aeneia: (Default)
a e n e i a . ([personal profile] aeneia) wrote in [community profile] nonsuch2015-12-18 01:01 pm

& open gen post iii.

↠ lyrics, images, prompts, take your pick

2leftfeet: (Default)

4 corvo

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-19 06:03 pm (UTC)(link)

There are eight hundred Alliance marines scattered throughout London. It's not actually a big number, not even on paper - not during war and not during a last desperate push against a force that is by and large literally too big to fight from the ground. For those eight hundred marines they have maybe a handful of ground to air ships at their disposal, so a bulk of their force is basically useless as anything by covering fire - cannon fodder. While not exactly pleasant, there's no denying the necessity either. Hell, with the crapshoot of a plan they have rigged up to get to the beam, a few hundred grunts taking fire is as key as the whole damn turian fleet overhead.

Not that it's comforting, but at this point she's not really counting. Right now, the most she can do is get her own shit together and hope for the best. Beyond that, it's a matter of hurry up and wait - the one universal constant in any combat situation. Which is more or less how they come to be at the same last line of defense outpost in the ruins of South London alongside the bulk of what remains of the Alliance's forces and a few hundred members of the Council race's men, women and other. There's a meeting with Anderson in twenty minutes. She has exactly enough time to go hunting for her husband - who, rumor has it, is commanding on the goddamn turret wall - before she makes her way through the gutted buildings to talk strategy.
vindictam: (pic#9835571)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-20 08:31 am (UTC)(link)
It's the way of military camps, that they talk more than gossip magazines do ( or, used to, no wait, still do - he sees those vids coming back from her, half a galaxy away, he's seen every damn one of them in a back log he plays too often to himself in the relative dark and privacy that could be afforded ). Run on those things because it's something to talk about that isn't - isn't everything else that they look at when they open their eyes. No one can really blame them for it, when there's a fallen city to live in, and a ruined planet to watch fall apart.

But also it means that the minute she lands, after advisers, commanders, the council, the higher ups get notice on the long list of people that need the information, he's the first to know. No it's not some call or message passed down, it's by way of grapevine, the same one that found out they were married in the first place ( wore his ring, the same cheap metal from years and years ago, and it's been bent out of shape and rebent back into, like the shape this marriage has always been, and by and large, eventually it got asked about. Some muttered conversation he probably should have thought through but didn't. Some remark of 'sir, is your partner still alive?' a glance down at it, dull shine of metal 'I should hope so, she's supposed to be saving us all.' naturally, it was everywhere the next morning. ). Of one hissed message into the ear of another, and eventually he's the only other person to tell worth noting, apparently. One breathless private that yanks him away from the wall he has stood on - and keeps standing on day in day out now, wave after wave, holds it and holds it and holds it. He still never wanted a command of his own.

But she'd be coming, and she'd need good men on the ground, a port to work from. That's all it came down to, in the end. To buy the time.

A tug, and he's got his only bad habit left ( except her, she is the worst of them ) by way of a cigarette held in the corner of his life. Never smoked much, old habit from something far too long ago now, that he barely bothered with before. Until the collectors, until after she - had to do something with his hands, at the best of times now. Being away from the wall was the only time it was safe to do so.

Pinches it between finger, exhales smoke through his nose from the deep breath in as the man babbles out the words. Tells the private not to bother because, he knows, of course he knows. He knows her, and he knows what she is, and of course she was here - because one day, she always would be.

That and, as he nods over the shoulder of the soldier in front of him, there she is. He steps past the messenger and all too slow, normal -- like they'd done this a hundred times and maybe they have, lived this life over and over again -- makes her way towards her.

"Commander." Tugs the half smoked cigarette free, stubs it out on the ground under his boot heel and his hands go back to resting on the rifle strapped across his chest, same way as the rest of them were. "Took your time."
2leftfeet: (iota ursae majoris)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-20 06:16 pm (UTC)(link)
It's been eleven months since she saw him last - nine months of criss crossing the galaxy while Earth (and everywhere else) burned under the Reapers' shadow and two before that sitting in holding since she'd last been allowed to see him. You wouldn't knownt from the way she crosses to him now, equally sedate - more concerned with keeping her footing over the rubble in the courtyard at the base of the gubnery bridge than she is with closing the distance at speed.

"L-T." There's a wry little curve to the corner of her mouth, subtle but definitely there for anyone familiar and looking. Lieutenant Commander Corvo Attano. Hilarious. "I like to make a dramatic entrance."

He looks-- good, mostly. Better than was probably to be expected considering how long he's been on the ground here. By the time she'd figured out he'd still be on planet when the Reapers' invaded, it was to know he was alive and not barely - figures Anderson would've made sure she heard about it if that changed. Still, being cognizant of the fact that Corvo was fine and functioning was one thing; seeing it in person was different. The difference between numbers on paper and the reality of a fleet behind her. The difference between throwing scientists at Hackett and seeing the Crucible actually in one piece above Earth. The difference of-- well, whatever. She finds thst a strange amount of tension in her shoulders eases for it. So there's that.

Shepard nods to the ground out cigarette butt on the uneven pavement. "You know those things'll kill you."
vindictam: (pic#8402501)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-20 11:49 pm (UTC)(link)
She's the same as she ever was - except that she wasn't. The parts were all there. But she'd never be quite the same. She couldn't afford to be than anything less than what was asked for her. But she was alive, and she was whole, and she was here. Right there in front of him. It expels a deep breath he's been holding deep in his chest for the last months as he looks her over.

She never wore anything so well as she wore her uniform.

There should be more to this - he knows. Or rather, it's what the men on the wall are expecting in the brief glances they're inevitably stealing. Everyone has learned at this point, what happens if you don't pay attention to the wall. Something he barked at them constantly, and would again, in a minute - reasons why he's that damn rank now and he grimaces, oh so predictably, for the words.

He looks at the cigarette, back up at her. The hair that he hadn't managed to tie high up on his head, falling in his face with the motion. Smile that is just the same as hers, barely there, no more than either of them have to give. A lifetime comes with some allowances. Shrugs with a lift of his shoulder and a tilt of his head, he knows. They're all dead, soon enough. But - "I'm married to the first human spectre." Dig back, maybe. One title for another. They both got bumped up, somewhere along the line. "That's got to come with pretty good health insurance." Dry as -- well, London never was dry, he'd found out. It rained, got fog so thick it turned things half to nightmares in the early mornings.
2leftfeet: (beta capricorni)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-21 09:45 am (UTC)(link)
"Yeah, but I hear the life insurance's crap." She makes a gesture with her thumb that indicates him, her, their general rubble and Reaper infested surroundings. It's old bullshit, the same brand of shit talk that runs up and down the ranks of the Alliance - familiar like sliding into a pair of old combat boots. She's saying goodbye (just in case) and it's still the easiest thing she's done in months.

"Anyway," --cutting the shit. Simple enough. "I've got fifteen minutes before mission debrief in the north quarter."
vindictam: (pic#8693755)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-21 10:04 am (UTC)(link)
It's familiar, it's practiced, but there's no hiding what this is. So in that way it's just easier to keep it going. Like this is any other day, and any other week. Like she's just come back from some mission off world to his boxed in apartment, and that in the morning he'll find her digging in his fridge, bare foot and nothing else but his shirt on.

"I guess I'll take what I get then." Pulls a smile, quick and sad, like most of them these days and jerks his head for her to follow him. Navigating around the rubble easily, and it's not far it's just - out of the way of prying eyes so much, further up to a sheltered part of the wall that had been his command point the last few months. Room with a view - once upon a time. Now it's just, Husk bodies and pieces of alliance military gear strewn between falling buildings. Graveyards could look like many things. But still, for the moment, all is quiet on the western front.
2leftfeet: (Default)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-21 03:02 pm (UTC)(link)
She follows him easily, footing sure across the broken courtyard and into the adjacent building. It isn't far enough to really institute as privacy, but that's not really a luxury she's used to anymore anyway. Not around him. EDI sees all the ship's transmissions, someone with the Alliance had overseen all their visits and read all her mail while she was in holding, Cerberus had probably been picking over all her incoming and outgoing mail-- so whatever. At this poont she'll take just the illusion of not being stared at. Besides, he can't stray too far from his command.

"I'm guessing most of the heat will be North of here centered at the beam. Unless something goes really wrong, the Reapers' will want to defend that approach with everything they have." Now if they got wiped out on the run, this place would be all but razed to the ground in the aftermath. But fingers crossed that doesn't happen for a whole number of reasons outside of Corvo's safety--

--she's being clipped and knows it. Can hear it in the edge of her own voice. Talking shop instead of everything else.
vindictam: (pic#9835594)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-22 01:28 am (UTC)(link)
It's as little as they could afford here, anyway. For the most part, they all lived on top of each other, now. Not just for space restrictions in a military camp. Just that there was something to hearing someone alive respond back in the dark. But here was -- where he ran his command from, and it shows. There's plans tacked up on the wall, tallies of supplies marked out. Maps of where patrols moved through, what points to defend marked out in soldier's short hand and his particularly awful hand writing. Hadn't been much, to start with, but where others had died and he hadn't, he'd taken up the slack. Bit by bit, ended up in charge of too many defenses by virtue of surviving, and never flinching.

He nods as she talks. He'd get his orders, however they came down but one way or the other: "We'll hold, whatever happens, until we can't anymore." Cuts off the rest of it, knows why it's clipped, knows what this is avoiding, and it's the one reassurance he can give her. Because if this has ever worked, it was because he could be the one thing she never had to worry about. Hadn't changed, not even as the scope of this war took shape, where she burned herself up to save them all. Leaving hope in the mouths of those left behind. But that's for a mythical after, for a one day.

And in the small bit of privacy allowed, he didn't have that in mind, didn't have it in him for anything more than right now. He unslung his gun from across his chest, setting it down on the briefing plans, before turning back to her. Didn't care if they all survived in this moment, didn't care if they all died. Turns to lean his hands against the edge of the table, curling underneath the lip of it, resting there and for a minute - he does nothing else but look at her. Changed, and not.

There's a lot to say, a hundred things he ought to - ; "It's always been a hell of a thing, watching you." There's a lifetime to consider, and there's only now to say it.
brokentoaster: (Default)

It's been 100 years

[personal profile] brokentoaster 2015-12-23 02:39 am (UTC)(link)

[ ...or ten. A decade that perhaps felt like one hundred, with countless worlds visited and countless worlds destroyed. Dozens of contracts broken, filled, and dozens more ended prematurely. Immeasurable years of drifting through endless stars, endless void, adapting and readapting to the ever-changing rules of the company, but some things have remained the same.

Teams and their colors and the tasks they are expected to carry out. The hum of fluorescent lights that line the long metal halls of the destroyer vessel. The sterile smell in the sleeping quarters, the artificial aftertaste of each scheduled meal, and the unit number Corvo Attano has been assigned since day one. Been there so long there are rumors it's haunted, that he's not a man but the ghost of fourteen.

It may be true, that fourteen is haunted. Almost ten years to the day he left, another of the bunk's original occupants knocks. Returned, though he has no memory of the place. Why would he? New recruits usually don't, but his cuff scans him through like it has so many times years before. ]

Hello? Anyone here?

[ A familiar voice, but different. Changed somewhat, matured. Footsteps fall heavy as he enters, making himself known. The smell of leather catches his attention first, stand-out against the rest of the ship. Old, familiar, not so sterile clean. The lights aren't all on, but there is a presence in the cramped quarters, and his eyes adjust quickly enough to the hunched figure there. The man, ghost, of room fourteen. ]

You must be Mr. Attano? I'm your new bunkmate. Jasper Khezek.
2leftfeet: (epsilon delphini)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-23 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)
The knee jerk reaction to that is to roll her eyes at him, at the sentiment of it. Watch what? Her drive her forehead into the brick wall of the Council until the only thing that had broken for it was her own damn skull? Or maybe he's talking about the part where she'd made an ass of herself over every data stream in the Galaxy. Or maybe he meant schlepping around basic with her, two morons with guns in their hands and a handful of brain cells to rub together between them. The things that were worth seeing - that reaper on Rannoch, the Collector Base - were the kinds of thing that didn't get repeated because no one would believe them. Except him. Except her crew. For a second she thinks of Liara's time capsule, that ridiculous pre-mortem eulogy and how the only good it'll do is if they fail spectacularly (because she's got the Normandy's crew and Corvo Attano to say everything there is to say about her if they don't).

But she bites it back - the sarcasm. Closes her teeth around it and forces herself not to snort. It's probably the wrong time to criticize sentimentality. After all, she could've gone straight to her meeting with Anderson, but instead she'd walked halfway across base camp to find him and say-- what?

"It's been a pretty good run."
vindictam: (pic#9137431)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-23 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)
His eyebrows go up slightly, as she speaks, and it's plain, all his slight reactions that were never very much, that he's aware of the sarcastic bite that there might be there for the idea of sentiment. But that even as she might have something rebuff that he usually got for it, she's dragged herself across camp, in this last ditch effort, and there is no coming back from this, once it happens. This is it, whatever it is.

And that's all she has to say?

Figures. "Don't strain yourself too much, Shepard."

But he's never been bothered by it, obvious now at the rumble of something that might be laughter as he looks at her out from under his hair. Curling in the corner of his mouth just barely in the way that has most people sure that he doesn't ever laugh and doesn't have anything resembling a sense of humor.

Leaves it there then, his turn to cut across, direct this. He jerks his head a little, tilted back motion indicative more than anything. "C'mere."
vindictam: (pic#8341978)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-24 12:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He is exceptionally good at what he does, after all. Infiltration, moving like shadows and leaving nothing behind, except when they need him too. He follows and does everything he is told to with a single minded focus. Or rather maybe that is the point, as the years progress and he remains where others don't, all he can do, is focus. Everything else, to the chaos of lives past that still do not die in his head, he must examine only the way forward, else he risks drowning in his own memories. Because he does that enough already. Talks to them at length, often, even. When he steps in and out one world and another, death is only so permanent when his every action, every thought is dictated by it.

Shaped wholly in the ashes.

So when enough time later, he is asked what he might like as a reward, he asks only that he might keep the rover. Just as it as, yes there might be better tech, now. He will adapt where he needs to be efficient but what matters most is keeping the ghosts in place, even as they say he becomes one. They do not understand, he is mad, because he does not know how to live as himself. But they do, those that he lost, so he must keep them to keep himself. The floor has been ripped out from under his feet too often now, that he must make up his own and force it to be real. He has places for them all, careful maintained as he moves through it. Terra's brightly coloured scarves that hang over her bunk, he always tells apologizes to where she sleeps, when he needs to wash them. The bottles of drink under deadpool's bunk, where he tells him to shove over where a mission is bad and he wants to waste some time drowning in the burn. The calm instruction to Jasper to straighten up his boots by foot of the bed, each morning then sighs, and does it himself. The goodbye he says to the empty air, the good morning as he readies himself for whatever his orders are.

( Others too, of course. Where Shepard was gone in a shatter of stardust, he sets two glasses out at the small table, and makes a toast to and they're all dead. Aeryn, the spot lent on the kitchen counter as he washed dishes, and he tells her of the anatomy of rats, the disease in their bite, the most effective way to deploy them in combat. Fiona, in the drivers seat, singing along with him. Sometimes, teaches her slow steps to dances when he was a younger man. Tess, with her head next to him on the pillow, and tsking quietly when he doesn't tend wounds properly, fingers skittering on damaged nerve endings. )

( and if he is a ghost, dead as could be to a shell of a man, it is alright, there's another heartbeat, another soul in its place. So long now, he has spent hours in argument with her, once he had nothing else left to lose, until they had beaten themselves hoarse, till there were no more words for them both, and she sighs quiet in his ears, the melancholy of a contemplated eternity they share now. Speaking he finds exhausting outside of the flow back and forth between them. )

He is fifty, and he is a ghost, and there was a thousand choices to be made, that were not, and he knows there are a thousand lives, they all could have lived, but didn't. So it is not so much to imagine Jasper would know him, but not. Come back but never remember. Not that he read the orders the right way, though Jessamine did for him, the way she always had. She sighed quiet, into the rattle of his bones. ( he is coming back grown, beloved and it was not your fate to ruin him, he seeks it all himself. )

Forgets how he seems, if he ever cared anymore, when he sees not a boy, anymore, the man that once, he'd promised Jasper he would always become. Rises one step in front of the other. Mouth a flat inexperessive line. Eyes dark and there's not much to say at all, except everything that hasn't been remembered. Stepped out for shadows, to peer at the boy he had known that has molded as all young men are.

Corvo. You never liked titles before. Call me Corvo. [ because whilst he might understand, it's too hard sometimes, to pick apart the then, and the now, and the could have been. A jumbled up thought. ]
Edited 2015-12-24 22:39 (UTC)
brokentoaster: (011 confused)

[personal profile] brokentoaster 2015-12-25 06:11 am (UTC)(link)
[ The hunched shape rises, steps forward. Solid, not a ghost but indeed a man, though there's an unmistakable hollowness in his eyes. A rigidness that stands out in the tired curves of his shoulders and flat line of his mouth. Corvo. There is no familiarly in it. He croaks out the words, and to Jasper's sharp ears it suggests he hasn't spoken in... he's not sure how long. Perhaps he is a ghost in that he isn't living so much as existing. He is, according to the public files, the oldest recruit onboard and one of the longest serving.

Perhaps one of the longest surviving is a better way of putting it.

Jasper bites back a dry swallow and meets dark eyes with steady red. When he was younger encountering a man like this, dark and staring at him all see-through and bordering on menacing, would have made him nervous enough to avoid. But he's here to work and has a contract to complete, so he believes, (like so many first time recruits now and before him). Now he is older, knows better how to conceal the nerves that once threatened to make his hands shake. Knows better than to waste time hiding in his bunk. Hiding from change, from strangers he'll have to live and inevitably communicate with.

Even if they're already spouting crazy assumptions. ]

I never...? Right. Corvo, then.

[ He takes it as a simple mistake. Narrows eyes, but doesn't bend his ears out of shape over it. Instead he turns his head, the angles of him all sharp as he quickly scans the cramped space. For a rover with only one resident, it looks well lived in. Every bed made as though untouched, folded and clean with soldier's precision, but each living space is occupied with personals. Patterned scarves and a lady's hairbrush, not one but two glasses on the table, magazines of... questionable content stacked on a shelf. And a uniform, folded neatly at the end of an upper bunk, new to Jasper but already recognizable. A Green team jacket and pants, worn, used, patched up on places, (burned?) but undoubtedly similar to the one he was given upon entrance.

None of it is particularly important to him. None is sentimental or remembered. What's strange is it doesn't look like there is any open space for him to leave his pack and start making his own. Sure, fourteen is rumored to be haunted and lonesome, but he was looking forward to the luxury of it being mostly empty. ]

Thought this place was just you. Who else is here?

Edited 2015-12-25 07:49 (UTC)
2leftfeet: (Default)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-31 05:34 am (UTC)(link)
She wasn't lying - wasn't stretching herself either, really, but she figures if there's anyone in this galaxy who gets what she means when she says something simple and means... more than that, it should be him. Right? It's been a good run. From here to the edge of the galaxy and back again, from basic to first assignments, from taking leave and spending those hours in Attano's apartment on base and watching vids and ding anything but thinking of Akuze. Dying. Not dying. The incandescent rage and affection in his face after. A hundred days in lock up and a hundred after; being loved and being hated; killing a half million Batarians. Holding his hand in one of five rare visitations and not feeling particularly sorry for any of it.

So sure; he can laugh at her if he wants to. He might be the only person allowed to. She does snort then, rolling her eyes at the tip of his head and rolling her eyes at the fact that she gives into that, lets him reel her in with little more than a cant of the temple. She shifts forward across the rubble strewn room, closing distance; she doesn't reach her hand out to him - she doesn't do anything but sidle close.

vindictam: (xcii.)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-31 06:35 am (UTC)(link)
There's too much there to sum up, and whether he's the type to understand or not, whether there is a good way to say it or all, just leave it in the gaps, there's warmth in his face, even now, in being near her just once more. Before it all goes to hell. Just once more, and at had been their rhythm as long as he could remember. Always looked at her like that, sure, as long as it mattered. Open and without remorse for it, either. Made his bed, and regretted nothing about who he'd chosen to lie in it with, when it's been hissed at him, was she worth it?

He snags her then, when she's in reach, lazy arm around her waist to draw her closer again. Even so, it's firm, snapped line of tension he's been holding in his shoulders for years now. Shuffling her that little bit in. Not much more than that, but -- "Much." Sucks in a breath. Once more now, with feeling. "Do you remember our holiday. The casino where you manage to drink almost everything on the cocktail menu by the time we finished?" The planet had been lost a long time ago, now. Collectors or reapers, they'd all blurred together. It doesn't matter right now. The one when she'd asked him the one thing he thought she never would want otherwise he would have asked inside the tent the first time she'd visited his family.
vindictam: (pic#8341979)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-01-10 07:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ it takes a moment, it seems like, for the words to even register. Even longer again to gain a response, not until there is the bark of a harsh woman's voice in his ears that prompts him, more than anything else to work through the haze of being spoken and trying to remember who said way. Eyes flick to her briefly, watching her slouched against the kitchen bench. The slow flick as he wets his lips on cracks that have dried and bled and dried and healed. The split where the skin now seems to pull apart at the edges. A ripped seam, his skin is more stitches than it is organ.

Frowns at her, tells her, to his mind, he doesn't take orders from her, not anymore and she turns her stiff shoulders and proud tilt of soldier's grace to the man in front of her and says, well then, he should at least say something to the person that asked, instead of standing there looking like an idiot.

So he swallows, shakes his head, both in response and to shoo away the dark shapes that sit at the edge of the bed. The laughter of the woman behind him telling him to hurry up. Considers the responses, the old ones that aren't... aren't appropriate. the girl made woman you wished to court, the man that taught you to laugh at violence.

No, not that one. Here, here, he has to be here.
] No one. It was always yours as much as mine, take what you wish.

[ He never belonged very much to himself, and in this contract, less so. So these things are Jasper's as much as his because there had always been so very little he held back from then. Pathetic, probably, he'd do anything he was asked, and they only ever asked the worst of him. ]
scinlae: (among the trees)

some would sing and some would scream.

[personal profile] scinlae 2016-01-10 09:18 am (UTC)(link)

don't you ever t a m e your d e m o n s,
always k e e p them on a l e a s h.
dustup: (pic#9676352)

[personal profile] dustup 2016-01-10 10:45 am (UTC)(link)

continued from here.

[ Keener blades could not cut as deep, as swiftly, as her words did. Each breathe, soft word, damning his soul deep. Not even Evie could deliver a harsher blow and she knows the best places to and her strikes. Jacob stills, muscles coiling, fingers trembling in the fists he did not register forming.

He is not cruel, he has never been cruel, yet here he stands before her in her fancy new home. A woman wed, a woman beyond his reach, a gentle and sweet creature he has no right to adore. ]

Not to you, love. [ Feet move, the distance between them seems so far but he crosses it fast. Hand uncoiling to take hold of her arm, a grip oddly gentle in it's firmness. ] Never to you.

[ With his free hand Jacob takes hold of her chin, angles her head - he should leave, pull himself away from the softness of her skin, gentle warmth of her body. He should leave before he does something stupid like take her lips with his own in a kiss neither gentle nor harsh, but a sad sort of in between.

Turn around, leave, go.

But how can he when he holds her so close with both hands and lips? ]
circumspector: (xxii »  its safe in cages)

[personal profile] circumspector 2016-01-10 11:06 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's all so - so - a list of things for women who haven't done the things she has. Haven't been forced to watch and accept the world for what it was before she understood almost anything else. It's cliche, it's poetry for knights and ladies, and he's a killer and she's at best, traitor, dishonorable woman. Neither of them deserve getting what they want even for a moment, in a way that isn't just some encroaching self pity. It's the surety: this will end in blood and hurt for both of them. Neither of them are coming out from this in one piece.

But she doesn't need to tell him that. He knows, he must know, he's reckless and dangerous but no fool. Or maybe they were worse, because here they were - doing it all anyway. Because it's not a question that he would be cruel, and it's not a question that she would let him. That in the second he's reaching for her, she's stepping into it. The second to know - know there's going to be only pain that follows every moment spent like this - and it disregard it for the sharp inhalation of breath as her hands loosen their grip at her throat, and shift to his shoulders. Taking hold in his jacket, and parting her lips against him in something that is firm in return. That is at odds that the softest, softest noise she makes in the back of her throat, because no, it had not been her loneliness embellishing. It feels more than just good, yes, yes it hurts, because that's better. It's something more than she's ever had and it doesn't loosen her hold on him.

He won't let her go and she doesn't know how to let him. So maybe it's all - fair, in it's way.
soltimm: (pic#9904476)

[personal profile] soltimm 2016-01-10 11:29 am (UTC)(link)


continued from here.

Not even for all the gold our sun-brother cannot see.

[ Coolness of her voice is bitter, the cold sea winds come to rip the warmth from the bones of men and replace it all with a chill instead. Let it in sink deep, gnaw upon bone just like her have waves sharpen his land for so long.

As they have danced, clashed, come together time and time again. It shall never end, this most vicious courtship, but she will take joy from it all the same. Take all she can from him, greedy, grasping, reaching deep into his chest, through muscle and bone and take until there is nothing left. ]

Not for all the jewels hidden deep within the earth, nor all the bounty your domain provides. None of it will come close to sating me.

[ Storms rage underneath her skin, a blacker than black darkness shudders in her bones. She looks forward to this, she always has. All he offers, all he does to lure her close, hold her here for as long as he is able. She looks forward to it as much as she looks forward to slipping through his fingers, crisp laughter bubbling upon her lips. ]
Edited 2016-01-10 11:30 (UTC)
vindictam: (pic#8250696)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-01-10 11:37 am (UTC)(link)
[ He comes to her with a knife.

He comes to her with an offering of blood on his hands. He comes to her with rich men screams embedded under his nails. There is seawater rinsed in the back of his tongue, salt-dry where he had washed his mouth out of the copper tang.

He comes to her on his knees because he knows he was always better on them. With promises of fealty that come only because in his saner moments knows it is because she is no fool and knows that he will not stop and whatever stands in his way will not be spared. He doesn't know subtle anymore.

What he knows is limited to this. Pendleton had slighted her, and he was going to kill the man anyway, for poisoning them both. But he takes a care, to keep the blade that he had done it with. Slick still with blood, dried now, save for the coating that was over him. He is death and rot, and he wears it well. They are his sincerest gifts, as makes his way up the steps to her. Emily is back now, wrapped up safe with Callista. But he had promised he would come back to her. He is nothing, nothing but a man of his word. Fools, when they burned him, made him beg and scream - that he was nothing but his word. Nothing but his devotion and his promises.

So of course he comes back to her, he said he would, of course he comes back to her awash in the muck of this city he has gutted his way through - because he said he would, and that is, if he was ever to be feared, it is not for his magic, his ruthlessness, it is because he is a man absolute to his word.

Finds where she is sitting high in the tower, and he drops the blade at her feet. Listening to it clatter on the ground, watching it from behind his mask. It too, is worn better than his skin. Ragged like he had dragged himself up out of the riverbed itself to be here now. Sodden with the storm. Aching in every limb. As he stands there swaying on his feet, he is more himself than he has been in months.

Waiting, waiting for her benediction, her blessing, he has know faith - how can any man when he has stared into the face of his God and knows that he does not care.

He doesn't need any of that.

What he has is better than black eyed princes and empty pitiless void. That whisper of rats and screams echoed back from under the depths.

He has her, and in her, he is complete.
Edited 2016-01-10 11:46 (UTC)
scinlae: (for you to see)

[personal profile] scinlae 2016-01-11 12:19 am (UTC)(link)
[ She knows he is coming, she feels it in the air. A creaking sound in her bones, the taste of brine on her tongue, soft whispers from the depths in her ears. He is coming, it tells her, true to his word he has returned. Done the deed, done away with the filth, with those sickly hands of men who thought themselves better. Men who saw the flesh of a woman instead of the hurricane underneath.

They had done much to earn their deaths, all of them. Surely they knew if their plot was exposed he would not stop, he would bathe himself in their blood. Surely they knew that she could see through their false pretenses of praise. Surely, surely, surely. It is why they had them both poisoned. What fools they were.

She waits for him high upon the tower, for she knows she needn't rush down to him upon the boats return. Yet still she watches from her perch, fingers curled around the dark sleeves of her dress, slightly damp from the ocean spray. It sinks into her skin, leaves behind whispers for a world she knows too well, the smell of rot and salt. Fond she is of it now, for it clings to Corvo like a cloak even in his cleaner hours. Rot and salt and the bitter copper of blood, the filth of the city itself and the blackness darker than black itself.

The sound of the blade hitting wooden floor turns her head from the window, metallic shine marred by dried blood. She steps to pick it up, gentle in her grip, brushing her fingers along it. The blood of rich men, of sneers and false pleasantries. It delights her to see it, smear the dried blood with her fingers, the knowledge that they had died painfully, violently. She barely notices the blade slice her finger, blood quick to rush through the wound. That hand instead raises as she reaches him, caressing the cool metal of his mask, decorating it with new streaks of red.

He has come back to her worn and bloody, murk of the river of the city itself clinging to his clothes. She thinks he could not be more of a beautiful sight.

Clutching the blade still she removes his mask, reverently putting it aside before returning focus to him. Corvo, her blade, her broken man, forever waiting at her alter for whatever scraps she will grant him. Only she grants him more than that, opens her ribs and beckons him inside, coils around him like a snake. She grants him much for he is hers, more than any others, more than the Outsider's. ]


[ Fingers dance across his skin, smearing her blood upon it. His cheek, his temple, his chin, his lips. She smiles at him, a gentle smile reserved for only two people within this city, shifting herself up and closer. ]

I knew you would return.

[ A kiss, a reward, an oddly chaste thing so rare in this dark and dangerous thing they have. ]
2leftfeet: (Default)

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2016-01-11 11:45 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'm going to be honest, I remember about half of it." She squints down at him - she's a half hand taller, slightly more in the plated armor. "But that might have something to do with the cocktail menu thing."

But she's got the important parts nailed down. Figures the rest, like how many credits she blew on quasar or anyone she might have room a swing at or how they'd gotten from the casino bar back to their crappy shared suite, was pretty irrelevant. She remembered the good parts. She remembers the look at his face, mostly; he'd looked like he's been on the receiving end of a gut punch.

The thought of the sentimentality of him bringing it up or maybe just his arm around her again has the line of her mouth going crooked and easy. Small smile, cocked eyebrow - more smug than anything else as she slings her arm easy across his shoulder, cool underside of her reinforced gloved fingers catching at the back of his neck. It's an easy point of contact, all faux nonchalance.
vindictam: (pic#8693756)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-01-13 11:15 am (UTC)(link)
He leans into it easy. Head turning to drag his cheek against the smooth cool line of her armor. Yes, the reapers have blown it up, yes the collectors probably dragged off the bar tender that stuck umbrellas in the side of their glass. No, no they're not getting off earth ever again.

He lent his weight comfortable against the table, balancing their weight against it's edge. Despite it all, he snorts brief in laughter at her response, puff of breath that fogs on her armor.

So because nothing else matters more than this - "I'm getting us two tickets." Really, this time. Flicks his tongue against the flat line of his mouth, suddenly dry. Ah, hell. "Saved up for it. The one with the better view." His hand settles flat to her back, bracing on the cool armor and - maybe skin would be better. Lowers his eyes, shakes his head, absent thought that pulls up another laugh.

It's a tomorrow. What a terrible, awful, painful thing.
brokentoaster: (022 huh?)

[personal profile] brokentoaster 2016-01-13 11:01 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Silence lingers for too long in the place a simple answer should have filled. Jasper watches as the man turns, twitches almost. Tilts his head as if listening, licks his lips, darts a glance elsewhere. It's uncomfortable and Jasper knows he's staring, but at least he's still being attentive when Corvo does finally speak up. However, it's... not a response he can make much sense of.

It all looks so lived in, but the housing assignments said only two in fourteen... so he takes the standard issue pack off his shoulders and moves to set it on the bunk with the extra uniform folded at the end. ]

Guess I'll leave this here for now and move it if the owner comes back.

[ It's placed carefully, to not wrinkle the perfectly smooth sheets much. Despite the unwelcoming and awkward confusion, this is still his assigned living space, and so he tries to make himself more comfortable, (difficult as that is under that darting dark gaze). Unzips his storm jacket, hangs it by the hood off the bunk post. Pulls off his gloves, not minding the reddish burn scars that coat the skin of his right hand like he used to. Twists a simple silver band on his ring finger as he circles the small living area. ]

My familiar was hopin' she could poke in here from time to time, but she's way too big. You'll have to meet her in the hangar sometime.

[ There would be no worries of Jasper being separated from the other half of his soul for too long this time, no unintended or ill magical side effects. She had been dragged out of her world with him, not to be held in an unnamed place. But this Jasper has never worried about that. He's more worried about simpler matters- ]

Kitchen's real small... how do you cook anythin' in here?

Edited 2016-01-14 03:03 (UTC)