#nelrathe post.

[monstyrious]

@supegod has company.

it had been monday when she had descended the steps from the final floor of the tower to the start of the basement, where a secured elevator had taken her down, down into the belly of the earth beneath new york city to the laboratories. the man with white hair had wanted to see her, conduct a few more tests that were little more than wild ideas being prodded through her at this point, and nelrathe had had little option but to oblige.

by the time she steps out of the laboratory itself, it's thursday, and her body is classifiable as broken. bruises litter the skin exposed by the more comfortable clothing she's been allowed to wear in times like this; soft baby pink pyjama shorts and a tank top that has some blood splattered on its white fabric with the little watercolor bunnies dancing around the whole of the garment. no one dares breathe a word to the dragon inhabiting a humanoid form about her bare feet.

not even as they cross from one classified bit of tile to another, using the elevator to rise a single level just to touch more of that numbingly white tile. this is where he resides. someone she hadn't known hide or hair of before he had been crammed into a cage just a touch smaller than her own.

when she reaches that cage, nelrathe touches at the thick glass that boasts more inches than any man ever could, a sanded down and uselessly 'clawed' nail tapping at the tank to try to stir the attention of the creature inside to see her. palm rests there after, a small, tired smile on her bare lips as she sinks down to rest on her knees on the floor, feet splayed out to either side as weight sets on her rump and knees.

"john..." comes on a whisper, audible only for the thanks of the speaker installed in that glass.

[monstyrious]

@innerwar sent : ‘how could you know this?’ the boys scarecrow @ nelly

"it does not take much to understand the reality that's lingering beneath the surface." she leans back in what has become her chair at the tower, there in the boardroom. the god awful raunchy suit designed for her that doesn't make a lick of difference chafes just as much as being here does.

"i've seen most of this first hand, even if it may have been farther back in the histories than you recognize."

[monstyrious]

@thcbvtcher sent : "you have no idea what you do to me, do you?" & "god, you're addictive. even just the way you're sitting."

there's no intention. hell, there is no thought. they have done the unthinkable once, and nelrathe is sitting with it harshly, blaming herself and the promiscuity that sets too deeply as a fault in her stomach. what had it been that vem'ana had said? why can you not just be my friend? why are you mad i won't fuck you? realistically, the part of her that had been healed by vul'kar turned that idea into what it really was. a man pissed off that his flirtations were called out as such, turned onto her as the villain for falling for them. nelrathe is looking down at her fingers- regressing into the notion that any semblance of being desired or experiencing sexuality is her fault - when butcher speaks.

he's across the room of the little safehouse, pitting rounds into a clip in preparation for war. vought's none too happy that their second and third greatest assets are out free after the mother of one had been killed. it's been months, but there's always threat. he's always on edge. because of her. she could have stepped in, could have prevented becca's death, could have been stronger and sealed the wounds. it does not matter to her guilt that she had been ripped clean that morning. it does not matter that nothing could have been done, and it's not her fault.

he's still speaking, but all she hears is that same deadly shame. it coils its blackened fingers into her hair, her heartstrings, her muscles to rip them from the bones. she does not deserve to be here. it should have been her, not becca.

and she should not have allowed herself to be so weak as to be intimate with william butcher.

you're addictive.

she's a drug. a poison. consume and falter, pass on to the next life. her blood on his tongue is as vile as her name he calls so sweetly, as if she has no blame. as if there should not be some monstrous darkness spreading its wings in her belly.

you don't know what you do to me.

because it is what she is doing, isn't it? she exists. she is temptation. she is blasphemy. she is disgrace.

her body is shaking in its seat, her eyes of mismatched tiffany hues shifting from him to the floor. these two are the only tell tales - everything else is quiet. "you should not say such things." mousy, near silence. he has to get closer to really understand. "what would becca think?"

[monstyrious]

@thcrealheroes liked for a one liner.

"it's okay, kid. i miss her too. but you know what?" she looks over to ryan from a few feet away on the pier. "she's with my vulk now. he'll make sure she's alright."

[monstyrious]

It doesn't show in the older man's rugged features just how shattered and lost he is, not when he's surrounded by those who need him to be strong. To be the one to say fuck it and dive headfirst into the issues of Vought and the flying cunt. He's the one who can cross lines and not give two fucks about it. Butcher has a swag to his step, carrying the weight of it all like it doesn't bother him, his head held high like he's untouchable. Scoffing when he's called out on his bullshit, doesn't let them know that his heart takes the beating, doesn't offer the apologies that are lodged in his throat. The look of disappointment in M.M.'s face, or the way Hughie and Dogmeat glance over at him. The heavy sigh doesn't come. The clenching of his chest doesn't come until he's alone with her. Through the loss of Becca, through the attempts of being a father figure to Ryan, even if he's failing miserably.

By his side has always been Nelly, his untamed dragon, the one to keep him from losing himself completely in the wreckage. The sound of his heavy boots approaching her, unspoken words, when his stormy hues, filled with sorrow, lock with her own. Falling to his knees before her is not uncommon between them, but the mood is different. "I need you." Always does. Always will. He isn't afraid to open himself up to her, confess to Nelly that her touch is his saving grace as he lays his head down against her lap. Butcher's eyes close as he circles his strong arms around her waist; his breathing slows, relaxed now that he has found his sanctuary. Nuzzling his face deeper into her lap, as if he could drown in her warmth. And he wishes he could.

where others see the hardass - the man that brushes the weight of the world off his shoulders without so much as a fuck you -, the drake sees more. she sees the way his weathered visage gains another line every time someone turns their ire on him without realizing that he has to be this way. circumstance, loss, the need the world has for someone to be almost hated as much as homelander and vought combined if only for the sake of a better tomorrow... and william has taken it on. without complaint. without openly feeling sorry for himself the way she's watched some of the others that only carry half the burden.

whatever she is able, she will shoulder for him, though not with the nuisance of cracking his pride or appearance by offering it in front of others. it's instead in the moments like this, where he comes to her as she tries to find something worth spilling her time into, though nothing fills the void quite like having someone rely on her had. becca, ryan... they didn't need her, really, but it was something she could fool herself into believing, until they were both gone.

as william lays his head in her lap, nelrathe's legs close to offer a pedestal for him, lower limbs tilted to the side to give him the chance to be closer. fingers that have only just started to gain back their clawlike status graze through his hair, the gray strands that hide amid the brush noted, but unspoken. his arms wrap her waist, and she sets aside the book entirely now, welcoming him wholly into herself.

if she could take him into her body, protect him from the fate the humans' god has thrust upon him, she would. without hesitation.

all she can offer instead, is a distraction.

"have i ever told you how becca and i met?" a faint smile, sorrowful still, and she's grazing his scalp lightly as she looks down at him.

[monstyrious]

@iobartach sent : you don't hear that? [ nelrathe! ]

"i hear a lot of things, all of the time." heightened senses built for a massive form, crammed into even this tiny thing that almost mirrors his greatness, tend to have the downside of pulling in too much feedback. "so... if whatever you're talking about is in the room with us? you're going to need to be much more specific."

[monstyrious]

the sun is shining, warming hills and grass and ushering in a new day. birds are singing in the trees that craft shade just outside the windows of the place that's home for them. a real home, quiet and safe and free. the air is rife with the scent of sun-baked clay and vineyard, dust that rises in the air on a quiet breeze, and breakfast. the sizzle reaches ears, makes their pointed tips twitch. a kitchen, built comfortably and lit by that solar source breeching in through wide open windows with lace curtains that billow in the breeze.

he is there, working on flipping pieces of bacon that now fill the senses with one hand and reaching backward with the other. moving closer, closer, but before contact, the self is seen, coming from the open door leading out into the yard and tucking into @thcbvtcher at his back, into that reaching arm. utterings that cannot be heard above the simplicity of voices, soft laughter. the warmth of love wafts, and it is clear.

this is not reality. it is only a dream.

once this realization comes, nelrathe is sitting up, breathing heavily and reassociating herself. gone is the golden tinge of a faux space, replaced by the dingy grey of the classroom that's morphed itself into home for the last year. looking down, the dandelion-yellow of her dress is replaced by the grunge of an old t-shirt, its writing lost to time and too many un-careful washes. but there is also him, sound asleep so directly beside her that his arm is still laid over her lap. terror snores stutteringly at the foot of the makeshift bed, his leg kicking out a little as he chases something in his dreams.

silently, the drake settles back down, turned on her side and drawing william's arm further up her side as if it is the only blanket she requires. leg carefully crooks over his, and hand, gentle and tender, rests on the scruff of his jaw. he looks so tired, even when fast asleep. oh, how if nothing else, she prays that whatever end comes, it provides the butcher man with peace, regardless of if she is still with him in it. the dream is tucked neatly into the back of her stomach, teeth pulling at her lower lip before she lightly presses a faint kiss to his forehead.

by any means, she thinks, homelander will pay.

even if she must sacrifice herself so that william and ryan have a future.

[monstyrious]

@echolaliia liked for a starter. -> eric

she's been around long enough, known about the leeches longer than they've been exposed to the general public of humanity, but it doesn't mean that certain things don't still catch her. things like blood sucker bars, though her surprise doesn't mean that she is offput. in fact, she's dolled herself up enough to be presentable, chains and gemstones strewn in pale cream-streaked ginger curls that are pinned up as well as around the horns that barely poke out amid the updo. it's a tactic, of course, because waters always need to be tested.

all of those humans that had freaked about the vampires would no doubt rip a dragon to shreds, especially since there is no army of others like herself to back her up. but if anyone would understand her, it would be those that occupy and crawl the bayous and old stone roads of shreveport.

fangtasia is a monster all its own, and she's stepped right into its mouth, skin tight leather dress in a peacock green matching those jewels and golden chains, the stiletto heels that allow her to not drown amid the people that treat this place like a second home with how fast they drove this and that way. her presence swells in its own right, too, though, and though she may be small, she does not need to push past blood bags and suckers to get to the counter to pull herself up into a seat.