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sondepoch · 4 years

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Part 2/2

Have Strength, My Lady (Barbatos x Reader)

Where there is the jewel of the heavens, there is the pearl of the abyss—a title that you have the misfortune of bearing. It’s only natural that Lord Diavolo wants to add you to his collection of treasures, you’re not surprised to find yourself engaged, despite feeling entirely unprepared for it. Thus far, you’ve done a good job of hiding your fear with a smile, of hiding your emotions away so that no one but you knows how you feel. But on the way to the palace, a certain demon butler sees through your facade. And when his involvement in your life increases, you can’t help that you’re falling in love with the wrong man.

Part 1 | Part 2 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The noblemen of your kingdom, though good at heart, are rather bold when it comes to you. You're not sure if it's because they're enraptured by your beauty or because they truly have no sense of self, but you've yet to find a single person who hasn't gazed upon your face in shock and then glanced down at the rest of your body, eyes hovering far too long over your chest.

"Ignore them," Barbatos had whispered when dressing you this morning, all too aware of how affected you were the last time you accompanied Diavolo at one of his parties. "Try to count all the men who have crooked pocket squares, and try not to think about anything else."

The butler's advice has worked well on you, thus far.

Every time a man begins ogling your body, you take it as an invitation to ogle his, namely the small square handkerchiefs that surprisingly few men in the Devildom wear correctly.

"Ah, Lord Diavolo!" A new nobleman exclaims, approaching the two of you. "It is a pleasure to see you, my prince. And you, my lady," You smile at the man, not missing the way his eyes skirt over your body. "The pearl of the abyss will be the most beautiful queen to have ever ruled."

You thank the man graciously, allowing Diavolo to take over the conversation as your eyes search the room for Barbatos. The moment you find him, it seems that his attention is on you, and the two of you share a secretive smile. Crooked pocket square, your grin tells him, almost laughing.

Twenty-two, he mouths back to you, adding one more to the count you two have been keeping up all night.

Indeed, Barbatos is the only reason why you've been able to last these past three hours with Diavolo. Perhaps he's the reason you've been able to last these past three weeks, as well.

It's almost amusing, thinking about everything that has brought you to this point.

The first of your interactions with the demon were uncomfortable, and quite awkward when you look back upon the way you had stumbled into his arms after your legs grew numb on the throne, and then the time you had fallen down the stairs while practicing how to walk in the current queen's heels, effectively forcing Barbatos to halt his lessons for the day and massage your aching body, and the time you'd fallen asleep while he dressed you, body leaning further and further backward until you woke up to his sputters of shock as he held you in his arms, corset still half-untied.

You sigh, each of the memories bringing a fresh shade of pink to your ears.

Indeed, the beginning of your friendship with Barbatos was quite rocky.

But after the first week passed, you found yourself growing used to the ways of the palace, and by the second week, the breakfasts with Diavolo weren't even awkward anymore. Why, just this morning, you succeeded in casting away the remainder of your fear over this marriage into the depths of your stomach, (hopefully) never to resurface again!

Diavolo halts in the middle of whatever conversation he's in, turning to smile at you. This time, you don't even hesitate to smile back, ignoring the tension in your gut as he squeezes your waist in what's supposed to be a comforting gesture.

It almost feels like you're ready to be queen.

Almost.

"My lord, might I humbly request this dance for my daughter?" You turn your gaze to the man standing in front of you, someone you recognize from Barbatos's teachings to be the earl of the seventh circle of hell. Next to him is a demongirl, a shy maiden younger than even you, by the looks of it.

A soft smile pulls at your lips when you see the way she looks at Diavolo—doubtlessly captivated by his natural princely charm. You give him a light nod, stepping back as he leads the girl to the ballroom dance floor. After all, it's natural for the prince to dance with his guests.

"I'll be back, my love," He calls over his shoulder, a wide grin spread over his lips before his figure is swallowed by the rest of the demons around you, leaving you to stand and politely wet your lips with a flute of Demonus.

Avoid eye contact, you remember Barbatos telling you, in case you ever found yourself unaccompanied at one of Diavolo's parties. Do not give any man the chance to get close to you.

To your surprise, though, it's a woman who draws your attention, waving her arm as she approaches.

"My lady!" She exclaims once she's directly in front of you. "You are so enchanting, my lady. I have waited for a moment this entire night to speak with you and tell you of your beauty—you must be more stunning than even Asmodeus himself!"

You force a smile at her words, ignoring the slight to Asmo. You've attended more than one student council meeting at Diavolo's side by now, and if you disliked people comparing you to the demon before, you hate it even more now that you know how sweet (albeit horny) the demon actually is.

"Your words are kind, Marchioness." You curtsy lightly, hiding your pride at the fact that you actually recognize her.

"You know me, my lady?" Her eyes beam bright with delight. "It is an honor! I do hope that we can be friends over the centuries in your time at the high court, my lady. Lord Diavolo requests my husband's presence in the castle quite often."

"That would be my pleasure," You respond, laughing lightly. "The prince keeps no women in his palace; I would love to have some feminine company."

"Ah," The woman in front of you drawls, understanding dawning in her eyes. You sense her tone change. "Nothing can quite replicate a woman's touch, can it, now?"

"Quite so," You respond, somewhat hesitantly. You don't recognize the strange light in this woman's eye, and you're not sure you like it. Her tone is no longer admiring as she speaks, and you don't know if it's because her earlier optimism has faded or if she truly has grown that comfortable around you in this short exchange.

"How long have you known the lord, my lady?" She asks innocently, eyes turning down to her own glass of Demonus before they flit back up. "All the newspapers say something different, after all."

You swallow, suddenly excruciatingly aware of how the demoness's eyes bore into you. Her calculating stare reminds you of Barbatos, but unlike the olive-haired man, she doesn't look like she plans to reward you with a smile and compliment after this.

"Diavolo has been in contact with my family for many thousands of years," You say smoothly, ignoring the fact that he's technically 'been in contact' with every noble family in the Devildom since birth.

"Ah, but how long have you known him personally?" The woman asks, and only now do you realize that she has you caught in her trap—keeping you locked in conversation with no ready exit, a direct question rolling off her tongue.

You have no choice but to respond.

"We met when he summoned me for the engagement, Marchioness." Your words are brief, eyes still skirting the crowds for the familiar eyes of Diavolo or Barbatos or even Lucifer, since you know he's attending.

"Ah," She responds, a sardonic smile playing on her lips.

She already knew, you realize from the prideful look in her eyes. She simply wanted me to say it aloud. But why?

"So Lord Diavolo selected you, not on the basis of any true attachment, but for your appearance, is that it?" She asks, except that this time you don't have any answer for her. At your silence, she continues: "How pitiful. It is an insult to be ruled by a queen who has no merits other than her looks. The size of your breasts may be considered ideal—"

"Marchioness!" You interrupt, appalled that she went there.

"—And your body proportions may align with what the commonfolk deem 'beautiful,' but there is nothing else to you, woman. While the prince looks at you with adoration now, as soon as you have grown old with him, there will be nothing left for him or the realm to appreciate from you. Your very queenship is a curse," She spits, "And you will bleed this realm dry for it."

You stare at her in shock, her words echoing in your head long after she's stopped speaking. Only five seconds pass, but it feels like an eternity before the triumphant smile on her lips fades as she opens her lips with the promise of another assault of insults, but it's not her voice you hear.

"Enough," Someone calls from behind you, walking to your side. "Marchioness, you are dismissed. My lady is needed elsewhere."

The woman's eyes widen in surprise when she sees someone interfere—evidently having assured that neither Diavolo nor Lucifer were anywhere nearby when she approached you—but her scowl is replaced by a forced smile as she curtsies and leaves.

"My lady," You hear the familiar voice whisper. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Barbatos." You turn to the man, trying to hide how the Marchioness's words are still affecting you. You give him a fake smile, though you don't even have the energy to let it reach your eyes. "I'm fine."

He clicks his tongue once, telling you to follow him as he leads you out of the door. You maintain an appropriate distance and keep the smile on your face like a mask, acutely aware of how everyone you pass stares at your retreating form until you're out of the party hall entirely.

"My lady," He repeats once you're both in private, turning to you. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

You let out a broken laugh at that, staring at the ground to avoid the pitiful look in Barbatos's eyes. Never, in all Diavolo's parties and gatherings and meetings, has anyone spoken to you so cruelly.

"My lady…" He repeats, hesitating before he steps closer and loosely places his hands on your shoulders, trying to get you to look him in the eye. No one should be leaving the party hall, but he keeps his head up in case anyone approaches. It's barely any contact at all, but for a future queen and her butler, it's still too much. "You are shaking."

He's right, you realize. It's not just your lip that's quivering, but your fingers as well, your entire body rattled to the core by the Marchioness's words. You open your mouth to say something, probably another broken reiteration that you're fine, but all that comes out is a distressed whine, and all you can do is give in to the temptation to clutch Barbatos's suit and pull him closer.

The demon sighs, throwing the last of his thoughts over propriety to the wind as he wraps you in a tight embrace, staying silent as he strokes your hair.

"She—she told me—" You try to sputter out a garbled explanation, but you're stopped.

"Shh," He whispers, resting his chin atop your head. "Do not speak, my lady."

You heed his words, silently holding onto him as the bubble of anxiety begins to sink until it's gone altogether, and you can focus on the feeling of Barbatos's arms around your body.

It's not the first time the two of you have hugged. Rather, Barbatos has found that it's the best way to calm you down whenever something happens to work you into such a disturbed state. But still, never before has something affected you this much.

"It is my fault," He says after a long while, when your shoulders aren't shaking and you're quiet once more. "It is dangerous for appearances to be caught alone with a man, but it is dangerous for your heart to be caught alone with a woman. The Marchioness is not known for her kindness, my lady. I should have warned you."

The demon doesn't say anything further, wordlessly leading you by the hand back to your room. "I cannot stay," He informs you when he sets you on your bed, fingers still rubbing comforting circles into your shoulders. "I must inform Diavolo that you've retired for the night. But perhaps afterward—"

"It's fine, Barbatos," You interrupt, sighing tiredly as you look away. "Go. He will be wondering where I am."

With that, the butler nods, leaving you still dressed as you debate trying to fall asleep now or later. It's no use, you realize when you try to rest your head on your pillow. The Marchioness's words feel like they've been branded on your heart with a hot iron that's still pressing down: You will bleed this realm dry.

If you sleep now, your dreams will be filled with her lips, her voice, her words.

You stand up, opening the door to the balcony and standing outside as the moonlight shines down on you. In the distance, you can see people still entering and leaving the castle, but for once, no one takes any notice of you.

You will bleed this realm dry.

You swallow thickly, remembering the unbridled spite with which the Marchioness had spoken. You've never met the woman in your life, so surely she cannot have a personal grudge against you. Does that make her words true, then? Will you truly bleed the Devildom dry?

You feel your lips begin to tremble once more at the thought.

There was some degree of truth to her words. You are young, not even old enough to have applied for schooling at the RAD. Your education has explicitly applied to the feminine arts, focused on bringing out the full scope of your charm rather than traditional knowledge, and there must be hundreds of thousands of little girls who are better than you at math, science, all those subjects which you've never been taught.

Doesn't that make them better suited to be queen?

You bite your lip. All this time, you've been focused on everything that you're sacrificing in favor of the realm: a normal life, the chance for a traditional education, the opportunity to be free, even the right to love someone of your choosing.

But is it a greater sacrifice for the realm, if it takes you as its queen?

You feel the first tear roll down your cheeks, a catalyst for the rest that can't seem to stop coming.

All you want to do, all you've wanted to do is make sure that the people around you are happy. But what if you fail them as a queen? What if, because of your inadequate education, you really do bleed the realm dry? What if you end up being the cause of unhappiness in your people? What if you fail?

You clutch the balustrade for support, unable to hold back the rest of your chokes and cries as all your fears come rushing to the forefront of your mind, including the one thing you've tried your hardest not to think about.

You sink to your knees, your sobs outnumbering your short breaths, and it feels like you're struggling even to breathe as your hand clutches the space where your heart lurks, not understanding why it hurts so, just that it does.

A knock at your door doesn't halt your cries, nor the familiar call: "My lady?"

"D-don't come in!" You call, placing a hand up as if that'll halt the man; but when he hears the desperate state of your voice, Barbatos wastes no time in rushing inside, eyes darting around the room before they land on your figure on the terrace, crumbled on the ground.

"My lady!"

He rushes to your side, propriety be damned, and sinks to his knees in front of you, eyes looking frantic as he checks your body for any injuries before wrapping you in the tightest hug you've ever felt. "Do not cry," He whispers into your ear, stroking your hair. "Do not cry," He repeats, the words falling like a mantra as he coos your hysterical state into calmness once more.

It's the first time you've seen the man so frantic. Usually, his true expression is hidden behind a mask of apathy and smirks, even in all the previous times he's hugged you; but seeing you broken down on the ground, tears flowing down your cheeks faster than you can count them, has clearly shattered the facade he wears.

"I-it's fine, Barbatos." You press a hand to his chest, giving him a shaky smile. "See? All good."

But the butler pays your words no heed, pressing his forehead against yours as he cups your cheek with a tenderness that you've never seen.

"What did she say?" He asks after a moment, his usual composure returning once he's wiped your tearstained cheeks. "What did the Marchioness say, to make you cry like this?"

"Nothing…" You begin, sensing the way his body tenses at the word. "Nothing that was not true."

"My lady," He retorts, unamused eyes boring into yours.

"Please," You whisper, fingers still clutching Barbatos's shoulders. "Please don't ask me about it. Just...just stay like this with me."

The demon sighs, a sound you take as agreement, and you let out a light laugh as he allows you to wrap yourself him, pulling him in for another hug. Resting your cheek against his chest, his arms cover your eyes as they reach around your body to hold you, and you can't help but feel like you wouldn't mind staying like this for the rest of the night.

You close your eyes, savoring the moment.

"My lady, you are falling asleep." Barbatos raises an eyebrow down at you when you give him a noncommitted hum in response. "Come, you should change for the night."

When you don't budge from his arms, the demon decides to lift you, ignoring your protests as he carries you back inside the room. You don't make his task any easier, leaning against him with a giggle when he finally sets you on your feet, but he eventually manages to unlace your corset and remove your dress, lifting you out of your shoes when you refuse to do so yourself.

You smile as he finishes up his work, leaning into his touch freely as he holds you upright, and with a strange sense of clarity, you realize that you're truly happy, right now.

You were crying your heart out just minutes ago, but with Barbatos by your side, your heart feels lighter.

You dwell on the thought, breath hitching when you realize its implications as Barbatos puts the last of your clothes away.

Here is the part where he normally leaves, where he bows his head and flashes you his usual cryptic smile before exiting the room and leaving you to change into your nightclothes. But today, he stays by your side, pulling out the silken garments for you and wordlessly helping you into them. He stays silent as he finishes the rest of your nighttime routine for you, setting you on a chair so he can brush your hair, fetching a warm cloth to gently wipe your face, and you suspect he's about to tuck you into bed when you halt him, raising a hand.

You should not do this, you know. You should let him leave, ignore the thought that crossed your mind, and forget about the strange notion that you find happiness with Barbatos.

But you do not.

"Barbatos," You whisper. "I do not wish to sleep yet."

"Is that your way of asking me to stay or to leave, my lady?" He asks his question with his usual mysterious smile, but you can sense the undertones of concern in his eyes.

"Come to the balcony with me," You say, and Barbatos even helps you do that, holding your hand as he leads you to your desired location. He moves to let go, but when the two of you reach the railing, you make a point of holding on.

The wind has picked up now, and it blows your hair all around you, letting the (h/c) locks dance freely between you and Barbatos.

"She said that I was unfit to be the queen of the Devildom," You finally tell him, voice calm as you speak. "That my only proper asset was my beauty, and that when it would fade, so would the last of my ability to serve the realm. She said that I would bleed the realm dry."

"Preposterous," Barbatos responds swiftly, eyes gazing over the moonlit portion of the RAD campus that your terrace oversees. "Her words were spoken from a place of jealousy. There are hundreds of women like her, and they will all say equally foolish things, but you will silence them when you show them how well you can rule. You will make the realm happy, my lady, I promise you."

You stay quiet, savoring the cool midnight wind that rushes between you and Barbatos.

"My lady?" He asks after another long moment. "Was that what you've been fearing, all this time? That you would fail the realm as queen?"

Again, you stay silent.

"If that is truly the case, then I urge you to have faith in yourself and, if not, then in my teaching. I dare say that you're already prepared to rule the Devildom; you are a quick learner, and you've understood everything I have taught. The realm will thrive under you, and happiness will be as plentiful as you wish it to be."

"I do not fear that I will fail to make the realm happy." You pause for a moment, before lifting your hand to a small, flashing light in the distance that echoes softly in your ears. "Look, the people of the Devildom are still lighting fireworks in honor of our engagement." You smile, watching the red and black lights flicker: red, for Diavolo; black, for the pearl of the abyss.

"My father made them happy when he said yes on my behalf, and I made them happy when I, too, agreed to it. They're not just pleased to see their prince getting married, they're genuinely proud that it's me he's marrying: the most beautiful woman in the world. For the commonfolk, they know not what it is that makes a queen great, so that is all they look for: beauty. Something that I have been blessed with in ample portion." You pause, gaze turning to the ground. "My people will be happy; that I am certain of."

"Then what is it you fear?" Barbatos asks, turning to you.

You still aren't sure that you should say this out loud. It's as if saying the words will make them true, and this is your deepest fear. If it becomes reality, you don't know how you'll survive.

But for Barbatos, you confess.

"That I will be the one who is unhappy."

For the first time this night, the breeze seems to settle, unwilling to carry the words away as they reach Barbatos's ears, the demon turning to you with incredulous eyes.

"My lady, you…" He shakes his head softly, a sad smile coming to his lips as he brushes the last of your tears away. "It is happiness you seek?"

You nod your head meekly, staring at the ground. You don't want to see his eyes, to see what must be his disapproving stare as he shakes his head at your foolish desire. But the heart wants what it wants, does it not? You never asked to be the pearl of the abyss, to be so exquisitely beautiful that Diavolo had no choice but to ask for your hand in marriage, to be forced into this loveless life of royalty and thrones.

"I just wanted to fall in love," You choke out, loosening the grip on Barbatos's hand.

"You have not?" The demon asks, his voice surprisingly gentle as he pulls your face up to him.

"When would I have the opportunity?" You question rhetorically, thinking back to your family. Never be alone with a boy, they had stipulated. Never give your heart to a boy. "My family needed me to remain pure for the demon who would eventually ask for my hand in marriage. Even they never suspected that Lord Diavolo himself would desire me, so I have never…"

"My lady," Barbatos mumbles, though the way he says it makes you feel as if he's nervous himself. His eyes dart away before they return to yours.

"If you so desire, I might…"

You pull back, looking up at Barbatos. "You might?"

He traces your face, from cheekbone to jaw, and you only now realize that he's taken his gloves off. His jaw tenses. "I might show you the happiness you yearn for."

You hesitate, eyes widening briefly. "Barbatos, did you hear me? I said that it was love I wished for."

"I heard you, my lady."

"To be loved, Barbatos. From the heart."

"I am aware, my lady."

"And for my own heart to reciprocate—"

"My lady," Barbatos interrupts you, perhaps for the first time. "Are you truly such a fool that you have not already realized this yourself?"

Your ears redden at his words, remembering how he had called you a fool once before, at your very first interaction. The demon brings his hands to your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye.

"My heart is yours, my lady. For the past three weeks, for tonight, and for all nights to come." Barbatos pauses, and you see the faintest tint of pink rise to his cheeks. "I had thought it best to not tell you, but if that is truly what you seek…" He glances at the ground, an uncharacteristic display of weakness. "Then perhaps you would accept this butler's attempt at giving you the happiness you so desire?"

You pause, a soft smile falling upon your lips for the first time since coming out on this terrace.

"And you call me a fool," You mutter softly, cupping Barbatos's cheeks freely. You meet his eyes, cautious and almost concerned after laying his heart bare so openly. "Are you so blind that you have not realized that my heart already belongs to you as well?"

The demon cracks a smile, one that is neither cryptic nor mischievous nor cunning but is entirely relieved as he presses his forehead against yours and lets it rest there, a gesture that is in equal parts loving as it is gentle. "Do not say that, my lady. It is dangerous to tell a man such lies."

What lies? You mean to ask, but then the demon has tilted your chin up at him and he is kissing you, the wind speeding up as it continues on in the moonlight, giving you and Barbatos the privacy you need to indulge in what your hearts have been desiring for so long.

It's the first kiss of your lifetime, the first time you've ever felt another man's lips against your own. You're not sure if Barbatos can tell, but if he does, he simply makes up for it with his own experience, lips molding against yours in perfect synchronization.

"My lady," The demon whispers. "I will not do anything you do not wish for."

"Then I wish for you, Barbatos." He pulls away for a moment, eyes questioning. You slip your hands in his, intertwining the fingers with a squeeze and a smile. "All of you."

"I am already yours," He murmurs, lifting you in his arms as he steps inside your room and locks the balcony doors behind him. But your meaning is not lost on him, and when he sets you on the bed, he does not leave your side.

The rest of the night is spent in teaching, in breathless moans of "Barbatos" and "My lady." Your lover, ever the kind instructor, never lets go of your hand as he shows you the ways of pleasure, leaving you breathless each time he kisses you, each time he touches you, each time he slips inside you.

It's happiness.

You'd seen glimpses of it earlier, snatches in all the awkward moments with Barbatos and the little jokes you grew to share, but when he exposes his entire body to you, there's no denying that the blissful warmth that spreads through your body is caused by more than just the waves of pleasure he shows you. It's true joy, being able to finally give your heart what it has desired for so long, and the smile remains on your face even as you fall asleep.

Happiness, you think.

You've never felt it so strongly.

***

The rest of the days seem to pass by far too quickly. Reality is stingy with its gifts—at last, you're free to hug and hold and kiss Barbatos, both of you taking every second of silence to indulge yourselves in each other—but with the wedding drawing nearer, Diavolo insists upon sitting in on your training and watching.

Perhaps it's a good thing?

You certainly wouldn't be thinking about your lessons otherwise.

With your future husband watching carefully, it feels like your brain has been given the extra boost it's needed to fully live up to all of Barbatos's expectations: every scenario he presents, every question he asks, every new element he introduces is met with a swift answer that encompasses everything he is searching for. At last, you've reached a point where you're able to comfortably sit on your throne for hours on end, ready to fulfill all the duties expected of a queen with precision and confidence to boot.

But Diavolo insists on continuing to watch. Continuing to stay. Continuing to impede your ability to throw your arms around Barbatos and forget everything except the feeling of his arms wrapped around your body, guiding you through the steps of this newfound love.

The demon lord has even begun to eat all your meals with you, trying to grow closer to your heart in an attempt to soothe the transition you'll face once the marriage is complete.

But you don't want Diavolo.

"Barbatos," He calls on the ninth morning, the last day before your wedding. The three of you are in your room, Diavolo having spent the night there. The demon lord had not touched you, maintaining his distance as he sat on the far side of your bed, and the two of you had merely spoken like friends. But you could detect the same traces of affection that you saw from Barbatos in the demon's own fiery eyes, intensifying as the night grew longer until they'd turned bright with the morning sunlight.

The prince has begun to fall in love.

But you have not.

And now, as he watches his butler lace up your corset, the deep orange is darkened with jealousy, noting the ease with which you relax as Barbatos's gloved fingers work deftly over your body. It was only one night you spent with him, the two of you never given the chance to exchange anything other than brief kisses the rest of the time, but he remembers every crevice, every curve. The butler's hands pull the fabric over your skin in a way that can only be described as perfect, digits brushing over your body in ways that still make you shiver.

"Yes, Lord Diavolo?" He questions, continuing to lace your corset while turning his attention onto the prince. The demon doesn't need to see to work; he already knows your body like it's his own.

"I think we should hire someone else to do this task." Diavolo gestures at your dress, yet to be pulled onto your body. "It will no longer be appropriate for a man to dress my love once she has become my wife, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps a maiden in your stead, to see to her desires and do the rest of your current duties?"

There's a moment of hesitation, a brief second where Barbatos's fingers fumble over the knot he's tying, and you see his lips purse.

Separation.

A maiden to dress you, a maiden to see to your desires, a maiden to do everything that Barbatos currently does for you.

A maiden to replace him.

"Of course. I will look into it," Barbatos responds swiftly, resuming his actions as efficiently as he began them. "Are there any other criteria you would like for my lady's handmaid?"

"Oh, not at all. You can select the demoness yourself, if you will. Just ensure that she can begin work the day after the wedding."

You sigh in relief at Diavolo's words, thankful that, if anything, he's giving you the rest of today with Barbatos. And tomorrow, if the date of your wedding counts.

At least you will have this one mercy.

"Very well," Barbatos responds. "It shall be done."

In the end, you're not sure when he finishes this task. It feels like you're by both Barbatos and Diavolo's side the entire day as you wrap up the last of your lessons, the final instructions for your training.

Still, Barbatos must have found the time somewhere, because Diavolo only leaves your side at night, when the butler is helping you out of your gown and informing you of the details about your new handmaid: a brown-haired youth of fourteen-hundred, innocent and pretty.

But you don't care about the girl, about Ho-Syun or Ha-Soun or whatever her name is.

The moment Diavolo closes the door behind you, you're throwing your arms around Barbatos, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

"My lady," He mumbles when you pull apart. "That was…"

"Hush," You murmur, pressing your lips against his once more, gently this time. You shudder as his fingers ghost over your waist, the skin exposed and flushed after being stuck in a corset all day. "I missed you."

"I've been by your side nearly every second of every day," He quips, smiling into your lips as he rubs your sides, gloveless fingers tracing invisible circles into the skin.

"So has Diavolo."

The demon chuckles, leaning back for a moment in favor of bringing a hand to your cheek. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and simply savoring the closeness. "You understand that this is how it will be from now on, my lady? Your things will be moved into his room, and when you are not alone, you will be with either him or your new handmaid." Barbatos pulls back, his eyes distant. "This cannot...we cannot…"

"I know," You murmur, knowing all too well what the butler is trying to say.

This cannot last.

"But my heart will always be yours, Barbatos." You offer him a smile, looking up and hoping to see soft eyes gazing back down at you, but the demon stiffens at your words.

"Do not say that, my lady."

He takes a step back, posture reserved and, again, distant as he avoids your eyes. You recall, vaguely, that he had said the exact same thing before, on the first night you offered your heart to him.

"What is wrong, Barbatos?" You take a step forward, trying to get him to look you in the eyes. "It is true. My heart is yours, and I...I…" You pause, fumbling with the words. You know them in your heart, and the feelings have only solidified over these past days. But what if he doesn't feel the same way? "I love you."

"Do not say that," The demon repeats, practically hissing the words as he clenches his fist. "It is not true."

"What?" You ask, shocked that he would say such a thing. "Are you denying my feelings now, after everything?"

"I am not denying your feelings, my lady. I wish they were true. But they are not, they cannot be true." He turns his body away from you, still avoiding your eyes. "Your heart can never belong to me."

"You're wrong, Barbatos." You firmly step forward, placing your hands on his chest so that he can't ignore you. "I know how I feel about you, and I—"

"You misunderstand, my lady." The demon's laughter is bitter, and for the first time, you see pain written in his green eyes. "You love me now, but for how long? How can you possibly give me your heart when your wedding is tomorrow morning? How can I even begin to ask for such a thing? If you choose to love me, you are cursed to a life of pain and sorrow, where you can never express how you feel. Should you give me your heart, the happiness you seek can never be found. Never!"

"But—"

"There is no 'but!'" Barbatos flinches when you try to cup his cheek, try to get him to see reason, to see the warmth and affection and love in your eyes. "I told you that I would give you happiness, my lady. There is no happiness for you if you give your heart to me. I shall not ask for it, nor will I accept it."

"Are you asking me to fall in love with Diavolo?" Your lip trembles, desperately hoping that Barbatos isn't saying that, hoping he isn't denying you the affection he once gave so readily.

"It is the only logical course of action, my lady."

Silence.

For a moment, you debate whether to slap Barbatos or to punch him for such cruel words—but in the end, you settle for shoving him away, loosening the grip he had on your shoulders and trying to ignore the tears streaming down your face as you shout at him.

"Wretched man! Curse you to hellfire!" You shout, now wishing that you did slap him, not even seeing the shocked look on his face as you ball up your fists, desperately wiping the tears that are pouring faster than you can stop them. "My parents were right! Men are awful, awful! Did it please you to bed me, knowing that you would just end it and tell me to move on to another man? To kiss and hold me, when you never cared?!"

"My lady," Barbatos murmurs, trying to grab your wrists so that he can approach you. "Please listen—"

"No!" You exclaim, pushing him away when he grows closer. "You're a horrible man—a horrible, cruel, awful man, and I hate that I ever believed any of your affection to be true!"

"My lady!" Barbatos shouts, his own voice drowning out yours as he grabs your wrists, forcing you to stare up into the green eyes that are now burning with anger. "Do you think that it pleases me to have to give you up to Diavolo? Do you think I enjoy watching the prince court you when I know you do not wish for it? Do you think that I like knowing that it is only inevitable that you fall in love with Diavolo, now that he has made it so that we can never even see each other in private?" Barbatos shudders, his face contorted with frustration at the sheer thought. "If you give your heart to me, you can only be miserable—but with Diavolo, you can at least grasp some of the happiness that you desire. I love you more than I love myself, my lady, so tell me: which am I to wish for you? A future where your heart is mine, and you are miserable? Or one where I have to see you with another man, but at least with some chance of happiness?"

The demon's grip around your wrist tightens, and you see Barbatos's face as the mask he wears doesn't just slip off, but breaks entirely, leaving nothing but a man in pain as he stares down at you, too broken to even cry. "Do you think I like it?" He repeats, voice barely a whisper. "That I enjoy calling you my lady when I only wish to call you my love?"

The demon presses his forehead against yours, fingers trembling; and where he was once holding your hands in place, now it's you holding him, squeezing the fingers and trying to get him to feel your love.

"Say it again," You whisper, quiet.

"What?"

"Call me your love," You murmur, eyes bashful as they gaze up at Barbatos.

"My love," He whispers unsteadily, the words sounding foreign off his lips. "My love," He repeats, with more confidence this time. And soon, those two words are filling the room, rolling off his tongue as he says them the way he's imagined all this time.

"I love you, my love." He whispers, lips ghosting against yours, his own cheeks stealing the moisture from your tears as he presses his body into yours, pulling you onto the bed. "I could say it for centuries. My love. My love. My love."

Barbatos is content with kissing you, with cherishing your body with his fingers and memorizing every inch of skin that he doesn't already have tattooed on his brain. His lips never leave your body for long, brushing over your lips and then your neck and then your shoulder, and then the clothes are gone entirely, and he has you lying on your back, all his attention focused on you.

"Wait," You mumble, pulling him up. He looks at you with eyes clouded not with lust but with love.

"Yes, my love?" He asks, a light smirk playing at his lips at the very phrase. They aren't the words of a butler but the words of a lover indeed, and you know it as well as Barbatos does.

"If I shall not give you myself for eternity, may I give you myself for this night?"

The butler's breath hitches at your words, catching your meaning despite the ambiguity with which you word them. At his nod, your cheeks flush, and you turn your bodies over with painful slowness such that you're on top of him, palms resting on his chest as you straddle his toned body.

"My love," He whispers, a hand raising to your cheek. The sound of a grandfather clock chiming twelve times does not go unheard by either of you, and his eyes furrow in concern. "The night will not last for long. Tomorrow dawns a day of supreme importance, and…" He sits up, his chest pressing against yours as your foreheads touch. "This will be the last time. Are you certain you do not want me to lead you?"

"No," You mumble, pushing his chest back down. "All this time, you have served me. Tonight," You flush, but you refuse to look away from his watchful gaze. "Tonight, I shall serve you."

His breath hitches.

You stay true to your word, body working slowly through everything despite your utter lack of experience. Barbatos is mesmerized, his eyes watching your every move as you devote yourself to his pleasure and lose yourself in the sensation, his hand clasping yours tightly the two of you come undone together.

By the time you're finished, you all but collapse on top of him, wrapping your arms around his neck and preparing to drift off when he flips you over, eyes impossibly alert as he drinks in the sight of your body now underneath him.

"I thought you said that would be the last?" You ask playfully, a smile on your lips.

"I was a fool to think I could resist you," He mumbles, and then the two of you are lost once more, no longer simply being intimate but truly making love as the night grows into morning, just as Barbatos foretold.

You clasp him by the shoulders, holding on tightly when he suggests that the two of you stop. "Don't," You whisper, ignoring the fact that sunlight has begun to unveil the cover of darkness in your room. "Don't stop, Barbatos."

"My love," He whispers, tilting your chin up at him. "The time has come. The ceremonies will begin in soon, you'll need to begin dressing at five in the morning, and..." The man swallows, a flash of disdain appearing in his eyes. "Diavolo will not give you any sleep when you go to his bed, either. It is for the best if you rest, so..."

He falters at your gaze, pleading and desperate.

"I do not want to waste even a second, if it is all I have left," You whisper.

The demon smiles, though it's a sad smile, the edges tilting upward as easily as they could tilt down. "Very well, my love. Not a second shall be wasted."

But even that is not enough.

Despite your silent pleas for time to slow down, it presses forward ardently, hell-bent on bringing you out of Barbatos's arms. You hold the man closer, burying your head in his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him as tight as you can, but nothing can stop the moment when the grandfather clock chimes five times.

You shudder at the sound, trying to hide in Barbatos's arms when it comes.

"My love," He murmurs, worried eyes brushing over your trembling form as you pull him closer and try to ignore it.

"I don't want to go," You whisper. "I don't want to leave you."

"You must, my love." Barbatos slides his hand into yours, pulling your body into a seating position. "Come, we have two hours before…" He trails off, knowing that it won't help you to be specific right now. "Two hours, my love. Let us shower."

You let the demon pull you to your bathtub, where he washes you himself. You savor the sensation of his fingers in your hair, working in shampoo and conditioner and as he cleans every inch of your skin, and you're not sure if he works so well because he's devoted to the task or because he's still trying to imprint the shape of your body into his mind so that he can remember it, even when you're separated.

He dries you with painful slowness, the thin towel between his hands just another vessel he uses to caress your figure, and his hands never leave yours for long—not when he dries your hair, not when he combs it, not when he leads you back into your room to change into your wedding dress.

"Slow," You mutter when he begins dressing you, frowning as he pulls out the thick fabric. Your eyes widen at the sight—how have you never realized, in all your time here, that the gown has been stored in your drawer the entire time?—but you decide that you'd much rather be naked, with Barbatos, than dressed, with Diavolo.

"Even with all my power, I cannot slow down time," Barbatos chuckles into your ear, trying to make a joke.

But you don't find the situation funny.

Your lip trembles every time you see your outfit, your figure beginning to look less and less like the girl who had kissed Barbatos and more like the woman that is going to be Diavolo's wife.

This was coming, you remind yourself. Barbatos and I never could last.

But was it so wrong to want it?

Your fists close as he finishes smoothing over your dress, finishes the final touches on your hair.

It is happening too quickly.

"My love, my…" Barbatos stiffens behind your back. "My lady," He murmurs.

"Stop," You say, eyes filling with tears. You never minded it when he called you that before, but you're not sure you can bear hearing him call you such a distant name right now.

But before Barbatos can even respond, someone is knocking at your door. You do not know who it is—it could be Lucifer, or one of the brothers, or the handmaid Barbatos was talking about, or one of the thousands of guests currently residing in the usually-empty castle in preparation for the wedding, but you cannot deny it any longer.

"The time has come." Barbatos whispers, eyes pulled to the door.

He motions to open it, to reveal your dressed figure to the public and eternally cast you into the arms of the public, but he thinks better of it, turning around.

"You have never looked as beautiful as in this moment, my love," He murmurs, voice muffled only by the speed with which he places his lips on yours, wrapping his hands around you in a pose that would make one think that it's him you're marrying.

And then he's pulled away, walking toward the door.

You're not sure whether he's walking out of your life, or if you're the one leaving him; but once the door opens, the message is clear.

There's no going back.

***

Barbatos goes about the rest of his day entirely normally. Hands folded behind his back, posture perfectly straight, enigmatic smile locked onto his face—one would hardly be able to tell that his heart is in agony, screaming with pain and rage and anger.

He nods at Diavolo's every comment about how stunning you look from a distance, since the noblewomen are keeping you busy with all the traditional ceremonies and matrimonial rites, and the butler even manages to laugh when his prince jokes to Lucifer about how lucky he is that the pearl of the abyss accepted his hand in marriage.

He doesn't comment that you thought you had no other choice, that you would turn around right now if you could, that you would do anything to be given the chance to marry someone else.

No, Barbatos keeps all that to himself. It's a skill, truly.

Not even Lucifer, keen as the demon is, recognizes anything unusual about the butler.

It's an hour before the ceremony that his mask slips off, and even then, it's only for a millisecond. The maiden who was calling his name scarcely notices, simply pulling Barbatos along into the room in which the noblewomen are supposed to be preparing you.

"Men are not supposed to enter—" He protests, trying to fight the woman's insistent tugs as she drags him inside the one location that Barbatos is forbidden to be.

"The bride is having cold feet! Someone must calm her, and she began crying when we said we would fetch Lucifer!" The girl exclaims, eyes urgent. Cold feet? Barbatos thinks, before understanding dawns on him. Ah, he realizes, remembering your fearful eyes. Barbatos should have spent more time preparing you to leave, he realizes.

You are not ready.

I apologize, my love.

It's his fault, he spent far too much time loving you last night when he should have been preparing you for the inevitable—his own selfish crime that you were now paying for.

He enters the tent, his eyes instantly falling upon your figure.

Did I ever tell her how beautiful she was? He wonders, approaching you where you sit, cheeks still stained with your earlier tears. They fill with water once more as your eyes meet, and a hush falls over the room after the noblewomen usher him your way, each one whispering that he must do something and quickly.

"My lady," He says, voice calm. He hates that—how he must keep his tone even, his hands behind his back, when all he wants to do is embrace you. "You have been crying."

He hates that he has to state the fact with such apathy, knowing that the gossip of noblewomen travels too far for him to risk anything that isn't perfectly within the bounds of a butler.

He hates everything about this situation, and yet he continues smiling, maintaining the mask.

But there are little things he can do, little gestures that you will understand that the rest of the women in the tent won't.

"I am afraid," You whisper. Your voice breaks in the middle, as if you want to say more but then you think better of it.

Barbatos sighs.

He kneels in front of you, fetching the handkerchief he keeps in his breast pocket. Wiping your tears with it the way he once wiped dirt off your face, he hopes you notice how he sets the square of green on the table, leaving it there with his heart so that you can use it again should you need it. I can give you this, at the very least.

"It is okay to be afraid," He says, standing up. The demon's eyes gloss over, and he imagines himself lifting his hand to your cheek, resting his forehead against yours, maybe even settling a kiss against your perfectly soft lips.

But he cannot.

There are too many people watching, too many mouths ready to gossip if he tries to touch you the wrong way, even if he holds himself back. So all he does is step back, bowing his head gently such that only you can see the love in his eyes.

"Have strength, my lady."

Your eyes widen, remembering the first time he said them.

My strength, he vows. I will give you all of it, if it may help you attain the happiness you so seek.

The noblewomen around him seem confused when he motions to leave, one of them muttering that he barely did anything.

But Barbatos knows you have shed the last of your tears for the night.

Those words gave you the power to stand tall in Diavolo's hall when you faced the prince for the first time. Now they will give you the power to face the demon lord once more, as you become wife to the man you used to fear.

Once more, he exits, a smile locked onto his face to hide the utter anguish within, not even batting an eyelid as he rattles off an excuse to Diavolo about why he is late.

I want to die, he can't help but think, as he stands on the altar, still smiling.

He never told you, but it will be him who oversees your union with Diavolo, bearing the rings and the honorary sigils all the other stupid trinkets Barbatos hates that the prince insisted on using for the sake of tradition.

He ignores Diavolo and Lucifer as they mindlessly engage in some conversation, neither demon as disturbed or affected by the wedding as Barbatos is.

Die, Barbatos thinks. I want to die.

But he dismisses the thought, knowing that it would make you sad. And when he knows that all you search for is happiness, how can he ever do anything that would wound you in such a way?

Barbatos has at least that mercy; he knows that the love of his life will be happy in the end. You would be a fool, not to be. Diavolo has only begun his vicious process of courting you, and the demon prince—soon to be demon king—has never failed at anything when he has put his mind to it. Your heart is young, and it is Barbatos's honor to have been your first suitor, but he knows Diavolo will be the last.

A cruelty to Barbatos, but a kindness to you.

It hurts him to know such a truth. But it is the only reason he has not switched realities, yet. Because in this end, you will find happiness. Even if it is not with him.

A collective gasp rises in the hall as your figure approaches, majestic in the wedding gown that Barbatos himself was given the task of selecting. You wear silk tempered from the willowy smokes of hellfire, your skin's natural radiance seeming to light the dress afire once more as you walk down the aisle.

She's stunning, Barbatos realizes, suddenly wishing that he had said it to you more often. He had not been given the privilege of fixing your makeup or selecting your accessories, that was a task assigned to the noblewomen attending. Still, they had done well, opting to dress you in black pearls instead of white, the spheres darker than even Barbatos's heart. He can't help but think how cruel it is that he's never seen you look so perfect before.

The most beautiful woman I have ever seen, he thinks, and then he wants to die all over again, to change this timeline and make it so that he is yours and you are his, and he won't have to watch you fall in love with Diavolo in these future weeks.

What have I done to deserve this?

It's the dramatic irony that Shakespeare spent his whole life searching for: that a demon so overwhelmingly strong he's left unshackled even by time can be turned slave by the very same forces to the demon lord. It's the tragedy of Barbatos: the burden he must bear, to see his only love in all the realms and realities so close to him but so far from reach.

Truly, time does not exist to Barbatos.

But that was how it was meant to be. For you are everything: his past, his present, his future. He does not need time. He has you.

Had.

The clock started ticking when the two of you met, and now he must suffer in silence as time marches onward, offering him no rest from this inescapable reality.

Die, he wants to die.

He does not want to listen as he murmurs the introductory words he memorized eons ago, he does not want to hear you rattle off the vows he made you rehearse, he does not want to see you smile that fake smile he taught you to adorn, he does not want to watch you prepare to give your heart to a man that is not him.

Die, Barbatos wants to die when Diavolo turns to him and asks for the rings, the butler forced to calm the relentless sea of emotion wrecking through his heart.

The olive-eyed demon keeps his hands steady as he places the ring onto your palm. He wants to hold your hand longer, to squeeze it. He wants to place a kiss over your knuckles and smile wryly up at you to see the blush that paints your cheeks. He wants to rip off his gloves and feel your warmth, your touch. He wants to jump forward in between you and Diavolo and stop this unholy union devoid of love and he wants to place his hand on Diavolo's chest and stop the man from leaning closer to you and he wants to cease this and no he must look away and no make it stop make it stop god please just please make it stop—

Dead, Barbatos is dead.

Or is that just the feeling of watching you kiss another man?

MASTERLIST

Word count: 9.8k

Notes: I am so sorry Barbatos and I am sorry readers for this being a day late but i am more sorry Barbatos you deserve nothing but happiness and i wrote this and :(

Comment & Like

Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with HUNTER MARCHESI, who is TWENTY-FOUR years old. He is often called HORATIO by the MONTAGUES and works as their INITIATE. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

Hunter was born to be a MASTERPIECE, a work of art designed to make even the angels weep. The son of a minor British noble and a Brazillian diplomat’s daughter stationed in Rome, privilege was a given, prestige the expectation as the golden spoon was tucked between his laughing lips. One might have expected him to be witless, on account of his beauty, but he was not. One might have expected him to be callous, on account of his fortune, but he was inclined to help when asked, diving in and out of the problems of others as he wove between theatrics and respite in his own life. He was not apart from the goings on of life, but he was not terribly affected, either. Good things seemed to come his way whether he wished for them or not. Hunter was Midas, and all things turned to gold, even thoughts, ideas, and ill-defined concepts. If he wore a crown, it was because it was placed carefully upon his head, though he wore it well, and it fit as though by design.

He made a name for himself in boarding school as the sort you wanted to stick with if you wanted to have a good time. Students ENVIED the boy who could float through classes and maintain his grades while still attending every single party, every sports event, even going on holiday to tropical, fantastical locales whenever he had a few days break. He was the sort you looked at and thought, ah, yes, he has it all. Perhaps he did. He certainly felt like it at the time, all the way through to university, where he attended the most prestigious school in Rome and felt... bored. Life had been a game his entire life, and he was sick and tired of winning. He signed up for a philosophy elective course on a whim, almost forgetting to attend before he popped his head inside. It was the first mistake he’d ever made which had unintended consequences.

For lack of a better word, Hunter became... enamored. At first he thought himself on the path to understanding philosophy, but under a different tutelage, it held no real interest for him. It was the professor that kept him intrigued, the longing soul beneath his cool exterior and how often he seemed unsure of the questions he nevertheless posed to his students. For all his life, Hunter has had the ability to hang his head on CERTAINTY. He has always been sure, each step he’s ever taken, and he’s torn between wry amusement and tenderness at how unsure a philosopher can be, how lost within the cycles of the mind and of humanity itself. He stuck out that class for three years before Henry departed the university entirely, focusing on taking over the Zhang fortune in the wake of his father’s death, and when he was gone, Hunter never went back. He focused on the field he was sure on, on the things he was good at, and thought he put his infatuation with indecision behind him.

Until. Until. It was chance that brought him to Verona, with only a dim understanding that the man he’d once admired built his home there as well. Work brought him there, but it was the draw of shiny, mysterious things that led him to his doom. He only meant to seek out his former professor on a lark; it was something fun to do on an off day, a way to blow off steam in a place where he hadn’t yet built his usual level of contacts. He never thought he would be walking into a gilded CAGE, stained with blood as it might be; from the moment he stepped into the wrong aisle of the library, from the moment he saw a man gutted and dragged through the stacks, from the moment Henry Zhang emerged from behind them and made all evidence of the violence go away without so much as a blink, Hunter was in chains. Becoming an Initiate was the only way to keep him alive. It should have made him feel trapped or terrified, entering this new world where none of the old rules applied, but Hunter had never met an environment he couldn’t thrive in. This was a chance to experience something new and VIBRANT, something that would challenge him to explore outside his boundaries. For the first time in his life, Hunter had to do hard work. Things did not come easily to him within the world of la mafia, and that which should’ve scared him left him thrilled, heart pounding, adrenaline soaking his veins. In Verona, he was not a car on a rail, traveling toward the same old same old at high velocity. In Verona, his ambition might finally be satisfied, his curiosity and hunger at last satiated.

HENRY ZHANG: Sponsor. They call him that and pretend he’s nothing more, but Henry is as much his damnation as his savior. Seeking out his former professor is the reason he’s in this mess, but it’s also the most exciting thing he’s ever done. Hunter has always been curious to unravel the sometimes funny, sometimes dry, always interesting Doctor Zhang, and now he’ll finally have the chance. All the excuses in the world to be close and Henry still keeps him at arm’s length. It won’t do. Hunter’s never been denied something he wants, and he’s not about to start here, not after he’s come so close. He’ll coax the wild animal that is Henry Zhang to heel; for all he claims to be teaching Hunter the ways of the mafia, it’s not Henry that’s in control, here. He just hasn’t... noticed it quite yet.

FAUST CONTRERAS: Fellow-in-Arms. Despite their differences, they’ve joined the mafia at the same time, and for Hunter, that means he sees a kindred spirit. Maybe he comes across as annoying to Faust, a kid who doesn’t know any better than what he’s doing, but Hunter considers himself a good time, if Faust will let him be. He might not be the most loyal friend in the world, the most caring or outwardly compassionate, but he’s certainly got style. Besides, two people joining the mafia in the middle of an intense war have to stick by each other, right? That’s what Hunter always tells him, with a smile on his face that’s just a little too arrogant, a little too brash in the face of all this death. Hunter might get him into all kinds of trouble, and he definitely won’t take no for an answer without seeing a bit of force.

BEAU RENAUD: Pity. Money is as money does, and in a town like Verona, money also talks. Having run in the same circles since they were children, European wealth all running closely together, Hunter pities Beau sometimes. Shackled to someone better than him in every way, he’s a path that could’ve stretched before Hunter were he a bit less intelligent, less cunning, less ambitious, just... less. A ghost of a shell of a boy, that was how Beau came across since his move to Verona, and Hunter has regarded him as a flower wilting in the intense heat of the sun. Sometimes he wonders if he should be charitable and try and pull him from the depths, but he’s attached to the opposite side, now. Does he really deserve the hand dipped in gold that Hunter would offer? Can he really say he’s earned that? Maybe not, but Hunter plans to try and pick him up anyway, so long as he can find something to motivate the fool.

CASTORA AGUILAR: Distaste. She’s so new money she practically reeks of it, and while he’s not entirely a snob, some things are just too deeply entrenched within him to be overlooked. Low breeding will bear out, in Hunter’s mind anyway, and giving so much to a woman who comes from little will only go to her head. He doesn’t hate her of course; his family often deals in philanthropy, and he’s not without his own heart, no matter how encased in jewels it may be. Henry sees merit in her, so he can’t write her off entirely, but it’s a close thing, his dislike for people pulling themselves from the muck. What will Castora do with this new freedom? It’s too soon to tell, but in Hunter’s mind, it won’t be anything good. What a waste.

Hunter is portrayed by FRANCISCO LACHOWSKI and was written by ROGUE. He is currently OPEN.

#lsrp #lsrpg #literate rp #crime rp #roleplay #hunter marchesi #m #mont #o #om

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gnawingaikatsugremlin · 5 years

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tl;dr All of this should’ve been spread over the season instead of in one episode. Reflect Moon is officially shuffled off stage in the same dresses they wore last season. BNP gives no fucks.

It was a Reflect Moon episode, one of our two super neglected idols. During the period of utter neglect, Kaguya has taken on something of a counselor posiiton. She reminds me of something I saw about tarot cards - you and the audience need advice and the cards are a vehicle. She uses her divination to hear their problems and help them work through it. I love it, honestly - it’s different from Sakuya’s style and appeals to me more.

Of course, this is really the first time we’re seeing it in this light because we’ve seen absolutely nothing of Reflect Moon this season, so it’s kind of sudden that everyone is coming to her for advice now. Tell, not show I guess.

Anyway, Kaguya wants to up her game and luckily, Karen has a brand new school in New York for this very subject because Star Harmony teaches you apparently jack and shit since half their counselors are 15 year olds. Kaguya wants to go, but she can’t leave her sister. What will she do?

Focus on her manager’s love life instead.

But seriously, I do like this part that the twins want to see each other improve, but they don’t want to be apart. It’s really realistic for twins as close as they are. Maybe we could’ve dwelled on it for more than one episode to really get the punch to the gut it would bring, but at least we got... something? I don’t know, I hate BNP and their writing we know that.

So this sets us up for some sudden development for Sakuya too - she wants to be braver and less shy so Kaguya can go and not worry about her. We get her interview scene which... eh I was on the fence about. That wasn’t very hard at all. Good to see PP fail their asses off for once, though. Would’ve been better to see the interview but hey, can’t see PP fail too much. It at least proves she can stand on her own, which is good.

And then comes the crying. The most realistic we’ve been in a while - they’re proud of each other, but they don’t want to go either. It’s their first big separation and sometimes you just need to cry things out. I still feel as though we should’ve had this as the cap to a few episodes, but when have we ever done multi episodes on characters who don’t matter?

That stage. We all know what I’m going to say. Fuck BNP for stiffing RM and HC this season. I’ve already bitched about the Jeweling Dresses, but they didn’t get ANY new dresses and they’re still using the same song. The favoritism in this season is obvious even if you’re not paying attention - they just don’t give a fuck if it’s not PP or the new antagonists. RM didn’t even really get new auras, which is pretty damn sad. What a way for them to go out, because this is probably going to be one of their last performances if we are indeed getting a shortened season. The lack of anything new just really... sucks, honestly. I’m not even a RM fan (because what WAS there to be a fan of with the lack of focus) and I have to say they got stiffed hard. Sucks when you’re not the favorite. So now they’re shuffled off so we can continue to focus more on the mains. HC is in space, and RM is on a break. Yay.

I wish we could see more of Kaguya becoming her own idol, maybe switching types, but that’s not going to happen on the Aine Yuuki ft. sometimes the ghost of Mio Minato’s characterization. At least we have a pairing confirmed, though does honestly anyone care the managers are dating? I know I don’t, we don’t really have a reason to care.

Anyway, next episode is the eve of the jeweling festival and Love Me Tear defected because they were demoted to minor characters. Tune in for more disappointment.

#Aikatsu Friends

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nataliejoyart · 5 years

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Unit Zero: Chapter Three

This is chapter three of a story of mine: Unit Zero. It’s about a group of kids brought together by people who once protected the universe so that the honorable duty can be passed to another generation. Previous chapters can be found in older posts.

~Payton Dodson~

Payton Dodson scoffed under his breath as he shoved his way back into the main locker room.

That went well, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes.

So it turned out there was a reason everyone not only stayed away from Ren Graves but also reason for them warning Payton not to get too close. Nobody wanted to be around a rude, selfish, stuck-up demon of a boy. Then again, most people were that way, but hid it so that they’d be “accepted by society”.

What Payton did know: he’d sworn to himself that he’d help people. He didn’t need to be a superhero or anything. But some day, he’d drag people out of the pits they were in and show them the light.

Another thing he now knew: Some people didn’t want his help, apparently. His help or anyone else’s.

A twinge of pity bit Payton in the side, though. He could remember that days when he was that way. Being in the foster system, as Ren had so bluntly pointed out, could do that to you. Especially when the biological parents you had loved with everything you were had died, and the blame was placed on you. Payton was frankly relieved that a family from up North adopted him six years ago. Up here, he had a new start. A clean slate. Nobody knew who he was. Then again, it wasn’t like anybody really cared either. But what did it all boiled down to? Payton could recognize a crappy childhood. And Ren displayed all the signs.

Maybe Ren’s just that much of a jerk. Payton thought. Or maybe Poppy just puts on a brave face. And has real people skills. Payton thought to himself.

Because, oddly enough, Ren’s identical twin sister seemed like the type of girl who grew up with underbearing parents who spoiled her most of her childhood.

Poppy Graves was the peppiest, sweetest girl Payton had ever met. Her hair was always tied up with ribbons and clips that sparkled like jewels among the curly, black mane. And she didn’t seem to have a single negative word in her vocabulary. It wouldn’t have been true to say that everyone at Fairbanks High loved Poppy, but Payton could certainly say nobody held any kind of grudge with her.

Payton could see her across the gynasium. Well, he did before a dodge ball knocked him onto his butt after it rocketed into his gut at a ridiculous speed.

“Yer out, Dodson!” the coach shouted across the gym.

Payton stumbled back to his feet, wandering over to the sidelines, eyes still attached to Ren’s twin. It’s not like Ren was a stalker or anything. But, yeah... He had a crush… On the person whose brother currently had it out for him.

If you like her, talk to her, you doofus. A voice in Payton’s head pushed.

He rubbed his neck as a cold chill brushed past it.

No, I can’t do that. Especially with…

Payton’s eyes flicked across the gym, watching the shadowed figure of Ren Graves slumped, unnoticed by everyone around him, just underneath the scaffolding of the bleachers. A shiver ran down Payton’s spine as he thought of how much Ren looked like a ghost. Payton hated ghosts. The concept of them had always made him severely uncomfortable. Not necessarily scared, but…

Ren’s pale white skin and bright eyes sat starkly against the dark contrast of his dark hiding place. And his head wasn’t hidden underneath his black hoodie as it usually was, allowing an untamed thatch of curly, black hair to stick out wildly like some kind of mangled mop head. He was also turned, staring through the cracks in the bleacher seats at his sister.

But Payton didn’t have time to be staring at his eighth grade crush all day. After all, they only shared one class. It was a shame, and Payton was still trying to adjust to watching the backs of kids far larger and more rugged than himself as he sat through the last period of the day: quantum mechanics and theoretical physics. Well, it wasn’t really a class, especially with Payton’s knack for it.

So you’re a book-smarts kid, eh?

Payton frowned. What the heck? Book-smart? I’m not a walking textbook. I actually use my brain, not just store crap in it to sound intelligent.

Fair point. But what about street smarts? Any good with those?

The cold shiver from before ran down Payton’s spine.

Why am I thinking about this crap? Besides, they’re probably better than anyone else here. I doubt jocks grew up in a broken foster system… Not that I’ve had to survive on the side of a road in a few years… but still…

You wanna test that out? ‘Cause from an Arizona kid to an Alaskan, this terrain is pretty rugged. I could see why Natalie would live up here.

Payton shifted uneasily in his seat, rolling out his shoulders uncomfortable and glancing behind him. It wasn’t normal for him to think like tha-

A screech like a banshee made Payton jump out of his skin, heart rattling around in his chest faster than he preferred to handle. The last bell.

He shook his head, taking the opportunity to stand quickly and rush from the classroom, tossing his backpack over his shoulder. Making a beeline for the door, Payton couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder again as he broke off from the crowd shuffling towards the busses.

Just keep a cool head, Payton. Just until you get home… You can freak out then…

I can stay quiet until then, I suppose. Although there’s a lot that needs explaining.

As Payton practically ran down the sidewalks stretching out from Fairbanks High, those thoughts didn’t return. But they weren’t really like thoughts. It’d been more like… someone was… whispering into his ear or something. Or like he was listening to someone he couldn’t see and couldn’t tune out. But it was gone now, and Payton’s retreating pace slowed to a walk.

And it stayed that way the entire trek to the one place he felt comfortable in this world: The Corner Diner. A little mom-and-pop shop open almost all hours of the day on a lonely corner. It was a sort of hidden gem in Fairbanks, so not many knew of it All the restaurant offered for sit-in patrons was a long counter that separated the small open space where a few tables and chairs would have been welcome, but had never existed, from the kitchen in the back. A mere twenty stools lines the counter.

Almost every one of them was filled, save a single seat against the far wall. Payton sighed. It wasn’t any kind of special holiday or anything… although the weather was nice. And that often coaxed people from their homes. Some weird characters could show up at times, too. As Payton took the last stool, he recalled with a short chuckle the time near Easter when a man walked in dressed in a fluffy pink bunny suit, leading a pack of burly bikers all with rabbit ears on their heads.

No one particularly odd sat in the diner today. Payton had seated himself next to a man who had to be a hunter, dressed head-to-foot in camo with scruffy stubble riddling his chin. He and a buddy spoke gently between mouthfuls of hamburger, reeking of male body odor and frying grease.

But Payton just ordered his usual small basket of onion rings, hiding himself underneath a textbook and avoiding their glances. He had a rule when he came to the Corner Diner: no schoolwork, no studying, and no worrying. About anything. This was Payton’s cool-down time. Sure, it would only last thirty minutes or so, but between the school environment that, as today proved, didn’t quite suite him, and his foster parents back home… he needed some alone time.

And so that’s what Payton did. He slumped in the seat, lazily nibbling away at the perfectly-salted and fried onion rings underneath the shadow on his textbook wall he’d erected. The hunters left shortly after Payton arrived, their irritating stench drifting out the door with them as a new patron held it open, nodding to the hunters as they left.

“Hey there, kid.”

Payton peeked over his textbook, watching as a stocky man in a U.S. Marines cap slipped onto the stool two down from his own. He wore military fatigues and therefore carried that aura around him that demanded respect and made you sit up a little taller. He was a little odd, though, since his hair was not buzzed, but rather fell into his eyes, causing chronic hairflipping and brushing. And he wore deep red aviators, not even bothering to take them off as he continued to speak to Payton.

“What’re you doing by yourself?”

Payton glanced around nervously. “Uh, nothing. Just taking a little break after school.”

The Marine nodded. He was quiet for a while, allowing Payton to return to his onion rings. He didn’t know how to put it, but there was something… off… about this man. He wasn’t lying. Payton could recognize a liar.

“How old are you, kid?” the man asked through a mouthful of french fries. He nodded to the textbook, “That isn’t exactly junior-high level stuff.”

“Oh, uh… I’m thirteen.” Payton responded, removing his textbook wall and shoving it into his backpack. He didn’t want to seem rude.

The man grinned, “Only thirteen, huh? You sound like an old friend of mine.” He glanced at Payton, giving Payton an intrigued smile. “No offense, but you probably like to stick to those books of yours, huh? Not exactly the fighting type.”

Payton shrugged, shifting on the stool. “I dunno. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I can’t also be athletic.”

“That’s true.” the man chuckled.

There was something about the way he spoke… Payton couldn’t quite explain it. He found himself hanging onto every word, but there was something that seemed… unsettling… People didn’t usually just strike up conversations in the middle of a diner with six feet of counter space separating them.

Payton shoved his last onion ring down, pushing the tray towards the edge of the counter. He just wasn’t feeling right about this. Maybe it was the voice in his head from before that had turned his day sour. Although, Ren had started that cycle first. But he just wanted to go home now and be where he knew he could get some peace and quiet.

“Ya’know, kid, I have a feeling about you.” the Marine said as Payton shifted to leave. I think you’d do great in the academy I’m from.”

“The Marines?” Payton said, stopping, “But I thought you said I didn’t look ‘like the fighting type.’”

“But you said you could be.” he pointed out. “It’s not too far away, and there are a lot of pesky rules. But I have a feeling you’d be perfect.”

“I’m only thirteen.” Payton said, raising a skeptic eyebrow. Unease sat in his stomach like a rock.

Now hold on…

Payton spine tingled again. That voice!

I thought you were being quiet now! Payton hissed to himself - or the voice, he wasn’t sure. He felt like he was losing his mind.

Yeah, I usually can’t shut up. The voice said, It’s one of my defining traits. But you need to go with this man. You can trust him.

Uh, yeah, no thanks. Payton thought, slipping from the stool and reaching for his backpack. The only thing about him I can trust is that he gives me the creeps. Just like you.

“Your age isn’t a problem.” the man coaxed, turning his full attention now to Payton.

Payton roacked on his feet. “You know, sir, thanks, but… I think I’ll pass on your offer. I don’t think I’m military academy material.”

“Ah, come on. Listen to your head.”

And that was the red alarm for Payton. The Marine, as much as Payton respected the uniform, had crossed the line.

Although the Voice disagreed.

Yes, your head. Listen to your head. Listen to me. You. Can. Trust. Him.

#UZ #unit zero #nataliejoyart #nataliejoystories #payton dodson #stories #fantasy #writer

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thebustedandtheblue · 6 years

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The Busted Ch 5: Good Times Bad Times

The Busted Ch 4: Over and Over and Over

Chapter 1| Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Days pass into weeks. Scullery duty continued, but there was a distinct air of hesitation from the rest of the crew when the two worked. There were no more incidents like with the orloni, and while the name calling and jeering still happened it wasn’t nearly as often as it had been that first day. It appeared that N’Zar had been accepted, although she suspected it was done at the behest of the officers of the Starhawk. She no longer tagged along with her charge although she did spend a bit of time with him. Eventually Yondu broke off from mess duties, and she kept washing dishes.

She still didn’t know much about him, where he was from, what he did before becoming a Ravager. What little he spoke to her was usually orders or grunts. She almost never saw him smile, and when he did, it was always with some wicked reason behind it. She had to find out from Tullk. She was scouring the sink of grime from the previous meal when he came by on his break.

“What’s Udonta’s deal?” She asked him, brushing off the grime from her trousers.

“What d’you mean?” He asked, ha

“I mean why’s he always so angry? It’s like he just wants to fight about everything all the time.”

“It’s the only thing he knows. He was a slave most of his life.”

“I figured that but I mean...I’ve known people who’ve been slaves before, I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

“Prolly cause he was a battle slave.”

N’Zar stopped mid scrub. That explains a fair amount. To fight for the Kree without actually being Kree was damn near a death sentence. She had never met one in person, but she had heard stories. They were the vanguard of the ground troops, cannon fodder. He knew her kind more as those that should be destroyed than as actual people. She felt for him, she truly did. Military life, especially forced military life, and at such a young age, was hard.

N’Zar snorted. “No wonder he hates me.”

“I don’t think he hates you. Don’t take it personally he’s like that with everyone. We just got used to it. It’s how he is.”

She was about to say something to him, when someone entered the mess. The Krylorian with the now-crooked nose from the fight.

“Captain wants to see you. He’s with the other officers.” He said.

In so many years of her life, being told to see the boss still scared her. A thousand scenarios went through her mind. She’d been found out and they’re going to send her back to Knowhere; they knew who she really was and they’re going to collect the bounty on her head; they just don’t like her and she’s getting spaced. She could feel her heart beat against her ribs as she made her way to the officers’ quarters, a slightly more spacious section of the ship, where Udonta and the officers were waiting for her. They were all sitting around a table. Stakar, his wife Aleta, his first mate Martinex, Charlie 27, Krugarr, and Yondu. The gang was all there. She stood military stiff in front of her superiors, beating against her chest twice, hard as she could, her back as straight as she could muster.

“Miss N’Zenne”, Stakar started, “We need you

“We’ve been contracted to steal this.” A section of the table shimmered and a projection of a bust of a woman adorned in black robes of obsidian. It was a fairly unimpressive thing, save for a brilliant red jewel in the center of her throat. “That is the Neramani Star. The client just wants that, not the statue. It’s currently owned by this her.” The projection changes, and a Shi’ar woman appears in the bust’s place.

N’Zar relaxed her shoulders, let her back slump slightly. She cocked her head and looked at the ruby. It must have been the size of her fist. “All right but what does this have to do with me?”

“I’m getting to that.” Stakar said.

“We need you to trade places with this man.” another projection appeared. A Strontian man, slightly younger than the Shi’ar. “Her assistant. We need you to pose as him.”

“Oh! Oooooh. Okay I thought I was in trouble.”

The captain smirked and shook his head. “No you’re doing fine. But if you help us with this you’d be doing us a solid. So what do you want to do?”

“I’m...Wait what are you asking?”

“Give us a plan.” He motioned towards the hologram “What would you do to make it so that his employer doesn’t suspect you, and how are you going to get that stone?”

N’Zar took herself out of the room for the moment. There was a great deal more information she would need if she were to configure a plan.

“What else do you have on him?” She asked, a half demand.

“That’s all we got.”

“I think…”she started, “I’d tail him. No not tail him. Not just me anyway. Get a few guys to watch him, get his routine down, see where he goes in the span of a few days, maybe a week if this was extended. A month if this was deep cover. If this is just a day then following him for a few days or so’d do.”

“Then what?”

“If he’s got a regular place he goes, and by the look of him he probably does. Maybe a bar or he goes and spends time with someone on the weekend, go and see him then, try and chat him up and get him alone.”

“This is very elaborate, N’Zenne.”

She didn’t hear the captain.

“I’d get him alone and the others jump him and knock him out. Hide him in his house or something. Then I go in the next day, check out what she has for security and report back, and then we rob the lady.”

“Sounds like an all right plan.”

N’Zar returned to the land of the living and looked up at Stakar. “Wait what?”

“That was a bit much but we just wanted to know if you were on the same page. You’re joining Yondu here, and a few others, to go and take that stone.”

N’Zar understood now. She knew why the captain didn’t flay her outright when he found her stowed away on his ship. Her sob story did nothing to help her. He was willing to take her on whether she was tragic or not. She almost regretted spilling her guts until the thought of what she would have had to endure back on Knowhere.

“What do I get out of this?” she asked

“You get a cut, and anything else you find is yours.”

N’Zar looked at the holograph. She looked up at the officers and Udonta.

“All right, I’ll do it. Where are we going anyway?”

“Spartax.”

“Oh cool. Spartax. I have no idea where that is.”

Aleta snorted.

N’Zar walked down the sun drenched cobblestones of an old part of the Spartoi capitol. The ancient buildings of stone and glass around the open square stood dignified in contrast to the monstrous skyscrapers of downtown and the floating transports that crisscrossed the sky. There were a few booths and carts set up around them selling all manner of produce, a few selling wines or other libations. This was what she had always imagined what her ancestors’ home had once been like.

“Enough sightseeing, N’Zenne. The guy’s coming up on your left.” Udonta’s familiar abrasive drawl said through her earpiece.

And so he was. Lean, violet skinned, somewhere in his forties and running through the square like several others that morning. N’Zar wandered around him, keeping a good few meters away. The mark turned the corner of the block, she was a good ten feet away from him. The mark stopped at a crosswalk. When the signal changed, she noticed that his pace had picked up. Had he noticed her? She hung back a little bit. She didn’t want to scare him.

“Get closer, N’Zenne.” Udonta said.

“I’ll spook him if he gets closer”

“Get closer. That’s an order.”

“I’m fine.” She insisted. “You’ll lose him.

She stops and looks up into the tall buildings above her. “I know what I’m doing, Udonta.”

On a roof some five blocks away, with a very powerful pair of binoculars, a man with blue skin and a red mohawk of an implant scowled. He would not tolerate insubordination, or some little shit Skrull talking back to him.

“Get back to him. Now.” Yondu demanded, an agitated rumble in his voice.

She glared in the vicinity of the building, and returned to tailing the Strontian man.

“Don’t be so hard on her.” Tullk said from across the room. He had been monitoring her target’s movements. “It’s her first mission, Yondu.”

“She shits the bed I’m going to be the one paying for it.”

“Have some faith in her. She’s probably done this before although it probably ended with a wallet.”

Yondu grumbled. “I have a lot riding on this mission, Tullk.”

“I know.” was all Tullk said and waved him off. He looked through his own scope. The sun was still low in the morning sky, and the scope each could see her in a terran-esque shift with olive skin and dark hair. Her eyes remained the same. “She’s not that bad looking like this.” “If you like skinny green shapeshifters.” Yondu scoffed.

“What if I do?” Tullk asked.

Yondu wasn’t sure if he was trying to get a rise out of him, or if he was genuinely interested. But he turned to look at his scarred and tattooed friend. He squinted. He wasn’t sure if his friend was serious or not. Getting duped by a skrull was one thing, it was an entirely different thing to go to bed voluntarily with one. He could understand the appeal to some degree, shifting into whatever he wanted, any race, any gender, but as she was was different.

“I ain’t her keeper anymore. If you want to ask her out you do you.”

“Then maybe I will.” Tullk said, a ghost of a smile on his face. “What’s she like in bed?”

“He wouldn’t know he never got that far. And I’m not skinny!” A distinctly feminine voice said over the comms. The two men had momentarily forgotten they were still speaking over an open channel. Somewhere in orbit around Spartax, in the officers quarters on board the Starhawk, Aleta Ogord let out a horsey peal of laughter.

She wasn’t that skinny. Not anymore. A few good-ish meals on the Starhawk saw to that. She was lean, but she wasn’t skinny. What would Udonta know anyway.

She followed her orders, catching up to the mark. The old buildings fell away to modern homes. More angular and dull rowhouses. She saw him walk up a flight of stairs to one of the last traditional-looking brick buildings on the street. It was a modest thing of two stories and made of red and creme brick. She walked passed the building, making note as he walked into the house.

“Now we know where he lives. So now what?”

“Wait there, N’Zenne.”

A small and growing blip in the sky came down, a transport, parking a block away from the house. From the cabin of the car came Yondu and Tullk.

“Alright so now what do we do?” She asked once again.

Yondu looked up at the building.

“Y’think you can turn into a bird?” He asks.

“Yeah but I won’t be able to fly or anything.”

“Ah...what?”

“I’m gonna be too heavy to fly, and I won’t really know how to fly since I never practiced being a bird. Might be able to glide, but I don’t think there’s enough wind to get me very far. What did you want me to do crash into the window?”

He scowled. “If you’re so smart what do we do?” Yondu grumbled.

N’Zar looked at her two partners. Both were scruffy, one was ill-tempered, the other one too many tattoos for what she had in mind, but it might still work.

“You guys got any money?”

The two men searched the pockets of their leathers. Between the two of them they had a little shy of thirty units.

“This should do us...we gotta find a thrift store.”

“Thrift store?” Yondu asked.

“Yeah a thrift store! That transport got a GPS?”

He was in the midst of dressing for work when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting company, but perhaps it was that package from home he had been waiting on? The one his father said he would have to sign for. The strontian man heard the doorbell ring again, this time with some slight urgency. Down the stairs he went to see three figures behind the frosted glass. He opened the door and in front of him was a small strontian woman holding a very thick, dog-eared book. Her outfit was conservative, a dark skirt and blazer, with a white shirt and dark tights. Around her neck she wore a bright gold ankh. Behind her were two men in a similar mode of dress. They all looked rather tired and haggard, with beads of sweat from the summer heat on their faces, and dark patches under their arms.

The woman gave him a toothy smile. “Excuse me sir, I hate to be a bother on this very lovely morning, but do you have a moment to talk about the Magus? It will only be a moment of your time.”

Unies. Great.

“I’m very sorry but I don’t have the time right now.” He said, and began to close the door only to have it stopped by her foot in the threshold.

“Perhaps some other time then?” She squeaked. “I could come back later today if you’d be so inclined.”

She was being persistent, and from the looks of her she had been running around in those clothes most of the morning. He looked into her sad golden eyes. He honestly shouldn’t. The two behind her looked mean, and the Centaurian in particular looked like he was ready to stab someone His employer does not like to be left waiting, and he generally was not a fan of the Universal Church of Truth, but at the very least he could be polite and let her in for a glass of water.

He sighed, and opened the door wider to let her and her compatriots in.

She gave a slight curtsy and the three walked into the house. The Centaruian kept his eyes forward, not even looking at his host. The last one, a man with scars and tattoos, came up to the man and shook his hand heartily. “Thank ye very much, sir.” He said, sticking a small metal disc to his hand. He looked into the man’s face, a wicked grin on his face. Behind the two men the Strontian woman’s violet skin was changing to an olive green. Her hand was reaching for something around her wrist, and it was the last thing he saw before a shock and the floor rushing up to him.

#yondu udonta #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #fanfic #the busted #ravagers

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surrounded-by-superheroes · 6 years

Text

The Poisonous Cure Ch. 3

Click here for chapter two!

Summary; Loki runs into a young girl on his morning walk and is shocked to learn she’s more than just a minor selling herself on the streets. Her web is more tangled than perhaps even his, and she certainly holds as many secrets. He swears to find more about her, but does he really want to?

Author’s Note; Comforting Loki is my favorite Loki. Next Chapter on Wednesday!! I hope you all are liking it!! Reblogs and comments meant the worlds to me!!!!

Warnings; Language, mentions of abuse.

Words; 2,181

Chapter Three

Gal Pal

Tony’s breathing is labored as bends over, yet still manages to stare at me angrily. “When I said kick I didn’t mean me and I didn’t mean in my jewels! Damn!” He shouts and I would usually be at least slightly frightened, but watching Loki contain his own laughter belies any fear that may try and rise to the surface of my mind.

“You were in the way! What do you expect is going to happen when you hammer my knee and stand right in front of me?!” I ask just as passionately. A hand lands on the small of my back and panic shoots through my veins in a second, but I almost instantly calm when the touch turns frosty.

“Are you going to recover?” Loki asks with a barely concealed grin. Tony turns his irritated glare to Loki, but stands and comes back over to me.

“I guess you’re junkless down there like a Ken doll, right? That’s the only explanation for your apathy.” Tony gripes and puts gloves on, then ties a rubber thing around my arm so he can take blood. Loki’s eyebrows furrow.

“I am not familiar with your expression.” He responds and I shake my head at Tony before he says another word.

“He’s surprised at your lack of empathy, trench coat.” I translate for him without Tony’s colorful embellishments, but that just seems to make him more confused.

“Really? I thought it was perfectly obvious I have no heart.” Loki quips and gets a begrudging chuckle from Tony. I just roll my eyes and flinch when Tony sticks me.

“Perhaps you have been slipping in more ways than one, brother.” Thor enters with a big smile on his face and as soon as he’s beside Loki, his frigid touch leaves me. “We both know how much you adore your older brother.” Thor teases Loki and I can’t help but smirk at the clear irritation on his face. “How is our little witch of questionable morals?” He asks and I laugh.

“Fine, but just refer to me as the witch. I don’t belong to anyone.” Lies. My subconscious whispers in my head at the end and I huff. Although, I feel just a little satisfaction at seeing the corner of Loki’s mouth turn up at my words. Thor absorbs this and nods, instantly accepting the change.

“So be it. Have you been asked any questions yet?” He asks as Tony removes the needle full of my blood, replacing it with a cotton ball and bright green band-aid. Appropriate.

“No, I’ve mostly just been poked and prodded by Mr. Science guy over here.” I gesture to Tony who is now putting drops of my blood into multiple containers in multiple places.

“Friday, run a full diagnostic of this and get back to me when you have a hit.” Tony requests and puts the rest of my blood into a tiny fridge under the concrete counter to the right of where I’m sitting. “You can get down now. She’s all yours, gentlemen.” He waves us away and looks intently into a microscope. I hop off the counter and bounce on the balls of my feet.

“Alrighty, gods of Asgard, where to?” I look between the two of them and nearly roll my eyes at how their chests puff out at their titles. “Geez.” I breathe and head out in front of them, deciding if they weren’t going to do anything then I’m going to explore. They’re quick to catch up and flank me, but I instantly move to Loki’s left side to give me some more space.

“Was anything discovered by Stark?” Thor asks Loki more than me, so I continue peeking into each room we pass.

“She has an extremely elevated body temperature, reflexes far faster than average, the strength of a full-grown warrior, and a very poor attitude.” He pokes fun at me and I shake my head then turn into what looks like a kitchen.

“Thank god, food.” I mumble and walk straight to the bread to make a sandwich.

“Dinner’s going to be here in ten minutes.” A soft female voice drifts over to me and I perk up at the sound. After tucking the opening of the bread underneath its body, I turn around and go on my tiptoes to see over the L-shaped bar. A lovely red-head is sitting on the couch lazily scrolling through her phone.

“Ah, hello black spider!” Thor greets her happily, but when she looks up and sees Loki her gaze turns to ice.

“Hi.” She greets Thor and looks back to her phone. I decide to talk to her. There’s no reason for her to hate me, right? It’s been forever since I’ve met a girl that can’t instantly hate me. Quietly, I walk over and sit on the couch beside her lounging on a chase looking thing.

“You’re Natasha Romanoff, right? Uh, hello.” I greet her shakily, unused to the nervousness in my gut.

“You weren’t this nice when you met us.” Loki accuses as Thor pouts.

“That’s because men are usually assholes. Shut up.” I turn and scold before once again giving Natasha my attention. It seems I now have hers as well and there’s a small smirk on her lips.

“Just Natasha. You’re the one who froze Aries over there, huh?” She asks and I clearly hear Loki’s sigh of annoyance at being called another name.

“God of mischief and tricks, not war and whatever the hell else.” He corrects her quietly and her smirk grows a tad. I nod the affirmative and she sits up straight to appraise me.

“Good one. Now, is there any way you could make him stop talking forever?” She teases and even Thor chuckles this time, which earns him an elbow to the gut from Loki. “How about you eat with me tonight? The best cure for idiocy is a girl’s night.” She suggests with a small glance at the two men still standing in the doorway.

“She still needs to be questioned.” Thor points out and she shrugs.

“I’ll do it. No problem. What do you say?” Her eyes are steady on mine and I can’t help noticing they’re just a shade lighter than my real skin tone. Giddy with the thought of having a friend that’s a girl, Ghost included, I accept almost instantly.

“I’m in.” The corner of my mouth lifts and I immediately trail after her when she hops up and heads out the door, ducking under a man who walks in with a mountain of pizzas in his arms.

“Go to Steve Rogers with the bill!” She shouts over her shoulder after grabbing two off the top of his stack. We go up a floor in silence and enter her room that looks practically identical to mine. She could leave and no one would ever know she was here. Except for the various pictures of the team scattered around in strangely candid photos. They look as if they were taken without their knowledge which makes me admire her just a little more. She sets the pizzas down on the coffee table and I sit across from her. In a smooth motion I almost don’t notice, she pulls out a gun from the couch cushions, then sets it down on the table. “So, I need answers quickly and without elaboration. Unless I specifically ask for it. Are you in any way affiliated with Hydra?” Natasha asks succinctly with her eyes burning intensely into mine.

“No.” I answer coolly, knowing I can freeze her quicker than she can pull the trigger. Hopefully, anyways.

“Do you have any intention of hurting anyone on this team?” Her next question is just as quick as my answer and I know she’s going down a list in her head.

“No.”

“Why are there no records of you being on this earth until you were twelve?” She asks and I hesitate, my lips parting to answer then pausing.

“Because I don’t think I was.” I answer the best I can and watch her fingers tap her jean clad knee.

“Elaborate.” She commands with furrowed brows. After a few tense breaths and a staring contest, I try to answer.

“Uh, well. I’m not so sure I’m…uh…human?” My statement comes out as more of a question after her eyes quickly scan me warily. “I just remember waking up in a place called London next to a man promising to help me. He took me back to the states and gave me a place to stay, food, drink, everything.” I tell her in my calmest voice, but it gets hard. Mentioning him makes me feel guilty and dirty, since I threw all that back in his face. Her eyes soften and she nods, but there’s a sharp edge in her eyes that screams uneasiness.

“Strike.” She confirms and I flinch just at the name. “All those things didn’t come without a price, did they?” Natasha asks with a surprising amount of understanding in her eyes and a softness in her voice. I shake my head.

“I had to pay rent like everyone else.” I state factually and shrug. She takes this moment to hand me a piece of cheese pizza. Well, at least I earned food, right?

“People usually just pay with money.” She points out and I roll my eyes.

“And how was I to earn that? At least all I did was sleep around; I could’ve gone down the street and murdered people for cash instead.” I sass. The uneasiness in her eyes fades a little and I briefly wonder what I said to reassure her.

“So, at least you were moral about your immorality?” Natasha questions and takes a piece of pizza herself. I smile slightly.

“Exactly.” I confirm and eat my piece of pizza as she watches.

“So, what do you remember from twelve and below?” She asks and finally leans back against the couch, relaxing a little more in my presence. I finish my pizza and move to another piece, honestly, I don’t remember the last time I had pizza. It’s fantastic.

“Uh, not much actually. I remember tall trees. Trees taller than the buildings here and a sky that’s pink and yellow constantly swirling together.” I sigh in nostalgia and shake my head. “That’s it.” She nods slowly, already on her second piece of pizza like me.

“Alright. We’ll talk to Thor later, maybe tomorrow. For now, how about you change into sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, then come back and we’ll watch a movie.” Natasha suggests and stands, getting out her own olive sweatpants and brown baggy shirt. My brows furrow at the mere concept. She pauses and examines my expression, then nods her head once in understanding. “Listen, I’ll be frank with you if you’ll be frank with me.” She speaks again and tosses the clothes on the couch, perching on the arm gracefully. I nod once. “I understand more than anyone else here what you’ve been through, at least…on this earth. The whole ‘you always have to look good’ is bullshit. You look how you want here. Got it?” Natasha tells me in a firm voice that somehow reminds me of a parent. After a second I nod and stand, grabbing another slice on my way out. When I get to my room and change it feels weirder than it should. I don’t look horrible in this, but it’s my first time in a long time that I’m not dressed to impress. Ghost isn’t here, but he ate all his food so I’m not worried about him. I slip back up into Natasha’s room without being seen and find she’s laying on the couch with her feet propped up on a pillow.

“This means we’re friends, right?” I ask jokingly, but my tone is a little serious. She smiles and gestures to the chair across from her with a little foot rest and a blanket thrown over it.

“Why? Not too many friends in your past line of work?” Natasha asks lightly and I smirk. I’m glad to have someone who can take it lightly instead of looking at me horrified like the guys did. I sit and cover up with the blanket.

“Being the boss’s favorite has its drawbacks.” My reply is short and sober, but it catches her attention.

“I’m sure it does.” She responds weightily without taking her eyes off the television. “Alright, any movies you haven’t seen, but wanted to?” Natasha asks and starts searching through Netflix on her flatscreen. Eventually, we settle on Mean Girls since I’ve never seen it and Natasha insisted. We get to where Gretchen Wiener yells, “You can’t sit with us!” when we hear a, surprisingly high-pitched, man scream. We meet each other’s eyes and Natasha pauses the movie. It happens again and we’re both up and running to the source, the handgun from earlier in Natasha’s hand. We both sprint down a flight of stairs and follow a string of shouted curse words back to Tony’s lab.

“Aw, shit.”

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #avengers #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #loki and daughter #adopted daughter #loki and adopted daughter #sweet #cute #caring #daddy loki #loki friggason #parent avengers #the poisonous cure #the poisonous cure chap three

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spideychelle-romanogers · 7 years

Text

Don’t Have To Explain It

Making of Michelle Jones - Prologue, Chapter 4

Start from the beginning || Series Masterlist || Previous Chapter

After catching Michelle stealing jewels, the new mystery she brings into Peter's life defines his next adventure. There are new dangers coming to NYC and Michelle is playing a bigger part in Spider-Man's mission than Peter ever imagined.

Chapter 4: Michelle surprises Spider-Man with sorely needed information.

T/W: none Beta: Splendid_Splendont Tags: spideychelle, pan!Peter, demi!Michelle, slow burn

After taking another swing in the gut, Peter had to call for a break. Limply hugging the floor, he wheezed for air as Tony approached him. They had been sparring for about half an hour, Peter having to fight Tony without his suit.

"This is sad," Tony noted.

"This is crazy!" Peter didn't want to complain but after a week of this, he'd had enough. He knew he was in training but Tony went very hard on him whenever they practiced. "When is our training going to stop kicking me in the ass?"

"You're right. We should cancel all of this. Just skip training altogether. You go back to school, I go back to doing anything but this-"

"Okay, okay," Peter got up slowly, having to pick himself completely off the ground like a sticky piece of gum. Every part of him was aching. He pulled his arms back up.

"I'm proud of you kid," Tony said mostly sarcastic before swinging again. He'd barely hit Peter before he collapsed. "Okay, I'm calling it. Take the next few days off. Keep practicing. Come back when you're ready." Peter stared after him, pathetically trying to get up and failing.

"Let me get back to street watch."

"You're at about saving cats from trees level."

"I can do more with the suit."

"You are only worth what you can do without the suit. Give it a few weeks, kid."

A few days later, Peter had yet to hear back from Tony. He knew why he was being ignored. Somewhere during the break, he'd gone on to stop a few in-progress robberies on the local banks in his area. There was a system for figuring out when each of them was going to get hit, but he didn't really know what it was. Whatever the formula was for the timing, the police definitely had it pinned down so as long as he followed them, he'd always end up at the right place at the right time.

However, this led to him getting a lot of attention in the media and nearly getting caught twice. Every day the headline would feature Spider-Man, with pictures of the criminals that were caught. Peter was going to try and read some of the articles but he heard Michelle approaching him and had to shut down his tablet.

Getting through class was no big issue. She was generally occupied with her own thoughts. She seemed really fidgety, looking at anyone but Peter. Michelle asked him to be the one to get the book when the teacher called for them to pick up texts at the front of the class. He didn't think it would cause any issue, but raising his arms to get the book and then carrying it over was enough to keep him wincing the entire time. Michelle made eye contact with him, and waited as if she was expecting an answer. He didn't know what to say.

"Are you okay?" Michelle prompted.

"Why?"

"You can barely move without groaning and that textbook is only like two pounds but you look like you're getting your teeth pulled."

"I, uh, I fell down some stairs." The expression on her face was hard to read. She leaned in and lowered her voice:

"Is this Flash again?" Peter didn't think anyone knew about that.

"No! I told you."

"Right. Okay. Stairs." Michelle raised her hands in defeat. After a brief silence, she opened the textbook and continued. "What's the deal with you two anyway?"

"Just drop it already," Peter quipped back quietly. She didn't say too much after that and Peter regretted his words. He was starting to think that it was concern in her tone and he quite liked that feeling. He wanted them to be friends. It was hard to get on terms with this decision he had and Peter wished he knew more about the situation. Michelle wasn't one to open up but it was finally hitting Peter that she had to have a good reason for what she did.

He acted on an impulse as Michelle began drawing on her notebook. "How's your dad?" She stopped.

"Why?"

"I just don't think I've asked in a while."

"He's fine." She met his eyes, looking serious.

"I haven't seen him-"

"Just drop it already," She echoed. Peter nodded, realizing that reply was only fair. She started tapping her foot again, and it wasn't until he realized that she had stopped at any point that he realized she had been doing that all of class.

“Are you okay?” He asked after a minute.

“Just nervous.” Peter never met her again the next day. He had asked her to go to the roof of the library. It had been a week since he promised to meet her and he hadn't contacted her since as Spider-Man. He just didn't have an idea or a decision on how to handle the theft. It didn't feel right to let it go all together but the only way to keep Michelle around long enough to understand what was wrong was to postpone the decision.

Peter tried to dash to his room and get his suit but Aunt May stopped him at the door as he was on his way out. She was trying to get into the apartment with all of her grocery bags. He put down his backpack and instantly took one of the boxes out of her hands.

"Peter! Where are you off to?" She asked curiously. He was honestly just startled to see her. It was too early for her to be out of work. "And don't say work. Today is your day off." It was so uncharacteristic of her to be keeping track of him, Peter didn't even know what to tell her.

"I just got here. I'm just going to go up and study. Big exam tomorrow."

"Oh." Her demeanor changed completely. "I'm sorry. I've just been worried about you. You've been at your internship so many hours each day."

"Don't worry," He shrugged, "It's fine." He went to help her quickly with the grocery bags. He started unpacking as soon as they finished bringing them in.

"You seem tired all the time. I just don't want this to hurt your grades or run you down."

"It won't." For the first time, Peter really worried about his schoolwork. Parent-teacher conferences were coming up and Aunt May was a huge stickler about school, worse than Tony. If his grades went down at all, he knew she'd force him to quit the 'internship'. If only she knew how much it meant to him. There was no other excuse he could have for being at Tony's so often. Peter knew this was one of the least of his problems but it did add to his worry.

Finally running out, he had to sneak out the window to get to Michelle. It wasn't that great an inconvenience, he just felt bad for lying to his aunt. It was one thing to keep secrets but he knew there was a chance she'd come and check on him. It'd look like he ran away to defy her or something and he didn't like the idea of that. He did his best to spare his aunt any grief.

Michelle looked so upset to see him when he called her into the alley as Spider-man. She had been heading to the library, as always. If there was one thing Peter could appreciate it was that at least her schedule was predictable, even if she wasn't.

"What's wrong?"

"You made me go up on that rooftop for nothing." She looked so much angrier about this than was reasonable. He couldn't even tell where it was coming from.

"I know. I'm sorry. I had to cancel. You might have heard, I've been busy."

"Yeah, it's all over the news. "

"Can we go up and talk about this?"

"I don't want to go up there." He really couldn't see why she was being so difficult.

"Fine, pick a rooftop, any rooftop."

"You're missing the point. I hate tall buildings."

"Like you're afraid of heights?" he asked, confused.

"Shut up." It seemed like a quip at him for figuring it out. Michelle turned and was suddenly staring at the street like she had seen a ghost.

Fear of heights. That made a lot of sense. Peter thought about how angry she was about getting picked up and taken to the rooftops. She hated getting picked up. It wasn't about him, it was about the altitude.

"Can-" Peter immediately forgot what he was going to ask when he followed her eye line.

It was Flash Thompson. Staring at them. About to reach for his phone.

Peter didn't even know what to do, he just immediately flew himself to another rooftop to get away. By instinct, he supposed, he grabbed Michelle too. When they reached the roof of the café across the street, she was out of breath and clearly uncomfortable. He winced. He couldn't even tell what was worse, the fact that Flash saw them or that he just brought her to a rooftop seconds after being told that she was afraid.

"Sorry, it's a habit."

"Please get me down, I want to go home." Though she didn't sound scared, her tone was empty. It seemed more like a request than a demand. He nodded and took her down to the sidewalk, without a word about it. She shut her eyes the entire time.

The next day at school, Peter immediately searched for Michelle the moment he walked through the doors. As soon as he saw Flash by Michelle's locker, he turned back around the corner to watch from afar. Michelle got to her locker, and was clearly trying to ignore him. Peter had to be relieved that Michelle was willing to keep a secret. She wasn't really answering his questions.

"But you have to admit his voice sounds familiar!" He heard after a few minutes. He didn't like to see Flash raising his voice at Michelle but it at least meant he'd be able to hear them.

"Thompson. It was the first time I met him. I don't know who he is or what he wanted."

"Just hear me out-" Peter came out from behind the corner, trying to look casual. "Hey Michelle." He never really visited her outside of class and lunch, but she wasn't surprised when he approached. Peter would just do anything to get Flash to go away. "What are you two talking about?" He could already feel the 'none of your business' coming, but Flash piped in instead.

"Parker."

"Thompson."

Michelle had been about to answer when she noticed the tension between them. "Okay. I need to get to class." She pushed past them and walked, not turning back even as they both stared after her.

The fact that Flash recognized Spider-Man's voice concerned Peter. Had Michelle picked up on that too? Maybe she knew who he was by now. He planned on inquiring about that during their class together but she never showed. She was marked absent and he couldn't really think of a good reason why. He took to reading the news on his tablet as he waited for her. After a few minutes, the class went on to start their lab project for the day. Peter worked alone when someone joined him. Looking up, he startled when he saw it was Liz. "H-Hi."

She chuckled. "I don't have a partner. Can we work together?"

"Yea-Y-Yes. Yes. That's-" He cut himself off when she started giggling. "That's fine." Peter understood in this moment the irony of how he was this training to be a superhero but talking to his crush was enough to make him forget how to speak English. She didn't seem to mind. He just hoped he wasn't blushing.

As they worked, Peter did his best not to stare. Focusing on the project kept him from saying anything stupid, but Liz seemed very interested in talking about anything but the project. That wasn't surprising, considering whenever he looked to her during the class he could tell she wasn't getting much done. Liz was more of a social person, she liked to talk too much to be able to focus during her projects.

Okay, maybe it was a little weird that he'd noticed that. Did that mean he stared too much? Was Michelle right about that?

Liz talked most of the time though so he never had to say anything. Suddenly Liz was saying goodbye and he realized that the class had actually ended minutes ago. He packed up quickly, realizing he was going to be late to class. Before he could walk out, he saw Michelle sitting at the desk closest to the door.

"Wait, you were here?"

"Came in late."

"Why didn't you come sit with me?"

"Liz was there. There was no way I was getting in the middle of that." She looked amused, like there was a joke he was missing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She laughed and stared at him for a minute. "Oh, you're serious." She didn't even bother explaining. Peter stood there and waited and she just didn't answer him. "Never mind." Peter wanted to get more out of her, but he knew better. Michelle was never one for straight answers.

"Shouldn't you be leaving?"

"My next class is here. And that's still none of your business," She noted. At this rate, he was starting to get used to that answer. It never seemed to be related to her wanting to offend him. If she wanted to offend him, he'd know. He knew her well enough to start recognizing those patterns at least.

"Where were you?"

"Flash Thompson. He's been really needy today." She shrugged.

"What does he want?"

"I don't know. He's always trying to copy my homework. Doesn't take no for an answer." She was such a convincing liar. Peter didn't like the chill it gave him. If he didn't know the truth, he'd have no real chance of catching her. "Thanks for interfering before."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you around the corner. Thanks for butting in." Peter had to soak in the fact that this was probably the nicest conversation they'd had in awhile. "You're going to be late to class," She warned him, nodding at the clock.

Peter smiled. "That's none of your business."

Michelle actually laughed.

"You want what?" Tony asked, as though begging Peter to say that he misheard. Peter was in the middle of training, now sparring with a coach specializing in some form of combat that Peter couldn't pronounce or spell, but it involved sticks and reaction time. Tony was wandering around their stage, working on a diagnostic for Peter's suit.

This was so much more time investment on his part than Peter had expected. He had lowered his expectations after they talked about retiring Spider-Man. Peter still couldn't figure out why Stark was so available to him when he clearly didn't want Peter around.

"One of my classmates is convinced I sound like Spider-Man," He lied. It was an embellishment of the truth at worst. If Tony taught him one thing it was that lies that get results are worth the trouble. "If there was just a way to slightly change my voice through the mask, I'd be able to cover my bases." He was heaving his breath by now, exhausted from sparring.

Tony considered it. "One of these days, you'll have to start telling me the truth." Peter sighed. "Lucky for you, this sounds like a fun challenge. I've never had to use voice distortion in any of my projects before."

"Well, yeah," Peter noted as if it was obvious. Tony stared at him. "You always want people to know that it's you." Tony smiled.

"That's true. I'll do it. Speaking of covering your bases, would you like to tell me why you've been actively ignoring my instructions?" Peter picked himself up off the ground. "Do you think I don't read the news?"

"It's a long story."

"Uh-huh. You've got to be more careful. Remember you're still working out of your house. Anyone could be following you and you're not exactly equipped to go public." Peter had expected him to make threats or try to convince him to stop pursuing this case.

"That's it? Seriously?"

"I'd say 'don't go' but you don't exactly listen." The instructor switched tactics. With one swing sweeping across the floor, Peter fell to the ground with a loud groan. Tony seemed pleased. "You are getting better!"

"Really? Because it feels like you're just paying people to beat me up."

"Can't blame me for trying. Maybe then you'll listen."

Spider-Man met Michelle at the entrance to her house. She startled when she saw him on her porch. "I feel like we're both getting tired of me stalking you," He started.

"Yup."

"So why don't you just tell me?"

"It is non-"

"It is my business." It was a full minute before she finally spoke up.

"Anywhere but here. That kid that saw us goes to my school! He's been following me all day."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I wouldn't wish that on anybody."

"What?"

"I just meant, he just seemed annoying. When I saw him." She stared at him. "What?"

"Nothing. You just make a lot of judgments at face value."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Can we meet anywhere we won't get caught?...And don't say a rooftop." Peter shrugged. She sighed out, disappointed. "I know a place but you can't tell anyone."

"Is this wall ever going to end?" Peter asked, uncomfortable. He and Michelle were wedged in so tightly Peter didn't even think he could breathe too deeply. There had been a rough staircase covered with caution tape at the opening. He knew ahead of time that this was going to less than comfortable. After dodging that tape, she pulled him into a tiny ridge in between two other walls, filled with scraps of metal and long steel bars.

There was a bigger tunnel to slip through, a spacious one, but she told him to join her in this suffocating hole instead. Peter felt like the walls could crush him at any second. He'd seen a number of spiderwebs and even Michelle seemed surprised at the difficulty. She had told him she hadn't been there since she was much smaller, but he didn't know she meant THIS small.

"This is the shorter way, trust me. The other way is blocked off. They didn't think anyone could fit this way so there's nothing to stop us." Michelle pulled out of the hole and ducked under through a gaping hole in the wall.

Peter had no idea what to expect, but when he pulled through the hole, he was stunned to see the full tunnel. It was so spacious. The many levels separated the space, each step being about two feet taller than the next. The lowest level seemed like it had been paved in a specific pattern.

"Subway tracks," he observed. She nodded.

"My brother and I found this when we were just kids. We'd bring things here. We were obsessed with this show where the kids had some magic tree house or bus or something and they'd travel through time. We'd pretend this was our lair. It was a long time ago. I figured it had to still be here I just wasn't sure. It looks exactly the same."

"What is this place?"

"We never really figured that out. If it was a subway platform, no one ever finished it. I've seen some people come every once in a while to tape it off or add more signs but that's it."

"What happened to your brother?" He asked suddenly. Michelle clammed up instantly.

"Why do you care so much?"

"I'm trying to find reasons to let you go, but you're not giving me a reason."

"I'm not exactly a sharing person."

"Just tell me why you did it and I'll leave you alone." It was a full minute until she spoke up again.

"My dad got injured a year ago at work. He can't walk anymore." She seemed to be debating with herself what to say. "We've been living off his disability checks and with my brother not around anymore, it's been sort of difficult to keep things going. His treatment is getting more expensive. The doctors think that some kind of surgery might fix it. But we can't really afford it. He's getting desperate."

"Desperate how?"

"There's this company looking for test subjects for some trial. He wants to sign up since it'd mean someone else would be paying for the treatment."

"That's good."

"I don't like the idea of my dad being someone's guinea pig. I know stealing seems drastic but he's all I've got. Turn me in if you want but I'm not giving them back. I don't want him to do something he'll regret. He's not thinking clearly."

Peter stayed quiet for a long time. He was trying to figure out what he could do. It would be wrong to let this go. He couldn't just start making exceptions. At the end of the day, whoever owned that store was going to pay for the fact that Michelle stole. The property wasn't Peter's to give away, even if he stopped the other thieves. Michelle didn't have the money or means to pay it off and neither did he.

"Use the money," He said finally, knowing that that was the one part of his answer that he knew for sure. "We need to find a way for you to pay it off."

"Pay it off? Like what?"

"I don't know yet."

"Don't you have your hands full with the Kerrig robberies?"

"The what?"

"The bank robbers."

"Kerrig?"

"All of the banks they've hit so far use Kerrig safes. They have some universal key or something. It was a flaw in their repairing model."

"How do you know that?"

"I did some digging."

"Why?"

"I don't know this is just something I do. Benny says he knows a guy who was bragging about it at the bar a few years ago. He disappeared off the map or something, no one knew where he went." Peter had an idea but he held back, knowing it'd only make things more complicated.

If Michelle could prove useful to his work, he could possibly find a way to pay back the jewels. Surely there was a criminal or two they could lift money off of. Maybe it wouldn't be right but if they were going to jail anyway surely it didn't matter. Michelle pulled him out of his thoughts suddenly. "It's really weird talking to a mask. That eye thing is creepy-"

"Meet me here tomorrow." Peter immediately ducked under the hole and started making his way through the thin wall again. Michelle didn’t even get to answer but it was probably better that way. He already knew she'd try to refuse.

A/N: This chapter has been posted in Michelle's POV (for that guest who requested it).

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shadows-of-almsivi · 7 years

Note

{late middle aged and market}

The marketplace laid itself out in three parts: trades and crafts nearest to the city, the meat-market nearest the docks, and the grocers and spice-traders middling between. A clever design, both in the neat draining of the meat-market’s gore into the sea, and in cunningly tempting customers with a gauntlet of distracting trinkets between them and their necessities.

Moraelyn observed from the wayside alley, mapping the layout while he rested on a low garden wall. A glassblower spun delicate fancies and ornate perfume vessels before an appreciative audience of children, a furrier brushed out a cloak trimmed in what was claimed to be summer ermine but which was clearly squirrel, a jeweller strung vivid blue faience beads into a lady’s necklace. The markets were busier than usual this morning, not that he’d been inside this particular city long enough to know all of its tides and tendencies. With any luck, nor would he stay to learn. All these tall, straight edges felt as inherently wrong to the eye as a broken limb, after the endless steppes and forests on either side of the thrice-cursed, interminable mountains, and the guards were bored enough to notice every passerby.

He slid down, as gingerly as he could hide himself being. Four weeks, four blasted weeks he had crept and crawled across the Druadach ranges, cutting his hands on the jagged flint and slate, freezing in the wind. Eighty-five leagues should have been eight days’ hard ride, twelve days to account for subterfuge and border patrols, before that rockslide had taken his horse and damned near killed him. If he were a superstitious mer– and he was, by the Three– he’d say that Skyrim couldn’t resist slinging him one last mauling, for old time’s sake. Bitter bitch-of-a-hell that it was.

He watched his step, slipping between the carts and carriages, picking his way down the hill to the marketplace near the docks. The damp stayed on the cobblestones from dawn to midday and back, treacherous as a Breton courtier’s tongue. His ankle ached at every other step, as much as he tried to disguise the limp. A travelling surgeon had made sure the bone was set correctly, binding the joint with rawhide and cloth to keep it still, but could only offer laudanum tinctures for the pain. He’d declined; no matter how strong the pain, or how weak the laudanum, he remembered his fatal weakness for opium too well.

He wouldn’t trap himself like that again. He took a long pull on his palm-flask under the cover of a passing bullock dray, cold juniper gin searing him to the gut.

The sounds of beckoning stallkeeps and clattering brass scales drew his attention in too many directions at once. Fine horseflesh stomped and whinnied, rattling their traces, impatient for their new masters. A series of tiny whines emanated from a basket of pups, each more darling than the last. Even if one could stopper their ears and render themselves blind, all about were the smells of luxury and industry to draw the mind from bread and meat: sweet-burning incense and oils, molasses-thick tobacco cut through with saffron, the wax-musk of new leather, the clean laundry smells of good vellum and fine linen. Lingering near a potter’s stall to admire her glazework, he had to remind himself repeatedly of the purpose of his being here.

He shifted his basket from one arm to the other, mindful of the two men in grey by the blacksmith’s bellows. Nondescript in stance and feature, they talked amongst themselves, drew no attention. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about their appearance at all, in fact, which was half reason enough to peak Moraelyn’s wariness. There was almost always something amiss about men with faces too unremarkable to take note of; he’d thought much the same the first two times he’d seen them.

His eyes skated to his reflection in the gutter, making certain for the dozenth time that the wood-ash powder still hid his facial tattoos, trying not to scowl at himself. It had been some time since he had last visited a decent barber, or coloured his hair. Bright veins of silver slashed pale comets into the once-fine ebony, now more like black agate, almost white at the temples. The beard he so hated had grown well past stubble, too. Lords, what a ruin…

Admirable self-control brought him past the crisp new greens, the bright array of fruits and vegetables, with only a moment of temporary distraction by a bushel of tender fiddleback fronds to slow his progress. Saints, traversing the markets while still so ravenous was turning into one of the worst ideas he’d ever had; everything looked so enchantingly good. The jewelled gleam of pomegranate and new-peeled persimmon made his mouth water, even the little grape-leaf packages of lemon pieces dipped in sugar. And oh, oh, Saints help him, was that the smell of the spice traders’ tables, piled high and bright with coriander and firefern, tephra pepper and turmeric… He adjusted his hood and headed towards the sea.

The meat-market was thick with stalls and enterprise, loud with the cries of store barkers and the noise of livestock. By the south corner, a stockyard auctioneer hawked shaggy, narrow-hocked cattle for far too high a price, while a band of pry-skins and knockermen worked the hide from a dead carriage-horse. Further to the east where the hill sloped away, a sea-butcher smoked his pipe while his apprentices cleaved meat from bone with silent efficiency. Their stall-hooks dripped heavy with the rich, wine-dark flesh of wolf seal and bantam-whale, tied bundles of bright sea-snake and lancefish like hanging intestine, intestine hung like ropecoil. On the docks themselves, where the ocean mist fell to kiss their stock with salt, fishermen and whalers off the Sea of Ghosts chatted amiably amongst themselves as they unloaded their hauls. Stray wharf cats milled ecstatically around the dockworkers, twining around the coiled moorings to sing for cast-off sprats and fish-guts, or else batting at the many keening gulls.

An Altmer in an oil-stained whaler’s sash labored at a cleaning table, assembled from an old door slung across two barrels stood on their ends. He seemed weary to his bones, despite the hour being only noon. A great dogtooth shark lay beneath his heavy knife, its body twice too long for the table. Its head was severed and set to the side, the stinging barbels clipped off for safety’s sake, gaping its bristling needle fangs to the sky. The Altmer paused to wash off the table with a bucket of seawater, sending the vivid red blood down between the dock’s boards.

Moraelyn watched him work for a moment. “Tight chains and full lines, wayfarer.”

“Well met.” The Altmer hefted his blade well, chopping loose the left fin in a few strokes. “Whaler?”

Moraelyn nodded, stepping slightly to the side to avoid the splash of blood and brine. “Here and there, of a sort. I was a flenser.”

The Altmer glanced up at that, keen green eyes now carrying some speck of curious respect. “Oh?” He set the knife down, twisting the second fin loose from its socket to lie beside its brother. His hands bore rippling scars from fingertip to wrist, following the veins into his sleeves. “Who’d you cut for?”

Moraelyn leaned against the makeshift table. The sea air felt good on his face, icy as it was, thick with salt and iron. “The dock crews for the Abecean Whaling Company, until East Empire’s dogs crushed them out. Topal Bay, for a while.” He ran a finger down the deceptively smooth-looking skin of the shark’s pointed snout, tracing the line between pearly white and storm-marbled slate. The black eyes stared out, featureless and empty, like black mirrors. “A great size to the beast. Your own catch?”

“M-hm. Fresh this morning, if you were after a pound. Only just stopped twitching an hour ago. Took him while he was chewing on one of our blackfish.” The whaler straightened, puffed his chest. He pointed with his thumb to a jagged gap in the liver-red gill-slits. “See here? Threw a harpoon from the deck, caught him right here in the gills, easily twenty paces.” He rolled the shoulder of his blade arm with a faint wince. “Took an hour to haul him up, mind. He did not care for it at all.”

Moraelyn laughed. “I’m sure, I’m sure. And you must have quite a skill, to throw a harpoon that far and that well.”

“Well, you know…” He rubbed a gore-smeared hand self-consciously on his breeches, tucking down his chin to hide a smile. He nodded to a once-clean crewpatch on his sash, a white diamond crossed with iron blubber-hooks. “I’ve been sailing with the Diamond for nigh-on 10 years, I’d say. She’s the finest whaler on the seas today, not that you can tell these old tub-runners that. Quickest clipper by a damn sight, though, that’s for sure.”

“It must be,” Moraelyn murmured. “I’ve never heard of any ship that could travel half around Tamriel and back in a single day.”

The mer blinked, shifted. “Come again?”

“If you recall, I worked in Topal Bay. I daresay I should be familiar with this beast by now, it likes the estuaries there.” Moraelyn petted the shark’s cold cheek, the neutered stumps of its barbels. “I don’t doubt you caught it this morning, it’s peerless fresh as you say. So how does a Topal Bay fish turn up on your table?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered tersely, setting back to his work. “Don’t think I care for your tone, either. We run a perfectly honest ship, you can check our itineraries.”

“Ease yourself,” Moraelyn soothed, coming to stand a little closer. “Do I look like a guardsman to you… What I have is a proposition.”

The butcher’s knife hacked a long slit into the belly, from gill to tailfin. “Piss on your proposition.”

“All I want is transport: one passenger, one destination. Not far. Nothing illegal–well, nothing bad. Nothing especially taxing, even.” Moraelyn let his coinpurse fall onto the dock, kicking it beneath the table to hit the mer’s boots as he pretended to examine the shark’s teeth. “Two hundred,” he said softly, “one before, one after. Fair?”

The guts were hauled out hand over fist, dumped into a basin and set down on the dock. When he stood, the coinpurse had vanished. “Fair enough.” The Altmer’s eyes roved over the crowd restlessly as he wiped his hands off on a rag. Two men in grey were debating the price of eel, but no guards seemed present. “Suppose it won’t be too hard to squeeze you aboard. Where did you want to go?”

“I’ve a need to be in Wayrest.” Moraelyn smiled. “In five minutes.”

He barked a hard, dry laugh. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” he asked. “No ship can make that trip. It’s three hundred leagues ‘round the Iliac horn from here–”

“–Which would matter if I were chartering a ship.” Moraelyn came to his side, looking out to sea. A storm seemed to be brewing further to the east. His hand rested educationally on the hilt of his hip-dagger. “I like you, skipjack, but I’m in something of a hurry,” he murmured. “Don’t be tiresome, I haven’t the time. Can you do what I suspect, or not?”

The mer dried his knife fastidiously, until the pitched steel gleamed in the sun. He dropped his voice to a cheerful mutter, all offence washing from him in a heartbeat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I can do it. Sorry for the theatrics, you never know who’s listening.” He handed off his knife to a crewmate in a matching sash, waving for Moraelyn to follow him. “Come on. We can use the spare whaleboat in the blubber room. You’re rowing, though. I’ll need my head.”

The gangplank pitched gently beneath Moraelyn’s feet. He grit his teeth on the spike of pain from his ankle, on ancient old terrors he couldn’t afford to give into. The Altmer held open the door to a storage cabin; he soothed himself that he would not be inside for long. He knew whaling ships, knew the thousand-and-one ways that they were unalike to prison barques. He named them one by one as he crossed the deck: the grease that blackened the wood, the harpoons and blubber-gaffs lashed to the sides, the cooper’s grindstone bolted to the deck…

As he slipped inside and closed the door behind them, his mind mostly on his breathing and the stillness of his expression, he heard the most pleasant sounds he’d heard all day: two men in grey being shouted off the ship for trespassing. He allowed himself a smile.

His new friend dragged the oilskins off the whaleboat, a little like a wide canoe with room for twelve men sat two abreast. They climbed into the middle with haste, sitting across from each other. “Give me your hand,” the Altmer whispered, offering his own as he glanced back towards the door. “And grab the hull. We’ll have to do this quick, before the ship sets out and I can’t find it.”

Moraelyn obliged, the whaler’s calloused fingers feeling not terribly different to the wood. “No need to strain yourself for accuracy,” he said. He dug his nails into the painted hull, closed his eyes. “Within sight of the city would be enough.”

“You got it. All right, here we go…”

First was the static, crawling over every inch of him, humming unpleasantly in his bones. A whining, ringing sound filled both his ears and, somehow, his teeth. A disorienting rush overtook him, his stomach knotting itself as his body insisted he was falling at great speed, in several directions at once. He kept his eyes shut tight, his jaw clenched against the instinct to scream even as he fell faster and faster–

A splash of cold water hit his face with a sudden shock, soaking his hair and beating the wind out of him. His eyes opened to clear skies and bright sun, a sweep of empty, pebbled beach curving around them in a sheltering arc. The sound of the ocean echoed in the sheltered cove like an amphitheatre. In the distance, further down the strand, the shipyard of a great city bristled with masts and smoke.

“Here we are! The Jewel of the Bay. And not too far from shore, neither, I’ve done you a favor there.” The whaler gently pried Moraelyn’s fingers from their bloodless death-grip around his hand, laughing good-naturedly at the grinding bones. “You right, mate? You mustn’t do this sort of thing… Often…”

Moraelyn felt the stare, the flinching away. He wiped water from his eyes, saw his fingers come away gritty with wet ashes. He could feel the rest trickling into his collar, bearing his vivid red tattoos to the light, glaring-bright as shark’s gills. He sighed.

“You get your picture drawn much?” The mer eyed him differently now, too still and too wary. He seemed pale. His expression spoke of old warrant notices. “I’m sure I’ve seen those marks before.”

A cloth sack was tossed into the whaler’s lap with a pretty chiming of coin. The second half, as he had promised. Moraelyn gave the mer a thin smile, taking up the oars.

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

#Anonymous #this became a small adventure #a few hints at The Whaling Story #drabbles #fics and drabbles #so you remember how the Empire banned certain magics right #asks #askmemes

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