#and the entire approach to the primary has been sand kicked in the face of his base | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

monstersandmaw · 5 years

Text

Male winged Fae x reader (nsfw)

Some of you may not have noticed the new addition for the higher tiers of my Patreon, but if you're on the Elves tier or above, you are automatically entered once a month into a prize draw for a 3k word story of your choosing.

This month, the lovely Jackal of Hearts won, and asked for our boy Ahrin from Winter Solstice (currently undergoing a re-edit) with a neutral reader, and added that nsfw is always fun. We had a discussion about Ahrin's story because dear Jackal didn't want to spoil anything for Winter Solstice, and knew that I had plans to reveal what happened to him and his once-lovely wings during the course of the story. We decided to go for a 'pre-Winter-Solstice' setting, when Ahrin is still with the Court of Shadows, and meets his reader at the Court of Fire during a diplomatic visit.

There are a few crumbs dropped in here for Winter Solstice too, and a cameo or two, but mostly it's the story of two people connecting in an unlikely situation and making the best of it.

Hope you enjoy! It’s been up on Patreon for about a week now, so it’s time to share it here.

Winter Solstice (undergoing re-edit, but story remains the same) can be found here: Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw) (All Tumblr links)

(reminder that in March, existing patrons will not be charged, and I do not plan to put out any new content for that month, but new patrons will still be charged for that month because that’s how Patreon works. Access to all my existing content will not be affected though!)

Enough waffle; more story! Wordcount: 5248

The Court of Fire turned out to be almost the opposite to what you’d expected. You’d imagined flame-blasted heaths with twisted stumps of heather curling like blackened fingers towards a sky choked with smoke, ash falling like tainted snow, basalt-dark rock and rivers of burning oil, with a cruel, volatile, fickle court of Fae to rule over the desolate kingdom. So when, at a mere eighteen years old, you had been led through a tear in the Veil between the worlds, quivering and trembling, with tears stinging on your cheeks, you had been surprised to discover a rich, verdant landscape, with fertile black soil as far as the eye could see.

Your second shock had come when a small party had crested the blustery promontory where the way through Veil was marked by two colossal standing stones, and you’d seen a group of riders approaching. The creatures they sat were nothing like horses. The lizards were as big as oxen, with wide, muscular bodies, slung low to the ground and with wicked, sickle-shaped claws and a spined tail.

Three of them drew to a halt at a short distance from where you stood beside the older woman who had been sent to fetch you as payment for a bargain made years ago by your parents. You had known about their bargain and had been prepared for this moment your entire life, and yet fear still coursed through you now that you were actually here in the Fae Realm.

Your guide leaned to speak in your ear, her ash grey hair whipping in the strong breeze, and whispered, “The High Prince himself has come to welcome you. Kneel as I do, and do not speak unless asked a direct question.”

Trembling, you sank to one knee and bowed your head as she did. The prince did not get down from his mount, but someone else did. Striding towards you, they addressed the woman beside you. “Is this the human that was promised to Lord Rhaziel?” The voice that spoke sounded male, and immensely frustrated.

“Yes, m’lord,” the woman said, nodding.

“Can you ride?” the Fae barked, and you realised that the question was directed at you. Risking a glance up, you took in the sight of the tall Fae and swallowed thickly. You’d heard that the Fae were enchantingly beautiful, but now that you had the opportunity to prove that theory in person, it was infinitely more intimidating than you’d realised. His skin was a deep, warm brown, and his long hair was tied back off his face and hung down his back in thick ropes, studded here and there with gold and amber beads. His eyes burned a bright gold, and you looked away almost instantly, afraid that he would take offence at your boldness.

You shook your head. You’d never been on a horse - let alone a giant lizard - a day in your life.

He sighed in frustration and said, “You will ride with me. Come.”

And with that he turned on his heel, the black and red robes of his courtly garb swirling slightly with the motion, and strode back towards a dark grey lizard who was eyeing him carefully. The older woman did not follow, but she did rise to her feet again. She, apparently, would walk with the rest of the guards surrounding the party.

As you passed him, you risked a glance at the Fae who sat at the head of the small group of reptilian mounts, and again saw nothing but beauty. He was talking with another rider who looked almost exactly like him, perhaps a little taller. The two of them were clearly related; probably brothers. With long, thick, red hair half tied back off porcelain faces, and bright gold eyes, they laughed jovially as if sharing a private joke, and even when the leader - who wore a golden crown of dancing flames studded with rubies - looked towards you, the laughter did not die in his face.

He bowed his head ever so slightly at you in acknowledgement, and his smile broadened a touch more. Above the high collar of his red and gold tunic you glimpsed a dark sigil etched into his skin and wondered what the tattoo meant. You offered him a shy smile, averted your eyes, and hurried to join the first Fae as he stood beside his lizard, looking impatient and thunderous. He said nothing as you joined him, but when you made no move to get on the frankly terrifying, constantly rumbling beast, he rolled his eyes and snapped, “Put your left foot in the stirrup and swing yourself up. I will sit behind you.”

“Oh…” you croaked. “Alright…”

The journey seemed interminable through the dense jungle that surrounded the base of the basalt outcrop where the portal between the realms sat. Your mount was third in the line, behind the High Prince and his brother, and the movement of the thing was enough to make you feel slightly seasick. Eventually the landscape dropped away to one side and you gasped as you saw a rocky ledge plunge down into an apparently unending sea of golden sand. At the foot of the dark cliffs was a wide, winding river, but beyond that, it seemed as though all life just… ended.

On the edge of the cliff ahead, with the wing which had some of the highest spires partly extending out into the empty air, a huge castle had been built. Even in the light of the midday sun you could see that the windows were glazed with red, gold and orange glass so that it looked almost as if the buildings were all aflame inside. The sight of it made you shudder, but the rider behind you gave no words of encouragement, and by the time the party drew to a halt in the colossal bailey of the castle, you were almost dizzy with fear.

At the party’s arrival, a small slew of attendants immediately scuttled out like ants from a kicked nest, and you noticed what looked like a wheeled throne being pushed easily towards the High Prince. You tried not to stare as you slid to the ground and turned to watch as his winged bodyguard stepped forwards, not to lift him down but merely to offer his shoulder for the Prince to brace against. He lowered his body down into the chair from his saddle with what had to be immense upper body strength while his legs dangled unmoving below. Once settled, he adjusted his weight and then caught you looking. You flushed, embarrassed by your curiosity, but instead of being reprimanded, you found that all he offered you was a wide, toothy - almost cheeky - grin before he pushed away towards the castle doors.

The Fae whose mount you’d shared was named Narrawaed, or Narra for short, and he turned out to be the personal bodyguard and attendant of the Fae two whom you had been promised in service, Lord Rhaziel. Despite your fears, you soon discovered that all you were required to do was assist the elderly Fae with his reading and academic studies, and after a year in his service, you came to regard him almost more like an uncle than a master.

Lord Rhaziel was the High Prince’s own uncle, and a trusted adviser at the court, so you ended up being able to attend a lot of the gatherings and events that the Court of Fire held at various times of the year. On one such occasion, the impending visit from a noble from the Court of Shadows prompted preparations for a lavish party, although the primary reason for their visit was diplomatic.

Rhaziel broke off from his research on the effects of lava-gnat venom on nerve pain one afternoon and looked up at you, blinking softly. For a Fae to look old, they must really be extremely elderly you knew by now. Rhaziel’s hair was white and a little wispy, tied back in the current courtly fashion and secured with a comb adorned with flames to mark his royal blood. His eyes had faded to a delicate pale gold now as his own magic faded. Apparently - if the extensive tattooing all over his neck and down to his hands was anything to go by (though the rest was hidden by his thick, silk robes and high collar) - he had been extremely powerful in his day. The tattoos helped to contain a Fae’s magic to prevent those with potent power from losing control. The High Prince, Jaehrin, was apparently the only person ever to have had more tattoos than Rhaziel did.

“Come, child,” Rhaziel croaked, pushing his chair back from his paper-strewn desk and easing himself to his feet. “Let us go and see how the preparations for tonight’s festivities are going.”

You nodded, not minding any longer that he still called you ‘child’. To him, you really must have seemed very young, you supposed, although you had been there for over a year now and were an adult by human standards. He meant it affectionately, and his eyes always twinkled kindly when he met your gaze.

You extended your arm to him and he took it willingly, using his silver-tipped walking stick in his other hand. His papery skin was flecked with age spots but his grip was firm, and the two of you made your way with familiar ease through the shadowy passages of the castle from his study towards the great hall.

The doors stood open and you gasped as you regarded the hangings that had been draped from the centre of the ceiling to railings on the walls and then allowed to fall in a waterfall of red and gold silk to the floor. It reminded you so viscerally of the maypole decorations in the village back home that it stole your breath away as you stared. You had been so transfixed by the sight of them that you hadn’t noticed that there was a small group of Fae in the centre of the room, and that their conversation had sputtered to a halt at your arrival. More likely it was at the arrival of the distinguished royal elder than you, of course, you realised as you turned to find them all staring.

“Shall we introduce ourselves then?” Rhaziel asked with a slight wink. “They look a bit star struck. I wonder if they’ve ever met a human before?”

You rolled your eyes, used to his teasing manners, and accompanied him closer to the strange group who were, you now saw, talking with the High Prince and his younger brother and sister.

Not all of them looked like the more ‘human’ High Fae; one was simply a writhing mass of shadows that constantly shifted and changed shape like ink in a stirred glass of water, and their voice was nothing more than a rasping of claws on stone as they spoke. Standing beside them was the High Prince’s bodyguard - and, some said, his lover - Garrad. The huge, hulking fae bore the sigil of an Ember Warrior, emblazoned across his otherwise unadorned tunic, and he stood on avian feet with enormous, black wings outstretched behind him.

A figure who looked a little like him - if only for the enormous pair of bat-like wings - was unfamiliar to you. His skin gleamed, warm and richly brown as if he spent a lot of time in the sun, and his face was sharply handsome and bore a rough-hewn kind of strength to his features. As his whisky coloured eyes landed on your face, they sharpened with interest, and his full lips murmured, “A human?”

Jaehrin laughed from his position in his wheelchair and said, “Yes. I have one or two in my court, Lord Ahrin.”

Ahrin flushed and bowed his head. “Forgive me for staring, Your Highness.” In apology, he tucked his heavy wings in tight and bowed his head. As he did so, his shoulder-length, brown hair fell into his eyes and he swept it back with a strong-looking hand. For some reason the sight of that simple gesture awoke something that had been dormant in you since coming to the Fae Realm, but you hid your reaction well while Lord Rhaziel was introduced to the remainder of the party from the Court of Shadows.

“I shan’t keep you,” the elderly Fae chuckled once everyone had been introduced. “I just wanted to come and see what was going on.” He turned to you and hissed in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, “I do still love a good party, even after all these years.”

His smile was infectious, and you laughed softly. The sound appeared to attract Ahrin’s attention again, but when you looked over at him, he had turned his head away and was speaking to one of the dignitaries from this court, a creature made seemingly of living rock who had always made you a little uneasy, like a statue come to life.

It wasn’t until the ball that evening that you saw Ahrin again.

You and Rhaziel were sitting at the side of the room on a deep, comfortable sofa, watching the nobility from both courts - and from one or two others, if Rhaziel’s comments were accurate. “That young lady is from the Court of Winter,” he said, indicating a beautiful blonde who was currently swirling around the dance floor in the arms of one of Jaehrin’s brothers. “Her adoptive brother is a terrible snob,” he added with a scoff. “Awful young man. Reserved to the point of rudeness, and a spoilt little brat if you ask me. The younger twins are delightful though… Finwe and Caedwyn…” his eyes misted over a little as he clearly thought fondly of the two younger princes of the Court of Winter.

“When did you last see them?” you asked politely.

“What? Oh… must be twenty years ago now. Oh look!” he exclaimed, suddenly digging you playfully in the ribs with a sharp elbow, and he nodded in the direction of the dance floor. “I thought someone was rather interested in you before.”

“What?” you chirped, confused, turning your head to see Ahrin smiling at you as he approached.

With what could only be described as a gleeful little cackle, Rhaziel dug you in the ribs once more and hissed, “If he asks you to dance, I expect you to say yes…”

You meddling old man, you thought amusedly. “Alright.”

Courteously greeting Lord Rhaziel first, Ahrin bowed low from the waist, glorious wings tucked as neatly out of the way as he could manage. Around the hook-like talons, the ‘thumbs’ of his bat-like wings, he wore an engraved, golden cuff, and his shoulder-length hair was half tied back and studded with small, spherical gold beads that picked up the colour of his eyes perfectly.

“My Lord,” he purred quietly to Rhaziel. “I hope you are enjoying the evening.”

Rhaziel shot you a sidelong look and snorted. “Not as much as I think you’d enjoy yourself if you were to ask my assistant to dance…”

Ahrin’s cheeks flushed attractively and he laughed. “Indeed.”

He turned to you and you swallowed nervously. Humans were not particularly numerous in the Court of Fire, and while you’d been treated with respect, as both the subject of an honoured bargain and the servant of one of the most powerful Fae in the Court, you weren’t exactly of any social standing.

“Would you me the honour of sharing this dance with me?” he asked, voice deep and gravelly. Ahrin bowed low again, and a dark, swirling mist began to coil around his polished boots and his wings, like morning frost evaporating in the sunlight.

Rhaziel leaned across and hissed in your ear, “I think he’s nervous. Put the poor boy out of his misery, eh?”

Unable to keep from chuckling, you nodded. “I’d love that. Thank you, Lord Ahrin.”

“Please,” he said as he straightened. “It’s just Ahrin.”

You took his hand and tried not to go weak at the knees when you felt the rough strength of his callused fingers. Gently, he drew you towards the dance floor as a new tune started from the minstrels’ gallery, and he began to lead you in the quick, energetic dance that followed. He held you firmly but not uncomfortably, one hand on your waist and one gripping your hand, as the two of you practically galloped along the length of the room. His wings didn’t seem to get in the way at all, and he must have been extremely fit because where the exertion left you flushed and breathing hard, he was barely winded.

Ahrin’s handsome face split into a broad, beaming grin and his eyes laughed too as he spun you around at the end and finally came to a halt in one corner as the rest of the room paused to catch their breath and applaud the musicians. “That was a tricky one!” he exclaimed. “I should have known they’d play that here! You did well though; did you learn our dances here?”

You nodded. “Lord Rhaziel insisted that I learn in case he fancied a turn on the dance floor, apparently, though he’s never expressed any interest himself in all the time I’ve been here.”

“Well,” Ahrin smiled, “I’m certainly glad he had you taught.” A moment later his expression turned a little thoughtful and he asked, “How long have you been here?”

You shrugged, following him as he led you towards the colonnade at the edge of the great hall which looked out over a balcony on the edge of the cliff. Cool breezes wafted in, making the oil lamps gutter and flare, but the air was welcome after the perfume and closeness of the dance floor. “A little over a year.”

“You’ve adapted well. Prince Jaehrin’s court seems generally fair though,” he added, almost wistfully.

Feeling a little emboldened, mostly by the fact that he still held your hand as you walked side by side into the cool night, leaving the music and laughter behind, you decided to ask him a question in return. “You’re originally from the Court of Shadows yourself, right?” You eyed his dark wings pointedly, though you were curious because he didn’t appear to have the avian legs of a Shadowborne like Garrad.

He nodded, gaze turning distant as he stared out over the empty desert that stretched out below the castle on this side. “Mmm.” Offering you a cheeky wink, he added, “Royal bastard though, so I’m no one very important…”

“You must have been quite important to be asked to come along to this?”

“Touché,” he said. “I have some standing because of my blood, but no authority really. I’m more of an ambassador when Naeryn is busy.”

“Naeryn?”

“Prince of the Court of Shadows,” he said. “I’ve always liked it here though. Jaehrin’s…” he sighed. “He’s good.” The way he imbued the word with real significance made you nod in agreement. From what you knew of the High Prince of the Court of Fire, he was indeed good. Quick to laugh and quick to forget his anger, strong with his magic and generous with his friends, he seemed quite unlike anything you’d been led to believe was possible from the Fae. You had, of course, had some run-ins with one or two nastier Fae folk, but Rhaziel’s influence largely kept them at bay.

You looked up to find that Ahrin had gone from watching the view to staring at you, eyes dark as honey now. “What?”

He smiled. “I can see you weren’t expecting us to be like this when you first heard about the Fae…”

Shaking your head, you said, “No. And I’m sure that if I wasn’t attached to Rhaziel in some way, my experience might have been a bit different. I’ve seen the other humans here who prepare the food in the kitchens and work the gardens. Their life is harder than mine by far.”

“But they’re still paid for their work, and treated fairly,” he said bitterly. The sour note took you off guard and he elaborated. “In the Court of Shadows, it’s not so pleasant. What humans there are find themselves treated like livestock. Many of the creatures there feed their magic, their essence, on fear and darkness, and humans are so… emotional. They don’t last long.”

You shuddered, a thrill running down your spine and making your hair stand on end.

“I’m sorry,” Ahrin said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No,” you countered firmly. “I’d rather know how things are than be deluded…”

His attractive lips quirked into a soft smile. “I’ve not met a human like you,” he admitted. A refrain of music floated out on the air and he held out his hands again. “Another dance?”

Smiling, you accepted.

“How long are you here for?” you asked, somewhat breathless, half an hour or so later as the two of you still danced in private on the balcony.

His eyes were locked on your lips and for a moment he didn’t respond. “Hmm? Oh… a week. There’s the Equinox Ball coming up, and we leave after that.”

You’d almost forgotten about the significance of the Equinox Ball, which marked the turning point of the year where the Seelie and Unseelie Royals - who ruled over all of the Courts - exchanged their power. They wouldn’t attend this ball themselves, of course, but it was still held to honour their leadership and to wish them good fortune and wise rulership for the next six months of the year. The Courts would each take their turn to host a ball, and this year it was the turn of the Court of Fire. The Shadow Court’s visit had been tied into that to discuss business between the two courts which, apparently, were not on the greatest terms despite Ahrin’s opinion of Jaehrin.

Ahrin stopped dancing and leaned a little closer to you, blinking slowly as if in a daze. He swallowed and you watched his Adam’s apple bob. “May… May I kiss you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” you smiled and he returned the gesture.

He brought his fingertips to your chin and tilted it up so that he could look at you properly first. Sliding his palm up your jawline, savouring the shape of you beneath his touch, he smiled and whispered, “You’re stunning…”

Before you could respond, he kissed you.

His fingers tightened and he tangled them in your hair, heedless of the mess he might make of it by scrunching it all up. He tugged you into the kiss, deepening it with a groan and you watched his wings slowly flex open, as if trying to shut out all the world around you.

Breathless, he pulled back a moment or two later and you saw how his golden eyes glowed, bright and glassy. His throat worked again as he swallowed and he blinked. “Save a dance for me at the Equinox Ball?” he murmured, thumbing a line across your cheekbone.

“As many as you like,” you laughed.

Ahrin’s answering deep, earthy laugh made the warmth inside you bloom to something fierce, but before he could kiss you again, someone called his name and he winced, wings tucking. “I… I have to go,” he said. “It’s one of the Prince’s advisers. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you said, still feeling like you were floating. “Go.”

“At the Equinox Ball,” he promised, kissing your knuckles as he left.

You watched him go and turned back to the balcony and the desert below, heart pounding. Maybe it wouldn’t go anywhere beyond the ball, but you could enjoy it while it lasted, surely. Perhaps when Rhaziel decided he no longer needed you, you could go to the Court of Shadows and… Shaking your head, you instantly recalled what he’d said about how humans were treated there. No, that wasn’t something you could endure.

The sadness that pervaded your thoughts that week - even when you saw Ahrin around the palace from time to time - seeped deep into your bones. You played it off as just tiredness to Rhaziel, but when Ahrin swirled you round the dance floor for the second time at the Equinox Ball, he frowned, his thick, sculpted brows knitting, his eyes dark. “What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately sweeping you out of the dance and onto the balcony again. This time you didn’t have it to yourselves, but as he led you to the far end, you might as well have been alone.

“What’s troubling you so much?” he pressed, lifting your chin the way he had done the week before. This time, no kiss followed, only kindness.

You tried to put on a brave face, but his eyes were so earnest that you had to tell him the truth. “It’s so childish,” you hissed, half turning away.

Ahrin caught your hand up in his as you moved and squeezed. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

Taking a steadying breath, you said, “I think I’m enjoying this too much.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asked, confused.

You nodded. “You’re going back tomorrow, and I’m staying here. I can’t go with you.”

Ahrin’s expression shattered, and you realised that he hadn’t even thought of that. “I… I can… I could come and visit you,” he ventured, though even as he said it, you both knew it couldn’t happen.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you said gently. “It’s alright… You’re probably destined for more than me anyway.”

He growled, low and deep as a wolf, and you jumped in surprise. His wings flexed behind him, like a swan preparing to beat the absolute crap out of someone, and you began to giggle at the thought. “What?” he snarled.

“Easy,” you said, still chuckling. “Let’s just make the most of tonight then.”

His warm eyes went wide and he leaned forward, seizing your face and drawing you into a passionate kiss that left you dizzy. “Yes,” he said. “Come with me.”

Ahrin led you through the castle towards the guest wing, and none of the guards stopped you as you followed him into his private apartments. A fire was blazing in the grate, and spherical glass lamps had been lit all around the room, each one glowing like rubies in the sun. His quarters were lavish, but you had eyes only for him.

His jerkin was laced up the back to accommodate his wings, and he spread them wide for you to undo it in a gesture that struck you as incredibly intimate. He shivered as you brushed your fingertips against the ‘shoulders’ of his wings where they melted from dark, leathery brown into the smooth skin of his tanned, muscular back. There wasn’t a mark or scar on his body, save for the odd freckle here and there, and as you let his jerkin fall to the ground, he turned carefully and you saw that the hunger in his eyes had grown.

Ahrin took his time undressing you, and when you stepped out of the last of your clothes, he let out a shaky breath, jaw slack, eyes glassy, his pupils blown wide. “Stunning,” he murmured, repeating his compliments from the last time as if in a kind of prayer. “You’re stunning,” he breathed.

He lingered, kissing down your neck and letting his fingers caress your hard nipples and his hands wander until you felt lax and pliant in his arms. Leading you to his bed, he laid you down and began to worship every exposed inch of you with his mouth and his hands, leaving you a gasping, shaking mess.

“You’re still… still wearing too much,” you managed to whimper when he’d brought you close to orgasm twice in a row.

With a wry grin, he nodded and shucked off the rest of his clothes, freeing his impressive, erect cock. Pre-come wept and beaded at the head and he took himself in his hand as he leaned over you on the bed, one knee on either side of your legs. Lowering himself down, he ground his body slowly against yours until you were both groaning and trembling.

“I want to mark you,” he growled, mouthing at your neck and collarbones as he picked up his speed. His wings stretched back behind him, occasionally twitching. His cock was slick against your hip as he rutted against you, covering you in his pre-come. “You’re already going to smell of me, but… can I…?” he asked, nipping you more forcefully.

You nodded, and he instantly closed his mouth to your collarbone, sucking a deep, dark bruise there. The moment he leaned back and admired his work, his wings extended wider than the width of his huge bed, and he moaned, “You look so good like that…”

“I’m yours, Ahrin,” you whimpered, shudderingly close to your own peak as he ground himself repeatedly against you. Your hands clutched at the sheets beneath you and you begged him to come as you bucked up against his weight. “Please… come over me…”

His eyes flared bright with magic and shadows began to coil around your legs as he lost his tight control on his powers. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you, and as the gentle, velvety darkness wrapped around your senses, it felt like another caress. “I’m so close,” he whimpered as he worked himself rough and fast. “Fuck… I’m…” and a moment later his hips spasmed and he emptied himself all over your stomach.

Ahrin’s wings flared impossibly wide, the membrane becoming almost translucent as it stretched to its limits as he came with a bellow, mouth open, eyes rammed shut, head tipped back in ecstasy.

A moment later as you finally came as well, his strength failed him and his muscular supporting arm buckled. He toppled down on top of you and the two of you lay panting and twitching together for a long time.

When he finally caught his breath, he pushed himself up off you, groaning at the mess he’d made of both of you. He drew carefully back and got to his feet. From where you lay, dazed and spent on the bed, you watched as his wings sagged, as though the weight of them was finally too much for him after his earlier exertions, and observed how the tips dragged on the floor as he paced unsteadily over to an adjacent room and disappeared.

The sound of running water reached your ears not long afterwards, and he reemerged again, still naked, but a little cleaner, and carried your limp body towards the bath. Steam billowed into the air, fogging the mirror and condensing on his long, thick eyelashes like morning dew on blades of grass. He lowered you into the water of the enormous, black stone bath - which was more like a pool - and stepped in after you. With care and gentle attention, he washed you clean, lingering where you were still sensitive until you were arching up into his touch and hissing his name.

“Ahrin…”

“Mmm?”

“Make me come again?”

He kissed you and adjusted the movement of his hand a little, making you cry out, though the sound was muffled by his lips against yours.

“And again,” he said, kissing your neck and leaving another bruise not long after.

You moaned.

“And again,” he added, biting gently at your collarbone. “And… again…”

Other Fae Realm Stories

Prince of the Court of Night x female reader *commission* (nsfw) Part Two (nsfw)

Male winged shadowborne fae (Shaer) x female reader (nsfw) *commission* (long!)

Male reptilian fae (Adan) x female reader (nsfw) *commission*

Male triton Fae (Kaerio) x female character (sfw) *commission*

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

#winged fae #fae #fae x reader #gender neutral reader #male fae x reader #exophilia #fae realm #wings

523 notes · View notes

bestworstcase · 4 years

Note

more than once you've said "the tts fandom can't write x character, or can't write y character," but have you considered that maybe they can write them fine, you've just built up your desired interpretations of these characters? you give off this condescending attitude, like ONLY YOU can write tts characters accurately, ONLY YOU understand them, & any interpretations that don't in some way align with what you think are WRONG. this has become more apparent as you've worked through bitter snow

let’s discuss king frederic, and how he is often characterized in fanworks vs how he is characterized in the show.

now... i think we can all agree that frederic is at best a mediocre father and a not especially good king, that in his worst moments he steps over the line into emotional abuse vis a vis his treatment of rapunzel, and that the avoidant head-in-the-sand approach he takes to the black rock problem in s1 causes widespread pain, unnecessary panic, and does not improve the situation whatsoever.

he is widely disliked in the fandom for very good reason

however! it is difficult, though hardly impossible, to find fic where frederic acts or speaks... like frederic, for one very simple reason: the fandom, by and large, as a group, writes frederic as an angry, abusive man who blows up when he is confronted with the many, many things he does wrong. often this takes the form of a character, or characters, getting up in front of him and rattling off his list of crimes, real or perceived, followed by him basically throwing a tantrum.

canon frederic, to put it bluntly, does not do that.

exhibit a: caine’s confrontation of frederic in before ever after.

caine sets up exactly the scenario that in the average tts fanfic would end with frederic yelling / blustering / furiously denying the accusations, plus she does it while rounding up all his guests and putting them in cage to haul them off and, presumably, kill them somewhere. like. the stakes are life or death and this is an extremely stressful situation for everyone involved.

and this is how that conversation goes down:

FRED: Release my guests immediately!

CAINE: What’s the matter, Fred? Am I ruining your perfect day?

RAPUNZEL: ...The Duchess?

CAINE: Oh, honey. I am no Duchess.

RAPUNZEL: I don’t understand.

CAINE: Of course you wouldn’t, Rapunzel, but try to follow along. This is all your fault.

RAPUNZEL: What?!

CAINE: You see, after your untimely... disappearance, your father locked up every criminal in the kingdom... including a simple petty thief. My father. I saw him thrown into a cage and hauled off like some animal, never to be seen again. So... I thought I’d come back, and return the favor.

[the wagon rolls in]

CAINE: Load ‘em up, boys! Your turn, Your Majesty.

[Frederic moves to shield Rapunzel; Caine snickers.]

CAINE: Oh, come on, you didn’t think we’d leave our prized pig in the pen, did you?

RAPUNZEL: [as Caine’s gang drags Frederic toward the wagon] Dad—

FREDERIC: Rapunzel, stay back.

RAPUNZEL: But—

FREDERIC: No. There’s nothing you can do. As your father and your king, I command you to stay put.

there are two key points that i want to make here, because they diverge significantly from the way frederic is characterized in analogous scenarios in fanfics, like, 90% of the time.

1) fred doesn’t get angry. he doesn’t bluster or yell. he orders caine to release his guests, and when she refuses, he gets quiet. he does not interrupt caine’s rant, he does not even try to deny her accusations, and he doesn’t stomp around escalating the situation even while caine is prancing around waving a sword in his daughter’s face or literally poking him in the chest.

he stays calm.

2) fred’s primary, overriding concern is for rapunzel’s safety, and the safety of his guests. not his own. he does not struggle when caine’s men lead him away. he protests on behalf of his guests, but not himself, and he attempts to physically shield rapunzel from harm before he is dragged away. he doesn’t waste his breath trying to argue with caine, but he does tell rapunzel firmly not to put herself in danger trying to rescue him.

now... there are plenty of ways to interpret why frederic behaves this way, and my personal take is certainly not the only possible one. but the behavior itself, the staying calm in the face of a crisis, while someone is in his face threatening him, his family, and his guests and making pretty charged accusation, is a) objectively playing out on the screen and b) directly at odds with the way frederic most often acts in fanfics.

exhibit b: mood-swapped frederic blows up just like fanon frederic constantly does

and this is the only time we ever see frederic lose his temper like this in the entire series. again, this is not a matter of interpretation: this is just plainly what happens on the screen. when he is in his right mind, frederic is not a “scream accusations, whip out a sword, and impulsively declare war or attack someone because he’s mad” sort of person, and to say that he is really like that, deep down, is just as silly as trying to argue that cass really is a peppy, soft-hearted, affectionate pushover, or that eugene really is too riddled-with self-doubt and anxiety to make any decisions, or that rapunzel really is a grouchy, moody, misanthropic person. the mood potion makes everyone act like fundamentally different versions of themselves; their behavior is, literally, out of character for their normal, not high-off-their-asses-on-a-magical-potion selves.

exhibit c: the angry mob in secrets of the sundrop

like with caine, this confrontation kicks off with a premise that should be pretty familiar to anyone who reads any fic featuring frederic at all, ie everybody is pissed at frederic and there is literally an enraged mob screaming for justice in the throne room. and that goes like this:

[everybody shouting in angry panic]

FREDERIC: People... [raising his voice to be heard] Citizens, please! Listen to me!

[Max rears and whinnies to get everyone’s attention, and the shouting dwindles away.]

FREDERIC: I will not lie to you any longer. Corona is in grave danger. The queen has been taken; over half our royal guard lie wounded; and these black rocks draw ever closer.

[the shouting begins to pick up again]

EUGENE: Uh, sir, hi, yeah—if there’s a ‘but’ in this speech, you probably want to cut to it right now.

FREDERIC: But I look at you, and I don’t just see subjects. I see friends, family; strong, brave individuals who have stood by each other, side-by-side, and have never, ever backed down from a fight! Today, we face a danger like none before. As your king, your friend, and as your brother, I ask you to fight one more time. For Corona!

again, key points:

1) frederic does not deny, bluster, shout down, or otherwise attempt to refute the basic point that he bungled the black rock situation. he did bungle it, and he knows that [this scene is preceded by him spelling out the full extent of his failures to rapunzel and openly admitting guilt]. through his behavior, he demonstrates that he accepts culpability for the situation and implicitly accepts the legitimacy of the crowd’s anger.

2) he raises his voice only so he can be heard above the shouting, and as soon as folks quiet down, he drops to a reasonable volume again. his mood is grim, but he isn’t angry. he projects calm.

3) eugene is nervous about frederic losing control of the crowd and accidentally causing a riot or something; frederic is not.

4) instead of denying the crowd’s anger, frederic tries to reframe the problem for them: yes, things are bad, but they are strong and brave and we can all work together to put things right. he doesn’t shout them down; he seeks to inspire them.

and 5) when frederic says “we face a danger,” he means that. the very next thing he does after giving this speech is go straight to the frontlines to fight in the same battle he’s asking everyone else to join in. he's not asking them to do anything he isn’t willing to do himself.

which... i would argue even more than the caine confrontation in BEA, is diametrically opposed to the way the typical fanon frederic would respond to an angry mob situation, because the typical fanon frederic is a very angry, aggressive man, and that... simply isn’t who frederic is. he’s calm, he’s knows how to work a crowd, he knows how to use his authority to achieve his goals without browbeating or threatening.

even when he does get angry—such as his instinctive reaction to arianna’s kidnapping, when he jumps first to “we will invade old corona”—he doesn’t yell or stomp around or throw tantrum. he gets stiff and rather cold and makes an impulsive judgment call... but then he takes some time to brood by himself, calms down, talks things out with rapunzel, admits his failures, and doesn’t follow through with the impulsive order he made in the heat of the moment.

like... flat out, he is not an angry man.

and it’s frustrating, when i go to read fanfic and frederic is overwhelmingly characterized as this hapless angry shouty abusive person, because it is breathtakingly far removed from how he acts in canon, and i like frederic as a character. i find him very interesting, and it’s not fun to read fics where everything that makes him interesting is taken away and replaced with this sort of one-note Shouty Angry King/Bad Dad Whom Everyone Hates. and that applies, unfortunately, to a very large number of the types of fics i like to read (namely, long canon exploratory or canon divergent fics, etc)

anyway,

i am perfectly happy to read interpretations of the tts characters that do not mesh well, or are even wholly incompatible with, my own.

but i do expect, as a minimum, characters to behave more or less the way they behave in canon unless there is a clear reason for them to be different. i expect varian to be nerdy and chaotic and a bit of a disaster, for example. i expect adira to be aloof, blunt, and perhaps a touch arrogant. i expect cassandra to be ambitious and frustrated and prone to self-sabotage and envy. i expect lance to be laid back and eugene to be a bit vain. i expect the captain to be gruff and very tight-laced. and i expect frederic to act like a politician who is in control of his feelings but sort of cowardly at heart, because that’s how frederic acts in the show.

i hold myself to these standards too. a ton of my editing process is “hm does this character really talk like this? is this how they would react to this situation?” and then going through and rewatching scenes or whole episodes and trying to find roughly analogous emotional beats or situations to sort of gauge whether i’m hitting the mark or not; it’s very difficult and i work hard on it and do not always succeed... and this does make me a bit picky about characterization in fics i’m reading, yeah, because it’s... always at the forefront of my mind. and then yes i post about it here, because this is the hyperfixation landfill where i dump my tts-adjacent thoughts.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

of course, you’re welcome to unfollow me if you do not enjoy reading what i post. it’s important to curate an online experience that you enjoy! if my general demeanor irritates you, you don’t need to inflict yourself with it.

#thank u for your input anon <3 #Anonymous

18 notes · View notes

absintheum · 4 years

Text

day 1 - brioni

ohSundown left the shore warm. You were always awake to watch the last rays of natural light, as the day approached it’s end and the night blended into it. You remember reading lines of a poem describing the moments of shift between the light and dark, but you can’t recall the exact words. Something about the rose-tinted fingers of the aurora and the tentacles of darkness holding gently onto the metaphorical hand. You never understood what the point of that poem was.

The moments in which you were alone on the shore were getting fewer and farther, between your self-imposed seclusion in your secondary hive and the quicksand pits that were beginning to engulf all of the shoreline of the island you called your first home. That and your sleeping habits’ change due to natural aging. Quicksand, you had learned, was one of life’s few certainties among taxes, death and the feeling of existential dread felt as you looked into the horizon at dusk, from a wave riding board placed strategically, so it would float on the may- or not yet- be quicksand. There was something cathartic about it. You couldn’t place it, nor name it, but there was a feeling worming its way inside of your pusher. It was a mixed feeling, which left notes of bitterness in your mouth and sweetness in your throat. You could never tell if it was positive or not.

After the sun had sunk below the line of ocean you called horizon, you got up, not bothering to brush off your wetsuited dress the sand that would be soon washed away by the saltwater. You had been clever in your youth: no matter the quicksand season and moment of cycle, you had installed a few paths of low-density wave riding boards. You had 8 sweeps of experience in not being dead via the sand; you were the unsinkable. The occasional piece of no troll’s treasure that would wash ashore couldn’t say the same.

Some, you had rescued out of curiosity and sparks of environmental awareness, while some were already so buried in that you couldn’t be bothered to dig them up. The quicksand giveth, the quicksand gaveth. That was the law of quicksand.

The sea floor was no exception: the conditions in the place you decided to construct your primary hive was just so perfect that in the correct season, the underwater floor itself could be dangerous (if the many sea lusii, including your own, weren’t already making the area a bit too cozy). Said season wasn’t due to kick in for a quarter at least, to your estimate. You’d take the smidgeon of added safety to dive in, swimming to the depths that allowed your favourite anemones to grow. The dive was always your favourite part of the day, it freshened up your mind and reminded you that you were alive, in one way. It was peaceful, to soak underwater and to allow your gills to breathe. To allow your fins to expand and contract to aid in your movements.

Your webbed hands had grown calloused from picking them- it stang, but you’d endure it. Compared to your medousoid lusus’, it was the gentle touch of a quadrantmate. The anemones you picked were more than what you’d have gotten last time, they filled the space in your arms as the gentle sting spread from your fingers and palms to the skin of your forearms. You sucked it up, the air of the night would be cooling enough. In two hours’ time, your skin would be good as new. In a way, it was similar to the practice of urchincupunture: eventually, you’d develop a resistance to the toxin and your skin would stay tense and smooth. You couldn’t eat the sea urchins needles, however.

Once the amount satisfied you and the sting became uncomfortable, you sprang upwards, to the surface. The shore had cooled down significantly, and so had the air. Your sore and slightly flushed skin felt relief, where it could. You ran on the boards and back inside, there was still work to be done before you could take a breather: anemones don’t milk themselves yet. You wish that was a saying, but you seemed to be the only user, despite the attempts to lure your friends into using it.

As you deposited the bounty of the dusk onto the table in the sliving room, you shook your arms, as if movement would soothe the dull ache (it didn’t, but it felt as if it was right to do so). You recounted the amount on your fingers and in your head and attempted to open your shelltop and almost jolted in a sudden wave of pain. How you managed to forget each time, it was above you.

You tried opening your shelltop again, using your teeth as leverage and your chin to guide the cruisor across the screen and open a flashing notification on a text box, and your voice to text before you even tried to think about typing.

--- hibisquisiteNatterer [HN] is bubbling to cnidarialClone [CC] ---

HN: v^v^ heeeeeyyyyyy bubble boo ^v^v HN: v^v^ are you awake yet? you should be, but in case you’re not ^v^v HN: v^v^ i miss you so much! the pile isn’t the same without you!! but!!! there is a new friend waiting for you!!!!! CC: ŒŒ== i’m awakŒ plŒnty and swanky CC: ŒŒ== i miss you tŒrribly too! just rŒsist thŒ wŒŒk, i’ll bŒ back soonŒr than a fresh bottlŒ of anŒmonŒ milk HN: v^v^ one entire week!! one week is too long!!! its an entire perigree’s time!!!!!! HN: v^v^ also i swear.. you... and your obscure figures of speech…… HN: v^v^ pale for you…. nonetheless…. but you do rip a shred of my soul when you mention it… CC: ŒŒ== i’ll sŒŒ to it pŒrsonally to throw it into a dronŒdustry standardizŒd papŒrwork shrŒddŒr whŒn i get thŒrŒ

You are a girl of simple pleasures. You love to torment your pale girlfriend with insufferable phrases nobody will use and she loves to call you “bubble boo”. You cannot deprive each other of this and you’re living for it.

HN: v^v^ sigh!!!!!!!!!!! ^v^v HN: v^v^ one week is an acceptable wait….. afterall…… HN: v^v^ ….. bubble boo…… HN: v^v^ >;D

What, are you supposed not to swoon?

CC: ŒŒ== palŒ for you too <> CC: ŒŒ== but i supposŒ that you’ll think again, for thŒrŒ is a dad hold on i’m ta- shit no dŒlŒtŒ dŒvlŒtŒ CC: ŒŒ== fuck nO WAIT CC: ŒŒ== SHIT HN: v^v^ are you on s2ht???????????? ^v^v CC: ONŒ MOMŒNT PLEASŒ

You disable the speech to text, again, with your chin. Your dad is awake and wants to be fed and you have to cut the chit-chat short. It was a good coincidence, however: your secret surprise of a gift can keep it’s title for another day. As the window is closed, you sigh. Dad knows it’s the day you leave again, this time for almost a perigree. He’d come with you, when you were younger, but you were well past the age of needing a chaperone to your love visits. Can’t blame a girl for wanting to enjoy the freedom of what is left of their fun years before the lacrosse bat of being hurled into space swung you into space.

At least feeding time was fun.

Your dad hunted for itself when it wanted to, but you also enjoyed looking from the glass walls of the uppest lower floor as the feeding brine was poured into his designated block from a specifically designed pipe, and the thousands of tiny little crustacean were consumed. It made his mostly translucent body gain a faintly coloured tint between the violet of your blood and the purple of the caste below it. In a spark of childish genius, juvenile you had decided that the quickest way to make way to the lower floors of your primary home into the airlock of your submarine secondary one was going to be a slide, spiraling downwards. It was a bad decision and sometimes you’d bring a book to read until motion sickness kicked in. The stairs were added in a second moment, as you matured a sense for interior design and a taste for not being hurled face-first into the steel walls of a submarine. That last part was solved with padding the area of presumed landing.

Landing face-first into plush and pillow is way more pleasant.

Remembering you left the key item for the event upstairs isn’t. Begrudgingly climbing up enough sets of stairs to give you quads for days wasn’t either.

A second slide gave you time to contemplate that maybe you should have rethought the design of this slide entirely and not have taken it a second time. A second thump that accompanied your arrival at the plush landing station confirmed your thoughts. A look at the clutched anemones confirms they are still intact, and relief accompanies that. Their sting has subsided, finally they can be refined as your recipe intends. Your submarine is fully equipped and furnished, ready to leave at the snap of your fingers. You’re ready to depart and from the windows of the piloting chamber, the dark depths look into you. You look up and back into the dark night waters. You can barely make out the speck that is supposed to be the green moon. You flip the autopilot switch on and let the whirring of machinery soothe the loneliness.

#nanowrimo #ddp's fantroll corner #i went through the trouble of exacoding them with 2 different violets on the og gdoc and apparentl its not working on tumblr #please someone kill me

4 notes · View notes

lovemesomerafael · 4 years

Text

Others Like Me Chapter 12: New York

Chapters 1 - 10 Chapter 11 Read It On AO3

It’s easily the worst experience Bucky’s ever had. It hurts like hell, for one thing, and for another, he feels like he’s in the spin cycle of a wash machine for what seems like hours. Then, at the end, it’s like getting spit out through a ring of fire and falling a few stories to land with a sickening series of snaps and cracks. His left arm is useless and he can’t feel it, which is probably good since it appears to be smoking. He takes inventory of his injuries. Left lower leg, definitely broken. Fairly significant head injury. Right wrist sprained, probably not broken, but elbow dislocated. So no meaningful use of either arm. And definitely some serious internal injuries.

Fucking hell.

So apparently he didn’t die, but he ain’t doing too good, either. He makes a mental note that, whenever he does die, he needs to find Tony Stark and kick the shit out of him.

The pressing question is, what the hell happened? Where is he? Of all the possible outcomes of flipping that damn switch, it never occurred to him that he might end up beat to shit. Dead, sure. But if he’s alive with all these injuries, and still in the Avengers Compound in his own universe, Bucky is going to have to invent a new language made up entirely of pissed off, offensive words.

But he isn’t still in the Avengers Compound, and he isn’t in his own universe. He knows this because when he opens his eyes, he’s looking at the Marina Bay Sands resort in Singapore. Or what’s left of it. The iconic three 57-story towers, which used to be topped by a huge, ship-shaped platform lined with trees and featuring pools, shops, and restaurants, are in ruins.

In Bucky’s universe, that would’ve made the news.

The North tower is half-destroyed, its top now a jagged stump. The central tower is simply gone. And the South tower, while mostly still present, leans ominously toward the space where the central tower once stood. Chunks of the platform, which had been a massive building in itself, can be seen tumbled among the debris of the towers. But the largest piece, at least five hundred feet long, is what had formerly been the “prow” of the ship. This part of the platform had cantilevered 220 feet off the edge of the North tower. Now, the point of the “prow” is embedded in the ground to the side of that tower, and the rest of the section leans crazily against the tower’s remains.

Bucky can’t imagine what caused that. Especially when he looks behind him at the skyscrapers of the city, and sees that they are all intact. But he doesn’t have much time to ponder the mystery, because he hears the unmistakable sound of emergency vehicles approaching. He doesn’t bother to worry about what will happen when they reach him, because there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it. Not in this condition. He closes his eyes and waits.

He must pass out for at least a few minutes, because when he comes to, there is a pleasant Asian face inches from his, yelling at him in English. Although Bucky speaks all four of the most widely-spoken languages in Singapore, it makes sense that, with his Western features, they’d start with English. For some reason - maybe just to be a dick, he’s not sure – Bucky answers in Malay.

The man, who is a cop, rears back in surprise at this bule, with his flawless accent. Huh. Must have been raised here. He doesn’t waste time trying to figure it out, though, because the guy is clearly badly hurt. He tells Bucky that an ambulance is minutes away, and then asks him what happened.

“Hit by a car,” Bucky lies, figuring the cop won’t question such a run-of-the-mill explanation, and he doesn’t. Given the extent of his injuries, Bucky is spared any further questions beyond his name. He barely coughs out “James,” and the cop is satisfied with that, since it’s so obviously difficult for Bucky to talk. He lets himself pass out again until the ambulance arrives, because that’s when the trouble will start. As soon as the paramedics start to examine him and find his metal arm, things will get interesting.

He’s not wrong. He regains consciousness when the excited shrieks start and they begin jerking his arm around. The good news is, the arm must be resetting itself, because he feels it. The bad news is, he feels it. He indulges in a Tony Stark-worthy eyeroll before he opens his eyes. That distracts the cops and paramedics for a moment as they remember he’s an actual person, who is significantly fucked up at the moment.

“What is this?” One of the cops asks, once again yanking at his metal arm. Bucky yanks it away from him, noting that he can now move it, and it’s no longer smoking. Yay, Wakanda.

“Research…” Bucky gasps, deliberately exaggerating his difficulty speaking, although not by much, because yeah. He feels like he’s been danced on by horses. Maybe buffalo. “Experiment. Prototype.”

The paramedics, too, are shocked by his Malay. They’re not satisfied with his answer about his arm – nobody makes a prosthesis like that – but now that they’ve at least gotten some explanation out of him, they’re content to shove the cops out of the way and stake their primary claim to their patient. Like it always goes when Bucky finds himself in this situation.

Bucky has been hurt many, many times before. He knows the drill. It’s his first time in a Singaporean hospital, but that’s about all that’s new for him. He’s immensely relieved when they put his dislocated elbow back in place; it hurts like a motherfucker, but once it’s over, he’s fine. Which is a low bar when you’re the Winter Soldier, but he detests hospitals and doctors. For seventy years’ worth of reasons. All he needs now is for them to set and cast his leg, and he’ll be on his way. Not that they’ll be willing to let him leave, but he’s not planning to ask for permission.

They get pretty excited about the damage to his internal organs. He doesn’t. None of it is anything he hasn’t had before, and he knows he’ll heal without the emergency surgery they’re suddenly shouting about. When he refuses it, there’s a stunned, disbelieving silence before the doctor who appears to be in charge explains, in language suitable for a toddler, that he will die without it.

No, buddy, I actually won’t. Never did before, and I’ve been busted up way worse than this. Hydra never bothered with surgery, and it’s probably the only point on which we ever agreed.

Bucky says no again, and the doctor switches to amusingly dumbed-down English to say the same things. Another refusal. It’s all Bucky can do not to laugh when the poor guy tries Chinese. So Bucky politely and firmly refuses in Chinese, too. He takes pity on the doctor and tells him it’s a religious thing, and that seems to at least shut him up, although it’s clear he’s frustrated with this idiot who thinks God is going to sew up the big-ass laceration in his liver.

Bucky does agree to a hefty slug of morphine, and enjoys a nice nap while they finally set and cast his leg. The Trauma Unit staff are a little bummed that they’re not going to get to learn more about his arm, which they’re all drooling over. But since he’s going to die anyway, they ship him up to a regular room - not even ICU, because why waste the bed on a walking corpse? That’s good news for Bucky, because it means he gets to sleep through the night. Early the next morning, by the time the small herd of attending and resident doctors come to do their rounds on him, he’s already been gone for an hour.

He doesn’t have any money, but he’s Bucky Barnes. He doesn’t like to steal, but his life sometimes makes it unavoidable. He always just hopes his mother can’t look down from Heaven and see him. Half an hour after he wheels himself out of the hospital in a stolen wheelchair, he’s also stolen enough Singapore dollars to check into a mid-range hotel. For this, he uses his fake American passport and credit card, although he could also have chosen the French, Russian, or South African ones he’s brought. He’s made the right choice, too, because as expected, the staff definitely gives him and his wheelchair some looks. He goes Ugly American and the front desk staff speed things up, after which it takes no time for him to be wheeled into his room by a porter just to get his annoying ass out of sight of other guests. Works every time. He tips the porter handsomely and then collapses onto the bed.

For the next week, he sleeps almost continuously and lives on room service. Thanks to his performance on check-in and his generous tips, he’s left alone unless he wants something. Hydra used to extract him from wherever he was when he completed a mission, no matter what shape he was in, but he’s recuperated this way before, too. The first and most difficult time was after the Battle of the Triskelion, but there have been others. By now, he doesn’t really have to think too hard to plan his next steps.

In fact, he hasn’t really thought much about anything since he arrived here. He’s in a strange sort of limbo, just existing. It’s maybe a little bit too much like being the Winter Soldier, but it’s more like other times, after that, but before he ended up in Bucharest. There was no Steve then. At that time, he’d begun to have momentary flashes of memory, but he hadn’t yet begun to try in earnest to remember. Hadn’t been to the Smithsonian. Hadn’t started his notebook. He holds onto that association, paying attention to those similarities because he hadn’t felt anything then, and he doesn’t want to feel anything now.

Steve, his Steve, has never existed in this universe. There is probably a Steve Rogers, and Bucky will probably have to find him in order to find Marya, but he isn’t Bucky’s Steve. Bucky’s Steve is irretrievably gone, in another time and, now, in another universe. Somehow, that makes Bucky feel safer. Gives his heart permission to take a few days off from grieving the son of a bitch.

When he’s healed enough, he orders a steak from room service and uses the knife to cut the cast from his leg. No easy task, that, but he’s had to do it before. He makes a note to steal a Ka-bar at the first opportunity. He had agonized over the decision whether to be armed when he flipped the switch. With no idea where he might land if it worked, he couldn’t know whether it would be necessary to defend himself, or an unnecessary complication to have to explain a bunch of weapons. As it turned out, he had guessed correctly. But now he wants some motherfucking knives. And a gun or four.

At the moment, he does not need the complications that would come with trying to purchase weapons legally in Singapore with foreign documents. Really foreign, he reminds himself, with the first grin he’s cracked in this new universe.

He finds himself a cautiously excited, now that he’s pretty much healed. During his week of recovery, he realized that, since he is here, that means there’s a good chance that Marya is alive and here, too. With any luck, he’ll be seeing her again soon.

That thought makes him feel a strange, pleasant but almost scary, sensation that he knows he’s felt before, but can’t put a name to. Although Bucky’s forgotten hope, Steve apparently didn’t completely destroy his capacity for it when he left Bucky for the past and Peggy Carter. He just crushed it so badly that it stayed dead until now.

He needs some more money. That means he needs to go to the Orchard Road area. Bucky isn’t going to steal from any of the real Singaporeans, the ones who work for a living. But he doesn’t need to. Singapore being an over-the-top shopping mecca, he can have his pick of targets who have more money that he needs in the cushions of their couches. Smug, self-congratulatory tourists and bored trophy wives, none of whom ever worry about pickpockets. And none of whom ever consider, when they realize they’ve been robbed, that the robber might have been the charming, handsome, blue-eyed man they’d briefly chatted with.

Bucky has some guesses as to why Hydra taught him that particular skill, but he’ll never know for sure. What he does know is that he’s a master at it. Within three hours, he’s accumulated more cash than he really expects to need. The hardest part is disengaging himself from his targets once he’s lifted their wallets. Steve is right, he thinks. He really is too charming for his own good.

Then again, fuck Steve.

Bucky hates airports. Hates everything about them. He’s going to miss private air travel. There are so many security cameras, so many checkpoints, so many damn eyes that airports have always seemed to be a place someone like him had best avoid. In this particular case, he needs to be especially careful, because he has no idea who Bucky Barnes is in this universe. His luck hasn’t been that great recently, and he really doesn’t want to find himself in the universe where Marya is, only to spend the rest of his life in prison because his alter-ego is an international jewel thief or some shit. Or worse, live only a week because his ass gets shot by some jealous husband. He has to look like his ID, though, which means he has to take the chance of wearing his own face. He’ll just have to hope for the best.

He shows up at the airport five hours early for the flight to New York. In part, he because he has nowhere else to go. But mostly because he knows his arm is going to be a big fucking problem. He’s never tried to get through airport security with it before. Never had to. At least he’s thought ahead. He spent a week in his universe creating reams of fake documentation showing that he lost his arm in a train accident and is part of a clinical trial of this new, highly advanced prosthesis.

He’s shocked to find that no one at the airport gives a shit. Not like medical professionals, who know that no one makes prosthetics like his. Security workers just want to know that it isn’t a weapon (he grins for the second time in this universe when he hears that). No? Then move on, buddy. There’s a long line behind you.

The first thing he does when he’s through security is purchase a computer tablet. He’s always wondered who would buy electronics from one of those vending machines at airports; now he knows. He wanted one the whole time he was recuperating, but thought it would be too odd to ask a hotel employee to purchase one for him. He needs to know the differences between this universe and his.

Bucky sits down under a mounted television that is permanently tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel and continues the process he began at the hotel while he was recuperating. He slept a lot during that time, but he usually had the news channel on.

Thus far, he hasn’t found many differences. Apparently, terrorism is more of a problem here, because he learned pretty quickly that’s what happened to the Marina Bay Sands resort. It’s part of why he was so nervous about getting through airport security, and part of why he’s so surprised that it was so easy.

Another difference is that he’s seen no media coverage of the Avengers or Captain America at all. That’s one of the big reasons he’s been so anxious to get a computer. He Googles himself first, and gets a surprise. He doesn’t exist. He can find nothing online about himself, no matter how many permutations of his name he enters. He tries “Winter Soldier”. Nothing again. Huh? Did none of that happen in this universe? He frowns.

Then he bites the bullet and Googles Steve. Nothing again. Now that is really weird. Steve isn’t Captain America? Bucky tries Googling “Captain America.” He’s relieved to get some hits; he was starting to wonder whether any of it had happened in this universe. What he learns is that, in this universe, Captain America was a commercial character, created to sell war bonds. He was never real, and he ceased to be relevant when World War II ended. Bucky can find no information about the name of the man who “played” Captain America during the war.

I wonder what Stevie would have to say about that.

As far as Bucky can tell, the war happened the way it happened in his universe. There was just no Hydra. Can’t say that breaks my heart, he thinks.

Next, he Googles Tony Stark. For his purposes, that’s really the only thing that matters. If Marya came here, she would have tried to find Tony Stark. He has a momentarily heart-stopping fear that Tony won’t exist here, either, in which case Bucky will be well and truly fucked. How is he supposed to find a woman with no surname, no relatives, nothing but a first name, a face, and a distinctive blonde patch in her hair?

His heart starts again when he sees that Tony, at least, exists here. And how. Tony’s escapades in this universe dwarf those in Bucky’s own. Here, Stark Industries never stopped making weapons. Here, Tony was apparently never taken hostage in Afghanistan, and there appears to be no Ironman. Instead of designing Ironman suits and equipment for a team of superheroes, he’s apparently spent his time having truly mind-boggling amounts of sex. The description of Tony Stark as a “genius billionaire playboy philanthropist” doesn’t appear to fit in this universe. If he’s a genius, he’s not using it much. Stark Industries doesn’t appear to have come up with a new weapon since the Jericho Missile. Billionaire playboy? He’s a multi-multi-billionaire Olympic-level sexual athlete. That appears to be all he does: collect interest on his incalculable wealth and fuck everything that holds still long enough. Well, there are drugs, too, with terrifying levels of documentation. The philanthropy seems to be a little pro forma. The Tony in Bucky’s universe did a hell of a lot more, with less money. Jeez, Bucky thinks, I never expected to think of Tony Stark as someone who economizes.

Bucky can’t help himself; he clicks on some of the more lurid links. Shit, he really hopes this Tony has a good doctor and can tolerate antibiotics. Because damn. This guy gets around. Some of the stories are so Tony, Bucky feels a stab of nostalgia. Suddenly, he has to swallow around a lump in his throat. He’s missed Tony, but it hasn’t hit him this hard in a long time. Bucky’s glad Tony’s still alive in this universe – which is actually a little bit surprising, given some of his escapades - and he hopes he gets to meet him. He clicks on a link about Tony being arrested for indecent exposure at an art gallery gala.

And that’s where he sees it.

There are plenty of pictures of Tony, handcuffed and clearly shouting at the top of his lungs, being escorted from a glitzy hotel by a group of police officers, both uniformed and plainclothes. But there is one, smaller and less prominent than the more entertaining ones, of a nicely-tuxedoed Tony wearing sunglasses (after dark, Tony, you’re a douche in any universe) on a red carpet. He’s smiling like a fool and waving to a cheering crowd. On his arm is a beautiful woman in a stunning blue gown that fits her lithe body like a second skin, but features a transparent blue overskirt that flutters gracefully around her. The strapless bodice shows off her toned arms and shoulders, and does very nice things for her breasts. She’s not smiling; the look on her face is more of an amused smirk, like she knew this event was going to be nuts, but still can’t believe the foolishness she’s seeing. And her massive abundance of hair is twisted behind her in a chignon of sorts that looks simpler than Bucky knows it probably is. The simplicity sets off the striking, prominent, white-blonde patch of hair on the right side of her head.

Marya.

He’s found her. She’s here. His heart lurches in his chest and he actually has to cough to jump-start his lungs into breathing again. Bucky is thunderstruck. If seeing Tony’s picture made him nostalgic, seeing Marya’s picture takes him all the way back to the day she died. Or… didn’t. Whatever. He’s full-on smiling, with tears running down his face. He doesn’t realize it until a grandmotherly Chinese woman next to him actually hands him a tissue and pats him reassuringly on the arm.

The article says nothing about her, doesn’t mention her at all. But there is no doubt it’s her. Suddenly, his flight can’t begin soon enough.

*****

The hours at the Singapore airport and his research on the plane have prepared him, at least a little, for life in New York. The shape of life seems to be the same in this universe, but many of the details aren’t. He didn’t notice it so much in Singapore, because he’d only been to Singapore a few times, and always on Hydra missions that he’ll never remember well. But he grew up in New York, and he lived here once he broke free of his Hydra conditioning. The details are more obvious to him here. Here, the increased level of terrorism in the world is more glaring.

There are armed security police in the airport. They’re not airport security, or NYPD, or State Patrol, and they’re not National Guard. They’re something else. Something Bucky’s universe doesn’t have. He can already tell he’s going to be spending as much time on Google in this universe as he did when he first emerged from Hydra captivity into the present. Hopefully, there won’t be quite that much to catch up on here.

Bucky finds a kiosk and exchanges all his Singapore dollars for American ones. He’s shocked at the exchange rate, and glad that it’s in his favor. Did the terror attack in Singapore have some affect on its economy that caused that? More Google homework.

He gets a cab and his eyes are glued to the window all the way from the airport to Manhattan. The cabbie notices, and asks if it’s his first time in New York, to which Bucky answers yes. It is, after all, his first time in this New York. He doesn’t go to the Tower right away. He’s got errands to run first.

A few hours later, Bucky walks down the street toward Stark Tower. Not Avengers Tower, of course, because Tony never became Ironman in this universe. It’s the same building, though, or it appears to be. He feels about a hundred things right now. He might be about to see Tony Stark alive again. Maybe Natasha, too. He may see Clint for the first time since Tony’s funeral. And he may come face to face with Steve, and with himself. That would be some shit. Most importantly, he might be about to learn where Marya is. Of course, he also might be about to get the door slammed in his face, which is more likely on this first attempt, but there’s always the possibility.

Things get strange the moment he steps into the building, and he knows right away that, however he thought this might go, it ain’t gonna happen like that.

He gets double-takes from a few of the people in the lobby, a couple of whom sort of shyly greet him as though he’s – what? They’re doing this weird tight-smile thing, and having trouble meeting his eyes, but not in a “oh, fuck, it’s the Zimniy Soldat, please, God, let him be in a good mood and not feed me my pancreas” way. He knows that look. And then something really odd happens.

“Sergeant Barnes?” A tall, dark-skinned black man with a shiny shaved head calls to him from behind a marble and brushed nickel reception desk with the Stark logo embedded in the front. The man is wearing the typical blazer-tie-slacks uniform of a receptionist-cum-security guard, but he looks like he was chiseled out of obsidian by a very gay, very horny, military-obsessed sculptor. The dude is seriously built.

Bucky’s been in plenty of situations that call for icewater in your veins, and he recognizes this as one of them. He’s glad he has a few weapons now. He knows he needs to brazen it out, but all the same, it’s a little bit of a mindfuck to be brazenly pretending to be yourself.

“Yeah,” Bucky grins, ambling loosely over to the desk. “How’s it goin’?”

“Sir, did you lose your key card or something? Would you like me to get you into the private elevator?” The guy is looking around like he’s going to get caught at something. What the fuck?

“Stark in yet?” Bucky asks, like it’s any random day and of course he’s here in Stark Tower because of course he’s here.

“I don’t – I mean, he’s here, yes. I’m not aware that he left?” Yeah, Reception Dude is definitely having some sort of poorly-contained freakout.

“OK. Yeah, if you’d get me into the elevator, that’d be great.”

Apparently, that’s the correct answer, because Reception Dude looks like someone just pulled the ramrod out of his ass. He’s actually got a little line of sweat beads going and Bucky definitely heard an exhale of relief. MMMmmmkaaaay.

If this Stark tower is like Bucky’s Avengers tower, there will be only one button in this elevator. When the doors open, he steps in to see that’s the case, and Reception Dude pushes it.

“You have a good day, now, Sergeant.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, trying to sound preoccupied because he has no idea what Reception Dude’s name is. “You, too.”

Reception Dude walks away as the doors close, but at the last second, Bucky sees him give a troubled backward glance. It’s going to be real interesting when these doors open again, he thinks.

It actually isn’t very interesting right away. The elevator lobby up here in the residences looks like it always did. Through the doors, the Common Room looks about the same, too. Furniture’s different, but only in details, not in overall style. The room still feels like this could be a high-end prep school for gifted nerds.

The first person Bucky sees is Natasha. Holy shit. Bucky’s been so focused on seeing Tony and Marya again, and of course on the possibility of seeing Steve, that he hasn’t given nearly enough thought to seeing Nat alive again. She’s curled up in a chair that’s about twice her size, reading a magazine. If this universe is like his, it’ll either be a high-end fashion magazine, or Guns & Ammo.

“Barnes,” she croons from her chair, not looking up.

He decides to go with a noncommittal grunt and keeps moving. Before they discover that he’s the wrong him, he’s hoping he can get to Tony. Through the Common Room is the huge eat-in kitchen, where his Avengers always seemed to gather when they wanted to hang out together. The Common Room was always more for quiet chilling and for more serious conversations. Apparently, that’s true here, as well.

What Bucky is hoping to do is get through the kitchen into the hallway beyond, where there are a few of the residential apartments and, most important, the elevator to Tony’s lab. Tony has a private elevator to his lab and penthouse, of course, but if you’re not Tony, this is the route you have to take.

He doesn’t make it.

Bucky is about ten steps from the archway into the hallway he’s headed for when he hears the unmistakable snick of a safety being flipped and a hand racking the slide of a pistol. From the sound of it, a Beretta. He freezes.

“Turn around, asshole. I don’t particularly want to shoot you in the back.”

Bucky finds it very, very disconcerting to be threatened in his own voice.

“I’d kind of prefer that you don’t shoot me at all.”

The man behind him gives a noncommittal hum. Bucky turns around.

Not only are their faces identical, but the expressions on them probably are, too. But where Bucky’s hair is shoulder-length these days, and he wears a full beard, the man facing him has short hair and just a few days’ worth of scruff.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

“We could do that, but it’d be weird. It’s actually a little weird even to contemplate, so can I request a different expression of surprise?” Bucky replies.

That earns Bucky perhaps the most complex look he’s ever received. Is his face that expressive? He’s going to have to re-think Poker night.

“The fuck are you?”

“I’m definitely not a threat, which is the first issue. Why don’t you take your gun off me, huh? I’ll tell you who I am.”

The gun stays where it is. “Talk.”

Bucky starts to object, but as he does, he hears the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him. Someone walking slowly and being careful where they plant their feet, which in the circumstances means it’s someone aiming a weapon.

“Hey, Barnes?” Clint’s voice comes from directly behind Bucky. “Why are there two of you?”

“He’s just about to explain that,” Bucky’s double says. His voice is cold, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s having as much of a freakout as Reception Dude did, he’s just better at hiding it.

“You might’ve guessed my name. I’m James Buchanan Barnes. I go by Bucky.”

Now that gets a full expression from the Bucky with the gun. “Bucky? You can’t be serious.”

Clint is laughing out loud behind him. “Oh, that is so gonna stick.”

“The hell is wrong with Bucky?” He asks, offended and surprised. He doesn’t go by Bucky here? Another difference between his universe and this one.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you. I got no problem telling you. I actually came here to tell Tony Stark.”

There’s a whoosh and a loud thump that reverberates through the floor.

“So tell me,” Tony’s voice says from behind Bucky and to his left, where there’s a bank of windows. One of them has slid open without a sound, and Tony is standing there, having just flown through it wearing full Ironman armor.

Huh? So Tony did become Ironman in this universe? Fucker must take vitamins or something, because he has a lot going on here.

“My name is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says to Ironman. “I came here using a device that you created. A switch. It’s in my pocket, but I’m guessing reaching for it would be a bad move right about now.”

“’Bad’ doesn’t quite cover it, Yanni. Keep ‘em where we can see ‘em. Go on.”

“I’m from an alternate universe. The same universe Marya came from.”

If Bucky had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have been quite so blunt, or mentioned Marya right away. Because he can feel all three of them flinch at that, and they’re all three still holding weapons on him, ready to fire.

“How the hell… Who are you?” Bucky demanded. Well, no, his name isn’t Bucky here. Barnes demanded. The other one. Whatever.

“I just told you that. Now, can we please put down the weapons? Or at least aim them somewhere else? I’ve been looking forward to seeing Marya again, and I’d prefer not to be bleeding when I do.”

For a tense moment or two, nothing happens. Then Ironman flips up his visor, and the other Barnes looks over at him. Bucky moves a little so that he can see Clint, at least out of the corner of his eye. Clint seems to be OK with that, because he moves enough toward Tony that all four of them can see each other now. He pointedly doesn’t un-nock his arrow, or aim his bow elsewhere, though he does look at Tony just as the other Barnes is doing.

“Shit, Barnes, he does look like you. Except for the whole Hagrid thing he’s got goin’.”

Bucky throws a dirty look at Clint. He still misses a good fifty per cent of modern references, but he knows who Hagrid is. “Fuck you,” he mutters, but it’s kind of affectionate. It’s good to see Clint. When he went back to Iowa with his family after Tony’s funeral, it had been permanent. They’d all known it would be.

“Screw it,” Tony says. “You armed, Bucky?” There’s a definite laugh in the way he says the name.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers simply.

“Let’s have ‘em,” Tony orders, holding out his gauntlets and making a beckoning motion with his fingers. “Soon as you disarm, we’ll stand down.”

Bucky very reluctantly removes both of his guns, and all but one of his knives. He sets them on the large kitchen table, slowly and carefully. “That’s it,” he says dejectedly, when he’s done.

“Not if you’re me, it isn’t. You got at least one more.”

Bucky looks at his counterpart and smiles. He reaches to the small of his back and pulls out the Ka-bar. Setting it on the table next to the others, he holds out his hands. “Frisk me if you want.”

The other Barnes holsters his weapon and does just that. Neither of them seem surprised to see that the other has a metal left arm. He finds the switch in the right front pocket of Bucky’s black jeans, and takes it out.

When Barnes is satisfied that Bucky’s unarmed, Clint relaxes and drops his arrow back in the quiver over his shoulder. He collapses his bow into an impossibly small rectangular block, then sets it on the table. Tony pushes a button and his Ironman armor retracts, seemingly into nothing. The other Barnes hands the switch to Tony, who doesn’t entirely hide his shock at seeing it.

“Don’t flip that switch if you like this universe,” Bucky warns.

Tony holds up the device and, with a cocky sneer, flips the switch.

Bucky gasps. “What the hell?”

“Even if you were telling the truth, there’s no way a device like that would work more than once.”

Huh. Tony’s files hadn’t mentioned that.

“Come on,” Clint says, elbowing Bucky to walk in front of them toward the Common Room.

Upon entering, Bucky sees that Natasha hasn’t moved from her chair. “Hello again,” she greets him pleasantly.

Now that he comes around the chair, Bucky sees that she has a matched pair of Glock 26s in her lap. She’s also still reading a glossy fashion magazine.

Bucky can’t help it. He smiles to see Natasha, superior, snarkily amused, and very much alive. He realizes that he has already smiled more in this universe than he smiled during the last year in his own. And he hasn’t even seen Marya yet.

They sit him down across from Natasha, and Clint perches – possessively, Bucky thinks – on the arm of her chair. Tony remains standing to the left of Natasha, arms folded. The other Barnes stands right next to Bucky, looming over him, coiled so tightly Bucky imagines he can hear the man vibrating, and glowering at him like he’s still considering shooting him.

The other Barnes addresses Natasha. “He says he’s James Buchanan Barnes, from Marya’s universe.”

Clint smirks. “He goes by Bucky.”

Natasha’s mouth stretches into a disapproving line. “I can tell you right now I will not be calling you Bucky.”

“That’s my name, you assholes. How about a little respect?”

“If you’re really Barnes from another universe, you know you’ve come to the wrong place for that,” Natasha deadpans.

“Why isn’t there anything about you on the internet?” Bucky asks. “I Googled you, and nobody’s ever heard of the Avengers, or Ironman, or…”

Bucky sees all four of them stiffen. Tony, especially, looks disturbed. Bucky sees him sneak a look at the switch he’s still holding in his hand. Their reactions would probably have been entirely invisible to most people, but Bucky knows these four – hell, one of them is him - and he’s been trained for a lifetime to see the smallest details.

“We’re asking the questions here,” Barnes growls.

That’s when the elevator opens. Their faces tell Bucky that all four apparently know who’s on that elevator, and don’t want them coming in. Clint jumps from the arm of the couch and tries to reach the door, but he’s still two steps short of it when it opens.

And Marya steps into the room.

#The Avengers #endgame fix it #Bucky Barnes #The Winter Soldier #Captain America #Natasha Romanoff #Tony Stark #Robert Downey Jr.#Ironman #Clint Barton

1 note · View note

ourancs · 7 years

Text

Title: Siren Call Prompt, Day 2: Fantasy AU For: @gladnoctweek Rating: Romance, T Word count: 2475 Summary: Noctis’ siren call draws the human he has been admiring for far too long. Note: this is a universe created by myself, and @shieldheir between our roleplay blogs for noctis and gladio respectively. tentative continuation may happen.

he moves through a porthole, shoulders shifting inhumanely to accommodate his size, torso twisting as he glides through with little effort, lazy kicks propelling him forward. sunlight slants through the water and he turns on his back, hands spread wide, watching cerulean shift along the surface, winking back at him. he drifts amid the ocean water, lids dropping with the sudden desire to nap beneath the sunlit waters, tired from his exploration. body arches, drawing breath, and maw gapes in a silent yawn. yet, he could not stay here beneath the surface, sleeping as he would. it was his night to sing --- his night to call forth the humans. a chore in his eyes, taking time from that which he might actually want to do ( sleeping being a primary one ). but with the shift of color across the water, signaling the end of the day he kicks off with a sigh, chest expanding and gills fluttering. if he didn’t go, he’d never hear the end of it from his father. he’d already left ignis behind in the city, and ditching the nightly serenade would only draw more ire.

it takes little time to get to the rocks. the world passes beneath him, restless and alive, endless in its darkness. though he does not make any true effort to attend, it is still required of him as prince. a siren prince. he was one of very few males given a voice to match the gods of death; sweet in its melody, deadly in its delivery. and like all sirens, he was beautiful. no one could deny his song, or his looks --- no one. some women, and men could withstand the serenade of others. yet, no one had managed to escape, or deny him. in truth, they didn’t practice the ways of their ancestors. they no longer had to kill the souls that were caught in their song, or devour their flesh to live. they had evolved as his advisor had informed him of years ago, when they were still but children. it was a life he was grateful he didn’t have to live. taking the lives of humans seemed like more trouble than it was worth ( he would deny the slight fascination with their species ). now, instead of taking their life entirely, they fed from their soul --- a single kiss to draw forth the force necessary to live. some took more than others ( though never killing ), but he felt no compulsion to drain more than was needed. he had always been small, lithe figure far more delicate than most. his strength lie in his magic, passed on through his bloodline. he would rule one day, and his magic would require more of him then. but that was not now, and he was drifting toward the surface, and breaking beyond to watch as the sun fell beyond the horizon in a splash of color so vivid as to burn across his eyes.

others have already scattered about the shore, taking up their place within distance of the humans. he can hear the songs of some already, single notes that seem to stretch on for days, the long, low notes drawing them forth from their homes. some were far more susceptible than others, making their way toward the water within minutes of hearing their song, but in the end, enough of them always came. he finds his place further down the shore, closer to the docks where sailors and fisherman left their boats for the night. the waters were quieter here, and he’s drawn to the shore where a few homes have been built on sand, and into stone, some even along the dock. while his kind carried no real law for the sex of their prey, some carried preferences. some preferred beauty, others strength, and some simply called and whoever appeared they would take. he carried no true preference ( would deny that he had chosen this place for the human who lived at shore’s edge, built into the wall ) for who he called; whoever heard his voice and came would give him what he needed and that would be the end of it. he never called the same person twice, and he left them feeling as if they’d experienced a night of pleasure only held in dreams.

he swims closer to the shore than he ever does, gills still safely beneath the water as he pulls his torso out as far as it could go. the light shifts, and the world is caught beneath dark and the fading color, as if it was being leached of all life. their sight is unaffected by light though, and he watches as the humans drift back toward their homes, or walk aimlessly through the city or along the shore. he seeks out something he desires, but does not dwell upon --- something he could not have, despite the clarity of which he can see said desire. thoughts further pushed away, lips part and he sings.

it begins slow, soft and low as he finds the tune his lungs have memorized from birth. while speech is possible, it is nothing like the melodies that flow beyond pale pink lips, drawing forth even the most hardened of men. he can hear the few others who have chosen tonight to sing, rising in pitch, battling another for sway over the humans. but he finds no pleasure in fighting, thoughts distracted by a human he has seen many times over, a human he has visited before, enough times that he might recognize the freckles hidden by the dark color of his skin, or the calloused hands that work tirelessly, or amber eyes that shine brighter than any jewel he has crossed beneath the sea. he doesn’t let himself entertain such thoughts, or else linger on an idea, a thought that could not be.

he sings, waiting for a human to show up, always someone specific caught in his snare on any given night. last week had been a woman, silver hair like moonlight, and words sharp enough to cut deep. he knows not who will answer, but he does not expect to see the familiar silhouette of the human he has come to know far more intimately than was appropriate. he’s never called him before, never seen him walk along the shores, beckoned by any other. noctis had always assumed he was strong-willed, resilient to others, and perhaps he was the one human who could resist his song. but not tonight. his steps assured, he steps into the water, splashing around legs, and noctis watches, stunned, notes still echoing low over the water as he draws ever near.

gladiolus. gladio has his companions have affectionately called him. his name sits upon his tongue, aching to be said, tasted, and he’s caught in the light reflecting off russet strands drawn back and tied up, skin kissed by the sun again and again, and the slope of his shoulders painted in lines he had come to know as a tattoo. voice falters with his wandering thoughts, caught up in the sight of rugged beauty closing the distance, and he’s lost. he’s beautiful, a solitary thought. broad-shouldered, tall, angles of his features sharp enough to cut. the slope of amber eyes tapered by fine brows. he’s stopped singing, but the echoes remain, and still he approaches. noctis waits until he’s waist deep in water, bigger now that he was up close, darker, features more defined now that he could reach out to touch. a face he suddenly aches to memorize by touch alone, and so he reaches out, blue-veined, webbed fingers closing the distance between them. he didn’t know he’d stopped breathing until gills break the surface and seal, cutting off the ability to inhale. yet, lungs burn as he waits until the heavy weight of a palm settles over his, and he fights the urge to inhale sharply. fingers wrap firmly about his outstretched hand, and he tugs him into the water, enough that he could wade and noctis could breath and swim at the same time. he treads water, while gladiolus wades, and despite what he must do, what he had wanted to be over so quickly, he finds he’s in no rush. he would stay here and gaze upon a creature so divine it would make their gods jealous.

“ beautiful. “ single word to break the silence, and a warm hand suddenly caresses his wet cheek, sending a chill down his spine in surprise, scales flaring slightly. whispered in the small space between them, he briefly wondered if he had said it aloud. but he did not, and he watches as gladio’s mouth forms the words so clearly once more. and even though he knows he is, as all of his kind did, it brought a flush to his cheeks, and left his heart tapping a wild beat beneath caged bone. he’s enraptured by the pull of amber, caught in the warmth of his body so close he could press against him, and the realization that he could do just that is overwhelming. he had come out here for that very purpose, had he not?

nothing more need happen but the gentle brush of lips, mouth drawing open to invite him in and he would pull the life force he had come here for, inhaling into his lungs. but tonight was not like the others, and he is foolish enough to let emotion and curiosity cloud his mind. he draws him closer, even now his beauty having an effect on gladio and luring him close, until he was chest deep in the water. he can feel large, rough hands fall upon his waist, fingers dancing at the edge, hesitant, where scales meet pale flesh, blending seamlessly, blue-black shifting along his skin like spilled ink running across the surface and staining. it’s a test of patience and trust when he wraps his tail gently around his leg, letting him hold him steady, deceivingly soft scales that if ruffled the wrong way, could scratch mortal flesh bloody. head cants as cobalt gaze flicks about his face, studying features he has only dreamed of. hands lift, water cascading down arms stained in the same blue-black, and he cups his cheek, the hair across his jaw scratching sensitive flesh. another shiver runs along his arms; it is not entirely unfamiliar, similar to the scratch of scales, and he enjoys it far more than he should ( he was enjoying all of this far more than he should ). a part of his mind, the rational side that sounded like iggy, told him he should back off and leave this one be. he was too close to it, too close to him, and nothing good could from this. “ humans, noctis, are not for us to befriend. they are not of our kind, no matter how fascinating they might seem to you. “ but he wasn’t ignis, and he wasn’t rational, and he wanted nothing more than to taste his lips.

he draws him closer slowly, gaze flicking between his, looking for a flash of warning, or the sign of a man confused and angry, ready to fight him off. it didn’t happen, but he had heard it could if one was strong enough to resist. but instead of a warning, he sees something akin to desire, a longing to act upon, and hands that hold his waist tug him ever closer until they are flush with each other, and noctis is aware of nothing but the warmth of his body, the way he nearly wraps about his lithe frame, chests pressed together, tail against his legs, and the tilt of his head as eyes slightly close as if in anticipation. he breathes, gills fluttering, heart skipping and he closes the distance between them. sigh rushes forth, expelling air when lips touch. gladiolus meets his kiss, and noctis is left wondering just how this is happening. there was no reason for a human to come to him so willingly, as if no siren call had summoned him forth. breath ghosts across his cheeks, and he feels gladio’s lungs expand as he draws breath, mouth opening against his slightly. this is where he should take his opening, and draw forth his energy --- but when has noctis ever done anything the right way?

instead, his lips part of their own, tentative and gentle as he draws gladiolus in once more. its a hesitant dance of lips, tongues flicking out as if teasing, testing the waters of which they so dangerously tread. it doesn’t cross his mind any further about what he had initially come out here for. here, beneath the rising moon, and wrapped in strong, warm arms, he’s lost to a kiss that instead of him stealing, gladio has stolen from him. tongue flicks against his lip, wanting to taste him, and he’s granted access in the way gladiolus presses firmly, lips parting and tongue meeting his, tangling in a heated rush. it’s dangerous mess of his heart beating furiously beneath his chest, and he’s caught up in the taste of him, unfamiliar but something he craves to know intimately. hands card through russet strands, and he tugs, drawing himself up slightly, tongue delving into his mouth and he shivers at the groan that’s caught in his throat as noctis shifts ever closer. he bends with him, arms fully looped around his back, and he’s suddenly aware of how tangled he’s become with this human. all in a rush he’s pulling away, gills fluttering nervously as he gasps for oxygen, eyes lidded with an insatiable desire to close the distance once more. yet, there’s a ringing tone that warns him this is as dangerous for him, as it was for gladio. their species had not been made for such longing, and he’s struck by the hollow ache it leaves behind, his chest suddenly heavy. he pushes against his chest, tail untwisting and flicking, trying to break their hold. gladio seems to let him go reluctantly, gaze just as lost in the kiss ( or at least, he hopes so ) and noctis wars with the desire to pull him in for another kiss or swim away before he put him in danger.

protecting him from the dangers of both their kind, a flick of his tail puts distance between them. he cannot look away, longing to return to him so great it takes more energy than necessary to turn, and dive beneath the surface where he was safe from glittering amber, and a look he felt all too similar to his own. protect him a sudden urge that spurs him forward, propelling himself faster, water little resistance as it glides over his sleek body, resistance cut by the fins that adorn his back along his arms. no one could know of this or they might both face consequences that would be far worse than never being in his arms again.

#gladnoct #gladnoctweek #gladnoct week #noctis lucis caelum #gladiolus amicitia #ffxv #gladnoct fic #mine*#myfic

10 notes · View notes

takenews-blog1 · 7 years

Text

‘Sport of Thrones': Most Upsetting, Surprising and Disturbing Deaths So Far (Pictures)

New Post has been published on https://takenews.net/sport-of-thrones-most-upsetting-surprising-and-disturbing-deaths-so-far-pictures/

‘Sport of Thrones': Most Upsetting, Surprising and Disturbing Deaths So Far (Pictures)

Spoiler Alert, clearly. Let’s look again on the deaths on “Sport of Thrones” that we discovered significantly stunning, disturbing or in any other case completely tousled. There’s been a bunch of them. These are the massive ones via the tip of Season 7.

Additionally Learn: All 49 ‘Sport of Thrones’ Fundamental Characters, Ranked Worst to Greatest (Pictures)

Daenerys Targaryen’s’ abusive brother Viserys obtained his comeuppance in season 1 when Khal Drogo dumped molten gold on his head.

A lot of the horrible occasions that happen on “Sport of Thrones” are sparked by Robert Baratheon being gored by a boar whereas looking drunk in season 1. Additionally Learn: 10 ‘Sport of Thrones’ Characters Most and Least More likely to Die, In response to Science (Pictures)

Simply when Daenerys is starting to get comfy in her position as Khaleesi in season 1, Khal Drogo is rendered catatonic by a poison blade, utterly sabotaging any near-term hopes of conquering Westeros.

Ned Stark’s execution by newly coronated King Joffrey in season 1 established precisely what sort of story that is: one during which no one is secure, even the characters who go on the DVD field artwork.

Renly Baratheon, one of many 5 kings vying for the throne of Westeros, was killed in season 2 by a ghost that was birthed by Melisandre and fathered by his brother Stannis. Yeah, I do know.

In season three, some members of the Night time’s Watch revolted towards Lord Commander Jeor Mormont rule throughout an tour north of the wall, killing him.

Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark and Talisa Stark had been ambushed by the Freys on the Pink Wedding ceremony, on the behest of the Lannisters, just about ending Home Stark’s menace to King Joffrey.

King Joffrey was poisoned at his personal wedding ceremony early in season four, dying in precisely the horribly painful approach he deserved.

Littlefinger married Lysa Arryn throughout season four, then shoved her out of the Moon Door on the Vale.

The Pink Viper, Oberyn Martell, nearly had his revenge towards the Mountain, the person who raped and murdered his sister. However he did not end the job and as a substitute ended up having his cranium crushed in most likely probably the most viscerally disturbing loss of life in the entire collection. Additionally Learn: 10 Greatest Struggle Scenes From ‘Sport of Thrones’ (Pictures)

Ygritte, badass marksman and forbidden lover of Jon Snow, died in battle at Fortress Black close to the tip of season four.

All the time sorta doomed to be Moses, Jojen Reed is slaughtered by a wight simply exterior the treehouse of the Youngsters of the Forest within the far north of Westeros on the finish of season four.

Due to some assist from Varys, Tyrion escaped execution for the homicide of Joffrey (which he did not commit) on the finish of season four. On his approach out, he discovered Shae in his father Tywin’s mattress. So he murdered her, and shot Tywin with a crossbow as Tywin sat on the bathroom. Becoming.

Mance Rayder refused to bow to Stannis, and he obtained burned alive for his stubbornness.

The growing old warrior Barriston Selmy died in Mereen combating towards an rebellion of the Sons of the Harpies in season 5.

Janos Slynt was a complete monster for a very long time, and Jon Snow taking his head was an enormous second. A coming of age for the younger Lord Commander. Nonetheless, it was arduous to imagine he’d truly do it.

Myrcella, daughter of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, was murdered in season 5 by Ellaria Sand with a delayed-action poison delivered by a kiss.

Stannis burned his daughter Shireen alive in a sacrifice supposed to assist him take Winterfell, in probably the most upsetting loss of life on the present up to now. It did not work, and he deservedly met his personal finish shortly thereafter.

In an unbelievable cliffhanger on the finish of season 5, Jon Snow was murdered by his brothers within the Nights Watch. Will he return? UPDATE: LOL whoops, nevermind.

Doran Martell, ruler of Dorne, was the sufferer of a coup within the season 6 premiere. Ellaria Sand took his ass down.

One other sufferer of Ellaria Sand’s coup within the season 6 premiere, Trystane Martell took a spear via the face from one of many Sand Snakes.

Roose Bolton was stabbed within the intestine by his legitimized bastard Ramsay in a coup that’s apparently being aided by Home Karstark.

Walda Bolton and her new child son had been eaten by canines in Ramsay’s coup of Home Bolton. So horrible.

Balon Greyjoy was thrown off a very excessive bridge by his youthful brother Euron, rising from the far east to apparently make a shock bid for energy.

Skilled Thorne in Jon Snow’s ass Alisser Thorne lastly will get obtained, and the horrible little one Olly will get hung alongside him. Lastly, one thing to be ok with.

Osha tried to homicide Ramsay, however he noticed it coming and obtained her first.

Khal Moro (and all the opposite Khals) realized the arduous approach that they need to most likely let Daenerys do what she needs. Now they’re all burned up.

Hodor was killed holding the door to the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven so Meera and Bran may escape. Sigh, Hodor.

After a lifetime of turmoil, the Hound discovered peace due to the Elder Brother and his small non secular group on Quiet Isle. However then the Brotherhood With out Banners murdered the Elder Brother and all Sandor’s new buddies.

Arya lastly took out her nemesis the Waif by forcing their last battle to happen at midnight — one thing Arya has loads of observe with due to her earlier bout of blindness.

Rickon Stark died as some sort of twisted approach of kicking off the Battle of the Bastards, as a result of Ramsay is a horrific particular person.

The best badass who ever lived, Wun Wun definitely had his say within the Battle of the Bastards, actually ripping a person in two together with his naked fingers and taking down the gate of Winterfell when Ramsay retreated behind its partitions. However a couple of dozen arrows had been an excessive amount of even for an enormous.

Ramsay Bolton was eaten by his personal canines. Good.

Grand Maester Pycelle was murdered by a bunch of youngsters on the behest of Qyburn to stop him from interfering with Cersei’s plan to explode the Sept of Baelor.

Talking of Cersei’s plan to explode the Sept of Baelor, she managed to kill Margaery Tyrell, Loras Tyrell, the Excessive Sparrow (pictured having the flesh burned off his bones), Lancel Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Kevan Lannister and a complete bunch of different individuals, together with the majority of the Religion Militant.

Cersei tried to save lots of her son, King Tommen Baratheon, from being blown up by having the Mountain maintain him from going to the Sept. Sadly, after seeing the Sept blow up together with his spouse inside, Tommen determined to kill himself by leaping out his window within the Pink Hold.

Walder Frey was served a pie that contained items of a few of his members of the family (although he did not eat it!) earlier than it was revealed that the lady who served it to him was truly Arya Stark carrying another person’s face. After which Arya lower Lord Walder’s throat.

The primary main deaths of season 7 got here when Euron Greyjoy’s Iron Fleet assaulted Yara Greyjoy’s Iron Fleet. Yara and Ellaria San had been captured, Theon ran away, and two of the Sand Snakes had been killed throughout the battle by Euron himself. RIP Obera Sand (Keisha Fortress-Hughes) and Nymeria Sand (Jessica Henwick).

Cersei determined to homicide Ellaria Sand’s final remaining daughter, Tyene (Rosabell Laurenti Sellers), utilizing the identical poison that Ellaria used to kill Myrcella again in season 5.

Olenna Tyrell lastly bit the mud when the Lannister military took the Tyrell house at Highgarden. Jaime supplied Girl Olenna a straightforward approach out: with poisoned wine. Which Olenna accepted.

Dickon and Randyll Tarly, greatest recognized for being Samwell Tarly’s brother and father, had been burned alive by Drogon after they refused to bend the knee to Daenerys after they had been soundly defeated in that huge loot practice battle.

Thoros of Myr went out kinda meekly, seemingly freezing to loss of life some time after being mauled by a zombie bear.

Viserion the dragon died when the Night time King nailed him with an ice spear. Positively one of many harshest deaths on the entire present. Including insult to harm, Viserion was resurrected as a part of the Military of the Useless.

Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish lastly met his finish his finish by the hands of Arya Stark after and Sansa performed him like a fiddle for a lot of season 7, lastly exposing him as the reason for just about all the things horrible that is occurred in Westeros on “Sport of Thrones.”

0 notes