Burnt to the Core ♨ Prologue | reader(f) x Firelord Zuko
synopsis: you are firelord zuko's direct attendant. zuko has long reformed the fire nation after ozai's takedown and zuko's assuming of power. but now you had a challenge of your own: your feelings for the firelord. what was just a simple crush turned out to be more trouble than you would have imagined. but it may have been worth it.
word count: 3486
warnings: no spoilers of the movie (besides using this gif here + how gaang now looks as adults). this is mature (MDNI + trigger warning), as a lot of violence/sexual topics will be brought up.
authors note: yes, the edits have inspired me. yes, listen to jealous type as you read this fic.
***ONLY PUBLISHED ON TUMBLR***
It began there, the memory of the Bazaar that day swarming your thoughts.
That day was so lively, and full of joy. Small shops were set up, all sorts of banners and streamers hung around. Flames reached the clouds from the street performers in the square, with watchers jumping out of their seats, their snacks flying with them. A local band took over the streets, playing tunes that were irresistible to the feet of dancers. There was a warmth much deeper than the usual heat of this nation's benders.
You were rushing through the crowds, the bamboo basket in your hands full of the herbs your mother had tasked you to collect. It would’ve been easier to get through the people, had your mother also not demanded for you to wear such a flowy dress. It was beautiful, yes, but clung onto everything that stuck out, pokey or so long that it got trapped under people's feet. There were setbacks, but you knew you had to do this.
Truthfully, this was one responsibility you enjoyed immensely. Your family had inherited rich, fertile land with plants and herbs maintained for millennia through your bloodline. And with your parents being tea sommeliers, you could only follow their footsteps. However, you were more passionate about herbalism, and were much more allured by the medicinal route of life. That said, nothing could go wrong with a cup of tea.
You remember how dark the home had been, as you peeked through the burgundy curtain cloaking the side entrance. The celebration for Firelord Zuko’s visit felt like an eternity, starting from the morning and ongoing. It was the evening now, and you figured your parents are still going to be there until everyone has packed and gone. You quickly put the basket down on the counter by the porch of the house, which had been converted into a booth as your parents sold tea from the house. You reach over to the lever to open up the awning of the booth. The house felt stuffy, and you were a little too warm from the hike.
As you begin to wash the herbs, you hear the sound of one of your wooden stools getting shuffled. You look up, and notice an older gentleman taking a seat. You meet obsidian eyes that hold wisdom that you can only imagine is vast and neverending. Dribbles of sweat hung from his smooth head, with his gray beard off to one side (though, you don’t believe he noticed). He meets your gaze and offers a kind smile, “I do hope you are open, I’ve been seeking a nice cup of tea.”
You were surprised, considering the countless tea shops being offered at the celebration in the square. You were about to explain that you were closed, given your parents hosting a mini shop at the square as well, but a pendant caught your eye. He had a gold brooch hung on the side of his right arm, with the Fire Nations emblem on it. This meant this man was either a guard or of nobility; a high ranking individual in the nation. Of course, seeing his age, you had to assume he long returned his work in the army, and this was simply an honorary pendant. Either way, you were not allowed to reject or not assist such an important individual.
“Let me get the kettle going,” you say quietly, offering a warm smile as you quickly get some water boiling. “I was not expecting any customers out here, considering the party going on in the middle of the village.”
The old man hummed, nodding at your words, “ah, you’re not wrong to assume such a thing. There’s so many people out there for the Firelord that I got a bit overwhelmed. I can’t enjoy my tea in such excitement.”
That’s understandable, considering how impossible it is to find a seat or navigate when the Bazaar was this active. “My parents are currently hosting their tea at the market, but I was told to remain here in case stragglers came through this alley for a cup of tea.” This was partially true. Technically, you were not expecting anybody to find food or beverage deep in the village, but your parents were opportunists.
The old man nods off, “your parents understand the opportunities that can come with gatherings like these. But I imagine you would have liked to go and see the Firelord.”
You could only shrug, listening to the kettle finally whistle. “It would have been nice, but my parents need me here,” you say simply, “but I am eternally grateful for our Firelord, and what he has done for the nation since the start of his reign.”
It has been 5 years since the takedown of Firelord Ozai, allowing for Prince Zuko to assume his place and lead the Fire Nation to the right direction. Since taking charge, he has taken all the right steps to begin restoring the Fire Nation, beginning with an immense apology to the rest of the nations for the war and genocide brought about by his father. Since then, he has made it a goal to visit all of the villages and capitals that made up the Fire Nation. He wanted to get to know his nation once again, and the best way was to spend time with them and see what he can do to assist.
“Your words warm my heart,” the old man coos, his hand making its way to hover above his heart, “He would have been very happy to hear those words himself.”
You smile while carefully lifting your kettle from the fire and putting it on a cork trivet. “What kind of tea would you like?”
His eyes distract themselves with the steam escaping the kettle. You allow him to think on it, and turn over to bend away the fire at the bottom of the chimney. “What do you have?” He asks curiously.
You grab one of the scrolls and offer it to him, “these are all of the teas we have to offer. And if you would like anything to eat, I can start up the fire again.”
“Oh ho ho, I am all good for a meal,” he laughs out before tapping at his bulbous belly, “but a tea is a must. He pulls the scroll opposite with both hands, and his eyes saunter at the options. He then looks back at you with a curt smile, “what is your favorite tea?”
You look at him curiously before grabbing a menu yourself, “from the menu…”
“Ah, but what is your favorite?” The old man insisted, putting the scroll down gently. “I’m not saying your favorite cannot be a classic tea, but your family runs a tea shop. I can only imagine the teas that you enjoy that might not be appreciated by untrained tongues.”
You stare at the older man before you, your curiosity itself being allured by his words. It felt like you were being challenged somehow, as if disappointment was an option if you did not proceed to deliver. “Is there any fruit or herb you do not like or cannot have?” You ask first. The old man shakes his head no. “Pardon me a moment.”
You rush back into your home, sauntering into your room. It was small, but cozy with plenty of cushions and blankets to keep you warm and safe. You crawl down to the farthest cabinet in the room, and slide the bamboo door open. Inside resided a small, clay pot. You peel off the parchment that you’ve used to seal the pot, and remove a small pouch. You return to the old man, untying the pouch to reveal a sable black herb. It was soft to the touch, and retained its moisture from the method that you sealed it.
You grab a small pinch, and ask for the old man's hand. He obliges, allowing you to put some of the herbs in the center of his palm. As you prepare his tea, you begin to describe it in a tale, “this herb comes from an incredibly rare lotus flower. Its original petals are this lovely pink… it shocked me when my parents and I discovered it. This herb is from the very core of this flower, but when collecting it, there’s a bit of intimidation– it looks like there are snakes within its center.”
He brings his hand up to his nose, his eyes closed to appreciate the scent. “I am a fan of lotus, but this is quite unique. There is a sweet aroma to it.”
“Almost vanilla-like, right?” You supplement his thoughts. “It surprised me to smell how sweet it was. And it almost convinces you that you need not add any additional sweetener to it.”
His eyes furrow, “is it bitter?”
“It can be,” you hum. “But its taste is phenomenal, and its flavors can become more complex with time.”
“With time?” He allowed your passion to fly with his own curiosity.
You nod, quickly preparing a cup with the herbs inside, watching as they quickly ascend through the water and flat at the top. You get another cup, adding some of the herbs and pouring water as well. But this time, you added a sweetener: fig syrup. With separate spoons, you stir both cups and begin to seat it on a tray. Then, you walk over to one cabinet within the kitchen, and begin to bring down a deep brown pot. This, too, is sealed in a particular way, with a cheese cloth layered several times around the rim to retain its contents while also allowing it to breathe just a bit.
“And this is…?”
“This is the same tea, but fermented,” you inform him. You grab a ladle, pouring a cup's worth of tea in a small, metal cup. You hold the cup from the bottom, and allow flames to illuminate from your palm. “It is good cold, but I prefer it to be quite hot.” Once heated, the delicious scent of the steam emitting from the cup almost took you over. You bring the cup to the tray, and step from behind the booth to present it to him.
You take the opportunity to stand before him and bow, “I apologize for not bowing for you before, as I was behind the booth.” He immediately waves you off, scoffing at his pendant while flicking it with his finger.
“Actually, I was quite content that you did not bow to me. Sure, I have served this nation, but you serve this nation as well by being part of it.” He quickly taps at your shoulders, bidding you to rise. “You are just as important as I am, and your craft is something that I am quite envious of.”
You smile warmly before you make your way back to the booth. “Please try the freshly brewed tea to your left first,” you instruct, “I have made that one without any sweetener so you can appreciate the lotus as is.”
The man brings the cup to his nose first, taking it with the aroma before having a sip. “That… is wonderful,” he praises softly. He looks down at the tea, seeing how the water had been tinted with this sunrise yellow. “I am beginning to understand why this is your favorite.”
You nod, “but it is much better with the sweetener that I have made. My parents do not like it at all, but I find fig syrup to be deserving of the palette.” He follows suit, and takes a sip of the sweetened tea.
He pauses for a moment, bringing his free hand up to wipe away excess tea from his mustache and beard. But, despite this, he goes for another sip, and another sip. A few gulps passed, and the cup returned to its vacant state. He gently puts down the cup and lets out a hot sigh. “In my many years of life, I have never thought that figs could do tea so well.”
You smile excitedly. This would be the first time you could share one of your most loved teas. Your parents enjoyed them, sure, but not with virgin taste buds. It was refreshing to see another's excitement to a tea that you can happily say is some of the best in the world, even if the rest of the world didn’t know it.
As he goes to pick up the final cup, you offer him a small vial of the fig syrup, “if you would like to sweeten it after taking a sip of it raw. Though I do warn you, you might need the syrup as this fermented tea is a bit… strong.”
He acknowledges your words, and quickly takes a sip of the fermented tea. His eyes widened completely, staring down curiously at the more matured yellow of the tea. “Will it be at all possible for me to buy this tea from you?” He asks honestly. He studies his cup, almost taken aback by the complexity of the tea. “I don’t think tea has ever left me speechless like this before.”
“You and I both,” you concur with a giggle, “I’d love to sell you some, but I’ve grown quite attached to this tea. I’ve had this tea fermenting for a month now, I believe. You’re actually the first person to taste it since I prepared and stored it.”
“I’m quite honored, thank you,” the man hums. He adds some of the syrup from the vial you offered him, and began to stir with a provided spoon on the tray. Taking a sip of the fermented tea now sweetened, he nodded in approval. “This is phenomenal. Thank you very much for such an experience. He offers the vial back to you, in which you quickly refuse.
“Feel free to keep it for yourself,” you insisted, “I’m more than happy to spread the taste of fig syrup. It works wonderfully on many other teas.” The both of you share a warm silence, one that was filled enough that it needn’t words. And, the light of day was just about leaving, as the sun had already set. You leave the booth once more when you notice all the tea has been completely drunk. As you carefully put the cups into the sink, you noticed the man leaving money at the table. “Ah– you don’t have to do that!”
“Hm?” The man looked up at you quizzally. “I came to drink tea. You cannot do business if you offer it for free, no?”
He’s not wrong, but you felt bad, “consider it an apology for not being able to sell you any of these herbs.” Additionally, he was a Fire Nation nobility. Your fear derived from any potential punishment or demerit on your family name for not treating him well. Although the Fire Nation has taken a complete 180 turn, the trauma of Firelord Ozai’s reign was deeply rooted.
“You are a beautiful soul, young lady,” the man hums, taking out more money than what the tea was worth and placing it on the table. “But I would hate for your parents to punish you for not doing your job.”
You still persist, “regardless, the tea does not cost this much– please take half of that back!” You come out from the booth once more, and quickly try to hand the excess money back to the man. But he rejects it, his hands completely up and refusing to take anything back. Your insistence in fact struck something inside the man, and he quickly looked around, as if he was expecting someone.
“Young lady, do you have any dreams?” The man suddenly asked a heavy question. “I imagine a woman as well spoken and gifted as yourself aspires more than simply working at your family’s tea shop.”
You stop your insistence on the pay, and cross your arms against your body, “what would be wrong if I was happy remaining here?” You were happy, yes, but this was not completely true. You did want more than this life, despite its simplicity.
“Nothing wrong with that at all,” the man agreed, “tell me, would you leave a gem you found in a cave?” You look at him curiously, and hesitate to shake your head. “It is a greedy thought, but the most human one. So I ask again: do you have any dreams?”
Before you could answer, you heard the loud sounds of jogging entering the alley. You look around, wondering who could be running around these parts during the festival. Then, more clearly, you see several Fire Nation guards make their way into view. Was something happening? You thought worriedly. You weren’t so much worried about yourself, but rather your parents.
A guard stands behind the old man you had been serving, and quickly yells, “found him!”
You quickly look around, seeing the guards immediately bow and remain bowed behind the old man. You had an inkling that this man was more important than he led on. But, it's always dangerous to assume things, especially when you do not know. Your heart begins to race, mostly from nerves but also a bit of excitement. This was extremely rare, and you were curious and hopeful that this was nothing but good or neutral happenings.
“Master Iroh, we have been looking for you all over,” one of the guards pants out, struggling to keep his bow still. Master Iroh? You could swear you’ve heard that name somewhere, considering how small your village was. Big names were treated like celebrities, but this name had a familiarity in its foreignness. “Where have you been?”
“Here,” he gestures to his payment to you, which is still sitting on the table. “Did my nephew send you all to look for me? He’s too old for me to keep holding his hand.” Some of the guards snort but quickly go silent when another set of feet step into the alley. The old man, who you now know is Master Iroh, looks over to his other side and smiles, “your manhunt has come to an end!”
“Stop messing with me, uncle,” a deep, yet gentle voice came into sound. You looked over, and your eyes were quick to react before your body. There stood the owner of the voice, with amber eyes filled with concern. Though he was not looking at you by any means, his refined facial features and the immense length of his jet black hair was the start to your potential cardiac arrest. But, it was the familiar scarring of his left eye that solidified the reason for your potential cardiac arrest. That, and the symbolic crown wedged into the bun that sat right on top of his head. Silently and promptly, you bow your head so low, your face is inches away from your knees.
“Who said I was messing with you?” Master Iroh looked up at him, baffled. “I wanted a cup of tea, and it ended up being much more worth my while.”
It was at this moment you realized something. Firelord Zuko addressed your customer as uncle. This entire time, you have been serving the current Firelord’s uncle, firstborn son of Fire Lord Azulon and a crucial member of Order of the White Lotus.
Firelord Zuko glances over at you, giving you a good look before returning to annoyance, “Uncle, there was tea being offered to you left and right. I don’t understand you at all.”
“Zuko, the best cup of tea is enjoyed in peace,” Master Iroh teaches. “And this young lady here made me realize that our hunt is officially over.”
“Uncle, what are you talking about?” Firelord Zuko asks in genuine stew, “what hunt?”
Master Iroh looks up at you with a warm, welcoming smile, “I think I finally found your new attendant.” He then looks over and offers his hand, “I know you have not told me your dreams yet, and perhaps you might not have any. But, I would love to invite you to the Capital, and perhaps make something come true.”
As you remained bowed, you weren’t sure how to feel, or what to say. You straightened yourself, looking up at Firelord Zuko, whose eyes were quickly trained on you. You didn’t dare assume a thing, but his fixation on you had your heart skipped a few too many beats to be considered healthy. You quickly look over at Master Iroh, whose hand still remained up and offered to you. “Are you sure I am what you’re looking for?”
Master Iroh nods, “I think you are exactly what is needed in the Capital. My only ask is that you consider it, and consider it well.”
And that is how a few cups of tea led you to work in Capital City, the heart of the Fire Nation, and home to Firelord Zuko.
hi all! I hope you like the prologue to my new fanfic on adult zuko. please lmk if you would like me to start a taglist (if any of yall are interested, i just made this blog)
wishing u all good health and happy fanfic reading x
summary: malnourishment mentioned briefly, both reader and zuko are fire nation, childhood friends, sickness mentioned, set in book 2, zuko as lee.
a/n: most Zuko fics I see on tumblr are adult!Zuko and while I do appreciate all of them I’ve been missing angsty teen Zuzu :(
Zuko had learnt many things since the two of you decided to split up from Iroh on your travels.
Firslty, Zuko learnt that despite the both of you being raised in the same academies and sifting through hours of etiquette classes, you definelty knew how to complain and whine about the earth kingdom heat. Very unsophisticated in his opinion.
Secondly, Zuko realised how hard food was to come by in the desert. This, in turn, would lead to his grumbling stomach and malnutrition being ignored as he subsocinsoily worried about how much you had eaten. Of course, he’d never say so explicitly.
And thirdly, Zuko realised that even thought you complained and nagged and whined, he would’ve definetely lost his mind in that desert by himself.
Today, you’d found it harder to complain with your head rested against his shoulder due to the sheer emptiness in your stomach.
Every now and then, you’d find the energy to hum something and attempt to keep either of you entertained, but you’d soon give up when you remembered how dry your mouth was.
“You’re not feeling sick again are you?” Zuko asked, his voice slightly raspy from his equal dryness.
His question refereed to a few weeeks go, when you were still travelling with Iroh and the sheer heat of escaping Azula had caused you to come down with a horrible fever, which left you bedridden for days.
Zuko hated how helpless he’d felt then, and he was prepared to keep an eye out for you this time. Even if neither of you wanted to admit it, he saw you as his responsibility.
“..’m fine,” you rasped back, cheek pressed into his shoulder and eyes half lidded as he manoeuvred the ostrich horse through the desert. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t feeling great.”
A part of him doesn’t believe you, but he simply lets out a grunt as a response and steers forward.
He made sure even through the heat, that he could feel your arm around his waist.
Neither of you had a plan, but both of you had a goal. Zuko was still persistent on capturing the avatar, even when you two were deserted like this. Your goal was to support him, as you’d always tried to do.
However, recently you’ve started to feel your opinions shifting. Was this worth it? You’d both given up a lot when you separated from Iroh, there was a lot at stake to travel through the barren earth kingdom with barely any supplies.
So, as you wiped a bead of sweat from your forehead and wrapped your arms tighter around him, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh.
Glancing past him, you look into the horizon and feel a slight wave of relief knowing a town was coming up.
Hopefully when you reached this place, you’d be able to take a much needed break.
Hopefully.
a/n: lemme know if you spot any spelling mistakes, likes and reblogs are appreciated!
this is set somewhere between the end of the show and the start of the movie
Red looked...wrong.
The maids bow as they maids finish dressing you and leave your bedroom. You dont move, looking at yourself in the mirror.
This was the first time you were wearing fire nation robes...royal fire nation robes. And not as a disguise, but as Zukos wife. For a brief moment all you could think about was Omashu, back when it was covered in Earth Kingdom banners and silks. A knock at the door takes you out of your thoughts and brings you back to the real world.
"Come in," you call out. The door slid open and Zuko stepped inside. He stopped almost immediately.
"You look different," are the first words to leave his mouth.
"Thanks for noticing," you say sarcastically.
"You dont have to wear them."
You almost laugh at his words "your advisors and most of the fire nation would disagree."
"I dont care what they think, theyre all a bunch of grumpy old men anyways."
"Thats easy for you to say!"
Zuko stilled at your words as they came out sharper than intended. Not angry, just listening. You look away from him.
"I know what they see everytime i walk into a room."
Zuko frowned at your words
"They dont see me. They dont see your wife. They see some Earth Kingdom girl playing dress up in Fire Nation robes."
Zuko crossed the room slowly in silence.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“When I first joined you and our friends,” he said, “I thought I had to become a completely different person before anyone would trust me.”
You looked up at his face
“I spent so long trying to figure out who I was supposed to be,” he continued, “that I forgot I could just… be myself.”
He pauses and says softly
“You don’t stop being earth because you stand beside fire.”
You stare at him for a long moment before smirking “you practiced that speech, didn’t you?”
Zuko blinked. “…no.”
“You definitely did.”
“…maybe a little.” he kisses your forehead as if to distract himself. And that finally pulled the smallest smile from you.
And somehow it made the robes feel a little less heavy.
Tags/Warnings: Older!Marcus Pike, Apocalypse AU, many ridiculous side characters, a Bad Guy appears, Bad Guy says some icky things toward reader, gun violence (against the Bad Guy), protective!Marcus, my beloved
Summary: As you settle in, you become more comfortable with Marcus and learn more about his past and about the Museum. You could almost get used to this new life, until something unexpected rips through your growing sense of peace and reminds you of your past...
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter 1
You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”
“How do you mean?”
“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”
Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly.
As if the universe was waiting for this cue, the doorknob behind you turns, and you jump backwards as the hangar door slowly swings open.
“Knock, knock!” A woman’s voice rings out from outside. In a panic, you cast your eyes around for something to use as a weapon.
That bust of Socrates will do. You’re about to lunge for it, when Marcus lets out a loud, surprised laugh.
“What are you two doing here in all of this snow?” he asks as two people enter the museum, stomping the snow off of their boots and onto the welcome mat.
“She made me come,” an elderly man grumbles. “Damn woman has spring fever.”
A matronly-looking woman with deep laugh-lines around her eyes gives the man a small shove. “Don’t listen to him, he was just as restless to get out of the house. A snowstorm at the end of March, honestly!”
“It always snows at the end of March,” the man grunts, fishing in his coat pocket. “Got a trade.”
Marcus grins. “I was hoping you’d come around soon, actually. Just finished this.” He opens the drawer of a nearby desk littered with papers and pulls out a small wooden figurine. “It’s a horse. Well, it’s supposed to be. The proportions are a little off.”
You watch as the older man takes it and turns it around and around in his hands just a couple of inches from his face. “Your technique is getting better,” he says gruffly. He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out his own hand-carved piece.
This piece is expertly carved; a small, smooth sphere trapped inside a little cube frame. Marcus takes it reverently, spinning the sphere around within its cage with a smile.
“Maybe one day I’ll get as good as you,” he says.
“Doubt it.”
“Shut up, Harold.” The elderly woman pulls a small canning jar from her satchel. “I brought you some of our peaches.”
“Oh Edith,” Marcus exhales softly. “That’s very generous of you. I’m not sure I have something of the same value to give in return.”
“Do you still have some of those candles you made last summer?” the woman asks. “They made our entire house smell like honeysuckle.”
Marcus brightens. “I do! Let me–” he starts for the door, and then turns around, seeming to only just now remember that you’re still standing there, watching this exchange in dumbfoundment.
“Whozzat?” The old man grunts.
“Uh…” you say weakly.
“A traveler,” Marcus answers quickly. “Staying until… well, until she moves on, I suppose.”
“A traveler!” the woman exclaims. “Where are you from?”
You shake your head, and she gives you an understanding, sympathetic look. “And where are you heading?”
“Away.”
“S’what I figured,” she nods, as though you’d actually given an explanation. “Well, you couldn’t have found a better place to end up, if only temporarily. Marcus and his museum are practically famous for their hospitality.”
Marcus laughs. “I think ‘famous’ is a strong word, unless you’re only counting those within a few country miles from here.”
“Famous is as famous does,” Edith says, which makes absolutely no sense to you. “Go fetch me one of those honeysuckle candles.”
“Damn house is gonna smell like a flower shop,” the old man grumbles.
That night, as you and Marcus share Edith’s jar of peaches, you have to keep yourself from staring at him, wondering what this man’s story is, and how he came to be… him. Marcus. The man with an entire museum sitting in an airplane hangar in the Pennsylvania countryside.
“How long have you been here?” you can’t help but ask.
Marcus looks up and to the side with a thoughtful expression. “Must be… seventeen, eighteen years now? Eighteen,” he decides.
You do the math in your head with a small frown. “That’s five years after everything… you know.”
Marcus nods. “I kicked around for a while, went back home to Austin, where I grew up, but…” he sighs, trailing off.
“But what?”
“But familiarity doesn’t equate with happiness. Guess it took the end of the world for me to figure that one out. I had to let go of it, of… everything, and one day I just… took off. No plan, no nothing. In hindsight it was pretty stupid, but knowing how it ends up, well, I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Marcus leans back onto the tattered couch cushions with a faraway look as he continues. “Got the idea for the museum by chance. I was passing through Kentucky, they’ve got–you know, all those big horse ranches and stuff. I was exploring one, looking for food and found something else entirely.”
“What was it?” you ask, engrossed by his story.
“A Vermeer. An original. Just sitting in an abandoned mansion in the middle of nowhere, and I just thought… that it was a shame, that it would just degrade and deteriorate with the rest of the house, and that no one would ever see it or appreciate it ever again. And so…” Marcus laughs softly, “I took it.”
Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. “So you became an art thief.”
Marcus fixes you with a strange look that you can’t interpret.
“Yeah,” he finally says with a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. If you want to call it that, that is.”
“What would you call it?”
“I’m an art… liberator.”
“Mmm,” you raise one eyebrow.
Marcus grins. “It’s all in the way you look at things, isn’t it?”
You turn and stare at the crackling fireplace for a few moments. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
The silence that falls between you isn’t nearly as awkward as it was before. It’s almost… cozy. Companionable. Safe.
“I’m from New York City,” you offer, as a trade of sorts for Marcus’s story.
“Are you,” he intones softly, the words laden with meaning and sorrow. Apart from maybe the U.S. capitol, New York City was one of the hardest hit. That’s one of the main reasons you don’t offer that information to others; the discomfort, pity, and even horror on their faces is simply more than you can bear. You could never reconcile the fact that you are the one to witness other people’s horror, when you are one of the lucky few who survived. You can’t imagine what it must be like for those who, hypothetically, survived from the capitol. You don’t know–you’ve never heard of anyone who had.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is that where you were before you came here?”
“No.” You weren’t ready to talk about that yet.
Marcus nods, always understanding, never pushing. You still wonder how someone as soft as him has survived a world like this without breaking.
It certainly broke you.
But perhaps that was the problem all along: you coated yourself in sharp spikes and armor, becoming harder to cope with the realities of the world… But hard things will eventually snap in two. You and Marcus adapted to the Now with two completely different strategies… and you’re starting to realize the power of his softness.
“I’m from D.C.,” he says quietly, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“Before Austin. I lived in Washington, D.C.”
The next morning, you awake to the sound of birdsong, a welcome change from the quiet, snow-covered world. Marcus comes down from what must be his bedroom upstairs not long after, and looks out of the window with a soft, contented sigh.
“That means it should warm up pretty significantly today,” he says by way of greeting. “With any luck, the snow will be gone by tomorrow.”
“Good.” You snuggle further down into your sleeping bag, chasing the last few minutes of warmth before you have to get up. “Sometimes I feel like I never got warm after the night that you found me.”
“The sunshine should change that,” Marcus says with a grin. “That, and a little hard labor.” He playfully shakes his finger at you. “I’ve let you skate along for free here long enough, but it’s time you earn your keep. And it will be nice to have a helping hand.”
You follow Marcus to a small stable tucked away at the edge of his property, where two horses, one black and one dappled brown, are waiting.
“Meet Rembrandt and Mr. Pickle,” Marcus announces.
The laugh comes out before you can stifle it. “Mr. Pickle?”
“Rembrandt, because she's dark, mysterious, and moody. And Mr. Pickle, because he's the dumbest, most accident-prone horse I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Constantly knocking over the rain barrels and getting into things he shouldn't be. So he's always getting himself in–”
“Into a pickle,” you both finish in unison.
Marcus turns to look at you and flashes a wide, warm smile. At once, your entire body feels overheated for the first time in days, but it isn’t the sunshine or the physical activity. You shake your head as you turn over the straw in the stable in the way Marcus instructs you. You’re just lonely. You aren’t used to being in close proximity with another human. It’s only a surface-level fascination because he confuses and intrigues you. These and a hundred other excuses swirl around your mind as reasons for your physical reaction to this man, and you force yourself to promise that you’ll leave when the weather improves enough for things to bloom. As long as you can forage, you can survive on the journey to… wherever it is you’re going.
Where are you going?
It’s a question that has hovered in the periphery of your awareness since you fled the Colony, always being shoved away as something to worry about later, after this thing, or the other thing, or the other. You haven’t had the time to pull it out and examine it thoroughly. No, that’s a lie.
Coward.
It’s far easier to simply keep running than it is to have a destination in mind. All this time on the road, you’ve pretended that you can live like this forever… until you can’t.
This is why we don’t think about this.
“...should be coming today.”
You shake yourself to try and dispel the dark thoughts, realizing Marcus has probably been speaking this whole time.
“Sorry–what?”
To his credit (not that he needs another checkmark in the ‘amazing guy’ column in your brain), Marcus gives you a patient and understanding smile.
“I was saying that it’s Monday, and that means a young student from the Amish community north of here should be coming today to study.”
“Study?” you squint in confusion.
“I have a collection of rare bibles,” Marcus explains. He leans closer, looking from side to side before he speaks, as though he was about to tell you a great secret. “I even have a Gutenberg bible.” He says it with such gravitas, and waits expectantly for your reaction.
“...I don’t know what that is.”
“Well,” Marcus exclaims cheerfully. “It’s a good thing you’re here, then, isn’t it?”
He unlocks the door to the museum and gestures you inside the same way as before. This time you don’t wait, giving him a small nod before entering the hangar.
Yesterday, you were too overwhelmed and too skittish to properly look around, but today you can’t help but move further into the space and explore. You wander in between the artworks, passing by Classic Greek and Roman statues, Native American pottery, sculptures by Rodin and some odd-looking modern art pieces that cause you to tilt your head to the side as you consider them.
There's enough here in the middle of the hangar to keep you occupied for an entire day without even beginning to examine the crowded walls, but you force yourself to peruse the paintings as well, starting with the western wall and slowly moving around. You scan up and down the crowded jumble of artwork; there's something about the eccentric “organization” (and in some places, the lack thereof) that makes this experience far different than any museum field trip you'd taken as a child. The mixing up of styles, eras, and painters isn't disorienting, as you'd expected, but unique and strange and intentional, and it makes you look at the artwork in a new light. It's as if all of history has blended together in one colorful, eccentric heap. You wonder if the walls are a reflection of how Marcus's mind works.
Thinking of him again, you glance over to where he's standing. He's at the large bookshelf, presumably organizing the shelves, but when you turn your head in his direction, he's already looking at you. Then, he blinks and grabs a book at random off the shelf and examines it–you aren't exactly sure for what. He clears his throat awkwardly and sets it back down.
“All right?” he asks. “What do you think?” He shuffles back and forth, seemingly anxious about what your response will be.
“In all the years I've spent on this earth, I think this is the strangest, most interesting… and wonderful thing I've ever seen,” you say truthfully.
“Yesterday you thought I was crazy.”
“I still think that.”
Marcus presses his lips together and looks down.
“...and I think that makes you the sanest person in the whole world.”
Marcus looks back up again as a smile spreads across his face. “Now who's not making any sense?” he teases.
“Hallo?” An unfamiliar voice cuts into your conversation, and you jump out of your skin, still unused to random strangers popping in unannounced.
“Mr. Pike?”
Marcus turns toward the front door with a smile. “Jebediah, there you are.”
A young boy stands in the entrance to the museum wearing dark pants with suspenders, a collared shirt, and straw hat. He looks to be around sixteen or seventeen. He acts around sixteen or seventeen too, you think, when he immediately rolls his eyes.
“Only you and my parents call me that anymore,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.
“Jeb,” Marcus corrects, with a wry glance in your direction. “Glad to see you this morning. I'd like you to meet my new houseguest–she's a traveler, she's staying with me for a little while.”
“There aren't many travelers on this road,” Jeb remarks, tipping his hat in your direction. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—er, Ma'am.” He reaches into a worn leather satchel and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in a checkered kitchen towel and hands it to Marcus. “Some bread from my Mamm. For your troubles.”
As Marcus accepts the loaf with a gracious nod, Jeb reaches back into his pack and sheepishly retrieves a book. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games. Marcus’s smile widens to a boyish grin.
“Finished already? How was it?”
Jeb smiles sheepishly and pulls a worn book out of a small leather satchel. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games.
“I loved it!” the boy exclaims. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Especially the action and the scary bits.”
Marcus grins. “I thought you might.”
“Do you have anything that's scarier?”
Marcus presses a finger to his chin, thinking for a moment. “You like scary stuff, huh? Okay.” He fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of round wire-framed glasses, putting them on before perusing his shelves. “How do you feel about… Stephen King?” He selects a book with a scary-looking clown on the cover and shows it to the boy. You raise one eyebrow–you've definitely read this one, and you aren’t sure if it's the right choice for an Amish teenager.
“Cool,” Jeb breathes, taking the book with enthusiasm.
“Don't let your mother see that one,” Marcus says, giving the boy a look.
“No shit.” Jeb rolls his eyes. Seeming to remember himself, he straightens and takes on a more polite demeanor. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, Mr. Pike.”
Marcus puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Just remember to keep up with your studies and chores the way you're supposed to.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And let me know what you think of that one. I confess: it scared the shit out of me when I was your age.”
They both laugh, and you can’t help but chuckle along. You've spent time with various groups of survivors over the years, but you haven't ever seen people act like this: sharing resources without expectation and supporting one another.
Maybe you've been around all the wrong people.
You laugh humorlessly to yourself. Well, you knew that already, didn't you?
Marcus gently slaps his thighs. “Well, you know the drill. Cloth gloves are in my desk drawer, and you let me know if you need any help.” He turns to you. “I'm going to make a bit of lunch for the three of us. Want to lend a hand?”
You nod eagerly and follow him out of the museum and toward the farmhouse, leaving Jeb to his studies. But almost immediately, Marcus stops, causing you to almost run into him. You aren’t sure why, until you follow his gaze… and see the man standing on the road, staring at you.
Marcus holds his arm out, silently motioning for you to stay back. “Welcome, stranger,” he calls out, maintaining a friendly and open tone. “Come to visit the museum, or just passing through? Either way, we’re happy to trade for whatever you need before you head back on your way.”
You and Marcus both know the man is not here to see the museum. He looks the same as most other travelers you've had the misfortune of encountering: ratty clothes, rotten teeth, and an air of desperation that can't be put into words.
“Whad'ya got?” the man rasps.
“I have food, supplies, some clothing… name what you want and I'll see what I can provide,” Marcus answers.
The stranger looks past him, fixing his gaze on you instead. “How ‘bout the woman?”
“I'm not in the business of trading people,” Marcus says coolly. “I'm happy to trade for food, if that's what you need, but after that I'm afraid you'll need to be on your way.”
The stranger stalks closer, not taking his gaze off of you. “Wasn't askin’.” He spits on the ground. “Foolish man tellin’ all the world he has enough to his name to trade it away. What’s to stop me from taking it, eh? All the spoils to those who walk in the light.”
You physically recoil at the all-to-familiar phrase, but there's nowhere else to go. Where would you run to? Back into the museum? Into the farmhouse to hide under the covers like a child? Would you really let Marcus, the gentlest human you've ever met, face this man on his own?
“You aren’t familiar with the rules of the museum,” Marcus says, his voice firm and unyielding. “That's okay. You're a visitor here, and I am always accommodating of all who come here in search of knowledge or assistance. But I will give you this one warning: The most important rule on these premises is to be respectful of all, and the implications of trading in human beings does not fall within those boundaries. If you'd like to reconsider your statement–”
“Nah,” the other man growls. “I ain't gonna reconsider.” His hand drifts down to his hip, seeking. Reaching. You catch a glint of gunmetal under his hole-ridden jacket.
“Marcus,” you warn, eyeing the movement.
But Marcus is already tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over to expose his own sidearm. “Let's all calm down,” he says, holding one hand out in a gesture of peace.
The other man freezes, and for a moment you think he’s going to actually listen to Marcus. He slowly begins to raise both hands over his head, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Then, faster than he has any right to be, one hand keeps going, darting back over his shoulder to reach into a backpack, grabbing the handle of a hatchet, and launching it in Marcus’s direction before you can even scream.
The gunshot is deafening compared to the quiet country morning.
The sound is still echoing through the trees as the man slumps to the ground, bleeding from the hole in the middle of his forehead.
You tear your gaze away from the sight and look over at Marcus. He’s standing, frozen, his gun still pointed forward. Then, with an expression of utter sorrow and regret, he closes his eyes and sighs as his arms slowly drop. The hatchet is half-buried in the ground several feet behin
“Damnit,” he breathes to himself.
“Mr. Pike!” Jeb bursts out of the museum and starts to run toward you, but Marcus frantically throws one hand back.
“Stop!” His voice cracks as he shouts. “We’re okay,” he assures, quieter and calmer this time. “It’s over. Jeb, don’t–don’t come closer. You shouldn’t see–”
“Oh my God,” the boy gasps, moving forward anyway. “Who… Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus says quietly. “Jeb, you should go home as quickly as you can.”
“But I–”
“Jeb. Did you walk here?”
“Yes, but–”
“Take Rembrandt and go home. Tell your father to be on the lookout for strangers on the road, just in case.”
“You think there’s more of them?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus says firmly. “But there was something unsettling about that man, and I want you to go home and let them know what happened, just to be safe.”
Jeb finally nods and turns toward the stables, breaking out into a run as he crosses the open field.
Marcus finally turns to you. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. His hand reaches toward you, fingers outstretched as though he wants to touch you, comfort you somehow.
You swallow. “Yep,” you say quickly, pressing your lips together. “I’m fine.”
Marcus raises one eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push.
“Let’s get inside the house and keep watch,” he says, face grim. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any friends following behind.”
You let him guide you, walking past the hatchet, now harmless and half-buried in the grass several feet behind where Marcus had been standing.
Tags/Warnings: Older!Marcus Pike, Apocalypse AU, reader almost dies at the very beginning but she's fine, lots of mentions of food and being hungry because food is scarce, reader has lots of trust issues
Summary: You are lost, starving, and stuck in a snowstorm after fleeing a bad situation, when you see it: a cozy little farmhouse with smoke coming out of the chimney, and a large barn with the letters 'ART MUSEUM' painted on the front. The man who lives there and tends to the museum is unlike anyone you've ever met in this hellscape of a world...
A/N: WELL HELLO FRIENDS. It's been a little while since you've heard from me, but I promise I never left ;) I've just been low in the motivation and ideas departments when it comes to writing. But then my one true love Marcus Pike (aka clean-shaven Pedro) returned from the war and I started rotating him around and around in my mind again, and I simply MUST put this man in situations. I "told" myself this bedtime story the other night instead of sleeping and I hope you like it!
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter One
You find him in a farmhouse north of Philadelphia.
You aren’t sure exactly where; you’ve considered yourself “lost” for at least a day and a half now. You can’t remember how many days it’s been since you left the Colony. A week? Two weeks?
The only thing you know is that you ran out of food three days ago, and it’s not like you’ll find anything to scavenge in this weather. You wish you hadn’t had to leave so quickly, leaving your cherished hunting rifle propped against the wall of the detached garage you had called home for the past year. If you had just taken the extra few minutes to run back and grab it, you would at least be able to bag a squirrel or two now.
Stupid.
Snow whips around you as you trudge through the deepening snowdrifts. Occasionally, you grab handfuls to stuff in your mouth, but it does little to help the intense headache that’s set in from the exertion of walking through a blizzard. You thought your heaviest parka would be enough–and maybe it would be, if you weren’t so close to starvation–but the cold is beginning to overwhelm your body, and as the sky begins to darken, your footsteps have slowed considerably.
When you see the little white farmhouse, it’s almost completely dark, but not so much that you can’t see the gentle plume of smoke rising out of the brick chimney. It’s not safe to approach a random settlement, you remind yourself. That’s like, Apocalypse 101. It’s the stupidest, most reckless thing you can do. You have no idea who’s inside. You have no idea what they will do to you.
You should turn around and leave. You should go knock on the door. No, leave. With your mind so foggy with hunger and cold and unable to process your conflicting urges, you just… stand there.
So… tired.
It isn’t until the cold snow begins to trickle into the neck of your parka that you realize you’ve fallen to the ground. You stare blankly at the large barn that sits a few yards away from the farmhouse. Someone has painted the words ‘ART MUSEUM’ in big, black letters on the front of it.
Weird.
When you wake up, you’re warm and dry.
Or maybe you’re dead.
No–if you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to smell woodsmoke, or hear the crackle of a nearby fireplace.
With a panicked inhale, you shoot upward, frantically trying to get your bearings and determining your best route of escape.
“Easy, easy.”
Your head whips in the direction of the voice. A man stands across from you, as far as he can physically get from you and still be in the same room. He holds both hands up, spreading his fingers in a show of peace. His eyes are cautious, but gentle, and his brow is creased as though he were anxious.
“Easy,” he repeats. “I found you out in the snow and brought you inside. I won’t hurt you.”
“Why?” you rasp.
The man seems confused by the question. “You were going to die,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have any food in your pack. When was the last time you ate anything?”
Suspicion flares in your gut. “You looked through my stuff?”
He grimaces a little. “I can’t just bring someone into my house without knowing anything about them.”
“What were you looking for?”
He shrugs again. “Weapons. Drugs. I don’t know.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I know that, now.”
The two of you regard each other warily for a few moments, not speaking. Something about him makes you want to trust him, but trust is a hot commodity these days, for how scarce it seems to be.
“You must be hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “At this point in the season, I’ve got venison jerky and… more venison jerky, but in your condition I’m more worried about it making you sick.”
“I don’t care,” you say quickly, the prospect of anything edible making your hands shake with anticipation.
“I’ll give you a little,” he decides, “and I think I have some cornmeal. I can make some poor man’s polenta.”
“Some… what?”
The man grins lopsidedly. “I mean, it’s just cornmeal and water. But it feels better to call it ‘polenta’ rather than ‘gruel.’”
You don’t respond, still watching him and trying to calculate whether this man is a threat. When he reaches into his coat pocket, you flinch, and he stops.
“I’ve got… I’m taking out some food for you. Okay?” He moves again, slower this time, and retrieves a small bundle of a handkerchief. “Venison, like I said.” He pauses, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “I could uh… throw it at you? If you don’t want me to come over there.”
“It’s fine,” you shake your head. “I mean, you… can. Come here, or… throw it, I don’t care,” you stammer out quickly.
Keeping his eyes fixed on you, the man slowly approaches, one hand holding out the bundle, the other still held outstretched in front of his chest in a show of supplication. You swallow awkwardly as saliva pools in anticipation. He’s moving too slow. When he’s just a few feet away, you lunge forward and snatch it from his hands, making him back away slightly with wide eyes.
You don’t care, not anymore. You rifle through the handkerchief and find a few precious morsels of jerky, stuffing them in your mouth all at once and swallowing almost without tasting.
The man huffs softly through his nose. “I’ve got more in the kitchen. And I’ll heat up some water for the uh, cornmeal.”
You nod, and he holds up both his hands again. “I’ll be right back. Just… stay there and get warm. I promise, you’re safe. I promise.”
The man vanishes, and in a couple of minutes, you can hear the metal clink of a pan being set down. You sit, staring at the place he vacated, willing yourself to stay alert and vigilant just in case, but the fire is so warm and your eyes are heavy and you really do feel safe for the first time in… well, you really don’t remember.
The next time you wake, daylight is creeping in through the windows and the man is gone. Next to you, though, is a bowl of whatever it is he made with the cornmeal, and more jerky, both of which you eat with gusto. Just as you’re scooping out the last little bit of the bowl with one finger, a floorboard creaks behind you, and you whirl around to face the man again, with one cornmeal-covered finger halfway in your mouth.
“You like it?” the man asks with a small, cautious smile.
“Mmhmm.” You awkwardly lick your finger clean and wipe it on the front of your coat. “It’s… sweet.”
“I still have a little bit of wildflower honey, I had forgotten.”
Honey? That he had forgotten about? Who IS this man?
“Honey.”
He shrugs. “Otherwise it really is more like gruel than polenta.”
“How…” you shake your head in confusion. “Where did you get honey?”
“I trade for it.”
“You trade.”
“Yes.”
The silence hangs awkwardly between you, and the man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I’m glad you’re up. I usually open the museum at dawn, and I’m running a little behind.”
“The… what?”
“The museum,” he repeats, as though that clarifies anything. “I need to feed the horses first, though. Do you drink coffee?”
You nod dumbly, unable to process the rapid-fire change in topics.
He springs into motion, heading toward the doorway to what must be the kitchen. This time, you follow him. Cautiously, of course–always staying at least six feet away as you watch him pour water from a large cistern into a cast-iron kettle and place it onto a wood stove. Then, he rifles in a cabinet and withdraws a faded, stained tupperware full of dried meat.
“More jerky?”
“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be sharing this much of your food with a stranger,” you say, frowning, but your hand still reaches toward the food.
“Good point. I’m Marcus. What’s your name?” He extends his free hand with an expectant look.
Your frown deepens. You don’t just… give out your name like that. Doesn’t this man know anything?
After another uncomfortable silence, the man… Marcus… withdraws his hand with a nod, and suddenly, you realize you feel incredibly guilty.
“S-Sorry–” you try, but he interrupts.
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Trust me.”
You take a small piece of jerky and chew on it, mostly as an excuse not to have to continue speaking. When the kettle sings, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Marcus pours the boiling water into a worn-looking french press, and you watch his hands as he presses the lid down, then pours the steaming liquid into two mismatched mugs.
“I’d offer you cream and sugar, but I’m trying to cut back.” He looks at you, and when you don’t laugh, he huffs softly to himself anyway. “Kidding. But it sure was a struggle switching to black coffee when… well, you know.”
You know.
That’s how most people your age talked about life now–two distinct periods of time: Before, and whatever this is. Now. You know.
Marcus is still looking at you. You drop your gaze, and sip the coffee. It’s strong. Something about how the taste of coffee has been one of the few things that has always been the same calms you, and you feel just some of the tension leave your shoulders.
“I’ve gotta feed the horses before they revolt,” he suddenly announces, setting his mug down. “The weather is shit, and you’re still recovering your strength, so you should stay here, but…” He trails off, bashfully. “When you’re feeling up to it, you can come see the museum.”
Still not understanding what he means, you shrug and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
Marcus beams, and that’s when you realize he’s really quite beautiful.
You nap a while longer while Marcus is outside feeding the horses, and whatever else he’s doing out there. He comes back covered in snow, brushing it off his shoulders by the front door and hanging his coat.
He rubs his hands together and breathes into them as he walks into the living room, making an exaggerated ‘brrrr’ sound. “Once this clears up I can go trade for some bread and butter, but for now, I’m afraid it’s venison jerky for lunch again,” he jokes. He grabs a handful for himself and extends another little bundle out for you.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Up to a little walking around?”
“To see the… museum,” you deadpan.
“Yes!”
It’s only when you leave the little farmhouse again that you remember the large barn you saw just before losing consciousness. On the front, large black letters read ‘ART MUSEUM’ just as they did in your fleeting memory. In the light of day–and without the delirium of hunger–you realize it used to be an airplane hangar.
As you approach, you notice the smaller sign near the door. It reads:
ADMISSION: Trade*
RULES: Be respectful of all visitors and occupants of the property
Must ask before accessing Archives and Rare Books
*Can be physical item, trinket, information, story, etc.
Thank you for your support of the arts
“It’s great, right?” Marcus is saying as he trudges toward the front door. “I stumbled upon this place through sheer providence, and I couldn’t believe my luck.” He unlocks a heavy padlock and opens the door with a flourish, gesturing for you to come inside. You stare at his hand, still not trusting him enough to enter an unfamiliar building before him.
Marcus seems to get the hint, and steps through the door himself, leaving it open for you to inspect. You peek your head inside, and…
Well, you aren’t sure what you expected, but for some reason, you hadn’t taken ‘Museum’ literally–and yet, here you are, standing in an old airplane hangar whose walls are completely covered with artworks of every style and time period you can imagine. The large open space is filled with sculptures, vases, and other artifacts, and on the left side of the hangar is a large, overflowing bookshelf.
For the moment, you’re too stunned to speak, but as usual, Marcus does it for you.
“It’s not exactly climate-controlled, of course, but this is better than any of the situations they came from.”
“You… you did all of this?” you whisper, taking in the museum with a look of sheer bewilderment.
“It’s been my life’s work–well, this life’s work, at least,” Marcus corrects himself. “Most of the major cities, I mean… you know how they are.”
You do. You have firsthand knowledge, although you don’t feel like sharing that information with the man.
“Sure, some museums were completely destroyed by the blasts, but some are still intact, just… inaccessible.”
You snort. That’s one way to describe it. Any portion of the cities that remain unburnt are treacherous, full of desperate people who can’t leave, and large syndicates of raiders and thieves who hoard what resources are left.
Marcus gestures at the walls. “When I started, I tried to keep them all organized, I really did. A wing for the Expressionists, a wing for Postmodernism, and so on, but things have gotten a little jumbled over the years.”
“You. You go to the cities. And you. Take the art.” you sputter, still focused on the insanity of it all. “And you bring it. Here.”
“It’s not stealing,” Marcus protests, his voice rising in pitch as he shuffles nervously on his feet.
“That’s not what–” You laugh in disbelief. “How the fuck do you get safely through any of these cities?”
“...Carefully.”
“Why?!”
Marcus shrugs. “I guess… when I started, it was because I wanted to preserve our history, but it’s grown to be so much more than that, it’s–” he sighs. “I want the world to have something beautiful. To know that it’s still possible.”
You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”
“How do you mean?”
“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”
Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly.
As if the universe was waiting for this cue, the doorknob behind you turns, and you jump backwards as the hangar door slowly swings open.
Hello friends! I haven't been here in a long time...not on purpose - turns out ive had Lyme disease for a looong time and it was reactivated by covid. I haven't been able to draw in two years 😭
I am extending my IV antibiotic treatment for Lyme disease by two weeks to give myself a faster chance at healing and my parents have set up a gofundme to soften the payment load. It feels weird to ask for money when there are so many other causes to donate to in the world but if you can, any donations/reblogs are very appreciated. Thank you 💚 (also, the target is automated and rolling, we're asking for as much as possible 🫶🏻)
For the last two years Maia has been bedridden, unable to do … Helene Pavey needs your support for Continue to finance Maia's Lyme treatmen
I’m seeing the gynaecologist this friday, and i’m still desperately trying to raise funds for surgery.
i am on 19% of my goal, and i’m hoping to raise as much as possible before then to put a deposit down on my surgery.
i have severe endometriosis, and i’m hoping to get the surgery so that i can live without so much pain, increase my chance of having a baby and then either have a hysterectomy or start a medical menopause.
i know it’s a big ask, and i understand that there are more pressing issues in the world than my endometriosis but i’d really appreciate it if you could take the time to share this post.
thank you so much for all the support so far.
if you donate a few pedro artists have said they will draw a few random donators a cartoon of their choice, you could get a funko pop and other little goodies.
hi friends!!! my initial appointment is in 3 DAYS!
And i’m still desperately trying to raise funds so i can have surgery, decrease my pain and take another step closer to becoming a mother (hopefully in the near future!)
the quality of my life has been massively damaged by this condition and every repost and donation is greatly appreciated.
with all my heart, thank you, i love you and appreciate you all. 🩷
Series rating: Explicit - but just yearning for this part (my whole blog is over 18’s only please)
Summary: Best friends to lovers, to worse.
Wordcount: 5,237
Part 1 Content: Set in 2002 & Dieter and reader are around 17 here. Mainly Dieter POV, ends with reader POV. Body piercing & tattoos. Childhood best friends in love. A lot of teen angst and longing. References to drugs & alcohol, dead parent, poverty. Dieter is bi. Reader has a nickname (Angel). There are Britishism in here but I kept them because I liked them, yeah? A line from The Royal Tenenbaums because I was obsessed with that film when I was their age. Fucking about with canon. Soulmates & Best friends to toxic lovers. Always Fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything.
Listen to: New Radicals - You Get What You Give
A/N: I love them. And I really, really really hope you love them too. Part 2 same time next week. As always, huge thank you to my beloved @toomanytookas for the beta read and listening to me wail about them incessantly since probably January. So much love to @secretelephanttattoo @mothandpidgeon @whocaresstillthelouvre & @pascalssbabyy for being my cheerleaders. 🖤
Series Masterlist / NEXT
I Think Of You All Of The Time
It’s more than just a sharp scratch as the pin pierces Dieter’s earlobe. It’s an agony, having you straddled on his lap, leant in so close he can feel your breath hot on his neck, thighs tightening around his waist as you try to stop him from wriggling away.
You give him a hard whack on the top of his bare arm, the slap echoing around his bedroom, followed by your raucous laughter, “Hold still, D, I’ve still got to get the ring in. Quit your squirming.”
It’s not the ear piercing that’s Dieter’s problem, it’s the raging hard-on he’s trying desperately to conceal. If you move just an inch backwards he’s terrified you’ll feel how fucking turned on he is right now.
You’ve chosen a simple gold hoop for him, carefully threading it through the new hole and slipping it into place. You sit back slightly to admire your work and you let out a sudden loud squeak, as Dieter practically hurls you off him and into the messy, unmade bed. It’s littered with books of plays with a million turned corners, half eaten Kit Kats and ‘in progress’ sketches in everything from chalk to ballpoint pen. A little nest of Dieter, a cocoon of safety the two of you have been retreating to since you were both six years old.
He skuttles off the bed, all skinny loose limbs and skin golden from sitting out on the science building roof during your lunch breaks, “Gotta check out my new look, make sure you didn’t fuck it up.”
You scoff, “I did not fuck it up, D, it looks cool. Now you’re gonna have to keep it clean, you don’t want it getting gross. No scaring off all those casting directors.”
Dieter isn’t really listening, he’d pressed up against the tiny mirror above his sink, pretending to admire the new ring but really trying to think of anything, literally anything, so he can get rid of the tent that’s formed in his jeans.
Math lessons. Mrs. Palmer’s math lessons. Mrs. Palmer’s math lessons and it’s double algebra.
Problem is, he knows in math class he just has to turn his head slightly and you’ll be sat right there next to him. Tiny bit of tongue poking out as you try to concentrate on the lesson, your brain whirring as you copy down the formulas and give him a sharp kick under the table to remind him to look forward and not at you. He can’t help it, he could look at you forever. The way your lips part, a glimpse of the wetness of your tongue flicking back inside and fuck, he’s making it much worse again.
He hops up and down a few times, dances around as he runs his hands through his increasingly wild hair, “Yeah, yeah, I promise, rubbing alcohol, yada yada.”
Maybe the jeans are thick enough that you won’t notice, he reasons. Just because he feels like he’s about to explode doesn’t mean you have any awareness of the depraved thoughts that are running rampant in his teenage head.
Hormones, right? Just hormones. That’s why he can’t stop thinking about you, his best friend, and what it would be like to hold your face and part your lips with his. Let his hands reach out to you and slide them against your hips, pull your body close to his. It’s been unbearable recently, this trend for ultra low slung jeans, the ones that you pair with a tight baby-t or worse, one of his t-shirts you’ve hacked off the bottom of. An expanse of your tummy always visible, always taunting him with your softness, with what it would be like to run his tongue against your skin, bite at the flesh, taste you. He has to physically shake his head, freshly pierced ear stinging somewhat, to remove these thoughts from his overheating brain.
Unfortunately, Dieter’s mouth often runs away without his brain being remotely involved, “What can I pierce on you?”
You’ve sunk back against the poster-covered wall, thumbing at a poetry anthology and your attention seems to be elsewhere, he’s not sure if you heard him. Maybe it’s for the best, he doesn’t know if he could stop himself from doing something really fucking stupid if he were to get that close to you. Just a pin and the single ounce of common sense he has left standing between him and disaster.
Your voice is quiet when you do speak.
“I really want my belly button done but… I think I’d need it done properly so it doesn’t go gross and I’ve got no fucking money, have I? I never have any fucking money.”
“You and me both, angel.”
You roll your eyes dramatically at him, then press your hands against them, rubbing silently. Your ever-present thick black eyeliner smudging even more, layers of the stuff clinging to your lashes, to the hollows of your eyes.
Dieter knows, really, it’s different, that his lack of cash isn’t the same as yours; his comes with a fridge full of food, heating always on in the winter, no stress about new school shoes at the start of the semester. It’s the reason you always hang out at his, rather than three doors down the hall at yours. It’s cold there, the lights don’t always turn on, the cupboards are more often than not bare. He hates to think of it, wants to wrap you up in a blanket of his care and stop you from ever having to leave the safety of his mom’s apartment, but he knows you’d shake it off, chin held defiantly in the air, the refusal to be pitied or accept help written all over your face.
He drops down on the bed next to you, crawls up on his tummy close to you, frown creasing his pretty brow, chews on his lip, “If I get that stupid hair gel commercial gig, l’ll take us down to the tattoo place to celebrate. You can have your belly pierced and I wanna get my first tattoo. Commemorate the beginning of my rise to stardom.”
As you trace your hand over your exposed belly button, Dieter has to look away, rocks his hips slightly on the bed below him, a tiny tinge of relief. He waits to see if you’ll accept the kindness or bat it away. He can never quite tell if he’s done the right thing.
“That’d be cool, D. What are you going to get?”
He sighs with happiness, delighted that you’ve accepted his gift, “Just a tattoo of your face on my chest, yeah?”
After Dieter confided in his mom late one night that he thought you were often going to school hungry, she had found a way to make your life that little bit better without you realising.
His mom had pressed a key into your palm, “I’d been meaning to give you a spare key for a while now, please take it so you can let Dieter in when he forgets his,” she said it so easily, a master storyteller just like her son, “But you can use it whenever you want. You know, my schedule is all early shifts for the next few weeks, it would be a real help if you came for breakfast, made sure Dieter gets out of the house on time?”
So now, you go over to Dieter’s each morning. Today you’re here, licking butter off your fingers and hurriedly finishing your reading for today’s classes. Dieter doesn’t normally like the mornings, he hates an early start, would probably offer up one of his limbs if it meant he could stay cosy in bed for another ten minutes, but now he finds he rolls right out after only the third snooze of his alarm. Eyes not quite bright, but certainly more alive when you’re in his kitchen, your legs curled around each other as you shovel a second bowl of cornflakes into your mouth.
You gift him your own drowsy grin, “Hurry up sleepyhead, or we’ll be late. Again.”
Dieter shoves some bread into the toaster, rubbing at his tired eyes and trying to steady his half-awake feet. Considers his new confession.
“Something happened after drama class yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Doug kissed me. Like, a proper makeout.”
“Did you like it?” Dieter nods and you look entirely unfazed, almost nonchalant, as you ask, “So, are you gay now?”
He doesn’t answer straight away, takes his time to let it roll around in his head, lets himself be brave, “No, I don’t think so. I fancy boys but I’m still really horny for girls too.”
You nod seriously, “Makes sense to me. I fancy boys, I think, but girls are like, way hotter. I reckon I’m about as obsessed with boobs as you are.” You catch Dieter’s eye, “Stop looking at my tits, D.”
“I can’t help it, angel, they’re spectacular.”
That gets Dieter a whack round the back of his head, yet he can’t help but notice you look a little pleased with yourself, a secret smile creeping into the corners of your mouth while you try and pretend to be mad at him. He’s happy he said it, happy he made you smile like that, wants you to know how fucking gorgeous you’re becoming. Sure, he said he’s still attracted to girls, but the reality is it’s just one girl. You. Running around in a loop in his head, a constant just out of reach promise. You’ve never made him think you like him more than just a best friend, an amusement more than anything. Your touches are playful and teasing, he can’t seem to make out anything deeper than that. No lingering glances, no gentle caresses, surely if you loved him back he would know?
He watches you now, tries to divine what’s going on in your pretty head, if that brush of his hair out of his eyes as he leans over to copy your homework is some kind of sign? The mix tapes you create for him, featuring all of his favourite bands, are they simply what you’d make any best friend? Or are there hidden messages written in the scrawled track listings, in the stickers and the pictures cut out from magazines that adorn the cases? He feels stupid, as if he’s scrabbling about in the dark, unable to work out what the right path is, how to navigate being your closest friend and also being wildly in love with you.
The commercial does happen. Dieter throws himself around for a day in a weird latex outfit and pouts on cue. It’s hardly taxing or Oscar worthy, but it’s one step closer to doing what fills him with joy and he knows, he really knows, that the camera loves him. He’s got a natural talent for finding his angles and turning those big brown eyes on the right people. Dieter spends a considerable amount of time chatting to the team and understanding how everything works. He leaves with some new industry contacts and enough hair gel plastered against his head that he’s still trying to wash it out three days later. A few hundred dollars richer as well. He’s thrilled he can afford to take you to the sketchy tattoo parlour round the corner from where you both live, the one that won’t ask for ID but still looks cleanish. He can pay for your belly ring and get his first tattoo.
Dieter’s vibrating with excitement as you both walk into the studio. You’re right there next to him with a wide grin, not a drop of nerves as you watch with big eyes as the heavily pierced woman with neon ribbons threaded through her dreadlocks takes out the large needle that’s about to go through your belly button. Scooched up on the bed, top rolled up and cargo pants low on your hips, you’re chatting away, only the gentle nibbling of your bottom lip giving away that you’re a tiny bit anxious about the impending moment.
Dieter smiles at you, full Cheshire Cat mode activated, “Are you nervous?” He hops from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling like a much younger version of himself, eyes wide, “I’m a bit nervous.”
“No, no! I’m excited!” You reach out to him, give his hand a little squeeze, “Thank you, D. This is so generous of you. Gotta promise to remember me when you’re a Hollywood A-lister, yeah?”
He thinks there’s a hint of a blush beginning to bloom on the apples of his cheeks which he tries to ignore, a warmth that’s travelling from his belly to his lips. He pouts a little, feels the fizz that now bubbles up whenever he looks at you, shifts on his feet again, “It’s just a stupid hair gel commercial.”
You look at him so sincerely it makes him pause, “Nah, it’s just the beginning, I got a feeling.”
Dieter feels your hand tighten around his as the needle makes contact with your skin and he grips harder, taking a moment to notice how much has changed recently. Your hand looks small compared to his now. He was so used to it almost being the mirror of his own, yet somewhere along the way your bodies have diverged from the similarities of childhood; he feels lanky and sloppy next to you, like he’s all sharp angles and too big features. The matching chipped black nail polish is a comfort, anchoring him to you, to late nights where you’ve painted his nails and talked into the early hours about applying to schools in New York together.
A melancholy descends upon him, one which he doesn’t seem to be able to shake off. As he watches you admire your new butterfly adornment in the full length mirror, he has an awareness that he’s nostalgic for a time that he’s still in. That these moments you have together now, they’re the beginning of the end. One day you won’t be just down the hallway or sat at his kitchen table in the morning rubbing sleep out of your eyes or sitting next to him in boring math classes. He won’t have you all to himself. If his dreams of acting and films and stardom do come true, then soon he won’t be here at all.
He can’t take his eyes off you, yet it hurts. There’s an ache right down to the soles of his feet, a heaviness in his belief that he’ll never be this close to anyone ever again. It’s a magic and a sadness all at once. That’s what stops him from leaning over, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing his lips to yours. That’s all he wants to do, all day, every day. Yet for all his wildness and that permanent air of chaos, Dieter doesn’t want to ruin what you have with his stupid teenage impulses, he can’t sully how special this friendship is just because the thought of his tongue in your mouth is driving him to a kind of insanity.
“D, you’ve gone very quiet, you’re not chickening out of your tattoo are you?”
“Have you ever known me to back out of anything? I’m just thinking how fit you look.”
You give him a hard shove, but it’s there again, that look he just loves. Each time he compliments you, it’s like a little building block in your confidence, a tiny LEGO brick that’s helping to form your self belief, makes you smirk at the mirror. And you are, you are so fucking fit.
He takes a deep breath, pulls off his ratty t-shirt, stares down at his skinny chest, bare for the last time, ready for the angel that’s going to be sitting above his heart forever more.
You were both going to skip prom. There were long, heated discussions within your friend group of theatre kids and gaming nerds. Should you all refuse to go, or go as a big group? Was it an antiquated tradition with a wild amount of pressure on it, or a rite of passage and an excuse to snog your crushes?
You were hesitant about the whole debacle and Dieter had listened intently as you’d said your piece to the group; that maybe it wasn’t about being part of a stupid popularity contest or even being too cool to attend, it was more having fun and being with each other while you still could. He’d felt this, so hard, especially considering everything that had been happening recently, with the news he’d just received.
Dieter had suddenly experienced a flood of interest after the commercial aired, a slew of castings for more modelling gigs, call backs for plays and even an audition for a new show called Drug Cops as the main protagonist’s son. Suddenly the life he dreamed about, these fantasies of stardom and fame, felt like they were in touching distance; an unfamiliar hand at his wrist tugging him into a glorious future but pulling him out of the safety and comfort of your arms. Into the unknown. One he wasn’t quite ready to trouble you with yet.
Neither of you had made a final decision about prom until you’d accidentally found your dream dress in a thrift store; a golden, brocade vintage piece that fit you like it had been made just for you. How Dieter had felt seeing you step out of that grungy changing room, the air musty with old clothes and someone else’s cigarette smoke, it’s like his stomach had actually flipped. You were glowing. Radiating with a confidence that he’d only caught glimpses of every now and then, but in that moment it poured out of you, all wicked grin and arched brow.
He’d fully gasped, “Well now we’ve got to go to the stupid fucking prom,” and you’d laughed in agreement, delighted with yourself and your miraculous $5 find.
Dieter’s mom had fixed the various holes and snags in the dress. Sat straight down as soon as she’d got home that evening, still in her scrubs, thread between her teeth in the low light of a lamp, using her nurse’s precision to make it look almost new. She’d then dug out an old suit that once belonged to Dieter’s dad, not worn since the 80’s, it had sat patiently in a wardrobe waiting for him to grow tall enough to fill it out. It was still oversized, but his mom reassured him that was the very thing. When he’d tried it on, she tried to surreptitiously wipe her tears away at seeing him, but he knew she was thinking about how he looked so like his Dad and yet still so himself. A thrift store bow tie and his favourite Converse had completed the look.
Dieter’s memories of his dad are sketchy, often he’s not sure if they’re memories at all or just photos he’s brought to life through sheer force of will, family stories repeated often enough that they’re woven into his memory alongside actual glimpses of the man who died when he was five. One year before Dieter had met you. He knows, in the depths of his soul, that you two would have got on. That the loud chuckle he can just about recall would have rung out around the apartment at your sassy retorts, delighted by your sarcasm and dry sense of humour, just like Dieter is. He lets himself have a little fantasy conversation where his dad is still alive, had given him a pre-prom prep talk as his mom had taken the photos of you both dressed in your finery together. He would have no doubt made some comments about you going as ‘friends’ not official ‘dates’ and then made a clumsy dad joke about being safe and condoms. Probably delighting in the embarrassment it would have caused.
Instead, it was just the three of you; Dieter’s mum had handed you one single glass of sparkling wine each and taken probably about 1,000 photos on her digital camera. She’d grabbed his hand before he left, pulled him into a hug, whispered, “You have to tell her, Dieter.”
It’s come around so quickly, after all that anticipation and planning, now there is a big group of your friends dancing theatrically to the cheesy DJ in the sports hall. Glowing rainbow under the heady disco lights of the prom, Dieter watches his friends. He gazes at you with a wide grin plastered on his face; you’re ignoring all your natural impulses to be a cool girl and instead twirl madly to the Spice Girls with your best girl friends. Your smile, he could look at it forever, so wild and full of hope, never better than when you’re letting your guard down, being silly when you often have to be so serious.
He hates that he’s going to fuck it all up.
The unmissable chimes of ‘You Get What You Give’ by the New Radicals starts playing and you run towards him, hands outstretched, begging for him to dance with you to one of your favourite songs.
Unapologetically optimistic, you bounce together, singing at the top of your lungs, stupid grins on both your faces, a circle of friends forming around you as you shout to the sky.
This whole damn world could fall apart
You'll be okay, follow your heart
You're in harm's way, I'm right behind
Now say you're mine
You’re laughing, falling against him, a mess of hair and glitter and limbs. He holds onto your hand, slippery with heat, dances you out of the crowd, pulls you up close so you can hear him over the music. He feels like he might scream if he doesn’t tell you, his news is burning in his chest.
“Angel, I’ve got a confession.”
The way your eyes are sparkling at him, a magic and an anticipation, as you roll your lip against your teeth and your tongue, Dieter knows he’s already fucked it. That the words he’s about to say are going to shatter everything. What he should do, really, is swallow them down and close the tiny space between you, air thick with want. How easy it would be to finally, finally, lean down and capture your pretty mouth in a kiss.
The look in your eyes, it’s hurting him, because for the first time he thinks maybe he knows it’s what you’d want as well. That for once he’s reading the signals right and you’d like him to do it, press his lips to yours, tangle together with the energy that’s fizzing between you.
Only he knows he can’t. Imagine if he did that and then told you. It would be worse, much worse. He’s been battling with himself for a few days now; when to tell you, how to do it, if he’s making the right choice? It’s eating away at him, a constant rot in his stomach meaning everything turns to ash as it hits his lips, a lurch in his gut whenever he’s thought about this undefined future you’re both hurtling towards. Now he finds he can’t run away from it any longer, that this desire to take you in his arms, it’s being completely overwhelmed by the need to tell you the truth. So, he fights down what he really wants to do, flinches a little as the words leave his mouth, the one that should be meeting yours and not breaking both your hearts.
It all spills out at once, “I got the Drug Cops job. They’re flying me out to LA next week. I’m not going to finish school. I’m not going to New York. It’s a two year contract.”
It feels a bit like watching a car crash in slow motion. He thinks he might see the moment the light goes out of your eyes, when something cracks in you. Jagged, sharp. He can see that you’re struggling to speak, to make your face take any shape that isn’t utter devastation.
You sort of choke out, “Oh, D. That’s amazing.” You swallow thickly, “When did you find out?”
“A couple of days ago. I didn’t want to ruin prom, but it felt so wrong not telling you.”
“You couldn’t… you…. I’m happy for you, it’s everything you’ve always wanted.” Your cheek is shaking, he knows you’re on the edge of tears, your words coming out with a catch that makes it sound hollow, like it hurts to speak. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to make it better, to soothe this ache. He wishes he’d just kissed you, pretended this wasn’t happening for a few more hours, found out if you feel the same way, but he can already see you drawing back from him, your arms hugging your own shoulders, an almost visible prickle at your skin.
You shake your head at him, he watches as you swallow slowly again, eyes glistening, before you disappear into the crowd.
You watch the evening spiral away from you.
You try to clutch onto the moments of happiness once Dieter reveals his news, but they slip through your hands like water, a steady drip of sadness which you can’t shake off however hard you try to fix a smile to your face. The music and the dancing and the press of friends, it should be enough to lift you out of this dread, but it’s as if you’re held in a strange half conscious state, hovering a little way above the ground, watching everything happen around you but unable to immerse yourself into it. You’re numb, eyes heavy with what is yet to come.
You watch as Dieter laps up all the attention of your classmates, the way the kaleidoscope of colours dance off his cheekbones, how he has steadily become the centre of attention as if the golden glimmer of celebrity already lights his skin. It hurts your heart. That people are finally seeing him as you do, your charming best friend, your beautiful, talented beloved who is already beginning to walk away from you before you’ve told him what you see. That in your eyes he is already all of the things he longs to be. He doesn’t need to be successful or famous to be considered worthy of your love.
You know it’s in him, this insecurity, this constant shifting of the sands beneath his feet that makes him doubt himself. You’ve watched him battle with it ever since you’ve known him. This strange mixture of being so ridiculously talented that everything is easy for him, every play he’s ever been in, every person he’s ever fancied, it’s all come some naturally for him. Yet it makes him feel like he doesn’t deserve it somehow. You? You think he deserves the world; your generous, softhearted, chaotic friend, you want him to have it all. Even if that doesn’t include you.
You take a swig of your warm beer, press your fingers against the plastic of the cup and feel no resistance. It squeaks beneath your fingers unpleasantly. You know, you’ve always known, that you’d have to let him go.
It’s too late now anyway. The partying has continued well into the night at a friend’s house, where there are shots and booze and bongs and no one is thinking straight any longer. You toy with a stray thread, a tiny golden piece that has come loose from your beautiful dress, after being so lovingly repaired by Dieter’s mom. It is damp with sweat and spilled beer.
Everything, you think, everything is falling apart.
Dieter is smashed. You watch as he bounces from person to person, feet unsteady and hair increasingly wild as the night slides into early morning. To be fair, everyone here is smashed. The floor sticky with booze, discarded bottles everywhere, a mess of shrieked laughter and illicit snogs over too loud music filling the house. A teenage dream, a longed for release, an ending.
You’re sat up on a kitchen counter, same crushed cup beneath your fingers, worrying at your lip. You’re weirdly sober. Nothing seems to have touched the sides since you heard Dieter was leaving. The dreams you had of being in New York together, they disappeared in that horrible instant. You scolded yourself for ever playing with that fantasy. You should have protected yourself better, you’d allowed yourself to enjoy the anticipation when really you should have been preparing yourself for disappointment.
Like tonight. One disappointment after another.
Dieter washes over to you, so handsome in his disheveled suit, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, hair a halo of fluff and stray confetti. You pick a piece out from its place on his crown, smooth the rogue almost curl you find there. He looks so goofy now, all too big smile and glitter on his cheekbones, delighted with himself in his drunken haze.
“My favourite girl!” He throws his arms around your waist and as much as you want to instantly shrug him off and give him a sharp shove in the opposite direction, you let him sink into you, head heavy against your shoulder. Even covered in sweat and beer he still smells like him; comforting, home. Hidden underneath that awful aftershave he drenches himself in and the permanent lingering stale hint of weed, it’s pure Dieter that snakes its way into your senses. A recognition that blooms in your heart, so many hours sown into your memory that now, all of sudden, seem to have an ending. A tangle of moments that you thought would continue forever, your promised life together in New York another thread you were going to add to the bundle, now all preparing to be wrapped up in a neat bow of goodbye.
It takes you a moment to realise that Dieter is talking to you, his words slightly slurred. It makes you feel a bit grubby, your stomach tight and uncomfortable, the exact opposite to the softness emanating from his warm skin against yours.
“I hope you’re not mad at me, angel? We’re still going to speak all the time, yeah? I’m going to miss you so much.”
He squeezes his arms tighter, lifts his gaze up to yours, those dark eyes sort of blurry in his inebriation, like he’s struggling to focus on you. His eyes travel down to your lips and his mouth opens slightly, you watch as his tongue wets the seam of his lip and you know how easy it would be to follow his train of thought, kiss him like you’ve been dreaming of for so long.
Just as Dieter had pulled back from you on the dance floor, now it’s your turn to change what could have been into a never was.
You shake your head, “I’m not going to kiss you, D. Not like this, I don’t…” You wiggle away, out of his grip, off the counter, onto the floor, feet so unsteady beneath you. You’re actually shaking, grasping for something to say to the broken expression that’s staring at you right now, those big puppy dog eyes you love so much on full blast. You clutch at the skin between your thumb and forefinger, pinch down, trying to ground yourself, make sure your voice is steady.
“I think we’re just going to have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that, D.”
Series Masterlist / NEXT
All images Pinterest & dividers from @saradika-graphics
Taggin in some pals & Dieter fans, let me know if you'd prefer to be taken off (or would like to be added).
„I don’t think I could do this without you Darlin’“ he whispered and your arms around him tightened.
„Thankfully you will never have to,“ you smiled softly at him and kissed him again.
or; you are there for Joel after the new years eve party.
Pairing: Joel Miller x fem. reader
Wordcount: 937
Rating: G
Warnings: established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, more comfort though, Joel just needs a hug
A/N: please somebody hug this man
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Full Masterlist // Joel Miller Masterlist
„You know one day he’s not gonna be here,“ you saw the way Ellie jumped as she walked towards the garage she was living in. You saw her jaw tense, her eyes finding yours as you pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders as you approached her.
Walking towards her, having been in the back to check on your chickens before bed, like everyday, you stopped in front of her.
„Do you really hate him so much?“ You asked quietly.
„I…“ she began before she shook her head.
„You wouldn’t understand,“ she rolled her eyes.
„Try me,“ you said, crossing your arms and she sighed.
„He lied to me,“ she began, „he lied to me and every time I look at him I just… fuck I just get so angry. Why can’t he just leave me alone?“ she asked.
„Because he loves you,“ you said and she took a deep breath.
„I didn’t ask him to,“ she mumbled and a sad smile came to your lips.
„You have no idea how lucky you are to have someone in your life who loves you like he does. Unconditionally. I just wish you could see it,“ you shook your head, before you turned away from her and walked towards the front porch.
Joel was still sitting on one of the chairs, guitar resting in his lap, a space heater towards his feet.
You had seen the whole argument at the new years party, your heart shattering when you saw his expression as he left the building. The two of you had a nice time up until the argument and you even had talked him into dancing with you. You thought he would walk straight home after but it was you who got there first, using the time to check on everything before he came home.
He had kissed your temple as he finally walked through the door, his forehead resting against yours for a moment before his eyes found the guitar he had picked up from Ellie earlier. He had put on new strings before you left for the party, intending to give it to her after.
You watched him pick it up before he walked back outside, the gentle sounds of him picking the strings filling the quiet night.
You knew he would wait for Ellie until she got home to make sure she was okay. At least physically.
You just wished you could take away his pain, Ellie’s too.
It was heartbreaking to watch them drift further and further apart.
Things hadn’t been like that in the beginning. You and Joel started dating almost three years ago. Joel and Ellie were a package deal, always up to mischief and you missed those days.
A true father daughter duo.
And you loved them like that.
But then it changed. From one day to another. It was Joel who told you why.
What he did.
And how he lied about it.
And while you could understand Ellie’s anger about it, you could understand Joel too. He had lost so much, he told you again and again that he wouldn't have survived to loose her too. Not after Tess, after Sarah.
You held him night and night again when the world got to much and he just had to let it out. You tried to get both and Ellie to talk but it seemed to make things only worse.
And so you stopped.
You stopped trying to fix them and just tried to be there for both of them.
Joel looked up at you when he heard you step onto the porch. He took a deep breath, before he looked away from you.
He had only tried to protect her. Everything he ever did was to protect her.
Slowly you reached for the guitar, carefully leaning it against he wall, before you slowly climbed into his lap, your arms around his shoulders. You wrapped him under your blanket with you and you felt his cold nose run over your cheek as you leaned your head against his shoulder.
„She talking?“ He asked and you slowly shook your head.
„So goddamn stubborn,“ you mumbled and he sighed, his arms coming around you to pull you closer.
„She hates me,“ he whispered.
„She’s a teenager in a post apocalyptic world who never had a parental figure in her life. She’s angry and thinks you took away her choice. I don’t know if she ever actually thought about the alternative. That she would have been dead. Most likely for nothing. But she doesn’t hate you Joel.“
„I couldn’t…“ Joel sobbed quietly and you reached up, brushing your hand over his cheek, wiping the tears away.
„I understand. I understand why you did it. She’ll come around. Hopefully sooner than later. I remember how I was at that age. Too much shit happening in the brain,“ you attempted to joke and he released a long breath. You looked up at him and he slowly leaned in to kiss your lips softly.
„I don’t think I could do this without you Darlin’“ he whispered and your arms around him tightened.
„Thankfully you will never have to,“ you smiled softly at him and kissed him again.
„Can we go to bed? It’s fucking freezing,“ you shivered and that finally got a small smile to his face.
„You’re always freezing,“ he said, rubbing his nose over yours.
„Cause you can’t sleep with the window closed,“ you pouted.
„Maybe I just like you clinging to me,“ he whispered with a hint of a grin.
„You love it,“ you teased and he kissed you again.
pairing: oberyn martell x gn!reader (reader is a blank canvas)
rating: T
content: fluff, angst, post-coital
word count: 874
dividers: @saradika-graphics
beta: @for-a-longlongtime (ily)
summary: it's the morning that oberyn leaves for king's landing. you're one of his favorite bed partners and you don't want him to leave, but he promises to return to you...
a/n: written as a part of @chaotic-mystery 's WIRED 4 YOU challenge! my song was DYWTYLM by Sleep Token and the prompt was "angst" so i hope i delivered! ♥ i hope you enjoy! also this is my first time writing for our prince!! 🫣
masterlist | fic notifs
Oberyn was beautiful like this.
It was early morning in Sunspear and the rays of sun painted the prince's naked body like a canvas. A light sheen of sweat covered his golden skin, making you lick your lips without thinking.
The two of you had been up late, as was normal whenever you came to visit him. But last night felt differently. He just wanted you all to himself, saying that he would miss you most of all his lovers. Of course Ellaria would be accompanying him on his trip, so you didn't think to question the validity of that.
You'd spent countless nights with him, getting to know the prince and his other lovers. He always made you feel good, better than anyone else you'd slept with, and treated you with respect. Being a bastard in Dorne was better than being a bastard anywhere else, you knew, but you were still a bastard. There was a station difference between the two of you and it made you wish things were different.
"You're staring," Oberyn hummed, a small smile on his handsome face. His eyes were closed still, his breathing even and calm.
Your cheeks warmed at being caught, but it made you smile too. "Do you blame me?"
Oberyn snorted and slowly opened his eyes, those gorgeous pools of umber catching your gaze easily. He rested his chin in the palm of his hand as he turned onto his side, getting comfy. He didn't bother covering his naked body and neither did you, both of you quite content to let the soft linen and smooth satin of the sheets brush against your bare skin. "No, I don't suppose I do," he chuckled, rolling his eyes.
"Must you go to King's Landing, my prince?" You asked softly, turning your own body to face his. You frowned as you watched his face change from one of peace to one of seriousness.
"I'm afraid so, my darling," he sighed, turning away to sit up on the bed. His legs hung over the large mattress as he stretched, his back cracking in the process. You crawled over to him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind. You kissed along his broad shoulders and the back of his neck, silently apologizing for bringing it up, but you had to know. "I made a promise to my brother, you know that."
"I know," you sighed and rested your chin on his shoulder. The palms of your hands rested on his chest where you could feel his sturdy heartbeat beneath. "I wish I could come with," you mumbled.
Oberyn turned in your arms and cupped your face in his large hands. "No," he frowned. "I don't wish to taint you with that shitpile of a city." You laughed, cheeks warming again. "I mean it! I hate it there, and I'd hate for you to leave Dorne. Besides," he smiled. "I want something lovely to come home to, hm?"
Your heart fluttered in your chest when he leaned forward to kiss you, those plump lips of his making you lose your train of thought for a moment. Both of you stayed like that for a bit, kissing softly, but eventually had to come up for air. Oberyn pressed his forehead to yours and breathed you in.
"Alright," you hummed, deep in thought. “My prince,” you started. He looked you in the eye, listening intently. “Do… Do you ever wish that… you loved me?”
Oberyn furrowed his brows. “My darling, what do you mean?”
Your cheeks throbbed in embarrassment. “I just mean… I wonder if we were… lovers, like you and Ellaria, then,” you gulped, not making eye contact with him. “It’s silly,” you shook your head, brushing it off.
Oberyn sighed, brows pinched in concern. “What Ellaria and I have is unique, that is true. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think of you any less than her, my love,” he said gently.
That made you feel a little better. There was a small part of you that doubted his words, like he was just saying them to calm you down. But deeper than that, you knew, Oberyn wouldn’t lie to you. He never had.
"Now, I'd like one more round with you, my sweet," Oberyn grinned. "Just to have something to hold me over. I don't imagine the whores in King's Landing will ever hold a candle to you, but I've got a vivid memory," he winked.
Oberyn always had a way with words, and it made you laugh and lightly slap his chest. He looked at you with mock hurt and tackled you to the bed, kissing and nipping along your chest and neck. He tickled you along your sides. Your chest and sides hurt with how hard you were laughing, and when you came down from that high, you looked up at Oberyn's handsome face.
There was a calmness that settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. You reached up to cup his face in your hand. "Come back to me?" You whispered.
"Of course," he said back, eyes full of determination and passion.
There was a part of you that couldn't shake an uneasiness in his words, but you believed him.
Republicans block amendments that would protect legitimate voters from SAVE Act suppression efforts.
SAVE Act | 5calls | resistbot | blorbos for democracy
There was no vote on the SAVE act voter suppression bill last week - they went home instead bc Republican unity is beginning to crack. But the Act still lives. We're doing great work, please keep it up. Now onto a damning development: I want you to watch the first 15 sec of this vid so your jaw can drop like mine did. TLDR: republicans admit it's a voter suppression bill.
Congresswoman Dexter introduced amendments that would've required states to ensure the SAVE act would not suppress the votes of married women, people of color, DV survivors, people with disabilities, and other specific groups (one per amendment). Republicans blocked each amendment because that's what the bill is for. They know there's no way to guarantee the act won't disenfranchise these people because the bill was designed to disenfranchise millions of voters.
CALL THEM OUT: resistbot | 5calls | SHARE THIS POST
p.s. I wrote a crack fic about the save act if u didn't catch it
Summary: Being the oldest daughter in a poor farming family of seven, you had little hope of marrying for love, let alone marrying at all. But when one morning a letter arrives from the mysterious Prince of Azethia, you find yourself swept away–literally–to a faraway kingdom where mythical beasts are commonplace and magic runs deep in the blood of those who live there… Or is it a curse? It quickly becomes clear that the melancholic Prince Marcus is not what he seems… but can you learn his secret before you–and the Prince–run out of time altogether?
Warnings: Extreme cheese and flowery language ala the most ridiculous romantasy you can imagine; shape-shifting Marcus Pike (he’s a dragoonnnnnn!!); animal attack; animal death; brief violence and mentions of blood; curses; implied virgin reader; arranged-ish marriage; yearning and self-loathing that will break your little heart; non-human genitalia; human-dragon hybrids.
A/N: A few weeks ago I had a dream that Marcus Pike was a dark romantasy hero with a humongous monster dick. One day I opened a google doc and then several days later I had 20k worth of yearning and smut. The beginning especially is HEAVILY inspired by the book Once Upon a Winter’s Night by Denis L. McKiernan, which was the first book with smut in it that I read around age 14 and it changed me forever (and made me completely unhinged). The premise of the marriage proposal is almost exactly the same, to my memory. Credit to the lovely @pedropascalsx for the moodboard edits <3
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part Two
The envelope arrives early in the morning.
Your youngest brother is the one who opens the door to the modest farmhouse where your family lives, and even at the young age of seven, he immediately understands that the item in his hands is precious and expensively-made. You watch as he gasps softly at the feel of the thick parchment against his fingers, inspecting the elaborate wax seal with a little furrow on his tiny brow.
“What is it?” your father asks from the doorway to the kitchen.
Elias turns the thick envelope over and squints at the ornate calligraphy on the front. “It’s… it’s for grande-soeur,” he says in bewilderment, holding it out to you.
“Let me see,” your father interrupts, taking the package himself and frowning at the writing. The deep furrows in his brow deepen. “Elias is correct,” is all he says as he hands it over
You carefully take the envelope from his grip; the careworn hands of your father left a few dusty fingerprints on the expensive vellum, but you ignore them as you read the letters of your name spelled out in a fine flourish. There is no other writing on the front, no indication of the identity of the sender, until you turn it over.
You gasp, nearly dropping the letter in your surprise. “This is the seal of the prince of Azethia,” you whisper. Your volume hardly matters–the little farmhouse is so quiet that your seven siblings and your parents can still hear the hushed phrase.
“Open it!” Lucie, the second-oldest shrieks in delight.
“Patience,” maman scolds her, but you’re already sliding one fingernail underneath the heavy wax seal, trying to pry it up with minimal damage.
You carefully slide the thick parchment from the confines of the envelope and unfold it. Your eyes flit back and forth rapidly as you take in the meaning of the letter. No, no. It cannot be true.
“Read it out loud!” Elias wheedles.
With an unsteady voice, you comply.
Dearest;
Many times have I strolled through the woods near your farmhouse at dawn to clear my head after a restless sleep, and my tired eyes have beheld your beautiful form laboring in the fields as though you may never feel fatigue. At first, I was simply impressed by your strength and steadfastness, but I must confess that, one morning, I stood in horror as your young sibling collapsed with a coughing fit, and as I watched you rush to his side and administer aid, I fell deeply in love with your kind and gentle nature.
Please forgive my secrecy and imprudence for watching you unseen through the trees. I am accustomed to being a solitary man and have lived alone for many years, and could not summon the courage to reveal myself to you. Please know that, while this letter comes to you with no preamble, I have thought of nothing but this from the moment I first came upon your little farmhouse some years ago.
I shall stop rambling now, and get to the purpose of this letter. For circumstances beyond my control, I must marry at once. I apologize that I cannot tell you, at this time, the reasons behind my urgency, but I must confess that I cannot fathom the idea of having any bride but you.
I realize this may come as some surprise. Nay, not just surprise, but fear–you do not know me, not yet, and this letter brings no guarantee that I would be a good and gentle husband to you. All I can provide to you, dearest, is my word that I would provide you with all the riches and comforts you should desire as my bride, and that you would reside in splendor with me in my castle.
Additionally, I commit heretofore to providing a generous dowry to your family, along with a monthly tithe to ensure that your family lives in comfort for the rest of their days. I promise to you that none of your seven siblings would go hungry from this day forward, and that your petit-frère would receive the medicine he requires. No longer would they need to labour in the fields.
All this I can promise, and one thing more: I promise that I will love and cherish you, should you choose to become my beloved bride or not, until my dying breath.
There is no need to reply to this letter; in three days’ time, a chauffeur shall arrive to bring you to me. If you so choose, simply wait at the edge of the woods on the east end of your farm at dawn, and when the sun rises, he shall appear. If you are not there to meet him, I shall understand that your answer is “no,” and I will harass you no longer.
With ardent affection,
Marcus, Prince of Azethia
PS. Please do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur. His kind are quite common in my kingdom, and are not only docile, but quite intelligent and kind.
The farmhouse is silent as you finish reading the prince’s letter. Silent, but for the pounding of your own heart. The bride of a prince you’ve never even met? You can hardly fathom it.
“You should say no, grande-soeur,” Elias says indignantly. “Who is this prince that must purchase a bride?”
“Hush,” hisses your sister Celine. “Imagine never going hungry again a day in our lives.”
“It isn’t up to you,” Lucie argues. “Let her make her own choice.”
“Which is no,” Elias insists again.
You finally speak for the first time upon reading the letter. “Elias… you could finally get the medicine you need,” you say gently.
You look to Mother and Father with a determined expression, forcing your words to be steady despite the lump in your throat and the fear in your heart. “I accept the prince’s terms.”
Celine cheers. Elias shoves her angrily, but when she shoves him back unthinkingly and he begins to cough, the rest of your siblings come to his defense and the small farmhouse dissolves into shouts and arguing.
“Stop!” you cry out over the din. “I’ve made up my mind. Please, dear sisters and brothers, do not fight over me.”
Your father nods, resigned, and looking more tired than you’ve ever seen him. Maman, on the other hand, seems triumphant, her eyes sparkling with the prospect of wealth.
“What did he mean, ‘do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur’?” asks Pierre, your other brother, three years older than Elias, pointing to the letter still held loosely in your hand.
“He must be terribly ugly,” Lucy suggests.
“Perhaps it is a ferocious beast with the intelligence of a man,” Elias adds. “I have heard tales of such things.”
“Fairy tales, you mean,” Pierre laughs. “No such thing exists in this world.”
“In this world, but perhaps in other kingdoms such a thing is common,” you say. “And Azethia is so very far away.” A pang of sadness washes over you at your own words. “So very far,” you say again in a near whisper.
Elias rushes into your arms, and you pull him close for a tender hug. “Oh grande-soeur,” he cries into your chest, “please don’t go.”
You ruffle his hair affectionately. “Silly frere, I came of age two years ago already. You must know I was never destined to stay–I must make my own way in the world, after all.”
“Yes, but to marry a man you’ve never met? And all the way in Azethia? It will take you a month just to get there, even on horseback!”
“Not just a man,” Maman reminds him, “but a prince.”
Elias blows a loud, wet raspberry in response.
Your dreams that night are troubled. A shadowy figure watches you from the trees, but even as you run at a full sprint, the edge of the woods becomes even farther and farther away. The fields of your farm melt away into a dark, foreboding castle, where, once again, you chase the shadow of Prince Marcus down long, winding hallways.
The next three days pass quicker than you’ve ever experienced days passing. On the third day, you wake long before dawn, and your family helps you pack your scant belongings into a small suitcase. You don your finest dress, the one you usually wear into town–which is still quite plain, but at least free of holes and tears–and walk in the waning twilight toward the edge of the woods with your seven siblings, mother, and father all trailing behind you.
Your nervousness has made you quite early. You stand at the tree line, watching the sky lighten, your breaths visible in the chilly air. Elias shivers, so you remove your outer cloak and drape it over his shoulders.
No one speaks.
The coming sunrise gradually fills the sky with beautiful pinks and oranges, bathing the land, and the tiny little farmhouse that you’ll miss so much, in warm colors. Finally, just as daylight hits the very top branches of the trees, you hear a great thundering sound, almost like… the beating of wings.
You cry out in shock as a large silhouette suddenly circles overhead–too large to be a bird, and too reptilian. Its wings send gusts of air down over you and your waiting family as the great beast lowers itself to the ground. Its landing seems to generate a small earthquake, and although every instinct is screaming at you to run in terror, you stand fast, refusing to move even as your body trembles. Its body is covered in scales of dark green, but when its wings move, you can see a hint of iridescence that gives them the illusion that they are shimmering.
The dragon–for you have no other word for this scaled, winged creature–seems to stare at you. As you stare back, it closes its eyes and drops its gigantic head in what can only be a reverent bow.
“H-Hello,” you address the beast timidly. “Are you the chauffeur of Prince Marcus that is to bear me to his castle in Azethia?”
The dragon huffs in assent, blowing a strong gust of warm air out of its nostrils as it does so. It carefully lowers itself to the ground, and that’s when you spot the ornate leather saddle attached to the beast’s back.
“I’m to ride you?” you ask in disbelief.
The creature’s massive head bobs up and down, and it makes a soft grunting noise in its throat.
With your heart in your throat, you take a few cautious steps toward the giant animal, and hold out your shaking hand until it gently touches the hard scales between its eyes. The eyes–which are a deep, chocolate brown and flecked with gold–close with contentment at your touch, and you conjure up years of memories doing the same gesture with your milking cows. Carefully, you rub up and down the creature’s snout, marveling at the strange feel of its scaly skin. The beast seems to shudder at your touch. Despite yourself, you begin to smile.
“Let us go, then, dear dragon.”
The beast is patient as you share your last tearful hugs with your family, before grabbing your suitcase and awkwardly climbing onto the large saddle. You notice the thick leather straps and buckles, and you hastily fasten them around you, tightening them as much as you can and hoping they’ll hold for what’s about to come. As the dragon spreads its massive wings, you curl over into the soft leather, squeeze your eyes tightly shut, and hold on for dear life.
The sound is deafening as the dragon’s wings begin to beat, creating great gusts of wind as it rises into the air. With your eyes closed, your only indication that you’ve left the ground is the way your stomach seems to drop out of your body. With a squeal of fear, you hold even tighter to the saddle as the beating of the wings sends you up and down, up and down, over and over again. Finally, when you can stand the feeling no longer, the thunderous wingbeats pause for a moment as the dragon glides through the air.
Desperate to catch one last glimpse of your family, you crack open one eye to see them staring up at you in awe as the dragon circles them once, twice, before letting out a great bellow and then beating its wings as it soars higher above the trees and toward the rising sun–and your new kingdom.
Your entire body is aching when, hours later, your ‘chauffeur’ comes to rest in a lush meadow near a spring. You stagger out of the saddle and collapse ungracefully to the ground. The dragon grunts, making a noise of what could only be described as concern, as it turns its head toward you.
“I’m fine,” you say, suddenly wanting to reassure the poor beast. “I’m being silly. You’re the one who’s doing all of the hard work, after all.”
The dragon huffs loudly and turns its head toward the clear stream, and then looks back at you. When you don’t move, it does it again–points its head at the water, and back to you.
“You want me to drink?” you ask.
The creature jerks its head toward the spring and huffs again.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” you say wryly, and gingerly crawl toward the clear, bubbling stream. You scoop handful after handful of blissfully cold water, sipping gratefully from your cupped hands until you’ve had enough. When you sit back with a satisfied sigh, only then does the dragon tip its head toward the water and drink for itself.
“You’re very kind,” you tell it, feeling the need to fill the silence. “Have you worked for the prince for a long time?”
The beast lets out a kind of a snort, and continues drinking.
“I’m not sure what that means,” you say, smiling softly.
When the dragon finishes drinking, it raises his head to look at you, then jerks its head back toward the saddle.
“Time to go again already?” you ask with a soft sigh.
It shakes its head back and forth in what clearly means ‘no,’ and then jerks back toward the saddle again. Your gaze falls on the bags hanging on either side. “Are you saying I should look in those?”
It huffs again in what you’ve decided is ‘yes.’
You comply, carefully stepping around the great beast’s claws and reaching into the first leather bag. You let out a cry of delight as you pull out package after package of food–dried meats, fruits, nuts, and loaves of bread. You take a piece of dried meat and tear off a chunk of bread, and put the rest back.
“Thank you,” you tell the dragon, as you eat your snack. “Those bags, are they all full of food?”
Huff.
“So the journey will be quite long, then?”
Huff.
“I’ve heard that it takes a month to reach the border of your kingdom on horseback, is that right?”
Huff.
“I imagine you are quite a bit faster than a horse, dear dragon.”
Huff. It might be your imagination, but the beast seems to pull itself up proudly at this last question.
“Then I will estimate that our journey will take… one week.”
Can dragons shrug? If so, that’s certainly what this one just did. When you finish your snack, you cup one more handful of water to your lips before standing and stretching luxuriously. The dragon seems to do the same, extending its wings and shaking them slightly. Looking at you, it bows its head and lowers itself to the ground once more for you to climb on.
“Here we go once more,” you sigh as you buckle yourself into the saddle. “I’m afraid I’m not quite used to this yet.”
The dragon whuffs and shakes its head, almost as though it was… laughing. You smile too, and this time, as its wings powerfully push you both into the air, you don’t close your eyes.
“Prince Marcus… is he… nice?” you ask on the second night of your journey. It feels like a silly, childish thing to ask, but you can’t help but give voice to the question that’s plagued you ever since you read his letter.
Your massive companion tilts its head to the side as it regards you, and then huffs in assent.
“It’s rather scary, you see, being promised to a man you’ve never met,” you explain, putting a few more branches on the little fire you’ve built to keep you warm. “I’m sure such a thing doesn’t seem frightening to you, being a dragon and all.”
The beast hums low in its throat as it lowers its head to gently touch your shoulder with its snout. Such a thing would have terrified you just two days ago, but you’ve translated this move to mean reassurance, and you’ve started to find it quite comforting.
“I suppose if he’s a cruel man, he wouldn’t have such a gentle creature in his employ,” you say with a wry smile.
The dragon pulls back slightly to shake his head back and forth vehemently, and you laugh.
“I take that to mean he’s not a cruel man at all.”
HUFF, the beast agrees loudly.
You tend to the fire until it blazes quite warmly. Being in the air all the time has left a chill in your bones that never quite goes away, causing you to shiver even when the sun shines warmly on you. As the night falls, you grow even colder, and you wrap the saddle blanket around you as you huddle closer to the fire. You’d left your cloak on Elias’s shoulders.
A twig snaps in the darkness, and both you and the dragon startle and turn your heads in the direction of the noise.
“Probably a little rabbit, or a deer–”
But your reassurance is interrupted by the cold, eerie howl of a wolf.
“Oh,” you whisper softly. “Oh no.”
The dragon growls low in his throat and stands at attention. The firelight glinting off its golden irises makes it look as though his very eyes are aflame, and you stare at the creature in awe. What a terrifying, beautiful thing, you think to yourself even as the first wolf stalks through the trees in your direction.
You can’t move, frozen in fear as you watch nine more of the predators surround you and your little campfire. All is quiet as the animals stand off against one another, none of them moving as the tension builds. Then, suddenly, one of the wolves lunges toward you.
You shriek, instinctively curling into a ball as you anticipate the sharp bite of teeth into your skin, but before the creature can tear into you, it’s snapped out of midair by the great jaws of the dragon. Your companion lets out a fearsome growl as it throws the wolf aside, its body colliding hard with a nearby tree with a broken yelp. And then all the wolves charge.
You fling yourself out of the way just in time as they all converge upon your protector, who roars and gnashes its teeth, catching one, then two, then three of them in his powerful jaws and biting down hard. Several others land on the great beast's back, and it bellows loudly in anger, shaking its body violently and sending more of them crashing into the trees. Blood splashes on your dress as the wolves are dealt with one by one, their lives violently ended by the teeth and claws of the dragon.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it’s over. The dragon breathes heavily, the hot air from its nostrils creating great bursts of fog that hang in the air around it. It turns back toward you, and then, finally, you find the courage to move again. You fly to your feet and rush forward, wrapping your arms around as much of the dragon’s snout as you can manage.
“Thank you,” you whisper shakily into its scales.
When you pull back, you discover that one of your hands is slick with blood, and you gasp. “Dear dragon,” you say urgently, “I think you’re hurt.”
The creature huffs indignantly and shakes its head back and forth, taking care not to hit you as it does. The message is clear: Don’t worry about me.
“Stop that,” you scold. “Let me see.”
Quickly, you find the culprit: a long scratch just underneath the dragon’s eye, where his scales are softer and more delicate.
“Oh,” you exclaim softly as your fingers trace the angry wound. “It’s pretty deep.”
The dragon huffs and shakes its head again–if a dragon could roll its eyes, you suppose it would be doing so right now. But you’re already springing into action, tearing off a strip of cloth from the bottom of your dress and pressing it firmly to the wound.
“I don’t think I can manage to come up with enough material to bandage it without embarrassing myself,” you say wryly, “but if I keep pressure on it like this, the bleeding should stop soon.”
At the touch of the cloth against his eye, your dragon seems to give up protesting. Closing its eyes, you can swear that it leans into your touch. You sit like this for quite some time, not speaking, pressing the scrap of your dress against the beast’s cheek until both the cloth and your hands are stained red. But the bleeding does, eventually, cease.
Another quiet howl sounds in the distance, probably miles off, but you still jump in trepidation. Giving you a solemn look, the dragon places one giant foot over the fire you built, plunging the woods into darkness once more.
“It was the fire that drew them to us?” you ask, racked with guilt.
A soft huff comes from the darkness, confirming your fear.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I did this.”
You can feel the dragon shake its head gently, and, as your eyes adjust to the dim, pale moonlight, you see its gold-flecked eyes still watching you. Carefully, it lowers itself to the ground beside you, laying on its side, before gently nudging you against him with one scaly wing.
When you feel the heat of its belly through your threadbare dress, you realize what it’s trying to ask. Gratefully, you curl into the beast’s side, and you’re plunged into darkness as its wing gently folds around you, enveloping you in a warmth so complete that you fall asleep in an instant.
The rest of your journey happens without incident. Six more days of flying through the sky on the back of a giant dragon, and six more nights curled up against its side for warmth, and on the dawn of the ninth day of your travel, it finally happens. The dragon grunts to get your attention, and jerks his head toward the sunrise. You follow his gaze, and then you see it.
The castle.
Your new home.
It cuts an intimidating silhouette across the horizon, its many turrets reaching toward the sky, and you remember the prince’s letter.
“He said that he’s lived alone for many years,” you tell the dragon over the rush of the wind. “He lives all by himself… in that?”
Huff.
“My goodness,” you murmur to yourself. It’s all you can think of to say.
It takes less than an hour for the two of you to reach the castle. When you do, the dragon gently touches down near the front gate and lowers to the ground for you to disembark with your suitcase clutched firmly in your hand.
No one is there to greet you.
With increasing nerves, you turn to your companion of nine days and gently wrap your arms around its snout, taking care to avoid the healing gash underneath its eye.
“You’ve been a wonderful companion,” you whisper, and the tears you’ve been holding in since the first sight of the castle finally spill over your cheeks and splash onto hard scales. “I do hope I see you again, dear dragon.”
The animal whuffs softly, and gently touches his long snout against your forehead.
“I do so hope that’s a yes,” you say, and you watch as the great beast rises into the sky. With thunderous flaps of its wings, and a strong gust of air, your dear dragon disappears behind a cloud.
With halting steps, you walk forward toward the imposing front gate of the castle. Shall I knock on the door? you wonder dryly to yourself, but then you see the thick parchment hanging there.
Dearest,
I humbly beg your forgiveness for not being here to greet you in person. Something unexpected and unavoidable has called me away from the castle, and I hope to return soon. I have arranged for servants to see to your every need while I am gone. When you arrive, simply knock, and Annette will greet you and show you to your quarters.
This is your home now; please do treat it as such. It is my only wish that you be happy here, and, when I am able to come to you, that we are both happy in this place.
Your humble servant,
Prince Marcus
You frown in consternation. The prince cannot be here to greet his new bride, who he must know is scared and unsure, and has never even seen–
You force the tears down again and stick your chin up as you rap your knuckles against the thick oak door.
Your maidservant, Annette, appears to be a woman of few words. She takes in your appearance–looking alarmed at the dress that you once considered your nicest, now stained with the blood of the wolves that had attacked you. Despite several attempts at washing it, some of the spots refused to come out. She leads you through the long halls of the castle toward your quarters in silence, and the sidelong glances that she keeps sending your way are pitying in nature.
Despite your many questions, she either unwilling or unable to provide any information regarding her absent employer, and eventually you give up, falling into silence yourself as you follow behind her.
Finally, you reach your destination; Annette opens a door and gestures you forward. Unlike the harsh stone hallways of the castle, your quarters are warm, comfortable, and cozily decorated. The floors are covered with plush carpeting and the walls decorated with a beautiful array of tapestries and paintings. Annette gives you one final, wary look before bowing and backing out the room, leaving you alone again.
Immediately, you begin examining your new surroundings. You discover that your quarters consist of several rooms, each one larger than your family’s entire farmhouse. You had entered into a little sitting room with soft chairs and couches, with an ancient-looking bookshelf along the wall, which, upon inspection, is filled with a wide variety of books, including many histories of the kingdom of Azethia, as well as encyclopedias on the flora and fauna of the region.
The next room is your bedroom, which features a massive bed with a soft, velvet canopy and dozens of pillows. The large windows overlook a beautiful garden that you immediately long to explore. Through the next doorway, you can see a large, ornate bathtub and a little table with a mirror, already laid out with more hair ornaments than you’ve seen in your life. There are two doors in here; the closed one you presume leads to Annette’s quarters (the one thing she did manage to say is that she’d be happy to draw a bath for you after dinner). The other one is open and leads to a room filled entirely with clothes. At first, you can’t fathom what you’re seeing, but then you realize… it’s your closet. A closet the size of an entire room.
There are outfits in a variety of styles and occasions–from sensible skirts, to riding outfits, to lavish dinner dresses. Your skin heats up when you realize that each one is your size…and your size exactly–demonstrating just how much the prince had watched you. Just when you thought you couldn’t get more flustered, you notice the dress hanging at the very back of the room, separate from all the rest–a beautiful white dress with a beaded veil. A wedding dress.
You eat dinner that night in the grand dining room–-alone, as usual. You had wondered, as Annette dressed you in a beautiful gown of lavender, if the prince would join you, but his letter had made it seem as though this absence was going to be a bit longer than a few hours, and you aren’t all that surprised when he doesn’t show. Although you attempt to make conversation with the butler who serves you your meal, he merely gives you a polite smile, nods, and slips through the door back into the servants quarters.
Although the emptiness of the castle is beginning to feel eerie, you can’t deny that the food is delicious. Still hungry from your long journey, you empty one plate, and then another, until you’re quite full. You had planned on taking Annette up on the offer of a warm bath, but a wave of tiredness washes over you, and you fall asleep immediately upon returning to your rooms, not even bothering to take off your fancy dress.
You fall into a habit over the next couple of days. You bathe in the morning after breakfast in your quarters, then walk around the castle gardens until lunch. After lunch, you read from one of the many offerings of your bookshelf, and begin working on a diary of sorts in order to organize your thoughts about the strange circumstances you find yourself in.
After dinner, you walk through the gardens again until sundown and the chill of nighttime forces you back to the warmth of your quarters to sleep.
Your surroundings are beautiful… but empty. The servants, for the most part, stay hidden. You aren’t even sure how many of them are under the prince’s employ. You only ever see a handful of them, and none of them seem to be particularly open to conversation with you. You find yourself wishing your dear dragon would return so that you would have someone to talk–and then laughing to yourself as you remember the beast doesn’t talk. And yet, somehow, he was a far better conversation partner than anyone else you’ve encountered so far.
You’re still dressed for dinner, in a gown of deep green velvet, as you walk through the gardens watching the sun set on your third day in this castle. You gravitate toward your favorite spot–a small pond, complete with a little waterfall, with a number of bright orange fish darting in and out from underneath pink water lilies. You sit on a large flat stone beside it and watch them chase each other around until, suddenly, you hear footsteps crunching softly down the gravel path behind you.
You turn in surprise to see a tall, handsome, well-dressed stranger walking toward you. By the way he holds himself, you know he’s no servant–which means that this could only be…
“My lady,” the man says softly, ducking his head reverently as he addresses you. “Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting all this time.” He extends his hand toward you in greeting. “I’m Marcus.”
You take his hand, and allow him to help you to your feet before he bows forward to gently kiss the back of your hand before releasing it. Now that he’s closer, you can see that he’s not just handsome–he must be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. His dark hair falls perfectly over his smooth forehead, his lips are full and soft-looking, with a cute little cupid’s bow on his upper lip. He has a strong nose and jawline, but his eyes—
His eyes must be the saddest, most soulful eyes that you’ve ever seen on a person.
“M-My Prince,” you stammer, remembering your manners and bowing clumsily back at him in return.
The prince smiles softly and shakes his head. “No, please–just Marcus. And again, I apologize for my absence; please believe that only the most dire of circumstances outside of my control would keep me away for so long.”
“Is everything all right?” you ask with a small frown at his words.
“I—” he begins, but falters. “No. No, it’s not. I–” he hesitates again. “Please, understand that when I wrote to you, I wasn’t aware of–”
“Aware of… what?” you finally ask, when he doesn’t finish his sentence.
The expression in his eyes is tortured as he gazes at you. “The situation has changed,” he says solemnly. “Please know that I never would have asked, if–”
“If…?” you prompt him again.
The prince shakes his head rapidly as if to dispel an unpleasant thought. “The situation has changed,” he repeats, “and it is no longer advisable that I… that we marry.”
“I don’t understand,” you say, shaking your head slowly as the words sink in. “No longer advisable?”
“Something has happened–something outside of my control, that was unknown to me at the time of my proposal. This being the case, I am willing to release you from your end of our agreement. You can return home, and I will still keep my promise to you and your family.”
“But…” you mutter in consternation, “But I just got here.”
“Your family will want for nothing,” Marcus continues as though you hadn’t said anything. “You can take anything you’d like–your new clothes, blankets, anything–”
“You proposed to me,” you interrupt, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “You wrote me a letter about how you’ve secretly loved me from afar, you sent a dragon to come collect me, and after nine days of flying on its back, I arrive here just for you to send me away?”
“If there was any way I could keep you here, dearest, believe me, I would,” he says, chuckling humorlessly, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he looks at you.
“The poor beast fought off ten wolves for me, did you know that?” you continue, your voice rising in pitch and volume as you lose the internal war with your emotions–and you see the prince flinch at your words. “He nearly lost an eye just for me to come here and be told to go away. And now my best dress is ripped and covered in blood because of it, and I came all this way, and–and—I’m staying right here until you explain yourself to me.”
You throw yourself down onto the low stone wall that lines the garden path, cross your arms, and try to look as indignant and angry as you can manage with your lower lip trembling.
The price–Marcus–stops in his tracks and stares at you as though he’s never seen you before.
“You should–” he swallows thickly, the emotion evident in his voice, “–you should want to leave,” he murmurs. “To escape this place and return home and never again have your doorstep darkened by this sullen prince.”
“To darken my doorstep again, by definition you must have had to darken it once before, and you haven’t done that,” you point out acerbically.
“Why?” the prince whispers, ignoring your childish argument. “Why do you not turn and run? You only agreed to come here for the wellbeing of your family; once I released you from that obligation… why?” His eyes search you entreatingly, desperately. In the soft glow of the rising moonlight, you take note of one tiny imperfection on this man’s face–a faint, white, crescent-shaped scar just underneath his right eye. You find it hardly mars his beauty; rather, its ruggedness seems to improve upon it.
“I… I am simply owed an explanation,” you say, trying not to pout. “Surely I deserve one, after coming all this way and facing death-by-wolves to do so.”
The prince’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he stares at you with those soulful eyes. Finally, he speaks quietly. “You’re right. I do owe you an explanation. I can’t tell you everything, for reasons that will soon become clear, but I will try to… to elucidate, as best I can.”
A breeze blows through the darkening garden, and you shiver, the stone wall cold and unforgiving beneath you as you sit stubbornly upon it.
“Come,” Marcus extends his hand to you once more. “Let’s talk somewhere warm.”
You hesitate, looking up at him warily.
“Please,” he begs softly.
Your hand slips into his, and you realize for the first time just how large they are. His warm, strong fingers curl around you and a brief sense of familiarity washes over you, as though you’d met this man, with his sad eyes and soft demeanor, many times before, in another lifetime, perhaps.
The prince leads you to another sitting room–one you’ve never seen before–with a fire already blazing away in the stone fireplace. As you sit on one of the cushions closest to the fire, he procures two steaming mugs of tea, seemingly out of nowhere, and hands one to you. You wrap your chilly fingers around it gratefully.
Marcus sits opposite you and gives you a soft–but sad–smile.
“This land,” he begins solemnly, “it’s… different. A–A power runs through it. A sort of…” he pauses, searching for the words.
“Magic?” you offer.
He shakes his head. “No. Not magic. It’s more like… a curse.”
“A curse?” you repeat, leaning forward in interest.
“A curse,” he nods. “Weaving its power all throughout Azethia and touching both man and beast, but afflicting none more strongly than those who rule it.”
“So you’re saying… you’re cursed?” you ask him, eyes wide.
“My family,” he murmurs, looking away in shame. “For millennia before I was born and for centuries untold after I die.”
“What is the curse?” you whisper with trepidation.
“I cannot say,” Marcus answers quickly. “That’s part of the cruelty of it. I’m not able to tell anyone unless they find–” he cuts himself off with a rapid shake of his head. “I’m not allowed to say.”
“If you knew you were cursed,” you begin carefully, “then why–”
“Why ask for your hand in marriage, binding you to a cursed man?” the prince finishes sadly. “I have dedicated my life to studying this affliction. I’ve spent countless years reading ancient texts, in so many ancient tongues, and in my desperation, I came across one passage that brought me hope. A passage that spoke of love being the key. And oh, dearest, I’ve been alone for so long…” He sighs. “I wish I could tell you my intentions were noble. I wish I could say that I was certain this–that you–were the solution to my kingdom’s problems, but in truth, I was simply a man driven to madness by his solitude, and I had wanted beyond all reason to have a companion by my side for the rest of my days, and you were so soft, and luminous, and good–” he breaks off with a small shudder. “I am sorry, to have brought you into this.”
“I don’t understand,” you say gently. “If you read that love is the key… why, then, would you bring me here with the intent to marry and then change your mind?”
“Things have changed,” the prince rasps, his tone laced with desperation. “The curse… it’s changing. I’m changing. It’s becoming worse, and I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to stay here, for fear that it will eventually consume me until I’m no longer myself.”
“All that has changed between your proposal and now?” you ask in disbelief.
“Yes,” Marcus says simply. “Please, I can’t say any more than this.”
“Then don’t,” you shake your head. “Don’t say anything else. But… maybe I can still help you. Maybe we can figure this out together. Maybe there’s a reason I was brought here–why we were brought together.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. What you’re agreeing to,” the prince warns. He’s so close, now, that you can see that his eyes are actually a deep brown, with hints of amber. With the light of the fireplace reflecting off them, they look like embers themselves. A chill runs through you, unbidden, and you shiver again.
“I’m agreeing to help,” you repeat. “If it’s true what you say–that you can no longer marry, then what if we became good friends instead.”
“You…” Marcus looks utterly bewildered. “You want to be my friend?”
“I came here with the purpose of marrying you,” you shrug. “Is it so strange that I'd want to be friends as well?”
His sad eyes fill with wonder at your words. The flecks of gold seem to dance within them. “You… You are different than I expected,” he says quietly.
“You are different from what I expected as well, my prince,” you point out.
Marcus seems to allow himself a small, genuine smile. It completely transforms his face from that of a lonely bachelor with a mysterious curse into quite boyish, almost impish demeanor. But as quickly as it comes, it retreats, and his face falls as he murmurs, “It's late. I should escort you to your quarters.”
He stands quickly, seeming to hesitate before offering his hand to you again–but you take it anyway. With it, he guides your hand to rest at the crook of his elbow as you walk together down the hallway. As the heat from his arm radiates through your skin, you're struck by how incredibly warm the prince is. The chill from the evening air dissipates completely at his touch.
When you arrive at the door to your quarters, Marcus turns to you and asks softly, “Would you… have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“Of course I will,” you say with a little laugh. You don't bother pointing out that, since you are the only two living in this giant castle, it would be rather silly to take your meals separately.
“Then I will see you tomorrow night.” He takes your hand in his much larger one and bends down to give it a gentle kiss.
“Until then,” you answer, giving him a small curtsy.
You feel his eyes on you until the door to your quarters shuts completely.
The next evening, you are dressed in a gown of pale pink silk, and your heart thrums with anticipation when a knock sounds at your door, knowing the prince is here to escort you to dinner, and nervous despite yourself to see him again.
Tonight, Marcus is wearing a light grey suit with a waistcoat of dark maroon. Upon closer inspection, you realize that it contains little flecks of lighter pink, and it complements your attire perfectly.
You want more than anything to ask more questions about this mysterious curse over dinner, but you don’t want to trouble the prince any further over what is clearly a sore subject. Instead, you quiz him relentlessly about your new kingdom. How far is the nearest town? What is it called? What is the name of the mountain range you can see in the distance to the north? The prince seems to enjoy this new line of questioning, and he smiles as he answers everything you throw at him and more.
Even still, you can still see the sadness lurking in his eyes–and on his face when he thinks you aren't watching. You don't want to presume, but whatever his reasons for no longer wanting to marry you, they must be significant, because his longing is palpable. For you, or simply for companionship, you aren't sure, but you do know that the way he looks at you does not indicate a man who is remaining a bachelor by choice.
After dinner, you partake in your usual habit of walking through the garden, but this time with your hand neatly tucked in the crook of Marcus's arm as he names the various flowers and shrubs that are not native to your kingdom, and that you don't have a word for.
You sit by the little fish pond long after sunset, and when the evening chill becomes too much and you start to shiver, you find yourself draped in Marcus’s dinner jacket, surrounded by the warmth that still permeates it even after taking it off.
At the end of the night, he once again bows before you to kiss your hand, and this time, you try to hold on just a little bit longer.
There's a spring in your step when you stroll across the castle grounds the next morning, enjoying the warm sunshine and listening to the birds chirp. Marcus had made it quite clear that he intended to dine with you every night, spending the evening together until it was time for bed. You found yourself already looking forward to the next dinner. Despite his warnings about curses and danger and whatever else, you couldn't help but be enchanted by the man. How could you not? He was so gentle with you, so thoughtful and kind, and yet in his eyes there was always that dark, desperate longing that made your breath catch in your chest.
Two days of knowing him, and he was already consuming your every thought.
But your thoughts are elsewhere in an instant when you suddenly hear the sound of beating wings–and far too loud to be one of the birds. You shriek in delight as your dragon swoops down from the sky and lands several paces away on the castle lawn.
“My dear dragon!” you cry, rushing forward to throw your arms around its gigantic snout–your fingers having no hope of meeting on the other side. “How I have missed you!”
The great beast lets out a rumble deep in his chest that you can feel in your own.
“And how is your eye?” you ask, gently palming the area underneath, finding only a thin scar. “Coming along quite nicely, I see,” you answer on his behalf. “Dragons must heal quickly.”
The creature huffs in agreement, and you laugh joyfully.
“It's so good to see you, dear friend. I must tell you about the last couple of days of living in the castle.”
The dragon walks patiently by your side, even though you figure this pace must be intolerably slow by comparison. It seems to listen intently while you talk about everything that has happened, from the odd behavior of the servants, to the delicious food, and even the room full of dresses, which you’re sure he neither understands nor cares about, but it’s so nice just to have someone–well, something–to talk to, besides…
“Oh, and that’s not even the strangest part,” you tell the dragon. “I must tell you about my conversations with the prince. He told me that this land has power–that part didn’t surprise me one bit, dear dragon, as this land must be magical if it could produce such a great and intelligent beast such as yourself.
The dragon shakes its wings rather proudly, and you giggle before continuing.
“But dragon, if the same magic can produce something as incredible as you, then why would the prince consider it a curse?” you wonder out loud to yourself. “Do you know about it? About the thing that he calls a curse?”
The creature raises and lowers its mighty wings in the imitation of a shrug.
“Does he not talk to you much, like I do?” you muse. “How did you come to be under his employ? Have you been his er… chauffeur, for a long time?”
The dragon, of course, cannot answer such a question, and you make a mental note to yourself to bring up your mutual friend and protector over dinner tonight.
Speaking of food, you’re famished. You decide to arrange for lunch to be outside on the castle grounds so you may continue to enjoy your afternoon with the dragon. You whisper your wishes to the butler, who simply nods and disappears, although this request of yours is completely normal.
Just half an hour later, the staff brings out tray after tray for your picnic outdoors: one tray for you… and five trays laden with the finest cuts of raw meat for your companion, just as you had requested. You continue your one-sided conversation with the beast as the two of you eat together, telling him everything you can remember about your conversations with the prince over the last few days.
“Dear dragon, can I confess something?” you ask after all the trays have been emptied, and you’re contentedly full.
Huff.
“He says he no longer wishes to marry me–no, that our marriage would be… ‘no longer advisable,’ whatever that means,” you tell the creature. “But I think I would marry the prince no matter what danger he believes is involved–curse or no curse.”
The dragon tilts its great head to stare at you with one gold-flecked eye, and you giggle and pretend to hide in embarrassment. “Don’t tell him, for goodness’ sake,” you tease. “Perhaps, if I’m able to help aid in… whatever this curse may be… then we will be wed after all. The only problem is, he can’t seem to tell me what it is. The magic prevents him from doing so.”
The dragon seems to nod its head solemnly, and you smile softly back. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hint, dear dragon?”
The creature merely blinks slowly, displaying its double eyelids–like a lizard’s–that wipe sideways across its narrow, reptilian pupils.
You pause, watching its eyes. Watching them watch you. Through flecks of glittering gold against a bed of dark charcoal brown. Cocking your head to the side, you reach your hand up to trace the thin scar below its eye that you had pressed the fabric of your own dress against almost a fortnight ago now. A crescent-shaped scar.
“Dear dragon,” you intone softly. “What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”
Suddenly, without warning, the gigantic beast spreads its wings and launches itself into the air, flapping until it gains enough height to glide through the clouds, disappearing behind the castle.
“Typical,” you huff. “Everyone in this palace is keeping secrets, even the animals.”
“Your dragon,” you say suddenly over dinner. “Does he have a name?”
“Pardon?” The prince looks confused.
“Does he have a name?”
“I–I don’t believe so,” Marcus stammers, sounding unsure of himself. “If he does, I certainly don’t know of it.”
“He must have a name in his own tongue–do dragons have their own language?–they must, I’m sure of it. Anyway, I wish I knew it.”
“If you learned his name in the language of dragons, what use would that do you? No human can replicate those sounds,” he chuckles.
“Well, perhaps if I knew it, I could find a way to translate it into a language I can speak,” you say matter-of-factly. “What other manner of work does the beast do for you”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“He must do things other than fetch maidens for you,” you tease. “How long has he been in your employ?”
“Er, a long time,” Marcus answers awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You’re awfully interested in the beast.”
“I spent nine days travelling by its side,” you reply. “I know the creature better than I know most cows I’ve milked.”
The prince chuckles. “Don’t let it hear you comparing it to a cow.”
“Oh, certainly not,” you reply with a wry grin. “Besides, he took off rather quickly after I questioned him about the mysterious curse on your kingdom.”
Marcus’s eyes darken upon your mention of the curse. “Perhaps he was simply full after your lunch.”
Careful to keep the triumph off of your face, you regard the man across from you innocently.
“I don’t believe I told you about our picnic lunch, my prince.”
The momentary look of panic in the prince’s eyes is all you need to confirm your suspicions. “As prince, I have dominion over this castle, and over any goings-on within it,” he lies quickly, but the damage is already done.
“How did you get the scar on your cheek?” you press.
Marcus springs to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor in his haste. “The meal isn’t agreeing with me,” he says stiffly. “I’m afraid I must–”
He flees the room before he finishes his sentence.
You follow.
He quickly ducks down hallway after hallway, clearly trying to lose you, but you’ve always been fast on your feet. Finally, you corner him at the door to what appears to be his own quarters.
“One thing that never made sense to me,” you accuse as he backs up against his door, “is the first part of your letter, where you said you fell in love with me after watching me for years during walks when you couldn’t sleep. You said you would stroll through our woods at dawn after a restless night, and yet your castle is nine days’ travel from there on the back of a dragon. You never walked there at all,” you jab a finger at his chest. “You flew.”
“Dearest,” your prince whispers, those familiar brown eyes beseeching you without saying anything further.
“If I’ve lost my mind, then tell me so,” you insist. “Tell me I’m being ridiculous, that this giant, lonely palace has altered my sanity.”
Marcus remains silent, his eyes full of terror as you put all the pieces together.
“I don’t care. You must know that, right?” you plead with him. “If this is it–the big, mysterious curse–then it hardly matters to me. I quite liked you as a dragon long before I met the man.”
“You don’t know anything about this curse,” Marcus hisses through gritted teeth.
“You can tell me,” you insist. “I figured it out on my own, right? Now I know. So the curse of silence doesn’t apply any more.”
Marcus huffs humorlessly through his nose–and now that you know his true identity, it reminds you of his mannerisms as a dragon. “Leave it to you to find loopholes in ancient magic.”
“Try,” you insist. “Tell me something.”
“Okay, okay,” he grimaces, holding up both hands in supplication, “Just… come in. Let’s sit down, have some tea, and just… take a breath.”
You nod, and allow yourself to be guided into his quarters, sitting down on a soft couch while he sends for tea. When he returns and hands you your mug, his fingers press against yours as though he can’t bear to let go–but quickly retreats, sitting down opposite you. You’re both quiet for a long while. You wait patiently, sipping your tea, and wondering if your little game of logic worked to dispel the part of the curse that meant he couldn’t talk to you about it.
“I have been this way since I was a boy, since before I can remember,” he finally says. “This is the way it’s always been with the rulers of Azethia.”
“All dragons?” you ask, eyes wide.
Marcus chuckles softly. “Part dragon, I suppose. Shape-shifters. Legends say that this, er, talent arose during a time of war, when our kingdom was hopelessly outmatched and unable to defend itself. A desperate king prayed to the Old Gods and received a power that he didn’t know how to control. It helped them win the war, but at a great cost. The ancient king lost himself in the beast. Because he could not control it, it consumed him instead.”
“And ever since…?”
“Every ruler–queen, king, prince, or princess–has succumbed to the beast eventually. Some go willingly, addicted to the great power that comes with it. Others take longer, but in the end, their fate is the same.”
“But you read somewhere that love might be the key?”
“It could just be another superstition,” Marcus admits defeatedly.
“But you were going to try,” you remind him. “Then the day I first met you, you told me the curse had changed,” you remember. “What did you mean?”
The prince’s expression clouds over, becoming more guarded. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” you push. “Why not still try and test your theory–the ancient theory–that love will break the curse?”
“Because marriage is no longer an option,” Marcus snaps suddenly, raising his voice for the first time since you’ve met him.
“I don’t understand,” you sigh in exasperation. “Tell me why.”
“All my life, I have been able to change my form from man, to dragon, and back to man again. I thought I had more time… but there are parts of me that will no longer change back to man.”
You cock your head to one side and stare at him in consternation. “You don’t look like you’re turning part dragon.”
“Clothing can hide many secrets,” he says in a monotone.
“Show me,” you demand.
“You don’t know what you’re asking f–”
“You don’t know me,” you interrupt. “Please,” you add, softening your tone. “I just want to understand.”
“You want to understand?” he repeats, sarcastically. “You’ll flee this castle.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” you argue. “The first day we met, you told me to go home. So fine. Send me home.”
“That was never what I wanted,” Marcus argues, his voice rough with emotion. “Never. But it’s what’s right.”
“Then my point stands,” you say stubbornly. “You want me to flee for my own good? Here’s your chance. Frighten me.”
Fire and fury dances in the prince’s eyes as he stands before you. You watch as he slides off his dinner jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat, and sets both aside on the chair. He unfastens the white collared shirt underneath, never once taking his eyes off of you, and you don’t dare to look away either. He shrugs it off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested in front of you. You watch as he straightens his left arm and shows you the little smattering of dark green scales just under his elbow.
You raise one eyebrow. “I’m not exactly fleeing in terror.”
“I’m not done.” Your mouth clamps shut as the prince begins to untie his trousers. Your heart starts to beat uncontrollably as you realize what he’s about to do. His gaze never leaving you, he lets the fabric fall, and you finally see the part of him that he’s so afraid of.
You’ve seen a naked man before–not in any sexual context, but you have at least seen a human penis.
This was not a human penis.
It’s impossibly long, incomprehensibly thick, and covered with the same dark green scales that you recognize from his dragon form. You can see the hint of iridescence to it as well; the little glints of purple and blue where the light hits it. It’s… alien, unhuman, and… fascinating. Despite your trepidation, you want to come closer. You want to know if the scales covering it are hard like those on the bridge of his nose, or soft like the ones on his belly. You’re terrified by it, and entranced at the same time.
“Now you can see why no marriage of mine can ever be consummated,” Marcus rasps, his voice full of grief and self-loathing. “Now you see why you must leave–before I become more monster than man.”
You slowly rise to your feet and approach him. He’s close enough to touch–all you’d need to do is extend your hand and you’d satisfy your burning curiosity. Your fingers twitch forward, but just before they make contact, Marcus flinches, jerking backward away from your curious exploration. He quickly bends down and wrenches his trousers back up, hiding himself from view as he hastily ties them up again.
“You should go,” he says softly, not looking at you.
You don’t move. You can’t. You want to see it again–see him again, you want to kiss him, you want to throw your arms around him, to shove his shoulders roughly as you call him an imbecile for thinking you’d flee in terror… But mostly, you think back to your dinner earlier, when he had smiled. Oh, you longed to make him smile again. Would he smile at your touch? Would he shy away?
“I think it’s quite pretty,” you admit quietly, wringing your hands together nervously as you stare at the floor.
“W-What?”
“I’m not scared,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as you try desperately to tell him it’s all right.
But the prince shakes his head in disbelief. “You should go,” he says again. “Go!” he begs through clenched teeth when you still don’t move. A single tear slips down your cheek before you finally take flight, rushing out of Marcus’s quarters and slamming the door behind you. You don’t stop running until you’ve reached your own rooms, and you collapse in exhaustion and overwhelm on your own bed as you finally let your sobs go.
Summary: The thief decides its the perfect time to throw a party, so you and Marcus suit up
Tags: friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, eventual threesomething; ~sexual tension~, the inner monologues are getting spicy (but are they self-aware? not yet); spot the PPCU characters
Word count: 10,719 (lmao???)
Note: Apparently it’s been THREE YEARS since I updated this fic??? ("I’ve abandoned my boy!") I’m deeply sorry, but in my defense, I did start several new stories (which I have also not finished). Hey ho. As atonement, I’ve finally made a masterlist and a moodboard for this story, for your convenience and pleasure 😌🥰
Fun fact, this chapter contains one of the scenes, yknow, one of the original scenes that i wrote for this story that i then had to build the rest of the series around 👀 a big ole smooch for anyone who guesses which one it was
As per, the wonderful art is by @patternedlantern
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
“Is that…Kermit the frog on your shirt?” Doc addresses Binary almost warily, as if afraid the answer will be a joke he won’t enjoy hearing.
Binary stretches herself into a graceful recline on a full-length pool chair, dropping her recently removed hoodie on the chair adjacent. “You know it, Doc. The icon himself.” The cropped hem of her graphic tee, depicting a glamor shot of one famous green puppet, rides up slightly above her leggings.
“I’m surprised you know who Kermit is, Doc. When was the last time you watched Saturday morning cartoons?” Deven drops himself at the neighboring table and pulls his hair free of its bun, setting loose a cascade of curls frizzy with sweat. In the midday sun flooding through the glass ceiling, they glint like Binary’s copper wire.
Doc casts Deven a withering look over the table between them. “The Muppets are quite literally older than both of us, Deven.”
“And the Muppets are hardly kiddy cartoons,” you point out. “Kermit is a pop culture icon for a reason. They’re universal.”
Doc gives you a nod of thanks. Your eyes crinkle in response as you shuffle into the row of pool chairs. The chair past the one holding Binary’s hoodie has a plush towel draped over the back, as they all do, in the same jewel-bright shade of aquamarine as the pool water. The glassy surface of it stretches away in a reflection of the greenhouse-like ceiling above. The air is damp and fragranced by trees and greenery bordering the room.
“Exactly.” Bellows chips in in agreement. “Plus, some of their humor is very adult-oriented. That sketch where Beaker and the doctor guy appear wearing each other’s clothes? With no explanation? Very naughty.” He leaves a gap between your chair and his so that Marcus, following him, can sit next to you.
Marcus sits on your chair instead, and props his foot up on the spare one to untie his boots, mirroring you with your foot on Binary’s spare chair. You lean your back against his, feeling his thin t-shirt damp with sweat and the muscles beneath still warm with exertion.
Both of you are now more in the habit of the casual touching required to sustain your fake relationship. Your current contact is more weariness then affection, however, following a long stint in the mansion’s new training arena. The thief was absent for some reason, but everyone else joined, and someone had suggested relaxing afterward in the indoor pool- still another feature of the mansion you and Marcus had yet to discover.
“Aw, I always liked Beaker and his little meeps. Doesn’t his doctor boyfriend have a funny name?” Seams plops down on the chair between Marcus and Bellows.
Marcus says nothing, only withdraws his foot, but you feel him tense. Despite the nature of your game, he doesn’t like being forced into such positions. Briefly you place a reassuring palm on his shoulder, then shift away slightly to the end of the chair.
Ever a gentleman, Marcus still responds to Seams’s query. “Dr. Bunsen,” he supplies.
You raise an eyebrow. Marcus spreads his hands in a shrug. “What? They’re universal,” he teases. “Plus, Missy went through a phase for awhile.” His voice drops slightly- he doesn’t like mentioning Missy in front of the others, as if scared to remind them of her existence.
“That’s it! Bunsen and Beaker.” The nostalgia in Seams’s smile lends an unexpected sweetness to her face.
An impression which is shattered by her subsequent hair toss and the appraising look she angles at Binary’s shirt. “But obviously Miss Piggy will always be number one.”
Ezra speaks up for the first time, appearing thoroughly- and uncharacteristically- bewildered. “What on earth are you all talkin’ about?”
A long pale body suddenly leaps over the pool, limbs splayed and hair a trail of flame.
Nobody ducks in time.
Water spatters your face and clothes, and Marcus catches you when you reflexively flinch backward. His hands are twin suns on your hip and shoulder. Your own sunlight rises to meet his touch, quickly suffusing your whole body with warmth. Instinctively you duck your head from him. No, wait, you’re supposed to be reacting. Flustered now, you reach for a flirtatious expression, quirking your lips up and glancing meaningfully between Marcus’s hand and his face.
Marcus’s own smile looks forced, but he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze. The two of you may have worked out the physical contact, but managing your faces has proven more of a challenge.
Laughter and complaints echo through the open space. Clicking her tongue, Binary shakes out her formerly dry hoodie and hangs it over the back of the chair in place of the towel.
“What? You were all going to get in anyway.” Deven’s hair is plastered to his head now, the red gleam doused to brown. Water drips from the small gold hoop in his left ear. He’d jumped right in in his gym shorts, although, according to Seams, there were lockers full of swimsuits for guests, and to spare anyone here the effort of having to go their rooms to change first.
Bellows’s chest swells. A breath later, a burst of water slaps Deven in the face. The Irishman splutters.
Sniggering, Bellows strips off his shirt, and you can’t help but raise an eyebrow. A thick dusting of dark hair doesn’t disguise the shape of the muscles beneath, filling out his narrow frame. All that breath control must be a constant ab workout.
Marcus and Doc remain on dry land, but everyone else follows Deven in varying degrees of clothedness. You leave your leggings on- the wet spandex will be annoying to peel off later, but you’re not quite sure you’re ready to hang out with these people in your underwear. Nerea gives you a welcoming smile as you follow them in.
Water warm as a bath envelopes you, yet it’s still refreshing, buoying your stiff muscles and sore feet. The acrid tang of chlorine is pleasantly absent. Everyone drifts peacefully for a moment, soaking it in, floating instinctively toward a wide patch of sunlight.
You turn to Ezra, determined to revisit his earlier question. “Did you say you don’t know who the Muppets are, Ezra?”
Water trickles down the pilot’s face, making islands of his freckles. “I keep hearing that word without the foggiest understandin’ of it, so that is indeed the sentiment I mean to express.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Would you care to enlighten me, starshine?”
Of course, you don’t manage to be Ezra’s sole teacher, as a clamor of disbelief immediately erupts.
“Oh, I think I know these! The little blue one was my favorite- Grober?” Nerea’s accent throws you for a second, as does the name.
Bellows understands first. “Oh, Grover! Like from Sesame Street.” You all ohhh as if on cue. “He’s from a different show, technically,” Bell explains through the resulting giggles. “But they’re basically cousins.”
“We should have a movie night tonight,” Seams declares. “To properly acquaint Nerea and Ezra with the cultural phenomenon that is the Muppets.” She nudges the man beside her. “You’re not busy tonight, are you, Ez?” Seams tilts her head at him, a glint in her eye. She doesn’t say it like a question.
Ezra, studying the way the water laps at the crevice between her breasts in a sports bra, takes his time lifting his gaze. It peruses the wet cling of blond hair to her neck, the roundness of her cheeks, with a lazy, leisurely privilege.
Finally his dark eyes catch her paler ones. “Not half as busy as I suspect I will be, spell-weaver.” Ezra’s voice is a low croon.
Something about their exchange makes you glance at Marcus. He’s looking at Ezra, as if captured by the other man’s tone. In the next second his gaze flicks to you; and then away, shuttering.
“Well, that was something none of us wanted to hear.” Bellows interjects loudly, clapping his hands together to redirect everyone’s attention. “So, movie night! The normal place and time?”
Amid nods of agreement, Bell catches the uncertain glance between you and Marcus. “I’ll swing by your guys’ room and walk you,” he promises.
--
Which in the end you’re very grateful for, because of course the ‘normal place’ happens to be a separate home theater, and of course you’re forced to admit you never would have found it on your own.
The problem is that all of these incredible things are hidden behind totally normal doors, you muse. There was not the slightest hint outside that this door contained what it did:
A collection of mismatched couches and a projector facing a bare wall. Red velvet curtains lining the rest of the room. An impromptu kitchen consisting of a tabletop popcorn machine, cabinets filled with snacks, and a refrigerator stacked with drinks.
You’re instantly enamored by the cozy arrangement. “It’s a lot more…low-budget than I expected,” you confess.
Bellows laughs. “Oh, this isn’t the real home theater. Teo has a real setup down the hall, but we mostly only use that for new films. Or ones that deserve the respect of a giant screen and proper sound system.”
“Like Lord of the Rings?” Seams, passing you, snorts. She carries a bottle of white wine and a crinkly black bag depicting something that looks like seaweed chips.
Bell goes on the defensive at once. “When it’s the extended editions, absolutely!”
“Whatever,” Seams sing-songs, making her way to a couch. “All I’m saying is, if I have to sit through something four hours long, I at least want to be able to stretch out.”
Marcus has been silent thus far, the frown between his brows steadily deepening the more he hears of the thief’s excesses. At Seams’s statement, he snorts.
You and Bell send him curious looks.
Marcus coughs slightly. “Well, they were really long,” he says sheepishly.
Bellows sniffs.
You and Marcus end up on a couch next to one holding Seams…and Ezra. Despite the latter’s unfamiliarity with the Muppets, and the former’s insistence that he become acquainted, she doesn’t seem to be demanding he paying very close attention.
Ezra’s husky tones drift over, and you shift uneasily. Obviously you and Marcus should be taking advantage of the environment to further rumors of your relationship- ie, snuggle or something. The only light besides the movie screen is a lamp in the kitchen space at the back of the room, and dimness wraps around you with an intimate familiarity, urging you to sit closer to him. Any other couple would happily curl up together, giggling furtively, turning the couch into their own little world.
Marcus leans over, his lips almost touching your ear, and you freeze.
“Are you sure you don’t want to break your ‘sitting on my lap’ rule?” he murmurs.
You almost burst out laughing. Your shoulders shake with it, one hand covering your mouth to keep it in. Still snickering, you elbow him.
Marcus’s eyes glimmer with amusement, his face still close to yours. Pleased, he continues in a whisper. “Seriously, though. Can I..?” He lifts his arm to indicate putting it around you.
Affection for him warms your chest. You lick your lips nervously, but nod. A bit in disbelief, you scooch to your right, settling Marcus’s arm over your shoulders. Just for a second, your skin brightens gold, sunlight like a bioluminescent wave rushing up the shore.
You take a deep breath, willing the light to subside, keeping your face turned firmly toward the screen.
Marcus’s reaction, then, is outside your field of vision. The downward tilt of his eyes, the way his face softens at this manifestation of your powers.
Like fireflies, he thinks.
Those tiny blooms which appear at dusk. Insubstantial at first, little more than yellow flickers in the corner of your eye…until their glowing fills the darkness.
It reminds him of Missy’s childhood. Sitting on the porch on hot summer nights, watching the silhouette of her curls bobbing as she chased fireflies through the twilit backyard. Tiny hands clapping wildly until she learned that smooth, patient motions were more effective.
Marina sitting beside him.
The thought of her doesn’t perturb him the way he thought he would. Somehow, Marcus thinks, I have a feeling she would find this whole situation very funny.
The thought warms him: that Marina would giggle to see the stiff, careful posture with which you sit under his arm. How cautious Marcus himself always is when touching you.
You know how to woo a girl better than that, Moreno.
Of course, he’s not wooing you for real, but…
Marcus tugs you toward him slightly.
You look at him in uncertainty, and then surprise. A fond smile turns up his mouth and the corners of his eyes- the most genuine smile he’s worn since arriving at the mansion. Marcus tugs on your shoulder again, and pats his leg with his other hand. A clear invitation.
So you scoot closer, hesitantly nestling into his side. Gently Marcus takes your right arm and rests it on his thigh, guiding you into a more natural position. He leans back against the couch, clearly relaxed.
Your sun hums in your chest. Marcus’s obvious comfort puts you at ease, transforming your proximity from intimidating into something familiar- you and Marcus, side by side on a mission together. Normal.
You dare to lean your head on his arm periodically. He smells nice- clean from showering after the pool earlier. Occasionally his body will vibrate with laughter at the movie, and your heart- and sunlight- will skip at the rumble of it against you.
--
“Soo, what’s everyone wearing to the party tomorrow night?”
Binary, setting down her post-lunch coffee next to her empty pre-lunch travel mug, shakes her head at Seams’s question.
“What do you want to tell us to wear?” Bellows raises an eyebrow.
Seams appears affronted. “What you’ll look best in, obviously. I thought we agreed on the whole ‘united front’ thing?”
Doc interjects before her pointed look can pierce any deeper. “Do you think the thief’s gray suit would do me any favors? He offered to let me borrow it for the party, but I’m not sure about the color.”
Everyone looks at Doc then, picturing him in the steely gray suit jacket you assume he’s referring to. Pairing it with his sandy hair and hazel-blue eyes.
“The one he wore the other day? Hmm.” Seams taps her chin with a finger. “No, you’re right, the color will wash you out. Ask him for one of his more colorful plaids.”
“Much obliged.” Doc tips his mug to her in thanks.
(His mug contains tea, milky, courtesy of Deven: “You’ve been after something new to drink in the mornings, right? This will put hair on your chest, Doc. None for Belly, though.” Deven wagged a warning finger in Bellows’s direction.
You nearly choked on your tropical juice. Binary, her lips trembling from fighting her own laughter, gave the faux-sulking Bellows a pat on the shoulder.
Bel scoffed. “Please, I wouldn’t drink that stuff anyway. The only thing your people got right about tea is the size.”
He tapped his mug with a fingernail, the clink ringing. It was a standard eight ounces but made of clear glass, decorated with patterns of concentric blue circles. The tea within was black and unadulterated but for a lush, leafy stem of mint. A sheen of undissolved sugar remained at the bottom, visible when he slurped a pointed sip, and remembering the amount he’d stirred in made you shudder all over again.)
No one escapes Seams’s interrogation (except for Ezra and the thief, who are absent). Nerea is the only person who agrees to be styled for the party, although Deven concedes to look through her jewelry collection.
“...But only because I want to see what kind of goodies that cute designer you stole from me at the last party is sending you.” Deven narrows his eyes at Seams accusingly.
She smiles with perfect innocence, and eats the last bite of her salad with a little too much relish.
Then Seams’s pale brown eyes turn to your end of the table. “And what about you two?”
“...Us?” You have to hide your astonishment. Marcus goes rigid.
You’d tried to remain unnoticed throughout the conversation. You and Marcus had been invited to the party, of course, but hadn’t decided if you’d go. What kind of message would it send if you did? You had no idea what circles the thief ran in. What kind of people would be there or who they’d talk to. Marcus would rather pluck out his own eyebrows hair by hair than go to any event hosted by the thief regardless, but you…you couldn’t help but be curious.
“Uh…we figured we’d find something in our closets that would work? Was it you who put together our wardrobes?” you ask in a sudden moment of insight. You feel foolish for not realizing it before.
No wonder Marcus’s shirts fit him so deliciously.
The sudden thought is a rude intrusion, and you frown. You’d been having more and more thoughts like that of late; it’s unprecedented, and it makes you uneasy. We don’t think about our friends that way, you chide yourself.
…But if Seams had personally designed their wardrobes, then why was that? Why had she made Marcus’s clothes fit the way they did? He’s wearing the dove gray button-down again today, and it’s impossible not to notice the unique stitching making his shoulders look so wide-
“Obviously,” Seams replies with a flip of her hair.
But that confirms it-
Your face falls into a pleasantly neutral expression, while your breathing instinctively deepens in attempt to calm the sudden emotions clanging inside you- like a belltower, each thought tolling irresistibly preceding another. Jealousy, that Seams clearly also had ideas about Marcus’s most attractive features and how to emphasize them. Confusion, as to why you should be jealous that someone else finds Marcus attractive. Bewilderment- when had you started acknowledging that you found Marcus so attractive?
Only Marcus notices the shift in your breathing. Shit. The temperature hasn’t changed, but something has obviously provoked you, and it was his responsibility to be there for you.
“I guess we should thank you for that,” Marcus says. He smiles calmly at Seams and places a hand on your shoulder, offering your gratitude as a unit. It quells your chaotic emotions, for the moment.
“It’s what I do.” Seams gives a flourish of the hand and inclines her head as if bowing, but her satisfaction is obvious.
“His wardrobe has suits that will be fine for the party,“ she continues, waving at Marcus. “But yours…” she eyes you critically.
“My dress from the deep sea party,” Binary says. Casually she grabs a cookie from the small platter in front of her and leans back in her chair.
Seams’s eyes widen. “The navy, sheer one.”
“Mmmhm.”
Seams turns to her. “This is why I forgive you for not letting me dress you.” Her pointed finger manages to make even her supposed forgiveness slightly threatening.
Binary rolls her eyes. “I’ll bring it by later.”
--
For all of Marcus’s searching, neither he nor Sunbeam have found the room they dined in that very first night. The one with his swords- Marina’s swords- hanging on the walls.
Walls which, in Marcus’s memory, seemed to drip in shades of rage and blood.
Obviously that was their first thought- try the easiest solution first. Marcus was sure the thief was too cocky to have taken down the swords. No, it would be just like him to leave them on display in the same room, taunt them with the possibility of swiping them from the wall and running.
But Marcus is not at all sure the thief wouldn’t simply shift the whole dining room instead. “Steal” it right out from under their noses and put another room in place of every door they open. Who’s to say he couldn’t? All those stories the thief tells, the things he claims to have stolen, and Marcus has no way of knowing which ones are bullshit and which ones are plausible.
Marcus’s priorities had shifted as soon as he realized who was holding them captive.
The thief. The man, the villain, who had haunted him so many years ago.
He still hopes to find the swords, of course. But, Marcus rationalizes, if he can bring the thief to justice, then he’ll have uninhibited access to his collections afterward.
So he stalks the house in his every spare moment. All but taking notes, assuming everything he sees has been acquired in some questionable way and slotting everything even remotely ancient or valuable or familiar-looking onto a mental list.
Animal figurines carved in wood with breathtaking detail. A collection of jewelry in patinated gold, each piece lined with microscopic, painstakingly placed beads. Marble statutes that wouldn’t look out of place in St. Peter’s Square.
Marcus Moreno, despite his profession, is not a violent man by nature. The combat he engages in is defensive. On behalf of others. He tries to disable, not hurt or maim. Yet every time they enter a new room, decorated with the thief’s glittering prizes, a red, pulsing rage fills him.
How many people have been hurt because of his exploits?
It was his government that stole people, not the thief, but if he hadn’t been stealing things in the first place…
No. Marcus shakes his head. That’s not how blame works and he knows this, has long accepted it with the help of his blessedly patient therapist.
But that doesn’t mean he can forgive the man. Marcus can get along with most people. For as long as is needed, anyway. But the thief is…strange. And then there’s your theory, that he’s- what, reformed now?
Marcus thinks of Doc’s halting progress in their self-defense lessons. The thief’s genuine gratitude and relief at Marcus’s willingness to train him.
And the camaraderie the thief has with the others who live here. They’re so…accepting. Welcoming Marcus and Sunbeam into their fold with hardly a whisper of mutiny. It’s uncomfortable to consider next to the memory of the pranks Miracle Guy and Crushing Low often played on new recruits. And even on the old hands- although they eased off somewhat after that time Lavagirl left their offices a molten waste. Marcus could never get it into their heads that being around the longest didn’t make them superior to everyone…
Nerea’s kind smile shines in his head, sparkling white as the snow they liked to conjure. How did someone like them agree to work with the thief? How did any of them end up here? The idea of befriending the people who are complicit in the thief’s work makes Marcus grind his teeth, but that’s what you and he agreed to. And then there’s their other little plan…
Marcus groans, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes, and resolves not to examine the situation so closely anymore. He gets up to see if you’re still lounging in their shared sitting room.
You are. You appear to be asleep- limbs a comfortable sprawl, head dropped back against the arm of the couch- but despite your closed eyes, your skin glimmers faintly, rhythmically. A long inhale, and it brightens enough to cast a dance on the polished wood of the coffee table. An exhale, and it fades again, to a shimmer fine enough that it could be a trick of cosmetics, like the glittery lotion that Missy had found once to go as you for Halloween.
(Of course Marcus helped her apply it, and the sparkle had clung to his hands for days afterward. It was worth it only because his daughter- and you- grinned every time she saw it.)
Marcus follows the line of your arm up to your shoulder, where the neckline of your top has slumped to the side. His gaze traces your bra strap, your light the same shade of gold even as it leads to the slope of your breast.
He finds himself wondering if your whole body glows just the same. Do your nipples glow? Marcus’s cheeks flush at the thought. But if they’re a different shade than the rest of your skin, it makes sense that the light would look different. What about, say, the inside of you?
His eyes glaze over as this thought plays out- as he considers the only place where the answer to that question might be visible.
Your skin brightens pointedly, and it jars Marcus from his depraved headspace. He unclenches his hands, clearing his throat as he offers you a sheepish smile.
Your expression is groggy yet forgiving, the air flickering warm with your amusement, as you rearrange yourself, making space for him on the couch. Marcus sits, being very careful not to touch you, still feeling as hot as if your sun had somehow gotten inside of him.
Now there’s a thought.
Marcus forcefully wrenches his mind from its perverted spiral, wondering, with a tinge of panic, what the fuck was wrong with him.
He says, “You want to go to the party.”
You look up and then away again, shades of guilt painting your face.
“I know we shouldn’t- I know why we shouldn’t, but…”
Marcus weighs his words. “You don’t think we should use the opportunity to dig around while the thief is distracted? See what we can find while everyone is out of the house?” To do so would be Marcus’s inclination, but you and he are great partners for a reason- you often have some insight that he doesn’t consider, and he values your thoughts on this.
You consider, still blinking away the meditative haze of your catnap. “I think…it won’t make a difference if we go or not.
“If we don’t go- even if we say it’s because of appearances or because we straight-up don’t like him- I don’t think the thief will believe we plan on just sulking in our rooms. He’ll have extra security measures in place around the swords, wherever they are.”
Marcus’s gaze is distant. “Do you think he still believes the swords are our primary objective?”
You look at him in surprise. “Aren’t they?”
Marcus worries a small throw pillow in his lap, thumb repeatedly tracing the textured pattern. “I don’t know. I think we should let him think so, but now that we’re here…” He leans toward you, lowering his voice. “I’ve been looking for other things. Really notable steals, records or an office of some kind. I haven’t found anything yet, but…bringing him in would make it all worth it.” His gaze is distant, but contemplative.
“And we’d still get the swords that way,” you say slowly, completing his thought process.
“...But there’s still no way he wouldn’t have extra security everywhere during a party. We have no idea what kind of people will show up! If this is some kind of special party of thieves, or if other people with superpowers will be there…maybe we wouldn’t even be who he’s worried about.” You give Marcus a wry twist of your lips.
“Maybe we could sneak off at the height of the party. Try to assess the security measures before then, if it would be worth it…”
“I could stay and distract him for a while?” You snigger even as you say the words, knowing how Marcus will react. “He won’t notice you sneaking off if I’m sparkling all over his arm.”
Marcus scoffs, trying to ignore the way his chest tightens at your suggestion. “You already know what I’m going to say to that. It’s too risky.” He flicks you a long glance. “What if he notices I’m gone and takes it out on you? Plus…”
He hesitates, unsure if what he’s about to say is a good idea. “I think a fancy party will be a good chance to really double down on our ‘relationship’. Get dressed up, stay close together the whole time, maybe dance, if there’s the opportunity.” He looks away.
“Oooh, I like that.” You sit up straighter. “You’d have to contain your jealousy if anyone else asked me to dance. Especially if that someone was Theo.” Your eyes sparkle mischievously.
Theo. Marcus hates the thief’s little nickname, but he hates even more the way it falls so easily from your lips. Seams’s creation, a natural extension from the sound of ‘thief’, is obviously not his real name, and Marcus worries at how you’ve grown used to using it. Worries that you might forget who the man truly is.
“You guys kind of look alike, you know.” Your smile is sly. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Wha-” Marcus sputters. He thinks back to your conversation on the balcony. If you think he looks like the thief, does that mean that you think Marcus is…hot?
You watch Marcus’s face steadily redden, like a balloon about to pop, and burst into laughter. “Oh, Marcus, you’re way too easy to fluster for a superhero.” It takes several seconds to contain your giggling. You school your features into something sympathetic. “I’m joking, okay? I mean I’m sort of not, because you are tall, dark, and handsome, but just…don’t worry, okay? I can handle the thief.”
You’re up and heading to your room before Marcus can regain his dignity, squeezing his shoulder as you round the couch. To his surprise, he feels a thread of anger winding through his embarrassment. You think he’s so easy to fluster? A blushing schoolboy compared to your worldly remove?
Marcus storms into motion, face still burning, aiming for his wardrobe. He pulls out his phone.
--
You look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Deep blue fabric flows over your body, draping and cinching and flattering in all the right places. Beadwork unfurls across it like a flung bolt of stars. Your skin is what really brings the effect to life- your golden light whorls beneath the dress’s sheer panels, making you shimmer like no painting ever could.
Only Marcus will know that your sunlight only moves like this when you’re nervous.
You head down to the party between Binary and Seams, your arms linked. The latter is still high on her transformation of you (“Maybe I should specialize in superhero styling.”) Her chin lifts regally, her every stride as sure as the strike of a blade. On your other side, Binary’s walk is more of a flow, liquid and calm as her expression, only an understated gleam in her eye betraying her anticipation.
Okay. You breathe. Focus on not burning your companions. All you have to do is find Marcus, and you’ll be fine. You can make it until then.
The length of marble hall ahead gets shorter and shorter, and the music grows louder. The cries and chatter of a crowd reach your ears. Your anxiety reaches a crescendo all at once.
The scene that opens before you is like nothing you’ve ever experienced.
The lawn normally visible from the breakfast room staircase has been transformed. This morning there hadn’t been so much as a blade of grass out of place. Now you can hardly see the grass beneath a constant drift of flower petals and glittery confetti, and the bejeweled heels of a few hundred cavorting strangers.
Decorative towers rise from the ground and form a border for the party space. Also constructed are trellised walls woven with flowers, joined to create the illusion of enclosed rooms, slightly more private spaces. Through the gaps are glimpses of plush chaise lounges and fur carpets- the same decor, it appears, as that of the low, open daises also scattering the lawn. Several are already occupied, lounging guests and their finery glinting at every turn; through the heave of the crowd you think you spot someone in a crown.
Globes of light and glittery garland seem to hang from the sky. Also suspended, seemingly from midair, are dancers- or maybe acrobats- graceful and daring and entertaining with a variety of poses and powers.
Oh, right. This is a super party.
Heroics didn’t like to entertain with super-powered methods. They were too above such things- they used their powers for a higher purpose, and expressed that others should do the same. You’d never catch Granada at any theater using magic for their special effects.
Here there were no such qualms. Across the lawn, two figures on pedestals seemed to be dueling with fire and ice, to the delighted gasps of the watchers below. A woman on a nearby edge of the crowd seemed to have skin lined with points of cold light. She notices you- perhaps she has similar powers?- and nudges the man besides her. As he turns, a tiny plumed bird takes flight from his shoulder. It wings several meters away, straight to the sequined epaulet of another figure, who seems to cock their head to it, as if getting a message. They too, turn in your direction, and you get the feeling that your entrance will not go unremarked.
You’re immensely grateful when Ezra appears in front of your trio. “At last, the final three birds to complete our flock.”
Oh good, that must mean Marcus is already here.
“Are we late?” you ask.
“Fashionably, of course,” Seams replies. She pecks Ezra on the cheek as she passes, her (terrifyingly) tall platform heels raising her to his same height. She seamlessly lifts a glass off the tray of a passing waiter and bounces into the crowd.
The waiter, noticing your drinklessness, pauses to offer his tray to the rest of you. It holds what can only be cocktails, ranging in color and sparkliness to a degree that would put a pride parade to shame. You select something blue and opalescent that tastes like a spring rain.
“Come on, let’s find the others.” Following Ezra’s directions, Binary leads you among clumps of finely-dressed people until you spot a familiar plaid suit- the thief’s, but fitted to Doc’s narrow frame.
“There’s Marcus. You go on, there’s someone I need to talk to.”
“Wait-” you whip your head around in alarm, but Binary is already gone, only a glint of copper at head-height providing a guess at her path.
Where was Marcus? There’s Bellows and a figure in green over with Doc, but you skim past them, scanning desperately for someone scowling or suspicious, anyone in a plain black suit and glasses.
A glint of red catches your eye. Deven, gesticulating at Doc in a way that sets the sequins on his top glinting like a signal fire. You breathe. Deven likes a gossip, he might have seen Marcus. You start toward the two familiar faces.
Honestly, has Theo hired a super whose power is to manifest flowers? You can’t think of how else he could achieve the constant ‘petals in the breeze’ effect. Maybe you missed a memo on the theme. There are flowers everywhere, nowhere untouched by their sweet, heady scent, a demonstration of the last bounty of summer. Only the rapidly cooling air betrays the receding season.
An end of summer theme would fit Seams’s outfit, you suppose. A short, frothy fuschia dress, with beaded vines and flowers peeking out amongst the ruffled layers. Her makeup as minimal yet as striking a complement as ever- a swipe of spring green eyeliner over her top lids, with a dot beneath each lower lashline.
Speaking of green…the figure beside Doc and Deven turns, and you stumble to a halt.
It’s Marcus.
Marcus, wearing a suit of deep, forest green, and smiling at something Doc says, his eyes crinkling in full visibility without his glasses. Why isn’t he wearing his glasses?
His hair is swept up and back in a way that it normally only achieves after being windblown in a superfight, or styled by someone else for a PR event. Since when can he do his own hair like that? He stands with his shoulders back, appearing relaxed, all but dripping charm and control.
Your hands are warm. Marcus is stunning, and you can’t stop gaping, and if you don’t get ahold of yourself your powers will scorch your own carefully constructed outfit to ash.
Deven turns, and your eyes meet. His eyebrows lift nearly to his hairline. A second later, some realization sparks, and his lips move.
The heat under your skin is mounting, but you can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Marcus’s smile, the breadth of his shoulders- he’s all you can see. What is happening to you?
“Sunbeam.” Nerea appears in front of you, smile soothing and reassuring as they reach for your hands. You gasp.
Their touch is cold, a wintery slap to the face. Your breathing jolts back to a controlled pace. Your sun immediately simmers down, although your face remains uncomfortably hot in a way you suspect is purely biological.
“Nerea,” you mumble. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Their lips quirk knowingly. “Here.” They rest the backs of their hands against your cheeks for a moment. The cold is crisp and reinvigorating as pressing your face to an icy windowpane. You sigh in relief.
--
Marcus sees you enter the party, of course. Heads turn like ripples in a pond toward you, Seams, and Binary- but mostly you, sparkling like a fucking star, your skin shimmering coyly beneath the semi-sheer portions of your dress. It takes a second glance to fully appreciate; or, if you’re Marcus, one endless, captivated stare, during which his lungs struggle to function and his brainpower ceases entirely.
How is it he feels like he’s never seen you before?
You and Marcus have been to countless Heroics events before, dressed in all degrees of formality. But tonight, here, through a crowd of potentially dangerous strangers and half-obscured by flower petals- it feels like his vision is clear for the first time.
Beside him, Doc’s head tilts. It’s his only visible reaction as he listens to Marcus’s blood sing and surge, much of it in a very particular direction-
Deven lets out a long, low whistle at the sight of the three women entering. “We are a pretty bunch, aren’t we?” He slings an arm each over the shoulders of Doc and Marcus.
Doc hums an amused sound. Marcus clears his throat, Deven’s gesture having yanked the leash on his senses, allowing his thoughts to return to his plan. Your impression that Marcus is some stammering schoolboy, unable to handle the slightest hint of flirtation, is unbearable- so he intends to put that idea to rest tonight.
“Cheers to that,” Marcus says. Flagging a passing waiter, he hands two flutes of standard sparkling champagne to his companions.
Their glasses clink. Across the crowd, Binary is leading you toward them. Resolved, Marcus half turns away as if he hasn’t seen you, letting himself smile at the arriving Bellows.
--
Your almost-meltdown seems to have gone miraculously unnoticed, despite that you’re barely ten steps from Marcus.
“Oh look, there are the others!” Nerea chirps. Their hands still refreshingly cool, they tug you forward.
There’s no way they didn’t know that, you think. But you’re so grateful for Nerea’s subtlety you don’t even care. Especially not as Marcus seems to get taller the closer you get him, his profile stunning against the tall white headdress of someone behind him.
“Sunshine!” Deven appears at your side like a flame bursting to life. His shoulder-length locks are half pulled back, and the earring in his left ear is long and bejeweled, dangling low enough to brush his bedazzled lapels.
“Hey, Deven.” You laugh in surprise at his hug and blush at his praise, modestly waving off his compliments on your appearance.
Someone comes up to you from behind. You sense them before you see them, their hand lowering toward your shoulder- but even the split second before it lands, an inconceivably, unfathomably brief instant- you recognize him.
Marcus.
Your sun retreats from where it would have scalded anyone else. “Sunbeam.” Marcus lightly touches your shoulder, and you turn and face him.
Marcus beams at you, radiating relief. And something else? He leans down and presses his lips to your cheek. “You look amazing,” he murmurs.
Your knees wobble. Marcus releases your shoulder, and your sun rushes back in like the sea into a tide pool, as if desperate to touch where he’d been.
“Marcus.” Giddy at his sudden closeness, but mostly with relief rushing through you like a drug, you grin. “Thanks. Seams’s work, obviously.” You make a little flourish as if to hand off some of the credit. Marcus shakes his head a little, his eyes darting all over you, from here to there and back again. Everywhere your sunlight is visible…
“You look nice too! I’ve never seen you in this color.” You’re genuinely proud of yourself for how normal you’ve sounded so far. You give Marcus a onceover now that you’re closer, immensely glad to have seen him before now, because otherwise you would have made a fool of yourself in point-blank HD. Speaking of which…
“Where are your glasses?” It’s always strange seeing him without them outside of superhero mode- he looks the same, but not. As if their lack lets you see things you can’t normally.
“Doc ordered me some contacts, too. ‘In case I prefer them.’” Marcus rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.
You laugh. “Of course.”
Strangely, everyone you know seems to have drifted away from you. Even Doc, who normally wouldn’t do anything so impolite as snub a greeting. You shuffle backwards slightly, suddenly aware of how close to Marcus you’re still standing.
“Well, should we…make our way around?” you suggest.
Marcus looks around, his face turning serious as if remembering where they are. “I guess so. We should keep an eye out for the thief, too.”
“Of course.” You smirk. “Gotta show ourselves off.”
“Show you off, you mean. Come on.” Eyes twinkling, Marcus takes your arm and tugs you along. Your whole body tingles.
--
You don’t know what you expected, but apparently it wasn’t that everyone would be so chatty. Plenty of people choose to stare instead of approach- every time you turn a pair of eyes flits away, or a group shuffles guiltily. But just as many people seem perfectly at ease striking up a conversation with you and Marcus.
A man with canines that protruded out of his purple lipsticked-mouth asked if it was true that Granada didn’t age. A hugely buff, cheerful woman at a food table commented on the delicate perfection of the macarons. An individual wearing a shimmery dress but of otherwise indiscernible gender queried, with a twinkle in their eye, if the Heroics ever helped rebuild any of the property they destroyed during superhero battles.
Marcus rubs the bridge of his nose. “They must have been talking to Missy,” he grumbles.
You send him an amused glance. The next generation of Heroics was notoriously outspoken on how different things would be when they were in charge. Every new proposal they sent to Marcus meant another pile of paperwork, but neither of you would dream of discouraging the young people’s ambition.
You pick up a glass filled with something in the same shade of violet as the earlier guy’s lipstick and examine it, thinking.
“I don’t know why,” Marcus begins, echoing your thoughts, “but I thought more people here would be…”
“Villainous? Aloof? Suspicious-looking?” you suggest.
Marcus frowns around the rim of his glass. “...Yes.”
You agree. “But they’re all so..nice. Like totally normal people.”
“Almost all of them,” Marcus mutters, leveling a dark glance over his shoulder.
He’s glaring at the thief, who’s currently lounging on one of the cushioned platforms in the center of the lawn. Most of his ire is directed at the crown Theo wears- or was wearing when he arrived. Now it doesn’t look as much like he’s holding court. Another man on the dais currently wears the crown, and is chatting amongst a small group sprawled on the plush rugs, not paying the thief any mind. Theo himself appears engaged in conversation with just the two people sharing his couch.
When Marcus looks back at you, there’s a creamy pink flower petal caught in your hair. He reaches for it. “Wait, you’ve got a flower.”
Your breath catches when Marcus leans over you. His other hand hovers near your jaw, as if to hold your head in place. It doesn’t touch, but the mere promise of it is more than enough to keep you still.
Finally Marcus leans back, proffering the offending petal between two fingers.
“Thanks.” You take a sip of your drink, feigning unaffectedness as you look around.
Hiding a smile, Marcus lets the petal fall. You’re not quite as subtle as you think. Every time he touches you, the faintest shimmer blooms beneath your skin. It’s addicting, being able to watch the reactions he would normally have to helplessly hope for.
He sets down his empty glass and scans the crowd, wondering if any of the waiters are serving water. Movement on the thief’s dais catches his eye. He appears to be leaving, kissing cheeks as he goes. His long suit jacket, tonight black and embroidered with gold and blue flowers, swishes around his thighs as he places one foot on the stairs.
The man still wearing the crown stands. The thief turns, one hand going dramatically to his head. Their faces are inches apart as the other man lowers the crown into the thief’s tousled locks.
The thief lightly grips the man’s chin, and Marcus hates that he can picture the exact challenging, flirtatious expression on the thief’s face. The other man smirks; the thief tugs him down until their lips meet.
Marcus isn’t sure that he expected to feel anything at the sight, but something is undeniably fomenting. You’d reported the tidbit about the thief and Ezra previously being involved, but knowing something and seeing it are two different things.
Marcus looks away, grateful to find your attention elsewhere.
“Whoa, look at that gorgeous woman Doc is talking to. Does she look familiar…?”
Marcus’s mouth falls open. Not because of the woman’s looks, although she is beautiful- long tanned limbs and elegant stature and dark, intelligent eyes- but because he knows who she is.
Oh god, they’re coming toward you. Marcus has met some important people as a Heroic, but none in this context. What is she doing here? Talking with Doc like they’re old friends?
Marcus is nudging you in their direction, apparently determined to intercept them. You go unresistingly, still wracking your brain for where you’ve seen her before.
Doc catches sight of you and slows to an uncertain stop. The woman follows his gaze, but no sooner have her eyes lit with curiosity than the thief appears, kissing her on both cheeks and asking after someone called Oberyn.
“He’s terribly busy, I’m afraid, but he bid me come and have fun for the both of us.” You’re close enough to overhear their conversation now- close enough that it could almost be considered rude for Theo not to introduce you.
Her dress sways with layers of fringe the color of saffron threads. Dark curls spill down her back in a loose bind. There’s an easy, sensual confidence about her- the look of someone deeply settled in their own body. With her dark coloring and flower petals in her hair, she looks like summer incarnate.
Her gaze flickers from the thief to you and back again. “Darling Teo, you must tell me about the company you’re keeping these days.” She threads her arm through his. “Heroics?” Her tone is benign, but her glance is very, very pointed.
The thief clears his throat, and although he gives you and Marcus a regal nod of acknowledgment it’s clear he has no intention for you to join them. “My darling queen, trust me when I say I’m just as surprised as you are…” He directs her back the way she came. If you didn’t know better, you’d say Theo looked almost nervous.
The woman flicks her hair as they walk, and the dip of her dress reveals a tattoo of a spear rippling along her spine. You stare after them, curiosity of a different flavor piqued.
“Do you know who that was?” Marcus’s face resembles a thundercloud.
You frown. “Is she a celebrity? She definitely looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.”
“He called her queen. Because she’s an actual, politically recognized Queen.”
At your obvious lack of recollection, Marcus turns his disbelieving gaze to the heavens. “That was Queen Ellaria of Dorne. She’s married to King Oberyn. And apparently, both of them are best friends with Teo.” Marcus sneers his name.
He appears deeply unsettled by this turn of events. You wait while Marcus processes, mumbling to himself, making several movements halfway before aborting them. When a familiar, frenetic glitter appears in his eye, you speak.
“Oh! I finally remember where I’ve seen her before.” Marcus looks up. “I read some listicle recently- ‘Ranking the 10 Hottest Monarchs in the World’, or something. But I remember laughing because King Oberyn was like, six, and his wife was all the way up at number two.” You chuckle at the memory.
Marcus stares at you. If before he’d been spiraling, worries spinning around him like debris in a tornado, now the storm had frozen in its path. Then Marcus guffaws, and his worries drop while his laughter continues, shaking him until his paranoid concerns are scattered at his feet.
You allow yourself a satisfied smile. Your skin brightens, your sunlight smug. “There’s nothing we can do but keep our eyes open. And let’s get another drink while we’re at it. I haven’t tried the orange one yet.”
So you continue your way around the party, sampling the food and flowers and drinks in every color of the rainbow. Despite the marvels all around, Ellaria’s appearance had had a sobering effect. The illusion had been shattered. Now you kept your eyes peeled, open to the real possibility of seeing someone you might recognize. You don’t, but Marcus spots someone who’s on the board of an international children’s charity, and his fists clench so tight that a crack appears in your highball glass.
You find Ezra again, and he introduces you to a girl he calls his ‘ward’, Cee. Although she and her companion are easily the youngest people here, the elfin blonde looks plenty old enough to be independent.
“How are your lessons with Francisco coming?” Ezra asks her.
“Fine,” she answers. Her gaze flits to you and Marcus with what’s by now a familiar uncertainty. How much to say around you who would normally be their enemies?
Ezra puts his arm around her. His right arm, the colored lights glinting dully off his sporadically-worn prosthetic. “Cee here is training to be a pilot. I’ve been a great source of inspiration to her, you see…”
The woman plants her palm on his cheek and shoves gently at his face. Ezra cackles as he retreats, his blond streak sticking straight up amongst now-mussed hair. “A great source of pain, you mean,” Cee grumbles.
It’s somewhat jarring to see the mansion’s residents- a limited circle you thought you were getting to know- in such an expanded context. Ezra, with a daughter. Deven, blushing at a peck on the cheek from a tall, wide man and his companion. Bellows, appearing happily smothered in affection by a woman whose chatter was almost as bright as her intricately embroidered thaub.
You’re surprised to find yourself feeling slightly bereft at their distraction. It’s not that they’re ignoring you, but…Of course they want to spend time with their actual friends. It’s silly to think that they would prioritize you and Marcus, with your situation being what it was.
Anyway, it’s not like you’re lonely. Marcus doesn’t leave your side the whole night. Literally- you’re not sure when he first got ahold of you, but you can’t think of a single moment when he hasn’t been touching you. At some point he found one of the gaps in the back of your dress, and his fingertips had seemed glued to your skin ever since. He leans down to hear you whenever you speak, and his lips nearly touch your ear when he replies. It’s entirely unnecessary. It’s making you warm.
It only gets worse once a dance floor appears at the far side of the lawn. Marcus leads you toward it.
“Dance?” His eyes gleam.
His palm splays on the small of your back. His other hand engulfs yours, holding it aloft as he sways you to the lilting music. Heat that has nothing to do with your power grows steadily inside you. Since when is Marcus this good of an actor?
Your sun can’t be contained either. Heat builds under your skin until you’re sure you look less like Starry Night and more like a certain sci-fi character about to regenerate.
Marcus’s lips brush your ear. “Stay with me, Sunbeam. It’s just us, remember?” He leans back slightly, giving you some much-needed breathing room. His brown eyes catch yours and hold them.
Slowly, your temperature goes down. You become aware of watchful eyes all around, bright with anticipation. You look down.
A trickle of figures on the edge of the crowd catch your eye. Pairs and small groups head for the hedge maze, some more eagerly than others. Dark and quiet and alone? Yes please.
You catch Marcus’s eye again. “Wanna take a walk?”
--
The hedge maze is everything the party isn’t. Cool and quiet, tranquil and relaxing. You and Marcus meander the dark paths aimlessly, your sunlight glimmering off glossy green leaves. He says nothing, and you neither.
Periodically, you hear evidence of others in the maze. Voices, giggling, rustling…moaning? You smirk to yourself and refrain from commenting. But the third time you pass what must be a very passionate hangout, without having seen a soul for at least twenty minutes, you begin to wonder. It’s not quite a maze, this. There are navigational signs, for a start. Almost all the lead-offs you peek into end in small, unadorned clearings.
From a shrouded, sordid corner of your mind rises the word.
Pleasure garden.
Was that even a real thing? Or just something you’d absorbed from some historic fantasy novel? Either way, it rings true. The furtive yet eager behavior of the couples entering the maze- the fact that it was primarily small groups of two or three entering together. The paths are lush, but not overgrown. The atmosphere clandestine, but not spooky. More…romantic. Erotic.
“I think…” You slow to a stop, and Marcus with you. “I think this maze is meant for couples. Like, people who want to sneak away. That’s why we keep hearing…stuff.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to be blushing over something like that, Sunbeam.” Marcus slides you a sideways smirk, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I figured that out too, somehow.”
You roll your eyes like that will disguise your fidgeting. Normally you wouldn’t be so flustered in a situation like this, but you’re just so…hot already. As you have been all night.
There’s a gap in the hedges behind Marcus that you swear wasn’t there a second ago.
“Well, if we really wanted to cement the rumors of our fake relationship…” You nod to the gap, and Marcus turns, the shadowy archway appearing in full.
You and Marcus exchange a long glance.
“I’m ready if you are.” Marcus offers you his arm. The formal gesture strikes you as silly given the circumstances- you’ve already entered a pleasure garden together. Yet it puts you strangely at ease, too. This is Marcus, your friend, your companion-in-arms- giving you agency in keeping yourself safe, like he always has.
You loop your arm through his.
--
“I guess that means we’ll be here awhile,” you say, settling yourself on the softest grass you’ve ever felt. “Should have grabbed one of those champagne bottles.”
A number of the decorative towers glittering throughout the party had in fact been made of green glass bottles- drink option, decoration, and party favor all in one. You’d seen others brandishing them all evening, and now regretted not grabbing one before entering the maze.
Marcus is examining the barely-visible gap in the hedge that provided you entrance to your little clearing. The green of his suit nearly blends in with the leaves, adding to the enchanting surreality of his appearance.
At your words, he straightens. “I could go get one,” Marcus offers. “Or maybe…”
His face alights with mischief. He turns his head in the direction of the party, eyes narrowing. Startled cries sound in the distance before transforming into awed, knowing oooohs. Marcus holds out his hand.
A second later, a green glass bottle sails down into his palm. He turns to you, grinning, lifting the bottle like a trophy.
You laugh in delight, applauding. Marcus indulges your praise with a little bow, looking pleased with himself in a way you don’t see very often anymore.
The two of you settle into the grass and pass the champagne back and forth. There’s no direct light source in your little enclave; a soft glow seems to emanate from the leaves themselves, doubtless some magic induced by the thief’s gardeners. However it works, it manages to cast everything in a warm, gentle light. It flatters Marcus’s already attractive features: his relaxed smile, the length of his throat, every flicker of muscle in his shoulders and arms beneath his fine white shirt. His suit jacket lay discarded, nearly invisible against the base of the hedge. You had nearly choked on fizz when he’d removed it.
The heat that had been building inside you all evening quiets, but doesn’t subside completely. It’s unignorable. It flares every time Marcus’s fingers brush yours on the bottle. Every time he laughs, his head tipping back. When you kick off your shoes and wiggle your toes in the grass, and he can’t quite tear his gaze from your legs. Your sunlight preens. You clear your throat and adjust your dress over your thighs, suppressing the ache between them.
Silence settles comfortably between you. Marcus upends the champagne bottle, then holds it upside down over the grass, displaying its emptiness with a pout. You giggle, swaying where you sit. A pleasant, tipsy buzz has taken hold of both of you, making all of your troubles seem very far away. Why worry when you could simply relax for once, hidden away as you are?
For the first time, you hear other people outside the hedge. A trio, it sounds like, cooing at each other and laughing as they pass by.
Only suddenly, they aren’t passing- the branches where you entered quiver, and the thump of stumbling footsteps sound.
You look at Marcus in alarm.
His face hardens with sudden resolve. Quick as a flash, Marcus springs forward, and you find yourself sprawled on your back, his longer body covering yours like a blanket. The grass is cool against your spine. You gasp when Marcus’s mouth brushes your neck, his movements hurried and inelegant.
“Play along,” he mutters in your ear.
Right. You wrap your arms around his back, trying to grasp handfuls of his too-tight, tucked-in shirt. As your body relaxes into a more natural posture, Marcus’s tenses, the muscles in his back flickering. He grabs the back of your knee and hitches it over his hip, and you choke on a sound of shock.
You can’t see the intruders from your position, but Marcus whips his head toward them as they appear.
“Oops, sorry!” They back out immediately. Stifled squeals and giggles trail after them for a seemingly endless moment, until finally, finally, quiet falls again.
The distant sounds of the party and the rustling of the hedges are the only sounds.
No, that’s not true- you can hear Marcus breathing, harsh and fast. The humidity of it skims the shell of your ear. You’re barely breathing at all. Your chests brush every time you inhale, but you don’t dare make any other move.
“Are they gone?” Marcus whispers.
The stubble on his jaw rasps against your cheek when he speaks. Despite that he holds the bulk of his weight off of you, you can still feel the mass of him, resting lightly against your body. It’s the only sensation that could possibly distract from the way he still grips your leg- barely above the knee, perfectly proprietary, but the real issue is that his fingers are on your skin. Keeping you in place in a way you know, instinctively, is going to haunt your dreams.
“It sounds like it,” you breathe in response.
Marcus lifts his head enough to meet your eye. Neither of you move, frozen, close enough to taste the sweet champagne you shared on the other’s breath. Marcus’s eyes flicker to your mouth.
He flinches. Carefully Marcus scrambles off you, releasing your leg and sitting back by your feet. His eyes are huge and round and dark. He seems as stunned as you still are, staring up at him from the ground. Only a few moments had passed, yet the entire incident seemed both instantaneous and endless, echoing in the space between you. Somehow your sun hadn’t even reacted, only waited attentively in your chest for a coherent command.
“Sorry,” Marcus rasps. “It was the first thing I thought of.”
“It’s okay.” Clearing your throat, you slowly sit yourself up. “Do you think they recognized us?”
I hope so, is what Marcus doesn’t say.
“Maybe. But we did want word to get back to the thief.” His mouth twitches infinitesimally, something that could be satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
“Well.” You flounder to recover the atmosphere. “If I knew you’d react like that, I’d have hired Seams to dress me ages ago.”
Marcus blinks. And then the tension dissolves, and his laughter bounces off the hedges.
--
Eventually, you and Marcus make your way out of the garden. He brushes grass off of your back with light, careful hands- although those hands still steal into the gap in your dress to rest against your spine as you walk. You’ve (not unhappily) resigned yourself to the endless, tingling warmth caused by his touch. Your skin maintains a low shimmer as you exit the maze, the champagne in your bloodstream loosening your grip on your power.
You sway a little as you walk, giggling, recounting to Marcus a story that Binary had told earlier. He chuckles in your ear, his head bent to yours. The crowd is noticeably thinner now, and you make it farther across the lawn than you realize without noticing- or putting your guards up.
The thief is back on the low dais in the center of the lawn, entertaining another (or possibly the same) group of people. Or maybe they’re the ones doing the entertaining, seeing as Theo is seated on the ground, seemingly unbothered by his position amongst the fluffy rugs. The crown he’d been passing around earlier now sits crookedly on his head, at the same angle as the smile on his face. A half-empty glass is in his hand.
When Marcus looks up, Theo is watching them. His gaze rests on their linked hands. A hollow sort of longing is carved on his face; Marcus, unexpectedly, feels sympathy pang in his chest. The reaction puts a deep furrow in his brow.
Theo tries to school his expression when he catches Marcus’s eye, but it’s delayed, clumsy, his finely tuned control unwieldy after too many drinks. He lifts his glass to Marcus, eventually mastering his usual refined smirk.
Marcus looks away. He would have ignored the thief entirely if his company hadn’t spotted them, and erupted into exclamations with a lack of subtlety that indicated their state of inebriation.
You’d spotted Theo, too, as well as his excited friends. You flutter your fingers in a wave, and then blow a kiss toward the dais, sending a burst of sunlight in their direction. The guests ooh and ahh in the sudden warmth. Theo’s eyes close and his head tips back, basking in the light. The crown slips from his head. His face smooths into a serene, unguarded smile, and something squeezes in Marcus’s gut.
If you're still here, reading this story, I love you and I'm putting a freshly-baked cookie in your hand as we speak <3333
warnings/tags: explicit smut (-> 18+ only!), dom!dave, sub!marcus, rough oral sex, degradation kink, praise kink, daddy kink, breath play if you squint
a/n: once again we blame thank @sizzlingcloudmentality because i just said how dave wouldn't like marcus and she was like "yeah he'd make him gag on his cock" and now here we are. i love you dearly, babe <3
dividers by @saradika-graphics <3
notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here
It had started slowly, imperceptible almost. Tinged with uncertainty, self-loathing, denial.
Now Marcus’ knees dig into the hardwood floor of his apartment, with his skin flushed under the hastily loosened constrictions of his tie and shirt collar.
His eyes are obediently trained on the man towering over him, whose lips are curling into a sadistic yet beautiful sneer. Marcus’ head hits stone behind him, trapped between the wall and Dave, who sinks his cock deeper into Marcus’ throat.
“Taking it like a champ, Pike. Fucking overachiever, as always.”
Marcus whines, and Dave chuckles, holding himself in place a moment longer, before slowly easing back, letting the other man eagerly suck air into his lungs.
“Such a pretty mouth for your Daddy,” Dave coos, leaning down closer towards Marcus’ face.
He doesn’t miss the way Marcus’ eyes widen, the way his hips buck forward. The prominent bulge, still hidden beneath dark slacks.
Dave chuckles again, pulling up back to his full height.
“Goody two shoes Agent Pike… Getting hard calling me Daddy? That’s the kind of fucked up shit you’re into?”
Marcus nods breathlessly, his lips still parted, his pupils blown wide.
“Yes, Sir.”
Dave bares his teeth, his fingers sinking into the mess of brown hair, giving Marcus’ head a hard tug.
“Fucking do it then.”
-
Neither of them had planned on falling asleep. Next to each other, still tangled up in sweaty limbs and messy bedsheets. It’s not what this is. Not what it’s supposed to be.
Dave’s eyes are dark when they’re getting dressed, ready for another day at their respective desks in their respective offices. Another day of impersonal greetings when passing each other in the hallway.
Marcus loops the tie around his neck, the last part of his professional mask, the last piece that will transform him back into Agent Pike.
“Come here,” Dave demands with an impatient click of his tongue.
His fingers replace Marcus’s, tying the piece of fabric in quick, practised movements. It’s tight, the knot pressing into Marcus’ throat uncomfortably when Dave’s hands pull away.
He doesn’t complain, doesn’t adjust it. Swallows once, then a second time, the sensation of constraint spreading through him like fire.
Dave’s grin is feral when he gives the tie another tug.
“Good boy.”
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