#his silk is No Joke. if he wants it can be as strong as steel cables

[chimeric-art]

the hanged man

[seoness]

hey!! so i had a request: if the idea is interesting to you, how would the hound feel about falling for a powerful nobleman/monarch (maybe essosi?) who's chronically ill & has facial/body disfigurements from a birth defect?

sorry if this is too specific!! i've just been wondering how the hound would feel about essos & royalty and that big cultural gap, and i'm a self-indulgent (and disabled) hag who wants to hear about him having a disabled man as a partner, lol. whether you take this request or not, i love your writing, especially your characterization of sandor! keep up the good work!!

(Sandor Clegane x male!reader) Hi, if this was meant as a request for a fic then just holler at me again and I'll add you to the waiting list. Planning on plowing through them on my vacation. 🤗 Otherwise, here are my thoughts and rambles. Thank you for your kind words! Apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors, I'm trying to be less pedantic.

I just had to draw him acclimated to his new home. Relaxing and having a snack. I dunno what the dude's eating. A large plum? A red onion?

Let's begin with the setting:

We alter his canon. The Hound never became the Hound... well, not Joffrey's. Let the Lannisters have Gregor, there is gold to be had elsewhere. He's heard the tales. Listened as sailors regaled of spice merchants that could rival the riches within Casterly Rock, of princes, magistrates, and emperors worshiped as gods beyond the Jade Sea. One of them will have the need for good steel. As long as his master can point and his purse is full, they need not share the same tongue, Sandor's sword will speak for him. One of those many spice merchants, princes, magistrates, and emperors will be you.

How would it start?

Slowly. Regardless if he's aware and accepting of his bisexuality, he's not some fool desperate to lose his maidenhead. Especially if you're in control of the coin that pays for his wants and needs. His view of you will not be one that is kind. His world is a cruel one, and the life he's lived has been no different. In canon, Sandor tells Sansa (while joking about a traumatized and raped Lollys Stokeworth):

"...if you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can..."

This is not a man that is considerate or empathetic by nature, which can be refreshing in its own right. He'll not eagerly bite the hands that feed him, but neither will he lie and say you didn't avoid his views on a technicality. It isn't your strong arms and steel that protect you. It is gold, and that gold has bought you his. This mindset applies to a wide spectrum of illnesses, ailments, disfigurement (that hinder physical performance), and disabilities. Sandor will wonder if you wanted his services because of his burn, that you see it like some sort of brotherhood. He'll not be completely open to the notion that you are clever enough to not pass on a good swordsman based on appearance. That you can see what more there is to Sandor Clegane than his scar and perhaps you hope he can show the same courtesy.

He won't.

Not at first. Your collaboration together will surround work and only work. You point, and the Hound goes. Sandor will start to pick up words here and there in your tongue. He knows and understands more than he lets on, but dislikes the chuckles whenever he speaks with a heavy Westerosi accent. The armor of dark plate will slowly switch to layered fabrics, chainmail, and pieces of plating (rather than a full set of plate). The once pale skin will darken under the Eastern sun. In Westeros, Sandor despised the showmanship of knights, but there is an honesty to how the Essosi deal with their gold and silk. It's not to boast of valor or honor, it is simple. Wealth. Gone are the comparing of lineages and legends of long-dead men, in Essos gold is everything.

As Sandor begins to adapt to his new surroundings, it won't be lost on the man that it's mostly due to you. You put down the time to explain your customs to him, you are the one ordering the many learned men to tutor your sellsword and you are the one that teaches the Hound what rules can be broken and which will cost him his head. Sandor isn't blind and he isn't ungrateful. His work is no longer a means to pay for his enjoyment, but something that brings him fulfillment in and of itself. He starts to devote time to learning more about you, your interests, and your past.

A good shield knows the one it guards.

That excuse will serve him well for a time. It's when his concern starts to shift that the man no longer can lie to himself. He can protect you from any danger heading your way. A madman with an axe, some assassins here and there, but the struggles that are your own? He knows shit about it. If the gods were true they sure as hells had no intention for him to be a maester.

Sod off

Sandor won't ask about it. He still doesn't want the reason for your friendship to be the brotherhood of the scarred and maimed. Your struggles are yours, his are his. There's no help in stealing the others. His growing care for you will show as the opposite, he'll ask less and seem more distant as you talk. The Hound will become more solitary overall, your servants tell you that he's stopped his usual route to the brothels. Sandor knows he should leave Essos. Gregor has lived for far too long. He'll pack once or twice, try and muster the will to tell you that he's leaving.

More excuses. The rest of your guard is too weak. Didn't that merchant give you an odd look at the last feast? Best stay a little longer, just until you're safe. If pressed too much during this period, the Hound might very well bite the hand that feeds him. He'd like the excuse of being sent away.

Sparks and relationship

When this strange friendship changes to romance is hard to say. He'll not be sober when he makes any deeper feelings known. A blunder. Something Sandor planned to keep his mouth shut about until he died. As a relationship begins to form between you, his support will grow into new areas. If someone rubs you the wrong way, he'll make a note and whisper an insult in your ear. He'll do that too many that trouble you. It's not a brotherhood, but he knows just how annoying it is to be surrounded by whispers and fleeting looks.

Sandor would have found joy in Essos, in your service, and unlike in his homeland, he would have been open that you were the man that he loved... you would have protected him from the hardships that await him.

[gowithplana]

“You are a very hard mech to try and shop for, Optimus Magnus.” Rung jokes, setting down a long bundle carefully wrapped in what looks like an old warband banner on the table in front of him. “So I thought to myself, surely I can do something better? And— well— I forget just how many things I have stored away in my compartments. Of course, any of my books and datapads are yours to have as well, but this is special. I want you to have it.”

Optimus has been kidnapped to the Temple for the holidays. For relative accounting of kidnapping really, when Optimus was a willing target. But getting a gift? The banner draws optic first. The insignia is a bright even if the edges of the banner are a little worn. It's clearly been used, actually exposed to the elements. He brushes his claws over the insignia and his optics widen," Holy Scrap... This is from the 18th Ground Battalion. They were critical to the first great war and were credited with turning the tide against the Quints." His touch is almost reverent as he carefully moves the fabric to reveal the ornate steel box with its faded gilding. The clasps are still strong and the hinges part easily to reveal the sword settle amid steel silk. His mouth falls open and he closes the case. Staring at Rung with shock," ... This. This is a Prime's sword." It was in the ceremonial glyphs forged into the decorations inlaid on the blade. Optimus almost feels like he should be struck down for even seeing it.

[transgayhawkeyepierce]

Okay but through a time traveling mishap, Leonard McCoy gets stranded in 50s Korea. He gets mistaken for a draftee, and not wanting to stray too far so the Enterprise can find him, and not wanting to be shot for deserting, and not really having anywhere to go, he stays. But if Bones has to be apart of the 20th century American army he's going to do it as a doctor damn it! And after forging some credentials (bafflingly easy) he ends up in the good ol' 4077th.

It's tremendously hard for McCoy at first. He's a man out of time in a terrible place. He has to completely relearn surgery with tools that look more to him like instruments of torture rather than tools of healing. The medicine is medieval and the conditions are abyssal even for the time. The day-in-day-out carnage beats even the Enterprise's worst missions. But it's the helplessness of patching these kids up only so they can kill or get themselves killed, that wears on Bones more than anything else. But Leonard McCoy isn't a genius for nothing. He learns meatball surgery and he gets damned good at it too. He learns how to open people up with steel and sew them back together with silk so he can get the next body on the table and do it all over again. But most of all he learns how to cope.

Hawkeye and him get along right off the bat. McCoy hates the army, the war, authority in general, and Hawkeye appreciates anyone who hates the army as much as he does. But McCoy is a good doctor, a good man, and loves a drink, so Hawkeye decides he likes him.

Despite his edges Leonard slots well into the dynamic of the 4077th. While the man can be reclusive and puts on airs that he’s above all the tomfoolery, he has a mischievous streak a mile wide and a vindictive streak double that. He has a way of approaching problems that is so deranged that it gives Hawkeye’s antics a run for the money. The worst part is that McCoy always acts like his course of action was the most reasonable one. At least Hawkeye knows he’s crazy! Leonard soon becomes an important part of camp moral. If Hawkeye is the beating heart of the 4077th, then Leonard is the hands, to sooth away pains or to ‘shake some sense into these idiots!’  He gruffly motherhens everyone, earning respect through sheer human decency. And while McCoy is never a close friend to Hawkeye in the same way Trapper was or BJ is, he is a support that Hawkeye needs. McCoy has an uncanny way of seeing through his jokes, through him, something which Hawkeye is simultaneously grateful for and extremely uncomfortable with. The only person that doesn’t like McCoy and that McCoy seems to hate is Frank, the two devolving into a screaming match as soon as they’re so much as in the same room.

Hawkeye's new friend is more than a little strange though. Leonard won't know extremely basic things one minute (much to his embarrassment) but then will turn around and pull absolute miracles out of his ass. He says strange things and clams up when asked to elaborate. He has an almost suicidal disregard for social conventions that Hawkeye can’t help but admire if not pity. He remembers when Leonard mentioned that he was in a relationship two other men with a casualness that made even Hawkeye's jaw drop. Eventually it becomes a running joke between them; Hawkeye will ask after McCoy’s two big strong sweethearts and he always responds that he’ll ask them as soon as they pick him up from the war. Even so, everyone notices Leonard doesn’t get letters from home.

The war eventually warps Bones just like everyone else. The terror, the gore, the cold, the boredom, the endlessness of it all. The longer he’s there, the more he becomes convinced he’ll never make it home, that the Enterprise is never coming for him or that he’ll be dead by the time they get there. The more it sinks in, the more he starts having trouble doing things, doing anything except lying in bed. This is nothing new to Bones, but he hasn't had it this bad in a long time. The more times they're shelled, the more times they're shot at, each time someone dies on his table, he gets worse. He goes from helping patients and the members of 4077th through episodes to having them himself. He’s a doctor, he knows PTSD and depression when he sees it; has been seeing in the 4077th for a long time, but he’s never been good at helping himself. Despair becomes a close acquaintance and pain works itself under his skin. Luckily he has friends. People to lead him out of bed with a joke and something outrageous to show him, to forgive him when he acts irrationally and lashes out, to talk some sense into him, to hold him as he cries. Sometimes it stirs memories of the Enterprise crew, of Jim and Spock, and it makes him ache.

In the end McCoy is there for all three years. He's there for the goodbyes and for Hawkeye's earth shattering breakdown. He remembers in the beginning he tried to keep himself at a distance, something that proved impossible right away, through sheer proximity if nothing else. But even if Bones hated the war, he grew to truly love these people and he knows he'll miss them for the rest of his life.

The Enterprise comes then. According to Spock, this should be the time and place that Doctor McCoy was lost, but Jim grows more nervous the longer the landing party takes to locate him. When they finally find him, they glance right past him, not even recognizing him for a few horrifying moments. When Jim's eyes snap back onto his partner's face, it's immediately obvious that Bones has been here for much longer than they had theorized, and his time here has not been kind to him. The man in front of him is hunched in on himself like the whole world is baring down on him, his face washed out, and his hair greying around his temples. But Bones gaps out a breathy, Jim and Spock! and rushes at them, until he's hugging both of them with desperate manic elation, crying and laughing. Jim can tell this isn't going to be a simple mend, but no matter what they'll always have each other.

Hawkeye never figures out what happened to Leonard after the war. Radar and some of the members of the 4077th try to find anyone by the name of Leonard McCoy in Georgia, turning up nothing, making Hawkeye wonder if that was his real name or if he even existed at all. Either way, Hawkeye hopes he's surviving. He remembers how lovingly Leonard described his partners, always shooting a crooked smile and saying 'they sure are outta this world,' and think's he might be alright.

Sometimes when the wind blows Leonard's southern drawl through the trees, or he catches the smell of peach cobbler, or he simply misses is old friend, Hawkeye looks up. Whenever Leonard used to reminisce about home he'd look up to the sky, and somewhere along the way Hawkeye too started associating him with the stars.

[jangofctts]

Mirrored Heart (captain rex x fem!reader)

rated: 18+ explicit 

word count: 5.6k

warnings: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, blow jobs, clone space racism?  

a/n: ANYWAY HERE IT IS. ive had this draft saved since like a year ago and just now finished it. anyway kwjrkejh here YALL GO. also thank you @jango-fettish​ FOR LETTING ME BORROW SYRENA 

It's curious. 

Well, you, as a whole are curious—completely outside the realm of what Rex considers normal. As far as senators go, that is. 

You're grumpy for one—worse than Skywalker and far more snide than Kenobi—a near gargantuan task bordering impossible. Wit and cleverness come to you easier than breathing, but it's your unwavering kindness towards himself and his brothers that sticks out like a blaster burn against alabaster white walls.  

He passed it off as a joke—some sort of mockery. Rex’s existence has been full of them. The past year it’s been made glaringly clear as to what the clones are to the people of the republic—tools. Mindless war machines dressed with flesh and bone, heart and sinew instead of durasteel and a circuitboard. Humanity has been skimmed over with excuses and debates over the hollow argument that clones were created for the sole purpose of war—nothing more. Ignorance is bliss when you are not the one fighting tooth and nail for petty skirmishes and the survival of your family.        

Ithyea, your home monarchal planet, is a newer member of the Galatic Republic—one of the firsts to advocate for clone rights—cutting through each argument with the steel headed javelin of hope and determination. Controversial in the eyes of the galaxy but no less than true. Yet with controversy, comes chaos. 

Wedged between Takodana and the Cerean Reach hyperspace lane—it’s an essential key to accessing more neutral space sectors without stepping on any toes. While the planet does mirror the size of a larger than average moon, there’s nothing but grandeur with the cutting edge advances in space travel and military innovations. An arts district too, one that’s presented multiple times for the Senate apparently. Rex has yet to see it. It’s an easy guess as to why Ithyea has gone under pointed attacks from the Separatists—it’d be foolish not to try.     

And of course comes the intergalactic mess of politics. You are not Ithyea’s first senator. Or second…or third. Just in the last six months, three of your predecessors have been picked off—two disappearances and a suspicious poisoning sandwiched between them. Which sides these assassinations stem from is anybody’s guess—a mix of both perhaps—all to silence and stamp the voice of your people out.

Heavy are the shoulders that wear those abhorrent senatorial robes, and Maker did it take some convincing for another Ithyean to step to the chopping block. It’s just…no one thought  it’d be you. The infamous captain of King Arrian Felian’s elite guard—trained in combat levels high enough to contend some of those within the ranks of the Jedi Order. When your name comes up in conversation, it certainly doesn’t scream diplomacy.     

Rex is not surprised that you hold the current record of Ithyean senators for surviving the longest. Evading an astonishing two attempts on your life by the skin of your teeth. You were just downright lucky the third assassin missed their mark. Sure, the blade of Syrena Aster skimmed the right side of your cheek and left behind a nasty scar to remember her by, but kriff—even with your background and low levels of public presence, you’re a high priced target. Whoever placed an order with the Heretics, really wants to see you six feet under.     

Rex hasn’t been given the full report on exactly who the Heretics are—a rag tag bunch of untrained Force users and skilled assassins from what he’s gathered—but regardless, this attack is just the beginning. Until the Senate and the Jedi are able to retract the price on your head, you’re stuck under protective custody. Usually ushered away into the Jedi Temple or tagging along with General Kenobi and Skywalker. Despondently, no matter the circumstances of your protection, it can’t shield you from the dreadful invitations to senatorial luncheons.

 And yes, you tried to slip by for this one. 

You don't brush elbows with other senator’s like many of the members in the Jedi Order and your own cohort do. In fact, you actively avoid even speaking to them unless necessary, let alone stand in the same room with seven of them. Odd for an elected official of diplomacy such as yourself to be so cold shouldered—Rex would think senators wanted to mingle.    

It's curious because you're standing in plain sight and yet no one pays you any passing thought. General Kenobi and Skywalker hold the majority of their attentions, shoulders already taught with exasperation at keeping everyone from tearing out each other's throats for, kriffing five minutes. Yet you...you are completely at ease, leaning up against a stone pillar, observing the unfolding chaos from afar with a keen eye. 

Before Rex realizes he's stepping towards your position, you glance over and dip your chin in greeting. The ghost of a smirk pulls at your normally grim facade—his heart skips. "Captain."

"Senator," he mimics, posting himself to your right. There’s still a thin, healing scab from the assassin’s blade that extends from the swell of your cheek to your ear. Ouch. “Enjoying the evening?" 

You snort. "Hardly enjoying it, Rex."

Stars—you shouldn't be allowed to say his name. Your words are razor-sharp like a jagged vibroblade, meant to jab and pierce through armor—tear a person to pieces without having to lift a finger. Everything about you is rough, gritty, brutal, unbecoming of what a senator should be, but— 

You mouth his name, purring out the singular syllable with such tenderness that it's like a punch to the gut. 

It's hard to swallow and he needs to clear his throat—an embarrassing act on his part, but your attention has already returned back towards the meandering senators. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," you sigh, "let's just say smalltalk isn’t my strong suit." 

"Aren't you senators s'pposed to like diplomacy n' such?" 

Your thumb smoothes over your bottom lip in thought as you shrug. "Diplomacy? Sure. Politicians? Can’t say I like them. I just—"

You wave your hand around, gesturing vaguely to the crowd. "I just don't understand why they can't say what they mean. Telling someone to have a nice day shouldn't entail certain death, y'know?"

"Speaking from experience?" He teases, gently prying into that harder than beskar wall you've created for yourself. There's fissions in your foundation and he means to tear it down all for just a mere scrap of information. 

Your eyes flick over, your lips curling into a vulpine grin. “Perhaps...Though, it was partially my fault, I have to admit.” 

“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime, Senator.” 

You nod. “Yes, one day—when there aren’t so many political ears jumping at the chance of gossip.” 

A swell of laughter interrupts your chat, your attention gravitating to Obi-Wan—ever the charmer with the crowds. The end of your mouth pulls into a frown as you sigh and carefully scratch at your brow with the back of your thumb. Rex might be pulling at straws, but what he mistook as you being standoffish may just be your nerves. Socially awkward and flustered when speaking in such an intimate setting. 

Rex’s first instinct is to reach out and place a hand over your shoulder in comfort, but he’s not sure how you’ll respond to the touch. Flip him over your shoulder probably—

Instead he forces himself to jumpstart the conversation—something to distract from your anxieties. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—“ His heart beat kicks up into a flurry of wild beats as you turn you head. “What uh..wh—did you want to become a senator?”

He likes it when you smile—like you’re letting him on some sort of coy secret. You shift your weight and shrug. “The king asked me personally. I’m flattered he thinks I’m clever enough—insulted he sends me to these abysmal gatherings like some sort of show pony.”

Rex chuckles. “Yeah, can’t say I like ‘em either.” 

“Although…” Your thumb runs over your lip again, a sparkle of mischief igniting behind your eyes. “As a senator, I do get the occasional tidbit of gossip. Here, I’ll catch you up—“

The captain startles when you snatch his elbow and yank him closer. Maker he’s glad for his helmet because your lips brush against his earpiece as he leans down to reach your height. 

“Look." You whisper, nodding casually in the direction of a particularly young senator with a shock of white hair. She's swathed in a pool of royal blue silk, much too large for her tiny frame, and all but hanging off Skywalker's arm with glittered nails filed into points. "That is Senator Ceci Paare of Corellia. She looks innocent, no?"

She does. Wide, crystalline green eyes stare up at the Jedi Knight as a pretty giggle escapes past her ruby painted lips. Skywalker grimaces. 

"I quite like her," you continue with a sly grin. "Even if she does try to influence public opinion by an invitation to bed." 

There's no time to process as you focus in on an older man. His hazy blue skin, ash white lips and vermillion green eyes cut an almost nightmarish profile, accentuated by mountains of black robes. Rex can’t recall what planet the senator represents. The senator holds his head stiffer than rebar to keep the ornate golden circlet from slipping off, his white lips curling in distaste as Orn Free Taa of Ryloth places a meaty hand over his slender shoulder. 

"He is Lord Tal’en Sol Ra'ah. Cunning, but sympathetic to the pleasures of gambling."

It's a game to you—of perceptions and nuances only a trained eye can roll over. Rex expects nothing less. This sort of thing has been hammered into the very essence of your being since you were little—reading an enemy before they can strike. It works on politicians marvelously well. 

Truth be told Rex should be paying more attention—but the closeness of your face to his helmet is maddening. His heart twists and coils as your bare hand skims along his gloved one—kriff. He’s not gonna make it before he bursts into a thousand little pieces.  

Rex’s spell of lovesick yearning recedes as you swear under your breath. It was only a matter of time before someone approached your little corner.  

"Oh, Maker save me," you hiss under your breath as a young Mirialan saunters over, the swatches of rich red and brilliant gold accentuate his violet skin like a bloody bruise. "Pretend you're speaking with me." 

"I am speaking with you," Rex snorts. 

Your hand waves in dismissal as your brows stitch together, hands balling into fists. Your jaw clenches as the senator in question puts on a dazzling smile. You look downright panicked. Rex has witnessed you face down numerous senators older than dirt and close to blowing away in the wind with plucky fervor, assassination attempts, being held captive, and you're frightened…by this? 

This is too good. 

Rex has half a mind to help you, wheel you away from your little predicament, but his intrigue with seeing your oh-so-solid resolve crumble is much too valuable and entertaining to pass up. He's going to remember this for years.  

"Rex."

"Senator," he mimics, not at all frightened by your poisonous glare. "Some diplomacy might do you good."

You begin to snarl out a threat but are decidedly cut off by your object of horror planting himself before your hiding spot. You cower into the corner like a boxed in loth-cat. "Ah, my favorite Ithyean! I had begun to worry you would not make it, my dear friend."

"Senator Lin," you sigh. The smile you offer is tight and thin; a nervous one much in the same way one would be if presented with a box of toenails for a birthday gift. “How pleasant to see you."

Senator Lin’s deep violet lips part with an easy smile. He waves a hand in dismissal, his silver rings glinting in the warm lighting. "Please—call me Toluka. No need to bother with such formalities between companions." 

Rex suddenly understands your trepidation with the Mirialan—he’s slimy. And, not to mention, not at all ashamed with the lecherous looks as his eyes sweep down your body. Rex clenches his teeth and folds his arms behind his back. He’s regretting not heeding your warning now…  

Try as you might through brutal small talk and chilly answers, Senator Lin refuses to take the hint. A dark plume of venom green lashes through Rex’s chest as the Mirialan places a friendly hand over your shoulder. You grimace as Rex bristles and glares through the visor of his helmet.  

Senator Lin’s lips pull into a gaudy smile as he glances at Rex and then at you.“My dear, don’t you know? It’s not worth wasting your time with a clone. After all, they’re all the same person. How boorish—come join us at the table.”

Your teeth bite into your cheek as your temper, like the silver of blade through the darkness, cuts through your steely irises. With poised nonchalance, you lift your hand and pinch Senator’s Lin’s fingers between your own and pry them off your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Your campaign, valuable as it may be,” Lin continues, “is a useless endeavor. They are not our equals and never will be--you must know that." 

Rex forces himself to remain calm—collected and certainly not imaging a thousand and one ways he’d like to see his fist breaking the fragile bones of the senator’s face.  

"Fine buttons stitched upon your shoulders do not compel your worth, Senator,” the harshness of your words is a blow straight to Lin’s ego. His well-groomed brows furrow drastically as his tongue struggles to play catch up and find words to repair his shattered pride. 

There’s no chance for Senator Lin to regain his footing as your snatch Rex’s wrist and sweep him out into the hall. Rex can feel your anger roll off of you in waves, frighting and holding the same caliber of roaring waves thundering against black, craggy rocks. It’s a miracle the night didn’t end with your hands wrapped around the senator’s throat or a blaster shot through the chest. 

When you reach the lower halls of the cruise ship is when you release Rex’s wrist. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers and release a long, dramatic sigh.   

"You are worth far more than that pompous ass," you say with enough edge to slice through a droideka's shields. "He has no right to say those things to you." 

“It’s alright,” Rex soothes, placing a hand over your bristling shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.” 

Your features scrunch up into a wince. “That...that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through more of it, Rex.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and loosen the heavy outer robes strung around your shoulders. You shrug out of them and fold the thick swaths of fabric over you arm—revealing the under layers of your uniform. You toss the bundle of fabric to the floor with a disgusted grimace and sit on the cargo crate closest to your left. 

“Really—it’s ok.” Rex assures again. “I—“

You hold up a hand and shake your head. His mouth snaps shut. “I won’t hear it. To me you are nothing short of perfect and I refuse to argue about it. Maker knows I already do that for a kriffing living.”

There’s a fragile lull in the hollow space—the distant chatter of voices and strange music collecting in the corners. You stand once again, toe to toe with the Captain and there it is again, that elated pitter patter of his heart thrumming through his veins. The nerves of being so close to you—you sweet face and not being able to touch you.  

“Let me see your face.”

His hands come up to the edges of his helmet without hesitation, a hiss of hair escaping the seal once he pries it off. You smile and take a step closer until the only thing separating you and him is his helmet. 

Rex’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into your hand you gingerly place over his jaw. “I wish the entire galaxy could see you through my eyes,” you whisper, the warmth of your soft palm radiating out and warming his entire body.  

It’s a matchstick to kerosene—his helmet clatters to the ground and there’s only a second to spare as both hands move to cup his cheeks, dragging him into a mouthwatering kiss. 

He hasn’t kissed many people—save for those rare times at 79’s, head swimming under the haze of one too many shots of Corellian fire whiskeys where he could barely distinguish his ass from his hand. Those drunken make-outs were nothing like this. 

No—this…this is what a kiss should be like.   

He dreams about you all the time—so constantly ravenous that all he can feel some days is pure ache. Every and all words that spin around his head starts with you and finishes with his pounding heart close to bursting free from his ribcage. Not in the same way a flood rips through an unsuspecting village—more like the brilliance of a thousand doves, marble white plumage thrashing free from their gilded cage. Your lips taste like the core of a newborn star—scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. You are his first and last everything. 

There’s a certain kind of tragedy hidden beneath your tongue, fragile promises and the eggshell thin shards of hope stapled to the roof of your mouth. Rex will take it—seize any threadbare strand and run with it—spool it into the palm of his hand until you’re wound so tightly together it’ll be impossible to untangle.     

Just when the dizziness sets in from elation and not enough air, you part and leave a sticky trail of warm kisses up his jaw. Rex groans and hugs you closer, you humid breath blooming across his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

The words on his tongue crumble to ash once he nods in agreement. Your kisses dip lower, not even stopping when the reach the edge of his chest plate. Stars, you’re…he never entertained the idea that your lips could look so divine in contrast to the battered plastoid. When you fold onto your knees his heart leaps to his mouth, a flare of arousal flashing through his groin. 

You rest your chin over his codpiece and smile. “Do you like seeing me on my knees, sir?”

Rex huffs and studies at the opposing wall—

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your fingers find the claps over his codpiece. “Can I take this off?”

Rex jerks his head in a yes but grabs your wrist. Not a rough hold—a tentative one as hesitation swirls in his eyes. “Don’t—don’t have t’ do this for me—“

You quirk a brow. “I want to because I like you, Rexy.”

A rosy blush blooms over his sharp cheekbones. The captain nods again.

The codpiece clatters to the ground and immediately you move your hand to palm him through his blacks. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. There we go.      

Biting your lip, you pull down his blacks as far as the plastoid plating allows, greeted with the hard length of his cock, beautiful and flushed a rosy brown. Fuck—he’s thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around the base, delighted by Rex’s airy gasp as he throbs in your palm. A bead of liquid shines at the tip and just the sight of it makes your mouth water. 

Moons—you should’ve done this sooner.

With a stuttering inhale, Rex trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. The pads of his fingertips skim lower and lightly pinch your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Your eyes lift to meet his. “You—you sure?”

You answer with a kiss over the dip of his navel, the skin searing hot under your lips. Rex curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders when your palm slides up the length of his cock and then back down. Your grip is firm and tight as Rex slumps onto the crate, goosebumps rushing up his exposed flesh. Stars, when’s the last time he’s gotten release like this? 

You lean forward and lick a languid line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. Rex’s hips jolt. You purse your lips and suckle at the head, dipping your tongue over the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand rolls up and down his shaft. Rex tangles his fingers into your hair with a hiss. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You you drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the thickness easier to swallow down, but he's still only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—" Rex moans as his hips strain to remain still. “S’good—such a good girl.”

You glance up, eyes devouring the attractive length of his clean shaven throat and the underside of his chin. Rex swallows and let’s out another little sound. You whine softly in return and slip a hand into your pants, pressing your fingertips against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down. Yeah—your jaw already aches just from holding his cock in in your mouth but fuck it—it’s worth it.   

Rex's chest heaves with exertion as he mindfully rocks his hips up, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. Ditching your own pleasure entirely, you swallow around him, forcing down the urge to gag and simply hold him here. Allowing him a moment to just enjoy the soft warmth of your mouth before launching into the main event.  

Rex murmurs your name and strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re beautiful—so pretty like—like this..ah—” 

You pointedly hollow your cheeks and suck, his flattery warming your chest with pride. You swallow around him another time, squeeze his shaft, your fist following your mouth as you lift up then back down to the base. You grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you pull halfway up and let Rex rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans of your name. 

Soon enough he’s twitching in your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back onto his shoulders. The gloved hand sweetly cradling your cheek slips to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers into you hair to anchor himself. He’s close—quiet gasps and broken curses tumbling out, hips unconsciously rocking into your mouth in search of release.

Rex whimpers your name, his leg jolting as you work your jaw wider and swallow him down, the dark curls tickling your nose once it brushes his groin. “Oh, fuck.” 

You hum around him, delighting in the mumbled praises. Almost there…That’s it. 

He’s dangling on the precipice—on tiny shove away from euphoria—

“Wait—“ Saliva dribbles down your chin when his cock pops out from your swollen lips, throbbing from the unintentional tease. “Maker—shit.” 

If not for the gloves covering his hands, you’re sure they’d be turning white from how tightly he grips the edge of the crate. His eyes are squeezed shut, slightly bent forward as he falls away from the edge of his release. Rex sucks in a steadying breath, amber eyes meeting your confused ones. 

“I don’t—can we—“ Rex’s eyes flit and focus on anything but you as he stutters and works up the courage to ask for what he wants. “Do we have time—“

You rolls your eyes and rest your cheek on his thigh. Silly man. “You wanna fuck me, Rexy?”

“Kriff, yes.”

You smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t think they’ll miss us."

Rex doesn’t complain when you take his hands and yank him onto the grubby floor and over your senatorial robes. He props his back against the crate as you shuck off everything below the waste and clamber into his lap. His hands, warm even through the leather, land over the swell of your hips and wrench you closer until your front presses up against his chest plate. 

The rough prickle of his stubble is, in all sense of the word, addictive. He tilts his head to kiss you, the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip adding jet fuel to the fire low in your belly. Rex groans and cups your jaw, holding your mouth open to dance his tongue along the length of yours. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part. 

Rex drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for precious air. His dark lashes sweep up his cheeks when he looks at you. This close you bare witness to the dazzling color of his eyes—crystalized pearls of amber over the crackled bark of pine tree in the midmorning sun. Muted gold threaded through the brown like fine lace and the slow shimmer of the sun dappled through water. To think such a man like him is dredged through the bloodied mud of war is despicable.

You blink away the swell of tears prickling at your eyes and kiss him once more. Sighing, you whisper down, mouthing soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Rex squirms and rock his hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. You need him.   

“Rex,” you groan. You slide your hand between your bodies and grab at his thick length. Rex gasps into your mouth, long fingers clamping onto your waist in a death grip. “I want you.”

“I’m yours.” 

Your nibble at his earlobe as you grind your hips against his length, the folds of your cunt teasingly out of reach. “Touch me, Captain.” 

Rex tears off his vambraces and gloves, hand wedging between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is raw—sizzling electricity that crackles with the deadly promises of your pleasure. It’s as if you’ve had the breath knocked out of your lungs the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing tentative circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly spooled ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly sob as his fingers slip away. 

“So wet already,” Rex moans as you tip your head back when two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re thick and long and perfect. Your hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit. 

Maker you’re seeing stars as Rex rocks his hand into you—the bend of his fingers the perfect angle to catch all the right places that make you tremble. He kisses your cheek and moans your name into your ear, all low and gravelly— 

Your body seizes up tight as you soar, plummeting off the edge only to tumble so fast and so hard that tears prick the corner of your eyes. Rex peppers kisses over your cheeks and runs his free hand through your hair, purring praise and adoration as you shudder—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and dissolve into his hands. 

When you suck in a steadying breath and open your eyes, Rex is gazing upon you with starstruck eyes—pure adoration that makes your cheeks flare hotter than the surface of two mini suns. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You’re not sure you deserve to be looked at like this…

However, you’re impatient and running on stolen seconds. As much as you’d like to just simply stare at him—there’s not enough time. Rex wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and slides the tip of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips means you're stuck here. 

Rex pauses and cups your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “You want this?”

You place your hand over his and turn your head to mouth a kiss over the lines of his palm. Oh, fuck yeah. Kind of him to ask as if hadn’t just cum over his fingers but—no. “I need you to fuck me, Rex. That’s an order.”

Rex huffs out a low chuckle and bumps the crown of his forehead against yours. “As you wish, Senator.” 

Rex runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds again, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the hard plastoid as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s in no small. You’ll feel him for days, you’re sure of it as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his blonde hairline—Stars above, he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Desire tickles up your spine, tugging at the fabrics of your being until all you can focus on his how Rex isn’t moving. You shift your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him. 

“Damn—“ A ragged moans slices through his words as your gentle rocking morphs into needy jolts. It’s easy to fuck yourself onto his cock like this, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. “Fuck, cyare, you’re tight.” 

You smirk and grab at his sculpted shoulders—it’s the push he needs. Rex snarls your name, cups his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls you off his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Rex sets a pace, fevered and rabid All pent up energy collecting over the weeks you’ve known each other. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what feels like ages. 

You squeal in surprise as Rex pushes you onto your back and hoists your legs around his hips. Rex buries his nose into the crook of your neck and moans your name like a sweet prayer wrapped in honeycomb. Rex shifts his weight, widening his knees to sink deeper into your cunt—his stubble tickling your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin. 

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the catastrophic brilliance of an imploding star. Shit—

“So good t’me—so perfect,” he huffs into your ear. Rex turns his head and steals a kiss. “Feel fuckin’ good stretched around my cock."

You clench around him hard as Rex’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of devastating warmth that sweeps through your body, from your aching center down to your toes. It steals away all the air left in your lungs and leaves your clutching his arm and shuddering for a hold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body that’s unburdened by armor a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you. 

His gentle, and pliant kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth over your neck and collar bone as his hips struggle to keep a definitive pattern. Rex’s curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star.   

“Where can—can I?”

You grab at his head and whine his name. “Anywhere—in me—you can cum in me.”

With a loving caress over back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he reaches release. Rex’s moan is airy as his eyes slam shut and captures your mouth in a sizzling kiss. He’s twitching in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over your robes you lay over. Whatever. 

Rex nips at your skin as the last dregs of pleasure jolt up your spine. Neither of you say a word as Rex’s hips come to a slow. Time trickles through your fingers like sand through an hourglass half empty but instead of rushing to dress, you choose to lie on the ground—two halves of a mess someone’s been meaning to clean up for the better part of a long while. You feel at home here—content as your fingers run up and down the back of his head, a bit irked by the armor still covering his back. You’re terrified of the months to come—but at least you have each other. After all, gardens will bloom and flourish with fresh blooded love and wild mistakes sculpted from passion forever if you believe hard enough…wont they?

[anonniemousefics]

Can we please get more tfota scenes from cardan's pov? Maybe something from qon this time 🙈

Happy New Year! ♥️🥂

It’s so great you guys are enjoying these Cardan POV pieces! This one sort of follows His Monstrous Bride and this other little continuation -- it’s taken from Chapter 18 of The Queen of Nothing when Jude and Cardan talk about her exile before meeting with the Living Council. 

I don’t have a title for it -- let’s just call it His Monstrous Bride Part II. lol

(Also a shameless plug for my ongoing fic The Nine Terrifying Moons, which will feature a Cardan POV chapter coming soon. Wheeeee!)

-----------------------------------------------

Cardan is well versed at hiding his emotions, but it doesn’t hurt to look the part. And the day that his High Queen is finally awakening, once again restored to Elfhame, is a day to dress for a very specific kind of battle. Jude has ignored him for months – now he must be unignorable. He has gold along his cheekbones and caps like gold knives at the tips of his ears. Jude likes knives after all.

He’s flanked by his guards at her door. (Their door? He’s unused to sharing.) The Living Council means to interrupt her convalescence, and he’ll have none of it. He’s there to make sure she is fit and ready, and he doesn’t have to do more than that, he tells himself. His envoy is at his sides at all times now, and still, in this moment, some part of him wishes there were more of them. Wishes he could shrink back from what may lie ahead.

“Your Highness?” His guards are waiting for him to do something. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been hesitating.

It’s just… it’s been months of endless rejection, though he knows now she never received his letters, but still…he’s not sure he can take one more. And his heart is still cracked and raw from her most recent brush with death.

He steels himself. And knocks at the door.

It’s Oak who answers with an innocent smile, which is something of a relief. With Oak around, Jude’s less likely to become stabby.

Although, at least if she’s stabbing him, she’s no longer ignoring him. And Cardan really can’t stand one more minute of being ignored by Jude Duarte.

She’s there now, and the sight of her standing catches him right in the chest. The last time he’d clapped eyes on her, she was bleeding all over his spider-silk sheets. He’d cleaned her blood with his own two hands, but now she’s upright and clear-eyed, dressed in a foreboding black number with silver at her collar and cuffs. Her auburn hair has been braided like a crown, and with smoky traces of rose around her eyes, she looks deadly and formidable once more.

It’s such a welcome sight. He has never been so thrilled to see her. And that’s such a treacherous and terrifying notion, since he thinks it’s very likely she’s might smack him in the near future if he can’t navigate the mess of crossed wires between them.

The thrill lasts only a moment, because then his stomach gives a lurch. He’s just realized that all of her sisters are there, too. And they’re all staring at him. And he’s been staring right back.

Suddenly, Cardan’s on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat.

“Walk with me,” he finally tells Jude, eager to get away from so many Duarte eyes.

“Of course.” Jude’s brown eyes in particular seem uncharacteristically wide and confused.

Vivienne catches Jude’s hand before she can join him.

“You’re not well enough,” she objects. As if Cardan can’t take care of her. As if he hadn’t cleaned up her blood himself.

“The Living Council is eager to speak with her,” he says instead. Jude should be proud of how he’s learned to curb his tongue in her absence.

“The only danger anyone has ever been in at a Council meeting is of being bored to death,” Jude is reassuring her family, before stepping away, the guards folding in around them.

Cardan offers her his arm – he wants to keep her close, and he wants Vivienne to take note. It is different now, and he wants them all to see. Jude is cared for here.

He wants to take his time with her at his arm as they swap neutral business about the Roach, about the Bomb, about Madoc, but he can hardly even look at her. His head is full of visions of those nights he wrote to her again and again, outright begging in the end, and then lying awake, alone, certain his agony would be never-ending. Gods above, he’d even written once that his heart was hers, buried with her in the soil of the mortal world -- and she’d sent no reply. And though he knows now it’s because she hadn’t even received it, he’s still completely unsure of how to act.

It’s extremely unsettling how normal Jude seems in this moment. As if no time has passed at all.

And there are still so many eyes on them. Courtiers bobbing their heads as they pass. The guards just an arm’s length away. This is no place to try to sort through what he had written to her, what she needed to know. So maybe he just won’t, he thinks. Maybe it can just be like this for an eternity and he can go back to drinking away his feelings after this Council meeting. Maybe this is the most he should hope for.

But then, Jude says: “I need to talk to you.”

And his heart plummets to his guts. He’s not sure he can keep the dread off his face.

“It won’t take long,” Jude says, which is maybe worse. It means it’s simple: she wants to end their marriage. She wants to return to the mortal world. Of course she does.

But then, she says: “Whatever your scheme is, whatever you are planning to hold over me, you might as well tell me now, before we’re in front of the whole Council. Make your threats. Do your worst.”  

What? What the bleeding skies is she talking about? This is such a mess he’s made. And it is, perhaps, the first mess he’s ever truly cared to clean up.

Cardan turns them away toward a corridor to the outdoors.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We do need to talk.”

He steers them for the royal rose garden, where he knows the guards will stop at the gate and leave them alone. He has only a few steps down a path of shimmering quartz stairs among the roses to decide exactly what parts of his heart he’s willing to reveal today. What exactly won’t hurt so terribly much should she throw it all back in his face.

“I assume you weren’t actually trying to shoot me,” he says, choosing first the obvious and easiest. “Since the note was in your handwriting.”

“Madoc sent the Ghost--” Jude starts, but then stops. Softens. “I thought that there was going to be an attempt on your life.”

This does not mean that she cares for you, he has to remind himself. He still doesn’t want to look at her. The memory of perceived rejection is still too strong, still too bitter.

But he’s not going to live with the regrets he’d drowned in when she’d nearly died. He tries to choose his next words carefully.

“It was terrifying,” he admits, feigning interest in a nearby bush of jet black roses, “watching you fall. I mean, you’re generally terrifying, but I am unused to fearing for you.” He swallows back the memories, threatening the periphery of his mind. “And then I was furious. I am not sure I have ever been that angry before.”  

“Mortals are fragile,” Jude shrugs him off. She doesn’t get it.

“Not you,” he sighs. “You never break.”

There. Can that be enough? He’s made it fairly obvious now, hasn’t he? Surely she gets it now – he doesn’t want her to die, he doesn’t want to see her hurt. Witnessing it was the worst thing he’s ever seen. Because he cares for her.

If he has to spell it out, it might kill him. So, he just waits for what she has to say to that.

Jude’s looking at the roses, too, when he glances at her, her thick lashes lowered.

“When I came here, pretending to be Taryn, you said you’d sent me messages,” she says, and oh, please, gods, not this. “You seemed surprised I hadn’t gotten any. What was in them?”

Cardan wants to vomit. No, he needs to vomit. If his nervous stomach would cooperate and vomit everywhere, he could still get away from this with a shred of dignity.

He clasps his hands behind his back so she can’t see how they shake, his smile telling the lies that the rest of him can’t. That he is cool and unaffected, not at all hopelessly in love with the mortal girl in front of him.

“Pleading, mostly.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke. “Beseeching you to come back. Several indiscreet promises.” Maybe that little bit of tantalizing will flatter her.

It doesn’t. Actually, he’s not sure Jude can be flattered. She closes her eyes shut in no small amount of frustration.

“Stop playing games,” she growls. “You sent me into exile.”

“Yes. That.” Right, of course she doesn’t love that he’s beating around the bush. If only he could help it. He’s so goddamn nervous. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me, before Madoc took you. About it being a trick. You meant marrying you, making you queen, sending you to the mortal world, all of it, didn’t you?”

The glare she throws him is so very Jude, though he loves it less when it’s directed at him.

“Of course it was a trick,” she seethes. “Wasn’t that what you said in return?”

Well, this is rich.

“But that’s what you do. You trick people.” Though Cardan’s starting to realize just how wrong he’s been about the things Jude enjoys. “I thought you’d admire me a little for it, that I could trick you. I thought you’d be angry, of course, but not quite like this.”

“What?” Jude looks like she could unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. He might even deserve it.

He needs to put an end to this nightmare. There’s still a miniscule chance she’ll find some part of it amusing.

“Let me remind you that I didn’t know you’d murdered my brother, the ambassador to the Undersea, until that very morning,” he points out. Surely, the context will help his case. “My plans were made in haste. And perhaps I was a little annoyed. I thought it would pacify Queen Orlagh, at least until all promises were finalized in the treaty. By the time you guessed the answer, the negotiations would be over.”

But Jude’s face is unchanged. He isn’t seriously this good at trickery, is he?

“Think of it,” he presses, hoping she’ll follow along. “I exile Jude Duarte to the mortal world. Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown.” Any minute now. Any minute.

“Pardoned by the crown,” he repeats to her blank stare. Right, so, this game isn’t funny anymore.

“Meaning by the King of Faerie. Or its queen,” he explains, watching her eyes grow wider, wilder. “You could have returned anytime you wanted.”

When he’d first envisioned her figuring out the riddle, he’d expected probably a punch in the arm, maybe she would have even drawn her blade again. That would have been delightful. He’d thought about trembling beneath her again, about that searing look she got in her eye just before devouring his lips. That would have been – gods. He might have considered letting her murder more of his brothers to have that again.

But what is happening now is decidedly the opposite. Jude’s breath is quickening, her face flushing, and in the air between them, Cardan feels a rift cracking wider. He hasn’t played a trick – he’s done something horrible.

When Jude begins to back away from him, he thinks back to what it felt like to find Nicasia with Locke. What Jude’s face is doing now – that is what his heart had done then. She is recoiling from him. Jude Duarte is recoiling from him, because he has hurt her.

He honestly had not thought it was possible. He honestly had not thought himself capable. He honestly had not thought she cared enough.

She whirls then and marches away from him, and he has never hated himself more. Stop her, he thinks, but he’s still stunned. If he’d known she cared…

Stop her!

He runs after her. She has to know he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. She has to know he will fight to keep her now that he knows. But when he seizes her arm, she hauls around and slaps him, hard enough to turn his face.

It’s not the worst hit he’s taken, not by a long shot, but its sting is entirely different. There’s something fiery in her eyes, and, for the first time, he’s aware that he is not the only one who has been in agony these long months. Oh, he would undo it all now if he could. He would pull her in and kiss her over and over until they both stopped hurting.

Except she still looks murderous. Getting close to her face is probably not a good idea if he doesn’t want to be bitten. (He does kind of want to be bitten, just…in a very different scenario.)

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, carefully, and his hand finds hers. To his great surprise, she lets their fingers lace together, and his heart seizes with a wild hope. It does not mean she loves you, he thinks. He fumbles. “No, it’s not that, not exactly. I didn’t think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.”

“And did you like it?” Jude asks, narrowing her eyes.

His cheek is hot from the slap of her hand, and now with shame. Because how is he supposed to answer that? He didn’t hate being more powerful for once. He didn’t hate being the one with the answer to the riddle.

“Well, I was hurt.” He’s hesitated too long, and now Jude’s pressing on. “And yes, you scare me.”

Cardan finds himself taking in her full face then, the one that has always seemed so defiant and fearless and headstrong.

“You’ve always scared me,” Jude is saying, and this is what almost undoes him. She repeats it, telling him again and again each moment she had been afraid of him, and with each one, his mind bursts a little more. This doesn’t seem real. “And I am scared of you now,” she concludes, that defiant gleam in her eye til the end.

Cardan is speechless. And Cardan’s never speechless.

There was a time when he enjoyed playing a villain in her heroic story line, but she wasn’t supposed to be truly afraid of him. She was supposed to vanquish him and make him beg for her kindness. (And he would now. He really would.)

(Maybe he will.)

“You despised me,” Jude reminds him, because he does need reminding. He’s not sure now if he ever really did. “When you said you wanted me, it felt like the world had turned upside down. But sending me into exile, that made sense. That was an entirely right-side-up Cardan move. And I hated myself for not seeing it coming. And I hate myself for not seeing what you’re going to do to me next.”

At that, Cardan closes his eyes. Hopelessness is threatening to overtake him. Fear has created this monster before him, the one who irrevocably holds his heart. Is it possible to unmake such a curse? He’s certainly been unable to find a cure for his own fear, lifelong coward that he is.

When she’d first returned and his heart was freshly cracked, he’d thought back to a fairy story about a boy cursed with a heart of stone and the monster he took as his bride. It had been patience and fearlessness that had won over the monster in the end – something the boy had managed only because of his stony heart.

So, Cardan thinks of stones then. Of pulling together all his cracked and raw edges. Of being impenetrable and solid and fearless. He thinks of doing what needs to be done. He needs her, for so many things, and she must know that. Perhaps it is folly to wish for anything more than simply averting a crisis.

But he can’t manage it if he’s looking at her. He releases her hand and turns away.

“I can see why you thought what you did,” he says at last. “I suppose I am not an easy person to trust. And maybe I ought not to be trusted, but let me say this: I trust you.”

Patience. Fearlessness. Deep breath.

“You may recall that I did not want to be High King. And that you did not consult me before plopping this crown on my head. You may further recollect that Balekin didn’t want me to keep the title and that the Living Council never took a real shine to me.

“There was a prophecy given when I was born. Usually Baphen is uselessly vague, but in this case, he made it clear that should I rule, I would make a very poor king.” It hurts more than he thought it would to say it out loud. “The destruction of the crown, the ruination of the throne – a lot of dramatic language.”

He has to be cavalier about it; it stings too much otherwise. It’s been the bane of his existence, this prophecy. It is the reason his entire childhood was filled with nothing but dismissal and cruelty. It’s the very, very low standard he’s spent his whole life trying not to meet. The best his family had ever hoped for from him was his complete and utter disappearance – and he’d failed to do even that.

He turns back to Jude. Patience. Fearlessness. He has so much more to say. He has so much more he wants to be than this. Deep breath.

“When you forced me into working for the Court of Shadows, I never thought of the things I could do – frightening people, charming people – as talents, no less ones that might be valuable. But you did. You showed me how to use them to be useful. I never minded being a minor villain, but it’s possible I might have grown into something else, a High King as monstrous as Dain. And if I did – if I fulfilled that prophecy, I ought to be stopped. And I believe that you would stop me.”

Jude sputters at that, blinking hard.

“Stop you?” she echoes. “Sure. If you’re a huge jerk and a threat to Elfhame, I’ll pop your head right off.”

“Good.” And he means it. To die by Jude’s hand would be a dream. “That’s one reason I didn’t want to believe you’d joined up with Madoc. The other is that I want you here by my side,” and just for good measure, just in case she still isn’t getting it: “As my queen.”

But he can’t read the expression on Jude’s face when he says it – if it brings her joy, if it brings her more distress. He’s not sure what else he could have said to make it any more clear. And now her silence is threatening to eat him alive. This reeks of the beginnings of yet another rejection.

He smiles at her, instinctively, a last ditch effort to make this even slightly less awkward.

“But now that you’re High Queen and back in charge, I won’t be doing anything of consequence anyway,” he promises. “If I destroy the crown and ruin the throne, it will only be through neglect.”

He wants her to smile back. To roll her eyes at him and act like she isn’t amused when she so clearly is. He’s missed that, oh, how he’s missed that.

He gets all that and more when she blurts out a laugh.

“So that’s your excuse for not doing any of the work?” She quirks an eyebrow, and it makes his heart swell. They’re smiling together again. He’d needed that, too, more than he’d realized. “You must be draped in decadence at all times because if you aren’t kept busy, you might fulfill some half-baked prophecy.”

“Exactly,” he says. Exactly… It’s more true than he wants it to be. His smile fades. And Jude is looking more tired than he’s comfortable with. He hopes he has not pushed her too hard. He touches her arm, gently, not thinking. Her gaze catches his, soft and warm. He finds himself leaning in…

“Would you like me to inform the Council that you will see them another time?” he asks. “It will be a novelty to have me make your excuses.”

But Jude is stalwart and determined as ever. He expected nothing less.

He pulls back. She does not need him. Not like he needs her.

“No, I’m ready,” she says.

How he wishes he could say the same.

-----------

Tagging: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @addies-invisible-life, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, @duarteegreenbriar, @thefolkofthefic, @alittledribbledrabble, @carmensworld17, @annejulianneh111, @amandlas, @elriel4life, @idk-what-name-to-use, @thewickedkings, @juliazato, @woodsbeyond1, @booksmusicandgoodvibes, 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother. 

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then. 

Almost. 

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch. 

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed. 

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat. 

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time. 

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light. 

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children. 

Izzy knows better. 

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain. 

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly. 

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her. 

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran. 

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is. 

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.” 

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs. 

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her. 

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead. 

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer. 

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her? 

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.” 

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised. 

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.” 

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end. 

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[seattlesea]

Lorien Legacies Characters + Voices

One: -Has a slight California accent after spending so much time there -Uses basic surfer slang and overexaggerates it sometimes (gnarly dude!) -Also uses modern slang a lot -Has a light, clear, pleasant, smooth, level, soft, and sultry voice -Doesn’t talk too loud or too quiet, usually at the right volume unless she’s excited, then she’s at max volume and makes peoples’ ears bleed -Gets voice cracks and sounds deeper when she’s upset or angry and half the time it’s sad and the other half the time it’s scary -Says ‘hella’ and curses a lot -Sounds fierce and enraged when she’s yelling and it’s terrifying, she sounds wild and untamed -Uses casual words and grammar, nothing too complicated or difficult -Sounds like what silk and cotton candy feel like -Talks kind of slow, but when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about she talks at a mile a minute -Her natural voice is really calming, especially when she’s tired or relaxed, like water splashing on rocks -At night her voice is so low and soothing it’s like star-gazing at three in the morning -Sounds really lazy at times  -Gets a little rasp when she’s been yelling too much and it’s awesome -Has a raucous and husky but really contagious laugh

Maggie: -Has a slight Irish accent that gets clearer the louder her voice gets -Has a light, clear, pleasant, gentle, really soft, sotto, silvery, small, and kind of high voice  -Mutters in different languages a lot (the others don’t know she’s cursing) -Stutters and uses ‘uh’ and ‘um’ a lot -Talks kind of slow and hesitant at first, but once she warms up to people she talks way too fast and excitedly -And by ‘way too fast’ I mean way too fast, like the girl needs to slow down, barely anyone can understand her. She’s also super talkative to the point of annoying -Sometimes her voice gets raspy when she’s been raising her voice too much (which is rarely, her voice is usually at a good volume) but rarely gets raspy when she’s talking normally since she’s used to talking a lot -Instead of getting shaky or shrill when she’s scared, her voice gets firm and tight -Uses really big, descriptive words some people don’t even understand and has a very extensive vocabulary -Sounds dreamy and starry-eyed, like she’s always fantasizing something and it’s really relaxing and pleasant to listen to -Kind of sounds like what stars would look like if you could see them during the day -Her voice is so soothing and peaceful the others don’t mind when she reads out loud and aren’t scared to admit they allow a 12 year old to read to them -Sounds fiery and harsh when she’s yelling, it’s a lot more loud and commanding than people expect to come from a small 12 year old -When she’s tired she sounds wistful and drags most of her words  -And when she’s sad her voice gets really shaky and brittle like she’s always on the verge of breaking down and it’s heart-breaking -Has a soft and cute laugh that’s really quiet, she giggles more than laughs -Sounds like what lace, dreams, and pearls look like -Uses perfect grammar and corrects everyone else a lot

Hannu: -Has a thick Kenyan accent -His voice is deep, strong, fruity, pleasant, thick, soft, and smooth -Uses casual but perfect grammar -Also uses older slang he picked up from his Cêpan -Sounds harsh and loud when he’s yelling, which is rare -His voice is really level and placid, it’s almost lulling -Sounds deeper and shaky and breathes really heavily when he’s upset or scared -Uses nicknames a lot, he likes shortening people’s names as much as he can just for the heck of it -He pronounces things wrong often. He can speak every language fluently but frequently pronounces certain words wrong -Likes short and simple words everyone can understand  -Mirrors people often, his voice will change depending on whom he’s been talking to the most -Has a really deep and rich voice that sounds like it’s resonating and everyone loves it -And has a low and sweet laugh that’s really nice to hear -Sounds like what melted chocolate and coffee look like -Drags some of his words and talks at a leisurely pace, he likes taking his time -Never curses no matter the situation -When he’s happy his voice gets higher and brighter -Talks at a nice, steady pace that’s easy to follow along to -Anyone can tell what he’s feeling by his voice, he never bothers to hide it and his voice is always full of emotions

John: -Has a moderate Ohioan accent that Nine mocks a lot -Uses a lot of Ohioan slang as well -Has a fruity, pleasant, gravelly, honeyed, strong, and appealing voice that’s more on the deep side -Sounds booming and assertive when he’s yelling, it’s basically him getting in his Leader Mode™ -Has a deep and resonant laugh that’s really cute (though no one would admit it) -Sounds brittle, low, and serious when he’s upset like he’s about to cry even when he isn’t -Never stutters, he’s learned enough about lying to get the whole talking thing down -Uses casual but good grammar and basic, everyday words, nothing too flashy or complicated -His voice is really nice to listen to especially when he’s comforting someone, it gets really soft and as fragile as glass -Sounds like what deep water looks like and what feathers feel like -Also sounds really soulful, his voice is always thick and full of emotion so it’s easy to tell what he’s feeling by the way he talks, even if he tries to hide it -Says phrases from a bunch of different states in the U.S, so sometimes his sentences are blurs of city slang barely anyone can understand -Since he spends half his time shouting orders or yelling at the other Garde (especially Nine) for doing dumb shit, by the end of the day his voice is always super husky and low -When he’s really tired he talks so slowly, it’s like going down a lazy river, though sometimes it’s annoying cause he takes so damn long to say a single sentence -His voice gets sharp and grating when he’s angry. When he starts sounding like the way cut steel looks like you know you effed up

Five: -Has hints of a few different islander accents that Ella jokes make him sound like a pirate (that and his missing eye definitely give off that impression) -His voice is on the deeper side but not as deep as the other guys’ -Has a gruff, husky, throaty, gravelly, and sometimes monotonous voice. He can sound completely dead and toneless if he wants -He sounds harsh and raucous when he’s yelling, it’s very rough, loud, and grating -When he’s angry he sounds wild and fierce, almost frantic -Uses simple words and calls people by their last names a lot, but never calls people by their numbers -He’ll never admit it when he’s scared, but it’s easy to tell from his voice which gets really tremulous and frail -Sometimes stutters, but never lets himself stutter when talking to people he doesn’t like -His voice when talking to people he doesn’t know or like is cold and hostile- mostly emotionless- but when he’s talking to people he does it’s completely different, it’s soft and sweet and gentle and it’s low-key adorable -Has a sharp and croaky laugh that makes it sound like it’s a fake laugh but it’s usually real (unless it’s a sarcastic laugh) -Curses quite a bit, though not as much as others. Usually it’s just under his breath or when he’s yelling, but not in daily conversation -The way his voice sounds changes depending on who he’s talking to. Usually it sounds like what tires on gravel sound like, sometimes like what steel and ice feel like, and other times like flowers and fluffy clouds -Always has planned-out wording, he hates being unprepared, even if it’s with things as simple as a conversation -So generally he hates talking to really spontaneous people who change the topic a lot unless it’s someone talkative whom he likes, then he just lets them do the talking and he listens in (really well, may I add)

Six: -Has a ranging accent from various places -But her most prominent accent is her Italian one, which gets louder as she yells -And because of her Italian accent, she pronounces her ‘i’s like ‘e’ and she hates it -Has a sultry, smooth, smoky, firm, level, and husky voice, and it’s really deep, deeper than John’s and all the other females -Sounds toneless most of the time but when she’s comfortable or relaxed, she allows others to tell what she’s feeling through her voice (and expression) -Sounds ardent and fiery when she’s yelling. Her voice is so commanding most people would listen to her without thinking -When she’s been talking to much she gets a rasp in her voice that sounds awesome -Since she’s usually so blunt and has learned to hide her emotions, you can barely tell when she’s angry, but she sounds harsh and brash when she’s angry enough -And because of this, you can also rarely tell when she’s scared but if she’s scared enough her voice will get low and quavery and it’s terrifying to hear cause when Six is scared enough to show it, you know the situation is bad -Has a light and silvery laugh that’s rare but nice to hear from her -She doesn’t have many passions outside of the war so when she finds some hobbies after it’s over, she talks really fast and sounds so eager and excited whenever she talks about it -Never stutters or uses ‘uh’ or ‘um’, she usually has her voice under control -Most of the time she sounds like a basic soldier- strong, firm, sturdy, flat, and assertive, like she’s taking orders from a general -Talks at a level, steady pace and uses kind of lengthy, sophisticated words -Sounds like what lightning and thunder look and feel like (pun intended) -Will curse now and then. It’s not a normal thing for her but not surprising when she does it, either

Marina: -Has a moderate Spanish accent from her lengthy time at Santa Teresa  -Uses Spanish slang a lot, too -Has a thick, emotional, pleasant, smooth, soft, sweet, and velvety voice -Her voice isn’t too high or too deep, it’s right in the middle and sounds great -Sounds strident and forceful when she’s yelling. She sounds like the verbal personification of trying to push against a wall -She sounds bitter and wobbly when she’s upset or scared -Her natural voice is so gentle and soothing and lovely, hearing it is like getting a warm verbal mom hug and she makes a great comforter because of it -People love hearing her voice because of this -She gets a slight rasp when she’s been yelling cause she’s not used to it -Sometimes stutters, usually when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about cause it’s the only time she won’t talk at a slow, calm pace -Her voice is so peaceful and serene most people who are mad will calm down just at the sound of her voice -Sounds like what vanilla looks like and what velvet feels like -Uses good grammar and wise, knowledgeable words -Has a soft and warm laugh that’s really irresistible and others love hearing it -Uses platonic-friendship pet names like ‘Dolly’, ‘Buttercup’, and ‘Teacup’ -Mutters and curses under her breath in Spanish a lot, especially when she’s exasperated with the other Garde (usually Nine) -When she’s tired her voice gets really deep and sleepy, almost as deep as John’s

Eight: -Has a thick Indian accent after being there for so long -Also speaks Sanskrit fluently and will often switch to it mid-sentence without realizing it -Has a thick, smooth, clear, appealing, husky, fruity, honeyed, and soft voice -His voice is deeper than John and Five’s but not as deep as Nine’s, on par with and deeper than Six’s when he’s tired -Sounds low and guttural when he’s angry, he practically growls -Makes random animal noises at the most random moments thanks to his shape-shifting -When he’s scared or sad his voice turns really soft and delicate, like he could break if you so much as blow in his direction -Uses nicknames (funny and normal) and pet names a lot. Usually pet names are for Marina but he’ll often jokingly flirt with John and Nine   -Sounds violent and sharp when he’s yelling, like the way the edge of a sword looks like, and since he rarely yells, it’s pretty scary coming from him -Has a bright and cheerful laugh that’s the personification of sunshine and happiness, it’s great and often lifts the mood of everyone who hears it -Sounds like sugar and what a fuzzy, warm blanket feels like -He naturally talks really fast- sometimes even faster than Maggie- so he pronounces a lot of words wrong, though he never minds -Really likes watching movies and reading so steals a lot of signature phrases from characters -So he’ll be throwing things like ‘Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn’ into daily conversation and no one but Maggie and Sam understand the references

Nine: -Has a heavy Chicago-city accent  -Has a gravelly, husky, strong, fruity, gruff, attractive, and low voice -His voice is deeper than John’s but not as deep as people would expect (Six and Eight’s voices are deeper) -Uses Chicago slang a lot and since it changes so often, it confuses the others so much they’ve stopped bothering to ask what something means -Like one day he’ll keep saying ‘finna’ and has to explain what it means then a few weeks later he’ll start saying ‘I like the drip’ and the others are so exasperated trying to keep up -Drags his words a lot, he talks at a slow, easygoing pace but sometimes talks so slowly it’s low-key irritating -Uses nicknames a lot, like calling Five ‘Hobbit’ or Ella ‘Squirt’ -Doesn’t care too much about having an extensive vocabulary but started using decent grammar after Maggie kept correcting him (she eventually gave up with all the Chicago slang, though) -Sounds booming and assertive when he’s yelling, he honestly has one of the most scary yelling voices besides Adam. It’s strong and fierce and dominant and everyone knows not to mess with him when he’s pissed -Talks SUPER LOUDLY LIKE TYPING IN ALL CAPS, the others have to remind him to lower his voice on a daily basis -Sounds ferocious and forceful when he’s angry, like the verbal form of a wildfire -Would never admit he’s scared unless it’s to people he’s really close with but sometimes it’s obvious through his voice, which gets shaky and heavy -Has a slight rasp that makes his voice sound more hoarse  -Sounds like what caramel and melted marshmallows look like -Has a deep and pleasant laugh that’s really low and always genuine and melodious and rich -Curses a lot, the most out of everyone

Ella: -Has hints of a Scottish accent -Has a high, soft, sweet, slightly raspy, silvery, honeyed, and sotto voice -Overall her voice is really cute -Uses actress slang like ‘room tone’ and ‘back to one’ -Also uses good grammar and either really simple, basic words or sophisticated ones, not as knowledgeable or extensive as Maggie’s but pretty advanced for her age -Sounds brittle and thin when she’s upset and scared -It’s easy to tell what she’s feeling through her voice, she never bothers trying to hide her emotions even though she’s an experienced-enough actor to do so and her voice is always full with emotion   -Rarely yells but the few times she does, she sounds wild and and frantic, almost hysterical  -When she’s angry she sounds trembly and taut. She sounds less angry, per se, and more tight, so it’s hard to tell when she’s angry or just annoyed -Has a soft and airy laugh that sounds like the way a soft breeze feels -Mirrors others a lot, she unintentionally copies everyone else’s signature phrases, hand gestures, tone, et cetera -Her natural voice is super quiet and others have to remind her to speak up a lot, though she’s starting to get the hang of it after mirroring loud-ass Nine  -Sounds like what crystals look like and what the cool side of a pillow feels like

Sam: -Has a basic American accent -Has a gentle, emotional, mellow, light, silvery, and kind of high voice -And it’s really, really soft, softer than Marina’s and others love listening to his voice so they don’t mind when he goes on rants about movies or space -When he’s in any mood other than happy or excited he sounds like he’s about to cry, even when he’s relaxed -But when he’s mad his voice doesn’t quiver or anything, it just gets really tight  -When he’s talking about things he’s passionate about he talks slower like he’s savoring the words and his voice gets a little deeper and somehow softer -His voice and breath get really shaky when he’s scared or upset like he’s about to break down and it’s really sad to hear -Generally talks quite fast and faster when he’s nervous -Chuckles more than laughs, it’s quiet and sweet -Always gives people nicknames from sci-fi movies, like he’ll call John Spock at random times and no one understands the references -His voice is really soothing. He’s not the best at comforting people (he’s kinda awkward with it) but his voice is enough to calm people down a little bit -Rarely curses, he’ll only say the less intense words like damn or shit but if he’s angry enough he’ll go on a cursing spree and everyone’s shocked at it -Hates Ohio slang but it’s become a habit after living there for so long (and cause John uses it all the time) -Sounds like what glass looks like and what cotton feels like -When he’s tired or just woke up his voice will get really deep- on par with John’s- and he drags all his words and talks super slow -Uses perfect grammar and has a very extensive vocabulary -Usually sounds like a polite college professor  -Says ‘burst the bubble’ all the time and uses a lot of astronaut slang and terms -Half the time his speech is impromptu and the other half of the time he has to know what he’s going to say and prepares it like two hours before

Sarah: -Also has a typical American accent -Has a really soft, soothing, velvety, pleasant, emotional, and melodious voice -Her voice isn’t too deep or too high, it’s right in the middle and just a little deeper than Sam’s -Has a soft and giggly laugh, it’s really cute -When she’s scared or upset her voice gets kind of shaky and croaky -Talks at a nice, steady pace and always at a reasonable volume -Sounds like writing in italics -Has a shrill and strident yelling voice when she’s frantic -But when she’s angry it’s resonant and orotund  -Overall has a very clear and calm voice but gets a slight rasp when she’s tired and it’s really nice -Also makes a great comforter cause her voice is so soft and sweet -Sounds so patient all the time -Uses good grammar and simple but illustrative words  -And uses a bunch of cute, romantic pet names like ‘Love’, ‘Darling’, ‘Sweetie’, etc. -Doesn’t use any type of slang, she just goes for the basic words -Sounds like honey and the way soft sweaters feel -Likes using the basic nicknames that are shortened versions of peoples’ names -And always calls the Garde by their Earth names, she doesn’t like calling people by numbers cause she feels like it’s dehumanizing them -When she’s nervous or anxious her voice gets really quiet, like a whisper -Can sound really rough when she’s tired or exhausted -Her voice is the most feminine of the group, and it’s really soothing and calming to listen to, especially when you’re tired or trying to relax -Her voice is like getting the verbal personification of cuddling with a soft stuffed animal -It’s just really great, kind of like a piece of heaven

Adam: -Kind of has that harsh Mogadorian accent he tries hard to get rid of -Tries to make his voice sound softer but it just ends up sounding like metal against a cheese grater so he eventually gave up -Has a thick, kind of throaty, gravelly, husky, steady, firm, and croaky voice -His voice isn’t really deep, just a bit deeper than Sarah’s and on par with Five’s -But when he’s tired his voice gets really deep, on par with John and sometimes Six and Eight -Sounds monotonous and kind of dead towards people he doesn’t know but once he warms up to them he sounds a lot more optimistic and emotional -Also calls people he doesn’t know by their last name or rank -Usually sounds really hopeful and wistful -Easily has the scariest yelling voice, he sounds wild and fierce and forceful and really, really loud and it’s pretty terrifying -His voice gets really scratchy, sad, and shaky when he’s scared or upset and it’s so painful to hear him like that -When he’s trying to comfort people he usually goes for physical affection but is actually quite wise and always knows the best things to say -Uses perfect but casual grammar and knowledgeable, sophisticated words that make him sound like a nerdy high schooler teacher’s pet -Also uses Mog terms and slang (if that’s even a thing) and literally no one understands him -Curses quite a lot. Not as much as One or Nine but a bit more than Five and Six -Mutters under his breath a lot, usually in Mogadorian -His laugh is a little weird, kind of sharp and choppy, but nice to hear from him -Rarely raises his voice but whenever he does it’s intense -Sounds like lightning and the taste of mint -Usually his voice is a little toneless like someone reading an audiobook -Talks at a very steady pace but likes to pronounce things perfectly and on-point so talks almost carefully, and likes having all his words prepared -Generally sounds warm towards his friends but can sound cold as ice when talking to his enemies

[daily-mikaze-ai]

since you had cecil just now, how about camus for the character ask? I also wanna add that I think your opinions on both cecil and ren are really interesting!!

I'm happy to hear that :D

### Why I like them:

Camus gets a lot of hate and I kinda understand why especially when he wasn't one of my favorites when I first watched. But over time he kinda grew on me? He's got a strong work ethic, which is admirable, with his dedication and willingness to go completely out of his way to make sure his job is done perfectly.

This crosses into headcanon territory but I also think he has a sense of responsibility - noblesse oblige if you will - and will protect those who serve him. I have no doubt that if Cecil or anyone else was truly in danger, he would bust in and save them with all the glamour and dramatics he loves.

Speaking of, him being extra af in his introduction scene was absolutely hilarious.

### Why I don't:

You can kinda automatically assume cause UtaPri is in general wholesome and all that Camus, deep inside or smth, is loyal and dedicated to Quartet Night and its future. But, especially after the Non-Fiction drama cd, I feel like I need something more than what the material has already shown for that to cement to me. Like I need something more solid in what he wants for the future and his true feelings.

### Favorite episode:

Season 3 Episode 6. Tbh I don't think Camus gets much quality screentime for me to have many options for questions like this lol. But then again it's hard to juggle a cast of 11 (turn 18) characters and give them all quality screentime.

A Day with Camus have us very nice insight in his life and routine, and I enjoyed that.

### Favorite season:

Season 2. I can't believe I didn't remember how ridiculously over the top his introduction was lol. Maybe I wiped it out of my memory the first time?

### Favorite song:

(Assuming group songs aren't allowed - Non-Fiction would've been a strong candidate - then I'd choose) Zettai Reido Emotion

### Favorite outfit:

I highly enjoy anytime he wears glasses c o u g h, but if I had to go with one, I'd pick Autumn Basic Style. It really suits him and I'm a sucker for turtlenecks.

### Headcanon:

Camus is Alexander they canonically strangely resemble each other and Camus doesn't have a last name isn't that suspicious and- I'm just joking lol.

But ok I enjoy feeding into my crack Camus-is-a-dog-spirit theory even when I know the reason behind his name et cetera.

### Unpopular opinion:

His "real" voice suits him as a character more, but without that to consider I'm more of a fan of his Butler Persona voice.

### A wish:

Can we have like, an entire song in his Butler Persona. Just,,, because it doesn't exist and that would be really fun as a concept lyrically and musically-

### An oh-god-please-don't-ever-happen:

I know this isn't what this question is asking but just don't let him find out I'm not a fan of the Silk Queen. Or if you do, give me a 24 hour warning to write my will.

### 5 words to best describe them:

Steel

Cold

Flair

Devoted

Noble

### My nickname for them:

Myu-chan. Borrowing from Reiji of course. I have great fondness for Reiji's and Ren's nicknames for the other characters.

[wherewindysurgeswend]

Deep heart’s core: chapter two

guess what? chapter two is ready! i actually already had it written, it just needed some polishing, which i’ve now done. enjoy!

part one can be found here.

taglist (please dm, send an ask or leave a comment to be added or removed): @tunes-on-a-typewriter @rememberedkisses​ 

Anna was suddenly conscious of someone watching her. She turned her head and saw a young woman looking at her, smiling. Anna looked again at the young woman who had been watching her. James had fallen asleep in his mother’s arms. The woman who had been watching looked little older than Anna herself, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, if that. She was slim and graceful, with shining blonde hair and sparkling grey eyes. It was evident by her impeccably tailored silk dress, large diamond earrings and fine kid gloves that she belonged to a world entirely different from Anna’s own. She smiled, then turned and left.

Long after she had bid the Lynches goodnight, Anna found her herself unable to stop thinking about the unknown woman. After tossing and turning in bed for what seemed like an eternity, she got up, got dressed, and went for a walk. Now that the sun had completely sunk beneath the horizon, the air was considerably colder. An icy wind blew from the sea, and Anna pulled her thin sweater closer about her body and crossed her arms. She walked for a few minutes, and then found herself close to the door of the first-class ballroom. The door opened and someone came out, accompanied by a burst of sound – laughter, loud conversation, and music – and light. Anna looked at the person who had left and caught her breath. It was the woman she had seen before, looking even lovelier than before in her evening finery. She, too, caught a glimpse of Anna. She smiled, and to Anna, it seemed to be the loveliest thing she had ever seen. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, still smiling. Her voice was soft and measured, and yet there was laughter lurking in her eyes. Anna smiled back. “I’m Margaret Kittredge,” said the woman. She said nothing else, but it was clear by her expression that she was waiting for Anna to introduce herself. “Anna Byrne,” she said.

“Well,” said Margaret, “what are you doing around here at this hour? It’s hardly a place for a nice girl like you.” she laughed, but there was no malice in her laughter. It was as if she and Anna were the only two people in on a wonderful joke. “I needed a walk,” said Anna, and Margaret smiled sympathetically. “I know the feeling,” she said. “In fact, that’s why I left the ballroom. I knew if I stayed in there any longer I’d lose my mind.” It was now Anna’s turn to be sympathetic. “I know exactly how you feel. I hate parties.” Margaret smiled, as if in silent agreement. Then, she looked concerned. Anna’s smile faded. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re cold,” said Margaret in reply, “I can tell. You’re shivering.” She removed the luxurious mink coat she was wearing and draped it gently about Anna’s shoulders.

 Doreen Kittredge was having another sleepless night. She didn’t know where her daughter was, but that wasn’t the issue. Mrs. Kittredge was sleepless for an entirely different reason. This reason had much to do with her friend, Mrs. Schuyler, but more to do with Mrs. Schuyler’s daughter, Phyllis.

 Phyllis was around Margaret’s age. They had been friends as children, but they had since grown apart, which, though she would never admit it, had greatly relieved Mrs. Kittredge. Phyllis was not the type of girl she had hoped Margaret would associate with. Phyllis smoked in public. Phyllis had two broken engagements. She bleached her hair, plucked her eyebrows and used false eyelashes. And now she had been told that Phyllis would be in Paris at the same time as the Kittredges and would be returning home on the same ship as them,  and would  Doreen please keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t get in too much trouble? Needless to say, Mrs. Kittredge did not want to do this. She had enough on her plate with her daughter’s upcoming wedding. Margaret’s younger brother Paul would be graduating high school that spring as well.  There was simply too much for her to organize. At least that was the reason she concentrated on. Doreen felt, somehow, that her daughter was drifting further and further away from her. Perhaps she knew, somewhere deep in the part of one’s mind that always knows these things, that this couldn’t be avoided. Maybe she thought having Phyllis in the house would make it worse. Maybe she thought she could fix everything, if she could only keep Margaret away from people she didn’t approve of. 

Anna and Margaret parted just before sunrise. Determined to get some sleep, Anna lay awake until the sun was so bright that she had to give up, thinking of the slim, graceful girl with her satin dress and fur coat and the laughter in her grey eyes, of the silver glow of her hair in the moonlight, of the subtle scent of her perfume. Margaret, for her part, was in a similar state, remembering the nervous tap of Anna’s fingers on whatever surface was within her reach, how she shivered in her thin sweater and cotton blouse, her enraptured silence when she looked at the sea, the way she said Margaret’s name. Margaret was named after her grandmother Kittredge, a stern old woman whom Margaret had always been afraid of. She was called Peggy most of the time, to avoid confusion, but her mother always brought out “Margaret” when she was upset with her daughter. Margaret had always hated her name, but to hear Anna say it, it was the most beautiful name in the world. When her mother said it, “Margaret” was a reminder of everything she must do, lest she disgrace the family name. It was “Margaret, don’t slouch”, “Margaret, how did your nails get so filthy?” and “Margaret, act like a lady”. But when Anna said it, it was nothing of the sort. There was as much kindness in those three syllables when Anna said them as there was disapproval when Margaret’s mother did. Margaret thought she might not even mind if Anna were to call her Peggy, as much as she loathed the nickname. As Margaret was learning, any name can be beautiful if it’s said with love.

At eleven o’clock Anna was jerked awake by a knock on the door of her cabin. She stumbled out of bed, rubbing her eyes, and opened the door. There stood Margaret Kittredge, carrying a basket. “Good morning!” Said Margaret cheerfully, “we’ve missed breakfast, but I got a busboy to give me some food.” 

“Morning,” said Anna, squinting slightly in the late morning sunlight. Margaret walked into the cabin and sat down on the bed. “How…?” Asked Anna, gradually recovering from her surprise.

“Oh, you know,” said Margaret, selecting a muffin from the basket and biting into it, “a little batting my eyelashes at him, a little do-you-know-who-my-father-is…” Anna wasn’t sure she believed that. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at Margaret. “And then what?” Margaret sighed. “And then I slipped him a ten-dollar bill. There really isn’t any fooling you, is there?” Anna laughed and Margaret handed her a slice of toast. “So,” began Anna, “where are you on your way to?” Margaret rolled her eyes and swallowed a bite of muffin. “Paris. I’m getting married next June and my mother insists on getting the dress in Europe.” Anna felt a little sting at those words, although she wasn’t sure why. So Margaret was getting married. What was it to her? They had known each other for less than a day. And besides, what did it have to do with her? Maybe it was that Margaret didn’t seem very excited about the idea. Yes, that must be it. “Anna?” Margaret said. Anna snapped out of her reverie. “What?” 

“I asked where you’re going, but, incidentally, are you all right?”

“I’m — I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all. I’m going to London.”

“Why London?”

“I work for the Montreal Daily News. I’m supposed to cover a story.” Margaret looked surprised. 

“The Montreal Daily News? Well isn’t that quite the coincidence!” 

“Why?”

“Didn’t you know? My father owns that paper!” 

Anna hadn’t known that, but she supposed she ought to have made the connection. There was a large oil painting hanging in the entrance hall at the newspaper building. Anna had walked past it countless times. She had read the plaque beneath it almost as often — J. Thomas Kittredge, founder. She had even met the man once. On her second day at the paper he had dropped by to visit. Mr. McGill had introduced her as “Miss Byrne, our latest recruit” and Mr Kittredge had laughed and said “new blood, eh?” He was a tall, red-faced man with an impressive moustache and a huge cigar hanging from his lower lip. He had shaken her hand. His hands were huge and his grip was very strong, but Anna knew better than to let him know she felt it, so she had looked defiantly up at him — he was close to a foot taller than she was — and gripped his hand as hard as she could. He had laughed again and turned to Mr. McGill. “Feisty, isn’t she, Jim?” He had said. Mr McGill had looked confused. He thought of Anna as timid and anxious, certainly not feisty. With that, Mr. Kittredge had stubbed out his cigar, picked up his hat, winked at Anna and walked out, his booming laughter still ringing in her ears. 

Margaret was nothing like her father, Anna thought. Or maybe she was. After all, Margaret was on the tall side (five foot eight, maybe five foot nine, in Anna’s estimation) and had her father’s steel-grey eyes. She had his sense of humour and easy way with people. Margaret’s laugh was a summer shower and her father’s was a thunderclap. And, of course, after her initial terror had subsided, Anna had found herself rather liking Mr. Kittredge. It was hard not to, and Margaret was the same way. There were no two ways about it, Anna thought: you either liked Margaret or you didn’t really know her.

There was a knock on the door and Anna got up to answer it. When she opened the door, she found Kathleen Lynch leaning against the doorframe. “Morning,” she said, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Mother’s been worried sick since you didn’t show up at breakfast.”

“I overslept. Won’t you come in?” Kathleen stepped into the cabin and saw Margaret sitting on the bed. “Who’s this?” She asked bluntly, jerking her head towards Margaret. 

“That’s my friend Margaret.” Margaret waved enthusiastically at Kathleen. “Pleased to meet you,” said Kathleen dryly. Margaret seemed a little put off by Kathleen’s attitude. Frankly, Anna was too. Kathleen could have been friendlier. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” said Margaret, “mother will be expecting me.” She picked up her basket and left. 

“What was that about?” Anna asked, a little irritably, once Margaret was out of earshot.

“What was what about?” Kathleen retorted.

“Oh, please. Don’t play innocent. What do you mean by being so rude to her?”

“I don’t think I was rude.” Anna raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Oh, you don’t? Well I’d advise you to be more careful with your tone, then. You scared her off!”

“I’d advise you to choose your friends better,” Kathleen shot back.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Anna snapped, her voice rising in frustration. 

“I mean girls like that are all the same. They get bored with their high-society friends so they slum it with girls like us.”

 “That’s some judgement to make about someone you’ve known for thirty seconds!”

“You don’t have to listen to me. It’s your funeral.” Anna rolled her eyes.

“Aren’t you getting a little too upset over this?”

“Maybe I am. I’m just trying to warn you.” Anna sighed.

 “I don’t want to fight with you, Kathleen. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I guess mom got to me with her worrying. She thought something had happened to you, but you were just sitting in here with that girl. I was upset because I was worried over nothing.” Anna softened. 

“That’s O.K. Let’s go find your mom so she knows I’m all right.” 

They found Florence in the second-class lounge. As soon as she spotted them she got up and ran towards them. “Where have you been?” She asked Anna, “I’ve been so worried! Is everything all right?” Anna was still a little too disoriented to answer. “Everything’s fine, mom,” Kathleen broke in, “she just overslept, that’s all.” 

“Oh, thank goodness. Have you had breakfast?” Anna nodded. 

“Good. I was afraid you had missed it. Well, did you two have any plans for today?” 

“I have to write to my mother,” Anna said, “I know she’ll be anxious to hear from me, so I figured I would start writing a long letter now and mail it as soon as I get to London.” Julia nodded approvingly. “What about you, Kath?��

 “Oh, you know, the usual. I think I’ll commit a few crimes while we’re in international waters. Might as well do it now, while I can’t be arrested.” 

“I know you’re kidding and it’s never any use telling you this anyway, but won’t you please try to stay out of trouble for once?” Kathleen pretended to be shocked.

 “How can you say such a thing? Tell me, dear mother, when have I ever been anything but a model of good behaviour? How can you be so cruel as to cast aspersions on your own daughter’s character?” Florence just laughed.

 “Well, if you must get up to no good, at least try not to get caught.”

“No promises,” Kathleen shouted over her shoulder, already on her way out of the room. 

[returningwriter]

Forever By Her Side

The final part of my By Her Side series of stories, the previous part being Suiting Up For Her but this can be read as a stand alone piece of superCorp wedding fluff if you like. As always enjoy!

Lena fiddled with her bouquet of white roses as Ruby, standing in front of her, half-turned and gave her the thumbs up. The teen had jumped at the chance to be her brides’ maid along with Sam, of course, and glancing to her side she received a kind smile from J’onn who was fixing the black bowtie of his tuxedo.

“Ready for this?” he asked her in that deep and soothing voice, and she could only nod because she was worried that if she started speaking now, she might cry.

It had been two years since that day in the DEO hospital room when she’d learned that Supergirl was her Kara. One year since Kara showed up at L-Corp in that damn blue three-piece suit with a nervous expression on her flawless face and fogged up glasses. 12 months and fifty-eight minutes since Kara Zor-El had gotten down on one knee and presented her with a modest diamond ring on a reporter’s salary. Nine months since they’d started planning for this day, and now roughly ninety seconds until she’d walk down the aisle and marry her blonde reporter slash superhero.

“Break a leg,” Ruby whispered mischievously when the doors swung open and the music started playing. Here comes the bride, dressed all in white, escorted by a Martian space-dad and wearing a simple floor-length white dress, with bare shoulders and the shape of the House of El crest on the middle of her breast, and with a garland of white flowers in her raven-black hair.

They were getting married in a small country church outside of Midvale, but the small venue was packed to the rafters with their friends and family. Both sides of the aisle were filled with smiling faces sitting on slightly uncomfortable wooden pews, people she’d met over the last two years, and come to think of as her friends. Barry flashed her an enthusiastic thumbs up which made her laugh especially when Iris slapped him for doing it.

Glancing up at the altar she saw Kara, her Kara, with her blonde hair cut short for the occasion and held up in a tight bun. The statuesque blonde was wearing a fitted and pressed black tuxedo that showed off her broad shoulders and narrow waist via a blue cummerbund, but the blonde was pulling nervously at the collar of her starched white shirt and if she’d worn glasses those would have, no doubt, been fogged up.

The blonde’s sister, also decked out in a black tux, was rubbing her back and whispering words of encouragement. Or knowing Alex Olsen-Danvers it was more along the lines of something like last chance to fly away now. Filling out the ‘groom’s party’ was Kate Kane, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of her best friend being a bundle of nerves, while dressed in a punky looking black suit.

The master of ceremonies that was overseeing this unorthodox wedding was Brainiac himself, or as she called him, Dox, with Nia beaming proudly at her man from the first row of pews. Taking her place with a smile at the flower-strewn altar under white draped silks hanging from the beams in the ceiling she handed Ruby her bouquet. Turning to face her wife to be, she saw that Kara had a House of El crest pin on the lapel of her black tuxedo jacket. She was after all not only marrying Kara Danvers, but also Kara Zor-El, the one and only Supergirl!

“Wow!” the blonde mouthed at her and she allowed herself to blush in front of other people for maybe the first time in her life.

“Thank you,” she mouthed back as Dox cleared his throat and Kara stood up a bit straighter as Kate rolled her eyes.

Kate Kane didn’t believe in marriage, but the Batwoman of Gotham had become one of their closest friends through the years. Even though there had been a bit of jealousy on her part at the start, she’d come to see that the dark-haired woman was honorable, brave and she couldn’t wish for a better best friend for Kara, aside from herself of course.

“Dearly beloved, friends, family and assorted allies of questionable character,” Dox said formally and the crew of the Waverider cheered at that last part.

The poor man had worked on that line for days, Nia had told her in confidence last night when they had shared a glass of wine together in her hotel room while Kara had been secluded with Alex and Kate at the sisters’ childhood home. With tradition dictating that the ‘groom’ was not allowed to see her before the wedding.

“We are gathered here today to join these two…” Dox went on but was interrupted by a shout from the gathered attendants.

“Idiots!” Sara Lance shouted from the right side of the aisle only to be shushed down by Ava.

“These two amazing women in a union of mind and spirit,” Dox went on without missing a beat.

“Now, on Kara’s request I will keep this short,” he then said with a sly smile, and Kara looked like she was about to vibrate out of sight because the poor blonde girl was visibly wracked with nerves. Kara could face down monsters and demons, gods and alien conquerors without blinking, but this moment clearly set her nerves racing.

“Lena, as they say, ladies first,” he said and motioned for her to recite the vows she’d spent the past two months writing and rewriting.

“Kara, my Kara,” she started, and right away Kara’s blue eyes were glistening with tears as a few of the attendants gave various oohs and aaws.

“When I met you, you saw the light in me, you saw past the name, past the bravado and saw the girl hiding behind my walls who only wanted to be loved,” she went on and the church had gone quiet.

“You’ve been my hero, my rock, my darling, and it would take me a thousand lifetimes to fully thank you for what you’ve done for me,” she said softly and paused to take a quick breath for effect. All those lessons learned from doing public speaking as CEO of L-Corp coming in handy.

“When you proposed to me, looking so nervous with your glasses fogging up, you said please,” she laughed at the memory of Kara down on one knee and she would never forget those simple words. Lena Kieran Luthor, you are the most amazing being I’ve ever met, and will you marry me, please?

“Now let me say please, will you please be my wife for forever and a day, and in turn, I promise to have your children and to stand by your side against whatever may come?” she asked and looked into Kara’s glistening blue eyes and the blonde was silently nodding.

“Kara, would you like a moment?” Dox asked but the blonde firmly shook her head and squared her broad shoulders and pulled at the cuffs of her shirt.

“Lena, you are the smartest woman on the planet, yet for some reason, you’re choosing me, so I guess I must be doing something right!” Kara joked in that strong voice of hers and a ripple of laughter went through the gathered crowd.

“Every day I wake up and when I see your face I think how even the sun is humbled by your brightness and beauty. You are my everything and the reason I fight,” the blonde went on and her strong voice carried through the church.

“People call me a hero, but they don't know that you are my hero. You build me up when I’m down, you encourage me to fly higher and you are the giant whose shoulders I stand on,” Kara said and that strong voice rang like a bell in the small church as it was her turn to have her eyes water with unspilled tears. This girl was incredible!

“When I look towards the future, it’s a future with you, it’s always been with you, and now you’ll be stuck with me as we move towards a new dawn. Together we can not only dream of a better tomorrow but make it a reality. Because together we are invincible!” the blonde finished and you could hear a pin drop in the church as the butterflies were swarming in her stomach.

“Someone was putting that Pulitzer to good use,” Dox observed dryly and motioned for Kate to bring the rings.

The short-haired hero padded down her suit theatrically before finding the two golden bands in an inside pocket on her jacket and with a wink handing them to Dox. First, he handed her Kara's ring, a slightly wider and more rugged-looking one for her heroic wife to be.

“Lena, repeat after me,” he said and she nodded, unable to look away from Kara’s beaming face.

“I, Lena Kieran Luthor,” he said formally, and she placed the ring at the tip of Kara’s finger just like they'd rehearsed it.

“I… Lena Kieran Luthor,” she started but her voice caught in her throat before she repeated the line and felt weak at the knees. This was really happening! In a few short sentences, she was going to be Lena Kieran Zor-El .

“Take you, Kara Zor-El, as my wife and partner,” Dox said and she pushed the ring halfway up Kara’s finger.

“Take you, Kara Zor-El, as my wife and partner,” she giggled at that and for some reason, she felt lightheaded.

“Before this gathering of friends and family and in the eyes of Rao,” he declared, and she nodded.

“Before this gathering of friends and family and in the eyes of Rao,” she repeated firmly with all the love and conviction in her being and pushed the ring all the way down on the blonde’s finger. Stuck with me now darling, she thought to herself.

“Kara, can you please repeat after me?” Dox asked while handing the blonde a ring and Kara nodded like an eager puppy.

“I, Kara Zor-El,” he said again just as formally and Kara with a shaking hand placed the thin golden band at the tip of her finger almost touching a manicured red nail.

“I, Kara Zor-El,” Kara said with a huge smile on her face no doubt from using her real name in front of so many people.

“Take you, Lena Kieran Luthor, as my wife and partner,” Dox repeated and she felt Kara’s warmth as the blonde pushed the ring halfway down her finger.

“Take you, Lena Kieran Luthor, as my wife and partner,” the blonde said with such conviction and steel in her voice that again it rang like a bell through the church.

“Before this gathering of friends and family and in the eyes of Rao,” he said again, and Kara’s million-megawatt smile was out in full force.

“Oooh, you betcha! I mean, before this gathering of friends and family and in the eyes of Rao,” the blonde hero blurted out before laughing and pushing the ring fully onto her finger, sealing the deal.

“Since I doubt anyone has the reproductive organs of sufficient fortitude to object to this union, I now declare you joined as partners before Rao and this assembly, you may kiss!” Dox declared and in a rare display of open emotion he raised his arms triumphantly up over his head in celebration as a cheer went up in the church.

Kara wasted no time, grabbing her and pulling her close so their noses bumped against each other which made them both giggle like a pair of schoolgirls. This was real! They were married and now came the fun part!

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the Zor-Els!” Alex shouted with her fist in the air and the cheers grew even louder as their friends and family rose to their feet, clapping, whistling, and hollering as they celebrated with them. With a few of them thinking that, yes, the two dorks at managed to do it!

“Stuck with me now,” the blonde whispered, and before she could reply with something clever, she was being dipped down and kissed hard on the lips. Pawing at Kara’s strong arms before burying her fingers in the blonde’s short hair she kissed her back as their friends and family cheered them on.

“Ready to face the rest of our lives together Mrs. Zor-El?” Kara asked when she let her up for air again with her red lipstick smeared across both their lips.

“Of course! I’ll go anywhere with you!” she laughed, as Kara took her hand in hers and she squeezed it.

“Let’s run towards it then!” the blonde declared excitedly to which she nodded with a huge grin while gathering up the front of her dress so she wouldn’t trip over it.

Then, laughing together, they raced down the aisle into the sunshine beaming down outside the church as their friends shrugged before they race after them. Forever by her side, who would have thought when this all started that she would get to spend forever by her Kara’s side!

The End

[shamans-of-reeds]

Vault of Lies [RP]

(( Rating: PG-13 ))

(( Trigger Warning: Depictions of graphic violence, death, and use of foul language. ))

(( Genre: Adventure, drama, thriller ))

(( Cast: @vaelir-alatori​ , @the-firetouched​ , @lavenderlarksong​ , and Ilakha ))

Vael'ir Alatori: | The plan was pulled off without a hitch, and the small force found themselves in the interior of the Alatori Family vault. The growling of beasts and the barking of orders emanates from within, put a scowl on Vael’ir’s face.

Vael'ir Alatori: | “That’s not right. We got in quiet; why does he have standing guards on the inside?” Vael asks quietly. Softly he pulled his gunblade off of his back and held it close. “Well, if they know we’re here, then leaving isn’t an option. Chances are our faces will be on posters up and down Sapphire Avenue.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael loads his gunblade with a glowing purple cylinder and looks at the others. “I’ll take the lead. Stay close and don’t lose sight of one another.” He says, his eyes darting to the other three and resting on Vivisha for a moment longer. “If Rorotori wants hell, let’s go and raise it.”

Vivisha Visha holds tight to her staff and once again readjusts the mask covering her eyes. Not that it would likely do much good if Rorotori got a good look at her, but it makes her feel strong and mysterious even so. The sound ofbarking, however, clearly unnerves her. "W-well...Enqu hasn't said anything happened outside yet. We're in it now. Unfortunately for him, I'm in the mood to burn something."

Ilakha Moks 's steps slowed as went to the center of the room down the stairs. "Oh, gods. . ." She turned to Vivisha slowly. "Well, I do hope this will not take so long. . ." Her burning wildfire staff is grasped in both of her hands. "No matter how far we go, I will keep you all safe and standing."

Vael'ir Alatori smiles down at her softly. For a moment, the stress and tension of the situation disappears from his face. "Remember everything I told you. Like a bonfire, not a forest fire." He nods to Ilakha in turn. "Just make sure you keep yourself safe too, kiddo. Four go in, four come out, got it?"

Ilakha Moks bobbed her head intently. Briefly, she thought of her family waiting for her. "I will. Do not worry, friend."

Vivisha Visha: "Dear Ilakha will just have to remind me of the many times I fell off reindeer to ground me back in the cold..." A dry attempt at a semi-joke.

Q'lin LarksongBalmung snorts, pulling the circular blades off of her hips. "Well, let us just be quick about it, yes?" she twirls the blades on her wrists.

Vivisha Visha: "Watch for traps!"

Vael'ir Alatori: "Damn... basilisks and automated traps. Really. uncle?"

Vivisha Visha: "This....is a bit...much!" Strained from focus on her spells. "The drama!"

Vael'ir Alatori: "I knew he was planning bloodsands shows, but this is a bit much."

Vael'ir Alatori: "More than I was expecting."

Ilakha Moks: "Ooh. . . I was not expecting giant crushing traps. . . not good."

Vivisha Visha looks warily to the distance. "What triggers those roof traps I wonder..."

Vael'ir Alatori: "We may be under watch. Stay on your toes."

Vael'ir Alatori: "C'mon, ugly! Your mother was born from Bahamut dung!"

Vael'ir Alatori dispenses with the contents of the chamber, releasing hot steam into the air as he prepares another round. "Good work keeping your cool there, kiddo. Everyone alright?"

Vivisha Visha wipes sweat from her brow, under her bangs, and then walks over to the fallen thing and whaps it with her stick. "I am now!"

Ilakha Moks: "See? We is not dead. I am good luck! Heehee!"

Vael'ir Alatori: "I haven't seen any records. There has to be more. Don't play into overconfidence quite yet."

Ilakha Moks: "Oh. . . well, we will find them, I think. But it seems we are having to go a bit deeper for it. . ."

Vivisha Visha breathes heavily but nods at Ila, smiling a little. "Gods, I am clearly out of shape! I'm ready..."

Q'lin LarksongBalmung stretches her arms over her head, sighing. "Onwards we go."

Ilakha Moks: "Baby coeurls? This is cruel!"

Vael'ir Alatori: "I feel conflicted! They're like cousins!"

Vivisha Visha: "AAAAHHH it's coming right at me!!"

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "Well at least we put them down quickly."

Ilakha Moks: "Not vultures! They are sacred!"

Vivisha Visha: "...this is a truly horrible way to learn about the bloodsands fight, my dear..."

Vael'ir Alatori: "They need to store the beasts somewhere."

Vivisha Visha: "...OH GODS A BEAR"

Ilakha Moks: " A BEAR!?"

Vivisha Visha: "WHERE DID HE GET ALL THESE BEARS FROM?"

Vael'ir Alatori: "They're large and they're loud.

Vael'ir Alatori: Perfect promotional material!"

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "Perhaps Dravania? They're quite plentiful near Tailfeather..."

Vivisha Visha: "...more expense."

Vivisha Visha: "He clearly has too much money in his pocket."

Ilakha Moks: "Sorry naughty vultures. . . it is stun time."

Vael'ir Alatori sneers as the next arena comes into view. “This is over the top, even for Rorotori. Where are all the documents, all the gil piles and promissory notes?”

Vivisha Visha: "...I don't even know what that is..."

Ilakha Moks: "Ooh, I need to record this beast in my codex. . ."

Vivisha Visha: "But unfortunately for this poor creature, I'm not in the mood to talk!"

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "Well that's a beast you don't see every day..."

Vael'ir Alatori: "My bet is some voidspawn. We can wring the answers out of Rorotori after this. Keep an eye on those pedestals."

Vael'ir Alatori eyes the pedestals, suspecting an aetheric bent to the fight setup."

Vivisha Visha: "Oh, watch its eyes! I feel something awful."

Vael'ir Alatori: "The orbs! Quickly!"

Vael'ir Alatori: "Those aether explosions. Definitely voidsent. My guess is an experiment from some less than scrupulous thaumaturges." Ilakha Moks 's trembling hands gripped onto her staff tighter. She was visibly on edge.

Vael'ir Alatori dislodges another spent cylinder, which sizzles as it hits the ground. "This serves a double purpose then. I realize the Bloodsands have been reigned in as of late; my uncle may have a hand in attempting to roll those restrictions back."

Vivisha Visha kneels down before the foul thing's body. Her expression is unreadable thanks to the mask, but the air around her spikes warm for a moment. "...but for what?" she asks darkly. "For good gil? We're skilled but...or you all are...but the deaths that could cause. You don't bring voidsent into something already violent and blood-laden!"

Q'lin LarksongBalmung scowls, swinging one of the chakrams around on her wrist, her head tilted to the side. "Reminds me of the ahriman. With the one big eye? So I would not be surprised if it was voidsent."

Vael'ir Alatori scowls and grumbles audibly. "Gone are the days of Raubahn tearing down hunts fit for marks on the sands. This can't continue."

Vivisha Visha: "Has your uncle always been this flush with liquid gold, Vael?" She looks around the room suspiciously. Ilakha Moks | "I hope not. . ." Her voice is small, but recovering.

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "My partner is ex-bloodsands. I'm certain he's experienced some... fucked up shit there." Vivisha Visha: "I can't imagine that creature came cheap..."

Vael'ir Alatori: "Rorotori's not exactly a miser, but this is new."

Vael'ir Alatori: "I intend to ask him that myself. I'd wager plenty on him being here. This is too well planned of a roadblock to be mere coincidence." Q'lin LarksongBalmung turns to look at Vivisha. "If not purchasing it outright, a hand in developing it. Easier to get your hands on something you make yourself."

Vivisha Visha steps over to Ila to give her a comforting pat on the wrist. "Hopefully that is...the last of the voidsent." Though Lin's words make her visibly frown. "Another reason for us to keep going, I suppose."

Vael'ir Alatori: "Agreed. Is everyone alright to continue? There's no shame in saying no." Ilakha Moks: "You think your uncle is here? He is not a black mage, is he? He did not. . . summon the creature himself, did he?"

Vivisha Visha looks between Ila and Vael curiously at that. Vael'ir Alatori looks at Ilakha and sighs. "He's a thaumaturge of no small skill. I don't take him as the voidsent calling type, regardless of how I feel about the man... but again, this is new."

Ilakha Moks glanced down to Vivisha and offered a small smile in return, trying to regain her cheerful composure. "Well. . . let us keep being careful, I guess. I am ready to go!" Conquering Bardam's Mettle was no small feat for her when she was sixteen, but this was a horse of a different color.

Vael'ir Alatori: "We're going to make it through this, kiddo. Steel yourself and stay behind me, alright?"

Vivisha Visha: "I look forward to challenging him," she says, with perhaps unearned bravado. But thus far she has felt /good/...it felt /right/ to be using her magic like this, like she was delving into something necessary.

Vivisha Visha: "....or not."

Vael'ir Alatori: "Live guards. They had to be somewhere."

Vael'ir Alatori: | The lancer in the center of the dais raises a lance haughtily. "Master Alatori sends his regards!"

Vivisha Visha: "Stand down, you fool! We've come this far!" Not quite the diplomatic approach, but she puts as much of her Duchess voice into it as she can. Still, she readies for a fight.

Ilakha Moks called back, uncharacteristically, "Eat dzo crap!!" Her brows are twisted in fear and hurt.

Vivisha Visha breathes heavily. She'd have to digest that later.

Vael'ir Alatori: "Let... go...! Bugger!"

Vael'ir Alatori: | As the party clears the threshold to the large, open arena, Vael’s eyes shoot up to a ledge overlooking the arena, where an aging lalafellin man in an orange silk robe stands with his arms crossed and his teeth bared in a mocking grin.

Vael'ir Alatori: | “Ah, and the stray makes his appearance at last. I must say that I’m quite disappointed that my next few offerings to the Bloodsands have been ruined, but the money I would have made pales in comparison to the reward the Iris will give me for the return of their darling princess.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael immediately moves over with Glanzender drawn to stand in front of Vivisha and points his blade up at Rorotori. “You won’t be touching her, or anyone else. I’m here for your records, Uncle. Don’t make me go through you to get them. Go quietly, and the only thing you’ll have to worry about is the Sultansworn.”

Vivisha Visha follows Vael's gaze and immediately readies herself to fling a fireball at him -- and that's before he mentions her nearly by name! "....they don't want me for anything but their good name! Sod that!"

Vael'ir Alatori: | “My boy, you are operating off of the assumption that I confront you unprepared. You are sorely mistaken.” Rorotori calls back down. “Much like your mother, you underestimate the monetarists. Not all of us laze about and eat grapes all day. You’ll find I am quite capable of defending myself; as are my associates here.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | The portcullis on the other end of the arena screeches as it opens, letting in a squad of gladiators. Vael’s brow narrows; he recognizes the muscle that had assaulted him in Alatori Manor weeks before.

Vael'ir Alatori: | Again Rorotori speaks as the gladiators bring their weapons to bear. “Last chance, boy. Give me the heiress and you will walk free. We can even speak of forgiving your debt. The debt your mother so carelessly passed on to you.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | As Vael’s anger reaches a boiling point, the air around him tenses. Small sparks of electricity dance across his blade and around his arms. “This was a set-up. You knew I was going to come for your vault. You planned it all well, but you made a fatal mistake, Rorotori Alaltori.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael reaffirms the direction of his gunblade, pointing it instead at the gladiators gathered. “You underestimated Tatamo, and she taught me everything I know. I’m willing to bet that your error outweighs mine; and I’m a gambling man.”

Q'lin LarksongBalmung tightens her grip on the chakrams. Her silver eyes burn beneath the brim of her hat, sizing up the squad of gladiators in the arena.

Vivisha Visha sets her staff aloft, pointing it at Rorotori, and lets flame fill her palm. A threat. A show of power. "I'm not who you think I am, Rorotori Alatori. You'll regret crossing me and hurting my friends." Lady Snapdragon comes to life!

Ilakha Moks 's brows knitted together, sharp teeth clenching. "You. . ." Just then, she inhaled through her nose and exhaled out of her mouth; her breath was steam as her body temperature rose. "It is up to the gods to forgive you. Because I cannot."

Q'lin LarksongBalmung grins, the sound of ringing bells as she takes a step out to the side. "Go on then. Let us show him how wrong he is."

Vael'ir Alatori smirks. "My thoughts exactly." He charges with his gunblade held aloft.

Vael'ir Alatori: "Idiots! Bloody fools! I trained in the Flames! The sands are nothing!"

Vael'ir Alatori: | Rorotori enters the arena with a massive beast in tow; the pride and joy of his collection. “I should have never taken you and your vagrant mother in! Ala Mhigan refuse, the lot of you, but idealists the worst of all! There is only one force in this world that matters; opportunity, and drive it takes to take advantage of it!”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael reloads his gunblade and assumes his battle stance, unperturbed. “This is for my mother.”

Vael'ir Alatori: "Let... go!"

Vael'ir Alatori: | Just as the red manticore seems to be reaching its limit, it swings its arm wide in an unexpected desperate lash-out; Ilakha is squarely hit by a grievous blow and is sent flying away, rolling a few times in the dirt before coming to a stop.

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael turns about and then back to the beast. “Vivisha, take care of her!” He shouts as he charges the manticore. The gambler drags his blade’s tip against the ground and brings it up as an explosion of electricity bursts from the ground, ending the beast’s rampage for good. Rorotori remains dazed on the ground, silently awaiting his nephew’s judgment.

Ilakha Moks screamed just before going sailing, rolling to a stop as her entire left horn goes flying with her, clattering to the ground pathetically. Her staff is snuffed out as it lands.

Vivisha Visha | In the next moment, she sees Ila fly, and without thinking, channels her ongoing aetheric power to literally shift her entire body across the room toward her friend. "ILAKHA!!"

Vael'ir Alatori keeps his blade pointed at Rorotori to keep him from moving, and watches Ilakha and Vivisha for news. Sweat beads down face and stings his eyes, pried open by worry and adrenaline both.

Vivisha Visha: "Ilakha!! Are you....are you okay!?" She tries to look for injury or what have you...

Ilakha Moks is breathing heavily, but she is unconscious. Blood seeped from the back of her head and stained her white overcoat as it pooled on the floor.

Vael'ir Alatori: "Vivi. Focus. She needs us. Think about how you create fire and ice."

Vael'ir Alatori: "Turn it to positivity. Think warmth. Think sunlight, hugs, and refreshing dips in the lake. Give her that."

Vael'ir Alatori uses his free hand to conjure a basic healing spell, but with his offense-oriented focus in hand it is not quite to the power that Ilakha likely needs.

Q'lin LarksongBalmung laughs, catching the flying chakrams as she comes to a stop, breathing heavily. Though her gaze snaps to Ilakha, it goes back to Rorotori and Vael'ir. The chakrams get hooked to her belt, though she stands back, hands wringing. Nothing she could do...

Vivisha Visha: "Oh gods...she needs a healer...." she whispers, despite Vael's pleas, but...yes. And the stars, like Enqu had shown her. She doesn't have the right tools for this, but... "Shouldn't..shouldn't we call Enqu..." But the blood...no, she has to act now. She carefully places her hands on Ila's shoulders and presses in. She closes her eyes and thinks of the tide-fixing nature of a benefic and the warmth of a night by the fire with her love. It wouldn't fix any real damage but... She would do everything she could to ensure Ila would at least survive to see a medic.

Ilakha Moks 's horn had yet to grow back, but the blood that poured from her head at least stopped. She groaned, rolling in her spot, her hair damp and red. "Vivisha!" Abruptly, Enqu's voice came over the linkshell. "The escape route is prepared. Is anybody hurt?"

Vivisha Visha blinks a few times, as if coming out of a trance. Her hands fumble for the linkshell. "Enqu! We're...we're alive. Ilakha got hurt...one of her horns...and she's unconscious..." She looks over to the situation with Rorotori. "We'll...we'll be out soon..." There were some scores to settle here. Icy panic and hot fury battled in her blood, so all she could do at the moment was sit by Ila.

Vael'ir Alatori: | With the adrenaline of battle still fresh in his veins, Vael moves over to his uncle and places a boot on the lalafell’s chest, the tip of Glanzender resting just above its target’s face. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Vael barks angrily as his index finger traces the trigger guard.

Vael'ir Alatori: | Rorotori coughs and spits up at the gunblade. “What injustice that Bahamut’s fire would claim my precious Mimiru and not unruly the scamp my niece took pity on. The gods are truly cruel.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Vael’s boot presses harder on his uncle’s chest. “Twenty years! Twenty years of wondering where our next meal would come from, of fearing debt collectors at our door coming to take our home from us! My mother deserved better. All of your debtors deserved better.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | His trigger finger now rests within the guard, ready to pull at the slightest provocation. “The refugees had their homes taken from the Garleans, only to fall into the pit of monetarist vipers. Cruelty beyond belief to those who needed help the most. Eorzea will be better off without you.”

Vael'ir Alatori: | Contrary to his words, Vael’s trigger finger remains still as he stares at his uncle’s face; as if he is waiting for the others to speak their piece.

Ilakha Moks | "I'm on my way!" Enqu clicked off the linkshell, Ilakha not seeming to notice it. The horn with her linkpearl was laying on the ground. That aside, she didn't respond to much else other than the pain in her head and the fact she's still alive to be in agony.

Q'lin LarksongBalmung takes a breath, closing her eyes and biting her bottom lip. Those eyes open again and she steps back, to pace as she thinks.

Vivisha Visha holds onto the sound of Enqu's voice as a new fury rises inside of her. She rises -- she would be a danger healing Ila in this small moment -- and yanks off her mask to gaze upon Rorotori with her true face. "How dare you! Is that what all of this is? Trying to fill a void that Vael and his mother didn't even have fault for!? Spend money on dark magicks to make a point? You and the Iris are /everything/ that is wrong with this world. You are the true arbiters of cruelty, not the Gods!"

Vael'ir Alatori | Rorotori coughs up a bit of blood and looks to Vivisha, his wounds not masking his vivisible lack of amusement. "Foolish girl. The Garleans will come again, and they will not be fought with kind words and sentiments. They will be fought with..." Another cough, this one dry, and Vael tightens his foothold.

Vael'ir Alatori: | "They will be fought with money. Cold, heartless gil. The sooner you learn this, the better."

Vivisha Visha: "Oh, how very high and mighty of you," she spits back. "Another of my family's underlings was caught sending money TO the Garleans. Is that what you call fighting? Paying them as much as you can so they'll kill everyone but you?" She clenches her fist, thinking of when Enqu had been under Garlean capture. She hears something like ice snap in her head. And then, before she can stop herself...before her diplomat training and good heart can take over, she says: "Kill him. Make a point."

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "A me before would tell you to kill him and be done with it." Lin speaks softly, pausing in her pacing. "...But there is plenty at stake here, if you end his life. If you do it, it is because it needs to be done, not because of your feelings. If you kill him because of the emotions at play, there will only be regret." She reaches up for her hat. "Or, we can simply hand him over to the Sultansworn and let them deal with him. There is plenty of evidence against him to keep him in the gaol for many, many years."

Q'lin LarksongBalmung: "You will kill him, or you will not. But you will not let your emotions decide."

Vael'ir Alatori grits his fangs and his gunblade begins to shake. "What justice waits him? He's got the gil to live out in a cushy excuse for a 'cell' for the rest of his days. The sultansworn protect self defense, and I've been defending myself for twenty years. No. I'm not giving him; not giving you the option." Silence follows for but a moment, soon replaced by Vael yelling at the top of his lungs and he pulls the trigger and swings his blade down. In but a moment, only one Alatori remains.

Vael'ir Alatori lets the final spent cylinder drop to the ground, steam rising as the aether disperses from it. "We need to get Ilakha out of here. I'm going to stay and take care of what I came here to do. There are records to be looked over, evidence to be acquired..." He pauses and returns Glanzender to his back. "...and I've got a company to run."

[obiwon-shenobi]

I write btw

This goes out to my SasuSaku fans

Paring: SasuSaku

Genre: supernatural

Rating: none yet but strong language/no cursing tho

Words: 1662

Chapters: 🏃🏾🏃🏾🏃🏾

“There once was a queen so powerful they called her ‘God slayer.’ The ones closest to her knew better than to call her that, to them she was ‘The One Who Swallowed The Daystar.’ Her enemies only knew cool steel pressed to their hot necks and bolden bloody eyes willing death to take them to hell’s gate. A champion worshiped among mortals, gossip to the heavens, a beauty feared nonetheless. She who wrestled god and won. Even she had her Achilles.

Mortals. The starts and ends of many wars, devastators of great lands. The ones like The Queen insisted the humans were impure, unjust beings, they were to be kept at the base of the mountain, never to gaze upon those specially gifted. Lower life forms. Cattle moo loudly, but they are still cattle. And yet…

The moment their eyes met that fateful day, god herself could not separate her from him. She lavished him with gifts, spun precious compliments, bathed him in sunlight. She let him drink from her, birthing him in powers unknown to his human soul. Of all the gifts he cherished his swords most. Kusanagi, a valiant, vivid bronze broadsword created in the image of Valor. Mars, a sword unlike any found on Earth created in the image of God. Excalibur, a long sword of steel and water, the image of Balance etched into the gold handle. And his most treasured of all: Damokles, said to be Mars’ complete foil. A sword never used, the blade unknown, powers yet to be released. Each sword had a purpose— Mars’ protected the realm of the specially gifted, Kusanagi oversaw the human, Excalibur brought both to harmony. The Mortal King once inquired of Demokles, why he had never seen the blade, why it stays wrapped in silk cloth untouched when it’s his? A king cannot wield a sword who’s powers lay unknown.

‘Damokles, my love. Is what Mars is for you to me. The only way to kill a God is this one sword. Forged deep in a cavern volcano, pressed with my very own blood, you my dear, hold the power to Kill a Mage.’

The specially gifted took up arms at the Mortal King, cattle are still cattle and cows do not belong in the palace. They devised a plan. On the fourth night of October, just before the rising crimson moon, a spell was to be placed on the Mortal King. In a week, he would carry out a task most heinous. On the forty-sixth year of her birth, The Queen would meet her end, and The Mortal King would be the culprit, Demokles his damning weapon. Upon waking from his haze, overcome with grief, the Mortal King hid away his three precious swords (The Queen and Demokles being stolen in the fray) and withered to ash, carried east by the Wind.”

A slew of hands shoot up, eager round faces bouncing in place, all curious, all perplexed. The most intriguing is a blond boy, a hybrid fox boy, who’s stark incisors draw blood from the left corner of his mouth.

A soft sigh leaves the teacher, the talented mage he is, Iruka never had all the answers to Naruto’s ten thousand questions. Every field trip, every lesson, even during breaks, the boy always had stars of wonder in his azure eyes. “Yes, Naruto?”

“So if the Mages were born from swallowing a daystar, whatever that is, why was she called the ‘God Slayer’ and ‘She Who Wrestled God?’ And what exactly is a ‘daystar’ and why don’t we have to swallow them, and—“ if it weren’t for the breath he had to take, Naruto would have surely asked questions the entire class had.

“They don’t know where Mages come from, actually.” Sasuke, a boy with little magic infinitive, mutters. Although his starless irises bear the mark of unimpressed, Naruto and Sasuke were never far from one another. Sasuke may even call him his best friend if they’re alone. “Pay attention during lessons.”

“Then what’s a daystar, Sasuke? Huh?” Iruka sighs again. “See even you don’t know, don’t interrupt Sensei like that.”

“Thank you, Naruto. And Sasuke.” They carry on further into the exhibition, a timeline of Mages from as early as 300 b.c, eroded and tattered memories of the past. “The Daystar theory is,” Iruka stops in front of an illustration of the day sky over the Hokage Castle, a bright star sits just above the highest tower. “There was a star so bright you could see it even when the sun was shining, or it was raining, The Queen one day observed it fall from the heavens. She then picked up the star and swallowed it, gaining powers from God.” The class moves to the next picture, a man of gold and a woman more beautiful than they’ve ever seen in a crater. “The God theory comes from the same origin, but rather than a star, it’s a God, and this God is a god of war. He challenges The Queen, and when she wins, he gifts her her powers. The Queen then in turn blesses that power onto her subjects. And that’s where we think Mages come from.” The class gives a resounding ‘Ah’. “We don’t have to swallow stars or fight gods, our ancestors did that for us.”

Another hand goes up, another hybrid boy, a snow breed, “if the swords are hidden, then how can we and humans live in peace?”

“Preceptive, Kiba. We have a treaty and due process in place for that, and...” Iruka leads them to another room, this room huge but empty, only one artifact lay on display, one wrapped in blue silk cloth. “The only sword to ever be recovered was Damokles.” The class erupts, angry shouts and chaos descends over the twelve-year-olds as a few cry they don’t want to die. “Ah, no, children! No I didn’t mean to frighten you, please.” Some stressed into changing forms, others magic exploding like dynamite in their pockets, a few crying to go home. Iruka knew it was futile, he’d have to let them calm down on their own, this wasn’t the first class to have a meltdown over Damokles’ existence, hence the barren room.

What Iruka did notice, however, was how none of the panicking kids were Sasuke or Naruto, who were standing closer to the sword now, leaning towards it. They’re speaking, but whatever it is goes lost to the noise. Sasuke looks more invested in the swathed blade than his friend's words, it’s only when he reaches out for it does the teacher strode over. “Uchiha Sasuke.” Both boys jump, the room settles down, a few scattered whimpers can still be heard. “I know it’s fascinating but you can’t touch the artefacts.”

“But Sensei, it told me to.” Everyone is thrown immediately back into tears and oblivion. The only human in their class can talk to a demon sword, they wailed. “Well not like that you guys! It just… beckoned me to touch it.” That did so little to quell his classmates, Sasuke’s shoulders sag in defeat.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Naruto admits when Iruka’s raised eyebrow and honey glare meet him. “But Sasuke isn’t a liar.” A determined face washes over the blond, throwing his right arm over his friend in comfort. “No harm in touching and nothing happening!”

Ino, another blonde but an elemental mage, shudders. “Or he touches it and we all die!” Hinata, another elemental shrieks.

“Come now kids please. Sasuke won’t touch the sword, we aren’t going to die, they aren’t even sure this is the actual sword Damokles. It was found while excavating under Hokage Mountain, so they suspect it’s The God Slayer Blade, but there’s no evidence.”

“Has anyone tested it out?” Choji, a skilled kitchen witch, is peeking from behind Ino, who is hidden behind Shikamaru, a telekinetic. “Like on a Mage?”

“Well no.” Iruka leads the class to the hieroglyphs on the wall. “To ensure fairness, Damokles could only be wielded by The Mortal King and his heir, but because they had no children, there’s no one alive who can wield any of the four swords if real. So no, Sasuke isn’t going to kill us if he touches it.” Although quelled, this field trip ensured Sasuke’s life was very hard up till graduation. In the real world no one cares if you’re human, Mages, hybrids, and spirits alike congregate harmoniously in Konohana, and after finding that out, Sasuke lived his life quietly running a bar at twenty-five.

School might’ve been hell, but the real world still had Naruto in it, even Kiba had warmed up to him, often the pair coming by for a drink. Naruto does coaching at the college, Kiba an outdoor guide of some sort, both very welcomed patrons.

Occasionally they joke on the day Sasuke almost murdered his classmates, Sasuke not finding it to be such a sore spot, but one of his most powerful moments. No one fears humans, especially not Mages, hybrids are more enamoured than intimidated, and spirits find joy in their inconveniences. Sasuke still insists he heard the sword, but whenever they insist on going back to the museum, he’s first to deny. That one day would be enough.

~~~

He stabbed her… in the chest. With a sword she had gifted to him from her own blood she bore a blade only for he who stole her life? Her head was reeling, this place— what was it again? Not heaven, absolutely not hell. The weather is nice and it’s bright, the stream she floats on has carried her for centuries. She had an inkling, something terrible happened in her life, something truly awful brought her here. And now she knew. The blood still pours from the closed sore, she’d have vengeance, on him, on the Mages, on the Earth. All those who betrayed her will meet their end in time, for now she drifts on the endless stream.

So you can find me here

And here

[marquiswrites]

Silk and Steel Ch 25

AO3 Link

Master List

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)

Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson, OFC/MC

Relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1017

Warnings:  Violence and fighting

Author’s Notes: Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around despite my prolonged absence. I promise that I have no intentions of abandoning this fic. I love all the support I’ve gotten while dealing with my personal stuff. Things are finally getting back to normal, so I am hoping that there shouldn’t be any more missed weeks. 

Summary:  Desperate and confused, it becomes almost impossible for you to distinguish friend and foe during this fight. Knowing only that you have orders that you must follow... no matter the cost. 

Chapter 25: The Scramble

You knew those words. 

You knew those words. You knew that you needed to know those words. Snapping your eyes shut at the wave of dizziness, trying to shake away the confusion as it creeped in. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was seeing these men gone so your father could escape. So you could follow him. 

You were loyal.

Steeling yourself while pushing another rush of power through the men guarding you. You knew that it was a dangerous amount, but you needed to finish this mission before Soldat could muddle your head. 

Idiot. You had given him time to escape. 

You hadn’t wanted this. It didn’t matter what he had done. What had happened. Why hadn’t he run?!

“I hate you! I will always hate you for what you did!” You screech, your hands turning into claws. Falling to your sides as you started to shake in fury. Watching as three of the remaining six guard spread out, trying to find angles of fire to get close enough to the man. Super strength pulsing through their muscles as you kept the connection strong. Feeling the rivers that connected each of them to you. The ebbs of the tide that washed over each of them. 

“You can hate me, you deserve that much.” A grunt as Bucky dodged out from behind the pillar, slamming into one of the hydra soldiers as they got too close. You watched as the two exchanged blows, flinching as your Soldat to a solid hit to the jaw. Though he seemed to shake it off. The shields around you regrouping as Iron Man jumped back into the air, shooting a blast towards them. Blocking his shot towards you. 

You stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise before you were snapping it shut. Of course he would fire at you, he was your enemy. Ruthless. 

“Alright Bunny, time to put your toy soldiers away.” 

A sneer pulled at your lips. “That joke was hardly funny the first time.” Turning your gaze to the two soldiers circling around him, both popping off shots that seemingly glanced off the armor. Watching as it almost rippled about him. Then narrowing your gaze. 

Watching for another moment before suddenly smirking. The nanos.

“Tsel' v serdtse.” [Aim at the heart]

“Stark get down!” Bucky barked the order, stealing your attention to him once more. He was sprinting towards the two shooting at Tony. Leaving the Hydra agent he had been fighting before laying in a bloody heap. Body obviously broken with no hesitation. 

Your Soldat had little room for mercy. Not for anyone but you. 

Both of your soldiers turned enhanced spotted their guns on him at once. A single unit, trained to handle this particular risk. Braver still with your energy flowing through them. 

Bucky managed to get to the first man in time, lifting him to use as a shield while the other pulled the trigger, again and again. The body he held jerking with every hit, blood trickling to the floor, crafting a trail behind him.  

Tony took advantage of the momentary distraction to aim a shot at the last remaining gunman, blasting him from his feet and into the wall behind him, the noise almost deafening.

Leaving you covered by only those wielding the riot shields. Somehow vulnerable despite the super soldiers that you had created. You were failing. Father would punish you. But you could still win this. You just needed enough time…

The wall behind you burst inwards, concrete and rebar all tossed into the room as you ducked quickly, shielding your head with your arms. Gasping sharply as you were pelted with rubble, only to fall into a coughing fit as dust poured into the room. Arms and back quickly beginning to sting even with the tac suit that you wore. 

“Sorry about the wait, this the one?” A voice rattled off behind you. 

“That’s her, grab and go, people.” A far more familiar voice ordered, while surprisingly strong arms were curling around your chest and lifting. Pulling you along with them. More shots firing through the air, lighting up the now dust filled room. 

“I’ve got her Mister Stark!”

“Wrap her up kid, brains are currently a little egg like.” You blinked open your eyes enough to watch as Iron Man and Captain America took out your remaining assets, made easier by the fact that the disorientation had disrupted the flow of your power. Leaving them all suddenly vulnerable. 

And then your Soldat moved to block your line of vision, worry just as clear on his expression as the blood that dripped down from his hair line. Your gaze lingering on the gash that was barely hidden by his hair, alarm ringing somewhere in the far recesses of your brain before you snapped out of it.

You began struggling against whoever was holding you, snarling and shrieking with the need to get away. To follow the orders your father had left you. Escape. Take out what targets you could. “Druid! Druid come on! It’s me! Please, stop, we’re trying to get you safe! Mister Barnes…” Desperation leaking into the voice behind you. 

Bucky jogged up, grabbing your shoulders to still you. “Hey, right now just web her, kid. We’ll sort this out as soon as we can call Shuri. The scramble shouldn’t be as deep. They didn’t have as much time with her.”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here.” You scream at him, unable to fight against his hold on you. Feeling the sticky grip of what seemed like oversized spider webs wrapped around your arms and chest, pulling your wrists into their grip as well. The boy… he was a boy, too young to be here… whispering gentle and frantic apologies from behind you as he worked. Still leading you further from the room where you allies had been. With no reinforcements in sight. Leaving you helpless against these enemies. 

For all your powers could boost another, they did nothing to save yourself.

But…

Did you actually want to be saved from these people?

[r3b3lgrrrrrrrl]

A LunaTic and her Gunn (Part 16)

"Chicken Alfredo"

Luna slips on a black silk dress with black edging. She hears the knock as she fastens her belt, causing Jagger to bark. Ashley isn't home. When she opens the door she's greeted to an excitedly pleased Colson. "GOD DAMN, KITTEN!!!" You look WONDERFUL and sexy as hell tonight." He says, blue eyes bright. She knows he's genuine and laughs at their inside joke as she leans up to kiss him 'Hello'. Once she slides into the Rover, he watches her from the back window, slide over and push open his door.

"Fuck, I FUCKING love her." He thinks as he gets in the car and passionately kisses her.

Once he releases her mouth, she pants "What was that for?"

"For being you." He says "And for as Cas would say being 'SOOOOOOO COOOL!!' You have the coolest name. Glow bowling was so cool. You gave her the coolest sunglasses... I could go on." He laughs, resting his hand on her warm thigh.

Luna lights a joint. "Ohhhhhh!!! That's so sweet!" She puts her hand on her heart. "She likes me, she really likes me." She says. They both laugh. "No," she says "seriously, I had such a great time with her, she is so funny and smart."

"Yes, she is." He agrees "And see, you were fine." They look at each other and smile. One look. That one look and her heart is fluttering, pussy swelling. "She wants you to teach her about developing pictures." She passes the joint to him.

"Really? That's fucking awesome. I'll teach her anything she wants to know. I just need a dark room. I should probably start looking around for one to rent..." She puts her blue painted index finger on her deep red lips, thinking out loud. As they pass it back and forth.

"You can set one up in my house." Colson offers "There's a spare room that I don't use next to the studio...." They're finishing the joint.

"Really? I'll check it out. She says as the pull up to the restaurant.

They walk in together holding hands. Colson thinks of their song and his beautiful lady walking around with him tonight. The song playing in his head on loop. Luna loves the way that Colson leads her. Thinking how a 6'4 man is a gift to a 5'2 woman.

--------------------------------------------------

Rook, Benny, Slim and Baze are already at The Palm with a few girls. Colson holds Luna's hand, guiding her through, to their table. "This fucking pussy..." Luna hears in passing. She whips her head around with a glare. She can't find the voice. Colson pulls her seat out and they both sit down, joining in on the conversation.

Luna is looking at the menu. "That's him, the fucking pussy." She pops her head up, blue eyes on fire. Still she can't spot the voice. She looks at Colson. He doesn't seem to have heard it.

The server brings another round of drinks and takes their order. Rook asks Luna how hanging out with Casi was. She lights up when she begins to speak about the little girl. As they're chatting about Casi, they're interrupted. "I apologize for my intrusion, but it's not every night The Palms gets to host That Brooklyn Bitch." Says an older man setting his hand on Luna's bare shoulder.

"Junior." Luna smiles, tilting her chin up towards him as he pecks her on the cheek. "Have you met these gentleman, yet?" She asks waving her arm around the table.

"I have not."

"This is my boyfriend Colson." She says as she leans back, sliding one arm around his shoulders. They shake hands.

"You're a very lucky man." He tells Colson.

"I know." He responds flatly. He's been eye balling this son-of-a-bitch since he first touched Luna.

She introduces The Crew. Then says "Gentleman, this is Bruce. His family owns The Palm. They all nod and say their hellos. Bruce and Luna catch up quickly over family and mutual friends.

"Please, let me know if you need anything." Bruce says to table. Looking only at Luna though as he takes her hand and kisses it. Colson is half talking to Slim watching them from the corner of his eye.

"This motherfucker WANTS to get fucked up." Colson thinks angrily as a flash of rage jolts through his body.

After Luna thanks him and he walks away. Colson turns to her "What the fuck was that?" He demands jealously.

Luna looks at him and raises her eyebrows. "Calm down, Killer. He's a family friend. No more, no less." She says taking his sweet face into her hands "You're my boyfriend." She kisses him deeply, playing with his tongue.

His anger washes away with her words and touch. "So, I heard." He smirks. He's back to his smart ass self.

"Is that a problem?" She asks with her own smirk, challenging him with her bright blue eyes.

"Not at all." He smiles, his shining just as blue, just as bright, pulling her in for another warm kiss.

Dinner is served. Everyone is laughing, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves. Luna hears it again. "I'm telling you, that's him." She zones in and finds the voice. He's sitting at a table full of men, to her left, less than 100 ft away. Her blood begins to boil. Slim follows her gaze. He's been watching Luna because he had heard it too.

"That's the dude that Em slayed, fucking pussy." The guy says it clearly and loudly enough for Colson to finally hear it.

"What the Fuck?" He stops eating and looks around.

Luna is fucking PISSED. She squeezes his thigh. "I'll be right back." She says, standing up. "Don't move." Slim watches her, knowing where she's going but not knowing what she's about to do.

Without hesitation, Luna walks directly over to the motherfucker talking shit. She grabs him by the hair on the back of his head and slams his face down hard into his plate "Who. Are. You. Calling. A. Pussy?" She slams his face down hard with each word. A total of 7 times. Finally pulling him up, his nose is obviously broken. Blood is pouring down his face, mixing with the pieces of chicken Alfredo stuck to him as he whimpers. Two of the men stand up. "Sit the fuck down!" She barks, pointing aggressively at them. Rage radiating out of her. They do. She looks at the closest server. "Go get Bruce." She demands. "Now!" She shouts, making the server scurry. The whole restaurant is quiet. Watching Luna.

Turning back to the original motherfucker, whom she still has gripped tightly by the hair. Luna is surprisingly strong for how tiny she is. She kicks the chair, using all her weight to swing it towards her slightly. "You seem to need to be educated, motherfucker. You have things confused. A pussy is strong as steel, can take a beating and come back better then ever. A provider of LIFE." She yanks his head back farther, while lifting her black Red Bottoms, sticking the spike into his groin, making him yelp in pain. "But ballsacks are weak, sensitive, dropping you to your knees with a flick." She is spitting her words into his face with venom. She pushs her heel down harder. The man cries out. She continues unrelentingly. "Next time you wanna call my boyfriend a pussy. Remember tonight and remember this. A pussy is a powerful, resilient provider. I'd rather be with a pussy like him than a weak, pathetic, whimpering ballsack like yourself." She slams his face into his plate one last time. Leaving it there. She notices Bruce is standing beside her. "They need to go." She says glaring at him." He nods as she walks back to her table.

"You are disrupting my guest, I would like you to leave my establishment immediately." Bruce says begining to usher the 6 men out despite their protests.

The restaurant resumes. Just another day in LA.

--------------------------------------------------

Bruce doesn't care why Luna assaulted the man. He's known her long enough to know that whatever the action, there's always a valid reason. Plus, he's been in love with her since he first laid eyes on her when she was just 13yrs old. He doesn't even care about what his father may say, if, he finds out about tonight. He advises the men to not retaliate, as it will not be in their best interest and they will not have his support. He will do anything to protect Luna.

--------------------------------------------------

The guys are all standing up, they don't know what to do. The girls that are with them look terrified. As Luna walks back to her table, she is still shaking with rage. She sits down, pops a bar and begins to eat her steak. The guys sit down. Quietly. Even Colson isn't sure what to say.

"Yooooo, she's FUCKING NAAAASTY!!!" He can't help but be turned on as he thinks to himself.

--------------------------------------------------

"He had that shit coming.... But Damn. She FUCKED him up. Just for talking shit on my boy.... Pete said she was a rider. I didn't think she was down like THAT. She did say caught almost 100 charges one time though..." Slim thinks to himself impressed by Luna's antics.

Benny's not even shocked. Especially after the strip club. "Fucking Brooklyn, Man" he thinks "That bitch is HARD." Feeling proud of Colson for finding himself a solid bitch.

HOLY SHIT!! THAT WAS INSANE!! Did she actually compliment Kells by calling him a pussy?" Baze wonders, confused "All I know is I'm not pissing fucking Luna off.

"Fuck yeah, little scrapping ass bitch from Brooklyn, holding it down for my dude!!" Rook is pumped "They always be underestimating us little mothersfuckers...."

--------------------------------------------------

Benny is the first to break the silence. "So, Kells, I think Luna just took my job." Colson can't help but laugh. So does everyone else. Luna's does not. She's still eating. Still pissed. She needs that Xanax to kick in.

"Yoooo... Luna's a fucking maniac!!!" Slim says.

"Nah," Rook shouts laughing "She's a fucking LunaTic!!!

"Holding it down for her Gunn!" Baze throws in. Everyone's still laughing except Colson.

"Are you ok, Luna?" Colson asks her concerned, putting his hand on her bare back. His touch calms her soul.

"Mhm." She says. "I just had enough. He'd been talking shit since we walked in and I had had enough. No one is going to fucking disrespect you in front of me." She takes another bite.

Slim leans in "Yeah, I heard him too, LunaTic." Deciding that's what he's going to call her now. "And you handled that shit!!"

"Don't fuck with my people. Especially My Guy." Luna says pushing her plate away, looking deeply into Colson's blue eyes.

"She's stealing my fucking soul." He thinks, mesmerized by her.

Everyone is finished, they collect themselves to leave. Luna needs a drink and change of atmosphere so they decide to head over to Old Man's. As they're walking out, Bruce stops Luna and Colson. Putting his hand on Luna's shoulder again, he asks if she's ok.

"THIS fucking guy." Colson thinks irritated.

Luna pats him on the hand with hers reassuring him she's fine. "I'm sorry..." She begins. Bruce shakes his head. She nods knowingly. "Thank you." She says giving him a quick hug and peck on the cheek before sliding Colson's arm around her and turning to leave to Bruce's disappointment.

--------------------------------------------------

Once at Old Man's, Luna's irritation begins to fade. The guys are still talking about it. Loudly. "Yo!! How you gonna fuck somebody up and get THEM thrown out!! That's some boss ass woman voodoo shit, right there!" Declares Slim.

"You didn't even bring me in for the MessAbout!!" Benny shouts at her, giving her a disappointed look, making Luna laugh hard.

Baze steps up to her and shaking her by the shoulders, "I'm afraid of LunaTic, please don't ever beat me up."

'Don't fuck with Colson." She continues laughing, giving him a wink and a shrug.

Hearing this, Colson spins her around to him so that they're face to face. "Thank you for having my back tonight. You literally beat the fuck out of someone for disrespecting me, in the most sexiest way ever. There's never been a woman in my life who has ever held me down the way you do. Or could fucking wreck shop for me like that." He says pulling her in for a s sensual kiss.

"I told you, All In. That means I got you. Always, Colson." She says to him once they release. "I need you to trust me though. There's always going to be someone who knows me or someone who wants to fuck me. It comes with the territory. It's the same with your female fans. There's a fine line we walk being who we are. Between being polite and misleading. You just need to know, I'm YOUR girl. Fuck, them motherfuckers, take that shit and get cocky with it. Because at the end of the night, if they don't already know then they'll learn, that I'll ONLY go home with you. That also needs to be reciprocated. I am yours as YOU are fucking MINE. We promised each other. As long as we stay true to that and honest with each other, the rest of the world doesn't matter"

"I am YOURS. I love ONLY you, Luna" He says holding her closer. Kissing her hard and hungrily. Biting on her lip.

"I love you too. And you fucking better be, because you've only seen a blink of what I'm capable of." She says once he releases her, with a slight smile but serious eyes. "But I gotta pee." Luna replies kissing him hard on the lips.

"I'll walk you." He replies, protective of her.

------------------------------------------------

Coming out of the women's room, Luna walks up to an excited Colson. "Listen, someone's having sex in there!" She leans her head towards the door, intrigued. Colson uses this as his opportunity and scoops her up by the waist, carrying her into the Men's room. "It's us!" He shouts. They both burst out laughing.

"You're a fucking idiot and I fucking love you. Now, fucking kiss me." She demands.

"Your idiot fucking loves you." He laughs before kissing her and firmly pushing her up against the door. He's kissing her mouth, face and neck. One hand trailing all over her body. The other is through the top of her dress, playing with her peirced nipple. He's making her shake in anticipation.

"Fuck me." She pants. He obliges spinning her around, pressing himself hard against her and the door again. His hands running down her sides. He stops at her hips and and jerks them out to him. She pushes their weight off of the door with her hands, bending over, using one hand to hike up her short black dress, exposing a black thong.

"I love that she always wears black." He thinks to himself staring at the string between her two sweet ass cheeks.

He pulls her thong to the side after dropping his pants. Slowly sliding into her drenched pussy. "You're so tight." Colson moans as they shift together, fitting himself inside of Luna. Pumping slowly at first, he starts going faster. Loving the feeling of her ass slapping his hips. She pushes against the door, using their weight to barricade the door. This causes him to slide deeper into her. She moans loudly in pleasure, slamming against him. "Are you my little slut who likes to get fucked in the bathroom? Hmm?" He half whispers into her ear, making her walls tighten around his huge cock.

"Unhunhhh...." She purrs. "I'm YOUR slut. Only YOU can fuck me wherever you want, Bunny. I'm all yours." She says bucking her ass against him.

"DAMN RIGHT, YOU ARE!" He moans pulling her hair. Both of them are fucking each other hard against the Men's bathroom door.

She squeals "Oh FUCK, Bunny!!! before collapsing into a fit of giggles

"Go ahead, Kitten!" He says as they cum together.

"Mmmmm" she purrs again, satisfied.

He kisses a bare spot on her tattooed back. "You are the baddest bitch I ever known, Luna." He says before laying his face down on her back. Staying warm inside of her for as long as he can.

--------------------------------------------------

To be continued......

[graaaaceeliz]

The Legend of Tarzan

The camera focuses in on Rom's rosary in the early scene of the film and that's very clever, because now we think about it, and we remember it's there. Cleverly done.

The gov.t: a! Job! In! Africa! Money! They want Tarzan! You! So??

John Clayton 3rd, Lord Greystoke, member of the House of Lords, not giving a damn: no.

One thing I love about this scene is how obvious it is that this is a man with a steel heart, who isn't like all the high and mighty Victorian Rich. He's something else and we know it. Beautifully done, Mr Skarsgård.

Oh my gosh this scene of Jane and the children and then John comes and makes the mimicry sounds for them and interacts and it's so damn soft this is the OTP I grew up on this is what I'm here for. "LOOK AT HIS HANDS!!" the many kids, unanimously: "woooooaaaaaahhhhhhhh"

Mr Skarsgård moves exactly how I think Tarzan should, strong, unshaking. He stalks through his home and you see that this, this is a man who you can't move, even an inch, because the depths of his eyes is nothing you could ever understand.

Tarzan's struggle of trying to know who he is is really clear throughout this film and I love it.

The scene with the lions is where John stops being a Fine Victorian Lord, and slides into being Tarzan, or John who is human for Jane. It's also a book ref: Tarzan and the Golden Lion, book ten I think.

The rosary again!

Book reference: Opar the Lost City.

I remember reading the interview where Mr Skarsgård talked about doing yoga so that Tarzan had that flexibility, and how losing the clothes as the film progresses is meant to represent the loss of his 'civilisation'. This echoes the books, where Tarzan says his civilised attitude is not even as deep as his skin, his wild self is only hidden by the expensive clothes he wears.

Book ref: the Mangani are hunted by black men, and Tarzan takes revenge but much later on is considered part of the tribe to the point of being considered a leader.

Margot Robbie, you were perfect in this film and I'm sorry I had my doubts about whether I'd enjoy watching it. They were unfounded.

Ahem. For all men: Tarzan understands consent. It's made very clear in the books that he has no concept of being able to lead someone on because all his life he has understood that when a female snaps and bites and sends you away, you go.

Book ref: Tarzan ripping through white people who threaten the tribe.

Jane you go gurl you thrash those guys, you haven't been a damsel in distress since book one.

Book ref: the tribe hiding and picking off the Belgians one by one from above leaving them in terror.

"He's Tarzan, you're Jane; he'll come for you." fk yes he will do, bet your life.

Book ref: John/Tarzan planning and being equal to the others in the tribe. Tarzan was chief for a time, and is called War Chief in many of the later books too, even when he doesn't actually lead the tribe(s).

Rosary beads again.

Observation: Tarzan runs like an ape, sliding through the bush with ease. The tribe run like hunters. Williams (SLJ's character) runs like a man who thinks he knows what he's doing, but in his own words: "different kind of wild."

Book ref: Tarzan carrying people through the jungle on his back, defying all mortal expectations.

Book ref: Tarzan plowing through slavers as they put up only token resistance, and that one guy who thinks it's a good idea to open his mouth who gets thrashed.

Rom trying to give Jane a romantic dinner has EXACTLY the same energy as Belloch dining Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark, complete with stealing butter knives.

And lo we have the rosary, and now we know it is spider silk AND weaponisable.

Book ref: Tarzan's revenge for his mother's death, and the even greater brutality he unleashes in revenge for Jane.

Book ref: "They're not gorillas."

Book ref: Claytons are, genetically, Masters of the Sass. Tarzan loves a practical joke. You will NOT enjoy his practical jokes. They're not funny to anyone but him.

Mr Skarsgård doesn't have the perfect flat/slightly concave physique in this film, but you can see every muscle as it moves and nobody could ever suggest he was in anything but perfect condition. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Hollywood.

Book ref: Tarzan loves elephants and they love him. This scene is so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes.

That dive Tarzan does off the cliff gets me every single time. He hears Jane, hears his tribe in danger, and he stops for nothing and noone.

Book ref: Tarzan taking his place in the ape tribe, and his unholy scream of challenge.

Book ref: Tarzan in an arena, heading up a tribe of Mangani apes. Book...ugh can't remember but there's a scene where the lost Roman legion pits Tarzan against some apes and he's all "really? This? Really? And breaks out with them.

And it's the beads again! The rosary is used as a weapon here, by Rom's using it to lash Tarzan's neck to the sinking boat railing. He of course snaps it, and calls the crocs over who per croc habit, eat Rom. Not quite a ref, but Tarzan does do far more croc wrestling/being nearly eaten/killed than is strictly healthy.

The film is set earlier: George Washington Williams signs a letter with 1890, and in the book Tarzan is born in 1888. I don't really care. The film comes across as respectful to the source material especially in all the references I've pointed out (and all the ones I'm sure I missed). Good film, ten out of ten would recommend.