. The hope that his brother would heal from those fake memories and start anew as the person he used to be.

The hope that they could truly be brothers once more.

The sadness in his veins turns to bittersweet pain as he begins to believe that life should not be lived when it rains.

He breaks apart from memories, unable to identify the true life he had lived and the fake one he had known under the guise of a machine when it rained.

There are tears falling from another’s eyes as he watches his younger brother, wishing with all of his heart that he had been more careful.

The two are lost, remaining apart, because even when their hearts are broken, they cannot begin to love when it rains.

The lives they lived in the past transferred into the present with the softest of smiles as hope comes with the camera lens

that he looks through while the clouds fill the sky when it rains.

#writing;ℓσνє мє ℓιкє α ℓєттєя fℓσαтιиg ιи тнє ωιи∂#Mystic Messenger #Saeran Choi #Saeyoung Choi #poetry;ѕιмρℓу ℓιиєѕ σи тнє ραgє σf му нєαят

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