claude von riegan/hubert von vestra; post crimson flower; pre-relationship courting; first kisses; establishing relationship; no cws.
a/n: day 3 give it up for day 3! my wifi is being doo doo so idk if i can keep up with posting every day in my timezone but!! an attempt will be made. i hope you enjoy <3
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“Can you believe the nerve of some of those guys?” It was all rather dramatic, the way Claude stormed into the room, sitting at his desk with a huff of indignation. The door behind him was left wide open for a moment, warm Almyran air drifting into the rather large office, before a shadow seemed to follow in, and close the door with a click.
“They certainly are intent on playing the long con, your majesty.” Hubert slowly slipped his hand off of the doorknob, returning it to behind his back as he almost glided through the room to the same desk the king now sat at, in all his usual grace and silence.
“And they all think I'm too stupid to see it- honestly, sometimes it's like I never left Fódlan.” The exhaustion in his voice seeped through like leaks in a well-loved piece of pottery, cracked and splintered but still beautiful nonetheless. He ran his hand down his face as he leaned back into his chair, fingers parting to watch the way his guest settled into a seat in front of his desk, almost getting lost in the way he practically sunk into the plush cushions, and though the Marquis was the picture of controlling one's emotions, it was subtle movements and gestures that told Claude that his frustrations with his court were being met in kind, in the slight grimace and the twitch of a hand ready to strike at nothing like a viper in a cage. And that was something that, despite the exhaustion the meeting with his ministers had left him with, Claude couldn’t help but smile from behind his hand.
This had hardly been the initial plan. A visit by the Imperial Minister across the border was a rarity indeed, and while Hubert had come to Almyra for a more important reason than niceties- the solidification of policies for alliance proposed by the emperor, relayed through her most trusted dog, who had done so without question or complaint- Claude had intended to leave business mostly at the door. Edelgard had sent word ahead of her Marquis’ arrival to the border, so, while unusual, the arrival of the king to collect his guest himself hadn't been too much of a surprise, and had passed with little fanfare, and minimal conversation above the expected jovial barbs and digs he'd come to expect from Hubert. Claude had been hoping to steal him away, for a time, before they had to get on with business, but almost as soon as he'd arrived back to the palace, he had been accosted with a surprise summon by a few of the nobles and richer merchants residing within the areas surrounding the capital. And though apologetic, he had been dismissed by Hubert, who had chosen to go along to the meeting, regardless of whether it concerned the personal affairs of his country and his emperor. So he, too, had borne witness to the disaster such a meeting had been- men with money and power that had made them too thick-headed and stubborn to take no for an answer when they couldn't have more of either of those things. It's a mirror of years spent wrangling the alliance, just long enough to survive a siege on Derdriu, but not long enough to finally bring together nobles of conflicting wants and needs.
Not that he exactly mourned such a thing, now- losing the Alliance had been a blow to his pride, at the time, fleeing across the border to Almyra with nothing but a wyvern and the heavy weight of regret, but it had led to something far closer to what he’d always wanted. Taking the throne of Almyra had been a struggle, but once he had, Edelgard had been more than willing to start an allyship, putting her in contact with her most trusted Marquis when she was unavailable, still trying to piece her own country back together as a young ruler after five years of struggling and fighting to get there. They were alike, in that regard, and perhaps Claude was thankful for it- and thankful for her minister, though it had taken a while to get that far, beyond the beginnings of stony and stiff correspondence. Over time, however, that had melted away, giving into something almost… playful, if Claude could read the tone right. They rarely spoke candidly, but when they did, it was hidden away in codes and puzzles, to keep their personal conversations away from prying eyes- talks of themselves, of their thoughts and feelings on the present, of past regrets and hopes for the future. Things the king had found riveting, that had kept him coming back and pressing for more, and things that the usually cagey Marquis had offered up willingly, multiple times over, and over the months their letters had gone back and forth, penned almost as soon as one was received, despite their busy work lives.
But then there was the curious shift that their more recent communications had taken. It was a subtle change, one Claude had to double-take when he’d first seen it, a few months before. But, if the king knew one thing about the man he was speaking with, far more casually than ought to be allowed for the two of them, it was that Hubert never did things by accident. The flourishes of his usually steady hand, each word perfectly twisted and catered to invoke an image in the mind of its recipient, but in such a way that it was perhaps in a haze; you could even go so far as to call such things thinly veiled flirtations, if it was even possible for such a thing to come from Hubert to begin with. Looking at him, straight-faced and thin-lipped with eyes like a viper, you wouldn’t think he had it in him. But as Claude looked still at Hubert through his fingers, he considered this again, watching the Marquis sit and wait for command, or for their own meeting to finally progress forward. Maybe there could be something there, if he was willing to try and look for it.
He thought back to a letter, he had received earlier in the month, still watching Hubert sit as straight as a board- It’s been rather odd, missing your voice when I long thought it to be a nuisance. My trip to Almyra shall be one I am most certainly looking forward to. I hope your witticism will be well worth the trip across the border, your majesty, for it’s been difficult to find things to entertain myself with as of late.
Claude brought his hand down his face and rested it against the desk, avoiding staring more openly at his guest as he reached over to thumb through some papers to his left, enough to catch Hubert’s attention at a glance.
“Well, enough about my woes. Let’s do what you came here to do, shall we?”
He was regarded for a moment with something close to curiosity, but eventually, he was given Hubert’s full attention with a curt nod.
Their meeting thereafter continued as normal- well, normal for the two of them, perhaps. All biting wit and scathing remarks, a back and forth more refreshing than the early morning breeze taken in in silence, and better for Claude’s keen mind than a meeting room with noblemen who thought themselves too smart to hide their true intentions. It was never in hostility, however- the snake’s tongue was not spitting venom in his direction, and multiple times had he caught Hubert smirking through exchanges at his expense over trade dealings between their two countries. Maybe that had something to do with the wine that had been shared between them at some point, a fine imported bottle from vineyards at the border, maybe acquired just for the occasion- Claude would never say- and two glasses from the highest shelf, expertly crafted and perfectly weighted in one’s hand. Or maybe he just appreciated the company- it certainly seemed that way, with prolonged glances that were caught over the course of the first hour, with a touch of something in those citrine eyes that seemed to stare deep into Claude’s soul, making him bare. It hadn’t always been like that, surely- at least, not in this way, something softer around the edges, not looking for hostility but perhaps the opposite. Claude can’t remember anything more than a glower coming from the man from across the hall during their days at the academy, when Hubert would shadow Edelgard in an almost more literal sense, observing and assessing everything and anyone that crossed their path, years before their plans had been set into motion. Of course, he’d considered a young future duke and wildcard player a threat then. What a failed assessment that turned out to be.
Claude went to reach over again to his left, to take hold of yet another contract or sheet of paper, or whatever else he could find to avoid the look of something so unguarded, watching as Hubert went to do the same and seemed to slow as their fingers brushed along the top of the pile of documents. The moment stretched into silence, and as the gloved hand pulled away with an apology, Claude’s chased it, and held it in his own, to feel the weight of it. His eyes moved across the desk, once again meeting his eyes that seemed so cautiously wanting. The letter came to mind again, talks of missing his voice and his mannerisms, but not his touch. How could you miss something you hadn’t ever had before. The king paused, to brush his thumb across Hubert’s knuckles, delighting in the way his eyes darted down to see it happen with a slow swallow that made his throat bob. So he hadn’t been imagining things. This hadn’t just been a meeting to further solidify an alliance- though, surely, that’s what they would be doing regardless- but there had been something of a selfish motive, as well. For as smart as Hubert was, courting was far from his strong suit. He gave the hand he held a final squeeze before rising to his feet, struggling to keep a hold of the thing while still looking graceful as he made his way around the desk, to take a seat against it, directly in front of Hubert.
He tried not to take too much pleasure in the way Hubert never took his eyes off of him as he moved, positioning himself to sit almost looming over him. He tried even further still to not notice the way this only seemed to excite the mage, in the slightest of ways. Both things failed.
He found himself moving his free hand to Hubert's face, forefinger and thumb gently gripping at his chin and forcing him to look up at Claude, purposefully sitting far too close in front of him on the desk. Claude's eyes narrowed just slightly, a smirk pulling at his lips and a twinkle of something in those soft, green eyes that could pull one into oblivion if he so willed it.
“...Have I done something to amuse, Your Majesty?” Hubert’s voice was quieter than he meant for it to be, a secret for the two of them, gentle and reverent, only seeming to delight Claude further. He'd caught on to the realisation, and instead of pulling back, he pushed himself further into it, wanting and perhaps hoping.
“Nothing in particular,” was his coy reply, moving his fingers to tilt Hubert’s head just so as he leaned in a little closer, almost as a reminder of their positions. “But it wouldn't hurt to hear my name, for once. You came all the way here to see me, after all. I would have thought I was more than a king to you.”
The mage swallowed, with a soft exhale like a prayer. “I couldn't bear the disrespect.”
“Even if I asked?”
Hubert stared up at Claude still, at the way the sunset from the office window framed his face like a halo, like something holy, a metaphor dripping in irony, from a man who spat on the corpse of the goddess to one who ruled a nation untouched by her corrupted gaze. He swallowed, lost in evergreen eyes and the curl of a smile, both biting and fond all the same. “And are you?”
He swept his thumb along the mage’s bottom lip in contemplation, gently tugging at it as he replied, barely above a whisper, “I am.”
There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, Claude thought that he had gone too far with his advances. That he'd scared the Adrestian attack dog back into his doghouse, but it was cut by the low baritone of Hubert's voice again, still quiet, still reverent.
“Perhaps later, then,” His hand finally moved from where it had been paralysed on his lap, fingers curling around the king’s wrist, but not daring to pull him away. Only wanting to hold on. Only wanting to have him. “I'm sure my hesitancy to speak can be forgiven by a kind soul such as yourself, my liege.”
A momentary twang of disappointment reverberated through Claude, as he hung over his guest, but even despite that, his smile somehow grew even moreso, into a satisfied and contented grin. “Oh, you are such a tease, Marquis.”
“Moreso than you, still holding me here, dancing around the point I'm sure you've reached by now, from the way you run your victory lap?”
Claude shrugged at him, tilting his head back the other way in assessment. "I don't know. What is it that you think I've found? Enlighten me."
His esteemed guest seemed too enchanted to tear his eyes away, even beyond the slow blink reminiscent of a contented cat, like he wanted to be here. What an odd thought- Hubert wanting anything other than the position he currently held, at the side of his emperor, for his greater future. Maybe he'd done some growing, across the border, in their time apart. That, he could investigate with time. If that time was allowed to him, as well as his voice, now that Hubert had fallen silent again.
"Come now, Hubert," Claude closed the distance further, leaning in closer, speaking softer, and for a moment he was sure the other man would try to squirm out of his grip and flee. But he didn't move. "What have I found?"
Another beat. But it did not last long. A whisper, from a man who otherwise wouldn't hesitate. "...My heart. I do not know how and when you took it, but I-"
He was cut off rather promptly, by lips pressed against his own to stop him from speaking further. And Claude could feel the tension in his body melting out of him in almost an instance, accepting the kiss so readily, as if he'd been waiting lifetimes for such a thing.
It was a precious and inexperienced thing, but the mage seemed to follow Claude’s lead to stop himself from fumbling and making a fool of himself. They broke off shortly after it had begun, and the king took notice of the way Hubert seemed to try and follow his lips for a moment, chasing after the kiss again before stopping himself, and allowing himself to get lost in the grin staring back at him, glowing like the sunset that had begun to streak through wide windows at his back.
“So…” Keeping the secret between them, Claude’s voice remained low, as he leaned forward to knock his forehead against Hubert’s, and remain there. “How was that? Was that reason enough to get what I asked for?”
“Perhaps,” And the response was breathless, wanting and devout, in sweet irony. Hubert licked his lips, as if chasing after the last taste of Claude he had, before he spoke again, “I shall do as you ask… Khalid.”
Like a shot to the heart, such a bold move reverberated through Claude, and he could not help but lean in for a second, more fevered kiss, if only to hear the man say his name like that again.
dimitri alexandre blaiddyd/hubert von vestra; canon divergence (dimitri lives), crimson flower, fluff(?). mentions of past torture and implied stockhold syndrome cw
a/n: day 2 is here! my notes are probably going to get shorter through the week just bc i’m getting more tired trying to get these done (not that anyone but me is making me do this. i want to :D). the most i can say is mind the warnings.
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The body slept soundly across his chest, back rising and falling with gentle snores, face obscured in a mop of dirty, unkempt blonde that he twirled between his fingers as he observed. It was a curious sort of observation, not unlike watching a rat in a cage, but there wasn’t a hypothesis to it- because there was no meaning behind it. It simply was, and Hubert would let it be, taking comfort in the weight encompassing him and the soft feeling of breath against his bare skin. One of his hands, as decrepit and stained by dark magic as the other, was held down and claimed by his sleeping companion in a firm grip under the blankets, the other now slowly moving out of the grip of hair he had given himself, fingers trailing lightly along the other man’s spine in a delicate feather touch, as far as he could reach, before moving his hand back in the opposite direction, slowly, watching for any reactions or signs of stirring. There were none. Hubert continued.
The night before had been long and arduous, taxing and resulting in far too many casualties. Those Who Slither In The Dark were becoming craftier, now that their numbers were starting to thin out, meaning that ambushes and outlandish manoeuvres were plenty. This mission had been particularly strenuous, with losses on their side counting up rapidly. Still, among the battlefield, he had remained standing- thanks in no small part to the man now fast asleep and half crushing him under the weight of the world he carried. Dimitri fought as though he would give his dying breath for the cause, which was a curious thought for sure, considering where they had once stood- on opposite sides of the conflict, and of history. Now, they lay in the same bed, barely undressed and still covered in grime and blood from the fight they had endured.
Somewhere between the capture of Fhirdiad and the establishment of a United Fódlan under the ever-watchful rule of Lady Edelgard, the decision to not kill the former King of Faerghus had been made. He was to be kept under lock and chain, with his crest suppressed by wards and seals underneath the castle of Enbarr- imprisoned, questioned and tortured before his eventual execution in the streets. Hubert had been assigned to such a task, and had seen it through to almost perfection. In getting the man to come to heel, perhaps he had broken him too much; the once ferocious, snarling beast instead watching him, with one (only one; his other eye had been injured before his capture, and neglected until it became infected and almost rotted out of his skull entirely) glimmering blue eye underneath swathes of golden hair, like the moon amidst the treeline, other scars and blemishes across Dimitri’s skin like the stars in the otherwise blank expanse, just as his expression was. Blank, unfeeling, but still somehow wanting. Like the moon, his eyes illuminated that- a desire, a need. It hadn’t been until months ago that Hubert figured out just what that need had been.
He had never been uncomfortable with the idea of losing a prisoner before. When the well of information had dried up, it was time to end the farce- Hubert did not consider himself to be overtly cruel, especially to those who didn’t deserve it, nameless and rankless soldiers and those on the wrong side of history being the majority of them. The Imperial army had taken capture of more than a few enemy soldiers in their time, to analyse movements and strategies, and once they had what they wanted, he had given them mercy. Direct enemies to Her Majesty, however, did not get that same mercy. Their treatment was, well, torturous, long and taxing until they were begging for an end. Hubert liked to hear them beg. But Dimitri never gave him that. All he gave him anger, and rage, until all that was left was a husk with a faraway stare, like he wasn’t even looking at him but off into some alternate future where the war had been his to win, or into what he hoped would be his fate- the darkness of the other side. It was then that the marquis made a realisation, to make use of what otherwise would be a waste of resources in the dungeons, and to capitalise on what had always been Dimitri’s best qualities- his strength, his ruthlessness. His loyalty. All it would take was a little more twisting in the right direction, to steer him away from the lost cause of a fallen Kingdom, and towards the Empire. Perhaps, more selfishly, towards House Vestra alone.
So then came a new plan, one in direct opposition to what had originally been proposed. The plan was risky, terribly risky and perhaps even stupid, but it was one he had more than a modicum of faith in, and one he held on a tight leash- if the dog bit at his master, as diseased and mauled as he was, he would simply be put down. A kamikaze soldier sent out to fight Those Who Slither In The Dark alongside Hubert and the rest of his agents. Dimitri, however, had been surprisingly well-behaved- a hulking phantom in the Vestra estate, stalking through halls and standing in doorways, scaring the poor staff half to death with a forlorn stare. He had never turned his strength on these parties, however. They had been spared from his ire, or lack thereof, as he did little more than… stand, and watch from a distance, like a beast far outside a human society. Which is exactly what he was, for the time. Dimitri had never been told who he was killing- he had simply been commanded. And, just as he’d expected, the dog obeyed his master without question.
Dimitri fought, and killed with something akin to joy (a joyless sort of joy, the light lost from his eyes but his grin splitting his face in two with a cackle and a war cry), but he was far from tender, or even receptive to any sort of touch- not that he was ever due the kindness, being the prisoner that he was, but even still, an attempt was made. It had taken months upon months to get the hound to stop flinching or shaking at a hand near him, long enough attempt to brush his hair before a majority of it had to be cut away entirely to salvage it, the rest of it matted and stained with his own blood that he had been rolling in, sleeping on the stone floor of the dungeons- or, more than likely, not sleeping, but simply waiting to die. It took even longer for the beast to allow himself to be handled through hand feeding, an action that Hubert had undertaken the training for himself. Like the crunching of bones, and the screams of the damned and the dying, he remembered the moment all too well, like a flash of lightning in the depth of a stormy night. He remembered way he’d pressed a grape to Dimitri’s lips, sitting in the study on either side of the disorganised desk, full of contracts and letters and declarations that Hubert could not get to before he had done this simple action. He remembered the way he’d watched as the beast had accepted the gift, tongue wrapping around the small fruit before biting down, eye never leaving Hubert the entire time- a fragment of moonlight still illuminated with a feeling. He remembered the way he could almost see his reflection in the brightness of the blue, as he pulled his hand away, watching greedy lips being licked, as if asking for more. As if affirming that Dimitri was his to command.
He remembered realising that was what the moon was lighting the way to. Dimitri was his.
Perhaps indulging in this was unwise of him. Aside from it being nothing short of coercion, the manipulation of a toy he hadn't grown bored of yet, Hubert knew this was a compromise to his position in this future that he and the rest of the Strike Force had fought so hard for- the same future that they had fought against Dimitri for, through the wind and the rain and the dead of night. And yet, despite this, the beast that had once stood against them was somehow satiated, fast asleep against the only thing he seemed to care about anymore, breath coming out hot against Hubert’s chest where he comfortably slumbered, one hand cushioning his face against the bony surface he had taken and the other still intertwined with one of the mage’s he’d claimed as his bed, both hands weathered and scarred from years upon years of lance work. Always fighting. Hubert looked down to the hand he held onto, carefully lifting it up from beneath their covers just enough to watch himself brush his thumb along Dimitri’s knuckles, feeling the way one of them popped out just wrong from when his hand had been broken and not healed correctly. He remembered that incident well; the crunch under his boot still echoed in the dungeons, sometimes. The screams, too, and the snarls of threats through gritted teeth. The crest of Blaiddyd, as minor as it may have been, had made Dimitri a hard man to break. But he soon fell silent. And that silence had almost been disconcerting, replacing the hatred and the anger that ran in the blood of the fallen king with complacency. Acceptance of his death. Hubert squeezed his hand at the thought, when he first knew Dimitri had been ready to die down the depths of the dungeons, either by the Marquis’ hand or even his own, somehow. But he was still here.
As if rattled by too loud thinking, there was a gentle stirring just below him, a groan that snapped Hubert out of his thoughts, and his once idle free hand went to run through the rivers of gold pooling across his chest.
“Shh, down boy, it’s alright.” Like consoling a dog, he was gentle, watching the head lift and look up at him, chin resting where the cheek once had been. The moon was in Dimitri’s eyes again. Yearning, wanting. “You fought well last night, my pet. You deserve a reward.”
There was a slow blink in return, the half-asleep mind of a broken soldier struggling to catch up with the words being spoken to him, as if waiting for an order, or command, even now, as exhausted as he was. There was still blood stained on his cheek, right underneath the eyepatch he still wore to hide the ugly scar the war had given him.
Hubert couldn’t help but chuckle, something low and rumbling, and dangerously tender, moving his hand from within the other man’s hair to cup his at his cheek, his thumb rubbing at the dried blood until it flaked away underneath his grip. It was difficult to not take note of just how quickly the weight shifted to lean against his palm. “Rest, Dimitri. I will not ask again.”
At the issue of a command, like the dog he was, Dimitri looked up at his master more intensely, as if trying the memorise his features, before exhaling a held breath as he again came to rest on Hubert’s chest. The hand that had once been his cushion moved under the blankets to place itself on Hubert’s hipbone, fingering curling in ever so slightly as if to signal possession, but he, however, did not move in response. Once again, the mage began twirling golden hair between his fingers as he watched the dog settle down again, taking note of all the dirt and blood still in the locks that had only just started to grow back. The hound should be bathed and cleaned as soon as possible- by the master’s hand, of course, for the hand that feeds does not risk being bitten. After that, perhaps he could invest in a hair tie- the same blue of the old tattered cloak the man refused to part with, perhaps? Or a deep red, like the colours of the empire, and the blood Dimitri so joyously shed in the name of House Vestra? Hubert smiled at the thought, flashing teeth to no one as he brushed away some golden locks to kiss at Dimitri’s forehead, feather-light and gentle.
“And rest well, my pet. Our enemies will not give us this luxury for much longer.”
sylvain jose gautier/hubert von vestra; canon compliant; white clouds, route non-specific; be!sylvain; mild mature humour cw. 2324 words
a/n; it's hubert rarepair week on twitter. love wins happy pride month etc etc i’m going to be spreading my gayboy hubert agenda as much as i can all week. sorry in advance for posting a mirror every day, but i’m trying to clock in every day as best i can. <3 hope you all enjoy fire emblem!
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ao3 mirror in the reblogs!
The odd request had come to him over lunch in the dining hall.
Hubert loathed spending time there, because it was too loud and there were too many variables to account for, but Edelgard had insisted upon him coming and so he followed her will. It did not mean he had to engage in the conversation his classmates were having at the table. It was some passionate conversation about the arts, likely the opera, headed by Ferdinand (because he didn’t know when to shut up, and always liked to have the last word) and joined by Caspar (Hubert assumed he didn’t know a damn thing about the opera, but just liked to provoke for the sake of provoking) and Dorothea (acting as a mediator, and occasional commentator, half engaged with the louder more annoying conversation and a quieter, more civil one between herself, Petra and Ingrid). It was migraine-inducing, and incredibly distracting, as Hubert scanned around the room for any other possible reprieve as Caspar, again, because he thought it was oh so necessary, slammed his hands against the table in indignation. There were only a handful of other students occupying the hall at this time, some notable from other classes but most not, with a handful of knights posted and patrolling both inside the hall and outside. The mage clicked his tongue in disgust, glancing down as he began to move some of the food around on his plate, using his fork as a paddle in the sea of excessive gravy.
The leftmost doors slammed open rather dramatically, and Hubert’s head shot up to meet the sudden noise, along with a good few other students. A short distance across from him, he heard Ingrid sigh at the sight before her- a supposed friend, red-haired and wild-eyed, one that she felt the need to wrangle in to sit with his new class. Sylvain had transferred earlier in the year, even with the year still being so young, and Hubert was almost entirely certain it was because of the interest he had taken in the Black Eagles' new professor. She, Byleth, was enough of an unaccounted-for variable, but Sylvain was somehow twice as hard to understand, and the very thought of even trying gave him a headache.
A headache that threatened to evolve into a migraine as, like a bounce coming to its master, Sylvain sauntered over and squeezed himself between Ferdinand and Dorothea. Now sitting directly in front of him.
Conversations continued, ever lively and now almost separate from one another, though Hubert found it somewhat odd that Sylvain’s voice was not among them. Glancing up every so often, he found the cavalier either eating and staring directly at his plate, or looking around the room, as if searching for something. He knew the sort of look well; biding his time, waiting to say something. Painfully obvious. Hubert hated it. He put his fork down rather harshly, sitting up straight to meet the warm brown gaze staring right at him. Like he was expecting such an outburst. “What are you doing here, Gautier?”
“Well… eating. This is one of my favourites, you know.” As if to emphasise his point, he puts some food onto his own fork and then into his mouth, not breaking eye contact the entire time.
Hubert growled. “No. You know what I mean. You have never been a part of this class in person, only in name. Why is it now you decide to make your place among your classmates?”
Silence followed, as Sylvain chewed on his food so pointedly eaten, swallowing slowly and licking his lips, as if to annoy Hubert further- and, despite himself, it was working. The cavalier leaned forward, just so, enough that his stomach was pressed to the edge of the table, and he could still be heard despite the white noise of the dining hall. “I want you to teach me magic.”
And so that’s how he found himself, night after night, in the room of Sylvain Jose Gautier, the most promiscuous and selectively dubious man within the enrollment of Garreg Mach. He did not know why he'd accepted such a stupid proposal- what would Sylvain even use such knowledge for? These questions had been avoided, and Sylvain had just promised to be a diligent and well-behaved student. Which he was, surprisingly- and this arrangement came with three additional surprises. surprises, however. The first was that Sylvain was something of an attentive student- despite his empty-headed appearance, the cavalier was almost calculating in maintaining this image, to hide the intelligence hidden barely below the surface. The second was tied to the first, in many aspects, as Sylvain seemed to grasp the concept of magic rather swiftly, both in a formulaic and a practical level. The man had some affinity for fire, able to spark arcane flame between his fingers with nothing more than a flick of his digits.
The third surprise was that Hubert found himself enjoying their sessions of study, late into the night, often only breaking at the sight of sunrise at the window.
This didn’t mean tensions weren’t high between them, however. Sylvain, despite his capability and his arcane acumen, was still irritatingly himself, with his charms and his lurid advances. The two of them did not touch, after he had attempted to the first night of study, only to get a very real and venomous threat of Mire directly into his mouth. Light arguments were not uncommon, ranging from disagreements about the methods of teaching to the occasional insult thrown like taking jabs, though such comments were mostly tossed out by Hubert himself. Yes, Sylvain would defend himself and respond in kind, but more often than not, he was not the instigator. More often than not, it felt like he was simply… observing, watching and waiting for something- for what, Hubert had no idea of, and the idea of not knowing was an unsettling one. And still a colossal headache.
On a night of particularly strained study, a break was wordlessly decided. Hubert adjusted the small candle they had been working beside, taking a hold of its handle and pushing it further towards the back of the desk, a gloved head pressing over the various notes he had collected in the hopes they would assist. Sylvain had the capacity to be a talented mage- but his magic burned too bright and too fast to be useful, at the moment, causing more damage to the caster than it would anyone else. Talk of alternate uses of magic had come and gone, with Sylvain dismissing it in a way that was quick and snipped, clearly wanting to expand his combat flexibility. Dark eyes looked up at the cavalier upon pondering this though, watching as he ran his hand down his face, not looking up at Hubert in kind. The burns on his fingertips and hands were clear to see at this angle, some already healing and some still fresh. Pushing himself up to stand from where he had been slightly hunched over the desk, Hubert rolled his shoulders, never taking his eyes from his student. “Why did it take you so long to ask for help? You clearly haven’t been successful by yourself- for some time, may I add.”
“Huh?” Red hair caught in the dim candle glow, such a wonderful colour, as Sylvain turned at the sound of another voice, hand hanging in front of his face. He caught Hubert staring rather quickly, and followed the gaze, laughing slightly as he turned it back and front, inspecting it with mild interest as if he’d never seen it before. “Ha, well, you know us Faerghans. Personal pride is a heavy burden to bear.”
There was a soft hum, and silence fell between them again. The mage looked Sylvain up and down for a moment, something unfamiliar bubbling in his chest as he, again, caught sight of his burned hands, thinking to his own. Hidden away under layers of clothing, burn scars of a younger, stupider Hubert were now underneath the charcoal-like staining dark magic had brought him. He wondered for a moment if Sylvain would suffer the same fate, if he were to hone his arcane skills into a sharp point, like the lances he would swing around so brazenly.
He wasn’t sure what overtook him, as he took a hold of Sylvain’s hand, feeling the warmth of flesh underneath the fabric of his gloves as his long fingers wrapped around the other man’s one by one, adjusting the angle at which he could look at it as he came closer to do so. Hubert delicately ran his thumb along a burn, one that stretched down his first finger, barely hearing the gentle hitching of breath so close to his ear.
There was a laugh, gentle and fleeting, a noise that made Hubert look up, barely able to meet the look being given to him, something softened and perhaps even fond in the candlelight, before Sylvain’s eyes were already darting away.
Hubert could hardly believe what he was seeing. The Gautier boy, so well known for his stone-cold harlotry and unbreakable exterior, was cracking right before his eyes. And, perhaps more concerning, was the feeling of delight that coursed through him at such a thought, like the kickback of a Thoron spell before he wrangled its power like a beast on a leash. Now there’s a thought- a leash, and a red-haired dog-
What happened next was less a sequence of events, and more akin to a dance- fluid motions in tandem with one another, a push and pull, two halves of a greater whole. Sylvain was on him almost in an instant, all lips and teeth, pushing into him and making his lower back collide with the desk where bottles of ink clattered against one another at the sheer strength of such force. The cavalier was kissing him almost like he was trying to devour Hubert’s face- a gesture returned in kind worryingly quickly, moving to let go of Sylvain’s hand in favour of using both of his own to pull him in closer, fingers getting lost in a mop of red hair and grabbing at it with tightened fists, his leg wrapping itself around the back of Sylvain’s as if to keep him there, keep him close, body to body. Teeth grazed his bottom lip, and a whine escaped the kiss (Hubert wasn’t too sure who exactly it was from, in the moment) as a tongue tried to breach his lips. And he let it in.
Sylvain pushed him back against the desk with a kiss that lasted only minutes, but felt like both seconds and forever all at once, his tongue exploring parts of Hubert’s mouth he was almost sure didn’t exist as he pressed their chests together, before finally pulling away to catch his breath, though still remaining only a breath away. The light of the candle to their side lit the cavalier’s face with a mischievous glow to match his grin, despite the flush of his cheeks and the shortness of his breath.
“You’re better than I thought.”
And the moment was already ruined. Still boxed in against the desk, with a much stronger man almost pining him to it, Hubert still found the strength to roll his eyes. “And you are far stupider to even attempt such a thing.”
“Hey, you let me! Can you blame a guy for pushing his luck?”
“I came here to teach you magic, not to sleep with you like some common whore you normally find yourself bedding.”
Sylvain grinned wider. “Why not both?”
His scowl only deepened, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. Had he been planning this all along? To pull Hubert in with the promise of passing on arcane knowledge, only to trap him in an entirely different battle- one where he was disarmed and practically helpless? He analysed Sylvain’s face, every beautiful and enchanting bit of it, and for a moment found himself wondering if he himself was under some spell.
The space between them got lesser still, as Sylvain pushed his body closer to Hubert’s, chest pressing to his own. “Let’s call this a… student exchange, yeah? You teach me some magic, and I’ll teach you how to be a half-decent lover.”
A laugh ripped out of him, harsh and barking, at such a statement. “And why on earth would I need knowledge such as that?”
Sylvain paused, licking his lips for a moment as if considering his options, before continuing again- voice lowered, eyes hooded, grin now almost cheshire. “For me, obviously.”
It’s an answer that still somehow shocked him, despite the other man’s behaviour over the past few minutes, and even before that. He wanted this. This is what Sylvain had been watching and waiting for all this time. This was almost confirmed as Hubert looking into those eyes, still a warm, welcoming brown, and all could see was a desire, a want and a hunger that he had not considered before now. Sylvain was a dog asking to be brought to heel. He did not deny him, and his silence was taken as a confirmation. He felt hands boxing in at either side of his head, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere that could house only Sylvain alone- and despite himself, he was lost in it.
“So tell me, Vestra…” There was a pause, as Sylvain slowly moved to undo the top buttons of the mage’s uniform jacket, one by one, agonisingly slow. “What about those other applications of magic you were speaking so highly of before?”
Even if he was momentarily charmed by his spontaneity and undeniable prowess, Hubert still had the facility to curl his nose in disgust. But not enough to deny what Sylvain so desperately craved- or that, perhaps, he craved in turn.
Maybe a Faerghan dog could be taught new tricks. All Hubert had to make him do was beg for it.
sylvain jose gautier/hubert von vestra; canon adjacent; vampire au; white clouds, black eagles route; be!sylvain; slight wrist trauma cw. 6739 words
a/n; houghkay i have not posted fic in over a year and idk if this is even how we do this anymore, but i don’t mind. i’m super excited to be writing again and i adore fire emblem so much, i think i deserve a little treat in making content for me in specific. i hope you all enjoy.
likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated!
ao3 mirror in the reblogs!
The events of the past month had sent the workings of both the Officers Academy and the monastery that ran it into chaos.
The end of the Verdant Rain Moon found the members of the Black Eagle house, representatives of the Empire of Adrestia, assisting House Gautier in returning its Hero’s Relic after it had been stolen by one of their own. Well, former own, as the Margrave had disowned his eldest son some time ago and, by some indescribable miracle, the man had grown bitter. Especially toward his younger brother, who now resided among the ranks of those outside his holy kingdom, after having transferred houses in the months before. Sylvain Jose Gautier, for what it was worth, had faced Miklan with his head held high, adamant that he was not as useless as the aggressive but equally as irritating man had insinuated. This, however, could not stop the horror that followed. A former noble turned into a beast, a crestless man trying to play in the grounds of gods, so to speak- the lance had turned Miklan into far bigger of a threat than he originally posed, and though he was taken out quickly, they still suffered some heavy damage. Including Sylvain himself, who had taken a heavy hit from the beast his brother became- a bite, even.
Or at least, that’s what Hubert had been told. Being commanded by Edelgard to watch their back line for invading bandits trying to aid their leader, he hadn’t been within view to witness such a thing himself. He’d only heard about it later from Linhardt and Mercedes, who the professor had asked for earlier in the months- and their consensus was that it was a bad wound. One that had to be treated medically, and not just by the white magic they had on hand, one that they said had left him silent (a miracle) and convulsing (terribly unfortunate). He was, of course, more than alive when they had returned to the monastery, but this was where the trouble had started.
No one had seen him in over three weeks.
It would be excusable if Sylvain had the courtesy to inform them, but both Edelgard and Byleth had been worried about his condition and the time he had taken to grieve, and their pleas had gone unanswered. The both of them had made the decision to continue to give him space, but Hubert himself had little patience to wait. He disliked not having all the pieces on the board, and Sylvain, in all his ability to irritate and demean, was a wildcard he could not leave unsupervised and unaccounted for. Even worse, now that the next disaster had been decided as soon as the class returned from that particular ordeal- the younger sister of the Archbishop’s right hand was currently missing, with no trace as to where she had gone, and needless to say, Seteth was in something of a frantic state trying to find her. Lady Rhea herself had assigned Byleth, and by extension her students, to the cause of finding the young girl, but through all the chaos, students and teachers alike were all pointing fingers at one another. Hubert, of course, was aware of the identity of Flayn’s captors, though their reasons eluded him, much to his frustration. He could hardly trust these fiends he and his lady had aligned themselves with, at least for the time, but their hands were thoroughly tied. Their mission to rescue the girl would be unsuccessful if they were unable to devise a plan to cover for themselves in the eyes of the church- and even less successful if they were a man down.
The mage's boots echoed as he ascended the hall of the noble’s dormitory, the one or two students lingering around giving him more than enough room to pass by as he reached the room at the very end in a swift amount of time from his own, staring up at the double doors, pausing for a moment to assess and to listen. There were no noises coming from behind it, unlike in the months before when there would be far too much, from voices most certainly not belonging to the man who was supposed to be occupying it, alone. He grimaced at the thought, raising a fist to the door as he gritted his teeth in a low growl of dissatisfaction.
Hubert knocked with assurance, though it wasn’t particularly hard- simply firm, clear in which door he was knocking upon, in case Sylvain were to think otherwise. A long moment followed that, as Hubert waited for a response, be that an explanation or simply a confirmation he was alive. There was nothing.
“Gautier. I know you’re in there, ignoring me is futile.” If he attempted, the door could easily be picked, and Hubert would let himself in to drag the man out here himself to answer for his absences.
And it seemed the attempt was, in fact, being made. Hubert scowled.
“You have failed to show up to lectures for weeks. Both our professor and Lady Edelgard have been asking for you, and you have continued to ignore them both.” What happened at the tower, as far as he had heard, was a tragedy- literally, in the way the beast that he was told was Sylvain’s brother roared in a way that bounced off of the walls. There was a pang of sympathy, but nothing more, crushed as quickly as it had manifested, as he reached for the doorknob. “If you don’t answer for yourself, I’ll be forced to enter. Do not make me ask again-”
When the door suddenly opened in front of him, Hubert was caught off guard. But the sight in front of him made that twofold. Sylvain was a ghost of the man he once not weeks before. Still broad and well-built, holding his pride in his chest in an almost literal sense, but everything else looked awful. Wide-eyed, pale, a tremor in his hands as he held the door open, perhaps even the kind that wracked through his body and made it difficult to stand. He was unwell. Was this the effect of grief?
“There.” He looked terrible, and sounded as much as well, quiet and rasping. Like a man starved. “I’m alive. You happy now? You gonna go tell Edelgard I’m not dying on her doorstep, bringing shame to her house?”
Hubert scoffed. “You certainly look to be dying. Have you been eating?”
Hesitation. Never in his time at the academy had he ever seen Sylvain hesitate. “…Been trying. It’s hard to keep it down.”
“Have you caught something?”
“Probably? It was- it was raining pretty heavy, so-”
“This isn’t just a simple cold.”
“Let me believe it for a second, ‘Bertie. I’m too pretty to die.”
The mage rolled his eyes at the dramatics, even if he could sense there was more truth to the words than Sylvain cared to admit. He was among their best and brightest, as much as he tried to play otherwise- the first to pass an advanced exam in their house, training to be a cavalier, though he put that down to luck and experience over his own exceptionality. To lose such an asset would be a blow to the house. Hubert kept his hands behind his back, and he peered into the room around Sylvain’s side. It was mostly clean, except for old clothes and plates on the floor, and the way his bed hadn’t been made, likely because he had been laying in it in the hours and days before the disturbance, too sick to move. A hum of consideration escaped him, before he sat up straight again. “Very well. Let me in.”
“What?”
The element of surprise was the only reason that Hubert was able to overpower, in this scenario, and he would not kill himself otherwise- if Sylvain truly wanted to keep him out, or in one place, he would have no trouble doing so. But despite this, he entered the room with ease, inspecting it further now that he was inside, the only response being the sound of the door clicking closed behind him.
The mess was more obvious now, but hardly could be considered abhorrent behaviour. It was still relatively neat, surprisingly so- though, considering the number of women Sylvain smuggled in here for his recreational activities, it should not be that much of a surprise- and could be excused by his need to grieve, if not this mysterious illness that had befallen him. Hubert inspected for a few moments more, running a gloved finger along the counter towards the back of the room, before turning at the sound of the bed creaking. A glance told him that the redhead could not stand any longer, exhaling a breath of exertion and gripping at the sheets to keep himself steady and upright, still pale, still shaking. The mage stood to his full height again, turning fully to watch the way Sylvain rolled his neck, and tried to settle as he looked anywhere else other than his uninvited guest, but it only seemed like he was making himself more restless in the process. It was then that Hubert spotted them, a small and precise set of puncture marks, hidden beneath the collar of Sylvain’s shirt, once wrapped in bandages but now were mostly healed. It was a small, but curious observation- enough to make Hubert step forward, and take a hold of the bottom of his chin between a two-finger vice grip, pulling his head up to observe.
There was a muffled noise of protest from Sylvain as he registered what was happening, perhaps a little slower than he should have (delayed reaction time, to add to his list of symptoms), but Hubert was able to catch the way the pupils of his eyes blew up at the proximity, in the same way the cats of the monastery did when they went about hunting odd mice and fish around the place, before he pulled himself away, rubbing at his cheeks and his face with an annoyed grumble, “Woah, hey, hands off, big guy, I’m not interested in whatever manhandling you’re offering.”
He, mercifully, chose to ignore such prodding. “This isn’t a sickness.”
“Huh?”
“It is some sort of affliction, certainly, but seems more akin to a curse than something naturally occurring.”
Sylvain narrowed his eyes, watching the man in front of him stand back up to his full height again.
“…This was not my doing, if that was your first thought.”
His suspicion lessened slightly, as he leaned back where he sat. It was enough to get Hubert to roll his eyes in response, folding his arms across his chest- hardly a defensive gesture, though it could come across as such to the untrained eye. He’d been accused of far worse. A matter such as this did not bother him.
“Now, if you’re quite done, can you think of anyone that would want to do this to you?”
Sylvain laughed, short and loud, perhaps even bitter. “You want that in alphabetical order, or in order of relevance?”
Again, there was a hum, as he listened to the empty chuckle slowly dissolve into a sigh, as the redhead looked again to the door. Hubert watched his throat bob as he stared off in contemplation, eyes falling again to the start of the injuries left by his brother the previous month. It seemed far less than what one would expect from a bite at the hands of a beast. How curious.
Leaning forward again, Hubert moved his hand to fiddle with the collar of Sylvain’s shirt- enough to get him to look back with the start of some confused address, before his mouth was covered with an open palm, and he continued to pull down the collar of his shirt as much as he was able. He had been told the bite was bloody, and had left Sylvain utterly indisposed. In fact, he had seen the aftermath of the thing on the floor, red pooling where the body of the fallen cavalier had once been, pulled off of his horse like an animal’s chew toy. But this was hardly that. It wasn’t a mauling mark, or even something venomous- just a row of puncture marks along his neck and the back of his shoulder, extending to where he could not see with the shirt in the way. Hubert pressed his fingers into the underside of his jaw, harsh but hardly a jab, though it still got a hiss out of Sylvain- more akin to an angry animal than anything like a reaction of pain. He was irritated, not hurt, and that was perhaps the strangest thing. He turned the cavalier’s head some more, giving him a better view of the wound from this angle, the hissing only getting worse in reaction, but he didn’t pay it any mind- Hubert simply continued inspecting, pinching at the flesh and squeezing, with little there other than these strange indents, despite there needing to be more, from how large the beast was, and how thoroughly it had grabbed on.
He was stopped suddenly by a flare of pain in his palm, which had held Sylvain’s mouth to move his head, and quickly snatched his hand away, checking it with a scowl and a scathing comment of childishness at the tip of his tongue. But Hubert paused, amid these musings, as blood began to pool on the surface of his gloved hand, slowly staining the silk from two evenly spaced puncture marks. Mouth hanging open with no sound falling from it, the mage looked up, slowly, at Sylvain, who seemed to be just as surprised at the mark he’d left behind, seeming to sniff before swallowing and moving his face away, barely masking the glint of sharp teeth underneath.
It all made far too much sense, now. The strange bite marks, the symptoms, all pointing to one thing. Though the origins of the black beasts that came from corruption at the hands of the crest stones was under-researched (more than likely due to the lack of subjects both alive and willing), linking them to those of vampiric origin hardly seemed like an extraordinary leap in logic. Whatever attack Miklan had landed on Sylvain could have corrupted his blood, only sparing his life because of the crest he loathed so much. Of course, this was only a theory as to his current state. Further assessment had to be made to confirm if he had even been turned at all, because this could well be a classic case of jumping to a conclusion and assuming the worst before his feet hit the ground.
“You’re a vampire.”
“What?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
“No, no, I heard, you, I just-” Sylvain seemed to be panicking, another odd emotion that Hubert had never seen out of him. He swallowed, trying to turn forward again, but it seemed he could not stop himself from looking at the blood that was still pooling under Hubert’s glove- even covering his mouth and his nose with something of a grimacing sound.
“You can smell it, can’t you? The blood?” As he spoke, he removed his glove, observing the way that Sylvain could not help but stare at the blackened hand corrupted by dark magic, even out of the corner of his eye. As he moved it closer as a test, the redhead almost craned his neck away in retaliation. With his other thumb, Hubert wiped the blood away and onto the front of his pants, inspecting the wound underneath. Evenly spaced bite marks, though they were slowly starting to seal, most likely due to the lack of time they had pierced the skin. He held his hand up, to show the man the thing he seemed so afraid of was gone, and he seemed to lose his tension even slightly, even if he still kept himself recoiled as he moved his hand away to support himself with a hefty swallow.
“So… what? I’m some kind of blood-sucking freak?”
Hubert hummed. “If that's what you want to consider yourself, then yes.”
He watched the way Sylvain tightened his fists around the sheets underneath him like they were a lifeline then, some sort of anchor to keep him grounded in the moment as his mind began to wander to other things, eyes trying to look anywhere but the mage assessing him in silence. This wasn’t the uncomfortable sort of squirming he’d grown used to from other students when he would observe them, the kind where people would try and get away from him in subtle ways, preferring to hide rather than face him. No, this carried a different energy. Sylvain was not avoiding looking at him because he was unnerved- this felt more like he was ashamed. Ashamed of the revelation, one that was still distressing him, clearly, but he still needed to eat- and now that he knew what he could eat, the thought could not escape him. And that in itself, strangely enough, was revelation enough to get Hubert to move.
He swiftly turned away from the bed to undo the front of his uniform, removing the jacket and gently folding it over the back of the chair beside the desk in a clean, efficient motion. Usually, he would sooner have another student dead than to have them see him strip a layer, especially Sylvain, who no doubt would have had a wry comment on the edge of his tongue if not for his current state. But times were desperate and the possibilities for the outcome were enticing. If the Gautier boy was, in fact, turning into a vampire, that could either be a bane to the kingdom for Faerghus that he would return to, a weed to be rooted out and, thus, a bane to the Empire to rid its enemy of their future Margrave… or, perhaps, if they could convince the man to turn from his homeland, to control him, to have such strength on their side would put them at an advantage regardless. And that was simply the first reason- the second, even despite himself, was a curiosity Hubert felt growing, at the prospect of something of legend being close enough to study, to feel. When would he get this opportunity again? As loath as he was to spend time in a room with Sylvain, perhaps his frail state of health that came from his turning would make the experience tolerable.
Hubert turned after smoothing out his uniform jacket to the best of his ability, tugging on his gloves to keep them on and rolling up a sleeve of his shirt, exposing the darkened, magic-stained skin underneath- blackened like wood left to roast on the fire too long, becoming charcoal and ash. This was hardly the full extent of the damage from years of using dark magic, but he wasn’t going to be quick to expose all of that. Especially not under Sylvain’s gaze, whose attention by now has been fully caught. Though he did not squirm underneath it, Hubert certainly disliked it, and very slowly raised an eyebrow. “...What?”
“Ha- eugh- nothing, I just- I thought you said I was a vampire? Not a succubus. Stripping isn’t going to do much, big guy.”
The glare he gives is mostly involuntary, in reaction to the juvenile comment that he really should have expected. It seemed that even if Sylvain was at death’s door, he would still be an annoyance- his simple compliance was too much to hope for. “If you’re well enough to make jokes, I can leave you to control your urges yourself.”
“No- no, hey, let’s not be hasty now.” The panic ran through him swiftly, it seemed, and it put him back in his place just as quick, despite his agonising over the choice moments before. It left him to sit as still as he could manage with the tremors of hunger and weakness that still ran through him, Hubert gave a self-satisfied hum at the silence that followed, finishing cuffing his shirt as he stopped just in front of the bed where the future Margrave still sat, like a sheepish, scolded dog. His weakened disposition was hardly the confidence he would want to exude, now or in the future.
In a slow movement, like coaxing a beast, Hubert held out his arm to Sylvain, who slowly moved his head to stare at it in confusion. He answered the question of what it was for before he even got to open his mouth to ask. “Eat.”
“...What? Hubert, I’m not going to-”
“I will not command it again, Gautier. You will die without blood. Slowly, and painfully, hidden away in here because you cannot bear to be in the sun to prey upon the female populace as you’re so used to in your ordinary, pathetic life.” He leans down slowly to meet the deep brown eyes that stared back at him, suddenly coming into focus at what he assumed to be his smell- it was assumed vampires had heightened senses, and judging from the way he saw the redhead’s pupils blow up from the new sensations, he could only guess that to be a correct assumption. “Eat.”
Again, there was hesitancy in the eyes that began flicking away from Hubert’s face down to his wrist, to the floor and back again. But just before he was able to scoff and retract his offer, Sylvain slowly took a hold of his forearm with one hand, pulling down the silk glove slightly with the other, to better expose the veins underneath. His mouth hung open for a moment, tongue slowly running between his teeth, and now Hubert could see the elongated fangs his classmate had acquired in his transformation from human to superhuman in more than just a glint, as if a trick of the light, razor-sharp and dangerous, but very, very real.
He didn’t think about the way his mouth went dry at the sight, and instead grew frustrated at how long it was taking. “Well?”
“Hold on, I’m…” Sylvain didn’t look up, swallowing and pressing his thumb into his wrist, inspecting the veins, even as his hands still shook- perhaps even more so now, at the prospect of a meal being dangled in front of him like a morsel of prey on a silver platter.
It took a moment to realise what he was doing- desperately and stupidly trying to find the right spot to puncture with his teeth, without killing him. Hubert clicked his tongue at the fumbling display, rolling his shoulders from the way he was bending down, as it was beginning to cause an ache in his neck and irritation in his temples from the time wasted here, that could be spent anywhere else. Sylvain could survive another day without food- Hubert could have found anyone to give to the man, rather than offering himself. Intimidate some poor student, perhaps even take out an enemy in one fell swoop, give them to an inexperienced vampire for his first meal, and more than likely his first kill. But he didn’t. He had offered his hand and so, regrettably, he would see it through. Taking his free hand, Hubert wrapped it in the other man’s hair in a tight fist (a noise came out of him at the notion, something of surprise and perhaps even pleasure, but he, wisely, chose to ignore it) before he pushed his head forward towards the offered wrist, lining Sylvain up perfectly with where he needed to be as he himself lowered to one knee to save his aching back. Hubert knew about the lethal places to bleed from, and the safe places for shallower cuts, meant for torture rather than a swift end. The latter, of course, was the intention of his direction, where he now held the man. So long as Sylvain showed some restraint, for once, he would be alright. There was a moment of consideration at such a thought, and after that, the mage kept his fist in his hair, grip looser but still firm. “There. Now stop stalling, or I swear, I will leave you here to starve.”
The eyes that darted up to him for a moment were far different then from the ones Sylvain had been giving him previously. Whereas before they carried reluctance, now, it seemed, that hunger had truly claimed him. Hubert watched his pupils dilate, almost swallowing the warm brown of them in a void of black, looking away again as he began to feel hot breath against the inside of his wrist, almost panting before there was a surge of fire and pain at the ball of his thumb, fangs sinking deep into the flesh. He’d felt worse pain. So he did not flinch, nor did he look away- he simply employed the empirical method, and began to observe.
It was a curious sort of feeling, as the blood came out of him in slivers. While there was the sensation of sucking, what came more than anything was the wet feeling of Sylvain’s tongue lapping up whatever escaped thereafter like a hungry mutt on the streets of Enbarr. Amid the feast were quiet growls of satisfaction, almost yips in their pitch and length, and insistent pulling of the mage’s arm further into his mouth, as if he could swallow it whole, wanting and greedy. It should have been a disgusting display, especially from a man who takes and takes without restraint as much as Sylvain, but somehow, Hubert could not help but to not feel that way. There is pity, even, in the way he observed such an act from a starving man. Pity that a man like Sylvain had been given such a life- forced upon him as most everything else had been, a fact he was careful not to speak about. Hubert had heard it, though- overheard it, more like, from the shadows, never involved directly in conversation but always listening. He’d heard the redhead arguing with his fellow Faerghans when he’d decided to change houses- that swordsman had called him a coward, with vitriol but no malice, only hurt, and the Galatea girl was just as hurt by the gesture, but kinder in her pleas. Surprisingly, this did not make Sylvain fold to their whims and change his mind. He’d remained with the Black Eagles, and the next month, he’d confronted his brother. And now…
And now, here he was. Feasting on the blood of another like a beast.
Hubert watched some of his blood dribble down his wrist before Sylvain was able to catch it, droplets hitting the man’s leg, but he didn’t seem to care. He carried on eating, carried on taking, only concerning himself with that and that alone, tunnel-visioned like an animal amidst a hunt. He was still growling all the while, still gripping onto Hubert’s arm like a lifeline, somehow getting more desperate to eat even when the food was right in front of him. It made sense, of course- it had been weeks since the tower, and between grieving and the corruption setting in, he hadn’t had a chance to eat what would keep him alive. Meals from the dining hall wouldn’t sustain him any longer, a fact he didn’t know until minutes before. And, despite the way he was being fed upon, the mage still felt he had control- control enough to tug on Sylvain’s hair, to remind him to pace himself, which he seemed receptive to, pulling back again with that same little noise as before, if a little weaker as he continued on. Perhaps he would need to curb such a commanding habit, if this Faerghan harlot was enjoying it- then again, he was behaving for the moment, so why did it matter? Just another way to remain in command of the situation.
There was a sudden wave of faintness that overcame him as he continued to look at Sylvain, wavering where he knelt, enough to where he had to close his eyes and actively think about swallowing away the dryness of his mouth. His eyes were slow to open again, hearing his own breath and the beating of his heart as he looked up from the floor to the boots directly in front of him as he remained on one knee, the fire still burning in his wrist.
“Gautier.” Hubert’s voice was far weaker than he liked, as he shook his head and attempted to sit up despite his rapidly approaching vertigo. He gritted his teeth, and tried again. “Gautier, that’s enough.”
It seemed the pleas- no, the demands, because Hubert never pleaded- fell on deaf ears, and the devouring of his arm only grew more frequent.
There was a nauseous pit in his chest now. The mage tightened his grip still in Sylvain’s hair. “Sylvain. Enough.”
Those hunter’s eyes met him again, unrecognisable as the man that once was Sylvain, nose wrinkling in a deep growl so different from the noises of satisfaction in the minutes before. No, these were ones of possessiveness and food aggression- of a starved creature not ready to let go of its prey, not yet full and thus not yet satisfied. He had no intention of stopping now that he had what he wanted- if there was no forceful end to it now, Hubert would be dead from blood loss within minutes.
The mage felt the pain in his jaw from how it clenched in frustration, trying to keep himself conscious, as he used all of his rapidly draining strength to pull the other man back by the hair, unlatching his fangs from the inside of his wrist and spraying loose bits of blood over the both of them and the sheets underneath. Hubert fell on his backside as he moved away, pushing himself away with his feet a few times before clutching onto his wrist to keep himself from losing any more blood. He could hear his heart in his ears as he tried to calm down, and gather the strength to stand.
But in that moment, foolishly letting his attention grow lax, there was a key detail that he seemed to forget. He was trapped in a room with Sylvain- no, the vampire that Sylvain had become. One that was hungry, and desperate, and above all, still not done. Hubert did not hear the beast rise to its feet, only the feeling of a knee against his stomach as it pinned him to the floor, and the hot air and spit that hit his face as his shoulders were pinned in turn. There was a noise of what could only be described as a snarl that forced him to look up at the face that met him. His own heartbeat grew faster still, thumping against his chest as this animal drew closer to his neck, teeth bared. This little experiment- one that should have never been conducted, he realised now, far too late- had gone beyond the realm of danger, and rapidly into one that could mean his end, if he didn’t act on his instincts to defend himself right now.
He cared not to apologise in his head for turning his magic against a potential ally, after struggling under the hefty weight of the man on top of him, as Hubert curled his hands into the flesh of Sylvain’s side and felt the surge of mire pulse through his veins, powerful enough that the brute paused in his trajectory of attack towards his throat, as if to consider what was happening-
The scream of pain released was animalistic, pitched and yowling as he pulled back, hands hovering on the burns in his bloodied uniform, bubbling against his exposed skin in a sickly, disgustingly infected purple. It was enough of a release in weight to get Hubert to sit up and push himself away yet again, his back hitting the drawers of the desk, handles digging into the flesh. His chest heaved with exhaustion, vision blacking as he stared forward at the beast, wincing and holding onto its side- his side, as despite the way the blood stained his face and his shirt, the warm brown of his eyes were visible again, and the way his nose wrinkled was from the pain, rather than the hunger. Sylvain had returned. And he was reaping what his impulses had sewn.
There was the thick smell of sulphur in the air as the spell still burned and singed at the skin, but for a moment, things seemed calm, as if in the eye of the storm. The mage wasn’t stupid enough to believe the danger had passed- though whatever bloodlust had taken a hold of Sylvain was now gone, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be angry in his own right from an attack. And it didn’t take any modicum of vampiric strength to assess that to be a threat- he saw it now, in the chest of the cavalier that still rose and fell with heavy breaths of exertion, blood-stained shirt leaving very little to the imagination. He was strong in his own right, built for brute force with the width of his shoulders and his arms carrying most of it. Though he could say with experience now what it felt to have the weight of the other man on top of him, with how the wind had been taken out of his chest by the power of the other man’s legs alone. Hubert looked to Sylvain for a few minutes more, before shooting his eyes down to the floor after making the realisation that his observation was not, in fact, for his own self-preservation and caution, and cursing himself for falling victim to certain thoughts just as easily as everyone else.
“…Ow, fuck, ‘Bertie. You could have killed me.” The laugh is breathless, but it cut through the air enough to get Hubert to look up in a snap, just as quickly as he had torn it away, back at the face that doesn’t meet him. Still clutching his side, still hurting, it seemed that was all Sylvain could focus on. Good.
“That was my intent. You were going to kill me first.” It’s a simple statement, and yet still, there’s a noise of offence, as he glances up again.
The brown of his eyes is still there. “No, I wasn’t-”
“You were.”
A beat of silence. “…Not on purpose.”
“I know.” A normal person would go to reassure him, to tell a person to not feel bad about their mistake, but Hubert keeps his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to coddle Sylvain, much like he wasn’t going to bicker back and forth about the intent of his attack. He was out of control, in the moment, and this would be a lesson to not do that through negative reinforcement. Hopefully.
There was another round of silence, but this time noticeably calmer. The storm had well and truly passed now. Sylvain sat up as he leaned back against the bed, hissing and muttering to himself as he fixed his slouched stance so as to not cause damage to himself further with his posture. He certainly seemed a lot more sombre now, than a few minutes before, hungry and snarling. “…Look, Hubert-”
“Don’t bother.” Whatever excuse Sylvain was about to give was cut off with a bite, something as acidic as the spell that had started to settle in, its damage already being done. Hubert glowered from across the room, still trying to steady himself as best he could to stumble and find some assistance- but for now, he remained seated, back pressed to the desk to keep himself upright, despite the tension in his shoulders that wouldn't lessen with time. “I do not want your apologies. I simply should never have let you do this. You’re too inexperienced.”
“Ha. That’s the first time I’ve heard that complaint.”
“Gautier.”
“Okay, okay. Bad timing.” He fell into silence after that, glancing down at the hand at his side that had still dug into the acid-burned flesh and sinew, slowly lifting it with a quick inhale through his teeth at the stinging pain and the bits that came away on his fingers. From what Hubert could see, the wound was already starting to heal, exposed muscle burned away being hidden as the skin stitched itself together again, and from what he heard- a laugh, disbelieving and breathless, if not a little bit unsettled at the display- it seemed Sylvain had not expected such an outcome.
“Are you really so clueless about things such as this that you didn’t know about your near-invulnerability?”
“Certainly didn’t feel invulnerable, that hurt like hell.” He was still laughing, even now, finally looking back up again to meet Hubert’s face as he slowly raised an eyebrow. His teeth were still stained red. “Wow, guess I really am a blood-sucking freak, huh?”
There is an indecent scoff at the comment before Hubert can stop himself. “That’s what made you realise? Not the fever-like symptoms, or your salacious eating manners, or the bloodlust?”
The redhead shrugged, making sure to keep a smile that, intentionally or not, bared those fangs that were sunk into the other man’s arm not minutes before. There was a flash of something in his eyes for a moment, but it was gone again before Hubert could truly discern it to be guilt.
After that, they did not speak more on what just occurred, or simply much at all. Sylvain stood up again, not bothering to remove his bloody and marred shirt, handing Hubert a half-empty glass of water that stood nearby the bedside- stale, but still drinkable. He did, however, get to work removing his bedsheets, tossing them off into a corner with the rest of his laundry (or around where other items had been thrown, as they were scattered most everywhere in an attempt to get to the corner) before crouching down and replacing them with clean ones again. Hubert did not bother to help him. He did not have the energy, nor the desire to be close to him, and so he took instead to watching the width of his shoulders as he worked, drinking until the glass was empty again. He was not bleeding as profusely now, but the wound still hurt, pinpricks in the wrist burning as he removed his bloody hand, and tried to grip the corner of the desk behind himself to pull himself up, apparently making such a noise of effort that caused the redhead to turn, pillow case still in hand.
“Oh, shit, do you need-”
“Do not touch me.”
The command was simple enough to work, forceful enough to keep the dog in his place, looking the mage up and down for a moment, before turning back to work with a quieter, “You got it, big guy.”
It was a simple affair to rise, then, and cross the room again as he had done to enter. The door had not been locked, and for a moment, Hubert thought about what would have happened if he had realised that, during the attack- if he had tried to run down the hall. Would the beast have followed, released from his cage? Would he have killed someone, had to be put down? Hubert ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, contemplating the reality of having saved Sylvain’s life without intending, before turning the handle and pulling the door inward to exit.
Though he stopped again at the threshold, half in and half out, turning back in for a moment to add, as a final closer.
“This will not leave this room. Your secret, or my weakness. Are we clear?”
Sylvain turned again, from laying the fresh blanket down across fresh sheets, where now the only sign of anything off was the amount of blood- Hubert’s blood, that still covered his body and his clothes. There was a moment of consideration, before a slow nod, as Sylvain began licking away some of the blood that still lingered in one corner of his mouth, despite it being practically all over the bottom of his face.
And with that, Hubert closed the door, and headed straight for his room again, with intent to keep his word and tend to his own wounds. No one would know. This, he would be sure of.
karl heisenberg/ethan winters; reluctant allies to lovers; canon divergence - ethan takes the deal; someone lives/not everyone dies; re village spoilers for those who care; canonical death cw. 6177 words.
a/n: strolls in six months late with a starbucks and two extra chapters.
i’ve been sitting on this and slowly chipping away through writers block, and after watching welcome to raccoon city today, i finally got the inspo to write and finish!! with. double the wordcount of the first chapter. whough. have fun with this one fellas
likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated!
ao3 mirror in the reblogs!
As they passed through mostly empty halls, with Heisenberg giving a makeshift tour of the facility, it was a wonder that Ethan didn’t choose to change his mind.
It was like watching a child present his science fair project, with enthusiasm and gusto that almost would have been touching, if not for the monstrosities he was presenting. The soldiers - Soldats, Heisenberg had told him, more accurately, though the distinction made little to no difference - had all been human, once, and now they were barely so, Frankenstiened together with old machinery powered by their mechanical hearts. Did robot monsters dream of revolution? ...Did they have any other choice? He tried not to let the thought bother him too much, but among the sounds of pumps and pistons operating the factory, that wasn’t too hard - the noise rattled his bones too much to make anything but that his concern.
Heisenberg stopped them at some point, near an elevator that he soon called for, leaving Ethan to wander somewhat closer to the edge of the walkway proceeding ahead of them. It was a long, deadly fall below, but across him was a view of the entire factory. An open, hellish space of disorganised chaos, conveyor belts of Soldats ascending to the top, where they would lie dormant and waiting for attack en masse, not another soul in sight amongst the mess of metal.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” The lord’s voice was enough to make Ethan jump with a quiet gasp. He did not flinch - he kept his hands in his pockets, looking at him over his sunglasses with a tilt of his head and a small smirk, before turning to the expanse that stretched before them. “I’ve been planning this for years, right under her nose. And she doesn’t know a damn thing.”
He swallowed, looking the man up and down, before following where he was now watching. “That’s, uh… well, that’s one way to put it, I guess.”
“...Having doubts?”
“If I said yes, would you push me off of this balcony?”
“Probably.”
“Alright then, no. I’m not.”
That got a laugh out of him, at the very least - one that seemed… almost genuinely entertained, and not a mocking one. Heisenberg leaned a shoulder against the wall nearby where he stood, crossing one leg over the other as he responded, with a touch of playful sarcasm, “Now that fills me with confidence.”
“Well, you and I both.”
They stared off in silence for a few moments, at the way the factory moved around them, as if they weren’t there. A revolution right in the face of the enemy… It was enough to make Ethan wonder just how long he was willing to wait for a miracle - how long would he have bided his time, if Rose had not been taken? Just how long was he willing to wait?
Before he could ask, however, the man cut the silence short. “How old is she?”
“What- who?”
“The kid, obviously. Sh’was tiny, so… didn’t think she was much older than newborn.”
Rose… Ethan swallowed, shifting the way he was standing against the edge. He shouldn’t be here, having pleasant conversation - or, as pleasant as you could get, with someone like Heisenberg. He should be out there, saving her. They both should. In the rush of everything, the father hadn’t had time to process just how badly his perfect family had been torn to pieces - until now, when he responded in a voice that was slightly strained, “...Six months.”
“Christ. Miranda really didn’t waste time pouncing on her, huh?”
“Yeah… yeah.” His thumb pressed into his palm, along where metal met flesh, listening to the way the joints bent over the white noise of the factory in motion below them for miles. “She, uh… she liked the sun. And singing, god, she loved singing. Real good, too.”
“Ha, findin’ talent young… runs in the family?”
“God, no. Not from me, anyway. Mia… well, she is- ...was. She was alright. But that was more… more than enough.” His brow furrowed, before he closed his eyes with a sigh. “Why do you care, anyway?”
There was a hum of consideration for a moment, before the Lord replied (for a moment, Ethan swore he heard the uncertainty in his voice), “Maybe I wanna know what a happy family looks like.”
That was enough to make Ethan look up again, but by that point, any sense of doubt had been pushed back, and Heisenberg now stood strong, just as the elevator arrived. He gestured with a hand and a giddy, almost unnerving grin across his face, telling the man he ‘had a surprise’ in the basement.
Now, if that wasn’t a statement of betrayal, then Ethan didn’t know what was.
As he entered, standing beside the lord who seemed to be bouncing on his heels in anticipation, he reached into the inside of his coat (tattered, sticky from blood but, still, wearable, somehow) for his pistol, hoping the other man didn’t notice the way he tensed up. Better to be safe than sorry.
And for the most part, it seemed the other man was oblivious - he carried on his rambles about his revolution like it was nothing, almost more excited to have someone to confide in over the actual plan itself. It was… odd, because while it seemed obvious that someone so foreboding and intimidating would have no friends, even among his family, but he still seemed to retain some childish glee in him, despite the gravity of what he was explaining. Ethan watched the way he smiled, fanged teeth exposed behind scarred and chapped lips, and the way that he talked with his hands waving around, every so often looking back to make sure his companion was still following along, which he was. Barely. A part of him was almost sure that it would be the end of him if not, but the other was.., fascinated. Heisenberg certainly wasn’t like his siblings.
The elevator soon stopped with a slight grumble and a shake, opening its mouth to a dark hallway, too dark to see anything beyond two feet in front of them. Before the man could ask if there was a light, his wrist was already grabbed, and he was being dragged forward into the abyss. Blaring lights illuminated the way as they walked by, with Heisenberg’s heavy footfalls almost in a marching stride masking the way Ethan stumbled along behind him, struggling to keep up.
“Where are we going?” He asked, almost exasperated, tripping over his own feet momentarily before standing up to his full height, skipping a few steps as the other man had already taken them.
“You’ll see, you’ll see.” Uncharacteristically joyful, even for a sadistic man like himself, Heisenberg continued to almost skip through the hallways, turning so often that Ethan had lost track of where they were. Maybe that was the intention.
He was so dizzy and being carried by the momentum that when they did stop, he ended up crashing into the lord’s back, and stumbling with a grumble as he opened the door.
“You know,” he was practically purring as he spoke - low, and dangerous. “Not just anyone gets to see this sort of thing. Remember that, Ethan.”
“Are you… threatening me?”
“We’ll see.” Heisenberg shrugged, and the heavy door swung open, being held in place for Ethan to step through. “Ladies first.”
“Kiss my ass.” He replied quickly, trying to straighten himself as he stepped through, as if to mask the uncertainty and tenseness he held in his core, for… whatever was waiting for him in there.
And then he saw it. And while he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find in that room (one large, but barren, like an enclosure, or even a cell), but it wasn’t… this.
It was a terrifying thing, with at least two feet on him in height, and two of him - period - in width. Body of an aeroplane engine, and a propeller to match on what should have been its face, with legs apparently strong enough to carry the mass of weight placed upon it but no arms that he could see. It grumbled like an animal, an engine playing as its voicebox, as it turned and growled at the sound of approaching footsteps, enough to make Ethan take a few precautionary steps away.
“Relax, Winters,” he seemed almost amused by the fear, before he held up a hand to the creature that could not see him, voice dropping to be harsher as he addressed it with the authority of a commander. “Down, boy. It’s me.”
The creature seemed… apparently receptive to his tone, enough for its growling to die down. It simply stood in place at the back of the room, emitting a low purr instead. Was it happy to see - ‘see’ - its master, or simply to have some company at all?
The man turned to Ethan with a grin, beckoning with a hand that it was safe to follow. And Ethan, clearly not being proficient in making smart decisions, did so hesitantly, getting closer to the thing, until he stood a few feet from the motionless propeller.
“And this bad boy,” The man slapped the side of the mechanical monstrosity, its engine whirring as either a sign of pleasure or disgruntlement, Ethan couldn’t tell. “Was what was gonna tear you apart if you didn't rub two brain cells together. Wasn’t what I wanted but, hey, makes a pretty good guard dog.”
He looked between Heisenberg and the creature, who seemed to idly move a little under its own weight, like any real person would. It was still purring. It was alive. “...Christ, you really are insane.”
“Sanity ain’t got a place in Miranda’s family, Ethan. You’ve realised that by now, right?”
Opening his mouth to say something, he paused, before making the probably smart decision to close it again, swallowing.
The Lord gave the creature another hefty pat, enough to push himself away again, hands moving into the pockets of his coat. “Sturm. It’s a force of nature, the name seemed fitting. C’mon, give ‘im a pet.”
“What?”
He grinned. “Oh come on, Ethan. It hasn’t killed you yet. Besides, it’s part of the tour experience. Welcome to the petting zoo, partner.”
This was just a game, and Ethan knew it. But he’d already made his choice to play, in exchange for his life.
He reached his hand out gingerly, seeming to move his body back as he did so, as if to put distance between it and the fingers on the other hand he thought he was about to lose to match the others. The feeling of warm metal against his palm made him flinch, but as the head seemed to almost nudge at him, he found himself glancing back, as the Sturm continued to press its face against his palm for a pet or two. Ethan raised an eyebrow. “...What the fuck?”
“I told you. It’s not smart enough to be upset. I bet it’s almost as scared of you as you are of it.” Heisenberg leaned against a nearby wall, folding his arms across his chest as he watched the man turn to face the creature, looking up at it.
His mouth hung open slightly as he moved to bring up his other hand, running it along the ridges of the engine on its other side, listening to the way the monster purred under his touch, still nudging him for more. There wasn’t any soft fur for him to scratch at, just a hard surface of metal with a mechanical heart underneath to keep it alive. As he tapped it, he seemed to smile to himself at the light melody of his prosthetic fingers against the chassis. “Is he fighting with us?”
That seemed to make the man laugh. “‘He’? Christ, getting attached to the creatures in the zoo now, are we?”
“Well, is he?” He looked over, seeming undeterred, even when the Sturm nudged him so hard he stumbled a little, even laughing at his enthusiasm - laughing, in a way that was airy and free.
Heisenberg swallowed, glancing between Ethan and the monster, before looking down at his feet and kicking his heel against the floor. “...I suppose. Doubt he’ll be much use, though.”
“I dunno. Have you ever seen a big, scary, loud dog? Bark doesn’t have to be as bad as the bite.”
“I… can’t say I have.”
“Seen a scary dog?”
Heisenberg blinked behind his glasses, almost thinking to himself before he spoke again. “Seen… a dog.”
He scoffed momentarily. “The Lycans don’t count for shit, then?”
“They were people once, Ethan. Not that it matters now. ‘Specially with those fuckers that walk on all fours.”
That made Ethan pause, the bemused smile on his face falling, as he looked over at the lord. “…Do you even know what a real dog is?”
“Wh- yes, I know what a ‘real dog’ is, asshole.”
And at that, he seemed to try and suppress a laugh, though the snorting was more than enough to indicate his amusement.
“For a man who was shitting himself at the sight of that thing, you sure got mighty comfortable.”
“...Right. Kinda fucked up, huh? I’m a little too used to things being out to get me, by now.” He gave a quiet huff, though the rest of a sigh remained in a ball in his chest, as he gave the Sturm a final pat and put his hands in his pockets.
They soon left the creature to its own devices, and continued back upstairs, with Ethan walking by Heisenberg’s side, rather than getting dragged behind. Now, surprisingly, it was Ethan that was starting to fill the silence with words that didn’t mean much of anything - asking for details of a plan that had been years in the making, suggesting things that had already been agonised over thrice at least. It was interesting, to watch him work, to watch again the way his hands moved through the air, as if casting some arcane spell to somehow magic his daughter back into his arm from four pieces to one. Almost endearing, in a way, to know just how fragile this desperate father was, and how easy it was to break him. Almost made Heisenberg a little soft, to want to protect him. Almost, he told himself. He wouldn’t - no, never.
As they passed back through the workshop, Heisenberg found his eyes falling on the wedding ring, still left discarded on the worktop. It was barely recognisable, stained with dark blood and wear, but the shape was unmistakable. He looked up, watching Ethan continue to walk, still talking (the conversation soon turned to the offshoot of thoughts from a new parent with love worth twice his weight) up until he realised the air beside him was cold and lonely, and he turned behind him.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just got bored of your mundane ramblings.”
“Ha, you and Rose both.”
“Don’t compare me to an infant.” He scoffed, fiddling with a hand that had now found its way into his coat pocket, as he almost marched behind Ethan again, leaving the worktop before him now bare with the ring he had snatched up, for safekeeping.
The elevator ride up was quiet, tension rising with the altitude, suffocating and unsettling. This was it, the final firefight. They both knew the stakes; make or break for them, for Rose, and for whoever else came afterwards. To be frank, and selfish, Heisenberg didn’t give a damn about what came after, if they failed. They’d be dead and gone, and while some part of him believed that Miranda would just stay put with her simple need for a freaky super baby wearing her daughter’s face, it would surely be too good to be true. At some point, he would have said he didn’t give a damn about Ethan, or Rose - only cared for what they could give him. He glanced to his side, to Ethan, watching the way he flexed his hands, moved to hold the prosthesis, press his thumb against where cold metal met scarred skin, swallowing down anxieties that would never leave him. He watched the man feel eyes on him, and glance over, a tired gaze of dull grey meeting him, and then Ethan smiled. Soft, unsure, but he smiled still. Heisenberg looked away.
No, he didn’t care for what happened afterwards. But only if Ethan wasn’t there to see it.
Rain hit them as soon as the doors slowly pulled out onto the open field. It was hard, heavy, clouds hanging overhead, covering the last of the setting sun in a blanket of melancholy. The perfect setting for the end of it all, he supposed. Heisenberg quickly beckoned over to the fence, to a gate off to the side, where they’d sneak away into the belly of Miranda’s lair, all while a metal army tore the last of her splendour apart topside. His hands were jittery with a sense of excitement as his boots sunk into the muddy grass below his feet-
“Ethan,” the voice was not familiar to him, but Heisenberg knew it meant something to Ethan - what, with the way he’d stopped talking, stopped walking. The lord took a glance behind him, watching the way the grip on his shotgun had tightened, and his teeth were gritted so tightly that his face was shaking.
“Mia-” He went to respond, turning around at a chuckle from behind. At a woman, soaked to the skin in her nightclothes, standing a short distance away. Ethan hesitated, before raising his gun. “Miranda.”
“Poor, poor Ethan,” she continued to coo, stepping forward as he tried to step away from her. “So lost and alone without wife and child, you turn to the common dog to get your friendship. Loss twists the mind something awful, does it not?”
He stepped back, back to Heisenberg’s side, enough for him to grab onto the back of his coat with an iron grip, and keep him in place. This wasn’t Mia. Though she wore the same kind face, he knew better. They both knew better.
But she only continued to laugh, and laugh, before being covered by the thick, molded tendrils that sprouted from the ground around them. Her laughter did not cease.
Heisenberg kept a hold on Ethan’s coat. “Don’t be stupid,” he grimaced, feeling the way he was beginning to tug at the grip to get free.
The laughter sounded more like a raven’s call now, a screeching cackle that dissipated through the air as the rain still hit them from a sky where heaven was open, and opening further still - colder, faster and harder than before.
The Mother soon showed herself again, emerging from behind a root with a bejewelled, clawed hand, sinking into the rotten flesh, dark blood dripping down her wrist and into her sleeve. “Your child… she truly is special, isn’t she?”
The tugging stopped for a moment, as again, Ethan’s hands curled further around his gun, and he swallowed, speaking with a throat still somehow dry. “She’s… she’s everything to me.”
“And mine to me.” That softness was gone now, sharp and harsh, as she ripped out a chunk of mold from the structure she had conjured, crumbling it between her fingers. “Rose has power that you couldn’t possibly understand. You didn’t understand Eveline, after all. But when do you ever understand anything, Ethan Winters?”
“Fuck you!”
“Ethan,” Heisenberg hissed again, barely able to stop him as he lurched forward again, the back of his coat slick with the rain. Perhaps it really was true, the way that parents' strength was unmatched when faced with a child in danger.
“She has my goddamned daughter, let me go.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed, you fucking idiot-”
That shrill laughter began again, and when they both looked back up again, Miranda was gone, with nothing but feathers where she once stood, sinking to the floor in the rain. And that was enough for Ethan to free himself from his charge.
He stumbled forward with his own force, spinning around and looking between every crack in the mold that surrounded them now. Shotgun pumped, he flexed his fingers against the barrel, against the trigger, paranoid eyes darting around. “Miranda-”
“Ethan-”
“Miranda, where the fuck are you, you crazy bitch-”
“Ethan.”
Those tired eyes shot back towards him, a fierceness in his gaze like a fire that had been burning for days, with no sign of stopping. This was the fight that had taken down the rest of his family, now tenfold. Anger and resentment. “What.”
The lord stopped for a moment, trying not to let Ethan's harshness get under his skin too much, his own quiet temper starting to bubble. “She has us right where she wants us, we need to go.”
“Fuck that.”
“Do you want to save the damn kid, or not?”
“My daughter,” He corrected.
“Whatever!”
“No, not whatever!”
“Remember she’s still in jars, jackass. Miranda is the only one who can put her back together. We need to go. Unless you want to keep the poor bastard in an urn on your fireplace once you get out of here.”
That seemed to be enough to make Ethan pause, and consider, that tension back before finally, he lowered his gun slightly, losing that harshness in his figure but never the fire in his face, even with the sigh that escaped him. “...Right. Fuck, I just-”
“Justify it later. Just go.”
He nodded with that, taking a step forward-
-with a gargle in his throat, and a trail of blood falling from his mouth.
Heisenberg froze, watching the way Miranda seemed to appear from nowhere, reaching into his chest from behind so boldly, the way Ethan seemed to crumble around her claws as he looked down, powerless to stop her as she lifted him from the floor.
“Poor, clueless Ethan Winters. Even turning my family against me did not help you.” She mused, taking a moment to watch him twitch like a dying fly before pulling his heart out of his chest. Miranda looked at it for a moment, not even glancing as he started to collapse to his knees in the rain-soaked earth. She watched the way it continued to beat with futility in her hand, almost panicking to itself, lips curling beneath the mask she wore with disgust at a reaction so... human. “Your power is impressive, but your intelligence is not. Perhaps I overestimated you.”
But even then, it seemed that Ethan did not want to die, despite knowing that he would - he still tried to speak, to reach out and grab her to pull her down with him with what dwindling strength remained, but instead, simply tipped over, leaving scratch marks in the dirt where he dragged himself along.
And then, all was still, as the rain hit the open field behind the factory with ferocity.
Miranda observed the heart in her claws, squeezing it to prompt it to stop, but it did not. An amused hum escaped her, as she muttered to herself. “You really are an interesting specimen. I would have loved to study you more, but alas…”
Dark eyes glanced up now, to the one person left standing of two. She took a moment to look up at him at down - at the tenseness in his form, at the way he held his weapon with both hands, almost protectively, closed fists shaking with silent fury.
And yet, she still dared to smile at him, a fake warmness attempting to hide the coldness in her eyes as she turned and faced him fully, opening her arms, as if welcoming an embrace. She did not falter as he took a few steps back, the venom with which she spoke just as poisonous as it would have been otherwise. “Karl-”
“Don’t.” Despite the way he gritted his teeth to stop his voice from shaking, he was still… no, he would never admit he was afraid of her. He wasn’t scared of anything. Least of all her.
She tightened her grip around Ethan’s heart.
He tried not to lurch forward and snatch it from her, like a petulant child.
“My darling son,” Her words were cutting, sarcasm masked as flattery, but they both knew better than to consider it at face value. “I understand you’re upset, that you cannot play commander anymore with your little friend-”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Don’t you dare interrupt me again, boy.” Her softened facade broke then, her tone growing curt and tired of this back and forth. She had Heisenberg’s world in her hand - they both knew that, all too well. “You think me a fool? To not know what you’ve been messing with, up here?”
Breathing in through his nose, and out through the mouth, he tried his best to stop himself from snapping at her further, for fear of two lives, now. No, he wasn’t scared - not for himself. But for Ethan, or for his corpse and beating heart? He was terrified.
“I have given you everything, and this is how you repay me? Did you forget from whence you came?”
He had vague memories of first receiving his ‘gift’ from the mother - but they came in between the hot flashes of pain, white and searing, blinding him to almost everything else, and wiping his mind clear of everything before. He had a real family, once. Maybe that’s why he was so desperate to protect Ethan’s now.
“Did you forget?” She repeated, each syllable spoken with a purposeful, grim intent through gritted teeth.
He kept his mouth shut. It was hard, so incredibly hard, to do the right thing and not say a word. Anything she didn’t like to hear would spell the end for them.
But even that seemed to irritate the woman. Hand outstretched to him, claws digging into the muscle she held (as it seemed to beat with panic in her grip), she opened her mouth to speak, and-
It happened so fast, it was almost like a blur. The hot air hit his back hard enough to make him stumble forward and spin around, watching the building behind him go up in flames. Behind glasses reflecting the flames dancing across the dark sky stretched out above them, his eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and horror. His entire army, everything he’d been building, waiting for and sitting on - gone, in a flash, far too big for a woman of even Miranda’s standing to orchestrate. No… this was far too forward. Still, Heisenberg turned to her, half expecting a grin from hell’s worst demons to be worn upon her face, but instead found that he only wanted to frame her expression of equal shock, if only for a second, before he saw the way her hands had fallen slightly, the way her grip around the heart had loosened, and loose blood dripped from vessels onto the wet ground in front of her. He glanced down at her feet, where Ethan still lay motionless in a pool of his own blood.
He had to make a choice.
And with the sound of his heart in his ears, as if to remind him he still had one, that choice was made. His feet hit the mud, hard, as he quickly rushed forward and snatched the heart from Miranda’s grasp, holding it close enough to his chest as he turned away so that she couldn’t grab it back without a struggle, like a selfish child with a toy that he didn’t want anyone else to play with. Between his fingers, he could feel that constant pulse, as heavy boots tripped over moulded, rotten tendrils that whipped angrily at his ankles as they tried to grab and restrain him. And the man moved as agile as he could over and between them, almost as if he was dancing to the rhythm of the heart he now held so close. Heisenberg was sure he’d had this dream before - fleeing from the grips of mother dearest, to somewhere better, rejected from a family he didn’t want, with all the shame and feeling and freedom to match. But dreams could never match the reality, where his chest felt hollow and it was hard to breathe, where his clothes stuck to his skin with heavy rainfall and the manic ramblings and laughter of Mother Miranda followed him like a haunting echo.
It must have been a sight to behold - the once lord Heisenberg, running from his own factory, reduced to nothing more than dancing flames and the smell of burning, decaying flesh and metal. It was almost beautiful, in its glow. Almost.
Heisenberg stopped running, finally, slowly coming to a halt in the middle of the courtyard, turning to look behind him at the sight of everything he’d built up burning to a crisp, his world for decades now nothing more than ashes and dust. His breathing was heavy, frenzied eyes looking around him to see how far he’d run - not far, it seemed, from the gates adorned with feathers, bones and crests of ghosts surrounding him from either side. Was there anyone in the village? No… if Moreau or himself hadn't gotten to them, then Alcina certainly would have. Donna took care of the children. In biding his time, it seemed he’d screwed himself over - no one was around to help.
The reality was hitting him now. He had Ethan’s heart in his hands. It was still beating, somehow - clinging to life, barely, but it certainly was clinging. That shouldn’t be happening, he was smart enough to know that, but that didn’t matter now. He was almost thankful, in fact, that Ethan was still too stubborn to die. He clutched it to his chest, almost protectively, staining the shirt with the man’s blood, but he didn’t care. The plan had changed - it wasn’t just about stopping Miranda anymore. Somewhere along the line, things had gotten blurry, and there had been a second objective - keep Rose, and Ethan, safe. And he’d failed that.
The sound of someone clearing their throat spooked him enough to make him jump in his skin, like a frightened child. Heisenberg spun around on his heels, finally taking notice of the cart that was hard to miss, adorned with goods and a sweet smell, with a large, friendly face at its helm. He didn’t relax.
“Lord Heisenberg?” The Duke was surprised to see him, though seemingly not off-put by an appearance that looked way worse than it actually was.
“I, uh… yeah, yeah, it’s me.” He swallowed, taking a few steps closer to the cart, the adrenaline starting to die down now and the pain kicking in.
The man leaned down a little as Heisenberg got closer, the look of concern only making the lord feel worse - he never seemed to lose that smile he had, so the fact his face had fallen? Only showed him just how grim things had gotten. The man’s voice was quieter as he spoke again, “You seem a little worse for wear, my friend.”
“Ha! Just a… just a bit, bud.”
“And what of Mr Winters? I had last seen him heading to your abode, is he-”
“I-I don’t… look, I don’t know, it’s all gone to shit, a-and I…” Again, he swallowed, realising just how upset he was. Because while killing Miranda was out of the cards now… fuck - fuck, he was in tatters at the thought of losing that stupid man. He futilely held up his hands - one in surrender, and the other still holding (not gripping it, for fear he may stop it) Ethan’s heart, his blood staining his hands and his shirt and… everything. As if he’d killed the man himself - he may as well have done, for leading him there, to her, right where she wanted him.
“Slow down, it’s alright,” The Duke remained softened, even in the face of something he should have been unnerved by, at the very least. Beckoning for the man to come closer with a large hand, he waited for the lord to ponder, before he hesitantly complied, only to pull away the hand that held the heart as soon as it was reached for. “I wish for his safety as much as you, my friend.”
He grimaced.
“I would not hurt my best customer, my lord.” Despite the formalities, it seemed his tone had softened with some sentimentality. Or maybe it was a farce.
But Heisenberg didn’t exactly have any friends here. So he growled, and slowly held his hand up again, passing Ethan’s heart to the merchant, watching the way it looked so small in his hands.
And true to his word, The Duke was delicate, shielding it from the rain with his free hand, seeming amazed at the way it still clung to life, even now - though it was getting weaker, cold and tired. To himself, he began to muse, “Remarkable. Simply remarkable, Mr Winters.”
Staying quiet, he started to kick his feet back and forth against the snow that was washing away in the rain, sludge forming on the tips of his boots as he waited for anything else - some good news, he dared to hope. He shouldn’t have, but he did anyway. If anything was going to give that to him, it had to be Ethan, the man who refused to die.
There was at least something, as over his glasses he watched the other man reach back into his cart, fumbling among his merchandise for a moment, before clicking his tongue and grabbing a hold of something among his wears. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg?”
He stood to attention far too fast. “Yeah? Yeah?”
“Would you mind opening this for me?” The Duke reached down, handing Heisenberg a small glass jar, not unlike the ones that Miranda’s cadou had been stored in. “Just to keep the poor thing warm. Quickly, if you’d please.”
For a moment, he seemed dumbfounded, before it caught up with him and he nodded, pulling off a glove with his mouth and holding it between his teeth as he unscrewed the lid, pulling it off and holding it up again for The Duke to place the muscle in the glass container. Once it was sealed again, Heisenberg held it up to look at it, catching his reflection in the glass. A sad one.
“That should keep it intact, for now, until we find where the rest of him is.”
Lost at the back of the factory that was still in flames. He swallowed, and kept his eyes on the jar. At the tired eyes that stared back up at him behind dark glasses.
The silence seemed to be more than enough of an answer for the merchant, who gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. I’ll see to it he’s brought back here.”
That made him look back up again, rather quickly, moving to finally take his glove out of his mouth and hold it in a tight grip to let himself speak, almost hopeful. “You’re getting him?”
“But of course. What good is a father’s heart to his daughter without her father?”
Rose… Rose, fuck-
“Calm yourself, my lord.” Almost sensing his growing panic beginning to rise once more, The Duke took to soothing the man, not unlike a caregiver to their child. “Your plans of revolution will come to fruition yet.”
And with that final reassurance, he watched the businessman begin to pack up his station, at a moderate pace. Heisenberg tapped his fingers against the glass, listening to the way Ethan’s heart beat back in response to the call of the rhythm.
“Hold on.”
The Duke stopped, watching the lord put down the jar and quickly move his coat - his tattered, greasy, now bloodstained coat - before reaching up almost gingerly, up to the merchant, waving it after a moment as a signal to take it.
“For when you find him.” He hesitated for a moment, before quickly shrugging. “…I dunno. He seemed cold.”
The Duke stared for a moment, before he finally smiled again, offering the man some comfort as he accepted the gesture, and pulled the coat onto his lap. “I assure you, Lord Heisenberg, that I will make every attempt to recover Ethan for you.”
“Heh, don’t get my hopes up, now.” He ran his free arm under his nose to wipe away the snot that had gathered from his threatening tears, before shoving his hand into his pocket. As if he wasn’t hopeful enough already.
“It’s all part of our first-class customer service.” There wasn’t a beat missed as he spoke again, returning to a more jovial disposition, with some newfound determination.
“You want some help packin’ up?”
“Well, if you’d be so kind.”
Heisenberg paused for a moment, looking down at the jar in his hands, at the way that, even still, the hear inside it beat, almost with newfound determination, before nodding to himself and looking up again. “You’d be in luck. Seems I’m full of kindness these days.”
elaborate on the hcs,,,,, I beg (its so creative I love ittt)
OK! so first of all im not the biggest fan of rev but I sure have thought about him a whole lot 👁👁
IN GENERAL/CANON CONTEXT:
His name, as far as he can remember, has always been Benji in his memories, though he chooses to disassociate from it nowadays.
Most of his memories of every life he’s had (having it reset when he ‘dies’ by Hammond to maintain his human illusion) blend into each other, so he can’t really remember any specific details of his life - his likes/dislikes, human ticks and such
Though saying this, there’s some sights and smells that feel familiar to him, and while a majority of the time he’ll choose to reject them, sometimes he will take solace in them.
He loves Crypto’s cat. Very much.
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he’ll just stand in the corner of a room in a sort of ‘shutdown’ state, where he’s half-aware of the things around him.
POKEMON AU SPECIFIC:
So, when I mentioned in the last post that he was a sort of Robocop-esque character, in the sense that he’s god cybernetic enhancements that scan a Pokemon’s moves/power level and such.
These were given to him by the Aether Foundation, and can be used as a form of control (i.e. how the suit featured in XY’s Looker Sidequest works) on his body, so he can hunt and capture the Pokemon they want.
He was sent to the Distortion World to capture Giratina but was stuck there for a good long while, enough to realise how the cybernetic tech works and forms a plan to eliminate both his employers in Team Galatic and his creators in the Aether Foundation.
Giratina is his homie though... I’ve always hc’d it’s been lonely and angry and as such... vibed with Rev’s rage and joined up with him.
His partner is Pawniard, it’s a very aggressive hotheaded Pokemon. His Accelgor and Escavalier are very close, they’re never away from each other for long. Scyther is a little bit skittish, especially of her own blades. She’s very attached to Rev. Druddigon is a dummy and loves to eat. Think your typical dumb minion/sidekick type.
He’s originally from Johto, but left for the Aether Foundation study. He did the gym challenge, and quit at the Elite 4. His starter was Cyndaquil.
ok so - Revenant is a pokemon bounty hunter (think... hunter J from the anime) originally employed/created by the Aether Foundation - though he’s less roboty than in canon, think like... Robocop, so he’s a weird mix of both robot and human? He’s also worked with Team Galatic, and as such has been trapped in the Distortion World for a long time, only just coming out and looking for revenge... only to find that the team that sent him there And the people who created him are both disbanded. So he steals people’s Pokemon, but specifically from people who deserve it, like petty criminals and such.
