#I have a flimsy plan of how to move forwards regarding how I feel in terms of myself and my friendships | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1tad0ri · 4 years

Note

hiii. can i request a rough nsfw with sukuna where he's so frustrated with jujutsu sorcerers that he decided to unleash those said frustrations on the reader? like he just won't stop until he release all the stress inside him— kshjsch i feel like sukuna would do that 😳 he'll be rough all night long

warning: degradation, choking, breath play, very mild pain kink, hate fucking

ryoumen sukuna x fem!reader

i feel the same way so thank you, i’m going to be thinking about this for a long time

“you know, i really thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

the grip he had on your neck was bruising, but certainly a lot looser than you thought the king of curses would be. your hands clawed at him nonetheless, although the whole current concept of being shoved against the wall of your bedroom wasn’t exactly something you were complaining about.

the three impatient raps at your door earlier had you rolling out of bed, wanting to sleep after your latest mission. you’d thought it was yuuji, hungry for your warmth, but when you unlocked the door, rubbing your eyes and stifling a yawn, you’d been unceremoniously shoved backwards, the wind knocked out of you when your back met the wall. the glint of tattoos on a familiar face in the moonlight coming from your window told you all you needed to know.

sukuna watched you curiously and then his sickening grin was back, fingers squeezing a little harder. you gasped, stretching your neck away. “what? not going to answer?” he sneered, “maybe you all really are the same. scared little fucking sorcerers.” he leaned closer, breath fanning across your face. “isn’t that fucking stupid? you’re all a bunch of scaredy cats, aren’t you?” he pouted mockingly when he spat out the name. his lips were so close, if you just tilted forward—

no. whatever morbid fascination you harbored towards him didn’t change the fact he was... well... him. you stood your ground, leaning forward to bump your nose against his, your own scowl evident. “you can’t do anything, sukuna. once we find all the—”

“all my fingers you mean? the ones you can’t destroy on your own so you have to come up with some little plan to get rid of me?” he laughed bitterly in your face and you bit your lip, trying to calm your fury before you did something you’d regret. “it’s all the same. you’re scared of me. you don’t have the upperhand. never will,” he whispered at the end.

“i’m not scared of you.” your thoughts tumbled out of your mouth plainly without a second of hesitation, but the tilt of his head in question, his forehead brushing against yours, made you think that perhaps telling the truth around him was a very bad idea.

it was dark, hard to see his face, but god he was so close. “yeah? what are you then?”

good question. wait, no, bad question. bad, very bad, because you already knew the answer to it. or... did you? vocal chords at a stand still, there was no way to verbalize what you felt.

“hurry up, brat.” sukuna tightened his grip on your neck before loosening it just the smallest bit so you could speak. “i don’t have all day. how do you feel then? you with your little human emotions.”

words... what are the words. it turns out staring down a literal demon king in the eyes wasn’t the optimal place to think. “i... i don’t know.” your voice was small, unsure, lying.

the staring contest, backed by deafening silence, continued for a mere beat longer as you regarded each other with quiet contemplation. you could just barely make out his eyes and the curve of his lips, parted slightly. his breath was warm.

you couldn’t take it anymore and it seemed like he couldn’t either—you both automatically tilted your heads, lips pressing against each other easily, eyes falling shut. mouths sliding against the other, he gently pushed your head back to hit the wall, tongues running over one another. it was slow, hot, and you decided you should probably thank yuuji for keeping his lips so soft.

sukuna sucked your bottom lip between his own and your hands fell away from his grip on your neck to pull him closer by the front of his shirt (he hadn’t ripped it apart yet, an impressive feat). his leg slipped between your own, and you pushed down on it with your hips, the friction making you open your mouth further to him, something enticing about the fact he was a very good kisser.

but then it was like a switch flipped and his hold on your neck tightened once again. “what... what am i doing,” you thought he mumbled, voice hoarse (then again, your brain wasn’t exactly listening when you were busy making out with someone like him), kiss faltering for a brief moment. his lips curled into a frown, disdainful.

shoving you further into the wall as he pushed against you with his mouth, sukuna was all sharp teeth and rough lips now, swallowing up your whimpers, nothing soothing about it like his previous actions.

“i fucking hate you,” he spat, his hand abandoned your neck and moved up to squish your cheeks together, finding satisfaction in the way your lips puckering out, barely able to move. “do you hear me? i hate all of you.”

“the feeling’s mutual,” you mumbled around his grip, hazy from the kiss but knowing what you stood for, fury evident in your eyes and furrowed brows. he was the enemy. and you were... you. and... and...

you were met with a bitter laugh, your stomach curling into knots at the sound. you hadn’t noticed his free hand tugging at your waistband until it was too late, his hand slipping in and wasting no time running two fingers harshly against your soaking folds. “why are you dripping wet then? a slut and a liar?”

“fuck off,” you mumbled again, a lot quieter this time, face burning hot from embarrassment.

“i’ll fuck off when you stop acting like you want to fuck me.”

his words made you straightened up. “i- i’m not—”

“you’re not acting? mmm,” sukuna let go of your cheeks just enough that he could properly kiss you, tongue forcing it’s way past your lips, “of course you’re not. of course.” he was mocking you and you couldn’t say anything.

a finger pushed into your heat and you bit down on his lip in surprise, although the pain only seemed to spur him on further, a second finger easily shoving its way in next to the first. curling, pushing, rubbing against that sensitive, spongy spot inside of you, sukuna’s fingers had your legs shaking, the knee he still had pressed between them the only thing keeping you up at this rate. the grip on your face as he hummed against your mouth prevented you from avoiding eye contact with him, lips wet as he disregarded any type of mess he was making.

he was everywhere at once and you felt trapped. hot—it was too hot, your body was burning.

“su- ku... n... a,” his name came out garbled between the onslaught of your face being squished together and the sloppy kisses he pressed into you at irregular intervals. when his thumb rubbed against your clit as the two fingers continued to pump in and out, you gripped his shirt so hard you were sure you would rip it this time. “too... mmm,” a kiss that was more tongue than lip cut you off and you weren’t even sure if he heard you as you choked out the next words, “mmm, hah— much, suku—”

at once he released you, almost letting you drop to the floor, but you were able to just barely steady yourself against the wall in time. sukuna stepped back and away from your shaking form. you were gasping, lungs burning.

“w...why did you—”

“i can listen you know.” you could practically feel his eye roll from his dripping tone, even if you weren’t looking at him. “‘too much.’” he laughed as he mocked you. “more like you’re too weak.”

you were thankful he actually seemed to have a brain, but still— “you’re an idiot.” fuck, your lungs hurt, the retort scraping against the walls of them. he was good. it had been a while since anyone had left your head spinning like that.

sukuna flicked a hand dismissively. “‘an idiot’ who’s giving you a chance to breathe, you brat.” he decided to ignore the name for now, thankfully for you (although you didn’t exactly see it that way).

you couldn’t choke out another snarky response and simply focused on clearing your head. he gave you a chance to think and once you seemed clear-minded, he wasted no further time.

“bed.”

you blinked, eyes bleary, peering up at him from where you bent over, trying to catch your breath. “w...what?”

“on the bed. now.” he shoved his hands into his pockets, watching you blankly as you regained your senses. “unless you want me to fuck you on the floor?”

“no...” god, what was with you? or rather... what was with him? the ache in your core answered your question, your cunt feeling so empty now—he hadn’t even bothered to let you cum and you already wanted his fingers stuffed back into you. he was irresistible—you felt stupid even having the thought.

sukuna’s eyes narrowed, close to shoving you to the ground to finish what he started but exercising restraint for your sake. you’d need it. “i’m being nice and giving you a chance to get comfortable on your stupid bed, you idiot. go. now.” he was getting tired of repeating himself.

the last few snarky words and your own desire for him actually had you moving this time, climbing up onto the bed a few steps away and settling uncertainly onto the covers. you went to look up for further instructions but he was already on you, both of you tumbling back onto the mattress as he practically shoved his tongue down your throat, hands pushing up and under your shirt to squeeze your tits.

“take this off.”

you automatically pulled at the hem of the flimsy t-shirt at his command, sukuna giving you just enough room to get it over your head, and then his teeth were on your exposed breasts, marking them up. your fingers threaded through his hair, his head moving under your touch as you watched his mouth work with half-lidded eyes.

you didn’t think you’d be able to change in front of anyone any time soon, already knowing the blossoming colors of bruises would be apparent the next morning. reminder to self: cancel your upcoming shopping trip with nobara; the dressing rooms with her would surely be a disaster if he kept this up.

“who’s are these?” his grip was rough when he cupped your breasts, squeezing.

you immediately knew the answer he was looking for, all too eager to hand it over. “yours. fuck, they’re all yours.” your hands ran through his hair, urging him to continue his onslaught on the previously unmarked skin.

sukuna laughed, thumbing your nipples, giving one of them a light lick that made you squirm. “you’re more obedient than i thought you’d be.” he pinched the buds, rolling them between his fingers as you squeezed your eyes closed, gasping at the pain. “but that’s enough of that.” your eyes snapped open, about to ask him what the fuck he meant by that, but he was already setting to work.

his fingers hooked around your sleeping bottoms and pulled them down with your underwear, the night air cold against your damp lips. you rubbed your thighs together but his hands on your knees forced them apart as he peered down at you. you felt so exposed under his hungry gaze, entirely bare for him to see while he was still dressed. unfair.

“wanna see. don’t close them,” was his short, clipped explanation as he kept your legs spread. one hand on your knee, sukuna brought the fingers of his other to run along your folds again just as he had done before, except this time he could actaully see how you quivered under him, cunt glistening and dripping. he slipped two fingers to run between the folds and then popped them in his mouth, sucking the slick from his fingers and maintaining eye contact with you the entire time. you couldn’t look away.

he hummed, content as he licked the last bit off of the tips. “you don’t taste bad for a slut.”

all the focus was on you, him criticizing everything little thing you did, and you were a mess because of it. not even a chance to run your hands over his chest? unacceptable. you pointedly ignored his comment, pining after some form of a reward instead. “at least take your shirt off. thought you hated those things.” the clothing ratio here was starting to grate on your nerves.

sukuna rolled his eyes but crossed his arms over his chest to grab ahold of the sides of his fitted t-shirt and tug it over his head. you watched, mouth watering at the sight—the moon provided excellent illumination for the scene, his body revealed inch by painstaking inch as he disposed of the fabric. god, he was so hot. you hated it.

muscles on display, sukuna raised an eyebrow at you as though he were asking, happy now? your silent reply came when you reached up to run your hands over the dips of his abs, his chest solid and tattoos curling over the surface.

“that’s better.” you made a show of your gaze tracing over the surface before looking up at him, smiling to yourself. “surprised you didn’t just rip it off.”

sukuna simply scoffed and swatted your hand away, moving from between your legs so he could work off his pants and kick them off to the side.

“knew you’d like to see me take it off properly,” he answered at last, back to you as he wiggled out of his boxers finally and chucked them off the foot of the bed. you didn’t get much time to admire his flexing back muscles before he was on you again, settling between your legs like he knew he belonged there (you weren’t sure you could argue with that point).

he pumped his cock, grabbing one of your legs and pushing it back. precum leaked from his tip, length already fully hard, and sukuna was enjoying your gaze on him maybe a little too much. leg shoved back and in the air, you whimpered when he rubbed the head along you. you didn’t need prep after being fucked by his fingers earlier you supposed and you weren’t sure you’d even be patient enough to sit through him stretching you out any further with anything but his dick.

you wanted to feel it yourself and so you reached a hand out to wrap around the base, captivated by how he watched you as you thumbed the slit, breathing heavy but not saying anything, letting you do what you wanted.

you wanted it in you so badly.

when he opened his mouth in question, eyes flitting up to yours, you were quick to cut him off, already knowing what he was going to ask. “yes, i’m sure.” you didn’t know curses could actually be compassionate, and it was cute when his jaw locked hard at your confirmation and he nodded, shifting his gaze back to your hand.

you released his cock and sukuna set back to lining it up with you, grip on your leg locking the limb in place. you shivered under his hold and he grunted when the head nudged your entrance, slowly pushing in.

“fuck. take it. take it all in. fucking slut.” he sunk fully in in one motion, the pace enough not to have you screaming out at the stretch but making your breath catch in your throat all the same. “yes, just like that. a good bitch, that’s what you are, aren’t you? look at you.”

you didn’t even know what to think at this point, a shaky resemblance to his name tumbling from you, more so a moan than actual talking. you could feel him everywhere—so full, so overwhelmingly full.

shoving your leg back further until it was almost painful, cock bottomed out in you, sukuna snapped his fingers in front of your face. “i asked you a question, brat. or are you already too fucked out of your mind to answer?”

you couldn’t breathe, head heavy, and tried to nod in confirmation as you struggled to puzzle through his words, but then you shook your head to answer no—god, you were confused. what was the right answer? what was happening?

maybe you really were already too fucked out of your mind. you vaguely recalled his words from earlier and were able to form a somewhat coherent response. “a good bitch... yes, i a- wait.” what were you saying? first you let him fuck you and now you’re openly submitting to him? the curse that had nearly cost you and your friends your lives countless times?

pride wouldn’t let you go along with his little game even as your dripping pussy told a different story. “i’m not anything to you.”

sukuna scoffed, hips grinding into you as he leaned over you, hooking both of your legs over his shoulders and pressing them back, close to your head. “and here i thought we were actually starting to get along.” a mirthless laugh left him, both of you eye-to-eye now where you lay.

fire burning in your eyes, you were very much reminded why you hated him so much. a self-obsessed asshole was what he was. “i’m not exactly looking to be friends with the king of curses, you idiot.”

“but look at you now. you wanted this.” he licked a stripe up the side of your neck, pausing at the base of your jaw to grin and press a sweet kiss to the area. you shivered and your hands found his shoulders to grip onto. he wasn’t wrong about the wanting it part—the amount of times you’d fantasized about exactly this was concerning. “i wonder what would happen if your little friends knew about how you really felt. what’s that term you like to use? ‘fraternizing with the enemy?’”

sukuna laughed again when your expression fell, face hot at the reminder of the others. “i suppose this is considered a bit more than mere fraternizing though, hm?” he continued, smiling and kissing your cheek.

whatever. no one would find out anyway. expect... expect maybe... yuuji—what had happened to him anyway for this to happen? knowing him, he’d probably been too tired after the last mission and sukuna had easily switched in—the same mission that seemed to have set sukuna even further along in his fury against jujutsu sorcerers this night.

you weren’t dating yuuji per say (it was... complicated), so your qualms when it came to fucking the curse possessing him were... minimal to say the least. you wouldn’t have done it if you were already taken, couldn’t have done that to yuuji, sweet as he was. but even in spite of all that, sukuna was right... this whole thing was so... no, don’t think about it.

you didn’t care either way (...maybe)—you couldn’t let his words get to you.

“just move already.”

you heard him grumble, annoyed, and he propped himself up to hover above your face. “i was giving you time to adjust. you’re so ungrateful.”

and with that, sukuna snapped his hips into yours without another moment of hesitation and you dug your nails into his back, mouth open in a silent scream because fuck.

“ungrateful fucking brat.”

“more,” your voice was hoarse, focus narrowing in only on the way he was fucking you.

you weren’t sure if it was your words or his own desire that spurred him on, but he set a bruising pace from the start, the places where your hips met hurting every time he rammed back into you. he was marking up your neck, the area already feeling sensitive and oh-so overabused, yet you not wanting to tell him to stop.

sukuna’s hand wrapped around your neck again, the feeling familiar now and you clenched around him at the sensation, him growling when you did so. the slight squeeze of his fingers had you seeing stars, the light-headed feeling going straight to your building arousal.

just like before, his hand traveled up to squeeze your cheeks and he was hovering over your mouth again, lips brushing against your own from the momentum of his thrusts. “let me kiss you again.” sukuna’s eyes were dark, unreadable.

you were quick to act at that, not letting him lean down, but rather craning your neck up to latch onto him, moaning as your mouth fell open for him to push his tongue in. his hand released your face to travel down to tweak at your nipples and grip your breasts again, other hand holding your leg steady against him. “filthy fucking slut.” he forced the words into your mouth, speaking around your lips that kept chasing after him. “fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

sukuna’s attention returned to your neck, leaving you to gasp into the air and missing his warmth against your face. when his thumb found your clit, your breath hitched and you knew you so close to coming undone. the rubbing of his cock against just the right spots inside of you, filling you so wholly was not helping.

“su...kuna, please, i’m gonna—” you were babbling, chest heavy when his teeth sank into your shoulder, stinging. his wet kiss on the area was cooling, the contrast making your head tilt further back, wanting to give him easy access to whatever he wanted.

“i’ve got you.” he was whispering against the wet skin, voice low with his pants, and you shivered, digging your nails into his back even more. “come on, brat, you want to cum for me, don’t you?” yes, you did. the stretch, his hands everywhere at once, his scraping lips—yes, you wanted to let everything go.

“fuck, fuck, fuck.” you let yourself come undone, heat filling your chest. everything was him—that’s all you knew in this state.

“look at you, creaming all over my cock. god, you’re so pretty. pretty little slut.” the words just kept flowing as he fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own release.

when he finally came, your hole was aching, abused, the sound of skin against skin the only thing you could focus on, mind cloudy. his cum was hot and filling when it spilled into you, your stomach doing summersualts at the feeling. his pace gradually began to slow, the sopping sound of him fucking his cum into you as he rode out his own high the only sound besides your ragged breaths. when he eventually stopped, he was leaning over you, sweaty foreheads pressed together, and he pushed one final bruising kiss to your lips that you gladly returned.

you were panting, chest rising and falling unevenly. “fuck, oh my god.” you reached up pull him back into another kiss, needing something to hold onto. it was an easy kiss, no thought going into its form, just knowing that lips were meant to be on each other and slotted together. his lips were so soft, and his fingers along your side were so soft, and his chest against yours was so soft and you were absolutely lost to everything.

sukuna finally pulled back to let you breath, knowing you were probably stupid enough to just keep pulling him in more and more and ignoring your lung capacity until the very last second unless he stopped you.

chests heaving, you stared at each other and he brought a thumb up to rub at your swollen lips. you flicked your tongue out to lick at the digit playfully and smiled. a laugh bubbled out of you and he returned the grin, his own deep chuckle vibrating through you where you were still pressed against each other.

it was laughing that you moved to push him to roll off of you. “oh my god, i can’t believe we just-” the hand that gripped your wrist, your own hands still planted on his chest, stopped you immediately. his smile had morphed back into one that was anything but sweet.

you were suddenly aware of the ache in your legs where they were still pressed over his shoulders and the dull throbbing of your pussy as it begged for a break, him still not having pulled out—the look on his face told you that you wouldn’t be getting a break from those sensations any time soon.

“who said we’re done?” his teeth glinted in the moonlight and god the line was so cliche and he must’ve known you’d hate it so much. what you hated even more was the throb in your core at his words despite all that. “wanted to cum in you at least once, but your tits-” he paused to squeeze one of them for emphasis, “are looking a little too clean.” body covered in sweat and marks all over your chest from his handiwork made you think clean wasn’t exactly the correct description, although you understood his sentiment.

surprise ridden expression falling away, you rose to meet his challenge, your own grin reflecting back. how would it feel when he came on your stomach, on your face, on your ass—anywhere and everywhere? would it be the same feeling as before when he’d spilled inside of you? (would you get to taste it?)

the thought was horrible, you knew, but the trickle of white out of your hole around his cock and dripping onto the sheets made you think maybe it was okay to be horrible for once.

“do your worst, king.”

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ohmightydevviepuu · 3 years

Text

for tonight you’re only here to know / part three

(artwork used with permission from carpedzem) part one | part two | part three AO3

A/N: no beta on this one. we die like real small creatures from alpha centauri.

Sometimes on the rarest nights Comes the vision calm and clear Gleaming with unearthly lights On our path of doubt and fear Winds from that far land are blown Whispering with secret breath Hope that plays a tune alone Love that conquers pain and death

We shall never find that lovely land of might-have-been I can never be your king, nor you can be my queen Days may pass and years may pass and seas may lie between We shall never find that lovely land of might-have-been

Ivor Novello

There is applause and it is thunderous as it echoes off the rafters and the walls and sneaks into the crevices between the bookshelves where every manner of humanity is squeezed in, side-by-side; he feels as if he can hear them all breathing, or trying to, hung on his every word even as he is reliving it. Every second.

There is a voice next to him, poking at the edges of his consciousness, and he remembers.

Who he is.

Where he is.

Here, and now.

He shifts in his chair and glances with only the barest hesitation at the device on the table in front of him that records his voice and transmits it even farther, to those who are not physically present. He directs his question at the woman seated next to him, pert eyes and short hair and a beaming smile.

“Apologies, love,” he says. “Can you repeat that last bit?”

“How does it end? Do the princess and the pirate--?”

“Oh, aye. They get their happily-ever-after. It’s a thrilling tale, to be sure.” He suits his tone to match his words but the truth, of course, was rather more gruesome. He shuts his eyes, an attempt to stave off the flood of memories that threatens to overtake him, replacing the brightness of the bookshop’s event stage with the bleakness and the blackness of the dungeon and how it felt to fall, to catch his breath--his breath, he was breathing. His view of her was magnificent, her hand outstretched in defiance, the purple glow of the squid ink he’d given her--pressed into her hand in a moment of desperation and trust and love--enveloping the Evil Queen and binding her, immobilizing her on the spot. Emma twirled--dancing--spun on sure feet the three steps between herself and the Queen and caught his heart in her hands before it hit the stone floor.

“Killian!” It was a scream and sometimes he hears it, still, in his nightmares.

He coughs, swallowing bile.

There is--as if by magic--a bottle of water being pushed at him and he braces it against his left wrist, bringing into view the black glove he wears on his left hand as he twists off the cap and sips greedily, wishing it was possible to wash away the taste of a memory. The Dark One’s laughter as he smiled, as his teeth glittered and he straightened, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket and blowing gently across the page as the words disappeared and re-formed in the air and settled on the bars, causing them to vanish. As if the bars were nothing more than an illusion, a trick, a plan. The creature lifted a single finger--in warning, in disappointment--pointed it at the Queen as he spoke. “You should have come to me for help when the Curse failed,” he whispered. It was conversational and chilling and the Queen her mouth to speak but said nothing, moved not a single muscle as she was bundled into the Dark One’s cell and the bars replaced, as solid as they ever had been. “You should have listened when I taught you the proper casting of it. And what have you to show for it, Your Majesty, after all of these years? Nothing.” The creature sighed. “Whereas I have a deal to conclude with this lovely young woman. Emma.”

The way he said the name was a caress and it was Emma’s turn to shiver, blinking as her palm turned up--the hand not holding Hook’s heart--and her knife pointed at the Dark One.

“Put that away, dearie,” the creature said. “I have other weapons I prefer. And you have something I need. And as soon as we are done--”

The plastic crinkles in the tightening grip of his fingers; sometimes the sound it makes still surprises him, soft and loud at the same time.

The water spills and the woman jumps.

“I’m quite all right,” he assures her, and she does not know enough to know he is lying.

She giggles, gives a grin that flashes the whitest and most perfect set of teeth he’s ever seen.

“So the princess, does she give Hook his heart back?”

He pulls at the chains around his neck as if it is a reflex, and maybe it is--maybe every time he feels the weight on it he thinks of nothing but her fingers and the way she smiled when she tangled her hand in the chains and pulled him upright, golden hair and glittering eyes as she smiled at him, the rush of success and victory coursing through her though he could not feel it.

“That would be telling,” he says, raising a single eyebrow and plastering on another smile as a wave of laughter rumbles through the audience.

(Her sad smile and the nervous way she said, “I’ve never done this before.”)

(“Held my heart in your hands?” Hook’s hand on her wrist, the warmth and the energy there. (“You’ve had it for longer than you realize, love. It is--and always will be--yours.”)

“We’ll just have to read and find out,” she laughs, gesturing at the bound book stood up for display on the flimsy table.

The Land of Might-Have-Been.

By Killian Jones.

“So, Killian.” Her eyes flutter. “Tell us more about your main character. Hook. Where did you get your inspiration?”

He smiles, his hand rubs at the back of his neck before he leans forward, anchoring his elbow on the table and settling his hand under his chin. “In some ways I think of him as the man I used to be,” he says. “The man I would have been, if I had not found my way to a change.”

He put his life on the line for two things: Love and revenge.

Captain Hook had been forged in the fires of the former.

Killian Jones had been set free by another kind of flame.

“I had a brother once. And a first love.” He rubs unconsciously at his right wrist, though the thick fabric of his shirt more than covers the tattoo there--more than covers all of them, the details of his life inked into his arm like a sleeve, that told the story as easily as the book did and in fewer words. “I was hurting, and chasing after anything that might help me to overcome that pain, to regain control.” The octopus curling around his shoulder and down the side of his torso; the roped sailor’s knots; the tangled thorns of the vines digging into his bicep, dripping black venom. “I realized that I could be a better man. That I wanted to be, and what I needed was to try something new.”

The Dark One’s voice was silk and oil, smooth and greasy. “--as soon as we are done, Regina, you are going to give me Belle. You are going to tell me what you’ve done with her. I will flay you while you speak, perhaps, or--”

“Rumplestiltskin.” It was the first time Hook had spoken the man’s name in decades.

Names had Power.

Such as the power of distraction; Hook struck as the creature turned, blocking Emma’s whitening face from his view as he stepped in between them and grasped the creature’s wrist with his hook, wrapping his hand around the other. Wrapping his hand and the object he concealed there--for while Hook may have been fatally unprepared for his first encounter with the Dark One, he’d vowed never to be without recourse again.

The creature screamed as the cuff closed around his wrist and Hook said, “Surely you did not think I only traveled to Neverland in my quest for your demise? Cora sends her regards, crocodile.”

The Queen’s gasp was audible--as well it might be, for she had banished her mother to Wonderland almost thirty years ago--and Emma’s face was blank, a cipher, as the creature whirled back to face her, clutching his wrist as if his hand had been sliced off, and pleaded. “Missy. Missy…”

Hook stepped in between them, blocking the princess from the Dark One’s sight. “You want to make a deal, Dark One? Then you’re going to deal with me. That cuff will block your ability to access your magic unless or until I decide to remove it, and not a minute sooner.” He turned to Emma. “Promise me, Swan, that you will see to it that Ariel truly got away safely, back to her prince and to her home. And perhaps you can do for Graham what you have done for me.”

“Killian.” Power. Magic. Fire. “What are you going to do?”

Lunacy.

The room around him is fully silent and even the interviewer is holding her breath when Killian says, “I thought about what it would be like for him--for Hook--if he had a chance to be a part of something. Because I know a little something about that, about not being able to forget your first love, to believe that you can’t move on. But all it took was meeting the right person--”

And on his left shoulder blade, just above his heart, a swan.

“It’s like he said. The Curse failed, love,” Hook said. “None of this was meant to happen--none of this is what he foresaw, or what she planned. Isn’t that right, crocodile?”

The Evil Queen moved as if to strike, as if she had--or would ever have again--that freedom of movement, but the Dark One merely smiled.

“It wasn’t just your parents that were meant to be swept away by the Queen’s curse,” Hook said. “It was all of us. This entire realm sent someplace else, into a Land Without Magic. That’s where Baelfire went when he left his father.” Hook paused before continuing. “When he left me. He believed it was the only place he would be safe.”

“What’s your point, pirate?” The Dark One snapped.

“My point is that all magic comes with a price. My point is that when the spell failed, something went wrong. And now is your chance, crocodile--to tell us. The truth. And in return--” he held up his hand, pointed it at the Dark One in attempt to forestall the protest that was surely imminent “--I will tell you where the maid is, your precious Belle. Where Regina has kept her all of these years. Perhaps I will even remove that cuff and allow you to do something about it.”

It took all of his strength not to mention the other thing, the object that consumed his days and his nights and his nightmares for the better part of three decades. The object that could kill the Dark One--his crocodile, Milah’s murderer. But Hook had made his choice.

He just wished he could feel it--feel her--the fire--the magic--because now he had a name for it, the way he felt about her--all of the things she made him feel and want and believe.

“Tell us, and I will use the portal to bring back the King and the Queen; I will leave, so long as you leave Emma out of this. Emma and her family will be free of you and all of your schemes, hereafter.”

The creature cocked his head and tasted the air with his tongue, considering, until--

“No.” Emma was definitive.

The creature giggled as Emma moved, deliberately switching places with Hook to place herself between him and the crocodile, so she could force him to look at her and her green eyes. “I don’t need saving,” she said.

Hook smiled and said, “That’s good. Because I’m not a hero.”

“I can handle it. I’m not a damsel in distress.” She was lying; there was distress written all over her face, but this--this was something he could do for her, something he wanted to do. Something with purpose, with meaning, something new.

“Emma, think of yourself. Of your family. Of your kingdom. You can’t leave--and even if you could--there would be nothing left for me here. Not even the pursuit of my revenge. I cannot be that man any more. Darkness and hatred have left my life empty.” He cupped his hand over her cheek and stroked the tear forming there, brushing it aside. “I do not want to end up like Regina. Please.”

It was then and not a moment sooner that the world he’d so carefully constructed over the long years shattered, finally--completely--to pieces. As he stepped forward and pulled her against him, a drowning man grasping for a rope. As he pressed his lips to hers and she kissed him as if he were dying and she alone had oxygen.

“So, one last question, then, Killian. We’ll take it from the audience this time.”

In the crowd, someone rises--there is a flash of blonde and blue and Killian cannot--he cannot--

The woman’s eyes sparkle with amusement as she speaks. “Killian,” she says, “do you believe in True Love?”

Killian smiles. He forces himself to. He exhales a laugh.

He exhales a laugh to cover up the fact that all of his breath seems, suddenly, to leave his body.

Again.

On account of a kiss.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, slow degrees of feeling welling up inside him, coming from someplace deep and unfamiliar except for the heat and the magic that seemed to guide it; he had no defense for it, no protection against it, and it built into a wave so powerful that to feel it crest over him, exploding in sparkes of rainbow light, was nothing so much as a relief. He staggered back under its impact and braced himself against the bars of Regina’s cell and watched as a door formed before his--before their--eyes. His heart, so recently returned to him, pounding so hard that everything around him seemed to vibrate--his mind a thick haze of fire and light and magic. The torches in the dungeon ablaze and every kiss before this one merely a prelude, flint to light the kindling.

The door was three times the height of a man, taller than the dungeon as it seemed to pierce the ceiling. When it opened there was a lonely stretch of forest bisected by a strangely-paved path and a sign.

“Welcome to Storybrooke.”

At the sign--or more properly at the edge of it, just where it met the road--was a vessel unlike any Hook had ever seen before, heaving and steaming as a man kicked at it, swearing under his breath as if his invective would serve as fuel.

“Father,” Emma whispered.

And--from inside the vessel--a woman’s voice; “Mother.” There was the sound of something opening and closing as a piece of the thing swung open--a door--and a boy slid out.

No. Not a boy.

A young man.

The Evil Queen growled.

The Dark One hissed.

And Emma said, “Oh. Oh, shit.”

The lights are dim and the crowd dispersed as he leaves, waving a hand behind him and walking away from the storefront branded Housing Works Bookstore. It’s dry--a rarity in this city, he has found--dry and cool and clear, and if he angles his head just so between the so-called ‘skyscrapers’ there is a faint glimmer of the stars that are very nearly the same here as they were there. He still remembers them, the way they shone in her eyes as the truth of what they were watching through the portal struck her.

“I have a brother,” she said, and her voice seemed to carry across the portal, across time and space, because a petite, dark-haired woman nearly fell out of the vessel as she looked up, looked around.

“Emma?”

It was a sound of disbelief and doubt and hope but it, too, carried; the man straightened, the vessel forgotten as he started walking unerringly toward the portal that surely he could not see.

Emma swore again and turned to her grandmother, to the Evil Queen, and said, “They remember?” Out of all the possible questions, of course she chose the least expected. How--why--what--none of them was as salient as the simple fact. They remembered.

The Queen raised in eyebrow in pure hauteur and Emma grabbed his hook and pulled him toward the door. “I must go to them,” she said, and he followed.

He would follow her to the end of the world and beyond; with a cry and a lunge she hurled herself at them, at her parents, at her brother.

Hook watched as Queen Snow took her daughter’s head in her hands and kissed the forehead, delicately--as King David pulled his daughter into his arms and cupped the back of her head, gently--as Leo introduced himself.

“Please don’t call me Leopold,” he said, and Emma laughed through her tears.

“This is Killian,” she said. “Captain Killian Jones.”

David’s eyes narrowed as he took in the silver prosthetic where Hook’s left hand used to be. “Captain Hook?”

But Snow said, “Now is not the time, David,” and her green eyes shone almost as brightly as her daughter’s as she looked at him, up and down from his boots to his eyes that were lowered, respectfully--as she stepped forward and took his face in her hands the same way she had taken Emma’s. “Thank you,” she said.

Hook blushed. “I--milady--gratitude is hardly necessary,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly and, for the first time in a long time, uncertain. He was uncertain and his hand reached, unthinkingly, for Emma’s, for the warmth and the comfort he found there.

“You found us,” Snow insisted.

“Emma found you,” Hook said.

“And I never doubted she would,” Snow said. “But I know what you did for her, why she is able to be here right now.”

“What--” Hook swallowed. “What did I do?”

Queen Snow looked at him, and looked at her daughter, at their hands clasped together and said, “True Love’s Kiss. It’s the only magic strong enough to break any curse.”

“Oh,” Hook said. Oh.

He dropped Emma’s hand and stepped back.

The King grumbled. “Let’s discuss this at home. We have a kingdom to take back.” Then, under his breath: “Again.”

The word hung in the air. Home.

Hook took another step back--turned away--opened his mouth--all he knew, with certainty, was that he could not go back there. He could not go back to that place and that person who carried around all of that darkness and anger and hate. He wanted to stay. He was a pirate, a Lost Boy; it would not be the first time in his life that he found himself in a new place with nothing but his wits and his hook and the things he carried.

But Swan--

Emma.

Princess Emma.

She--

He would follow her. Of course he would. He could just as soon live without air as he could live without her.

(He’s known that since the first morning he’d woken up to find her gone; he’s known that every night he’s dreamed of her and every morning since.)

“Oh,” Snow said. “Oh.” Mother and daughter watched each other, identical eyes matched in understanding. “Emma’s not coming home,” Snow said.

It is very nearly midnight when Killian returns home, unlocking his front door with practiced ease and slipping the keys into the pocket of his leather blazer.

What he is not prepared for, or expecting, is her.

Waiting for him.

(Truth be known, he might never be.)

Emma Swan, his True Love, is waiting for him, her green eyes twinkling in the streetlights that are shining through the windows of their flat and still--always--nothing prepares him for the sight of her. Her golden hair is lighter now, streaked with very fine strands of silver; the blue leather of her jacket is bright and adorned with zippers instead of gemstones. She wears no jewelry, in this place--they sold most of it a long time ago. Her only adornment is a silver chain around her neck and the ring he gave her--his brother’s ring--between her breasts.

“You beat me home,” he says.

“You had your adoring fans to contend with,” she says, and laughs. Killian shuts the door behind him and inhales, slowly, savoring it the way he always does--sweet and spicy--and she watches him.

“Your eyes,” she says. “I love the way you look at me. Still.”

“Always.”

And it’s not a dream, but sometimes it still feels like one, when she grabs him and says his name and--somehow--he can feel the Power in it. She grabs him and he forgets where they are and when they are and he remembers the day she decided to stay here. With him.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said, looking at her mother and her father and her younger brother, the heir-presumptive once the King and the Queen were back on their rightful thrones. Killian had no doubts that they would see to Regina, and to the Dark One. Snow would give Graham back his heart and make certain that Belle was safe and cared for.

For the moment, there were more important matters to attend to.

Snow White ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Her voice was somehow strong and brittle at the same time--understanding twinged with sadness. “No,” she murmured. “You didn’t.”

Emma didn’t cry when she said, “I want something free of all of this. Free of the past and all its scars. Something I’ve chosen. Away from--”

“Us,” King David--the man once known across realms as Prince Charming--said.

“No,” Emma said. “But--yes. I’m sorry.”

That’s when David took her in his arms. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not to us. Not ever. We love you. All that matters is that you know that, and are happy.”

And they were.

They are.

Together; they still make a good team.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she whispers. “Do you believe in True Love, Killian?” She stands on her toes and kisses him and it’s full of sweetness and love and he can feel it--the warmth and comfort and the magic that they were both told couldn’t exist in this place but which they kindled with the light they made for each other. The past, here, is nothing more than a bad dream from which he’s awakened, finding himself in her arms until the nightmares are banished and there is nothing but the two of them.

Killian lifts his mouth from hers and takes her hands and kisses them, the backs, each knuckle, before he settles them over his heart. It beats, hard but steady--so steady--as he holds her hands there. “Aye, love,” he says. “You are my happy ending.”

She pulls her hands away, pulls his hands in hers as she says, “That’s not what this is.” He feels it through the layers of her clothing as his hand rests over her abdomen--the flutter there--and he laughs, as she smiles a real smile, that same smile, from the night they met. “It’s a happy beginning.”

And that, surely, is nothing short of magic.

-30-

@profdanglaisstuff @katie-dub @thisonesatellite @carpedzem @captain-emmajones @kmomof4 @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @karl0ta @mariakov81 @tiganasummertree @stahlop @scientificapricot

#cs fic #enchanted forest #true love and other stuff

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baby-grayson · 4 years

Text

Dirty Little Secret| Intro | Ethan

Word Count: 1.4 k

Summary: Felicity, an otherwise plain girl with hopes of being a great writer, does one bold thing at a music festival. The thrill of her one bold thing comes back to bite her the next morning.

She was aroused by the wet cold of the bathroom sink against her bare thighs. His hands ran hungrily up and down her thighs, from the skin that her skirt exposed: the flimsy fabric riding up as she straddled him from the counter. His thumbs sank into her, as if trying to pin her down in front of him. From outside, the sound of guitars and screams were muffled by the sound of his hot breaths against her neck. She craned, exposing more skin and letting him have access to her collarbone from under her thin tank top. His kisses were wet, he pressed his tongue against her skin like he was licking sweet honey: trying not to let a single drop escape from his lips. His hands pulled her closer: wrapping around her thigh and the small of her back to press her chest along his torso. She pulled at his hair, whimpering into his ear. Making desperate, low, sexual sounds. She didn’t usually do this so soon after meeting someone: much less on the counter of a public bathroom at the Semester Kick Off Music Festival.

For a second, she felt a shadow of guilt as she tried to remember his name. Evan? No. Ethan? Yes, definitely Ethan and it felt very good to have Ethan’s tongue gliding down her neck and teasing the top of her cleavage. If her mind was clouded by idea the idea that hooking up with a stranger was wicked, all of her thoughts were swept away in the bodily storm that was Ethan. She dropped her hands down, hanging them from his back pockets as he leaned further into her and started his tongue back up to her mouth. She took it gladly, welcoming his tongue by sliding her own across his and feeling nothing but naughty pleasure at the sensation of the hard bulge in his pants resting near her thigh. She pulled back from their kiss, his lips swollen and pink. He was heaving ever so softly and looking down at her: a single tank top strap had fallen to the side of her shoulder in his embrace. She licked her lips and darted her eyes down to his package. She played with her tongue in her mouth for a moment while his swollen lips turned into a smirk.

Who knows what would have resulted, had a body not barreled through the bathroom door and wretched into a toilet stall.

Something about a stranger puking three feet away from her really ruined the mood of the one sexy tryst of her college career.

She unhooked her hands from Ethan’s back pockets and sat up straight on the bathroom counter, erecting her posture. Ethan’s smirk turned into a small frown as she reached to pull up her fallen strap and realign her top to better cover her chest. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling the mess under her fingertips and looking up at him.

He knew the moment was ruined. He knew he wasn’t getting it back. Despite everything that he wanted. His face tied strings of disappointment and frustration into a neat package of a gentlemanly facade.

She pushed forward on the counter and he stepped back, giving her enough room to dismount the sink and straighten her skirt. He looked in the mirror to analyze his own disheveled hair and the tease of his underwear peaking through wear she pulled his pants low.

“That was uh--” she cursed herself for not having more experience, “that was good.” She mentally kicked herself, feeling awkward and unprepared for this moment. She wished desperately for an understanding of the feminine mystique, but instead she was only grossed out by the water from the bathroom floor seeping into shoes shoes. “Yeah,” he moved in the mirror to fix his hair, “That--” she didn’t hear him finish his sentence as she swiftly pushed through the bathroom door..

She quickly found a trashcan to lean on, not minding the nauseating smell of vomit and booze in her delirious state. She felt a rush move through her, something invigorating. She felt like she had obtained the unobtainable for a girl like her: plain, average, and oh so blasé.

Making out with a stranger in the bathroom at a music festival was the most daring thing she’d done in 20 years. Not just any stranger, a hot stranger. She bit your lip and nearly moaned thinking back to it: she must have looked like intoxicated by something strong to a passing stranger. “Felicity--Hey Felicity!” her friends called out from across the pavilion, worried by her sudden disappearance half an hour earlier. She darted her head up to find them, knocking her out of her trance. She shook her head, trying to find reality again from wherever her mind had wandered to when she was with Ethan. She bounced back to them, giggling and swaying with her dirty, little secret.

She wore the high of the moment under her skin as a secret veil of confidence on the first day of school. After years of fading into the background, she’d done one bold thing. The feeling of his hands on her skin felt like too real a memory throughout the day. If she closed her eyes, she remembered what his voice sounded like against her neck. She remembered finger tips dragging along her inner thighs and his warm mouth at the start of her cleavage. She got goosebumps waiting in line for her morning coffee.

There was something addicting about feeling desirable.

The burn of the hot coffee on her tongue didn’t bother her as she nearly soared to the first class of her senior year in college. She flipped through her phone, scrolling across Instagram pictures of her friends on their first last day—she made a mental reminder to take a photo with the school mascot for fun. She considered searching “Ethan” blindly into the social network maze; if he was at the semester festival then he surely went to school with her, might even have some friends in common. But no, she decided not to search up her illustrious , seductive Ethan: he was best as a naughty, dauntless memory.

Looking down at a picture of her old lab partner and his roommates, her phone pinged with the first email of the semester. Her boots clacked against the pavement as she proceeded to stroll to class. She opened the email and read:

“Dear EN 4121: Shakespearean Rhetoric;

I am both sorry and elated to inform you that last night I went into pre-term labor. My newborn son, Matthew, and myself are doing wonderfully. But on account of my hospitalization, I have asked your TA to instruct today’s course-- and future courses hitherto. They will give you details, but I am expecting you all to pair up in preparation to critique each other’s very detailed analysis. I’m unsure of how long my maternity leave will be (likely at least the first half of your semester) but I am sure you are in trusty and faithful hands. I can’t wait to see all the excellent work that you do.

Regards,

Professor Clarissa Barnes”

She wondered if this was a good email or not. Barnes would supposed to be the toughest teacher around, but she was allegedly a hoot in class— acting out plays and using stuffed animals for props. She was weighing the development in her mind when she opened the classroom door and found a seat next to her friend, Jasmine.

Jasmine immediately started chattering about her boyfriend Rowland and plans for the semester. Felicity brought her laptop out of her back and rested it on the desk, settling herself in and nestling her coffee cup at the edge of the table. She nodded along happily to Jasmine’s excited chatter. But Jasmine’s quick paced tone halted immediately when she noticed Felicity’s face, “are you alright?”

Her face has gone pale and she breathed in an unsure breath. Her left eye twitched. There was no way—this had to be a dream...or a nightmare.

As Ethan turned around from writing “TA- Ethan Dolan” on the whiteboard he immediately found her in the crowd. His jaw formed a perfect o shape and he pushed his shoulders back, trying to feign professionalism. She was sure he recognized her when he muttered, “Oh God”

#ethan dolan #dolan twins #grayson dolan #fanfic #teacher #student #student teacher romance #series #fluff #smutt #angst #youtuber #influencer

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gottawriteanegoortwo · 3 years

Text

Mermay - Dilliam - Getting To Know You

William and Damien want to get to know each other, but these things take time. There are more important matters that need to be addressed first.

Read the first part here!

Word Count: 2,159

Sure enough, early the next day William hobbled down the steps to the shore. He kept his balance with one hand, and gripped a flask with the other. Unlike the previous day, he wore more layers to keep warm. It made the chilly morning more bearable as the pair sat on the picnic bench. Even so, Damien's high energy and energetic gesturing as he told William the story of when he first met his extended merfamily was infectious. William kept the hot flask in both hands as he sat forward to take in everything and encourage Damien with more questions.

At one point, Damien seemed to snap out of the moment and throw William a concerned look.

"I'm sorry… this, this isn't too much, is it? I don't get to talk about my experiences too much -" He was cut off when he felt a warm hand on his.

"Keep talking. I want to hear everything." William's smile was so wide, it could be seen either side of his bushy moustache. He gave Damien's another reassuring squeeze before lifting his hand away; and Damien had to rapidly suppress the instinct to snatch the hand back. It was such a simple thing, yet Damien felt comfortable enough to keep going.

As it turned out, it was very easy to talk to William. He knew nothing about the world of the ocean, except a small selection of fish names… and even that wasn't right:

("Oh yeah! An orca! That's the one with a horn, right?"

"No. It's the large whale that is black with white markings."

"... Then what am I thinking of?"

"Either a unicornfish or a narwhal, I'd imagine.")

However, as William would later argue, it was because he was normally assigned to tasks on land and was better acquainted with recognising animals, something that Damien was not too confident on:

("But what about that big cat with the hair? You know, the one that has the hair all around its head like this!"

"... Damien, that's what I've been telling you about. Male lions have manes, see?"

"... I knew that.")

Back and forth the conversation went, and Damien could feel a pang of disappointment when Mark came down to accompany them when he returned from rehearsals. Then, to make matters worse, William got a call from Celine regarding something that needed to be reassembled ASAP, so he had to scramble back up.

"Hey… Damien?" Mark broke the silence that had descended on the rocky coast. "I know you were told William was staying for a day or two, but if he gets the all-clear to take off the boot at his appointment tomorrow he has offered to stay longer to help us with odd jobs around the house. Would you be okay with that?"

"Why are you asking me? I don't live here." Damien made quite a considerable effort to give a calm response, and he could only hope that Mark couldn't see through the flimsy act. "It doesn't really affect me what happens up there."

"Well… I wasn’t sure if you were going to continue on your travels soon. If you need to keep on track of your itinerary, don't let our possible change of plan mess with that." Mark's response had Damien cursing his sister. Did both Celine and her partner know about his plight? But Damien knew Mark. If that was the case, there would be obvious teasing. Maybe it was genuine concern on the actor's part.

"It's alright. I'm not under any time restriction, remember?" One key difference between humans and merfolk was how humans were obsessed with time and schedules, whereas merfolk were more flexible and carefree. "I don't mind staying a little longer. It's nice to be with family again. I'd be a fool to hurry off too fast and miss out on this." Mark's face lit up as he turned to pick up a bag Damien hadn't noticed originally. It was passed to him without any hesitation.

"Speaking of being with family - here. I had this commissioned for you. Consider it a 'new home' gift from both myself and Celine." The merman gingerly opened the present, surprised when he pulled out a small stacked stone ornament on a waterproof pedestal, complete with aqua blue natural sea glass for decoration. "I know you enjoy travelling the seas. Just know that we want this to be your home as much as it is ours when you are in the area. I might only be your brother-in-law to be, but you are still family, and this can be your home if you want it to be. There’s nothing too hard for us to do to make this your home. Just say the word - I have a credit card." Mark reached forward to ruffle Damien's hair, earning himself a dramatically offended hiss in response.

When Mark left, Damien took the decoration in his hands. It was beautiful, and he was enamoured by it… But it made something in his stomach twist. A home… such a concept was different between a merfolk and a human. If they wanted this to be his 'home', were they going to make some sort of enclosure and expect him to ‘settle down’? Celine wouldn't, he knew she never would. Even so, there was the worry if she felt sorry that he would never have a 'home' in the way a human can.

He put the gift into the chest to keep it safe and slipped into the water. He needed time to think about this.

"You sure you want to help out? I was kidding about working you to the bone." Celine accompanied William back to the car after his appointment the next day. The crutch and boot were gleefully returned as he was given the all-clear. Now all that was needed was to simply not break it again any time soon.

"Of course! You expect Mark to move things around for you? Or are you planning on killing your fiancé by letting him try his hand at wiring a new light in one of the empty rooms?" He threw Celine an accusatory glare when she laughed at the suggestion. Thankfully, the conversation returned to the matter at hand as they spent the drive to the hardware store deciding what needed to be done in the seafront cottage.

"Can I ask you a favour?" Celine had stopped in the middle of the 'outdoor' section during their shopping expedition. William screeched the shopping cart to a halt so he could reverse and see what caught her attention. "I want to make the rock pool a place Damien feels comfortable to call home. The positioning of the rocks means it's sheltered from the tides, but I don't know how safe it will be from winter storms. I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that?" William's eyes went from Celine to see what inspired her to request such a job. It was a rock waterfall, an ornament for a garden. The colour of the rocks matched the ones by the sea.

"I'm not sure, only because I've not seen much of it. It'd depend on if the 'pool' is shallow or not. I could try and add some extra support to those rocks that frame the water, maybe check what supports are normally put along beaches to protect coastal towns?" Celine nodded as William spoke, fetching several LED lamps and dropping them into the cart.

"We should ask Damien when we return. I didn't want to bring it up too soon after we moved in because I know he's not one for staying in one place for too long. I suppose it's the mer instincts at play." When she noticed William's confusion, Celine continued, "When we grow up, we normally want to settle down in a house of our own, right? Merfolk might have nesting grounds or communities of their own, but they tend to travel since they can cover large distances in a short amount of time. It's why Damien would often disappear for months at a time." She sighed as she shoved her hands into her pockets. "I wanted a house by the sea so Damien would have a place he could call home too and feel he can stay longer. I can't protect him if he's forever travelling."

"Protect him?"

"You've heard the stories, right? Where people have exotic 'pets' that are categorised as 'mythical'? Having a merman as beautiful as Damien is one thing, but one with fluency in English and an awareness of human behaviours would be a valuable asset to American collectors… Or worse." Even if her hands were hidden, William knew her fists were tightly clenched in anger at the thought of something bad happening. "I don't want anyone to hurt him. Even if he travels the seas and has plenty of connections, he's still my little brother."

"Hey," William braved putting a hand on Celine's shoulder, "It's okay. He'll be okay. We can go back and see how he feels about rubber duck decorations." He pulled back to lift the item in question. They were tiny LED lights on a string, but each light was encased in a small model that resembled a toy rubber duck. "If we got a few of these and draped them around the rocks, it'd really look like home. And look! They're half-price. It's meant to be, Celine." Though still worried for her brother, the distraction worked as Celine finally cracked a smile and lightly shoved William. "What? Oh! You're right. That's far too ambitious. Just the one will do." That was that as it was innocently dropped in, followed by an actual rubber duck toy.

"Trust me. I might not be an outside landscaper-person, but I know we'll be able to make the rock pool the most spiffing place this side of the seven seas!"

To William's credit, he had only gathered a handful of impulse purchases that he paid for himself, including a pair of small hanging mirror shaped like a crescent moon and a star as a belated housewarming present ("Mark is the star 'cause he an actor, and you're the moon 'cause of your magic stuff."). Everything else was relevant to the required home improvement jobs that William would be working on over the next few weeks. Once they had brought everything inside, it was then the turn of Mark to bring William out of the house and make the drive to William's family home. William could grab his tools and show his elderly parents that his leg had fully healed. His mother insisted they take a loaf of homemade bread and some cupcakes with them once she had smothered William in hugs and kisses and made him promise to come by while he was in the area.

Meanwhile, the twins sat on one of the large rocks, gazing out over the sea. Damien rested his head on Celine's shoulder as she told him about how her job was going and some of the ideas for the home renovation now that William was staying and ready to work. Damien held her phone, idly scrolling through the photos as she explained what was going on, until he realised the next few photos were of the area they were in.

"- some sort of way to make this place a little safer in the storms. Do you think you could have a think and see what can be done?"

"I'll think about it." Damien returned the phone to Celine as he sat up straight. "Whatever happens will happen, I suppose."

"But this is your home. Whatever happens here is your choice first and foremost."

"Yeah, sure."

"Damien. I'm serious." She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, only for him to pull away. The fins on his collarbones flared briefly in agitation.

"This is your home, Celine. You don't need to pretend that I have a say in any of this, or that you'd even listen to what I'd want anyway. I don't need your pity because I can't go buy a house like you can."

"That's not what this about-"

"Isn't it? Don't think I never heard those conversations you had with Mom and Dad about wishing I could 'settle down'. I'd bet you even want to build me some sort of little enclosure to make up for that fact."

"Damien, stop that!" But it was too late. He had slipped into the water. Confused and frustrated, but wanting to avoid further argument, Celine stormed back up to the house.

Mark and William had decided to cut into the bread when the back door opened. Their argument on what would best accompany their snacks was abruptly cut off as Celine marched past them and down the corridor, before a door slammed shut. A silent nod was swapped between the men. Something happened between the twins. Food could wait. They needed to get to the bottom of this. ---

(I normally don’t stick these notes on the bottom, but I’m planning on spreading out this story over the month. It’s currently 20 pages on g.oogle docs total, so there definitely will be more. However, I will be putting the next part up tomorrow since 1. I’m not mean to leave it on a cliffhanger for several days and 2. It was waaay too long to put everything as one chapter)

#mermay #dilliam #writersofmark #mayor damien #william j barnum #(I never wanna tag Mark and Celine since they play a minor role)#Blue Soul (Damien)#Eccentric Goof (Colonel)#Shattered Heart (Mark Doom)#Red Soul (Celine)#(read-more is for tidiness! :D )

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lucy-the-cat · 3 years

Text

Lover's Curse Chapter Twenty Four - Into the Fire

Mare

“Could you repeat that, darling? I’m not sure he understood.” Maven leans forward, savoring the horror creeping across his brother’s face. “At least, I presume that’s why his mouth hangs open like a particularly stupid fish.”

I stare Cal in the eye. “Speaking to a mirror would be appropriate, considering your inability to amend your terms. No competent man would have assumed them reasonable. Don’t posture to us.”

He hardens. “So there’s an ‘us’ now, is there?”

“Of course there is.” Maven chuckles. “Lovers often act as a united front.”

Iris coughs. “We’re married.”

“Yes.” He gives her a pointed look. “We are.”

Crap. Shouldn’t have thrown her name around this morning. “Darling, I think we’re getting off track.”

“Are we? You’re the one who interjected.” Cal’s eyes narrow. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Maven holds my hand aloft like a prized gem. “Don’t hold back. You’ve been waiting for this opportunity for months.”

Across from us, Farley rolls her eyes. If his posturing annoys me, she must be plotting his death as we speak.

My nails dig into his palm. He better hold his end of the bargain. “If you don’t understand how negotiation works, shut up. The adults are talking.”

“I agree.” Queen Cenra rises from her seat, and the tension rises with her. “Let the adults speak.”

Her voice ripples through the room, slicing through any retort I might throw at her. She’s been queen for longer than I’ve been alive. Longer than Cal’s been alive. She was crowned in the same era as Tiberias VI, without a Merandus to muddy her mind.

“Did you have something to add, Your Majesty?” Maven is unfazed. “You’ve been silent awhile.”

“Nothing has been worthy of my time thus far. All you’ve done is bicker and moan.”

“Yes.” Maven sighs. “My brother has been quite unprofessional.”

“You’re the one who keeps insulting me.”

“Weren’t we discussing a treaty?” If he draws this out any longer, I’m going to scream. “Not surrender, necessarily, but some terms we mutually agree on.”

“No. Pretty sure this meeting’s about your personal drama.” Evangeline snorts. “By all means, continue. It’s hilarious.”

“Evangeline.” I turn to her, shifting my sleeve to reveal a familiar bracelet. “We were on poor terms last we met. Allow me to rectify that.”

She twitches. “Elane sends her regards.”

“A gift.” I unclasp it from my wrist. “From one princess to another.”

Maven rolls his eyes. Good. Think this a meaningless mind game. I don’t need him looking closer, close enough to see the paper peeking between the metal strands.

We’ve already too much to punish each other for.

Evangeline accepts it after a moment’s hesitation, clipping it on with a haughty snort. “I have twice the claim to royalty that you do. More so.”

“Perhaps.” I smile. “It’s not a competition.”

Maven would never grant me concessions if I asked directly. No matter how logical my reasoning, the risk of alienating his allies would be too great. But if I twist them into knives at Cal’s back . . . how could he resist?

Millions of reds. Cal’s feelings.

Why is this so hard?

“What of our electricity?” I mark the grey factories with red circles. “Surely you have plans to restructure its production.”

Anabel rolls her eyes. “You have a one-track mind.”

Maven gestures to his brother. “Could be worse. There are some who have no mind at all.” He smirks. “But you prefer those people, don’t you? All the easier to manipulate.”

Cal twitches. He’s hit some version of truth, however twisted.

Time to twist it further.

“I hope your grandson can speak for himself.” I rattle my fingers against the table. “His proposal was so flimsy, I’m not convinced it was his.”

Maven laughs. “It’s the suggestion I’d make if I wanted to sabotage him. Someone doesn’t want this war to end.”

No one moves.

“So,” I hunch over the paper, heart pounding. “About our electri--”

“What about it?” Anabel snaps.

I laugh. “You can’t possibly think it’s sustainable. If you force people to work in clouds of poison, they fall ill and die. And they die faster when their salary doesn’t buy enough food for the month. That factory is a timebomb, and the only reason it hasn’t imploded is thanks to the resilience of your Reds.” I study my nails. “And they’re growing impatient.”

“What of the solution I suggested when we discussed this earlier?” Liar, liar, I wanna set him on fire. He might let me if I ask nicely. “A maximum work week and a minimum wage.”

“Wouldn’t that cause riots?” Cal wrinkles his brow. “The country needs electricity. I’m not sure we could handle a shortage.”

“Difficult as it is to believe, people produce more when they’re rested and well-fed.” I flash my teeth. “I can starve you for a day if you’d like a demonstration.”

Maven smirks. “I’d take that offer. It’s not like you have many chances to spend time with her.”

Cal has no response.

“Enough.” Cenra glares at us both. “I’m tired of this. Make an offer or don’t. Stop wasting my time.”

“Very well. We are done here.” He tugs my arm, hooking it with his own. “Come.”

My heart pounds. I’d gotten more from this meeting than I had from months of scheming. Maybe I’d been going about this the wrong way.

Imagine all the things I could do if I worked with him instead of plotting his downfall.

Participants get up to leave, and I take the opportunity to slip away while Maven is preoccupied with a fuming Cenra. Farley meets me in a secluded corner.

“You must be real proud of yourself. Parading about your new boy toy. Making us all look like fools.” She leans against the wall. “Savoring the tiny morsels your master tosses you.”

“I’m confused. Am I a duplicitous slut or a lovestruck idiot?”

“A few laws aren't going to change anything. You think he cares about blood equality?” She scoffs. “He’s a Silver king. His interests will never align with yours.”

“What would you have me do, stage a coup and take the throne for myself? I’m working with what I have.”

Silence.

“Do you have any idea what it was like, watching him return without you? Having to explain to Ruth you chose to stay behind?” She closes her eyes. “Hearing your title announced and knowing what it must mean?”

“I made a calculated decision.”

“He’s a monster.”

“Afraid to muddy your hands?”

Farley sighs. “You don’t have to do this. Look at Montfort. We can build a new society, without blood division, without consorts, without kings. Please. Come home. I don’t wanna fight you.”

“Strange. You had no problem allying with the Rift.”

She leans closer. “Cal won’t sit on the throne, not if we can help it. It’s Silver against Silver, and we will rise from the rubble, red as the dawn.”

“How do you know it’ll be you?”

Farley stills.

“Who says another group won’t take power? One far worse than Maven ever was.” I don’t blink. “The public thinks you’re a band of terrorists. You think you can maintain control in a democracy?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’ll take a lot of bloodshed and sacrifice to build the world you want. Who do you think will pay that price? Because it won’t be Silvers.” My voice is steel. “The powerful are never the first to fall.”

“That won’t happen. It didn’t for Montfort.”

“It happened once. Who says it’ll happen again?” I clench a fist. “You hold a lot of lives in your hands, Diana. I would love to see the world you want come to pass. But I won’t sneer my nose at reform in pursuit of utopia.

She twitches. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’m not speaking to you as a soldier. I’m speaking as a friend.”

“My friend is dead. Mare Barrow would never have let him touch her.” Farley’s eyes flare. “He’s broken you, and you’re in denial.”

“I thought you’d understand.” Stupid eyes. Stupid tears. “This is what I’m best at.”

Her eyes narrow. “Shade would be proud.”

I reel. The ground tears beneath me, and I’m at Samson’s mercy, speared and shaking as Shade collapses to the ground. You did this. You did this.

You spit on his grave.

Arms wrap around me, a sharp voice piercing the noise. “Stick to your ruffians, General. My consort has no need to justify herself to you.”

Warm. He’s so warm and gentle and chaining, chaining and claiming me as his own, branding me on the collarbone as he holds me by the throat at Harbor Bay. Monster. Gentle monster. My monster.

I shiver.

Maven kisses my cheek. “It’s alright, darling. I’m here. I won’t let her hurt you.”

“That’s your job,” I whisper.

He doesn’t disagree.

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timerainseternal · 3 years

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Who’s your favorite character of tua and why

I enjoy most of the characters in Umbrella Academy, but my favorite is Five! As for why, there are a lot of reasons, but I think, writing-wise it's because I don't know what he will do at any given moment, but I trust where he's going. This is a difficult balance to pull off, but I'll try to explain exactly what I mean and why I feel that way.

Firstly, I don't know what he'll do, which makes him interesting to watch. He's full of contradictions in many ways, he's very resourceful, and he's written as someone who is extremely smart. (Though another thing I find interesting is that unlike with many other "genius" characters, intelligence--as in knowledge or ability like with his scribbling-on-the-walls math--isn't his primary trait, at least not to me. Before that I would say that he is at least determined, as well as resourceful in a way that isn't linked strictly to book smarts. Instead, he's driven on sustained desperation that "geniuses" never seem to get in media, and even though he's so smart and generally competent, his plans often or always fail, which I actually made a whole post about. Even further, we know he's 58, so his knowledge is based not only on natural ability, but also a lot of work and time, which is also not the general presentation. We know he's smart, but figuring out time travel took him a whole lifetime.) Anyway, even his power set is...fluidly defined. I don't know what plans he will make, or what side effects will follow--only that, based on past experience, side effects will follow. As such, I'm very entertained watching him constantly pivoting and coming up with new ideas and plans, especially since I think he gets more plot turns than anyone else in the series, or at least is a more active force in those turns.

His choices also showcase the desperation that is at the core of him, and the moral greyness that comes from it. He's not bound by normal considerations like most of the others are; often, he doesn't even consider them. What might be off-limits to others isn't off-limits to him (which is like his powers in a funny kind of way). But really, it all stems from the fact of having lost everything with his 45-year stint in the apocalypse and the loneliness that comes from that. It's an interesting philosophical thought experiment. What are morals in a dead world? What are a few thousand people compared to the end of humanity? What are we if everything else gets stripped away?

And for Five, the answer is not in the violence we've seen him commit, but instead the love he shows. He was presented as a prickly genius who is smarter than everyone and knows everything (like he says to Allison in ep 1) and who is also a time-travelling assassin hardened by decades in a wasteland. We expect competence, cold calculation, and a near-complete lack of empathy. But then we meet Dolores, and we learn that he's doing everything for his family, and we see that everything he does is for love of other people. Specific other people, sure, but love nonetheless. And he isn't cool about it, isn't aloof; he's lost it all before, and he's desperate, and nothing he does--despite what most shows tell you about geniuses--really fixes any problem completely, and especially not the relationships that got broken when he left.

Yet even despite all that, he's also predictable in a way that lets me trust him. Obviously, as an audience, we see how pressing and devastating the apocalypse is. It's the end. Yet none of the other characters understand that the way we do, or the way Five does. His ultimate goal is to stop that from happening and protect his family, and given his life experience, I know that there is nothing that will stop him as long as he's around. I trust that his character will make decisions towards an end goal that I agree with as the audience, and that as long as that remains true, I know that even if I don't know where he's going with a plan, I can at least trust his intent. Even with the Commission, where he worked as an assassin and presumably murdered innocents, the end goal is great enough that it makes sense. Moreover, though, is that once we see that his motivation is for love and to protect, not from a place of sadism or superiority, and that he will even listen to others to find a less violent workaround (as with Luther in s1), I trust his intentions even more.

That's part of what makes the murder of the Board, and then the aftermath, so interesting: it's a study in contradiction, the urge to be violent and feel seen and effective and successful, contrasted with a sense of guilt and remorse and an understanding that it's not the best version of himself. He's warring with those instincts, but the writers have portrayed him in a way that allows for understanding and sympathy.

For another thing, as I think @the-aro-ace-arrow-ace mentioned, given his unique standing as both 13 and 58, he can't really have a romantic relationship to pull him away like the others can, nor do I think he would if he could, considering the timespan the show tends to give him. He's not really in the mindset for romance at all, and especially not a romance that would distract him from his goals. Not only was Dolores an extension of his own mind for a long time, but also was one he was willing to abandon, first going with the Handler, then again towards the end of season 1. Not only does this make his goals less likely to be swayed from what I, as an audience member, consider to be important, but also romance as the sort of "love at first sight, I will prioritize you over everyone else without any real merit behind it" is always a bit flimsy to me. Maybe I'm a little too aromantic to get it, but I generally find it a bit distracting at best unless done really well. (I did like Raymond and Allison as a couple. I thought that was done really well, where they had time and chemistry and respect for each other, and I enjoyed the time they spent together. It doesn't hurt that Allison is my second favorite, but it stands well even besides that. It's just a good relationship.)

Finally, all of that plays into Five's relationships with others. He isn't good at being a social creature (understandable), yet that's what he values most: his family. He wants to be empathetic--and in many cases he can be--but he's battling his own inability to be understood. He doesn't even fully understand himself in the world he left when he was a child. In a very real sense, he can't do what has become most important to him--not that his siblings are the best role models for communication. It makes sense, then, that he was able to seemingly connect with Reginald. Five wants to connect with the people he missed and felt like he wronged, no matter if he actually was in the wrong or not. He so often gets ignored/misunderstood/considered crazy that even as someone just watching that conversation, it felt cathartic for him to be listened to and taken seriously, even if I think Reginald is the absolute worst and that the best thing for him to do would be to stay dead. Five thought he was being the most rational of his siblings in that supper, but he didn't realize that his biases were as strong or stronger, and just had a different root. His relationships with others are his strongest desire/goal/motivator, but he has such a distorted perception of the way the world works on a daily, interpersonal level and also who he is in that world, that he can't really make it work right, and that's really neat to watch.

In my mind, also, what Five is looking for isn't actually his family from 2019. It isn't even his family from 2002, or at least not just them. I think that what he wants is to be who he was when he left, before he got stuck in the apocalypse. He wants his family because he loves them--I don't doubt that, and I don't want to discredit it--but also because I think in some sense he believes that if he can just be with them again, he can make things the way they used to be, the way he used to be. He's kind of like Luther in that regard, except that Luther is beginning to move on, and Five is stuck in it. The tragedy in this, of course, is that he's the time traveller here, and no matter what time he goes to, his only choice is forwards for himself. He can't go back, even if he reaches the exact moment he left. This, of course, is speculation--or analysis, if we use the kinder term--but I think it shows how much can be read into his character based on his choices and narrative arc, and that in itself is interesting whether it was intended or not.

So, that's an overly long answer to your question! It's Five because I think he's interesting, and I think he's interesting because the writers have backed themselves into a corner where he kind of has to be. I hope that was what you were looking for!

#asks #tua asks

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alien-shark · 4 years

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ZoTash prompt/one-shot: JEALOUSY

Echoes of what appears to be sparring shouts reverberate from the training grounds and soon, a surge of female Marine soldiers flood the halls. What used to be a serene area was now abuzz with gleeful exuberant cheers, their attention aimed at the other five female soldiers surrounding a lone shirtless green haired man at the centre of the training ground. Shinai swords drawn and pointed at their single adversary.

Tashigi, curious at the commotion, followed along the queue of female soldiers lining the perimeter of the ground, “What’s going on?” she asked, sipping at her coffee.

“He’s doing it. He’s sparring with them again!” A female soldier beamed, her eyes glued at the subject of interest.

Standing on her tiptoes, the Marine captain watch as the female soldiers consecutively charge at the man. But with a quick side step, parry, deflect and strikes on the shoulder, behind the knee and hip, each soldiers were disarmed and collapse on the dirt, one after another.

The spectators cheered and some groaned on behalf of their fallen comrades. On refusing to yield, one soldier latched on a nearby shinai and swiped at the man’s leg only for the weapon to shatter upon impact with his own.

“Too slow.” He sighed, disappointed. Spinning his head around, “You are all too slow.”

A wave of excited whispers, some of obscenities, rippled through the crowd.

“Your grasp on your swords are too flimsy! Even a kid can disarm you.” He pauses and releases yet another disgruntled sigh. “And you’re leaving too much opening! Do you have a death wish?! If I used real swords, you’d all be dead!” He turned to a soldier on the ground and offered his hand, she accepts reluctantly but hauls herself up with his help.

“The battle isn’t over until you’re dead.” He growled. “Till then, get your ass up and try again!”

Roronoa Zoro returned in the middle of the field, two bamboo swords drawn on his sides. His eyes scan the crowd, “Who’s up next?”

Female Marines race and scrambled to try their luck at him, beaming and professing determined shouts.

---

Captain Tashigi narrows her eyes, irritated that her fellow Marine soldiers- especially ones under Vice Admiral Tsuru’s squadron- are so easily swayed by Roronoa’s simple display of swordsmanship. But her resentment only doubled upon realizing that while she goes and makes herself a cup of coffee to begin the day, the man was already in the heat of his training.

While Roronoa trains the female Marines; observing them with a critical eye as they do drills and correct any mistakes and praise any improvements as they spar with one another, Tashigi decides to train with other soldiers who remained wary of the pirate. But it wasn’t long until Tashigi found herself training alone in their usual spot. She discovered her fellow officers figured Roronoa’s teachings yield very effective results.

And so she was alone, much to her disappointment.

Dinner proved tougher to endure when all she hears are praises aimed at Roronoa, how his outlandish teachings opened up new possibilities in their training immensely enhancing their skills.

“He’s truly a great swordsman! Glad he’s an ally now!” A soldier announced cheerfully.

“And he’s surprisingly such a decent guy too!”

“Right?! And he’s gentle and kind!”

“Have you seen that body?”

They giggle. Tashigi stands to leave.

A tremendous divide among the Marines occurred when the highly influential Vice Admirals finally roused and saw the errors of the entire Marines’ belief. It began with Smoker’s G-5 unit followed by Vice Admiral Garp, Vice Admiral Sengoku and most recently, Vice Admiral Tsuru.

Tashigi started as a grunt in Tsuru’s squad. Her skills earned her respect and praise among her superiors and popularity among the entire female Marine soldiers. Her rapid growth caused her to be transferred under Smoker’s wing in Loguetown. Yet to this day, she would return and spend some time with her previous crew. She considered this her place of solitude, a break from her testosterone infested infantry. It was a breath of fresh air to be around fellow female soldiers and they were always glad to have her back even for a short period.

However, the Marine/Pirate integration has altered her previous comrades regard towards her. (Roronoa and three of his nakamas: Nico Robin, The God-Usopp and The Soul King, temporarily stays on the island under Tsuru’s watch for Nico Robin to decipher a poneglyph. Which explains why and how the pirate is within their vicinity.) Now, the female soldiers’ attention has long abandoned Tashigi and are directed at Roronoa, much like the G-5.

“Give it to him! I bet he’ll love it!” A soldier nudged her companion.

“I hope so. He did say he loves quality sake.”

“Haha! He’ll fall head over heels for you!”

“W-what?! No.. I just wish to thank him..!” The other soldier blushed.

Soon, things took a sudden turn. An ample amount of female soldiers developed a budding infatuation towards the man. Tashigi couldn’t contain her hackles from rising when one evening, during a bonfire, another soldier gifted Roronoa sake. He drank and celebrated with them for yet another productive day. As Tashigi observes the exchange, she notices Roronoa smile almost slyly towards the gushing female Marines. Her suspicions towards the man intensifies. He was still a pirate after all. Tashigi witnessed the vulgar glances Black Leg and The Soul King displays when around women. Who’s to say Roronoa is different? She knows nothing about the man.

That very night, she confronted him. When finally he was alone, walking groggily through the empty streets, she blocked his path.

“Roronoa, a word, please.” She gestured to an empty alley.

“If you need private lessons, you’re gonna have to wait for two days.” He smiles. “I’m a busy man. Tonight’s not a good ti—”

“I know what game you’re playing, pirate!” Tashigi interjects. “You may blind the others with your swordplay but not me.”

Immediately, the pirate’s drunken stupor evaporated and he stares unblinking. But Tashigi refused to falter.

“If you’re training them just to create your little ‘fan-club’ or to invite them in your bed, I will not ask you again, please stop. These are prominent honourable women and some are already developing feelings-- bonds to you deeper than they intended. Feelings I doubt a pirate such as you even have. Whatever dark intentions you have planned, abandon it if you still wish to see the light of day.” She stepped closer and jabbed a finger on his chest. “Respect these women or I will make you.”

Roronoa stares at the finger on his chest and slowly creeps his gaze towards the woman.

“I always wondered why you never attend the training. I thought it was just your stubborn pride that makes you lurk behind the trees, watching from a distance.”

For the first time, Tashigi hesitates and draws her hand back.

“So this is how you still see me.” He narrows his eyes at her, as realization hits. “I trained your soldiers because they asked me to. I won’t apologize for my actions. I am not responsible for the feelings your soldiers harbour towards me neither will I apologize for how you interpret my actions towards them. That’s on you. I’ve never disrespected your soldiers in any way and I never intend to. I only wish to help… because-”

He takes a deep breath. “This may be empty words to you but… I feel obliged- I had a friend—,” Roronoa paused, dropping his gaze to the ground.

His voice suddenly grows quieter, jittery. “I wanted to prove to her… wherever she is I—I want to prove that women can be strong and capable of so much more. At first I didn’t believe it was possible.” He meets her eyes, his own glassy under the moonlight.

“Then you came along and changed my mind. How you handle yourself and radiate that irritating confidence and headstrong determination that affects the people around you. You made me realize that women are capable of so much more. And I want to help even in the smallest way. I want to prove to her that she was wrong for thinking so little of herself because of her gender.”

Roronoa hardens his gaze and almost doubles in size as he straightens himself, towering over the Marine captain. “But she’s dead. And she will never know. And I guess it’s too late for it now. And the person who opened up my mind to the possibilities and gave me hope continues to view me as a petty low-life. And whatever ounce of help I provided in the end didn’t matter.”

The man shakes his head and before stepping around her says, “What do I know? Pirates don’t have feelings, right?”

That night, Tashigi couldn’t sleep. Roronoa’s words cut her deeper than any wound inflicted in battle. How petty and shallow of her to view Roronoa in this light.

His late friend… Of course. How could she forget? When will she ever see beyond herself? She was insecure, blinded by her weakness. Jealousy remains to be her biggest vice, the wall that prevents her from moving forward- the gap between their abilities. She was right about one thing however, she knows nothing about the man.

The following days, Roronoa stopped showing up at the training grounds and began training somewhere else, alone, and refused to train and spar with the female soldiers, however he allowed them to watch.

“Could we have been too much for him?” A soldier during lunch muttered weakly.

“Maybe our progress was too slow he got impatient.”

“Ugh. I shouldn’t have pushed him to try our family’s sake.”

“Face it, ladies. The man didn’t see anything special and probably got bored.” Another stirred at her lunch dully. “He’s still a pirate. Open your legs at him and he might—”

“He’s not like that!” Tashigi snapped. All eyes on her. Upon realizing her outburst has generated attention she wasn’t used to, she trembled and cast her eyes down. “Roronoa is… a lot of things. But he’s not like that.”

She quickly dislodge herself from the predicament. She needed to find the man- for the sake of the Marines. But more importantly give him the apology he deserved. She cannot allow her frivolous mistake sever the unity between Marines and pirates. Tashigi could not locate him that evening so she woke up early the next day and luckily found him in his new training spot, surrounded by female soldiers urging him for a spar.

Tashigi apprehensively stepped closer into his area. A twitch of his eye suggest he’s aware of her presence.

“Roronoa, please… please train them again.” She whispers and hopes he hears amidst his grunts and loud thrusts of his sword.

“They can train themselves.” He grunts.

“They can.” She swipes a quick glance at the inquisitive soldiers. “But they prefer your guidance. They enjoy your company.”

“They’ve trained without my supervision long before I arrived in the island. They don’t need me.”

“Roronoa, please-“

“No.”

Before her tears threaten to spill, Tashigi knelt down and pressed her forehead on the ground and bowed deeply before the man.

“I apologize for every malicious words I insinuated. You didn’t deserve the accusations. I was wrong. It was unjust- I was,” She bit her lip and forced the trembling words out, “— ignorant. I figured my misplaced vigilance for my fellow Marines only causes harm than good. And I realize my accusations reflected more about my insecurities than of your character.”

The thrusting of sword stopped and louder whispers emanate from the growing onlookers.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I only wish for you to know how deeply I regret my misdemeanour.” She sobbed. “Please do not punish them because of the lapses in my judgement. Roronoa… Roronoa-san, it would be an honour to gain your insights.”

Tashigi took a deep breath and lifted her head slightly, “Please train them—train us!!”

“Tashigi-san…” Echoes of her name ran through the crowd but she refused to lift her head.

A surge of delight rushed through the swordsman’s chest and instantly felt an entire lightness of being, as if the overbearing weight he’s been carrying the last couple of days was lifted off his chest and he was engulfed with unexpected satisfaction. A single apology from the woman would have suffice, but this almost evaporated every affliction he’d ever experience. Had this happen months ago, he would have a quip to counter, instead he clears his throat,

“Then what are you waiting for? Grab your shinai. We’re losing daylight!”

Tashigi finally raised her head, face coated in watery dirt but she didn’t care. Altogether, the entire female Marine squadron exclaimed, “Haiii!!”.

----

Apologies for going over the word count! I hope this was worth your time!

#zotashprompts #ZoTash #tashigi #roronoa zoro #writing prompt #one shot

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typewriterghcst · 4 years

Text

Title: In the TV Light Rating: G-ish tbh Characters: The Cat King, Natori, Haru, and a bit of Natoru at the end Pairings: None except for mentions of Lune and Yuki, but I hope you’re prepared for a tender heart-to-heart where one of the participants is the Cat King. Summary: Not one to be appeased by flimsy substitutions when he really wants something, the Cat King drags a protesting Natori into the human world sometime after midnight in the hopes of obtaining a midnight snack worth getting out of bed for. Notes: Written for the TCR 2020 Birthday Bash. I mean. Mostly. It actually first began life as a response to being given the one-word prompt “Glow.” Which at the time I had intended to be a reference to the glow of the convenience store lights on pavement or something pretentiously poetic like that lmao i’ve also decided to go ahead and split this enormous rambling fic into pieces in the interest of making it more. uh. Accessible. however, there may be erratically. Long periods of time in between updates, aha rip

Chapter 1: In Which Haru Makes A Questionable Decision

Natori’s face is pressed against one of his paws. Rather uncomfortably, he should add, as it’s a gesture that anyone who wears glasses will tell you is difficult to pull off without some vexing little issues, feline or not. After a moment or two of this private mourning for the nap he’d been at least absently looking forward to, he finally lifts his head again so that he can look his Issue in the grinning, odd-eyed face. The king is waiting for his answer. No doubt he’s already convinced himself it will be a favorable one, despite Natori’s show of exasperation. If not immediately, then… eventually.

Frustrated with the swell of helplessness that washes over him at this prospect, Natori turns his attention instead to the window, inadvertently looking out over the mess of still-crumbled tower, stone and rubble. He supposes it might count as a grounding, a ruined emblem to remind him why Claudius must have this voice of reason.

When he does reply, it’s with the long-suffering tone of an overworked schoolmarm.

"...You want me to organize another official procession into the human world— and at such alarmingly short notice, I might add— just so you can, if I have this right..." Here Natori's deadpan gaze falls directly on his royal employer's (ex? royal employer's?) hopeful, oblivious face, and he prays he looks just as judgmental as he's about to sound, "...pick up a bag of chips or two..?"

To both his relief and everlasting resignation, the Cat King only snorts at this prospect, or perhaps its ridiculous (but no less accurate) wording, but he does at least step back a bit, wobbling heavily on one foot and waving one paw in overconfidence at the same time. "Nah, babe— forget all that frilly procession baloney. This cat ain't the king anymore, is he? Not on paper, anyway. I say we just ollie on out there, grab what we want, come back, and eat like—” he snorts again, "—kings."

And, then, before Natori can protest again, unimpressed by the other cat's... joke, he continues, head canted, one eye squinted just so that he looks playfully critical of his ex-advisor's apparent poor memory. "And you know me, Natty— I ain't about that bag of chips life. Heh."

The Cat King snorts again, gaze drawn to his paw as he does. "...For all the walking I'm about to endure for it, you know it's gonna be oden or bust."

"Your Majesty, please, to— for you to travel in such a way—! It's—! I-It's.." Natori's objections fade when his old friend looks him in the eye, expression molded into what one would be forgiven for reading as wholly blank were it not for the underpinning of steel mixed in with the ennui. He sees it then— how nothing he says is going to hold any weight, how there is no way for him to make the king understand just how remarkably—! Immature! Unseemly! The Cat King is an old man, a retired one, at that, who is in the process of passing on his crown and livelihood to his more capable son, but he's certainly not supposed to ostensibly sneak out of his own lavish home like a delinquent teenager now that the pressure is off him! ...Is he?

The king is smiling widely at him again— the same smile he's always sported whenever he's gotten his way, or known he was about to get his way, and Natori— steels himself! He huffs; his eyes narrow. He's not defeated just yet!

"...But it must be after midnight in the human world right now." Ah. That came out fainter than he intended. Shoot.

More frustrating still, the king adds a peace sign to his goofy smile.

"Don't worry about it, babe. I had a plan for that all along."

&&&

"...This is your plan..."

"This is the plan, babe."

They are lingering outside a familiar home in the human world, perched solidly atop the fence surrounding it. A street lamp down the way they came flickers. Natori turns from that omen and instead regards the modest house with no small amount of dubious chagrin. Yet his companion only chuckles at his overt lack of confidence.

"Your Majesty, I— what on Earth makes you think Miss Haru is going to be willing to assist you in this venture?" Natori doesn't say as such, but her indignant disdain toward the Cat King after his, er, less-than-eloquent proposal had seemed quite clear to him.

"Because I'm the king."

"I quite clearly recall you saying you're not the king anymore, Si—"

"I'm the king," the Cat King repeats, more firmly this time, "And if she pulls a favor for me, that means she has me in her debt, right? Who could say no to that, uhh?"

Ah. That feels like a trap. Natori bites his tongue, but he's far from placated. This is not going to go the way his employer has envisioned it to in his head. Haru, he imagines, cares little for playing nice with the king and his... eccentricities, and an eventual confrontation between the two seems obvious to the bespectacled cat. Acting as the battered neutral party between two stubborn forces of nature is a far cry from how Natori would prefer to spend his late night, but he supposes there are few other cats as practiced as he is at the balancing act.

"Come on, time's a-wastin’—"

Without any other warning, his employer suddenly hops off the fence, disappearing within the cattails that are still growing in the yard (much to Natori's utter bafflement, at least, so Haru surely can't blame them for that), and takes off.

"Wait—!"

"Well, hurry up!"

By the time Natori catches up to his king, he's already practically glued to what Natori guesses is Haru's bedroom window. Her lights are off, which is to be expected, given the time. He catches only the smallest glimpse of the lump snuggled under the comforter before he's distracted by the king's less than courteous attempt at waking the poor girl— an open-palmed smack on the glass of her window, muted only slightly by his plush fur. To Natori's horror, the king raises his paw to try again, but he somehow manages to stop him before he gets the chance.

"Your Majesty, plea—"

"It worked!"

Indeed, it has. A quick glance back to the window before the two of them reveals that Haru (her face at least, the rest of her still cocooned within her duvet like a caterpillar) has emerged from under the covers and caught sight of the pair of cats currently sitting on her window sill as though they own the thing (...and at least one of them most certainly is the type to think so). And, Natori notes, she's regarding them in much the same way one might a forgotten four-month-old bento at the back of the fridge. That's about all the information he has time to absorb before cold, hard glass collides with his glasses and nose (vaguely, he's aware also of the surprised feline yowl that erupts from the king somewhere beside him).

He comes to seconds later on all fours, once again buried in the sea of cattails that at the moment constitutes Haru's family's yard. Haru herself is leaning nearly halfway out the now open window, pointing out at the two of them accusingly.

"What are you doing here?!" She hisses.

The Cat King pops up from out of his unintentional hiding spot among the tall brush, arms outstretched as if he has any right to be indignant, or perhaps is trying to placate an affronted ex.

"C'mon, babe, what'd I do to deserve that kinda greeting..?"

Natori, still crouched somewhere to the side of his king, can only stare up at Haru's form in the window. She seems to be reluctant to raise her voice, which he supposes is reasonable enough. Meanwhile, an inner voice of his own sees fit to mention to him that he must look like something of a helpless bystander, if not a pitifully frightened kitten, and it's that realization which ultimately tugs him to his full height.

"Don't go acting like you don't know! I almost died because of you!"

"But you didn't!"

"That's not the point!"

Natori distracts the king with a soft tap to the arm.

"...Sire, perhaps it might help defuse the situation if you politely tell her why you've come to... er, visit her..? Politely," he adds again for good measure.

The Cat King is silent for a good moment or two, purring to himself, but finally he nods in approval.

"Good idea, Natty. There's no telling how long we'll be here otherwise."

"...politely..." Natori echoes faintly as he moves away, almost certain his advice will prove too demanding for the king to follow.

Haru, for her part, has at least receded from hanging halfway out the window and instead stands with her arms tightly crossed, looking back and forth between the two with an expression that promises great adversity should they try anything shifty, and for just a brief moment, Natori finds himself struck by a difference he can't quite put a time-frame to. She's quite an image removed from the shrinking violet he'd first spied hiding behind her front drive's stone pillar.

It’s a wonder the change hadn’t registered as a more permanent shift in confidence to him before now.

As if she hadn’t just impulsively knocked the two of them off the very same ledge upon merely spying them sitting there, the Cat King clambers up the side of Haru’s house, depositing himself right onto her window sill like a particularly large and unkempt robin and making himself at home all over again. Haru herself looks less than pleased with this development, but the fact she hasn’t shut her window and gone back to bed seems a good sign to Natori. After a moment of hesitation, he eventually follows his old friend.

"'Kay, here's the thing, babe—"

Natori opens his mouth to nervously correct the king's… vernacular as he arrives, but in the end merely closes it again, thinking better of it. By this point it's just a nervous tic, not a true term of romantic endearment. Otherwise, he'd refrain from referring to Natori himself in such a way. (...wouldn't he? Well, he doesn’t have time to puzzle that one out.)

"—human food is delish, right? But some of us don't have the right, ehhh, savoir-faire to get it for ourselves. Get it? We hafta ask for help. And that's where you come in, babe."

And then, silence. Haru’s previously crossed arms have loosened, and she seems to be trapped somewhere between quizzical and skeptical.

“...that’s really all you want?”

“Would I lie? A king’s word is gold, babe.”

Haru looks from him to Natori, and the old cat struggles valiantly to keep a straight face and not allow even a shred of doubt in the king’s honesty show. Finally, some of the hard suspicion in her expression starts to fade, though a softer relative is still left behind in the form of uncertainty. When her gaze moves back to the king, it seems she has but one question left.

“Why do you need any help? Lune managed to get a gift for Yuki all by himself.”

To Natori’s surprise, the king then copies Haru’s gesture from just seconds before and looks to him, though in his case it’s with rather striking naivete (striking in its apparent authenticity, if nothing else), as if he’s waiting for an explanation on that mystery himself. Somewhere, an old, exasperated resignation creeps over Natori… Mm. Claudius has always been only too eager to leave the truly arduous questions to him, hasn’t he? Still, he answers readily enough, shoving that unexpected rise of resentment down into the depths from whence it came.

“I’m afraid Prince Lune is something of a— ah, special case. He’s quite well-known in the Cat Kingdom for spending a surprising amount of time in the human world.” Something he now realizes was likely Yuki’s influence. “It’s not at all a difficult stretch of the imagination to presume he must have cultivated a number of hospitable bonds here in the process.”

“Lune’s a networker,” the Cat King adds proudly.

“Unfortunately, well, we haven’t quite had that same opportunity,” Natori finishes. Were he more truthful, he might add that he and the king perhaps have relied a little too heavily on Natoru’s ingrained street smarts in the case of traversing the human world in the past. Haru at least appears amused by this explanation.

“...so, what you’re saying is you’re a couple of clueless, old tourists, is that it?” She eventually deadpans.

“Ha! That’s not a bad way to look at it, babe.” And yet, in a faint pout, the king eventually also adds, “I’m not that old.”

Haru’s brow rises. “No?”

“Natty’s older than I am.”

“Sire—”

“Well, that I’m not surprised by.”

The Cat King turns to survey him before Natori can get another word out. “I thought he was carrying his age pretty good myself.”

That actually gets a small laugh out of Haru, though it’s quickly stifled. Natori, meanwhile, can’t help but feel at least a little like the two are ganging up on him.

“No, King, that’s not what I meant.”

This friendly banter seems to be the last of the encouragement necessary to get through her defenses. Shifting her weight to her other foot, gaze drawn to the night sky in thought, she concedes. At least. Slightly.

“Alright… if it’s just a matter of some snacks…” She murmurs first to herself. “But that’s all! I’m not letting you rope me into some harebrained marriage scheme again, understand?”

The Cat King is already rubbing his paws together in anticipation of his beloved convenience store oden, but he at least remembers to nod in agreement.

“Sure, sure, babe. No funny business. Cross my heart.”

“And stop calling me babe.”

#the cat returns

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jolinar · 4 years

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A Very Star Wars Fictober (in December!) Day 26

(I bet you thought I’d given up, huh? But no. Here I am, rising from the ashes because rebellions are built on hope...or something...)

Prompt number: #26 “How about you trust me for once?”

Fandom: Star Wars

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings/Tags: Luke and Leia sibling bickering

Word Count: 1497

Summary: Leia and Luke have words while planning to free Han from Jabba’s Palace.

Read it on Ao3

“You want me to trust you? After what you and Han got into?”

“Luke!”

“Leia!”

They stared each other down, two immovable objects leaning forward in nearly identical poses. The holotable between them was littered with tablets, flimsies, half-scribbled notes, old kaf mugs, dirty plates, and broken styluses. In the center of the mess, a layout of Jabba’s Palace on Tatooine glowed an intermittent blue. Wordlessly, they glared at each other.

Surprisingly, Leia was the first one to break eye contact. She paced away, armed crossed, and Luke felt a moment of triumph -- then she wheeled to face him.

“I don’t see what your problem is," she said in precise, clipped tones. She sounded haughty, almost bored, as though his concerns were too base to even remark on.

“What my problem is that your plan is needlessly complicated. While you’re waiting for all these pieces to fit together, Han could be dying.”

Leia flinched as though he had slapped her. Luke felt, again a moment of triumph, before she rallied again.

“Jabba wants to use him as trophy -- you said that yourself: 'the Hutts love that kind of thing.' They’ll keep him alive. They have to.”

“And if you’re wrong??”

In answer to this, Leia drew her eyebrows together and pointed at him. “How about you trust me for once, hmm?” Luke was momentarily nonplussed. The expression and gesture...they were so Han. Leia wore them like a child trying on their parents' clothes. Luke shook his head and laughed.

“What? What is it? Do you think this is funny --” she demanded. She shifted her hands to her hips, a gesture entirely her own.

“No, it’s nothing --” She raised an eyebrow at him and he continued: “You sounded just like him there, like Han.”

Leia shut her eyes and took in a deep shuddering breath. “Oh no, he’s rubbing off on me.”

Luke suppressed a smile. “Looks like it.”

She let out a long sigh. “I’m serious. Luke. I need you to trust me here. I’ve trusted you since the beginning -- since you broke into my cell in that ridiculous stormtrooper armor. And I trusted you when I heard you on Bespin.”

There it was. The thing they’d avoided talking about. He’d dreaded her asking about it because, in truth, he didn’t know what it meant either. He’d been reaching out for old Ben Kenobi, searching the Force for someone familiar. But he’d found her instead.

“I heard you, I heard your voice in my head and I trusted it. Now it’s your turn to trust me. Just walking into Jabba’s palace and demanding that he let Han go -- that’s not going to work. We need layers, plans within plans and failsafes if this is going to work.”

He looked into her face, into her earnest and somewhat pleading expression. He could feel her hurt, pulsing beneath her brave and impenetrable surface.

“But why can’t we just break in and grab him?” Luke asked. “If we were fast enough --”

But Leia had already cut him off with a hand wave. "No, no, that won't work. If you'd just listen..." she gestured over her holo of Jabba’s Palace, talking rapidly but with a confident cadence. Her eyes were full of excitement and purpose. She liked this, Luke realized studying her, this planning. She thrived on it. And he knew that however unnecessary this may seem to him, she would be able to convince the others. That fire in her eyes would ignite even the weakest kindling.

As he turned this over in his mind, he had another flash of insight. “You miss him.” He’d said it out loud without realizing it. Leia looped up and raised an eyebrow at him, as though he was an exceptionally slow child asking an impertinent question. He opened his mouth to retort, but she beat him to it.

“Do I miss Han? Yes, Luke, we...we talked about this. Han and I, we --”

But Luke shook his head, and leaned forward across the table, cutting her off this time. “No. You father. You miss him.” He gestured towards the table, the notes. “This is the kind of thing you used to do with him. Go over a plan. And you miss it.”

A normal person might have been upset, confused as to how he could have known this. But not Leia. She took it in her stride. Without betraying any emotion, she leaned back against the console, regarding him, arms crossed. Finally, she said:

“You want to go there? Okay. I was adopted as a baby, but he and my mother were the only parents I ever knew. I loved my mother, but my father and I were very close," she paused for a moment, gathering herself. "Sometimes I miss him so much. Too much. I miss all of Alderaan. And I wish --" he could have sworn her voice cracked slightly before she could rein it under control, "I wish more than anything I could talk to him. Even when we both so busy, he would always write or record a message. That’s the hardest, I think...knowing he’ll never write to me again.” She paused and Luke felt as though something was unlocking within her, he was seeing a part of Leia that he had never seen before. But at the same time, he was thinking of himself. His adoptive parents had never written to him. They hadn't needed to; he'd hardly been out of yelling distance in his whole life. Of his own father, what he’d thought of him, what he’d turned out to be. How would Leia feel when one day she learned that his father had been instrumental in killing hers, and her whole planet?

Leia saved him any further thought by pressing onwards: "But I can’t stop. I can’t mourn. Not him or my mother or my aunts or all of Alderaan. Not now. And I won’t, I can’t lose anyone else.” She was pointing at him again, that Han Solo gesture that was so incongruous to her small form. Her eyes were overbright, but Luke didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort her. So instead, he just nodded.

“I was adopted, too,” he said, after a moment, wanting to offer some common ground. “My aunt and uncle took me in, anyway. After,” he hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing, “after my parents died.”

“In the clone wars?”

Luke nodded. It was the easiest explanation and note entirely a lie. Maybe that's why his aunt and uncle had gravitated towards it. “And now Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru...they’re gone too. Killed by the Empire, they --” in his mind he saw again the charred remains of their homestead. He felt anger and tried to distance himself, pull away. Master Yoda had told him where anger led. He cast his eyes around the room, trying to find something else to hold on to. He found it in Leia. She held his gaze, firm and steadfast despite her own tears.

They stood in silence for a moment. They were each deep in a grief that was both shared and unimaginable to the other. Then, tentatively, Luke said:

“Well, I think your father would be proud of you.”

“Really?” Leia asked, incredulous. “I lost most of my men, the people I was responsible for, on Hoth. Even this plan...we’re not going after the Empire, we’re going after one man, we --”

“But you’re still moving forward, still carrying his dream. That counts for something, right?”

Leia looked at him sideways. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Yes?”

She laughed a little. “For what it’s worth, it’s working.” Then, more seriously: “Thank you.”

“And for what it’s worth, I do trust you." He held out his hands, gesturing at the table below them. “Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it.” As he said it, he realized that for him, it really want that easy. He could help Han and make Leia feel better, so he’d do it. And her plan hadn’t been that bad, it just took too long. But if it meant success...maybe that was part of the lesson that Master Yoda had been trying to impart as he'd left. If he could see something through, not get distracted...

Ironically, he was then distracted by Leia clearing her throat. He looked up at her expectantly. All trace of grief in her face was now gone, replaced instead with an almost mad fervor.

“I might need you to play an all-knowing and mysterious Jedi,” she tilted her head to the side, regarding critically. “Think you're up for it?"

Luke smiled wryly. "I'll do my best. What else?"

“Rule One: always have a man on the inside. I bet we could get someone on Jabba’s guard staff easily enough...” she looked up at him meaningfully.

“Me? I don’t --”

“No, Lando.”

“He’ll do it? I thought you said --”

“He owes me a favor,” Leia replied, eyes flashing. “He’ll do it.”

#fictober20 #a very star wars fictober #mae writes #star wars fanfiction #sw fanfic #luke skywalker #leia organa #I am maybe a little drunk

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ircnkingdom-a · 4 years

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➤ DRABBLE. >>> THE MESS WE MADE.

1762. St. Petersburg -- Russia.

❛ Are you absolutely sure you do not want me to accompany you ? ❜

❛ How many times are you planning to ask me that before you realize that my answer is going to remain unchanged ? No, Gilbert --- I do not wish for you to tire yourself by accompanying me. I would much rather you stay right where you are, in bed where you should be, ❜

Gilbert felt his face scrunch up into a frown and was about to open his mouth to protest, but eventually decided that he did not have the energy to put up with Frederick’s stubborn nature at the moment. So he did the only thing he could do : he gave a long sigh, ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back in the process as he slumped back down onto the pillows waiting for him ; watching his lover be attended to by manservants as he got dressed for tonight’s event. It was no secret that Prussia always thought that his king was a handsome man, but something about seeing the latter dressed in something a little fancier than his uniform made him seem even more attractive. He smile coyly at the thought, taking note of all the little details like the way the light seemed to glint off of the silver trim lining the front of the coat, or the way the garment just seemed to hug his shoulders just right...

From the corner of his eye, Frederick easily caught the way his nation was staring at him, which coaxed a soft, amused scoff and a smile of his own out of him. With a discreet wave of his hand, he dismissed the servants who both promptly bowed towards their monarch and took their leave. The king glanced at his reflection in the mirror one more time, waiting for the sound of the door closing shut before finally walking over towards the bed where Gilbert was and sat at the edge ; taking hold of his lover’s hand as he did so.

❛ Besides, even if I wanted you by my side, Monsieur Siedel would not be too happy to know that you were out dancing the night away instead of resting, ❜

❛ Please, mon amour, ❜ Gilbert huffed, ❛ Siedel was not too keen on allowing me to travel with you to St. Petersburg, yet here I am, ❜

❛ Only because you would not stop incessantly asking the man, you stubborn fool, ❜ It was Frederick’s turn to sigh, giving Gilbert’s hand a reprimanding pat. As much as he disliked doctors, Georg Siedel was one of the few that he could confidently say he could trust --- At least when it came to his nation’s health, that is. And for once, he was on the doctor’s side : he was not exactly pleased when Prussia decided to come along with him to St. Petersburg, upon being invited by the Tsar himself. Even though Gilbert’s condition had started to show remarkable signs of improvement since Russia withdrew from the war ( a miracle that Frederick would never stop being grateful for, surely ), his health was still fragile and everyone but Gilbert himself had agreed that he was in no condition to travel such a long way.

In the end, there was little he, Siedel --- Hell, not even Reiner could do to dissuade Prussia from going with his king to Russia at Tsar Peter’s invitation. He could be as stubborn as a rock when he wanted to be. Perhaps that is why they made such a good pair together.

❛ What can I say ? ❜ Gilbert grinned cheekily, shoulders bouncing in a light shrug as he squeezed his love’s hand right back, ❛ I learned from the best, ❜

The king scoffed in reply, rolling his eyes sarcastically before giving his head a light shake. Contrary to what most people would think, Frederick was well aware of just how headstrong he could be. These past seven years spent in wartime had proven to him that the trait could be both his greatest strength and his most tragic flaw. Unaware of the frown that was starting to form on his face, he felt his gaze shift discreetly towards Gilbert’s side, knowing full well the scar that lay hidden beneath the shirt he was wearing ; a brutal reminder of where letting hubris get to his head could lead to.

Gilbert did not fail to notice the way Frederick was looking at him and, after following the line of his gaze, knew exactly what his lover was thinking about. He shifted uncomfortably in place, which seemed to snap Fritz out of his reverie, ❛ Frederick --- ❜

❛ Are you feeling alright ? ❜

Pale brows furrowed at being interrupted and at failing to dodge the hand that had reached out to feel his forehead and pat his cheek, searching for signs of a fever. Honestly, Fritz did not have to look very far --- His flushed face, sweat drenched hair, and pink tinged cheeks said it all, ❛ You feel warmer than you were earlier, Gilbert. Your temperature might have spiked higher in the last hour --- Should I call for Siedel before I go ? ❜

❛ Fritz, mon cher, I have been running a fever since we left camp and believe me when I say it is the absolute least of my worries. I have been through worse, I will be fine, ❜ Gilbert said in the most reassuring tone he could muster, adding a firm nod to punctuate his point. In any case, there was little anyone could do about the perpetual fever plaguing him, apart from keeping him comfortable. As long as the economic situation of the kingdom was in shambles, his health was going to mirror that state too. ❛ I will send for Siedel if I need him, I promise, ❜ A pause, ❛ Please promise me you will not spend the rest of the evening thinking about me and whether or not I am alright, ❜

❛ And what sort of a foolish request is that ? ❜ Frederick wrinkled his nose and frowned, ❛ You might as well ask me to cease breathing, ❜

❛ Then will you promise to at least try ? ❜ Gilbert pleaded ; the sheets rustling as he moved to close the distance between him and the other, ignoring the stern look being directed at him. ❛ I would hate to think of you appearing so distracted when you are supposed to be celebrating this new alliance of ours, ❜

❛ I am your king, Prussia. It is my job to worry about you, ❜ Especially when I am the reason why you are like this, Frederick wanted to add, but decided to keep that tidbit to himself for now. A smile ghosted over his lips when he felt his lover press his forehead against his own, blue eyes blinking open to stare directly into a pair of golden ones, more beautiful than the finest pieces of amber on earth, ❛ Why ? Are you concerned that the Russians would take offense at my seemingly perpetually displeased expression ? ❜

They both had to chuckle at that little quip, ❛ Not as concerned as I am over the fact that poor Peter might break his back bending backward trying to remedy what makes you look so upset, ❜ Gilbert mumbled discreetly, which got him a laugh in return.

❛ Now, mon cher, is that any way to speak of our most important ally ? ❜

❛ As I said before, mein liebling, I learned from the best, ❜

Prussia giggled back, looking around to make sure nobody was around before he leaned forward and caught his monarch’s lips in a tender kiss, which was eagerly returned. Gilbert allowed his hand to trail up Frederick’s arm until it eventually settled on the man’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze as they parted from their kiss. ❛ Alright --- Last chance to change your mind. Are you sure you do not want me to go --- ❜

❛ For the absolute last time, no ! ❜

Gilbert knew Frederick was trying to be stern, but he could not help the bout of laughter that erupted from his lips as he was gently shoved away and back down to the pile of pillows. It was more or less the reaction he was expecting, anyway. ❛ Do not make me order you to stay down in that bed, Prussia. As much as I hate to pull that card on you, I will --- ❜

❛ Okay, okay, ❜ He said, raising his hands defensively only to wince at the pain all his laughing had brought on. It was damn near impossible to miss the way his monarch’s expression shifted from being annoyed at his insistence to one of alarm, ❛ I am fine, ❜ Gilbert cut him off before he could say anything, waving a dismissive hand, ❛ It is alright, just a little twinge but I... I will be fine, ❜

It did not take long for Frederick’s brows to knit together into a frown. Honestly, did Gilbert really expect him to believe that flimsy excuse---

❛ Your Majesty, Baron von der Goltz has arrived, ❜

Gilbert almost thanked the aide for his perfect timing, trying not to smile too wide at his love’s annoyance at having the chance to fuss over him snatched out from right under his nose.

❛ Very well, ❜ Frederick sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to just trust his nation’s word for now. Rising from his spot on the bed, he looked over his shoulder to address the aide, ❛ Tell him to wait outside and that I shall be with him shortly, ❜

❛ Yes, Your Majesty, ❜

The sound of boots pacing the floor retreated as the soldier left to go relay his monarch’s message until the king and his nation were left alone once more. ❛ It seems it is time for you to go, ❜ Gilbert smiled, although he was unable to keep the hint of sadness out of his tone now that he knew he had to part with his beloved. But he quickly shook that off, hoping that Fritz did not pick up on it, ❛ Well go on ! I do not want to be the reason why you are late ! ❜

❛ Oh quit your fussing, I am leaving already ! ❜

The Prussian nation pouted, only to have that expression shift into a more pleasant one when he felt his love quickly press his lips against his own, ❛ Enjoy yourself, my love, ❜ Gilbert whispered.

❛ Mm. I will try, ❜ Fritz replied, ❛ I will most likely be back late. Do not stay up waiting for me --- I mean it, ❜

❛ I know, mein liebling, ❜ He had to fight not to openly roll his eyes, ❛ Now quit your fussing and just leave. You are going to be late ! ❜

❛ Fine, I am leaving ! ❜ The other said, turning on his heel to make his way out of the bedroom suite, pausing as he reached the doors when Gilbert called out to him.

❛ Send my regards and apologies to the Tsar for not being able to attend, ❜

❛ I will, ❜ Frederick nodded, stealing another lingering gaze at Prussia before finally turning his gaze back towards the door as the servants on the other side swung it open for him. If he did not stop glancing at Gilbert when he did, he feared he would never leave, ❛ I will see you later, Monsieur von Beilschmidt, ❜

❛ Until then, Your Majesty, ❜ Gilbert responded with a small, respectful nod ; dropping most of the romantic affection in his tone now that he was aware that there were others listening in to their conversation. It was a well-rehearsed act between them, to be able to go from acting like a pair of lovers to assuming the professional, vaguely friendly relationship that most people would expect from between a monarch and his country. And while it did make Gilbert’s heart pang with sadness to know that they had to hide the true nature of their relationship from anyone who simply could not understand that yes, two men can fall in love the way that they did, it also filled him with a sense of excitement. It was their little secret, something that was shared between the two of them and nothing could ever take that away.

He watched as Frederick disappeared through the double doors, allowing his gaze to drop down to his lap when they were closed shut again ; and for the first time, he let the act drop and practically sank into his covers, staring up at the ornately decorated ceiling. Calling the previous Tsarina’s death and Tsar Peter’s ascension to the throne a ‘Miracle’ was not an exaggeration --- God only knew what would have become of him and his country if not for that extremely fortunate turn of events. But he knew there was still a long road ahead of them before they could finally secure Silesia, win the war, and finally begin the grueling road to recovery.

Gilbert breathed out a long sigh and closed his eyes. One step at a time, he told himself. He had faith that Frederick was going to be able to see them through this mess --- A mess that he was partly responsible for, but that hardly mattered to Gilbert --- Not when he could see his love trying hard to make up for it all.

Turning over to his non-injured side, he pulled the covers over him and tried to drift off into sleep. He would write back to his brother about how he was doing when he awoke. For now, he figured he should at least attempt to get some proper rest, ‘lest he wanted to find himself at the end of a lecture later on.

#➤ IC / DRABBLE ┊ ❛ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ❜#➤ SHARED / V. 002 [ 1740 / 1786 ] ┊ ❛ sᴘᴀʀᴛᴀ ʙʏ ᴅᴀʏ / ᴀᴛʜᴇɴs ʙʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ❜#➤ G / REL. [ ғʀɪᴛᴢ ] ┊ ❛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴋɪɴɢ / ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴏɴʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ❜#( i found this in my google docs #and wanted to post it here :3c #just a nation and his king being gay nbd jkjkfg )

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kurtty-drabbles · 4 years

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Justicar verse au

N/A: Somethings to add here. This comes to me before I fell to sleep. Another Justicar au but this time Kitty is a villain. Ok, time to explain myself, she´s more a rebel who has no problem in dirtying her hands to get justice. in this world mutants that aren´t considered omega are forced to take the cure and be humans and this opens some bad implications that Kitty and Yana are facing (No, Yana will not betray her as she did in that issue) and finally, Kurt Cadbury is not a NAZI (FUCK THAT, HE´S NOT AND WILL MURDER A NAZI IF HE SEES ONE) but I guess he´s blind by this side of society and believes he´s doing a great service. I want to make people here a bit grey. No one is truly evil and no one here is truly good.

@dannybagpipesarecalling @djinmer4 @bamfoftheundead @everykurt

The facility Welsh in New York is one building with 4 floors and is a long queue of beta mutants who are waiting or being forced to wait. The line is big and the Justicars are present as always. A nurse and a doctor called for the next beta mutant, a man called Todd-he confessed he forget his own surname and while the doctors don´t believe, in a minute or two, it won´t be important- who looks a hybrid of man and frog.

Justicar Cadbury watches as the mutant walks in slow peace to the entrance and how the frog-like mutant look behind to see if something would happen. No one is at his rescue. "figures" and moves forwards as the doctor guides him along with the nurse.

"So far, so good" Justicar Cadbury states over his radio wearing the uniform and watching the Beta mutants of today. All of them have their own stories and some of them look eager to be human again. For example, a blue woman named Edith-he got her name as she´s one of the few blue women in the queue- who while she can teleport is only once by day and it always took too much of her health. "I want to be normal and have a normal life again" she´s crying of joy at this prospect.

Suddenly, Cadbury witness a human being escorted by other Justicars and screaming obscenities Cadbury is sure no one should ever know. "You fuckers. I want to be Blop again. I´m the indestructible Blop..." and his normal physical is not strong to punch the two justicars. Freddy Dukes try to eat them, but, in his new body plus the fact, the Justicars have weapons it is a defeat to Freddy Dukes.

Cadbury has time to only say no before the justicar shoots Freedy in the head. The calm queue quickly turns into a riot and Cadbury is the one trying to calm the situation. More shots are heard and the facility closed doors for today.

Dammit...Is Shadowcat behind this? ______________________________________________________________________________________

"You know" a voice drawls in the empty room with only one door and no window. "I know you´re trying to be all scary and demonic, but, all I can see if Illyana Rasputin sulking in a room" the voice belongs to Kitty Pryde who is resting her back on the door´s frame and crossing her arms as the aforementioned Yana is floating above the ground.

Yana´s eyes open showing the hell in her very same eyes, literally. "That´s because you´re lucky" Yana let a ghost of a smile born in her face contrasting a bit with the sweater of a big smiling cat. "I have good news and bad news. Which one do you prefer first?" the tone is unforgettable and Kitty didn´t say anything.

"Oh, fine...bad news first," Yana offers a sober expression. "Justicar apprehends more beta mutants in the north section...there´s some riot and a few mutants were shoot, and you know, as they were stripped the titled of mutant...you can´t murder what is not real" Yana completes having her face taken by her demonic energies.

Kitty is not impressed. "And the good news?"

"Well, this riot caused some confusion and the humans aren´t exactly happy to witness that nor to see supposedly humans being locked down by the police and now the Justicar are dealing with bad press and you know, mortals still need money" Yana explains slowly letting her feet touch the ground.

Kitty frowns her eyebrows now. "Your demon friends really understand humanity enough to make this assumption? Justicar is useful for the government..." she trails off bitterly.

"Yes, they´re useful but the government still retains a huge grudge about them, especially in regards to the Sentinel project!" Yana explains now walking to Kitty. The age differences are apparent thanks to the height sizes. "And my friends are many, many things...but not liars" Yana concludes now gazing at Kitty. "Rest to know what Shadowcat will do with this information"

And with that piece of information Yana walks away humming and whistling in a perfect image of innocence. Kitty shakes her head at the sight of Yana´s red tail and wonders if the others understand what Yana truly is now.

Maybe they´d not and this is for the better.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

"I thought you, more and once, to not shoot an ex-mutant" Cadbury berates the two Justicars that caused the commotion. "Now the press and the government are after us...again" Cadbury narrows his eyes at them and his face twisted into something worthy of a nightmare and the two justicars refuse to say anything as Cadbury is looking more and more like a demon.

"Cadbury, is enough!" the voice of Captain Britain is stern but his eyes are focused on the two justicars. "the damage is done...what we can do now is punish those who caused the commotion" Brian Braddock took his helmet off and show his face.

"But, sir, he was Blop he devoured people...he could have done the same" one of them speak and Cadbury and Brian aren´t buying this flimsy excuse.

"How? You two are taller than him now and you two have telekinesis...I told time and time again...that this job is to protect mutants and humans and to not let petty rivalry and feelings come between you two" Brian states not impressed. "Fred committed crimes and I´m not here to defend a cannibal, but, here to defend the victims and his own family who were rob of any justice today..." and Brian looks at Cadbury. "They´re in your unity...whatever punishment you seem fit for them I´ll accept"

And now Cadbury gazes into their forms for a moment. "You two will make a public announcing addressing the victims and the Dukes´s family...then will public ask for demission and no privileges will be given. If you two refuse...you two can always face me here and now" Cadbury holds his sword and the two look at each other for a moment and shake their head.

"Good, then take the helmets now" and the two ex-justicar did just that, and a female justicar guide them. They have to make an announcement and is important to do so without their former uniforms.

"Cadbury, can I have a word with you?" Brian asked and Cadbury can´t say no

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Kitty is walking in the hall-full of people talking and gestures contrasting her own mood- the house is large on the inside and outside and it seems to be designed to show such space. Kitty caught the sight of a blonde wisp of hair the lonely table listening to the radio.

"Meggan?" Kitty approaches the shapeshifter who turns to Kitty for a moment and then to the radio again.

"The justicars scared me...they killed Blop and are now apologizing...was this part of your plan?" she asked a bit childish and Kitty recalls how she wanted to be a teacher before this whole mess began.

"I have many plans"

"This doesn´t answer much"

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Why I would? You saved me from them..."

_________________________________________________________________________

Brian looks up to Cadbury and makes one question. “Is Shadowcat behind this?” and Cadbury take his helmet off and shows his face. “Kurt Cadbury...I need to know and I trust you...is Shadowcat behind this?”

“I have no real proof, but, I can say what I believe and I believe she´s involved in this somehow”

#justicar verse au #kurt cadbury #kitty pryde #kurtty eventually #meggan puceanu #Brian Braddock #Go Girl cameo #Toad cameo

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thebluelemontree · 5 years

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SanSan time! So in ASOIAF we get the Hand’s Tourney scene with Sansa & Sandor, and the whole “he was no true knight” moment. It seems like Sandor is still thinking she’s just a “little bird” here - but later, her father as Hand attaints Gregor, stripping him of his titles for his violent crimes. How do you think this makes Sandor feel about Sansa & his perceived seriousness of her moral ideals, considering his trauma re: Gregor being anointed and his other crimes covered up by everyone but Ned?

I don’t think Sandor was ready at the time to draw any positive conclusions between Sansa and her father, because his cynicism always gets in the way of that. While her compassion made him take notice, he doesn’t regard her beliefs as a good thing. To him, they are still woefully naive and a weakness that will only lead to being victimized by the strong and cruel. If Sansa is so ill-prepared for the brutality and bleakness of reality, well, he would point a very judgemental finger at her parents for that. This is not to say Sandor wasn’t quietly making observations about Ned, because I do think a few books in we see subtle indications that Ned’s character and decision to bring Gregor to justice perhaps did make an impression after all. And I think it’s his experience with Sansa that causes him to have a more charitable conception of Ned in hindsight rather than Ned influencing his view of Sansa.

It’s just that Sandor requires a lot of evidence over time before he will consider altering his opinions. He sees exactly what he expects to see, so his point of view is always validated. It takes more than just Sansa saying “he was no true knight,” as groundbreaking as that moment was. It’s precisely that fact that makes him want to work harder at trying to find the cracks in Sansa’s idealism to prove that it can’t be real. It’s only until the conclusion of the Blackwater scene that Sandor can finally accept that she is sincere in her beliefs by treating him with compassion when he least deserved it. To him, Sansa is such an anomaly that the idea of anyone else being that authentic and principled is an even bigger stretch of the imagination than she is.

And what experience does Sandor have with fathers doing right by their children? None. His own father covered up Gregor’s vicious attack and made him uphold the lie. Then he’s a witness to Tywin and Robert Baratheon’s parenting. Sandor always initially gives his life experiences more weight than any counterevidence he saw from Ned or Sansa.

We are given a glimpse of Sandor’s reaction upon hearing the news that Beric Dondarrion was sent by Ned to put down Gregor Clegane through Littlefinger:

Robert was in a fury [over the loss of the white hart], until he heard talk of some monstrous boar deeper in the forest. Then nothing would do but he must have it. Prince Joffrey returned this morning, with the Royces, Ser Balon Swann, and some twenty others of the party. The rest are still with the king.“

“The Hound?” Ned asked, frowning. Of all the Lannister party, Sandor Clegane was the one who concerned him the most, now that Ser Jaime had fled the city to join his father.

“Oh, returned with Joffrey, and went straight to the queen.” Littlefinger smiled. “I would have given a hundred silver stags to have been a roach in the rushes when he learned that Lord Beric was off to behead his brother.”

“Even a blind man could see the Hound loathed his brother.”

“Ah, but Gregor was his to loathe, not yours to kill. Once Dondarrion lops the summit off our Mountain, the Clegane lands and incomes will pass to Sandor, but I wouldn’t hold my water waiting for his thanks, not that one… “ – Eddard XII AGOT

Granted Littlefinger is framing this information in a certain light to pique Ned’s paranoia as he’s been doing throughout their interactions. Ned just tipped his hand as to who he’s worried about and Littlefinger ran with it, making it seem like Ned just crossed Sandor personally. Early on, Sandor is still invested in the idea that killing his brother is the only way to end the pain of his trauma. Not that I think that he genuinely wants to be a kinslayer, but keeping the revenge fantasy alive is a coping mechanism that Sandor doesn’t want to be taken from him. I have no doubt that Sandor did go to Cersei immediately to discuss the situation, but there’s a lot more going on here. This is going to be a long recap and a good deal of rambling. You have been forewarned.

At the inn at the crossroads, Catelyn arrests Tyrion as a person of interest in the assassination attempt on Bran based on Littlefinger’s claim of who won the Valyrian steel dagger. She takes Tyrion to Lysa in the Eyrie, holding him prisoner. Word of Tyrion’s arrest reaches King’s Landing via Yoren. In retaliation, Jaime Lannister and his men attack Ned Stark in the streets, leaving Ned with a badly broken leg. Ned is unconscious with a fever for “six days and seven nights.” When he awakens, he tries to speak to Robert about the conflict with the Lannisters, but Robert will not hear of it. The situation is escalating with both Riverrun and Casterly Rock calling their banners in anticipation for war. Robert decides he’d rather go hunting than deal with this mess, tells Ned they should just simply stop fighting and leaves the next day. Thanks, Robert.

Ned is back to holding court as Hand and dealing with official business. Marq Piper and Karyl Vance, Hoster Tully’s bannermen, show up to accuse the Lannisters of sending Gregor Clegane to attack villages in the Riverlands under the guise of common brigands. They brought with them the few remaining survivors of the attacks to testify that despite the lack of sigils or banners, these brigands were definitely outfitted like proper knights. They had war horses, good weapons and armor, and their inhumanly large leader couldn’t be anyone else other than the Mountain. Ned believes them and suspects what Tywin may be trying to accomplish: “should Riverrun strike back [openly attacking Tywin’s soldiers or bannermen], Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king’s peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.” The ruse gives Tywin plausible deniability of being responsible, but it is flimsy enough so the Riverlanders to take the bait. There’s no guarantee that Robert, the weak king that he is, wouldn’t cave under pressure to side with his in-laws. We also learn later that Tywin was counting on Ned leading his forces personally to come to the aid of his wife’s family. Away from King’s Landing, Ned could be killed, captured, or traded for Tyrion. Either way, the Starks would be removed from power; however, Ned’s leg was broken during the street fight with Jaime, who knew nothing of his father’s plan.

So Ned sends Beric Dondarrion to bring down Ser Gregor for his crimes against the villagers in the name of the king’s justice, thwarting Tywin’s provocation of Riverrun to retaliate. By putting Robert’s stamp of approval on Gregor’s death sentence, he’s also gambling that this will position the king to side against his in-laws later. You know, when he finally gets Robert to have that big talk about his wife and kids. Sigh.

“Lord Tywin is greatly wroth about the men you sent after Ser Gregor Clegane,” the maester confided. “I feared he would be. You will recall, I said as much in council.”

“Let him be wroth,” Ned said. Every time his leg throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister’s smile, and Jory dead in his arms. “Let him write all the letters to the queen he likes. Lord Beric rides beneath the king’s own banner. If Lord Tywin attempts to interfere with the king’s justice, he will have Robert to answer to. The only thing His Grace enjoys more than hunting is making war on lords who defy him.” – Eddard XII, AGOT.

Ned sends Ser Robar Royce to Robert’s hunting party to inform the king (and Yohn Royce) of Dondarrion’s posse and Gregor’s attainment/death sentence. Fast forward to Robert on his deathbed, where he voices his displeasure with Ned putting him in a difficult spot with his wife’s family.

“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” the king said hoarsely. “I killed the [boar], didn’t I?” A lock of matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned. “Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him.” His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. – Eddard XIII, AGOT.

Robert admits to Ned that he never told Sandor himself. Surprise, Robert dodged an uncomfortable conversation and intended on leaving that task to Cersei so he could get back to having a good time. Because Sandor returned with Joffrey and the Royces, he most definitely heard the news through them. Why does this detail matter? Well, if you were Sandor, wouldn’t you be irked that the king didn’t have the basic courtesy (or balls) to tell you himself? The natural progression of that conversation would be discussing what that means for Sandor’s future, the inheritance of Clegane lands, and his standing with the Lannisters during this conflict. But Robert doesn’t want to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole. What I’m saying is, at that moment, he’s probably more pissed at Robert than anyone else. Following that would be Ned’s decision interfering with one of his primary coping mechanisms. So Sandor marches off straight to Cersei where he was probably told of Gregor’s purpose in the Riverlands and assured that Ned’s order would come to nothing. Indeed, Gregor was ready for Donddarion, ambushing his party from all sides at Mummer’s Ford, soundly defeating them. Meanwhile, Cersei was already making moves to remove both Ned and Robert. But how did Sandor feel about all this?

The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke Eddard Stark from his brief, exhausted sleep. He lifted his head from the table to look down into the yard. Below, men in mail and leather and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords, and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy’s head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed.

Is this brave show for my benefit, he wondered. If so, Cersei was a greater fool than he’d imagined. Damn her, he thought, why is the woman not fled? I have given her chance after chance … – Eddard XIV AGOT

He’s right there under Ned’s window, mocking and intimidating him. If there was any tiny glimmer in Sandor that maybe Gregor would be finally held accountable for any of his crimes, it was almost immediately overshadowed by his cynicism and confirmation bias. Knowing that Ned’s goose is cooked, Sandor would think Ned a great, naive fool for not understanding how the world really works and how outmatched he is. His worldview is validated yet again by the cunning of his masters. The only thing he can do is attempt to cure Sansa of the same infirmity before its too late for her.

Just before the Blackwater battle, Sandor brings up her father and tries to put some dents in his image to argue his points. For a little context, Sandor was alone on the roof of the Red Keep until Sansa showed up. We can infer with his anxieties about the wildfire that Sandor was up there contemplating his own mortality, which is why he goes so particularly hard in needling Sansa. It seems as if Sandor must have been in the middle of some pretty intense brooding. If he dies in the battle by fire no less, it is in the thankless service of awful people, and Gregor still goes on living and unpunished. If this is how it all ends, well, it’s pretty depressing and of course, as he should have always expected. And here Sansa is still insisting on her idealistic worldview. He goes for a low blow. In that process, he reveals his anger and trust issues with fathers.

She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry. “Does it give you joy to scare people?”

“No, it gives me joy to kill people.” His mouth twitched. “Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord’s get. Don’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”

“That was his duty. He never liked it.”

“Is that what he told you?” Clegane laughed again. “Your father lied. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.” He drew his longsword. “Here’s your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor’s steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old … but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?” – Sansa IV, ACOK.

Of course, Ned must be a liar because his father was. He’s got to be no different than Tywin, the high lord he knows best. All fathers and killers are the same. This is the truth as he sees it: those on top, who hold near-godlike power of life and death over their subjects, secretly enjoy exercising that power behind a virtuous countenance. Does Sandor honestly believe this about Ned, or is he trying really hard to convince himself of that? Because for a flickering moment there, it almost sounds like a part of Sandor thinks of Ned in a grand, larger-than-life image before he pauses in thought…

And since he’s the one who brought up Ned and his execution, he also can’t deny that he witnessed a man condemning himself as a traitor in exchange for the safety of the daughter the Lannisters held hostage. He did the very thing his own father would not do: endure the public shame and stigma for love of his child. That is proof that Ned’s honor wasn’t just about his public image, which surely didn’t go unnoticed by someone sensitive to such things, whether he was ready to accept that or not. That Ned wasn’t just merely outmatched by more cunning players, he was the victim of treachery and deceit, failed by a negligent king uninterested in dealing with corruption. While he still does think Ned a fool, there’s a sense that Sandor has adjusted to thinking of him as a decent, honorable, and tragic sort of fool, much like his daughter. What good did that integrity do him? None. The monsters won. Illyn Payne still took his head off while he and his daughter watched. Did you catch how the detail of Ned’s twitching limbs was burned into Sandor’s memory, the same one that plagued Sansa’s nightmares? Yeah, it affected him too. So I do think Sandor is trying to convince himself that Ned was actually a phony and a shitty person because Sandor doesn’t want to empathize with anyone and yet finds himself doing so anyway. Like with Sansa, caring* means having confused and conflicted feelings that force him to re-examine his own life. Add to the fact that Sandor is also the child of a murdered father. I could see a young Sandor having very complicated feelings about mourning his own massive disappointment of a father if he allowed himself to mourn him at all. I don’t see how those memories could not be dredged up.

* I’m still debating whether or not “caring” is too strong a word in regards to Ned. Let’s just say that upon later reflection, I think certain things about Ned’s life and death resonated with Sandor.

It’s a very small, but not unremarkable shift considering how much of a jaded idealist cynic Sandor is. Death probably also has a way of memorializing Ned in a similar way to how separation causes Sandor to reframe Sansa’s courteousness as something he highly esteems; however, Sandor just can’t say that he was wrong these things openly, so you have to read between the lines. Later while telling Arya of his intention to return her to Catelyn and Robb, Sandor says he’s willing to wager that Robb won’t kill him:

If he doesn’t take me, he’d be wise to kill me, but he won’t. Too much his father’s son, from what I hear. – Arya IX, ASOS.

What Sandor is hoping for first and foremost is for Robb to take him into his service, right after stating that he’s done with loathsome and unappreciative masters. In an indirect way, it is an admission that Ned, Sansa, and the other Starks are not just different, but better. Still foolish because it would be “wiser” to kill someone like him, but definitely better. Sandor assumes Robb will be pointing his army toward King’s Landing to free Sansa, so he believes his Lannister intel will make him a valuable asset. “Maybe I’ll even kill Gregor for him, he’d like that.“ What’s also interesting is that he fantasizes about changing Robb’s negative opinion and winning his favor by taking down Gregor for him (in the name of the king’s justice), essentially fulfilling the duty Ned charged Dondarrion with. While he may think he’s got one over on Robb and his long-awaited revenge will be the cherry on top, his wording points to a subconscious desire to please and serve Ned through his stand-in eldest son. That he wants a chance to earn positive recognition from a worthy king, someone who Sansa also loves and admires. The thought eases the pain of his failures and screw-ups regarding her during the Blackwater. Except this goes up in smoke with the Red Wedding.

I don’t know if in the future Sandor will ever have any lines where he openly and positively speaks of Ned, but that would be something I would love to see. Since I am sure he and Sansa are bound to reunite, it would probably come up then. Or Ned’s presence could be quietly felt in the continuation of Sandor’s arc through his choices and actions. Or it could be both. We just have to wait until Winds to find out.

#valyrian scrolls #sandor clegane meta #sandor clegane #ned stark #sansa stark #sansan meta #robb stark #gregor clegane #beric dondarrion #asoiaf meta #my meta #character arcs #calamitylamb #sorry for the wait

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callboxkat · 6 years

Text

Infinitesimal (part 13)

Author’s note: This is a long one. Like twice as long as most other chapters. I guess I got inspired this week? Feedback and reblogs are much appreciated!

Warnings: feeling trapped, fear, malnutrition, a little bit of crying, blood and injuries (they change Patton’s bandages), food mention, Patton getting kinda overwhelmed.

Word count: 2920

Check the notes for the masterpost!

...

Roman sat at his desk in his room, tongue held between his teeth as he very, very carefully threaded a needle through the small scrap of fabric he was working with. He was nearly done sewing a pillow for Patton. A single cotton ball sat on the desk in front of him, along with the spool the string came from and the rest of the old t-shirt he’d cut the fabric scrap from. It was the same old shirt whose sleeve had become Patton’s blanket.

Roman finished the side he was stitching up, then turned the whole thing inside out so that the majority of the stitching would be inside. He then used the dull end of the needle to stuff bits of cotton inside the small hole he had left.

Once the tiny pillow was properly stuffed—not too flimsy, but also with enough give that it would hopefully be comfortable, Roman added the last few stitches, cut off the extra thread, and sat back to inspect his handiwork.

This should work, he thought.

…

Logan was reading a book when Roman came into the kitchen, sitting by the window. Usually, he liked to sit in the other room, but since the little mouse-man was currently occupying it, he’d apparently made do in here. Roman wasn’t sure why he didn’t just read in his bedroom. Maybe he just wanted to be nearer to Patton.

“Hey,” Roman said.

“Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

Logan closed his book, only then looking up at his roommate. “Decently. Why do you ask?”

“Just… I don’t know.” Roman shrugged. “Sorry if I snapped at you earlier. I know you didn’t mean to scare him.”

“Thank you for the acknowledgement,” Logan said.

“Have you heard anything from Patton?”

“Not recently. Although, I did wish to let you know that Patton claims to be able to eat any type of human food.”

Roman nodded. That was good to know. He walked towards the entrance to the other room. He wondered if the little mouse-man was still asleep.

“Hey, Patton?” he called out, knocking softly on the door frame. He didn’t immediately get a response, so he waited a moment and tried again.

…

Patton blinked awake. He thought he’d just heard something, but he wasn’t completely sure. He sat up slowly, still a tad groggy, and looked around. Part of him had expected to wake up back in the cage, so he was pleasantly surprised to find that that wasn’t the case.

“Patton? Are you awake?” A voice called. Patton couldn’t help but jolt, even if the voice was quiet. He looked around quickly for its source, but soon realized that the human wasn’t actually in the room.

“Y-y-yes,” he stammered, finally.

“Oh, good. May I come in?”

Patton pulled his blanket around himself, looking down. He didn’t really want the human to come in. But wouldn’t he be angry if he refused?

“Patton?”

He studied the bandages on his hands nervously.

“You know you can say no, right?” The humans voice was even softer than before.

Patton stilled.

“I can come back later. I just had something to give you, and we should probably change your bandages. But that can wait, if you want. So… can I come in now?”

“No…” Patton said breathily. “No,” he repeated, a bit more force behind the word.

“No?” the human repeated. “Oh—okay.”

Patton held his breath.

“I—I do have to come back at some point though. Is like half an hour okay?”

Patton was stunned. He had not actually expected Roman to listen to him. He was silent for a moment before suddenly remembering that he could talk. “…Yes.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.” The human—Roman, he thought it was—softly rapped three times on the door frame, like he wasn’t completely aware he was doing it, and then walked away.

Patton couldn’t believe that that had worked.

…

Virgil was still watching from his perch. He’d pulled back a bit, hiding himself behind some sort of knick-knack on the shelf when the human came to the doorway, but it seemed that he hadn’t actually come in.

The human had listened to a little?

Even for a trick, that struck Virgil as weird. Nevertheless, he was glad that the human had listened. As long as Patton didn’t start falling for whatever they were up to.

Virgil slowly moved forwards again, to see past his hiding place. Patton was sitting up now, he could see. He wanted to go and talk to him, assure him that he wasn’t going to leave him with the humans forever, but he needed to get back home before Emile awoke. Besides, even if the human told the truth about not coming back for half an hour, that wasn’t necessarily enough time for him to get all the way to the table Patton was on, have a conversation, and be sure to be out of sight before the human returned.

Reluctantly, with one last look at his fellow little, Virgil grabbed his crutches and got to his feet. He retreated to a loose seam in the wallpaper, carefully peeled it back to reveal the small hole behind it, and was gone.

…

Time passed, very slowly from Roman’s perspective. Finally, the half hour he had promised Patton was up, and he walked back to the entrance to the other room. Logan regarded him skeptically as he did so, probably assuming Patton would never agree to him coming in, but Roman ignored that.

He knocked softly. “Hey, Pat-ster. May I come in?”

He waited a moment, and finally heard a very small “Okay”. He smiled, relieved, and entered the room. He spotted the mouse-man sitting outside the cage with his back against one of its walls. His blanket was over his lap, and he had some of the paper scraps and colored pencil nubs scattered around him. Roman was struck with a strong, but not immediately identifiable emotion at the sight.

He smiled at Patton, hoping to put him at ease. “Hi, there. I brought you something.” He slowly reached out and set the little pillow near Patton, along with another scrap of fabric he’d cut from the shirt to serve as a second blanket. He figured it couldn’t hurt, in case the little guy got cold again and didn’t want to say anything. The mouse-man cautiously leaned forward and grabbed the new blanket; but for a few seconds, he simply stared at the pillow.

“Is something wrong?”

Patton looked up and then back away, so quick Roman nearly missed it.

“Do… you not know what a pillow is?”

Patton sort of squirmed, quailing under the attention, like he was scared Roman would be angry.

“Oh,” was all he said, surprised. He stared for a second, then snapped out of it. “Well—well, you put it under your head, so it’s more comfortable when you lie down.”

Patton reached out and prodded the pillow. Apparently, it passed whatever this test was, for he then pulled it over to his side.

“Just… like… you know.” Roman awkwardly mimed putting a pillow under his head. “Like that.”

Patton looked from the pillow back up to Roman. Roman was sure he understood (perhaps he had already known what a pillow was, and just hadn’t had one for himself before), but even despite the gifts, the tiny guy was clearly nervous. Roman sighed and settled himself in one of the chairs across from the table.

…

Virgil made it back home to his and his brother’s home fairly quickly. It was always a little tricky, since the route was made for a little with the full use of both legs, but he made pretty good time. When he got back, he went to the bedroom, where thankfully, Emile was still asleep, curled up in the nest-like bed the two of them shared. Virgil didn’t usually leave while his brother was home. He had just wanted to keep an eye on Patton.

In fact, he was thinking of going out again tonight, when Emile planned to go and get them more food, and when the humans keeping the other little were likely to be asleep. He hoped to talk to Patton both to explain his plan and to double-check on how he was doing. Virgil hoped that he understood his desire to not risk either of their safety. Patton had barely made it down the table leg the first time they’d tried to escape together, and Virgil was unsure if that had merely been luck. It wouldn’t be much of a rescue if Patton got hurt, or worse.

After he checked on his brother, Virgil went back to where the supplies Emile had gotten were. He decided to spend some time mending clothes, possibly crafting some new ones if there was enough fabric left.

…

Roman had only just sat down when he was struck by a thought.

“Oh, yeah!” He broke off when Patton jumped. “Shoot, sorry. Do you mind if Logan comes in here? We should change the bandages on your hands and on your back.”

Patton suddenly looked very confused. He reached over his shoulder and felt around until he found the bandage that he apparently had not known was on his back. He looked alarmed at the realization, so Roman put his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Hey, hey, you’re fine. We were just trying to help you. We didn’t want any of your injuries to get infected. The one on your back was pretty shallow, anyway.”

…

Patton very much did not like this. No, not at all. It was bad enough knowing that the humans had moved him, had touched his hands before he’d woken up, but to know that they’d pushed up his shirt and touched his back, probably inspected the rest of him for injuries, too? Patton did not like the idea of being handled like that by someone so much larger than him. They could have so easily crushed him, and he would have been helpless to even try to stop them. He wouldn’t have even known it was happening.

Tears were starting to spring up in his eyes. They clouded his vision, but even so, it was clear that the human was beginning to panic, rambling fragmented attempts at an explanation.

“Wait—Pat—it’s just a bandage, it’s okay, it was an older injury—We just wanted to make sure it healed okay, please don’t—don’t cry!”

Patton scooted back a bit, and Roman immediately fell silent. The little curled in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his tail hugging his ankles. He tried to hold back his tears without much luck.

There was a long silence after that, in which Roman averted his eyes, hands to his mouth, and Patton did his best to calm down. He ran his fingers over his arms, his shoulders, his knees, his calves, the length of his tail, as if to reassure himself that it was all still there and undamaged by the humans, that there were no more bandages hiding. Roman still wasn’t looking, so Patton sucked in a breath and pulled off his shirt—a dulled pink whose material (and that of his pants) came from the dress of one of Marissa’s dolls. Patton inspected his torso, the bruises and the prominent ribs. He felt along his back, along the edges of the bandage there.

There were no other surprises, other than a few sand grains that had been stuck in a seam in his sleeve. Patton calmed down, taking deep breaths in an effort to stay that way. He couldn’t keep falling to pieces every time the humans talked to him. Not only was it rather pathetic, but what if the humans got annoyed?

“Are… are you okay?” Roman asked after a moment. His gaze flickered up towards Patton, who gave a tiny nod even though he wasn’t quite sure if that was true. Nevertheless, Roman looked relieved.

“May we look at those bandages, now?”

…

Patton slowly unwrapped the gauze from his hand. It wasn’t until he got to the last couple of layers that it hurt—they were a little stuck to the cut, but thankfully, he managed to get the bandages off without reopening it. He hesitantly held out his hand.

He and Roman had come to an agreement: Patton would let them look at his injuries and provide him with the means to redo the bandaging, but they would not touch him.

Logan had been hovering, clearly wanting to help remove the bandages, but Roman kept glaring daggers at him, and he resisted. Now, though, Logan leaned forward and looked at Patton’s hand. The little leaned away, but he did his best to swallow the fear rising in his throat and kept his arm outstretched.

The human murmured something about “adequate progress” and set some scraps of white fabric on the table. Patton took these and rewrapped his hand, which was rather difficult considering he was doing it one-handed, and the hand he was using was also injured. Logan actually left the room while that was happening, apparently not otherwise able to resist the temptation to do it himself.

Eventually, Patton got the bandages to stay tight enough (though not too tight) and fastened them in place with a piece of tape from Roman. Then he unwrapped the other hand—thankfully, the bandages came free more easily—for the humans to check on.

“Get back in here, Microsoft Nerd,” Roman called. Logan appeared a second later, looking a bit irked at the nickname.

When they got to Patton’s back, he slowly peeled off the bandage, but looking up at the two humans looming over him, Patton couldn’t bring himself to turn away from them and let them look.

Roman seemed to figure out the problem first.

“Um….” he cast an uncertain look at his friend. “Maybe you can just... describe how it feels? Does it hurt?”

Patton rolled his shoulder, considered for a second or two, and then shook his head.

Logan took a moment to peer at the discarded bandage. “It doesn’t appear to have bled recently. If you are truly opposed to replacing it, I believe you can go without. Unless something changes, at least.”

Patton was undeniably relieved to hear that. He grabbed one of his blankets and wrapped it around himself like a protective cloak without putting his shirt back on.

“Do you want dinner soon?” Roman asked.

Patton blinked. What? He looked up, bewildered, which apparently only served to confuse the humans too.

“Is there an issue?” Logan asked slowly.

Patton tightened the blanket around his shoulders. He summoned the courage to speak. “I—I just… I’ve already eaten today….”

“Patton, you are allowed more than one meal per day. In fact, in order to maintain an ideal caloric intake, the optimum schedule is actually six to eight small meals and snacks per day, or at the very least the common three full meals per day—overindulgence is, of course, not our concern for you, as you are still suffering the effects of what is likely malnutrition—.”

“Hey, Logan?” Roman interrupted, his voice louder than the one that he usually used around Patton. “You’re overwhelming him.”

It was true. Patton was having some trouble following what had quickly turned into a lecture about eating habits, since he was still trying to absorb the fact that the humans were planning to give him multiple meals per day—and that was in addition to the little bowl of seeds and vegetables that had already been in the cage when he woke up the day before.

Logan trailed off, looking down at Patton, who really would have preferred to not have this much attention on him.

“I’ll just go… start dinner, then,” Roman suggested, bouncing slightly as he got to his feet. He left the room with a last glance at Logan.

Patton and Logan were left alone for a bit, Patton halfheartedly pawing through the scraps of paper he’d spent the past half hour drawing on. Logan bit his lip.

“Patton, I… I wanted to apologize again.”

“Please don’t,” Patton murmured.

Logan looked taken aback. “Don’t?”

Patton, while still a little horrified at himself for actually saying that out loud, shook his head.

“Why not?”

Patton didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t that he felt an apology wasn’t warranted: these humans had basically kidnapped him, had locked him in a cage, had cleaned him up and dressed his wounds when he wasn’t able to stop them, had given him food and water and gifts, had acted almost as if they actually saw him as a person—yet some of those things, he knew, didn’t sound so bad. When it came to those aspects of this experience, Patton honestly didn’t know why they rubbed him the wrong way. It was just… uncomfortable. Some of what the humans had done was clearly bad, like trapping him in a cage and catching him in the first place, but others were almost designed to try to get him to trust the humans. And Patton really didn’t know what to do with that.

All he really wanted to do was sleep for about a year, and to try to forget about everything that had happened.

Logan seemed to sense that Patton wasn’t going to answer him, so the two of them just waited for Roman to return.

...

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#thomas sanders #sanders sides #patton sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #infinitesimal!sides #infinitesimal fic #sanders sides fan fiction #ts fanfic #fanfiction

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

Text

Thatcher/Lesion oneshot in which Lesion has a tattoo and Thatcher hates it. (Rating T, fierce denial and fluff I suppose, ~2.5k words) - dedicated to @glazkov-smile who put this ship into my brain where it now festers and grows shakes fist

The first time Thatcher catches a glimpse of it, all he feels – curiously enough – is betrayal.

No part of it makes sense, it’s neither his body nor his decision and yet it’s as if he’s been deceived in some way, left in the dark about a topic concerning him personally. It’s irrelevant how nonsensical his emotions are because they’re there regardless and no amount of logical arguing with himself is able to make them vanish. He can’t rationalise it even if he tries, and he tries desperately. He’s merely being a judgemental old fart, probably, something he’s been called before in differing contexts. But he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

It was no longer than a second: Bandit pulled on the back of Lesion’s collar to drop an ice cube into his shirt, and Thatcher just happened to look over at the commotion and saw colour lick at the back of Lesion’s neck, usually hidden by whatever garish shirt the man inexplicably chose to wear that day but now revealed in a flash of ink. And it’s enough to conjure up a profound disappointment in Thatcher.

They’ve known each other for years now, stayed in contact where Smoke exchanged irregular messages which taper off now and then, only to rekindle once in a blue moon. No, Thatcher and Lesion wrote and called almost every week, given their work permitted it, left messages on a variety of media depending on their current location and sent each other postcards even, both of them carefully and happily maintaining an unlikely friendship. They differ in many regards though not the most important ones, and thus remained pointed towards each other like magnets. Friendships like this one are rare, Thatcher has come to understand this all too keenly.

And he can’t stand tattoos.

To him, they’re much worse than gaudy jewellery, flamboyant clothes and unnaturally dyed hair together – not only are they alarmingly permanent but also usually horribly tacky. Who cares if someone managed to father a child? Congratulations, they fulfilled their purpose the way nature intended, no need to plaster their kid’s heartbeat or birth date or entire bloody face all over their arms and legs and basically rub it under everyone’s nose. He doesn’t care to know the names of people’s partners nor is he interested in cringy quotes or supposedly deep and symbolic bullshit which allegedly holds so much meaning for its bearer. They’re ugly. They mar skin instead of decorating it.

He much prefers freckles, scars, stretch marks, hair, natural discolouration, any sort of blemish which tells him this person is alive and breathing and not airbrushed or genetically engineered to look this way. He doesn’t care tattoos have been around forever, to him they’re a disgrace and can erase all his interest in someone. Can, and have.

Thinking back, he’s fairly sure he ranted about this to Lesion’s face before, was met with the usual calm patience tinged with amusement whenever he complains about something at length, earned no more than a half-reply implying his position was at best a bit too extreme and at worst complete and utter dogshite in Lesion’s opinion. He’s never dismissive about it, merely pokes fun but ultimately chooses to respect Thatcher’s views which is probably one of the reasons why they’re still friends.

So when he catches sight of precise strokes lining Lesion’s back, Thatcher is appalled. Indignant. Offended, even.

He needs to see it.

Just like he demands details about all the unnecessary so-called ‘apps’ most people around him use so he can judge them accordingly, curiosity grips him in its iron hold and compels him to view the entire disaster Lesion immortalised on his body for reasons unknown. Maybe it’s linked to a previous partner, a family member, a time in Lesion’s life about which Thatcher knows nothing yet, something deeply personal – in which case he’ll still disapprove of the ink but possibly gain more insight into his friend’s past. In that case, it’d be a worthwhile endeavour despite the knowledge of what exactly is tainting Lesion’s skin. He won’t be able to unsee it afterwards.

“Do you want to fight?”, he interrupts Lesion’s current conversation and gets a good-natured laugh from his friend and a concerned look from Ying in return.

“I thought we agreed not to argue politics in the workplace anymore”, Lesion replies cheerfully and moves his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, Thatcher’s gaze following its journey momentarily.

“You said you were a little rusty in whatever fancy martial arts style you always torture the recruits with, so I thought you could use a refresher.”

“It’s much too warm to fight”, Ying points out and Thatcher barely bites back a response along the lines of that’s the point.

Lesion ignores her statement and leans back in his lawn chair, one of Rainbow’s most sought after commodity in summer – ants are prevalent and therefore sitting in the grass ill-advised. “Even if I did, I’d go to Yumiko and not you – no offence.”

“I bet you’ve been doing it for longer than she has.”

“Possibly, but she’s still lengths better.” The younger man raises an amused eyebrow. “Mike, are you bored?”

Oh. It’s the perfect excuse, his entire team is known for their eccentric solutions to boredom as well as striking fear into everyone’s heart as soon as it looks like they’ve got nothing to do. “Yes”, he lies smoothly, “so you can either join me willingly or spend the rest of the day anticipating a non-consensual fight. I’ll know when you least expect it, Tze Long.”

“Sounds like you don’t have a choice at all”, Ying sighs, shaking her head. “Men.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to roll through the mud with Elena, my dear”, Lesion comments casually after which neither of the two stick around for long enough to watch her turn crimson and splutter at the accusation. “So, tell me. Was this a misguided rescue mission or do you need my help with anything embarrassing?”

Thatcher blinks at the unexpected question until he realises his excuse sounds so terribly flimsy Lesion didn’t buy it for a second, correctly assuming an ulterior motive. Even if he’s nowhere near guessing it. “Oh, neither. I really just – it was a genuine suggestion and I…” He trails off when crinkles appear around dark eyes.

“Aren’t we a little too old to kill time by beating each other up? Let’s go drink some green tea to cool down instead, shall we?”

His objection dies on his tongue as his friend turns away, wearing a small smile. “I don’t even like green tea”, Thatcher protests quietly yet trails after Lesion nonetheless.

“Let’s go swimming.”

Lesion pauses visibly, marks his spot on the page he’s currently on and then glances up sceptically. “Now?”

Yes, Thatcher almost blurts out but catches himself just in time, checks his watch and pretends like he didn’t completely lose track of the hours ticking by purely because of Lesion’s presence. It’s a common occurrence, oddly enough. “Of course not”, he scoffs, “but what about tomorrow?”

“Where is this coming from? We’ve never gone for a swim together, you prefer going alone.” Fortunately, there’s no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity.

“I just thought you might want to join me. When’s the last time you went swimming?”

“Yesterday. Meghan invited me.”

Ah. Thatcher squints before he can help himself – they probably spent the time showing off their respective tattoos, and for some reason this thought makes it worse than as if Lesion had gone with anyone else. Even Blackbeard. “Well. If you don’t want to, that’s fine”, he concludes curtly and directs his attention back to the book in his own lap, fighting down another wave of dismay. So others are allowed to see it, apparently, where he’d not even been aware of it at all.

“What? Of course we can go, I was just surprised -”

“Nah. Nevermind.”

“Mike.” There’s gentle exasperation in Lesion’s voice now and he leans forward in the armchair which has become basically his over the course of several months – it bears his imprint and smells of him. Not that Thatcher would know. “I didn’t say no.”

“I’m busy tomorrow anyway”, he lies through his teeth and wonders whether he sounds cranky.

Lesion silently examines him for a few seconds longer, expression unreadable, and finally shrugs. “Alright. If you do want to go, just let me know.”

The doors of his wardrobe have mirrors. It’s the perfect plan. Thatcher buys the Dutch beer Lesion likes so much, and while Maestro is in the middle of listing all the exotic animals he’s eaten in his life with Smoke listening intently (and probably adding quite a few to his bucket list), while Mute snitches on Bandit’s newest plan to Sledge, while Sledge pointedly ignores Maestro’s hand slowly creeping up his thigh – while all of them are gathered in Thatcher’s living room, he makes sure to spill some of it down Lesion’s back.

“Whoops”, he says after his friend has jumped up with an undignified noise of surprise and hopes dearly that either none of the others watched him very deliberately tip his bottle or that they at least know to keep their mouths shut. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear.”

“Why did we even stay in if I end up smelling like pub anyway”, Lesion complains weakly on the way to the bedroom, lamenting the wasted drink and accepting the fresh t-shirt Thatcher presses into his hands. “Thanks. You can go ahead.”

Thatcher pauses, hovering uncertainly. This – isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The last time, Lesion undressed in front of him without any qualms and he hoped it would be the same now, positioned his friend between himself and the mirrors so he’d get a good look no matter what. “I, uh -”

“Do you want to watch me change?”, Lesion asks, audibly entertained.

“No, I just – you probably need a towel, right? To get rid of the beer.”

“Sure”, the younger man agrees easily and Thatcher nods more to himself than for his benefit, leaves the room and dashes as soon as he’s out of eyesight. He’s never fetched a wet towel faster in his life, hoping to at least see part of it if Lesion’s in the middle of undressing, yet when he returns, Lesion is still wearing his soaked shirt. As well as a meaningful smirk. “Thank you, Mike. I’ve got it from here.”

No, he’s not going to let this opportunity pass. “Are you sure you don’t need help with your back?”

“Do you want to see it that badly?”

Oh.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Your personal vendetta against my shirts. It took me a few days to realise why so many of them ended up ruined, stained, ripped or threatened. You’ve not seen it before, have you?”

He hasn’t been that obvious. Has he? Thatcher considers denying everything but his curiosity prevails, triumphs over the prospect of never living this down. Defeated, he shakes his head, prepares for the inevitable ribbing yet is merely awarded with Lesion’s fingers reaching up to unbutton his soiled shirt, a gesture so hypnotising all speech evades him.

“I didn’t know you were that interested”, Lesion comments nonchalantly as if the temperature in the room hadn’t just jumped up a few degrees – or maybe Thatcher is experiencing a heatwave, yet whatever it is, his face is burning.

“I’m not”, he replies petulantly and is in the middle of justifying all his actions to himself in his head when the piece of fabric drops, carelessly gets discarded, and then Lesion turns.

It’s -

Well, it’s large, first of all, covering the entirety of his back and seemingly continuing even below the waistband of his trousers, just shy of curling all the way around his ribs. The ink is vibrant and mesmerising, no part of Lesion’s natural skin colour visible between all the vivid colours crassly at odds with everything Thatcher considers desirable. To him, it looks more like a yakuza tattoo than anything else, the motif of a roaring tiger familiar yet kept in a more tasteful style, no cartoonish bulging eyes or exaggerated features. Part of it is shiny with moisture, making it look even more recent and amplifying the otherworldly feel of it.

And it’s still a tattoo, even if the fact that it’s Lesion’s back changes something about it; even if the outline of his shoulder blades, the dip of his lower back, the gently curved spine do something to Thatcher, its nature remains intact. He doesn’t know why anyone would choose to deface their natural beauty like this, would spend a horrendous amount of money on something this hideous, would endure a million needle pricks only to look like this.

He also has no idea why he can’t stop staring.

A detail catches his attention and, without thinking, he lifts his hand and brushes over the tiger’s face with a thumb, the skin warm and slightly sticky. “He’s got a scar below his eye”, Thatcher murmurs and fights hard to keep this odd, uncalled-for reverent tone out of his voice.

“Do you want to watch him dance?”, Lesion asks him quietly and his brain is too occupied to process his words, discern the meaning behind them because – surely, he’s not -

The air is thick around them and it’s not only a byproduct of the season; it’s not stuffy yet heavy nonetheless, struggles against Thatcher’s deep inhale. His other fingers join his thumb in resting on intricate swirls, scared to move in case they smudge the ornate ink. “What do you mean?”, he hears himself mumble, possibly hoping for a repetition only, not even a clarification.

“Oh. Nevermind.” Lesion’s reply is soft and it sounds like he’s grinning. “I’m glad you seem to like it though.”

“I don’t”, Thatcher protests immediately and withdraws his hand, suddenly light-headed with the rush of oxygen, air flooding his lungs, returned to normal from one second to the next.

His friend throws him a look over his shoulder and he really looks like the Cheshire cat for some reason, as if he’s having the time of his life and Thatcher feels like he missed something somewhere along the way. “Alright”, Lesion agrees readily.

They get him cleaned up and into Thatcher’s shirt without any more interruptions, but when he turns to leave, the Brit holds him back yet falters at the expectant, amused and open smile with which the gesture is met.

“How about”, he begins, suddenly sheepish, “we go swimming this weekend?”

And to his relief, Lesion nods immediately, grinning and extremely pleased with the suggestion. “Of course. I’d love to.”

#rainbow six siege #thatcher #lesion #thatcher/lesion #fanfic #oneshot #had I known I'd get myself stuck I never would've encouraged you #all it took was those 1k words you wrote #I already have more ideas #crying

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