#(which - as I have established - was incredibly difficult to narrow down when most of the songs were Irrelevant) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

namjoonchronicles · 4 years

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tumble | yg

↳ genre fluff, established relationship, slight smut at the end

↳ words 5k ↳ summary preparing for close friend’s wedding gifts is a given for young married couple. an unexpected encounter with an old flame led to an unwanted rekindled feelings but karma reminds you who your heart truly belongs to, because it’s all about the actions, not words. ↳ notes this i wrote during first week of university of my final year, trying to run away from responsibility. midway, my friend @hellotherehoneybee was having a difficult week at hers too, so i wrote this extra fluff for her, i hope she noticed. thank you for working so hard! (i wish someone would comment on the work i put on the banners of each of my stories, but nevermind) ↳ warning attempts of infidelity (not by you) ↳ song ‘happiness is a butterfly’ lana del rey

Nimble fingers punched the numbers on the passcode pad, just outside the door. Crumpled papers on the floor. Supreme skateboards stacked on the wall. Yoongi walked in, greeted by a line of guitars at the corner of his studio. His attention was on the phone, preferring to text over calling. His face was shone by the light from it. His feet kicked away the crumpled papers on the floor to get to his computer. There’s a frame of baby breath on his table next to his stationery. A picture of you next to his desktop. Bothered by the melody he endlessly replayed in his head, he plans to record the notes in digital form. He hasn’t decided which work of his he wanted them in, but any of it would be just fine. Today, he is expecting a guest that will contribute to the guide. Jimin springs in first, as usual.

“Why do you lock the door knowing that I’m coming?!” Jimin groaned outside the door. He is leaning against the frames, knocking repeatedly.

This is exactly why he had those locks put up. Several young producers lined up. Yoongi is teaching them how to make music. With a wry look and dry greetings, Yoongi invited them in and started the meeting. The project is rather simple. Yoongi has provided a raw sample to the aspiring producers who will try to make lyrics. These melodies are then sung by Jimin. Yoongi whipped out his sample from his computer and he will give exactly 30 minute for the producers to think of ways to make the music a song. The young producers wrote down notes given by Yoongi. They write and they erase. They wrote and erased. Write. Scratch. Write. Scratch.

Noticing this, Yoongi gave a soft smile. It reminded him of himself when he was just starting. The uncertainty, the overwhelming feeling of not knowing if the lyrics are good enough, or just plain dumb. As an underground rapper with social anxiety, he was afraid to be ridiculed the most, and he is pretty sure that these producers have the same fear. What he is about to say is nothing new. In fact, he advises it frequently in his lectures. Clearing his throat and with the aura of a seasoned lyricist, he said,

“Go with your gut feelings. Understand the feel of the sample and what you could derive from it. Let your mind run wild. First rule of writing music is that there are no rules.”

He emphasizes on creativity. Jimin was trying to write the lyrics too. He wanted to learn to write faster. “Jimin, your problem is that you’re a perfectionist…” Yoongi spat, “Your mind goes haywire at the possibility of writing everything, you have no clear direction. That’s why it’s so hard. You select a theme, and you stay on it…”

“But Namjoon…” Jimin began.

“Namjoon is a genius. His diction is out of this world, and he has been writing lyrics for years. Don’t compare yourself to him or rather, learn with him rather than coming to me, uninvited,” Yoongi swivels in his chair as the three other producers hang their head low.

Jimin puckered his lips and muttered curses under his breath.

Yoongi reaches for the journal he kept by the book rack. When he opened them, a warranty card fell out. He crouches down to get them. It was from the phone you bought. He caught you buying a phone on an online store when he returns to the studio, earnestly picking a good one. You even asked him about these specs and technology terms you don’t know about. Some of it was written down as notes in this journal along with his own scribbles of song lyrics. You wanted to buy a phone for your mom and pretend that it was from your dad. Your mom always complains that your dad never gave her gifts and is reluctant to spend money on her. Yoongi didn’t need the extra information but you gave it to him anyway. Yoongi learnt from you that your mother had been using the same phone for a decade, and nothing can be updated anymore. And because your father isn’t doing anything about it but think about himself, you decide to buy your mom a good new phone. Saving your father’s face by pretending it was him who bought it.

You didn’t know this but, Yoongi fell in love with you once more.

That phone comes with a warranty card that is now made its home in his old journal. You know he wouldn’t throw any of his journals away.

Glancing at the digital clock on his shelf, he wondered, just how his favorite person in the world is doing…

Yoongi entertained questions from his students. Explaining the build up, the body, climax and ending. Sharing what is fun and what is not, in writing music. What’s cliché and what’s attention grabbing. But his explanation was cut halfway when his phone vibrated, and swiped his thumb over the caller ID and answered with a small, “Hello?”

Jimin and the students studied his face. At first, Yoongi seemed pretty laxed, and then he stood up, abruptly. Instantly and visibly tensed.

“Where are you?” Pause, “Okay, stay right there, I’ll be right over…” He grabs his coat from the hanger and his tongue glides along his drying lips upon ending the seemingly urgent call. He appears distressed but it is masked by his calm exterior.

“Is something the matter, hyung?” Jimin asked. “I have to leave, I am sorry because I have to cut the classes short. Make sure you email me the verses by noon tomorrow. I will deduct marks for late submissions…” Yoongi said in one breath and yanked the door open, had them leave the studio at once and locked them.

Namjoon was standing outside the hall, watching Yoongi as he trudges through. The older one was putting on his jacket albeit roughly and as quickly as he could. Namjoon couldn’t even get a proper greeting in return. It seems Yoongi is troubled by something.

Troubled by something is indeed accurate.

A few hours ago.

You thought you made a great choice. It’s what you wanted when it was your wedding, and you’re sure that Jungkook would like it too. Knowing just how obsessed he is with having everything the same color code, the sapphire blue kohiki plates would have fit in right into his kitchen like it’s one of the built-in. Yoongi always thought that Jungkook’s gifts are the hardest to choose because he is picky, but also not very picky. He has specified interest but also not very specified. You know more than anything that Jungkook is neither of those things. Ever since you knew the boy, he had always been grateful for any gifts he was given. It didn’t matter how expensive or how rare, it’s the thought that counts. Many years ago, Jungkook came to your house, when you and Yoongi were still dating, and he frequently used the kohiki bowls you have. He said he liked it. That's how you came to decide that his wedding gift would be just that. For his wife, you don’t really know her well, but you had Yoongi book a Swarovski perfume after recognizing that she frequently carries the fun sized bottle around when she’s out.

“Would you like to also see the latest collection of our Kohiki plates, Mdm. Min?” the salesperson politely addresses you and you thought that simply looking wouldn’t hurt. You after all had time to kill today.

Your hands glide over the impressive finishing of the white kohiki plates, truly in awe of the time and the craftsmanship involved in making this. They came in many sizes and as you narrowed down to the end of the gallery, you recognized a collection so similar with the one at home. You turned to the salesperson with a beaming smile, almost child-like. The man bowed at you and explained to you how this particular collection was especially sought after and high in demand, they decided to keep it in collection. Yoongi’s personal family collection had been imitated countless times in the past centuries, they eventually trademarked the design to be named, Empire Min’s timeless collection. It had served countless royalties in the whole world and the tableware was of grand prestige. Sometimes, it dawns over you that you married quite an incredible man with a lineage of such esteem, comparable to those of aristocracy.

Min Yoongi’s family may have stranded far from the royals now, but the traces are there. His delectable face, porcelain skin and honey-succulent voice, are as good as a blue bloods’. His family registrar was kept in the national museum and you had a glimpse of it during Chuseok every year, where they pay homage to his ancestors and it’s quite unbelievable that something from centuries ago was still available today. You didn’t ask a lot about how his family branched off the King, but you do know that the surname Min belonged to four most important Queens in the Joseon dynasty. Is that where his beauty originates from?

You smiled to yourself as you saw his signature underneath the gallery as the last few descendants of the Queen.

“The gifts are wrapped up, we will have it shipped personally to Mr. Jeon Jungkook as per addressed…” the salesman ensured you with an assuring voice.

Kohiki plates aren’t cheap to say the least. But Min Yoongi doesn’t like you worrying about it. Much less, he’d rather have you spend his hard-earned money because he doesn’t always know what you like. One last thing, a visit to the gallery with your trustee art enthusiast, Kim Namjoon.

He stride over as he ended the call. He looks everly dashing in those turtlenecks and grey blazer. His pectorals and buff body looks great in it. He wore those glasses that made him look like he was a postdoctoral student. Only he isn’t. He shoves his phone into his breast-pocket and his face shifted from a serious one to a cheeky expression. He presented his arm for you to take and embraced in a small talk with you.

“You just ended your lecture?” you asked him. “It took a little longer than planned, sorry about that…” he chuckles, handsomely.

“This gallery better be lit…” “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

Namjoon guides you into an exhibition, guarded by several men in black suits and ear-pieces. The whole way there, you realized that there was no one around. It is only given, because Namjoon owns it. It seems he had it shut down for the day, because the most important painting is arriving from Versailles, and he wants nobody to have a look on it. Except you, of course. And it’s easier to do painting shopping without people hustling in and out trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘Kim Namjoon’. Namjoon talked to you about the randomness of things as he introduces to you his favorite works. He was talking about his sudden trip to Paris and how he regrets it, then talking about a wrong purchase and the books he is currently reading. All in a quiet voice, the kind you give to your lovers.

But you know that’s just Namjoon being flirtatious like it’s his second name.

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks. This section of the gallery feels like it’s cut off from the rest. It has been endless modern art since the entrance until a few paintings back. This one felt like it was Rome or the Renaissance. The sculptures and dramatic scenes, the skin tones and flesh, it was a whole other world. You turned to Namjoon, questioning him with your eyes. You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like this type of art.

“I had a change of heart… while trying to understand yours,” he confessed. And it sounded strange because he let those words glide out as if he had no control over it. He stepped back, pressed his lips together for saying more than he thought necessary, dropped his shoulder and turned to the art he loved.

“I understand it now,” he added, speaking to the frames, “Why do you like them so much… There’s so many stories to tell from each of these characters…”

You remember explaining to him about eyes in realistic paintings. How you wonder what they’ve seen, and what they have experienced. These endless thoughts usually trouble Namjoon, up to when he was about to sleep. You look beyond the surface of this painting and put feelings in them. That’s when he realized that emotions can be painted. Namjoon owed it to you, to having understood himself. And as he explained just how your art classes changed his perspective in life, he introduced to you the painting he thinks fit Jungkook the most. When you saw this painting unveiled before your eyes, you couldn’t agree more. It would look best in his spacious living room. Namjoon watched you as you signed the insurance paper to deliver the artwork. Watching you from afar like this felt foreign. With the history you both had, who would have thought that he would spend his life dreading the future he could have had with you.

It is all too late now.

The ring around your finger isn’t his. Maybe it’s for the better. He couldn’t have cared for you better than Yoongi does.

The most difficult thing about this relationship is, getting stuck between caring too much, and not caring at all.

“So you’ll deliver them to Jungkook’s house soon?” your eyes darted up at him as he approached the table.

“Leave it to me…” he said with a broad smile and dire confidence from a seasoned seller. A billion dollar man like him, could get away with anything with that smile.

Namjoon hooks his finger around the flaps of the door handle of your car and watches you climb in. Winding the window down, he rests his elbows and fixes his eyes on you, a coy smile on his pretty lips. You darted at him a look. A look you’d give to your malice doing little brother to warn him.

“Go on dates, go meet people, Namjoon… How long will you live this way?” “How would you know I’m not meeting people?” “You stacked books in my online bookstore, and still use my Netflix account to watch movies…” “Books and movies are better companions.”

You looked at him through your lashes and in those particular moments of silence, glances were exchanged and feeling somehow attempted to rekindle, however, before it could, you looked away.

“I’m going to Yoongi’s office, I’ll tell him you said hi…” “But I didn’t…” “Goodbye, Namjoon.”

The white Mazda CX-3 glides away, seamlessly. Stopped at the junction, and entered the main road. All these while, Namjoon kept watching. And it seems like, all his life, he had been watching. Because that was all what he was courageous enough to do.

“‘She loved him too early, and he loved her too late…” Namjoon muttered to himself.

At the junctions, your car pulls to a stop as the traffic light turns red. The building you were in were kilometers away but the scent of Namjoon’s body lotion hasn’t left. You always refrain from reading too much anything Namjoon does because you’re not who you were anymore. Your loyalty is with Min Yoongi now and it should be. Rather than feeling like you used to feel for Namjoon, it actually narrows more to pity. Namjoon had it all. He had your endless support, you had been his emotional anchor, and he had taken you for granted for many years. Eventually, you pick up your worth and search within yourself what you’ve given him. What you found out when you peel yourself away from everything that is Namjoon, is the fact that he had given you nothing but his concerns. There was no give and take. All he does is take.

Finding yourself, led you to finding Yoongi.

Yoongi was nothing easy to have. So it daunts you that difficult men might have been your type. Yoongi is rash and dry on his best day and even more harsh and unapologetic than anyone you have ever met. It came to a point where you exploded, thinking that even as life swallowed you whole and his arms was the only thing that could save you, you’d rather be swallowed whole. When Yoongi heard such a damning insult to his being, he got even. As harsh as Yoongi appears to be, he was a softie right under the flesh. Under his blank expression and inattentive eyes, he is all soul and bones. The more you know him, the more you realize that you both are strikingly alike. From the way you solve problems to the way he speaks, you both are a lot more common than you are different.

He is so intelligent and witty and blunt. You can ask him about literally anything and he always has an opinion about it. Because of his wide arrays of interest, you can never run out of topics to talk about. He is a great fun, and always adventurous although he prefers to whine about it at first. He said he hates camping but when you forced him to come with you, he looked like he has been camping his whole life. Lit the bonfire within seconds, adapted the forest life and just casually calm. The kind of calmness you hadn’t felt in awhile, you felt in Yoongi’s presence. Camping nights are always so romantic with him playing the guitars and you requesting songs you know he doesn’t know. There will be crinkles around his eyes before he looks down, embarrassed for not knowing that song. Once you give him a listen, he could play by ear.

He is adorable when he is confused or terribly tired. One night, he asked if you would come over his studio’s rooftop to spend time together. He spoke two sentences and fell asleep while you were talking. He unknowingly leaned his head on your shoulder as he dozes off. You brushed his hair away and thumbed his cheeks. His lips pouting cutely as he slept. You sat awfully still for hours, hours that he is still paying off with himself. To this day. It is astonishing how he could look like the cutest little kitty and also looked like he could swallow you whole.

His dangly multi earrings, gorgeous eyes and veiny arms, his multifaceted talents are as endless as his sweet words. Yoongi could make you feel heard without you saying a word.

The pedal planted to the ground, screeching tires and loud crashes. The windows on the driver side shattered and the airbag deployed. Loud ringing in your head as you try to gather your thoughts. What’s happened? You drove ahead a little more, because if you didn’t the road would have been congested. You pressed the hazard light on and parked on the side of the road to avoid other cars.

Hooking your fingers around the car handle, the door was pushed open. The car that collided with you stopped behind you. Your Mazda could continue driving but you don’t want to risk it because the shell of the tire was a little dented. The sharp ends were grazing your tire if you continued. The driver whose car you collided with was eerily quiet but he kept staring at an interval. You gathered your purse and fished for your phone.

“Please don’t get mad…” you huffed, “I got into an accident…” The back of your wrist on your forehead as you looked around in worry.

“I am at a round-a-about pass on Samsung Building 77 street… I’ll send the location,” you breathed, oddly a little calmer than he expected you to be. It all happens too quickly. You weren’t sure who was in the wrong. The last thing you remember was using the signal stick to turn to the right and the car on the right wanted to head to the left, surreptitiously ignoring the signal you gave. It seemed ages for Yoongi to get there, but when he did, he parked a little further and got off the car, jogging to where you are. Your eyes stung and got watery as he came to get you. You were so grateful that he wasn’t angry and in fact, just wanted to know where you were so he could be where you are. He held onto your hand as he went to inspect the car and its damages.

“What are you going to do with my headlight?” the owner of the other car came over, uninvited. Yoongi instinctively pulls you behind him at the forwardness of this man.

“Take it easy, let’s check the dashcam to see who was actually in the wrong, let’s take this to the police station…”

“What police station, it is more than obvious that she was driving recklessly and not paying attention!” The man tried to go over Yoongi to get to you but Yoongi held his palm outward at this rude man.

“Like I said, we will take this to the police station and they’ll decide who is in the wrong and needs to pay for the damages…” Yoongi once again marched against this man and stared dead into his eyes while dialing on his phone. He placed his phone on his ear and continued to warn the man with his body language.

“The insurance company? Yes, I have a car you need to tow. We’re along Samsung 77th Street by the roundabout, how long will you take to get here? 10 minutes, okay…” Yoongi spoke on the phone. You held onto Yoongi’s arm tighter. One hand in his tight grip, the other clawing on his sleeves, slightly below his elbow. Your eyes unfocused. You were biting your lips. Chewing on them.

Yoongi climbed into his car after you. Pressed the car engine on and thumbed your knee. You weren’t as calm now.

“What if it is actually my fault? What if I was the one driving foolishly…?” You stuttered.

“We will let the police decide okay? We hadn’t even seen the footage from the dash cam yet, he could just be manipulating you to think that you were in the wrong, just by the look on his face I know he’s the type to drive like a drunkard and blame people for his mistakes…” Yoongi’s large palm covered your entire knee.

“You want jellies?” he tries to console you. “What about the car?” you looked over the car seat to the view of your stranded Mazda.

“The insurance company will have it towed, don’t worry… It’ll be okay,” he smiles and chuckles lightly, “This isn’t a big deal, accidents happen all the time, honey.”

The car pulled to a stop at the red traffic light, and he extended his arm to gather your hand to kiss your knuckles. You looked at him with watery eyes, full of guilt and despair and you said to him in broken voice,

“I’m so s-sorry… I’ve troubled you,” you bursted into tears, “I just went out to get gifts for Jungkook’s wedding and it all happened so fast…” Yoongi gathered your head in one hand, pulling your face into his nape. He plants kisses on your head and fondly smiles against your hair. . . . .

The police decided to hold the man accountable. He was clearly changing lanes without signals, and he was also ignoring your obvious signals. Not only was he driving past the speed limit at a roundabout in broad daylight, he had the audacity to shift the blames towards you. The dash cam was proof that he was a reckless driver so he had his driving license suspended and he had to pay for damages you faced. Yoongi laced his fingers into the gaps of yours as he turned around from the man. Yoongi smiled smugly and took you out of the police station. With the reports done and you were acquitted from any traffic misconduct, the car insurance company will cater to all the repairing. Yoongi will have to drive you everywhere for now but it wasn’t something he minds doing.

You let go of his hand and proceed to walk to the car, hugging yourself while he watches you from behind. Your steps weren’t hurried, rather they were a bit slow but for some reason you thought it was far better to not hold him. In your head, you are still scolding yourself and knowing you as far as he did, he understood it. He climbs into the car, avoiding eye contact as his index finger sunk into the engine button. You were dazed, looking out the window at everything on the outside. Noticing this, Yoongi stops by your favorite mall. He said he wanted to get some tools and appliances for the sink at home. Every three months, Yoongi would have the sink maintained by pouring cleaning liquid and have it stay there overnight so it won’t clog anytime soon. Usually, when this happens, he would buy dinners outside and take you out for breakfast the next morning.

Both of you once experienced the sink clogging before, and the whole kitchen was flooded with foul-smelling liquid. To make matters worse, Yoongi was away for business in Tokyo, and you had to handle them alone. Some plumbers walked in to help, and even if Yoongi was grateful for their help, he would rather his house be under his maintenance. That's why he keeps a schedule for every heavy duty appliance in the house. This is to avoid unnecessary over spending and inviting unnecessary people inside the house. He has a yearly check for the washing machine, the refrigerator, the electric stove, the air-conditioners and the oven. He is always making sure that everything is safe for you to use.

With the car parked so swiftly, Yoongi joins you in the mall's lobby. There aren’t many people around since it’s weekdays. And as if you remembered that you needed a conversation, you jerked your head up and to the side, at your husband.

“Oh right! You have a class today?” “Sent them home early with an assignment to mark later…”

He pauses, momentarily. Lifting his left wrist for the time, he yanked his sleeve up. He then, out of a sudden let out a sigh,

“Should we have dinner here or…” his voice drawls, “I plan to start on the sink right away when we get home…” “That sounds great, I don’t feel like cooking…”

You lifted your eyes at the elevator door opening before you. Yoongi lets you step in first. You move to the back of the elevator at the corner, by habit and Yoongi joins you. He could see from your face that the accident hadn’t left your mind. So when the elevator arrived at the second floor, instead of the fourth where the hardware stores were, he took your hand and walked out. You didn’t question him right away but you thought it was odd.

“Ice-cream…” he beamed at you.

He ordered your favorite. Waffles, drizzled with chocolate syrup and some fruits. Then you talked about Jungkook’s wedding gifts and plans on that day. He asked you about the venues since you were the one that booked them. You excitedly say that it was in great shape. The venue was a garden, it has this magnificent backdrop of a man-made lake and Jungkook’s fiancé loved the idea of exchanging vows at the view. However, your smile swept away when you spoke about the wedding dress.

“Why?” Yoongi spoke softly. “Because she seemed conflicted to follow what her friends’ recommended instead of what she truly wanted. She texted me yesterday, saying that she hated her wedding dress,” your shoulders dropped. “Why did she hate them?” “Her friends basically forced her to get this dress from a designer they know. From what I heard he was pretty famous, but she originally wanted her old classmate to make one for her. So now she regrets it, because the dress was not her style,” you sighed yet again.

Yoongi looked at you through his bangs and a small smile formed in the corner of his lips. Always taking in other peoples’ problems as your own, always thinking of others and always solving other people’s problems like your own. Yoongi could feel how devastated you were to hear that story first hand, and he is certain, as you were scooping those waffles into your mouth, you are thinking of ways to fix it. Typical. When you make a folded taco, you would take the ugliest one so he could have the prettier sets. When you buy medical supplies, you always make two purchases, one for him. The bigger portion of cake is for him, the larger piece, the better half. Even when you ate something you think is tasty, you would buy one for him at home.

In one ways or another, you are constantly thinking of him. It gives him butterflies. How lucky was he to be able to find you. How can someone look past such a genuinely beautiful person. Inside and out. Whose love is this true and this devoted. Only a dire fool, that is.

From the ways you love him, he is most certain that you haven't changed any part of you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “I bought you something… I saw this at the bookstore, it's a moon and star water globe and I thought it would look good on your studio desk…” You rummaged your bag for the item while your husband sat there, staring at you with a fond smile. Literally, a woman’s bag is a wonder. There’s all kinds of things in there. Receipts from 5 years ago, set of cutleries for travelling, hand sanitizer, tissues, a notepad, a glue gun and candies. Coins.

He picks the old receipts up between his index finger and middle finger.

“Why do you keep these things?” he chuckles. You looked over at him and snatched them.

“Are you worried that a cop may come and ask you, where were you, four years ago at 2:53 pm so you can whip out that receipt from your back and be like, ‘I was at the Hunts Restaurant sir, I had a bento and tea. I have receipts to prove it?’ For your alibi?”

“I might…” you dashed. Half of your head disappeared into the bag, still looking for the globe.

Yoongi picks up Band-Aids, some unopened menstrual pads and coupons from your favorite pizza place that expired four months ago.

“Honestly…” he comments.

“Aha!” You exclaimed, “The globe…”

The globe, like its name, has moon and stars on it. His nimble fingers examined it, closely. You were so expectant of what he’ll say.

“It’s pretty…” he said. “Isn’t it…” you gushed.

You return them into your bag because Yoongi don’t have one. Once again, you reminded him to put them on his table later on. He assures you he will, he even kept it in the car’s dashboard, so that when he returns to the office, he’ll make sure to take it with him. On the ride back home, you fell asleep. He made sure that he went over the bumps on the road gently, making his turns like a grandma on the wheel. He parked the car and waited. Fishing out his phone and he took pictures of you sleeping. He scrolls down messages from work, check on items he bought online, read a few emails...

Then you inhaled sharply, awake. Stretching your fingers.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you mewled sleepily. “Based on experience, you take 10-15 minutes to wake up when the car stops... “ he nonchalantly passed. You smiled at his bluntness. He endured 10-15 minutes of silence with his sleeping wife despite the turmoil he went through today. You couldn’t have married a better man. Even if there was a better man out there, if it isn’t Yoongi, you don’t want him.

Yoongi wasn’t lying when he said he wants to work on the sink immediately. You held the torch while he examined the sink. He wants to change the tap and clean the drainage hole. While he was struggling under the counter, you can’t help thinking that you were so fortunate. From how he handles things, to how he comforted you in times of need, to how he is made of husband material, you are certain, that God made this one, especially for you.

When he rolled out from underneath the sink, he caught you daydreaming. And he threw a sheepish smile at you. His thin white shirt is now drenched with spots of sweats on his chest and along his back. And he snarkily say,

“Wanna shower?”

You bit your lips at his remarks, playing coy at his forwardness. When in all honesty, you were down for it. And all the showers you will have in the future. . . .

Deep in you, knees dug into the mattress, between your thighs. His veiny arms gripping hard on the bed sheet. The sounds of heavy paintings, squelching cascaded in the room. He hovers sloppy kisses along your jaws like he was possessed and he said in his husky voice,

“That guy Namjoon… don’t feel right…” “I’ve been meaning to…” hisses in the delectable pain, “Talk about him…”

You propped your elbows up, leaning against it, brushing sweaty skin with Yoongi, you spoke is rasps,

“He said some strange things, so I am going to… delete him.”

Yoongi bit his smile, his porcelain skin glistening with the sweat that drenched him. His hand glides down your torso, with touches so hungry and starved kisses. He drew out a long deep moan, dove his face into your neck, chanted your name like a mantra--like a man standing on the verge of sanity, licking on the taste of infinity. .

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clockworknightmares · 3 years

Text

The Gift

I’ve had the ideas of this fumbling around in my drafts for a long time now and I finally finished it. I’m glad I waited thought because I had time to think long and hard about the way in which Rowena acquired Dray and what that might look like. This is from Vys’ POV, however I might write Dray’s POV at some point too.

Tw for “it” as pronouns, dehumanization, slavery, blood, muzzles, drugged whumpee (only briefly mentioned).

“That one.”

Vysthrain’s gaze follows to where Rowena’s finger is pointing. “That one? You can’t be serious, your Majesty. That one is- looks unremarkable. If- if I may be so bold.” He catches himself at the last moment. It never bodes well to contradict the Empress. He glances at her, gauging her reaction to his blunder. However- his opinion stands. The bloodied… boy in the arena below looks one more hit away from his demise.

Rowena laughs, a melodic sound with an edge that sends a shiver curling down Vys’ spine. She doesn’t seem bothered at his difference of opinion. “Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know what he has.”

“But you do.” It’s a statement, not a question. He can see the cogs in her head turning, that slight twitch of her lips when she’s thinking. More like scheming, his brain provides unhelpfully.

“That I do.” She keeps her eyes trained on the man in the arena as he runs his opponent through with the short spear he wields in his hand. It’s clearly not his weapon of choice, but he’s making it work. “You see, that is a half dragon.”

Vys snorts and plucks a grape from the bunch on the table next to them. Her majesty seems to be in a light mood, a mood in which he is allowed to converse freely. Within reason. “A half dragon. I think you have had one too many glasses, your Majesty. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as male halfbreed dragons.” He pops the firm grape into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue. “Besides, if there was, surely they would be more… impressing.” He keeps his eyes on her and away from the blood splattered sand below.

“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Rowena sits back and smiles to herself. “You see, it’s not that there’s no such thing, it’s that they’re incredibly rare, almost unheard of and Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know just how valuable that possession is.” Her eyes narrow as she turns her attention to watching again, fingers steepled in the way she does when she’s thinking. Vys recognizes the look as that dark shimmering greed of hers. He’s seen it a few times- and knows if it’s something she truly desires, nothing will stop her until it’s in her possession.

“And you’re going to get it, how exactly? Whether he knows what he has or not, Ailmer won’t give up a winning fighter easily.” Because- despite all odds, they were currently naming the object of Rowena’s attention the winner.

She leans over and pats his cheek like he’s a child asking a silly question. “Vys dear, when have I ever not found a way to get what I want?” It’s a rhetorical question. One that doesn’t even warrant an answer. He knows very well she has her ways. Even as Empress she can not simply demand what she wants, but there are ways.

“Sounds like you are already coming up with a wonderful plan, your Majesty.” He leans into her touch, as he knows she likes and gives her an easy smile. The heat of the day is not so unbearable to him in this moment. “Is there anything I may do to assist you in it?” If she becomes infatuated with some new object, will he be forgotten? He will never let that happen.

“Perhaps”, she says, idly watching the guards half guide, half drag the winner out of the arena. “However there might be no need for any form of coercion.” She gives him another smile. He knows all her smiles by now. This one is self satisfaction, security in her own plans, and just a hint of mirth. “My birthday will be arriving soon. And with it- gifts.”

…

There are such practices in court, that on the ruling monarch’s day of birth, they host many grand parties leading up to the day. These days are important as they allow the mingling of many Ostri and other important personages, officials and relatives, ambassadors and priestesses. It is the time to make important connections, vie for favors and with the right maneuvering, raise your position in court and the eyes of the Empress. A very difficult thing to do indeed.

It is one of the busiest times of Vys’ year, being both companion and spy for the Empress. Her eyes and ears in court, as she must keep herself from mingling too much. He knows Rowena keeps him to herself, not only because he owes her his life, his very existence, but also because he is invisible and they both know it. He is fae, lesser. And therefore apparently- deaf and blind.

The festivities begin several weeks before the actual day, plenty of time for Vys to worm his way into many circles, sometimes through rather unpleasant means. But if it solidifies his usefulness, his position in Rowena’s eyes- He will give all he has. He may not have need to coerce Ailmer into giving up this new arena rat, but the Ostra might need a nudge in the right direction.

The first time he makes contact with Ostra Ailmer is at a social gathering of the more relaxed nature and the man in question- appearing to have had one too many of the overflowing cups of wine, was in the perfect condition for Vys to begin his plan. The air is warm and thick, cloying in only the way that incense and perfumes bring in small spaces. Vys was more than happy to keep the Ostra’s cup full, hang on his arm, whisper the seeds of Rowena’s desire into this man’s ear.

“The Empress is very fond of the sport”, he says silkily, gliding his fingers along the man’s arm.

“Indeed, so they say”, the Ostra replies, twisting the sheer fabric of Vys’ shirt around his fingers. They are pressed close in some low, overstuffed seat, no other ears around.

“I have heard such wonderful things about your champions though. Some say a stock even to rival hers.” The flattery was working, Vys can tell. This man, wrapped up so much in his own self importance, wouldn’t notice a trap until it was too late for him.

“But of course. My lot is the best in all of Athyx Cyreos. I import you know. Better than pulling from the same pools that seem to go around here.”

“Have you ever found anything...extraordinary in your imports?” Vys knows he has to be careful in his words, Ostra Ailmer must never know what he has.

“I do believe I’ve found a champion, a survivor. Not much to look at of course, I did not think it would make it past initial training, but it has done surprisingly well for itself. That is- hasn’t died on me yet.” He laughs, an ear grating thing, and somehow Vys finds it difficult to laugh along with him.

“You know, I have heard some gossip about what the queen desires for her gifts this year, you seem like the type of man that would do well in her court, one I would enjoy seeing around more often.” Vys trails his long fingers down the row of tiny buttons that make up the front of the Ostra’s tunic.

That gets the man’s attention. Vysthrain, however not known to be the Empress' ear, is certainly known as a permanent fixture of the court and Her Majesty’s upper circles. He has access most Ostri can only ever dream of. The gossip of the upper circles is as close to facts as he will ever get. And the gift presented to the Empress has a direct effect on the status and placement you can hope to achieve that year. A gift well received means favors and power. A gift ill-suited to her Majesty’s desires can bring shame and loss of influence.

“You say the Empress might have desire for some of my imports?” Ailmer says, sitting up and glancing around to see if any stray eyes and ears are on them. There are none, save those soaking in his every reaction to take straight back to Rowena. “Tell me fae, what you know of this.”

“Well, you never heard it from me”, Vys says, pulling the Ostra back down to be seated. “But she does have an eye for the unique. Something… different from what others have. She is our Empress after all.” How many more hints must he drop before this man gets it through his wine-addled head? Then again, Rowena had said that Ostra Ailmer did not know what he had.

“She wants a strong champion, one to win for her?” Ailmer asks, missing the point entirely.

“No-” he starts, nearly frustrated but stops. He’s better than this. “No, I have heard the Empress desires it to be nothing, so that she may turn it into something” He recalls the image of the bloodstained boy in the arena. It had won, but barely. There was certainly nothing there, but that was the appeal for Rowena. She likes to rub her victories into her opponents faces.

“I- I will take this information into account. It has been… most helpful.”

Vys gave a lazy grin and stroked the line of the Ostra’s jaw. “I am most pleased to be of assistance to you. In any way that I can.”

…

With the Empress’ desire secured, or at least he prays it is, Vys leans back into his job of attending every gathering, rooting out every gossip, avoiding those few people he knows better than to tangle with. The day of Rowena’s birth arrives, and with it, the gifts and delicacies and flatteries that never seem to cease. He can tell that she soaks it all in, but with a scrutiny in her eye that he knows sees through the genuine devotion and the false praise. Vys knows most of it is fake, simply a vie for attention and power. But so must it be, it is their way.

She has become fixated in these weeks, wondering more often than not if she can simply buy the thing she wants. But Vys reassures her that letting this be gifted could lead to an established connection with the Ostra and his imports and also the ability to show him up, simply giving away something so valuable (according to Rowena). Vys knows not of dragons and their worth, but it does seem to be a point of fascination with Her Majesty.

So it is of no surprise to him when she awaits this moment with a form of anticipation, not shown on her face, but in the way she sits up straighter, leans forward slightly, jeweled claws tapping slightly on the arm of her throne. She is raised a good deal above the court, stairs to a platform where her council and inner circle have their places, then still more stairs to her. The Ostri are allowed to ascend to the first platform to present their gifts.

Vys lingers there, keeping an eye on them, watching and mentally recording their gifts. The Empress allows him at her side, near the throne to be at her call, so he often moves between, catching a whisper from her in his ear, making (slightly) judgmental comments about persons of the court. He has not succeeded in making her laugh on her throne, but wonders what would happen if he did. She would either find it extremely amusing or highly punishable. He fears the latter, so he keeps his tone even, with the dry humor he knows she is fond of.

There are many people in court today, many gifts being presented. But Vys knows that Rowena waits for only one. When Ostra Ailmer approaches, she straightens ever so slightly and pulls on her look of disinterest.

Vys tunes out most of the scraping and bowing and presenting, instead peering around for the thing that Rowena continues to fixate on. His heart begins to beat quicker when he doesn’t see it. If Rowena doesn't get it today, she is going to be most displeased. Particularly with him.

“And what have you brought for me today, Ostra Ailmer”, he hears Rowena say, clear and strong. She knows how to project her voice if nothing else.

“Your Majesty, I know you hold a great love of sport and pride yourself in having only the best in the arena. Your choices are always unique and with great might. I myself am in the humble occupation of procuring such items. Yet it has come to my attention that you wish for something to craft yourself, mould to your desires. And I hope that on this day, I can present you with such a thing.”

Vys finds himself holding his breath. If what Ailmer procured is not-

The two guards that flank the Ostra part and Vys realizes why he hadn’t been able to see it, dwarfed by Ailmer’s guards of imposing size. Vys looks it over, and feels Rowena next to him doing the same. It was a rather dismal-looking individual with two short horns curling from a shaved head, hands chained in front connected to a thick collar around its neck, a muzzle strapped tightly against its face, clothed only from the waist down. They have it shackled at the ankles, barefoot. Ailmer obviously had tried to clean it up, but the traces of freshly healed wounds are still evident across its body. It keeps its head low, its eyes on the ground. Ailmer has been able to train it that much at least.

The light catches in a glint on something at its chest, and Vys tries to get a closer look before realizing the room has fallen into silence and Ostra Ailmer has paled to the point of looking a rather sickly grey.

It has been several long moments and Rowena has still not given an indication on whether or not the gift was worthy. She too- as Vys has been- is studying the thing before her, lost in thought. It made sense to Vys, of course. They had been discussing this moment for weeks now, but he realized to the rest of the court and especially to Ostra Ailmer in hindsight, this appeared to be a very poor excuse for a gift. It was a single worthless looking thing. It was not as if Ailmer was offering the Empress his best champion. No. This was some untrained waif that he had drug up from who knows where.

“Y-your your Majesty, I-” Ostra Ailmer begins, quaking in his boots, and cuts himself off sharply with an undignified squeak as Rowena stands from her throne.

A sickening hush fell across the entire court. Even Vys, who knew that this was the gift Rowena desired, felt his breath catch in his throat. She never stood. She never walked down the steps.

Ailmer and his guards bow low, dropping to their knees and not daring to look up at her face. Her inner circle even bows their heads, backing away to give her space as she descends. Only Vys watches as she comes to the bottom of the stairs, in front of the thing in chains who is neither bowing, nor trying to move away from her. Vys thinks he hears Ailmer whimper.

Rowena’s dress pools at her feet, many lengths of dark red fabric like a waterfall of blood behind her.

A single gold clawed fingertip reaches out and catches underneath the thing’s muzzle, tipping it’s face up to meet her gaze. It’s eyes lock to hers, blue against gold, unblinking.

Vys isn't sure how long they stay that way, the oppressive silence across the vast room, the shivering Ostra at the Empress’ feet before she tugs the gift a step forward by the chain connected to the collar and cuffs.

“Ostra Ailmer”, she says, voice ringing loudly. Vys’ ears burn from the noise after so much deafening quiet. “Your gift is accepted.”

A general murmur comes over the entire court, first nervous tittering, then a few polite claps, then the court quickly recovers, returning to the claps and cheers of normal.

Ostra Ailmer looks as if his ghost has already taken leave of his body and ascended to the Mother.

“T-thank you your Majesty”, he whispers, not quite all there as his guards help him down the stairs. Vys has to try and not smile at the sight. The man will recover with time and most likely prosper well from this happenstance, but he will never forget this moment where he believed himself to be seconds from seeing his ancestors.

Vys watches one of the Empress’ personal guards approach as if to remove her new gift further behind scenes, but she waves them away with a subtle flick of her wrist, and ascends the stairs to her throne, chained gift in tow, stopping only once again seated as if nothing had happened.

Vys shoots a look across her to where she’s pushed it down next to her throne on the opposite side, golden claws slowly scraping across its shorn scalp. He meets its eyes for a moment, a cloudy blue, not quite there look. He recognizes the cloudiness. Ailmer must have had it drugged before bringing it into a room full of high profile individuals. Smart.

The look doesn't last long, as it turns its gaze and head downward. But there had been something in those eyes that didn’t settle him. A slight shudder rippled through his shoulders and he returned his attention to the remainder of the presentation.

Rowena had another smile on her face, one that he knew very well to be only one thing.

Victory.

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thenextchapter22 · 3 years

Text

Angel of the Three Realms

PART 7!!

Description: You were an Angel who went to the human world to escape punishment for loving Lucifer only to be brought back into his life, this time in the Devildom where you pretend to be human.

In this chapter: Everything is perfect, even with your love still a secret, and being home with everyone and flying is all you could ask for...

Tags: Unrequited Love, Fluff, Angst, WIP

Pairing(s): Lucifer/Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Link to my AO3: Click Here

Authors Note: Guys, this is the second to last chapter :( Thank you to all those who kept reading, I’m really happy you liked this work. Please enjoy~

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

_+_

You had the most magical time just simply being with the brothers. Not doing anything special, only talking in your room, tossing popcorn at each other and snuggling. They were always so warm, and you’d never turn away a hug.

But eventually they had to go to their own thing, so that left you some time alone. Mostly with your thoughts, which strayed here and there as you stretched on your bed. Thankfully they had put it back to the way it was before the spell to make it larger.

School was on temporary break per Lord Diavolo’s orders (and although he didn’t say it directly, you knew it was because of you, and he wanted you to have some time off).

There was a knock on the door again. But this time, someone else spoke out on the other side.

“May I come in?” Lucifer called out.

You stood up quick and straightened out your clothes, fixing your hair. It had a slight curl to it from Asmo’s braiding. Lucifer at your door was a rare thing indeed, plus you wanted to look presentable after having popcorn thrown at you.

Letting him inside, he glanced around at the slight mess that still remained. Stray blankets, the TV was still moved from its spot, and some chairs had been pushed away to make room for the larger bed that had been there.

He turned back to you, and said, “I had stopped by earlier, but heard you all having so much fun I didn’t want to ruin it all.”

You blinked in surprise. “Oh, you could have joined us, you know.”

He waved his gloved hand dismissively. “No, you needed time with them. They needed time with you.”

Biting your lip, you had to ask. “Did you… hear anything we said?”

His lips quirked a bit but he didn’t not smile. “If you’re referring to you speaking about Michael, then, yes, I happened to hear it.”

So you eavesdropped, you wanted to say, but instead you pushed that away. It probably wasn’t on purpose.

“I hope its okay I told them about Michael… I don’t want to keep any more secrets.”

“Of course, dove, I had planned on telling them myself.”

You shivered at the nickname that flew so easily from his lips, and nodded, your hair bouncing. “Good, I’m glad.”

You watched his gaze flicker to your shoulders before he sighed. “I don’t want to upset you but I feel like we should talk about everything that’s happened.”

“Oh! Uh, okay. Do you want to sit then?” you gestured to the table. “I can make us some tea really fast.”

He did sit, but shook his head. “The tea isn’t needed. Let’s just talk.”

Talking wasn’t as easy as he made it seem. But you did sit opposite him at the little brown wooden table, and crossed your ankles and folded your hands under your chin. “All right, shoot.”

He smirked. “So eloquent.”

You winked. “Always.”

Really, you just wanted to ease the tension in the room. It was too stuffy and a bit suffocating. You were nervous for his questioning, like he was a detective asking you, a criminal, if you had done the murder.

Lucifer didn’t look at you for a moment, instead stared at the table, tapping his fingers on the edge. Then he stopped, and looked up at you with intensity in those gorgeous eyes. “I can’t apologize enough for how stupid I was to not see you when you first came here. Despite the spell, even so.”

You frowned. “Oh, Luci—”

He kept going. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. I need to know. Why did you leave? What happened to make you leave?”

You knew the question would come. Still you were not prepared for it. “I just… it’s hard to say why. There were lots of reason.” Lies. Only one: him.

He always saw right through you. Narrowing eyes spoke of that. “You’re not being truthful with me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

He paused. His tone seemed lighter next he spoke, “Did you at least have a happy life?”

That was just like the brothers’ question. “I did…mostly.”

“Hm. Tell me more. I want to hear about your life, what I missed.”

“You do?” you whispered.

“Of course. Unless you don’t want to tell me. You’ve changed so much since I last saw you.”

“In a good way, or bad?”

He chuckled. “A bit of both, I think.”

You smiled. “Okay.” You thought about everything you’d been through, and decided to start off with a high note. “There was a stretch of years where I lived in a small town by the sea. Everyone knew everyone, and there was kindness all around. My favorite thing to do was fly over the water in the moonlight. The ocean breeze and the smell of salt air was amazing.” You inhaled like you were there, and he gently reached out and brushed his fingers over your cheek. You held in a whimper. “I had to leave at one point, when the kids started to become adults and I stayed the same as I was.”

“That must’ve been difficult to do over and over. Establish relationships and then leave.”

You nodded, and sighed. “It had to be done…”

“I do have to wonder… why you didn’t become Human once your arrival on the surface world. You have no Halo but you do have wings, and celestial magic… It’s against all that Heaven stood for.”

You had wondered it yourself many times. But then you had other things to worry about, like your pretend human life. Evolving with them, learning and teaching, building relationship and ending them many times over. It was fun and fantastic and everything you never had dreamed of when you first left. So, only for a few short moments did you ponder that question Lucifer asked, and replied back.

“I did wonder but… I wouldn’t be able to find any answers. I had too much to do.”

Lucifer smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

Your heart clenched. “You—you are?”

“I am. You’ve done amazing things in your life. I couldn’t have wished for anything better. Losing all these years with you…” He frowned. “I will admit thinking about how much time I’ve spent here, with my memories of you gone… That I didn’t have the strength to break free.”

“You couldn’t have known,”

“While that’s true, I still hate it.”

“And so, now that I have you here with me, I will make the best of it. We will together.”

Together. Just not the way you wanted.

Perhaps, in time, maybe some years in the future, you would be brave enough to finally speak up. But right now wasn’t the best time. Or you could just be a true coward to your own feelings. You had a stray thought of ‘what it this was hurting Lucifer more than telling him would be?’

“I promise you, my dear, if I were to ever see Michael again…” And Lucifer’s forehead glowed where his black triangle usually lay, dark clouds forming the shape but not fully changing him. “…I’ll kill him.”

_+_

Life was back to normal. Only, it was better. Truth was out, and a freedom of the soul with it. You were truly able to be you, at least in the way you looked. Sure, your wings were still tucked away but you knew they weren’t a secret to be hidden away anymore.

The first day you were told you could fly again, you shot out of bed that very morning and, after breakfast, ran to the courtyard. It was a beautiful Devildom day, no clouds, not too hot or cold, and the winds were just right.

“She’s gonna fly! Everyone, come and see her wings!” Mammon shouted.

There was the sound of a stampede and before you knew it, the entirety of the House of Lamentation was there, and Purgatory Hall even somehow ended up.

You were very nervous. It had been months since you’d flown. But you knew it was going to be as easy as getting back on a bicycle as the humans say.

“Go on, dearie, we know you’re going to be beautiful. Spread your wings and fly~” Asmo shouted.

You grinned at him, and heard everyone else shout out words of encouragement. It was honestly really sweet. Luke was jumping up and down, waving his arms. He hadn’t gotten wings yet so he was super excited.

Satan didn’t have wings so he wasn’t as cheery, but he still gave you a soft smile and told you to go for it.

Then, lastly, you heard Lucifer speak. He wasn’t shouting like the others, but your focused hearing caught his words. “Fly, just as you used to: with passion.”

So with that, you changed, wings sprouting out like fireworks of white bursting open, and like a rocket you shot up into the sky. There was cheering and screaming, but as you went higher, soaring around the clear skies, you could only hear the wind rushing in your ears, and your heart pounding. The pure delight in flying never would leave you.

The sky wasn’t just yours for long. You looked to your left and saw Asmodeus’ bat wings flapping as he twirled in circles. He looked majestic, and you saw he had his hair pinned back with clips. He winked and flew a bit lower, and you laughed.

Mammon flew past you in a burst of speed, the back winds hitting you hard but you steadied yourself. “Hey, slow down!” you teased.

He stuck out his tongue from in front of you, and circled you once. “No way, you’re so slow,” he shouted with a stupid grin before speeding ahead.

You laughed at them. This was so much fun. You shut your eyes for a moment, feeling the wind in your face, rustling your hair. Your wings ached gloriously. The tickling of it against your feathers. It was pure magic.

“Always with your head in the clouds.”

You saw Lucifer then, full form, four wings dark and incredible behind him. His hair looked perfect in the wind, and he eased up next to your right and kept pace.

“I know,” you said with a smile. “I do my best thinking here.”

“Well, then, next time a test comes up, please go flying first.”

You laughed. “All right, but only if you come with me?”

He smiled. “Of course, dove.”

You hummed. You moved away a bit, and twirled once, giggling, and found his gaze softened. “Why did you call me that? You used to when I was younger, and you also did when I first came here. I don’t know why, when you were under that spell…”

He slowed his speed a bit until he stopped, and you had to circle back to meet him. The two of you thousands of feet above the Devildom ground, floating in the air.

“It’s quite the conundrum isn’t it?” He paused. “Memories don’t just vanish. These spells can’t remove a memory, only cloak it, and hide it away. So it’s always there, somewhere in your mind, waiting to resurface again.”

You frowned. He was sort of right. It was like when you worked as a temp nurse in a hospital, and the coma patients eventually got their memory back with time and patience.

Suddenly, Lucifer smiled at you, like a Morningstar of darkness. “I suppose a part of me just… couldn’t forget you.”

What? Your wings fumbled a bit in astonishment, and he reached out to grab at your upper arms. There was a large frown on his face and his brow was furrowed. “Steady. You’re stronger now but I think it’s time to head back down.”

You said nothing, only let him lead you both to the ground. Everyone gathered around and you were brought out of your head to them patting your arms and saying how amazing you were.

A part of you was still stuck on what just was said, but you pulled yourself together. “Thanks everyone! I want to fly with all of you soon.”

You looked at Satan, who was frowning. He sighed. So you walked to him and took his hand. He blushed. “The two of us can do something else, or if you want I can take you flying?”

He shook his head. “No thank you. I’m not a fan of… heights…” He smiled. “But I appreciate it.”

Belphie made a soft noise. “I want extra naps on your lap as compensation.”

You chuckled. “Easily done, Belphie.”

Levi frowned from beside Satan. “What about me?”

You took his hand next, to which he panicked externally and internally, and said the same thing to him.

Levi stuttered a bit, “W-w-well we can go swimming instead. I know a lake that’s perfect this time of year where you can rent tube floats nearby and there’s a really cool waterfall that makes rainbows.”

You nodded. “Sounds perfect. Speaking of water, I’m thirsty so I’m going to grab a drink.”

Leaving them behind, you went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, downed it, and exhaled. You placed your hands on the marble countertop and scrunched your nose while you thought.

‘a part of me just… couldn’t forget you.’

Did Lucifer love you? As more than a… friend? Was it possible? Those words seemed to have an underlying meaning to them, you were almost positive. Because if he did love you, he would say so, right? He was Pride, but wouldn’t love overcome that tenfold?

You laughed aloud, and shook your head. “I’m an idiot. Of course he doesn’t.”

Still, those words echoed in your head all day and night, even appearing in your dreams. Haunting or teasing, you were not sure.

But when you woke up to a new family, you shoved that part away. You had to put the past where it belonged: the past. You were home, Michael could not get you here, and you were safe to live your life as you chose. And you chose to live it to the fullest.

#obey me fanfiction #lucifer x you #reader x lucifer #obey me shall we date fanfiction #obey me lucifer #obey me #obey me reader #wingfic #obey me mammon #obey me asmo #obey me satan #obey me levi #obey me belphie #my fics #ao3 link

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honeysidesarchived · 3 years

Text

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part ii.

word count: 9.2k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he’s a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. if you’re here i imagine you know exactly what he’s about.

notes: hello! it has been a hot minute since i updated, but i promise i am not dead. i just went on a real vacation and juggling two longfic projects at once is (surprise) very time consuming! but i am here with chapter two. it's a lot of roman pretending not to be jealous when he's actually seething inside (we love to see it), as well as a few little drops of intrigue. yes, i know, i TOO wanted an entire longfic about roman and varya just making out between dramatic proclamations of their violent devotion for each other, but alas, alack.

special thank you to my beta @starcrier who of course helped me proof a good portion of this, and is eternally my cheerleader and the loml, as well as @shallow-gravy who put her eyes on the very very rough draft of this when i wanted to bash my head into the top of the desk a-la-roman's theatrics. without you this chapter would not have happened!

and thank you to everyone who has read this so far! carry your throne was truly my baby and so getting to write a sequel for it is the most incredible feeling. your support means the world to me. <3

Roman did not like sharing his things.

It was perpetually difficult enough to have let Varya waltz around the club so that she might have happily enjoyed being lavished attention on (attention that was, to be kept in mind, not his)—but watching a stranger, an interloper from her past, indulge himself in her, that was excruciating. Because that’s what it was, in the end; less about his girl enjoying herself and more about people enjoying her, realizing they would never have her, that she would always be his.

So as Irina took the twins back upstairs and Roman ushered her back into the throng of partygoers, he did so with intent; Roman watched Varya wind her way from person to person, lingering at their friend Dorian—dutiful member of the press always content to show her in a good light—before she and Maxim connected.

Roman watched them. He watched the way Maxim beamed at her, the way he ducked his head to hear her say something. He laughed and rocked back on his heels a little, and when Varya brought the glass to her lips, Roman saw it—saw Maxim’s eyes dart down to her mouth, their ascent short-lived as he busied his hand with sweeping a stray curl from her face. Maxim seemed very comfortable touching Varya, he thought. Men were never comfortable touching Varya. They were either—he had found, at least—aware of her proclivity for having hands cut off or (what he could only argue was the most correct deterrent) understanding of the simple politeness that came with not putting your hands on another man’s woman.

More than anyone, Roman appreciated having the things which others could not, so that he could be envied: but this?

This was treasonous. Poisonous. Heretical. Not in my fucking house.

Puzzling yet was Varya’s willingness to let her childhood friend conduct himself in such a way. She was a greedy thing, his girl; he knew that she so loved the attention, preening and glowing under the adoration. Greedy and hungry for love. Had she always been so active a participant in the act of touching, of being touched? Even by a stranger?

Not a stranger, he reminded himself tartly. Childhood friend, the man whose father she killed. That’s two fathers now, in her ledger—her own and someone else’s. And petulantly, he thought it a bit unsettling that it was a bond he could never have with her—dear old dad was already dead as a fucking doornail, wasn’t he? No chance Varya would want to ice him for Roman a second time.

He had determined to swallow his pride (impressive, gracious, generous) and make his way over when Dorian swept in; Dorian, preening and wrapping his arms around Varya from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and making the noisy announcement, “Stealing her away, thank you!” just before he steered her past Maxim. There, the crowd shifted and scooted out of the way to reveal the birthday cake getting wheeled out on its little tray, decorated in gem tones and sparklers.

The determination to close the distance between himself and their newfound associate did not abate, even with Dorian’s well-timed interjection. As he wove through the crowd of milling partygoers, accepting compliments on his good work, he waited until he got within a foot or two of Maxim to stop. Everyone was applauding the cake. Everyone was having a great time looking at the expensive cake glimmering under the oh-so-obnoxious chandelier, but mostly he thought they were applauding his wife.

So, Roman clapped. He clapped, because the cake was out and the sparklers were fizzing and popping prettily, dancing golden light across his wife’s delighted face. He clapped, because everyone else was clapping, too. He clapped, and he flashed an all-teeth smile at Varya from over the top off the elaborately decorated cake (tasteful, not gaudy, of course).

Over the fizzing and popping, and without taking his eyes off of Varya, he said to Maxim, “Did you fuck my wife?”

Maxim clapped. He clapped, too, and he stood there for a moment and blinked a few times and replied, “What?” His accent was thicker than Varya’s, and thicker than Ilarion’s had been.

“You speak English, don’t you?” Roman snipped, his words and perhaps some of his annoyance masked by the party chatter. Varya shrieked delightedly when Dorian dabbed frosting on her nose. “I asked if you’ve fucked my wife?”

The blonde cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently grateful that the attention had gone from clapping now to cutting the cake. In the corner of his eye, Roman could see Zsasz lurking—watching, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t need to intervene on Roman’s behalf. Always a good man.

“No, Mr. Sionis,” Maxim replied, talking over the din of music and laughter.

Good, Roman thought. And then: “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Fuck,” Roman bit out, “my wife?”

Maxim barked out a laugh. He looked caught off-guard by the question—like maybe he wasn’t sure if Roman was asking to threaten or offering to join their marital bed—and then he said, “You have put me in an uncomfortable position. If I say no, I am insulting my childhood friend. If I say yes, I am insulting my new boss.”

There was something about this that flared a little spike of victory in Roman’s chest. Yes, that was right—he was Maxim’s new boss. And Maxim should be nervous about pissing him off, shouldn’t he?

“But,” the blonde plunged on, “I imagine having something that other people want feels good, does it not?”

His eyes narrowed. He smiled thinly. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” he agreed, “it sure fucking does.”

There was a moment where it looked as though the other man was going to say something, his mouth opening but no words coming out, brows knitting together at the center of his forehead; but then silk and warm stretches of skin were filling up Roman’s vision, Varya having swept around to come to him, eyes bright. They’d only been at the party for a little while, but already his fingers were itching—he wanted, having stood by idly while greedy hands brushed against his Varya, and it was time to erase them all, he reasoned. Wipe her clean of them as best he knew how.

Still, she had not looked so happy in a while, he thought. Varya always beamed around the twins, practically glowing radioactive from the inside out, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her so delighted without them in her arms. And surely, this was a testament to his doing—his meticulous, flawless planning, regardless of whatever wrench Maxim Kuznetsov was trying to throw. Yes, Roman thought, he had done exceptionally, in this as in all things.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, “are you playing nice?”

“I’m always nice, kitten,” he demurred, sliding his arms around her waist and nosing the hair at her temple automatically. Every time she came around, the gravitational pull was inevitable—hands on, hands on, hands on, making sure everybody knew exactly who she belonged to. “But you can ask your little friend, if you’re worried I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He said, you can ask, but he kissed her after he said it, purring against her mouth and keeping her otherwise preoccupied; when she did pull away, still encircled in his arms, she smoothed her hand along the exposed skin of his sternum and looked inquisitively at Maxim.

Roman mimicked the tilt of her head. The blonde regarded him for a moment, and then Varya, and then smiled.

“Your husband is very accommodating, Varushka,” he told her, shrugging as if to say, and what else would he be? “I have never met a man like him.”

He felt his mouth downturn—Varushka, the same pet name Ilarion had used with her. It was one thing to accept that his wife’s twin brother would always be held in high regard in her memory, that he’d had to endure the Varushkas and the closeness that they had shared that purposefully, intimately excluded him.

“That’s because there’s nobody like me,” Roman idled, despite the venom thrumming in his veins. He was cool. He was cool and fine and totally cool. Varya hummed and planted a kiss against the slope of his jaw; her nose brushed the hollow of his throat, more than content to remain there.

But even though their exchange remained pleasant, for a second, the blonde Russian regarded him with the same deadpan, venomous gaze that Ilarion had so often. It was so close to the way his wife’s twin had looked at him, in fact, that the disdain which had been almost exclusively reserved for Ilarion himself now prickled up the back of his throat like a bile—instinctual, muscle memory.

He had seen the same look crossing the faces of the men from St. Petersburg, flown all the way to Gotham to meet their new pakhan, as Varya had put it: disdain. We’re not for you, those fleeting glances said, despite the acknowledgment in all other things that they were. What do we want with some American gangster?

He was vaguely aware of Varya and Maxim saying something, exchanging words, but their voices had dulled to the cartoonish wah wah wah of an old-time cartoon, with Varya’s occasional laugh vibrating against his sternum. Maxim waved a hand dramatically. There was ink, there; he hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too busy inspecting the man’s stupid fucking face, trying to find the lip of his mask somewhere in there. False fucking face, that’s all it was.

And yet: Roman could not help but feel a little burn of intrigue at the sight of the inked Cyrillic letters on the back of the man’s hand.

“—stairs, my darling?”

Varya’s voice bled through the dull static that had overtaken his mind. He glanced at her, reaching up and tracing the slope of her jaw with his thumb, his other fingers splaying along the spine of her neck. Obediently, her chin tilted. She was complacent like this—docile, even; he could have snapped her neck if he wanted, dug his nails into that warm, dusky skin and watched the blood well, and she would have let him—so much so that he wondered at it for a moment. All of his hard work, all of his tempering, cupped right there in his hand; she was his.

Rather than admit to having checked out of their conversation, Roman pressed the pad of a gloved thumb against her lower lip and deferred, “Whatever you want, kitten.”

Briefly, the thought that he had agreed to let Maxim into his loft occurred. Oh, what a dreadful thought.

“Then it’s settled,” she replied. “You can stay while the party goes on, of course, Maxi.”

Maxim lifted his head, regarding them with a gaze that was no longer venomous, but playful. “Of course.”

“And you’ll leave the address of where you’re staying with Armazd?”

“If you want it, I will.” He cocked his head, smiling politely. “Goodnight, the both of you. I am happy to finally put a face to the name Roman Sionis.”

What the fuck is it with these people, he thought wearily, and with no absence of annoyance. This is just how it had been before—everyone saying things beneath the things they were saying, layers and layers and layers, piling up over each other. Didn’t any of these stupid fucking gun dogs say anything exactly the way it was?

“Yes,” Roman agreed, “I bet you are.”

With great purpose—and having determined that Varya was quite done with the evening—he planted his hands on her hips and turned her, steering her towards the doors which exited out of the club and into the hallway housing the elevator. It was her birthday, after all; there was nothing he could do except whatever it was she wanted.

“Goodnight, Maxim,” he said over his shoulder, steering the brunette in his grasp toward the door. A distressed ugh! sounded to his left, and he turned to see Dorian glaring at him accusingly.

“You get her all the time, Roman,” the journalist announced. “Surely you can spare her for a little longer?”

“Afraid I can’t,” he replied over his shoulder, squeezing Varya’s hip when she stifled her laughter. “You see Dorian, close to a year ago, Varya and I decided that we had plenty of other uses for cake to be explored on our birthdays—”

Another disgusted sound came, but it was too late; Roman was already nudging Varya through the doors to the hallway, and down to the elevator. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was quiet; it was the one area of the building where it seemed like the air conditioning didn’t quite reach, having so many accesses to the outside, and so the air already felt a little humid and muggy.

“Oh, we forgot the cake,” Varya pouted, trailing ahead of him. She’d collected the hem of her silk dress loosely in one hand, keeping it from the floor as she wandered to the elevator to push the button. The neon red of the Exit sign cut across one side of her, illuminating her in half crimson and half shadow. It reminded him of the night he’d come back to the loft to find her covered in another man’s blood, kitchen knife in hand.

And mine, he thought. Varya Astakhova, the gem of St. Petersburg, only living heir to the Astakhov gun-running fortune, his wife.

“Darling,” she purred, breaking him out of his thoughts, “are you going to just stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” he replied idly. “Maybe I will just stand here all night and stare at my wife, hm? Who would stop me?”

“Well, certainly not me,” she demurred, turning to look at him fully now. “But you can hardly kiss me from there. And what am I suppose to do, go without cake and without your hands on me?”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Roman thought about the way Maxim had looked at him—just for that tiny split second—all of the disdain and venom welling in his gaze before it was wiped away. Your husband is very accommodating, I’ve never met a man like him. And that fucking tattoo on his hand. It nagged at him, dragged his attention away from the very, very delicious task at hand.

“Roman?”

“You go,” he announced. “I’ll be up in just a minute.”

A plush, ruby lower lip pouted out. Roman sidled over to the elevator, planting a gloved hand on the doorway so that the doors wouldn’t close, and she prompted, “What could you have possibly forgotten when all you need is right here?”

“You are most spectacular,” Roman agreed, reaching up and twisting a curl around his finger. “But it’s just a quick thing. Don’t worry that pretty head, kitten. I’ll be up in no time, and you had better—”

When he leaned in, their noses brushed; Varya hooked her fingers in the space between the buttons of his collared shirt and tugged a little, playfully, humming sweetly.

“—have this dress off,” he finished, voice pitching low and warm, “by the time I get up there.”

“And what if I don’t?” The cloying, saccharine tone of her voice belied the little spark of rebellion in her words. Roman made a pleasant sound against her mouth, a humid warmth plunging down his spine when she closed the tiny space between them to kiss him; it was entirely unhurried, and on instinct his free hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more flush against him as her lips parted prettily beneath his to sigh.

He said into the kiss, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

“Is it a test?” Roman felt her smile. “I love tests.”

“Get upstairs,” he growled, unable to resist a final kiss. “Wicked thing.”

Varya did pull back, reluctantly and with a dramatic, long sigh. She’d always had a thing for the dramatics. “Fine, I will go upstairs all alone,” she drawled. “Don’t keep me waiting, Romy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from the elevator door and turning around to head back to the club. The party was still in full swing; people wouldn’t even begin to start leaving for another few hours, patiently and dutifully babysat by Armazd and Zsasz (well, mostly Armazd—Zsasz was not good at being ‘patient’ or ‘dutiful’ if it didn’t include face-carving). It was like having three nannies on payroll, instead of just the one.

The door swung shut behind him. People chattered brightly over the music, lingering around tables in clustered groups. He could see at least half a dozen mobsters and their families, associates of Varya’s from overseas, socialites she had charmed and wealthy businessmen determined to get into their good graces before the weapons chokehold came into full effect.

But there was only one man he wanted to see.

Dorian Young had been smitten with Varya since the moment they’d met, through Roman—and since then, they’d been nearly inseparable. Dorian had even done her the kindness of writing Ilarion a flattering obituary. It would have been annoying, if Roman considered Dorian a threat in the least. He did not.

“Dorian,” he barked out, catching the brunette’s attention. He smiled, full-teeth and as charmingly as he could. “Buddy-mine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Dorian arched a brow loftily. “A favor outside of the eternal wisdom of Gotham’s madonna, Roman? How scandalous. You know I can’t resist a special in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roman adjusted one of his gloves absently, glancing around the room before inclining his head and taking a few steps outside of the cluster of milling partygoers. He didn’t have many concerns about being overheard, given the noise level, but it was better safe than sorry. “You have access to certain records, don’t you?”

Now two perfectly-manicured brows arched upward before Dorian cleared his throat, dark eyes fluttering in a bat at innocence.

“I’m a journalist, Roman,” he intoned somberly. “If someone were to give me access to records that were anything but public, it would be a grave and disgusting infringement on the American Privacy—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, shut the fuck up,” Roman interjected, waving his hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. How about this: you don’t use the records you aren’t able to access, and you don’t dig up literally everything you can on Maxim Kuznetsov.”

“The ex-boyfriend?” Dorian tsked his tongue. “Roman, green is not your color.”

“Hey? Dorian? Don’t be a fucking moron.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just say you’ll do it.”

“You mean,” Dorian amended, “that I won’t.”

Roman let out an exasperated noise, clapping a hand onto the man’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle that was meant to convey he wished that he could instead be strangling him in that moment. Varya would have been upset if he did. Dorian flashed him a pearly grin.

“Consider it done. Or not-done, as the case may be.” He took a swig of his drink, sucking his teeth. “Anything I should be on the look-out for?”

“Any red flags. Suspicious shopping behavior. Outgoing calls to private numbers. He’ll likely have two separate phones—one burner, one not.” Roman dropped his hand from Dorian’s shoulder. “Armazd will have his address, if you want to get that from him before you leave tonight. And—one more thing.”

The journalist looked at him expectantly, waiting.

“Not a word,” he continued. “To anyone. But especially not to Varya.”

“If you’re sure,” Dorian ventured.

“The surest.”

It was when he turned to depart the party—for real, this time; he was tired of waiting to unwrap his wife—that Dorian said, “Roman?”

A deep, calming breath. I need Dorian, he reminded himself, and V’s fond of him. Roman pulled another one-eighty. “Yes, Dorian, beloved of my wife?”

“How is Varya?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, really?”

The question was not one that Roman had anticipated. Why would she be anything other than great, glowing, in love with her life? Sure, the last year had been full of turmoil—but they had come out of it fine. Better than fine. Roman had gotten everything he had wanted, and Varya—well, much the same, hadn’t she?

Dorian’s prying reminded him of the way Varya’s body had stilled, the way her expression had hardened, that dark, wild look slipping into her eyes when the lights in the club had blinked on to reveal the surprise party. She’d looked frigid, the softness wiped clean from her in that split moment.

“She’s fine,” Roman replied after a minute. “I mean—she’s great. What do you mean?”

“I can’t get a good read on her. You know,” Dorian pointed out. “And she did watch her supposed-to-be-dead daddy unload a round into her twin brother while she was drugged to the gills on ketamine.”

Well, when you put it like that, Roman thought dryly.

“Some of us, Dorian,” he said primly, “are able to rise above our trials and tribulations and come out better, hm?”

The journalist smiled. He didn’t looked swayed by Roman’s words, but eventually he said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Good man.”

It was only a few minutes from the club’s main floor up to the loft, but those few minutes felt like an eternity; stretching out, impossibly long and endless in front of him. Varya’s birthday was supposed to have been a problem-less occasion, and now he had several problems lining themselves up in front of them. Chiefly, Kuznetsov. And the rest of them, too, but mostly Maxim.

Roman tugged the gloves from his hands and shrugged the suit jacket from his shoulders as the doors to the loft slid open, the gentle ding announcing his arrival. Faintly, he could hear the classical music that Varya favored to play in the twins’ room as they slept; there would be a little speaker on the table closest to her side of the bed, so that she could rouse the second either of them needed her, but they were good babies, like she’d said; it was rare when they didn’t sleep through the night.

He tossed the articles he’d disrobed from onto the long dining table as he passed, nudging the door to the bedroom open.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyes roaming expanses of warm, dusky skin exposed to him as Varya lay stretched out on the bed, “I see we went with behaving tonight?”

“I told you,” she replied demurely, “I love a good test. I can hardly resist the challenge.” Her eyes glittered playfully, and she propped herself up on her elbows, the silk of her underclothes rustling in a way that beckoned him—his hands, his mouth. “You didn’t bring any cake up?”

A quick laugh billowed out of Roman as he sidled over, stepping out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed. “It’s vanilla, you know. Not chocolate. It would have been sacrilege, in memory of our first big fight.”

“Was it chocolate?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her gravely. “I’d never forget. Don’t you remember? You were a terrible brat to me, and then you didn’t speak to me for a week, and then you showed up with a cake—”

“Terrible brat?” She laughed, feigning insult. “On my birthday, no less.”

He grinned. Leaning down, he pressed a leisurely, open-mouthed kiss to the top of her sternum, hooking one hand in the crook of her knee to yank her down the bed so that she was more firmly under him, eliciting a playful little shriek out of her before he tugged the tie of her robe loose.

“Your birthday, yet here I am, unwrapping a present,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the slope of her jaw. He rumbled, pleased, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Varya made a sweet little sound. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Roman kissed down the pillar of her throat, dragging his tongue over a faded love-bite bruise. He’d need to renew that. “Especially when you put on that dress. Admittedly, I am a bit disappointed—I was looking forward to cutting it off of you if you misbehaved.”

“For someone who spent all day thinking about me,” she murmured coyly, “you certainly spent long enough coming up here.”

Roman paused in what he was doing—his fingers hooked in the top hem of her underwear, scandalous things that they were—and glanced up at her. He was trying to gauge where she was actually at, emotionally, but true to what Dorian had said, it was almost impossible to get a read on her.

“It’s just business, baby,” he replied.

“Oh. Of course.”

“You see? I told you not to worry about it.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, “what would I know of business?”

Roman groaned, pressing his forehead to the smooth plane of her sternum. The scent of her jasmine perfume washed over him, and even though he was this close to indulging himself (which he, above all others, deserved the most), he knew Varya wouldn’t let go of the conversation so easily.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. He let the fabric of her underwear snap back into place against her hip bone, sliding down her body to kiss down her abdomen. “Focus on enjoying your birthday,” he added, “and let your man worry about everything else, hm?”

Varya’s lashes fluttered lightly, eyes watching him hungrily as he worked his way lower and lower still.

“Ambitious,” she murmured, “to think that I will let go of it so easily.”

“Well,” Roman replied against her skin, “I suppose it’s lucky that I love tests, too. And I always—”

The thin, silky fabric of her underwear made the most delicious sound as it ripped, tearing satisfyingly. Varya made a soft, sweet sound, and he glanced back up at her.

“—pass with flying colors.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In his experience, Roman found that the best time to approach Varya about things was first thing in the morning. If he was exerting any amount of true self-awareness, of course, he would have acknowledged that “approaching” Varya about anything was not about the time of day, but rather how it was done—a skill Roman thought he had only honed in their short time together.

It was nearly ten; they’d roused late, thanks to the previous evening’s festivities—including an after-hours indulgence that Roman was more than pleased to drag out— and now Varya was chatting conversationally with Zsasz, who provided minimal noises between mouthfuls of food. It was as though her annoyance from the previous night had faded with the glow of morning, which left only the bones that Roman had left to pick.

Therefore, in a show of good faith, he let the chatter carry on for a little while before he decided to Broach(TM).

“So,” he said, sitting in his usual spot at the head breakfast table, “Maxim is funny.”

To his right, the brunette hummed and idly stirred her coffee. The gentle clink-clink of her spoon against the side of the mug was almost soothing; little creature comforts Roman hadn’t realized very often that he truly liked.

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning him,” Roman continued casually.

“I do not like to talk about boring things.” Varya’s brow was furrowed, lips pressing into a little line as she read the newspaper. “Pass me the cream, my love?”

She was feigning disinterest, but he thought she might have been listening more closely than she let on; one wolfish little ear swiveled in his direction, always.

He did as she asked. “He has an interesting tattoo on his hand.”

“I did not notice.”

“No?”

Varya finally tilted her head to look at him, dark eyes inquisitive. She didn’t ask what it was she was thinking, not right away; instead, she waited, did that thing where she let him sit in silence, maybe in the hopes that he’d fill it with his own chatter. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, setting the paper down and resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, “won’t you just ask me what you want to ask me?”

There was no room to stop the irritated noise that came out of him at her words. He scoffed and settled more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin a little and watching her.

“Or we can play the little game,” she acquiesced, as though she were speaking to a particularly tedious child. “You don’t really care about Maxim’s tattoo. You just care what I think of him.” She fluttered her lashes. “Hm?”

“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m curious about the tattoo.” He paused. “And also what you think of him.”

“I think he is boring.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

A smile curved her mouth, delicate and fine a gesture as gossamer spread across those soft, Renaissance-features. That painting of her that had been done in the ballroom of the Astakhov mansion was still around somewhere, wasn’t it? Not that he needed a painting when he had the real thing, but maybe he’d hang it in the foyer, as a reminder to anyone who just happened to pass by.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Roman continued idly, “this man of yours—”

“My man, is he?”

“—is just one more obstacle to getting what I wanted. How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out that you put his daddy in the ground?”

“If,” Varya replied. “And what do you mean, obstacle?”

Another scoff came out of him. “Varya,” he chided, voice welling with a patronizing tone, warm and buttery, “come now.”

“Roman,” she replied. Her tone mimicked his. “Explain it to me like I am five.”

“I know the oh-so-omniscient lords of St. Petersburg and Moscow are dragging their fucking feet because they don’t like me.”

“You are trying too hard.” She settled back, dipping a bit of cream into her coffee and stirring again. Clink-clink. It offered him no comfort now; it had become a way for Varya to dismiss him. Don’t you see, Roman, how busy I am? “They are like cats. If you try too hard to gain their affections, they will balk and bolt. They hate being coddled, except by a woman. It’s terribly outdated, but what can you do?”

“I’m—” A sharp, incredulous noise came out of him. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to the lot of them!”

“You see? That is already too much.”

“Well, I don’t want them to like me,” he managed out, feeling the bubbling frustration rising up in him. “I couldn’t give a shit if they like me or not. I want them to accept that leadership is changing hands and they have a new boss to answer to, now.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on the table. “And I know Daddy Astakhov liked to brand his things, hm? So what’s Maxim’s tattoo mean?”

Varya leaned forward, too. “I do not know,” she replied evenly, “and I wish you would stop bringing that man up in my presence.”

“I can’t very well erase him from the conversation completely when I’m inheriting his business.”

“My,” she snapped out viciously, suddenly, “you are inheriting my business, Roman.”

It was just a split second. It was only a split second of venom welling up in her expression, suddenly so wicked that not even Roman was shielded from it; it was worse, now, than it had been before. Those times he’d seen the switch inside of her flip had been under great duress. Was this duress to her, now?

Women, Roman thought, watching her smooth dark hair from her face and collect herself. Perhaps motherhood had not made her soft, but rather emotionally volatile. He couldn’t afford to look more hysterical than his wife, so he waited—with great patience and grace, he thought—for her. She cinched the silk robe at her waist more snugly.

“You know that I am happy to do so,” she continued, as though she’d not just bitten his head off in front of Zsasz, “and that I have no problem with it. I just want...” Now, her voice trailed off, and she skimmed the pad of her index finger along the rim of her coffee cup before she picked up the newspaper again, as well as the red-ink ballpoint to her right. “I want it done right, that is all. And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

A buzzing sound vibrated from the marble hallway leader to the elevator. Roman was waiting for Varya to issue her apology (which she was certainly going to do), and Varya wasn’t looking up from the newspaper.

“Who could be coming so early?” his wife idled, spurring on that molten-hot frustration inside of him as she continued to avoid the topic at hand. “Not someone you called on, Romy?”

The buzzer was the last thing that Roman wanted to think about, let alone deal with. He had much more on his mind; Varya’s elegant dodge of his questions, and—most importantly—her blatant dismissal of his concerns about their current timeline. She was all well and peachy over there, wasn’t she, drinking her coffee and reading her paper and not doing him the courtesy of looking at him?

She had always been a needler, Roman reasoned; she had always had a wild, stubborn streak in her. He’d watched her sit and push Ilarion’s buttons for an entire dinner, once, just to see him get to the edge of snapping at her. She was good at it. He liked it about her, liked watching her do it; might have even made a past-time out of the whole sport of it. How quickly can my little viper unravel a man? Place your bets, gentlemen, time ends when the idiot’s screaming his fucking head off in a public place.

And he would have been foolish to think that she never did it to him.

“Zsasz,” she said, without looking up from the paper, “be a darling and get that, won’t you?”

Zsasz, who had been sitting at the far end of the table watching all of this unfold the way a man might watch a trainwreck happen, moved to come to a stand. Roman barked out, “Stay,” and the movements stilled considerably, immediately. It was satisfying, at least, in an exchange which had been everything but up until then. He turned his gaze to the brunette on his right.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said tersely. He gestured to Zsasz. “Sit.”

The blonde did. Roman could feel Victor’s eyes darting between them.

“Oh, darling, you are spoiling my morning.” Varya set the newspaper down on the table and smoothed it out primly, the thin paper edges fluttering between her fingers. “Why would you ever say such a silly thing?”

“Varya.”

“Surely you do not mean to.”

“V,” he snapped.

“Well, I do not know what you want me to say,” she replied after a minute, leaning back in her chair to finally look at him. “My father never deigned to share his operations with me. It was always ‘what a tedious child you are, Varvara’ this, and ‘since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved’ that. I mean, the man spent most of my life quoting Machiavelli at me. Do you think he told me what all of his little art projects meant?” She shrugged, picking her newspaper up again, ignoring the second sound of the buzzer. “You could just ask.”

The irritation spiked high and hot in his throat. Of course, he could just ask. Of course, he could, but he was the fucking boss, which meant doing things like asking an employee what a stupid fucking tattoo meant were below him. He replied tersely, “Why don’t you figure it out for me? Clerical work and employee management is your forte, after all.”

Varya hummed. It was a prim, musing hm, the sound she made when he’d said something she found to be particularly annoying. “If you wanted me to personally manage Maxim,” she demurred, glancing at him through dark, sooty lashes, “you only had to say.”

Somehow sensing this particular phrasing was not going to go over well with Roman (it wasn’t), Zsasz said, “Can I buzz ‘em up?”

“Yes,” Varya replied.

“No,” Roman insisted.

“Romy, there’s a guest.”

“I’m not through with you,” he snapped.

“I’m gonna buzz ‘em up,” Zsasz announced.

Roman felt the frustrated note rising in his throat, strangling it before it could quite make its way out of him. His jaw set; his eyes followed Zsasz on his way out of the main room and toward the elevator to—presumably—let up their guest (intruder). He drummed his fingers against the top of the dining table and said, “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Darling.” Varya leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and cradling her chin atop them. She looked awfully pleased with herself, the little snake, that gigantic stone sitting on her finger. “If I knew what the tattoo meant, I would just tell you. Why not? I could tell you what the word is, but that is hardly ever what the tattoo actually means.”

Darling, she said, as though she hadn’t just snapped her teeth at him moments before. Roman sucked his teeth. Yes, it was very reasonable, he thought; Nikita had always cherished his son over his daughter, had always anticipated Ilarion taking over the business, as Varya had framed it—and even once, Ilarion had confirmed himself. He wanted you and only you, Ilya, and that’s why you couldn’t look at him when he died. That’s what she’d said, and the memory of that night—of Varya, needling the person she was closest to in the world, weaned from venom and taking so much pleasure from inflicting it on someone else—reminded him that there was still much about his wife left to be unearthed.

And it would be an unearthing. Roman had no doubt that it would be a graveyard he would be turning over, full of skeletons—not just a closet.

From the other room, the sound of an infant’s cry drifted down the hall. Varya’s gaze flickered to the space over Roman’s shoulder, behind him, and she came to a stand.

“I will ask, if you would like me to,” she told him, coming around the table and smoothing her hand along his shoulder in what was supposed to be a peace-making gesture. “But I don’t think there is a reason to bother yourself with the detail.”

He felt his mouth press into a thin line. Fine, he thought, fine, the tattoo isn’t a big deal. But what about everything else? “This is all taking a long time, V.”

“I know.” She paused, and then softened a little, all of her button-pushing and needling having dissipated for the moment; Varya leaned down and kissed his temple, and then the top of his cheekbone. “These things take patience, you know. It is not just a—used car business we are inheriting. There are processes, formalities, the like. The men have to know they can trust you.” She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with dark, inquisitive eyes. “You just have to trust me, Romy.”

Roman sighed. I do, he thought, turning his head to look at her. Don’t I?

Of course, he did. She was his wife, the mother of his children—and Roman hadn’t even wanted kids, not really. Not until he realized how much they, by proxy, made Varya belong to him. There was nothing quite so devoted as carrying someone’s child, was there? So yes; he did trust her, in the same capacity at which he supposed a man trusted a relatively-domesticated panther on a chain. Maybe just a smidge more than that. But enough to expect she’d bite off someone else’s hand, and not his.

“Fine,” is what he said, and the word still came out a little petulant. “I will. I do.” Reaching up, he snagged her wrist when she started to pull away, keeping her in place. She watched him expectantly.

When he didn’t say anything—just watched her, gauging her—she prompted playfully, “Are you going to scold me?”

Roman pressed the pad of his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist. His eyes narrowed. “I ought to, vicious girl. You just can’t resist pushing a button when you see it, can you?”

Her pulse jumped pleasantly under warm skin, whether by the term vicious girl or his touch, he didn’t know. It seemed that storminess had passed as soon as it had arrived; and though she hadn’t yet uttered the words I’m sorry, he almost preferred her like this. Coy.

“You would be bored, otherwise.” Her eyes glittered, mischievous. “Don’t you think?”

His fingers stayed curled around her wrist, but she didn’t try and pull away. Watching the flutter of her eyelashes, the way the corners of her mouth quirked upward in a smile, he felt nearly won over. How tedious, Roman thought, that even when he was irritated with her, he found her endearing. That’s amore.

“Don’t goad me,” he warned, and Varya smiled dreamily at him.

“I love you,” is what she replied, and then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s never fight again.”

He dropped his grip from her wrist and she stepped around his chair, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her as she started to the sound of babbling infants. The one or two cries that had roused her initially had melted down into baby-chat. Roman was reminded, once again, that they had a nanny on the payroll for seemingly no reason.

“Varya,” he called, taking the newspaper from where she’d left it on the table, “I mean it.”

Her voice drifted from down the hall: “Of course, Romy.”

The sound of the nursery door opening echoed, and then Varya’s voice; saccharine-sweet, honeyed and muffled by distance. He glanced over the front of the newspaper, but it was impossible to focus on the words—what did they matter, anyway? He didn’t give a fuck about what was going on in Gotham. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger, Russian, potentially radioactive amalgams of different fish that seemed to be stalling on a deal that should have been up and done with already. Not to mention, one of those fish breaking off of the nightmare-fish and showing up, unannounced, sporting tattoos likely administered to him by Nikita Astakhov himself?

These things take patience.

Roman suppressed a scoff. Like he didn’t have patience. He’d been the most patient. Varya had dragged her feet for about a month after they’d put Ilarion in the ground, but after that, things had typically moved fast—the engagement, the twins. Everything except the thing Roman had been waiting for since the beginning. Of course, he’d never anticipated inheriting the business himself and had only gone into the whole thing wanting an exclusive deal, but now he knew better. He knew what was owed to him. He knew what belonged to him.

The elevator door down the main hall dinged. Roman didn’t bother stifling the sigh that wanted to come out of him; it was only ten in the morning, who could possibly need him and for what? He pushed the chair back from the table and came to a stand, sucking his teeth and prepping what he thought could only be the tranquil expression of a man ready to murder before Maxim stepped inside.

He blinked. The tranquility fled his face. Zsasz trailed in after him, looking uneasy. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right with Roman, the hard lines of the blonde’s face setting him even further on edge. Would his suffering never end?

“Oh, Maximillian,” he greeted, keeping his voice the pinnacle of lazily annoyed. “Clocking in for work a little early, aren’t we? Over-achieving?”

“I am an early riser,” the blonde acquiesced. He looked genuinely apologetic, the fuckhead, in Dolce & Gabbana, no less. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“A big wager to make, first day on the job.” Roman trailed Zsasz with his eyes, watching the blonde pace around the far end of the table. What had gotten into him since he’d gone to buzz their guest up? Idly, he sat back down at the table, resuming to glance over the words of the newspaper he couldn’t have given two shits about.

And he said nothing. He instead enjoyed, immensely, the act of letting Maxim stand there in silent uncertainty. It was probably almost a full minute before Maxim cleared his throat, prompting Roman to set his newspaper down with a sigh, as though it were very troubling that he had to stop this thing he didn’t even want to do.

“If you’re here to play catch-up with Varya, she’s busy today,” he deadpanned, turning his gaze reluctantly to where Maxim stood. “And every other day. Generally, I think it would be safe to assume she’s much too preoccupied to assist with whatever problems you might have; that type of work is beneath her now, you know.”

“I am sure being a mother and wife is more than enough to keep her busy,” Maxim agreed soberly.

“And transitioning the business in my name,” Roman replied pointedly.

The blonde shrugged, smiling a little. “Of course.”

He felt his eyes narrow. He leaned back in the chair, interlacing his fingers while his elbows rested on the armrests of the chair. It was impossible to figure out what it was about Maxim that Varya might have liked; the man was painfully well-mannered and non-confrontational, which Roman knew wasn’t her style at all.

Never mind that Varya had not once said that there was a romantic interaction between them. That didn’t matter. He knew how men looked at his wife, and Maxim had been a little too comfortable touching her for there to have been nothing at all.

“But, I did not come here to speak to Varya,” the Russian continued, taking a few steps toward the table. “I actually came here to speak to you, Roman.”

Roman blinked. Well, that wasn’t what he expected.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“I wanted to come and see if you were free today,” Maxim elaborated casually. “I was Nikita’s man. Now, I am yours. It only seems right I get to know you better.” He gestured with his hand. “I know you have more than enough help around here, and I was tied up in Turkey before, but...”

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line. He saw no trace of yesterday’s venom in Maxim’s face, no indication that he was trying to be sarcastic or pull some kind of joke. Instead, Maxim’s face looked completely open and earnest.

“You’re here to ask me on a fucking lunch date,” he began, “and not Varya?”

“Varya,” the blonde replied demurely, “is not my boss.”

Huh, Roman thought. He swept his gaze over Maxim scathingly, and then looked at Zsasz, who remained unreadable. Well, wasn’t that just the most unhelpful thing? It did feel nice to hear Maxim say it, even if Roman would rather see him crying or begging or bleeding out.

“I’m busy today,” he replied after a moment, turning his attention back to Maxim. “But you can swing by the—”

“Maxim.” It was Varya’s voice. Roman turned to look at her. There was no baby in tow. This wouldn’t have been unusual, if Maxim had been a stranger; she tended to keep the twins as far out of reach of people she did not know as much as possible, nested away for safety. But Maxim had been her childhood friend, hadn’t he?

“Good morning,” Maxim greeted her warmly. “I was just asking Roman if he would—”

“I know what you were asking,” Varya interrupted. “You overestimate yourself, showing up to your boss’ home unannounced, don’t you think?”

Maxim looked about as lost as Roman felt; the sensation that he’d stepped into a fever dream very suddenly was washing over him. He looked at Zsasz. The blonde gave a little shrug, as though to say, Why the fuck would I know?

“Varushka,” Maxim ventured after a moment, “you know I did not mean...”

“I don’t know anything at all,” the brunette replied coolly. “You should have called ahead.” She paused, and then added purposefully: “Temka never showed up unannounced.”

Roman found himself in the very strange position of feeling...bad (?) for Maxim, standing there a little helplessly, the poor thing. Varya’s words had gutted him. He could only assume that she was referring to the blonde’s father when she said Temka, by the look on his face, and that—

Oh, you wicked thing, he thought, affection welling up inside of him as he looked at Varya, you know just how to unravel a man. Sticking a salted hot-poker straight into his grief-wound, aren’t you?

“I am sorry,” Maxim said after a minute. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“The transgression is not mine to forgive.” Varya swept around Roman then, sitting back down in her seat. She looked at him, expectant. “Roman?”

“Me?” he asked.

“It is as Maxim said,” she replied. “You are his boss, not me.”

He waited to see if there was some kind of strange undertow to her words, but he could find none; just Varya waiting, expectantly, for him to excuse Maxim’s showing up without having called ahead. It was odd, and he couldn’t figure out why it was that she was acting like this toward Maxim now—had it been the Varya is not my boss comment? Was she trying to make up for their little spat?

It was commonplace for nothing to be straightforward, with Varya. This was different.

“So,” she continued primly, turning to look at Maxim now, “apologize to your boss.”

“I am—” Maxim stopped, like he didn’t want to do it, drawing Roman’s gaze to him. Quite suddenly, Roman thought he knew exactly what his wife was doing; putting the blonde in a position where he’d have to put good faith behind his words. Varya is not my boss, he’d said, but did that matter if he couldn’t even apologize to Roman?

He finished, more smoothly now, “I am sorry, Roman.”

Roman beamed. “Insolence forgiven,” he replied, all thoughts of his disagreement with Varya gone now. He reached over the table, snagging her hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand. “As I was saying—I am busy today, but you are welcome to swing by the club later this evening. Before midnight. We get busiest just before the witching hour.”

Maxim ducked his head. “Of course.”

Varya’s nails skimmed Roman’s palm. She didn’t look up when she said, “Was there something else, Maxim?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then,” she replied sweetly, “have a lovely afternoon.”

A moment stretched where the blonde looked a little unsure, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Of course,” and excused himself down the hall. Varya circled something in the newspaper with her red-ink pen, her other hands still interlaced with Roman’s.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she began, “did you let Maxim up?”

Zsasz looked at Roman. “I didn’t,” he replied after a minute. “Armazd did.”

“Hm,” came the reply, even as she noted something in the margins of the paper.

“Were you apologizing for your tantrum, just now?” Roman asked. He would puzzle out why Armazd letting Maxim up was worthy of a hm later. Now, he could see the hint of a smile ticking the corners of Varya’s mouth upward, but she did not sway from whatever it was that had captured her attention in the news of Gotham; instead, she circled something absently.

Varya said, “Did you find it a suitable apology?”

He considered. “Well, I would have liked it better if you’d made him cry.”

“It would have spoiled my appetite,” she demurred, folding the newspaper primly and coming to a stand. “I am taking the twins to the park with Irina. And Zsasz too, if you’ll spare him. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”

“Late? Then you’d better come here, wife.” Roman tugged on her hand, watching her expression warm when he said wife. Once, he might have squinted at loaning Zsasz out to her. Now, he didn’t mind; especially if it gave a peace of mind that she and the twins be that more secure. “So that I can get my fill of you before you’re gone.”

The brunette laughed, letting him tug her down onto his lap. She carded the fingers of her free hand through his hair and brushed their noses together; it was all glowing affection, now, warmth buzzing under her skin.

“Oh, darling, now I want to leave quicker, and more often,” she murmured, “so that you’ll never have your fill of me.”

Roman supposed that was how she’d gotten him in the first place. Hooked him with being inaccessible, with being coveted—as if she had always known he was not a man could resist something considered off-limits—and now that he had her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d seen the way that others looked at her, and by proxy him; with want. With envy. Bruce Wayne could eat shit.

“Roman,” Varya said, “I want you to be careful when you are around Maxim.”

He paused, pulling back to look at her a little. She smoothed her hand over the slope of his collarbone affectionately.

“You are right,” she continued. “When Maxim finds out what I did—if he does—he will be angry about it. He is used to being the right-hand man, you know. Do not...” She glanced down, looking for the words. “Do not give it to him so easily. Make him work for it and prove himself to you.”

Tracing the lines of her expression—soft, concerned—Roman dragged his thumb across her wrist.

“I told you, doll.” He planted an affectionate kiss to her wrist. “Don’t worry about these things. I’ve got it perfectly under control.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know you do, Romy—”

“Then stop this fussing,” he interjected mildly. “You’re spoiling your very charming apology. You know I love a good public humiliation. Which park are you taking the twins to?”

The dark eyes of his wife swept over his face for a minute, contemplative and impossible to gauge, before she smiled at him warmly.

“The one just a few blocks away. It has the most shade. Mr. Zsasz, won’t you bring the car around?”

And just like that, things were back to normal. Varya swept away to busy herself with getting ready and loading the twins, and Zsasz went to pull the car around, leaving Roman at the table for a rare moment of peace. Soon enough, he’d have all the information he needed from Dorian, and he could well-and-truly mitigate Maxim Kuznetsov as a problem, and everything would be back on track. He could bet money Varya didn’t think he’d had the foresight to dig up information on Maxim—it wasn’t his style to get his hands dirty, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.

Roman sighed, quite pleased.

Back to normal.

#spilled ink #f: the land of gods and devils #roman sionis/oc #x: this smile is a loaded gun #c: varya astakhova #c: roman sionis #c: victor zsasz #c: maxim kuznetsov #honorable mention to dorian for being a true homie #birds of prey fic #birds of prey oc #i think uhhhhhhhh yeah i think that's it!#thank you thank you thank you everyone who has even given me a tiny bit of love for this #it's definitely a project that's self-indulgent but !!!!#<3

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gffa · 4 years

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magic-owl said:

The thing I wanna know is true or not about Kenobi’s Shadow is the line I heard about the Jedi baby stealing. I hope that’s not true but multiple people have said it is and that makes me big ): I get the author wanting to focus this particular chapter on the Obitine romance because Obi Wan decides to break literally all the rules just for her because he loves her, but like, if they really decided to pull the “she and their romance are the most important thing in his entire life” bit then yeah But also I heard about that bit with him and Anakin in the beginning and that just seems kinda awkward, like why would Anakin know because PADMÉ told him? How did she find out? Why wasn’t she rushing off there to get Satine herself like she’s literally always done when her friends are in trouble??? I get wanting the Obitine and Anidala parallels in the beginning but (and here I’m being INCREDIBLY biased lol) I still don’t buy in the slightest Anakin would just let him go alone like that

The line about Jedi baby stealing was kind of eyeroll-worthy, but not as bad as you’re thinking:

“Satine should not be there. She should not have been dragged into a conflict years in the making, begun when Maul murdered Qui-Gon Jinn, the man who’d been the closest thing Obi-Wan had to a father since the Jedi took him from his parents.”

Which strikes me as out of character for Obi-Wan Kenobi to think that, but it’s not exactly a smoking gun of, “Aha! See! They are baby thieves!” And Anakin does want to go with, but Obi-Wan gives him a reason not to, mileages will vary on how convincing it is that Anakin would accept it:

Again, Anakin’s barely suppressed smile said something different than the grave look in his eyes. “Well, in any case, I’m coming with you.” Obi-Wan had foreseen this. Anakin was as close as a brother, and of course he wouldn’t let Obi-Wan face this mission alone. So Obi-Wan gave Anakin an answer crafted to convince him to stay behind. “The presence of one Jedi on Mandalore will be hard enough to conceal. Two Jedi will be impossible. You’d put the mission at risk. And Satine.” Obi-Wan watched the struggle on Anakin’s face: the thing he wanted to do versus the thing he needed to do. In the end, reason won out. This was much to Obi-Wan’s relief. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if Anakin had decided the other way.

That’s what convinces Anakin to stay behind. The bigger problems with the story, I think, are in the way everything is bent to be molded around Obi-Wan and Satine’s relationship. Like, the Jedi--despite the story itself establishing twice that having Jedi on Mandalore would quite possibly be A Real Bad Idea--don’t want to give Obi-Wan permission to go start yet another war to save someone that would get them fucked over by the Senate? Then he becomes bitter towards the Council. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Bitter. Against the Jedi. Or like when Satine dies and Obi-Wan’s reaction is described as:

She closed her eyes. Her body went limp in his arms. And she was dead. When Maul killed Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan was stricken with sorrow. Sorrow gripped him again. But there was something else, as well. Something dangerous. Something that scorched. Satine wasn’t Maul’s enemy. She was just a tool Maul had used to get something he wanted, the throne of Mandalore. And a tool to hurt Obi-Wan. Using a person that way was the worst form of cruelty. Satine had been a person, and her death wasn’t just a loss for Obi-Wan. It was a loss for so many more. She’d been a child on this world. Like other children, she’d taken her first step, uttered her first word, laughed and chased flitters in the tall grass of the Mandalorian plains. She’d learned to read, made friends, suffered hurts, recovered and laughed again. And she’d become a leader. She should have lived to see her world thrive, to see her people find peace, to prosper, to make music and art. She should have grown old and been able to look back on all she’d achieved. But in a split second, Maul had ended all that. He’d extinguished a light in the universe and replaced it with shadow. Such an act was truly the definition of the dark side. And Obi-Wan burned with rage. With the rage came a vision: Eyes smoldering with hatred. Screams in the red glare of a lightsaber. Obi-Wan would cleave Maul in two. He would do much worse. There would be nothing left of him. Or the other Dathomirian. Or the commandos, those Mandalorian traitors. He would kill Almec. He would kill anyone who’d had a hand in overthrowing Satine, anyone who’d contributed to her death. And he would kill anyone who tried to stop him. Anyone who stood in his way, by word or by deed. Anyone.

THIS REACTION:

That’s not a rage so powerful that he would burn down anyone or anything in his way. That’s a deep sorrow. And, finally, the final observation Obi-Wan makes:

The words came with struggle. He didn’t want to talk. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he knew he needed to speak. He knew it was important that Anakin hear it. “I lost someone important to me,” Obi-Wan said. “And I understand anger in a way I never have. I know how difficult it is not to give in to it.”

Despite that, in this same anthology, in the fight with Maul earlier in the season:

“Your master, Qui-Gon Jinn,” I growled as we crossed sabers. “I gutted him while you stood helpless and watched. How did that make you feel, Obi-Wan?” I knew I had him when his eyes narrowed in anger and he shoved me away, screaming. He attacked me furiously, saber flying. At first, I fell back under his powerful onslaught. His strokes were wild and uncontrolled. He struck the sides of the ship around us, sending sparks raining down everywhere. I parried and pushed back, and when I saw an opening, I kicked out, landing a solid blow to his chest. He went hurtling back with a cry to collapse on the floor. He looked up at me, his eyes lost and desperate. I almost felt pity for him. Almost. “Your rage has unbalanced you,” I told him. I did not tell him that had been my plan all along. “That is not the Jedi way, is it?” My voice was silky smooth, mocking. I wanted to see what he would do. He climbed to his feet and we continued our battle. But I was right; he was unbalanced now. I quickly had him on the ground again, but he got up and fought back. He swung wildly at me and missed. His momentum sent him stumbling toward the balcony’s ledge. His back was toward me, so I kicked him over the edge. He dropped to the ground below, frustratingly graceful, even managing to land on his feet next to Ventress.

That’s what I mean by prioritizing the romantic relationship. Despite that Obi-Wan has experienced rage before, we see that on his face in The Phantom Menace when he fights Maul after he stabbed Qui-Gon, despite that there’s a story in this anthology where Obi-Wan struggles with a furious rage (taking into account that Maul is not a reliable narrator on Obi-Wan’s reactions, I think a certain amount of struggling with rage is apparent just from the episode itself), but, because of Satine, he understands anger in a way he never had before? Despite that Satine’s death was a deliberate parallel to Qui-Gon’s death? It isn’t that Satine isn’t important, of course she’s important to him! Look at his face! He’s devastated! But her influence is one of many on his life and they should matter just as much. Obi-Wan Kenobi understood anger before this and that’s not to devalue the struggle he faces here, of course he does. But Qui-Gon’s loss is just as important and just as defining to his understanding of anger.

#obi wan kenobi #novels #meta #solad spoilers

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ivesory · 4 years

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The greatest blunder I see all inventors make is they hurry right into a field of venture without actually recognizing what they are entering, or to resolve the trouble in an industry they do not understand. Every brand-new moms and dad all of a sudden end up being an inventor in the baby products area, however exactly how lots of having any kind of idea regarding the difficult government security policies enforced on baby products? While passion is called for, knowledge is additionally needed. A successful inventor will certainly find out whatever they can around each aspect of the area, from the technology to business, to the competition.

3. The Goal is Not Simply to Obtain a Patent

The goal is not to develop an amazing invention, the goal is not to get a patent, the goal is practically universally to generate income. The cool invention and license are a means throughout, not the end in as well as of themselves. Do not obtain so caught up in the imaginative facet of inventing that they fall short to quit and also ask whether they must be investing the time, money, and power into the production. The moral of the story is that the most effective innovation can cause no financial benefit, while often small improvements can lead to financial riches. Therefore, it usually makes good sense for the inventor to concentrate on inventing to fix specific troubles, as well as not just inventing to develop something unique.

4. Method Inventing in a Business Responsible Way

Treat your invention from day one as if it will certainly be hugely effective because by the time you recognize that this is the invention that will certainly be wildly successful it will be as well late unless you have grown the seeks for success early. Don't drop in love with an invention that is falling short when you can relocate on to the next project, which might be the one that will be successful.

You may also like https://azbigmedia.com/business/want-to-be-a-successful-inventor-use-these-ideas-to-help/

5. Don't Underestimate the Importance of a Patent Search

If it looks like just incredibly narrow patent protection will certainly be offered it most likely makes more sense to just relocate on to your following invention because inventors constantly have the next invention. Patent searches are also superb learning devices since they permit you to uncover which aspects of your invention are most likely to add to patentability.

6. Don't Underestimate the Importance of an Internet Search

Over the years I have preached to inventors about the relevance of doing a patent search. Previously in my career, I would certainly listen to from inventors who would certainly say that they browsed the Internet extensively and can not find the invention so they want to relocate ahead. For goodness benefits, if you come up with an invention the initial thing you must do is see whether it exists and can be purchased online or in shops.

7. Certificate Inventions Not Ideas

Without a patent-pending, you do not have anything to license aside from a suggestion that does not have substantial boundaries. When you seek to license a concept alone you can easily scare business. Even listening to a concept without substantial borders as specified in a minimum of a provisional license application can terrify business to the point where some, possibly many, won't intend to do it. Furthermore, the additional you can create your idea the better and better it will certainly end up being. A suggestion may be worth a little to an extremely minimal number of individuals, yet an idea that has taken shape and has become an invention is worth also more as well as to even more people. An invention that has been defined in a provisional patent application is worth more. Famous inventor trainer Stephen Key discusses a submitted provisional license application creating "viewed possession," and he recommends his inventor pupils seriously make the effort as well as the power to define their ideas in concrete methods to create those regarded civil liberties with a provisionary filing. That is exceptional advice.

8. Set a Budget

Inventing and also commercializing can be exceptionally expensive, and also if you are an inventor that implies you are creative and also it is insane to assume that your current invention will be your last. Many inventors have a handful of inventions at any type of one point, so the difficulty they have is selecting which one to seek first. That being the case, and the inescapable truth that you may not rack up with the initial invention you pick, you need to set a budget and also constantly review via the process to ensure that it continues to make good sense to go after the invention. Spending time and money is something, yet spending good cash as well as your time once the search has been demonstrated to likely not be rewarding is absolutely nothing short of a catastrophe. I suggest you establish a spending plan, which you can reassess if points appear to be relocating forward in a favorable instruction. When you reach your budget restriction if there is no favorable energy you need to proceed to what is following. Do not throw your work away, you never know when it might become appropriate or you may have an advancement motivation.

9. Proof of Concept

At some point, it will certainly come to be required to verify your invention, which is called a proof of principle. While it is real that an invention with a proof of principle will be more important than one without such evidence, it is still required for inventors to be cautious. You might begin functioning with an artist who can sketch your invention first on paper.

10. Plausibly Estimate the Size of the marketplace

There is nothing wrong with dreaming, however, there is an extremely vital cautionary tale to be outlined the significant harm that can be done to possibility when inventors exaggerate the market dimension for their invention. You don't intend to be the one that with confidence declares: "Everyone is mosting likely to require to get this invention." No one ever attains 100% market share, and if that is what you expect you will be let down. If you are serious about establishing the real size of the market you will certainly investigate openly readily available info and dig through the data using practical assertions. According to U.S. Census information, in 2016 40.6 million individuals were living in poverty in the United States. The poverty line for a person was $12,228, while the poverty line for a household of 4 was $24,563. So precisely the amount of individuals can manage to purchase your invention? And then think about how many people could need the invention. Also check out https://theavtimes.com/2020/07/01/amazing-ways-inventhelp-can-assist-you-as-an-inventor/

#Entrepreneurs #Products #Innovation #Technology #Inventions #Prototypes #Inventors #Patent #Ideas #InventHelp

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gondorosi · 4 years

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ASOIAF v/s GoT - Part 1: The Disdain for Vulnerable Heroes

Book to screen adaptations are tricky as it is. Adapting high fantasy is even trickier as visual artistry quite often takes precedence over plot and characterization. It’s difficult to adequately portray complex morality, hard decisions and internal agony. Characters are often simplified and pared down to only a few most visually arresting characteristics (mighty king/queen, unbeatable warrior, mysterious magic person, wise-cracking smartass etc etc etc). Plotlines are reworked to make them non-controversial, consequences are ignored and the more difficult subplots are simply done away with. Such actions are common across adaptations, and GoT is no exception.

The distancing of the show from the books started becoming significantly observable S5 onwards. At a certain pivotal point, the obvious heroic characters began to get pigeon-holed - the noble (Jon), the badass (Arya) and the conqueror (Dany). Crucial characters like Tyrion and Bran also began to lose all trappings of individual motives to dedicate themselves to a ‘greater cause’. Characters canonically unreliable and/or unfavourable such as Jorah, Sansa and Varys get painted in a far more positive light than they deserve.

Of course, in Martin’s world the characters are far more layered and conflicted. And thus, to stick to the massively simplified (almost bastardized) show characterizations, D&D quite happily chunked off LARGE plot points essential to the main characters, in effect neutering everything that makes ASOIAF so fascinating to begin with.

Let’s first consider the two most obvious leader-heroes of the saga. Both Jon and Dany start out handicapped and subjugated in their own way, before quickly discovering that they have innate capabilities suppressed by their respective environments. Both of them find a role they are good at and use that role to accomplish something revolutionary. Both of them disregard the dangers posed by proponents of tradition and both of them are brought down or grievously hurt by those resistant to change. However, both of them are young. Both of them struggle with self-worth, purpose and identity. They’re two deeply traumatized young heroes who keep the truths of their hearts to themselves. However, the show begins to distance them from their vulnerability somewhere around the middle of its run. There’s a deliberate choice made to move away from complex characterization and focus only on heroics - whether its raining down fire from atop a dragon, or cleaving through enemies with a sword in hand. And while this makes for arresting and unforgettable visuals, you have to wonder why two such beautifully layered characters had to lose their tender facets to continue being badass heroes.

Dany

No two ways about it - the show has done an exemplary job of building up Daenerys Targaryen the Queen and Conqueror (Season 8 exists only in the Upside Down). Her fiery nature, her courage and her incredible journey from a prized possession to a radical force commanding the very air around her. But before she earned all her titles, she was Dany - a quiet, observant and highly intelligent child who just just wanted to go home. The house with the red door is instrumental to Dany’s psyche as a person - and never mentioning it, or alluding to it takes away something vital from Dany’s story.

That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.

All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

The red door features prominently in Dany’s thoughts, dreams and visions. To a young Dany, her name is as much a burden and a cage to her as the lack of a name is to Jon. He thirsts for the recognition and dignity of a true name, she dreams of the unfettered lightness of a life without the heavy legacy of her name.

It might sound contradictory, but for all that the show played up the power and near invincibility of the dragons, they skimmed over their ACTUAL importance to Dany’s entire Essos arc, and subsequently her identity. The show posits her as the Dragon Queen almost from the very beginning - whereas in the narrative of the books, it’s a realization she must come to after losing almost everything she’s fought for in Slaver’s Bay.

Remember who you are, Daenerys. The dragons know. Do you?

This line means much more in the context of Dany’s journey of self-realization than the show ever bothered to address. Through her entire arc Dany is struggling to place herself. She’s caught between the ‘Last Targaryen’ - the rightful ruler of Westeros set to take back the Throne stolen from her family by scheming enemies; and the Mother and Queen of the freed slaves of Slaver’s Bay who look to her to destroy a society which has progressed on the strength of broken bones of slaves. Beyond it all she is the Mother of Dragons - which brings all the boys to her yard. Dorne, fAegon, Victarion and Euron don’t give two hoots about the young girl who overturned the age old practice of slavery - they want her dragons. By the time she’s stumbling across the Dothraki Sea delirious, in pain and hallucinating, she knows not which of these three identities is who she truly is.

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings.

That’s what the show misses. The crux of Daenerys Targaryen isn’t that she HAS dragons, it’s that she IS the dragon. The issue with this interpretation in the show is that to truly take Danerys being the last dragon to it’s intended narrative conclusion, you have to admit that her journey would not, and could not end with her becoming Queen of the 7K. The show turned her magic into a political prop which is entirely incongruous with the world-building elements established by Martin. ASOIAF’s magic doesn’t exist as a plaything and a tool for those desiring power. Magic exists to combat magic. Daenerys Targaryen is a conqueror, a queen and a rescuer but she is also more. (I could go on and on about Dany as the Last Dragon but that would be derailing the intent of this post.)

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros. “It is such a long way,” she complained. “I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl.”

This is not a Dany the show allows us to observe. The Daenerys Targaryen of the show is not allowed to be vulnerable or uncertain or crumble. She’s not allowed to question her purpose and path in the world. After all, how can the most powerful character in the show ever falter? This is where the show takes the easy way out of putting more emphasis on the visual extravaganza - dragons burning down ships and Emilia Clarke walking through flames unscathed are easy crowd pleasers. But these are also just surface level considerations of Dany’s power and importance. She isn’t who she is because she has dragons - she has her dragons because she is who she is.

But a major point of contention is - who DOES she need to be? See, Dany has always known she’s ‘important’ - in the way political prisoners are important. In the beginning it’s only her family name which holds her value. Her gradual journey from being only symbolically important as a Targaryen, to owning her own narrative as herself is fraught with considerable internal turmoil. The identity Dany cherishes most is that of Mother. Choosing to free the slaves in Astapor and Yunkai is the first decision she takes as a player with power and resources, and this decision has NOTHING to do with her destiny as a Targaryen. You identify a hero by their choices - and it is in this moment, uninfluenced by magic, or a greater power, this young girl sees the horror in a long established custom and CHOOSES to fight it. I would anyway have been invested as Daenerys as a character - but that one action firmly placed her on a pedestal .

In spite of where her destiny may pull her she wants to retain her softer dreams, her yearning for an uncomplicated happiness. At the same time, she’s voluntarily taken on the burden of ruling in Mereen, despite the responsibility very clearly chaining her. At the end of ADWD, her fevered dreams seem to suggest that both her softness and her duty are pulling her away from her true destiny. Dany’s struggles with self revolve around choosing between her identities as the Dragon, the Mother and the Conqueror - I personally subscribe to the belief that Dany ‘finding herself’ would mean realising that her three identities are not separate, but feed into each other to create the Daenerys Targaryen she is meant to be.

The show puts the cart before the horse and ignores the reverberating impact of a piece of Old Valyria being reborn on the shores of the continent where the empire fell. Her trek through the Dothraki Sea once she escapes on Drogon’s back is such a crucial pivot point in her story - it is literally the point where the old Dany is being left behind for who she will ultimately need to become.

And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. "The last dragon," Ser Jorah's voice whispered faintly. "The last, the last." Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.

After that, for a long time, there was only the pain, the fire within her, and the whisperings of stars.

She woke to the taste of ashes.

The show does make it clear that Dany’s ultimate destiny lies in Westeros - but the Iron Throne can hardly be it. Why will the last dragon be so singularly focused on a crumbling monarchy? Unjustly attacked and exiled and now fighting to retake their ‘rightful’ place - that’s a traditional fantasy storyline and in a purely monarchical power struggle needs neither Dany’s magic nor her dragons. The Iron Throne is such a low bar - what Daenerys attempted in Slaver’s Bay is ten times more difficult and impressive. As of this point in the books Mereen is on the brink of absolute chaos and the situation is much, much more convoluted than the show made it out to be. The political uprising of Mereen was dealt with so laughably on the show - ‘Bring dragons, Burn shit’ doesn’t solve any problems whatsoever but let’s save that for the next part.

Painting Dany’s journey back to Westeros as simply an exiled royal returning to take back what’s theirs removed the poignancy in Dany looking for home in Westeros. There’s this sense of yearning in her desperately looking for a place to belong in a country that’s little more than a fable to her. She tried SO hard to make a home with the Dothraki and to find a place as the ruler of Mereen - but if there’s one takeaway from ADWD it’s that Dany’s fate doesn’t rest in Essos. I expect WoW to be a bloody reckoning, an agonizing choice between Dany’s duty and destiny. The new world order she’s established is far too new and fragile to sustain itself. As we see from Cleon’s ascent in Astapor, evil opportunists exists everywhere, regardless of societal class. To cement her order, Dany and her inner circle need to stay in Mereen for a lengthy period of time. But Westeros is calling - she has to choose. It’s nowhere near as easy as the three Yunkish Masters being the only figureheads, the Greyjoy siblings traipsing into the pyramids with the ships she needs, and alliances falling into her lap just so that D&D don’t need to put in any effort into creating plot and can simply throw spectacular CGI at us.

My point is - you don’t need a dragon (or three) to fight Cersei Lannister and a court jester on ADHD masquerading as Euron Greyjoy (not Pilou, its obvious the dude read the books and expected great things from his character). You do however need them to fulfil the prophecy passed down generations of Targaryens, beginning from Aegon the Conqueror. You do need the last living embodiment of the magic of Old Valyria to combat the foul, unholy magic wielded by the utterly terrifying Euron Greyjoy of the books. The reason Aegon began his conquest of Westeros is beyond mere ambition - and if we go by what Martin himself revealed about his intentions, the Others ARE the final War. We had only 2 episodes in S7 to show Daenerys understanding the gravity of the Night King (godawful mission beyond the Wall and polar bear wights aside) - and then arrives the wrecking ball of S8 with its ‘Northern Independence’ and ‘my Iron Throne’.

The trouble with legendary heroes is this - they save the world for everyone else. Dany defeats all other claimants to the Throne and takes back Dragonstone, King’s Landing and the Seven Kingdoms, as Viserys wanted, and she believes her duty to be. She and Jon lead the Last Alliance against the Great Other. Maybe they win and live happily ever after. Maybe they win, but only after losing everything they hold dear. And maybe they win, and only lose part of themselves. Does that end Dany’s story? Is a Kingdom and a reign what she’s been searching for? Dany’s story only ends when she finds herself in front of that red door again.

Jon

It’s an infuriating irony that despite portraying him as MUCH softer than in the books, Jon’s vulnerability is either non-existent in the show, or is turned into a weakness. Where does the show ever dwell on his deep seated issues with identity, duty and survivor’s guilt? Where does the show address the raw power of his love for Arya? And why does the show think that the progression of Hardhome, being fucking murdered AND resurrected, and then Rickon’s death in front of his eyes would NOT leave a lasting mental impact?

To its’ credit, the show did clearly indicate Catelyn’s hatred for Jon. What we didn’t see, and thus don’t have a ready reference for (in the show) is how Catelyn’s treatment affected Jon. In the books though, you can clearly suss out the emotional impact of the years of Jon’s childhood.

He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid. Ghost nuzzled at his hand. He took courage from that. He straightened, and entered the room.

He stood in the door for a moment, afraid to speak, afraid to come closer. The window was open. Below, a wolf howled. Ghost heard and lifted his head.

This is at Bran’s bedside when he’s still deep in a coma, with no certainty of whether he will ever wake again. Jon’s leaving for the NW, and this may very well be the last time he ever sees Bran again. Jon loves his little brother with everything he has, yet the overbearing emotion at this moment is his fear of Catelyn Stark.

Keep in mind that every POV hides something or the other from the reader. Thoughts and feelings may seem disjointed as a critical memory which aligns the two is missing. In this case, Jon is actively NOT thinking of any particular incident. Yet his fear is all pervasive. It’s an uncovered wound and it hurts him. We may not know exactly what has happened between Jon and Catelyn in the 14 years leading up to this moment, but Jon’s fear of her is very real. This almost paralyzing fear of Catelyn placed against the overbearing love he feels for Bran at this moment makes this exchange stand out for several reasons, chief amongst which is that Catelyn has left an indelible mark on Jon’s psyche.

Robb and Bran and Rickon were his father’s sons, and he loved them still, yet Jon knew that he had never truly been one of them. Catelyn Stark had seen to that.

By the time the moon was full again, he would be back in Winterfell with his brothers. Your half-brothers, a voice inside reminded him. And Lady Stark, who will not welcome you. There was no place for him in Winterfell, no place in King’s Landing either.

The fear lessens once he leaves the halls of Winterfell, and bitterness takes its place. Jon’s feelings about her are tinged with fury and resentment. He’s long past hoping for affection from her, but what still rankles and will never stop being a source of anger, is that she deliberately tried to sabotage his relationships with others who most definitely were his family.

Jon’s thoughts make it obvious that he is painfully aware that he doesn’t belong. For an awareness this heavy to be so deeply etched into a young boy’s entire being, the message has to have been reinforced intensely over the entire duration of his life in Winterfell. That’s not compatible with the assumption that Catelyn was only cold and dismissive of him. We don’t see the instances in either Jon’s or Catelyn’s viewpoints in the books, but the inference is all but thrown at us.

Jon’s growth as a person, a leader and a revolutionary is dependent on his time with the NW just as much as his time with the FF. The show cut out far too many important aspects of his time with the FF, but atleast that part of his journey was treated with more respect than his accomplishments as a man of the NW. (Let me not start on the absolute blasphemy to turn one of the most decisive characters in the entire saga into a dithering, uncertain, meek fool in S8.)

Unlike Dany, Jon has never been important. He has no name, no legacy to uphold, no shoes to step into. All he has are his natural abilities - his startlingly accurate powers of perception for someone so young, his capacity for taking feedback to change for the better and his razor sharp practical intelligence. The text seems to suggest that Jon was indirectly forced to downplay his abilities due to his status - besting Robb was just not done.

With her deep blue eyes and hard cold mouth, she looked a bit like Stannis. Iron, he thought, but brittle. She was looking at him the way she used to look at him at Winterfell, whenever he had bested Robb at swords or sums or most anything. Who are you? that look had always seemed to say. This is not your place. Why are you here?

It’s at the Night’s Watch that Jon first starts to become someone more than Ned Stark’s bastard - in his OWN estimation. The world will continue to see only a bastard and Ned Stark’s shame, but its here that Jon learns to accept and move beyond it. It’s in the yard of the NW training yard that Jon receives his first harsh lesson about himself - he’s lording the privilege of his castle education over boys far less fortunate than him. It’s at the NW that he has the opportunity to use his abilities. It’s here that Jon finds his calling as the champion of the misfits, the ill-begotten, the unwanted and the reviled. He becomes the de-facto trainer of the boys Alliser Thorne deems beneath his dignity. He’s the one convincing Maester Aemon of Sam’s worth as his squire. And it’s at the NW that Jon first begins forming his opinion of the wars of the south - something which he will carry till the end.

When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?

The staggering impact of his experience in the NW to his character is an essay in itself. For the purposes of this post, suffice to say that without the NW Jon would never have grown to the position to have an impact on the greater story. As of ADWD, the Wall under Jon’s leadership has become somewhat of a rallying ground - hosting a King, a highborn Northern lady looking for deliverance and support, as well as the center for revitalizing the Watch, rebuilding the Wall and rekindling hope in the North.

At some point after his resurrection in the show, Jon’s portrayal starts edging over into the ‘noble, sacrificial hero’ archetype. This wouldn’t necessarily have been a BAD thing – if this ‘goodness’ and ‘nobility’ didn’t come at the expense of Jon’s overall characterization.

His ‘goodness’ comes in the form of forgiving Sansa for keeping the Vale army secret and keeping her as his closest confidant. This so-called goodness of heart is rank naivete the sharply perceptive and observant book!Jon would have been stupefied at. Jon knows to judge people by their actions – and Sansa’s actions made it obvious that she’s playing her own game and considers her brothers’ lives expendable collateral. The Jon who understood the heaviness of the mantle of leadership well enough to cultivate distance from even his closest friends in the NW would NEVER have allowed Sansa so close.

The ‘honourable’ show!Jon allows his Lords and his sister to question and challenge him openly. The ‘noble’ King Jon has to explain himself before undertaking a journey to gain a potential ally - the only possible ally against a War the North seems unwilling to believe despite the reports of the dead having been around since S1. The honest son of Ned Stark cannot lie to his House’s greatest living enemy. Lord Commander Jon would sooner have jumped off from the top of the Wall than take these decisions. He’s aware of the nature of power and authority, and that more than holding a position its important to make those around you believe you hold power. Power can do great good - but it is also fickle.

Despite the NK and the AoTD being turned into a cosmic farce in the last season, the show did quite a good job of building up the horror, menace and sense of doom in the previous seasons. Hardhome is prime example of why the show was once the pinnacle of television – and what Jon saw there, coupled with the utter failure of his mission to evacuate all the FF would have pushed Jon to the brink of insanity anyway. From what we know of Jon, he carries the deaths of his father, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Winterfell close to him. Compound the steadily growing pressure of that loss with the fact that he loses Grenn, Pyp and Ygritte in the same night. Three of the people most important to Jon but a loss he was never given the time to process as Stannis’s army arrives the very next day. He’s still carrying this heaviness when Hardhome happens, and Jon is exactly the kind of man to blame himself for the people he was unable to evacuate. Not to mention, this is the first time he sees the Night King RAISE the dead – this is the point where the true power of the enemy is fully revealed. That was existential horror at its most visceral and not a sight a man is likely to forget, least of all a man who’s trying his best to create the only resistance.

Let’s forego the changed circumstances of Jon’s murder in the show and consider the act as is – Jon does the right thing, knows he’s doing the right thing and is betrayed and murdered for it. He’s dead and then he’s not and while he’s still struggling with resurrection, betrayal and the memories of Hardhome, Sansa arrives and he’s in the middle of the quest to retake Winterfell. It’s traumatic experience upon traumatic experience, a never-ending series of emotional turmoil with no outlet or time to grieve. This is the only reason I see Jon’s actions at the Battle of Bastards being true to his mental condition in the show – having Rickon die right in front of him when his little brother was pretty much the only reason he was able to gather the mental strength for the campaign would have unhinged him to the point of that ridiculously suicidal move.

But see that’s the last time we see any strong emotion from Jon. He seemed mentally and emotionally exhausted in the Winds of Winter episode, and that’s understandable but only at THAT point. That kind of exhaustion sets in only once you’re done with your battles and Jon’s true battle was just beginning. It’s just never acknowledged – when in truth he would barely have a handle on his temper and would be obsessed with the NK to the point of delirium. We apparently can’t have a functional main hero with his emotions all over the place, gathering the strength to do what must be done while falling apart inside. Or if we DO show him as someone struggling with himself, it’s to paint him as someone too weak to see the truth. Someone too blinded by love who should never have been in charge in the first place.

Heroes are strong, brave, just and honourable. They are powerful and commanding and inspiring. And at the very core of it all, heroes are human. Wish the show had remembered that.

#ASoIaF #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #anti got #jonerys #book!jon #book!dany #show!jon #show!dany

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whitehotharlots · 4 years

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“Literal violence” and the death of the heterodox

I teach college students. This means I assign young people things to read. If the students don’t do the reading--if they consider it too boring or uninteresting or difficult--they don’t do well in the class. I update my reading lists every semester, because what was interesting to students a few years or even months ago might not click with the students of today. Sometimes students love what they’re assigned. Sometimes they hate it. And it’s very hard to tell if a piece is or isn’t going to work until I’ve assigned it and gotten feedback.

As I’ve gotten older it has become more difficult to relate to young people. This is a completely normal part of life--nothing to be ashamed of or panic about, and I think almost everyone agrees that it’s more dignified to age gracefully than to try too hard to seem hip or with it. And so, over the past few years, as I’ve found it nearly impossible to find good, engaging writing with a broad appeal, I figured it was just because I, naturally, don’t relate to young people as much as I used to.

But lately--certainly since Trump’s ascendance, but perhaps going back as far as the early twenty-teens--mainstream writing has become incredibly predictable. Name any event and I can tell you almost word-for-word how it will be discussed in Jezebel vs. Teen Vogue vs. The Root vs The Intercept. And, increasingly, there’s been very little analytical divergence even between different publications. Everyone to the left of Fox News seems to agree upon just about everything, and all analysis has been boiled down to the repetition of one of a half-dozen or so aphorisms about privilege or validity. There is, in short, a proper and improper way to describe and understand anything that happens, and a writer is simply not going to get published if they have an improper understanding of the world.

This, I think, is the result of our normalizing hyperbolic overstatements of harm and the danger posed by anything short of absolute fealty to orthodox liberalism. If it’s “literal violence” to express mild criticism and incredulity, people aren’t going to do so. Editors don’t want to risk accusations of “platforming fascists,” and so there’s been very little pushback against fascism being recently re-defined as “anything that displeases upper middle class Democrats.”

Not long ago, it was commonplace on the left to celebrate the internet’s ability to allow writers to bypass the gatekeeping functions of old media. With mainstream liberalism needing a scapegoat to explain away the failures of the post-2008 Democratic party, however, the tone has shifted.

Case in point, Clio Chang’s rather chilling piece from the Columbia Journalism Review that seeks to problematize an open platform called Substack.. Substack allows writers to publish almost whatever they want, outside of editorial control, and then charge a subscription to readers. As more and more websites and print media are being hollowed out and sacrificed to the gods of speculative capital, a large number of big-name writers have embraced this new platform. It has also allowed writers to report on stories that are objectively true but inconvenient to the Democratic establishment, such as Matt Taibbi’s admirable work debunking Russiagate bullshit.

Chang begins with a lengthy description of Substack’s creation. She stresses that no one—not even the site’s founders and most successful writers—consider it an ideal replacement for the well-funded journalism of old. Chang focuses on one particular Substack newsletter called “Coronavirus News For Black Folks” which appears to be moderately successful (the piece cites 2000+ subscribers, and its founder is earning enough to have hired an assistant editor). Even after describing how the platform has given large grants and stipends to other newsletter run by women and people of color, the fact that this one particular newsletter isn’t as successful as others is held up as proof of the platform’s malignancy.

“Coronavirus News For Black Folks” may be somewhat successful, but Chang implies that it rightfully should be even more successful, and that something evil must be afoot. Simple arithmetic tells us that a specialized newsletter—one pitched specifically to a minority audience and only covering one particular issue—is going to have a smaller readership than a more general interest piece. Rather than accept this simple explanation, Chang instead embraces the liberal tendency to blame a lack of desired outcomes upon the presence of evil forces.

While Chang provides a thorough overview of the current, fucked state of media and journalism, at no point does she grapple with the role that mainstream liberalism has played in abetting the industry’s collapse. This is surprising, as a quick google search suggests she generally has solid, left-wing politics. This omission reveals a problematic gap in left analysis, and bodes poorly for any hope of leftism accomplishing any material goals while the movement remains aligned with more mainstream identity politics. Even as she cogently explains the destruction of media and the hellish future that lay before writers, Chang still embraces the mystical fatalism that liberals have been leaning on since 2010 or so, when it became clear that Obama wasn’t going to make good on any promises of hope or change. She blames our nation’s horrors not elite leadership, but on the presence of people and ideas she doesn’t like. In this case, Substack is problematic because many of its writers are white and male, and some are even conservative:

When [Andrew] Sullivan joined Substack, over the summer, he put the company’s positioning to the test: infamous for publishing excerpts from The Bell Curve, a book that promotes bigoted race “science,” Sullivan would now produce the Weekly Dish, a political newsletter. (Substack’s content guidelines draw a line at hate speech.) Sullivan’s Substack quickly rose to become the fifth-most-read among paid subscriptions—he claimed that his income had risen from less than $200,000 at New York magazine to $500,000. When I asked the founders if they thought his presence might discourage other writers from joining, they gave me a pat reply. “We’re not a media company,” Best said. “If somebody joins the company and expects us to have an editorial position and be rigorously enforcing some ideological line, this is probably not the company they wanted to join in the first place.”

I’m no fan of Andrew Sullivan, but the man has spent decades building and maintaining his audience. Of course he’s going to have a larger readership than someone who is just starting out. This isn’t a sign of anything nefarious. It’s basic commonsense. But there’s no other conclusions that can be reached: things are bad because people haven’t done enough to root out badness. Things are bad because evil exists. The only way we can attempt reform is to make the evil people go away. Anyone who says anything I don’t like is evil and their words are evil and they shouldn’t be published.

Chang doesn’t make any direct suggestions for remediating Substack, but her implications are clear: equity requires censorship and ideological conformity. Providing any platform for people who are disliked by the liberal mainstream, be they too far left or too indelicate with their conservative cruelty, equates to harming vulnerable people—even when those vulnerable people freely admit to making money off the same platform. There is no room for dissent. There is no possibility of reform. The boundaries of acceptable discourse must grow narrower and narrower. Only when we free our world from the presence of the bad ones will change magically arrive.

NOTE: I wrote a follow-up to this piece that I think does a better job of articulating the points I was trying to make.

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theawesomeally · 3 years

Text

Before We Met (Preview)

Prologue

In a world inhabited by mythic creatures, love was commonplace several millennia ago, though difficult to master. After his training advances over the decades, his powers became obsolete and were largely discarded.

[The camera zooms in on the city and two blazing specks of light dash all over the place as one shoots lasers at the other. We then see an enemy aircraft flying throughout while it's chasing a young man, who is running from the pursuer. We see full closeups of a guy in his craft and Rocky as he runs. The scene freezes after an explosion with Rocky barely missing it.]

[voice over]

Through the years I have been known by many names. Marshmallow, The Furry Lover, The Daredevil, Frisky Two Times and then The amazing Ryan Reynolds. But to most, I am Rocky, the awesome one!

[Some other women, leaning across the wall, and Rocky getting his shades from his pocket. Put it onto his eyes. While he puts his hoodie onto his shoulders. Rocky was dressed like a gentleman, but he fought with honor or dignity and pulled at the knot into his tie. Females are not meant to grab his attention, and if it does. To be fair, he heard most of what he'd said up to this point. The parts that weren't of his interest, anyway.

Okay, maybe that wasn't much]

His sigh is heavy with exasperation,

"Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?"

Grab his phone from his pocket, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring his earphone up to his ear.

I will never forget you, Margarita. [The female stops and cringe after hearing the name. His blue prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic effect.

Rocky pretend to consider as Rocky step out of the car and button his tux jacket. "Hmm."

"Nice wheels, sir," the valet says, unconcerned that he was on the phone. Rocky pull out his wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. "Take care of her and this is yours."

"Yes, Mr. Rocky."

"I mean, Rosa. Uh...sorry. I think maybe I should go.???." She wrapped her arms over her chest and shook her head with a smirk curved across her face. Rocky grinned and raised an ironical finger in salute Rocky starts backing away. "You can't get away with it." the security guard muttered, holding out one hand. He was moving very slowly, thinking Rocky was the enemy or something. Blinks at her as a farewell, but glance with a smug as he sees the vampire's ring. Mind was so wrapped up in thought that he didn't notice the familiar vampire standing behind him. A vampire with bad breath psycho. "Hey, come on, dickie! You're trashing public property here!" He is thinking about how he had to sneaked up onto the roof and is currently standing a few feet behind him.

Rocky then gently slides the ring off the vampire's finger using his katana.

Light glinted off a myriad of his Katana and the vampire ring. Spray from the dust to blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened his palms as he gripped the eagle. His eyes were as blue while the vampires eyes were cold as the stormy weather.

"Hey, it's Gale calling," says Rocky called over his shoulder to one nefarious vampire. "Love the shiny suit. Really brings out the sex trafficker in your eyes." Rocky had commented, half jokingly and straight up confident, how that guy would have been considered handsome - if he ever bothered to smile.

Cut to a shot of a cliff.

A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier's face as he gazed up at the jeering vampires, their bodies smeared with blood, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, one being was mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck as a human shield or the solid surface of the earth.

Cut back to the fighting scene. Rocky is skewering a guy with his swords, and kicks the vampire in the chest, sending him back down and puts his sword away. The guy gasp and starts fighting with Rocky. This continues for awhile until Rocky get's away again. Using two fingers he salute the vampire as a goodbye.

Making a soft chuckle. He flicks the vampire ring up into the air. It comes back down and lands into one of the streets, causing his background to explode. The shards of fire fell in slow motion behind him.

He is consumed in the explosion, as his body can be seen flying off the ground, flipping off the camera as it goes. "Oh, fuck." Rocky mutter under his breath. "Oh, I'm sorry." A small apology leaving his lips with a smirk.

"That will teach you, not to mess with me," A familiar voiced ask, up righting his head as he walk over the circles and appeared in front of him,

(narrator)

So, I know what you're thinking. Why is that incredibly handsome guy being chased by a madman with a huge shiny fangs from the Civil War?

[The scene freezes after an explosion sending Rocky flying off the ground from the ground. After the dust settles, leaving Rocky lying unconscious on the ground.]

This guy's got the right idea. Well, to be honest, it feels like I've been the captain of my whole life. Is this too much? Am I going too fast? It's kind of what I do--You know what? Let's back up.

[We see the whole fight going in reverse as well as frames of future clips for a split second each time, one passes as Rocky mimics a rewind sound effect] Cut to close-up of Rocky gets up to his feet. Cut to him sitting on the side of the gable roof at night. Wondering how long it would be before he saw the city again. He had been born with a wandering heart, and he embraced adventure, unafraid to face the dangers often presented by journeys into unknown places. Leaving civilization behind for the wilds of the frozen north, legs dangling over the side as he listens to his Walkman next to him playing 'Shoop.' Rocky was vaguely singing along, making hand gestures along with the lyrics, but he was focused on his own drawing, while listening to the music and coloring a picture with crayons. We see that the picture he's drawing is him shooting the vampire in the head, he was doing it with some crayons he had with him.

It was fun to see that getting shot in the head, even if it was just a crayon drawing. He'd never soon change it to a reality. And then turned his head and stared directly at the camera, or the person reading, or just whoever balls happened to be paying a lot of attention to him.

Wha- Oh! Oh, hello. I know, right? Who's balls did I have to snap to get my very own story? I can't tell you, but it does rhyme with dick. And let me tell you; he's got a nice pair of fucking underwear, he finished in an Swedish accent.

They'd get that joke, right?

Anyway, I got places to be, a kiss in the ass to fix, and - oh! hot weird vampire to kill.

He watched eagerly as the flashes of light began to appear below him – lots of rippers were a very dramatic little shit, after all – we're panning quickly towards the edge of the roof he was sitting on. Now having an appointment to keep, Rocky was quick to get onto edge of the roof and, in one fluid motion, opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman, and the song "Where Evil Grows" by The Poppy Family stays playing in the background as he jumped off the roof, landing in one of the coolest bar in Mystic Falls. It seemed that they had been drinking peacefully, listening to 'Angel of the Morning,' but when Rocky landed and that's when their peaceful night was over.

They look around for which they finally see as Rocky stands at a wooden doorway wearing a cowboy hat, black sunglasses, and red a white hoodie as he opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman. Opens up and the door swings open and the music resumes with people dancing and lights flashing as he goes inside the bar.

Nothing.

Absolutely positively not a fucking thing.

First one person turned, noticing him. Then more followed, until the whole patron was hushed, waiting. Everyone was watching, the same bewildered look on all of their faces. Eyebrows raised and narrowed eyes, etc. God, for months he'd played this moment over and over inside his mind. It most definitely never turned out like this. Whatever this was.

As he walks up to the bar. The room was narrow and about 90 feet deep. Light did manage to worm its way into the establishment, though. It seeped through the windows scattered along the walls, and through the gaps in the door between its wooden panels. A bar on the left at the front, then some upholstered horseshoe benches, then a cluster of freestanding tables on what, on other nights, might have been a dance floor. Then the stage, with the band on it. The band looked as if it had been put together by accident after a misfiling incident at a talent agency. The bass player was a stout old black guy in a suit with a vest. He was plucking away at an upright bass fiddle. The drummer could have been his uncle. He was a big old guy sprawled comfortably behind a small, simple kit. The singer was also a harmonica player and was older than the bass player and younger than the drummer and bigger than either one.

The guitarist was completely different. He was young and white and small. Maybe 20, maybe 5-foot-6, maybe 130 pounds. He had a fancy blue guitar wired to a crisp new amplifier and together the instrument and the electronics made sharp sounds full of space and echoes. The amp must have been turned up to 11. The sound was incredibly loud. It was as if the air in the room was locked solid. It had no more capacity for volume. But the music was good. The three black guys were old pros, and the white kid knew all the notes, and when and how and in what order to play them. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black pants and white tennis shoes. He had a very serious expression on his face. He looked foreign. Maybe Russian.

I watched them for a minute, and then I looked away. My name is Rocky, and once I was the most wanted man, with heavy emphasis on the past tense. I have been out nearly as long as I was in. But old habits die hard. I had stepped into the bar the same way I always step anywhere, which is carefully. One-thirty in the morning. I had ridden the train to West and walked south on Sixth Avenue and made the left turn on San Francisco bar and checked the sidewalks. I wanted music, but not the kind that drives large numbers of patrons outside to smoke.

His attention was taken away from patrons. It was at that point that he saw the young beautiful woman alone at her table, Her name tag read Katy, and her shirt clung tightly around her chest. Her hands worked quickly and gracefully with the bottles as she poured them another and took the empty's away.

I watched her in the gaudy, reflected light, with the music shrieking and pounding all around me. The two guys watched her. Her bodyguard watched her. She watched the guitarist. He was concentrating hard, key changes and choruses, but from time to time he would lift his head and smile, mostly at the glory of being up on the stage, but twice directly at the girl. The first of those smiles was shy, and the second was a little wider.

What met my eyes was a beautiful girl with golden hair and a bright smile that melted my heart. She was blond and blue-eyed, American woman who have a glow, and a smoothness complexion. She lives in New York, singing, listening to a band, and I was in love with her angelic voice. That was clear. There I was, a guy further back in the room, stood in the room staring at her. I was 6ft tall, wide man with a white hoodie and a black leather jacket under a hoodie. She was part of the reason I was here with her back in a city when we were at the age of 19 or less.

It wasn't the kind of glossy place that had a policy about dating rich girls, either for or against. Some call it a gold digger, and I guessed they had looked at her and her minder and made a snap decision against trouble and in favor of tips.

The part of her gaze that wasn't wary was filled with adoration, and it was all aimed in his direction. She was rich. She was alone at a table near the stage and she had a pile of A.T.M fresh twenties in front of her and she was paying for each new bottle with one of them and she wasn't asking for change.

She was a waitress and I loved her.

The woman stood up. She butted the lip of her table with her thighs and shuffled out from behind it and headed for the counter in back. I got there first. The sound from the band howled through it. The ladies' room was halfway down. The men's room was all the way at the end. Rocky leaned on the wall and scanned the room. As Rocky watched her walk in and squeeze through the crowd and she sat down on the bar stool, 1 feet away from him.

"Hey, Raoul, look what this kid dragged in. Oh, wait! That is the guy!," but they didn't hear. Too much noise. He caught them by the elbows, one in each hand. They spun around, as if ready to fight, but then they stopped. Fortunately for him, the first two who approached her were quick to heed her dismissal. She wasn't there to mingle with huge ass in leather jackets. She was just there to grab a drink and relax and pretty sure she made that pretty clear when she shot the first couple of idiots down.

The third guy, however, wasn't ready to take no for an answer.

"How about you let me buy you a drink, sweetheart?"

Their sex appeal eyes pried upon their eyes from the television screen above the bar and looked at the newcomer. With his hair greased back and one-size-too-big biker jacket on, the guy looked like prime wife-beater material. Perfect. Just what they needed to interrupt his evening.

"Thanks, but I'm good," she said curtly, gesturing to the beer bottle in front of her.

"That's it? You're gonna chug that shitty beer and call it a night? Come on, let me get you a real drink."

She scoffed. "What? Like those idiots you got over there?" she glanced past him at the table where he and a couple of his friends had been sitting.

"It's a warm-up. Trust me, honey, we're just getting started over there. You should join us."

She wanted to roll her eyes. "Like I said, I'm good."

She made the move to turn away and focus her attention back on the football game on the television when the guy grabbed her by the arm.

"What the hell's your problem?" This guy gripped her arm tightly, this guy's face practically scrunched up in a beastly snarl. "I don't like to be ignored, y'know?"

She yanked her arm out of his grip and stood up to face him directly. She knew pretty damn well where the conversation was headed and sure as hell were not about to get in a bar fight with their ass glued to the seat.

Before she could open her mouth, a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.

By hearing it and raising their head to turn to his voice, her smile grew a tad wider, recognizing the voice immediately. They simply looked so annoyed, at least much more than usual. His lips pulled into a tight frown, while their eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, back hunched over slightly if you'd look hard enough. Yep, those guys are just being grumpy as usual, but seemingly much more grumpy, except with their eyes laced with the slightest bit of concern. For herself, most likely.

The said person stopped, and looked over their shoulder to the voice. She put on a mellow look close to her usual one. Confrontation- unnecessary confrontation- was not exactly his thing. He tended to avoid fights like these. He could hold his ground better than most, but he preferred to keep out of the brawls and spats that others got involved in.

A voice caught his ear, she sounded like she needed help, despite the overconfident tone the stranger used. "Look, I don't wanna interrupt, but is this guy bothering you?" he looks up at her and says greeted casually, as casual as someone could be hanging for dear life. She looked up at me, startled that he was there. "I'm sorry. Did I scare you up?" he softly asked, when she turned to get a good look at the stranger in his handsome voice. She wasn't expecting the sight she was met with. A pair of piercing blue eyes smiled over her, puffing out her cheeks childishly when she looked at him. After she looked to her right to find Rocky taking his place beside her. Her pinkish lips turned up in a small smile as she ducked her head briefly with a laugh before tucking her hair behind her ear, "No, you did not," she said. He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. She turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze with her own. He gave a small smile, stroking her hair softly with his index. "So, What exactly are you doing here?" she said softly, trying to maintain an even tone of voice.

"Oh you know, I was just passing through the neighborhood when I thought I caught a whiff of filthy human garbage coming from this place," he said,

"And sure enough here I am."

Desire pools dark and deadly in his groin. Gaze up at her, releasing her lip. Katy flush a deep crimson in her cheeks, and he runs his index finger down her cheek before handing her the headphones. "I'd like to kiss you, too, but you won't let me down, are you?." Rocky asked her. Besides, he's pulled the straps so tight he can barely move.

Amused smile on his lips, he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. He glances down at her, light blue-gray eyes alive, he glances up when she looks at his way and their eyes lock. And in that brief moment, she was paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at her with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into her, as they lost for a moment staring at each other.

It's there in the air between them, that electricity. It's palpable. He can almost taste it, pulsing between them, drawing them together.

"Oh my," she gasps as she basks briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction. The two men stood back, saying nothing, but looking at him with hard eyes.

Katy had, somehow, stammered out some sort of reply that must have made her look insane. Coby, hearing her, had come over to check on her and had ended up having her go make Rocky's a drink while they chatted. Ever since that first meeting, though, Katy had completely fallen for Rocky. There was something about his smile, or maybe it was his eyes? Whatever it was, it made Katy's entire body feel light as a feather.

To be continued....

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anystalker707 · 5 years

Text

It’s just the drugs

Requested by @that-one-sad-theater-kid Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader Genre: Angst Warning: Alcohol and drugs abuse Word count: 3 370 Summary: Was it really drugs that just kept you two together? It takes a while for Gerard to notice.

Feelings and demonstrations of such lost among continuous nights of touring, but it was difficult to really discern what kept you two together; exhaustion, conditions, feelings or the drugs? The nights went by as a blur that could easily be resumed in sleeping, drinking, music and drugs. It was ironical how you had started the tour with such good goals such like stop getting high or drinking so often and actually trying to be healthier, but the exhaustion that started taking over through the time was stronger. The same was shared by the other members of the band, but not at the same level.

You couldn't tell exactly when did waking up to a naked Gerard next to you started becoming something normal. After that, you were suddenly glued to him all the time; what was that? Well, who needed an answer anyways. You could find a comfort and happiness in being there like this. It was like you just established a relationship, without ever voicing it - something natural.

He would always be there. Lips pressed to yours whenever you needed and that cute giggle to cheer you up all the time. You went through the hard times together, encouraging each other - in the most different ways - before concerts and other uncountable moments. Even if you couldn't think straight for most of the time, one thing was right; you loved him.

Through it all, things started getting difficult, maybe out of hand. Was there an interview in which you were clean...? You couldn't really tell, but you remember that one time in which all you had done before it was to have a drink and that's it. Once, you got surprised with finding out the existence of an interview you didn't remember about. It happened a few times more until, seeing an specific one, you were shocked to sober up a bit and thereafter reality started to sink in.

Were you really living? Was it all about getting high then... getting high? Ray's words echoed in the back of your mind and you finally understood what he meant some weeks ago, plus the reason of the look he had on his face whenever he saw one of the other band members in a bad situation. That same look decorated your features as you observed them - Mikey was quietly sitting on the floor as leaning against the bus, probably not even in this reality anymore, while Ray tried to help him and Frank. Your heart sunk when you saw Gerard stumbling on the sidewalk and that made you freeze, thinking.

After a hard while trying, it was the first time you were really in your right mind and not thinking about getting high once again, as much as your body pleaded you for so. It was like you were finally able to see clearly after walking around in the dark with a flashlight in hand for so long, feeling an incredible relaxed sensation while some thoughts still wanted you to return to the dark - you forced yourself to continue in the light.

Anyways, it shocked you. Was that how you looked like when you were high? Your stomach churned at the scene. That was way worse than how it seemed to be, under all the chemical's effects. Noticing you could barely remember how did it feel to be in that state was terrifying. It made you never want to try any of that shit again, but you knew you'd be surrendering to your body's pleas not so long later.

The sight of Gerard falling on the sidewalk brought you back to reality and you quickly ran to his side, cupping his face. "Gee, damn, you okay?" You asked worried, not knowing if you got annoyed or more desperate at the giggle he released, slowly blinking at you. His words weren't clear, but you could understand your name among the slurs, along with some other completely unrelated words.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you shook your head to yourself and moved to help him up, deciding to get him inside the bus so you would be able to take better care of him. Once he was sitting on the couch, you had to be fast to grab a glass of water before he stood up and started walking away.

"Drink it, it'll help you." You muttered as sitting down next to him. He looked at you puzzled, furrowing his eyebrows like if trying to process what you said then opened a smile, slowly taking the glass in hands and bringing it to his lips. Certain kind of relief hit you; the corner of your lips curled up lightly as watching him, raising your hand to pull some of his dark strands from his face. After knowing the state you guys were into most of the time, now it was good knowing he had someone to take care of him.

"No!" He said suddenly, letting go of the glass away like if it was made of fire; it would've shattered on the floor if not fallen on his lap and rolled to the side, soaking his pants and the couch in the way. His sudden reaction made you retract your hand at the same time, startled. "It's fucking water!" The slurred words were still comprehensible as he said them with some difficulty, looking at you with disbelief and dilated pupils.

"Yeah?" Confusion hit you as you furrowed your eyebrows at him, shrugging while reaching for the glass before all of the liquid fell out of it. What was he expecting it to be?

A whine left his lips as he wrinkled his nose, resembling a small kid throwing a tantrum. "Where's the vodka?" His question made your heart sink again, having your expressions to unconsciously mirror the feeling. Gerard quickly grew tired of your lack of reaction and stood up. You noticed it when he was already about to open the cabinets in the search for the drink, but you were faster, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away, making the cabinet door slam shut.

"No! Stop! Come drink with me!" He whined again after noticing you wouldn't let go, letting the glass in the sink before you dragged him towards the bunks, with a lot of protests coming from him.

Honestly, all of that was a hell of experience to you. It was already a great shock to finally see things the way they really were, then it got more difficult with Gerard's behavior and, before you could notice, you reached a point it was impossible to determine what happened first; Gerard getting on top of you or you getting high.

In the next morning, regret hit you hard and you wanted to cry. Back to square one, to the same deplorable state of always. Was that how you really wanted to live your life? The headache wasn't really familiar to you because, normally, you'd never even give it time to happen, so every time the pain sharpened, tears stung your eyes. A muffled sob was enough to get the almost conscious Gerard's attention; he muttered something in his sleep before nuzzling further in the crook of your neck. Some kind of comfort hit you. At least he was there and you were there for him.

Later, you talked to Ray about your new choice, about how you noticed it wasn't so funny losing your senses for some determinate time then waking up with a massive headache. He was extremely happy to hear that from you and even offered help if needed, talking about how Mikey had chosen to do the same.

On the other hand, it surprised you Gerard took so long to understand it. Of course being high didn't help him remembering you had told it to him, but you hadn't really noticed that and it left you without reaction when he turned to you with that realizing expression.

"The fuck, why don't you want to do it?" Gerard narrowed his eyes at you; they widened seconds later. "You're fucking trying to stay clean! Fuck, Ray got you in this too!" He gasped, seeming angry and frustrated at the same time, momentarily forgetting to practically be forcing a bottle of vodka into your hand. "And now you're trying to do the same to me! No!" A sob escaped his lips as his eyes started showing some kind of betrayal; he quickly brought the bottle closer to his chest and sunk further in the couch. "You know it's my only escape!"

"But there are other ways to do it!" You insisted, not really knowing what to think or how to react. Weren't you trying to do something good? Why wouldn't he understand that? You cared about him, you wanted his best. Didn't him get it? Furrowing your eyebrows and trying to explain it better for him, you exhaled, reaching a hand to cup his face. "I can help you, Gee-"

"No!" He cut you off, moving away from your touch. "You're no fun anymore!" You were about to speak up, but he did it first. "I thought you understood how I felt, but no! Now you're trying to take it away from me! The only thing that makes me feel well!" His face contorted more in a betrayal that made your heart physically ache. "You're no fun anymore. You're trying to take it away from me..." He said in a shaky voice, about to cry.

As an almost automatic reaction, you reached for a hug, but there came another surprise - he didn't let you touch him. "I just want the best for you!" You choked out through all the feelings, just aching to feel his comforting warmth. "Let me help you out of this! You don't know how good it is to-"

"I don't want that help! I never asked for that help!" Gerard's eyes widened, annoyed that you weren't seeing what was obvious to him. "I liked you because you understood me and I thought you were like me!" He cried out, desperately unscrewing the vodka's bottle lid and bringing it to his lips, chugging down two long sips at once without letting you even get closer.

All of that caused a great confusion in your mind - between what was real and what you wanted to believe in. "Gerard, I fucking care about you! I'm doing this because I want you to-"

"Oh!" He cut in once again, with a realizing face much more exaggerated, mocking. His eyes were wide open and his mouth shaped an outstretched o. "You like me! Fuck, you took all the sex seriously!" At the proportion entertainment showed over his features, the hard reality crushed your heart, making your thoughts rush at the seek of another explanation for his words other than the truth.

"(Y/n)," A breathy chuckle escaped Gerard's lips, he furrowed his eyebrows. "it's all the drugs. I don't feel anything for you other than..." His eyes roamed around the room like if roaming around his mind in a seek for any excuse that would fit. "bro feelings." His eyes met yours again, seeming anxious to see you breaking under their gaze. "Do you really think we take anything serious here? Under these conditions? Frank can't even remember his own name." He snickered.

It was so casual. Casual. Your heaven casually went down at once and revealed itself worse than hell. Cool. That was so cool. To think someone would be this cold, huh? That was weird how some people could act exactly how the others thought they - or anyone else - wouldn't. Definitely amusing.

Gerard's words were successfully registered and played over and over by your mind, the whole time for two days or three. Your mind slowly managed to accept them and lock down all the feelings you had for him. It started turning easy to stay at the same room as him; your mind started treating him like part of the furniture, which wouldn't be notice until its use was needed.

If anyone asked or analyzed you, they would get to the same conclusion - psh, of course you were fine, just coming over the end of a relationship. The thing is that you knew it wasn't quite truth. They were uncountable, the times you found yourself craving not just the drugs and drinks again but also him. Only you knew it was the truth - the truth the went ignored and you wouldn't ever admit, even to yourself.

Ray, however, wasn't anyone. He had known you for long enough to know how you really were behind all this kind of shield you'd built around yourself. It bothered him more than anything because he was able to see what was happening on the other hand, what made the suffering you went through so unnecessary. He had to resist to the urge of throwing his head on the nearest wall - or maybe Gerard's - when the latter commented something about you and quickly denied the feelings.

"Can't you fucking notice?" Ray's patience had ran out; that wasn't something one could achieve easily, so Gerard was getting the prize, sitting in his place on the couch with eyes widened at witnessing the other raise his voice for the first time. "You're missing them! Waking up next to them! The way they care about you and are always around!" He threw his hands in the air, grasping at the nothing as remembering he couldn't just choke Gerard to death. "Are drugs that important to you? More than their feelings?"

Wanting the other to answer, Ray remained like this until he could cut Gerard off before the first syllabus was spoken. "You can't deny you've got feelings for them because, after they got distant from you, all you seem to do with your life is nothing! It's like if you need them to live, literally! Fucking grow up, Gerard!" Ray didn't trust himself enough to not end up hitting Gerard in the first opportunity he got, so he just walked away from the room quickly after that, not wanting to hear any other bullshit that would probably come from Gerard.

He didn't want to give up to that. No, he didn't even plan to. Still, Ray's words were stronger - they kept themselves present in the back of Gerard's mind at first, slowly taking over his thoughts until regret and guilt were eating him from the insides. It was ironical how the sadness of not having you just made him want to drink more and more - that last fact made him practically lose all the hope he had in being maybe even friends with you again.

It was like a sword went right across his heart every time your eyes ignored his form; it was so casual that he really felt invisible to you. It fucking hurt, but the worst part was knowing it was his fault. Even crying over that didn't feel right - it was like he didn't have the right of crying over something he had caused himself. You had noticed Gerard's once provoking presence turned into a fading one, but your mind was already used to ignoring him at all.

Ray's agony ended up being shared by Mikey and Frank - both had completely understood what was going on, not to mention they were trying to get better -, but neither of the three had the courage of interfering in the situation. They considered it so fragile, like if they were stepping on eggs whenever mentioning one near to the other, what was something difficult considering you were in a fucking band. Either you or Gerard would already have left the band if they weren't strong enough to pull on the strings.

That lasted until Mikey came up with an idea. Just don't say it directly, he said and Ray was quickly in charge of giving Gerard a lecture of how he needed to seek for help. Maybe not even seek for help, he just needed anyone to support him while he fixed himself. Someone that would be there for him and willing to help him under any circumstance and Gerard fucking knew who was that, as much as he wanted to ignore that.

Stubborn, but not dumb; that's the reason Gerard knew how to not ignore Ray. He trusted Ray so much that he would follow the other's words even unconsciously and he was pondering about it when finally seeing you walking through the door and entering the bus' living room area.

For once, Gerard expected you to look down at his miserable form that sat on the couch, eyeing you expectantly. It never happened. The only sound that filled the place was you pouring coffee into a cup and quickly downing the liquid, with no greetings or words exchanged. It was finally clear to Gerard how not having you in his life was - actually, that was just like admitting doing something uncomfortable for wanting to seem cool then noticing how dumb was that.

"(Y/n)..." He cried out quietly - your name felt like water in his lips after days of thirst while they sounded like a long forgotten song to your ears. Maybe you were just hallucinating, you told yourself as placing the cup in the sink, walking towards the exit until a hand grabbed your jacket's sleeve. "(Y/n)." Gerard said again, more confident this time. Nervousness hit him at once noticing he had your attention and he suddenly noted he had spent so much time worried about how to talk to you that he hadn't thought about what to tell you. "I'm sorry." Was all he could think about.

What to do? You asked yourself over and over, analyzing uncountable options in seek for a perfect one which never came. To ignore him or say something? You couldn't decide. You had hope, but you also knew you couldn't have it. Why did everything need to be so difficult?

Well, what rested for Gerard was to say the truth. That's all he had to say. "I was a fucking idiot and I'm so stupid for just noticing now that I'm fucking nothing without you. I think I was too afraid of getting attached to you or something-" He quickly interrupted himself, believing he got a bit too far. "I know that it's barely making sense, but I fucking need you to live and I'm so sorry. It's the worst thing in the world to be ignored by you and I always loved it when you played with my hair or caressed my cheek. I just fucking miss it all, I love you so much-"

The rant continued, but all your mind could process at first were those specific five words - I love you so much. You hated how it sounded so cheesy and made you seem easy, but it made you internally melt knowing he noticed the details about you. How he mentioned missing the specific way you furrowed your eyebrows when he said something stupid or the way you always pecked his cheek before you two sang Thank You For The Venom. Just having him hugging you tightly and crying on your shoulder could bring you back to reality.

He still cares. You told yourself as shakily exhaling. Honestly, you were extremely afraid. Was he saying the truth? Wasn't it, in his words, drugs again? Thinking about that almost made you back away from him, but he must have noticed your insecurity and tightened his grip around you.

"I want your help. I need you." His voice went out muffled by your shoulder as your could feel his fingers tightening around the fabric of your jacket and tears getting through it. "I-I know I'm in a worst state than I was before, but... I know you can help. Just you, just you..." The words kept being repeated by him like a mantra that would save him from an eternal doom.

You couldn't resist to that. Slowly, your arms wrapped themselves around his shaking body and you placed a light kiss to his head. "It's okay now." You whispered, quietly accepting his love and trusting him yours.

#my chemical romance #emocore #mcr #emo #bands #music #gerard way #writing #gerard way x reader #gerard imagine #gerard way imagine #mcr imagine #mcr x reader #imagine #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #my post

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border-spam · 4 years

Text

Leech Lord AU short - It comes before a fall

The craggy landscape of Pandora raced by outside the tinted windows of Troy’s massive technical as the COV war machines that escorted the glossy black hulk thundered around it in a convoy, weaving between the billowing clouds of acrid dust that trailed behind the God’s chariot as they bounced and jostled along the dirt road that lead to their backwater destination.

Its deified passenger wasn’t enjoying the trip quite as much as his retinue, and was finding it difficult to deal with their raucous voices and blaring music audible over the roar of the vehicle’s engines as tires screeched over the rocky dirt road.

He rubbed at his temple, wincing quietly at each bump and grind of the car’s axles, and reminded himself why he was wasting his precious time driving to this nameless little shithole.

Pride.

(Incredible art by @lazulizard ) Troy had reluctantly added the town to his itinerary after noting how close it was to the cult-controlled Eridium plant he’d scheduled to inspect with his vanguard today, it had been an irritant under his skin for long enough, and it seemed fitting to gouge it out when he had a couple of hours to spare, regardless of how much he’d rather be in the Grand Cathedral right about now. The camp was a blip on the map he’d spent so long seeding across Pandora. An insignificant, pathetic speck of non COV land surrounded by the vast sprawl of the Twin’s territory, that had been in the back of his mind for months now. As his iron grip tightened on the region and the cult’s control had spread like a seeping cancer across the desert plains, the gaps had filled in piece by piece, all bar this dive. He’d figured it was time to scratch the itch, they were going to be nearby anyway, just a couple of extra hours drive in the padded luxury of his chauffeured technical and they’d still have time to be back in the Holy City by nightfall, so why not. Get it done. Make the cut.

He just wished his skull wasn’t splitting as the car lurched, or there was some company with him to lighten the mood, give him something to listen to bar the shrieks and throbbing music of his crusaders. The day had been tiring enough, the threats and sneering orders he’d snapped at the plant workers took more out of him than he’d ever feel comfortable admitting. The technical was air conditioned, comfortable, armored, and his driver pleasantly silent, but the migraine wouldn’t budge. He was tired, tired in his fucking bones, and he couldn’t even remember when the last time he hadn’t felt this way was.

Everything was changing, or had already changed. He wasn’t sure which, but what he did know was that this, riding passenger in a 6 million dollar custom war-machine with a bottle of champagne in the platinum holder next to him he couldn’t pronounce, driving towards a shanty town with a retinue of blood thirsty marauders who carved his name into their chests and performed rites of sacrifice in his image, this was not what he’d signed up for. This wasn’t becoming a star was it, Tyreen?

This had turned over time into something else, and he was clawing to try and keep it under control now, constantly. Scrabbling to placate the rot in his gut that whispered it was real, that he was a God, and that these people deserved what his cult did to them.

He rested his head against the blacked out glass of the window, watching the retinue belch fire and smoke from hood mounted exhausts while playfully attempting to push each other off road as they drove on, his guard’s excitement manifesting in triumphant yells and vicious warnings to “Keep your distance” - blasted from car-mounted stereo equipment that echoed out across the wastes. He wished for a moment he could still feel that level of adrenaline, that rush of carefree blood-thirst his crusader’s inebriated themselves with on runs like this. Everything was just.. grey now. Had been for a long time. He let his eyes fall closed, grounding himself. They’d arrive soon. He’d step out of this gilded cage of a car and into the spotlight. He needed to slip on the character. Place the mask. Play the part.

Time to have a nice little chat with them, an unannounced Holy visit. Find out why exactly they hadn’t accepted the COV’s gracious offer to join in all this time… give them a reason to believe.

As the town came into sight through the oily dust clouds in the distance ahead like a rusty blemish on the rocky horizon, he tensed, leaning to his side to get a straight view of it through the dark glass. A wave of disgust ran up his spine as they closed distance and the reality of its state came into focus, sharp eyes taking in the town’s condition while his retinue’s speakers turned toward it to blast an announcement of their God’s arrival.

It was tiny, filthy. Ramshackle junk housing stacked haphazardly on top of each other. Rusted cargo containers turned into homes for people with nothing else to call their own. The crudely cut windows and doors fluttered with rags and patched together clothing set out to dry in the parched desert wind, and they caught the red clouds of dust the convoy billowed into the air as the vehicles screeched to a stop in front of the shabbily constructed entrance to the village.

It made you feel grimy just being here, he thought with a scowl as he stepped down from the technical, watching with disgust as the polished metal of his boots instantly turned dull when they crunched into the red clay beneath him. The God King flipped his fur collar higher and lazily swiped his hair into place with practiced indifference as the crusaders on either side of him thundered forward into the village with weapons raised. His personal guard immediately began to establish a perimeter away from their King, herding and snapping at panicked townspeople with efficient, well trained, deadly ease. He took a moment to assess the terrified crowd of inhabitants that had collected in fearful groups. They were cowering in doorways and stumbling back over each other with hands raised in submissiveness as his vanguard roared orders to “Make way for Father Troy”, parents calling their scrawny children with frantic gestures to get inside their homes, no one giving even the slightest resistance to the demands of his retinue. These weren’t a threat.

Skinny. All of them. Malnourished, most in rags or barely clothed at all. Sickly kids stared at him from sunken eye-sockets over the jagged windows they peeked out of, this place was diseased. The few weapons he noted as he scanned across the crowd were rusted or poorly junked together out of scrap. These weren’t even bandits, bandits were more robust than this, these were just people. The forgotten of Pandora, the absolute bottom rung in the pecking order. People, trying to survive on a planet that you either sacrificed your morals to, or your life.

Something in his gut twisted in response to that. Something that he’d rather not think about as he strode into the village, his polished smile and immaculately clean outfit emphasising the wealth and power he held in stark contrast to the dust coated poverty he stalked into, he stood out like a wound here, twinkling jewelry and harsh metal spines of his cybernetics glinting in the evening sun. The commanding presence he emanated was amplified by the crusaders who flanked him on either side in their warped skull masks and dark leather armor, monochrome bar the neon splashed COV weapons and chrome spiked accessories they wore as uniform. No one kept God King Calypso waiting long, and the old woman stumbling towards him was clearly the town leader - considering the worried glances towards her from the rest of the villagers as they watched in nervous silence.

She stopped a couple of feet before him, not reacting to the weapons raised in unison by his vanguard, a tiny little woman, all pinprick brown eyes and brown craggy skin, who’s wispy white hair fluffs in the breeze like a cloud perched onto her scalp. She wasn’t remotely afraid, he could feel that straight away, but she bowed to him politely, spoke her crude little greeting respectfully through a dry old throat.

“Troy Calypso, welcome, majesty. Not sure why yer here, but what can we do for a God kind enough t’ grace us with his presence?”

He took the bait, sparkling smile spreading wider as his eyes narrowed , gesturing with a grand bow towards her to emphasise his reply:

“Oh, no, no ma'am, what can we do for you? That’s why I’m here. To get an answer to this tricky lil’ question at last.” he smarmed, standing to his full height again, golden fangs so clearly peeking out of the now wolf like grin as his eyes twinkled with mock kindness.

“The COV would love to welcome you into our family. Have wanted you to join for quite a while! I thought a… hah.. personal touch might help, came to have this polite chat with you myself, hope I wasn’t too forward.” he raised his mech fist slowly, counting off the bladed fingers theatrically as he continued.

“Food. Medicine. Safety. Guns. Protection, we offer the same benefits to all our followers, and we really do ask for so little in return - just your fealty, and that’s such a small th-”

“No thank you.” she croaked in reply, cutting him off mid sentence. The crowd behind her gasped in quiet shock at the rudeness, and the insult of her dismissal shot like a sniper round directly into the back of his brain. He reeled for a second, mouth souring out of the fake smile it had been locked into as he took a moment to scrutinise her wizened little face through a disapproving side-eye. The right panel of his maw twitched involuntarily - just quick enough for a flash of razor sharp teeth to catch the sunlight as it slid back into place.

He almost mouthed his thoughts, nearly warned her to not do this, not when there were people he had to maintain his reputation in front of, but he swallowed it down instead with an arrogant tilt of his head and flex of his lithe torso. Locked it deep in his belly and hoped she’d realise her mistake.

The old woman was expressionless, but wasn’t meeting his demanding stare. Her eyes were instead trained on the skull tattoo shifting across his chest with each controlled breath, was she aware of the knife-edge she was walking on? Did she know the danger she was really playing with? He closed the distance slowly, a subtle hand gesture commanding his guards to lower their weapons as he came close enough to her to hunch down, dropping his towering frame to bring his face closer to her eye level.

He said nothing for a moment, breathing in the smell of dust and old sweat she gave off in loud, deep huffs through his nose. She was shivering, not as stoic as he’d thought. He could see that now that he was so close to her throat.

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he sighed. Troy was tired. He wasn’t in the mood to play this game, even when he could see ten steps ahead and knew the direction she was making the terrible mistake of heading in. Letting the persona slip away, he lowered his voice, wanting to keep this between just them and out of range of the surrounding nearby crowd.

“Lady, help me out here... I’m confused. I’m fuckin’ insulted.” He muttered, jaw a little tighter than he wanted to acknowledge as he continued.. “Your town is too small to even tax, we ask nothing from a shanty this size. I waive tithes… ” Troy paused as he turned his mouth closer to her ear, close enough for the heat of his breath to prickle the hair on her neck, and lowered his voice further till it was barely a husky whisper.

“All the COV will ask from you is loyalty. You know I could level this shithole with a nod… right? You get that I could massacre aaalll these people with just a word? Why. Why would you deny us? These people, these kids are s-starving. These kids are sick. We- I can fix that, like this:”

He snapped his flesh fingers next to her ear, and bristled pleasurably at the wave of perverse satisfaction that rolled through his stomach when she jolted in response, her paper thin eyelids fluttering. Did she understand now, he wondered, flicking his piercing gaze to one of the skinny kids holding onto their mother’s leg nearby, and the look on their face as they stared at him, like they were realising the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t entirely make believe. Did she understand the out he was giving her, the genuine offer of charity hidden behind the God King’s sneer? That he couldn’t provide it unless she bowed and played along?

She shifted a little, her stiff old shoulders popping in complaint as she did, and finally raised those warm little brown eyes to meet his bitingly cold ice blue ones.

“I didn’t mean t’ insult his liege..” she breathed, and he waited for her to continue, waited to hear her out.

“Maybe you just got too big t’ understand. Maybe bein’ so strong can leave you soft in places you don’t know about anymore. Cuz’ starving to death? Bein’ sick?” she shrugged awkwardly, lowering her eyes to his chest again.

“We all die, but at least you’d still die free.”

That stab landed. He sucked in a jagged breath and held it, shaking. The moment of silence that followed felt like a millennia to the hundred people huddled around them, too far to hear what had been said, but close enough to see his reaction to it, see the jagged black metal spines of his vertebral implant raise and vent crackling red Siren energy in response to the berserk anger their leader’s muttered words had ignited in the King.

His fist tightened by her ear as his markings flared, and the pulse of scarlet light bathed them both in that moment, reflecting cruelly in the piercing eyes that bored into the side of her head as she refused to meet his stare.

The rage rolled off God King Calypso’s hulking frame in tangible waves... but the old woman did not waver.

He straightened slowly, maw clicking and twitching in fury as he rose. A stringy line of drool slavered from the split mandible and landed at her feet as his eyes narrowed, and Troy smiled at her, his jaw clipping together into a friendly grin so transparently hostile you could see the fangs snapping into place behind it. His eyes scanned the crowd rapidly, pausing imperceptibly on each of those scrawny kids that hid their faces from him now, terrified past their curiosity. OK. If this is the way she wanted to play..

Then he’d do the same. ”Fine”, he barked, voice clear and loud, making sure every villager would hear what he had to say, that all eyes were locked on him as he continued. “No problem ma’am. I’m not a man to push my kindness on others. Good luck with your..." he paused to crack a false laugh, shifting his eyes to the nearest family - “Your uh.. “dying free”.” He winked at them, and then his entire demeanor shifted purposefully, making a scene of dropping the playful act and warping into grim disgust as his gaze snapped back to her, still refusing to meet his eyes. He began to turn, and gestured for his retinue to follow, their boots crunching through the dirt as they stormed to his side. He made one final pause as the reached their vehicles and looked back, lifting his monstrous cybernetic arm to wave playfully at the gathered people, watching with satisfaction as a few cringed when the bladed fingers caught the dying sunlight. “By the way!” he bellowed, commanding their absolute attention again as his mouth split into a wolfish grin. “If you need any help with components for building all those little kid sized coffins, give us a call, yeah? We’ll cut you a good deal.” The looks they shared were a reassurance at least. Maybe someone would listen after all.

*******

"Fucking MOVE” he hissed at his driver as a crusader closed the car’s door after him, and they gassed it at his command, the hulking technical’s tires spinning a cloud of debris towards the town's inhabitants as they covered their eyes and coughed. He couldn’t get out of this shit-hole fast enough. Couldn’t get far enough from those *children* and the way they’d looked at him, he flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror and felt a cold chill through his burning chest as they faded into the dust behind the convoy. That stupid woman. That stubborn old bitch. She’d let them die rather than bend a fucking knee. He was disgusted, and not fully sure who with. Slamming his boot into the back of the partition in front of him and feeling the car swerve as the driver jolted, he screamed “Drop the DAMN DIVIDER, YOU MORON!!” - panting in anger as they fumbled in panic to hit the switch and activate the internal armor at his demand. He’d barely managed to keep the storm of emotion brewing inside him contained when they finally found it, and felt a wave of relief when the reinforced metal screen closed between them, giving him privacy at last. Troy hunched forward in his seat and pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes closed and desperately trying not to sob. What the fuck had just happened back there? He wanted to cry, his heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest and he couldn’t seem to get enough air, lungs heaving as he shuddered in gasps while trying to swallow down the panic. What had happened? In 6 years of recruiting, 6 years since the COV had reached a level of power where they were no longer told no, he’d never encountered anything like that situation. He wasn’t prepared for it, he’d never had to deal with this mix of completely opposing emotions before. Standing there looking at sick kids he knew could help so easily, but knowing that under the scrutiny of his vanguard and the terrified eyes of the villagers, he couldn’t break character to do it. He ran his flesh fist into his hair and gripped hard into the dark mess, pulling sharply at his scalp as he crumbled further forward, head nearly between his knees as he trembled. Trying to give that bitch an out, trying to be clear in his cunning, emphasising what he was offering, and being denied the only route he had to help them by a weak old woman too proud and stubborn to give the nothing he asked for in return. Nothing! Some COV propaganda plastered about the town would have been more than enough, it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t understand. No one said no. No one denied them. He hissed as the first tear spilled down his cheek, then threw himself back into the seat and *screamed*, bludgeoning the massive mech arm into the steel divider. Not caring if the driver heard him choking out tears. Not caring if they told the others, not caring about anything anymore bar those kids, and how sick he’d been, and how powerless he was now even when he paraded himself as a God, how much of a lie it was. He had no control. He had to act the part, always, even when it was something he hated, when it wasn’t what he wanted. Troy snarled as the hot wet slick under the bracer and the telltale burn along his delicate scarred shoulder became noticeable, but didn’t stop, hammering the metal over, and over, as the agonising jolts buckled the arms outer plating more with each blow. His voice was starting to crack between sobs, wheezing on the intake as his weak lungs began to fail, but he had to spew this bile out now, knowing he couldn’t risk trying to carry this level of emotional turmoil into the Holy City while hoping the mask didn’t slip in front of Saints, or his sister. He was a fake. No God would be sobbing like this, having a tantrum alone in the back of a damn car.

Nothing about him was fucking real. That woman had seen it, she’d looked right through him like he was glass. Straight past the bluster and fangs, to the stammering, sick, broken, weak man he’d thought he’d hidden, and known she could say no. Known straight away that she was stronger than him. He’d thought.. he’d hidden that person.. so well. Coughing a final sob as his ruined arm shuddered on damaged pistons and slid to his side, he lifted his left to cover his face, slumping back in his seat, silent now bar for the pained hiccups that followed. God. He didn’t know what to do.. Part of him wanted to say screw it, order an airdrop of supplies off the books. Food, medicine, some guns. Anything to give them a chance out there. He was in charge of finance, no one would need to know, maybe he could manage it and keep his reputation intact... But the other part of him wanted to send the command to have the fucking shit-hole razed to the ground. How’s your freedom taste now, while slag melts the flesh off your bones you stupid old bitch. Troy coughed quietly, sinking lower into the seat as he rested his sore neck against the curve of the headrest, trying to steady his breathing as he forced himself to calm. There was no longer any sound outside, no shouting or broadcasts, just the dull roar of the convoy’s engines, like white noise in the back of your mind. The same craggy Pandoran landscape raced past as before, but pitch dark now, the only light being what streamed from the vanguard vehicle’s headlamps. Suddenly, the technical bounced over a bump in the dirt track and he winced as he jolted forward, then nervously lifted the front of his coat as he felt a trickle down his right side, sighing in embarrassed defeat as he saw the blood seeping from under the bracer seam resting against his lower ribs. Perfect, he thought, banging his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes.

Wonderful, he’d really made the right choice with that breakdown, huh. The arm was junked, his shoulder was torn to pieces, and he’d probably lost his voice. Tyreen was going to eat him alive, if she even noticed, he reminded himself with a humorless snort, too tired to even manage a sneer. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Echo, sniffing as he bent his head to rub his eyes on his forearm, too blurry with tears and mascara to see the display clearly. He didn’t know what to do. But she would, wouldn’t she. He slowly thumbed through the 2 years of unanswered messages, all read, over and over on nights when things were bad, but none responded to. All from her. Checking in if he was ok, repeating it hadn’t been all his fault, letting him know she was still right there if he ever needed her. She’d know. He could ask. He could ping her right now, and she’d know what to say straight away. She’d point him in the right direction, dig the worry out of his chest and slap the back of his head with a few blunt words of choice like she always managed. Seifa would know.. He didn’t realise how hard he was gripping the E-Dev till a straggling tear dropped to his bone white thumb knuckle, and he blanched, snapping out of his lost thoughts as he shook his head. With one last glance at her messages, he tapped the display button and dropped the Echo to his lap, then lifted his shaky hand to wipe at his eyes, feeling the oily shift of streaked eyeliner under his fingers. He needed a fucking shower. He was so tired. ****

Had so much fun writing this and appreciate any and all feedback and comments! If you’re interested in the Leech Lord Borderlands 3 AU, check out my pinned post and the tag on my feed for all the content.

#Borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #seifa #leech lord #my hcs #my writing

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