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moonjeweled:

❝ –––––––––– It is. The moment he gets what he wants, or the moment he realizes he won’t, he’ll unleash hell again and we’ll be captives. ❞  Her expression is clouded, scowling as she picks moodily at a loose thread that clings to her dress. They walked headfirst into a trap, but what other option did they have?

❝ Of course you’re coming with me. ❞  Her tone borders on one of surprise. That he would think she would leave him behind was utterly absurd. She would no more part with her dearest companion and protector than she would detach her arms. The very thought of his absence opens a  c h a s m  in her chest that throbs and bleeds with each beat of her heart. Savagely she dares any of her advisors to try and replace him. She would tear them all to bits and scatter their remains among the stars if they tried. He was too valuable, they knew this. There were no others that could control her, no others she would allow to  ( For you alone I am debased  –– for you alone I will be weak )

❝ I won’t tell if you won’t. ❞ Ezra’s expression  s o f t e n s,  the chill that hung about her slight frame thawing as she giggles. It was a terrible joke, but it was more than enough to incite a smile, if only for a moment. Reaching out, she takes his hand in her own, marveling at its size as she gives it a gentle squeeze, solemn once more as laughter dies and her smile becomes too heavy to bear any longer ❝ what would I do without you? ❞ 

          “Well, he may have an army. But you are...you. Last I checked, men could not easily harness the sun or shift a planet that did not want to cooperate. Though I suppose it could start a war if you...had one of your stronger cosmic flares. It’s almost as though it would be helpful to have a military tactician who specialised in both one man reconnaissance and combat missions accompany you---oh wait...That would be me.” If his utter ineptitude at humour can bring a smile to her face, he’ll make all the floundering jokes in the world. He lets her take his hand in hers, turn his palm this way and that, squeeze lightly. Were he to lay his hand over hers, it would obscure her hand completely. He would put an arm around her shoulders were they in a more private setting, but here, with too many aides and whispering opportunists...Better not to take the risk            “Flounder,” he concedes seriously, though he laughs when her expression pulls from sad to defensive. “I’m kidding. You would do relatively well in life, except when it came to looking over small fences, walls....and generally anything else requiring height.”

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starlightsulu:

“ — Khan. ”

Keep it professional, Ru. He tells himself. 

“ Goes by the name of Tony Mackinley. For now at least. Been haunting this dive for a few weeks now. ” 

A leak of information; and to make matters worse — the boss finds out first. Would have been fine maybe, if it were a bottomfeeder with barely anything to sell…but this? This was telling of an impending war.  

It’s why he’s involved. 

“ Six three, brown hair, grey eyes. Likes dressing sharp. ”

           “Wouldn’t be this man, by any chance, would he?” he slides his cellphone over, the image from his contract displayed freely. Human assassinations were easy money. If Sulu is involved, at least the stakes will be more interesting. Means the target is relevant. The slight contraction of Sulu’s pupils are the only betrayal, he truly is as disciplined and unshakeable as a man could be with no body mods. Or minimal ones at most. Khan respects that. “I won’t insult you with threats. You know what tends to happen to those who get between my targets and myself. But, I like you,”oh, he’s perfectly patronising, even if he’s not lying. “ So if your head pops up in my scope, I’ll try  not to shoot you.”

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Benedict Cumberbatch attends the premiere of Warner Bros’ “The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug” at TCL Chinese Theatre on December 2, 2013 in Hollywood, California. [211 HQ photos]

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porticosdaughter:

                  Her shoes have already been abandoned by the time they reach the courtyard, kicked off one by one in earnest as soon as they’d said their last extended round of goodbyes. Grass between her toes is something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. “Nessa Bay was over a bit faster if I recall correctly.” 

The night air does wonders, revives and relaxes, wakes up the senses that had been lulled with food and drink and just a few more slow dances. She exhales a laugh at the comparison, but he’s not all that far off. Both events had taken a little something extra to see them through to the end; both had left her content with the idea of staying in bed for the better part of the next week without being disturbed. “Though I like the outcome of this one just a little bit more.”

She reaches up to catch his hand after he attends to her hair, tugging it closer again so she can press her lips against the back of it. “I have a good reason to glow tonight, don’t I? We both do.” Is it perhaps too much to ask that this is the way she prefers to see him now? His hard work and passion finally coming to fruition, nay - sayers disposed of. Examples made. 

      “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so calm.” A giggle melts into another kiss against his hand before she laces her fingers between his. If he had been half as nervous as she had, he hadn’t let it show. He never did.

      “Did you ever think we’d make it here?” Here being a loaded term; the end of the war, or together at all, let alone ambling their way through a rare patch of green on their wedding night. “I’m worried I might wake up tomorrow and none of this will have happened.”

           “And this was far less of a massacre. Dare I say it, it went well.” His lips quirk at the kiss to his knuckles, he lets her keep his hand captive, long fingers dormant beneath her touch. He leans down to brush his lips to her forehead, rumbling a quiet laugh at her words.             “That would be because I haven’t been calm since the start of the war.  And, as I’m sure you have noticed...public speaking, public promises have never rattled me. Even if these are more....sincere words. Public affection, however, I find more difficult. I never truly learned that skill. But it matters not, and I care less. We are alone here...” The hand free of her fingers rests upon the small of her back, the skin warm beneath his fingers in contrast to the cool of his palm.  It was simply how they were, both bright in their ways: Door, the bright of sunshine and daffodils, of unbreakable diamond, of the crisp white of her wedding gown, the boldness of it’s cut. The sort of dress that on another woman could look sloppy, declasse. But with her noble bearing, it possessed an avant garde elegance, swathing some but not smothering all skin. Against Door’s pearliness, Khan was all marble, a thing of harsh lines. His brightness was that of polished metal, of sun glinting off snowy ground. The dark colours he wore tempered him, made it easier to look upon him. Door owned a light often underestimated for how it soothed. Khan was blinding, even as the most merciful of the augment kings and now the only one, the people still cowered at his feet. Their eyes averted and slid naturally to his queen. His wife who looked so gentle, but was no less capable of slitting a throat or breaking bone. But here in the garden, they are stripped of title. Of rank. Here they are two mouths, four hands, two hearts. And if his kiss is aggressive, it is only because they’ve scarcely been alone in weeks if not months. She makes him ignore his own desperation, forget the rational part of his brain that chirps at the expense of the wedding dress. It’s a thing she might wish to save. Yet, the bindings strain beneath his prying fingers. He only returns to his senses when her back knocks the pergola arch hard enough to make it sway, to knock their front teeth together.  

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@starlightsulu | khan is an asshole              "Sulu..." he sighs, dropping into the seat opposite. At least they’re not at the bar, in a bar. A man of class and distinction, with just a little bit of malice, gets a table where he can see everything. Khan’s back is to the door, from where Sulu sits, his sharp eyes (particularly for an a human with no augmentation) will miss nothing. Khan’s not worried. When it comes down to it, he’s faster.                 “Whose the mark?” he asks like he knows, because, well, he does. 

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porticosdaughter:

                  The Marquis had been vague on the journey over ( nothing new; she was learning quickly that ambiguity was a language too ), giving her nothing more to go on than the assurance that help would be waiting for her, and that her talents as an Opener would be required in the process. It was a simple enough request, the room on the other side of the shifting bricks looking rather —– domestic.

She lingers a bit, even after being offered a place to settle. Considering the circumstances surrounding their visit, her host will have to forgive her for not being her usual jovial self. It takes a glance from her companion to convince her to finally sit, her posture stiffening slightly at the mention of this possibly being a hit in disguise. 

Well. At least someone doesn’t want to kill me. 

A nod and a shift in her seat comes as confirmation he doesn’t need when he mentions her father, the expression on her face softening as soon as he —– an angel, really? —– mentions they’ve crossed paths once before. “Did we? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” But the story certainly sounds right. Portico had taken her to her first Market shortly after her fifth birthday, and it was years before she was allowed to do anything with her hands other than hold his or keep them firmly in her pockets.

       “He’s dead, actually.” Her lips purse and roll a bit —- it’s clear it still hasn’t entirely sunken in. “Same with my mother and my siblings. I’m the last one left, and that means unfinished business. Is that —— where you come in?”

                “Tell me, Marquis,” the hiss in Khan’s voice presents like honey, smooth enough to drown a fleet of flies. “Do the names Croop and Vandermar have anything to do with this favour? And don’t listen to a word he says about this angel business. Islington was a long time ago and I barely got out of that mess alive.” He’s being incredibly rude, the realisation comes as an afterthought and he swivels back to the girl in an attempt to offer condolences. His elbows may be resting on his knees, long fingers pressed together, his body straining forward as if he might pounce---but the Marquis is at far greater risk. But---Better late than never with Belowers, he’s learned. He doesn’t want to owe her a favour over a faux pas.                  “I am sorry...Portico was...well, he was not my friend, but was, I am told, a great friend to many others. We never agreed, but he was never unkind to me. I never met the rest of your family, but may they rest well. They were undeserving of the end the got.”                 “But I digress, I know how you think, Marquis. All you really want is a body between those two things and her. Stop blubbering---I know I am the best at what I do. But there are two of them, and you don’t particularly care if the body between them and hers is a dead one or not. I do. One of them would be your favour, let’s say Croop. For Vandemar, you’ll owe me. He’s smarter.” He glances back at Door, “I doubt you’ll get a better offer.”                  “If your Marquis agrees to my terms, you’re welcome to stay.”

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moonjeweled:

                                       Her expression is SULLEN as she looks up at him, full lips turned down in a frown as she sinks further into velvet lined seating. She’s benumbed to the proceedings, the whirlwind of negative emotions leaving her utterly empty. To be bartered like CATTLE for supposed concordia, without consent at that set her teeth on edge. She would be shipped far from home and family in a matter of days, and the likelihood of her return dwindled down to NOTHING. Ezra could do nothing but stare in outrage as her life was decided for her, without even the privilege to speak in her defense. A spiteful, POISONOUS segment of her heart relished the idea of striking them down where they sat. She had the power to do so, to hurt anyone that dared lord over her; yet she holds her tongue, teeth sinking deep into the muscle until copper stains her palette. 

❝ ––––– Does it matter? ❞ she replies dully, resting her cheek atop a closed fist. Dark lashes veil her eyes, unable to look at him any longer in fear she might cave to TEARS of frustration and helplessness. The girl wonders if he aches like she does at the thought. Though he had never been TRULY open with her, she knew he cared as much as he was able. He was not so immune to her powers that he could blind her.  ❝ Some old emperor close to the outer rim. Promised peace if I give him an heir that has my gift. We’ll be leaving in a day or two, the ceremony will take place next week. ❞ 

❝ I hate them… ❞  it falls from her lips before she can stop it, molten anger bubbling up in her gut to MELT the tight grip of sadness. She never speaks ill of anyone, adamantly refusing to stoop to the level of those around her. She was BETTER than that, bigger than them. But not now, now she was small and angry. She was not their oracle, their deity,  or their savior, she was simply a girl who wanted nothing more than freedom.

                       “That is a lofty promise.” Khan suspects she cannot have children, though he has no concrete proof. Only the theory that powerful things do not easily breed, yet another similarity between them if he’s correct. There are few enough cosmic entities running around, if a child was to come, he highly doubts an aged humanoid of questionable stock would be the father. If she’s read his thoughts on the matter, she’s never discussed it with him and he would never bring it up. Slow reaction time, his ear catches the we. A slight lift of dark brows belies his surprise. “I’m coming with you?” he shifts toward her, muscle memory recalling how he is the only one who can withstand her powers if she’s loosed them. It’s been years since she’s been frustrated or angry enough that’s he’s had to drag her away, suppress her. He, whose cells could heal as fast as they were torn apart by her power. He understands he is not accompanying the wedding party for her protection, but her fiance’s.  “They are your family...” he’s not berating, instead he shrugs his shoulders. “But I’m hardly an expert...I never had one. Barely had friends---only one, actually. Don’t tell anyone though, she’s supposed to just be a colleague.”

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Behind the scenes of the photoshoot for High Life magazine (2014)

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@moonjeweled cry with me        “You’re to be married.” Word travels fast and he’s always in earshot of the courts, when when not allowed inside.  No guards inside council halls, these, the terms and conditions of peace. He is upset by this news, though his face remains as impassive as ever. A strain to the usual frown is all that betrays his displeasure. Ezra’s expression is more open, contracts such as these were demeaning, reducing people into poker chips, passed from palm to sweaty palm. Land and bodies, won and lost at the high stakes table. He hopes, for her sake, her new planet will be mildly ambitious at best, a secure part of federation space. But one should never underestimate the lure of the territories uncharted, galaxies and systems unfettered by regulation. Gain was always high in such alliances, though the fall was like a globe toppling from a stand, bouncing and rolling away. An unstable and unpredictable trajectory. And what of him? Created both to protect her and protect others from her. He wonders, if through the whirl, he will land on his feet.                      “To whom?”

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porticosdaughter:

                       She realizes when palm touches palm how it stills feels new to put themselves on display for everyone to see —– their relationship until now had always been one more accustomed to the margins; for the times when closed doors or dead - ended corridors could afford them a few moments to themselves. In front of everyone else, they were stoic; professional. Unaffected. Unattached. Even if side - eyed glances and the occasional seemingly random touch were subtle hints there was perhaps more to their connection than simply a king and his adviser.

It takes her a moment to find something to focus on —– her hands nestled in his serve as a good starting point —– only because she knows if she watches him speak his vows she won’t be able to hide her reaction. He’s never been the verbose one; that distinction will always fall to her, which makes every carefully curated word that much more important.

So she listens, a whisper of a smile shifting and changing as he goes along, her thumbs tracing semi - circles of encouragement along the sides of his hands, eyes finally finding his when he declares out loud something she’s only ever heard in whispers and heartbeats. “Khan —– ” she takes a moment to collect her thoughts —– teeth drag against her lower lip as his fingers curl around hers. This is not the time to let words escape her.

       "I have had the honour of my life in being your confidant, and your friend. Voice of reason perhaps once or twice. And somehow, even with all that, I wasn’t fully content until I’d given you my heart as well. I told you once before that I would follow you anywhere, and that sentiment certainly hasn’t changed.“ 

The corner of her lip quivers before turning upwards, her hands giving his a squeeze of reassurance. Nothing would make me happier in this life than to be able to call you mine and stay by your side.”

                        The ceremony itself is a blur, a repetition of words. It’s not like the church plays a role to creations of man, to the creatures of modern Frankensteins manipulating the boundaries of science beyond the scope of ethics. God is a reach when you can free fall 30 meters without breaking a bone, when the span of your life eclipses that of the Lord’s sixth day endeavour. Most of the holy sites didn’t survive the bombs, in his own lands there are few structures remaining, timber and rubble. He has felt nothing upon walking through them, only that this body of his survived, and human faith did not. Bound by the law then. But what law could they not change by their own whim? None were left to oppose them. No, this was tradition and comfort, more for the court and for the public. Times were changing, but people still believed in silver bands slipped onto dainty fingers. Khan had her wedding band crafted by the most skilled jeweller he could find---a peasant in a shack, now living in splendour. The band itself a polished silver and slim, with a fragment of meteorite nestled at the core. Polished, the charcoal of it gleamed. Subtle, sleak, both smooth and rough in appearance. Murmurs of “I do,” dinner---some rare animal neatly sliced and presented with potatoes, rice, apples for garnish. In a nuclear wasteland, this was delicacy beyond measure. His pinky keeps grazing hers at the high table, even as he nods, accepts countless congratulations. The first dance is something he’s dreaded, but worth his own stiff two left feet for the warmth of her back against his palm, for her laughter in his ear when he inevitably steps on the hem of her dress. It’s well past midnight when the bar closes and the mingling stops. They walk arm in arm down the winding path to the courtyard. A last vestige of green in a burned world, somehow spared. Her dress rustles over the grass like it’s telling him a secret. He fights a yawn. “Forget Nessa Bay, that was the most successful coup we’ve ever orchestrated,” he reaches to twirl a golden curl, a wayward circlet escapee, around his finger before tucking it back into place. “The view pales in your shadow, you know. Tonight, you are...exceptionally radiant.”

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diedsaving:

the scenery’s familiar – landscape desolate, ruined in all sense of the word.  there’s a chill on the wind that howls as it whips through crumbling structure.  it doesn’t take long to recognize in its entirety; not even when prompted by the deep bass that resonates behind him.  THAT he recognizes, knows like the back of his own hand by now.  & oh how it sends a shock up his spine & ice coursing through his veins.

he whirls.  perhaps one day he’ll be capable of controlling his ANGER, even in his SUBCONSCIOUS, but it won’t be this time, not entirely.  his gaze narrows once its settled on the augment & he paces, stalking back & forth, forth & back like a caged animal – a comparison more true than not; held captive & tormented by recent events, even in his own mind.  

( ESPECIALLY in his own mind. )

“I don’t see why it matters to you.  You weren’t one to give a damn about collateral damage in life, why should I make it any different here?”  he stops, glare directed down at KHAN.  “I’m not one to hand out undeserved excuses.”

      “Only when it mattered. How noble of you.” Where Kirk is all restless motion, Khan remains perfectly still. A river, rushing, and an oak planted at its edge, roots dipped unknowingly deep. He knows the current of these turbulent waters, for it flows through him too. All too easy to let it run beneath and through his lengthening fingers, to let it erode and discolour him. Then and only then, grip like  a vice, reroute like a dam.  “Why focus on me so intently? You could drudge Marcus up in here too, you know, a little added entertainment. He was the catalyst for all this. I’m sure you’d love to kick his teeth in--his wouldn’t even grow back like mine do. I could pop his skull like a balloon again. Or is what you and I have simply too precious to share with others? If your friends only knew how you spent your evenings.” He can feel heat rising from Kirk in waves, crests of lava boiling inside a volcano set to erupt. So easy to rile, this one. It was true, though. Khan was always there in the dead of night when Kirk could’t sleep, lingering in the back of the mind on all those increasingly failed dates, the hopeless tossing and turning, the memories. “You think of me so often, I’d dare say you missed my company. You know where to find me. You know where they’ve kept my body.”

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@porticosdaughter gets a thing One damn word is all it takes to ruin a morning. His rat is rusty, but not enough to mistake Islington for what it is. He puts the kettle on, undoes his collar. No sense in formal wear when dealing with the Marquis de Carabas. He’s expecting visitors, has three cups at the ready---a balance of probability, not surety. Surprising, is the entrance through the fireplace where moments ago, there had most definitely not been a door. And now de Carabas and a girl half drowning in her sweaters. “If you so much as start to say the words little favour, Marquis, I’ll cut out your tongue.” he gestures for each to help themselves to an armchair. “I don’t do drop ins, and I am not a babysitter. But that is what you want, I assume? If you wanted me to kill her, she would already be dead,” My dear lady Door, my I present the angel Islington.. Only the Marquis could set his teeth on edge by sounding so....melodious, the more tuneful, the more shit being stirred. “Don’t listen to him, I haven’t gone by that name in years...Door...” his head cants, “You wouldn’t be Portico’s daughter, would you? A sigh. “Of course you would. We met once, I believe...at a market, but you would have been just a girl...Kept trying to look at my knives. Your father didn’t approve of me having them there---Speaking of Portico, where is he? What’s happened? It must be serious if the Marquis is finally cashing in this debt.”

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respondinginkind:

                                And the lights, they glow, like                                  I’ve just lost the world war,                                 and the scene slips away                                 to the evenness I  FAKE                                 It’s  a  cheat  somewhere,                                 ‘cause I don’t really want you, girl,                                 But you can’t be free, because                                 I’m SELFISH, I’m OBSCENE                                 I get a little bit GENGHIS KHAN                                                                 

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Modern Verse:     --> Khan Singh is a highly successful business man, the crisp white business cards and the neat text on his website will declare nothing but this truth. This half truth. For his business is not in philanthropy, despite his claims, but in death.         As the highest ranking assassin for the lucrative Sector 31, as well as the other government agencies he moonlights for, Khan is able to pick and choose his assignments and clients. And his prices.               Verse: open

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Alien doggo. [Via Reddit]