#I am... going to draw him with scuffed ankles now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sezja · 2 years

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Aethersup: Vampire AU

It isn't the first time Guydelot Thildonnet has woken up chained to a bed with no memory of how he got there or the events that may have led him there, but it is the first time he's woken that way while still fully clothed. And alone. Ostensibly.

He sits up, slow and cautious, but no one emerges to explain his predicament. The room is luxurious in its opulent decay; the enormous four-post canopied bed draped in red velvet is but the centerpiece of a bedchamber he could run laps in, could he but dodge the aged mahogany luncheon table with its gilded engravings, the matching dust-covered desk and armoire, and the towering bookshelves full of leatherbound tomes that look as though they’ve not been touched in decades.

And if he could run laps with his right ankle chained to a bed, of course.

Drawing slow, deep breaths, refusing to panic, he examines the chain itself. Heavy and strong, sturdy. The Matron alone knows what they’ve done with his boots, to snap this nasty thing in place - his feet are bare and cold. The leather-lined cuff on his ankle isn't so tight it chafes, nor so loose he can wiggle his foot out. The chain looks to be long enough to let him properly explore the room… but not so long as to allow him to reach the door, nor the room's single window. Not that reaching the window would do him much good: even from the bed he can see the heavy bars that cross the panes, forbidding any attempt at escape. If he had to guess, he'd bet on the door being locked tight, as well.

Never mind. The window and door are useless to him if he can't get himself unchained, right? One problem at a time. He grasps the ankle cuff, prying at it - aye, it's as sturdy as it looks. Damn. The lock looks ancient - might be pickable, but here he is without a damn thing to use to pick a lock! He wrenches futilely at it once more, more a token effort than a genuine one, and moves on, examining each link in the chain for weaknesses. A bent ring. A weak joint. Anything.

Nothing.

His heart is racing by the time Guydelot reaches the other end of the chain - another, larger cuff, tight around the bedpost. He yanks at it, pulls at it with all his might. Over and over. One good pull, he tells himself; one good pull and he'll snap himself free: sooner or later, some link in the chain will snap, or the cuff latched around the bedpost will give.

There are scars on the bedpost around the cuff - many, many scars, as though uncountable prisoners have also strained and struggled against this chain.

He tries not to wonder what became of them.

It was sometime after dawn when he awoke; by now, the wan light streaming in through the barred window suggests it must be nearly noon. All he's got for several bells' worth of wrestling with the chain are sore, raw hands and a throbbing headache; he flops back heavily on the bed, staring up at the canopy above. Right. Well and so, I'm not escaping today, am I? The chain's not letting him go any time soon, and the room he's been trapped in is well-appointed - like he's expected to stay there a good long while.

Little by little, he examines his predicament, with the same piece-by-piece studiousness as he'd used to examine the chain.

Whoever's captured him, they've gone to the trouble of setting him up in a fancy room, presumably to stay. He's not been injured; not so much as a bruise nor scrape. Indeed, save for the chain around his ankle and his missing boots, he's in precisely the same state he'd been in… yesterday, presumably, when he'd dozed off beneath a tree in the East Shroud, drowsing in the late afternoon sunshine. Guydelot sits back up, then carefully stands, wincing at the sound of the heavy chain slithering to crash on the polished stone floor.

Well, it ain't his fault if the floor gets scuffed, is it?

First he makes his scraping, clanking way over to the desk: it’s a writing desk, several decades out of fashion, and Guydelot doesn’t dare try to guess when last it saw use. It wears a fine coat of dust, undisturbed, presumably, by any of the room’s previous occupants. Curious, he tugs at the drawers, and is unsurprised to find them locked, as well. The desk’s chair is, surprisingly, not bolted to the floor as he might have anticipated… though perhaps he oughtn’t be so surprised after all, given the hefty weight of the thing. He struggles to pull it out from beneath the desk, never mind lifting it to use as a weapon - or perhaps a battering ram against the locked door he can’t even reach.

There’s an inkwell, long since gone dry, and a feather quill that’s seen better days: like the desk, it’s coated in dense dust. Whoever last held this room, they saw no reason to write.

Then again, even could they write for help, who would bear the letter? And how would it get free from this room?

Guydelot shudders, stepping away from the desk, moving instead to the armoire. He half-expects to find it locked, as well, but it opens at his touch - albeit with a painful screeching of the hinges, left unoiled for the Matron only knows how long. The armoire itself is empty, of course. His host, whoever they may be, has not seen fit to supply him with clothing for the duration of his stay. How very rude, he thinks, grimly speculating as to how long he’s expected to stay here, in the first place.

There’ve been disappearances around the Shroud lately, he recalls, since the Calamity.

Folks gone missing, sometimes for several weeks, only to turn up again later, dazed, with no memory of where they’d been… but with their aether strangely diminished, requiring the better part of a moon’s rest before they were strong once more.

First was a young lad, scarcely more than a boy, snached from out of the blue. Such tragedies happened, even in Gridania’s sheltered boughs. Guydelot recalls the searches, the terror turning into outrage. The duskwights were blamed, the Ixal, adventurers from Ul’dah, slavers; for a time, no one was trusted, while the search for the young Smyth boy went on, futile. He’d never been found, dead or alive. But then…

The first few to vanish after the boy’s evident kidnapping had been outsiders, their disappearances blamed on taking a wrong turn in the depths of the Black Shroud, lost to the forest’s twisting paths and dangerous shadows… but then locals began going missing, as well, with no explanation. Seasoned hunters who knew where the dangers hid; locals making the same deliveries they made every week; botanists simply checking familiar harvest points - it made no difference. One and all, they vanished.

And all - nearly all - have returned, Guydelot reminds himself, as his heart begins to race once more.

Remember that part, he tells himself, as he kneels to begin tugging at the drawers of the armoire. They’ve all come back in one piece. So will you.

At first, he thinks the armoire’s drawers are locked, as well - they don’t come loose when he tugs… but then he realizes there are no locks; the drawers are simply jammed. He wastes several more minutes prying at the weathered wood, to no avail - locked or no, clearly he’s not getting into them today, and he doubts strongly that the shallow drawers hold the key to his salvation. He stands and closes the armoire’s doors once more, and moves on, continuing to examine his little cage.

The walls are bare, he realizes: bare pale stone, cold and sterile, stark against the elegant furnishings. Something about the color of it tugs at his memory. He approaches the wall, slowly resting a hand against it, as though he believes doing so might help him recall why it seems so familiar. Not quite marble, but smooth and veined all the same, it gleams in the light streaming in through the window. Guydelot’s eyes narrow as he studies it. Where…?

Amdapor, his mind supplies, and then reels. Amdapor! Old artists’ renditions of lost Amdapor, with its halls and spires of white stone. Gods, is he in bloody Amdapor? How!? The elementals barred the way to the city, and even could someone slip past the godsdamned elementals, still there are flesh-and-blood guards standing watch over the only known entrance. No one’s seen the city in person since… since… well, since its fall, as far as Guydelot remembers, and that was before the great flood. Before Gridania. Before even Gelmorra! This can’t be Amdapor, he reasons, backing away from the wall - not Amdapor at all, but somewhere else, somewhere else far from the Shroud, that just so happens to use pale stone.

He drags his chain over to the window, as close to it as he can get, straining against the full length of the chain. He reaches, brushing aside the mildewed curtains, peering through the bars.

The light outside is golden, but sickly, but he can’t make out his surroundings. No trees, though; that’s enough to prove to him that this isn’t the Shroud, at least not a part of it he knows. Could still be Amdapor, his terrified mind tells him, and he swears under his breath, burying his face in his hands.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t bloody panic; he’ll never get out of this if he panics.

The furniture. The furniture is old, but it’s not Amdapor old - if he is in the ancient city, this room’s furnishings are far more contemporary, and that means… what, that some ancient creature isn’t responsible for his abduction? No, what it means is, someone’s able to get in and out of Amdapor without being seen - and they’re able to do it repeatedly, both to decorate this room and to spirit captives away from the Shroud.

But what sort of person - or thing - could do such a thing, and right under the noses of the elementals and the Wood Wailers?

He lifts his head, abruptly aware of a change in the room. Some shift in the air. He slowly turns around, tense as a bowstring… but he’s alone, still. Nothing has changed. Nothing has moved.

But there’s something on the table.

Something that wasn’t there a moment ago.

His gaze flicks to the door, but it is still closed - surely he’d have heard if someone came in, right? That door looks heavy, and if the hinges of the armoire are any indication, surely the hinges haven’t been oiled. He’d’ve heard that door open and close. He’s sure of it. So that means… what? Either someone slipped into the room without so much as a squeak of the hinges, which is absurd, or…

Suddenly he wishes he could throw that heavy desk chair, if only he knew which way to throw it. The room looks as empty now as it did before - not even the dust stirs to mark some invisible presence, and no matter how Guydelot squints and strains his eyes, he can make out no telltale sign of someone hiding in plain sight. Little by little, his jangling nerves quiet. If he’s being observed by some invisible someone, there’s not much he can do about it, is there?

Besides, what’s a rusty-hinged door to a creature that can slip in and out of Amdapor unseen?

Cautiously, he approaches the table, belatedly deciding he ought to inspect his offering: a silvery dome atop a silver platter. Food, he hopes; he’s not eaten since… well, since before his nap in the Shroud, and thus before his abduction. It smells like food, savory and comforting. He reaches slowly to remove the lid, halfway dreading what he might find beneath…

But it is food - simple fare, but more than adequate for Guydelot’s roused hunger. He devours it standing up, not even troubling with the gleaming silverware; if he has an audience, he figures, let them be repulsed by his table manners. As he licks his fingers, he realizes that the table, like the bed, is free of dust - doubtless because unlike the rest of the furniture, these items have seen use by his predecessors. Or perhaps the table was cleaned by the same unseen visitor that delivered his meal? He cannot recall now if it was dusty during his cursory glance over the room… and ultimately, he decides, it likely doesn’t matter.

Fed and bored, he returns to the bed, flopping himself heavily upon it face-first and folding his arms under his head.

Right. So that’s the lay of the land, such as it is.

It’s not so bad, he realizes - it’s luxurious, more or less, and it looks as though he’s going to be kept fed, at least. No onerous duties have been shoved on him as yet; indeed, no one’s so much as shown their face to start throwing about orders. If he’s to be enslaved, he’s a pampered slave, with better quarters than he has even at home. And if he is expected to work, well, they’ll have to take this chain off of him sooner or later, eh? And that’ll be a chance to escape, to get out of Amdapor or wherever the hells they’ve locked him up. And even should he not find a way to escape, well, history suggests he’s likely to be released sooner or later, with only his memories of his time as a captive missing.

He rolls onto his back, contemplating his circumstances. All things considered, this could be a good deal worse, right? All he need do is go with the flow, let things happen as they will, and sooner or later, he’ll be turned loose, no worse for the wear. No sense panicking over it. Hells, if it’s all this easy, all he’ll be missing before long is his harp, which his captor evidently didn’t see fit to bring with him.

With a pang, Guydelot hopes someone finds the poor instrument and brings it inside, out of the elements. Who knows how long he’ll be stuck here?

Sighing, he peers at the door again. No sign of it opening, nor yet any sign of his - possibly invisible - visitor from earlier.

Nothing to do, then, but to wait. Surely sooner or later, his purpose here will be made clear.

With nothing better to do, the bard closes his eyes, determined to sleep.

When he wakes again, the room is dark, illuminated only by a candelabra he could swear hadn’t been on the nightstand before. He eyes it as though expecting it to bite him, as he slowly sits up. The candelabra is as clean as the bed and table, though the nightstand itself is still dusty - he is certain it was placed there while he slept. Outside of the window, the sky is black, though he cannot guess the time; a clock is not among the room’s sparse furnishings.

“You are awake.”

The stern voice nearly makes him jump out of his skin; he settles for scrabbling to the other side of the bed, away from the door, dragging his chain with him to clatter noisily on the floor. He seizes the candelabra as the only weapon readily at hand, brandishing it toward… toward…

A hyur?

The wavering candlelight illuminates a man standing before the closed door - a midlander, unassuming and unthreatening. Seemingly unarmed, so far as Guydelot can tell. It’s hard to be sure in the lack of light, but the man’s hair and eyes look dark, stark against his pale skin. Too pale, Guydelot thinks, as though he’s been ill lately, and hasn’t seen the sun in several moons; he looks gaunt, too, like he’s been kept half-starved. His clothes look several decades out of date, at that, and they look as though they were tailored for a man at least a size or two larger - a short elezen, perhaps, or a highlander - but clean; they’ve not brushed up against any of the dust here.

Is he a fellow captive? Someone tossed in here with the bard while he slept? He’s not chained to the bed, Guydelot notes, but then, given the poor bastard’s state, their captor might not have thought him worth the effort. He looks as though he couldn’t lift his own hands, let alone a weapon, and forget making a run for it - it’s a marvel the man’s standing upright at all.

Feeling foolish, Guydelot sets the candelabra back on the nightstand, heaving a shaky sigh. “Matron’s teats, give a man some warning next time.”

“My apologies,” the stranger says - sounding a touch baffled, to Guydelot’s ears. “Given your circumstances, I thought perhaps you would expect my arrival, but I’d not anticipated you might have fallen asleep while you waited.”

“Expect you?” Now he’s baffled. Guydelot hobbles his way around the bed, dragging his chain along the floor, until he can sit down on the other side, the better to converse with his decidedly unexpected visitor. “Can’t say as I’ve been told to expect company,” he says, hands on his knees. “I haven’t seen another soul since I woke up here this morning. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Aye. You.” The hyuran man is attractive enough, Guydelot decides, despite his evident illness. He can imagine worse companions to be locked in with, and worse ways to pass the time than getting acquainted with one another. He doubts the fellow would be any use in an escape attempt, but no mind; they’ll sort it out when - if - it comes to that. “How long’ve you been stuck here?”

The man stares at him owlishly, his eyes enormous in his gaunt face, and doesn’t answer, though he opens and closes his mouth several times. “I-...”

“That long, eh?” Maybe Guydelot won’t be turned loose as quickly as he’d hoped. He refuses to let his terror - the way ice prickles at his nerves - show. “Never mind all that. I’m Guydelot,” he says, leaning back on his arms, casual as he can manage. He doesn’t want to spook his only companion by calling too much attention to their predicament, after all. “Guydelot Thildonnet, of the Gold Bulls. You?”

“Me,” the man repeats again, still clearly bewildered.

Hells, Guydelot thinks, pity stirring. He must be even sicker than he looks. He rises from the bed, crossing the room to the stranger - though he’s near the door, he’s still just within range of Guydelot’s reach. “Here, now,” he says, gently, taking the man’s arm to tug him back to the bed, just to have a seat; pale and thin as he is, standing must be taking a hell of a toll. Beneath the oversized shirt, the stranger’s arm is freezing and hard to the touch, like grasping marble - and after a moment’s hesitation, the man jerks away with surprising strength, stepping out of Guydelot’s reach.

“You misunderstand,” he says, alarm in his voice, in his eyes.

Guydelot holds up his hands, taking a step back. “Easy, now; I mean no harm-”

“But I do!”

That, at last, gives him pause. “Pardon?”

“I mean you harm,” the man says, drawing himself up to his full - unimpressive, by Guydelot’s elezen standards - height. Only now does Guydelot see the glint of fangs in the candlelight. “‘Twas I who brought you here, I who hold you captive! I am a beast, cursed to feed on the aether of others for my own survival, and for the space of this moon, I must feed on you, and there is naught within your strength you may do to prevent it!”

Hells. Oh, seven hells.

“You’re a godsdamned vampire.”

#sanson smyth #guydelot thildonnet #my writing #here's an early present for my early birds <3

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finelinevogue · 3 years

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Every time I look at this pic I am just imagining you and Harry are in New York and you guys are wating for you can to come and some fans took pic of you guys being the cutest couple 😩😩

okay i like this one!! my inbox is so full rn and i just wanna say i see everything, it’s just my inspiration comes a lot quicker for some rather than others, but i’m working on them slowly!! i promise <33

“Harry!”

You squealed as you accidentally bumped into another person as you ran down the stairs and through a corridor, back up some stairs, a left and a right so you could reach the platform for your train.

You were running really late. You and Harry were supposed to be at some fancy event for the release of a new Gucci line that Harry had campaigned in, but when Harry had seen you in your emerald sparkly dress he just couldn’t keep his hands to himself and had over-divulged in you. Now you were running through the New York subway, running for your train that was about to leave in 47 seconds if it was running on time. The only problem was that you were in black high heels, so it was impossible to run fast.

“Will you bloody hurry up woman!” Harry shouted back to you, running ahead to clear a path for you both. However, when he saw you and your heels were slowing, at the danger of breaking an ankle, he waited for you to catch up and swooped you up in to his arms. He ran for the both of you, you being cradled bridle style with your arms tightly around his shoulders and laughing as he ran as fast as he could. Your dress was blowing and you were worried you might flash someone.

“Harry oh my go— sorry!” You called out to a random man you accidentally took out with your legs.

“Fuck, we are actual twats.” Harry laughed as he rounded the corner to the platform.

“The train! Harry run!” You stressed, watching the doors about to close. Harry ran and pressed the button just in time. Someone on the other-side of the door was also pressing the button to help you get on.

The doors opened and Harry carried you both on safely.

“Thanks man!” Harry nodded to the guy who had helped you.

“No problem man. Are you okay?” The guy asked you, Harry now putting you down so you were standing.

“Oh yeah I just cannot run in heels!” You chuckled, pointing to your now scuffed shoes.

The train started moving and Harry caught your arm as you nearly went toppling over from lack of balance. Once you were both stood up you did a quick look at the train-line route and counted how many stops were made before yours; 4.

“You both don’t look dressed to be travelling on the sub.” The guy stated which made you both laugh, you rolling your eyes as you had been thinking the exact same thing.

“We are already late and New York traffic will mean we won’t show up until two weeks time. So the subway it was.” Harry explained, standing behind you with his arms draped loosely over your shoulders comfortably. You felt the warmth of his chest on you back, slightly sweaty from both the heat of the subway but also the running that you’d both just done. You brought one of your hands up to hold onto one of Harry’s, squeezing it just because you could.

“Y’both crazy.” The guy laughed.

“We know.” Harry laughed back, scrunching his nose and then coming to give you a kiss to the top of your head as the train came to a stop.

“Alright well this is my stop. Have a chill evening.” The guy waved you both and hopped off the train when the doors opened, leaving you to breathe a heavy sigh and lean back into Harry’s pressing back more. You bathed in his comforting smell of pine and vanilla.

A group of young people got on the train and stood opposite to you two. You looked over at them and noticed that they had noticed Harry, smiling and giggling to one another. You smiled to them, not wanting to draw more attention to the situation than safe. Harry squeezed your hand to let you know everything was okay and he wouldn’t let anything happen to you - if things did get crazy. One girl came up to you boldly.

“Hi Harry, could I get a photo with you please?” They asked, holding a disposable camera up as if to prompt that the photo would be taken on that instead of a normal phone. That was the way to Harry’s heart, you knew.

“‘Course, yeah.” Harry replied kindly, untangling himself from you and moving to the side to stand next to the girl. They’d handed the camera to another friend in their group so they could take the photo. Harry stood next to the girl, arm around their shoulder and smiling cheesily in his Gucci suit that made him look so goddamn handsome.

“Thank you so much.” The girl smiled.

“Do you want a group photo with him?” You asked the whole lot of them and they eagerly grinned, holding out the disposable camera to you as they thanked you. Harry bent over at the front of the group, holding up a peace sign and opening his mouth in a wide smile. You captured the moment perfectly, a slight red light in the background as you pulled into the next stop.

“Thank you so much. Have a good night.” They all spoke kindly, and you saw them take a couple of candid photos of you and Harry as moved back towards one another and managed to find seats to sit down on thanks to people getting off. There was only one seat, however, so you were left to sit on top of Harry’s lap much to his enjoyment.

“It was nice of you to take photos with them.” You smiled at him, caressing his cheek softly and then kissing him over that spot.

“You were nice to offer a group photo.” He replied, smiling in pride over how kind and thoughtful you were. He was so in love with you and all your golden personality traits that built you up to be his little shining star.

“You’re such a good person H.”

“Not as much as you are, baby.”

“I’m not having this debate with you.” You scoffed playfully, hitting his chest playfully.

“‘Cause you know i’ll win.” He said smugly and all you wanted was to fucking kiss that smirk off his face, but in this public space there was no chance - especially when you knew that group of fans were definitely pointing their cameras at you even if you did have you back to them.

“Y’so difficult.” You rolled your eyes.

“I know, but you love me.”

“Too true.” You buried your head into his neck and sniffed his homely scent as you allowed his presence to encapsulate you. It really was true. Still is. You love Harry Styles.

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bvccy · 3 years

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Hi!!! Hope you're doing great

Can I please have a mix between number 2 from the soft and 8 from the dark one

Thanks, lost of love ❤❤❤

Thank you so much, nonnie! I am so sorry this took so long, I meant to post yesterday but it wasn’t done. Also, the 8th dark prompt was requested just before you sent in this one, so that is filled separately here.

I tried to do the mix you asked for, and I took the liberty of writing this with Bucky (specifically 40s!BB), and I hope that it’s ok. It’s a bit of a more specific story, actually, that I’d wanted to write for a while. I also did a kind of first for me, because it involves Steve x reader as a backdrop 😂 Anyway.

Lots of love to you too, my dear! 💗💗💗

— PAIRING: soft!dark!Bucky x Reader • preserum!Steve x Reader — PROMPT: Asteria - gazing at one’s object of affection, from afar + Prassius - an impossible desire, and unclean love — LINKS: Masterlist • love stones prompt list — WORDCOUNT: 2.5k

It had taken long enough, and sometimes it seemed like it would never happen, but he finally found Steve a girlfriend — or rather, his girlfriend found him one. Dottie had exhausted several of her close friends and most acquaintances, but she knew how tired Bucky was of seeing his friend mope around, feeling like a third wheel, getting into trouble to pass the time. And honestly she liked Steve too, just not like that — but, wonder-worker that she was, Dottie found a girl that did.

She agreed to come on a double-date one night, and she and Stevie hit it right off. It was the first time Bucky met her too, and he didn't think much of the girl. Small, shy, not quite sickly-looking but not far from it, shoes a bit scuffed, clothes a bit too big for her and smelling of plain soap — in a word: perfect. She was perfect for his sickly, skinny friend who nobody else wanted, and by the looks of things, nobody had wanted her either because she seemed to have no idea what to do around a dance hall. As they were returning home that night, he even heard her confess to Steve that she had never been to one before.

They went out on two more dates, all four of them, within as many weeks. Bucky loved to dance, and Dottie too, but Steve and his girl weren't so fond of tripping over their feet and being laughed at. So they sat together at the table like a pair of broken toys, sharing an ice cream sundae, swinging shoulder-to-shoulder with the music when they liked the tune. Bucky waved at them when their eyes met, and they waved back and cheered at his dancefloor performance, but that happened less and less as they got caught up in each other. Steve would start to sketch things on the napkins while they chatted: the band, the sea of dancers, the fancy chandeliers, and eventually her.

"She said nobody's ever drawn her picture before," his friend said dreamily as they walked back, after they wished a good night to the girls. "Can you believe that?"

"Sure can…"

"She almost didn't let me do it. But she's so pretty, Buck."

"Mhm, nice girl."

"I mean yeah, she's no Dottie, but… I don't know, there's just somethin' I like so much about her… I guess her eyes, the way they look when she's smiling, or how her hair looks when the sun shines on it…"

"Get a load a' you," he grinned, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulder in a playful grip that moved his friend's whole body. "One dame's sweet on you, and all of a sudden you're Romeo."

"At least I'm not a punk like you," Steve teased, slipping from his grasp.

"You know what I like best about her?"

"What?" he asked, with a hint of jealousy.

But Bucky smirked without a care. "How she keeps you out of trouble."

It had, indeed, been a while since Steve got in an alley brawl, and by their fifth date his last few bruises healed. He'd almost gotten into one by a cotton candy stand at Coney Island, but his girl was there to pull him back.

"Stevie, leave him alone…"

"You heard what he said?!"

"Who cares," she sighed, clinging to his arm and throwing the other man a hateful look. "Come on, didn't you want to win me that stuffed teddy bear?"

"Better listen to your girl, pal."

"Oh go find a sty to wallow in," she hissed.

"I ought'a smack some manners into you, you two-bit broad!"

"I'd worry about my own manners if I were you, buddy." Bucky slipped between them, coming from behind, standing now close enough to punch the guy if things got heated. But, seeing himself outnumbered, the other man cursed them and left. Just then, Dottie finally caught up.

"What's going on?" she asked, a little out of breath.

Bucky turned around, and was met by the heart-melting sight of Steve and his girl holding each other, her hands on his cheeks as she quietly chastised him, but loving enough that it made him smile and giggle. She closed it with a kiss to his cheek that made the boy blush, and a kittenish rub of their noses together.

"Nothing, everything's fine."

It was around the time they went to see a movie together that Bucky's joy for Steve turned into something else. They sat in the back while some musical played, and through the flashing lights and the corner of his eye, he could see his friend with his sweetheart holding hands on top of her lap throughout the whole performance. Meanwhile Dottie kept rubbing up against him, sometimes leaning her head on his shoulder, daring in the darker scenes to kiss his neck, but when she tried to get more of his attention —

"Buckyyy, what's wrong?"

— he shook her off. Hearing his name spoken by her voice suddenly felt disappointing.

He caught himself staring more and more, and not just when they went out together. Sometimes, the girl came by and spent some time with Steve, looking at his newer sketches, trying her hand too — oh and how disgusting they looked, Steve taking advantage of the situation to sit behind, and wrap his arms around her, and whisper in her ear. The pair greeted him cheerfully when he stepped through the living room and caught them, and he grinned back at them as he took a glass of milk, but all his appetite was gone.

And when they walked together through the park, and he saw them holding hands again… When Steve dug for some change to get her an ice cream, and they giggled stupidly as they made a mess of sharing it… When she fell asleep by his side one night at the dance hall, and Stevie woke her up with a tickle down her cheek, and she shivered and murmured like a bird and hid her face in his unworthy shoulder…

"Why don't you ever wanna dance, doll?" he asked as they were fetching drinks.

"Not much good at it, I guess," she shrugged. "The fast ones make me dizzy and I always trip."

"I can teach you. It'll work out great! Stevie teaches you to draw, I teach you how to dance… What do you say?"

The girl seemed to think, but shook her head. "Hmmm… No, not right now. Thanks," she smiled politely. "Besides, what would Stevie do meanwhile?"

She told him no just for the sake of keeping his scrawny little friend company, and Bucky had never felt more insulted — not that she wouldn't dance with him, although that hurt enough, but that he couldn't remember the last dame that gave something up just to stick with him, or got into fights for him, or kissed his wounds away, or held his hand in hers with no ulterior motive, and he'd found a girl that did that, and he wasted her on Steve.

So what if she was a little on the smaller side? So what if her dresses didn't fit right? So what if she came down with the cold at every change of season? He put up with it for Steve and he wasn't half as charming. The girl, instead, looked very delicate, more feminine in her own way, like when she braced her fingers on a table as she talked and mindlessly swung back and forth, animated in whatever she was saying, and her digits bent in such a childish way he feared they'd break, and it only made him want to kiss them. Or when she took her shoes off when she came to their apartment and he could catch a hint of shapely ankle, just perfect for his grip, or a peachy pink instep small enough to fit his palm. And when she fell asleep on their couch that one time and Bucky saw her all curled up, and noticed the arch of her hips and the cinch of her waist and pictured how good it would feel to hold them, and angle them upward, and…

Slowly, he started to appreciate some of what his friend had said that night, because she did have lovely eyes, and hair that looked so soft and warm, and her scent, unburdened by perfume, was sweet and girlish, and her lips looked kissable, and her wrists and knees and ankles too…

"Going out again, tonight?" he asked as the blond boy fixed himself in the mirror.

"Yeah, she wants to try this new place we —"

"Alright, alright…" sighed Bucky, already sick of hearing more. "So, that's all you're gonna do?"

"Well… yeah."

And then he voiced an evil thought. "Don't you ever want to… you know?"

"Y-you think we should?" Steve asked, turning away from his pallid reflection.

Bucky sat sprawled across the couch, and shrugged. "If she really likes you, she'd be up for it, don't you think?"

"I don't know about that, Buck."

"No? Ok," he nodded. "After all, what do I know?"

The aftermath of this particular advice was a draught of dates for poor ol' Steve, because just like Bucky had expected, the girl shrinked at the suggestion and couldn't stand to see him. For a while.

"Can you believe it, Buck?!"

"Yeah…"

"She'll see me again!"

"That's great, Stevie."

"What's wrong? You're lookin' real dour today."

Bucky knew he shouldn't. "I just…" He knew that it was wrong. "Look, it's great that she's forgiven you, but you gotta be realistic about this, pal." He had been happy for Steve at one point, long ago.

"What do you mean?"

But that was before he saw just how much love a girl could give, and realised he'd never felt it.

"Just don't delude yourself this is anything more than what it looks like, ok? She's only forgiven you because she knows nobody else will have her."

"That's mean, Buck."

"Yeah, well… I'm just looking out for you. You're my best friend, you know that. I don't want you getting hurt." It stuck in his throat to say it, but the bitterness stuck more.

And after Steve went to bed that night, Bucky took out the box of candy and the pricey perfume he had bought for her, threw them in the trash, and firmly promised to himself to never wait too long again.

But as he learned a bit later on, when they went back to double-dates, he might not have had a chance at all, because there was an unwitting element of truth to this cruel tirade.

"I can't exactly blame you, honey," Dottie consoled her as they stood in line for the ladies room, not knowing Bucky was just behind the thin divider leading to the men's. "If he does something like that again, I know this other fella —"

"Oh no, Dot, please… We're fine now. He explained things and… he's really sweet, I think he just had a moment of —"

"But just let me introduce you to Jim, see if you don't like him better."

"I… I don't know."

"He's a real charmer," Dottie grinned, "and he has these big, broad hands, jaw like an anvil. He just broke it off with Marcie cause she was a flirt."

He didn't hear anything next, but the girl must've shook her head cause Dottie asked, "You're sure?" and "Really? Well, if you change your mind…"

"Thanks, Dot," she lightly laughed.

"I don't know why you're so stubborn though, it's not like he's that far out your league. You just need to fix your hair a little bit and get a better brand of powder."

"It's not that easy."

"It's all it took me to get Bucky on my arm. That, and a better set of heels," she laughed.

"Yeah but you've always been pretty, Dot. Like, really pretty, and you know it. I guess some girls are for the James Barnes of this world, and some are the for the Steves."

She giggled as she said it, with not a hint of anger or resentment, and that's what stung the worst.

Bucky arranged to go see a late night movie with Dottie after that, while Steve and his girl went back to the apartment to listen to a boxing match on the radio and have some cherry sodas. Dottie went ahead to buy the tickets while Bucky walked them home, and after wishing him good night, she went upstairs to set things up. Steve was meant to go to the store and buy the drinks, but he stayed to chat with his friend a while.

"I can get some eggs and milk as well while I'm at it," he offered, swinging on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

"Sure."

"Or do we have enough for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Go ahead and buy them, pal," Bucky smiled, pretending to be less tired than he felt.

"Ok. And what about — darn!"

"What is it?"

"I just realized, I forgot to give her the keys," he said, taking a hand out of his pocket and holding them out. "I gotta get to the store, can you go up and give them to her?"

"Er, why don't —"

"You know I always trip on the stairs when I'm in hurry, Buck, they haven't changed the lightbulb yet. Don't make me do it."

"Fine, I'll go."

"I owe you big."

"You always do," he grinned, and took the keys from him.

Steve made off for the corner store, while Bucky started the long slow climb upstairs. It was completely dark inside at that hour, and the few candles some neighbours left to light the way had all gone out.

"Stevie, is that you?" he heard her call, standing right outside their door.

He kept one hand against the wall and walked his way toward her, stopping as he heard her whisper, "I think I lost the keys."

Blindly, she moved her hand forward, coming right across his chest. He felt her jolt at the unexpected contact, then burst into a giggle. Bucky could already feel the fanning of her breath right at the level of his chin. With an unseen smile, he took her hand, and placed the keys within it.

"Oh," she laughed. "You had them."

As her hand closed around them his own moved up her shoulder, fingers threading around her hair, and as he touched her jaw he felt her tilting slightly upward, shivering under the feeling.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

He felt the warming tickle of her breath as he leaned close until, through the pitch black, he touched his lips to hers. Bucky did it lightly, just a little, just enough to taste and sip a kind of love he'd never really had. She stood surprised but took his kiss, and he felt her smiling into it, even beginning to kiss back just as he was parting from her.

"Your lips are softer than before," she giggled, in a sweet but altogether crushing way that made Bucky's heart beat stronger. "Stevie?"

Her hand moved through the air to touch him but felt nothing anymore, and down the stairs the heavy steps echoed, moving downward and away.

#James Buchanan Barnes #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes imagine #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes #Steve Rogers imagine #Steve Rogers x reader #40s Bucky Barnes #preserum Steve Rogers #bv;answers #bv;fanfiction #bv;oneshots

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hopeless-ro-simptic · 3 years

Text

The Artist and The Dancer -Through Ink and Quill | A Classics Collab

This is my submission for @pleasantanathema ‘s 10k followers collab! Please see the masterlist here and give the rest of the creators some serious love! We’ve all worked hard on this and are so proud of @pleasantanathema for making it to 10k!

Aged up! Edgar Degas inspired Shinso Hitoshi X Female reader

Word Count: Just under 10k!

Warnings: NSFW, vaginal fingering, not safe sex, not super historically accurate, they fuck in a bathtub, references to loss of sight and repeated mentioned ankle injuries, angst, fluff, quirk use in a sexual manner, kind of body worshiping, praise. IDK how to tag stuff for warnings. It’s pretty tame.

Quick background before we start: Degas is a well known impressionist painter from the 1800s, he’s super well known for paintings to do with ballerina’s, women bathing, and horse races. He also has a degenerative eye disease that I referenced as well. In this little...long? fic of mine, quirks are still a thing but heroes not so much. Shinso’s quirk is only mentioned twice, but reader has a quirk that allows her to make music from her body when she dances. This can be read as any body type/description of reader but it is mentioned that she is a ballet dancer, has some sort of hair to grab onto, and someone out there can lift her up. Also I tried to put breaks where sometime has either passed or we’ve gone back in time, and I tried to make it clear but hopefully it makes sense. We’ve got quite the backflash going on.

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Smack. Smack. Smack.

The telltale signs of a new pair of point shoes. No other sounds in the room other than those of ballet flats scuffing the floor, the bending and breaking of their fresh soles, and of tull swishing about with the movements.

Shinso truly loved these sounds, his eyes flickering from the blank canvas he set up in front of him over to the ballerina sitting in the middle of the floor, a frown tugging at your lips as you bend the new shoes in half, flexing them back and forth before smacking them harshly against the floor again.

No words were spoken as the two prepared, Shinso setting up his brushes and paint, getting comfortable on the rickety stool under him, the you finally deciding your shoes were to your satisfaction before you pulled them on, expertly tying the ribbons that you had painstakingly sewed on, before you started in on your stretches.

The light from the large windows that were set into the sloping ceilings of the attic gave the two plenty of natural lighting. Dust particles swirling in the air capturing Shinso’s attention as he shifted his lazy glance away from the stretching ballerina, picking up his paintbrush and getting to work on filling in the background of his canvas. His eyes flicking around the room and back to his canvas taking everything in at once.

There was a soft huff coming from the you that drug Shinso’s eyes over to your form, watching as you pushed yourself off on the floor before you stepped into first position, your eyes staring at the floor before shaking your head and switching to what Shinso had heard you refer to as fourth position, your eyes hovering just above his head for the briefest of moment before you dropped into your dance.

Music flowed through the room as you moved, entrancing the painter for several moments as the music lived and breathed in your movements. Dipping when you dipped, lifting as you jumped, swirling around the space like the perfect partner. The string instruments that lived just under the your skin, filled the space with melodic tunes sounding like a live symphony was playing in the small attic that just held the two of you.

Shinso watched the dancer with awe for several moments before he forced himself to look away, picking up his paintbrush again, grabbing paint and smearing it across the canvas, letting the music flow in him and dictate his brush strokes as he captured the ballerina in front of him. He worked as you danced, his paint brush dancing along the canvas to your melody, filling in the empty spaces with a thick layer of paint, his eyes barely looking at his work as they trailed your steps across the creaking wooden floor, enchanted with your movements, with the way that your skin shimmered with sweat, how the tutu resembled flower petals reminding him of a fantasy creature that was too beautiful for the real world.

The discordant sounds of strings snapping melted into silence as you thudded to the ground with a curse had Shinso jumping from his chair, knocking his paint over onto the floor in the process. You were bent over yourself in the fetal position, clutching your ankle that was already swelling, the skin bruising as the moments ticked by. Shinso crouched down by you, hands hovering above you before they finally rested on your shaking shoulders, the sight of tears dripping onto the wood underneath you had his stomach clenching.

“Are you okay?” He had barely whispered the words when you snapped your head up, slapping his hand away, anger clear on your face as you glared at him a hiss on your tongue.

“I’m fine, don’t touch me.”

He sat back on his haunches, watching with concern as you struggled to get your breathing under control, sitting up, adjusting the ribbons on your shoes before you forced yourself into a shaking standing position, hesitating to put weight on your foot as you looked down at him.

“Well are you just going to sit there? Go back to painting.” Your eyes were harsh, your words like a whip that stung Shinso’s cheek as he looked up at you from his position, a frown settling on his lips as he pushed himself off of the floor backing away from you, his eyes shifting down to your swelling ankle. Annoyance at you burning on his tongue. Still he understood how important this was to you. How dancing was the reason you breathed, just as his art was his.

He couldn’t ignore the thoughts in his brain though as you stepped back into your dance, music swirling around you for several seconds, the notes sounding shaky and pitched only for you to drop back down to your hands and knees again when your foot couldn’t support your weight, the music ending harshly.

Shinso hesitated by your side, hovering as he watched you slam your fists into the wooded floor below, a scream of frustration echoing through the small attic as you crumpled onto yourself, shaking with the force of the sobs leaving your lips, the movement activating a soft hum from your quirk. It wasn’t until your fists grew bloody and you sat up with fevor, reaching for your ankle and yanking at the laces angrily did he finally step in.

“Stop… stop… Y/n I said stop!” Your eyes glazed over momentarily, your movements halting as the tired artist activated his own quirk, crouching in front of you, his grips on your wrist tight as he regarded you tensely before releasing his quirk, your shoulders slumping slightly.

“Y/n…”

“Leave me alone, please, it’s not worth it.” Tears were streaming down your face as you tried to quiet your sobs but failed, hiding your face into your palms ignoring the sting from where your knuckles were split.

“What are you talking about… y/n –“ His words were cut off as she weakly lashed out at him again with her own, her voice cracking as she cried.

“This is my third repeated injury in a year. I can’t dance anymore Hitoshi, I can’t – They replace dancer’s for less. You should just find a different muse, there are plenty of dancers at the theater, they already replaced my role for-.”

His grip on your wrists grew tighter as he pulled them away from your face, peering into your eyes as he did so, frustration so clear in his eyes as he regarded you.

“My muse, what are you even talking about? I will never replace you. You think I paint you because you are a dancer? I paint dancers because they remind me of you. Just the same as the horse races I paint because you love them so much.”

“But I can’t- my stupid ankle- I’m usele-“

“You are not useless! So what things aren’t turning out exactly how you want it to! You can still do this! You just need to-“

“To what? To what Hitoshi! What am I supposed to do if I can’t dance! What am I supposed to live for!”

“Me! Live for me.” His own voice cracked in frustration, and you could see his eyes becoming glossy as they shifted around your face.

“Hitoshi… I-“

His lips were on yours before you could finish your statement, a squeak of surprise leaving your lips as you tensed in his grasp, only for him to pull away before you could react. His grip on your wrists loosening until he dropped them altogether, eyes focused on a chip in the wooden floor between the two of you as you gaped at him, your mind screaming at you to say something, to do something, anything to change the look of torture on his tired face.

“I’ll draw you a bath.”

And he was gone. It wasn’t for several seconds that you finally noticed the tape he had placed into your lap for your ankle, but the pain in your ankle had long been forgotten your eyes latched onto the stairs descending into the rest of the artist’s house.

Your fingers wandered along the clouds of bubbles, your mind lost in thought as you sunk lower into the warm water, your injured ankle resting gingerly on a towel on the edge of the bath. By the time that you had finished wrapping your ankle and had made your way down the stairs to the bathroom, Hitoshi was already gone, a note hastily scrawled out and left on the chair next to the bath.

He had gone out.

Short, simple, practically no explanation for his disappearance.

It was his brevity that had you clenching your teeth over and over, your mood shifting from frustration to confusion to something else that you tried to ignore as you thought back to how this all started.

You had been working with the artist for almost two and a half years now, after having met him at the theatre. You had been in the corps at the time but was quickly becoming a favorite of the director, Aizawa Shota. To the point that when he had allowed the young artist to watch a rehearsal at his request, to study the movement of the human body as he had explained, he had pulled you aside and introduced you to the purple haired man as one of the options for the Prima for the next show. You had been elated at the time, noting the slight up tweak of the director’s usual frown as you tried to keep your own smile from splitting your cheeks open.

Aizawa had suggested that you work through your practice routine, allowing Shinsou to watch and sketch away on the sidelines, as long as he didn’t distract you. You prided yourself on your ability to focus and block out everything when you worked, but you couldn’t help but notice the way the young artists face shifted into amazement when music started to flow out from your movements, no instrument in sight. The way that he had all but dropped his pencil out of his hand, his eyes glued to your every movement, his previously bored face suddenly filled with complete enchantment.

At some point in your practice, he had finally picked his pencil up and ended up with over half of his sketchbook filled with renderings of you. You had asked to see his drawings when you had finished, and this time the artist got to see the way your own face lit up at seeing his work, constantly drifting back to one sketch in particular where you had been suspended in mid-jump, the way he had captured you made it truly look like you were flying.

It wasn’t until you had gotten back home late that night and unpacked your bag that you noticed at some point before the artist had left, he had slipped the drawing in your bag with a note attached stating that he would love nothing more than to capture more of his ‘muse’.

He had visited the theatre almost every day after that, Aizawa allowing the artist to watch from the sidelines, some form of art medium in his hands at all times, as long as he didn’t interrupt.

Several of the other performers at first had flocked to him with high pitched giggling as they asked him to paint them, or offering to preform for him themselves, but the artist practically ignored them all, acting like they weren’t there until Aizawa would step in and the girls would scatter in fear of being reprimanded or worse. At first you had wondered if Aizawa would get annoyed and ask the artist to leave, clearly it was affecting the others, but then you wondered if the dark haired director had a soft spot for the young man, spending a lot of his time around the him, and even cracking a few smiles at things that he had said. You swore that hell had froze over when you had heard the deep chuckle that was Aizawa Shota’s laugh for the first time.

When you had found out that the artist was the director’s nephew, you weren’t at all surprised, the similarities too obvious to not notice.

Days had turned into months, and it was no longer shocking to see dark lavender hair waiting in the wings, the others growing used to him as well and treating him as practically nothing more than a stage prop. The two of you didn’t speak much, if at all some days, conversations for the most part only pertaining to mutual admiration for each other’s work. But somedays the conversations would linger longer, questions of other interests such as food, music, and even sports coming in to play. That was when you had told him of your love of horse racing, how your aunt had owned horses that were famous for their champion bloodlines and how you had always enjoyed dressing up to go to the races, flouncy hat included.

Hitoshi had told you that he had never been to the races, and while you had been fake appalled and teased him mercilessly the rest of the day about it, you had assumed that would have been the end of the conversation, that much like you the artist would completely remove it from his mind and move on with the rest of his life outside of work. It wasn’t until the following Monday when he had waved you over to show you his sketchbook filled with drawings of horses and jockeys that you realized the artist in front of you had actually been interested in what you had been saying. The feelings stirring in your stomach at that realization had been… kind of nice.

Not even a week after that was the first incident. True to his word Aizawa had chosen you and one other girl to work on the Prima roll for the next ballet they would be preforming. You both would be learning the part, and he would decide along the way which one of you he wanted to go with, the other would be placed back into the corps. You had barely been on time that day, skirting into the wings of the stage and dropping down into hasty stretches, Aizawa shooting you an icy glare at interrupting his instructions he had been giving the group, that had melted a little at the end as you shoot him an apologetic one back. You never were late, and he could show mercy… occasionally.

Minutes later you were on the stage, running through the first number, allowing the orchestra to take their time setting up as your quirk worked it’s magic, the music flowing through the air as you ran through the movements with practiced ease. You knew your steps like the back of your hand, knew the timing of the music like it was your own heartbeat. You knew that the next step, your partner would be stepping up behind you, lifting you up into a jump and gracefully bringing you back to the ground to move into the next series of foot work that ended in a pirouette.

But the pirouette never came, instead the sound of strings snapping, and shrill notes filled the air covering the sound of a body hitting the ground. The series of gasps and whispers sounded quiet in your ear compared to the sound of your own heartbeat, matching the throbbing in your foot. You could feel the tears springing to your eyes, refusing to open them even as shadows fell onto your form. It wasn’t until you felt a warm hand grip your shoulder gently coaxing you over did you finally force yourself to look up into the dark eyes of the director, his brow furrowed as he examined your foot along with one of the trainers that helped take care of the dancers. You could barely hold back a scream as they guided you to move your foot, your vision blurring as the two shared a look between them that only made your insides churn.

Before they had wheeled you off to the local doctor, you had caught sight of lavender hair, a grim look on his face, his eyes never leaving yours.

You were beside yourself, wallowing really. A sprained ankle. A sprained ankle had you locked up in your small apartment, staring off into space trying to think of anything to distract yourself from what you really wanted. Aizawa refused to let you even step foot inside the theater until you were signed off on by a doctor. Insisting that you stay home and rest. Heal up. Get strong again so that you could come back and work. Because he expected your recovery to be swift. That’s what he told you. That he expected this to just be a minor setback and that you would be back in time to still vie for that Prima position you so badly wanted. That if you really wanted to be Prima, you needed to take care of yourself now so you could work later.

But you had seen the looks, heard the whispers of the others. A sprained ankle… for most would be a temporary setback, but for a ballerina it could be career ending.

Still, you forced yourself to look on the bright side, to focus on Aizawa’s words, to force yourself to remain in bed with the ice pack on your ankle even as you felt so antsy that sitting still one more minute might actually drive you mad. You can’t say you weren’t beyond excited when there was the softest knock at your door that had you immediately perking up.

“Come in, it’s unlocked.” You had had a few friends from the theater and otherwise come to visit, and while it was frustrating to listen over and over about how they wanted you to get better soon, it was still nice to have some sort of company.

But you hadn’t expected that a mop of lavender hair would peak its way through the door, a sheepish look on his face as he took in the room, eyes settling nervously on you.

“Shinsou… I wasn’t expecting you to visit.”

He stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind him slightly probably as to affirm to your oh so nosey roommate that nothing scandalous was happening. He pulled a set of flowers from behind his back, clearing his throat as he looked around the room for a place to set them.

“I uh… brought you these, but I see that I wasn’t very creative with my get well present.” You glanced around the room, taking in the dozens of bouquets that were scattered across every possible surface. He’s not wrong. Flowers weren’t exactly the most unique, but still you felt something stir inside at the thought of the moody artist picking flowers out at a stand. You didn’t fight the smile spilling onto your lips as you regarded him.

“It’s okay, I’ll forgive you for your lack of creativity today.”

He chuckled softly at that, looking at the floor and studying the wood grain, his eyes not meeting yours a smile tugging at his lips.

“Thank goodness for that, I think I’d be beside myself if my muse didn’t forgive me.”

His muse. The thought repeated like a mantra in your head for the next several weeks, somehow giving more reassurance and comfort than anything anyone else had told you over the course of your healing process. The artist had come by a couple more times since then, bringing sketchbooks filled with drawings and paintings of racehorses and a couple of the ballerinas at the theatre, asking questions about different poses that he had captured the ballerina’s in, wanting to know the technical terms and just talking to you about random daily life.

Before you knew it you were getting signed off by the doctor, a smile on their face as they let you know that you healed up wonderfully but still to take it slow and make sure to stretch your ankles properly before and after dancing.

Then everything went back to almost normal. You were back at the theater six days a week, though they had you slowly getting back used to the dance routines, refusing to let you do any jumps for the first several weeks until you were cleared again by the doctor at your follow up. One thing was different though.

Shinso came to the theatre less and less, and when he did he was growing more and more moody and frustrated. More noticeable still was the way that his art started to change, the way that he was less focused on making a clear and crisp rendition, the subjects growing blurrier and with abstract brushstrokes. Colors no longer having defined areas and being used to blend across the entire canvas in ways that you hadn’t seen before.

The young artist was also growing in popularity as well, though that didn’t mean he was any more friendly than before. In fact, you had seen him turn down many a parties and dates with a level of tact that was more than lacking.

At first it was just towards other people, the few straggler dancers that still vied for his attention, people that would get in his way when he was walking, random people that annoyed him at the racetracks when he would join you to watch the horses because they were breathing wrong.

Then he started to grow colder towards you. At first you thought he was just having a bad day, trying not to let it affect your own mood. But one bad day turned into two, then three, and the next thing you knew, you barely could be around the hostile artist without feeling like you were going to blow up yourself.

It was a particularly bad day. You had been avoiding Shinso all day, refusing to talk to him and trying desperately to focus on your role for the upcoming decision date that Aizawa had set. But with how loud the artist was growing with his yelling it was hard for even you to ignore. Even more so when someone brought to your attention that the argument was with none other than director Aizawa himself.

Still, you forced yourself to dance harder, to make your music louder and to block out the artists shouts. You blocked everything out as you dipped down, the music following the flow of movement from your body as you moved into a succession of spins and leaps. You were halfway through your routine, your solo, feeling good about the way your movements flowed across the stage, the music in the air sounding light and airy. Like you were flying.

But with the sudden slam of a door flying open and into the wall, the shouting of the young artist grew significantly louder breaking into your bubble of solitude making you fall out of your third spin, silence growing heavy as your music died down and you turned to watch the angry man storm through the theater space.

“Hitoshi, come back here and let’s talk about this rationally.”

“No, I’m done! I’m done! It’s useless! I’m useless! Everything in this world is fucking useless!”

“Hitoshi-“

“No, fuck you! Fuck you, fuck this place, and fuck -… fuck this.”

You watched in a mixture of shock and dread as Shinsou tore apart his sketch book, flinging pages into the air, yanking his portable paint pallet out of his bag and snapping it in half tossing it across the room and into the wall, paint splattering everywhere as pieces of the pallet shattered off in different directions. Shinsou tore his bag off of his body, the strap snapping as he did so, throwing it to the floor before turning and leaving the theater with a slam of the door.

The silence that followed was uneasy. Only broken by the whispers of the crew members and some of the dancers. You turned to Aizawa who was running his fingers through his hair, a look of distraught on his face as he kneeled down and started to pick up some of the scattered drawings littering the floor, his voice rough as he spoke.

“Rehearsal is over for today. Go home and get rest. I want everyone back here early tomorrow.”

You looked around watching as everyone collected their things, chattering quietly and sending glances back to the director and you as they left the theater. You felt frozen in your spot until you noticed a drawing near your feet, a drawing of you.

Bending down to pick it up you examined it, a frown pulling at your lips as you realized it was a quick sketch of you. Messy, compared to his usual work, but it mostly focused on your face. If you didn’t look for specific details it looked like you were laughing, holding onto what looked like it could have been a hat that you wore to the racetrack weeks ago, the wind blowing your hair in your face. The only thing that was actually clear in the drawing was your smile, the attention to detail in the way your lips quirked up had you pausing. It was different than the rest of the drawing, all focus being pulled to the one point, whereas the rest seemed almost blurry, vague.

“He drew it from memory.” Aizawa’s voice had you jumping, looking up at the director, a blush creeping onto your face at your reaction. You had completely forgotten he was there, but the director didn’t seem to notice as he lightly tapped the drawing in your hands, his face pulled into a sad frown as he regarded it.

“Is that why it’s so blurry?” You took a deep breath, handing the director the drawing to allow you to start your cool down stretches. He didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to lock the theater up, nor did it seem he minded you staying for company. The last thing you wanted to do was cause another injury because you weren’t taking care of yourself after practicing so hard.

But the director just gave you an odd look, a crease appearing between his brows.

“… would you mind doing me a favor when you leave here? I have some things to take care of here and I’m afraid it will be much too late by the time I’m done.”

“Yea of course,” You tilted your head giving him a look of confusion.

An hour later you were standing here, staring up at the house in front of you, you couldn’t help but feel the anxiety creeping in as looked back down at the note in your hand, shifting the full and heavy bag on your shoulder. While you didn’t mind helping out the director, this wasn’t exactly something you wanted to deal with right now. But you agreed. So with a heavy sigh you rapped your knuckle against the wooden door three times, waiting, silently chewing your lip for a response.

“I told you to fuck off- oh… y/n?” He was squinting at you for a moment his frown turning to look of confusion, peaking his head out of his door and looking around the street for something.

“Aizawa asked me to bring this back to you.” You stood tall, pulling on the inner ballerina and forcing a face of bravery, ignoring the fluttering feeling settling in your stomach. This was the first time at his place, and the sight in front of you had you fighting to keep the blush out of your cheeks, a fight you were sure you were failing.

He looked absolutely wrecked. His coat was long gone. His usually crisp button up was opened, hanging loosely off of his frame, untucked from his pants. His belt already undone, shoes missing. Not to mention his regular ruffled and messed up hair was sticking out at odd angels and looked more bedhead like than normal.

Sure, you had seen the tired artist show up at the theater and even your home when you were out with the injury a few times looking a little sleepy and rumpled, the sight always making it hard to keep your eyes off of him, but this… this was a whole other level. He was gorgeous.

His eyes hovered on your face for a moment, only making your cheeks redder, but if he noticed he didn’t say anything, his usual snarking teasing gone as his eyes shifted down to the large bag on your shoulder his expression turning sour as he reached out and took it from you.

“You really didn’t have to… should have just thrown it all away. Or use it for kindling.”

“Don’t say that.” Your voice came out harsher than you expected, and you immediately caught yourself, biting you lip and hoping you didn’t piss the moody artist off even more. You did not want to argue right now.

“It’s true. It’s all junk-“ He tossed the satchel onto something inside the house, maybe a table or a chair, or probably just the floor given his attitude.

“I think it all looks beautiful.” You stated like it was a matter of fact.

His eyes looked up back towards your own, shifting around your face several times as he spoke his next question, squinting ever so slightly like he was having a hard time deciding what to focus on. You couldn’t help but feel self-conscious.

“Do… do you want to come in? I want to show you something… I know you don’t have a chaperon-“ He brought his hand up to scratch at his neck, looking back into his house as he spoke.

“Yes!” You flinched at how quickly and desperate that sounded, but the words were already out, and it was worth it when the artist in front of you let out a soft chuckle, giving you a slightly bewildered look before stepping back and allowing you in.

If your mother knew what you were doing right now, going into a man’s house, a single man’s house without a chaperone, she’d faint right there from shame. But you choose not to think about that as you stepped in, the door closing softly behind you as Shinso guided you through his home.

His home that was littered with art. Every surface, every wall, everything was covered with canvases and sketch paper. The floor even had some strewn along it, like it fell off the over piled surfaces and he never bothered to pick it up. Some of it you even recognized from seeing it before. Drawings upon drawings of horses and ballerina’s and even several portraits all along the place, some barely started, some halfway done, and so many that looked completed.

You saw oil paintings, gouache, charcoal sketches, even some wax figures. There were pieces of pastel chalks all over the place, paint brushes in water jars and coffee mugs, sketch pads everywhere you looked. What you easily counted as at least four different easels.

You felt like you were in heaven, your eyes skirting all throughout the room, taking in anything and everything. You felt like you were stepping into the mind of the artist in front of you, and you couldn’t help but gape in awe. But the artist didn’t stop, gesturing you to follow him as he walked back through his hallway, skipping straight past a set of stairs that led to what you assumed was the attic with the large windows that you could see from outside. Instead, he walked directly back to the house, opening a door, and letting you step inside. Leaning against the door frame, he nodded to the easel in the center of the room.

You felt giddy, a smile on your face as you skipped over to the easel, beyond excited to see what the artist was working on. You looked back towards him once more, to which he only solemnly nodded in response, making your expression drop slightly.

“Go ahead, I want your opinion on it.”

You just wanted him to smile and were tempted on making a snarky comment that would get at least some sort of response from him, even it didn’t last for more than a second. Instead, you turned back to the easel, gingerly lifting up the sheet that was covering it until it unearthed what was underneath, the sheet slipping to the floor as you stepped back, taking in what was in front of you.

You were silent for a long moment as you took it in. It was clearly a painting of a ballerina, as so much of his work was, but this painting, was by far the most abstract that you had seen. The colors all blended together, none of the shapes having a specific outline, the ballerina not even having a face, just blotches of color where you assumed the shadows somewhat outlined vague features.

But for some reason, it was the most beautiful work that you think you had seen. The way that everything blended seemed to invoke a feeling in your that you just couldn’t pinpoint to one emotion.

The ballerina could have been anyone, and the lack of facial expression and the fact that the only thing that was clear was that she was wearing a tutu reminded you of how it felt to be invisible back in your days in the corps. How you were just another background dancer. Mediocre in the sea of talent. So easy to blend into the background and be forgotten.

But looking further into it she was gorgeous. Her pose was clearly one of a graceful jump, frozen in time, she looked like she was flying, the tutu making her look like a bird, the way her limbs extended and pointed just perfectly. She looked ethereal, like she wasn’t of this earth. She looked… free.

“Well damn. I didn’t think it was that bad.”

You startled, looking over to the painter who had the weakest of teasing smiles on his lips, like he was trying to make a joke but wasn’t sure if it was actually a joke or not. That’s when you felt the cool air stinging your cheeks where your tears had wet them. Reaching up you brushed your tears away a soft laugh leaving your lips as you looked back to the painting in front of you sniffling softly.

“It’s… I don’t even have a word for it.”

“Ugly, horrific, putrid? Maybe vomit inducing? That’s the same isn’t it?” You shook your head, pushing the artist’s shoulder softly as he came to stand by you, crossing his arms, as he regarded the painting seeming to search for a word to properly describe.

“Magnificent.”

His eyes shifted back to yours, his lifts quirking up into a smile slightly as his eyes shifted around your face again, trying to memorize your features. You smiled back, his eyes focusing on your lips for a moment before his own frowned and he let out a sigh looking back towards the picture and taking a step towards it as if to see it better.

“I’m going blind.”

You froze for a moment, staring at him in utter confusion, your eyebrows pulling together as you listened to him speak.

“That’s why everything is so… blurry, unpronounced. I’ve always painted what I saw, and this... this is what I see.” He gestured to the painting, your eyes flipping back to it and looking at it in a new light. Your brain working a mile a minute as things started to click in your mind.

The clumsiness. The way his art was growing more and more abstract, less defined, turning to simple brushstrokes of color. The way his eyes never seemed to focus very long on any one thing, his squinting.

His hostility.

“I don’t want to give up being an artist… I love it more than anything. It’s my passion, but I don’t see how I can keep going if I can’t even find my paintbrush half of the time.”

“Shinsou…”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not giving it.”

He turned and regarded you, looking hesitant, guarded. All you wanted to do was give him a hug, but from one artist to another… you remembered what you felt like when you hurt your ankle. The fear of not being able to do what you love. He needed someone to push him, to show him he still can. Not someone to coddle him.

“This…” you gestured to the painting, stepping towards it and tilting your head as you looked at it. “This is amazing Shinsou… this isn’t just a picture. It’s not just a rendition of life. This shows emotion. It impacts someone. This …This is art. If someone doesn’t like this, if someone tells you this is trash, or it isn’t art or you can’t be an artist. They are a fool. A complete idiot. And they are just jealous because even with full sight they can’t make something half of amazing.”

Turning back to the purple haired artist, you expected an argument, a protest, some lame excuse as to why he thought it was awful. But instead, he just looked at you for a long moment, before turning back to the picture, hiding a smile as he hummed a soft response, his voice cracking as he did. “Whatever you say my muse.”

From that day on, Shinso was back at the theater, back to painting you, a little less moody than usual. After your second injury, days after Aizawa had given you the role of Prima, which he had to give to the other dancer, Shinso had come to visit you daily, helping you around as you healed. Some days he would paint, sometimes he would bring a hoard of pencils, once he even brought just paper, taking time to fold up so many little figurines for your bedside table. After you had healed enough to start lightly dancing again, the two of you had decided to work out of his home. Allowing you the freedom to dance, without disrupting the theater, and allowing him to create art as he watched.

-Present Day-

The creak of the door had you glancing up from your bath that was starting to run cold, the bubbles still piled high more than covering your body from the artist who hovered at the door, ever the gentlemen and averting his eyes as he leaned against the door frame, staring at the floor with his hands in his pocket. The two of you had grown very comfortable with each other, to the point that outsiders would be appalled, but he was your closest friend. You were his muse.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

You noted the blush that was creeping up on his cheeks as he kept his eyes on the floor, your silence making him uncomfortable as he cleared his throat and started to speak again.

“I can call for a carriage to take you home, but you really need to get that ankle delt with first, at least let me wrap it for you.”

“Hitoshi…”

You watched him tense up, like he was waiting to get slapped even though you were across the room. The sight had your gut clenching, not in a good way.

“Come here.”

His head snapped up, his eyes wavering but focusing on your own in bewilderment as he choked on his own spit, reaching up and straightening his vest. But you just nodded your head, affirming your words, a slight smile on your lips as he hesitantly stepped towards you until he was hovering at the edge of the bathtub, his eyes focusing on your face, his stance relaxing as he recognized you weren’t mad at him.

You lifted up your hand, your smile widening as he took it in his own, rubbing his thumb across your soft skin, seeming mesmerized by the way your fingers curled around his own.

“I wish…” He started, his eye brows pulling together for a moment as he paused in thought, only for him to start up again. “I wish I could see you dance for the rest of my life.”

“Hitoshi…”

“I want to be with you y/n… I want to hear your music, and make you smile, and I want to draw you until I have no more paper, and even then I’d paint you on the walls. I want to be able to hold you and tell you how amazing you are and to get to see you live your dreams and fly like the angel you are. I want to be able to touch your face whenever and to memorize it that way because I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to see your eyes or those lips. God those lips. I want the first thing I do every morning and the last thing I do every night to be kissing those lips.

I want to go to the racetracks with you every weekend and enjoy how relaxed and carefree you are, and to hear your little squeal when the gun goes off for the race to start. I want to be able to go get breakfast with you from that little café three blocks down and sit in the park and listen to the birds. I want to take late night strolls with you and feel the warm summer nights. I want to dance with you under the moonlight while we make our own music. I want to stay up all night just listening to you talk about literally anything, and I want to see what you look like when you first wake up in the morning when I bring you breakfast in bed.

You’re not just my muse for my art… y/n you are the reason I continue to live and breathe. You are the reason I can still paint. You are the reason I get up in the morning and frankly the only reason I get dressed enough to go out in public, just so I can see you. You are my muse in all senses of the word.

Y/n… I.. I love you.”

You were stunned into silence, eyes wide as you regarded the man in front of you. This moody artist. Who constantly looked tired, and whose sense of humor was dark and sometimes a little rude and self-deprecating. Who you were pretty sure could draw you with his eyes closed because he had already done so thousands of times. Who stood by you even though you weren’t able to do the one thing you were good at anymore.

You barely even registered what you were doing yourself, but one moment you were looking up at the young artist in front of you, your fingers wrapped in his, and the next you were yanking his hand, pulling him into the over-sized bathtub on top of you, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair as you pressed your lips to his.

The sound of water sloshing about was drowned out by the sound of protest that came from Hitoshi at getting wet, which was quickly replaced with a sigh of satisfaction as he eagerly answered your kiss with his own, his hands resting on either side of the bathtub to help him keep himself up.

You separated your lips from his, a cheeky smile on his face as he moved to pepper kisses across your cheeks as you giggled trying to get a word out.

“I love you too”

“Yea? A grumpy artist? That never sleeps. And half the time doesn’t remember to eat. You sure?” He moved his hand to cup your cheek, which you leaned into rolling your eyes, before he leaned in and kissed your nose, moving back down to your mouth, pressing himself further against you.

You let out a content sigh in response, arching up into him, bring attention to the both of you that you were very much naked. You felt your cheeks heat up as his gaze flickered down towards your chest, leaning back slightly to get a better view as he let out a hum in thought.

“We should get you dried… dressed… should really deal with your ankle.” Even as he spoke the words, his hands slid under the water, hesitating on a little before they softly caressed your sides, one moving to grip onto your hip, the other resting on your rib cage, thumb dangerously close to brushing your breast. You watched as the man above you chewed on his lip, seeming distracted by the sight in front of him. You wondered what it looked like to him. You wished he could see it all clearly.

“Toshi… come here.”

“Hmm? I’m right here.” His focus never wavered from taking in your body, his own eyes seeming to glaze over as he kneaded circles into your flesh with his thumbs, his tongue running across his lips only to be replaced once again by his teeth.

“Toshi..” Your whispered out the nickname, your fingers lacing behind his head tugging him closer to you until he relented, pressing his lips against yours once, then twice, then groaning as he went back again for a third time, his grip tightening on your hip as his other hand reached up and tangled into your hair, water sloshing out onto the ground from his movements.

His lips were soft and plush against your own, moving a little clumsily at first but quickly getting his footing as he pressed further against you, angling his head just right, slipping his tongue against your lips asking sweetly for more. You momentarily forgot how to breathe as you let him have access, a moan vibrating your throat as he swirled his tongue against your own, coaxing you back into his own mouth before sucking on your tongue lightly groaning in response to you.

You gasped, feeling his hips roll against your own, his wet clothes pressing against you just right, making your skin sensitive to the point that you were arching into him. Feeling your pebbled nipples rub against the scratchy fabric of his vest, the seem in his pants sliding along the space just above your clit, making you wonder what it would feel like if it just moved down slightly. Separating your lips, he shifted so that his lips were against your ear, softly speaking to you, his voice growing husky as you felt him pressing against you, the bulge in his pants bigger than you expected for the lean artist.

“Y/n.” He pressed a kiss to the shell of your ear, his voice dropping even lower as his fingers at your hip shifted towards your thigh, moving closer and closer to the apex. “Let me take care of you, my muse. Let me make you feel as beautiful as you are to me.”

You nodded, barely containing a whimper as you felt his tongue run along the edge of your ear, his breathe hot against your skin, his fingers delving between your thighs, coaxing them apart so he could shift to be between them. His fingers splayed across you, sliding between, and separating your folds, his middle finger making a languid circle against your already swollen nub. His voice strained like he was trying to hold back groans of satisfaction as he breathed his words into your neck, pressing hot open mouth kisses to your skin.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you.” He buried his face against your skin, letting out a groan as you whimpered softly in response to his fingers slow and purposeful touches, fingers sliding easily across your bundle of nerves, circling and circling, from the water surrounding the two of you. “I’ve wanted to worship you until you realized just how amazing you were.”

Your own hands drug across his back, coming around to pull the buttons of his vest apart with trembling fingers as you pressed yourself up into his touch, trying to remove all boundaries between the two of you. He slowly sped his ministrations up until he found the perfect speed that had you mewling at his touch, grinding up into his fingers to get more pressure and relief, whispers begging for more leaving your lips like they were your mantras.

He focused all of his attention on your clit, lightly tugging it with the pads of his rough fingers from years of using them to blend out chalk and charcoal. His lips moving from your neck to your ear only to whisper soft encouragements and praises into you.

Finally, after what felt like too long you yanked his vest off of his shoulders, it pooling in the water, trapped on his arm, and quickly made short work of his button up shirt, cursing the fashions of the day and whishing there was an easier and quicker way to undress. As soon as you had access to his chest your lips were on his skin, pressing kisses, your teeth snagging against his neck pulling soft moans from the man on top of you as you sucked on the skin leaving marks.

“Please Toshi more. More.”

“Fuck darling..” his fingers left you for the briefest of moments, making you cry out in frustration only for his to sit up and tear off his shirt and vest, tossing them into a wet heap of fabric on the floor, the sound sounding just as obscene as the noises leaving your lips. His hands shifting to his pants, quickly untying them and pulling them off only for them to follow the rest of his clothes allowing you to see him in his full glory for the first time. He didn’t give you time to appreciate him though, his lips sealing against your own, forcing your eyes closed as his fingers returned to their new home between your legs, his hips rolling down against you making you moan with the heat that was coming from his dick rubbing against your thigh.

You nipped at his tongue, drawing more noises of pleasure from him as he coaxed you up and up, rubbing his length against you sensually as he shifted closer and closer to your cunt. You were both panting at this point, dizzy from the lack of air, but not caring as you pressed closer to each other, long forgotten the water splashing out onto the floor making a mess of his bathroom.

Your fingers dragged down his chest, nails leaving marks that he leaned into as you searched for your own toy to play with, finding it took both hands to hold in your grasp. You didn’t have to do much work, his thrusts doing practically everything as you guided his tip up and down your slit, surprised to feel the distinct difference of your own wetness compared to the water, his own fingers in the way occasionally as he strummed you closer to the finish line.

You couldn’t help the wanton moan that echoed through the house when his tip dipped inside of you and pulled back out, your eyes rolling back as you lifted your hips up to his own, forcing him further inside until he was practically at the hilt, your hands moving to grip his ass and pull him closer to you, legs wrapping around him and trapping him in place, his hips thrusting into you as he cursed against your lips.

“Fuck. So god damned perfect darling.”

He didn’t move for a moment, instead focusing on making sure you were comfortable in your positions, his lips devouring your own, a smile on his face as he whispered soft praises between kisses. But that moment quickly passed, you being the first to roll up against him, dragging a curse out from his lips, him dipping his face to press it into your cleavage, a groan leaving his lips as you ground up into him with a whine.

Lips attached to your nipple, one hand still swirling your sensitive bundle of nerves causing you to cry out, the other pinching the other nipple between two fingers, rolling it in perfect unison as he suckled on you, tongue laving back and forth, the heat of his mouth making you want to scream.

His thrusts were slow and deliberate, dragging himself almost all of the way out of you, your walls clenching as he did to get him to stay, only for him to press back into you, bottoming out and pressing against your cervix with each thrust.

With one more flick of his finger against your clit you were gone. His name leaving your lips in short breathy cries as you arched up into him the pressure feeling too much as you clenched down around him, your grip tightening and trying to hold him in place. But he didn’t stop there, his fingers continuing to slowly circle your clit, helping you ride out the wave as he pistons in and out of you, your own name being said as a prayer.

He released your nipples as you came down, shifting his lips back up and slowly moving up your neck, sucking and biting on the skin as his voice reverberated around the room.

“You are so fucking gorgeous. So perfect. My beautiful muse.”

You could feel him starting to speed up his thrusts, making more and more cries leave your lips as you tried to keep up with him, already feeling pressure building up again.

“Toshi.. please, please… Toshii… pleaseee.”

“I know darling, I know. Fuck you feel so good. I’m not gon-“

His voice was cut off with a groan as he pressed his forehead to yours, fucking into you relentlessly as your walls fluttered around him. A hot huff, before he groaned out your name again pressing into you, his thrusts growing sloppy.

“Toshi please, I wanna cum again. Please.”

“Fuck- nng… Fuck. C- haa-“ He couldn’t finish his words, plowing into you, feeling the waves of what little remained of the water crashing against him, perfectly level with your clit making you arch back up into him with a whine as you tried to find a second release.

“Fuck. Darling… Kitten… cum for me.”

He buried his face into your chest, a long-drawn-out moan leaving his lips, sounding broken as you felt hot spurts of liquid squirting into you, your mind exploding with pleasure as his quirk snapped on, making you scream out his name, feeling aftershocks hit you wave after wave as you collapsed against the back of the tub, panting harshly, your mind hazy as you came down.

The two of you sat there for several moments, gasping for air, your legs shaking form tensing up for so long. After a moment or two, Shinso glanced up at you, his cheeks red, hair sticking to his face from sweat, an exhausted but content expression on his face.

“Are you okay my muse?”

You let out a snort, and a short nod in response, leaning into his hand as it cupped your cheek, him leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips a smile on his.

“You’re magnificent.”

“Hmm.. I bet you think so.” You leaned back, looking at the ceiling with a smirk feeling your body relax only for your attention to be brough to your still swollen ankle as you shifted it, pain shooting through your leg.

At seeing your face, Hitoshi sighed softly, shaking his head before pressing another kiss to your lips, pushing himself up and into a standing position, leaning over to grab a towel, his still impressive length swinging practically in your face making you blush.

“We really need to take care of your ankle. I’m serious this tim- Oh fuck kitten..” his fingers gripped your hair, his head dropping back as he closed his eyes, his dick twictching back to life as you ran your tongue along it slowly, a snarky laugh leaving your lips at his reaction.

“Kitten?” You tilted you head back, looking up at him a question in your eyes, his face turning scarlet as he looked away from you biting his lip, hiding a sheepish smile.

“Please let me take care of you… stop distracting me.”

You huffed a pretend sigh of annoyance, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes.

“Fine, if you must. But I’m continuing that later.”

He rolled his own eyes at you, stepping out of the bath and drying off before moving to also grab you a towel, helping you out of the bath as well, taking extra care to dry off every inch of you, making you lean your weight against him and not on your foot before he scooped you up, shuffling off towards his bedroom.

“I don’t want your injury to get worse. You still want to dance don’t you?”

You hummed a soft acknowledgement, wistfulness lacing your tone as he slowly placed you into his bed, helping set up his pillows to accommodate your leg better. He would get the two of you settled then call for the local doctor to come look at you. He just hoped you didn’t want to go home soon.

“As must as you still want to paint.”

His smile was filled with understanding as he brought over one of his shirts to you, helping you into it but leaving your bottom bare, covering it with a blanket before dressing himself only to sit on the edge of the bed, his eyes latched onto yours with a look of adoration you had seen so many times and mistaken for something platonic.

“You know, I’d love to paint you bathing sometime. You truly look like a goddess then.”

You blushed at his words, shaking your head laughing, a fluttering feeling in your stomach as you realized just how much things had changed so quickly.

“The scandal Mr Shinso! What would the papers say about us? My honor was already sullied months ago just by being here, but now you want physical proof that you’ve seen me without my knickers?“ You were joking for the most part. You didn’t care about honor. Scandals. Most girls would be ashamed to be rumored to have even kissed a man that wasn’t their husband in this time, but you loved him, and you knew nothing wrong could come of that. Who cared what anyone else thought?

“Then marry me.”

You froze, staring at the artist who looked more sure of himself than any other time you had seen him. His face completely serious, shoulders relaxed, as he gazed at you like you were his entire reason for living.

Your lips split into a smile without you even realizing, your cheeks almost hurting from how wide it was as you looked down at your lap for a brief moment before meeting his eyes once again when his hand reached out to take yours, thumb rubbing soft circles.

“Yes. Yes I’ll marry you.”

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delldarling · 3 years

Text

flinch | rivulet & alethea

male octomer x female human 2215 words lemon | 3rd POV, mention of alcohol, mention of drowning, darker themes, tentacles, mild description of cis female parts, our octomer lad is definitely on the villainous side but everything is (and will always) be consensual mermay prompt: 'tentacles' and 'if there is angst who am i to complain' and 'ALL 11 HERBS AND SPICES'

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet is a delicate name, depicting the soft, sinuous trickling of liquid over stone. Over skin. It's a pretty name, gentle on the ears, and paired with Rivulet's handsome face, it’s far more than most need to lose their train of thought. His sweet, earnest voice and his nervously tangled tentacles leave most everyone tripping over their own tongues to assuage his apparent nervousness The slow blink of his eyelids, lashes thick over the human-pink arch of his cheeks, fool everyone into thinking he’s kind, into thinking that they can and will get everything they want out of him.

Alethea thought that once too.

She’s never been blind to his blatant machinations though, having come from the surface world where humans wear false faces day in and out for work. She’s spent years witness to cherub cheeked smiles and simpering platitudes, and it’s easy enough to recognize that kind of mask if you know what it is that you’re looking for. Here in the depths though, any hint of human appearance and warmth is cherished. Coveted, and all manner of things are ignored or purposefully forgotten in the hopes that they might be allowed a taste. Never mind that Rivulet is no more human than the lionfish Mer he’s chatting up, his upper body looks like one, and that makes him popular.

But they believe they can trust him, Alethea thinks, lip curling into a sneer when she catches sight of Rivulet’s flushed cheeks. That he doesn’t have ulterior motives because he’s one of them. Idiots. This deep beneath the surface, his kaleidoscopic hair has turned to shadows and faint flashes of blue, highlighting the pink over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s beautiful, like a moonlit prince underneath the glowing blue coral ceiling, straight out of a seaside fairy tale.

“Or a nightmare,” Alethea mutters, relishing the faint trail of bubbles that slip free of her lips. She pretends the swift slide of them are barbs, prickling incessantly at Rivulet’s curling tentacles. At least then he would have a reason to fidget about with them, no better than a child scuffing his shoe in the dirt when they attempt to charm an elder. Alethea swallows, eyes closing tight. Keeping herself angry is so difficult.

She sets down her half empty scallop shell, still gleaming with the dense violet substance that passes for alcohol here, and turns to go, swimming slowly so as to avoid drawing too much attention. Rivulet’s presence has guaranteed that the night will be anything but restful. She doesn’t get far before something cool lashes about her ankle, yanking her to a stop. Alethea knows exactly who it is, even before she turns her head to make sure of it.

“Leaving already?” Rivulet asks, and the other Merfolk in the vicinity all turn to watch out of the corner of their eyes. They crowd a little closer on all sides, eager to see some kind of show or steal some of the warmth that radiates off of Alethea. Rivulet, at least, is here for something more. He’s hoping to pick up where they left off, and Alethea’s theory is all but confirmed when his eyes dip to the heavy, enchanted necklace around her throat. The gift of the Tide King, and a human’s only passport down in the Trenches. Her nose wrinkles, toes curling as she yanks at her ankle, trying to loosen Rivulet’s grip without letting her anger get the best of her. A smirk blooms on his lips, his horizontal pupils chasing away the silver of his eyes. He softens the expression into a genteel smile when the other folk begin to whisper.

“I suggest you remove your appendage,” Alethea says, deathly soft. She lets the flow of the water carry her closer, thankful when her hair shifts, hiding her face from onlookers. Alethea bares her teeth. “Or I will remove it for you.”

Rivulet doesn’t laugh, though she can see the thought of it pass through his head. If Rivulet wanted to ensnare her, Alethea wouldn’t be able to get free—he’s in no danger. He lets go of her ankle, purposefully trailing the suckers of his tentacle over her bared flesh, letting them catch at the hem of her trousers before he finally lets the tentacle fall. She takes a breath, but Rivulet seizes her wrists instead, pouting at her like she’s shut him out for nothing more than a trivial mess. A few of the surrounding Merfolk start to laugh. “Must we continue this tiresome exercise?” He asks, voice pitched low. He’ll play for the crowd, happily work them like a swindler, but his business has always been his own. “There’s no shame in letting anyone drown you with-”

Alethea can barely see through the surge of her own anger. "Poor choice of words, Riv. Now: Back off.”

Rivulet lets go, holding up both hands. His tentacles twist and lash uselessly in the water, but he doesn’t make any sudden grabs for Alethea when she kicks, swimming backwards to put more than a hands-breadth of space between them. Some of the other folk shift in place, fins and tails twitching, but none of them interrupt Rivulet and Alethea’s quiet, but very public separation. Rivulet hums, catching sight of her darting eyes and dips his head, like he’s ashamed. When he slides closer, tentacles catching at the floor of the Trenches to propel him, Alethea forces herself to stay still. “Later?” He whispers, a single tentacle weaving over her knuckles in an attempt to imitate lacing fingers. The other Merfolk, even Rivulet himself, are probably waiting for her to forgive him straight away.

Alethea pulls her hand free. She refuses to answer and damn herself, but she doesn’t know how much that actually matters. Everyone in the vicinity can read the emotions in her like a book. She’s unbearably angry, but everything about her, from the tension in her shoulders to the twitch of her fingers, spells out one thing. She wants to throw all her caution to the current and say: Yes.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet doesn’t say a word when Alethea slips in, clothed in nothing but her necklace. He smiles, because of course he does, all saccharine sweetness and knowing eyes, strange pupils curling into inhuman shapes as he catches her hands with his own. Tentacles whisper over her knees and down the sides of her calves, ready, reaching, but going no farther. She wishes he would say something, wishes he would open his stupid, lovely mouth, if only because it might make her change her mind. She shouldn’t have come here.

She kisses him anyway. Pulls her hands swiftly out of his so she can take hold of his face, pressing too-quick kisses to the corner of his mouth before he tilts his head to meet her lips head on.

Whatever patience Rivulet was holding onto vanishes. His tentacles lash around her thighs, his arms circling her to trap her wrists at the small of her back. He takes the kiss over, tongue slipping between Alethea’s lips to muffle any noise she might make—though no one else is around to hear any of it.

Breath still slips out from between their mouths, pinprick bubbles tickling over lips and cheekbones. The sensation reminds Alethea of anger, the way it skitters over skin until everything feels tight and over sensitive. Her teeth find his lower lip, but that only makes Rivulet groan, hands squeezing around her wrists. Bound as she is, it gives Riv free rein to touch where he will, always hungry for the heat and softness of her skin—and the layer of magic that keeps her safe from the pressure of the depths. It buzzes whenever Riv touches her, as if it recognizes the potential threat of him, but he uses it to his advantage.

Alethea turns her head, gasping for oxygen through the magical filter, sagging in his arms. She ignores Rivulet’s smug grin, closing her eyes to shut out the sight of him, which is exactly when his mouth closes around her nipple. Alethea jerks, eyes flashing open as Riv tugs at her wrists, bowing her further back. He has better access this way, sucking and flicking his rough tongue over the nub of flesh. She trembles, impatient for him to move on, but unable to tear her eyes away. Riv looks drunk on the heat of her, eyes gone heavy lidded, cheeks hollowing. He still looks like a prince, with shadowy hair and his pink lips, but there’s nothing innocent looking about him now, mouth working as he slowly coaxes her legs apart. He slips one of his tentacles between her thighs, dragging the suckers back and forth over her clit, humming around her nipple as she writhes.

The pop as he removes his mouth is muted, but the sight of it, tongue flicking out to chase the taste of her, is enough to distract Alethea for a few seconds. He wriggles the end of one of his tentacles inside her while she’s staring. It’s slim, and slick, despite the surrounding ocean, but he corkscrews the appendage, making Alethea throw her head back with a shriek as it fills her. Riv laughs, moving with the arch of her hips.

“Shut up,” Alethea says from behind gritted teeth, wishing she could appear unaffected, that she could stop the shaking of her limbs and how eagerly her body responds. A thought passes behind his eyes, but he sighs rather than speaks, bending his mouth to her other nipple, and bites. A sucker settles over her clit when she screams.

Rivulet’s mouth goes slack, teeth gentling as he concentrates. The tentacles around her legs loosen, and tighten, a strange stroking that serves as a reminder of strength. His hands leave her wrists, the slick slide of another tentacle taking their place as he lifts his head. He stares, trailing fingers along her sides, strangely pupiled eyes focused on nothing but her panting mouth.

“If you wait,” Riv says softly, the tentacle inside of her writhing, “if you just wait, I can make you feel even better. Would you like that? Don’t you want that?”

Alethea closes her eyes.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

Rivulet wants Alethea. He’s always wanted her, shooting her fuck-me looks whenever their paths crossed throughout that first month. He used every excuse he had to attend the banquets the Tide King held, flirting with her all the while. She’d been foolish at first, thinking him little better than the other Merfolk vying for her attention. He didn’t treat her like them though, kept seeking her out, coaxing her into laughing, into enjoying his company. She’d fallen in with the rest of the warmth chasers, thinking he would be nothing more than a bed partner during her stay here, but the illusion hadn’t lasted long.

Rivulet wants Alethea, but he wants knowledge too. He wants the enchanted necklace hanging around her throat. He wants to pick it apart, to figure out how it works without having to lend his abilities to the Tide King or the enchanters under his employ. He wants to carve a permanent place for her here down in the Trenches that doesn’t involve being one of the Tide King’s tourists. Wants to free her from the figurative shackles that keep her within the boundaries of the Tide King’s domain.

She just has to drown.

Riv is lovely, and charming, and knows exactly how to drive Alethea over the edge and keep her coming back. He wants her, her mind, her presence, and would like nothing more than to keep her by his side. But to stay, she has to change, to give up her ability to breathe on land, to give up her legs and the face she’s always known.

“There are other ways!” Rivulet had assured her after he’d finally confessed his plans, tentacle sliding over her wrist to gauge her pulse. “If I can snare one of his other guests, I’ll be more than happy to take their necklace. In fact, it would be preferable, if I’m being honest. I would rather attempt the spell on another before risking you, and who knows?” Rivulet had turned, pulling Alethea along with him, tentacles wrapping around her hips. “I may be able to amend the spell, and keep that lovely face of yours.” He hadn’t flinched when she’d told him that sounded like murder.

She should be flinching. Alethea should be going back to the surface and staying there. She should be telling the Tide King or his other guests about this. Warning them. She doesn’t want Riv to experiment on anyone, even if it might end up with her being able to stay permanently. But a small, selfish part of her wants to keep the days the Tide King promised. Three more months. Three more months of swimming along the ocean floor and discovering all of the wonders kept beneath the waves. Three more months of Rivulet, and watching Merfolk fall over themselves to flirt with him while he secretly flutters his eyelashes at her, a joke only they share. Three more months of his hands and tentacles on her, slipping between her thighs and making her shake to pieces.

Alethea knows she can’t have it. Not… Not all of it.

────── {⋅. 🌊 .⋅} ──────

#exophilia #merman boyfriend #merfolk lover #mermay #d.darling mermay 2021 #d.darling writes

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lit-in-thy-heart · 3 years

Text

It was a sunny day and Lancelot was fighting the urge to hurl himself into the lake.

A walk to the nearby park, that was meant to have lasted no longer than twenty minutes, had quickly transformed into a completely unnecessary rescue mission and Lancelot was watching with growing despair as Gwaine waded into the water. Despite being told that the ducklings would be able to get up onto the grass by themselves, Gwaine had complained about the bad parenting from the two ducks serenely looking on as their offspring drifted aimlessly along an invisible path and had promptly decided to intervene himself. Merlin had gone to get coffee, so was no help whatsoever, and Gwaine was attracting stares that were not the usual stunned and admiring ones always shot his way.

Struggling in silence for several moments more, Lancelot took a breath and, casting a glance towards the coats they'd left strewn across the bench, advanced towards Gwaine. When Lancelot approached, Gwaine turned around, his hair obscuring one eye but not quite concealing his grin. In his palms was a duckling and Lancelot felt his internal tension melting away at the beauty of the image before him, fingers itching for something to sketch with. Instead, he fumbled with his phone and captured Gwaine with his camera just as a flower of blossom stumbled down from an overhead branch and dusted Gwaine's hair. It adorned his head like a statue of a deity from antiquity and Lancelot lowered his phone, soft smile flickering on the corners of his mouth.

The duckling had started to make noises and Gwaine tore his eyes away from Lancelot to address the small creature, bringing his hands closer to his face. 'What is it that you want, buddy? Because if it's love that you're after, I can give you endless supplies. I'm sure Lance and Merl won't mind me drawing some stores from theirs because you are absolutely adorable.'

'They probably want to be put down, Gwaine,' Merlin chipped in, picking his way through the grass with his eyes fixed on three levitating cups. 'Poor things haven't learnt how to fly yet; this is probably the most terrifying experience that they've had.'

Taking the closest coffee cup to him, Lancelot removed the lid, took a sniff, and hastily put it back on again. 'I believe that's yours, Merlin,' he said, holding it out to them.

Merlin, dropping the spell and catching the other two cups in their hands, delicately frowned as he snatched a sample of the scents issuing from the slots in the remaining cups. Then, deciphering the caffeinated code, they passed one drink to Lancelot and accepted the one that Lancelot had been so offended by. 'What is Gwaine doing?' asked Merlin lowly, taking a sip of his black coffee.

'Rescue mission. Ducklings couldn't get up onto the bank and Gwaine thought they were going to drown.' Lancelot ignored the burning sensation in his mouth -- it would be the perfect injury for Merlin and Gwaine to kiss better later -- and pulled an impressed face. 'This isn't half bad. Though what syrup did you get?'

'Take a guess.'

Wrinkling his nose, Lancelot took another sip. Then, for good measure, he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s skin with a frown, pulling away. 'Well, it's not cinnamon.' He took another sip. 'Vani--No, caramel?'

With a grin, Merlin nodded. 'Soft and sweet, like you.'

'And what did Gwaine get?'

'Gwaine got a mocha with two espresso shots.'

Thinking for a moment, Lancelot smiled. 'Richly warm and sweet with a bit of a kick? Perfect.' Then he glanced over at Gwaine, who now seemed to be berating the two ducks who were doing absolutely nothing. 'I mean, proof right there.'

Laughter sharply reverberating through the air, Merlin raised their own cup to his lips. 'So what does that make me, then?'

Gently, Lancelot wrapped an arm around Merlin to draw them close, kissing the nose that wrinkled at him. 'That makes you a shot of pure energy and undiluted strength. Now, are you going to help me entice Gwaine away from the ducks?'

'As long as I don't have to get in the water,' murmured Merlin. 'This skirt is vintage, I'll have you know.'

As Lancelot caught part of the material between his fingers, tracing the flowers printed across Merlin's legs, he smiled again. 'I won't make you get in the water, my light, don't worry. I might make you take my coffee again, though.'

'That raises no qualms with me,' Merlin said, eyes transforming into the familiar shade of gold Lancelot was accustomed to as he took the third cup and retreated to the bench that had been abandoned with a muttered: 'Good luck'.

Watching them pick a path through the dying daffodils, Lancelot turned around to observe his second significant other. 'Gwaine. Gwaine.'

Gwaine, who had moved onto lecturing about the importance of families staying together and had seemingly forgotten the alleged fact he'd recited earlier about ducks only being able to count to four, spun around at the call of his name. 'Yeah?'

'Merlin has coffee.'

Gwaine's eyes momentarily lit up. 'Are they going to bring it here then?'

'Not when you're stood in the middle of a lake--'

'I'm not in the middle, I'm right by the bank--'

'Gwaine, the fate of your coffee is in my hands. You do not want to argue with me,' threatened Lancelot. 'Now put the duckling down and carefully get out.'

Holding Lancelot’s gaze for several moments, Gwaine blew the hair out of his face and twisted back towards the ducks. Gently setting the duckling down on the bank, he made an aggressive motion towards the parents that made it clear he would be watching them and began to wade across to meet Lancelot. As he approached the bank, he stretched out a hand and Lancelot took it to help haul him up.

Gwaine, however, was not hauled up. Lancelot was dragged down.

The world blurred as he plunged into the water, Merlin's laughter becoming muffled as Lancelot struggled to find his feet. Spluttering, he emerged from the depths and stumbled slightly before standing upright, completely drenched. Heart in his mouth, his hand jumped to his back pocket. 'My phone. I had my phone in my pocket--'

As Lancelot ducked beneath the water's surface, Gwaine glanced over at Merlin, who had started to stand in concern, having realised that Lancelot was panicked. Gwaine’s hand fumbled for Lancelot’s arm and he pulled him up, pushing the hair from his face with one hand as the other displayed the artist's phone.

'You absolute bastard, Gwaine.'

'Hey, now, would you prefer that I did actually put it in the water?' asked Gwaine, adjusting his grip so the device dangled precariously from his fingers.

Lancelot moved closer. 'If you fucking dare--'

'And I think I'd better take that,' Merlin interrupted, the phone bobbing from Gwaine's grip to his own. 'I was going to ask how on earth you managed to get it so smoothly from Lance's back pocket, Gwaine, but then I remembered that you know Lancelot’s buttocks like the back of your hand and that you are very good at being subtle with your hands when it comes to that region.'

Gwaine threw the warlock a wink. 'I know your buttocks like the back of my hand as well.'

'Oh, yes, I am very much aware,' smirked Merlin. 'Are you actually going to get out this time, or am I going to have to drink three coffees and bounce off the walls for the rest of the day?'

Sparing Gwaine a glare, Lancelot extracted himself from the lake and gave Merlin a gentle smile as they threw a spell in his direction and began to tease the water from his clothing. With a leap, Gwaine followed, taking his drink and scuffing the ground with his feet. 'I'm sorry if I upset you, Lance,' he mumbled. 'It was just too much of a good opportunity to miss.'

Jaw setting, Lancelot faced Gwaine, saying nothing for several seconds, and swept his legs out from underneath him, one hand expertly catching the liberated coffee as Gwaine collapsed to the ground. 'Now we're even,' he announced, taking a sip of his latte, as Gwaine groaned.

'I'll say.' Struggling to sit up, Gwaine groped the air with his hands. 'Pass me my coffee, would you?'

Not wanting to take any chances, Lancelot carefully sat down beside him and passed over the cup, sparing a second to kiss the corner of Gwaine’s mouth. 'It might have been a nasty shock for me, but it made Merlin laugh, so I'm not that mad.'

Grinning, Gwaine returned to Lancelot’s mouth with his lips. 'You taste of lake.'

'And whose fault is that?' remarked Lancelot as Merlin settled between their outstretched legs.

Summoning the coats, Merlin set his coffee down amidst the grass and draped all three of the garments over Lancelot’s shoulders. 'Honestly, I don't understand why either of you are complaining. You spent 1500 years in a lake, you'd think it would be your natural habitat by now.'

'No,' Lancelot said, glancing towards Gwaine, who completed the sentiment.

'Our natural habitat is with you.'

Beaming, Merlin knocked their ankles against the knights' thighs and the rest of the day melted into skittish touches and tentative sunshine.

#so i had the urge to write fluff #so have modern merwaincelot (gwaincelot have been resurrected) causing chaos in a local park #aka gwaine gives ducks some parenting tips #lancelot gets exasperated #and merlin just drinks coffee and watches the carnage #merlin #gwaine #lancelot #merwaincelot #merwainecelot #bbc merlin #merlin modern au

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bluebellhairpin · 3 years

Text

No Feelin’

Fantasy AU!Levi Ackerman X Fem!Reader

Part Two - No More

A/N: I’m so glad to be a part of this. I had a lot of fun, and I have always liked the ‘Enemies to Lovers’ dynamic. I just hope this doesn’t got out of the rules - I didn’t actually read them - so if it does .... ‘oopsie?’ - Nemo

Summary: Service to the king became tiring. Someone rose up and became an enemy to the crown - stealing a cured sword, that gives untamable power to the wielder. The Kings Captain finds himself positioned between her and what she wants.

Warnings: Violence. Smexual tension. Blood. Alludes to Dom!Reader.

Listening to: ‘VILLAIN’ by K/DA (slowed) - ‘Am I really that bad if l love to make you mad?’

Discord Event Masterlist

Masterlist

“Take it off. Slowly.”

“What, this little thing?” You took out the long blade, it’s sheath still hanging at your side. It reflected a matching bright red glow into your eyes, a shine he could see from across the room. “I didn’t think it’d worry you that much, Captain of the Guard.”

Levi could tell you were just playing with him. Your voice was smooth like honey, and richer than the king’s gold hoard. It sent a shiver down his spine - or maybe that was just the cold in the room? - but your voice paired with your eyes told him that it was not the cold.

You never used to be like that.

“It doesn’t belong to you.” he said, raising his voice as if that would make you do as he says, “So I’ll say it again - take it off, and give it to me. I may be lenient if you comply -”

“- Blah, blah blah. Comply, do as I say.” You cut him off, twirling the sword around your fingers before the hilt fell back into your palm again. “Doesn’t that ever bore you? It sure as hell bored me.”

He stiffened as you started walking across the room, passing the columns and getting closer and closer. Leaving the doorway behind and cornering him at the throne. The red sword dragged behind you, metal scraping against stone, and he grit his teeth at the sound.

It left a glowing red streak in its wake.

“Surely you know the power this holds,” You smiled as you looked up at where he stood, one of your feet resting casually on the first step up to the throne. “That's why you want it back.”

“It’ll corrupt you.” He hissed, pulling out his own sword in counter. “‘Blood to bone, and bone to stone; The price of the throne, it will leave you alone’, that’s what the sword says. You’ll never come back from where it’s taking you, and you’ll have no pity from anyone.”

You raised the blade, studying the foreign language, before tapping your elongated fingernails - to him they looked more like metal talons - along each letter with a laugh. Then your eyes flicked up to his, the crimson color only brighter now that you were closer.

“That’s what everyone thinks it says, yes.” you said, waving the sword around as you gestured, “But that’s just petty human insight. This was carved by gods, made to be wielded by only the strongest of the worthy. No human would understand what that means.”

Levi looked down at the weapon, eyeing the words.

“Dare I ask what it does it say?” His words made your grin widen, lips pulling back to reveal sharp canines.

“So curious.” You said, walking up a step with each syllable. “So adorable.”

You raised your sword to him, and he quickly moved his own to block it - otherwise it would’ve been uncomfortably close to his neck. You stepped forward again, pressing closer and adding more pressure.

If his own sword didn’t have magic in it, he was sure it would’ve been turned to ash. He could feel the heat from your blade already.

“So tell me Little Captain, which tunnel did your king use to run away?” He sucked in a sharp breath. Only the royals and their most trusted knew about the passages. And yet you did too. “Ohhh, you are just so cute trying to think on your feet.” You laughed.

“I’ll die first.” he said, pushing you off with a grate of metal against metal and making you stumble back down a few steps. “You want nothing but power. Just like any storybook villain. And storybook villains always lose.”

You settled yourself again, tutted at him.

“And yet I’m the one to draw first blood.” you said, mocking eyes catching his as you watched a slither of dull red drip down from the tip of your sword, “All bark and no bite.”

He rose a hand, touching his cheek. It erupted in pain at the contact, blinding his right eye. He felt it burning, the heat running through his veins to settle a dull ache in his chest.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t deep,” you said, speaking as if consoling a child with a scuffed knee, “Deeper than that and you could be out of commission.”

His own sword lit up, the engraving glowing white as it helped to counter the tainted cells you gave him. The sight in his eye returned first, and he lunged down at you.

“You talk too much.” he grunted, swinging a large arch at you, pushing you further from the throne and back towards the exit.

“What, you want me to put my mouth to better use?” you countered, catching his legs with your foot and held your sword to his throat. He fell on this back, winded, and his own sword was just out of reach.

As your sword dug into the stonework, and left a dull warmth at his neck, you stood over him, lowering to kneel on one knee above his torso.

“For you that would be an honor.” You practically purred out the words, eyes lazy, and any half-minded person would be weak at their knees for such an opportunity. But you weren’t exactly the healthy kind of alluring. Not right now, anyway.

“You’re a temptress.” He said, hand slowly reaching out for his castaway sword.

“The best kind.” You leaned forward, head level with his, and only inches apart.

“I’ll kill you.” He only needed to reach a little further then he’d -

“Ah ah,” your hand shot out, voice soft and hushed like you were telling a secret, and grabbed his wrist, pinning it down, “Nobody can kill me.”

He reared up, kneeing you in the stomach, and used your moment of surprise to grab his sword, roll you both over, and pin you down in turn. He held your arms down, pinning them under his knees, and held his sword at your throat. You smiled.

“A fire? Very nice -”

“Shut up.” his eyes narrowed, and his sword pressed into your skin, “I could kill you right now. Spill your blood all over the stone pavers. I’ll do it. Slit your throat so damn clean that they wouldn’t even see the cut once they’ve got the blood cleaned up!”

Your smile faltered, but your eyes darkened.

“So kill me.” You said, challenging him. “Kill me, and don’t regret it.”

He looked down at you, jaw clenching, his knuckles whitened as he held the blade tighter. But he hesitated too long. Why was he waiting? Was he showing you mercy?

You jolted your legs up behind him, linking your ankles and hooking them around his neck. Then you slammed down - cracking his head back against the stone - and rocked yourself up between his legs to then wrap your hand around his throat, fingers splayed up onto his chin.

“You should know better than to wait that long, Little Captain.” You brushed your nose with his, looking down at him though lidded eyes. He looked delirious. Like he was only half awake. With a knock to the head like that he should be dead.

You looked over to his hands, finding his sword lit up like the night sky, the energy making the veins in his fingers and arm glow. You wondered how interesting that was - his sword could heal, while yours corrupted. The irony.

“You’re crazy.” he slurred, somehow managing to look right at you despite the fog in his eyes, “You’ll never win.”

You turned back to him, almost laughing into his mouth.

“I already have,” you said, “I have you right where I want you.”

“Tell me what it says.” he said.

“The sword?” you mused. Lifting the sword up to rest between you, Levi was lost in a daze between the red metal and the blood of your eyes, both reflecting off the other and making him dizzy. Was he seeing double?

“‘From chaos to healing, is where to gain the sealing; Where they be kneeling, you’ll have no feeling.’ I have an advantage, Levi Ackerman.” You said, and for a sweet moment he had clarity, but like a dream after you wake it was gone. “Find your advantage.”

You then stood, letting him go as you trailed your sword down his front before just walking away.

“Then find me,” you turned back to him, “If you’re brave enough.”

#surprise server collab #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan x reader #shinjeki no kyojin x reader #levi ackerman one shot #attack on titan one shot #shingeki no kyojin one shot #fantasy au

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writingpuddle · 4 years

Note

Hello congrats on 500 followers! Do you think you would be interested in writing something about the foxes camping? Maybe as a team bonding trip or a reunion? Honestly whatever you feel like I love reading your fics and head cannons! They never fail to cheer me up!

ah anon, you get me. read it on ao3

Moonlight

The smell of campfire smoke saturated the night air. Neil’s soles scuffed against the gravel on the road as he followed the others, the breeze sending a zing of energy through him. The two apple ciders he’d drunk earlier glowed in his stomach like sunshine.

“No, I’m sure it was this way,” Nicky said, his voice too loud and blurry with drink.

“Oh my god, Nicky,” Allison said. “You couldn’t find the bathroom in daylight.”

“The map is confusing!” Nicky protested. “Oh look! The playground!”

Nicky’s shadow darted off the road towards the shadowy structure. The others laughed, stumbling after him. Matt tripped over the wooden frame and nearly hit the ground, but Dan was there to catch him. A second later he gasped softly, dashing towards a tiny wooden horse on a spring. He folded his giant frame down onto the horse and rocked wildly back and forth. Neil had to stifle a laugh at the ridiculous sight.

“This is stupid,” Kevin said peevishly. “You are acting like children.”

Dan and Renee exchanged a glance, then grabbed him by his elbows, dragging him over to a brightly coloured playground merry-go-round. He shouted in protest as Dan trapped him in one of the segments while Renee starting the whole thing spinning around.

“Neeeeeil,” Nicky called. “Teeter totter, now!”

“Don’t use him,” Allison said derisively. “He’s too small to balance.”

“That’s the point! I bet I can launch him clear off the—Neil, where are you going?”

The field sloped away beneath the park, the slightly overgrown grass dampening Neil’s shoes. Leaves fluttered in the breeze. Glimmers of moonlight off the lake peeked between the branches.

“Neil, don’t you dare—”

Neil’s feet had already carried him down the slope a few steps, the allure of the water drawing him away. At the sound of Nicky’s voice, he glanced over his shoulder. Nicky started towards him, and all the buzzing in Neil’s chest lit up at once. He took off at a sprint, laughter frothing in his chest. The grass under his feet was springy and damp and the playground dropped away behind him.

He ducked between the trunks of the trees. The lake loomed in front of him and his feet ripped up the grass as he sprinted towards the beach. The air whistled and he tipped his head up to the sky. His hair blew back from his face, the wind whipping moisture from his eyes.

A body barrelled into him from the side. He went down with a shout, tumbling across the grass and coming to a halt laying on his back. Allison rolled a few feet further, breathless with laughter. “Brat,” she gasped. Her hair had blown free of its braided crown and hung messily over her face.

Neil snickered, dropping his head back against the grass. The stars overhead twinkled. The Foxes had planned this camping trip impromptu after getting booted from the last round of championships; the only person who had bailed was Aaron claiming “midterms” and “assignments” as his excuse. As if they didn’t all have plenty of those they were ignoring. Neil couldn’t say he was that disappointed at Aaron’s absence. Their relationship had gotten less tense over the past year, but they were a long way from friends.

The sounds of running feet and panting approached. Neil didn’t move, stretching his arms out in the grass. Vaguely, he knew the looseness in his limbs was at least partly alcohol, but right then it didn’t matter.

“Neil—you—rat—bastard—” Nicky gasped, stumbling to a stop and doubling over, planting his hands on his knees.

“Why?” Matt whined, leaning against a tree.

Neil shrugged, the grass beneath him tickling his neck when he moved. “I just felt like running.”

“Bitch,” Dan said, without heat as she caught up. A rather green-looking Kevin came up behind her and sat heavily in the grass.

Allison rolled over, a smug look on her face. “Alright, losers,” she said. “You know what’s next.”

“What now?” Kevin said despondently.

Allison looked at the lake, then looked back at them significantly.

“Ally, babe, I love you, but I am too drunk to read your mind right now,” Dan said.

“We’re going skinny-dipping, morons,” Allison said.

“It’s freezing out!” Nicky protested. Matt nodded earnestly in agreement.

“So you’re gonna have to be quick,” Allison said loftily.

“My gay ass was not meant to—"

“Shh!” Allison waved a finger, shushing them. “Nope! Y’all made me sleep in a tent, this is the price. Shut up, Kevin.”

“I didn’t even say anything that time,” Kevin muttered.

“We could’ve rented trailers, but no, we had to do this authentically—”

“Fine, fine!” Dan said. “Come on Matt, I need your furnace-butt next to me if I’m not gonna freeze to death.”

“But Dan—”

“You heard her,” Dan said, and her expression had gone from resigned to devilish now that she’d switched sides. “We’re getting the authentic camping experience. Up, on your feet, all of you.”

Neil rolled over onto his stomach, contemplating the silvery ripples on the lake. It really did look cold.

A shoe nudged his side. “Up you get, Josten,” Allison said. She’d already peeled her shirt off and stood there in only a lacy bra and her skin-tight jeans. Even Kevin was reluctantly stripping down.

“It’s dark out, and nobody is going to see you,” Allison said. “Shy doesn’t suit you.”

Neil poked her ankle with his finger and she jumped. “Fuck, ice fingers,” she snapped. “Get up and get changed, asshole.”

Neil considered pestering her a little more, but the others were already stripping down, so he pushed himself to his feet and ducked behind a tree.

After about a minute he heard Matt hollering, followed by Allison shouting, “Wait, you idiot, we have to go toget—”

“LEROY JENKINS!” Matt bellowed, and then a tremendous splash broke the night. Dan cackled as Matt came up gasping.

Neil leaned out from his hiding place just in time to see Matt’s bare ass poke out of the water before he dove down under again. Renee and Dan had already waded in to their hips, and Allison jabbed her finger at Kevin to make him move. He scrunched his shoulders as he pushed the water out in front of him before all of their attention was seized by Matt surfacing with a great spout of water.

They shrieked as it sprayed over the lot of them, thoroughly distracted. Neil watched as Renee slid smoothly into the water, her moonlit hair glinting before she slipped beneath the surface. A second later a shivering Nicky yelped and vanished underwater, coming up spluttering while Renee laughed like chiming bells.

A fond smile quirked Neil’s lips. He watched their antics for a minute longer before collecting up all of their discarded clothes and heading back up towards the campsite. He was halfway up the field when he heard an outraged shout behind him, and he broke into a trot, the clothes firmly tucked under his elbow.

They had needed two campsites between the eight of them; the fire still burned in the main one, shielded by Matt’s oversized truck. A single figure sat next to it with a flask in one hand. His blond hair shimmered, golden in the firelight.

Andrew looked up as Neil approached, but didn’t say anything. Neil dropped the pile of clothes next to his camp chair and dropped into the chair next to Andrew with a contented sigh.

Andrew flicked his gaze down to the clothing and back at Neil in a wordless question. Neil linked his pinky finger with Andrew’s. “They went swimming,” he said.

A single smooth eyebrow raised, and Neil couldn’t help smirking. He let his gaze drift back to the fire. Andrew had kept it well-fed in their absence, stoking it up to a lively blaze. His shoes were smudged with ash from where he kept propping them up to warm his feet.

“This was a good idea,” Neil said. “This was fun.”

The fire crackling was the only response he got. “I guess you’re not really into fun, anyway,” Neil jabbed.

Andrew’s hand shifted, turning Neil’s over and brushing away the bits of vegetation clinging to it. Neil was pretty sure he’d be picking grass out of his hair until they got back to Palmetto.

“I,” Andrew started, then stopped, a frown forming between his eyebrows. Neil’s attention sharpened at Andrew’s tone, his lighthearted smile fading. Andrew’s frustration was nearly palpable.

“I don’t know how,” Andrew said finally, tucking his chin and staring into the fire. His hand tightened on Neil’s, calloused and warm from being tucked in his pockets.

Neil’s throat tightened a little. Andrew’s control had always been his armour; he didn’t know how to set it down without being afraid. They’d found places where the walls could give, now, but Neil didn’t think they would ever really come down entirely. He dragged his thumb across Andrew’s knuckles, pulling them up and kissing the back of his hand. Andrew watched him with hooded eyes.

“That’s alright,” he said. “Someone needs to keep the fire going.”

Andrew let out a long breath through his nose, shooting Neil an unimpressed look, but Neil thought his shoulders relaxed a little, too and counted that as a win. He took a deep breath through his nose, tipping his head back to contemplate the thin patch of stars visible between the trees above them. “Alcohol, helps, though,” he said lightly.

Andrew snorted. “Lightweight.”

A flash of pale skin dashed past the entrance to the campsite.

Neil bit back a smile as a muffled curse came from behind the shadows, then Allison’s head poked up above the bed of the truck. Her bare shoulders were tense and scrunched up halfway to her ears, her arms tightly folded over her chest.

“Hey, Ally,” Neil said. “You look cold.”

“You slimy little son of a bitch,” she hissed. “Give me the car keys, now.”

Neil snickered and dug the keys out of Matt’s pants. He tossed them over the truck to her and she vanished around the other side. He heard the passenger door open and some shuffling, but he didn’t look up.

Allison emerged wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt Neil thought he remembered Seth wearing around the dorm. Her hair hung like seaweed in straggly tatters and she squeezed a towel around it, wringing out the worst of the water.

She jabbed a taloned finger at him. “That shows me for trying to be considerate,” she said. “I should’ve known better than to take my eyes off you.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Neil said. He nudged the pile of clothes with his toe. “Gonna go rescue the others now?”

She regarded the pile for a long moment, then shrugged and threw herself down in the nearest chair.

“They can walk,” she said, and grabbed a bag of marshmallows.

#thanks anon!#prompt fills #camping #aftg #tfc #andreil #the foxes #aftg fic #my writing #moonlight #i havent abandoned my prompt fills i promise i am just very slow #Anonymous

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downlowjoe · 3 years

Text

A tale from my old LTA profile

LATE NIGHT AT THE OFFICE

I know I can get any girl at the office... especially the married ones. Ever since I started last week they've been swooning over me in one way or another, either gossiping or directly flirting, and I've rolled with it. My boss doesn't seem to like me much, or does a little too much, but the other guys are pretty chill and have similar interests so picking up a conversation comes generally easy. All things considered, this new job was turning out to be my best one yet. And I never would have had this opportunity had I decided to stick it out in my hometown for another who knows how many years. I was out here on my own dollar, but that was fine. I was my own man.

At least, I used to think that. Things have changed considerably since the last time I've been to the office; I'm yet to return. The official story is that I'm taking care of a conference overseas for Mr. Sykes, and am expected back some time next month. Something tells me that bridge'll collapse before it comes time to cross it, but I'm getting off track.

Sheila Flannery is the owner of the company, and while she's been said to stop in every now and again to check on her main office here in Gronsville, she's usually out of state co-designing or promoting the next article of clothing from her fashion line. So far out of my realm I'd be bored to tears listening to the intricacies, but as long as my boss's boss wasn't breathing down my neck all the damn time, she could be selling pet rocks for all I cared.

Mr. Sykes is the one who hired me and the one I report to. My official job description is 'personal assistant'. Sometimes I work the phones with the others, sometimes I work the desk when Amy habitually calls out sick, but most of the time I'm going back and forth, fetching Sykes this, doing that for him, usually the dirty work he doesn't feel like doing. I was working the floor the day it happened, cranking those calls out till late at night. Was so focused on making that caller's commission that I hadn't noticed everyone was gone until Johnny tapped my shoulder to give me a fist bump on his way out.

I checked the clock as he strolled down the hall and disappeared into one of the elevators. 12:54. How?? I peeked over the tops of the cubicles and saw that I was indeed the last one left. Well, all except for Mr. Sykes. That's when I decided I ought to take off too. I'd had a pretty weird encounter with Sykes in the men's bathroom earlier that day and didn't need to make those types of experiences a habit. However, I wasn't exactly in the healthiest of mind states when I left Oakwood to come to the big city, what with everyone I knew making me feel like a freak for having dreams and aspirations outside of living the clearly unhappy life my parents led. I had no one, and was still regaining my confidence, and so really knew no one either. I was on my own out here, and if I lost that job, I didn't know what would happen.

There was no escape for me though. Sykes must've knew his little promise of bonus commission would give me more than enough incentive to work until way late. He had me right where he wanted me. And I was too foolish, or spineless, to simply walk away from that job and leave my fate to chance. He called me into his office and I followed his orders. In retrospect, that dynamic seemed to have existed between us since my first day there. Sykes knew what he was doing the day he hired me.

There was a leather couch in his office that he was known to sleep on when he was too tired to drive home. He'd leave the office early in the morning, then return freshly showered and ready to go. I'd probably do the same thing if I was the manager. For whatever reason, the couch was pushed up against the wall so that the back was facing his desk on the other side of the room. Maybe it was so he didn't fall off during one of his power naps. Who knows? All I do know is that he said something about having dropped his company ring and seeing it roll under the couch, and if I could try to reach it.

I thought about moving the couch to check, but decided against it. Last thing I needed was some outburst about scuffing up the hardwood or some other BS. I got down on my hands and knees and angled my head for a peek. Nothing. Well, it was kinda dark wasn't it? Maybe I should try my phone. Sykes got up from his desk as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell and hit the button for the light. There was a click of him locking the door, but I didn't think much of it. Was so focused on angling the light underneath the couch that I hadn't noticed him draw the blinds closed either. Then the light bounced off something shiny.

"Hey, I found your ri-"

Sykes was suddenly on top of me. I struggled to get out of his grasp, but he was a lot stronger than he looked. There was no way I could get leverage with his knees on the back of mine and his hand pinning my head against the floor. I tried to scream, but he stuffed his sweaty socks in my mouth and everything came out muffled. He worked like an expert in removing his own tie and using it to bind my hands behind my back. As if to make matters worse, there was a mirror on his wall. I watched in detached disbelief as his reflection unzipped its pants and pulled out a fully erect, throbbing white cock.

He already had my pants and boxers pulled down to my ankles. No one was coming to save me, I realized. This is really happening. No one cares what happens to me. With these thoughts came less and less of an urge to fight, and by the time he was about to enter me, I was just sitting there like an obedient personal assistant. I guess this is what I was hired for. He wasted no time with a condom, seeing as how he basically owned me now. Sykes penetrated me slowly. First the head, then back out. Then back in, halfway down the shaft, and out again. The third time he went balls deep and stayed there.

I was ready to leave at 12:55. By 1:05, I was getting slammed by my boss in the back office. I thought it would never end. He never pulled out, just kept thrusting into me over and over again, like a jackhammer. Then, after his pace had sped for a few beats, he froze. He came... and I could feel everything. His hard, pulsating cock inside my asshole, pumping me full of hot seed. He leaned in close.

"You're coming back to my house. Unless you want everyone hear to know how much of a gay little slut you are, that is. Now get up, pull your pants up, and get in the car. We're not done yet. Not by a long shot."

With that, he pulled out of me and left me there leaking.

"Don't make me tell you twice," he warned.

"Yes sir," I tried to say through the socks still in my mouth.

This was gonna be a long month.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Support the author! Cashapp ---> $DLJoeWrites

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legobiwan · 5 years

Text

Whumptober #14 (tear-stained)

TW: none

Fandom: Good Omens (Crowley, Gabriel)

Notes: so this is probably what I would call a second draft of an introduction to a much-longer story I would like to write at some point. So, some of this would make more sense in the larger scheme of things. I am super interested in exploring Crowley’s demon side, and world-building Hell in general. And yes, I am behind I know it’s been busy busy in lego land. Will try to get #15 up tonight as it’s one of my favorites so far.

----

The bastards actually went through with it.

Not that it was any surprise to Crowley. He knew they would come. Hell, he had waited for them, glued to the throne in his flat, eye trained on the dark stain on his floor that was once Ligur. Three days he had sat there, unmoving before they finally showed up on his doorstep, all righteous indignation as the front door blew off its hinges and Crowley was hauled away by strong hands and stronger chains.

His landlady was not going to be pleased.

But that was all a million miles away in an overpriced flat in London’s Mayfair, the echo of a memory, of a life no longer real. Crowley craned his neck upwards, as much as his bindings would allow. Feet, several pairs of them, milled restlessly on the perimeter of the illuminated circle, a drought-plagued forest of tan, beige and brown leather.

All kinds of feet, long and narrow, wide and thick, Oxfords and Derbys and Monks who knew what else. (He knew exactly what else, exactly how many patent brown leather oxfords patrolled the room, how many black Derbys gave orders, and how the dark grey monks chuckled each time they came to stand at the edge of the circle. He knew, as he had been here for hours, maybe days on his knees, waiting.)

No Brogues. At least, not those Brogues, tan and beige and scuffed, worn a bit more on the inner heels, the consequence of uneven gait and fist curled round Crowley’s chest grabbed at his heart and squeezed.

The demon threw his head back, unhinged his jaw, and laughed.

All at once, the room stilled.

“He’s gone insane,” dark grey Monks said, drawing closer the to the circle.

“Take note, siblings,” one of the Oxfords added, “this is the enemy in its true form.”

“Why are we even participating in this charade, the outcome is inevitable!”

The uneasy buzz of the room crescendoed, feet shuffling, rearranging themselves, a pair of Derbys clapping across the floor in a quick staccato, a huddle of Oxfords - grey, and white, and tan - edging closer together, toes nearly touching. Just as the din threatened to break open, a pair of patent leather wingtips stepped forward.

The man cleared his throat, a veritable thunderclap, heralding the storm that was to come.

The room grew silent.

“Management,” Throat-Clearer pronounced every syllable, the last “t” bit off with crisp violence. “Management made some changes. But I assure you sister, you will not be disappointed. You - we - will receive what is due to us.”

Crowley hummed soflty. Fucking management always butting in at the last minute - add this, do that, can you tack on another seventeen pages to that PowerPoint?

They didn’t even have PowerPoint in Hell.

“Well, get on with it, then,” the unhappy Oxfords challenged. “We’ve been denied once this week. No one in this room would welcome a second time.”

The patent leather wingtips - all too familiar to Crowley, pivoted to the right, toes pointing, a compass directed at the circle holding the demon.

Here we gooooo, Crowley sang to himself, shifting under the heavy weight on the manacles encircling his wrists and wings. The chains clattered with the movement, pulling at his ankles, where the opposite sides were attached.

Every toe, every show pointed towards him.

Well, then. Now seemed as good a time as any.

Crowley snapped his fingers behind his back. He closed his eyes and let go, cutting the last of the strings tethering his human form to his metaphysical one, bones cracking, joints extending long with a sickening pop as his epidermal layer floated away like a wandering balloon on a breezy autumn afternoon.

Let them see.

If angels were being of pure light, demons were the absence of that light, a heatless fire feeding on the engine of universal entropy, leaving being the ashes of chaos and disorder. Crowley’s own flames rose higher and higher, searing white-blue or a helium star and dark rust of the almost-dead surrounded by the deep black on the universe. Black ichor fell from his own broken sun, his once-halo, trailing down an elongated, reptilian face, pooling in the crevices of eye sockets that were oblong, elliptical orbits before tracing a wobbling path to the blood-stained orifice that was his mouth.

Let them see.

Crowley jolted, heaving forward with a violent spasm, chains pulling taut, digging into his very human wrists as his occult form was jammed back into his corporeality, a sensation suitcases might experience at the end of a long vacation, when nothing fits quite the way it did before.

Sweat trickled down the back his neck and Crowley panted, running his tongue over teeth still too-sharp and long the be fully human.

Bloody sadistic bastards.

“Now, now,” Gabriel tutted. Crowley squinted at the patent leather wingtips bathed in celestial light. “We can’t be having any of that.”

Crowley coughed, the aftertaste of his own damned blood, his dark demonic ichor, viscous and rancid and rancid on his tongue. A wide grin split the demon’s face, amber irises brightening with a rapacity that yearned to hoard every feeling of ill will, disdain, of utter revulsion filling the room, like a dragon - bloated on its own riches, scales nearly bursting. He lorded over - Sataned over - Fuck it, it’s mine, he breathed in fire. His treasure. His kingdom come.

No more than what Crowley deserved, what he craved.

“Although,” Gabriel continued, paying no heed to Crowley’s sharp stare, heels tapping closer to the edge of the enchanted circle. “We expected no less from your kind.” Crowley didn’t need his sight to recognize the twisted sneer in the word kind. His kind. The Fallen. The Damned.

The Enemy chained, at the mercy of the agents of Heaven.

There was no mistaking why he was here. That event is seared into his memory, and he can only hope the angels will finish he cannot (a promise made, and damn everything he cannot break his word). Perhaps he would be saddened by the turn of events, but Crowley can only taste his own bloody anticipation, giddy at the prospect of finally receiving what he has deserved all along.

Gabriel draws himself tall, producing an arcane-looking beige scroll, the kind one might find in a dusty wing of the British Museum. Crowley doesn’t bother to look, he’s seen this show already, has been brought to trial at the apex of the celestial moon ten times in succession. He knows the script, has pleaded his case, but it is this charge, this crime, which he hopes will be the one to seal his fate.

“Demon Crowley,” Gabriel announces, “you are brought here under Parlay with Hell, to stand trial for your crimes against Heaven, Hell, and the Grand Objective. You have been proven guilty of nine out of ten of your offenses in the presence of the Celestial Tribunal and the Representatives of the Almighty. Today, you are bound to Heaven’s will and Judgement for the last time, your punishment to be dispensed upon the outcome of this trial.”

“Demon Crowley, you are charged with the murder and extinction of the ex-Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Angel of Heaven, Aziraphale.” Gabriel brought the scroll down, violet eyes boring into Crowley’s own.

“How do you plead?”

Finally.

Crowley hung his head, long hair hiding his sharp smile, broken spasms masquerading as laughter only audible to himself, as if he was sharing a sick, private joke with the cosmos, or with Her.

“Why,” Crowley croaked, his voice too small, too thin for the expansive chambers of Heaven’s offices, as if pressed down from all sides by invisible weights. “I’m a demon. How the fuck do you think I’ll plead?”

Crowley looked up, biting his lip as he met Gabriel’s penetrating stare.

“Guilty,” he stated simply, cheeks damp with the shadows of his metaphysical tears. “I murdered Aziraphale.”

legobiwan does whumptober

#whumptober #whumptober 14 #crowley #gabriel #good omens #good omens spam #writing #the eternal struggle #i feel like i have some kind of block right now with writing anything with coherency #but this is why whumptober is good for me #just gotta plow on #plow plow plow #i know nothing about farming #siiiiggghhhhhh

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nightwhip · 5 years

Text

a planet ravaged by an unseen enemy. survival is possible, of course, but it is not without difficulty. once a gift as simple as sight becomes the difference between living and dying you realize how great the loss of it is. as is the case for those that only have one set of eyes to rely on. for nova and her fellow knights there is another way ; it takes great concentration, but do they have any other choice? only those powerful enough with the force can take such a task on.

despite what information they had, they were tragically unprepared for what they landed on. all they were told was that something invisible ( while some believe it is a weapon others think it is a monster ) was sweeping through a planet and destroying the civilization. both humans and aliens have fallen victim to whatever it is, and continue to do so weeks after the chaos has begun. any holovids of the carnage have been removed from the holonet to avoid having the entire galaxy’s population wiped out, and there is no one left to make reports. the knights arrived after the silence ensued.

just a few days trying to figure out what had happened, what this thing is, and nova knew they were in a battle they couldn’t win. how could they defeat something they can’t look at? she’s got goggles on, the lenses black, and they are all reaching out with the force to navigate this planet. but it isn’t enough - putting all their effort into sensing their surroundings leaves little room to prepare for a fight should it come to that. weapons in hand, they trek carefully through the ruins that litter the planet as they move on. finding survivors that know what is going on is proving to be difficult; the survivor they do find isn’t looking to be helpful.

“stop,” nova says, boots scuffing to a halt. “someone is coming.”

as they all remain in place all she can hear is the buzzing and humming of their activated weapons, as well as the trudging of feet. coming directly toward them. eyes staring into the blackness of her goggles, she watches from within as someone approaches them : someone who has no protection on their eyes. the grip nova has on her vibrosword tightens, knuckles turning white, as she falls easily into a battle ready stance.

“that’s close enough,” she warns, tracking the survivor. “why are your eyes unprotected?”

“it’s so beautiful,” speaks a voice. it sounds distant, almost trance-like. “you have to see it. let it cleanse you.”

“what does that mean?” another says. “cleanse us?”

“it will cleanse and enlighten us all.”

what the hell is going on here? still keeping herself aware of her surroundings, she reaches just a bit farther - reaches into the survivor’s mind. they have seen it, whatever it is, and live to tell the tale. to them it didn’t bring immediate death, but is something... freeing.

“you have to look,” the survivor says as they step daringly closer.

“i said that’s close enough.”

“what’s wrong with them?”

“they’ve seen it.

“they’re still alive, how is that possible?”

“i don’t know.”

“you have to look!”

being momentarily distracted could have ended quite badly - turning her attention away from the fellow knight, she is focusing again on the survivor just in time. first she hears them lunge, then she sees how their hands are outstretched toward her, ready to tear her goggles from her head. killing what little life remains on this planet isn’t their objective, but they were not warned that survivors could be a threat. she dodges the attack with ease, twirls to face them again. it doesn’t end there ; they just about growl as they make their next move. not hers, but she can hear a blade tear through their chest, followed by the thud of weight meeting the duracrete beneath them.

“what have we gotten ourselves into?”

“we shouldn’t be doing this,” nova says. she is returning to the tight formation they hold. “we don’t know enough about what is going on and we likely never will. the first order should ju--”

just destroy this planet and be done with it is what she was going to say. her mind is going a parsec a second trying to understand what havoc they’ve walked into. what is this thing? are there truly any survivors or are they all insane? how is it possible to see the invisible bringer of death and live? she is swiftly interrupted by the startle of a hand wrapping around her ankle and tugging, sending her crashing to the ground. assuming the wound killed them immediately, she hadn’t bothered feeling for them anymore. again they scream “you have to look!” as her elbows scrape and bleed and her head bounces painfully. her eyes close, squeeze shut, as the protective transparisteel shatters. now she is frustrated ; looking down at the survivor, her fist clenches and shakes. it doesn’t take long for their eyes and veins to bulge as the air is drawn from their lungs and their throat is crushed beneath an unbearable pressure. she doesn’t release until she is certain there is no heart beat.

climbing to her feet, she removes the now useless goggles from her head with an exasperated sigh. a gentle thump sounds as they fall from her grip.

“are you okay?”

“i am fine, but my goggles are broken. i guess i will have to-”

MINERVA!

it is so sudden, so loud, that she can feel her pulse stop before beginning rapidly again. she can hear it in her ears and feel it in her temples. along with the fright there is the ghost of a broken heart weighing within her chest. she shakily breathes inward, bumps rising along the flesh of her arms. hairs stand along the back of her neck. tears spring into her eyes.

“what?”

“what? nova, what is it?”

“you didn’t hear that?”

“no.”

“there was a voice. i heard a voice. it sounded like...”

“nova, you should close your eyes.”

no, minerva, don’t. keep your eyes open. turn around and look at me.

around them, dirt and grass and leaves begin to flutter and float. she can feel tiny, dead leaves brushing against her skin. strands of her hair are defying gravity and floating upward, up and above her head. chills and tingles coarse along her spine and she visibly shivers against it. they can all feel it, but only she has the misfortune of having her vision completely exposed. she is so taken aback by the creeping sensation that she almost doesn’t hear the knights speaking.

“i think it’s here.” “we should get inside.” “nova, close your eyes!”

turn around and look at me, baby. it’s just me. look at me. look at me. look at me minerva look at me look at me turn around and look at me.

“it sounds just like my father...”

“he’s dead! it isn’t him!”

whatever voices they hear ( ghosts of their pasts, victims, even each other ) are dismissed as fake. they know it is fake, only a trick meant to manipulate them into looking. though part of her knows that to be true, it is too late. it’s got a hold on her, and she knows she is going to give in. like she is no longer in control, merely at the mercy of the unseen enemy.

tears spilling from her eyes, a knot forming in her throat, she begins to turn away from the knights. away from them, toward the voice. the voice that has soothed her so many times, the voice that said even after all she has done it still loved her, the voice that used to call her its little princess. she just wants to see him one last time even if it isn’t him. a choked cry leaves her lips, ignoring the pleas of the others, as she turns to look.

“nova!”

and there is but a second when she wishes she hadn’t. what she sees isn’t the welcoming face of her father, smiling, opening his arms to her for a warm embrace. his skin is decaying and there is a hole in his head. where the blasters had fired and taken his life. cut it short like it was nothing. his smile is unsettling ; much of his lower lip is missing and not all of his teeth are inside his mouth. fear flashes through her, burns through her like a fire, for just a second. then there is sadness, acceptance, peace. she shouldn’t have looked and she knows that, but there is nothing to be done now. two urges, so overwhelming they almost take her breath away, surge through her heart and mind: she can either turn back and convince the knights it is okay to look, or she can end her life right now. most of her is gone, lost to this horrifying version of what used to be her father, but part of her remains. she won’t do this to them. she can’t.

“dad... i am so sorry...”

commotion follows; they know she is gone. there is panicked yelling, feet skidding along the duracrete in her direction and away from her. they command each other not to look, not to try and save her, there is no saving her, and to get to safety. nova’s wrist is turning, angling her sword at her throat. her lips offer an apology once more ( i am so, so sorry ) as her blade meets her flesh and she drags it along. it reaches the opposite side of her neck, drawing a fine red line that quickly pours blood, before her hold loosens and she is dropping to her knees.

#ic. // drabble #long post cw #horror tw #suicide tw #me: takes birdbox and just makes it a new planet #edit:#au tbd #just to make it clear this is in no way a canon drabble

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mariposalass · 5 years

Text

A Typical Crazy Weekend Morning

Summary: Weekend breakfast on a Sunday morning would’ve been all fine and dandy, if you’re not in Mari’s fam bunch in a chaotic morning rush.

Notes: This is inspired from a prompt request I sent to @husband-of-lucoa for the domestic fluff prompts with a dysfunctional coffee pot. Also, the story is basically what a typical weekend morning is like for me and the fam bunch; spoilers: it is always messy and crazy! The breakfast featured here is called a cornsilog (corned beef, sinangag (garlic fried rice), and itlog (eggs sunny side up)), which is one of many silog breakfast dishes in the Philippines and in Filipino overseas communities all over the world. Words in Italics are meant to represent Marina’s sign language since she can’t talk and is a mute (thanks to that deal with the evil Sea Witch in the past…).

Setting: Mari and co.’s house in Daly City, California; Sunday morning

Tags: breakfast, weekend mornings, chaos ensues, crossovers, self shipping, mild freak outs over little things and non-functional coffee makers

Rays of sunlight hit Mari’s sleepy face one spring morning inside her bedroom. She grouchily tried to get up, but a part of her was too lazy that it had knocked her back to the bed. Nevertheless, she managed to get up after 2 more tries. Her attention then turned to the alarm clock on her bedside as it read 8:45 am. Saturdays and Sundays are the days she doesn’t need to go work, so she has time to relax before Monday calls in for another round of 5 work days. The assistant librarian yawned and stretched as she got out of the bed, after which she took a shower, and got dressed up in the usual outfit of floral camis, cardigans, jeans, and ankle booties. Today was supposed to be a nice day to go out with the weather being bright and with little clouds that could warrant rainfalls, and it is jam-packed with a ton of errands to do in San Francisco with her brother Harry and friend Issa’s wedding drawing closer each week.

As soon as she finished getting makeup and drying up her hair, she then went down the stairs, and headed straight for the kitchen and dining area. But as she was about to make a turn, a knock was heard from the front door, so it took her eyes towards the door and she opened it up to see that a familiar face smiling back at her.

“Oh Marina, hello,” Mari greeted the blond teenager, “I didn’t expect a visit from you today. So what has brought you to come over today?”

Papa has asked me if you might need some help for Harry and Issa’s wedding in July, the otherwise muse but bubbly girl signed to her, So I came over here to help you guys in any way possible.

“Why of course, we do need more help,” she smiled back as she escorted Marina to the house, “We’re heading to San Francisco in a little bit after breakfast. Perhaps you can join us with that.”

I would love to go with you guys, she couldn’t agreed more as she signed the reply.

“Well, I hope you have an empty stomach on hand, because we’re just going to...” Mari’s sentence was cut off abruptly when both girls heard loud noises coming from the kitchen, “make breakfast...”

Perhaps we should check out the kitchen to see what has happened, since the noises came from there, Marina’s face grew more concerned as she signed to her and both continued to hear the kitchen noises.

After an affirmative nod, Mari and Marina rushed to the kitchen where they were greeted by what would have been a war zone to many, but is actually and unfortunately a normal thing to Mari every weekend: Many of Mari’s family and friends were scrambling either to trying to cook or feed the pets, getting something quick to eat, or making a mess of the kitchen, and apparently some weird noises coming from a… kitchen appliance?

Anyway, the pets (Scooby Doo, Marie Torchic, Piplup, Rowlet, & Scorbunny) were fighting for attention and huge shares of food as Ahkmenrah tried to carefully measure the allowable amount of pet food they can eat, Harry & Issa were nearing completion of cooking most of the food (eggs sunny side up, garlic fried rice, and corned beef with onions and potatoes) with Uncle Gru’s Minions causing havoc everywhere, Philip and Kairi ducked away from plates, bowls, and drinking glasses thrown about at random intervals as the Minions kept going crazy and they were trying to get orange juice, water, toasted bread & its accompaniments, and hot chocolate, and Kirby started to moan in hunger while Margo was doing her best to keep him calm down as her sisters Edith and Agnes watched on.

“Poyo...” the sad starving Star Warrior moaned, his little arm holding onto his grumbling stomach.

“Just hang in there, Kirby,” the oldest of the Gru sisters reassured him, “They’re almost done with the food soon.”

“I still don’t get why Kirby is always sad when he’s hungry,” Agnes sighed as she told Edith.

“Beats me, those puffballs must have big appetites for sure,” she remarked, “Have you seen that masked knight friend of his trying to eat that many sweets before?”

“Uh, Harry, Issa. What is going on in here?” Mari asked both brother and future sister-in-law of the chaos engulfing the area before ducking herself and Marina to the floor as some plates crashed onto the wall unannounced.

“What else but the usual, sis: Uncle Gru’s Minions are at it again: throwing plates and bowls, grabbing and dropping random items onto the floor & walls, and hoarding bananas,” the Boy Who Lived began to list down the things of madness verbally to her and Marina as the latter two got up again, “The pets are craving for more food than needed, Kirby suddenly goes hungry and is moaning in pain...”

“And there are some problems with the coffee maker for some reason right now,” Issa added in to what he has said.

“Wait, the coffee maker is having PROBLEMS!!!” Mari gasped in horror when she overheard arguments to where the aforementioned object were located and with her (not biological) uncle Gru, aunt Lucy, and grandfather figure the Doctor all tangled up in there.

“Alright, who’s going to repair that blasted coffee maker right now?” The Doctor groaned in dismay after multiple attempts to start it up properly as normal.

“Not me, Sir Grumps-a-lot!” Gru refuted it, clearly not in a mood to fix anything in a grumpy hungry state, “I’m not going to fix that thing while not having something to eat.”

“Look, gentlemen, please,” Lucy tried to calm the storm brewing, “Right now is not a good time to fight over just a dysfunctional coffee maker on a Sunday morning.”

“You’re going to fix it!” the Doctor told Gru.

“No, you’re going to use that weird technological stick of yours to fix that coffee maker!” the former super villain argued back.

“Okay, okay, what is the situation happening here?” Mari asked the trio as she walked towards them with Marina following behind, uneasy and confused.

Mari, what is going on over there? Marina signed to her out of concern.

“Oh, Mari, hello!” Gru soon noticed her presence, waving back at her and trying to hide the previous emotions he had earlier, “It appears that this coffee maker over here doesn’t want to open to any one of us today. Quite a baffling experience we’re having today”

“In short, you’re suffering from a caffeine withdrawal right now,” the Doctor scuffed a bit, not hiding his annoyed expression, “Sometimes, you pudding brains are really that weird over your obsession with coffee.”

“Oh dear, this is getting nowhere,” Lucy worried as the situation hang on a thread.

“Okay, okay. Let me get this straight: the coffee machine is not able to open and work properly, and now you two are caffeine-deprived and fighting over who’s going to repair it?” Mari quickly recapped the situation for the three, but mostly to the Doctor and Gru.

“Uh...” both men now began to look nervous, staring at each other out of fear, before facing Mari again and meekly squeaked a ‘Yes’ for an answer.

So that could explain that argument earlier? Marina signed in to the two out of concern.

“About that silent girl next to you? Why is she doing here?” Gru asked Mari.

“Marina here is one of many adopted kids of some friends of mine and she decided to drop by today,” she clarified to them, “She is unfortunately mute and can only communicate via sign language and body language.”

“Hmm… I see,” the Doctor mused on the guest, before realizing something, “But then what to do without coffee with the broken coffee pot?”

“I highly doubt Harry can magically fix that thing,” Lucy sighed.

Marina noticed that there are sparks flying from the coffee maker, it looked like it may have to deal with the Minions Mari has told her and her adopted siblings a lot. She nudged Mari to check on the thing with her, and what the assistant librarian saw had her jaws dropped in shock: water was splashed onto the machine and was dripping down towards the sink hole, causing a short circuit in it. Mari recalled that at one point, one of the Minions, Bob had nearly dropped a vase of water onto Harry’s laptop when he tripped on a rug while trying to water the flowers in the backyard and it too would have suffered the same fate as the coffee maker had Harry not cast a time freeze spell to save both the little Minion and the laptop and grabbed the vase immediately before the first drop landed on said laptop.

“Uncle Gru, I think that the Minions didn’t watch where they were throwing water at, and were responsible for the short circuit in this coffee maker,” she brought the damages to her forever relatives and was annoyed that her uncle Gru wasn’t paying attention to the Minions again.

“WHAT?!? They short circuited the coffee maker!?!” he freaked out in horror, before slowly regaining his nerves and began to glare at his Minions in disappointment, “Minions! How are you going to explain yourselves over a coffee maker and a short circuit?”

The Minions were understandably upset at the fact that their boss was mad at them for destroying a kitchen appliance with water splashing from the sink, they were scared that he’ll throw a fit about it if they don’t apologize and admit the truth. They eventually, as a group, mustered the courage and said ‘Sorry, Boss’ in Minonese.

This act warmed Uncle Gru’s usually grump bear heart, and hugged them tightly, he know that he couldn’t stay mad at them for long if they acknowledged their sink water meets coffee maker mishaps and owe them up. Although he did warned them never to play with water near all appliances and forms of technology ever again, and they were more than happy to respect that rule.

“So… Now that is settled, how we are going to do without some coffee?” the Doctor groaned in dismay, now that the coffee maker is down.

“Doctor, you can still fix broken machinery with your Sonic Screwdriver, right?” Mari informed him, “Perhaps, you can do it, but try not to be grouchy about it like earlier so much that got Marina worried.”

“Anything for you and your siblings, Mari,” he happily smirked back as he pulled out his Sonic Screwdriver while Mari and Marina helped in cleaning out the excess and ripping water on the coffee maker and the area it occupies before he began to program the Screwdriver to repair the coffee machine in very little time as possible.

The coffee maker began to roar back to life as it light up again to work as it normally did, everyone’s eyes looking at it in amazement like seeing Santa for the first time. Harry was putting down the dishes of food he and Issa cooked earlier on the dining table when he saw the coffee maker being revived back to working order and asked if it could still work properly again.

The Doctor brought out a mug, filled the machine with ground coffee, and had it to make a regular brew. And just as the fam bunch were expecting the thing to die on them big time, it was working relatively fine again: it did what the Doctor had pressed on and coffee was pouring onto the mug like there was nothing to worry about. He then drank some of the coffee without second thoughts and released a sigh of satisfaction, proving that the coffee maker is restored to its original state.

“Doctor, you’re a mad genius!” Kairi gasped, “Your Screwdriver managed to fix the coffee maker without breaking a sweat.”

“Pardon me?” Philip was still getting used to 21st Century lingo and colloquialisms while he too was stunned by the miraculous repair.

“Yes, yes, I see that you all took notice of it, and that I can appreciate it,” the Doctor slyly bragged a bit as he was about to make some more coffee for the coffee drinkers in the bunch, starting with Gru, “So: What kind of coffee preparation you people would like to have?”

“I’ll go for a cappuccino, Doctor,” Lucy asked him, relieved that the problem has been resolved.

“Espresso please!” Gru chimed in.

“Doctor, you know that I often go for a mocha drink,” Harry informed the Time Lord ahead of time.

“Yes, I know that very well,” he happily noted before he turned to Mari, “So, are you going to get some coffee?”

“Nah, you know well that I’m more of a tea drinker than anything, but today, I’m gunning for some OJ right now,” she replied.

Marina also declined the coffee offer and opted for some hot chocolate instead. As the fam bunch settled in for breakfast, eating and sharing their thoughts & stories, along with sorting out plans for the upcoming July wedding, Mari could take a sigh of relief, knowing that things in her crazy bunch will end well regardless of the messes they get themselves into. Surely, she won’t see everyone trying to be normal and stop the chaos entirely (because every single one of them have different personalities and quirks) any time soon, but one thing is for certain: sometimes, a little bit of chaos on the weekends isn’t that bad at all.

The End

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taz-writes · 5 years

Text

Chapter 1 Version 2, Electric Boogaloo

hiiiiiii, guess who got stuck with book 4 after all and went back to obsess over perfecting book 1? ME. I’ve shifted goals from “finish drafting the series” to “finish a beta-worthy version of book 1″ and I think that’s honestly more achievable right now.

for those who’ve been following my WIP a while, this is very similar to the chapter 1 that I shared back in August, but I’ve changed a few elements of the continuity and evened out the prose. (Here’s the old version if you’re curious.) I still love Sayara with all of my heart.

also I misplaced my tag list AGAIN, I’m starting to think it might be more effort than it’s worth to keep up with it :( I am very bad at this.

The usual disclaimer: this is still an early draft, there are probably issues with it! It’s more polished than the last version, but please forgive any weird glitches :)

My favorite part of the Tsi palace was always the library—it was an endless treasure trove of ancient knowledge and secrets, what’s not to love? When I was little, I’d spend hours in there, roaming through towering stacks of books and skipping between the columns of rainbow light that crept in through the stained-glass windows. No matter how chaotic the rest of the building was, being the center of the capitol of one of the largest tribes in Feilan and all, the library was always beautifully serene.

The serenity evaporated when I sprinted straight through the grand double doors at full tilt, skidding to a dusty halt just past the attendant’s desk. It was beautiful, incredible, until my foot went flying out from under me. I slammed butt-first into the fancy Cydre rug, slid, and plowed directly into the legs of the library attendant.

“Sayara?!” he exclaimed, catching himself on the corner of the desk as I dragged myself onto my feet and wheezed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I—”

“Good. All according to plan,” I gasped, clutching at a stitch in my side. “Nobody knows I’m here. Keep it that way. And say hi to your brother for me!!” He rolled his eyes and straightened his jacket.

“Try not to knock over any students today.”

“Good chat, gotta go!!” I brushed library dust off of my scuffed-up breeches and checked the safety of the little box in my pocket, before making a mad dash into the stacks. Just up the ladder and two rows down, and then I’d be home free in a secret passage on the way to my north tower base. Brennadine’d never manage to follow me.

“Sayara! I mean it, young lady, get back here!” My governess’s strident voice rang through the atrium, and I sped up, stifling manic laughter and jumping onto the nearest ladder. I almost lost my balance when the weight of all the stuff in my pockets went swinging back and forth.

The ceilings in the library were high and arched, but not quite high enough to fly under, probably to discourage people like me from doing barrel rolls through the stacks. I could’ve totally pulled it off, if the roof was a little higher. Once I reached the top of the ladder, I scrambled up the last few shelves, and pushed myself on top of the stack entirely. I had to keep my head down to make sure I wouldn’t hit anything.

The next bit was the tricky part. Jumping rows was kind of dangerous. If I fell I’d have about 20 feet to go before I’d hit the ground, and usually I waited for a drifter case to float by and bridge the gap, but Lady Brennadine was hot on my heels. Being a governess and all, she loved manners—until it was time to chase me through the palace and lecture me for having a personality, at which point she’d abandon them completely in favor of clenched fists and shouting.

I paused to assess the situation. I could probably make the jump to the next row, but I was a klutz, and I didn’t need a broken ankle right now or ever. If I stood up to get a running start, I’d hit my head and fall, and then I’d crash into the group of academy students below and I really didn’t want to hurt anybody. The closest drifter case was still two shelves away, waylaid by someone trying to page through its contents.

But I couldn’t just let her catch me, she was pissed and I could think of at least four possible schemes she might’ve discovered. If she caught me with the new enchanted nutcracker in my pockets, she’d definitely assume the worst. I was both stronger and more agile than Brennadine, so if she grabbed me I theoretically could slip out pretty easily, but then I’d be in even more trouble—better to not get caught in the first place. But the gap was so wide...

By the time I resolved myself to jump for it, she was already up the ladder.

“Down. Now.” Brennadine clicked her fingers impatiently, then reached up to pull on my ankle. I took a deep breath, and launched myself off the end of the shelf—not realizing that my shoe had come untied until the laces snagged under my other foot and I tumbled headfirst over the side.

I yelped, scrabbling at the bookshelf to catch myself, and knocked an entire row of encyclopedias away with me. The contents of my pockets went flying everywhere, too, which was arguably worse.

Brennadine’s hand came out of nowhere, and I grabbed on for dear life, and then everything stopped around me in the grip of her skilled telekinesis.

“How many times have we talked about this, again?” she reprimanded, clearly short of breath. I didn’t respond, I was too busy grappling with her unbelievably sweaty arm. “We—do not—climb—on top of the stacks.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, swinging my legs towards the shelf. I missed, kicking over more books, but managed to find purchase when I swung back. She was blatantly wrong, of course. People definitely climbed on top of the stacks, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many footprints up there. They couldn’t all be mine.

“You owe Mr. Baum an apology. For Four’s sake...” Brennadine kept mumbling to herself, but I elected to ignore her. I climbed down to ground level and scrambled to collect everything from my pockets, while she reassembled the library in a mist of teal-green telekinesis. The special nutcracker went immediately into my deepest pocket, I hoped she hadn’t noticed it... my box had rolled halfway under a shelf, but it was fine. I checked the hinges. Still jammed.

“It’s really all right, ma’am,” the library attendant promised. He started tidying up the books Brennadine hadn’t caught. “Oh, and Sayara, Daevin says thanks. I hope you weren’t helping him cheat again.”

“It’s not cheating, it’s entrepreneurial studying.” Brennadine scoffed. I tried to pointedly avoid eye contact, but she wouldn’t look at me, either.

If she wasn’t looking at me, then I had an opportunity. There was another passage to the tower within sprinting range, in the hall outside the armory. I took a few slow steps backwards, testing for a reaction. Nobody moved. I backed away further. When I hit the next shelf, I broke into a run.

A stray book swung into the backs of my knees, tripping me. “Don’t you dare,” Brennadine snarled, replacing the book with a flick of her wrist. Mr. Baum had taken over the task of sorting everything I’d knocked over. I laughed nervously.

“Actually, I think I have that geometry test to study for, since you told me to work on that, so I’ll just—”

“Sayara Ilse Tyriea.”

“You don’t have to full-name me!” Brennadine sighed and laid a hand on my shoulder, shutting me down before I could protest further.

“You need to behave with more grace.”

“Hey, I’ve got grace!”

“Is that so?” Brennadine raised her eyebrows, nodding back towards the wreckage of the bookshelves. I cringed.

“Well... unlike you, at least I wore pants today.”

“What? I’m wearing—SAYARA!!” Brennadine let go of me for an instant to check her trousers, and I made a break for the exit. The doors slammed shut in front of me.

“Quiet in the library,” Mr. Baum sighed from the stacks.

“Whatever you found, it was probably someone else’s fault!” I leaned up against the doors, swallowing reflexive manic laughter. Brennadine pinched the bridge of her nose, visibly exhausted.

“This is not an accusation,” she said. “And it has nothing to do with whatever half-baked scheme you’ve worked out in the old north tower.” My jaw went slack.

“What old north tower?” I bluffed. How did she know about the tower? You couldn’t even get inside without taking multiple secret passages, and Brennadine was hardly the type of woman to go exploring in the palace.

“I am not an idiot. I’ve seen you leave torches lit up there, and you must be going somewhere when you aren’t in your rooms,” Brennadine said. “I also know about the jewelry box, which needs to be returned to where it came from, please. Now listen to me.”

“What do you want? It’s my day off, you said. I thought you were going somewhere.”

“Your father wants you to accompany him this afternoon,” Brennadine said, grimacing in the most polite way possible.

“Isn’t he busy? I thought he and Hope were going somewhere.”

“Yes, and he’s inviting you to come with him,” she said. I blinked. “At far too late a moment, too, your sister has been preparing for weeks—”

“To what? Where?”

“Let’s not disturb the library any further,” Brennadine huffed. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the corridor, starting a brisk walk towards the residential wing. “Sayara. Today is Kyvesse the 14th.”

“...Yes?”

“Sayara, have you been neglecting your politics lessons?”

“Why do you only use my name when you’re telling me off?”

“You should know what’s going on this afternoon.”

“Um...” As much as I tried, I was drawing a total blank. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “There’s a...thing? A political thing.” Brennadine stopped in her tracks, and I walked into her by accident, stumbling. “What?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned heavily against the wall, her head thumping into the wallpaper. She looked so exhausted that I almost felt bad for her.

“There’s a thing. A thing.”

“Well, I’m not wrong,” I said, still wracking my brains for any memory of what Brennadine could be so worked up about. She sucked in a long nasal breath before exploding.

“The Convention of Tribes!! Today is the Convention of Tribes, and your father, the Tsi King, is extending you a spur-of-the-moment invitation! A thing, oh no, this is only the most important national political event of the year—no one would normally dream of bringing children of questionable origins along, but you’ve been granted that high honor out of nowhere, and here we are—a thing!” She laughed a bit hysterically, her left eye starting to twitch.

“Wait, you mean the Convention Convention?!” I blurted out, a little too loud. “But that’s...”

“Incredibly last-minute and ill-advised and threatening the fabric of the entire situation, yes, precisely!”

“I was going to say soon, doesn’t it always start at noon?” I wasn’t sure what time it was now, but it sure wasn’t early, and the Feian capitol was a few hours’ ride away.

“I’ve been trying to find you for two hours!” Brennadine exclaimed.

“But I’ve only been running a few minutes—”

“I expect you dressed in your best suit and ready to leave in fifteen minutes, I’ll tolerate no tomfoolery. Go. If I see that box with you, I will pitch it out a window.”

“But that’s barely any time at all!”

“And whose fault is that? Go,” she snapped. I dashed away before she could get meaner.

The Convention of Tribes? For once, Brennadine was right about something. I was about as prepared for the Convention as I was to fly to the actual moon. It was a choreographed political dance, tangled alliances and tempers and cultural exchanges mixing into a treacherous mess of checks and balances. You couldn’t just prepare for that in fifteen minutes!

This was a big freaking deal. I had to make the best possible impression—this could be the start of a career. Forget the top of my game, I’d have to be on top of the whole world...

But first, the original thing I’d been trying to achieve before Brennadine threw me off-track. When I started up the stairs to my room, I shoved my hand deep into my pockets, and retrieved the nutcracker and the box.

That jewelry box had been the bane of my existence ever since I’d first begun exploring the palace, back when I was seven or eight years old. I’d found it by itself in the dustiest corner of the dusty old north tower, looking like it hadn’t been touched in decades, or maybe even centuries. The box itself was plain, but an expensive-looking kind of plain—it was flocked with dark blue velvety fabric that hadn’t faded a bit despite the neglect, and dust-repellent spells that long-lasting didn’t come cheap. The hinges hadn’t rusted or eroded even a little bit. Naturally, I wanted to know what was inside.

But despite its great condition, the box wouldn’t open. It didn’t have a lock, the hinges were clean and seemed functional, I couldn’t see any evidence of sealing enchantments—not even through an aura-glass lens, and the good ones picked up even ancient traces of magic—it just wouldn’t work. I’d been trying to pry it open for years, fiddling with lockpicks, hitting it with hammers, I even set it on fire once, but nothing happened. It didn’t even burn.

I had to know what was in there. I’d heard from a few of the maids’ kids that the kitchen commissioned this new nutcracker, that had a really powerful breaking spell on it (for opening kysthers), and I figured I could try it on the case. It was something I could handle on the go, but the box was a little too big to fit properly between the pincher thingies. I jostled it in, finally squeezing the nutcracker handle as I pushed open the stairwell door into the residential wing.

Still nothing. Bummer. I’d mess with it more later.

I was going to the Convention of Tribes. Like, as in, my dad thought I was important enough to go to the Convention. Validation was sweet. This was the only major political event on a national scale where the heirs and protégés of the rulers were actually expected to attend alongside their tribes’ leaders, the big meetup where the Queen and tribes negotiated federal legislation. It was also one of the only times the Queen of Feilan would appear before the tribal nobility in person.

If I was smart about it, this could be a life-changing opportunity. Nobody ever took me seriously—I wasn’t usually invited to the Convention, I never got to sit in on Council meetings, I never had the chance to do anything important. If Dad changed his mind, then things were going to be different.

I ricocheted into my bedroom, tossing the nutcracker on my desk, and ruffled through the closet for my nice formal suits. I only owned one formal jacket that wouldn’t be a torture instrument in Rinali summer heat, but my good summer blouse was crumpled in a ball under my bed somewhere. I’d have to wear the green one I stole from Hope, even though it didn’t fit me right, my shoulders were too wide. I was in such a hurry to get my nice breeches onto my body that I put them on backwards three times in a row.

I ran for the door, then hesitated. Something was missing. I pulled my day breeches out of the growing laundry pile and dumped out the pockets. A few handfuls of sparkly rocks and acorns tumbled out, alongside the jewelry box. I grabbed the sparkliest quartz cluster and an acorn for luck, then poured them into my formal pants pockets, followed by the box—screw Brennadine’s rules—and a twisted length of twine. You never knew when string would come in handy. Empty pockets unnerved me.

Jewelry! Jewelry was a thing people wore at formal occasions. I bounced on my toes, thinking through the contents of my normal jewelry box, then snatched up a few gold sparkly things and jammed them in my other pocket. I’d deal with that on the ship, it was a couple hours’ ride to Eth Zantaara anyway.

By the time I made it back downstairs, armed with a little moleskin notebook and as much information about the other royals as I could remember, Brennadine and my sister were already waiting at the stairwell. I could practically see the hourglasses running down in Brennadine’s eyes.

“You forgot your circlet,” Hope said immediately. “And you’re late.”

“I know,” I said. I fumbled through my pockets, praying that the little gold circle of chain had been in the fistful of stuff I brought. It was, and I detangled it as best I could from a few necklaces before pulling it unevenly over my forehead. Hope rolled her eyes. I pulled my bangs out from under the band, hoping it’d make my head look less like an egg.

“Brennadine said you knocked over an entire bookshelf.”

“Nobody told me I was coming,” I said. “I’ve been busy, I was trying to—”

“Your bangs are a mess. Is that my shirt?” She walked over and fiddled with my hair as I protested weakly, the smell of her fancy imported perfume crashing into my nose like salt water. As always, Hope looked perfect, her platinum-blonde hair done up in some intricate braided bun and her eyes outlined neatly in charcoal. She could’ve been in a painting or something.

“It looks better on me,” I said.

“Absolutely not!”

“I think you’re jealous, green’s definitely my color. You’re a pathetic imitator in comparison.” I flicked one of my braids dramatically. Hope grabbed it and flicked it back into my face.

“I want that blouse back when we get home.”

“Boo hoo.”

“Boo hoo,” Hope mocked. “You look like you’ve been pulled sideways on the rack, I swear you’ll rip all the seams.”

“Well, you look like a taxidermied wildcat.”

“Let’s go, girls,” Brennadine said, sweeping down the hall towards the skyship dock. Hope scanned the rest of my outfit in appraisal mode, and I braced for impact.

“Please tell me you don’t have rocks in your pockets on the way to the Convention of Tribes,” she said.

“Throw the rocks away, Sayara,” Brennadine said absently. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I do not have rocks in my pockets,” I said, shuffling my pants so neither of them could see the rocks in my pockets. “You’re always accusing me of things.”

Hope didn’t reply. Hope raised magic, the stupid cheating cheater, and levitated my entire pocket inside out.

“Hey!” I snatched for my stuff, but Hope was faster.

“What is this, did you steal this from the tailor?” Hope asked, levitating my coil of twine into her hand. She made a face. “Or did it come from a shipwright?”

“Give it back!”

“You can’t bring string to the Convention of Tribes!”

“Why not? It was going to stay in my pocket, it could be useful,” I said. Hope rolled her eyes, and I made another grab for my things. This time I managed to catch most of my rocks, plus the jewelry box. I crammed it all back into my pocket. Brennadine gave her the evil eye as we boarded the royal yacht, and only then did Hope finally return my twine.

Hope never liked me. We got along all right, most of the time, and passed the rest off as normal sibling rivalry, but there’s more than that—the tension between us has been making things difficult ever since I came to the palace, back when I was so little I barely remembered anything. Hope and I are only half-sisters. I don’t know who my mom was, and if Dad does, he’s never said. He legitimized me as a member of the Tsi royal family a couple years ago, but the law couldn’t make Hope tolerate me.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Hope saw me as a threat. That was her business and all if it was true, I’d long since learned not to care, but I wished she could be a little more subtle sometimes.

Brennadine was talking about politics now. Hope nodded along, commenting on every single line with her perfect talking points, which she somehow managed to produce even though she didn’t know what she was talking about. I left her to it—she liked to act like I was stupid, so that could be her problem. Oh, Sayara, you’re never paying attention. Blatant lies. I just paid attention selectively. Involuntarily selectively. Whatever.

This year’s Convention of Tribes was a stand-out for a few reasons, mostly involving the Irkatzi, our southern neighbor tribe. Out of Feilan’s twelve formally-recognized principalities, the Irkatzi were the most persistently outspoken. They were notorious for picking big melodramatic fights with the ruling del Aphir family, which would eventually be resolved with some tax shifts and truces, and then ten years later they’d be back to the same old song. Dad alternated between griping about them and calling them great entertainment.

“Excellent, you’re all here!” The door to the ship’s cabin swung open, and Hope’s eyes lit up.

“Dad! I was wondering when you’d arrive, I thought that with Sayara’s delay you would have beaten us to the ship!” Hope curtsied, perfectly as always, and then ran forward to hug our father. He hugged back with his fair share of amusement. I waved awkwardly.

Tsi King Doriel wasn’t the kind of man most people would picture when they thought of a king. He was on the shorter side, with worn-looking hands and a very square chin and light hair that always needed a trim. He was built stocky, more like me than Hope, and he dressed plainly. The heavy sapphire-studded crown on his head was the only real evidence of his rank, along with the fine make of his clothing.

“My preliminary meeting with the Council ran late,” he said by way of apology, grimacing. “Governor Heiden is still pushing that bank bill. He seemed delighted with the idea of humiliating me at the Convention by holding me late—remind me to say something to his constituents about that. Maybe they’ll solve the problem for me.”

“We’ve been discussing the issues on the table. Hope is very prepared, though Sayara is quite scatter-brained today,” Brennadine said. I bit back a protest.

“I’m so sorry for the late notice,” Dad said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be ready for an event like this, but Brennadine said you’ve done well in your tutoring, so I changed my mind.”

“She did?” I blinked. “Wait, why wouldn’t I be ready?”

“We must remember what happened when you last sat in on a Council meeting,” Brennadine pointed out. I wilted a little.

“It was just that one time! It got really loud, and people were yelling...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad said quickly. “I think you’ll be just fine.” The little part of me that was dying inside perked up again.

“Good!”

“I notice you’ve made excellent marks in your tutoring. Brennadine tells me you’re quite skilled with history.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“If only you could transfer some of that passion into your other subjects,” Brennadine muttered.

“You’re familiar with the issues on the table at this Convention, correct?” Dad asked as the yacht took off.

“Yeah!”

“What does the Queen want?”

“The Queen hasn’t requested anything personally, but her advisors are pressuring us to cut grounded roads through the Deeps to access the coast,” I said. “It’s part of an infrastructure plan. They want safe landed highways through Tsi, Javrier, and Irkatzi territories, and they want them policed and open. They also want free access to the River Safir for Rinali merchants.”

“And our stance on this is?”

“They’re idiots who’ve never been in the woods before, and they should stick to our skyways unless they’re willing to pay for the roads themselves.” Dad grimaced.

“In court language?”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Land highways are expensive and difficult to maintain, we have better priorities for our budget than trade routes our natives won’t use, and it’s more efficient to use the sky roads because they’re naturally protected from the Deeps’ wildlife and already well-kept. The Rinali won’t pay for highways to be installed and policed, they expect that to come from our internal budget, and we don’t have the funds. I know how to talk fancy.”

“I wish you’d do so more often,” Brennadine said.

“Moving on,” Dad said. “What are the Irkatzi upset about this time?”

“This time,” I echoed, snickering. Dad cleared his throat. “Right. Um... the Rinali court upset them somehow, right? I know last year they were upset about tariffs, but we sided with them so it was okay. This year I want to say it’s about currency...yeah, some groups in the south of the territory are printing their own Irkatzi currency and the Crown Princess hasn’t stopped them yet.”

“There’s also the issue of the Rinali court itself.”

“Oh, right, right.”

“Rumor has it that Crown Princess Lilac intends to address the Queen directly about it,” Dad said. “That should be interesting.”

“Really?” Hope asked.

“She seems very angry. If nothing else, she’d certainly like an opportunity to complain in public and knock the Advisors away from their station. She’s loathed Lord fa Viandre since we were teenagers, and her comments were very... specific, this time around.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I would ever gossip about my fellow nobility.”

“Oh dear,” Hope said.

“Is that allowed?”

“What, my peer sending angry letters to me about the national government? She’s a Ravenhart, I don’t think anyone has the nerve to stop her. She lives up to the family reputation far more than Wisteria before her,” Dad said. “The more established noble families can get away with much more than we ever could.”

I drifted away from the conversation as Hope peppered Dad with more questions about the Irkatzi drama, pressing my face against the nearest porthole window and watching the land fly by beneath us.

We were out of Tsi territory by now, the heavy woods I was raised in giving way to open farmland, orchards, and low glades of trees. The Rinali heartland was rich and fertile, more so than almost anywhere else on the continent, but things didn’t grow as big here as they did back home. The tops of the trees petered out hundreds of feet below our ship, stunted to what everyone else insisted was normal size by the lack of aurza. Most of them barely reached twice the height of the grounded farmhouses scattered here and there.

The current capitol of Feilan, Eth Zantaara, was named for the huge and anomalous mountain the Queen’s castle sat upon. It was a recent creation, from only about ten years ago, so the city surrounding it was small and in various states of construction. Big noble mansions peppered the mountainside, sporting colorful flags and banners, and a chaotic cluster of homes and businesses crept out of the plains towards the mountain’s base. You could sort of see where the Queen’s architects had tried to enforce grid structure, but everything had been built so fast and aggressively that it hadn’t stuck in the slightest. Wide cobblestone roads led out of the area in a few different directions, fading off into the farmland still surrounding the city.

“You should have seen Lanorium back in the day,” Brennadine sighed, peering out her own window. “It puts this place to shame.”

“Hold on... Is that a tent?” Dad asked.

#taz talks #feilan #feilan excerpt #progress update #fantasy #writeblr #the ending to this chapter is a bit awkward #I might move it up a line and start chapter 2 with the 'is that a tent' comment #but i like my hook sentences too much #those who read the last version will note that this one is about the same length but ends at an earlier point in the story #this is because i had to add a lot of stuff to accommodate my new changes to the plot #aka the jewelry box which was not a factor last time #we got all kinds of interesting information up in here #i hope it's not too much #feilan's worldbuilding is pretty intense but there's a lot of stuff that i need to establish early in order for the plot to work

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blakeseptember · 6 years

Text

The Seamstress, Part One

“Morning, Rachel,” a low voice boomed from the doorway. The young woman raised her head, an auburn curl falling from her headband and resting in front of her eye. She didn’t bother to brush it away.

He was wearing a tight, sunflower yellow jumpsuit, that hugged his bulky frame and darkened around the edges of each muscle, creating a defined effect. Fire truck red boots, skin tight gloves, a belt and mask accentuated and brightened the yellow, drawing the her towards the man from the second he entered the room. She felt a familiar twinge of pride as she took in the suit— even if it was scuffed and dirtied from use.

“Back so soon, Rueben?” she teased, and the man glanced around uncomfortably.

“Don’t call me that while I’m in costume. We’ve been over this,” he reminded her, closing the door to her shop behind him. “Is anyone else here?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, dropping her piece of chalk to the ground. “I cancelled the appointment I was mean to have now for you, given how urgent you made this sound.”

He paused. “I would’ve come later, if you’d told me,” he replied sheepishly, slotting his broad frame into a small chair.

“I have clients all day long, Gale,” she smiled, applying friendly emphasis to his alias. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Besides, she was only coming in for a check up, and she didn’t mind moving it to tomorrow.”

“A check up?” He frowned. His honey coloured eyes narrowed. “For what?”

The seamstress moved to her racks of fabric, running her fingers along the soft material and pushing rolls further in where they seemed to be slipping. She worked diligently, her thin eyebrows knitted together and her hands as deft and quick as a bird of prey. “Well, most of my clients don’t destroy their costumes weekly, like you, Reuben. So they come in every now and then, so I can make sure it’s still safe for them. It’s a hazardous line of work, we all know that.”

“Indeed it is. You do good work, keeping people like me safe.”

“I know!” she beamed, her eyes glittering, like pools of starlight were trapped behind them. “None of my clients have died, yet, and I want to keep it that way. I’m being hailed the best seamstress on the continent, right now. It’s exhausting working on so many costumes at once, but the satisfaction of finishing is worth the hardship.”

“You get a lot heroes coming to you for costumes, then?” He asked, his own issue pushed to the side. He shifted his vermillion mask, the charred edge scratching his skin.

“Tons,” she confirmed, setting a spool of thread into her sewing machine with practiced ease. “Villains, too.”

At this, he stiffened. “You work for villains, Rachel?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Why wouldn’t I? They come to me looking for costumes, and I supply them. They’re almost always willing to pay large sums of money, and they’ve been surprisingly civil.”

“Villains, civil?” He laughed, slapping his thighs with meaty hands. “That’s quite the oxymoron.”

She chuckled half heartedly, waving a flippant hand at her machine. It whirred to life, forming rows of perfect stitches without her supervision, turning the onyx black fabric to follow the chalk markings and the lines of pins.

“That’s what you think,” she said lightly, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite him. “Now. What was your emergency, anyway? You sounded very frantic on the phone.”

He lifted his muscled arm, revealing an ugly gash down the side of the yellow fabric, that started right at his armpit, and ended at the crimson utility belt that rested around his hips. The fabric was puckered and charred, the edges stained black with soot. She pursed her lips, scrunching up her nose.

“That doesn’t look good,” she commented, opting to state the obvious. “Firestorm’s work, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the only one.”

He twisted his ankle to show an identical one on his inner calf, and another across the back of his thigh, and she knelt to examine them closer.

“It’s a good thing I put in that protective layer last time,” she commented. “This is going to need to be replaced, though. I can’t salvage the corrupted material, and even if I did repair it, the places those cuts are would be completely defenseless.”

“Do you think you can have it ready for tomorrow?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I have patrol with some of the big names from my agency, and I can’t be looking shabby.”

She squinted. “With this colour scheme? No. I’m all out of the red, and I only have a scrap of that yellow left. If you would let me change the colours so that they fit your anomaly better, then it would be possible. You have a snowstorm at your fingertips, but you insist on the red and yellow of a fire hero. Remind me why, again?”

“I wanted to stand out,” he replied sheepishly. “Everyone else I know with similar powers went with the stereotypical white and blue, but I wanted to be confusing. To make people think that maybe I had a fire anomaly, so I could catch them off guard.”

“Did that work?”

He shook his head, a sharp red flooding his cheeks. “Once or twice. But people copped on.”

“Then let me change it,” she said decisively, eyeing the tear at the side of his suit. “I know you, and I know your style, so let me make your new suit in those colder colours. They’ll help you camouflage better, anyway, and I can keep a hint of your old style with some embroidery, if you’d like.”

“That would be great, Rachel. You’re really a life saver, you know that?” He gushed, a smile gracing his face. “Can I bring the money and pick it up tomorrow?”

“Oh, about the money,” she added, wincing. “I have several other things I’m doing that I’m going to have to postpone in order to finish yours, so I’m going to need to ask you for double what you’d usually pay. And it’s such short notice, you see.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “I’ll see you nine am?”

“See you then, Gale,” she called back, but he was already out the door.

The copper bell rang jovially as the door slammed shut, and she collapsed back into her chair, small waves of her tired hands swapping a pearl white fabric onto the sewing machine in the place of the completed black jumpsuit, which fell into her lap. She threaded a thick embroidery needle with a metallic, silver thread, and began hand stitching curls and whorls into the suit.

“This had better be worth the time it took,” she grumbled, her eyes sagging. “I hope that excessive pay comes on time tomorrow.”

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marjiandco · 6 years

Text

Raiku slides to a halt, scuffing his new boots against dirt and mud. Sweat falls into his eyes as he chokes out something between a cough and a gasp. He lowers his drawn bow a fraction. How did they not see an attack coming, let alone by such a large force?

He narrows his eyes against the dark haze of dust and smoke, catching black metal men chasing after their woefully unprepared resistance forces. Hope the others will catch up with me soon, Raiku thinks. His heart, already beating so hard against his ribs jumps into his throat at the sight before him. He can’t wait; Y’shtola lay flat on the ground as a garlean in heavy armor points his longsword at Lyse.Must be their Viceroy...gods he’s tall for a hyur. Raiku exhales slowly; at least has the element of surprise. There’s a familiar reedy snap in his ears as his arrow flies true.

It doesn’t hit. Raiku blinks, and blinks again. How…? The Viceroy manages to twist his wrist and cut the arrow in twain near the hilt of his sword. His eyes widen as a flash of doubt crushes his abdomen. I can’t do this. He faces dangers everyday with Marji at his side,but he has not seen her since Ilbard’s fall. The Viceroy in front of him turns in the slow nature of a predator. An overwhelming feeling of loneliness washes over Raiku, the beginning of fear bubbling in his stomach. He shakes his head and takes another arrow from his quiver and pulls back on the bowstring. The garlean’s grotesque mask stares down at Raiku, the edge of his sword low enough to graze the ground. Even from far away Raiku hears the distinct rasping of metal fingers tightening its grip.

Raiku sucks in until his lungs hurt and shouts “I am the warrior of light.”

A deep, hollow voice rumbles beneath the mask. “You are not worthy of me.”

The viceroy’s voice rattles in Raiku’s mind as a bead of sweat drips from his chin. Why am I mimicking her? An image of his friend pops up before him. A woman immovable from the battlefield and willing to fight like a wild animal against her enemies. He used to think he could do the same but watching the man before him makes him realizes what it’s like to see Marji from the other side.

“Release them and leave this place!” I can’t be next in line as champion what in seven hells am I doing?

He waits for a response from the garlean, but he does nothing. Fires from the war tents drift nearby, and for a moment Castrum Preatorium flashes in his mind. Raiku grits his teeth and curses to himself. He feels the string grow taut in his hand and aims at the garleans neck. Another to his elbows, his ankles. Anywhere that was vulnerable yet each time the viceroy avoids his arrows or worse cuts them away.

The man takes a step towards Raiku. Raiku bounces on his toes, his quiver tapping against his shoulder blades. The viceroy pulls his hilt near his head and crouches. Raiku freezes as his heart sinks. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. He knows It doesn’t matter what his opponent is going to do; it will be overwhelming. He needs help. Oh gods please be here soon. The smooth wood of his bow runs against his callused fingertips as it falls to the ground. The Viceroy leans back. Raiku drags his hand to his ear, feeling for his linkpearl. Rough metal gives way to a small plasticine button. He presses down.

Click!

The viceroy pushes off.

Click!

The Garlean closes the distance by half.

Click!

It’s their channel. Perhaps she’ll listen this time. The viceroy towers above him and swings his blade.

“Marji-” is all Raiku manages to say.

********************************************************************************

Not far away, just beyond a jagged outcropping of hills a blue and white dog was sprinting towards Rhalgr’s reach. On its back, a grey miqo’te lets out low whistles to urge her war dog onwards towards the explosions and sounds of battle. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her wooden mask, careful to make sure the horns don’t knick her ears as she puts it on.

“Hurry Mavi!” She shouts.

She must be far from her families encampment by now, but Azeyma knows she can’t just hide when the scions are in trouble. She feels it in her bones thanks to the echo. She spits on a rusting magitek aircraft as they pass it by. Her father will be furious when he wakes, but her brother Ooji’a will let him know. Hopefully he’ll let him know. They round a corner and her war dogs yelps. Pandemonium stretches out before them; fires, tents boiling to ash, people running to and from battle. She jumps off her dog, giving her a quick pat on the back as Mavi whimper-barks.

“It’s okay girl.”

She unhooks her book from its holdster at her side, grabbing a well worn green tag and summons her Garuda-egi. Her dog points her nose towards it, rigid but otherwise does not move. The egi cackles and Marji feels a familiar sense of malicious contentment from it. She has long since been used to the things chaotic nature, and keeps hold on the mental tether between them with ease. Marji climbs back onto her dogs back, curling her fingers into her dogs fur and relaxes at the rumble beneath.

“Okay let’s-”

“Marji”

Her blood turns to ice and a wave of nausea rolls over her. Her vision blurs and feels herself slipping off her mount but she clings onto consciousness. Her vision mixes in with a memory of a small red haired lalafell being viciously kicked several yalms away, smashing into a pair of dilapidated pillars behind him. His breath is knocked from his lungs and he struggles to his feet. His bow is far from him now, but a brute of a man in garlean armor marches for him. The lalafell takes an arrow from his quiver and cracks it over his knee, tossing the feathered end aside as he pushes himself to his feet. He waits until the Garlean is close and dives beneath the sword and ducks behind the pillars. The garlean says nothing and with untold strength cuts the pillar in half. The lalafell has no time to scream. He flings himself to the left of the rubble, slamming headlong into an armored fist. A sickening crunch from his nose fills in Marji’s head as the force sends him off his feet towards a stream.

Marji’s vision clears. She bares her fangs as a high, clear war cry barrels through her lips. Her hound howls in return and sprints into the foray.

*******************************************************************

Raiku rolled to a stop on his stomach, hoping to pass out. A single moment of rest for twelve’s sake. One of his eyes has swollen shut. He felt something broken and stabbing in his chest. Air snakes into his lungs in haggard gasps as he felt his throat thick with blood and bile. He hacks out red spit that dribbles from his bottom lip. Funny, he thought it’d be more noble to have himself torn up, like in his stories. Instead it's just an endless string of snot and blood. He drags his hand underneath his body and pushes himself up onto his knees and coughs again, causing agony to rack his body with each breath. His bow lay far from him and his arrowhead in the pile of rubble he narrowly avoided being under. He just has to last until help comes. Right? He wraps an arm around his abdomen.

He sees the Viceroy’s shadow before he heard him. Eyes wide and unmoving, he watches the shadow lift its sword high overhead. He was going to skewer Raiku like a pig at roast. Raiku musters all his strength and tosses himself out of the way of the attack landing painfully on his side.

“You just can’t seem to stay still.” The viceroy sounds almost bored.

Raiku looks back at the man in wonder. Not a scratch on him? In the middle of a battlefield? Raiku has to get away. To flee. He tries to get up and yells in pain. He twisted his ankle, he can’t. His eyelids flutter. He crawls on hands and knees towards the water, sluggishly thinking he could swim away. He didn’t make it two ilms before a metal hand latches onto his back leg and drags him back. Raiku digs his nails into the dirt and let out a hoarse cry before he’s flipped onto his back.

“Pathetic.”

The Viceroy let go of Raiku’s leg and picked up his boot and stamps down on Raiku’s belly. Raiku scratches and claws at his boot like a rodent caught in the talons of an eagle. The garlean once again raises his sword high above his head and Raiku watches in horror. The viceroy swings down and Raiku closes his good eye.The sword does not penetrate him. In fact, the man’s weight was damned near lifted from his body. He drinks in air as a green blur shoots past him. He raises his neck to look, and saw the blurry outline of a black and white haired miqo’te in blue armor.

“‘Bout time you showed up.” He says, letting his head fall to the ground.

********************************************************************************

Marji crouches in front of Raiku, nails digging into her book and eyes glowing bahamut’s blue. She gives Mavi the vocalization for protect, pointing at Raiku. Her hackles raise and he bends her head low over the beaten lalafell, teeth gnashing. Marji takes a few steps to the side, hoping to draw the Garlean’s attention away from them. Behind her she hears her father’s dog dig its nails into the dirt and the familiar tinkling sound of healing magicks. Her brother decided to tell him after all.

The viceroy chuckles, cracking his neck. “Your friends were a disappointment, but you? I think you’ll entertain me.”

Her skin crawls at the artificial honeyed voice of her opponent. “Leave this place.” She snarls.

They fight, and Marji has seen plenty of fights. Big and small, her and her opponents would dance until she find herself standing over them, but this time? The Viceroy has this cold veracity she’s scarce encountered She has to continually keep on her toes, jumping back and forth to avoid his swings of his sword. Her attacks did little, if she even has time to charge them at all. She flees as far as she can while keeping the Garlean’s attention; just far enough to meditate and call forth the rage of her bahamut’s trance. Easy, when your closest friend lay bleeding because of you. She bellows out an unnatural roar, her back bending far enough to near snap her spine before coming back upright. She’s floating, her toes skimming the ground as she unleashed her most powerful spell: deathflare.

A blinding wave of blue light erupts around the garlean, burning the ground beneath his feet. She keeps hold of it as long as she dare strain her aether. As the plume of light turns to smoke she falls to her knees panting. She looks up in horror as he steps out of the superheated aether as if it was merely wind around him. His armor isn’t even singed. She pulls at the mind-tether between her and garuda and has her use an enkindling spell, jumping back to her feet to call and instruction but the viceroy cuts her summon down, turns his head, and rushes at her with unnatural speed. Marji twists herself in an attempt to jump out of the way.

“Pity you could not have stayed around longer, Champion of savages.” He whispers into her ear, cutting his sword across her arm and back.

A blinding white light burst behind her as his sword made contact. She’s thrown 20 yalms away and lands wrist first into a crumpled heap. Her back burns from lacerations, but otherwise she’s alive. Zenos froze in his final position as the tip of his sword fell into the mud beneath him. He stares at it for a moment as Marji staggers back to her feet and slips back down, bracing her elbow against her knee.

Zenos looks down at his hilt and let’s the sword fall from his hand.

“Pathetic.” He spat once more.

Without looking at her, he leaves the area, calling a blonde haired soldier to follow. The resistance fighters froze, unable to will themselves to chase after the Garleans. If their Warrior of Light can’t hurt him, who else can? Marji clumsily lifts herself to her feet, pushing past Raubahn’s inane questions to check on her lalafellin friend.

She gives a low whistle and points behind her for Mavi to leave Raiku’s side. He was still unconscious.

“Is he going-”

“Yeah but he’ll need more than me to sort him out.” Ooji’a says.

J’baro rushes to her and pulls her into a one armed hug, keeping her from falling onto her friend. “Then bring him into the infirmary!” She commands.

#marji writes #raiku #marji #stormblood #stormblood spoilers #since im too low level to do patch 4.3 stuff #I wrote up some of my canon for the beginning fight #also #no one cares but #im always nervous about writing angsty stuff or fights #i mean #i love doing stuff like this #so im gonna do it #it just probably sounds so melodramatic #haha

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