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[johnypage95]

[novaursa]

The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Paring: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her. 

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound. 

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced. 

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty. 

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought—Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind. 

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father. 

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat. 

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Aaaah I see we are talking about Vikings. I like it .

I am still very interested in Loki meeting Harald and /or Rollo.

The headcanon about Rollo was wild. I like it.

Also….what is all this teasing with the Harald’s pictures. Mean woman.

Haha I just felt like bugging you hehehe. Anyway idk if this is what you wanted but....

Midgard

You haven't seen it in centuries

Not since your death

An end that saw you to a new beginning

Nothing more glorious than your mortality

Another term of dredgery

Even if your master is a god

The trickster of the bunch, the cruelest in your eye

He is not kind or patient

He demands and your eternal duty is to obey

So it is that follow him down to your former home

You do not miss the winters now that you taste them again

Loki walks ahead of you

Even afoot, he wears his status proudly

A trek that has you worn and wrought

Though he is unbothered by the distance

You know better than to ask why he's come so far

Another of his tricks no doubt

So long as you no their target, you will not protest

He summons a grand tent to sleep

You remain without, keeping watching through the darkness

Morning comes and you're off again

This time, with a mount beneath him though you stay afoot

His robes are untouched by the wilderness or the whipping salt of the coast

Your skin is raw and cracking

How is it you still feel as a mortal would

You stop again, this time he listens to the winds, holding a finger out to measure them

You don't question him, you never would dare

His jade eyes glimmer over you as he snaps the reins

The horse trots forward and you trail after

Over the ridge and down a hill, into a valley where men sharpen swords and boil stew in metal helms

He is undeterred as they stand to greet him on guard

As if they can sense his unearthly countenance, they let him pass

They do not see you behind him, can they?

He approaches the tent at the centre

He does not request entrance, rather he pulls back the thick flap and enters

You slip in behind him, the tent scented with heavy spices and smoke

There's a man there, binding his fur boots with strips of hide

The ink on his face sets a contrast to his bright eyes as he looks to his visitor

He stands, his hand on his hilt

"Did you not pray for me? Yet you would greet me with steel?" Loki challenges, his words flicking from his snakish tongue

"I pray to the norns, to valhalla, and the warriors," the man argues, "you look as none."

Loki scoffs, slithering around the tent.

The man's eyes fall upon you, the first to do so

You watch your master, ignoring his attention

"I know Valhalla, I know war, and I know you, Harald Finehair," Loki taunts, "and I know this place... this basin in which you've raised camp. What is it you Midgardians call it?"

"The Snake's Nest," the man, called Harald, turns his sights on the god.

"And do you know what we call it? My brothers, my father, and blessed Freya?"

"You are not--"

"What is it you prayed for, Finehair? A princess so fair," Loki interrupts, "to ease your sorrows and your loneliness."

"How..." the man gulps, and looks at you again, "you cannot be... you've brought her to me?"

Loki snickers, as he does when his brother has fallen prey to one of his traps, "she is a thrall. I should pity if you would believe her a princess."

You don't react. You are what he says.

"Which are you? Thor? Balder? Should not Freya balance the scales of love?"

Another crowing cackle from your master.

"I am the one who heard you, what should it matter?"

Harald, of the finehair, drags his hand from the hilt.

"What sacrifice do you require?" He asks.

Loki laughs once more, the seal on this man's fate.

[angrylnxy]

What you are about to read is a Work in progress and isn’t completed!

Just wanted to share it with y’all as a sneak peek!

Fanfic name: “ Forgotten But Not Lost” or “Forgotten Spark” undecided.

Bumblebee was used to the overwhelming silence by now. The darkness still unnerved him as he could only glare out the huge command haul windows. Leaning against the main command situation where his spark was encased spinning in its clear chamber.

Bee huffed at the chamber, his optics watched his spark for a moment longer before spinning away from the command console and stomping away. His arms hugged himself in a poor attempt to self soothe as memories of what his Creators did to him flash in his mind. He had been a normal mech happily living with his sire. When he was taken he had hoped his sire would find him. Clearly that hadn’t happened. Instead Bee was forced to watch older and younger mechs be stripped of their sparks and then their sparks being extinguished.

All in the name of creating war ships that would be unstoppable. So their creators could take over the world. So when they arrived to do the same to himself he had been scared. And of course he had to be the lucky fool. They found the way to bind a spark with a ship. Bee had been the first of the newly dubbed spark destroyers. At first when given his new body he was scared. It was so much bigger than his own tiny body had been.

But when they started actively using him as a war ship he did something he was sure those that made weren't aware he could do. He took full control and refused to do anything but be an oversize target. That's when they started to attempt to bribe him once they realized he was still alive within the ship. They made so many things in an attempt to buy his corporation.

One of which being a holoform. So he could still walk amongst the others. It worked for a moment until they made another ship. Which held another unwilling spark, they backed out of a promise they made. So he simply stopped complying, which held to a communication line being installed to try and soothe both ships. That did calm the other Spark destroyer but not Bee. Bee no longer wanted any part of their world domination plan. Not like he wanted to be a part of it before.

The bots in charge did stop using unwilling civilians and instead used mechs who wanted to serve a higher purpose. So they eventually had a fleet of spark powered ships. Bee could also feel when that very same fleet was all destroyed. When that happened he was left to rust in the very place that made him this way. The creators laughed and said they no longer needed this ship so they left.

Bumblebee got the last laugh in the end. He did mourn the loss of the other ships. His communication lines were left on in a small hope that someone would appear. But no one ever did. It's been many vorns since then. The underground bunker he was in had been very much lost too time as buildings and other things were built over him.

He glanced around the empty and dusty ship. Feeling the now familiar disconnect from his own body. But it was quickly lost as he slid open one of his many doors letting himself through even if it wasn’t required. The room he entered was the security room. Filled with every camera you could desire. Including the cameras on the outside of his body. He idly watched the cameras before releasing his holoform. Doing so kind of felt like going from one place on the ship to being everywhere.

Even weirded was being able to perceive everything at once. It tended to overwhelm him so he had to quickly learn how to block certain things out. He viewed the darkness and sighed which shook his whole frame and rocked the ship slightly where it hung just above the ground. Another reason he was stuck here was the heavy duty chains keeping him from moving and the engine covered. The darkness wasn’t an old thing; the lights went out only a stellar cycle ago. Maybe even less.

But it was around long enough that when light appeared it caught his attention quickly and he shut down most of his systems to appear offline or inactive. He only kept his cameras online along with his audio perceivers. He almost thinks he imagined it when the light flashes again and a group of mechs appear. The two leading the group are a big gray and red bot and another red and blue bot.

Bee glanced over the group, a bit of hope rising in his spark. The group was now arguing as the two leaders observed the big open ship hanger. The mainly gray bot is of a flier build while the other was a grounder like Bee was. They seem to be equally divided now that he is looking closer. Four flyers and Four grounders, how interesting.

“ This is Pointless!” One of the louder fliers complained, his main color being white and a strange reddish color as his accent. “ This place has more rust and dust than anything functional enough for us to use Lord Megatron!”

“Optuims says The Matrix led him here so have faith you rust basket!” a Grounder snaps back a red and white bot.

“Oh YES let me trust the newly made prime and his weird new spark to guide us down a rust filled death trap!” The same flier hissed back at the grounder. The bigger gray bot huffed and gave the red and blue bot a questioning look. Optimus if he can guess from the flier pointing at him. Moves closer towards him, the light not quite reaching him from his lights.

“ It's hard to guess what it is trying to tell me but it seemed certain something was down here that could help us.” Optimus spoke his voice gentle but strong and sure at the same time. “ Ratchet, Bulkhead, prowl spread out and try to get the light back on.”

The grounder gives their leader their agreement and turns to find the power or anything of use. Bee couldn’t help the shiver the rattled his form making the chains rattle loudly in the now quiet area. Bee hears their gasp and demands to show himself. He giggled but decided to help them out a bit. He turns on his landing lights. Which were long stripes of glowing blue on the outside of his shell. That framed his wings and windows. Basically making his outline glow a nice blue.

“By the AllSpark!” The big green bot rushes towards him, stopping short to take in the ship. “It can’t be! Oh but it sure looks like one!”

“ What is this thing, Bulkhead?” The smallest of the bots asked, eyeing him with distrust.

“Well I’m not really sure, since it was very well known that all of the ships were lost in a supernova but.” He took a deep breath and spread his arms out. “ It sure looks like a Spark destroyer just from the descriptions alone!”

“ A spark destroyer” The big gray flier said, slowly looking him up and down. “ Isn’t that the ships that were rumored to be the best battleships to exist?”

“Huh. Yes, but it was kind of muttered by bots that left the revolt that one of the ships of the fleet was missing right before the supernova took out the fleet of them.” Bulkhead gave the gray flier a wary look. Then he looked back at him. “ They told the mechs that wanted to recreate the ships that it wasn't worth the results. That the ships had a tendency to go haywire.”

Bee supposed that was one way of saying sentient ship that didn’t want to work with you. He went back to watching idle as they searched around. Optimus was still staring at him, and Bee watched him back. Watch as his face plates emotioned shifted before they took a stern and worried look.

“This ship has to be what the Matrix was guiding us too.” he turns slightly to the gray flier who was glancing around the empty hanger. “ There has to be a way to get it down. But please be wary, something feels… off about this ship theres somethings wrong here”

“Its a ship prime” The gray flier huffs, turning their gaze back to him. “ The only thing wrong is that it was left to rot.”

“Optimus! We found something, tell us if it does anything.” The big green ones voice calls. Then the place is full of lights. And the old creaking of the chains as for the first time in a long time his landing gears touch the floor and the chains fall free from him with a clank. The chains then are withdrawn upward and away from his gray metal.

He couldn’t help the hissing of his engines and vents. Excited at being free once more, he would gladly help this group at least get out of this rust yard of a hanger. So he opens up the ramp to allow them to enter. Bulkhead raced over muttering all sorts of things but didn’t step onto the ramp waiting as Optimus walked over. The prime took a deep breath before marching onwards.

Bee swapped to the camera inside of his halls. Watching as this strange group slowly explored, growing closer to the command center. He left all of the doors open, only emergency lights were on. When the prime stepped into the command center he allowed the normal lights to turn on. Showing off the dust covered floors and command console.

He knew when the prime spotted his spark because the mech beelined for it. And Bee felt a very soft nudge against his spark that kind of shocked him. So he gently nudged back confused but started up his engines for real this time and let the console light up with its red warning lights and let the error message fly up on the screen of the main command console.

Bee could fly right now in cybertrons air space but traveling the galaxy would be a no go until he was fully repaired since unfortunately being left to rust ment he was slowly falling into disrepair. Even if he was made to take even the worst of blows. In fact he was surprised it was a supernova since his creators seemed confident they could at least survive one. They could be wrong but that didn’t settle right with him.

“Bulkhead, do you think you could fix any of this before we leave here?” Optuims asked, his optics were still locked onto his spark. The others hadn’t spotted his incased spark if their awed remarks went to show.

“Yeah boss I shou-” Bulkhead stopped speaking suddenly and Bee moved a camera to look at the shocked and sick looking bot. “ Optimus, is that a spark? Like an actual spark inside of the ship's main command console?”

“ What?” the big gray flier hissed, marching over to peer down at his spark. He falls silent looking down at his spark. Now Bee was feeling uncomfortable so he made the ship beep out a warning again drawing all of their gazes upwards. It stays silent as they read over everything, the only one who didn’t look away was Optimus.

“Okay team, We need to get this ship, space flight ready if we plan on getting Sari and returning her to earth.” Optimus says in a steady voice glancing up at the gray flier. “That should be our main concern, when we are safe then we can talk about what we saw.”

Now that had Bee interested. But the other mechs dispersed to deal with the errors and that left the two bots that seemed to be their leaders. He watched them idly as he peered and let the others into rooms that had been closed previously. He did keep some doors shut that wouldn’t affect his flight ability. Like the fact his holoform would glitch due to a faulty wire he didn’t feel like letting these mech mess with his body much more than required.

“So a spark if that is what this thing is.” Megatron ( if he could take that as this mech name from the previous argument.) said coldly glancing back at Optimus as said bot turned back to his spark. “ Would make sense since this ship and the others of its fleet were called Spark destroyers.” Optimus seems to ignore the flier as he leans closer to his spark watching it. It's quiet until he speaks looking around the room they stood in alone.

“You were the one the Matrix was leading me too weren’t you?” The prime said startling the mech turned Battleship. Megatron seems put off by Optimus speaking to him. Bee found it amusing for a moment before the prime started speaking again. “ you're still here, aren't you? sparks can’t survive outside of the well otherwise?”

Bee thinks for a moment, either he shows himself or he can stay hidden and play games with unknowing crew members. Maybe now was the time for at least these two. Maybe they would let him stay hidden. So he creates his holoform and lets it stand right behind the two.

And wow they were much taller then he was. If he was allowed to grow would he have been as big? He felt nervous about this all of the sudden these bots weren’t from the time he was a sparkling. How would they act towards him?

“ I don’t think that is the case, Optimus.” Meagtron said oddly gentle for this big of a bot. Mecha of this bots size were mean and loud. Well, the bots Bee knew maybe they were different then the past ones he knew? Now was the time to voice himself.

“Or he's right.” Bee interjected, rising to stand on the tips of peds. The two bigger bots whirled around and glanced over his head before drawing their gaze downwards. His arms immediately went behind his back and he straightened his posture, an old habit he guessed. “ I’m just shocked he figured it out so quickly. It used to take new crew members a while to understand.”

They just stared wide eyed at him so he awkwardly walked past them and pointed at his own spark. And glanced back at them. Their eyes were still on him. He glanced away from them and watched his spark twirl and jerk in the clear casing holding his spark chamber.

“They learned how to keep a spark online and how to connect it to the ship.” Bee explained not looking at them as he reached down and tapped a part of the console. “ Or so they wanted bots to believe. But take a look at their great discovery and see for yourself.”

Bee backed away and watched as the two shared a glance and gently removed the panel and peer inside. Bee didn't need to look to know his mutilated body rested just under his spark. He watched the prime gasp and jump away optics wide as he turned back to Bee. Megatron just studies the grayed body.

“There has to be a way to reverse that?” Optimus said, voice trembling slightly. Bee just shook his head at the prime and he felt saddened when the bot's face fell even more.

“I can’t feel or move it anymore.” Bee said slowly then pointed at a set of doors. Slamming them shut then open again. “But I can move the ship anyway I choose too. I wasn’t a willing bot to their experiments; they forced this upon me. So why should I listen to them? It’s why I was left behind, they couldn’t use me as their great battleship like they could the others who choose to become the other ships for the betterment of their world.”

He frowns, gaze going back to Megatron. Who slowly replaced the panel and stood. Then Megatron met his gaze. It was cold and calculating, not in a ‘how can I use this way?’ But trying to find how something could come back to bite him. And Bee would know, he's seen that look often.

“ And why did you allow us to know this?” Meagtron asked with a hint of hostility. And Bee chose to study him for a moment. Then his own gaze softened and he reached out to the camera showing the other flyers. These were bots like him, used and abused in some way no longer trusting things at face value.

“Because your group seems different from the bots who made me and those who tried to pilot me. And you Megatron in some ways I find us similar. You immediately didn’t trust me. I won’t lie. I'm wary of what you may try to make me do, but for now we have the same goal. You want off cybertron so do I. They kept me locked here longer than you two have lived.” he glanced back at the door. He was running out of time, he spared the errors a glance watching as they slowly disappeared. “And Optimus seems trustworth, and different from anybot I have met.”

He blinked and looked away from the two and out of the big windows once more then down at the dust covered floor that was now disturbed with dust floating in the stale air.

“ And is it wrong to want to fly after being locked away for so long? I have grown tired of seeing the same thing for vorns. I don’t really like the dark either.” he rambled a bit before catching himself. He forced his gaze back to the two bots that were watching him with different expressions. “ I don’t want your crew knowing the truth yet. It's fun when they don’t know what exactly I am. Would you allow that at least? Let me scare them just for a while as I get used to your company?” that got both of the mechs to look at eachother then back at him.

“I don’t see why not.” Optimus said slowly and Bee smiled before dispelling his holoform as the other of their crew filtered back in. The fliers seemed annoyed but it wasn’t Bee’s business to soothe their minds. He double checked their work by running a system check. It mostly came back cleared. Only the faulty wire in the Hologenerator, broken parts in the right laser gun, broken door gear in multiple low status crew rooms. And all of the crew information boards were down.

But he was ready for flight, only needed the others to agree to take off.

“Okay Optimus, that should be everything but there were doors we couldn’t open.” Bulkhead said, clapping his servos together. Optimus looks down at the command controls optics sweeping over the many buttons and levers. Bee takes a moment to reach out with his spark. Which felt weird then gently nudged the primes spark towards the lever that would open the hanger and begin protcalls to launch. The prime hesitates before flicking the lever up, his own spark slowly reaching out with appreciation.

The ship hanger creaked and groans in disuse but the hanger doors open. Bee can feel the clamps dig into his landing gear, harsher than they use too. It made him wince which showed as the ship shutters once. Sending this new crew tumbling slightly as they sharply move forward. Bee reflectively lets crew chairs transform around the ship catching the tumbling forms and locks them in place. As he reaches the launch pad and it slowly tilts backwards. Letting the sky fill his view from his main windows for the first time in forever.

He moves the chairs to different control centers leaving Optimus and Meagtron, At the main controls. All of them but the two leaders complain or beg him to stop. He can’t stop the launch process now even if he wanted to. He wiggles his four jets, two on each wing. They wiggle independently just to make sure he could move them. Then the launch pad releases his landing gear and larches him forward at a fast pace. He didn’t have to use his jets for a moment with the force of the launch. Again most of the crew cry out in fear, Optimus digs his servos into the chair and Meagtron seems mostly indifferent to the launch. He lets himself fall back for a vorn before starting up his jets that push him higher into the sky.

Meagtron takes his controls and Bee lets him guide him to straighten out. It's been awhile since he's flown. And he was sparked as a grounder so he sometimes forgot how to fly. So he's a bit rusty after being stuck for so long. He lets the others free and they scatter to stand, the chairs despair when no longer needed. Meagtron stays sitting watching the sky in front of them.

And that's how it stayed for the most part. The grounders started cleaning up the dust and other trashed items. The fliers took over their flying and course so bee just listened to their chat making small corrections with his jets.

Cybertron looked vastly different then he remembered. It was still gray but a lot of the planet looked well broken and that's saying something he had torn holes into cybertron himself but this was worse. The primes spark reached out to him trying to soothe the building disgust. He huffed and the ship rumbled along with him, making a few of the new crew jump.

Which brightened his mood just slightly before it noses divided again.

“ We are getting close to the elite guards headquarters,” Meagtron announced, not looking away from the sky in front of him. “ We shouldn’t all go in, we would bring the risk of being caught would be too high.”

“ I think it should be just you and me, Megatron.” The Prime agreed, ignoring his crew's displeased arguing. Megatron smiled as he slowly guided Bee down. Bee was wary as his wings almost scratched buildings that have seen better days.

If you reached the end please let me know what you think or if you spotted any errors! Thank you!!!

[mollymauk-teafleak]

it's called freefall (you can let it all go)

Sometimes you're deep in your Top Gun obsession and you also happen to be listening to a podcast reviewing House of the Dragon (which you haven't seen) and things happen and now Ice and Maverick have dragons. A huge thank you to @hangsters who continues to be my most favourite person <3

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoy this!

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People said a lot of dragon riders. 

They said they could talk to their dragons with their minds. They said they felt pain when their mounts did, that the two of them shared one soul and the death of one would bring the death of the other. They said dark magics were performed on them at birth, to strip them of all desire, take away their human needs and the associated body parts so they could bind them inextricably to their duty. They said they were cursed, that the gods spat at their attempts to breach the heavens and pulled them down for it. 

And of course they said they were mad. 

Tom supposed he wasn’t doing much to dissuade them of that one at least, standing on the balcony of the Crooked Tail tower nearly every night and staring up at the sky. He’d heard serving girls and grooms whispering, though they shut up quickly when they heard the clink of the light armour he never took off. All the usual horseshit, longing for a love lost when he took up his scales, going sky blind from too much time in the air, listening for calls in the secret dragon language. Tom wondered how people told such wild myths of men who used the same bathouses as they did. 

Though maybe he was mad. The thought at least crossed his mind, as he watched the sun sink into the grasp of the capital’s many towers, draining through those crooked stone and timber fingers and leaving night behind. But none of the shadowy clouds up there were shifting, none of the stars winked as something passed over them. Maverick hadn’t returned. 

Tom sighed, knowing he was high enough that none of the people threading through the narrow, crowded streets below would hear him. The Crooked Tail tower might list like a drunk against a wall but it at least gave the dragonriders who lived there a bit of privacy in a very crowded city where that was hard to come by. Tom could stand here, able to stare up into the endless sky and let the noise of the rest of the world fall away, like none of it existed, inside the curtain walls of the castle or outside it. And he would, gladly, if there were not that voice missing behind him, where the other riders laughed over cards and hurled jokes back and forth. 

Tom knew what he should do. He should turn around and join them, integrate himself with the men he wanted to lead some day. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure why leading them mattered to him. Those men were his brothers, the only ones he’d ever have, the only ones who had a chance of understanding him. He knew he should go and laugh with them, drink a cup of wine and work on letting himself be comfortable around them. 

But Tom also knew what he was actually going to do. So maybe he was mad after all.

No one tried to stop him, not the other riders who perhaps knew more than they would admit, not the guards on the main gate as he rode past them, not the people on the street, nobles or merchants or humbler city folk. Being known for a cold unapproachable nature had some benefits to it. 

The keepers at the dragon pits were even less likely to stand in his way, as Tom rode through gates designed specifically to look blackened and half melted, up to the enormous stone colosseum like structure on the highest hill in the whole city. People who worked with them every day, who cared for them in the strange way you could with something you feared so deeply, they’d never keep a rider from their mount, whatever the hour of the day.

The pits didn’t look like a place anything would enjoy living. It was dark and imposing, an undeniable dungeon so thick black stone and heavy iron chain curtains, the wall sconces kept low so the sight of flame didn’t excite any of the younger residents, projecting every movement up the high walls in shadow. It was dank too, cold water running through the walls like blood in a stone giant, ready to burst forth with a well placed hammer strike if worst should come to worst. The smells of damp and raw meat and smoke were inescapable, clinging to the stone like the layers of soot caked into the mortar. And of course, every so often, there would come a noise that could have been the earth shifting and breaking open, echoing eerily through the labyrinth so it felt like the walls were caving in, 

It made for a dismal, gloomy home for any living creature. But then dragons were unlike any other living creature in the world. 

Tom knew these dripping, cavernous corridors the way any other man would know the home he grew up in. Without thinking, his feet took him to the largest of the pits, the oldest, the ones built to house the dragons of old who grew to sizes where their wings could eclipse the sun over a whole city. 

There was only one dragon still alive who was growing to rival them. 

Tom walked through the enormous doors, familiar with their deep, low groan as tons of steel and stone cracked open enough to let him pass. They closed behind him much swifter than they’d managed to open, as if in panic. Tom understood. 

It seemed as though the vast pit in front of him was full of nothing but shadow and a slow, echoing drip. But Tom smiled all the same.

“Suivon?” he kept his voice soft, knowing it would echo, knowing she would hear, “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

And she did. One of the shadows high above him detached, unfurled, swelled in size as it broke through the others. There was a single shaft of moonlight coming in through the grate in the ceiling and as the shadow passed, it turned to brilliant white. 

As it always did, the sight widened Tom’s smile into a grin. The dragon rider all had titles of some kind, the way many traditional knights did when they gained some renown. His was The Iceman and of course people would insist it had nothing to do with his personality in the slightest, however apt it had ended up being. 

And Tom could hardly challenge them on that, when he rode Suivon, The Dread Blizzard. 

A tremor ran through the ground as she landed before him, a towering wall of brilliant white scale that relaxed into the form of the biggest dragon the world knew, enormous black iron claws each as long as Tom himself, tail that unfurled out and out and out, bristling, ice blue points until eventually it came to a dagger sharp point. Those jagged icicles continued up her spine as well and into a crest that looked like a crown about her craggy head, the tip of each wickedly sharp enough that they could, and had, impaled a man. Her face was spiderwebbed in brilliant blue cracks, like ice breaking to show water beneath, ones that could also be seen when she let her phenomenal wings loose. She looked like something that had pulled itself free of an icy mountainside, something wholly natural, cold and uncaring and old as the earth. 

And when she brought her head down to Tom’s level, when she opened her mouth to show row upon row of shining white teeth and blackness between, he laughed.

“Don’t give me that look now. It’s hardly past your bedtime.”

Suivon made a noise that might have been a growl but was just enough of a purr, the noise trembling the loose stones on the floor. Tom smiled, stepping towards her and resting his hand on her snout, feeling the unexpected heat of her, her exhales sending a warm, wet gale blowing around him. 

“I know, I know…” he soothed, his voice lost beneath her rough, admonishing purr and yet Tom never doubted she could hear him, “But it’s Maverick.”

Suivon gave a huff, the sudden gust nearly blowing him back. 

Tom felt his cheeks warm, “Hush. We’re going. You owe me for those two extra sheep carcasses at dinner today.”

He ignored her irritated grumble, resting his forehead on her warm scales for a second before moving to climb onto her back, like scaling a steep hill that breathed. He slid his lobstered gauntlets into the locks on the harness, settling comfortably into the crouched stance between her wing joints that he’d been practising and perfecting since he was a child. 

“Come on,” he inhaled deeply, matching his breathing to the beast already stretching and shifting eagerly despite her minor tantrum, “Let’s go drag him home…”

He dug his heels in and Suivon responded, their bond had long grown past the verbal commands. She extended her neck fully and exhaled three short bursts of flame that gouted up the throat of the pit and through the grate at the top. The signal to open. Within moments, Tom heard the creaking of that massive metal grinding to one side, some keeper having seen their command. Suivon gave a chirp and began skittering up the walls towards the moon. When she was right at the mouth, she leapt, wings snapping open with a sound like the sails of a warship, carrying them effortlessly into the air. 

The lights and smoke and noise of the city fell away so quickly as they escaped up into the night. Like always, Tom couldn’t help but feel the weights he carried were left behind too, the frustrating wall between himself and everyone else, the pressure to be the perfect knight and the perfect dragon rider, the need to look as though he’d stepped straight out of a tale of heroism and chivalry so no one looked any closer. He never felt like The Iceman when he was on Suivon’s back and racing the moon across the sky. He wasn’t sure he even felt like Tom. Things like that just stopped mattering and he simply felt like someone who could breathe. 

He pulled Suivon gently into a slow, mid air roll, wings tucked tight then snapping out, propelling them low across the sea the capital city was backed by. The air currents stirred by the roiling, inky waves buoyed them easily like a sea of its own kind, Suivon only beating her wings because she liked to feel the salt spray on them. She even dipped down enough to let one of her dagger-like claws cut through the water, rising and falling with the swell of the waves as they grew tall as houses that collapsed down into deep valleys, following this restless horizon closely. Tom laughed, the spray harsh on his face, enough to sting, but in a way that woke his nerves up and made his heart beat faster. He gave Suivon her head, letting her duck and roll and chase the waves, never once trying to pull her up into safer air. They didn’t ride the dragons for safety. 

And besides, they both knew where they were going. 

There were a myriad of rocky islands scattered throughout the sea, the frayed edge of the continent. Most were small enough for a gull or two to make their home, some even smaller, only a handful were large enough to support caves, spires, colonies of seals. But only the sailors and the dragon riders knew that further out they grew bigger, large enough to be bolt holes for pirates and smugglers, places to swim for if you were shipwrecked or if you didn’t want to be found. 

So it was these Tom steered Suivon towards, not that she needed much direction. This was a route they were familiar with. 

The largest of these islands was surprisingly empty of any sailors, legal or illegal, mostly because it was hard to reach. The water around it was famous for riptides and snags and other invisible dangers, hidden rocks that were actually the spires of sunken islands, ready to rip out the belly of passing ships, and of course there was a ghost or two if you believed the tales. So it was useless to the pirates but perfect for a dragon rider who was staying out past curfew. 

Or two dragon riders who just wanted to get out of the city. 

Suivon glided easily over those waters that would prove deadly to any ship, circling the island a few times as she drew lower. But, almost instantly, she wasn’t the only thing in the air. With a loud, raspy cry, another dragon leapt from the rocks and joined her, to neither Suivon or Tom’s surprise. 

Udrayatis was Suivon’s opposite in every way. Inky black instead of bright white, small and lightning quick instead of formidable, always chittering and squawking instead of the stony silence. When she took to the air, she immediately began flying about the larger dragon’s face, turning like an acrobat in a mummer’s show, rolling and showing off. Tom immediately felt Suivon stiffen with haughty disapproval, forcing him to hold back a laugh. 

Though they were opposites, the dragons had one thing in common. Their names suited them well. Suivon was the Old Tongue word for ice, Tom having been apparently struck by a chronic lack of imagination when a snow white, unusually large dragonling had broken free of the egg he’d chosen as a boy. While Udrayatis, born a little twisted and so small it was feared she wouldn’t survive, her name had come after her rider disappeared into books for days, thinking on it for longer than he’d ever given any decision. Tom could still remember the delighted grin on Pete’s young face as he’d told him the word meant rule breaker. And, sure enough, she kept to that name, stubbornly surviving and growing to take a rider when it had seemed impossible. 

Tom rolled his eyes and squeezed his heels, urging Suivon down before she decided to take a snap at the other dragon. With a growl and a gout of smoke from her nostrils, she obeyed, though not before not so accidentally letting her tail whip at Udrayatis and sending the black dragon tumbling and shrieking. 

“That wasn’t nice,” Tom admonished gently, as his mount settled on the rocky outcrop at the edge of the island. 

Suivon grumbled, narrowing her eyes at Udrayatis and apparently not caring whether it was nice or not. Though, as he always had, Tom suspected her dislike was a little feigned, an act that was wearing slightly thin as the two dragons grew up together. 

And he had to say he empathised with her.  

Tom unlocked his gauntlets and slid gracefully down Suivon’s mighty back, sighing down at the young man now stood grinning up at him with a smile. Ink black hair instead of light blonde. Small and lightning quick rather than tall and broad. Mouth endlessly running, even when it shouldn’t rather than taciturn and distant. Constantly forgetting his duty rather than being unable to let go of it. 

In some ways, dragon riders were supposed to forget any life they could have had before they entered the order. The titles helped with that, distancing them from the names they were given, from anyone who might have cared for them before they took to the air, from any other path they might have taken. And no rider clung to their title more fiercely, lived it more fully, than The Maverick. 

How a man could look so dangerous while standing there in nothing but trousers and an unlaced shirt billowing in the wind, Tom didn’t know. 

“You were supposed to be back at the tower by now,” he called down, trying to keep some tone of a future commander in his voice. 

Maverick laughed, his smile not dimming even slightly, “I could say the same to you, Ice!”

Tom tilted his head, “And I assume there’s no way to convince you to come back with me?”

“Well why would I want to go back now?” he grinned wider. He couldn’t see from this height but Tom knew there were creases around those dark, playful eyes, “You’re here!”

Tom also knew that Maverick shouldn’t be able to see the way his ears reddened at the tips. But he had a feeling he knew regardless. 

His resolve was clinging by a thread by the time he climbed down the rock, “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this…”

Mav was perched, cross legged, on a boulder by then, happy to lounge as Tom descended a few feet of wet rock, “Giving the girls some air. Scouting to the east. Extra patrols. Gods know we need them with the corsairs massing on the coast. I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell them, Iceman.”

“I can’t tell them that every night, can I?” Tom prickled a little at the use of his title. Whenever Maverick said it, it always seemed as though he was poking fun, like he knew how poor it fit him, “They will start to suspect something, even more than they already do.”

“Well…” Maverick’s eyes danced with a light that wasn’t there, a light he seemed to conjure up all by himself, “We don’t need to steal away every night, I suppose…”

Tom had reached him by that point and without another word he pulled the smaller rider into his arms, crushing him into a kiss fierce with need, longing and no small amount of desire to just shut Maverick up for a moment. He responded instantly, wiry strong arms wrapping around his shoulders, triumph and challenge on his lips. 

“That’s not happening,” Tom murmured, voice rough with how long he’d made himself go without air. 

“Thought as much,” Maverick grinned, dragging him back in.

The first time they’d kissed, nearly a year ago now, Tom had only felt fear, panic, the sense of falling like he’d slipped off Suivon’s back too far from the ground. All he could think of was what would happen if they were caught, the shame, the inevitable execution for breaking their oaths and with another man, no less. Condemnation from men and gods alike.

But he’d done it again. Because even that was better than going another day with that need burning inside him. 

That feeling, that voice, it had grown quieter each time, Tom had gotten better at recognising that it wasn’t his own. Of course there were still the nights where it found him again, usually when he was alone in his cell and trying to fall asleep, when Suivon was far from him and Maverick was too damn close. Though it had shifted, it was no longer they’ll all see you, they’ll all know. It was they’ll take him from you and they’ll kill him. 

But it all felt far away right now, lost in the roar in his ears that might have been the crashing waves and might have been the blood rushing through him. He kissed Maverick harder, hands coming up to hold his face. 

“Easy,” Maverick laughed into his mouth, shuddering a little at the touch of the cold steel, “You’ll leave marks…”

Tom withdrew his hands, sighing as he began to shed his black iron armour, “Well, look at you, out here in your shirtsleeves. I’ve told you, Maverick, if you fall-”

“I’ll be killed and there’ll be nothing a tonne of steel can do to change it,” he stole the end of his sentence, helping him unbuckle his breastplate, “Udrayatis hates the weight anyway, it slows her down.”

Tom would remind his fellow rider that his dragon was no longer the sickly, struggling thing he’d nursed so diligently, so much that Tom had found him asleep in the pit’s nursery more than once. He would point out that risking a broken neck at lower heights for the sake of having the fastest dragon in the sky was idiocy. But he knew Maverick too well to do either of those things. 

So he just kissed him again, pressing close into the other man’s warmth as layers of steel fell away to let the cold air in. With the speed and skill of the best of squires, he had him down to his linens and quickly drew him over to the cave mouth they’d made use of since they started whatever this arrangement was. The moment they took that first step away, Suivon began to growl, like those handful of inches more were simply unacceptable. 

Maverick gave a coy smile and drew away from the other man’s lips reluctantly, “She still doesn’t like me, does she?”

Tom sighed, “She’s just protective…” He glanced back, trying not to think about how his dragon saw Maverick as something she needed to protect him from. 

Suivon was still on her rocky perch, staying where she’d been told to stay, obedient as ever but doing it with very little grace, eyes narrowed and horns raised and teeth bared. Tom squeezed Maverick’s arm and walked back to her a little ways, standing firm. 

“It’s fine,” he called into the wind, putting the edge of command in his voice, “Go fly, go hunt. I’m safe.”

Suivon shivered unhappily, eyeing Udrayatis disdainfully as she cartwheeled up above, snapping at gulls. With a hard rush of smoke from her nostrils that made plain what she thought of his command, she took to the air, out over the sea on a few beats of her heavy wings. Undeterred, Udrayathis gave a loud shriek of delight and shot after her like a black bolt from a crossbow, apparently eager to show her the gull she’d snagged on her onyx teeth. The dark shadow chased the white across the rising and crumbling waves until they disappeared amidst the swell. 

“You know,” Maverick observed lightly, running fingers through his hair to sweep away the sea spray gathering in it, “We raise our dragons from eggs. We take care of them, we feed them and we teach them to fly. And yet somehow, Suivon sees herself as your mother.”

Ice shouldered him gently, rolling his eyes, “Let’s not think on that too deeply…not when there are much better things to do…”

He took the initiative then, catching the smaller man’s hand and drawing him in smoothly like they were at a court dance, other hand alighting on his waist. His kiss interrupted a purr of delight from Maverick, who bent into his embrace willingly. The wind had long since pulled Maverick’s shirt from his belt and Tom took advantage, sliding his hand up and under, against skin that shivered too his touch. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmured in the desperate snatch of air between one kiss and the next. 

“Getting less so…” Maverick smirked, taking the chance to nip at his lip, “But I take your point.”

He drew him towards the nearest cave mouth, a place that looked yawning and uninviting, all black stone, stalactites and stalagmites like rows of spiny teeth. But it was familiar to them, even when the rocky mouth swallowed them and left the moon behind, he still knew where to step in the gloom. They went further down the gullet until the wind and rain grew quiet, replaced with rhythmic dripping from a ceiling closer than was comfortable, soft trickling from hidden rivers that had never seen the sun. The walls shrank around them, forcing Tom to bend. Just at the point when the tightness became unbearable, when apprehension would tip over into fear and panic, there came that breath of air, a current in the stillness. Tom squeezed Maverick’s hand and let himself be pulled forward, having to crawl for a moment though he never let go, until they came to a vast, sudden emptiness and a strange light. 

It took a moment for Tom’s eyes and mind to adjust, it always had. To let himself believe he actually was seeing what he thought he was seeing, to accept the impossible scene. The moss or fungus or whatever it was that grew along the walls of their hidden cave held its own, eerie light, a dim green that carpeted the floor and crawled up the walls, making it look and feel like they’d crossed some veil into a different world. And it wasn’t just the walls, the pool that steamed with impossible heat towards the back of the cave, somehow warm as a man’s blood, was alive with light too. It was a cool blueness that would shift and swirl when they put a hand in it, like motes of light were suspended in the otherwise inky waters. Maverick had sworn that he’d seen fish in there that also shone, eel things that moved like lightning across the sky, though Tom would wait until he saw them with his own eyes to truly believe that. 

Tom inhaled, letting himself sink into the cool, damp, fresh scent of the place while Maverick went off to strike flint against the obsidian walls and light some of the candles they’d smuggled down here when they realised this was a place they’d visit frequently. They’d brought other comforts too, some blankets Tom neatly draped on stalagmites to keep them out of the damp, a few bottles of summer wine from the city markets, a smaller bottle of oil purchased much more secretively from a brothel on the Street of Silk. There were even some books, piled up safely away from the water, Tom insisting that it was hard to concentrate back in the Crooked Tail tower with the snoring of their fellow riders.

Altogether, it made this dim and dripping cave more of a home than either of them had ever known. It meant Tom was smiling as the warm candlelight spread, even though he knew it would be hard to explain their absence, even though he knew the risks they were taking. 

Maverick wasn’t in the mood to waste time, sweeping his shirt up over his head and beckoning him over to the pools. 

“Come on,” he grinned, his smile beckoning, “You stink from the ride over…”

“Is that supposed to be seductive?” Tom laughed, undressing too, “You’d made a terrible whore, shouting that down from a balcony.”

“I’d make a fantastic whore,” Maverick feigned woundedness, kicking away his riding trousers, “Though I suppose I wouldn’t be a rich one…”

“Why is that?” Thomas eyed him, letting himself be generous with his gaze, up and down Maverick’s tight, lithely muscled body. Clinging to a dragon’s back for ten hours a day did wonderful things for a man’s form, the lot of them were as strong as any knight.

“Well, I’d only have one client, wouldn’t I?” The lightness in his voice told Tom he knew he was staring, that he was enjoying it immensely, “You.”

He bent and slid into the pool, with none of his usual reckless abandon, like even he understood it would be sacrilegious to disturb these glowing waters. Once in them, up to the waist in iridescent, shining water, he looked like something mythical, like some elf king out of a storybook. Or like some tempting trickster god, a siren ready to reach out and snag a passing sailor. 

Tom was more than willing to be snagged. He finally stripped off the last of his clothing, the cold, hard rock under his feet softened slightly by the glowing lichen, the thin sheen of that oddly warm water. All of the chill from the ride and the sea melted helplessly before it, reigniting his nerves, bringing life back into his limbs. 

Maverick made a chase of it, sliding back to the very edge of the pool, making Tom come after him simply because he could. Grinning, Tom hunted him down, caught him about the waist, pressing him against the far wall and pinning him under a fierce kiss. 

“Gods, Ice…” Maverick breathed, his voice a tremble, a wisp of breath unlike his hands which closed tight as a trap around the taller man’s shoulders. 

Tom showed no more restraint, hands slipping down to grip Maverick’s hips, his thighs, feeling that dizziness that usually only came with being miles above the ground. Kissing him was like taking flight, that same sense of freedom and danger all at once, woven together so tightly it was impossible to know one from the other. Knowing you could fall and believing you wouldn’t, letting something so much stronger and more powerful than you take hold and run wild. 

Before long, Maverick’s collarbone was covered in bite marks, thankfully all well below where his armour would cover, and he was begging shamelessly, “Please, Ice…please…”

“Please what?” Tom growled against the hollow of his throat, that edge of a command in his voice again, for no other reason than to hear the words.

“Fuck me,” Maverick gasped, voice heavy with need, his nails raking thin white lines on Tom’s shoulders.

The plea worked as well as the command. Tom’s hand reached for the second of those little red glass bottles, the one they rested in a convenient divot in the cave wall just by the pool. The stuff inside was thick and filled the air with a fresh, grassy scent, cool on Tom’s fingertips, even cooler when he reached below the water and pressed it against Maverick, into the crease in his body. He jolted in response, grinding down into it hungrily with a wanton groan. 

“Easy now…” Tom gasped, taking his earlobe between his teeth. 

“You take so damn long,” Maverick whined, fighting to keep his hips still though he didn’t seem entirely in control of himself, “Fuck…”

“I take long so I don’t break you,” he punctuated his words by sliding his fingers in deeper, more suddenly, making Maverick kick and yelp. 

Through gritted teeth, he gasped, “Who says I don’t want to be broken?”

Tom had to laugh at that, working two fingers in and out of him, feeling those strong, wiry legs wrap around his hips so he could take him deeper, “Let’s see what I can do…”

More oil in his palm, this time along his own length, already hard and hot in his hand. He rose out of the water a little to slick himself and Maverick groaned at the sight of it, as though they hadn’t been doing this for a year, as though they hadn’t shared a bathhouse since they were boys. As though even now, even as he knew him inside and out, better than anyone ever had, Maverick still found something beautiful in him. 

“Take me,” Maverick’s voice was raw, desperate, his eyes so wide and dark that Tom felt he could pitch forward and fall into them. 

He answered with a kiss, with hands tight on Maverick’s hips, lifting him enough that he could begin the slow roll and press into his body. He swallowed the high, fractured cry Maverick gave at the stretch and burn of it, pushing beyond into the closeness, the dizzyingly sweet blurring of their two selves. 

“More, more, yes, fuck, oh fuck, yes-” Maverick rambled in senseless want, heels pressing into the small of Tom’s back, both body and voice willing him deeper until he just couldn’t. 

So Tom moved, bracing himself on the cool rock under his feet, one hand on the slick, black wall, the other around Maverick’s back. Like the waves somewhere up there, he rocked, gentle at first but then harder at a pleading whine from his lover, a press of those heels. Growling deep in his chest, he slowly gave everything he had, every ounce of strength in his body, to Maverick, fucking into him then drawing all the way back, only to surge forward again and make him scream. Tom lost all sense of time, of place, everything in the world becoming him and Maverick and the dense, tangled forest of their joined nerves, that soaring feeling. It was like flying. It was like falling. 

It came apart too soon, too suddenly. Tom broke first, hips stuttering, a low, throaty moan torn out of him as he spilled his heat deep inside Maverick. He took his lover down with him, a shriek of his name echoing off the cave walls as his release hit him hard. The landing at least was easier than a fall from dragonback, the tension unwinding and leaving the two of them panting softly, last embers burning out in each other’s arms. 

“Tom…” Maverick murmured, voice weak, pressing soft, feather light kisses against his neck, “I’ve got you…it’s alright…”

Tom burrowed into his arms, feeling the broken pieces of himself rattling loose inside his chest, letting Maverick’s gentle words, the soft fingers through his hair, slowly, painstakingly, fit them back together, “Pete…”

“I know,” Maverick whispered and for a moment, Tom could believe him. If Maverick couldn’t know, if he couldn’t understand, who would?

It was a long time before he could pull himself away, let them become two separate bodies again. Maverick was still smiling, those words they weren’t allowed to say plain in his eyes as he looked at Tom.

But fuck that. There was no one else to hear them. 

“I love you, Pete,” Tom murmured, resting his forehead against his lover’s. 

That smile broke through, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, those creases in the corner of his eyes. “I love you too, Tom.”

They would have to leave the cave soon, they would have to whistle their dragons back to them and return to the city. They would have to take this thing they had, tuck it away, hide it in a chest and push it well out of sight. 

But they could have another moment here, in their strange, safe, glowing world. 

A moment was all they had. 

[almakfi]

or awake + tend dealer's choice

the heavy shift of woolen sheets wakes basim. it's not a troubled awakening this time, as it was not a troubled sleep—deep, dreamless, unsettlingly peaceful. he turns his head, the flat of his cheek pressing slightly into the straw-stuffed pillow, to gain a better perspective on the room he shares with hytham. the other rises, a shadowy silhouette but for the lamplight-crowned auburn tinge of his curls, backlit like a spiderweb. he's quiet, but not stealthy, or he'd have been mindful of the cloth rustling. he knows that some unexpected approach in the dark would trigger a violent reaction, maybe he wants to be heard.

he cuts the gap between the beds barefoot, like a killer; the hidden blade, stripped of bracer, gives a metallic gleam from the soft underside of his arm. basim keeps it on, too. he blinks the fog in his eyes and rapidly calculates that, should they fight, they would fight on equal terms.

badly-cut stitches pull uncomfortably at the edges of the wound when basim rises to a half-sitting position. they were the work of a sailsmaker found in a whalers' settlement nested on the jagged coast of rygjafylke. a firm-handed man but harsh and sloppy, used to spinning flax rather stitching wounds. and where the skin was pierced by the hooked needle it bled, again. the stains have dried brown on basim's white robes. it will leave a flashy scar on the upper side of his stomach, just below the arch of his ribs. hytham's eyes follow the dark, indented path. he seems to recognize it like a familiar patten, even through the stripe of linen tightly binding it—the width, the depth, the weapon that caused it, the hand that drove the blade.

he understands all that, and nothing more.

hytham pulls a stool and sits at the bedside. the line of basim's shoulders relax visibly, too much to go unnoticed, but he knows it would be foolish of him not to expect the hidden ones' punishment as much as it would be of hytham not to consider delivering it.

"we are even, hytham." in case that is keeping you from deciding freely what to do with me. he cannot see hytham's face very well. though it is in front of him, it's in the dark, both the dark of the late hour and the dark that's heavy-lidded and foggy. hytham, instead, can see basim perfectly—the dim lamplight feebly but surely bares every detail to sight, from the sheen of sweat across his brow to the half-inch that his hair has grown since the last time they saw each other. maybe that's his punishment. to be so painfully bare while hytham hides in plain sight.

valka reluctantly approved of the stitching when faced with the danger of undoing it. hytham unpins the worn bandage and tests the edges of the wound, before wetting his fingers with some yarrow ointment that valka prescribed and spreading it across the unevenly sealed injury. basim swallows a complaint. the other performs his duty with surgical focus and deliberately ignores him.

"thank you." basim says when it's done. hytham does not reply, though he does not expect him to. he turns, half of his face flashing in the light, too quickly for basim to detect a trace of expression.

come sunrise, he thinks, neither of us will be able to hide.

SETTLING DUST.

[azoliya]

Zip Ties and Plastic Strips: Core Material for Diverse Industries

Zip ties and plastic strips are everywhere, bundling, securing, and organizing all kinds of industries. Though very straightforward and effective, these tools are essentials in industries such as construction to electronics. In the blog post, we will discuss why zip ties and plastic strips are important, sitting alongside an industry such as manufacturing, together with a key manufacturer in India like Azoliya. So, let's just just go over some of the points brought up in this blog:

1. Tie Closure Manufacturer in India

Tie closures, known popularly as cable ties or zip ties, are generally applied to gather articles together. They are produced for use in an assortment of applications such as cable management, packaging, and even to close security tags. Among the countries with a number of the biggest manufacturers of tie closures is India, and among the most famous of these is Azoliya.

An Azoliya in India, a tie closure maker, makes sure its products are strong yet versatile. Nylon material-based tie closures, for example are made to be strong yet yielding. Among the numerous products offered by such companies are products of varied sizes and colors, which suit different applications.

TIE CLOSURES Manufactured by recognized manufacturers shall possess an international quality standard and therefore be reliable in the domestic as well as international markets. The requirement of tie closures in industries like electronics, construction and automobiles is increasing as this is considered as an efficient and costeffective solution.

2. Zip Tie Manufacturer in India

Zip ties or cable ties and wire ties have proven to be a very valuable element in many sectors. They are used as fasteners for the binding of cables, securing of items and components and even in do-it-yourself projects. As the demand for zip ties increases, manufacturers such as Azoliya in India are catching up by manufacturing superior-quality zip ties at affordable prices.

An Indian company like Azoliya, manufacturing zip ties, will have to specialize in making products which are more durable and robust and to last for multiple use. The zip ties made from nylon materials also provide heating and UV resistance, creating the ideal indoor and outdoor applications for using them.

Among the most prevalent fields of using the Indian zip tie company's products are communications, packaging, and transportation. Companies like Azoliya have stock options to include heavy-duty zip ties, which would be perfect for bundling heavy cables and wires within industries. As infrastructure continues to grow, the need for zip ties is increasingly necessary, and Indian manufacturers are being very instrumental in helping fill that demand.

3. India Plastic Strip Maker

Plastic strips is one other critical item used in several sorts of manufacturing, from packaging to construction. It seals, bundles, and even tacks things into place. The plastic strip maker has risen rapidly in India with Azoliya setting the pace for excellent and versatile plastic strips.

The best grade raw materials are used by one of the top plastic strip manufacturers in India such that they are able to assure strength and flexibility. Lightweight in nature, the available strips come in a range of thicknesses and widths through which they may find applications in more than one industry such as automobile, agricultural, and packaging fields.

Modern innovation is what the manufacturers, for example, Azoliya use in developing plastic strips that offer resistance to extreme environmental conditions. The plastic strips apply well for outdoor applications, where products face sunlight and weather changes that weaken the product durability. In packaging industries, plastic strips are widely applied as a tool for securing cartons, boxes, among others types of packaging to ensure the goods' safety in transportation.

Why Azoliya?

Be it tie closure manufacturer in India, zip tie manufacturer in India, or plastic strip manufacturer in India, Azoliya is a name that goes to great lengths to prove its commitment towards quality and customer satisfaction. Here are a few reasons why you should choose Azoliya for your zip tie and plastic strip needs:

Quality raw material: Azoliya employs quality raw material such as nylon, and other powerful plastics to ensure products have long life and excellent operation.

Variety of Products: Whether it's tie closures, zip ties, or plastic strips, Azoliya has a variety of size and style options to fit your specific needs.

Competitive Pricing: The company offers premium products at competitive prices that will fit into the budget of all kinds of business.

Global Reach: As one of the leading manufacturers, Azoliya serves its domestic market along with exporting its products to various countries.

Applications of Zip Ties and Plastic Strips

Zip ties and plastic strips are some flexible application tools:

Utilizing zip ties for cable and wire neatness; consequently, the chances of cable damage are bypassed since nothing is hovering.

Packaging and Shipping: Plastic strips wrap around boxes and packaging materials for goods with safe transportation.

Building: Zip ties and plastic strips tie up objects like pipes, scaffolding, and other components for building.

Automotive Sector: In automobiles, zip ties and plastic strips tie and keep harnesses of wiring properly in their position.

Conclusion

Zip ties and plastic strips are as necessary in other fields like electrical work, packaging, and much more. India is an important country that manufactures such products. Azoliya and many other companies are at the top of their production, manufacturing the best quality items all over the world.

Whether you are looking for a tie closure supplier in India, a zip tie supplier in India, or a plastic strip supplier in India, Azoliya provides quality products to meet the various industrial requirements. Company's emphasis on quality parameters, cost-effectiveness along with a focus on customer satisfaction makes it one of the favorite brands in the industry.

[endo-tech]

Understanding Sandpaper: A Comprehensive Guide

Sandpaper is an essential tool in many industries, particularly in woodworking, metalworking, and automotive refinishing. Though it appears as a simple piece of abrasive material, sandpaper plays a crucial role in achieving smooth finishes, removing imperfections, and preparing surfaces for further treatment. This article explores the different aspects of sandpaper, including its history, types, uses, and the science behind its effectiveness.

The Origins of Sandpaper

The use of abrasives to smooth surfaces dates back thousands of years, with early civilizations employing natural materials like sand, crushed shells, and even fish skins to achieve the desired finish. However, the invention of modern sandpaper is credited to the 13th century Chinese, who used crushed shells, seeds, and sand glued to parchment with natural adhesives.

The sandpaper we recognize today started to take shape in the 19th century. By the mid-1800s, the development of more consistent manufacturing processes allowed for the creation of sandpaper with uniform grit sizes and materials. This evolution marked a significant advancement in surface preparation, making sandpaper an indispensable tool in various trades.

Composition and Structure of Sandpaper

Sandpaper is composed of three main components: the backing, the adhesive, and the abrasive material. Each of these elements is chosen based on the specific application and desired outcome.

Backing: The backing material provides support and flexibility to the sandpaper. It can be made of paper, cloth, or a combination of both. Paper-backed sandpaper is typically used for hand sanding or on lightweight sanding tools, while cloth-backed sandpaper is more durable and suited for heavy-duty applications.

Adhesive: The adhesive binds the abrasive particles to the backing. Historically, natural glues were used, but modern sandpaper often employs synthetic resins like phenolic or urea-formaldehyde, which offer superior bonding strength and resistance to heat.

Abrasive Material: The abrasive is the most critical component, responsible for cutting and smoothing the surface. Common abrasive materials include aluminum oxide, silicon carbide, garnet, and ceramic. Each material has unique properties that make it suitable for specific tasks. For example, aluminum oxide is highly durable and suitable for sanding metals, while garnet is softer and preferred for finishing wood.

Grit Size and Its Importance

The effectiveness of sandpaper is largely determined by the grit size, which refers to the size of the abrasive particles. Grit size is usually expressed as a number, with lower numbers indicating larger, coarser particles and higher numbers representing finer particles.

Coarse grit sandpaper (e.g., 40 to 60 grit) is used for rapid material removal, such as stripping paint or smoothing rough surfaces. Medium grit sandpaper (e.g., 80 to 120 grit) is versatile, often used for general sanding tasks and preparing surfaces for finishing. Fine grit sandpaper (e.g., 150 to 220 grit) is ideal for final smoothing before applying finishes like paint or varnish. Extra fine grit sandpaper (e.g., 240 to 400 grit and above) is used for polishing and creating a silky-smooth surface.

Selecting the appropriate grit size is crucial to achieving the desired result without damaging the material. Starting with a coarse grit to remove imperfections and gradually progressing to finer grits ensures a smooth, even finish.

Applications of Sandpaper

Sandpaper is a versatile tool used in various industries and applications. In woodworking, it is employed to smooth surfaces, remove old finishes, and prepare wood for staining or painting. In metalworking, sandpaper helps to deburr edges, remove rust, and polish metals to a high sheen. The automotive industry uses sandpaper to prepare surfaces for painting, remove scratches, and restore finishes.

Beyond these industries, sandpaper is also used in home improvement projects, from smoothing drywall before painting to refinishing furniture. Its wide range of applications makes sandpaper a staple in both professional workshops and DIY toolkits.

The Science Behind Sanding

Sanding works by abrading the surface of a material, removing tiny particles to smooth out imperfections. When sandpaper is rubbed against a surface, the abrasive particles cut into the material, shearing away small fragments. The effectiveness of sanding depends on factors like pressure, speed, and the type of abrasive used.

Heat generation is a byproduct of sanding, especially when using power tools. Excessive heat can cause the adhesive holding the abrasive to degrade or even damage the workpiece. Therefore, controlling the speed and applying consistent, moderate pressure is key to effective sanding.

Innovations in Sandpaper Technology

While the basic concept of sandpaper has remained unchanged for centuries, modern innovations have improved its performance and durability. Today, there are sandpapers designed for specific materials and tasks, such as waterproof sandpaper for wet sanding, which helps reduce dust and heat.

Additionally, advancements in abrasive materials, like the development of ceramic and diamond-coated sandpapers, have extended the lifespan and cutting power of sandpaper, making it more efficient for heavy-duty tasks.

Sandpaper may appear to be a simple tool, but its importance in achieving precision and quality in various trades cannot be overstated. Understanding the different types of sandpaper, their composition, and their applications allows for better selection and use, ultimately leading to superior finishes in any project. Whether you're a seasoned professional or a DIY enthusiast, mastering the art of sanding with the right sandpaper is essential to achieving the best results.

[norabrice1701]

The Duke & The Witch - Ch. 9

Charles Brandon x Fem!OC, A The Tudors Slight-AU fic

Series Main List

Ch. 9 Warnings: Discussion of witchcraft; period-typical attitudes towards everything (women, religion, witchcraft, etc.); fantastical squinty science/alchemy; imprisonment and lack of control

The journey to London takes time. Charles can’t risk Cromwell’s spies sending suspicious reports to the king in advance of their arrival, so he doesn’t allow Avian to ride astride his horse, and she tolerates walking alongside him. Self-loathing consumes him, continuing to churn his gut as Avian now walks alongside his horse through the crowded city streets. 

“I am supposed to be a witch, after all.” She said with something wicked and teasing in her gaze despite the sad tone of her voice. “Who’s to say that I won’t cast a spell on you?” 

The guilty cage around his heart tightened. “It’s one thing to bind your wrists with shackles but another thing entirely to gag you.” He sighs and steps closer to her in the shadows of the woodland, nuzzling her cheek. “Besides, I think you have already cast a spell on me.”  

She leaned into his embrace. “Then shouldn’t you take extra precautions, Your Grace?” 

His hand rose to her cheek, coaxing her mouth to meet his for one last, final kiss. Hidden away from the world for one last minute, he poured his heart into the kiss - whether to reassure her or himself, whether to reaffirm everything he promised her, or whether to prepare himself for the worst - he didn’t know. 

And he still doesn’t know. He casts a glance down at her, watching her green eyes blaze above the strip of black cloth that rests between her teeth and knots around the back of her head. Her hands rest in front of her, bound at the wrists. The shackles aren’t so loose that she can escape, but he doesn’t want the metal to chafe and cut through the fabric of her dress. Exposing the inlaid silver on her wrists won’t do either of them any good. He can only hope that she won’t be imprisoned long enough for anyone to discover it. 

Her gaze darts up to his before she blinks away just as quick. Another pang of guilt stabs him through the chest, and he works a sickening swallow down his throat as they approach The Tower. He doesn’t want her arrest to turn into any more of a spectacle than it has to, but at least - if her earlier suggestion was any indication - she understands the values of the act. Above all, though, he doesn’t want to see her hurt.  

The shadow of The Tower looms heavy in the dying daylight, and the somber courtyard makes for a dour welcome as he swings down from his horse. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge the scrape of the heavy wooden door against stone as he reaches for Avian’s bonds.

“Your Grace.” Cromwell’s voice makes Charles stiffen. “This is indeed an unexpected surprise.”

Charles’ jaw tenses with indignation. Unexpected surprise, indeed. No doubt the man’s spies have run ahead and informed their master of Charles’ impending arrival. Swallowing his displeasure, Charles turns to acknowledge the Lord Privy Seal. “Indeed, my lord.”

“His Majesty was beginning to have concerns about your commitment to duty, but I shall be delighted to inform him of your arrival.”

“His Majesty had no cause for doubt.” Charles answers, untying the rope from his horse and tugging it to pull Avian forward. The weight of her stare lands on him before shifting to Cromwell who visibly recoils with condescending disgust.

“My heavens,” Cromwells says, sniffing with displeasure. “Where ever did you unearth such a barbaric creature?”

“The woods in my duchy.” Charles suspects that Cromwell already knows more than that, but he chooses to play the game. For now.

Cromwell hums low in his throat. “Bound and gagged, too?”

Charles pulls again on the rope, walking for the door Cromwell had exited earlier. “Until we know the full extent of her abilities, I wasn’t about to risk her casting a spell on me.”

Cromwell’s chuckle follows him as he leads Avian inside, ascending the nearest staircase. “A wise precaution, Your Grace.” Cromwell affirms. “I must confess myself intrigued by the prospect of her evaluation.”

“Either way, it will prove enlightening.” Charles ignores the twist of dread in his gut, turning towards the nearest guard and not slowing his pace or minding the pull of Avian’s stumble. “Guard - bring a bucket of water.” He commands, pausing just long enough to grab a torch from the nearest sconce before ducking into the closest open cell.

He turns back to face her, pulling her into the empty cell as he rests the torch in a sconce to cast pale shadows about the dingy interior. With the loose end of the rope in his hand, he threads it through a metal ring embedded in the stone wall before tying a strong knot to secure her in the cell’s confines.

“A bucket of water, Your Grace?” Cromwell sounds dubious as Charles turns to glare at him over his shoulder. The Lord Privy Seal stands just inside the cell door, intently watching Charles work.

“Yes,” Charles confirms. “I would have returned to London sooner, but the lady escaped my custody once already. Hid a powder in one of her hair braids that ate right through the metal lock on her previous restraints.” He bites off a sharp smile. “Those same mistakes will not be repeated.”

He reaches up, undoing the tie on one braid and unraveling the thick plait. The rest follow until her hair hangs in wild, disheveled waves around her face, her bright green eyes glinting out from beneath. He’s careful not to reveal any trace of the hidden braid at the base of her hairline, and the gag that’s still tied around the back of her head helps. 

“Tell me, witch,” Charles commands, putting the full power of his station in his voice. “Is there anything in your hair that you should like to confess before you are doused?”

Garbled, sharp sounds issue from behind the gag as she waves her bound hands.

Charles shakes his head in strong reprimand, tugging on the rope for effect. “A simple shake or nod of your head will suffice.”

She falls still, eyes blazing as she meets Charles’ gaze. Eventually, she slowly shakes her head, shoulders slumping.

He nods in acknowledgement. “Very well.”

The guard announces his newly arrived presence, sidestepping around Cromwell to hand Charles the bucket of requested water. The guilt will consume him later, but he can’t afford the appearance of leniency right now. He lifts the bucket over her head and pours the cold rain of water down upon her.

She cries out against the gag as the water soaks her hair, running down her face to catch in the fabric of her clothes. Her breathing comes in sharp, displeasured draws as she gasps and drips. 

“Good gracious,” Cromwell muses. “She looks like a rabid animal. Completely unsuitable to go before the bishop or His Majesty. We should just put her down now.”

She lunges against her bonds towards the Lord Privy Seal, jerking harshly to clank the metal ring against the stone wall.

Charles shoots Cromwell a dark look. “You’re lucky that knot held, my lord. I’d suggest refraining from antagonizing her further.” He crouches down at her side, setting the bucket aside before working his hands along the hem of her dress and up along the woolen fabric of her chausses. It mirrors his inspection from that first time in the St. Edmunds’ garrison dungeon, but it only makes him long for the tender embraces shared in her bed.

Cromwell scoffs with unease. “And what purpose is this, Your Grace…?”

He runs his hand down her other leg. “She is also known to carry concealed weapons under her clothing. I have a device to show His Majesty that she wears concealed under her sleeve.”

A dark smirk sounds in Cromwell’s words. “Most interesting. You do know quite a bit about her.”

Charles rises to his feet, feeling along the wet sleeves of her dress. “I only know what she has tried to attack me with. The rest of her secrets are still hidden.”

“For now.” The smug tone on Cromwell’s words don’t go unnoticed as Charles feels along her other forearm. He already knows that she doesn’t carry any of her arsenal, and while displeased, she had understood when he told her that he would have to surrender her gauntlet upon her arrest. All for the value of the show, he tells himself. As if to remind himself, he searches her face and tries to catch her gaze. But the disquieting, distant sheen in her eyes as she stares - perhaps at the wall, perhaps at Cromwell - only rots Charles’ stomach.

“Guards will be posted outside the door,” Charles forces himself to say, careful to keep a firm edge to his voice. He isn’t supposed to love this woman, after all. “Should you try to escape, you’ll find our inclination towards fair treatment will disappear. But on the other hand, should your behavior reflect favorably when I return, then you will not find your treatment lessened.” He shoots her one last glance before turning towards Cromwell and the door, sweeping out without hesitation.

Cromwell silently follows him, but there’s no mistaking the pleased aura about the man. It’s something that Charles has never understood - there is no pleasure to be found from watching others suffer, yet everything about The Tower stands as a testament to suffering. 

The days ahead hang like a heavy weight around his neck, and he will need every ounce of his strength to guard his heart. Or perhaps Henry won’t invite him to Avian’s evaluation. 

But as he leaves The Tower with the Lord Privy Seal on his heels, he doubts that he will be so lucky.

***

The summons arrives not two days later. Official instructions for the Duke of Suffolk to conduct evaluation of the rumored witch at The Tower for his majesty’s pleasure and satisfaction. 

Nothing about it sits well with him, and he works to suppress a yawn as he enters The Tower’s royal council room. Charles has visited enough prison cells on the king’s business over the years to recognize the pervasive damp chill that permeates every room of The Tower, including the king’s council chamber. He sniffles against the musty scent that tickles his nose, clasping his hands behind his back as he awaits the king’s arrival and watches the other attendees. Assorted lords and clergymen take their seats, musing about the business at hand and whispering about the purpose of today’s meeting. 

Charles only half-listens to the various conversations. He has spent the better part of the night planning out how this meeting should go and how much he should divulge. Exhaustion eats at the corners of his mind, but he refuses to let it show. It will only weaken his resolve - make him vulnerable to the tumultuous weight in his heart and the guilty nausea souring his stomach - when instead… instead, he will be who he needs to be today. 

“His Majesty, the King!” The herald’s voice cuts through the din as everyone raises to their feet, poised to bow. Henry strides into the room, stone-faced and regal as he bypasses the bowing nobles without a glance.

Charles straightens from his own bow, unable to hide his disdainful glare at the man who follows after the king. Cromwell’s dark gaze meets his, smug and sure, despite his otherwise demure expression. Everything about it makes Charles’ blood boil. He has no excuse to remove the Lord Privy Seal from the room, but Cromwell’s presence will surely complicate the proceedings. If not seeking to somehow extort anything about Avian for the king’s gain, then perhaps worse, Cromwell will try for his own private gain. 

The king takes his seat at the head of the table before everyone else sits and Cromwell hovers in the background. “We officially declare this meeting in session,” Henry starts, glancing around the assembled crowd. “We are given to understand that my Lord Suffolk has something of particular interest to share with us. Or, rather – someone.” His sharp gaze lands on Charles. “Proceed.” 

Charles nods with a half-bow before stepping forward. “Thank you, Your Majesty. My lords.” His voice echoes in the small stone chamber with a refined detachment. “Rumors have persisted for some time about the presence of a witch in my duchy.”

A murmur rises in the room, punctuated with hushed, guffawed whispers. The Earl of Hertford, Edward Seymour, raises a disparaging eyebrow. “A witch, Your Grace? Is she not better left to a priest and burned at the stake?”

Charles shakes his head gently. “From my interactions with her, that does not appear to be the case.”

“Your interactions with her?” Bishop Gardiner interjects, his face piqued. “You’ve met the woman?’

“Yes, Your Grace.” Charles motions towards the door. “She is waiting just outside to join us when I give the word.”

Another shocked murmur fills the room. A lesser bishop sputters with a scandalized look. “Join us here and now? With His Majesty present?”

Henry sits silently, but Charles recognizes the fierce, hungry curiosity that burns in his king’s gaze.

Charles nods. “Yes. This evaluation - nay, this demonstration - was arranged at His Majesty’s request.”

“A demonstration?” Seymour repeats, gaze drawn in with a wary edge. “You mean to say the woman in question does possess powers?”

“I’m not learned enough to make the final determination,” Charles answers carefully. “But she does possess a knowledge of this earth that extends beyond the traditional.” He walks over to the door, opening it just enough to issue the command for the guards to bring her in.

The door swings open to allow the guards the pass, pulling Avian silently along by a chain that connects to the shackles still around her wrists. Her eyes dart, wide and nervous, around the room and assembled crowd. Nothing in her appearance softens when she meets Chrales’ gaze, and he holds an unwavering expression in return. The guards lead her to the center of the chamber, extending the chain down to loop through a ring in the floor. After securing her bonds, they step back against the far wall as Charles moves forward.

With her bound hands chained to the floor, dress smeared with prison filth, wild curls and gaunt cheeks – Avian looks not unlike a feral waif. In fact, except for the shrewd alertness of her gaze, nothing else about her presence indicates any sort of civility, let alone power. 

A lesser lord snorts derisively. “She looks more like a homeless beggar than any witch.”

“Do not be deceived.” A priest chides. “Witchcraft takes many forms.”

“Indeed.” Charles agrees, gesturing in her direction. “Please allow me to introduce a woman simply known as Avian.” 

The same priest harrumphs. “Not even a surname?”

“No, my lord.” Charles answers, not sparing her a glance. “She has made mention of her father in past interrogations, but nothing that has been of any value.”

“Can we not just ask her directly? Or is she incapable of speech?” Another asked.

“Careful,” the priest hisses in return. “She may cast a spell upon His Majesty.”

Charles bites back a wave of annoyance and hopes that she will follow his lead. “She will not speak unless I directly address her.”

Seymour arches a suspicious brow. “Do you have a prior arrangement with the prisoner, Your Grace?” 

Charles holds his head high. “Only in that she has been made to understand how to behave in the presence of her betters.” 

That seems to please the assembled crowd, a few concurring nods and satisfied smirks lighting up around the room. 

Henry raises a hand, gesturing impatiently. “Proceed, Your Grace. We are most anxious to see this.” 

Charles tips his head in acquiescence as he reaches for the sleeve of his black doublet and pulls it up to reveal the gauntlet of straps, pouches and bellows affixed to his forearm. He holds his forearm up in front of his face for everyone to study. “She wears this up her sleeve,” he starts. “When concealed, it appears as though she summons the powder contents of these pouches from thin air. But it is not magic, merely trickery.” 

Seymour’s face creases with incredulity. “Powder contents? And what purpose do they serve? I hope for more than just a woman’s toiletry.” 

A small chuckle rises from the room as Charles lowers his sleeve. “I’ve only witnessed her use them for self-defense. But see for yourself.” He turns and extends his wrist towards her face, curling his fingers back to reach the bellows. A cloud of red powder rushes forth. She coughs against it, trying to avoid the red cloud of dust but unable to escape it or hold her breath. A gasping breath rattles her body, followed by a breathy moan as her eyes pinch shut. 

“She calls it passion powder,” Charles clarifies. “For that’s what it does - incites a dizzying rush of passion. Dizziness. Breathlessness. A burning itch in the blood that doesn’t wane.” He turns back towards her, his stomach souring as he watches her struggle. “If she were attacking me or vice versa, she would be quite unable to continue.” 

“Fascinating.” A voice murmurs across the room, clearly intrigued. 

“Just one burst is all it took?” A priest looks up with wide, confused eyes. “To incapacitate her so completely?” 

“Just one,” Charles confirms as she squirms against her bonds, another moan pitching low in her throat. “Anymore and I think a person might go mad.” 

Cromwell tilts his head, brow pinching with smug realization. “You speak as if you have firsthand knowledge, Your Grace. Were you a victim of an attack?” 

Charles bristles, jaw tensing as he struggles to keep his response civil. “Yes. On our first meeting - upon pursuit of her, I received a similar dose of passion powder.”

“And how did you recover, Your Grace?” Cromwell’s face maintains the mask of feigned concern. 

Her ragged moan cuts through the room before Charles can answer, turning back to watch her tremble against her bonds, eyes wide and glassy. 

Charles moves back towards her. “I recovered in the privacy of my own home which is something the lady doesn’t have here. So let’s ease her discomfort.” He extends his arm towards her again, pressing on the second bellows trigger. Bright purple dust fills the air, and she sneezes as it invades her senses. Her balance falters, and she stumbles to her knees. Charles looks back at the assembled crowd who sit with rapt attention. But then he turns back to her with a quizzical expression. “I don't know if this powder has a name,” he says. “But it uses spider venom to render the victim immobile. One burst of this would steal the strength from even the strongest man.” 

She huffs a groaning, frustrated breath as she slumps to the floor. Her limbs slow their movements as  her shaking and twitching gradually subsides. 

“I don’t believe it.” A voice whispers, astounded. “How could such a thing be possible?”

Charles watches her writhing fade and turns back towards the king, stomach souring at the gleeful look of intrigue in Henry’s eyes. “There’s one more powder that she carries - a yellow one - but I have yet to see it used.” Charles forces himself to say before turning back to her with a commanding edge. “Avian - what of your third powder? What does it do?” 

She draws a hissing breath, glaring up at him with wildfire in her eyes. “Use it. And find out.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The third trigger depresses easily, and yellow powder rushes forth. In her immobile state, there’s even less that she can do to escape it, and it leaves a fine dusting on her clothes. Silence falls as her breathing calms and her eyes flutter. Her head lolls to one side as her eyes finally close, and she falls completely still. 

“By God, Charles,” Henry’s voice comes ripe with amusement. “I hope you haven’t killed her.”

 A spike of fear lances through Charles as he crouches beside her, holding a finger just under her nose. Steady puffs of air brush his skin as relief unclenches his chest. “No, Your Majesty. She lives.” 

Seymour shakes his head, begrudgingly impressed. “A sleeping powder. Ingenious. This woman presents herself as an alchemist to be rivaled with.” 

“Presumptuous of you.” A priest sniffles with distaste. “An alchemist without any formal training? That’s an insult to alchemists throughout the land.” 

“But the argument stands,” another lord chimes in. “If she can conjure such powders capable of incapacitating any man, then she is a threat to the stability of the kingdom and should not be allowed to run unchecked across our countryside. In that respect, how is she any different from a witch?” 

Cromwell interjects with an eerie calmness. “My Lord Suffolk seems to possess quite a working knowledge of this woman’s capabilities. Perhaps he would be willing to share his esteemed and learned opinion on the subject of this woman’s pronouncement as a witch.” 

Charles grinds his teeth but forces a pleasant, neutral tone, despite the anger roiling in him. “I do not count my opinion on the subject to hold much value,” he says quietly. “But I do not deem her a witch. Her powers are merely an illusion presented by application of knowledge. It is not witchcraft to strap a gauntlet to one’s arm.” He motions to his own arm as a visible reminder.

“That may be so, Your Grace,” Seymour coolly interjects. “But that does not mean her power is an illusion. There is clearly much to be gained from her knowledge. Unless this was an act of deception, those powders could have quite an impact on the battlefield.”

Charles purses his lips to hear it said. He can’t deny that he had similar thoughts once upon a time, but they sit ill with him now. “That is a possibility. Though, our soldiers would have to be very close to the enemy for that to work effectively.”

“What…” Cromwell steps forward, peering over the table and squinting in shrewd, intrigued assessment. “What is around her wrists?”

“Oh my.” Seymour stands to his feet, lips curled with interest. “I say, indeed. It… it almost looks like metal. But… burned into her skin?”

Charles turns to look down at Avian, cursing his luck. When she had slumped over from the sleeping powder, the shackles pushed up the sleeves of her dress to reveal a glimpse of her bare wrists and the band of mottled skin inlaid with silver. Even he wouldn’t be able to deny its visible presence. 

Henry’s voice sounds over his shoulder. “Well, Your Grace? What’s to be made of it?”

Charles swallows carefully, crouching down to give the appearance of conducting a closer inspection. “I cannot say, Your Majesty. This… I have never seen its equal. Some sort of metal.” He hovers a hand over the affected skin. Even though he does not touch, he can almost feel the metal’s phantom coolness. “It might be steel, or maybe silver?”

“Silver?” Seymour queries. “Perhaps we should cut it out and add it to His Majesty’s coffers.”

“I would caution you, My Lord.” Cromwell’s voice cuts in. “At this distance, it looks intentional – it’s too well placed on both wrists. We should seek to understand it before we destroy it.”

Charles looks up, swallowing hard. “I have to say that I agree with the Lord Privy Seal. We need her to answer for it before taking action.”

Henry tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes glinting with a dangerous impatience. “How long until she wakes?”

“It could be hours,” Charles shakes his head with genuine uncertainty. “Or it could be in the next half hour. The powders’ effects seem to vary from person to person.”

Henry hums thoughtfully. “Then, my lords, I suggest we adjourn. Until she can answer for herself and her knowledge - be it alchemy or witchcraft – there does not seem to be any usefulness gained while there are still so many other matters for the kingdom. Nonetheless, this has been most illuminating, and we are most intrigued at the prospect of future discussions.”

A general chorus of agreement rises in the room, and Charles stands back to his full height. The king processes out first as everyone offers a half-bow in parting respect. In the wake of his departure, Charles watches Cromwell and Seymour talk in low, hushed tones that send a shiver down his spine. 

“Your Grace?” Bishop Gardiner’s voice draws his attention. 

Charles summons a pleasant smile. “Yes, Your Excellency?”

“How much exposure have you had to this purported witch?”

“Not so much. She… I was informed about her, as was His Majesty. And at his request, I sought her out and brought her to The Tower.” Absently, he wonders if blatantly lying to a clergyman reserves him a place in a deeper circle of hell. 

The bishop hums kindly. “Witchcraft takes many forms, Your Grace. I should hate to see your soul unknowingly fall victim. Should you wish, I offer my personal services for your confession and prayer.”

Embarrassment threatens to lift the corner of Charles’ mouth but he covers it with a smile of gratitude. “Thank you, Your Excellency. That is a most generous offer, and I shall let you know.”

The bishop smiles wide and hopeful. “Very good, Your Grace. I look forward to hearing from you.” He glances down at Avian, shaking his head solemnly. “Bless you, my child. If there is any redemption for your soul, then I hope we can lead you there.”

The bishop turns without another word and leaves the growing quiet of the chamber. Avian still lays motionless on the floor and Charles’ guilt grows. He wants to follow her back to her cell, to be there when she wakes up. To beg for forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve.

He glances up, gaze drawn by the weight of Cromwell and Seymour’s calculating glances. Steeling his nerve and glaring at the guards, he barks in his coldest, commanding voice. “Take the prisoner back to her cell.”

[gideongriddle]

many thoughts head full obviously!!

but i am thinking about the way stede internalizes a sense of duty in all the wrong ways and how that dovetails with the particular fear that comes with realizing how much influence you have over someone. how terrifying to see hard proof that someone will throw everything away for you, be robbed of everything that makes them recognizable (the titular beard!!!) simply to keep you safe and alive. how hard it would be see yourself as worthy of that gesture, to believe that he harbors no regrets about signing himself away to the king he hates. how heavy a responsibility to accept that you are now the captain of two fates — his and your own — he won't leave without you, he'll stay here for ten human years if you let him, and he says he's not unhappy but what will all that time in this place strip from him if there's no respite?

i think that when stede says yes to the plan to run away, he suspects that is selfish and bad to do so in some nebulous way, but he cannot bear to take one more scrap of joy away from ed by saying no to his face (and isn't a bit of harmless fun, like the restaurant bit, then, to imagine themselves running away to china together?) but in chaucey's rage, stede finds a kind of moral clarity — there is a relief in having your faults laid out in the open when one of your biggest fears is that you're fooling everyone around you. and with that clarity comes what might, in a certain light, look like bravery — without even having the language to say that he's in love, stede cannot bear to be the anchor who weighs ed down and so he undoes the chain that binds them, he enforces a freedom on ed that he imagines won't cost him anything, and he decides to be a grown-up and do what he Ought To Do

and you know. of course he's wrong

[wardenannie]

heyy! saw you were taking prompts so i thought i'd send you onee.

could you write a spicy levihan oneshot based on levi and hanji reuniting after a long time being apart? it can be canonverse or a modern au, whatever youd'd like!

love love love your writinggg <333

Love this prompt. I'm writing this as a modern AU where Levi and Hange met in the military and fell in love. Later on Levi is injured and is honorably discharged but Hange remains active duty. 💚

Boomers having seggs under the cut ;)

-

Eight months. He hasn't seen his wife in eight, long months.

He drives to the airport in a car modified to accommodate his disability. His right leg has never worked the same since the bullet. He rolls through the terminal in his wheelchair. People look down on him, the little man in the little chair, but he doesn't care.

Levi is going to see Hange. His Hange. They fell in love on the field of war, and as far as he knows there is no stronger bond. He misses her touch, her kiss, the low ramble of her voice.

He misses his Hange.

The circumstances of her return are less than ideal. An IED has left her missing an eye and badly burned. They had to airlift her to Germany where she recovered without him. She hadn't wanted him there. Hadn't wanted him to see her so broken.

It still broke his heart.

Now he waits by the baggage claim, watching the arrivals. Frankfurt 8:20 am, on schedule.

Levi checks his watch; its 7. He has some time to kill. But all he can do is wait, staring at the arrivals. His good leg jiggles with anxiety. His good eye never wavers from that screen.

The hour passes like molasses, the final twenty minutes like cement, but finally a familiar head of russet hair rounds the corner. She's on crutches still, and she wears a patch over one eye. Most of her is covered by her military greens, but he can see the burn scars on her left hand and cheek.

She has never looked more beautiful to him.

He wheels over to her as fast as he can, breathless, grinning.

Hange meets him, leaning over to pull him into a tight hug. Her warmth is rejuvenating, he has not felt so whole in a long time.

The first thing she says to him, breathless in his ear, is a joke; "Between the two of us we've got one working set of eyes, smalls."

"I'll watch your left if you watch my right," Levi replies, then he pulls back from the hug to kiss her deeply, not caring who sees.

A few people, seeing Hange's uniform and Levi's chair, begin to clap for them.

Levi just wants them to shut the fuck up.

-

They make it back to their apartment in record time, both of them grinning like idiots as they pass over the threshold.

Hange drops her single duffel bag in the entry way and inhales deeply. Then she sighs, eyes becoming sad, "Assimilation back into civilian life is going to be hard, isn't it? Especially now that I look like the crypt keeper."

"I'll be here to help you," Levi stands up, folding his chair. He limps over to her, leans on her, kisses scarred jaw. "You're beautiful."

Hange shakes her head and helps him into the living room. They sit on the couch, hands clutching at one another, loath to lose such a precious thing as touch after so many months.

"You can't see the worst of it, it's under the uniform," she explains. "I honestly think it'll make you sick."

"Hange," Levi leans forward to kiss her, bit she avoided him.

"I lost my left nipple, you know? Burned clean off. My tits are lopsided now," she cups them, dropping his hand. He can't tell anything through the uniform. "God Levi I feel like such a monster."

"No," Levi snaps, drawing her into his arms. "I almost lost you, four-eyes. They told me you had a fifty-fifty shot. I thought I was going going lose you. Now that I finally have you back I won't listen to this shit. You're my wife. I love you so much it fucking hurts, burns or no."

Hange sniffs, peeking out between her fingers.

Levi leans forward to kiss her forhead, "I missed you so much. Everyday I wasn't with you killed me a little bit, Hange. Knowing I wasn't there to protect you."

Hange inclines her head to kiss his lips. Chastely at first, but Levi deepens it, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her closer to him by her waist.

His tongue traces along her lower lip and she grants him entrance. She tastes like the mints she always sucks on when she flies. Hange moans softly into his mouth, one hand cupping his scarred cheek.

They part by a few inches, and Levi asks softly, "Are you ready for sex? Does it still hurt?"

"Sometimes I can still feel the fire in my skin," Hange shivers, then she kisses his jaw. "I want you to take it away."

"Hange..."

She takes his hands. Both of them are shaking slightly, "Make love to me, Levi. I want to feel whole again."

In the past he would have lifted her and carried her to their bedroom. But now his leg will not allow for that, so he hoists her up with an arm around her waist, lips working at very neck and jaw as he guides her to their marriage bed.

It's the same as when she left. Black duvet, white sheets, all neatly laid out and folded by her husband.

He lays her down on the duvet and crawls over top of her, beginning to work at the buttons of her uniform. Her hands caress down his chest to the hem of his shirt, which she tugs at lightly.

Levi finishes the last button, then sits up to remove his crew neck before gently pushing Hange's top off of her shoulders.

"You've been staying in shape," she marvels softly, caressing her hands over the scarred marble of his skin.

He shrugs, eyeing her breast bindings hungrily, "Physical therapy got me on an exercise kick."

"I've gone a little soft," Hange sighs, "So many weeks in hospital, you know?"

Levi begins to undo her breast bindings, deft fingers pulling them away strip by strip. When she is bared to him he marvels at the mottled pattern of her skin; olive and red, silver and purple. Like she said, she is missing a nipple, but he hardly notices for the joy of being with his wife again.

"You're beautiful," he breaths softly, and he leans over to lavish her branded skin with sensual kisses.

Hange moans softly, fingers curling into his hair as his tongue traces along sensitive scar tissue.

"Levi," she moans. Eyes fluttering shut.

He begins to descend, following the line of scarring that divides her body in two. His tongue traces along her navel, and when he reaches her waistband, he looks up to her with hooded grey eyes, begging permission.

Biting her lip, Hange nods frantically, "I want your mouth on me, it's been so long."

Levi hums in agreement, peeling her trousers and simple cotton panties down her thighs in a single movement. It has been far too long.

Her cunt glistens wetly in the low light of the bedroom. Here she is the same, here the fire has not touched her, so when Levi lowers his tongue to lick a hot stripe up her folds, he knows just how to make her twitch.

His lips seal over her clit, feeling it harden and swell under his assault. His fingers find her entrance and press inside, curling backwards in a familiar pattern, pads brushing up against her g-spot.

"Oh shit, Levi," she throws a burned arm over her eyes, cunt already beginning to twitch and tighten around his fingers.

"Come," he commands softly, low voice vibrating against her clit. "Come for me, Hange."

She does, thighs shivering as she falls apart on his fingers. She makes a high, keening sound that makes Levi smile as he pulls his wet mouth away from her pussy. He presses a kiss over her mound then stands, undoing his belt and shucking his pants.

His cock bounces free, heavy, swollen and beaded with precum at the tip. Now they are both naked save for the wedding bands they wear on chains around their necks.

Hange smiles at him, scooting up the bed and beckoning with a pink, scarred finger. All of her bashfulness over her wounds has melted away, "It's been awhile, Captain. I needed the warm up."

He crawls over top over her, kissing her breasts before kissing her lips tenderly. Missionary is his favorite position, so he can look into her eyes while they make love.

He reaches between their bodies, lining up the head of his cock with her entrance.

"Ready?" He whispers against her parted lips, holding her stare. Their is fire in both of their eyes, a love like none other. Slate holds to wine as she nods and he slides into her, smooth and easy.

Entering Hange is like coming home. Levi shuts his eyes and let's the sensation surround him, swallowing him up. He tucks his face into the crook of her shoulder, moaning softly as he begins to thrust, slow and steady.

"Levi," she whispers his name. "Levi, Levi, Levi."

Her fingers caress down the switching muscles of his sides and she clutches at the globes of his ass, urging him to go harder, faster.

The feel of her cunt is sublime, tight and wet and hot around his dick. She kisses his temple as he makes love to her, then her hands rake up from his ass to cup the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Levi snaps his hips as hers roll to meet his. His fingers trace delicately over her scars as his tongue curves along the back of her teeth.

When they part, panting and flushed, he exhales against her lips, "I missed you so much."

Hange nods, fingers curling into her shoulders as her cunt begins to tighten around him. There are tears in her eyes, tears of deep seated emotion still unspoken. Tears of a wounded soldier. Tears of lovers reunited at last.

Levi's hips begin to stutter, cock swelling, balls tightening to his body.

"Come in me," Hange implores, holding his gaze. Her eyes plead, "inside, please."

Then her body goes tense under him, and she makes soft panting sounds as her orgasm takes her in waves.

Levi's lips part, eyes hooding as his thighs and groin go alight and he finishes inside of his lover.

He gives a few, final thrusts, working himself deep before he collapses on top of her. They both pant, sharing gentle kisses in the sweetness of the afterglow.

Levi holds Hange to his chest, fingers tracing along her scars.

"You're so beautiful, Hange," he breaths, emotions rising in his chest. "You have no idea."

Hange kisses the corner of his mouth, eyes hooded and lazy. Mixed fluids drip between her thighs, "So are you, Levi."

Her fingers catch on his chain, following it down to his ring. It mirrors her own, a simple golden band.

"I love you," she says. "And I'm never leaving you like that ever again."

Levi nods, "Likewise, and I love you, too."

Reunited at last, they sleep.

[flightlessangelwings]

Restraint

Comandante Veracruz x afab!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: smut (18+ only), bondage, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, toys, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, aftercare

gif by @thewaythisis​

~

You whimpered as you tugged at your restraints. You found yourself on your back on Veracruz’s bed, naked, with your limbs each tied to the corners. He stood at the foot of the bed with a satisfied smirk on his face. He always enjoyed when you were splayed out and completely helpless for him. You looked up at him with half lidded eyes as you silently pleaded for him to do something, anything, other than stand there and watch you squirm.

“Do you like that cariño?” he teased you as he circled the bed, “Knowing I can do whatever I want to you,” Veracruz ghosted a hand over your skin, “And you’re helpless to do anything about it…”

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped your lips as you strained against your binds.

Veracruz had come back from a mission in a mood, as he usually did. But this time, it wasn’t because something went wrong. Instead, his superior left him with all the clerical work, which sat on his desk at the far corner of his bedroom untouched. The comandante decided to have some fun with you before he got to the more mundane part of his duties.

This time, however, “fun” had a different meaning, and you quickly figured that out as he remained fully dressed while you were completely nude and bound to his bed. A weak whine escaped your lips as you begged him to do something, anything, other than just stare at you.

“Always so needy, cariño,” Veracruz’s voice was low as he ran his fingers up and down your body in feather-light touches.

“Since when do you complain, V?” your eyes fluttered shut but you grinned at your comeback.

“Oh do not mistake my remarks for complaints,” he responded as he reached under his bed for the little black box he kept. At the rustle of movement, you opened your eyes and watched as he took out a thick vibrator with a notch at the base. You licked your lips as you shimmied your hips in anticipation.

He carefully kept his eyes off of you; Veracruz knew if he saw the lustful look in your eyes that his resolve would break, and he wanted to draw this out as long as he possibly could. With his eyes focused on the toy, he coated it generously with lube before he set the box down and settled between your forced open legs.

It was only then that Veracruz let himself look up at you. Your eyes met for several intense moments, and you knew exactly what his gaze meant without any words needed. No one could read him quite like you could. It was a look that said you were in for a more thrilling time, and your safe word was always in play.

You nodded, the silent contract sealed, and the comandante slowly pushed the toy into you. A moan from deep in the back of your throat filled the room as he stuffed you full with the vibrator. Veracruz felt his cock twitch in his pants at the sounds you made, but he ignored it.

He watched with bated breath as the toy disappeared inside you, and he didn’t stop until only the handle stuck out and the notch was pressed firmly against your clit. You panted and writhed against his touch as you felt your pussy stretch around it. You then let your head fall back against the pillows.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you arched your back to try to feel your comandante more, but you whined when you couldn’t feel more than just his hands on you. For several breaths, you kept your eyes closed as you adjusted to the girth of the toy. When you finally opened your eyes, you were surprised to find that he no longer sat between your legs.

“V…?” you looked around the room and you exhaled sharply when you saw he sat at his desk instead, “V! You...Ahh...”

He didn’t even turn around when he used the remote to turn the vibrator on, even when you moaned at the sensation. Veracruz turned his focus to the paperwork on his desk as he left the vibrator on the lowest setting. You mewled as rocked your hips as much as you could, but you couldn’t move too much with how tightly Veracruz bound you. 

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, but after some time, you felt the vibrations become more intense. Your moans got louder every time you felt him turn the vibrator up; even in your haze, you weren’t sure how the comandante was able to keep his focus.

Suddenly, Veracruz turned it all the way up to the highest intensity and you couldn’t help the way you screamed in response. You felt your whole body tremble, and with the way you bucked your hips, the toy slid just enough to hit that sweet spot inside you. Your breathing became more ragged and your cries pitched even higher; you knew you were close.

But just as you were about to come, Veracruz turned the vibrator off completely. You whined as you tried to chase your climax, but you felt it fade quickly at the lack of stimulation. “V…” your voice was pathetic and you knew it, but you didn’t care.

He glanced over at you and licked his lips before he quickly turned away again. Your heavy breaths filled the room as Veracruz continued to work at his desk. His cock strained in his pants, and it took everything within him to not launch himself at you. But, he knew that it would be well worth it if he waited. Plus, he wanted to tease you some more. He didn’t want to fuck you until you were in tears and begged for him.

Once you were quiet, Veracruz started over again and flicked the vibrator on low. This time, your cries were louder to begin with, after having already been edged once. He kept it on low until he finished a page, and when he turned it over, he simultaneously increased the intensity. You cried out at the feeling, and it became a new pattern to turn it up once he finished a sheet.

After a few more pages, the vibrator was back at its highest intensity and you arched your back as moans and curses flowed from your mouth. Again, you felt your orgasm build and you groaned as your legs started to tremble. 

But, just like before, Veracruz shut the toy off just as you were about to come.

“V… please…” you whined as you strained against your binds. You flopped your head back as you choked back a sob at the loss.

He let out a low chuckle at your predicament, but made no move to do anything to help you. Instead, he started the cycle again, and again he stopped just as you were about to come. Every time he edged you, you cried out more desperately, and it only fueled Veracruz on more.

Tears filled your eyes as Veracruz repeated the cycle a few more times. Every time you cried out, you thought he would finally give in, but his sense of restraint was stronger than you thought. Once you were a completely blubbering mess, however, he finally stood and crossed the room to look at you again. Your eyes opened when you felt his own intense gaze on you, and you pouted as you pleaded for him to finally touch you.

Veracruz leaned in and hovered over you, but did not touch you just yet, “You look so delectable like this, cariño,” his voice was low as he spoke in your ear and bucked his hips against you so you could feel how hard he was, “You make it very hard to control myself.”

“Then don’t,” your voice was just above a whisper, “Please V…”

The groan that he let out went straight to your core and you clenched hard around the toy. His lips found your neck and sucked hard at the sensitive spot there, which made you cry out. Veracruz worked at that same spot until he was sure he left a big enough mark, then pulled away completely from you.

You whined at the loss of contact, but your whimpers were soon replaced with moans when he turned the vibrator on again. Veracruz watched you writhe for him for several minutes before he went back to his desk. As much as he wanted to pound into you until you had no voice anymore, he also wanted to drag this out as long as he possibly could.

Veracruz decided to take pity on you this time, however, and he left the toy on low while he finished the last of his work. Your moans that had started loud soon turned more muted and when the comandante turned back around, he saw that you drifted between sleep and consciousness. But even as you were half asleep, you still made such delicious noises and you still rocked your hips against the toy.

That was when the comandante’s resolve finally broke.

Just as you felt yourself start to drift off to fully fall asleep, Veracruz turned the vibrator all the way up and you jumped awake with a powerful orgasm. Your mouth hung open as you cried out in ecstasy and waves of pleasure crashed throughout your whole body. Tears fell down your face with abandon as you were finally allowed the release you had chased all evening. If it weren’t for the restraints, you would have flailed around everywhere, but your limbs remained bound to his bed.

“Is there a word you need to say to me, cariño?” he asked as he turned off the toy once you completely rode out your orgasm.

“No,” you breathed, “I just need a minute.”

You heard the faint beeps of his watch, and you knew he set a timer for exactly one minute. You closed your eyes and focused on your breaths as you calmed your spiraling emotions. After you counted what you guessed was one minute in your head, you mentally prepared yourself for him again. But, one minute came and went, and Veracruz was still quiet. In fact, he had actually set his watch for three minutes, but he was not going to tell you that.

While you took the time to recover, Veracruz stripped himself of his clothes and just watched you. Your breasts rose and fell with each breath, and the tears dried on the sides of your face. You looked a mess, but you never looked more enticing to Veracruz.

“V…” your voice was weak and you kept your eyes closed, “Please… I need you…”

He answered you with a growl as he slowly pulled the toy out of you. His cock twitched at the way you whimpered at the loss, but he made up for it by quickly lining himself up at your entrance. He paused before he pushed in, however, “Look at me, cariño.”

You opened your eyes slowly and were met with his own dark ones on you. It was only when you held his gaze that Veracruz pushed into you. You held his gaze even as you dropped your head back into the pillow as he stretched you out even more than the toy did. When he bottomed out inside of you, Veracruz let out a low groan that made you clench around him.

All the teasing he inflicted on you affected Veracruz as well, and he started pounding into you right away. Your moaning filled the room as you strained against the binds you were still in. He gripped onto your hips as he thrust himself in and out of you at a furious pace that he knew drove you wild. 

Veracruz moved one hand to rub at your clit, and he could tell by the way you arched your back and cried out his name that you were close again, “You have one more for me, cariño?” he cooed in a low voice, “Come for me.”

Just like that, your second orgasm took you over as you came with a loud scream. Veracruz wanted to watch you come undone again, but the need to come was too great, and he leaned forward to cover your body with his own as he came inside you with a growl. His arms trembled on either side of you as he fucked you through both your climaxes.

After one final thrust, Veracruz collapsed down on top of you, which made you grunt at the sudden weight. But, he was always careful and you were more surprised than hurt. The room felt warm, especially with the comandante’s body on top of yours as you both took several long, slow breaths to recover. You closed your eyes as you let your limbs go limp; there wasn’t much else you could do to move anyway with your ankles and wrists still bound to the corners of the bed. 

Veracruz laid still with his head buried in the crook of your neck and his cock still deep inside you. He placed father-light kisses to your skin, so light that if you hadn’t been so still you wouldn’t have felt them. His hands caressed your hips as he drew small circles with his thumbs. It wasn’t until you let out a soft groan that he finally pushed himself up and worked on freeing you.

He was silent, and you kept still with your eyes closed while you felt blood flow into your limbs for the first time in hours. Veracruz gently rolled your joints in his hands to make sure you were ok before he set the limb down on the bed and moved to the next one. Once you were completely unrestrained, he ran his hands up and down your body as a way to check for any injuries.

Satisfied that you were unharmed, Veracruz laid down next to you and pulled you into his arms. You happily obliged and rested your head on his chest and you let out a contented sigh when you felt him wrap his arms around you. You always loved the way the comandante wasn’t afraid to be rough with you, and he satisfied you like no one else, but you also greatly enjoyed these tender moments afterward when he took such good care of you. It was one of many aspects to him that only you got to see, and it was the one you were the most fond of.

“Feel better, comandante?” you asked with a soft chuckle after you felt him give you an extra squeeze to let you know that he was back from his post-sex haze.

That made him let out a single sharp laugh, “Yes cariño,” his voice was low and hushed. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence after that and you drifted off to sleep to the sound of his heartbeat. 

~

Notes: It’s been a minute since I posted about my asshole husband and I’ve missed him. This was actually an idea I’ve had in my head for awhile and I’ve gotten thirst asks about it too so this is a long time coming lol. I hope this makes up for the Veracruz drought lately tho!

[acourtofsnakes]

Tor - Rogue, Chapter 3| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader (f)

Summary: A little bit of Mando pov for you all!! It’s a shorter chapter, just kind of the same as the previous but from our Space Dad’s point of view this time. Though there may be a little hint of your decision at the end…

Warnings: Injury detail/blood, swearing, angst? Hints of fluff?

AN: There’s a very small ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ reference to a certain Dornish prince and his nickname in here too. Wonder if you’ll find it? 👀

Also, thank you to @ithinkwehitametaphor​ for sending me the gif! i couldn’t for the life of me find it and you honestly saved my life 

Wordcount: About 3465

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar​  @weirdowithnobeardo​

Rogue Masterlist | Introduction| 1: Solus| 2: Arir | 3: Tor | 4: Gaa'tayl ​

Mando’a Translation: Tor – justice 

He always thought it would end like this. Never in some big blaze of blaster fire or with his ship, but in some back alley, bleeding out, alone. 

Hell, maybe he deserved it. He’d killed enough people to warrant this end, slumped on the floor, too weak to save himself. 

He didn’t deserve a warrior’s death, a Mandalorian’s death. Not after all he had done.

Of course, it was his duty, his honour as a Mandalorian and a bounty hunter but… that sacred Creed did nothing to stop the thoughts that plagued him at night, the whispers that hissed in his ear during his waking hours. 

He almost laughed at himself. 

The Creed was all he had. 

Until…. Until the kid had come along. 

Until he saw that little wrinkly baby in the crib and… it had all changed. 

He couldn’t kill it, him, couldn’t take it back to the Client or his Clones. 

One look at that damn little silver ball, and eveyrhting went straight out the window. 

Fuck the Guild code. He would never kill a child, an innocent being that couldn’t even talk, could only make those little cooing sounds that even he had to admit were adorable. 

Rescuing him… it had given him something to live for. Something to fill his days and a reason not to go hurtling helmet first into danger with no regard for his own safety. 

Except… well, no. That wasn’t strictly true was it. He’d become more reckless since that moment, the rules that his bound his life for so long were slowly coming undone bit by bit. All of which made him so reckless, so… desperate?

You only had to look at the sheer amount of people lining up for his and the kid’s head to prove that. 

So maybe he didn’t always make the smartest decisions, but they were still alive, weren’t they? Had friends to help them if he needed it. 

In a short time, he’d gone from being Judge, Jury and Executioner, to being the person that people called when they needed help. Sometimes people didn’t even call him. He just showed up and offered his services. 

And truth be told… he liked it. He liked people looking at him with hope and admiration, rather than fear and jealousy. He liked the way people fussed over the kid, asking if Mando was taking good care of the child. Like they were a family. 

A Clan.

The sigil on his armour said as much. Him and the kid. A unit of two rogues. 

That’s what it all came down to, in the end. Everything was to keep Grogu safe. That’s why he stuck to the Outer Rim, taking jobs that would draw him further away from those that relentlessly hunting them, those who wanted to harm the Child. Besides, he needed the credits that came with the big jobs. Taking care of the little womp rat was expensive. Not to mention there was always something falling apart on his ship. 

So, when that guy in the hood had cornered him in the bar, given him the fob and told him about the bounty that no one could catch, he’d taken it without a thought. He’d had so many over the years that were supposedly uncatchable that the word had nearly lost its meaning. And this stranger had obviously sensed that, explained that it was true. Reeled off the sheer amount of hunters that had been sent that way, Imps, Trandoshans, Empire workers, IG-11 robots, even another Mandalorian. After hearing that list, Mando had expected some high-level bounty. An escapee from the deepest pits of the darkest prisons, someone who had done terrible, terrible things.

So… when he’d activated the puck, and the hologram of a woman’s face had come up… he was shocked. This woman… she was beautiful. Still young. She didn’t look like she bathed in the blood of her enemies, or killed children and babies, she looked… well, not exactly harmless. There was a glint in her eyes even on the hologram, a spark that warned of danger, promised pain to anyone that tried to hurt her. 

A survivor’s look. 

Something niggled at him, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. It might have been hesitation, but he ignored it. The bounty over her head was enough that he could take Grogu to one of those sanctuary planets and lay low for a few weeks. Maybe even a few months. The kid deserved it, to be able to play and explore. 

And himself… Maker, he was just so tired. 

So, he’d pocketed the puck and the fob, didn’t ask who the client was, went back to the Crest and then he was on his way to Sorgan. 

Maybe it would take him a little longer than usual to bring the girl in, but it was nothing that he hadn’t done before. After all, stealing back the kid, breaking into a prison, everything else that had occurred recently… this was a walk in the park. 

He still believed that, right up to tracking you. Even when he chased you. 

He had to admit, he did love it when they ran, even if his back was killing him. 

Something about the chase, the frantic fear of the prey as he hunted them down, the conclusion inevitable. It thrilled him. 

But… this felt.. different. 

You were different. You fought like it was a dance, whirling across the clearing and around his punches like there was a song only you could hear. And you were taunting him, laughing as you did. You lived for this, like you had been bred for it. No… you’d been shaped by it, shaped by the choice of cowering or turning into a wolf. A wolf, like those he’d seen in Lothal.

You were strong, you fought well, he had to give you that much. He knew he would have to work for it, but with the promise of safety lingering, he matched you move for move, determined to hold this out as long as it took. 

He’d read your file, read what had happened and used that to his advantage. The words had come easily, even though they had stirred something inside him, perhaps a mirror of the feelings he was encouraging in you. 

But then… then you just gave in. Straight away. And not like the others did. Not in the way that they had, thinking it would make him go easier, change his mind.

No, you had completely, utterly given up.  He saw it in your eyes. Saw that survivors glint gutter out, a wolf tamed back into her cage with her tail between her legs. 

And… it threw him. He had touched something, caught something deep within you as he taunted you. Something broken… that again whispered to his own deepest thoughts. Like calling to like. 

He’d ignored it, pushing that thought back into the part of his minds where his darker thoughts lay slumbering – for now. He’d carried you back to the Crest, shackled you to the wall and had made to leave you there. 

Only, he had seen that the wound on your shoulder was torn open again, ripped by your fight and his jamming with the rifle. It was bleeding through your tunic, and even with unconsciousness heavy in your body, you still looked somewhat pained. 

He’d hovered there, staring at the bleeding wound and having some kind of internal battle. 

It wasn’t fatal. It was just a recent injury that had torn open. You’d be fine. He nodded, turning around and making all of one step. 

But. A Trandoshan had been the last person to hunt you. They relished in the hunt, had probably fought dirty and used a poison. It might be infected. What if you died on his way back to dropping you off? Or got really, really sick?

Nevermind. The messenger for the Client stated you had to be brought back alive. Alive didn’t mean whole. He carried on walking, trying to focus again on something else… only to pause a couple of metres away. 

Help her. 

The Mandalorian had turned back around to look at you, a frustrated grunt slipping from his lips. He moved through the ship, grabbing a med-kit and then practically stormed back to you, nearly ripping your tunic as he’d eased up the sleeve. 

It wasn’t too bad, a deep wound but it hadn’t been infected, yet. He cleaned it up, spraying it with the last of his bacta-spray and binding it with the last strip of bandages. He’d have to get some more soon, dig up some credits from somewhere. 

A cruel reminder of why he took this job. What you were. A bounty. That’s all. 

Muttering a string of curses, he finished binding your wound, wrenching his hands away and then made his way back upstairs. 

A bounty. A means to an end. The way to getting a break that his aching body craved for. 

He was hunter. You were prey. 

That was the mantra he had to keep repeating to himself when he’d brought you up to the cockpit. 

Had to keep repeating when you were teasing him, which simultaneously ground on his nerves but also made his skin tighten in a way it hadn’t for a while. 

It had been a long time, so long since he’d that kind of verbal play with someone. 

Hell, it had been a long time since he’d had any kind of play with anyone. He just didn’t have the time anymore, not with Grogu and not when everyone knew who he was. How could you trust someone enough to sleep with them when nearly everyone wanted to kill you?

His new mantra had echoed in his head when you began to verbally poke at him, hitting home about being lonely. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you knew you’d hit a nerve. But thankfully you stopped. 

But not before that broken thing had called between you again. Your words were spoken with too much ease and casualness, someone who knew all too well the loneliness and starvation for touch and companionship. 

Maker, he had to get rid of you soon. 

It had almost been a relief to find the small bounty on this planet. You’d been asleep, the kid asleep too so he’d gone. He didn’t need to wake either of you up, you knew why you were here - he’d told you so this morning. 

Besides, it was a small planet, easy prey to catch when everyone here feared the dark. He’d be back in a few hours. 

With the way he was so wired, he’d probably be back in two. 

That’s the way it was meant to happen. 

Track down the bounty, disarm, bring him back, freeze him in carbonite and Mando would have you back in the sky before you’d even woken up. 

And it had happened that way initially. He followed the sharp tailed bounty from the fighting pits to a cantina. Had to sit and listen as he boasted about some girl he’d bedded the night before and had screaming his name. He then, of course, launched into detail of said night, drawling about this girl in such a derogatory way that it took all his training and restraint not to just shoot this creep in the head there and then and be done with it. 

But, the Mandalorian had endured it. Sat there for an hour or so and then followed him out into an alleyway. Mando kept hidden as the bounty had spoken to a friend, talking about another girl he’d seen. Apparently, this one was even better than last night. He had it on good authority that this girl would be game for anything he wanted to do and more. 

And then Spikey had started describing again, in detail, what he would do. And Mando had been disgusted, angry that this creep was talking about a woman this way, such sick and derogatory things. Spikey’s friend asked if this ‘slut’ had a name. 

And then…

Your name. That’s what he said. 

And that’s when it went wrong. 

Your name had barely come out of this animal’s lips when a red haze clouded over the Mandalorian. Everything in him screamed violence and his body went on autopilot, attacking this vile waste of space matter so quickly he hadn’t had time to breathe. Mando didn’t even notice the friend bolt, running away. He was just so focused on taking down the bounty, ripping him apart for what he’d said about you. This one would be brought in cold. He would say that it put up a fight, tried to kill him so Mando acted in self-defence. 

His previous mantra of the last two days was forgotten, overtaken by a need to defend you, make sure this guy stayed the hell away from you. Bring him down, freeze him in carbonite and get off of this planet. He fell back into that haze, relying on his skills and instincts. 

Except… except that when the haze cleared, he wasn’t leaning over the body. 

No, he was the one being pinned against the wall by the bounty, with a strength he hadn’t realised Spikey possessed. What the fuck was he?

Escape training came to him now, but before he could disarm and kill, the bounty began to spew those vile thoughts about you again. About how Mando was keeping you tied to a bed, for his own pleasure. How he was going to take you, ask to keep you, use you-

And then for the first time in his life, Mando forgot his training. He forgot about blocking and defensive maneuverers. He forgot about the myriad of weapons on his body, the Whistling Birds, the flame-thrower. 

He reached out in a blind fury to throttle this creep. 

He left himself open to attack. 

That was the first time he royally fucked up tonight.  

Pain had suddenly become a living thing in his side and waist as he slid down the wall, and then his only thought wasn’t of survival, it was of the kid, and you. 

You were back in the ship, both of you safe at least. Maybe you would know how to fly, know how to get yourselves out of there and run, escape. That’s what he’d hoped. You were smart, you were a survivor. You’d take the initiative and get yourselves out. Besides, he might not have admitted it, but he trusted you with Grogu. 

And then like he’d fucking summoned you… there you were. Launching into Spikey Tail’s side and getting him away. He could only watch as you engaged him in the fight, taunted him with that same tone you’d used on him. Only this time, he could watch you. 

Beautiful. 

There was no other word for it, as much as he might not have wanted to admit it. You fought like it was a dance, that prowling wolf in you giving way to a viper, striking and falling back with all the grace of dancers he’d heard about performing in Coruscant. 

He was almost breathless as he watched this deadly game – though that might have been the blood loss and blow to his head. 

He thought he might be sick when the sound of your ribs shattering bounced off the slick metal walls, the muffled cry of agony it tore from you. 

But still, the taunts kept coming, and he couldn’t help himself when you complained that Spikey Tail talked too much. You had possibly two broken ribs and yet you were still a cocky little shit. The impressed, huffing laugh that came from his lips was loud enough to be heard by you. 

And that was his second fuck up of the night. 

What started as an unexpected burst of warmth in his chest as you turned and smiled at him, had immediately frozen his lungs as Spikey slammed you against the wall, strangling you. 

Fear shot through Mando, colder than his body had begun to feel. He tried to get up, tried to help you but he couldn’t move. His limbs wouldn’t respond to him. 

He couldn’t save you. 

He was going to watch you die defending him. 

Just like his parents. 

No, no, no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that, not again. He swore against his body, gathered every remaining ounce of strength that he had and reached for his blaster, just as those sick comments of degradation and ugly lust began to fall from your attacker’s lips. 

All he needed was to give you an opening, just one tiny opening and you would do the rest. 

Spikey’s lips were creeping toward yours, fear bursting in your eyes as you scrambled for the vibroblade sheathed against your thigh. 

An opening, that’s all he had to do. 

And he did. He managed to haul his body back from the edge of death long enough to shoot the guy in the back. 

You took your opening. 

He saw the flash of your vibroblade, heard the muffled, wet noise as it sunk into his bounty’s neck. 

The guy fell to the floor in a dead weight. You dropped too and he managed to see you gasp for air, assure himself you were mostly okay before that flame of energy guttered out so quickly, he saw stars. 

Darkness hovered around the edges of his vision as he felt his life slip through his fingers – literally, his other hand was pressed to his side in an effort to try and staunch it but he didn’t have the energy to. 

This was it then. 

The way he would go. 

Nothing noble, or heroic. 

Bleeding out in a back alley. The creatures in the dark would take him soon enough. 

At least you would be able to take the kid and run now. At least there was that. 

And then he felt hands knocking his way, significantly smaller hands push into the wound. He couldn’t even make a noise of pain; it didn’t hurt anymore. His vision cleared again and there you were once more, leaning over him with blood sprayed over your face, falling from a cut on your cheek. 

No. No. 

What were you doing?? 

You were supposed to escape. You were supposed to flee the mess he’d bought you into and take the kid and run. 

He tried to speak, to convey these thoughts to you but his lips had stopped responding. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. But somehow, it was like you got what he meant. 

Your hands began to lift, and he had a weak wave of relief that was marred by the fresh soaking of blood that oozed out of his side. How much had he lost now?

Too much, by the cooling temperature of his body and the trembling that had begun. 

He had come close to death before, so many times before but this felt different. This felt like he was losing something. Something that was just within reach but he hadn’t had the chance to grasp at yet. And it was being wrenched away, taken from him and trickling over the stones beneath him in a deep, scarlet puddle. 

Maybe he’d begun to hallucinate too, because you were back, leaning over him, hands pressed into him again like they could stop the blood. He lifted his eyes and something in him curled up and panged when he saw that you were already gazing at him. 

Gazing right into his eyes. 

How you knew where they were, how you looked through the blackened visor without seeing, he didn’t know. But he could read the war raging inside of you, the battle off stay or go. 

Go.

Mando tried to talk again, but only managed a faint noise, a croak that sounded so pitiful, he might have cringed at himself had he not started to hear a ringing in his ears. Time was nearly up, ticking away his life and that glimmer of something. 

So, he instead just looked at you. You were clearly not made up yet, so he did something selfish. 

He put his life in your hands. 

If you left him here to die, he deserved it. It was justice. Justice for every ounce of pain he’d caused. The grief he’d doled out to mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children. 

Justice for the life of treachery he had all but dumped Grogu into. 

Justice for letting his parents die for him and not save them. 

But, if you let him live…

Then he would try harder. He would repent for his mistakes. 

He would make sure you were dropped somewhere safely. You couldn’t stay with him, he wrought death and destruction to those around him whether he meant it or not  

But he could take you somewhere safe, maybe to Greef and Cara. 

Then he would hunt down whoever came after you next, giving you the respite that he was going to keep for himself. 

They were the options. 

A deserved death, or a new determination to set right his mistakes. 

These thoughts swum through his hazy brain at a surprisingly rapid pace, only a few seconds worth of time as he still watched what you would do with this choice. He could see that you understood, understood the choice he had selfishly bestowed upon you. 

Only it was too late. 

Heavy darkness thundered over him in an unrelenting tidal wave and with a choked gasp, he was dragged under, so deep he might have imagined your arms winding around his battered body, hauling him to his feet as much as you could. 

His brain giving him one last reprieve, perhaps, or maybe a cruel taunt to what might have been before he was sucked under and everything went numb. 

Previous chapter| Next Chapter

[whumperscorner]

Ahh your "Strapped to a bomb" fic was so good, thank you for using my request! Would it be alright if I request another? I really enjoy your writing, it really hits the whumpy spot hehe! If it's okay can I request "Rope Burns" with Prompto and dad Cor and/or PromptoxNoctis.

aaah thank you anon! I'm so glad you enjoyed :D Now, I don't actually have "Rope Burns" on my bingo card, maybe it's possible you've looked at a different card before requesting? That's no biggie though, and I do love the prompt, so I've decided to try to combine it a bit with whumptober :3

Hope this one's still enjoyable <3

Whumptober 2021 day 1.- Bound

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Characters: Prompto Argentum, Noctis Lucis Caelum

Whumpee: Prompto Argentum

Word count: 2444

Warnings: restraints and manhandling, slight descriptions of injury

Prompto doesn't really mind working late shifts. Sure, it can be a bit spooky sometimes, especially closing up alone like today. The gas station he works at isn't exactly in the city's most reputable neighbourhood, so the late shifts always bring with them their fair share of 'eccentric' customers. On the other hand, they're also never as busy as the day shifts, and Prompto has never experienced anything actually threatening or dangerous in his time working here. So really, the biggest problem with the closing shifts is the effect they have on his sleep schedule.

This evening's shift goes about as usual. There are a few regular customers early in the evening who Prompto chats with for a bit, then he restocks some shelves and does some cleaning up in the back. At one point there's an odd-looking man in the store who doesn't end up buying anything, just walks around the between the shelves and mutters to himself. Prompto leaves it be, he knows better than to ask or intervene unless he has to. The night rolls by with few notable occurrences, and with just over an hour left before closing time now Prompto doesn't have a lot to do. He texts back and forth with Noctis in the downtime, and the two makes plans to meet up after Prom's shift is done and hang out. It's Friday after all, and Noct has gotten a welcome break from his duties as Prince, so they deserve to have some fun now. Prompto smiles at his screen, having just sent a thumb's up to Noct's suggestion to go watch a late night showing of a movie, when the sound of the door opening and closing catches his attention. He quickly puts the phone away and begins talking entirely from habit as he looks up to meet the customer.

"Welcome, what can I-" then he stops. What meets him when he looks towards the entrance, only a few feet away, is the barrel of a gun trained directly at him. Prompto's words get stuck in his throat, and he makes a small, choked gasp instead as his eyes widen. The first thing he notices is the gun and it takes him a second to take in the men standing there too. There are two of them, the one holding the gun and one other, both wearing masks and both carrying big duffel bags. Prompto's eyes flicker between the men for one terrifying moment where nothing happens, then it's as if his body is on autopilot. He rushes to the side of the counter where he knows the emergency button is located, no thoughts in his head except that he needs to alert someone. A gunshot rings out, and Prompto feels something whizz by in front of him. One of the shelves on the wall behind the counter crumbles, sending various snacks flying everywhere. Prompto stops dead in his tracks. The adrenaline previously coursing through him is gone now.

"Do as I say if you want to live." says the man holding the gun. His voice is somewhat muffled by the mask, but it still sends shivers run down Prompto's spine. He manages a slight nod and stands as still as he can as the two men approach. "Step out here." is the next order, accompanied by a quick gesture with the gun. "Hands up. No sudden movements."

Prompto obeys. What other choice does he have? His hands are trembling when he brings them up, and he has to force himself to move out from behind the counter and closer to the men. It's like his body doesn't want to move and blood rushes in his ears, making the whole situation feel surreal. When he finally stops the man with the gun nods quickly towards his accomplice, who rushes forward and closes the remaining distance between Prompto and the assailants. He throws the duffel bag onto the ground, where it lands with a heavy *thud*. Prompto gets no time to wonder what's in it though, as the man quickly grabs one of his wrists in an iron hold and wrestles him down to the floor. Prompto groans at the rough handling, and desperately tries to squirm into a more comfortable position. However, that only results in the man grabbing his hair harshly and tugging his head back.

"Stay fucking quiet." He hisses through Prompto's pained cry. Prompto whimpers out a weak apology, and when the man lets go of his hair he doesn't struggle anymore. Not even when the masked assailant reaches for the duffel bag and begins rummaging in it, pinning Prom down with a knee uncomfortably placed between his shoulder blades. It would be easier to wriggle free now, but one look up at the other man and then gun still trained on him makes Prompto quickly abandon that thought. The man holding him seems to have found what he's looking for in the bag and before Prompto can even begin to wonder about it he feels his hands being tugged in place behind his back and coarse rope tied around them. Prompto yelps at the feeling but doesn't dare struggle too much. There's laughter from behind him, though he can't tell which of the men it's from, possibly both. In any case he can feel the bindings on his hands being tightened maybe just a little too much, and he winces. This time it's definitely the one holding him the laughter comes from.

"Oh, did that hurt doll? Sorry, I'll make it better." He says, in a sort of mocking polite tone. Another strip of the rope is added just above the one already around his wrists and this one, to Prompto's horror, is tightened even harder. It forces Prompto's shoulders into a slightly weird position and comes dangerously close to cutting off circulation in his hands. Then the man turns him over, so he lies on his back on the floor instead of on his stomach. Prompto can't hold back the pained noises when the new position pulls on his bound hands.

"Don't overdo it now." says the other man, but he too chuckles at Prompto's hopeless expression. He turns back to what he was doing before, which Prompto now sees is seemingly emptying the cash register of anything and everything in it. Prompto's heart sinks, and he's just beginning to think this evening has reached it's all time low when the man pauses. "But gag him too, just to be sure." He adds, and Prompto can almost hear the wicked smile behind the mask.

He sends the man sitting over him a pleading look, though he knows it will be futile. And soon enough a filthy rag from the duffel bag has been balled up and forced into his mouth. The smell from it alone makes Prompto want to gag. He tries a couple times to spit it out, only for that to earn him a harsh slap and an order not to do that. Then the man stands up, leaving Prompto bound on the floor as he himself joins the other man in looting whatever items of even marginal value may be in the store. Prompto stays still in his uncomfortable position as they move about around him, not daring to move. All through this some small part of Prompto has been hoping that someone would appear to intervene, or would notice the disturbance and call for help, but now the reality of the situation is settling in. And the uncomfortable reality is that if no one has come running at this point then it's likely no one will. Gunshots in this area aren't a rarity, and Prompto is beginning to suspect that even if he had reached the emergency button the police wouldn't have come. The hopelessness of it all settles heavily in his stomach.

Prompto doesn't know how long he lays still there, but eventually the pull on his shoulders and the rope digging into the skin around his wrists gets too bad. With considerable effort he begins turning himself over on the side, to a position that is hopefully less straining. The movement catches the attention of one of the men though, the one carrying the gun, and he strides over. Prompto can see a dangerous twinkle in his eyes through the holes in the mask. Correctly guessing that that cannot mean anything good, Prompto keeps squirming and kicks his feet on the floor in an attempt to scurry away. He wants as much distance between himself and the man as possible. The man cackles at this and crouches down on the floor, where he quickly grabs hold of one of Prompto's flailing legs and drags him back. His tightly bound hands scraping against the tile floor makes pain flare up beneath Prompto, and he whines desperately into the gag.

When Prompto is deemed to be close enough the man lets go of his legs, and before he gets the chance to try anything again the man leans over him and tightens a strong hand around his chin. Prompto's eyes are wide and fearful now when the man's fingers are digging into his face with bruising force. "Didn't I tell you not to move around?" He all but spits in Prompto's face. Prompto makes no motion in reply. He only shuts his eyes tightly in pain when the man suddenly yanks his head up uncomfortably, only to slam it back down into the floor. Pain explodes from the back of Prompto's head, and he cries out into the gag. The man yanks him back up again, this time by his shirt, and Prompto follows limply. Just then, as Prompto sits half upright in the man's grip waiting for the inevitable pain, the unmistakeable sound of the door opening and closing stops everyone in their tracks.

There, by the door, is Noctis. The realization hits Prompto that his shift must've ended. Noct has come here for him, and relief fills his chest to the brim. At the sight that meets him Noct has also stopped dead in his tracks. With wide eyes he looks from Prompto on the floor to the man holding him and then back again. Then Prompto yells into the gag and wrenches himself out of the man's grip, and it's like the standstill in the room is broken. In the ensuing chaos Prompto just barely has time to see sparks beginning to fly around Noct's hand as he's about to pull something out of the armiger. The man then quickly grabs hold of Prompto again and jams the butt of the gun hard into the side of his head. He's then harshly shoved to the side as the man springs into action, and lands painfully on the hard floor. Black spots dance around the edges of his vision from the pistol-whip and though he tries he doesn't have the strength to sit up again.

He can't see clearly what's going on, only blurred bodies and sparks. Then a gunshot rings out, and another one, and then an enraged yell from one of the men. Worry seeps into Prompto's confused mind, and the longer the scuffle goes on the more it grows. He wants Noctis to be okay, he wants them both to get out of here. By the time the noise comes to an end Prompto is blinking rapidly to try to stop the tears threatening to spill. They're not helping his vision one bit, so when a silhouette hurries towards him fear spikes in him for a short moment. But this one doesn't have a mask, and two larger silhouettes are left behind it.

"N-Noct." He whimpers when the gag is carefully removed and tossed to the side. Above him there's some soft cursing, and then Noctis gently grabs his aching shoulders and helps Prompto sit up straight.

"I- yeah- shit, I'm here Prom." Noct says, fumbling a little with his words as he takes in the state Prom is in, and his brows crease in worry. "What was that?" he asks, nodding hastily towards the men on the ground some ways behind him. They seem to be unconscious now, and Prompto swallows hard before he answers.

"Robbery?" he offers weakly, accompanied by an attempted smile that doesn't quite translate on his tired face. Noctis looks at his with wide, worried eyes. Then it seems he realizes, or remembers maybe, that Prompto's hands are still bound. Again, sparks fly in the air as Noctis summons one of his daggers to cut Prompto free. The ropes are so tight it's difficult to do without accidentally nicking Prom's skin in the process but eventually it works, and Prompto can finally move his arms properly. Almost immediately his shoulders sag in relief, but Prompto's breath hitches when he brings his hands in front of himself again and sees the state they're in. Noctis obviously has a similar reaction and lets slip a small gasp.

The skin around Prompto's wrists and a bit further up the arm is rubbed red and raw by the coarse rope, bruises are already forming where the first rope was tied, and multiple other places blood has been drawn. Most of which cannot possibly be from Noctis' careful cutting. Prompto doesn't say anything, he doesn't know what to say. He only stares at his own trembling hands for a while, seeming almost scared to move them. It's only when Noct extends his own hands and carefully grabs hold of them that Prompto looks up. Noct manages to send Prom a reassuring smile, though a somewhat shaky one still. He begins rubbing his thumbs in soft circles on Prompto's hands, careful to avoid the most severe bruises and cuts, and Prompto lets out a long, wobbly sigh.

"Thank you." Prompto says finally.

"Of course," is Noct's answer, low and genuine. "do you think you can stand?"

Prompto isn't quite sure, but they try regardless. Turns out he can both stand and walk on shaky legs, provided it's with support from Noct. Support he readily gives. They make their way out of the gas station store, and Noctis can't resist giving one of the men an extra kick as they pass them. Then Noct calls Gladio to come pick them up and notifies him of the incident, even if local police likely wouldn't do much Noctis isn't going to let this go so easily. As they sit and wait, leaning their backs against the wall, Prompto nearly dozes off. His head resting on Noct's shoulder. And all the while, Noct never lets go of Prompto's hands and keeps rubbing small calming circles across his skin.

[libradusk]

Touch Starved | Captain Rex

Word Count: 2,129

Pairing: Captain Rex/CT-7567 x Reader

Summary: Grief is a frightening thing to deal with alone

warnings: mention of injury and death + heavy themes of wartime ptsd

a/n: Set just after the Battle of Umbara, someone give this boy a hug

Part of the Touch Starved miniseries

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring at the wall for now.

Amidst the heaviness clinging to his bones, he’s half aware that at least half an hour has passed by at this point, between him all but stumbling into his private quarters and finishing up slumped forward and crumpled on the untouched bed.

There's something calming about staring into the vastness of plain durasteel. It's almost featureless aside from the grey sheen that coats over it. There are no harsh lines to writhe against the room’s shadows, no bright flashes of colour for him to squint against without the safety of his helmet.

The whole space is solid, clean - coldly familiar despite the room remaining almost untouched. The irony of it serving as compensation for his Captain’s rank wasn't lost on him, considering said position’s duties meant he was scarcely granted the leave to actually use it. Home comforts hardly existed for Clones, but compared to the trenches of Umbara the quarters might as well be paradise.

Captain Rex is grateful that the panelling isn't reflective, because he's positive he would fail to recognise the man staring back at him if it were so.

He looks like shit. General Skywalker had practically told him so word for word when the surviving strain of the 501st had returned back to base mere hours before. Any other General may have taken offence to the dishevelled appearance unmasked behind the grime-splattered surface of his Captain’s helmet. Dark roots have sprouted amongst his overgrown buzz cut, and there's grime and stubble smeared across his face and neck that refuses to wash completely away. Rex is confident that the blood rusted amidst it wont leave until he hacks the whole thing off. It reaches crumbling fingers to scratch and irritate down his chest and back even now in the sterile air of the room. It feels foreign and invasive - he's not even sure if all of it is his own.

A shudder rattles across his bones before he can strangle it back, and his head drops to his hands, breath expelling between tanned fingers and winding down his wrists to bind them in place.

The floor greets his eyes with the same, featureless metallic surface, disturbed only by his shadow as it steps across it. It’s smoky and hunched in the faint light offered by his bedside lamp. The longer he stares at it, the deeper it seems to pool. His gaze climbs slowly up the wall once more, hoisting itself up by his neck before the shadow threatens to drag the rest of him down into it.

Anakin had relented the moment he had looked into Rex’s eyes and seen the same hollowness that scraped across the cheeks of his surviving men. The Captain’s heart had sunk further towards his stomach the moment realisation had twisted across Skywalker’s features. The Jedi had silently noted the missing faces across their ranks and the sight of an almost catatonic Dogma restrained in his binders. Rex had hardly even been able to conjure the energy to raise his arm in salute, and now he was finally alone his limbs felt heavier than ever, weighted down with bitter remorse and a pain that sunk deeper than just his bones.

Even with the guilt and fatigue clamouring over him, Rex knew that the contrasting fire of fury and remorse that blazed across Skywalker's eyes would stay with him forever.

The rage he had emanated felt like a precursor to death. A prologue, perhaps.

Rex knew within him that right now he should be feeling the same way, but he had no energy left to sacrifice, even breathing felt the most difficult it had ever been. It was as though every one of his ribs were splintered and mangled around his lungs, smothering his heart until he could feel each pound of it screaming in his ears.

Why was it so loud? Why did his skin feel like there was something crawling beneath it?

His programming must be faulty, because this battle had truly knocked the wind from his sails, and that is something that should never happen to a Trooper. His use-by-date must be fast approaching, it's the only justification he can clamber to reach, though the thought provides little peace for him to cling to.

No. There was no exact moment to pinpoint where it had all changed for Rex. This descent into agony had come slowly, like sinking into quicksand. This was just the breaking point for a build up that had been clawing away at little parts of him for a while now. He feels pathetic, shame cutting through the numbness and threatening to cleave his fingernails through his palms.

Fives had even been kind enough to fill out Rex’s reports for him - the Captain wasn’t even sure that decision was part of the correct protocol, but he couldn’t bring himself to complain, even if he wanted to. Even so, it served as another stab to his conscience.The ARC Trooper had no doubt suffered as much as Rex himself after experiencing what they had all gone through, and yet Fives had felt compelled to stand in for his own Captain’s incompetence... Perhaps Rex truly was too battle-damaged to function properly for the remainder of the war, he hadn’t even been able to put down Krell himself.

...No. He had to keep going, he owed his men as much - both to those who perished in the darkness of Umbara and those who had found the strength to keep on living.

His death needed to mean something - to push them further towards victory for the Republic. He had to fight off the urge to curl into the durasteel and disappear for at least another night.

Good soldiers follow orders, after all - that much was still ingrained within him.

His hands curl into fists then and he forces himself to look at them. They’re clammy and gloveless, coated with smatterings of grime and smear from where he's rubbed at his face and neck. Rex notes then that he hasn't seen them bare in some time, having resolved to sleep in his full blacks and as much armour as possible for the entire Umbara campaign. The tanned expanse of his skin looks alien, the cold plastoid plating of his uniform felt more familiar at this point, and the thought frightened him more than it probably should for a Clone Trooper - Captain or otherwise. He notes then, that he hadn’t even managed to completely strip himself of armour before slumping onto the bed. How ironic that his own flesh felt more out of place on his body than hard, synthetic material.

What pieces he had managed to tear away were stacked halfheartedly in the corner. His helmet stares back at him across the room, its visor appearing endlessly dark even with the light offered to it. It sits atop the rest of the display, throned ritualistically as it always had been. Once Rex had stared at it with pride each night as he attempted to drift off to sleep, yet now it sat crooked and war-tattered with filth. Looking at it felt like staring into a shattered mirror. Rex knew he ought to repaint it, along with the rest of his gear, yet that thought was quashed as quickly as it appeared. To paint over the blood of his brothers’ felt like a cheap way of blanketing their deaths, their own sacrifice to the war.

They deserved to be mourned, to be remembered. If Rex didn’t, then there were few others that would.

Nothing would be the same again, and it shouldn't. That thought would keep him going, he would ensure it would.

But in that moment, as he stared at the sickly red that stained across the blue and white plating, the echo of blaster fire tore open his memories and dragged the screams of his dead brothers behind it.

The durasteel walls begin to spin.

….

..

.

.

“...Rex?”

The voice that edges through the doorway is purposefully soft, barely above a whisper in fact - yet it still triggers him to flinch in response. His throat feels like it's on fire now and he has to fight back the urge to claw at where his pulse drowns in bile. The bodysuit clinging to his skin now feels much too tight, and he resorts to tear open the buttoned collar as he twists in the direction of the open doorway, shame already sinking its clutch into his veins.

It’s you, if you had knocked before opening the door it had never registered to him.

Had he even remembered to lock it in the first place? At that moment he couldn't remember anything aside from the tragedy he had barely just scraped through. The blastdoor seals itself shut as quickly as it opened and the hiss it exhumes drags him back to the present. You're cloaked in the same dim lighting as he is now, it spreads your shadow and melts it across the floor towards where he sits, half facing you and frozen in contemplation. Even with the low light, he doesn’t miss the way your face falls once his sunken eyes drag over to you. Your expression frightens him more than Anakin’s ever could, because he can't help but feel directly responsible for the immense sadness glassing over your eyes in that moment.

Rex fights the instinct to duck his gaze in disgrace. You've never seen him in this state, hell he doesn't recall ever being as big a mess as this before. The Captain had always kept his weaknesses guarded - from his men and his enemies alike - from you - even when you had allowed him to stumble into your own.

This feels humiliating, but he also doesn't feel that he deserves to object.

The twisting has traversed to his stomach now and his toes twitch with the urge to run despite the heaviness weighing down each and every part of him.

But he also knows you well enough to be confident you wouldn't let him hide anyway.

You're striding over to him now, your shadow oozing closer and wider with the movement. Within three quick strides you're in front of him and then beside him on the stiff, military grade mattress. It doesn't take long, after all the room is tiny despite being built for a Captain, but now there is truly nowhere left for the Trooper to hide. He wonders then, if the dull bedside lamplight paints him as sickly as he feels. It wraps around you too, brighter and more clearly than when you had leaned against the doorway. Up this close he can see the pity pulling at your frown, as he had expected it to, but nestled alongside it is something softer. It's frighteningly warm and only spreads wider as you sigh and wrap your arms around him with no other hesitation. He can't help but crumble into the safety you extend to him, leaning in and allowing the glow to envelop him completely. In those precious seconds you had quickly become the only solace he had left in the world, one that was safe and warm and cared about him.

By design, Rex was not a selfish man, but just for a moment he allowed himself to fall to pieces for the first time and sink into the fantasy that there was no war, no death, no regulations - just two people that cared for each other above all else in the world.

Yeah, just a moment wouldn't hurt.

He's sure you're uncomfortable, pressed up against a half-armoured body that's stiff with anxiety, but you’re relentless as you drape him in delicate empathy and affection. He's not sure if it's your tears or his own wetting the plains of his cheeks, but it doesn't matter - he feels like he's drowning all the same as you begin to slowly rock the two of you back and forth.

The touch you give him is so different to all he's known for the past weeks. Your arms and hands are not dictated with adrenaline soaked desperation, and there are no exposed bones, no bloody, mangled hands or rattling last words to be heard, there is just you.

In that moment, you are the softest thing he's ever known and he clings to you like a lifeline. You continue to hold him like he could break and shatter in your arms, and he does, shoving away instinct and indoctrination to bury his scruffy face in your shoulder and sob.

He would survive, he had always vowed to come back and continue fighting no matter what else was thrown his way.

But for now he would lay down his armoured soul and let it grieve alongside you.

[wisteriawritings]

To Start Anew

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

Ship: F!Aeducan x Gorim

Warnings: None

Genre: Angst

WC: 1933

Blurb: After the ultimate betrayal, Terra Aeducan has been exiled to the deep roads. Through extraordinary circumstances, she fights her way to the surface and becomes Thedas’s last hope against the coming blight. However, during her journey she must deal with painful truths about her family, her life back in Orzammar, and what her future may be.

They had only just arrived in Denerim. Terra Aeducan, with Alistair, Morrigan, and an affectionate Mabari in tow, had come in search of Andraste’s ashes. The hunt for allies against the oncoming blight had hardly begun, yet they were all bone tired. It was the exhaustion that led her to believe that she was imagining things. That Gorim’s sweet, warm voice was only in her mind. Even so, the sound pulled her towards the center of town, like a chain wrapped around her middle was dragging her forwards.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, seeing the color had drained from her face.

“I just… I’m going to step away for a bit. I’ll meet you at the inn, yeah?”

Alistair nodded, though reluctantly. Alistair was tooth-rottingly sweet and Terra tried to summon the best smile she could to set him at ease and send him away. He was becoming a quick and dear friend to her, and she didn’t want him to see her in what seemed to be a lapse in sanity.

“Dwarven crafts!”

There it was again. Terra, her spine now stiff as stone, hurried away and through the bustling streets, following the voice. Dwarven crafts? It could be anyone though. Any number of low-born Orzammar men who left for the surface could be in town. It wasn’t uncommon, and neither was the accent. It probably wasn’t him, wouldn’t be him, couldn’t be him. She rounded the corner and in the square she saw him

Terra’s hands tremored. Words like “I missed you,” “I found you,” and “thank the fucking stone,” all caught in her throat. Her hands grasped at it desperately, trying to free them. Because there he was. Just a few yards away stood her best friend and the man she loved: Gorim.

She tried to call out his name, but only pitiful, strangled noises escaped her lips. But he saw her. His face – it was tanner now; it had finally seen the sun – lit up in shock, disbelief, joy. All the things she felt were reflected back to her. Her throat was still sealed shut, but her feet started moving. Suddenly she was running, running faster than she had ever run, straight into arms that opened wide at the sight of her. Solid, strong arms that knew the curve and the shape of her body so well. Arms that slid into their place so easily, it was like slipping on a pair of gloves. For the first time since she left Orzammar, her feet felt firmly planted on the ground. She was finally rooted to the earth the way she used to be, and the sky wasn’t threatening to swallow her whole anymore.

For a few blissful seconds, the Blight was far away, and Bhelen never betrayed her. With tearful eyes, Gorim studied her face with an intensity that felt like he was boring into her soul. He looked as if he were taking inventory of her features, ensuring that each one was accounted for and just as he remembered them. “I knew you would make it out. I never stopped believing,” he said softly. Suddenly his face changed, lighting up as if he were remembering something.

“I have something for you.” He bent down to a chest that lay under the table. After a few moments of rummaging, he produced a letter. “Before I left for the surface, King Endrin sent me with this. We both hoped against hope that I would find you up here.”

Terra’s heart, which was already pounding, somehow beat even harder at these words. “Father? How is he?” The thought of seeing her father again filled her with so much joy and longing she could hardly stand it. She felt like her heart was swelling so large it was pressing against her ribs.

“Oh, my lady…I’m so sorry,” Gorim said, in a voice so sad and soft it sent bolts of fear down Terra’s spine. But she knew what those words meant. The pressure in her chest deepened and sunk to reach down into her stomach too. She felt faint.

“If a man can die of a broken heart… King Endrin did.”

“But what happened to him?” She asked, trying to hold back the tears. Gorim hesitated, but Terra’s hard look of pain and determination gave him the permission he needed to part with the grisly details. “After Trian’s death-…no, murder, Endrin was stricken with too much grief and confusion to see that Bhelan had constructed it all. It didn’t take long for him to find his mind again, but by then it was already too late. You were already locked in the deep roads. That’s why it all happened so quickly. That bastard Bhelen knew he had to dispose of you before the shock of it all wore off.” Gorim looked at his feet and took a long, shaky breath before continuing. “It was like he just… wasted away. He couldn’t go on living, like he was a ghost.”

Terra squeezed his hand. She focused on that feeling; homed in on the way he callouses rubbed against the palm of her hand. It was the only tangible thing keeping her anchored to reality. Gorim looked at her for a reassurance that she wanted him to continue. She nodded grimly. She was sick to her stomach, but she had to know the whole story. It was her duty as a daughter and as an Aeducan.

“When he called me to him, just before I left… the room stank of decay. It was as if he had already been long dead. He was already a corpse, just waiting for his time to return to the stone. All he could talk about was you.” His other hand took hold of her shoulder, steadying her. She hadn’t even realized she was swaying. “Terra, he sent me with more than just a letter.”

Gorim fished in his pocket and took out a worn velvet purse. Among the coins glinted a chunk of golden metal. Terra blinked her tears away and saw that no, it wasn’t a nugget. It was the Aeducan signet ring. Trian’s ring.

He gently placed it in her hand and folded it into a fist.

“He loved you, Terra. That nug-fucker Bhelen, he’s not a real Aeducan. You’re the true last heir, and your father knew it. You deserve this, and no one else. He made that much clear.”

The ring felt heavy in her hand, like she held all of Orzammar in her palm. In a way, she supposed, she did. But she felt that she could bear it as long as Gorim held her other hand.

“I’m just so glad I found you. Thank the stone, thank the stone…” Terra drew herself closer to him, ready to step back into his embrace and find his lips. But a look she couldn’t quite decipher crossed his face, and he took a step back.

“My lady, there’s something else I should tell you. I’ve, well… I’ve found a life on the surface. A blacksmith’s daughter; we’re expecting our first. She’s… she’s lovely and…” Gorim trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

The world seemed to go still around her. Her heart, which had been thumping loudly in her ears just moments before, fell quiet. A few seconds passed, but they felt like centuries.

“I don’t understand…” Terra’s voice quivered, and she hated herself for it. “You said you’ve been waiting for me.”

Gorim’s face flushed red and he looked down at his feet. “I have been, of course. But… well…” Gorim stammered, his shoulders slumped. Terra thought that he looked almost like a scolded child caught stealing sweets before supper. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He had been in Denerim for how long? Two months now, maybe? And he still hasn’t come up with a good explanation as to how he tripped and fell into a smith’s girl, all while claiming to ‘know she had made it out’.

He mustered the courage to meet her gaze again and flushed an even deeper red. He had always been able to tell what she was thinking, as if her very mind was binded to his own. She could feel his shame radiating off of him like a sickness. He knew he had done wrong. He knew that as a knight, he had acted shamefully. And she knew it too. Some dark corner of her soul felt gratified in this, gleeful in his self-loathing. She felt the anger rising.

“So let me make sure I understand,” she began, her words already dripping in venom. “You know, or hoped, or believed or what have you, that I was alive on the surface. And you, as my second, sworn to serve and protect me until death, fucked me and whispered sweet nothings to me in Orzammar. But when you’re separated from me for two months – oh, less than that actually, since she’s already knocked up – you decided to live it up with the first surfacer you see?”

Gorim’s eyes filled with tears. “It wasn’t like that,” he said firmly, but she could hear the tremble in his voice.

“Then what was it like?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, but I didn’t jump in bed with a surfacer. I searched for you Gorim.”

“My lady… We never could have been together. You know that.”

All of a sudden she understood, and the tears she had been holding back came slipping across her face. It didn’t matter what happened, or what he believed. Gorim was an outcast, a surfacer. Je was stripped of his caste his family name. But Terra? To him, she was still Lady Aeducan, and she always would be. Even if they had stayed in Orzammar, if Bhelen had never betrayed them, he would still think himself beneath her. He might have loved her perhaps, but he would have walked away eventually. He could never see himself as more than her second.

She realized she had been squeezing the signet ring in her hand. She relaxed her fist and saw her house crest bored into her palm like a brand. Gorim watched her as she first tried it on her ring finger and then settled with slipping it on her thumb. Trian’s hands had been bigger than hers.

Gorim reached out to comfort her, but drew back, unsure of himself. “My lady, if I had known you were alive…”

Terra glanced back up at him scornfully. “Either you did, or you didn’t.”

He reared back as if he had been struck, but he knew he deserved it. She saw no trace of resentment in his eyes. She looked at him for a hard moment and her anger fizzled out, leaving her with nothing but a cold hollow in her stomach and the crushing weight of her loneliness. Gorim’s cheeks were wet from silent tears.

“I hope I’ll have time to meet her soon,” Terra said.

“I’d like that. My door is always open to you.”

“I love you, Gorim. I hope you’re happy,” she confessed. Her heart gave one last weak tug at what had been between them.

“The same for you.”

She immediately recognized that he had not confirmed his happiness, and Gorim saw it in her face. Before he could say anything else, she turned away to rejoin her group.

Terra glanced up at the sky, vast and unending above her. Her family crest rested upon her finger and its weight, though heavy, was a comfort to her. She had a blight to end, and she didn’t need Gorim to do it.