100moods | romantic | Parabellum
Nov. 5th, 2015 09:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aftanithTitle: Romantic
Fandom: Parabellum (original fiction)
Wordcount: 1396
Characters: Stelian Frost & Sparrow
Pairing(s): Stelian Frost/Sparrow
Warning(s): implied/referenced rape/noncon, Stockholm syndrome, mental instability
Prompt(s):![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
100moods 82. romantic
romantic [rōˈman(t)ik] adjective - of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality.
If someone were to sum up the story of her life, the only tagline Sparrow would deign approve would be simply, "Sparrow Frost has obviously lost her mind."
The reason is in the sentence. Not Stacey Katharos. Not "Sparrow". Sparrow fucking Frost. Who the fuck is Sparrow Frost?
Sparrow Frost, she notes with a sudden stab of hatred, is the idiot currently sitting in the suite she was imprisoned in for... well, who knows how long, really; her transition from captive to this was so gradual that she isn't sure when it even began, let alone ended, and maybe it hasn't ended still. But this is the place where her life changed, where it became whatever the hell it is now, and she's sitting here at Frost's fucking table, waiting for the husband she never wanted to come home so she can--
By the war, she hates herself.
In the weirdest way, she blames this on Simon. She never felt like this before he died, and if she did, she at least had the luxury of complete and utter obliviousness. But now that she can't help but feel the loss of him burning in her chest, can't help but want to fill that hole with something and cling to it so tightly that she'll be sure to never again lose anyone the way she lost him...
Well, now that Simon's gone, Sparrow Frost has obviously lost her mind.
If there had been any way to cover this up--to get all the evidence out of the way and go about her life as if she's never stooped this low--before Frost came back, she would have. That was a pipe dream. She'd gone to not considerable lengths but lengths nonetheless for this, and she was going to go through with it if it killed her. At least if it did, this whole shameful bought of nonsense would be thankfully, blissfully over.
She doesn't even give him a chance to get his bearings, doesn't offer him a single second to ponder why the hell the lights are dim and there's candles burning or what the fuck is she doing. "Sit down."
Eyes narrowing in the low light of their bedroom--perhaps suspicious, perhaps just trying to adjust--Frost's gaze falls to her. He's clearly bewildered (and he certainly should be), but he sits down opposite her without a word. Not until after he's in the chair, at least.
She watches him take in the scene in front of him, the red table cloth and roses, candles and wine, and a general abundance of sappy bullshit he clearly doesn't understand how to reconcile with the idea of her. "Can I ask--?"
"No." He falls silent immediately. At least there's that. "You left me with the rebels." He blinks, stares at her like he doesn't know whether he should protest or just run the fuck away, and she goes on. "And Simon's dead and Galen left, and all I can think is..." She hears her voice waver, feels it in her throat, and she cuts off quickly, closing her eyes even as she feels--to her unending horror--tears of all things welling up behind her lids. "It's not your fault you don't know how I feel about you."
She takes a deep breath and reopens her eyes, and she's surprised at the pain in his expression. "Sparrow--" he starts, but again, she cuts him off.
"Don't. Look, I can't--I haven't told you how I feel because I don't know what the hell this is. It's... I mean, I know what it is, but it doesn't feel like--" She breaks off, frustrated. Starts over. "You did this to me and I didn't want it, and now both of us have to deal with it, do you understand me? You don't get to dump me off on someone else, you don't get to decide I'd be happier somewhere else, you don't get to... you don't get to fucking die like Simon did, and we are not going to scare anyone else away from us by being the dysfunctional fucking nightmare that we are."
It's out. It's out, and finally, she lets him speak. "I'm so sorry."
That's all he says. She waits, but he's silent after that, as if that was all that needed to be said. She rolls her eyes. "I don't want you to be sorry." She hesitates. "Well, yes, I do. Of course I do; what you did to me was terrible. But we can't undo it, and I--I don't even want to. If that was what I wanted, it would be different, but this is what I am now. You got everything you fucking wanted, Frost, and I can't go back to being the person I was before this nonsense started because I don't even know that girl anymore. I'm not her. For better or for worse, I'm what you've made me. I'm yours."
Sparrow stands, moving around the table toward him, and the look on his face is pure horror. She watches him struggle to mask it when she reaches him, and she leans over his body, taking his chin in her hand. "I don't want you to apologize for this, Frost, and I certainly don't want you to try to get rid of me again. After all you've done, you don't get to decide that I'm better off without you, and..." There's a little voice in the back of her mind telling her to stop because she sound completely crazy, and she pushes it away. She doesn't need it; she knows. She is what he's made her. "You don't get to leave me. If I'm yours, you're mine."
She can feel the tears burning in her eyes again, and through her swimming vision, she can still see that Frost looks torn; whatever he wanted from her, he clearly didn't understand what actually getting it would mean.
Her voice comes out tiny and broken, and she sounds just like she knows he imagines she did ten years ago when she was a helpless child outplayed and exploited by monsters people twice her age. "Please don't leave me."
Weakness never got Stacey Katharos a single thing she could use. Her mother hated it--hated her for keeping it long after she thought the child should've let it go--and Solares would have killed her for it if she hadn't killed it instead, and weakness certainly couldn't have gotten her through the Culling or persuaded Frost to let her go back when she was just "Sparrow".
But when Sparrow Frost stands in front of him, wearing a tiny black dress and jewelry worth thousands and his name, those tears could move mountains.
He seizes her in an instant, pulling her down into his lap, his arms sliding around her still-thin frame and clinging, and she knows she's not the only one who's lost her mind. He kisses her like he's afraid he'll never get the chance to kiss her again, and she matches his passion with a hunger of her own.
"I'm yours," he swears, the words on his lips every second hers aren't, whispering it over and over like a mantra.
Finally, she pulls her mouth away from his, shushes him quiet, and just sits there a moment, drinking in the unfathomable something she sees burning in his eyes. She nods almost imperceptibly toward the table beside them. "Hope you don't mind wallowing in cliches, because I'm not much in the way of romantic bullshit myself."
He looks at her like he still can't quite believe she's real. "All this... Why? You didn't have to--"
They're such a mess. "Because I need you to know I feel it, even if I can't bring myself to say it."
"I love you," he whispers as she turns to face the table. She doesn't bother returning to her own chair; she's comfortable where she is.
His arms encompass her, sliding around her body like chains, and she feels him bury his face in her hair. Hears him take a deep breath, drinking in the scent of her. Hears the tiny, satisfied noise he makes against her neck--and feels the rush of tingling warmth it spreads through her core.
"I know."
Fandom: Parabellum (original fiction)
Wordcount: 1396
Characters: Stelian Frost & Sparrow
Pairing(s): Stelian Frost/Sparrow
Warning(s): implied/referenced rape/noncon, Stockholm syndrome, mental instability
Prompt(s):
100moods 82. romanticIf someone were to sum up the story of her life, the only tagline Sparrow would deign approve would be simply, "Sparrow Frost has obviously lost her mind."
The reason is in the sentence. Not Stacey Katharos. Not "Sparrow". Sparrow fucking Frost. Who the fuck is Sparrow Frost?
Sparrow Frost, she notes with a sudden stab of hatred, is the idiot currently sitting in the suite she was imprisoned in for... well, who knows how long, really; her transition from captive to this was so gradual that she isn't sure when it even began, let alone ended, and maybe it hasn't ended still. But this is the place where her life changed, where it became whatever the hell it is now, and she's sitting here at Frost's fucking table, waiting for the husband she never wanted to come home so she can--
By the war, she hates herself.
In the weirdest way, she blames this on Simon. She never felt like this before he died, and if she did, she at least had the luxury of complete and utter obliviousness. But now that she can't help but feel the loss of him burning in her chest, can't help but want to fill that hole with something and cling to it so tightly that she'll be sure to never again lose anyone the way she lost him...
Well, now that Simon's gone, Sparrow Frost has obviously lost her mind.
If there had been any way to cover this up--to get all the evidence out of the way and go about her life as if she's never stooped this low--before Frost came back, she would have. That was a pipe dream. She'd gone to not considerable lengths but lengths nonetheless for this, and she was going to go through with it if it killed her. At least if it did, this whole shameful bought of nonsense would be thankfully, blissfully over.
She doesn't even give him a chance to get his bearings, doesn't offer him a single second to ponder why the hell the lights are dim and there's candles burning or what the fuck is she doing. "Sit down."
Eyes narrowing in the low light of their bedroom--perhaps suspicious, perhaps just trying to adjust--Frost's gaze falls to her. He's clearly bewildered (and he certainly should be), but he sits down opposite her without a word. Not until after he's in the chair, at least.
She watches him take in the scene in front of him, the red table cloth and roses, candles and wine, and a general abundance of sappy bullshit he clearly doesn't understand how to reconcile with the idea of her. "Can I ask--?"
"No." He falls silent immediately. At least there's that. "You left me with the rebels." He blinks, stares at her like he doesn't know whether he should protest or just run the fuck away, and she goes on. "And Simon's dead and Galen left, and all I can think is..." She hears her voice waver, feels it in her throat, and she cuts off quickly, closing her eyes even as she feels--to her unending horror--tears of all things welling up behind her lids. "It's not your fault you don't know how I feel about you."
She takes a deep breath and reopens her eyes, and she's surprised at the pain in his expression. "Sparrow--" he starts, but again, she cuts him off.
"Don't. Look, I can't--I haven't told you how I feel because I don't know what the hell this is. It's... I mean, I know what it is, but it doesn't feel like--" She breaks off, frustrated. Starts over. "You did this to me and I didn't want it, and now both of us have to deal with it, do you understand me? You don't get to dump me off on someone else, you don't get to decide I'd be happier somewhere else, you don't get to... you don't get to fucking die like Simon did, and we are not going to scare anyone else away from us by being the dysfunctional fucking nightmare that we are."
It's out. It's out, and finally, she lets him speak. "I'm so sorry."
That's all he says. She waits, but he's silent after that, as if that was all that needed to be said. She rolls her eyes. "I don't want you to be sorry." She hesitates. "Well, yes, I do. Of course I do; what you did to me was terrible. But we can't undo it, and I--I don't even want to. If that was what I wanted, it would be different, but this is what I am now. You got everything you fucking wanted, Frost, and I can't go back to being the person I was before this nonsense started because I don't even know that girl anymore. I'm not her. For better or for worse, I'm what you've made me. I'm yours."
Sparrow stands, moving around the table toward him, and the look on his face is pure horror. She watches him struggle to mask it when she reaches him, and she leans over his body, taking his chin in her hand. "I don't want you to apologize for this, Frost, and I certainly don't want you to try to get rid of me again. After all you've done, you don't get to decide that I'm better off without you, and..." There's a little voice in the back of her mind telling her to stop because she sound completely crazy, and she pushes it away. She doesn't need it; she knows. She is what he's made her. "You don't get to leave me. If I'm yours, you're mine."
She can feel the tears burning in her eyes again, and through her swimming vision, she can still see that Frost looks torn; whatever he wanted from her, he clearly didn't understand what actually getting it would mean.
Her voice comes out tiny and broken, and she sounds just like she knows he imagines she did ten years ago when she was a helpless child outplayed and exploited by monsters people twice her age. "Please don't leave me."
Weakness never got Stacey Katharos a single thing she could use. Her mother hated it--hated her for keeping it long after she thought the child should've let it go--and Solares would have killed her for it if she hadn't killed it instead, and weakness certainly couldn't have gotten her through the Culling or persuaded Frost to let her go back when she was just "Sparrow".
But when Sparrow Frost stands in front of him, wearing a tiny black dress and jewelry worth thousands and his name, those tears could move mountains.
He seizes her in an instant, pulling her down into his lap, his arms sliding around her still-thin frame and clinging, and she knows she's not the only one who's lost her mind. He kisses her like he's afraid he'll never get the chance to kiss her again, and she matches his passion with a hunger of her own.
"I'm yours," he swears, the words on his lips every second hers aren't, whispering it over and over like a mantra.
Finally, she pulls her mouth away from his, shushes him quiet, and just sits there a moment, drinking in the unfathomable something she sees burning in his eyes. She nods almost imperceptibly toward the table beside them. "Hope you don't mind wallowing in cliches, because I'm not much in the way of romantic bullshit myself."
He looks at her like he still can't quite believe she's real. "All this... Why? You didn't have to--"
They're such a mess. "Because I need you to know I feel it, even if I can't bring myself to say it."
"I love you," he whispers as she turns to face the table. She doesn't bother returning to her own chair; she's comfortable where she is.
His arms encompass her, sliding around her body like chains, and she feels him bury his face in her hair. Hears him take a deep breath, drinking in the scent of her. Hears the tiny, satisfied noise he makes against her neck--and feels the rush of tingling warmth it spreads through her core.
"I know."
© 2015 A.F. Tanith
