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rainbowfic2023-07-21 09:53 pm
wallwalker) wrote in rainbowfic2023-07-21 09:53 pm
Psychedelic Purple 4, Vienna Orange 1
Author:Wallwalker
Story: Misplaced
Colors: Psychedelic Purple 4. can I take my friend to bed?, Vienna Orange 1. But I know it's wrong, why do I do it?
Supplies: Brush (Dauntless)
Style: Silhouette, Graffiti (11 Years of Rainbowfic pt 7)
Word Count: 700
Rating: T
Content notes: Polyamory, discussion of internal confusion/guilt, alcoholism, maternal death.
Summary: It is the presence of his guilt, and not what he has done to cause it, that bothers him.
Note: Same universe as War and Confidence but I don't know if this is going to end up being a part of that story or not, will possibly add it to the 'verse when I decide.
Current claim list, in progress.
---
"Was this a bad idea?"
Michele knew he was talking to himself. The others had already fallen asleep. Dear Gemma, small and quick and dark was resting her head on his shoulder as she laid next to him, turned away and holding Luisa's large hand as the older, bulkier woman dozed. Matteo had thrown his own hairy arm across his chest, holding him tightly, even in his sleep.
The four of them had been fighting side-by-side for so long, the greatest soldiers that Confortola had seen in decades, their strongest and most loyal warriors - blessed by the god of war and justice himself. Their very names had become enough to make enemies recoil in fear. They spent most of their time together, hunting down the most dangerous of their enemies, camping in empty houses or large tents, pressed together for warmth. It had had been necessary, and entirely natural.
What had just happened... Michele stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to let himself sleep. He often took the first watch, and even here in the relative safety of the inn there could often be enemies. Besides... he did not know if his dreams would condemn him, if he slept.
They called him the Dauntless, he thought, the man who feared nothing. Except, apparently, for his own mind.
He didn't know why he felt so guilty; that was the worst part. They had all consented to their tryst; there had not even been any alcohol involved, the four of them having left the celebration early to rest in their room. The tension that had been burning between them had simply erupted into a conflagration that had consumed them all. And the others had not shown any guilt or shame about what they had done. He had even heard Gemma laugh with delight, as she watched Matteo and Luisa pull him to the bed. He had heard her say something as she'd removed her own surcoat, watching the others quickly and carelessly pull off each other's clothing.
About blasted time, he'd thought she said as she'd settled down beside him, one arm wrapping around Matteo as he laughed in agreement. Luisa had not laughed; she had been busy kissing him, her tongue pressing against his as he gasped with shock and pleasure. His mind had not yet began ruminating over what he had had done, and his flesh had been eager, even desperate for it, remembering long days of training and long evenings being pressed together in close quarters, how much he'd wanted this.
The memory of his desire, and of their cheer and eagerness for the same, only made the strange and gnawing guilt worse.
He could not shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. He remembered his mother bitterly speaking of his father - he'd seduced her, she had said, and then disappeared with only a hastily-written letter, saying that he had made a terrible mistake, that he could not stay. Love was foolish, she told him at her low moments, voice slurred by strong drink, and pleasures of the flesh always had a price. She should know, she'd said, gazing at him with dark, empty eyes; she had paid the highest price that any woman could pay.
He'd wondered, once, if his father knew he had a son. Would he say the same, if Michele had found him? But it hadn't mattered - his mother had no other family that would claim her, and he had taken care of her until the day she'd died, to the point that he'd almost seen no future for himself when she'd passed away shortly after his fifteenth birthday. If old Alessandro hadn't seen some promise in him, given him some sort of direction as he'd wandered aimless after her death, he didn't know what he would have done.
These people had accepted him, body and soul, long before this had happened. Michele could not understand why he felt such shame. But his mother's words were so heavy in his mind; he didn't know what to do to ignore them. He would have to talk to them about it, either to ensure that it would not happen again before he was ready or to find some way to banish them.
For now, he had to stand watch over them all, as he had been standing watch his entire life. He would not turn away from them in this, no matter what.
Story: Misplaced
Colors: Psychedelic Purple 4. can I take my friend to bed?, Vienna Orange 1. But I know it's wrong, why do I do it?
Supplies: Brush (Dauntless)
Style: Silhouette, Graffiti (11 Years of Rainbowfic pt 7)
Word Count: 700
Rating: T
Content notes: Polyamory, discussion of internal confusion/guilt, alcoholism, maternal death.
Summary: It is the presence of his guilt, and not what he has done to cause it, that bothers him.
Note: Same universe as War and Confidence but I don't know if this is going to end up being a part of that story or not, will possibly add it to the 'verse when I decide.
Current claim list, in progress.
---
"Was this a bad idea?"
Michele knew he was talking to himself. The others had already fallen asleep. Dear Gemma, small and quick and dark was resting her head on his shoulder as she laid next to him, turned away and holding Luisa's large hand as the older, bulkier woman dozed. Matteo had thrown his own hairy arm across his chest, holding him tightly, even in his sleep.
The four of them had been fighting side-by-side for so long, the greatest soldiers that Confortola had seen in decades, their strongest and most loyal warriors - blessed by the god of war and justice himself. Their very names had become enough to make enemies recoil in fear. They spent most of their time together, hunting down the most dangerous of their enemies, camping in empty houses or large tents, pressed together for warmth. It had had been necessary, and entirely natural.
What had just happened... Michele stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to let himself sleep. He often took the first watch, and even here in the relative safety of the inn there could often be enemies. Besides... he did not know if his dreams would condemn him, if he slept.
They called him the Dauntless, he thought, the man who feared nothing. Except, apparently, for his own mind.
He didn't know why he felt so guilty; that was the worst part. They had all consented to their tryst; there had not even been any alcohol involved, the four of them having left the celebration early to rest in their room. The tension that had been burning between them had simply erupted into a conflagration that had consumed them all. And the others had not shown any guilt or shame about what they had done. He had even heard Gemma laugh with delight, as she watched Matteo and Luisa pull him to the bed. He had heard her say something as she'd removed her own surcoat, watching the others quickly and carelessly pull off each other's clothing.
About blasted time, he'd thought she said as she'd settled down beside him, one arm wrapping around Matteo as he laughed in agreement. Luisa had not laughed; she had been busy kissing him, her tongue pressing against his as he gasped with shock and pleasure. His mind had not yet began ruminating over what he had had done, and his flesh had been eager, even desperate for it, remembering long days of training and long evenings being pressed together in close quarters, how much he'd wanted this.
The memory of his desire, and of their cheer and eagerness for the same, only made the strange and gnawing guilt worse.
He could not shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. He remembered his mother bitterly speaking of his father - he'd seduced her, she had said, and then disappeared with only a hastily-written letter, saying that he had made a terrible mistake, that he could not stay. Love was foolish, she told him at her low moments, voice slurred by strong drink, and pleasures of the flesh always had a price. She should know, she'd said, gazing at him with dark, empty eyes; she had paid the highest price that any woman could pay.
He'd wondered, once, if his father knew he had a son. Would he say the same, if Michele had found him? But it hadn't mattered - his mother had no other family that would claim her, and he had taken care of her until the day she'd died, to the point that he'd almost seen no future for himself when she'd passed away shortly after his fifteenth birthday. If old Alessandro hadn't seen some promise in him, given him some sort of direction as he'd wandered aimless after her death, he didn't know what he would have done.
These people had accepted him, body and soul, long before this had happened. Michele could not understand why he felt such shame. But his mother's words were so heavy in his mind; he didn't know what to do to ignore them. He would have to talk to them about it, either to ensure that it would not happen again before he was ready or to find some way to banish them.
For now, he had to stand watch over them all, as he had been standing watch his entire life. He would not turn away from them in this, no matter what.
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The rumination and the way Michele's thoughts build upon each other and loop around is easy and natural to read, very well-done.
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