| |
[Apr. 25th, 2014|04:48 am] |
genre: science fiction/Firefly universe/pirates
where: aboard the Nekhbet
preferences: het, slash, platonic
warnings: tbd
It was late into Nekhbet's night, lights dimmed, air circulating a few degrees cooler, the steady thrum of engines rising from the decking and into his bare feet to vibrate into his bones, mostly unnoticed after four years of living aboard her. Rezek could hear the whoosh of circulating air, the hum of engines and the creak of metal, ceramic and plastics as the ship sailed on through space. At his elbow a cup of tea steeped, fragrant jasmine. A luxury and an expense to be sure, but Rezek was a man who liked his creature comforts.
The scent of oil was heavy in his nose, the shkk-shkk of blade sliding across whetstone familiar and calming. There was something meditative about cleaning, sharpening and polishing his knives, and the irony was not lost on him--to feel peaceful while preparing weapons to kill.
He sat at the long dining table in the galley, dressed in a tee shirt and a pair of loose sleep pants, a dozen blades lined up neatly on a cloth before him. The captain had fussed at him once for not protecting the wood from the oil, though in Rezek's estimation a little oil certainly wouldn't hurt the aged table. To keep the peace, he'd started using a cloth, and in truth it was no skin off his nose to do so. With the captain he had to pick his battles and this was not worth the bother.
Rezek paused to take a sip of tea. The heat of the tea through the thin china warmed his fingers. He wasn't certain if it was the soft, almost silent scrape of foot against decking or merely that odd sixth sense that had saved his life so often, but he knew without looking that he was no longer alone.
Setting the cup back on the table and taking up his dagger to smooth it across the whetstone, he said, his voice soft and pleasant with a tiny hint of teasing, "How do you ever sneak up on anyone, clumping around as you do like a drunken cow?" |
|
|
| |
[Apr. 25th, 2014|06:44 am] |
genre: modern AU, arranged marriage
preferences: slash, het
warnings: tba
"Stop fidgeting, or I'll cut off your hands," Jeroen snapped, and tugged Gabriel's tie straight again, this time none-too-gently.
Gabriel scowled at him. "I don't like ties. They're confining. Strangling. I can't draw a decent breath when I'm wearing one."
"And yet all other men do so without problem. You'll just need to deal with it. Mother insisted, and what she wants, she gets. After the reception, you're free to take it off and cut it into tiny pieces, for all I care."
"Don't think I won't," Gabriel replied as his brother stepped back, finally satisfied. Gabriel paced to the window, looked out it for a moment. He pressed his lips together, firmly pushed down the urge to pick at his tie again.
"Izaak?" He didn't look back at Jeroen.
"Not here. Father decided it was for the best. I don't think he'd do anything foolish, but still. Best to remove all possibilities for trouble, yes?"
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Jeroen. "He wouldn't do anything foolish. Izaak knows the stakes involved in all this."
"Participants in arranged marriages tend to turn a blind eye to certain...activities as long as there's discretion shown," Jeroen said, and Gabriel turned to frown at him.
"I think he deserves to be more than just a bit on the side. No. A clean break. And thanks ever so for casting me in the role of adulterer before I'm even wed."
Jeroen adjusted his cufflinks. "Don't be so prim. We're all adults here. Neither of you is entering into this because of love--it's a completely political arrangement. There's no need to leave your needs unsatisfied."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd just shut up about it," Gabriel said, and Jeroen simply shrugged. "How much longer?"
Jeroen glanced at his watch. "Three minutes." He stepped up and did one last adjustment of Gabriel's tie and lapels, tugged down the cuffs of his jacket just so. "Put on your Prince Face, go out there, and say the words. It'll all be over with in five or six more hours, and then you can do a ceremonial burning of the tie."
"I don't want this," Gabriel said. "It needs doing, and I shall, but really, I don't want this."
"You're the only one who can, though," Jeroen said. "For what it's worth, I am sorry."
"I know what's at stake. And I'd do it ten times over if it would help. I just--" Gabriel closed his mouth abruptly. He knew his duty, and he would perform it. He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. It was supposed to help, but he wasn't certain that it did. Gabriel arranged his face into calm lines, tucked away everything else. He might not have a choice in what he did, but he certainly had a choice in how he presented himself, how he acted.
"I'm ready," he said, and Jeroen's mouth curled into a faint smile and he opened the door that lead out to the chapel itself. |
|
|