#white-lipped herald snake
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So there's this fluffy thought I can't get my mind off of, imagine famous actress! Signora with a wife who still flirts with her, who would still court her even after they got married and just look absolutely in love with Signora 🥺 (can you tell i love Signora)
-🐯
WE love Signora here 😩 Pls I would totally be head over heels for her even in old age 😭❤️
Genshin Impact | Modern AU
Actress!La Signora x fem!reader | Fluff
The blinding flashes of cameras, cheers from the crowd and noise from the reporters burst forth the moment the most-awaited car drove through the driveway. An all too familiar yet exquisite deep red color adorned it's exterior, heralded as the most expensive car in the world and known to have only 4 models ever- Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail. There was only 1 person in this country that owned this beautiful beast, the everlasting beauty whom the car was named after- Rosalyne Lohefalter, or famously known by her stage name, La Signora.
"Signora! Miss Signora! Look here! Look at the camera!" the cameramen, reporters and fans all shouted in unison as the car hood rolled back giving way to the star herself. Signora waved at the people around with a gentle smile on her face, meanwhile the person accompanying her who was none other than her wife got out of the car and walked around to open the door for her. You extended your hand to your wife who accepted with a smile and finally showed herself in her full glory. You kissed the top of her hand as she stepped out, grinning at her slightly flustered reaction.
"Look here! Miss Signora! Ms Y/n! Pose together! You both look gorgeous!"
The people shouted and you decided to oblige them by posing with your wife for a few photos before stepping away to give her her spotlight. This event was for her, she was the star and she deserved every bit of this treatment. The camera flashes added more sparkle to her low-cut dazzling white gown that was adorned with roses and embroidery near the base. Her shining blonde hair flowed freely, styled with 2 rose buns and rose accessories in her hair. She waved and blew kisses at the camera as she walked forward before stopping and turning around to look at you, extending her hand out.
"Let's go, my love~"
You smiled and joined hands then walked the red carpet together. The camera flashes and cheers didn't stop even for a moment as you walked, she really was a star unlike anyone else. You were attending an awards show where she was nominated for the Best Actress award for her latest movie which was a blockbuster, critics and fans alike expected her to bag the award for sure. She had everything a star actress could, she was set to become legendary and be remembered for decades to come.
You reached the main photo area of the venue, Rosalyne greeted some of her friends and co-stars on the way then pulled you to the photo area for her turn. You were keen to let her have her solo photos but the photographers requested you to join in as you made a perfect couple. You snaked you arm around her waist and posed together for some photos before letting go and stepping to the side, once again she did some solo poses for the eager fans and camera.
She looked at you and you exchanged smiles, a light blush crawling up her cheeks whenever your eyes met. She was then ready to walk off, you offered your hand to her from afar and she barely grasped it when you suddenly pulled her closer and pressed her body against yours before connecting your lips together. The crowd gasped and broke in excited cheers even more, the camera clicks and flashes going haywire at the unforgettable moment.
Rosalyne's eyes widened in surprise the moment you kissed, yet her hands held your shoulders in a natural way as if you had practiced this when in reality, you hadn't. Your arms secured her waist in a possessive yet gentle way, you loved surprising her this way and you knew she loved it too. The kiss was short-lived, you parted with a smile and she appeared awestruck, the noise from the people around inaudible to her as only you occupied her senses.
"Shall we go in, Rosa?~"
Your voice brought her back to her senses and she covered her blushing face then nodded and walked with you without sparing a glance at the cameras despite the constant requests. Everyone wanted to capture her flustered face, but only you had the privilege of making it happen in the first place. It was surreal to see a famous and talented actress like her become embarrassed of such moments, but that's what made her so humane and adorable.
The way you showered her in affection at such places always caught her off guard despite how much she had experienced it, she just couldn't get used to it. Rosalyne looked down for the rest of the way before you were stopped by an interviewer and she donned her usual confident expression and held your arm lovingly. You too would always get surprised at how apt she was at adapting to situations this way, but she wouldn't be a star like this if she couldn't do this.
"Ms Signora, how excited are you for the evening? Ready to bag your award for the 4th consecutive year, I suppose?~" the interviewer asked, and Rosalyne gave a simple smile.
"Well, I'd hope so. But there are many other deserving candidates this time so I wouldn't regret losing, it should go to whoever deserves it. I'm just happy to be here with my darling~" she cuddeled into your chest.
"Speaking of your partner, how are you feeling, Ms Y/n?" the interviewer asked you now.
"Uh, well, I'm definitely more nervous here than her that's for sure." you chuckled.
"Oh, you don't know how the fans talk about you both. You have certainly found a way into their hearts, in more ways than one~"
You chuckled with a shrug of your shoulders, "I have seen some messages, yes. They are quite.... daring, to put it nicely~"
The interviewer chuckled along, "You can't blame them now, can you? Some people want to be you and some want you! Have you seen those messages, Ms Signora?~"
Rosalyne's grip on your arm tightened for a moment before she loosened it to answer the interviewer, "Of course, I have. All I can say is I'm blessed to have her by my side. And I'm not giving her to anyone~"
Signora winked at the camera with a smirk. The interviewer laughed more then wished you both a good time and let you walk away. You made your way inside the arena when you noticed Rosalyne seemed to be deep in thought.
"Rosa, are you okay?"
Rosalyne looked at you with a pout then rested her head on your shoulder, "I have told you to refrain from public affection at such events.... I can't imagine how the media will react to that kiss now."
You grinned, "I don't care how they'll react. I simply wanted to love my wife, is that wrong?~"
"Mm, I know. I liked it too but..."
She squeezed your arm more then mumbled something inaudible. You smiled to yourself and remained silent as you already knew what she was feeling. You got seated at your designated table and the show began soon after. After an hour, the most awaited moment of the night came- the announcement of the Best Actress award. The nominations were announced followed by a dramatic silence as the envelope was opened.
You held Rosalyne's hand and gently squeezed it, the two of you exchanging smiles with each other. You couldn't deny you were far more nervous than her, you knew she won't be as upset about losing but you really wanted her to win. She was the most deserving in your eyes. Rosalyne noticed your nervousness and smiled to herself before gently patting your arm and looking at you.
"La Signora!"
A roar of claps and cheers erupted as her name was announced as the winner. Your heart skipped a beat and you immediately hugged her then exchanged a small kiss before escorting her to the stage, you kissed the top of her hand before releasing it as she climbed up and waved at the crowd while you stood in front and took her pictures and made a video of her speech.
"I would extend this award to my director and rest of the crew who made the film a possibility and gave me the platform for this, it was truly amazing working with such talented people and I am thankful to my fans for always supporting me. Last but not least, I couldn't do this without my Y/n so a big thank you for being here, darling~"
Rosalyne gave a short and sweet speech as she had prepared before blowing a flying kiss to the crowd and beginning to descend. You quickly went to the stairs and helped her get down, then took her by surprise doing an unexpected action. You picked her up bridal style in your arms, she almost gasped then chuckled and wrapped her arms around your neck and lovingly embraced you as you walked back to your table.
More cheers, claps and even whistles could be heard now. Rosalyne kissed your cheek then held you tightly, you placed her on her chair then sat on yours beside her. Both of you took a moment to look at the trophy then exchanged a small kiss and continued watching the rest of the show. You had initially planned to stay for the after-party but you couldn't wait to take her home, you had planned so much for this moment.
You excused yourselves after the event and decided to go home together. Rosalyne questioned why you were so eager to go back, but she assumed you simply wanted to be alone with her to celebrate her victory. You reached her bunglow then quickly got out of the car and opened the door for her, holding out your hand and helping her come out. She was about to walk forward but you surprisingly put a blindfold on her eyes and started guiding her inside.
"My love? What is happening?"
"Shh, just come with me."
Rosalyne felt excited wondering if you had a surprise for her, you always did so much to love her and support her. She heard a few doors open as you walked before finally making her stand at a place as you removed her blindfold.
"Ta-da!"
You exclaimed and she was spellbound at the scene in front. It was her room yet it looked so different decorated with all sorts of balloons and flowers. You brought out a table that had a cake on top with the writing, "Congratulations". Tears of happiness formed in her eyes and she couldn't hold back from embracing you tightly.
"Thank you, my sweetheart... Oh, what did I do to deserve you in my life?"
You smiled and patted her back, "Be yourself, that's all. I love you, Rosa. Today is your day, I'm so happy for you."
She kissed your cheek then cut the cake and happily fed you a piece, you opened the bottle of wine kept under the table and poured it in 2 glasses. You played her favorite music and handed her one glass as both of you sat on the bedside and celebrated together; you drank, laughed and danced together.
She had never felt so appreciated before, she didn't know how to express her gratefulness for you. Before long, you found yourself pinned on the bed with her straddling you and your lips joined in a passionate kiss. Rosalyne wanted to give back for all that you did, she wanted you to feel appreciated too just like you made her feel.
"I love you... I love you so much, my darling...." she mumbled between kisses and proceeded to undress you both, followed by a passionate night of lovemaking.
#genshin impact#genshin women#la signora#signora x reader#la signora x reader#genshin signora#genshin impact signora#la signora genshin impact
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Underhanded
for @silmsmutweek Day 6, Prompts: Public sex, Casual sex, and Writer Challenge #6.
Rating: E | No warnings
Words: 2.3k
Relationship: Celegorm/Finrod
Genre: Smut
"Heat crawled over the side of Celegorm’s body where Finrod’s shoulder brushed it, but he smirked. He had no wish to wrest the crown of Nargothrond from his cousin, not yet. Finrod was a competent leader, and beloved. Better to leave the Kingdom in his hands — and for Celegorm to hold Finrod in his."
On AO3
Plates heaped high with colourful offerings filled Nargothrond’s long feast table to its very edges. Burgundy venison with a crust of wild herbs, steaming meat pies bursting with red and yellow roots, garnishes of ripple-edged greens and white radishes, many bowls of pickled beans and olives from the slopes below the Faroth. Attendants topped off crystal goblets with golden wine, flitting among the courtiers pressed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.
Finrod had been absent on his tour of the villages downriver no more than a season, but Nargothrond loved its king, and his return was heralded with an explosion of light and laughter.
Celegorm lifted his cup to eye-level, observing the play of light in the liquid, the bubbles rising in a constant stream from the base of the glass. But he was more interested in that which he watched through it: Finrod seated at the head of the table on his high-backed chair of dark wood, draped in pearly silks; the fabrics captured the glow of the chandeliers and cast them back in shifting hues. The veneer of gold and glass allowed Celegorm to admire the broad strokes of the King’s beauty, the totality of his grace rather than the singular motions of hand or neck or mouth.
Though those were lovely too, he thought, setting the rim of his glass to his lips and sipping from it. It was cool against the thin layer of skin, awakening a longing for contact of another kind: warm, living, hungry. Such had Finrod’s lips felt against his the night before he set out, when he had relented at last to years of denied desire.
Celegorm had cultivated it from the first months of their coming to Nargothrond, when he had caught the furtive glances Finrod stole of him in councils, or felt eyes raking over him in the training yards, burning too fiercely to be the politic interest of a king in his general. No — Finrod’s desire had been as carnal as Celegorm’s own, but for once Celegorm had waited. Waited for the King to claim him. The prize of Finrod Felagund inspired patience.
But now Celegorm had tasted of him: as supple and sweet as his outward show suggested, but with a centre as hard and bright and sharp as adamant which, once exposed, blazed so hot it might have hurt a lesser man. Not Celegorm. Celegorm received him willingly, eagerly, boldly. His tongue thickened with longing to taste him again.
The evening wore on. Celegorm made no effort to dull the lust blooming between his thighs, rather letting one hand slide beneath the table to tend it. The effort of maintaining the proud yet relaxed set of his shoulders, the innocuous charm of voice and countenance, served only to fuel his desire.
Finrod caught his eyes, and then, for a moment, Celegorm let his mask slip, granting the King a glimpse of the hunger beneath it. But if this brought a blush to Finrod’s cheeks, the rosy dust already brushed over them concealed it. Finrod steepled his arms on the table, his long sleeves gaping to show the soft underside of his arms ringed with bracelets — the right one bearing a tattoo of a snake, shimmering emerald — and knit his fingers together before him with all the elegant pomp of a peacock fanning his tail. He let his golden eyelashes, studded with tiny diamonds, drop heavily to his cheekbones. Only when he’d fully opened them again did he slide his gaze away from Celegorm.
The invitation was clear.
When Edrahil (benign and devoted Edrahil, the companion of his lord’s journeys) rose from his seat beside the King, bidding him goodnight, Celegorm needed no further excuse. He took his place at Finrod’s left; he chose to ignore the angling of Curufin’s head in his direction. Let his brother suspect.
“Clever of you,” Celegorm said, idly slotting the stem of Finrod’s wine glass between his fingers, “to wander.” He swirled the glass, sending the clear liquid sloshing towards the rim.
“Oh?” Finrod reclaimed his glass. The brush of fingers, his mithril-tipped nails, over Celegorm’s own was not subtle. He’d indulged, Celegorm noted by the slight droop of his brows. Good.
“To periodically absent yourself,” Celegorm clarified, “that the people might perceive the gaping space none but yourself can fill.”
Finrod laughed, flashing bright white teeth and the soft skin of his throat as he tipped his chin back. “On the contrary!” he said, loud enough for those around them to hear. “I ought to be chided for my wanderings. A king should stay among his people.”
The surrounding elves laughed and denied the assertion, but Finrod leaned in now close to Celegorm. “Lest some other win their hearts in his absence,” he whispered, affecting roughness in the honey of his voice.
Heat crawled over the side of Celegorm’s body where Finrod’s shoulder brushed it, but he smirked. He had no wish to wrest the crown of Nargothrond from his cousin, not yet. Finrod was a competent leader, and beloved. Better to leave the Kingdom in his hands — and for Celegorm to hold Finrod in his.
Fortunately, it was no burden at all to do so.
Without further preamble he clutched Finrod’s thigh just above the knee. The muscle flexed beneath his fingers, but nothing on Finrod’s face suggested a change of mood.
“’Twould not be possible to sway any heart from yours,” Celegorm said, as he slid his hand firmly up Finrod’s thigh — ah. “And if one were fool enough to try,” he cast a glance at Curufin, “they would have your fearsome guard to contend with.” He cupped the warm bulge of Finrod’s cock. It jumped in answer.
Finrod’s throat bobbed beneath his easy smile. “Alas, I have not your faith in my guard, who have failed this very night to protect me from a bold advance.”
A growl rose from deep in Celegorm’s throat, barely audible. “I meant myself, king.” He splayed his hand over Finrod’s groin, shaping his fingers around the growing evidence of his arousal.
“Mm,” said Finrod. He sipped his wine, and a dribble gleamed on his red lips. He took his time brushing it away with a long finger. “I see. I was not aware your devotion ran so deep. Do you intend to swear fealty then, cousin?”
“I would not go so far as that.” Celegorm palmed him forcefully.
“Ah!” Finrod diverted his enthusiasm in the direction of a passing lord. “Lord Gelennil, are you retiring already? How do you find your new quarters? I hope the light is adequate — you know, I have just the piece that I believe would fit in the lintels — a glass mosaic, it captures light beautifully — I will have it sent.”
The flighty cadence of Finrod’s speech was nothing unusual. The King often spoke thus when moved to excitement. There was no reason to suspect that Celegorm was stroking him hard beneath the table.
Gelennil thanked him, then looked at Celegorm.
Taking note, Finrod smiled. “Do you know, now I think of it, some of the glass was the work of Fëanor.”
“Oh, king,” said Gelennil, eyes widening and mouth gaping open, “you mustn’t honour me with such a gift.”
Celegorm rolled his thumb over the head of Finrod’s shaft.
“Nonsense,” Finrod said, and fluttered his hands apart, “you are well-deserving of it, and it ought to be displayed.” He turned to Celegorm. His pupils were blown so wide with lust that Celegorm’s breath caught with yearning. “Do you not concur, cousin?”
“Yes,” said Celegorm, and cleared his throat, “it would please me to know my father’s work adorns your quarters, lord.”
“There, you see!” Finrod struck the table with the flat of his palm. No one could have known that the gesture came just as Celegorm unclasped the hook over his waist, and that out of sight Finrod had obligingly spread his legs so that Celegorm could plunge his hand beneath the garment.
“I will have it sent tomorrow, then,” said Finrod, as Celegorm tugged at an unnecessarily elaborate system of laces. Yet the project provided opportunity for dozens of glancing touches, and when Finrod hitched his hips Celegorm deliberately slowed his progress. With the laces loose enough that he might have easily reached beneath and taken him in hand, he instead lingered over the straight, stiff shape of Finrod’s erection, feeling the pulse and heat of it through the fabric.
“You are most generous,” Gelennil said, at the same time as Celegorm’s ministrations pushed the tiniest of squeaks from Finrod’s throat. Celegorm exhaled, only the hint of chuckle behind it.
A minor slip, said Finrod’s thought, it will not happen again, so do not try.
A mistake, opening his mind: Celegorm slipped in, pressing at its corners with the throb and heat of his own arousal. Finrod breathed out sharply, slamming the doors of his thought shut even as his hand flew beneath the table to pull out his own cock for Celegorm to take.
Celegorm let his fingers run over the shape of him, feeling out the veins and ridges as he had not had the luxury of doing during their last hurried coupling. Then he winced: the heel of Finrod’s boot had struck his shin.
Above the table, Finrod extended his hand — the one that had only just emerged from between his thighs, Celegorm noted with amusement — and squeezed Gelennil’s forearm. “You’ll forgive me if I do not rise to bid you good night, the day’s journey and the evening’s festivities have made me feel as though I were composed of iron ore. I envy you your bed.”
Celegorm pumped once, and Finrod bucked, ever so slightly, into his hand. His fingers tightened around the other elf’s arm.
Gelennil smiled. “Surely the King can turn into bed whenever he likes?”
“Yes,” said Celegorm, “surely, a bed would be most commodious.” He quickened the pace of his stroking. Finrod’s chest rose and sank, a silent sigh.
“Commodious, lord?” Gelennil looked puzzled.
“Advantageous,” said Celegorm. Gelennil’s expression remained blank. “Convenient? Useful?” Celegorm huffed, for a moment forgetting his task in his impatience with this up-jumped Sindarin peasant.
Finrod’s elbow rammed his ribs, and the pain caused his hand to tighten around Finrod’s cock — which, by the fluttering of his smile, pleased Finrod greatly. Very well, thought Celegorm: if it was roughness he craved, Celegorm would provide it. With a deft turn of the wrist, he tugged and twisted. He was rewarded with a trickle of liquid leaking from the head of Finrod’s shaft.
“A bed would be most commodious indeed,” Finrod lingered luxuriously around the round vowels and sibilance of the word, as Celegorm spread the slick fluid down the length of him. “But, truth be told, I have a terrible fear of leaving early, lest I miss the climax of the evening,” — Celegorm moved down to knead his sack — “nor is my vanity immune to being stroked—” his thighs clenched around Celegorm’s hand, urging it upwards “—by the love of my people.”
Celegorm jerked insistently, coaxing another spill of fluid from him. His own lips parted, imagining how it might taste. Finrod, for his part, abruptly withdrew his hand from Gelennil’s arm and clutched the edge of the table.
“Good night, then!” he said. Without even a hint of recognition, Lord Gelennil (the witless clod) bowed his head and bid them both a good evening.
Finrod released a sigh, as if in idle contentment, which seemed to be how those nearby took it: they smiled in his direction as he fiddled with his bracelets and knit his fingers back together in front of him. He was furiously kneading his palms.
“A bed would be commodious,” Celegorm said, not letting up on the rhythm of his strokes. Though there was little to show for it on his face, by the steady pulse of blood beneath his firm grip he was sure Finrod was very near to spilling. He was himself scarcely able to resist bucking against the constraint of his breeches, or relenting to the overwhelming urge to plunge his other hand under the table. He was certain he could bring himself off with no more than a few quick strokes.
“It would,” Finrod slanted his eyes to meet him and hells, Celegorm nearly spilled from that alone, “but is it not more stimulating sitting here among friends?” Then he gasped. “Friends!” he cried, and his cock twitched and pulsed and twitched again in Celegorm’s hand. With not a second to spare, Celegorm moved to cover his head, and was immediately coated with a forceful spurt of Finrod’s spend.
Finrod had thrown his arms arm wide, drawing all eyes to him, and smiled, dauntless as he surrendered to waves of pleasure beneath the table.
“I must thank you all for your warm reception!” Cheers, as the last of Finrod’s seed trickled between Celegorm's fingers. “I have already expressed by deepest gratitude to my brother Orodreth for holding the Kingdom in my stead,” he lowered his arms to the table. “However—” he brought a hand to Celegorm’s shoulder, nudging him away from his groin. “I neglected to praise my dear cousins Lords Celegorm and Curufin.”
Another round of cheers. Celegorm held his palm, dripping sticky fluid, beneath the table, and returned his brother’s sidelong glance with an insouciant smile. “Their coming has swelled the strength of Nargothrond. We stand now firmer than ever against our foes. But now,” he pushed himself several inches back from the table, “I am spent from my travels and my bed calls me.” His hands fell to his lap. Celegorm glanced down and watched him tuck himself away and clasp his robes over his softening cock. He rose. “I will leave the conclusion of the evening's festivities in the capable hands of my cousins.”
With a swirl of fabrics and jangle of bracelets, he turned a strode from the hall. Celegorm wiped his hand on the cushion of Finrod’s vacated seat and lifted his glass to the remaining guests.
“Let the revels resume,” he said, and took a leisurely sip of wine.
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Can I ask for a fluffy one shot of Eonwë and reader cuddling and having a calmling morning together? I think a fluffy one shot is perfect.
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( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ eönwë ⠀〳 reader⠀ ❜࿔
· ⊰ synopsis. you just so manage to pull your maia lover back into bed despite his attempts to get started on his busy day. of course, he is defenseless against your pleads and gives in to your need to cuddle
· ⊰ note. absolutely! I hope this is to your liking
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“My dawn,’’ he attempts.
“Eönwë,’’ you counter.
The softness of your ardour was breaking through each and every one of his defences, not that he was surprised. He might be known as the greatest of arms in all of Arda but you certainly wield an arsenal that tears him down at every waking moment. Your tender touch, your captivating kisses and not to mention, that voice of yours was akin to that of a siren. Luring him away and shattering his resolve as though it were nothing more than the glass. The same panes which pour sunlight into this very room.
The morning sun’s warmth is pale in comparison to the caress of your body flushed against his back or your arms that loop his torse, nor the feel of your hands against his bare chest with fingers tracing every indent and tone of his flesh. “I have duties, training —” he futilely tries one more. “But laying here in my arms should be of the utmost importance.’’ You oppose with a few kisses to the back of his shoulder for good measure. “Is it such a crime to lay with your bride for but a bit longer?”
A shiver crawls up his spine and Eönwë is uncertain whether it is due to the nuzzle of your soft cheek against those sensitive feathers of his folded wings, or the name that you refer to yourself as. Yes, his bride. His soon-to-be wife.
Unable to stop the smile that slips onto his lips, the herald exhales and accepts his defeat at your hand. His thumb, calloused from centuries-worth of swordsmanship, grants you a few rubs against the back of your palm before he at last turns in your hold and presses his lips to your forehead. “You certainly are persistent, my angel.’’ You can all but hum in response and mirror his smile as your arms retreat from his middle in favour of hooking around his neck instead. “I have to be with the stubborn man I call my lover.’’ He scoffs at your giggling but knows good and well you speak only from experience rather than malice. Certainly, he could be quite the stubborn man should he choose, especially when it came to his work. At times he would feel guilt pricking at his heart when he thinks back to your lonely form curling up in the bed you both shared, yearning for him whilst he pushed himself to the extremes. He could only thank Eru that you still remained ever as loyal to him despite it all — not that he doubts you in the slightest.
Eönwë’s weight begins to tip you over and soon you are yelping as you fall over onto the bed with minimal effort. As always he ensures to be wary of your smaller stature as he was well aware of the difference in size between the two of you. An arm tucks beneath your spine, caressing the small of your back for a second or two before snaking around you completely. He then shifts to the side and hoists you to his chest so that you may both lay within the soft sheets as his white, feathery wings extend to wrap around you just as his arms do.
There is a hum of delight on your tongue as you find refuge in his chest, nuzzling into the comfort of his warmth and thanking the stars above that you managed to pull him back into bed with you. At times he would leave far too early and the feel of waking up in an empty bed, void of warmth, depraved of him, had begun to leave a mark on your heart. You only wished for more time with the one that held your heart — alas, you knew that with the never-ending duties of a Chief maia, it may be asking for too much.
“I have missed you,’’ you almost fear that he will miss your words as they come from your lips like a wavering whisper in the wind. However, the benign tightening of his hold assures you that he is listening loud and clear. “I know it is selfish of me, but sometimes I wish that you could simply brush away those duties. That I can hold you like this until my heart’s content.’’
There’s a rumble of his chest, a chuckle that leaves you bashful as fingers find the top of your head. “I wish for the same, my dawn.’’ His sigh tells you that it plagues his mind just as much. “Perhaps I can take a sort of leave from my duties? Surely they will be able to hold someone in my place for a week, at the very least.’’ The smoothness of his lips finds your forehead once more, then your temple, below your lid, your cheek and soon he is kissing all across your face while you giggle and push at his chest. “Eönnnwwë,’’ the whine of his name draws another chuckle but not once does he stop. Instead, he drinks in your giggles, squeals and your gleaming countenance, hoping to paint a picture in his mind that he will carry through for the rest of the day.
“Hmm? Did you not wish for my attention?” Eönwë muses with the pads of his fingers now prodding at your side, daring to tickle and draw out more of your chittering. “And by that I mean I kiss!’’ Your protest has him tilting his head. “Have I not kissed you, my dawn?” “Not here,’’ you pout, emphasising your lips and hoping that he will catch your drift. Which thankfully, he did as he leans down to peck your nose. “There?’’ He teases before granting your wish and pressing his lips to yours in that feathery way that leaves your heart fluttering.
Your arms find perchance around his neck once more, so that you can flush against him as though you are fearful that he may slip through your fingers for the sake of dreadful training once more. In-turn his hand caresses your face and draws you nearer. Seems as though that fear pricks at his mind too.
Eönwë holds you there, tilting his head and leading the kiss in an attempt to show you the passion that still burns within him, for you, only for you. Even if he will leave you once more today, his kiss serves as a silent promise that he will always return to his bride. That one day he will stand at the altar just as the silver band around your finger promises.
“Someone’s needy,’’ you joke after parting for a breath of air. As you expected, pink creeps onto his fair cheeks and his eyes avert to the side. “Am I to be blamed for the things you do to me?” Now it is your turn to emit heat from your face at the drop in octave of his voice, but instead, you bury your face into his neck and press a kiss to his nape. “You say it as though you are blameless. You do the same things to me.’’
Once again, he chuckles and brings a hand to the back of your head in a tender caress. “I suppose that makes us even. Besides, I think it’s only fair with your. . . deceptive talent of making me bend to your every will.’’ He pertains to your most recent deployment of this ‘deceptive talent’, when you managed to pull him back to bed and delay his training. Not that he minds.
“I’m quite the charmer,’’
He rolls your eyes at your wink and stifles a laugh as he brings his face back in to peck at your grinning lips. “Oh certainly. What a little enchantress you are.’’ With that he pulls you back in so that he might rest his chin against your head. Feathers puff out and flush against you just as his strong arms embrace your smaller form. He supposes he is simply vulnerable to all your tactics and like any soldier without a defence, he will gladly fall under your reign.
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- UNCUT -
( Hey everyone. For better readability, here's the entirety of Sons of Theseus in a single post. Please note this is enormous, clocking in at over 7300 words, so brace for a mountain of text under the Read More. If you'd like a TL;DR version, click here, though it contains spoilers, naturally.
The icons indicate separate posts. Snakes = Bryan's POV, owls = Dragunov's.
As far as content warnings go, please be aware this contains, in no particular order: canon-typical violence, brief gory depictions, lots of foul language, war, pain, and death.
Likes and comments are very appreciated! Thank you for reading! )
- 𓆚 -
The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.
The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slim dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.
Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.
The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.
A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.
"Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.
Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.
Pale fingers trailed over his throat.
Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
A heartbeat he did not have.
He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?
Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.
CRUN--
-
--nch.
Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.
Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.
Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.
He couldn't help but chuckle.
It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.
Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?
He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.
The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.
Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.
As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.
Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."
Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.
Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.
Jackboots thundered closer.
His words were beetles in her ear: "Start talking."
- 𓅓 -
The Tattered Blackbird was one of many pubs in Kensington, yet as it came into view, Polya Dragunova's heart wedged itself in her throat. She cut across a gap in traffic and maneuvered past the businesspeople finished with work and waiting out rush hour milling on the sidewalk outside. The interior was worse, a veritable sardine can of twentysomething professionals reluctant to return to flats they shared with half a dozen of their peers. White collar gaggles blocked the typical pub decor from sight and a chorus of weekly gripes drowned the news on the TV over the bar. Polya didn't care about any of it. All that mattered to her was the man taking an entire booth to himself in the corner, sipping a pint like nothing was wrong.
Her brother.
Polya bowled her purse into the seat across from him hard enough to hit the wall with a heavy thud, and threw herself down right after. "Make it quick."
Sergei Dragunov steeled himself in the bottom of his glass. This was never going to be painless, but she needn't start swinging right off the bat. Fine. Very well. He could do quick. He tossed a yellow envelope onto the table, trying to ignore how his sister flinched.
She stared at it for a moment, then tore it open. The card inside was black, bordered in gold stars, YOU DID IT! printed under a paper mortarboard. Within were four salmon pink notes -- two hundred British pounds. She picked them up, watched their watermarks appear and hide in the light.
"What the fuck is this," she said.
Here we go, Sergei thought.
"No, really, what the fuck is this." Polya's features darkened to an apocalyptic scowl. "Is this a bribe? Are you fucking bribing me to talk to you? You could rob a fucking bank for me and I still wouldn't give you the time of day, you fucking fascist!"
Her volume was steadily rising. Dragunov could feel perplexed looks pointed toward their table.
She kept going. "I don't want your blood money. I don't want you in my life. I feel fucking stupid for even looking at your text. My graduation was really nice, you know? Going out with normal people, people who aren't war criminals. But then you drop out of the blue and my whole fucking week is ruined."
Sergei rubbed his brow, eyes squeezed shut, his other hand clutching his elbow. He had hoped otherwise, but couldn't deny the truth: this was a terrible mistake.
She was on her feet now, face livid, tossing the pounds at him. "No contact means no contact. How fucking dumb do you have to be to not get that?" Her voice was a bitter screech, every word a needle. "You're a drone. An ant. Disgusting. All you do is destroy -- innocent lives, my peace of mind, Mom's heart--"
"ENOUGH!"
The shout ripped from Dragunov's soul like a malfunctioning rocket, propelling him onto his feet and his fists onto the table. His throat immediately protested, nicotine-scented phlegm knotting in his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. What little air he could reach was spent on muddy, racking coughs until he was bent double, hacking black mucus into his palm.
A few pub patrons inched toward him, unsure about the situation but unwilling to watch him suffer. Sergei waved them off. Through blurred vision and blood pounding in his ears, he saw all eyes on him and Polya, stunned yet still trembling with rage.
It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was protecting his home -- protecting her -- the only way he knew how, skimming money he could have easily spent on anything else for months to wish her the best. For someone who had spent four years mastering artistic expression, she refused to see an olive branch.
A long, loud tone blared from the TV. Breaking news. The general gaze turned toward the screen. Murmurs went up, hands clasped over mouths, cheeks drained of color.
Across an ocean, a city burned, and a demon proclaimed the end of the world.
Polya glanced between the broadcast and her brother. A curious paradox: he was right there, and so was the rest of the pub, yet seemed separated by lightyears. The thing on the television, the warning crawl about falling satellite debris, on the other hand, was as close as a dangling guillotine blade. And as her worldview sat on the chopping block, more than anything else, she felt very, very alone.
She looked for Sergei. The front door slammed, and he was gone.
- 𓆚 -
The Colosseum was an apt place to hold the Tournament. No amount of time could cleanse it from a history of bloodshed. Built to commemorate imperial power, a new emperor now sat at its head, eking judgements on nations from the fists and feet of their finest gladiators.
Not like Bryan cared. What the Colosseum needed, in his humble opinion, was some extra defacing.
Any wall would do, really. The one he was walking past now? Perfect. Ocular lenses flaring to compensate for the low light in the hypogeum tunnels, a smirk turned his lip as he pressed his finger against the stone. Simple was best. His name, a permanent mark on the world wonder, all caps, bigger and bolder than...
--shit.
The cyborg dropped his hand, his amusement extinguished like a match. He'd just done that. The memory of Hollywood was still fresh in his mind, even though it'd been a dream. Right? He'd felt the sun on his face. Smelled the perfume of his entourage. Reaching out, he stroked the wall. The rock was rough under his touch. He heard the spectators in the stands above calling for the next fight. This -- this was real. This was the King of Iron Fist Tournament! This was as real as it got! Combat against the best of the best for the highest stakes imaginable!
--which meant this very well could be an illusion too. If he could think it, there was a real possibility it was not real.
Bryan groaned, leaving the wall to its own devices. Life was better when I just killed people, he thought, I am never dealing with those fucks at Netflix again.
Turning a corner, he saw a group of men in military fatigues ahead. He heard the language they spoke, saw the flag patch on their shoulders. In their midst, leaning on his knees in a folding chair, uniform blue as an arctic sea, was Dragunov.
Fury froze. If this was all scripted, Sergei was the exact person who would make an entrance at this time. What was the next play? Approaching him fell right in line with whatever virtual plot was unfolding, if there even was one, but Bryan couldn't ignore him either. Breaking this chain of events would only cause new ones to form...
--if he was still being force-fed lies. Or was life simply chugging on?
--shit.
This was ridiculous. Why did it disturb him so much? Ultimately, there was no correct choice.
But there was a fun one.
Swaggering up to the convoy, Bryan grinned as chitchat died and hands flew to holstered guns. "Hey there, sunshine," he said, "Hah. You look like hell."
With the weight and chill of icebergs, Dragunov levelled a narrow stare at him. Bryan didn't remember him being so pale. Perhaps it was the contrast with the dirt on his clothes, the bruises on his face.
"Bet Shaheen looks worse," Fury continued, "Beat him half to death, didn't you. I'm sure he'll be fine. His country, though? You opened it up to the Zaibatsu's nasty little claws. A lot of people are going to die, Drag."
Expression unchanging, the Russian picked up a canteen, took a swig of water. The justification for his indifference was obvious: better them than us.
"Psch. Don't tell me you get your rocks off saving lives now. Wasn't that long ago you had the time of your life completely thrashing some of the very meat-bags in this ugly, old ruin. I know. I was there. Or did the thing in Vegas change your tune?"
The canteen paused halfway to the floor. Looking back, Sergei's gaze turned to a glare aflame with acrid cold.
That's it, Bryan thought, teeth bared in an ear-to-ear smile, There he is. "Y'know, between you and me, we could nip this whole fuckin' thing in the bud. C'mon. Kazuya is a purple people-eater, but you're an expert in that sorta shit and I'm me." He slowly shook his head. "There's gonna be no better time, Drag. We stopped a disaster before. Let's do it again."
Deliberately, as if facing down a prehistoric python coiled to strike, Dragunov rose to his feet.
The explosion tore down the tunnel in a shockwave of dust and pressure, knocking them all to the ground. Under the echoing roar of the blast and the rumble of ancient stone breaking came panicked screams from the crowd above.
Sprawled on his back, covered in grit, Bryan barely acknowledged the diagnostics crawling in his eyes. His body was fine. His grip on reality, however, felt as unstable as the fissures in the ceiling.
- 𓅓 -
Dragunov, meanwhile, scrambling to his feet, had other things in mind. Survival, first and foremost, and the well-being of his men. They had taken up positions with guns out and ready, but they were clearly scared out of their wits. These were not hardened operatives. These were boys fresh from basic, a scant few the Russian Army could spare, assigned simply to escort him to Italy to represent and defend the lives of his people. A relatively easy mission, until someone or something decided they could not leave well enough alone.
Creaking noises from above. It wasn't safe here. Grabbing his own sidearm, Sergei pointed into the tunnel in the direction of the blast and ran to take lead.
Behind them, moaning, Bryan began to rise.
Sounds of a stampede grew louder as they drew closer to the surface. They raced the cracks in the walls up a flight of stairs into an aboveground passageway. Despite the evacuation broadcast directing where to escape, a handful of panicked, bleeding spectators stumbled past them. Dragunov caught one, a man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt, by the shoulder, shoved him aside, and paid no heed as he plunged out of sight. For treating the fate of millions of innocents as primetime viewing, there was no salvation.
Another shockwave rocked the Colosseum. The floor rippled under his feet and fresh dust stung his face.
New voices ahead, shouting over the din. Sergei lifted a fist beside his face, calling his men to halt. An armed squadron corralled escaping civilians toward refuge. He could recognize their baby blue berets anywhere. They were UN.
Ravens.
Outrage smothered self-preservation. This went miles beyond meddling. This was escalation. The state of affairs was far from ideal, but in ruining the Saudi champion, Dragunov secured a measure of safety for Russia. Now these scavengers, these carcass eaters, jeopardized it all.
He raised his gun. His men aimed their rifles.
The next trickle of seconds lasted years.
A thunderclap from on high slammed them all to the ground once more. Dropped weapons scattered in every direction.
Horror speared his insides as the world went dark, but he was not blinded -- hellish clouds blotted out the sun and turned the air frigid.
Footfalls and terrified cries hammered around him as peacekeepers and his own soldiers fled.
Hauling himself to one knee, Dragunov caught glimpse of two glowing eyes. Bryan, standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with uncertainty.
Outside, Azazel roared its rebirth--
--and the Colosseum finally gave up its ghost. The ceiling buckled, pouring an avalanche of stone, concrete, and steel.
Sergei had time for one, last thought: his family.
And he was overrun.
- 𓆚 -
"DRAG!"
Bryan ran towards the collapse before the dust had time to settle. A nova of light made him flinch, eyes overwhelmed by brilliance and turning the world even darker. His ears clocked the accompanying snarls as louder than jet engines. Whatever was happening in the arena, he didn't care. It didn't matter. A desperate mantra dominated his mind.
No. No. No.
Throwing pieces of rubble was too slow. His fists smashed stone and steel asunder.
No. No. No.
The knuckles of his right hand frayed, revealing black alloy underneath. He kept going.
No. No. NO.
His tether to normalcy couldn't leave him. He couldn't.
"DRAG!"
There. A line of a blue sleeve amidst heaps of gray. All of Bryan's CPUs cycled faster as he tore through the last pile of rock. They would laugh about this later over drinks in a dive bar, how Fury dug him up like buried treasure--
--sudden realization turned Bryan motionless.
He freed Dragunov, all right, but those insides were not supposed to be outsides.
The cyborg sank to his knees. It did not compute. It was unthinkable.
And because it was, it was real. This was not a dream-- --this was nightmare.
Time became unmoored this far north. The sky, full of chrome clouds, concealed the position of the sun. It could be noon, it could be half past midnight. The harbor jutting into the Barents Sea was bathed in a nondescript un-light, the snow tinged gray with the various drippings of loitering military vehicles. Two men, bundled head-to-toe against the numbing cold and carrying automatic rifles, stood at attention on either side of an enormous, circular blast door embedded in the rocky cliffside. When Bryan Fury crested the other side of the harbor, their thick snow goggles hid any reaction.
The cyborg, for his part, felt nothing. Had felt nothing since the Colosseum. A hurricane inhabited his head. There were no thoughts, no foresight -- just a Category 5 maelstrom of barbed wire, sheared metal, and whipping winds. A complex of commands kicked on from somewhere in the bowels of his machinery and roared in animal defiance for the past twenty-four hundred miles and forty hours. He had paused only to hijack another car or truck when his latest ride fell apart, overworked and riddled with ammunition.
His trek crossed seven countries, and all mobilized against him. It was a blur of battlefields, the stink of burning explosive clinging to what remained of his skin. His black and red endoskeleton was littered in chips and tears and coated in layers of dust, ash, and dried blood. Some part of him dripped inky fluid, forming a dark trail as he approached the door.
Behind him dragged a rope tied to a wood crate.
The guards remained still as he drew within twenty paces. It was possible they were robots. Bryan had faced enough of those crossing most of Eastern Europe, both Zaibatsu and G Corp made. Not even a glance as Fury wrenched the rope around, flinging the crate forward in a dizzying spin across the slush until it slid to a halt.
His voice, with ballistic volume: "FIX HIM."
Utter silence. Finally, in unison, the guards stepped away from the door. Locks disengaged with bangs and groans like breaking sea ice, and it sluggishly swung open.
Bryan grabbed the rope and entered the Gold Raptors base.
The ramp was a steady decline illuminated by florescent lamps, their bumblebee hum the only sound aside the rumble of circulated air and the scrrrrp of wood on concrete, leading to a massive hangar. All that moved were motes of dust. A single light over an elevator gleamed in the otherwise cavernous shadows.
Had Fury still the capacity for nuance, he would have been offended at the blatant instruction, but that was long discarded back in Italy. The prime directive came closer with every step. Nothing else mattered.
The elevator opened on its own. Bryan stepped in, crate in tow, and descended one thousand feet into the earth.
It delivered him to a hallway. The layout was familiar -- he'd been in a containment wing before. As he walked down the empty corridor, he spared the briefest glances through the viewports on various doors. This was where they housed the horrors. A rust red boar the size of an elephant -- a ballerina in arabesque, perpetually aflame -- clumpy smoke with yellow eyes orbiting an antique stove--
One door unlocked with an electronic buzz and click. He went in.
Tubes and cables, some as wide as Bryan's torso, ran like entrails across the floor, snaked up the walls, and hung from the ceiling. Monitoring equipment sat in powerless consoles. Something on the other end of the cell glowed a sunset halo. Fury approached.
At first, he couldn't tell what it was. It resembled a giant steel fennel seed, seven feet long and cherry red. It sat embedded in a nest of metal spines that seemed to grow out of the wall itself, a lattice of iron urchins dark as interstellar space. Its upper half was transparent, revealing a hollow interior full of raw chicken pink fluid.
Suspended within was Dragunov.
For the first time in hours, miles, and devastated countries, the storm in Bryan's mind dissipated, and clarity returned to him. The journey, his wounds, all were forgotten.
A gentle crack, and the cradle unhinged open. Looking in, Fury noted the soldier was nude, hair floating around his face, eyes closed, breathing. Fast asleep, not a trace of tension in his body. Covered in scars.
Beautiful, Bryan thought.
Distant rumbling came closer, building into an electric roar. Arcs of lightning tore through the cell, bounding off the tubes and cables. Bryan barely had time to brace himself, but the surge danced around him and drove directly into the cradle itself with a deafening bellow.
Sergei opened his eyes.
An instant later, he wrenched himself upright, shouting in pain, pink fluid sloshing onto the floor. He clung to the side of the cradle, knuckles white, wheezing as his lungs filled with air.
Bryan knelt so they were face-to-face. Dragunov, wet, naked, and trembling, was exquisite. More importantly: he was alive. The nightmare was over, and the world was finally, undeniably real.
Eyes and smile glowing, Fury cocked his head playfully, chin resting on his hand. "First time?"
Dragunov punched him in the jaw.
- 𓅓 -
Chaos. Utter disarray. There was no other way to describe it. Dragunov felt his mind had melted and he was scrambling for handholds in a titanic whirlpool of impossibilities. The Colosseum. He remembered that -- remembered an instant of crushing pressure, the familiar sound of bones cracking deafening in his ears. What happened? Why was he drenched? Why the fuck was Bryan here?
"Welcome back."
A single screen on an otherwise dark console burst on. The grainy picture displayed the silhouette of a man, his details obscured by the brilliant spotlights behind him. He sat in a chair, one leg across the other, hands folded in his lap.
Sergei knew him by his voice and, despite his tremors, saluted. The man was the Major, the head of the Gold Raptors.
"At ease," he said.
Dragunov dropped his hand. Better to keep hold of the cradle. It was more grounded than he felt himself.
Moaning, rubbing the pain from his face, Fury hauled himself to a seat on a wooden crate. Why was that there?
"You have many questions," the Major continued, "I shall answer the most pertinent, as time is of the essence. At 13:44 hours CET, forty-one hours and three minutes ago, you were killed by traumatic asphyxia. Through anomalous methods at our disposal, you have been resurrected, your self duplicated from a remote biotic snapshot taken at the moment of your death. We have made some minor adjustments to your overall physical condition, including removal of the stage three tumors in your lungs and trachea."
Oh. That explained the perfluorocarbon bath. Sweeping loose hair out of his eyes, Sergei peered over the edge of the cradle. Yes, he recognized the spines now. They'd been extracted from the bottom of the sea not far from here, come to think of it. There had been some chatter about potential cross-testing with other specimens in the past.
-- wait, what was that last par--
"You will be deployed immediately to Yakushima in Japan to represent Gold Raptors' interests in the area," the Major said. He leaned closer, voice graveyard cold. "Your reconstruction goes against the core tenets of our organization. That you are our best option, even in death, for combatting this threat to global security is the only reason we did so. Do not squander the gifts we have given you, Admiral Dragunov." He settled back. "You are dismissed."
The screen blinked to black.
Sergei's throat was tight -- with emotion. The plug was pulled on the vortex, flushing it down the proverbial drain and leaving an unfamiliar residue: fear. He palmed his heart, its two-step steady. My God, he thought. They scrubbed him out like an old iron pot.
God, my God.
Two men in white coats entered the room. One carried a blanket.
What choice did he have? His mission, and he had to accept it, was abundantly clear. Once spetsnaz, always spetsnaz. Death would have him when he was no longer needed.
Resolving himself, Dragunov climbed out of the cradle. He had a job to do.
He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and departed the room, white-coats in tow. He wished he had a hair tie.
With little option himself, Bryan followed, scowling as he processed what just happened. This reality was weird.
The twinkle of moon blue grit in the cradle water went unnoticed.
- 𓆚 -
International borders again, this time on fast forward. Bryan had last been on a military aircraft that had willingly carried him two lifetimes ago. Looking out a window at the approaching island made his pistons clench in excitement.
Dragunov, not so much. He looked fantastic in tactical armor, that was a given. Kevlar suited him, and the red beret a no-brainer. It was the scowl, heavier than usual, that soured the atmosphere of the entire cargo hold. Didn't he care about the morale of his men?
Crossing the belly of the beast towards him, Bryan patted a pallet bristling with weaponry, gun barrels poking out at random. "Couldn't decide what to get from your boys, so I ordered one of everything."
Nothing. Not so much as a wayward glance.
Dragunov had no one but himself to blame for his terrible mood. Back at base, while being patched up with new synthetic skin, Fury caught him investigating the wood crate. "I wouldn't look in there if I were you," Bryan had hollered.
Sergei gave two seconds consideration. A pointed finger dropped with sledgehammer finality. A crowbar made quick work of the lid.
The green stench of decay bloomed over the entire medical bay. To the Raptors' credit, there had been less revulsion than Bryan expected, their doctors and nurses hardened by routine treatment of anomalous illness and injury, but heads still turned away, lunches still fought down.
Sergei stared into the contents of the crate for a long time. The pulped tangle inside stared back.
He waved his hand once. The lid was replaced, the crate taken away.
There was the gurgle of a flamethrower. Barbeque scents.
Fury looked around the hold. Somber faces on every soldier. Being a complete sad-sack had to be a prerequisite for joining the Gold Raptors. At least they all perked up when he kicked the pallet closer to the cargo hatch. "C'mon, boys and girls," he cried, "Who hasn't wanted to visit Japan? I hear there's a chance of hail. Bullet hail, courtesy of yours truly. Hey, everyone strapped in?"
Yanking a lever on the wall bathed the hold in red warning light and drilling klaxons as the hatch bowed open. Howling wind threatened to suction out anything not battened down. The pallet spilled over the edge and out of sight.
Bryan turned back to Dragunov. Sergei still sneered, but there was a new glint in his eye -- a let's get this done hardened resolve. Fury knew it well. He'd seen it before every fight they'd had, with or against each other. It meant someone or something was in for a world of pain. It meant Dragunov was feeling better. Feeling himself.
He'd be fine.
Grinning, Bryan bowed like a Hollywood actor, and jumped from the plane.
An instant of freezing freefall, synthetic muscles bracing, then impact -- jarring, dirt and debris flying, barely tickled. Brushing off his pants -- the leather scuffed, but oh well, plenty of alligators in the sea -- he approached the pallet. It hadn't survived the drop, guns strewn like a popped pimple. No problem, it just meant he could fine tune his selection. He thought he wouldn't be thinking again soon. The storm was already blowing.
Zaibatsu forces already took up position in a valley. G Corp had the high ground. Oh, this was going to be good. A real two-for-one deal, with Tournament morons sprinkled on top.
Bryan lifted the Gatling gun. It was time to make new memories.
- 𓅓 -
Back in the saddle again. Dragunov could do this in his sleep. He could do this dead.
No. No, don't think about that. Don't think about being alive for just over twelve hours. That doesn't help anyone. That doesn't keep his people safe. Focus.
It's hard when it's this easy though. The Raptors had hardly been deployed yet. Sergei and his squad watched the battle unfold from their vantage point halfway up a mountainside. This was not their fight. At the first sign of anomalous behavior, it would be.
He let one or two of his soldiers pick off a target every so often. Someone who looked important. Someone who would make the course of events more entertaining if they died. Dragunov spotted them through binoculars, relayed positions through gesture. These were veteran Raptors. They understood.
A sniper rifle blasted. In the valley, a head popped. Business as usual.
It was almost boring.
A flash of yellow in Sergei's sights caught him off-guard. Frowning, he looked again. It was King, complete with full feathered regalia. King. Really? Was G Corp that strapped for combatants, they had to send in a Mexican wrestler? This wasn't a battlefield, this was a goddamn three-ring circus.
It would be mildly interesting to see what kind of skull lay under that stupid mask. Dragunov pointed into the valley. It wasn't hard to determine who he wanted killed. Shifting her stance, the Raptor sniper took aim. Crosshairs centered on golden fur and black rosettes. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
The Doppler effect broke open overhead, crashing waves of sound down upon them. A plane, black as night, Zaibatsu emblem on its sides, crested the mountaintop then dipped downward. A bombing run. Its payload hung one-handed underneath, over seven feet tall with veins of electric red.
Sergei's pulse quickened. They had no intel on a new Jack model. Despite superior numbers, Zaibatsu forces were losing ground. That they chose to utilize it now made his hair stand on end. If this was their ace in the hole, what made it so?
The possibility of anomalous enhancement could not be ignored. Dragunov swung his arm ahead. The Raptors moved.
The terrain was steep and rocky, a combination that required careful planning of every footfall. By the time they had descended, the war had advanced to meet them. Blood, dirt, and gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Dragunov didn't remember combat smelling this way, itchy on his skin.
The difference a new windpipe makes, he thought, and before that train could start rolling, something slammed hard into his side. He lost balance, fell end-over-end down the slope.
His brain kept going after his body rolled to a stop. Until now, all he had experience had been discomfort compared to this. This hurt, and his factory settings flesh had no idea how to deal with it. Groaning, he crawled to all fours, looked up.
Who wore a white suit to a combat zone?
- 𓆚 -
Wholesale slaughter -- now that was living. Biopics? Overrated. Celebrity? Not when you had infamy. The movie studio thing had been a novelty, sure, but the killing fields was where Bryan shone.
He'd long lost track of his body count.
It was incredible, really. From his perspective behind the Gat, deep amidst the torrents of bullets and bodies, the Zaibatsu and G Corp forces were schools of minnows, and he a shark. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The gun mowed them down like grass, blood spraying, severed limbs flying, their death screams music to his ears.
He might have been laughing. He could not hear himself over the storm's hellish shrieking in his mind.
A flash of lightning blue caught the corner of his eye. A pink-haired pixie, darting between volleys of shots.
Fury grinned, his targeting reticules locked onto her every movement. Could this day get any better? Boots on the ground, tank shells in the air, destruction and agony and he in the thick of it, pushing the world order into a whirling blender of meat hooks and razor winds, and now this, the chance to forever exterminate a challenge to his throne of Doctor Bosconovitch's Greatest Contribution to Mankind. Forget seedy Chinese alleyways, downing fighter jets in flight with just a girder -- fuck, forget Yoshimitsu. This was going to top the charts.
He swung the Gat around, aimed slightly ahead of her. The barrel spun up with an eager squeal.
--then there, below her, an un-color that did not belong to nature, distracting him. Radioactive bubblegum. In the sheath of a sword. That was slashing Dragunov in two.
No.
Bryan froze. A beam of light burst through his tempest, rooting him to the ground. He could only watch as the old stranger's blade left a deep, steaming gouge in Sergei's chest armor. Dragunov raised his arms to block the next two cleaves only to catch the handle on the backswing with his face. He collapsed to his knees.
Bryan dropped the Gat.
No. No.
Sergei craned his head up. Wiping his knuckles across his cheek left a comet tail of blood. Resurrection had placed him right back in meat. Fallible meat, as Fury knew too well.
Dragunov tried to stand. His face twisted in agony as a leg failed to respond, stiff as a board. As rigor mortis.
He was not fine.
No. No. NO.
Bryan grabbed the reins of his mental storm, willed it to his feet to fly him the twenty paces between himself and the injured Russian. Each step echoed like a hammer. A heartbeat. The sea of bodies around him dissolved their details into bruised, sickly smog. Reality was soup, and he fought time's quagmire with every carbon fiber of his being.
The stranger lifted his sword for the killing blow.
NO NO NO NO--
Impact. A millisecond's awareness to brace Sergei's neck as momentum raced them onward and gravity tore them down. A dozen jolts and blows as the ground got its licks in. One last tumble before the world came to a halt.
He'd ended up on top of Sergei. Grabbing him by the bulletproof vest, Bryan yanked him close, eyes burning with crazed desperation.
"You fucking moron," Fury cried, shaking him, "I can't lose you again!"
Under him, Dragunov's mouth was slack with shock, then confusion. Bryan gave him a once-over, hunting for wounds. They put him in meat, how cruel was--
--there was a combat knife in his fist.
Oh. OH.
Sergei was a spetsnaz super-agent with enough CQC tactics to massacre an army, and playing possum was well within his repertoire. Just because it was the oldest trick in the book did not make it inviable. Hell, Bryan had seen him do it before. There was that time in Barcelona against father and son Laws. He'd laid on the floor of the -- bar? restaurant? dance club? Fury didn't remember -- feigning unconsciousness, and when Law the Younger went to investigate, he'd surged forward and toppled him, kind of like what'd just happened, and the look on Dragunov's face turned volcanic with rage, and then Bryan had eleven inches of sharpened steel embedded in his thigh.
Fury howled as white-hot pain lanced up his side. Sergei shoved him off, scrambled to his feet. Bryan winced as he yanked the knife free.
The emotions bristling on Dragunov's face were fascinating. Anger, volatile, ready to explode at any moment, lined with disbelief. He had the man in the white suit right where he wanted, doing exactly what he wanted. Now he still lived. A Raven, if the anomalous weapon proved anything, one of Sergei's killers, still lived.
"Oh, ex-fucking-scuse me," Fury bellowed, tossing the knife away, "If you didn't look like such a bitch--"
Dragunov ran at the cyborg, throwing his entire body behind his fist.
To an observer, the fight was initially any other slugfest. But as it progressed, something changed. A cadence emerged -- punches and kicks dealt with surgical finesse, energy conserved or spent with atomic accuracy, bodies moving with dancer's grace. Sergei and Bryan had done this before, helpless to resist the primordial hatred burning in their veins and cables. Neither man wanted to. It felt right. All of spacetime could crunch down to their bubble of violence; they wouldn't care. In their grimaces, their spilled blood, they were singing.
I hate you, I loathe you, I could do this forever.
But good things had to come to an end.
Bryan saw it first -- a purple thorn hanging in the sky. "The hell is tha--"
Flames rained from above, dousing everything in eldritch plasma.
- 𓅓 -
It was eerily quiet. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and soon the air would prickle with the moans of the pained and dying, but Dragunov, armor smoldering, took the opportunity to lie on the dirt. Just for a moment. There was peace amongst the pebbles.
Behind him, Bryan coughed a cloud of dust. Time to get up.
He wrenched himself onto an elbow, giving himself enough of a vantage point to see the aftermath. Huge, steaming fissures stretched from one side of the valley to the other. Half-melted tanks sat in piles of useless slag. Smoke billowed like parades of pallbearers into the ashen expanse. Beneath, those who remained clung to their last ounces of strength.
A thought occurred to him: who was he kidding?
In less than an instant, hundreds had been vaporized. How was he meant not only to compete with that, but triumph? An ant would have a better chance leveling a mountain. Once upon a time, there had been a man who could do that, his faith his shield against the devil. That man was dead. The thing that bore his name, ordered his soldiers, and defended the fate of his nation was a pale imitation in comparison. A cracked, oozing egg, rotting from the inside out.
Sergei sank back to the earth.
Blessed silence.
Behind him, again: thop-shff, thop-shff. Bryan, pulling himself over by one arm. Judging himself close enough, the cyborg rolled onto his back, loosed a harsh breath. "Hey, Drag?"
Muffled against the soil: "Nnm?"
"That fuckin' hurt."
Yes. It did.
More quiet, infiltrated by a breeze. Sergei raised his face to catch its freshness.
"Like...how did you do that? I've been in a lot of knife fights, but that's a first."
--what?
Strangling the protests of his aching flesh, Dragunov heaved himself to his knees. Bryan himself sat up, pulling apart the gash in his pants to stare at the deep puncture in his leg. "You stabbed me between the muscles," he said, "Muscles that can stop bullets. If I had a femoral, I'd be bleeding like a stuck pig." He looked at the Russian, face slack with sincere awe. "You weren't even trying. You just did it. I mean, you have past experience with my thighs, but...whole armies have wanted me dead for years. You killed me two minutes ago with no effort."
Yes. Yes, he did that. Sergei alone had accomplished something no one else on the planet could, not even the man he used to be. And as realization sank in, heat like molten iron blossomed from his chest, spreading to his fingertips and pooling in his toes. He was not damaged, he was hatching, even if he did not know what form the wings within him would take.
It didn't matter. He was seen. He was known.
It must have shown on his face because Bryan's expression lit up, a grin crawling from ear to ear. Just like old times, baby, that grin said, The world lies at our feet.
A tremor tore through the ground. In the distance, a stadium-sized chunk of rock blasted into the sky, shrouded in a veil of supersonic flight. It tore past the clouds for a destination in the upper atmosphere.
"Oh, get over yourselves," Bryan yelled. Grunting with pain, he threw a stone after it. It clattered far short of its mark.
Dragunov, meanwhile, watched as his Raptors emerged from cover. They seemed no worse for wear, shedding their combat gear for hazmat suits. Using modified Geiger counters, they fanned out across the battlefield, searching for anomalous particles left in the wake of the purple flames, pausing only to execute anyone dying in their paths. By the number of samples they took, the results were promising.
"So...now what?"
Sergei didn't bother glancing at Fury as the cyborg scooted next to him. He was not actually asking for advice. He was testing the waters. Once he knew where Dragunov's mood lay--
"Got it!" Bryan leveled a finger between Sergei's eyes. "You need a vacation. That's what I did last time I cheated death. It's good for you, y'know. Do some soul searching. Figure out what's real to you." A beat. "Uh, I'm going with you, of course. If you want."
Dragunov let his lip curl in a small smile. Yes. He did want.
Somewhere on the steaming wastes, welcoming the dawn of a new age, someone was whistling.
- FIN -
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Storm Coast, 9:41 Dragon
(Starter for @kaaras-adaar)
Elissa crouched low as she crept slowly along the ground, more than half a dozen of her best Wardens at her back. They did not leave the safety of Soldier’s Peak often, but their duty still needed fulfilling and the land needed protecting from the Darkspawn - False Calling or no. More desperately though, she searched for signs of Loghain. In spite, or perhaps because of everything that had passed between them over the years... distant though they had grown, the thought he might be lost to Clarel's madness and machinations put a greater knot in her throat and stomach than any spawn or False Calling. The rain had abated somewhat in the late afternoon hours, but the banshee-like shrieking of the wind was ceaseless. It served to cover any sound of their approach well enough.
They did not need their ears to track the darkspawn they hunted.
Sharp sounds - the ringing of clashing metal, and the sounds of shouting voices… Elissa’s eyes, along with the other Wardens’, flared with a smokey white pulse of light - the Darkspawn were near. Her palm jerked up in a signal to stop, her lips pursing against a pressed tongue to imitate the shrill trilling of a coastal bird. The spine chilling shrrrk of unsheathed steel was drowned by the howling winds and the pattering of rain from the ebbing storm.
Moving more swiftly, the small company snaked its way down the steep hill to a shallow overlook that afforded a wide view of the shore. What the Commander saw drew a hissing breath and pushed a wave of frustration up from her belly into the back of her throat. The Darkspawn weren’t alone.
The Inquisition…
She had no qualms with the supposed ‘Herald of Andraste’ - a Qunari of all things, if the rumors she heard were to be believed. Elissa of all people in the world could appreciate the burdens of a Hero who didn’t ask for, or want such a mantle - but that didn’t mean she was eager to complicate her own business by inviting their interference. Still, duty required what it required…
With an unnaturally loud and piercing whistle, Elissa drew her sword and dagger, signalling the others to attack. And in what would likely be out of nowhere for those on the beach, the Wardens burst forth from the foliage with a great cry, jumping from where they were concealed and into the fray…
#world state: warden reformation#sub world state: dark origin#verse: companions in adversity#kaaras-adaar#muse: kaaras adaar#girl is on a mission and she's got negative patience for bullshit#watch her save the world with all the enthusiasm of a walmart employee working christmas eve
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From within the absolute stillness of a temperate rainforest, the subtle ripple of water resounds like bird song. Nix is at least somewhat graceful when she sinks back into their cedarwood hot tub, balancing herself with one hand while the other props up above the water on account of the gift box perched between her fingers. The cooling scent of the trees is tinged with sea salt and petrichor, and the pop of blood mandarin and grapefruit still housed in the crook of @jokethur's neck.
She shelves herself from behind against his back, her bare breasts pressed flat to his shoulders, and her legs parted just enough to cradle him. A kiss to his shoulder heralds the tease. " Catch any forest gods while I was gone, Handsome? " The so-called 'Spirit' bears of the rainforest are a rare subspecies black bear that just so happen to be born pure white, allowing them to drift like ghosts between the cedar and spruce trunks which surround them. Nix peers out into the treeline from over her husband's shoulder, her lips parted and teeth shelved against his naked skin. Somehow beneath even the dense canopy of a rainforest, he appears to have tanned. She remains just as spectre-like as their white-coated and illusive neighbours.
Ere he can correct the misnomer he knows is intentional so she can swim amongst her dreams as well as the just-above-lukewarm water she'd set for him, Nix swings the little black box in her hand in front of him. Two rose-gold bands adorned with shining diamonds and rubies throw a mesmerising kaleidoscope across Arthur's bare chest, and up his throat. At eye-level, the box is a modest thing. He might peer at the little red bow tied snug around it as if she procured it from nowhere. He'd be right, if 'nowhere' was the innermost pocket of her suitcase inside. She'd left her robe in their forest cabin, too. Bikini's long-since met the deck outside of the water.
" Got you something. " Her grin pinches the line of his jaw next, while the little box wends a circle before his eyes. " A little something. "
Inside await matching sun and moon snake chain bracelets, one black, one silver. 'My heart is, and always will be yours' has been inscribed on the underside of each. They sit snug beneath a tag tied with the same golden thread she'd carried his wedding ring with, on which Nix has written in tell-tale scrawl: Now and forever under the sun and moon, even if we're apart.
Another kiss crowns the apple of his cheek from behind. " Stupid something. "
#jokethur#annnnnnnd this shit isn't even over#i forgot she wanted to do this dumb stupid shit#nix did not#so here they are doing her dumb stupid shit
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WIP WEDNESDAY
Part 2 Chapter 2:
Then, there was lightning. Through the jagged spears of lightning, a diminutive form stood with a mutely gleaming staff wrapped in a single snake-like dragon.
A mage with short black hair and long, narrow ears clad in dark teal robes.
“Fiona!” Lanil shouted, ragged and hoarse.
The mage looked towards her for only a second. In the next second, energy burst around her body and knocked aside everyone near her. Snow sprayed through the air, and those that hadn’t been pushed or knocked prone flinched away from the stinging bits of ice and grit. Lanil didn’t so much as wait for the snow to resettle, instead running forward half blind.
Lightning. Fiona's using lightning?
Even as she thought it, Lanil saw another lash of lightning strike Madame du Fer. She stumbled just long enough for another Venatori mage to light Fire Mines under her feet. They exploded, catching Warden Blackwall at the same time, although he didn’t completely lose his footing. He focused on the Venatori converging on them, but Fiona hadn’t stopped. Her gaze had turned towards the Herald.
Lightning filled one hand and crackled along the strange staff she carried now. Lanil intimately knew the movements of the spells Fiona cast, knew exactly where to move to stay out of its range, but she couldn’t understand why. Fiona didn’t cast lightning. When she used Primal magic, she used ice, and sometimes stone. In the past, she’d told Lanil more than once that she preferred the precise control of ice and the obvious strength of stone more than she did fire or lightning, which tended to fight against its caster.
So why was she using lightning now?
As Sera leapt backwards out of sight, and Adaar left the trebuchet’s wheel to dodge the Venatori brute swinging at her only to get caught in Fiona’s spell along with several red templars and Venatori in the chain of lightning, Lanil knew:
It’s for me.
The thought jumped into her head out of nowhere. She raced forward, wheezing breaths clawing at her throat, chest squeezing painfully too tight. Adaar was too close, recovering faster than the others around her. She darted low and fast, hands glinting and sharp. A flurry of arrows distracted Fiona for a fatal second, her hand rising to make an Arcane Shield before the arrows could hit. As they clattered around her feet, and Sera landed on her knees, bow sagging in front of her, bleeding and panting harshly, Adaar leapt and raised her daggers high.
“NO!” Lanil shoved with all her mind, knocking Adaar so hard with pure force that Adaar was flung into a Venatori. Both were sent crashing to the ground. Sera spat curses, bow rising again, but Lanil had already thrown up her own Shield as her boots slid over snow and slick mud.
Fiona startled and turned. Mud splattered her robes’ hem, and something like fear or pain twisted her too pale and weary face. She lifted her staff, lightning sparking. Lanil blocked it, the gleaming, snowy white heartwood of her staff—Fiona’s staff—keeping the strange one out of the way.
The Litany fell from her mouth. Whispered and hoarse, desperate and furious. Fiona’s hand rose, stone materializing around her fist, arm pulling back. Lanil met her wide eyes, the pupils dilated to pinpricks, her mouth pulled into a grim line so taut and thin that her naturally brown skin was nearly white at the corners of her lips. Fiona was shaking, the stone glowing Fade-green encasing her fist and forearm, but Lanil didn’t stutter. Even as Fiona swung, her whole body heaving behind the incoming blow, Lanil didn’t look away.
White light burst around them. Fiona’s brown eyes flashed red.
Stone crumpled and fell, disintegrating before it reached the ground.
Instead of knuckles, cool, slender fingers cupped Lanil’s cheek.
“Mon petite tempête.”
#FIIF AU#For It Is Fleeting AU#dai fanfic#dragon age fanfiction#DAI Surana#dragon age fiona#kitty writes a thing#wip wednesday
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coriolanus 'coryo' snow, billy anderson, and grog strongjaw have just arrived to elysium ! silver, we will be sending out the server link sometime by the end of the week through dm's, so be on the lookout for that !
ੈ✩‧₊˚ [ tom blyth, the hunger games: the ballad of songbirds and snakes, canon adult, he/him, cismale ] welcome to the city of elysium, [ CORIOLANUS 'CORYO' SNOW ]. according to the council’s file, you are a [ TWENTY - TWO ] year old [ human ] and work as a(n) [ REPORTER ] at [ HERMES' HERALD ]. it also says that you’ve taken up residence at [ VICTORY STRIP / 012 80TH STREET ]. what would you say if we asked you to describe yourself ?[ a pressed suit with a single infuriating crease, shoes that are just one size too small, a crisp white rose and perfect blonde curls against pale skin ]? that suits you perfectly ! we hope you enjoy your time here, and please be on the lookout ![ silver, 25, she/her, gmt ]
ੈ✩‧₊˚ [ aaron cobham, vox machina, canon adult, he/him or they/them, cismale ] welcome to the city of elysium, [ GROG STRONGJAW ]. according to the council’s file, you are a [ THIRTY-ONE ] year old [ human ] and work as a(n) [ ANIMAL HANDLER ] at [ THE SANCTUARY ]. it also says that you’ve taken up residence at [ WAILING WAY / 031 124TH STREET ]. what would you say if we asked you to describe yourself ?[ tucking a delicate flower behind your ear, a roaring laugh that echoes, clenched fists and a quivering lip, a warm and safe hug ]?that suits you perfectly !we hope you enjoy your time here, and please be on the lookout ![ silver, 25, she/her, gmt ]
ੈ✩‧₊˚ [ josh hutcherson, burn (2019), canon adult, he/him, cismale ] welcome to the city of elysium, [ BILLY ANDERSON ]. according to the council’s file, you are a [ TWENTY - EIGHT ] year old [ human ] and work as a(n) [ BOUNCER/SECURITY STAFF ] at [ CARINA ]. it also says that you’ve taken up residence at [ SEVENTH CIRCLE - 019 FERN AVE ]. what would you say if we asked you to describe yourself ?[ double denim, a bark that's worse than the bite, cigarette smoke on a cold night and assorted cheap gold jewellery ]?that suits you perfectly !we hope you enjoy your time here, and please be on the lookout ![ silver, 25, she/her, gmt ]
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Would it be possible to get the aftermath of a heroic whumpee who went up against someone incredibly far out of their league? Kind of along the lines of that one time Dazzler went up against the Juggernaut on her own (A heroine with light projection powers vs a villain with the power of unstoppable force) and ended up being beaten to the point where she was too weak to move. The other heroes become her caretakers for a little while. I loved that arc and could really use something similar.
I can hardly describe how much I love this prompt. I absolutely adore it, and I can only hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I think I’m somewhat familiar with Dazzler, though when I looked through the wiki, I couldn’t find anything about this story? The wiki may just be incomplete, though. It reminds me of a story arc of the original ms. marvel, too!
This is absolutely one of my favorite kinds of whump, and I really hope that I did it justice. Thank you so much for the ask!
CW//Medical settings, poison, therapy, paralysis, inability to speak, self-hatred, low self-esteem, hair-pulling
The metal doors at the entrance to the Metropolis General Emergency Room swung upon with the force of a thunder clap. And, just as thunder, they too heralded lightning.
Or, at the very least, light.
A pair of lab-coats pushed forth a gurney on ratta-tatta-tattling caster wheels, footsteps crashing on the floor in even rhythm. Close behind, an entourage of two sprinted in close pursuit: A pair of heroes in civilian clothes.
“Lux!”
To the person laid upon the gurney, the voice felt to be emanating from a thousand miles away. Or more. Maybe a couple thousand, or a million... It was hard to think about numbers when their mind was stuffed with cotton, and their vision was dominated by blurry white ceiling tiles.
“What in the world happened to them?” The doctor that spoke had had all sense of clinical professionalism drained from their tongue.
“We don’t know.” A hero, outfitted in jeans and sweater, replied in a single, slurred sound. “We just found them, and-”
It was too loud. Far, far too loud-- Lux felt as though the full force of the ocean had made the sudden decision to crash into their eardrums. And, beneath at all, the caster wheels refused to stop their clitter-clatter. Spikes piercing their temples, they let out the tiniest of cries.
A tiny sound, and all eyes were on them.
“Lux!”
“Lux, what in the world happened to you?”
“What the hell did you do?”
“Talk to us!”
“Wake up!”
“Wake up.”
“Lux. Lux, what did you do?”
Lux, what did you do?
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The support beam shook against the force of the body, hurled at it. Shudders rocked from the base to the top, threatening for the thousandth time the structural stability of the building.
And the structural stability of Lux’s ribs.
With several hoarse coughs, the hero struggled to hands and knees, joints wobbling as though the ground they were braced against were the epicenter of an earthquake.
They could taste it.
They could taste what they had been inflicted with, more than they could feel it. The wound upon their side had long since gone numb-- at the very least, the poison had that benefit to it. Now, the sensation had migrated to Lux’s tongue. A bitter flavor of burnt coffee.
Even if they had the chance, they had no desire at all to examine the gash that had been torn across their side. They’d heard the stories, seen the headlines.
Lux knew what happened to Mercury’s victims.
That was why they were here, after all.
“Had enough yet, kid?”
The voice was booming, sounding from the other side of the half-toppled warehouse. In their weakened state, Lux could barely raise their head high enough to meet the eyes of their foe.
Mercury’s height was unimportant, as was their general stature. After all, it was hard to focus on his body. It was hard to focus on anything but the claws-- terrible, wicked things curling outwards from his knuckles.
A single slash from them, and flesh would begin to curl away, to rot. To necrose.
The wound they had been inflicted with was already a death sentence. But, not an immediate one-- Lux had a bit of time left on death row.
A bit of time to make this right.
Shivering, the hero stood to their feet, facing their opponent from a hundred foot’s distance. It was the most ridiculous of match-ups. A chihuahua against a pit bull. A garden snake against a cobra.
That didn’t mean that Lux couldn’t try.
“Firefly wants another round, then?” The villain’s voice curled, almost as venomous as their blades. “Try me, kid.”
And try they did.
Hands balled to fists at their side, Lux took one, single step forth, stomping onto the warehouse’s concrete floor with a decisive strike.
It was as though a bomb had gone off.
The world was swallowed, all at once, by white. Light engulfed each shadow, each color, until the universe was as blank as unexposed photo paper.
It was merely a distraction, a smokescreen. But they needed time to recover. Time to catch their breath.
Time to remember why they were doing this.
In the world of heroes, Mercury had a particular nickname-- “The Untouchable.” He was the lion in the zoo. No one dared get near him, much less touch him. It was a death sentence, to be slashed by his claws. The heroes were terrified of him, and that gave him a free license to tear the world to shreds.
It was from one of their villainous informants that Lux had heard of the plan initially. The water supply. Mercury had found a way to distill the poison held within their claws, and they intended to release it into the city water supply.
To kill every last citizen of Metropolis.
But the others turned merely a blind eye. No one would touch the villain. They had resigned themselves to dealing with the aftermath.
That would mean deaths. That would mean ‘acceptable causalities.’
To Lux, there was no such thing as an acceptable causality. Only a problem that needed to be solved.
Their teammates had insisted, begged, nearly, that they not be so careless. But, when had Lux even been known as the careful one?
Not once in their life.
“Stop this, Mercury!” The hero snapped into the expanse of white. “Just-”
Lux did not so much as see the fist before it connected. Did not so much as feel the claws, raking their neck.
Not before the world went from black to white.
Lux, what did you do?
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
“You did it.”
Those were the first words that Lux heard clearly, after escaping from their haze. Consciousness teased them as the world above turned from colors to shapes to vision.
White tiles, spotless and all in a row. Their perfect nature was threatened only by an out-of-place beeping that nearly forced the hero to once more fall to sleep.
But, they managed to cling to consciousness as they turned their head to the side, revealing a figure, interrupting their view of the tiles overhead.
A figure. A person. A-
“You did it, Lux.”
Nora. Nora, their friend, their teammate, their comrade. Not Mercury. Not a villain. If Nora was here, then they were safe. The hero had an almost supernaturally calming way about herself, located somewhere between her wispy tangle of black hair and the way her movements imitated the performance of a dancer.
But, wait- Why wasn’t she in uniform? No, now she bore only the clothes of a civilian.
No. No, of course she wasn’t wearing a uniform. Lux had gone on a mission, yes. But it hadn’t been with their team.
They’d tried to stop Mercury, and-
“The water’s safe.” Nora’s voice was only just as smooth as her movements. “Mercury’s been contained. You did it.”
“And by god, what were you thinking?!”
The shout sent a stabbing agony through the side of Lux’s skull. That was more so the reaction they had expected.
Nickel. The most paranoid superhero on planet Earth.
Lux struggled to open their lips, to bring forth an explanation. To state that they had been doing what was right. That they had been doing what a hero should have done.
And yet...
And yet, their lips refused to so much as twitch. Too, their tongue sat dead in their mouth, numb and useless.
The only muscle in their body that functioned was their heart, which in that moment began to race.
“You could’ve died!” Nickel’s tirade continued, despite the fact that the target was showing not a single reaction. “Or worse! You could’ve died, or worse, or both! That was so stupid.
Don’t give me the silent treatment, dammit. Explain yourself!”
Lux wanted so desperately to do so. Their heartbeat turned, now, to a pounding tattoo within their skull, the pedal of a bass drum, slamming against the inside of their cranium.
They couldn’t move.
A twitch of the head. A blink, maybe. That was all. That was all they had left.
Lux had saved the world.
Their vision began to swirl.
Lux had saved the world, but what had they given up in exchange?
Telling when the hero fell unconscious was nearly impossible. Yet, when their eyes at last drifted closed, it became clear that whatever wakefulness they had had was now extinguished.
That left two heroes, one proud and one paranoid, leaning over a hospital bed. Shivering both in their own rights, Nickel and Nora stood. It was with great care that the room’s entrance was pushed open. The doctor that did so walked backwards-- their hands were quite thoroughly occupied by a clipboard.
Nickel and Nora said not a word, as speechless as their teammate. They both knew that this was the bringing of news.
This doctor was the bearer of their friends fate.
“They’re going to live.”
That was what they started with.
“With medical care, Lux will survive this ordeal. However, they will need to stay under intensive care until their immediate symptoms subside.”
Nora stared blankly for a long moment, before whispering:
“They aren’t moving. They aren’t talking.”
The doctor could manage only the more sympathetic of nods. Again, they repeated themself, but, this time, with an addition:
“Lux is going to live. But, most likely, they will never be the same. The poison has taken its toll on their system. There’s no cure. No antidote.
One day, they may be able to move, or speak. But, they have a very, very long road ahead of them.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Very, very long was an understatement.
No, the doctor would have been better have describing Lux’s journey as a highway from Moscow to Las Vegas.
“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”
“Da ra’zz spa- ff mm a pla.”
“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”
“Za ree z’pa fa ma- play.”
“One more try. The rains in Spain-”
“Nnn- oh! No!”
The lab-coated doctor sitting before Lux set down their clipboard with a heavy sigh, sending only another bubble of rage rising in the hero’s chest. They balled their hands into fists, shaking them furiously before placing their open palms upon their temples.
Lux hated this. Lux hated every last minute, every last instant of this. They hated the doctor. They hated the doctor’s office they had to sit in, walls covered from floor to ceiling with charts of vowels and consonants. More than anything, they hated their exercises.
It should have been simple! Eight words. Eight simple words. If they could repeat them properly, then they would never have to go to one of these stupid appointments ever again.
But, they couldn’t. They couldn’t say eight simple words. In fact, they couldn’t even say one.
A month in the hospital, and Lux could not so much as speak. It made them want to tear their hair out! In fact, they would do that, had they had the motor control for it.
But, they didn’t. They didn’t have anything.
The last month had been the longest of the hero’s existence. Hell, those thirty days had felt to be longer than the rest of their entire life, put together! Thirty days and thirty nights of utter hell.
When they had gone off to face Mercury on their own, Lux had been very well prepared to die. They had not been prepared for this.
From the outside, the progress that the hero was making was undeniable. They had begun in a state of complete and utter paralysis, able to move their head, their eyes, and not a thing else. It was only with thrice-a-day physical therapy that they had begun to move. First, it was only moving their head. Then, their arms. Their legs. By the end, they could even sit up, with the help of a helping hand.
Every day, Lux’s teammates visited. And, every day, they congratulated their friend on their progress.
But, as far as Lux was concerned, it had been a month, and they hadn’t made an inch of progress. As hard as they tried, they were still laid up in a hospital. Still broken. Still useless.
They knew that their friends were trying. They knew-- it was evident on their expressions. Those constant, stupid looks of pity. They would never speak about their own lives, about their missions. The villainous plots they’d stopped, the battles they’d won. No. They focused only on the mundane: Where they’d gone for lunch, how they’d spent their evening.
It was out of pity. Lux knew that. It was all pity. But, in all truth, those were the only moments during which they ever felt, truly, like themself. Like Lux.
Like a hero.
So they’d heard, the media had praised them, lauded them for their victory. But they never spoke of the sacrifice it had taken.
Their friends’ visits were the only parts of the day that Lux had to get forward to. The rest of their life was filled with... this.
“Lux.” The doctor coaxed. “You need to do your exercises. You’re already getting so much better! But you won’t make any progress if you don’t try.”
“Don’ thwaa ex- thwaa ta.”
“Don’t want exercises, want talk?”
Lux narrowed their eyes. But, that had been what they were trying to say. The fact that it needed to be repeated, interpreted, however, made them feel sick.
“You need your exercises, Lux. How about we just try one more time? I know you can do it. You’re already doing so well!”
Eight simple words. Eight simple words, and Lux could be a hero again. Eight words, and they could be a person again.
“Okay, Lux. Repeat after me: The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”
“Tha ran-”
Yet, that was all they could make out. Lux’s throat ran dry of words, void of syllables. They couldn’t speak before, and now, they couldn’t so much as make a sound.
They never cried in front of others. Never. Yet, that rule had been broken in the hospital already a dozen times. And, so it seems, this would make thirteen.
Lux’s chest was wracked with heavy sobs as they buried their face in their hands. Soon, tears leaked from beneath their shaking fingers.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
“I’m right here for you, Lux. Lean on me all you need.”
Nora’s voice carried the same cadence as water, meandering through a stream. Too, of course, did her gestures. A gentle, yet firm hand took Lux by the wrist, wrapping their arm around their comrade’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be hard, okay? It’s going to be hard. It’s okay to get tired. And you don’t have to get it on your first try. Or your fifth. Or your hundredth.”
Lux stopped listening on the last part.
This was it. The final gauntlet. Nearly an entire season spent within hospital walls-- now came their test. Everything counted on it. As far as they were concerned, it was a matter of life or death.
If they succeeded, they were home free. They could be brought home by their teammates-- of course, while still attending outpatient physical therapy, but still! They would be home.
And, yet, if they failed? They would be placed back in their hospital room. They would continue to be useless, a burden on both doctor and friend alike.
Everything was riding on this. Lux took a deep breath, and opened their eyes to face their challenge:
A hallway.
They had studied it extensively. Seven feet in width, and perhaps twenty in length. A tiny little thing, used only to get between two particular rooms. It was in the very depths of the hospital; that was why they were using it. There was no chance of distraction, of interruption.
“Are you ready, Lux?”
“Yesthh.”
“Okay.”
Their weight was leaned, nearly entirely, upon Nora. But, that didn’t matter. It wasn’t a test of standing on their own. If that was the test, they’d never get out of this hellish place. All they had to do was make it to the end of the hallway, with help. They could go slowly. They could lean. They could rest.
They only had to make it to the end.
Nora placed one foot forward, waiting for Lux to do the same, which they did, slowly and shakily. It was in this manner that they moved. One foot, one foot, staying always in the slowest of locksteps.
For Nora, it was simple.
For Lux, it was agony. Their knees felt mere milliseconds away from buckling, legs straining under the weight of the rest of them, even as the vast majority of it was leaned onto their friend.
Five feet. Five tiny, minuscule steps. That was how far Lux made it.
And then they were falling.
They did not remember the fall, not really. One moment, their knees had given out. And, the next, they were on their side, on the carpet.
Shaking.
This had been it. This had been their chance. All they had to do was walk down a hallway, that was it! Then, they could have gone home. Then, they could have been with their friends.
Then, they could have finally been a hero again.
And they’d failed. They’d failed the simplest of tasks.
In that moment, a certainty struck Lux like a dagger to the chest: They were never going to get better. Never. It didn’t matter how many exercises they did, how many doctors they saw. This whole thing was pointless! They were going to be worthless until the end of time.
On the floor, Lux screamed. It was a babbling, incoherent thing, as most sounds they made were. Too, they began to thrash, slamming their fists into the floor as they howled in anguish.
Then, they weren’t thrashing anymore. They couldn’t.
Lux had no need to open their eyes to tell what was happening. They knew Nora’s footsteps, knew the sound of her racing over. The feeling of her, hauling them into her arms. Holding them close.
They knew, also, the sounds of doors opening. Of more footsteps, familiar footsteps. Of chattering voices. Their friends’ voices.
Their whole-
Lux’s breath caught in their throat.
In order to avoid distraction, it had only been them and Nora in the room. They had assumed that it was only Nora who had visited that day. And, yet, they knew these voices.
Their whole...
Their whole team. Their whole team had come to watch. They counted every voice, every pair of footsteps. Every last one of their friends had come to watch them succeed.
But, they’d only watched them fail. Lux expected heckling, expected to be berated.
They did not expect the half-dozen pairs of arms, wrapped around them. They didn’t expect to be the center of a group hug.
“You’re doing so well.”
“You got so far!”
“Just a little more practice, and you’ll be back out there fighting crime in no time.”
“You’re almost there!”
“That’s the furthest you’ve been able to walk yet!”
“We’re proud of you.”
Lux’s tears did not stop.
And, yet, they realized something:
They were no longer tears of sorrow.
#hero whumpee#whump#whumper#whumpee#caretaker#whump community#hero x villain whump#hero villain prompt#hero x villain#hero villain scenario#hero villain whump#whumpblr#whump blog#whump scenario
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7.
the white strobe light and line of her spine
she walks in magic; wanna serve her my time
dark, dark warehouse where the shelves take to rust
chew through your bones or give her your trust
love her, I do, I do—say
each day Diana wanna be like you
spirits in the air on a witches' flight,
laughs like thunder, lips a disc of light
four years walking on a thin snake path
wounds as gashes from remote hate's past
salt from oceans who splayed their fears
heralds and queens beyond the brine of tears
the white strobe light and line of her spine
wanna worship her footsteps; wanna serve her my time
in the shadow of the moon where the shelves take to rust
the time leaves it's traces; mortal men turn to dust
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Summary: Charlie left Hope County years ago hoping never to come back. But when she learns of her parents involvement with the local doomsday cult, she finds herself heading back to a life she thought she left behind. (Begins two years before the reaping/events of the game)
Words: 5 k
Warnings: The typical lack of boundaries from the Seeds, slight use of violence, mentions of violence and death, peer pressure to use drugs (bliss), and this is a big one, lots of talk of anxiety/ build up to a panic attack.
A/N: Thank you so much to @adelaidedrubman and @johnnycranes for being my betas/second and third eyes on this! And to @smut-goblin for hitting me with the writing stick! You have no idea how much I appreciate you guys 💕 Since the atonement process begins now, hopefully I can start putting these out in a timely manner from here on out.
Chapter 4: Snakes in the Garden
“We’ll begin the process of atonement immediately.”
Charlie glances up at the man through her lashes. She should be trying to run away; pushing his hands off of her face, but she can’t. Frozen in place with John’s hands cupping her cheeks; their foreheads pressed together. From this angle she can see all the freckles that adorn his neck and collarbone. It almost makes him seem human.
“I thought,” she stammers, “I thought I was just getting baptized. That’s what we agreed to.”
John sighs, pulling away to look down at her; hands still gripping her face. “You will be cleansed, you will confess all of your sins, and then you will atone. That’s the only way you can reach true salvation. And you did just promise me you would allow me the gift of saving you,” he grits out, the hold on her face getting tighter as he goes on.
Charlie squirms away, attempting to free herself without making matters worse. “You’re hurting me,” she hisses as she grabs a hold of his hands. She may be willing to play along with his mind games; keep up whatever foolish charade she needs to to stay safe, but she draws the line at having pain inflicted on her.
The Baptist just nods as he backs away, hands held up as if to show her he won’t touch her.
Too fucking late.
But there was no apology, and Charlie can’t really say she’s surprised. “Listen,” she says as she leans against the brick wall, fingers rubbing the spots where her face was held, “you can have my soul or my salvation or whatever the fuck it is you want. But what happens to me afterwards?”
If she’s being honest, Charlie is afraid of the answer. Does she get to have a normal life? Just one within the parameters of the cult’s rules? Will they force her to marry another member of the project in one of those giant, mass weddings like the Moonies? Or will they just kill her? It’s selfish and would be a great betrayal to her friends, but she would marry The Father himself if it meant keeping them safe.
John sighs, sitting on the couch, legs crossed and arms spread across the back; posture too casual for such a tense environment. “I think it’s best we take the process day by day.”
Charlie glares at the man, only receiving a chuckle in return as he notices her olive eyes fill with rage. “Relax, sweetheart. I won’t send you back up to the mountains; back up to my big, bad, brother.”
Sitting down in the chair across from him, Charlie wills herself to calm down. The shock of the situation is starting to wear off rapidly and she can feel the panic inside her start to rise just as fast.
“Can we at least discuss the immediate future? Like, me going home?”
“What,” John teases, a hint of faux sadness in his voice, “you don’t like it here?”
Not really she thinks. But she would rather not vocalize her thoughts; too tired from all of the youngest Seed’s threats and games. She’s pretty sure she’ll combust from stress if she has to stay at the ranch a moment longer.
“Haven’t you had enough fun tormenting me for one day. I’m just,” her voice shakes and she can feel her heart start to pound; her anxiety starting to make itself known, “not in the mood for this shit. Please. Just let me go home.”
Charlie wishes she could kick her own ass at this very moment. Uncomfortable with becoming so emotional in front of John, but there was only so long that false sense of bravado and heroism could last. But the sight of his guest on the verge of a nervous breakdown does seem to have an effect on the man.
“Wait here.” He says, standing up and heading towards the door. He turns back before stepping out to look at her. “Don’t leave before I get back.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
John just gives her a smirk before leaving. Flopping back onto the chair with a sigh, Charlie closes her eyes. She’s sure trying to take a power nap in a herald’s house is just asking for trouble, but she’s too exhausted to care.
She’s barely relaxed for more than thirty seconds when the door bursts open causing her to jump.
“Charlene, this is Deanna. She’ll be taking you back.”
“What about you?” Charlie cringes inwardly at herself. Now she knows she really needs to get out of here, the environment is clearly taking a toll on her sanity quicker than she anticipated.
A faint smile creeps across John’s lips before he rights himself. “Don’t worry. Deanna is one of my most trusted chosen.”
Charlie takes in the woman she’s being handed off to. She’s not much older than her, tall, tan, and athletic. She can tell by the excited grin on the chosen’s face that the other woman will most likely get on her nerves.
“Hello, sister,” Deanna says with a wave.
“We’re not quite there yet.”
“Here,” John drops a white hardcover on her lap. “Try to read this before your baptism.”
Charlie thumbs through the book curiously. She may not have had any sort of religious education, but she’s pretty sure this isn’t the traditional Christian text.
“Is this a bible?”
“It’s the Book of Joseph.” The chosen chirps from across the room. “It shows us the hardships the Father went through and how God spoke to him and showed him the path; the path that would save us all from the Collapse.”
“Sounds enlightening.”
“It is.” John is behind her now, hands on her shoulders. “But as much as I would love to keep you here to continue this conversation, I thought you wanted to leave.”
Charlie recoils at his usage of the word “keep”. She can’t see the man, but she’s sure he’s wearing an arrogant smirk; a smirk that she would happily slap off of his face if she wasn’t trying to behave.
Nodding, she gets up. “Thank you for the talk. It’s been… eye-opening.”
John leans over the chair as he beams at her. “I’m just glad you agreed to let me,” he pauses as if he’s contemplating his words, “work with you.”
“Well, you didn’t leave me with much of a choice. Certain death or,” she gestures towards him, “you. And I like being alive, thank you very much.”
Charlie doesn’t bother to wait for a response, pushing past the chosen and out the door to wait on the steps. She doesn’t need to wait very long as Deanna follows after her almost immediately. “My truck’s down there,” the woman points down the driveway to an old, white pickup with a black Eden’s Gate sigil on the hood.
Following silently behind the other woman, she tries to catch her breath. Relax, she chants to herself internally. In only twenty minutes you’ll be safe. Charlie tells herself she can do this as she gets in the car. All she has to do is wait a few, short minutes and she can scream and cry as much as she wants to.
The car ride is silent for the most part and Charlie is glad for it. Until about halfway to her parent’s house when the chosen turns to look at her nervously. “So,” she pauses, chewing on her lip, “are you excited to be joining the project?”
Charlie gives her a snort in response. Leaning her head against the glass, she closes her eyes. “That’s an overstatement.”
“Well, I’m thrilled to have you here. I really like your mom.” Deanna gives her a grin before turning back to the road. “And besides, we don’t have many young women. It’ll be nice to have a friend.”
Friend Charlie scoffs. “Let’s just take this day by day,” she says, repeating the exact phrase John used on her earlier.
She’s relieved to see her parent’s house come into view as they turn the bend. Grabbing onto the handle, the young woman prepares to jump out the minute the truck pulls into the drive.
Charlie goes to shut the door when Deanna calls out to her. “I know you’re scared or angry or whatever it is you’re feeling, but I’m happy you’re here. Maybe we’ll even get to work at the ranch together.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Slamming the door closed, Charlie heads towards the house. She looks back to watch the chosen back out. Once she’s absolutely sure she’s gone, Charlie heads to the bunker in the backyard.
Clutching The Book of Joseph that hasn’t left her hands since she left John’s house, she climbs down the ladder. Charlie gags once she’s inside the bunker, the musty air that hits her makes her think that it’s been years since anyone has been down there.
She barely makes it to the couch before her breath becomes labored, adding to her already rising blood pressure. Tossing the book on the sofa she begins to pace around the room. What is she supposed to do? How is she supposed to explain this to Eli? Will Mary May even trust her again after this?
Letting out a frustrated cry, Charlie slinks to the floor. She has to make them understand she’s doing this for them.
But are you really? Pops into her mind. She offered to join the project the moment she felt her life was in danger, not her friends. Protection for her friends only came as part of the bargain after she agreed to have her soul saved.
But is it really wrong to want to save yourself? To value your own life? Not really, she thinks. Trying not to dwell too hard on the guilt that’s eating at her, Charlie goes to pick up the radio she notices lying dusty and dormant on the desk.
Blowing the dust off, she turns the dials until she finds the channel that would reach Eli and the Wolf’s Den.
Pausing to sniffle, she presses down on the button to talk. “Hello? Eli? Tammy? Anyone? It’s Charlie.” She clears her throat awkwardly as she waits for a response. “Um, over?” She adds.
“Ya know, it’s not really necessary to say over.”
“I know, Wheaty, but no one was answering.”
Charlie can hear the younger man laugh into the microphone. “Well, ya gotta give us more than ten seconds to get to the radio, Charlie.”
“Patience has never been my strong suit.” Sighing, she bites her lip. Not sure of how to go about relaying the message about the mole in the militia; not even sure she should be telling them this. But, it’s the right thing to do. And it’s not like she made a promise to John about what she would do with the information either way.
“Is Eli around?”
“He’s out scoutin’ right now. Whatcha need?”
Charlie knows it’s not Wheaty who’s the betrayer, but she has a bad feeling about repeating the news over the airwaves.
“Is anyone else from the militia there?”
There’s a long pause over the line as she waits for the young militiaman’s answer.
“It’s just me and Tammy here. Why what’s wrong?”
Picking up the radio, Charlie goes to sit on the dilapidated couch. She takes in a deep breath, trying to quell the feeling in her gut that’s telling her she’s making a mistake.
“Tell them that there’s a snake in the garden. They snitched on me to the Seeds. They know I killed one of Jacob’s hunters and I-”
“Who is it? Are you at The Veteran’s Center?” Wheaty interrupts her. There’s a hitch in his breath as he asks his next question. “Did they take you?”
“No,” Charlie can feel tears start to fall and she digs her nails into her thigh to stop herself from openly showing her distress, “but I can’t come back to the Wolf’s Den anymore. That’s why I need you to report back to Eli, shit even Tammy, what I just told you.”
“But why-”
She lets out a deep sigh before cutting him off. “Can you just trust me? I’m trying to protect you. All I ask in return is you get rid of your rat infestation.”
Charlie waits, the static of the radio the only response.
“You got it.”
“Thanks, kid. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
And with that she flicks off the power, unable to continue the conversation; unable to accept her newly minted fate.
Tossing the machine onto the ground, Charlie falls back onto the couch. She decides to spend the rest of her day inside the bunker, certain her parents won’t come searching for her here. She isn’t ready to hear the exuberance of her mother when she tells her the news of her joining the cult; if it was up to her she would have offered Charlie’s hand in marriage the moment she had stepped foot onto the compound.
Though, Christine has probably already found out if John was actually telling the truth about there being a meeting. She can’t bear to think about the two of them conspiring about her; about her future. It’s too much to deal with. The whole day has been too emotionally taxing for the young woman.
Charlie reaches behind her, picking up the stray Book of Joseph; her curiosity getting the better of her. She’s pretty sure the whole book will be monotonous; mundane monologues about their terrible childhoods. It’s the same bullshit with every cult leader. Regardless, she wants to find the juicy bits for future ammunition for the next time John Seed wants to throw jabs at her about her own youth. They’re alike, her ass.
Opening the book to a random page, Charlie settles in. Admittedly, the book is a hard read, both from Joseph’s unreliable narration and the abuse the two eldest Seeds regularly suffered. What catches her eye, though, are the bits of a young, barely more than a toddler, John being beaten; abuse so bad it forced the brothers into foster homes.
The new information forces Charlie to slam the book shut. She can’t help but feel guilt and pity for the man, all of them if she’s being honest, but especially John. She doesn’t know if these feelings are stemming from the parental neglect she suffered as a kid or if it’s because of her own desperate desire to become a mother; to be able to give a child a life she was deprived of. She doesn’t even know if any of this is actually; maybe it’s all a ploy for people like her to feel empathy for them.
Shaking her head, Charlie closes her eyes. Do not think of them as anything more than the monsters they are, she chides herself.
Curling up into a ball on the couch, she tries to relax; tries to clear her mind of all the dizzying emotions that came from today. After what feels like hours of breathing exercises and mantras to shut her brain off, she finally falls asleep.
The nightmare is the same as it is every night. Charlie finds herself being hunted through the Whitetails by one of Jacob’s red camo clad chosen. And just like always she kills them; just as it happened in real life. But this time, the outcome has changed.
It’s still her blood splattered face that’s exposed after the ski mask is ripped off, but the eyes staring back at her are no longer the hazel eyes of the recently deceased hunter. This time they’re sky blue; blue like the eye color shared by all of the male Seeds.
Charlie wakes up with a start. Heart racing wildly, she puts her palm over her chest in a vain attempt to calm it down.
“Fuck me.”
She’s no dream interpreter, but Charlie is definitely concerned this means something. Means that she’s become prey to the Seeds; that she’s become some sort of toy for them to play with at will. It’s distressing, especially since she’s worked for years to ensure she would never be in such a vulnerable position with men again. And now here she is; in the belly of the beast, but this time it’s worse. This time it’s with cult leaders rather than a gaslighting husband.
“I need a drink,” she mutters to herself as she sits up.
Charlie heads up to her parents house, the early summer sun blinding her as she exits the bunker. “Mom? Daddy?” she calls out once she’s made it back inside. The calls for her parents are met with dead silence.
Searching through rooms gives her no leads on where they could be until she finds a note plastered to the refrigerator.
“Princess,
Mammon and I will be out for most of the day. You can find your mother up at Black Horse Peak if there’s an emergency. I’ll be out fishing on the bay with a few friends from church. Both of us should be back by dinner time. Don’t get into any trouble while we’re gone, ma fille.
Love,
Papa”
Charlie sighs. She was hoping to not be alone after the nightmare she had, let alone the day she had previously. But, on the bright side now she has time to come up with a way to explain to her parents about her change of heart towards Eden’s Gate.
Deciding the best course of action would be to tell them over dinner; a dinner where she can spike her own drink to take the edge off. There’s no worries about them being disappointed or angry with her. No, she needs to drink to hide the disappointment in her own mother who will be delighted that her boss managed to break down her daughter into joining his family’s cult. In one day too. What a feat!
A couple hours pass with Charlie trying and failing to concoct a meal when there’s a knock at the door. Immediately going on guard since she wasn’t expecting any guests, she grabs a kitchen knife off the counter.
As she heads over to the door she peeks outside the window to see who her surprise visitor is. None other John Seed is standing there on her porch; a look of fury written all over his face.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says, slamming the knife down on the entrance table.
Opening the door with a bit of trepidation, Charlie begins to panic. Why would he come here when he could have just had her brought to him? Why come when she’s all alone? The normally well-coiffed Seed looks frazzled; his usual slick backed hair falling loosely in his face.
“What do you want?” she asks through the crack in the door. Instead of giving her a response, John pushes his way into the house.
“Oh, okay. Please, come inside,” Charlie grumbles as she slams the door shut.
She watches as John paces through the living room; watching as he runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dark chuckle as he does so. The situation started out unsettling and now it’s just flat out creeping her out.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” John asks, finally looking up at her.
Charlie blinks at him trying to understand what she could have possibly done in the last twenty four hours to anger him this badly. And then it dawns on her. She told the Whitetails about the mole amongst them and she’s guessing Eli handled the problem.
Oops.
“What exactly did you expect me to do? Allow your brother to keep getting intel on my friends? So he could, what, pounce on them when the timing was right? I don’t think so.”
“No, you’re right.” He clears his throat before leaning against the wall, no longer manically pacing around the room, but calm and collected. “I trusted you too early; had hoped you would be grateful for the gift I’ve given you, but I see now I was mistaken. Instead, you would rather squander it and try and pull off these childish antics of yours.”
John pushes himself off the wall, slowly making his way towards her; the action preemptively making her back herself against the counter.
“But I’m not worried about it. And you know why?” He knocks on the table as he continues on.
Charlie shakes her head “no”, uncertainty over whether that was the right answer setting in.
“Because Joseph saw you walk through the Gates of Eden with us; with me. So, I know all of the trouble you’re putting us through will be worth it in the end. I just need you to recognize your purpose and start behaving.”
They’re so close now; too close for Charlie’s comfort. She puts a hand between them; her fingers lightly touching his torso. The touch makes her flinch, but after he put her face in a vice-like grip just the day before, she’s not letting him get that close again.
“Walking through the Gates of Eden? What does that even mean?” She furrows her brow, she’s pretty certain Joseph is just making up visions to have his brother keep her in line, nevertheless the possible euphemism unnerves her. “Is that like heaven? Are you here to commit a murder suicide?”
Charlie quickly realizes that that may be the wrong thing to say when she sees the scowl cross John’s face.
He leans in closer to her, forcing her makeshift barrier of her wrist to drop. “You are in no position to be making jokes, sweetheart”, the Baptist glares down at her. “Because you, Charlene, in less than three weeks have managed to get two of our chosen killed. One by your own hand and,” John looks down towards her lips, “and one by your big fucking mouth,” he hisses at her.
“Good.” Charlie shoves him away, trying to reclaim some of her personal space. “That last one snitched on me; took my life away from me. So I guess we’re even now. Eye for an eye. Isn’t that what you people believe in?”
“You know, you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.” Sitting on their loveseat, John splays himself out as if he owns the place; the overly cocky attitude in full swing again.
Admittedly, Charlie does feel some guilt over the news of another chosen dead. There’s a part of her that’s curious about who they were in the militia, but the other part doesn’t need that on her conscience; not when the first death has been haunting her dreams nightly.
“Joseph entrusted me with your atonement; he still has faith that you’ll come around. Jacob still believes you deserve to be punished. Now I’m of two sides,” he says, leaning forward. “I believe you need to be reprimanded for this; for making some of the project’s best hunters spend their morning burying their friend. But death is too harsh.”
“What – what were you thinking of doin’?” Charlie stutters, her drawl starting to slip out.
“I was thinking of moving up your baptism. To tonight.”
“No!” Charlie all but yells as she marches over to where John is perched. “I – I haven’t even read your brother’s book yet! I don’t know what I’m getting myself into! I don’t even have anything to wear!”
She’s practically in between the man’s legs and she’s half tempted to bend down and scream in his face; make him feel as small as he constantly makes her feel. But it’s inappropriate and she immediately rights herself of the urge.
“None of that matters. All that matters to me is that you start the process soon.”
It dawns on Charlie that she should be questioning John on why he is so insistent on keeping her alive; what he meant by her walking through the Gates of Eden with him specifically. But a voice inside of her tells that she’s certain to find out sooner rather than later; and she might not like the answers she gets.
“Can I at least find something decent here to wear?”
“Yes, but,” John shifts uncomfortably, “I need you to keep the door open. I can’t trust you to not try and run.”
Charlie laughs as she heads into her parent’s room. “Where could I run to that you wouldn’t find me?”
She shuts the door a crack, partly out of habit, partly because she doesn’t want John watching her undress. The thought of him seeing her naked alone makes her grimace.
It takes her a few minutes, but she’s able to find something buried in the closet. It's pink and floral, not her usual color, but it’s a sundress and that’s all that matters to her. Pulling her shorts and cropped top off she watches in the mirror as John loiters around her family’s dining room.
Uncomfortable with the Baptist going through their belongings, she quickly pulls the dress on; tossing her honey brown hair into a ponytail.
“Excuse me?”
“Ah, you’re ready,” he says as he comes and leans on the doorframe to the bedroom. “Like I said earlier, I can’t trust you. So I need you to do me a favor before we can leave.” John pulls a flask from his jacket pocket, handing it over to her as if she’s just supposed to accept a drink from him.
“I thought you guys banned this shit? Too good for a stiff drink or two.”
“It’s not alcohol.”
Charlie scoffs. He wants to roofie her so she’ll behave; be a good girl for the Seeds. And he thinks she’s going to consent to this? Fuck that.
“Then I’m not drinking it. Not until you tell me what’s in it.” She has spent way too many years practicing drink safety to just take a drugged drink, even if the man giving it to her is warning her in advance.
“It’s bliss,” John says as if she would understand what that means. But he sees the confusion written all over her face. “It’s safe. You’ll be fine. It’ll keep you calm for a couple of hours. Enough to get you through the cleansing . And after that,” he smiles down at her, “we can work on building trust.”
“What if I say no?”
John’s smile turns sour suddenly, stepping forward to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Like I said earlier, I’ll be forced to take your sins out the people you love the-“
“Okay, enough with the threats,” Charlie groans as she snatches the flask from his hands. “You’re a huge dick, ya know that?” She shoves past him, “a real pushy asshole.”
Uncapping the flask, she takes a sniff. It’s oddly sweet smelling. Maybe it won’t be so bad? She thinks to herself. John watches her intently as she puts the container to her lips. She can’t help but feel that he’s enjoying this too much.
The drink itself is bitter in spite of its fragrant scent. The taste makes her want to throw the flask across the room; then maybe projectile vomit afterwards. She manages to get a bit down before handing it off to John.
“I think I’m ready,” she says, trying to hold the bile in her throat down.
John nods, heading out the door. Charlie starts to feel nervous as she follows suite; afraid that she may pass out and be taken to God knows where to have God knows what done to her.
“Don’t worry about the door. I’ll have one of my chosen let your family know where you are so they can join us.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, allowing John to open the car door for her to get in.
Eli and the Whitetails will come for you soon. They know you’re in trouble now and he’ll come and save you. They have to. She thinks as she watches the youngest Seed walk around the vehicle to get in as well. And she wants his head on a platter when they do.
There’s not much time to dwell on thoughts of being rescued. John has barely backed out of the driveway by the time Charlie has started seeing green and feeling dizzy. Her head drops back to fall against the cool leather of the headrest.
“I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a moment,” she slurs; eyes drooping shut. Before she knows it, she’s out cold; on the way to start the most interesting chapter of her life thus far.
#fic: stillness in woe#john seed x oc#john seed#oc: charlie berger#far cry 5 fic#yay! baptism next chapter#we’re really in it now
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Dawn and Dusk Part V
Before you read, here’s Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV!
Category: Romantic Fluff, Angst
Fandom: Yona of the Dawn
Characters: Soo-Won, Yona
Requested by: @lilc77 (Tumblr)
Hey, friend! I hope you’re ready for more YonaWon! This is for the first of the batch that you requested for the theme “sexual tension and desire.” I thought it would fit perfectly within my ongoing “Dawn and Dusk” series of oneshots, so I hope you enjoy the latest installment!
The study echoed with gentle flip of pages. Yona sat among the towering tomes, her legs tucked primly underneath her so the thick, leather-bound book could rest on her thighs. Her dawn-colored eyes scoured the printed words carefully, though in the back of her mind, she doubted that a biological survey of Kouka Kingdom’s bird species would prove fruitful in her endeavor. Though she knew nothing would be hidden in the text, she entertained herself for a few moments more with the detailed illustrations of the songbirds and descriptions of their behavior. She got like this from time to time, looking for escape in the useless paragraphs after yet another day of finding nothing.
Her fingertips skimmed over the inked drawing of a finch, its feathers painted in brilliant watercolor hues. The “sunrise finch,” it was nicknamed, not only for its brilliant red and yellow plumage, but also its propensity to be the first of the indigenous birds to rise. It awoke in the mere minutes before dawn to herald the oncoming sun with sweet tunes of the morning. Yet as the golden sun spilled across the trees, it would fall silent, its beautiful song swallowed up by the dawn chorus of other birds. Brief and fleeting, like the sunrise it worshipped.
Yona wondered if that was her fate, to be brief and fleeting like the dawn.
Sighing, she closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. Rather than grab another from the small stack beside her, she sat there a moment, reaching back to massage the flesh of her shoulder. Though soaking in the bath— however brief that was thanks to her surprise encounter with Soo-Won— had improved the strain significantly, she still found it twinging throughout the day. Perhaps I should retire early and give it some rest, she wondered, but looking down at the books next to her, Yona knew that would not happen. She had to keep searching, searching for any clues to the puzzle that existed between herself and Soo-Won.
She turned to the window, where the moonlight streamed in to bathe the study in white, at least where the soft yellow light of the lantern beside her could not reach. She wondered if there was a bird that also called to the setting sun and rising moon. Did it mourn the loss of the sun, or did it welcome the appearance of the stars and night sky? Perhaps there was no bird at all, but a king’s fanfare is close enough, she supposed. Dusk had ruled this land ever since her father’s death, as the pale moon sat upon the throne, merely reflecting the light of the sun. A false light, but, did that mean it was no less worthy? She wondered that as she gazed at the sliver of moon hanging low in the sky. Dusk, dawn… It was all light, wasn’t it, chasing away the darkness?
Who am I to truly say which is better? Yona thought with a sigh, looking back down at her lap. She felt her eyes begin to burn with the familiar sensation of salty tears brewing in the ducts. She often got this way when the watchful nights closed in, cast in light only by her flickering lantern. Everything was still so confusing; she knew not what path to take, what she should do for her people. It was maddeningly frustrating. She really only knew one thing these days, and that is that she still loved Soo-Won, achingly so, despite everything that had happened.
The first tear slipped down her cheek just as the door to the study opened. Yona quickly swept it away with the sleeve of her kimono as Soo-Won walked in, a look of mild surprise on his face.
“Ah. You’re still here? It’s awfully late.”
“I could say the same to you,” she said, but not icily. “I wanted to look through another book or so before finishing up for the night. What about you?” she asked as he navigated through the stacks upon stacks of volumes covering the floor and sat at his small desk. He picked up his quill with a tut, uncapping the inkwell and dipping the pointed tip of the writing utensil into the black muck.
“I have some reports that I have not yet read or signed off on,” he explained, skimming the contents of the first page before scribbling his signature on the bottom. He set it aside for the ink to dry, then began reading the next.
Yona looked back to her stack of books, knowing that she should pick one up, but her desire to investigate any further had suddenly vanished. She looked back to the shelf, then stood to retrieve the book of bird species. She flipped back to the page about the sunrise finch, then slowly walked over to Soo-Won. He glanced up when she approached, then looked down at the open book in her hands.
“Soo-Won… Have you ever seen this bird?” She turned it around so he could see the illustration. He studied it for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes… They actually nest in the palace gardens,” he explained, and looked up when Yona gasped in delight. How had she never known such a gorgeous bird had a home in the plants right outside her window? Well… It wasn’t exactly often that she found herself up before dawn. However, that would soon change. She would wake up first thing tomorrow to catch a glimpse of this bird.
“Thank you. I’ll leave you to your paperwork,” Yona said, then looked down at the bird and its brilliant sunrise plumage. She wondered if it would be as stunning in person. She was sure it would be. The anticipation brought a smile to her face, and so she replaced the book on the shelf. The sooner she got to sleep, the sooner the dawn would come.
Soo-Won spoke as she headed to the door.
“You were crying.”
She stiffened. He had seen? She’d thought she’d been slick. She could feel his aqua eyes boring into her back, making warmth spread all over her back. His stare beckoned her like a siren call; she was helpless to his song, causing her to turn slowly around to face him. His expression wasn’t judgmental, not that she had expected it to be in the first place— it was sad, or guilty, even.
He turned in his chair so he could hold his hand out to her. Entranced by that silent magnetic melody, Yona’s body moved of its own accord; she crossed the room to take his outstretched hand. His touch was soft as his fingers moved over hers, giving just the slightest tug to pull Yona until she was standing in front of him. He reached up with his free hand to brush over the tear stains she’d thought she’d scrubbed away, ghosting over the slightly reddened skin with a heartbroken look.
“How is your shoulder?” Such an innocent question so at odds with the way his fingers skipped down to her shoulder, fingertips inching under her kimono to brush over the skin. She tried not to twitch at the electricity that shot through her nerves. Her body was stunned, electrified by his ministrations, but her tongue seemed to work just fine.
“It’s better.”
He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head while continuing to massage the top of her shoulder. Her heart thumped against her chest as her kimono sleeve slipped fully off her shoulder, exposing her upper arm and even the barest hint of the curve of her breast. Soo-Won’s eyes flickered up to hers, inspecting the minute twitches of her fate for discomfort. He didn’t find any, because why would he? By now, he knew the depths of Yona’s feelings, the way she yearned for his touch despite everything that had happened.
When did his other arm snake around her hips? It had circled around her without her knowing, so she gasped when she felt him pull her forward until she bumped against his knees. He quirked a brow— a silent invitation. She bit down on her lip, debating.
Would any good come from yielding to her desires? She should focus on ferreting out his plans for her kingdom, not yielding to her more base compulsions. Yet as Soo-Won’s aqua eyes met hers, she felt her inhibitions melting away as easily as that silk had slid off her shoulder. With a breath of his name, she climbed onto his lap, pressing every inch of their bodies together that she could. Soo-Won’s hands pushed into her dawn-colored hair with a reverent sigh, prompting her to crane her head back into his palms.
He pressed his mouth to the column of her throat in an open-mouthed kiss. He lingered there for several moments, and then murmured against her skin, “I’m sorry. Ever since we met again, I have caused you pain.”
Yona’s throat bobbed against his lips as she swallowed. Her eyelashes fluttered to fight back the tears, but they came anyway. Soo-Won must have felt the tears dripping down into his hair, because he sat up to press wispy kisses over her ruddying cheeks to catch the salty streams. “My selfishness has caused you pain,” he murmured against her face. “I tried, but… Yona, I love you so…”
“I know,” Yona said with a shuddering breath. “I know. I love you too, Soo-Won, though it vexes me.” She curled her neck so she could bury her face into his hair. She inhaled deeply, and the scent of him flooded her nose— parchment, rose water, and a crisp coolness she could only characterize as moonlight. She wondered if she smelled like the dawn, spicy and warm?
Soo-Won kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, drawing her out of her thoughts. Just as a small bit of lucidity returned to her, he began a path up her neck and over her chin to claim her lips in a steamy, hungry kiss. Yona perched on his lap while his fingers roved up and down her back, leaving sparks in their wake. She tangled her tongue eagerly with his, and he tasted like cool moonlight, too. Her mind clouded over like it was filled with cotton as heat built up within her, like she was a pot filling with steam.
Just as she felt ready to burst, he pulled away. Cool air rushed through her, chilling the warmth inside of her, and she exhaled shakily. Soo-Won petted her cheek with that sad look on his face again. She still trembled atop him, not sure how to feel. These short, passionate moments between them had become such a regular occurrence that it was hard to feel guilt or shame anymore.
“Soo-Won,” she murmured, and his fine eyelashes fluttered when he looked up at her. They’d just exchanged some very passionate kisses, but she still blushed when she meekly asked, “Would you… Would you show me the sunrise finch tomorrow morning?”
He seemed surprised by her question, his eyes going wide. Then, his face relaxed into a sweet smile.
“I would love to. It has been a while since I’ve seen them myself.”
When Yona prepared to get off him, his hands tightened around her hips.
“Stay?” he asked, quietly, pleadingly. Yona tensed at first, then slowly relaxed when she saw the way he was staring down at his desk— so sadly, so miserably. Yona knew she ought not to, but she draped herself over him anyway, nestling her head on his shoulder. He held her against him with one arm while he turned to resume tending to his documents. Yona closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his chest rising and falling against hers, his heartbeat thumping against her sternum. It didn’t take long for hers to synchronize with his. Lulled by the melody of their tandem breaths and heartbeats, Yona found herself drifting into a comfortable sleep. The dawn would come eventually, and Yona would have to tend again to her priorities. However, for at least a few sweet hours, she would allow herself to bathe in the cool white light of the dusk— in Soo-Won and his deep, unconditional, heart-wrenching love for her.
Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!
#yonawon#suyona#sooyona#soo-won x yona#soowon x yona#suwon x yona#yona x soowon#yona x soo-won#yona x suwon#yona of the dawn#akatsuki no yona#akayona
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About - Jamor Lavellan
Thank you for the tag, @noire-pandora !
(art by https://twitter.com/golemofthewoods)
Info is below the cut because I got a tad carried away ^^;
Name: Jamor Lavellan
Alias: Sparks, Herald, Inquisitor, Amatus
Gender: male (trans <3)
Age: He is around 20 at the start of Inquisition, and 23ish after the events of Trespasser
Species: Elf
Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown
Abilities/Talents: A mage with a particular affinity for fire based and healing magics. He also likes to draw and paint, only unfortunately this ability is hindered after losing his left hand. He is extremely empathetic and intuitive, though this can sometimes be a curse as much as a blessing. He also loves reading, and learned how at a young age, with a particular fascination in history.
{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}
Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true
Religion: While Jamor is open-minded to most possibilities, he did strongly believe in his elven creators for most his life. His beliefs were totally shattered by what he later learned in Trespasser, and he is now uncertain and skeptical towards most things
Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath
Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience
Languages: Common tongue, Elvhen (he gets by), and is slowly learning bits of Tevene from Dorian
Family: His mother was a member of Clan Lavellan, and was, for a time, with a city elf/elf-blooded (still working thru this part lmao), who turned out to...not be a good person let’s say. She had a few children - Jamor being the oldest - with him before the Clan pulled her away from the situation. But Jamor felt a sense of responsibility to all the children in the Clan, the few of them there were at any given time.
Friends: Jamor never really had friends outside of his Clan until the Inquisition. He mostly liked to be alone, or with animals, which he has a sort of affinity with. He got along well with most members of the Inquisition, though Josephine, Cassandra and Varric are his closest friends. He is close to and protective of Cole, and always had a sort of admiration for Leliana and Solas. While both were good friends, there was always something about them that Jamor didn’t trust, especially Solas. While he did grow closer to Leliana, he turned out to be right about Solas. And of course, he was good friends with Dorian before their relationship became romantic.
Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other
Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating/ IT’S COMPLICATED
Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent
{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}
Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese
Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other
Eyes: brown / blue / green / black / other
Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other
Height: 5′3 / 163cm
Weight: (Admittedly, I haven’t really thought about this, but let’s say around) 56kg?
Scars: Some scars on his right cheek, from the battle with Corypheus. Some few scars on his chest, and a few faint ones on his hips. His hands and forearms are often scarred and burned, mostly from childhood mishaps with fire magic.
Facial Features: The easiest way to explain his nose is somewhere between a Greek and Nubian nose, think Greek nose but with a wider base, I guess? His rounded, slightly hooded eyes are a little downturned and framed with thick, long lashes. He has a warm complexion with a few moles scattered about. His lips have a pronounced cupid’s bow and fuller lower lip. Heart shaped face with a strong jawline.
Tattoos: In a deep red ink, Jamor has the Vallaslin of Falon’Din. (I know I want him to have more, but I haven’t thought about it in much detail yet, need time to flesh out ideas more ^^)
{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}
Dogs or Cats?
Birds or Hamsters? (Can I swap that for rats and rabbits? >u<)
Snakes or Spiders?
Red or Blue?
Yellow or Green?
Black or White?
Coffee or Tea?
Ice Cream or Cake?
Fruits or Vegetables?
Sandwich or Soup?
Magic or Melee?
Sword or Bow?
Summer or Winter?
Spring or Autumn?
The Past or The Future? As a history nerd, Jamor loves the past, and believes it’s preservation is extremely important. He is also of the mind that learning from the past is one of the best ways to ensure a stable future. Though, despite his grief and regrets often keeping his mind on the past, his duties as Inquisitor and the anxiety surrounding it, keep him focused on the future far more often.
Tagging: @inkhandart @nivenor-krosis @inquisitoracorn @ohhgren @musetta3
#I spent faaaaaaaaaar too long on this#and it got a little rambley in places#still i hope it was interesting?#i kinda wanna do it for my other OCs but i will be here all day if i do that#oops#tagged#tag meme#oc meme#oc tag#jamor lavellan#lavellan#inquisitor#inquisitor lavellan#dragon age#dai#my oc
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About - Fane Lavellan
Thank you for the tag @noire-pandora!
Name: Fane Lavellan (Aterian)
Alias: Tempest, Fae, Dragon, Vhenan, Ma’isenatha, Inquisitor, Herald, Dragon of the Dread, He Who Flies Above
Gender: Male
Age: 24 years old at the beginning of Inquisition. 26 (going on 27) years old at the end of Trespasser. (Draconic age is roughly 5,000 years old. I haven’t decided yet.)
Species: Dalish Elf (White Dragon)
Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown
Abilities/Talents: Fane’s a warrior; a two handed primarily, but will switch depending on the situation. Has abilities akin to a Reaver’s, but they are more from his inherent nature than the consuming of dragon’s blood and magic. Able to detect emotion through a person’s eye color (again, an inherent ability from when he was a dragon). He adores poetry, sometimes going so far as to write it himself. He also has a special knack for crafting armor and weapons through observation of another alone.
{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}
Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true (with some chaotic parts) (I had to research a little since Fane leans like three different ways lol )
Religion: Fane doesn’t believe in any kind of higher power. He knows there are beings that can have power akin to a god (Solas, the Evanuris, etc.). However, he doesn’t revere them as such, even before he realized what he was. He respects the physical world, and follows its laws, not a supposed god’s.
Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath
Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience
Languages: Common tongue, Elvhen (He speaks it as fluently as Solas, but only when he’s either overwhelmed with emotion or furiously angry.) He can write in Elvhen, as well. He also picks up on Tevene and Antivan after Trespasser due to operations he does for himself and Solas. (They work together against the Inquisition in my AU)
Family: His biological parents were dragons, but Fane doesn’t remember them, nor will he ever. Mortal family includes his sister, Mhairi Lavellan (the two three years apart), his deceased mother, Eloris Lavellan, and his missing father, Arsas Lavellan. (Fane is not upset that his ‘father’ is missing.) He feels no kinship with the clan, opting to avoid them all together when he can.
Friends: Solas is Fane’s closest friend and lover (They are extremely close even before Fane’s identity is known). He is also extremely close to Varric, Cole, Cullen, my Hawke (Rylen), and Leliana.
Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other
Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating/ (It’s not official, but dammit! He and Solas are practically married with how I write them! XD)
Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent (Fane is more of an emotionally connected person. However, if Solas gets him at the right time, then that sex drive skyrockets.)
{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}
Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese
Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other
Eyes: brown / blue / green and gold (changes depending on emotions or when he uses his draconic abilities) / black / other (gold)
Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other
Height: 6′1. Fane isn’t as large as a Qunari, nor as tall, but he’s much larger than the average elf. (His body is a source of pain for him since the Dalish constantly called him ‘Fen’harel’s spawn’, ‘monster’, or ‘Elgar’nan’s bastard’ It takes him a very long time to accept his features).
Weight: He averages about 170lbs to 180lbs. (I haven’t really thought about this actually, but most of his weight is sheer muscle. Not beefy boy, but Fane is ripped. XD)
Scars: His entire torso, arms, and legs are covered in patch work scars from his father’s abuse and experiments. The mark also scars his entire upper and lower arm before Solas takes it away.
He has a singular deep scar on his left cheek from Haven after Solas had to more or less attack Fane because Corypheus’s use of the orb caused the magic from the mark to surge to Fane’s mind - sending him into an insanity induced frenzy.
He hides the scars on his body with elven leather wraps (the only elven or Dalish inspired clothing that he wears.)
Facial Features: Fane has a very angular face depending on the light and angle. Straight on it appears more square while a profile view is more serpentine. Naturally hooded eyes with slightly high cheekbones. His lips are practically average, but generally display a constant look of boredom or indifference.
Tattoos: Sylaise’s vallaslin. He took it as a way of hiding his face, eyes, and emotional pain, but it only ended up causing him more. Once he learns of his draconic heritage, he asks Solas to take them away since the history they represent infuriates him. (Fane has an acute sensitivity to magic, so Solas’s spell doesn’t take place until the two leave the Inquisition.)
{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}
Dogs or Cats?
Birds or Hamsters?
Snakes or Spiders?
Red or Blue? (Can you guess why? *waggles eyebrows*)
Yellow or Green?
Black or White?
Coffee or Tea?
Ice Cream or Cake?
Fruits or Vegetables?
Sandwich or Soup?
Magic or Melee?
Sword or Bow?
Summer or Winter?
Spring or Autumn?
The Past or The Future? Both. Fane is heavily mired in the past, but he uses it to shape the future with how he believes it should be.
Tagging @oxygenforthewicked @dreadfutures @dirthavarens and anyone else who would like to do this! (Oh my god I tagged people, oh boy, oh boy! No pressure of course!)
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TEASER - Topsy Turvy - Chapter 16
AT LAST!
A new chapter of “Topsy Turvy, Switchy Witchy, Bottom’s Up Buttercup!” See it here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/48253760 and read below for some teasers.
-----
The students from Ilvermorny arrive in a marvelously American fashion: loud, colorful, and far too eager.
Fleur is leaning against a column in the courtyard with Hermione is lazing against her side like a drowsy kitten when a thunderclap that shakes the trees heralds the opening of a massive portal.
A fleet of Cadillacs in cherry red, lime green, lemon yellow, and neon blue roar across the surface of the lake, leaving trails of lightning behind their golden tires.
At the tip of the formation is a massive, low-slung monstrosity, three times the size of the muscle car it once was. Jet black, but for a jagged pattern of white triangles on the hood and front fenders. Heavily trimmed in chrome. The engine roars loud as bull dragon and the headlights throw long lances of crimson light so intense it singes the grass.
.....
Irene and Harold Dupre are the pride of the Dupre coven, the witches of the Delta, and the New Orleans flock. Though twins in upbringing and in practice, they were sired by two different men in short-lived trysts, and rumor has it that Emilia Dupre's wife saw to it that neither of the interlopers was seen again. Perhaps the human witch felt more secure in her marriage seeing to it that the expulsion was final, or perhaps it's just vicious rumors one veela flock tells about another.
No matter the specifics, calling Harold and Irene 'twins' eases the explanation of how in the world a nest-queen in good health gave birth to a son of all things.
.....
Hermione competing in their name has already done Ilvermorny proud in this tournament and given them new status with the European magical schools in general.
They're praising their borrowed heroine, and she deserves every swoon.
Fleur should be there. Hermione asked. It's petty of her, but she couldn't attend.
As a woman, she can trust that Hermione's intentions with the Dupre twins are platonic, but as a veela, she can't bear the thought of watching one of them hand her the salt.
Veela with not-yet-sealed bonds are not rational creatures, she supposes.
.....
The phrase 'in all her glory' applies to Fleur in so many ways it's bloody unfair.
The allure doesn't affect Hermione like it does strangers. Fleur's allure can't make her trip on her own feet or forget how to talk, but beautiful women can and Fleur is so very beautiful. And confident. And clever. And charming.
Any girl who liked girls would be struck dumb by their attraction, with or without the allure.
.....
It's the accidentally sexy Fleur that she can't handle. Fleur going through her day, either oblivious to how amazing she is or uncaring if people see. The woman can turn writing a letter to her family and eating a bowl of blueberries into a veritable orgy, slipping them between her lips one at a time and sucking her fingers clean so they don't stain the pages.
.....
She can't imagine not making love to Fleur the instant it's safe. The instant that it won't hurt Fleur or get her arrested.
Well, arrested for their age because Hermione has some ideas involving the sonorous charm, the Millenium Wheel in London and the Eiffel Tower. Making Fleur's screams echo across the capitals of two countries will get them arrested.
It'll be so fucking worth it.
.....
"How do we look?" Hermione asks.
"You look amazing, Hermione. Fleur..."
She quirks a golden eyebrow.
"...it's nice of Hermione to be seen with you."
All three of his roommates burst into laughter. They snicker and eye-roll and jab him with their elbows from the common room down to breakfast.
.....
A woman in a green coat with oversized glasses so red and sparkly it hurts his eyes is lingering in the corner with a bright green quill hovering over her notepad, which is floating in midair. The photographers point at the chairs set up in the middle of the room Cedric, Krum and Fleur are arranged in the back and two chairs are up front for Hermione and him. Hermione is already in hers, looking terrified because she's not exactly one for the spotlight.
There's a rose on Harry's chair and there's a smell he doesn't like. He finds a serpentine hiss escaping his lips before he can stop it. For all the disadvantages of being a Gryffindor with a poisonous snake for a beast, the cobra's sense of smell is flawless and it's usually right when it thinks someone is trouble. His beast is very uneasy about that woman in green. Fleur seems to be too, judging by how she keeps subtly adjusting herself to be in between the woman and Hermione.
Harry doesn't have much choice. The seat in front of Cedric is the one that's open. It's not that he doesn't like Cedric. It's that Cedric's beast is as on-point as Harry's is off the mark: a honey badger. A snake-eater. Cedric's beast came in relatively late, so he's had just over a year to practice controlling it, rather than Harry's three years. He picks up the rose and sits down, leaning forward a bit to put inches between them. Cedric takes his hands off the back of the chair Harry's in and mutters an apology.
.....
Skeeter's eyes narrow and her quill scratches madly over the notepad hanging behind her shoulder.
"Who wants to go first? Harry?" She grabs his hand and starts trying to tug him to his feet. She wants to take him somewhere no one can see, and he's lived with Aunt Petunia long enough to know that adults are at their worst when there's no other adults to embarrass them.
"I'm good, thanks. I mean, we're all in this together, in a way. We're all going to be in danger. Far as I'm concerned, anything you want to ask me, you can ask me in front of my fellow champions."
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About -- Ellana Lavellan
Thank you @blarfkey for tagging me! Tagging: @shiroyuri @ryanglitter and whoever else wants to complete this :D
{𝐵𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑠}
Name: Ellana Lavellan (formerly Ellan’ara Lavellan)
Alias: Inquisitor and Herald
Gender: Female
Age: 26 at the beginning of DA:I
Species: Elf
Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown
Abilities/Talents: winter magic, knight enchanter (later on), daggers, anything physical, leading (aka bossing people around), humbling solas, determination, ambition
More under the cut!
{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}
Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil
Religion: none, she takes no gods - either andrastian or elven
Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath
Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience
Languages: Common tongue, Elven. (headcanon: i h/c that there are dalish everywhere, and that each clan has their own dialect, whether they be mountain dalish, sea dalish, plains dalish, etc. ellana can speak the elven of her clan and the elven of the mountains from her former clan. i also h/c that the elven of the mountains would be closer to the elven of arlathan - of course with differences - due to isolation).
Family: Her biological mother died in childbirth, and her biological father died as well (her former clan killed him for being a mage, but she doesn’t ever find this out). She does not remember either of them, and doesn’t care to.
Clan Lavellan is her true family, and she loves them all more than she would ever be willing to admit.
History: Ellana (aka Ellan’ara) originally comes from a raider clan of dalish located in the frostbacks who know nothing of spirits, magic, etc (well the elders of the clan do but they don’t pass this info to the rest of the clan). I h/c that this clan survived mainly by stealing from human villages near the mountain and through the mountain passes, but I also think they loved to kill anything and everything just for the fun of it.
That’s how Ellana was as well, but she gets kicked out and beaten severely by the clan when she manifests as a mage. She tries to make it on her own for a few years, teaching herself tricks along the way, and avoiding all humans due to her shame and the memories. One winter the lack of game is so bad, however, she descends the mountains in search for food (and she's half-starved, poor thing). There she meets a couple from clan Lavellan, who are there to trade with a nearby village, and they end up taking her with them out of pity/goodwill (and also give her a new name!! ellana).
She's quiet and an outsider to clan lavellan at first, bare-faced and serious, as her original clan wasn't very familial and punished her harshly for mistakes (i.e. beatings). I've always seen clan Lavellan as the antithesis to her first clan; welcoming and peaceful... primarily due to their trading with humans, but cautious as well.
Slowly though, that caution of theirs turns to love - especially when Ellana eats up elven history, learns the proper way of magic, and does whatever she can to aid the clan, whether it's menial labor or hunting or using magic. In my h/c, she is truly, finally loved, and her clan slowly teaches her the way of things - all these positive emotions that she never knew before, and that life could be about something other than death... that she could have peace.
For Ellana, clan Lavellan is her salvation and she'll do anything to defend it... even kill for it, though Keeper Deshanna would scold her for that and urge her to walk a more merciful path.
Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other
Friends: All of the Inquisition inner circle and advisors... yes, even the ones most commonly disliked. She respects the HELL out of Vivienne, and loves Sera like a little sister! Leave her babies alone <3
Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / other - it’s complicated - she’s with solas, even though they’re “broken up” and he’s a dumb lil shit who needs to be brought down a peg
Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent
{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}
Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese
Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other - grey, long (almost to butt, but she keeps it in a bun all the time)
Eyes: brown / blue / green / black / other
Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other
Height: under 3 foot (90cm) / 3-4 foot (90-122cm) / 4-5 foot (122-153cm) / 5-6 foot (153-183cm) (1,73m) / 6-7 foot (183-213cm) / above 7 foot (over 213cm)
Weight: under 100 pounds (50kg) / 100-150 pounds (50-75kg) / 150-200 pounds (75-100kg) / 200-250 pounds (100-125kg) / above 250 pounds (125kg)
Scars: On her right cheek near the corner of her lip going up - she never talks about how she got it.
Facial Features: Big blue eyes with a moderate amount of kohl around them, a small button nose, a fierce smirk, and her scar - she doesn’t spend excessive time examining herself but she’s been told she looks more human than elf (in an unkind way). sometimes when in human towns she hides her ears with her long hair, it’s easier to be overlooked, and easier to get what she wants. that doesn’t mean she isn’t proud of being an elf, however, she is a proud dalish.
Tattoos: her (simplified) mythal vallaslin, in the color of her eyes - chosen only because it’s the same one her adopted mother and father have.
{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}
Dogs or Cats?
Birds or Hamsters?
Snakes or Spiders?
Red or Blue?
Yellow or Green?
Black or White?
Coffee or Tea?
Ice Cream or Cake? - neither, she isn’t a sweets person
Fruits or Vegetables?
Sandwich or Soup?
Magic or Melee? (this one is both because ellana loves to fuck people up not only with magic but also with her fists)
Sword or Bow?
Summer or Winter?
Spring or Autumn?
The Past or The Future?
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