#So the original title for this fic was She Commands Me And I Obey from the similarly titled short story set in the Imperial Radch Universe

[laatmaar]

S/N: RG-300-459-76-44

Okay so this is the first time I have ever written fanfiction for anything, or even just written any story this long, but fallen hero has quite the death grip on my brain. So truly any advice and such is appreciated. Anyway I'm absolutely fascinated by whatever the regenes and the farm has going on, and this is a little piece exploring sidestep's, or rather Matt's, first mission on the farm. I say little but it has a word count of 3K, be warned. Also be warned that this piece contains somebody being murdered, but nothing too extreme or unusual for fallen hero I think.

You stand before a door. This specific door is quite unassuming, it is brown and the dark patterns of shaky vertical lines interrupted with little ovals signal that it is made of wood. Which makes it quite unlike most doors you are acquainted with, but it is normal here. The door looks exactly like the doors you’ve seen in picture books.  Presumably, to hide anything out of the ordinary, anything horrible, insidious, dangerous, behind a passibly normal exterior. In short, Mr. Brown made it look like all the other doors in this hallway. You like this door. 

If all went well Mr. Brown will now be lying dead on the ground behind this door, and the only thing you will have to do is help unit 44 with disposal of the body. It has been a long day and your body feels heavy, there is a strange empty feeling in your stomach. You do not know what you expected of your first mission, but certainly not feeling so… tired. You place your hand on the doorknob. You turn the doorknob. You open the door.

"Oh, thank God!”

Mr. Brown moves toward you more quickly than you were prepared for. He only stops in his tracks when, presumably, the gun that is quite obviously pointed at his head catches his eye again. Mr. Brown is, evidently, not dead. You close your eyes, breathe out. You open your eyes. Unit 44, who you were quite sure should have killed Mr. Brown some five minutes ago according to the mission parameters you memorized over and over and over and over again, moves towards the door. It makes sure its gun never wavers from its target's head and shuts the door behind you. You hear the click of the door being locked.  

“Look I don’t care what goddamn government agency thought it worth to send a goddamn fucking regene to assassinate me or whatever but-”  Mr. Brown grabs your arm, in his thoughts you find only relief, and pulls you towards him “-surely you’re not programmed to kill innocent civilians.” At this he shakes your arm, which you’ve come to understand is actually quite a rude thing to do.

Unit 44’s face is impassive although the corner of its blue lip might’ve moved upward just a tiny bit. Its gun however has not moved at all. It looks you dead in the eye.

In your ear Mr. Brown whispers “Play along with me and we might both get out of this alive.” He leans even closer and unit 44 does not shoot him in the head. It should. “Trust me on this miss,” still whispering  “that thing is not human… blue skin and all that.” Places his hand on your shoulder, his mind churning with possible escape routes, “It’s a fucking ai but it will not kill us if they think it will cause a scandal… I’m sure.” His thoughts imply otherwise. “Just tell it your parents are nearby or something, I mean what are you sixteen.. seventeen?  Your parents must be nearby.”

You open your mouth to ask why unit 44 has not followed standard procedure, do missions normally deviate this much from the norm? You’re not sure you like the idea of that. Why is it that it has not shot Mr. Brown already, even though it had ample opportunity. His fingers are digging into your shoulder in a way that is really becoming uncomfortable and the desperation and fear in his mind make it difficult to think. You are tired. You remember that you should report to your handlers in about 10 minutes and how does unit 44 think it will ever complete the mission in time. You already relayed all information you gathered from Mr. Brown’s houseguests during the party to your handlers. You’ve already done your part, why is it refusing to just do its part. Why do you have to be part of this. However unit 44 says, “Close your mouth.” and you obey.

Unit 44 is after all the senior unit out of the two of you, and the most senior unit on a mission is in charge in the unlikely event that your handlers cannot be reached. You paid attention during the briefing. Your handlers cannot be reached because Mr. Brown went to great lengths to design this room. Sound-proof, signal-proof , everything-proof. A perfect room designed for complete privacy, something Mr. Brown is often in great need of. You have recently learned what the concept of ironic means and you think that it applies now. That this room should be his downfall, or at least was supposed to be if all went according to plan. If unit 44 had paid attention. It had not. You had seen its eyes wander.

“Killing an innocent human being is sure to cause a scandal!” Mr. Brown’s voice is pitched a bit higher than before, his fingers beginning to dig in painfully. That is going to leave a mark.

Now you’re sure, unit 44’s lips turn upwards. You do not know what it finds particularly funny, or where it even learned to smile. Smirk? Its gun aimed around two inches to the left of your face. At Mr. Brown’s mouth. Which is still moving.

“I know her,” he lies, “if she disappears” shaking you, again “her parents will be sure to raise hell! They’re important. Influential.” Those last words he emphasizes. You’ve learned that people will do this if they mean more than what they are actually saying. You however do not see the relevance or deeper meaning of your imaginary parents being important. His thoughts suggest that not even Mr. Brown is entirely sure what he means. He just needs to stay alive, from one second to the next. He knows he won’t be able to overpower the regene planted in front of the door, but.. he’s not dead yet. It is a miracle that he is not dead yet. You agree.  He is sure that you might be the reason why. He can use that. Talk his way out. He has talked his way out of failure and into success his entire life.

Mr. Brown talks and talks and there are still nine minutes remaining. His grip turning painful, and you just wish your pain gate would activate for more mundane matters than life threatening injuries. You need to finish this. Quickly.

You look at unit 44. Its lean body clad in a skin-tight suit and armour, its stance almost relaxed. Not quite, but almost. The heaviest armour is centered around its chest area, all its appendages left unobstructed. Under the armour the skinsuit peeks out, the black fabric making for a nice contrast against the blue skin of its neck. There continuing from the neck and covering its entire face are those patterns you are so familiar with, this time in a lighter blue instead of orange. All traces of what might’ve been a smile gone from its lips. Its eyes are still looking at you, expression once again completely neutral. It nods and lowers its gun just a bit.

“Restrain him,” it orders “on the floor, preferably.”

 You do not stop to question why unit 44 wants Mr. Brown restrained and not dead. Why it won’t just finish this job. Neatly. According to mission protocol. With a bullet, preferably. You do not question it because some irrational part of you is glad that it has lowered the gun. It might have decided to shift it about two inches to the right. Unit 44, you have suspected for some time, is unpredictable. At least the smile has not returned, that you can admit unnerved you.

Most of all you do not question it because you are glad to move. To take that hand from your shoulder and in one swift movement twist it around his back, kick his legs, push him into the ground, put your knee on his back, the other next to his hip, your free hand on his neck holding him down. This is a move you have practiced a hundred times. It is even easier than expected, normally your partners put up much more of a fight.

Mr. Brown lets out a yelp of surprise and pain. His mind is a potent mix of confusion, betrayal and fear. Mostly fear, there is something very wrong with the picture being painted. He has misinterpreted the situation, badly. But… since when did they put regenes in charge of people.

He makes an attempt at opening his mouth to ask, but you press his face into the ground and that gets the message through. He closes his mouth. On his neck your fingertips press down and the skin turns red. Your own shoulder aches and you squeeze, just a bit.

Unit 44 has moved next to you. Its eyes finally leave you and shift a bit to the right, so that it’s not looking down at you but Mr. Brown instead. Gun pointed to the side. It looks like it's contemplating something but its mental defenses are better than Mr. Brown’s and you are still so tired. Then in a move that should not surprise you as much as it does, it kneels next to you. Nothing should surprise you when it comes to unit 44. Still you cannot help the question forming on your lips when it replaces your hand on Mr. Brown’s neck and hands you the gun. “Well,” it says, and nobody should have taught it to smile. It’s misusing the ability entirely, nothing about this situation is funny. “time is running out. Shoot him.”

You feel your shoulders tense and your right shoulder ache. The gun feels slippery in your hands. The temperature in the room has not risen even a degree since you’ve entered it and yet your hands are sweating. An uncomfortable heat spreading through your body as you look at unit 44, that stupid smile still on its face. Its expression still so calm. Your jaw aches with the effort it takes you to not open your mouth and say something. Anything. Scream. You don’t know.

Eight minutes remaining, and approximately a second has passed since unit 44 gave you the order. Mr. Brown’s thoughts are quickly turning from incomprehension to panic. He struggles under your knee and unit 44’s strong hands. Hurting himself. His panic full blown now, and maybe his thoughts are the reason you can’t seem to think straight on this matter. The fact that your hand is trembling without your input. Mr. Brown should have been dead for ten minutes already. His breathing ragged, and he might be crying. “Goddammit you’re human you don’t have to listen to it!” he screams. You shoot.

There is something unpleasant about the way blood drops roll down your face. You’ve experienced many new situations and sensations today. You don’t want to experience anything else ever again. You want to go home. You never want to leave this room.

For the last minute or so unit 44 has been opening different cabinets and drawers in search of something, you don’t particularly care what for. You have been sitting next to a corpse. His eyes still open, staring at you. You stare back, and in the corner of your eyes you see unit 44 approaching. It hands you a packet of wet wipes and makes a gesture at your face. You obediently wipe your face, your makeup coming off. The lipstick has mixed with blood and turned a bright red, it was supposed to be a neutral colour. Presentable, but not attracting attention. While the other units were putting on armour they had dressed you in a nice off colour white dress, now ruined. They had shaved your face and applied all sorts of cosmetics. You don’t know exactly what. They had made what, you gathered from the laughter, were supposed to be jokes. Something about if only they had prettier models and the money they could make. They had sent you off to a party, and you had completed your task. As unit 44 should have completed its.

It is fiddling with the closure of your dress. At your questioning look it shows you some kind of gel. “For your shoulder,” it clarifies. It has gotten the button open and pulls the zipper down. There in contrast to the bruised skin on your shoulder the orange tattoos appear completely unblemished. Nothing ever damages that familiar pattern. You quickly reach out and close Mr. Brown’s eyes. Unit 44 looks at you for a moment, and you feel your face heat up. It has no right to judge you, but it merely smiles. Blue patterns moving.

It puts some of that translucent gel on your shoulder and, far more gently than you think is medically necessary, begins spreading it out. Looking back you should’ve known something like this would happen. You should’ve known because unit 44 had not been paying attention to the briefing. Because it had looked distracted when putting on armour. Because two days before the mission it had not been as efficient as it could’ve been at training. It had hesitated and you had not let it out of your sight since. You should have known because small disobediences lead to bigger disobediences later on. You lean back, just a bit, into her cool fingers. Its cool fingers. Its blue fingers. The same colour your bruise is beginning to take on, and that was not your thought. You feel sick to the stomach, and you are so tired and you never wanted to have anything to do with this in the first place. You did your job, and so you stand up.

You begin trying to zip up your dress, and you must look like an idiot when you can’t reach the zipper. You take Mr. Brown’s jacket from the desk chair and put that over your shoulders instead. A small burst of panic shoots through you. There are only two minutes remaining.

Your first mission is a complete failure, two minutes isn’t enough time. The blood pools beneath Mr. Brown’s head seeping into the wooden flooring. It is splattered on the walls, and on your dress. On your hands. You do not have enough time to clean it all.

Unit 44 makes no attempt to move from where it’s still seated on the floor. It looks relaxed in the way it’s leaning back on its hands looking at you, observing you. It looks resigned, like it does not care about any of this. Does not care about the consequences of not following mission protocols. Does not care about Mr. Brown lying dead on the floor eleven minutes too late. Does not care about you. You suppose its actions have proven that it doesn’t.

Under your gaze unit 44 finally stands up.

“We have one minute,” it states. “Now tell me exactly, what did it feel like?”

For the first time in quite a while you open your mouth and speak.  

It is only in Dr. Morgan’s office in preparation for your second mission that you dare to subtly ask about unit 44. Of course she knows many unit 44’s, 44 being only the last two numbers of a longer serial number, but she seems to understand which one you’re talking about.

“Hmmm, I get why you would be anxious about working with that particular unit again. After that disaster of a mission last time.” You had known it was a disaster, you had not known everybody else thought so too. “That it would wait to kill that Brown figure for so long, and then to do it so messily too.” It had taken the fall, you had suspected as much. “I had already said to Marcus there is something wrong with that unit. He even acknowledged it in that irritating way he always does, but actually listen? No. Never.” 

She is not truly talking to you, merely monologuing to herself and you are an unfortunate victim. This is why you asked her. She likes hearing herself talk, and her colleagues do not like listening. 

“He was all like let’s see where this goes. It would be a shame to have to start over again, blah blah blah. I said the nice thing about regenes is that we get to start over again. Its body is young and we can simply reuse it. Let’s just get it over with, but no. One more mission.” You wonder how many units had heard her complain about this in the days preceding the mission. Whether unit 44 might’ve. “So one disaster of a mission later and now it’s been decommissioned all the same. Marcus still won’t admit I was right though. Asshole.”

Unit 44 is dead. She walks over to you and injects something in your upper right arm. The bruise on your shoulder has healed faster than a normal human bruise would. You’re beginning to miss it.

“Well anyway its chip has been taken apart, and you won’t have to worry about ever working with it again. Sounds good?”

There is something ugly and sour rising in your throat. You force your face in approximation of a gentle smile and nod.

Later when you’re in the dorms lying on your stomach on your bed, you wait and listen. It is deep in the night and you’ve waited very patiently until you’re sure that most of the others are asleep. Or at least that the ones still awake are not paying any attention to you. You’re pretty sure you look convincingly asleep, you have not moved an inch in two hours. Your telepathy is not as strong as others, so you play defense instead.

In your mind you open the door. Step into the room. Lock the door behind you (unit 44 is not there to pick up the slack anymore). Check the room for anything unusual (ignore the body). Feel your own body on the mattress, muscles relaxing. Keep at it for another two hours. Convince yourself you have obtained some fraction of privacy. Some fraction of Mr. Brown’s room, his dead eyes never having left you. Only then, when you’re balancing on the edge of consciousness just about to fall asleep, do you allow yourself to imagine; her blue fingers spread out against your shoulder.

[alia-turin-fanfiction]

Because @golden-olea absolutely loves one of my OCs and I love him as well and she is my excuse to continue writing about him

Fic Title: Hot Spring Rating: Explicit Category:F/M/M Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Relationships: Eredin Bréacc Glas/Original Female Character(s)Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Eredin Bréacc Glas Original Characters Original Female Character(s)Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Threesome - F/M/MPool SexHot Springs & OnsenBlow JobsMaster/SlaveElf/Human Relationship(s)One Night Stands

AO3 Link

She watched the elf as he walked to the hot spring. His Red Rider armor was still on him, dirt and blood covering some of the shiny pieces of metal. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, his golden hair was tied in a high ponytail and she froze as his warm blue eyes stopped on her. She bowed her head realizing she had been staring. She had been working in the hot springs for a month now, she had seen a lot of elves pass through here, soldiers, generals, noblemen and even common merchants, but he was certainly one of the most handsome she had seen. 

He tilted his head in curiosity, probably seeing the blush on her cheeks. 

“I think this is the part where you help me take my armor off.” his voice didn’t sound annoyed, teasing or cheerful was what she would go for. That surprised her. Someone else, using these words probably would be already shouting at her. 

She didn’t wait for a second invitation not wanting to test her own luck. She came closer to him, her fingers easily finding the straps and ties of his armor. She remembered the first time she had to take one of these, her hands were shaking and she didn’t know where to start. Now that wasn’t a problem. Piece by piece she shed the metal from his body, then she unbuttoned the shirt, her movements becoming more nervous as she knew he was staring at her. She removed the garment and began folding it neatly as her eyes watched his body. She could see every muscle on his chest, arms and abdomen neatly outlined, he had a tattoo on the right side of his ribs, a horse standing on its hind legs, breathing fire. She wondered if that was something all Red Riders did, they were horsemen after all.

“Saw something you like?” he asked teasingly again and she realized she had stopped folding and had been just staring at him. 

“My apologies, my lord.” she felt stupid. He had been doing that every day for a month, she should just get it together. 

“Not a lord.” Aedan put two fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him, just as she was about to reach for his belt. She was pretty, big blue eyes staring at him, long brown hair reaching way past her shoulders. “And you didn’t answer my question. Did you see something you like?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him, probably concerned she had stepped over the line. She probably had, but he didn’t care. 

“You are pretty.” he said with a smile and her face turned almost as red as his cloak. “Can I kiss you?” this time she nodded, a bit hesitant but she nodded. Aedan leaned forward, and pressed his lips against hers, realizing it has been months since he has felt a touch like that. Stupid border patrools. “Why don’t you finish what you started.” he looked down at his pants which was the only piece of clothing he had left. 

Her face was still flushed but her fingers resumed to his belt, then his pants. She pulled them down, stopping for a second as she saw the bandage around his right thigh. 

“You won’t hurt me.” he finally said as he saw how much she was trying to prevent touching anywhere near the bandage. It had been bad a week ago, it still hurt when he walked or when he rode his horse, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been when Eredin found him bleeding, dying. 

He stood there naked in front of her when she tried to make a step to the side to allow him to walk in the hot water, but he grabbed her hand and turned her with her back toward him. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” She was a servant and he knew he could do whatever, but he did not like abusing that power. Not like that. 

He kissed her neck, gently, his fingers easily finding the laces of her drass and working them slowly. His lips moved to her back, kissing every inch that the fabric revealed under his touch. Her dress fell around her feet and he pulled her body closer to his pressing her hardness against her back. She moaned as he cupped her breasts with his hand, her whole body feeling so small and fragile compared to his.  He moved one of his hands between her legs feeling she was already wet, he smiled as his fingers started teasing her, gently caressing her clit until she started moaning and wiggling against him. He continued kissing her neck softly, his body wrapped around hers, as he pushed two of his fingers in her, she felt so tight around him, he needed to push her on the ground and just take her like that, but he also doubted his legs would be able to withstand that without opening the wound. He continued fucking her with his fingers, his thumb on her clit pressing harder. 

“Look at you, going to come around my fingers like a little slut.” he whispered in her ear and he felt her tense under him as she came. 

Eredin walked to the hotspring, it had been a long trip, he needed to clean himself and relax in the hot water. His body ached and he needed rest. The springs had turned into something like a tradition for him and his men, the mountains around Tir na Lia were filled with them. The Aen Elle had found something sacred in the hot springs, a way to relax and communicate in the peaceful environment. All springs had servants that took care of the place, but humans were not allowed in. 

Eredin was about to walk to the pool, surprised that he had not been greeted by anyone, and then he realized why. The first thing that reached his ears was the lewd noises, a woman purring and moaning. Then he saw it, tall blond elf had wrapped his arms around a servant girl, one of his hands on her breasts the other between her legs fucking her slowly. Eredin raised an eyebrow, realizing who the elf was. He was surprised with the injury on his leg, Aedan was up for any of that, the man barely walked and barely rode, even if he did not complain for a second. He just leaned against the nearby wall and watched, his man was playing with the girl, her body completely helpless against his. 

For his own surprise he could feel himself getting hard, the space in his pants getting tighter with every time her body wiggled against Aedan’s, but Eredin watched. Now was not the time for him to walk in. He saw Aedan moving his lips from her neck to her ear, he could see his mouth moving and words coming out of it, words he could not hear, but whatever he said made the girl tense and then she came around wiggling even harder against him. Aedan kissed her, his hand gently caressing her arm. Interesting, from everything he knew about the man he would not expect him to be the caring type. He whispered something in her ear again and the girl turned around, her face flushed with embarrassment. Eredin watched her get on her knees, her lips slowly sliding over the tip of his cock. Now was the time to walk in. 

“Having fun?” Aedan groaned as he heard the familiar voice behind himself. He thought he had heard footsteps earlier, but as no one came, he thought it was just his imagination. The girl jumped away from him and stood up, turned toward Eredin but her head was bowed down in shame, her hands trying to cover her nakedness mostly unsuccessful. 

“Didn’t know watching was your thing.” Aedan was trying not to growl. Things between him and Eredin were complicated at best. The man had been his commander for months now and certainly his opinion has changed a bit. At first he thought Eredin to be nothing more than a lordling, a nobleman’s son who had been given that command to get some glory under his belt until he moved to a more pleasant life in Tir na Lia. Since then he fought next to the man, with him and Eredin had even saved his ass as much as that annoyed him. Deep down he was starting to understand his initial perception was probably wrong, but he still did not like him or trust him. 

“It is not.” Eredin answered as he took his own clothes off and walked in the hot spring. He moved to the furthest end of the pool and sat on the stone bench that was under the water surface. “Come here.” 

The words were directed at the servant and it took her a moment to realize that, but she started walking in his direction, going around the hot spring. 

“No. Get in.” Eredin’s words surprised even Aedan. Humans were not allowed in the pools, no matter what. He knew his general had shown great care about some traditions and little care about others. The girl hesitated, understandable. “I’m the master of the Wild Hunt, and you will obey me.” The way he spoke the words even Aedan would have obeyed him, if that was directed at him. The girl nodded and got in. “Come to me.” she did, following the same path Eredin had taken. 

Eredin watched the girl as she walked to him. She was pretty, no wonder Aeda had gotten his hands on her, she had been probably the first female he had seen since they returned, but certainly a very good looking one. When she came close to him, Eredin ran a finger over her soft cheek. 

“Was he nice to you?” his eyes were on Aedan who had walked in the pool as well, sitting on the opposite end. “I’m his officer, if he was not nice to you I will punish him.” he didn’t care how Aedan had tried the girl, his words were not for her, they were a reminder for the other man where his place was. 

“He was kind.” she spoke softly as Eredin turned her around so she could face the other elf. 

“Tell me, have you fucked two elves at the same time? Two Red Riders?” she shook her head for no. “Well there is a first time for everything isn’t there?” he said as he sneaked his hand between her legs, feeling the wetness inside her. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she moaned as an answer. 

He lifted her a bit, making her slide down on his cock as he was sitting. Her small hands grabbed his forearms for support, nails digging in the muscle. His hands were on her waist and he picked a harsh speed, moving her body up and down his length, his hips pushing up to bury him deeper. He looked at Aedan and smiled, the man’s blue eyes were a mix of anger and lust. 

“Missing your toy already?” Eredin asked mockingly as he grabbed the girl’s throat and pulled her back, exposing her chest above water. He didn’t stop his violent pace and her moans filled the otherwise peaceful place. 

Aedan couldn’t decide if his anger right now was stronger than his need for release. He wasn’t jealous, the girl meant nothing to him in the grand scheme of things, but he was first there. He knew that was Eredin’s way to put him in his place and he probably deserved it, for all the times he had disobeyed in the last few months. 

He was about to do something stupid and impulsive, his speciality, when Eredin pushed her off himself, the servant whimpering in displeasure. He watched as his general placed his hands on the edge of the pull, and pushed himself up, sitting at that same ledge. 

“I think your pretty mouth has some work to do.” Eredin said as the servant turned toward him. She leaned forward, one hand reaching for his cock, but before she could wrap her lips around his tip, he grabbed her hair violently and pulled up. “Hands behind your back, like a good little slut.” She did, as she was told, immediately, no hesitation and then leaned forward to take him in her mouth as best as she could. 

“Fuck it.” Aedan was done watching. He walked across the pool, as Eredin was giving him a smug smile. He wasn’t even going to ask him for permission. 

Aedan ran his hand over the girl’s back, feeling her tense for a second, his hands grabbed her hips to keep her steady and she froze for a second. 

“Don’t stop.” Eredin said as he tightened the grip around her hair. 

She continued moving her head up and down on his length as Aedan pushed in her, still so wet inside her. He picked an even faster pace than Eredin had, his thrusts moving the water around them and splashing it outside of the pool. She moaned, or tried, Eredin was fulling controlling her head, fucking her mouth with the same pace Aedan was moving in her. He felt the wound on his leg open, blood showed on the surface of the water, but he didn’t care. He continued chasing his orgasm, getting closer with every move, he moved one hand between her legs, finding it easy to drive her over her own edge, and as she started coming around him, he knew he needed just a moment but then something hit his chest and sent him flying back. 

Eredin almost laughed seeing the surprise on Aedan’s face as he kicked him in the chest. The man got on his feet, spitting water as he was trying to say something. The servant just moved her eyes between the two of them, but Eredin jumped in the pool, embracing her. 

“Do you want to return the favor? He made you feel good twice, I think you owe him at least one.” he pushed her closer to Aedan and she stepped behind her. “Take a deep breath and make sure you swallow.” he pushed her head under water, using her hair to guide her to Aedan’s cock. Even if the water was moving he could see her finding her way. Aedan didn’t need an invitation either, he grabbed the back of her head and stared fucking her mouth fast until he came, letting her go. The servant pushed herself out of the water breathing heavily and choking. Eredin gave her a few moments, when he grabbed her hair again and pushed her under the water, her mouth this time wrapped around him. It took him a few thrusts until he came, feeling her gasp for air around him. He let her head go as he needed a moment to recover. When he opened his eyes he saw Aedan sitting on one of the under water stone benches, the servant in his arms. He was kissing her neck and whispering something in her ear. 

“Get out and bring him a bandage.” Eredin had not failed to see the blood in the pool and now that the water had stopped moving he had no problem seeing the source either. 

The girl didn’t hesitate, she freed herself from Aedan’s arms and jumped out of the pool, her step shaky but she found her way easily. 

“You don’t need to be a dick.” Aedan sank a bit deeper in the pool, relaxing his head on the stone. “Especially after that.”

“Are you nice to the deer in the woods before you kill it and skin it?” Eredin sat on the other end of the pool, sinking up to his chin; he needed the warmth of the water to relax his muscles. 

“Do you plan to kill her and skin her?” the blond elf laughed. “She is a toy, but I don’t like breaking my toys.” 

“And where is the fun in that?” Eredin asked and they both shared a smile. He had learned that the two of them had more in common than they didn’t. Maybe that is why they had started on the wrong leg. He didn’t care if Aedan liked him or not, but the man was an excellent soldier and that was something he needed and respected. He was young and reminded Eredin of himself at that age. Impulsive, hungry for glory. “Are we good?” 

“Ask me tomorrow when I am not bleeding in a hot spring because I couldn’t control myself when I saw a pretty face.” Aedan grabbed the stone ledge of the pool and pushed himself out, rolling his body on the floor just as the girl brought the bandage. Eredin sighed. Stubborn. As he thought, they had a lot in common.

[honeyhan-123]

The (Original) Plan

Summary: Canon Divergence, set after the evens of CA: The Winter Soldier. Having been deprogrammed, Bucky and Steve set out for revenge, tracking down each and every member of hydra that played a part in Bucky’s torture. When they find out that Brock has an adopted daughter, they hatch a sinister plan involving her to punish him. 

Warnings: Dark!Stucky, non-con, breeding kink. Please if this fic may trigger you in any way shape or form please do not read it. 

Word Count: 3.9k

AN: I actually hate this current title so if anyone has any better suggestions they would be greatly appreciated. This was partially a request by the lovely @the-soulofdevil​ - I’m sorry it has taken me so long - as well as a fic entry for the incredible @sherrybaby14​ ‘Fall Into You’ Challenge. My prompt will be in bold. 

Series Masterlist

My Masterlist 

GIF Source 

The sound of glass shattering woke you up, alerting you to the fact that something was wrong. Brock was never that careless. As you opened the drawer of your bedside table as quietly as you could, you heard the sounds of a scuffle coming up from downstairs. 

Gripping the glock he had given you for your sixteenth birthday, you inched the door to your bedroom open, being sure to keep your steps light as your crept down the hallway towards the top of the stairs. You could see down the grand staircase, all was quiet with a little strip of light peaking through under the living room door. Your grip was tight on your gun as you drifted down the stairs, reminding yourself to turn the safety off and trying to remember all the times Brock had taken you to the gun range. 

The sounds of fighting had now faded but that only made you more anxious. Why hadn’t Brock called out to you letting you know that he was okay? You tried to reassure yourself, maybe he didn’t realise that you had woken up or maybe he was making sure the coast was clear. You didn’t realise that these thoughts had clouded your vision, impairing your judgment, until it was too late.  

You didn’t see him coming and before you could even think about firing your gun he had his arms wrapped around you, one hand twisting your wrist until your were forced to drop the gun which he scooped up and placed against your temple. One strong arm was around your stomach, holding your back him to you as you heard the click of the gun coking and he shoved you forward, causing you to stumble. 

‘Walk.’

You didn’t dare disobey him, knowing that if he had managed to overpower Brock so quickly, you didn’t stand a chance. While Brock had wanted you trained in self defence and able to handle yourself, he had tried to keep you as far away from his Hydra life as possible, claiming that he didn’t want you tainted like he was. 

Your mouth dropped in shock as you opened the living room door, your eyes immediately fell on the man you called your father as he sat, strapped into one of the dining room chairs, his hands behind his back, unable to move. Blood was spilling from a cut on his forehead and one of his eyes was already swelling from where he had evidently been hit. 

Your heart broke as you watched the man you had called a father since you were five years old when your parents had been killed while working for SHIELD. He had been your father’s best friend in his death, your father had specified that he wanted you to go to Brock, trusting only him to keep you safe. 

You knew just by watching him that it was unlikely both of you would survive the night. You were sure your eyes reflected the fear that held you paralysed as you mouthed the words to him you didn’t know you would ever be able to say again. ‘I love you.’

You felt the man behind you push you forward, causing you to fall on you couch that lay right in front of the chair Brock was strapped to, banging your head on the arm rest as you scrambled into a sitting position. 

‘Well well well, look who finally decided to join the party. Our guest of honour.’ Your eyes broke away from Brock to flicker over to the man standing beside him, recognising him easily from the news. Captain America. 

All of a sudden the stronger than normal arm wrapped around you and the fact that neither you nor Brock had ever even stood a chance made sense. You realised the figure behind you must be Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. And judging by the wild look in the Captain’s eyes, he was here to kill Brock for everything he had done with Hydra. If you were scared before, now you were terrified. These man hated Brock, he had stood for everything they fought against. 

Ever since the fall of Hydra a few years ago Brock had been running. Running from Hydra and SHIELD alike, insisting that the two of you had as little contact as possible to keep you safe, to keep you hidden from prying eyes. You hadn’t wanted to leave him for so long but you both knew it was for the best. After three years, Brock had finally thought that maybe he was in the clear if he kept his head down and so he had rented a house, all the way in the Berkshires and you had been more than happy to come visit him for the weekend, driving up from New York to see him for your birthday. 

‘You know, after I got Bucky back we thought long and hard about what we wanted to do to each member of Hydra if we ever got our hands on them. It used to be a little game we would play and for the longest time we struggled to decide on what to do to you. How to make you suffer like we did. That was, at least, until we found out about her. I gotta admit Brock, I’ve been dreaming about this for a while now, I’ve just been so excited for it, what about you Buck? Have you been excited for tonight?’

‘Oh yeah Stevie. I think Brock’s punishment will definitely be my favourite. It was a real pain having to wait for this pretty little thing to come home though, thank God she’s here finally.’ Both men started edging towards you and you tried to resign yourself for what was obviously about to happen. You didn’t want it to, but you knew that they were far stronger than you and even on the off chance you did manage to escape, they probably had continuation plans, it seemed like they had been planning this for a while now. 

‘Do you know what it felt like to be completely at your mercy? The real me having to simply sit back and watch as you made the Winter Soldier obey your every command, ruining countless lives?’ He stood in front of you now as he spat his words at Brock, tugging on your elbow, forcing you to stand again. ‘You couldn’t possibly know what that was like for me but you’re about to.’ With that he pulled a knife out of his thigh holster and sliced up through the thin material of the tank top you had worn to bed before tugging your pyjama shorts off, leaving you in just your cotton panties and you tried to shield yourself with your arms wrapping around your modesty. 

‘Naw Doll, don’t be shy. We just wanna see you.’ Captain America pinned your wrists behind you as the other reached up to your breast, squeezing your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You tried to twist your body out of his grasp, away from his fingers but he just held on tighter. Bucky stood on your other side and wrapped his metal arm around your waist, gripping you so tightly that you knew you would have bruises there in the morning if you were still alive. 

‘We don’t want to hurt you Doll but if you make us angry we may not have any choice, we won’t hesitate to spill your blood all on this nice carpet. Do you understand Doll?’ You simply nodded your head, too afraid to speak but apparently he didn’t like that as he squeezed your nipple even harder. ‘When the Sergeant or I ask you a question I expect you to answer, are we clear?’ The tone he used with you sent a shiver through your body as you tried to clear your throat enough to allow you to speak. 

‘Yes Captain.’ 

‘That’s a good girl’ his lips murmured into the skin of your neck, trailing from your ear to your shoulder, pausing to inhale the scent of you. 

‘What did I tell ya Stevie? I knew this one would be an obedient little girl.’   

‘Mmm… that you did Buck. Why don’t we get this show started?’ A smirk took over Steve’s face and his hands pushed down on your shoulders, forcing you to fall to your knees on the smooth carpet. He clenched your jaw in one hand and turned it towards Bucky, who was freeing his cock from the tac pants he wore. He leant towards where you sat, kneeling, and pressed the tip against your closed lips, you were overtly aware of Brock sitting barely a meter away. 

‘Come on Doll, open up. You don’t want to keep me waiting. It would be such a shame if something happened to that beautiful face.’ Fighting the tears that were welling up behind your eyes, you obeyed him, opening your mouth just enough for him to force his cock down your throat. You were in no way prepared to take someone as large as him, gagging almost instantly against his pelvis. 

‘You can do better than that baby.’ He grunted out above you as he pulled back out before thrusting in again, barely giving you any time to breathe as he fucked your mouth, holding your head still so you couldn’t pull away. Your jaw started to ache as he continued forcing himself inside your mouth, his tip practically going halfway down your throat while his metal hand wrapped around your windpipe, further cutting off your airway. 

Black dots started appearing in your vision, warning you that you needed air but Bucky wouldn’t let up with his thrusts, no matter how hard you slapped at his legs trying to free yourself. In your peripheral vision you could see Steve walk around beside Bucky, his cock in his hands, pumping himself at the same pace which Bucky was rutting into you, his dark blue eyes fixed on you as his moans mixing with Bucky’s. 

Bucky’s thrusts started stuttering as he sped his pace up, his moans became even louder and you realised his was nearing the finish. A surge of hope fluttered through you, maybe if you got him to cum in your mouth, he would be done with you for the night. Previous experiences with boys generally proved that after they got to cum, they were useless. 

Swallowing your pride and any remaining dignity, you started moving with Bucky and not against him while swirling your tongue along his length. It was hard at the speed which he was going as well as how obscenely thick he was but you managed, pulling out all the tricks you knew, praying that he would just hurry up and finish. 

Instead of swatting against his thighs, you now used your hands to massage his balls, moving your fingers in a firm circular motion on his sac, feeling it tighten underneath your fingertips. You knew he was truly close now, it was impossible to separate each individual moan coming from his mouth as they just ran on continuously from each other. 

You felt Steve reach and grab your other hand, the one that wasn’t fondling with Bucky’s sac, and guide it to his cock, rubbing it along his shaft. You could tell that he was close as well, just by the look on his face you could see out of the peripheral of your vision. 

You felt it a moment before it actually happened. Bucky’s hand tightened around your throat and the fingers tangled in your hair pulled you closer to him, your face squashed by his pelvis, truly and completely cutting off your airway now as he came, halfway down your throat, giving you no choice but to swallow for fear of choking on it. He held himself in your mouth for a moment, relishing in his orgasmic bliss, before shoving you off, nearly causing you to fall back. You were saved by Steve’s hands however, gripping onto the hand which was still working his cock as he positioned you right in front of him, his own cum spraying out, landing in streaks across your face. 

‘Oh Dollface, you have no idea how good that felt.’ You wanted to squirm away from Steve’s hands as they reached out to pat your hair, treating you as though you were some pet of his. You didn’t dare speak out, merely letting the pure unadulterated hatred on your face speak for itself. 

‘Oh don’t be like that Dollface, I felt what you did with your tongue, the way you took me so well. I bet you’re wet already.’ Horror seeped into your veins at Bucky’s words, cursing your naive nature. Of course once wasn’t going to be enough for the two super soldiers in front of you. ‘Now be a good girl and take off your panties.’ 

Your body refused to move, staying rooted to the spot even when you saw Steve start to strip, lying down on the couch, eyeing you expectantly. You didn’t see it coming but you should’ve. The harsh slap to your cheek had you head whipping to the side, your eyes falling on Brock instead. 

You saw the message conveyed in his stare, the way he begged you to do what they said, no matter how grotesque if it meant you would be able to live. All he had ever wanted was to give you the best life possible after your parents had died and now that he had dragged you into this situation the guilt was crashing into him. You didn’t blame him for what was happening though, and staring at him one last time, you looked away before doing what he said and discarding your panties on the floor.

‘See that wasn’t so hard now was it?’ You didn’t bother replying to Bucky as his hand caressed your cheek, fingertips brushing over the mark he had left just seconds ago. ‘Now go and sit on Stevie for me, I’ll join you too soon.’ You didn’t want to know what he meant by that last part, opting instead to numbly walk over to where America’s Golden Boy lay, one hand behind his head, the other gripping his shaft as he stared at you. 

‘You heard what the Sergeant said. Be a good girl and sit on me.’ You swallowed down the bile that threatened to come forth as you straddled his thighs, your cunt resting just above his cock. The hand that had been playing with himself twisted, his fingers now pressing against you, slowly swiping up and down your entrance. ‘It’s just like you said Buck, she’s already wet for us.’ 

You wanted to scream. It wasn’t for them. It was because of them, because of the fear they had caused the run through your veins. 

‘Girls like her always are Stevie.’ You resisted the urge to roll your eyes Steve continued his ministrations between your thighs, easing one finger into your hole, using his palm to rub against your clit as he worked you up. You hated that despite the fear and loathing you felt for him, he was still able to elicit a reaction from you, forcing you to swallow down the moans that tried to tumble out of your mouth. Even with your eyes locked on Steve’s chest, you could still see, out of the corner of your eyes, Bucky undressing, shedding himself from his tac gear as he neared the couch. You had no idea what these two men had planned but when Steve moved his fingers further back, towards that hole, you started to realise, panic taking over. 

‘Uh uh uh Dollface, don’t you dare move. We’re going to take good care of you now.’ You wanted to die as Steve brought you closer and closer to the edge, feeling that familiar coil start to tighten inside of you. How could you be feeling like this with these men? With what they had planned for you? 

As usual your body refused to listen to your mind, even when you felt that sharp sting of his fingers entering your virgin hole. ‘Oh god Buck, she’s so tight. Even tighter than her sweet little cunt. I’m almost jealous that you’re gonna fuck her there.’ Steve moaned at the way your walls clenched around his fingers as he added another one, pushing them in and out, opening you up for his best friend. 

‘Don’t worry Stevie, we have all the time in the world. I promise you can have a go at it after.’ You felt his body behind yours, settling himself on the couch, straddling Steve’s legs as well. So this was how it was going to happen. You thought to yourself in despair. 

However you couldn’t despair for long as that coil which Steve had slowly been tightening had finally reached its breaking point, your body shaking as the waves of pleasure overcame you, the moans which you had tried so hard to hide were filling the room. 

You watched as Steve tugged you closer, his hand slipping around to position his cock at your entrance. ‘I think she’s ready now Buck.’

‘Good because I’m sick of waiting.’ Without any further warning, both men pushing into you, a yelp escaping at the stretch, at the burn you felt. It didn’t help that Bucky was much longer and thicker than Steve’s fingers had been, or that Steve himself was better well endowed than anyone you had been with previously. 

Tears started leaking down your face as you felt them move in tandem, one pushing in while the other pulled out, using your body as they saw fit. The pace they had set was brutal, the sound of skin slapping filling the room in addition with their moans and your choked back sobs. 

You watched as Steve raised a hand, wrapping it around your throat, pulling you down closer to him as he thrusted up into you, his tip hitting what felt like your cervix as he moved. At this new angle, you were right in front of his face, forced to look at him as he fucked you. Maybe if you closed your eyes, you would be able to pretend that you were somewhere else.

‘No Dollface. Eye open and on me.’ A rouge tear escaped as you opened your eyes once more, staring into his baby blues wanting nothing more than to be anywhere else, especially when his hand dipped down between your thighs once more, right above where your bodies were connected. 

You couldn’t take it anymore, the feeling of both Bucky and Steve inside of you, in addition to having his fingers flick over your sensitive nub had your body spiralling out of your control, the waves once again threatening to crash over you. 

‘Oh Buck, I think she’s close. The way she’s clenching around us, just begging us to fill her up.’ 

‘Mhmm, I think your right Stevie, let’s take her over the edge with us.’ You felt one of his hands creep up from where they had been gripping your hips to your breasts, flicking over your nipples as he groaned out above you. ‘Can you imagine, these perky little tits being filled with milk. How good would that be?’

Steve barked out a laugh in between his thrusts. ‘That wasn’t part of the plan Buck.’ 

You could feel Bucky’s shoulders shrug above you. ‘Fuck the plan.’ 

Steve rolled his eyes but still, there was a smile on his face thrusting up into you more harshly than before. ‘It would be a pretty sight. Just thinking about it makes me wanna cum.’

‘Do it Stevie, fill her up.’ Steve apparently needed no further persuasion as soon you felt him spill inside of you, warm spurts against your walls which clenched around him in turn. He thrusted a few more times before making sure you had completely milked him dry before pulling out, focussing on the movement of his fingers on your clit. 

Even though he had just said how badly he wanted you pregnant, you were surprised when you felt Bucky pull out of your ass, shifting your body before plunging into your pussy. Your face was now pressed against Steve’s chest as Bucky rutted into you, relishing in the familiar clench of your walls, signalling just how close you were. 

‘C’mon Stevie, get her to cum for me. I’m so fuckin’ close. I just need her to cum for me.’ With the continual swirl of his fingers, and Bucky hitting that sweet spot inside of you, both men brought you right up to the edge before pushing you over, sending you tumbling into the abyss. 

You could still feel Bucky empty himself inside of you, his cum mixing with both yours and Steve’s; yet there was a strange distance you felt as well. Your entire body shaking in the afterglow, trembling against Steve’s body as you lay over him. Never before had it been like this afterwards, the continual, never ending waves of pleasure racked through your body and you suspected that the fear you had felt definitely played a part.

Your vision was blurry, unfocused, as you felt Steve sit up with you, his arms wrapped around your middle as a coat was thrown over your body, your panties and sleep shorts gently slid up your legs, a cool finger swiping at the cum that seeped out of you, trying to push it back in. 

You watched in dazed confusion as Bucky and Steve gathered their clothes, redressing quickly, seeming to have a silent conversation. Bucky crossed over to you, zipping up the coat he had thrown over your shoulders and kissing your forehead gently. ‘Okay Dollface, I need you to go with Stevie now.’

You were confused, sluggish, as you felt his grasp your elbow, pulling you up. Where were you going? Why wasn’t he coming with you? 

As though he had managed to read your mind Bucky put your irrational fears at ease. ‘I’m going to be right behind you. I’m just going to get some clothes for you.’ You nodded even though you didn’t want to, letting Steve pull you from the room. You tried to glance back into the room, your eyes locking with Brock’s. A silent farewell. 

You knew that you should be doing something, fighting somehow, but in your current state, your body hung limp, barely just allowing you to walk in a straight line as Steve led you from the house, towards a shiny black car parked in your driveway. You watched as he held the backdoor open for you, eagerly climbing in to escape the cold. It was only as you stared down at your shaking hand that you realised that this was what people meant by going into shock. That was the only way to explain the numbness taking over your body. 

You could vaguely hear the sound of a gun go off somewhere in the distance, the car door open and Bucky climbing in, his hands free as Steve took off. You watched as the house slowly shrunk the further the car got along the street before disappearing altogether. You had no idea where you were going now but glancing between the two men sitting in the front seat, you knew they had big plans for you. 

+

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[emeraldembers]

Fic: A Thief of Fate (Block/Longin, PG13)

Title: A Thief of Fate

Fandom: Мор. Утопия / Pathologic

Pairing: Block/Longin

Summary: There isn't enough time for them to fall in love, but Longin falls anyway.

Author’s Notes: Originally written for the prompt “The other day I discovered that Longin’s nickname is Patroclus. That, coupled with the many comparisons Block gets to Alexander the Great, (aka Achilles’ greatest fanboy) makes this ship write itself. So give me anything you have with these two, please (the big no is dub/non-con)” over on the Pathologic kink meme.

Warnings: Non-consensual drug use, references to future hanging

Comments loved and encouraged!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075645

* * *

It was a known fact that everyone under Alexander Block's command loved him. A variety of jokes had been made about men crawling through fire for the General of Ashes, and Longin had laughed at the same jokes himself until he was assigned to Block's unit.

He would be the exception to the rule, he had decided, if only out of spite. No man was perfect regardless of his talents, and Longin had yet to meet an idol who didn't deserve to be knocked from their pedestal.

He was determined to be polite but scrutinising, to find the flaws Block's men had refused to see, and when it was time to greet the General, he met his eyes without fear.

Something else gladly took fear's place. He'd never seen eyes so blue, before. Not in real life, outside of a painting.

In an instant, he knew he'd love Block as thoroughly as the rest of Block's men. Just for a different reason.

Longin had known Block was young, barely a few years older than himself, but the reality of seeing it had hit him like cold water. Wrinkles had only just begun to settle in place around his eyes, between his brows, and at the corners of his lips, while stress had threaded grey strands through his dark hair, but as for the rest of him? He was clearly young, and Longin could see more of himself in Block than he had in any of the other top brass.

Longin's captaincy meant having the General's confidence, and even though Block chose his words carefully, avoiding anything that could be spun as insubordination or accusations of conspiracy, Longin knew how to read his posture.

They were being shipped out to the middle of the Steppe by train, to some squalid little town and not to where they were most needed. Block said the order had come directly from The Powers That Be, a detour from the Southern Front to bring an outbreak of plague under control.

Block didn't speak out against the order, and didn't need to. The detour was bullshit, and Longin knew it as clearly as Block did.

Men began to fall ill within hours of reaching the town, even those in head to foot flamethrower gear, and Longin could feel the sword of Damocles hanging over Block's head as surely as if it were over his own. Diverting men to set up the town hall as their headquarters was busy work, an excuse to keep as many of them off the infested streets as possible, and Longin felt a twist of guilt for those still on the streets as he sat alone in an office with the General, sharing a drink while the men moved tables and set up banners outside. The room was far from sound proof, but the clatter of tables and keeping their voices pitched low afforded them something close to privacy.

"The Powers That Be Want Me Dead," Block said, and even though Longin knew it was true, had known something was wrong from the moment they were diverted from the Southern Front, it was sobering to hear the admission from Block's lips. "They wouldn't have sent Aglaya Lilich here otherwise."

"Because she wants you dead?"

"Because they want her dead, too," Block said. It made sense - no one with ideals made it far in the Capital for long. The Powers That Be were comfortable at the top of the chain of command, and didn't like the idea of others disrupting their comfort. "I don't know which of us will be allowed to survive. I fear only God has any say in who'll leave this town."

Longin raised an eyebrow. "You didn't strike me as the religious type, sir."

"I'd like to believe," Block said, sounding tired. That was unsurprising; few people slept well on trains, and the dark circles under his eyes were bruise-purple. "I need to. Someone will have to look after the men when I am gone. I'd rather God took care of the matter than The Powers That Be."

Longin folded his hands in his lap, frowned at them. After watching the uncle who had raised him die from a wasting sickness, and after seeing a close friend's intestines spill out at the end of a bayonet, he was fairly certain that if God did exist, then He knew little about justice or love. "You'll have us to the end, General. Whatever happens. Powers That Be be damned."

"None of you should be here," Block said, and Longin bit his tongue before looking up from his hands at the General's face. Block's eyes were calm, despite his words; he had already accepted his fate.

"But we are. For what it's worth sir, we know what we signed up for. To follow you into Hell, if necessary."

Block chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before he finally said, "Would you lock the door please, Captain?"

Longin carried out the order, breath catching when he turned to find Block standing, the line of his shoulders tight.

"I wish we had more time," Block said, and Longin prayed he wasn't misreading anything when he took a step towards his commander.

"I wish the same."

Block covered the remaining steps between them in a rush, and Longin barely managed to brace himself as he was drawn into Block's arms and kissed.

Longin hadn't misread him. They were young, war and death had their ways of firing up the blood, and Block's mouth drank up his own like a man starved of water.

Longin wished he could hold him tight enough to risk wrinkling his uniform, wished he could tell Block that his eyes were the most beautiful thing he had seen in all his days as a soldier and all his days before that too. The war had stolen so much from them, even the chance to know one another properly, and Longin wanted to steal it all back.

Block pulled away for a moment, Longin readying himself for rejection or dismissal, but instead found Block's hands coming up to frame his jaw, thumbs tracing the curve of it, feeling out and pressing down on the dip of his chin. The look on Block's face was something pained, and Longin wondered if he would ever be able to take that pain away.

"You deserve more than faith and blind luck," Block said, and Longin shook his head fiercely, smoothing his hands down Block's back.

"You've seen men through Hell before," Longin said, closing his eyes and letting his lips find Block's again, brushing against them as he spoke, "I'd trust no one else to navigate it."

Block had kissed him first. It only seemed right to take his turn now.

After their first meeting, Longin had known he'd obey any order Block ever gave him.

The moment Block relaxed in his arms, Longin knew he'd die for the General even without orders.

They were dying faster than reinforcements would ever arrive. No enemy force had proven as inventive, as invasive, or as cruel as the sand pest.

They needed to leave, but Longin had read the orders; if Block left without seeing his mission through, he would be court-martialed, accused of undermining his superiors and jeopardising the nation's safety. Even if The Powers That Be couldn't make an accusation of treason stick, the penalty for insubordination remained death.

Someone would have to bear that penalty one way or another.

Drugging Block's vodka was a simple enough business, and Longin's stomach churned as he watched Block grow drowsy, then concerned, then betrayed, fear constricting his pupils to pinpricks of black.

"What did you do?" Block asked, his words slurring together like a drunk's, legs collapsing beneath him when he tried to stand.

Longin wished he could give him the reassurance of safety, but couldn't - Block had to believe the betrayal was complete.

"We're leaving," Longin said, allowing himself that much honesty as he stood from his own chair and took the town hall's keys from Block's desk.

"Don't," Block said as Longin turned his back. "Don't make me die alone."

Longin held his tongue, knowing the other conspirators were outside, that they would want to know he had succeeded. There was no clatter of furniture to give them privacy now.

You won't die, Longin let himself think. That's the point.

"You'll hang for this," Block said, and Longin took a moment to picture that future - a noose around his neck, a public execution to make an example of the mutineers - and accept it.

His own death would turn Block into a nearly-martyred hero. It would be armour for him in the world of politics for years to come.

But Block would watch, and think Longin hated him.

"I will," Longin promised, and left.

[imagine-loki]

The Slutty Webs One Weaves

Title : The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Chapter NO. 2 of 10?

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki’s Asgardian wife learns women write fanfiction about him on a trip to Midgard. She’s edgy for the duration and lets him have it when they get back.

Author: lokilover9

Rating: M

Notes: Hello everyone. I will get to writing another chapter of Irked, but for now, here’s a mini crack fic. Should be good for a laugh or two.

When Loki and Astrid entered their vehicle in the Towers underground, he opened portal, exiting in the woods on Staten Island and she pouted.

"Not hiking again, Loki. Skunks are mean."

He tisked. "Bushy tailed scoundrels. I did warn you to keep away."

"I thought it was cute. Where are we?"

"A dumping location of one golden eyed jester. No matter." He conjured a cabin and opened its door. "Still wish to get naked?"

They fucked for hours until Astrid lay spent, resembling a deflating blow up doll.

"Dress now my lovely? I'll gather your belongings from the truck."

With her brain afloat in subspace, she hazily replied. "Yes Master." *****

They entered Asgard and Heimdall arched a brow at her bedraggled appearance. "Welcome back, my lady."

"Midgardians make edible panties."

Loki scooped her into his arms. "Nothing a good slumber can't fix. Ta ta, jester." He chuckled upon pulling a key from his pocket when undressing. "I dare to ponder your predicament before realizing this missing, Cootyoodles." *****

Weeks passed while down on Midgard, several burglaries had occurred in rich homes around New Jersey. Only cash was ever stolen, yet the thieves exceptional skill at avoiding detection was a growing concern.

Pepper and Tony sat watching the news.

~ "Another burglary in Jersey last night left police no closer to identifying a suspect. More at eleven." ~

"Didn't the thiefasaurous make a peanut butter and banana sandwich at the last house,? I'd love to know how they're hacking the security cameras. Clever bastard."

"Could be a woman, but definitely a pro."

"There's an erotic vision. You dressed as a bandit, searching a homeowner's porn reserve while snickering at their amatuer bondage supplies."

"Why risk imprisonment? Were the porn in your 'Butch's Bitch' file dvd's, they'd line a path from here to Miami."

"Ooooh, does that mean we're on the same page?"

"Mmm..no. You're horny and I'm craving nachos. Please unravel yourself from my thigh?"

Stark playfully gnawed on it. "And if I don't? What then, Mistress?" He obeyed when the lights flickered and Jarvis announced a security breach. "Speaking of bandits, ours is an Alien God breaking a promise."

"Jarvis never detected him before."

"Likely an impish forewarning attempt. I'd bet a thousand he's hoping I'm shackled to the coffee table, sucking a rubber cock for his own amusement."

'Note to self.' Thought Pepper. 'Add to 'to do' list.' "What makes you think him so savage?"

"Loki's a sexual deviant."

"Oh?"

'Blabbermouth. Now she's intrigued.' "Everything back to normal, Jarvis?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Told ya and I know just where to find the prick." Tony stepped onto the sixtieth floor to find it minimally illuminated by the moon. "Nice touch, Snowflake. A prelude to another smug entrance? Consider it your last." When met with silence, he angrily strolled to the rooms center. "Show yourself! NOW!"

More silence, except for the hum of the approaching elevator.

"Huh. Never pegged you for a coward." Tony didn't intend to fight Loki. Merely to end their friendship, while emphasizing the seriousness of his boundaries being overstepped.

The intruder judged otherwise.

The door slid open and from behind the bar, came a sphere of light travelling at warp speed, making a whooshing sound as it encompassed his suit pieces, halting their pursuit, then dropping them to the floor in a clanging heap.

Stark sat crouched on his knees, enthralled by a figure slowly emerging from the shadows.

"I am not a coward Iron M..Man."

He lurched forward and the swaying soul fell limp in his arms as the rooms lights flickered on. "What the hell?" Moments later, he rushed off the elevator to a shocked Pepper. "Meet our intruder."

"A child???"

"Surprise?"

She offered a warm cloth as he timed the wee souls pulse. "Heart rates good."

"Who…"

"Didn't get a name." Clad in males clothing a size too big and a snug fitting Captain America cap, the child was filthy. Upon removing it, a mass of knotted, raven hair fell over his arm.

"He's a she?"

"Apparently." Desperate to rouse her, Tony kept talking, while wiping her face. "Can you hear me, kid? Come on, wake up." His actions revealed flawless, alabaster skin, high cheekbones, a perfect nose and overly pink lips. Her fingers were long and slender, as were her limbs and the more he looked at her, everything began to click. "If her eyes are green, someone has some 'splaining to do, Lucy."

The girl stirred, scrambled from his lap, bolted across the room and halted in a battle stance, fists raised, brows furrowed and her piercing green eyes, wildly darting between him and Pepper.

He slowly rose, arms in the surrender position. "Easy, Little Warrior. We won't hurt you."

"Where's my hat?" She sternly demanded.

Tony slid it across the floor and she planted it sideways on her head, sloppily tucked her hair inside and returned to battle stance. "Liar! I came to you for help and was almost attacked!"

"My goof, kid. Ya scared me. What's your name?"

"Brianna. It means strong, virtuous and honorable."

"Perfect for a female warrior. A brave one too."

Pepper cut in. "Hi Brianna, I'm..."

"Virginia Potts, born September 27nth, 1972 in Arlington, Virginia, CEO of Stark Industries and one badass role model. Nice to meet you."

She smiled. "Ditto. Are you injured at all?"

The girls fists lowered. "No, just hungry and exhausted."

"Unacceptable." Said Tony. "What can we get ya?"

"A peanut butter and banana sandwich?" They threw it together and she wolfed it down with a glass of milk. "Have any tater tots?"

"Sure do. Brianna, is there anyone we should call?"

Her scowl returned and an unseen force, swiftly elevated their phones, suspending them inches below the twenty foot ceiling. "Mom's awal, and Daddy's unknown. Alert anyone of my whereabouts and after escaping their captivity, I'll return 'undetected' to enact revenge."

"O-kaaay. Any ideas on the spunk doner, Virginia?"

"Really, Tony?"

"Just sayin'. We promise not to alert anyone without your permission kid, if first, I get a promise or two in return."

"You dare making commands knowing what I'm capable of?"

"Hear me out, Little Warrior. Please?"

She chomped into a tater tot. "I'm listening."

"I've some questions."

"You can ask, but don't expect answers for every one. What else?"

"You stay a while. At least until finding a Tower to call your own."

"No way, Jose. I'm the restless type."

"A month then?"

Stark played the puppy eyes card as Brianna sized him up like a scheming Clint Eastwood might a brazen saloon patron.

"A week and we take it from there."

"Deal."

Once their phones safely landed, she asked to use the bathroom. Pepper lead her to a guest room and was stopped at the door. "Thanks. A little privacy, please?"

After it closed, Tony snuck into the hall and quietly relayed of first encountering the girl. "It's irrefutable. That's Loki's mini me in there."

"Her powers are undeniably similar, but without a paternity test..."

"And how do we achieve that? Shimmy up the bifrost and demand Prince Jezebel see a phlebotomist? Fuck, if they're not related, where 'did' she come from? Maybe we're being invaded by the real Body Snatchers."

"Who've begun with a child in a Captain America hat, they specifically sent here?"

"Have any better conclusions? I suspect she's the burglar too."

"Why, because they like the same sandwich?"

"Think, Butch. If she can break in here, houses are a piece of cake."

"Think, Cootyoodles. Even with powers to hack security systems, how does a child that young burglarize nine houses without being seen, heard or leaving behind any dna?"

"Never underestimate your opponent." As Tony rambled on about examples, she seemed distant. "Butch?"

"I just realized something. Brianna said her Mom was awal. We're avid news watchers and there hasn't been a local Amber Alert for months. What if she isn't looking for her? What if no one is?"

"Perhaps we're both getting carried away and Brianna's…a special breed of Leprechaun that eats feet. We sleep in my suit boots and problem solved."

Pepper smirked. "What exactly happened to you in space? Stay here while I check on her?" Soon she called to him in a whisper. "Come look at your opponent."

Stark's real heart melted when seeing Brianna asleep in the large tub. A bath towel covered her little body and another lay folded beneath her head. "Poor kid. I'll move her to the bed."

"No don't, Tony. I think she crawled in there to feel safe." *****

In the morning, they found an open box of Count Chocula cereal beside a dirty bowl in the kitchen.

"I hadn't opened that yet."

Pepper yawned. "And?"

"It's half empty."

"Awesome. If she's anything like you jacked up on sugar, please hide it?"

He popped a handful into his mouth. "I thought you liked my inner child?"

"Not when he's Dash from the Incredibles. What's that noise?"

"I'll go look." Stark opened Brianna's door to a six inch knife whizzing towards it. "Morn..WHOA!" He closed it within an inch as she aimed another. "DROP the weapon, Little Warrior!"

She casually tossed it onto the bed. "'Sup?"

"'Sup?!? Those aren't toys, young lady! You could've removed half my face!"

"Nah, my aims too polished. See for yourself."

Pepper arrived to find him gawking at the wall. "Hi Brianna. Tony?"

"Iron Man's upset 'cause I short circuited his Arc Reactor."

"Kinda. Feast your eyes on why, Virginia."

A wooden cutting board hung centimeters from the door frame, impaled by eight knives and Brianna sighed. "I'd almost made a perfect x, until interrupted."

"Hey, I knocked..once."

"But didn't wait for permission to enter."

"Let's not argue, hm? Coffee's done, Tony. Would you like a bath, Brianna?"

"With bubbles?"

"Raspberry Sorbet, scented."

Butch later regretted leaving behind the bottle as Little Warrior had a blast, pouncing into the mountainous sea of bubbles the Jacuzzi's jets summoned and soaking the floor. After loaning her a small t shirt and a pair of leggings she secured around her waist, she watched in amazement as like with their phones, an unseen force carefully lowered the cutting board into the girls awaiting arms.

"Ready, Badass."

"Call me Pepper, please?"

"Sure."

Once in the kitchen, Tony learned of her trick. "Just another checkmark on the growing listy poo of spunky d' evidence, Virginia. Thanks kid, I'll take that." The board seemed super glued to the island as he tried apprehending it. "Make that two checkmarks."

The silverware drawer opened, nudging his butt, as Brianna climbed onto a stool with a mischievous smirk and hovered a fist over the knives. "Scooch your booty, or be turned into swiss cheese." Her hand opened, releasing a pea sized light that burst into a mist with the snap of her fingers. As she slid back, it encompassed only the board, individually plucked each knife from its surface, neatly steered them into the drawer and vanished after it closed.

Tony's mind was projecting a vision of Loki on a cheesy, 70's era game show, its animated host announcing; "Our grand prize winner, ladies and gentlemen! The willy nilly, cock weilding, Prince Jezebelll!"

Brianna's voice silenced the fanfare. "I promise not to play with knives anymore."

"Erm..that's great. About those questions, kid."

"Shoot."

"Why the target practice?"

"Saw it on tv once. It kills boredom."

'And a charging rhinoceros, no doubt.' "These balls of light…"

"I call them my magic and maneuvered this one slower, to give you an idea of how they work. Neat, huh?"

"Very and the one used on my suit?"

"Nothing special."

"How do you create them and the unseen force?"

"Classified."

"Have you greater abilities?"

"Enough to make David Copperfield seem a quack."

"How did you break into my tower?"

"Top Secret."

"How did you get here?"

"Walking, buses, taxis, trains and one bicycle."

"By yourself?"

"Mostly."

"How long was your trip?"

"Nine days."

"How did you afford it?"

"My allowance."

"Why the boys clothing?"

"You already know."

"Where are you from?"

"Are you done insulting me?"

He froze. "Excuse me?"

"Nearly every question, except number 5, were tests to see if I'd slip up and surpass revealing the basics. Magic aside, you're trying to assess my intelligence, so here's some insight. Every response minus 'target practice', was either a lie, or half truth. Why? I am never going home and therefore will never reveal more about myself than I decide necessary. If that's unacceptable, tell me now, I'll thank you for the hospitality and be on my way. Oh, and the ball used on your suit? It was bigger, faster, and more powerful out of necessity."

The only person Tony felt might know more about Brianna was Thor, but couldn't risk breaking his promise. She was brilliant, yet seemingly naive to the constant danger she was in. Iron Man would protect her, whilst awaiting further guidance from wherever the cosmos were plotting to chuck it. The heavens, perhaps? The tooth fairy? Captain Kangaroo?

"We'd much prefer you stayed." Said Pepper. "Please don't be angry with Tony? It's difficult not to think of how frantic we'd be if our child went missing."

Brianna's face softened for merely a second, before she re poised herself. "You would?..Look, I'm a survivor, so don't bother worrying about me. May I make my request now?"

"Please do, Little Warrior."

"Your fellow Avenger, Thor. Do you trust him?"

'All this for the God of Thunder?' Thought Stark. "With my life. Is he your favorite and you'd like an autograph, or a picture together?"

"Don't have a favorite Avenger. Just need you introduce us."

'Wut?' "I could, but that means alerting him you're here."

"If you trust him, I trust him."

"I'm grateful for your faith in me. He'll ask why?"

"I need him to set up a second meeting with is brother, Loki."

And there was Tony's guidance. A beam of light, trailing from the realm of Asgard, down through Earth's clouds and settling on P.J.'s prodigy, igniting her aglow.

"Eh he. Why not? Nothin' like those warm and fuzzy feelings amongst kin, right Virginia? Pardon me ladies. Cootyoodles has a call to make and a suit to tweak."

Brianna giggled. "Who gave Iron Man that name?"

"A friend, but he prefers Tony. Feel like watching a movie with a badass role model?"

"Okay, but none of that fairy tail, princessy stuff. Ever see Bram Stoker's Dracula?"

"Isn't that violent for someone your age?"

"Nope and guuurl, what a love story. The blood and guts are awesome too."

[searchingwardrobes]

Self-Promo Sunday: Labyrinth

As I’m weeding out my obnoxious amount of fics on Ao3, the first ones I’m deleting are ones like this that were originally speculation fics that canon has now blown out of the water. Even though I knew this spec fic would never actually happen since it closely follows the plot of a Smallville episode by the same name. This was also written before we knew Colin would be playing Wish!Hook. I loved making the creepy pic set for this, which ended up being pretty perfect for Halloween week. I also was struck by how much Andrew J West and Colin look alike. This is a Captain Cobra fic all the way with adult Henry, so that realization gave me massive feels.

Many are a little sad that I’m deleting some of my fics on Ao3, but just remember that they will now be here on tumblr as well! This just means that new readers finding my fics on Ao3 won’t be so overwhelmed and my very best ones will be easier to find.

Summary: One moment, a curse is bearing down on him, and the next Killian Jones wakes up in a mental hospital. They say every thing he has ever known to be true is a fantasy. But surely that's part of the curse . . . right? Inspired by the Smallville episode of the same name. No need to have watched Smallville to get this story. However, there are some fun easter eggs for Smallville fans.

Rating: G

Also on Ao3 until 11 / 3 / 2019

Tagging the usuals:@snowbellewells​​ @kmomof4​​@jennjenn615​​ @kday426​​ @let-it-raines​​ @teamhook​​@kmomof4​​ @bethacaciakay​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​ @thislassishooked​​ @tiganasummertree​​@whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @snidgetsafan​​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​​ @winterbaby89​​ @distant-rose​​@shireness-says​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @optomisticgirl​​ @spartanguard​​ @branlovestowrite​​ @welllpthisishappening​​ @stahlop​

Killian Jones smiled as he brought his cup of coffee to his lips, gazing out of the bay windows to the view of the sea. He could hear Emma’s footsteps above him as she padded across the nursery on the second floor. Through the baby monitor on the coffee table, he could hear her coo a good morning to the baby. His smile widened when little Chloe babbled a response. The voices of the two lasses he loved most in this world quieted on the monitor as the rocking chair began to squeak. In his mind’s eyes, he could see Emma holding Chloe to her breast as she nursed her, rocking slowly back and forth. She would smile down at their wee one, touching a finger lightly against the baby’s soft cheek.

The family’s golden retriever bounded down the stairs, its claws click-clacking on the hard wood floor. The dog nuzzled against Killian’s hook, giving the cool steel a lick.

“Morning, Shelby,” Killian chuckled, giving the dog a pat of greeting.

The dog sat on her haunches, contently waiting by Killian’s side for him to finish his morning coffee. She waited there patiently, and then Killian would rinse out his mug and fill her bowl with kibble. It was their daily routine.

But suddenly Shelby whimpered, turning her head towards the front door. She rose onto all fours, fur bristling as she stalked forward. She stopped directly in front of the door and let out a low, deep growl. Killian arched a brow.

“What is it, girl? You hear something I don’t?”

Killian set his mug on the coffee table and went to the dog who was now scratching at the door, whimpering once again. Killian opened it, and Shelby bounded on to the front porch, barking wildly. Killian stepped out cautiously, hook raised. He had a bad feeling about this. He strode to the top of the porch steps, his eyes widening as he saw what was barreling down the street straight for the house. He turned and raced back inside.

“Emma!” he screamed.

His wife was at the top of the steps, clutching the baby in her arms. Chloe was wailing, her cries different than any Killian had heard before. Cries of fear.

“Killian! Behind you!” Emma screamed.

He turned as the billow of crackling smoke poured through the front door. This curse was different than all the rest, pounding against him like a physical force. With the names of his wife and daughter on his lips, Killian fell backwards, his head smashing against the floor.

*************************************************************

Still on his back, Killian’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at the harsh fluorescent light swinging overhead. Two men he didn’t recognize were leaning over him. One had a round face, soft with fat and sprinkled with red facial hair. The other had a long, thin face and large ears. Both had dull, unfocused eyes and laughed maniacally.

“Did the curse get you?” chuckled the chubby one.

“Yeah,” the other one said, giving a high-pitched giggle, “which realm did you wake up in?”

Killian sat up, utterly confused, to find himself on a cold, linoleum floor surrounded by a group dressed in white. They were seated in folding chairs in a circle around him. Killian scrambled to his feet, taking in the room. This made no sense. It was a large, colorless room. Industrial, with bars on the windows. Everyone was dressed in plain white pants and shirts. Kilian looked down. Including him.

“Where am I?” he muttered. “Where are Emma and Chloe?”

“Gentleman please sit,” a cultured voice asked gently, and the two men shuffled to chairs and dutifully sat. Killian refused.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Captain Hook,” the man with the red beard chuckled, “but this ain’t the Jolly Roger!”

The man’s words rose in hysterical volume as he spoke, and the others in the circle joined in his laughter.

“What realm am I in?” Killian roared, “What did this curse do?”

“Which curse,” giggled the thin one, “the one that the Queen of Hearts protected you from? Or the one you cast when you were a dark one?” The man used air quotes around the final title.

“Oh, oh, I know,” the chubby one squealed, clapping his hands, “it was the one that separated him from his true love.”

Killian’s anger rose as a hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to a man with a white beard, dressed in a tweed suit. “Killian,” he said softly, “why don’t you sit back down.”

Killian stumbled away from him, “What happened to me? Who are you?”

The man raised his hands in supplication as if Killian were a wild colt who might kick him in the head. “I’m Dr. Hudson. You were just telling us about your dog barking and the smoke coming. Then you blacked out for a minute.”

Killian noted the man giving an almost imperceptible nod over Killian’s left shoulder. He whirled instinctively as two muscular orderlies stepped forward. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he warned, lifting his hook aloft. Then he started. There was no hook at the end of his left arm. Just a stump of flesh. Not even the end of his brace. Just a scared, mutilated stump. Fairly fresh, like the days and weeks right after Milah’s demise.

“No,” he gasped in a shuddered breath.

When the orderlies grasped him by the arms, he fought, or tried to. Tried to think of Emma and Chloe and the fact that he needed to find them before something horrible happened. But in his haze of confusion, his reflexes just weren’t what they should have been. And soon he was being dragged down a sterile hallway and thrown into a padded cell.

*******************************************************

Killian was pacing his cell when a face appeared in the tiny barred window in the center of his door. He commanded that Killian step back. Killian obeyed, but planted his feet in readiness. When the orderly stepped through, Killian charged. The man easily tossed him across the floor, and Killian groaned. His body felt so sluggish. As if he had been asleep for a century. Dr. Hudson strode through the room shaking his head. He gestured to two more orderlies, and before Killian knew what was happening, they had him in a strait jacket and seated in a chair. Dr. Hudson paced in front of him.

“Killian,” the doctor sighed as he wiped his glasses on a handkerchief from his pocket, “you really must stop all this fighting. Let me help you.”

Killian jerked against his bonds, “Where is my family?”

The doctor sighed, then in resignation set a manila folder on the table before Killian. He took out a photograph and help it up for Killian to see. Killian’s vision blurred with tears to see the smiling faces of his wife and daughter. But then he shook his head. The photo was one of those cheesy ones taken in a studio at a department store, with the three of them seated together with Killian’s hand resting awkwardly on Emma’s shoulder. The kind Emma always made jokes about. The photos in their home were all candid shots. He narrowed his eyes as he looked closer – and that was his left hand.

“That picture is fake.”

“No,” the doctor said softly, “it isn’t.”

He pulled another item from the file – a newspaper clipping. The headline read, “Young Mother and Infant Die in Fatal Crash.” Killian leaned over it, confusion marring his brow. There was a picture of a car wrapped around a tree and a smaller photograph of a laughing Emma blowing a kiss onto Chloe’s cheek.

“No,” Killian argued, shaking his head, “that never happened. It was morning. We were all just waking up, and the curse came –“

“Killian,” the doctor interrupted, splaying his hands across the top of the table, “you must pull yourself out of this fantasy world you’ve created. Your wife and daughter were killed, and you lost your hand. Ever since, you’ve been in this mental hospital, thinking you’re Captain Hook and everyone you know and love are story book characters.”

“I’m not crazy!” Killian cried out, wincing when he realized his voice sounded exactly that.

The doctor stood and strode to the sink in the corner of the room. He picked something up as he spoke, “Your wife wasn’t Emma Swan, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming.”

He turned and in his hand was a bottle of hand soap – “Swan Soap” it said on the bottle. He walked across the room and set the bottle on the table. Killian blinked as he stared at it, his mind flipping over.

Dr. Hudson resumed his seat across from Killian. “Her name was Emma Nolan, before she married you, and her parents were two ordinary people named David and Mary Margaret Nolan.”

“What about Henry?”

The doctor smiled. “You mean Henry Mills? Our janitor?”

The doctor gazed at Killian intently with hazel eyes that seemed to swirl with multiple colors. The room seemed to spin and Killian felt suddenly dizzy. Then there was a knock at the door, and Killian jerked as if suddenly awakened from a dream. A nurse bustled in with a clipboard in her hand. The doctor scribbled something, and the nurse glanced hesitantly at Killian with the same look he had seen on the face of all the orderlies. A look of fear and disgust. Killian blinked when he saw the nurse’s nametag – Regina.

“You see, Killian,” the doctor continued, standing to his feet as the nurse left, “you’ve taken bits and pieces of the things around you to create this fantasy of yours. But it isn’t real. Your wife and child are not out there waiting to be rescued. They’re dead.” Dr. Hudson reached under Killian’s mattress, pulling out a well-worn book. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can get well.”

He tossed the slender volume onto the table before Killian and left. It was a copy of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.

*******************************************************

Killian shuffled forward in the medication line, feeling a hopelessness he hadn’t felt since the days of seeking revenge against the Crocodile. If those days were even real. Killian wasn’t sure any more. At least now he was out of the strait jacket. He had decided to at least play nice.

“Don’t take the medicine they give you,” hissed a voice behind him.

Killian ignored it. If he wasn’t crazy, everyone else here was. Best to keep a low profile and ignore the other patients.

“You’re not crazy – Hook,” the person continued.

There was something about the voice that sounded clearer, more steady than the voices of the other patients. He turned tentatively to see a young man in his twenties with brown hair and eyes smiling at him. Something about the face seemed familiar to him. He narrowed his eyes to study the man more closely.

“Henry?” he said tentatively.

The young man’s eyes lit up, “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here to rescue you.”

Killian shook his head to clear it, trying to process this latest development. He had looked in the mirror since waking up in this place, and he could clearly see he hadn’t aged at all. How was Henry . . .

Before he could complete that thought, two orderlies came up behind Henry and grabbed him. “Believe in yourself!” Henry shouted before the men jabbed a syringe into his neck. They then dragged him through a heavy, locked door. It all happened so fast, Killian was rooted in place for a moment.

Then suddenly, Henry’s words surged through him. Believe in yourself! He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t weak. He was pirate Captain Killian “Hook” Jones, and his family needed him. He scanned the room as he stepped out of the medicine line. He saw a janitor unlocking the supply closet with a huge ring of keys. He grinned to himself in delight as he remembered all the times he had watched Star Wars with Henry. He couldn’t do the Wookie prisoner gag alone, but he could at least pose as a Stormtrooper . . .

**************************************************

Killian stumbled across the snow with Henry leaning heavily against his shoulder. Not only had they heavily drugged the lad, but they had also beat him pretty severely. Henry had a gash across his forehead that was currently trickling blood down the sleeve of the janitor’s uniform Killian was wearing. And based on the way he kept wincing and holding his side, Killian was pretty sure Henry also had a few cracked ribs.

Shouts sounded behind them, and Killian knew the hospital guards were gaining fast. He didn’t know why his body was so weak, but it was, and the added weight of his boy didn’t help. Killian prayed to whatever gods would listen for intervention. They needed a miracle.

Suddenly, a sedan spun to a stop in front of them, tires squealing. The back door opened, and a dark-haired little girl leaned out. “Hurry! Get in!” she cried.

“Lucy,” Henry groaned, his voice laced with affection. Whoever this little girl was, apparently, they could trust her. And, Killian hoped, whoever was driving.

Killian shoved Henry into the backseat as gently as he could under the circumstances, then slid in himself. The driver turned to face him, her familiar penciled eyebrows arched and a half smile on her lips.

“Good to see you again, pirate.”

“Regina?”

“Um, can everyone catch up later?” the little girl interrupted. “Cause those guys have guns.”

She didn’t have to tell Regina twice. The queen put the petal to the metal just as shots rang out. She flew through the gates of Dreamshade Mental Hospital – Killian rolled his eyes at the irony – and turned on two wheels onto a residential street. Then she sighed and visibly deflated. For the first time, Killian noticed the head of gray hair in the front passenger seat. He groaned when the passenger himself turned to glare at him.

“I believe a thank you is in order for rescuing you, Captain.”

“Thanks, Crocodile,” Killian bit out through clenched teeth.

“Calm down, Captain Guyliner,” Regina grumbled, “at least you didn’t wake up thinking you were married to him.”

Killian couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face, and an awkward silence descended. The little girl – Lucy - wrapped her arm around his left bicep and leaned into him. He started a bit at the sudden affection.

“Grandpa!” she enthused. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“Grandpa?” Killian’s eyes shifted to Henry in surprise.

“Yes,” Henry chuckled, then winced at the pain in his ribs, “she’s my daughter. Let’s just say I was up to more in the Enchanted Forest than just looking for a way to break this current curse. Good things happened to.”

Killian noted the obvious affection in Henry’s voice and the tenderness in his gaze. Killian looked down at Lucy, who still clutched his arm and beamed up at him. How could you love someone so much whom you just met? The thought immediately took his mind to his own daughter. He swallowed thickly as he regarded Lucy.

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

Killian closed his eyes, immediate pain washing over him. “I missed it,” he choked out. “My baby girl. I missed everything.”

“No, you didn’t, Killian,” Regina assured him. The words were a balm to his wounded heart. Regina only used his name when she was completely sincere.

Henry struggled to sit up as he addressed Killian, “Don’t worry, Dad. Mom and my little sister are exactly as they were when you last saw them.”

“Where are they?” Killian asked, his nerves sparking in agitation to do something.

“A place that isn’t easy to get to,” Rumpelstiltskin explained with vehemence in his voice, “but believe me, we will get back those we love. No matter the cost.”

Lucy picked up a duffel bag from the floor and handed it to Killian with a huge grin on her face. “I thought you might be missing this.”

He opened it to find his brace and his hook. He turned to Lucy and smiled, placing a kiss to her temple. “Thank you, lass.”

“Killian, do you remember all those times you whined about your true love kisses never working?” Regina quipped as she pressed harder on the gas. “Well, pucker up, pirate. Because your lips are our only hope.”

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: (I Don’t Believe in) Destiny (Ch. 2 of 11)

Leonard Snart is back, finally pulled from the timestream where he's spent the last four years. But he wasn't alone, and the repercussions of that will echo through the Legends, the Time Bureau, and beyond.

----

Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

Title: All the Stages We Passed Through

Present

“You haven’t seen her at all?”

Mick Rory folds his arms and scowls at the woman on the Waverider’s main screen. “Answer ain’t changed in the past minute.”

Ava pinches her nose with her fingers, looking like he’s making her headache worse. Mick feels victorious.

He figures that if that’s the most he does to Bureau Chick considering that she’s talking about bringing back the same damned thing that killed Snart—well, she’s getting off easy. (And he doesn’t believe for a second that Sara’s gonna let her get away with that, or he’d be doing a hell of a lot more. He’s already decided he’s going to kill Druce. Again. The question is simply when.)

But Bureau Chick really doesn’t seem aware of any of this. Which seems kinda odd, because Mick might not like her, but she’s not stupid.

“Well,” she sighs, as Mick hears at least one of the others—Haircut, he’s pretty sure it’s Haircut, and probably Pretty too—wander on to the bridge behind him. “If…when…you see her. Tell her… it’s not what she thinks.”

Mick doesn’t ask. “Got it.”

The screen turns blank, and Mick turns around, noticing Haircut’s frown and Pretty’s look of confusion. (So what else is new?)

Ray stares at the screen, then looks back at Mick. “She’s looking for Sara?” he asks. “But…Sara went to the Bureau, to try to get a time courier. Hours ago. What happened? Do you think she’s OK? Should we go looking for her?”

Mick sighs, put upon. “Tell ‘em, Gideon,” he instructs, leaning against a jumpseat.

The AI speaks up promptly. “Ms. Lance has been in contact with us, Dr. Palmer,” she says. “A while ago. However, she asked that Mr. Rory and I not tell Director Sharpe that. She said just to wait, and she’d be back in touch.”

Haircut looks confused. “You lied?”

Mick rolls his eyes. And Gideon’s silence is the sort that he knows could easily be translated as “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I obeyed the command of my captain, Dr. Palmer,” she says finally. “And you may wish to consider why she asked me to do so. Especially given recent events.”

*

When Sara had first started visiting the Time Bureau in this time and place, the dynamic had been so contentious that it’d seemed only practical to figure out a safehouse of sorts nearby. She’d found a place—a former office building in an unlikely section of town, unlikely to be sold or rented to anyone new—and set it up, figuring it was better to have a bolt-hole than not.

She’d never expected to be hauling one Leonard Snart in there.

Leonard seems…dazed. Far from his usual sharp intellect and gaze. He just stares at Sara as she gently pushes him down on the battered secondhand sofa there. And then she sees his wrists—and the ragged, raw wounds around them.

“What the…” She takes a deep breath, holds it a moment, then lets it out slowly. Her first thought, running into Leonard in the Bureau hall, had been that they’d found him after all, and that Ava had lied. But it’s not adding up, none of these little details, and she needs to know more.

Especially just who or what Snart this is.

And so, she sits down opposite him, trying not to hope, and tries to sound like the businesslike captain and not a woman who…who…

“I need to know,” she tells the man, trying for calm. “If you’re the Leonard Snart from this time and this Earth, tell me something only I would know.”

Leonard’s brow furrows as he looks at her. “This time?” he murmurs. “This Earth?” But then he shakes his head roughly and focuses, blue eyes intent in a way that does things to Sara’s stomach.

“You kissed me,” he says quietly. “At the Oculus.” He looks down at his arms. “You had to pull yourself up, and I couldn’t let go, but…”

It’s enough and too much. “OK,” Sara says abruptly, getting up as quickly as she’d sat down. “You’re you. OK. I’ll be right back.”

Because this safehouse is meant for the Legends, of course there are plenty of first-aid supplies. Sara fills a basin with warm water, and takes that, a soft cloth and some disinfectant back to where Leonard is still sitting, brow furrowed, a rather distant expression still on his face. A variant of shock, she thinks, barely willing to truly accept that it’s him now, really him.

Sara puts the basin down next to him, then wrings out the cloth, reaching out tentatively to take his left hand. Same callouses, she notes. The very same.

Leonard doesn’t flinch or pull away. Shock, Sara thinks again. She gently starts wiping at the raw wounds, and he still doesn’t move, despite what must be considerable pain.

“Did the Time Bureau do this?” she asks quietly, after a moment.

It takes Leonard a long minute to respond.

“I don’t know what the Time Bureau is,” he tells her, sounding just a little more like the sardonic Len she knows…remembers. His lip curls. “Sounds annoying. But, no, that rat bastard Druce did this.”

Sara freezes, then keeps working. “But…”

Leonard doesn’t seem to hear her. “One minute I was in…in the same nothing I’d been in since the Oculus blew up, then I’d landed hard on the floor.” He shakes his head roughly. “He’d been ready, and I…I wasn’t in good shape. Next thing I knew, he had me bound, and…that was it. Not sure how long.”

“How?”

Leonard manages to focus on her, and he seems to realize what’s behind the intense question. “He has this watch gadget,” he mutters. “It opened some kinda portal. Boom.”

No doubt what that is. “Druce has a time courier? But…” She stops. It doesn’t matter right now. The water in the basin is pink, and she starts on the other wrist, letting Leonard rest the other on the basin rim.

“Sara,” he says after a moment, roughly. “How long?”

She’s not going to pretend. “About four years,” she tells him, feeling his flinch then. “A little less.”

“Mick?”

No other words are needed in the question, but Sara’s pleased to be able to give good news here. “Mick is fine,” she tells him, eyes on her work, trying to remove ground-in debris without causing more pain than she has to. “He’s good. He’s still a Legend, and he…did you know he writes? He’s published now. He’s OK, Leonard.”

She’s sure it’s not her imagination that a little tension goes out of him. Then: “Lisa?”

Now Sara hesitates. “You have to realize…” she says carefully, “we all thought you were dead…”

“And you told her.” Leonard’s voice is calm, more accepting than she would have thought. “But…is she OK?”

As OK as she can be. “Yes.” Sara wrings out the cloth again. The water is a much darker pink now. “She is. Cisco keeps tabs on her. She’s traveling, checks in from time to time.”

Leonard sighs. He’s quiet as Sara carries the basin back across the small room, and quiet as she sits down again, taking his left hand again and starting to wind some gauze loosely around his wounds.

After a moment, Sara starts talking again, just to get it out. “Rip’s gone,” she tells him, eyes on his wrist. “Presumed dead.” A pause. “Martin…he died.” She really doesn’t want to go into it more, not at the moment. “And Jax left the team. So did Kendra and Carter—yeah, that’s a long story—after we defeated Savage.” She finishes that wrist, lifts her eyes to his. “It’s just me, Mick, and Ray left, of the original eight.”

Leonard’s gaze is steady. “And you’re captain.”

“Yes.”

She waits for more questions, but in vain. He’s silent, and so is she, as she wraps his other wrist, securing the gauze with a clip.

“There’s a shower,” Sara says after a moment, “and there are some shaving supplies in there, if you want. I kept this place stocked up for any of the Legends who might need to use it.” She glances up at him. “I mean. If you want to.”

Leonard smirks, just a little. “What,” he drawls, and oh hell, she’s missed that drawl, “you don’t like the beard?” He reaches out to touch it, as if he doesn’t remember just how long it’s become, then frowns and glances in the mirror to their left. “Gray,” he mutters.

Sara almost smiles at his vanity because, well, it is—though not unattractive. But she also can’t avoid noticing just how thin he looks.

“Food?” she asks. “I can go get some kinda takeout.”

Leonard’s eyes flicker. He understands what she’s not saying.

“Wouldn’t say no,” he says, and they’ve both won another brief reprieve from feelings.

*

“Oh, bloody hell!” Charlie shouts, turning and scowling at them all indiscriminately. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!

The Waverider’s bridge is in an uproar, but Mick is just standing there, staring at nothing in particular and letting the chaos wash over him. He’s still digesting this, trying to figure out how he feels, if he believes it. Sara…Sara wouldn’t tell him this, of all things, without being sure, but…

“Snart,” Constantine muses, leaning against the holotable. “Leo’s doppelganger here? Presumably without the guy at home?” He nods, once, smirking. “Sign me up.”

“Leo’s his doppelganger,” Mick mutters, but not loud enough for anyone to hear him. He turns to face the others, still unwilling to chime in more…yet.

Zari rolls her eyes at British. “I don’t think that’s the part of all this that’s got everyone upset.” She glances at Haircut. “He was one of the original Legends? The one you all thought died at the Vanishing Point?”

“Yeah.” Haircut looks upset. Well, Snart had taken his place—or, Mick’s place, after everything. “Sara doesn’t think the Bureau knew Druce had him…but we can’t be sure, not yet. She said they’re gonna lie low, in case the Bureau is watching the ship, and we can pick them up tomorrow.”

Charlie folds her arms, still scowling. “I don’t know why any of you lot, with what you told me about this Oculus thing, are giving those wankers the benefit of the doubt at all,” she points out. “They want to control people, to control time. Your boy Snart was being held captive there and from what Sara said, he was a bit the worse for wear. They have this Druce character, the one who was your real big bad back in the beginning. What else is there to know!?”

“This is also the one that was part of the Legion, though,” Pretty points out, looking a bit uncomfortable as he glances at Mick. “Are you sure…”

But Haircut glares at his friend before Mick can. “That was an earlier Snart. Right, Mick?” He looks earnestly—well, he does almost everything earnestly—at Mick. “Before the Flash, before the Legends. And the Legion kinda lied to him. That wasn’t the Snart we knew.”

Mick still thinks there was more to it than that, but… “Yeah.”

And Sara would know, he thinks. She’d know. He’ll still feel better when Gideon confirms it, but she’d know.

He doesn’t pray. He hasn’t done that since before his mom died. But he hopes.

He really, really hopes.

*

The man who walks back out of the bathroom, more or less clean-shaven and scrubbed, looks far more like the Leonard she remembers, except for the odd tentativeness in his eyes where there used to be snarky confidence.

And the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. Yeah, that too.

Sara rips her gaze away from scars and skin to focus on the gaze again, registering the mix of amusement and awkwardness there. Leonard lets the black leather jacket in his hand fall to the floor by the door and shrugs, folding his arms.

“There weren’t any shirts in there,” he says, with a quick glance down at the borrowed sweatpants that are both a little too big and a little too short. “And I’ll be damned if I’m putting the…the dirty one back on.” His shoulders hunch, and Sara wonders just how long he’d been trapped. “Prefer to save the jacket, if I can. But…”

“It’s OK,” Sara tells him quickly. “I think there are a few out here.” She gets up, waving a hand at the take-out boxes on the table. “Um. I didn’t want to go far. Chinese OK?”

Leonard takes a step forward, eyebrows lifting. “I’ve been getting Druce’s leftovers, if that, so…

It’s an opening, but Sara chooses not to take it. Not yet. She doesn’t want to think of Leonard at Druce’s mercy, because Druce isn’t anywhere she can make him pay right now—and she’s very, very sure she’s going to want to.

Instead, though, Sara just turns away, clearing her thoughts, going to a battered dresser and pulling out a blue T-shirt in approximately the right size, which she tosses his way without looking. “If you want,” she says, staring briefly at the cabinet and thinking of the tracery of pale scars before turning around. “Just…if you want.”

When she does turn around, Leonard has pulled the shirt on, giving her a brief smile as he reaches for a carton of kung pao chicken. So Sara smiles too, and grabs another container, and that’s enough seriousness for now.

*

“What are we going to do about Druce?”

Haircut’s voice is low and serious. Mick looks up from his typewriter, ready to protest this intrusion into his quarters, then sighs at the look on the other man’s face.

He’s changed, he thinks. Snart wouldn’t…won’t recognize him. But he knows, he knows how Haircut’s feeling, given that Snart had ultimately taken his place and his death. (Mick’s place. Mick’s death.)

“We kill him,” he says shortly. “One way or another. I don’t care what Bureau Chick says. He’s trouble. More than trouble. Disaster.”

Ray perches gingerly on one of Mick’s chairs. “You think Sara will be OK with that?”

“Don’t care.” But Mick sighs. Haircut is the last one, besides Sara, who really gets this. “Well,” he says, taking his glasses off and putting them aside, rubbing his forehead, “yeah, I do.” They’re the only three original Legends left, he thinks with a pang. He hadn’t really wanted to come on this wild ride—that’d been Snart, and he’s still not sure ultimately why—but he had, and he’d changed, and that was how it was.

“I think…” he says, choosing his words carefully—and that’s a big difference too, a huge one, “I think that Sara’s gonna want to do the killing herself. An’ if anything, we might have to stop her from doing it too messy.”

Haircut blinks at him. “But,” he says slowly, “the Bureau…”

“Won’t matter.” Mick hesitates again. This ain’t his story to tell, not really. And frankly, he’d only put a lot of pieces together afterward.

“Won’t matter,” he repeats, looking down at the keys. “Blondie’s gonna want to off him herself. You’ll see.”

*

Leonard, after eating a fairly decent amount of spicy chicken, has put his head back against the armchair and closed his eyes. Sara watches him for a while, still amazed at his presence, but eventually rises and moves quietly into the space that passes for the bedroom.

She rather wishes that there’s more than just a mattress on a rudimentary frame there, but it’s a king, and it’s comfortable, and that will have to do. She grabs clean sheets and makes it up, adding pillows and an old but soft quilt, then goes back to the main area.

Leonard opens an eye and regards her as she approaches him, but Sara can see the weariness in his face. How long has it been since he’s had a decent night’s sleep? Does the time in the Oculus even count? It certainly doesn’t seem, from the little he’d said, that it was very restful.

“There’s a bed…well, a mattress, in the other room,” she says, jerking her head in that direction. “Not much, but comfortable. I’ll stay on the couch. Sleep as long as you want.”

Leonard opens his other eye, watching her, then gets to his feet, moving in a way that shows Sara just how stiff and sore he is. He hesitates, then glances toward her, then away again.

“I…wouldn’t mind having someone nearby,” he mutters, not looking at her, “I mean, there. In the same room.” A pause, and he wipes a hand over his face while Sara realizes he must mean in the same bed, too. “It was…I couldn’t tell how long it was, in the Oculus, but it was kinda like…maybe sensory deprivation. Sometimes I wake up, and I still…”

He pauses another moment, then gives a thoroughly humorless laugh. “What’d you say? More than three years ago now?” Another pause. “Lonely. Like everyone I….everyone was a million miles away.”

He lifts his gaze and meets her eyes. “I’m not talking about…more, just…stay? I…please.”

It’s a plea, from a man who’s always made a practice of being cool and needing no one. Sara pauses just a moment, then nods.

“Sure,” she says, just as quietly. “Of course I will.”

[theladyfangs]

Working Title: Done In The Dark

Summary: It didn’t start the way Georgiou said it did...but they’ve been at it a very long time. Despite their names, neither Gabriel nor Michael are angels. There’s no such thing in the place and time they live.

A/N: Based on the Star Trek: Succession Comics. Potential fic about the origins of Lorca and Burnham. I’m weighing whether to keep it, or trash it, so all comments, constructive or otherwise, welcome. Draft only.

--

He’s on his knees before her, arms around her hips, hands gripping her ass so he can get a mouthful. It’s dark. Blackout shades drawn tight—for privacy, because they’re in a hotel, but also because it’s easier in darkness to do this. A flick of the tongue against her breasts makes her moan as her fingers run through his hair, caressing the back of his head, neck. He knows what she likes. They’ve done this before, though it’s been a while. But it starts to come back when her hands reach the top of his head, and he obeys her silent command.

 Kisses go lower.

He’s skilled like that. Made her come a thousand times from his mouth alone. When he slides a finger in too and pushes deep, she’s on her tip toes, feet unsteady, legs starting to tremble. The knot of anticipation that’s been growing for days, weeks, months, now begins to melt away and spread, from her clit down her legs to her toes…it radiates up her spine and with force she grabs his shoulders trying to push away, can feel him grinning between her thighs as he spreads her fully and slips his tongue inside to sex her with it until she cries out and stumbles backward onto the bed, body shaking from an orgasm that feels years overdue.

 Shit, he should stop this. They’ve gone too damn far already. The first time this happened it was his fault, he knows, and knows better. But she was so fucking sexy then, tempting him with promises before ultimately trying to walk away. But when he caught sight of those long legs and thick thighs that blended deliciously into that tight ass of hers and he’d had to stop.

 “Wait, let’s talk.”

She came back.

They did not talk.

 At least, not the way they should have talked. But they never really needed words and could read each other like a children’s book. He’d unbuttoned her pants, she’d unbuttoned his, and given him the best blowjob he’d had since…well, her. Until he ended up coming in his hand, and on his shirt and watched, half-dazed and shell-shocked when she licked his finger, catching a bit of the pearly white on her tongue.

 It’s been hell since then.

 He’d tried to bring her off too, but she gently moved his hands away. “You know damn well fingers aren’t enough.” It was well past 3 a.m. in the darkness of the empty chambers they’d stumbled into. The last thing either of them needed was a curious guard or a call.

 “You might want to take off your shirt,” she’d said, before buttoning her pants and leaving him the final time. “Might be awkward for you go home to your wife like that.”

 And just like that, he was sunk all over again.

 They have history between them—him and her. Desperation and hope and desire made him keep in contact with her these long months since then, praying and fearing another chance. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

 The stun is only momentary. The orgasm dies down leaving her heavy-lidded but only partially sated and between her legs is still wet and what he did just knocked the edge off. It goes a lot deeper than that, and she wants him, deeper, like he used to go. She licks her lips, eyeing the outline of his body. By now, they’ve adjusted to the dark, and she can see, from where he stands the way his cock curves to the side. Thick, and long…She sits up and extends a hand to him, he takes it and walks over. Now it’s her turn. It’s not something she necessarily likes to do, but with him, loves. She loves his cock. The taste of it, the smell of it, everything.

 She licks the tip, hears the hitch of his breath, feels his body shudder. He doesn’t dare touch her, lets her do this to him, and she knows she’s got power. Nothing happens without her direction, her consent. Even this. She’s always controlled what they do and he’ll always do what she wants him to.

 The thrusts push him into her mouth as she massages his balls, slipping a finger slightly lower. He bucks a bit, touches the back of her throat and quickly whispers a breathless apology.

“Sorry.”

 Sorry. What he said five years ago when she was leaving.  That it was an accident. A lapse in judgement. Nothing more. That he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Sorry was the ultimatum she gave him a year after when she came back; Sorry is what he said when she discovered he had a girlfriend; and sorry—the night of the gala when they finally decided to stop and couldn’t figure out why she was so upset.

 Sorry.

  “I’m about to come,” he whispers, and she releases him from her lips and leans back, bringing him down with her, onto the bed. But he shakes his head and rolls her over, onto her stomach, before reaching for the condoms on the nightstand and taking one, putting it on. What she feels next, are his hands on her hips pulling her up and she gets to her knees, ready again.

 The slip of his cock between the lips of pussy makes her shake, drawing another soft moan from her and his hands go to her ass as he pushes again, rubbing against her already excited clit. And when he pushes again, it slides up the cleft of her ass.

“That’s my…” She doesn’t get the word out.

 “I’ma handle that in a minute,” he leans over her back, whispers in her ear, and for a split second, she nearly comes again, his deep, voice coupled with the image the words elicit, send a wave of pleasure that damn near makes her collapse.

 He gets in the right place this time, and she groans from the tinge of discomfort, having forgotten how big he really is, and from not having experienced anything near this in…

 It’s over as quickly, because he was already on the verge and as soon as he’s in, her muscles clench around him, squeezing and he comes, hard, collapsing against her, while trying not to pin her underneath him.

 “You won’t squish me,” she says, that maddening calm of hers adding to his post-sex drunk. Voice still sexy. Talking with this woman is like sifting through riddles and layers, hidden meanings double-entendres.

 They’re sitting up now, side by side, hand in hand. Her chin on his shoulder, sometimes kissing him here. Silent meditation. He reaches up to stroke her hair. It’s come undone during their sex, thick dark waves adorning her shoulders, down her back. He hadn’t realized it was so long. Doesn’t recall seeing it last time they were together. But it’s glorious. Her natural texture, all hers, too. It’s like a crown on her head, and he’d worshipped at her feet moments ago.

Fuck, he’s missed her.

 Even now, admires her. Funny how they started off equal, and she surpassed him.  He’s pleased for her. Proud of her in a way he can’t quite articulate—that she did it despite him, despite them.

 “I feel like I should say sorry.” The dulcet voice reaches him. For a brief moment, he worries. Did she just give him a pity fuck?

 “What for?” He’s still looking straight ahead, and for the first time, she can’t really tell what he’s thinking. She debates whether she should be worried about this.

 “I feel guilty I don’t feel guiltier.” Honesty. Brutal. Real.

“You’re fine,” he tells her.

 “Are you?” She looks at the side of his face, traces his spine with her fingers. His hand never leaves hers.

 “I’m good. I promise.” He picks hers up and kisses the back of it.

 A minute. Two. She’s getting sleepy. He glances at the clock.

 “3 a.m.” a mumble to himself, mentally calculating the drive time back to his house. It works out well, he thinks sardonically, his work schedule lends itself to something like this. There won’t be suspicion. Or questions. He feels guilty about that, thinks to what she said. That she doesn’t feel guiltier for not feeling guilty. He doesn’t either. And feels guilty for it, too.  His wife is going to be asleep. He loves her, he tells himself.

 What he’s never been able to figure out is his feelings for the woman next to him.

 They’ve orbited each other, never getting too close—so much said and unsaid between them! Maybe it’s better this way, to keep it ambiguous—she’s always protected her heart. He knows her reasons. Knows her story. Knows what happened before him. Some of it, he’s been a witness too, way back when. Before they were ever lovers. Before they were ever friends.

He smiles at the memories, how it first started.

 ‘Cause maybe, if he’s honest, he’s wanted her from the moment he saw her come come—a girl turned into a woman-- and what kept him at bay was confusion over whether she wanted him too, and loyalty to a girlfriend who was conveniently planet-side and far away.

He WANTED it to happen. With her. But he couldn’t initiate. So she did.

 It’s still hazy…that first time. The memory shifts to her taking off her sarong, the yellow fabric falling to the floor, giving him his first look at her naked body, and he remembers the urge to taste her. And he did. From her clit back to her ass and she’d gasped surprised, at that…

 “I need to get a shower,” he says, stopping himself from going further down memory lane. She nods and slides under the blankets as he gets up and picks his clothes off the floor and heads to the bathroom.

 In the bed, she rests, floating between sleep and wake…shifting a bit, body already reviving itself and preparing to go again.

 The dam broke. She can’t repair it.

 The sound of rushing water through the pipes in the walls is dulled a bit, but she hears when it stops. And starts. Stops…then starts again.

 She really hopes he doesn’t get into trouble when he gets home. But a part of her, kinda does.

Sometimes, she wonders if his wife ever knew.

 “I will take this to the grave,” he’d said once when she asked about it.

 If his wife did, she never said anything the half-dozen or so times they’ve crossed paths.

No woman is that dumb.

 So she accepted that to be the way it was.  Never expected it to be any other way for them. Besides, she never fully vested herself in him—prior relationships taught bitter lessons about letting oneself fall too hard, and she made sure she never did again.

Maybe that’s why they are the way they are now.

 Maybe, she thinks, he knows he made a mistake.

 She’ll never tell him how she really feels. Has never admitted it to herself. Although now, upon reflection, it dawns that she wasn’t with anyone else for two years. A sigh. A turn.

 The water cuts off and after a while, he comes back. Dressed this time.

“I should go now.”

 She gets up to walk him to the door.

 “I’ll be doing some traveling,” he says, quietly, hedgingly.  “Will probably be back later. If you’re still here.” A nod. He touches her hand again and opens the door. Light from the hall peeks through, falling on hers, and the twinkling diamonds that adorn her left ring finger.

 A momento from the first time. They both know this won’t be the last of it.

[avocadean]

Tell the Winchesters

A/N: Hi! I’m back again with another drabble... thing? Maybe one shot? Is it even long enough to be one? This takes place in the episode “The British Invasion” near the end. It might be a little angsty, but I don’t think it's too bad ;). Please, leave feedback, and let me know what I need to work on! Thanks for reading!

All of the original work from the writers of the show and script ARE NOT MINE, NOR AM I CLAIMING THEM TO BE. The original work that is mine is the character I create and put into the Supernatural world. 

Title: Tell the Winchesters

Pairings: mentioned sister!winchester x dean and sam, Mick x friend!reader

Warnings: I think there is one swear word. Canontyplical SPN warnings. 

Words: 968 (isn’t that the same amount of my last one?)

Fic below the cut!

You and Mick entered the room, confused as to why Ketch called you both in. 

Just like your brothers, you knew that the Brits were a piece of ‘crumpled cake’. In other words, they sucked.

That didn’t stop you and Mick from becoming close, though. And it sure as hell didn’t stop you from hating Mr. Ketch with a seething passion.

“Why’d you call me here?” Mick’s words were laced in confusion.

With the expression of a ‘hundred-year-old skeleton, Ketch replied. “I didn’t,” both you and Mick were confused, but not for long, “...she did.”

A snake of a woman who called herself Dr. Hess stalked into the room. You stared at her, and she stared back. It felt like a lifetime when she finally tore her wretched gaze from you to Mick.

 Even before you both got to ‘HQ’, you had a bad feeling. Now, that feeling was tripled.

“Mr. Davies.” Her tone dripped with poised venom.

Mick looked stunned. “Dr. Hess. I didn’t think you left London,” a slight quiver of fear rang in his voice, but you were the only one who caught it. Or so, you’d like to think you were.

“I don’t. But I have been commanded by the other elders to fix this… rapidly deteriorating situation.”

“Ma’am, please. I-”

“Are you about to tell me that you are ‘doing the best you can'. Because, according to your report, you let a Prince of Hell and the woman who is carrying Lucifer’s child escape, and an American Hunter, who killed one of my best men, was sent on her merry little way, alive.”

“If I might,” Mick was pleading. He knew what was going to happen.

“These…” Dr. Hess looked at you in disgust, “...hunters are out of control. The Winchester brothers and their little thing that they call a sister, in particular. Which Lady Bevell has documented.”

At her words, you felt the rage build up. Mick tried to talk again, but you interrupted this time.

“Excuse me, Dr. Hess, I am that ‘little thing’ that my brothers, the Winchesters, call a sister, and that ‘little thing’ isn’t liking your attitude-”

“Oh, please do shut up. No one cares,” she looked you up and down before settling her eyes back to Mick, “... you’re irrelevant.”

You started to talk again, but Mick stopped you. He gave you a desperate look because he knew what they’d do, and what they are capable of. You obeyed.

“Ma’am, if you could just… listen.”

“To what? More excuses?” she paused, before continuing, “No. I don’t think I will. Hunters are dogs, Mr. Davies. You give them an order, and they obey. That is how it works. So tell me, do they? Do they obey you?”

Mick looked to Ketch in an attempt to get backup from the same side, but his expression held no emotions.

‘That bastard,’ you thought.

After not getting a response to her seemingly stated question, she replied, “No, of course not. So… This Eileen lady will be found and killed in accordance with the Code.” she added extra emphasis on the last word. “And as for the Winchesters, like any other rebellious hunter, they will be investigated. And, if found guilty, executed.”

You looked at her in disbelief. Sure, you knew she was a bitch from when she first walked in, but this? She was talking about investigating and killing your brothers, while you stood right there.

“You do know that I’m standing right here, right?”

She flicked her eyes at you again for only a brief moment. “Hmm. Yes. I am aware.”

You again looked on in confusion.

Mick continued with an observance to her statement. “If they are found guilty? Aren’t hunters always found guilty?”

“Be careful, Mr. Davies,” Dr. Hess warned.

With that, Mick was done. “No. My entire life with the Men of Letters, I never broke a rule. And yes, at first I was shocked at how Sam and Dean operate. But what Lady Bevell doesn't mention is the lives they've saved, monsters destroyed, and outcomes made better not because of the Code, but because of Sam and Dean Winchester's sense of what's right.”

You looked on at Mick in amazement. He was speaking his mind, and he was letting himself run free.

“And that is the crux of the matter. The Code is not a suggestion. It's an absolute. The Code is what separates us from the monsters. It is the order by which we all live.” Mick shook his head and scoffed in disbelief. You admired him.

“No, the Code is what makes a young boy kill his best friend,” your admiration changed to puzzled. He’d never told you… “When I was a child, I had nothing. I owed you everything, and I obeyed. But I’m a man now, Dr… Hess…”

You looked over at her and noticed that Ketch was suddenly gone. A slight nod of her head was all it took for you to confirm that something was not right. But, before you even had the time to react, the silencer of a handgun was heard to your left, and you watched Mick’s body slump over the table.

“What the hell? Why did you do that? What is wrong with-”

Ketch looked up at Dr. Hess when he was done. A slight waver in his expressionless face would have been seen if someone were to look very closely, but no one was willing to. At least, no one who stood in the room.

“Good work Mr. Ketch. Now, take care of the bodies. I’m getting out of this cesspool of incompetence.”

[lavalampelfchild]

Push and Pull (DA Remix)

Remix title: Push and Pull

Remixer name: Lavalampelfchild

Pairing(s): None

Rating and warnings: M to be safe for fight sequences and specific reference to physical suffering endured by Saarebas (mouth-stitching), which I’m counting as body horror

Summary: It is difficult to live as Saarebas, and the pain of it presses down and down until finally something bursts.

 Original inspiration fic: Fertile Ground

Original author name: Choco (ChocoChipBiscuit on ao3, where the original fic is linked)

Link to original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3930145?view_adult=true

I absolutely love that this fic focused so much on OCs, and I wanted to continue with that, so I decided to take the premise of the original fic - that of a Qunari OC(s) escaping from Par Vollen and going elsewhere - and build it up around a Saarebas OC.  What I loved about the original fic was the manner in which the author described the thoughts and feelings of the characters through narration; it was a very evocative writing style.  It's an excellent read that delves a bit more into life under the Qun and why someone who has experienced it firsthand might have reasons to be dissatisfied with it.

Anyhow, here is my interpretation of a similar premise!

She was told they expected that she would become Saarebas.  Those who had given birth to her had done so illegally, their union not sanctioned by the Tamassran.  One had been Saarebas, the other, Karasaad.  Karasaad had been reeducated.  Saarebas had been executed. 

She did not know why she had been allowed to live. 

Her number was 246-0078314-0.  She was never called that.  When her superiors required her talents, she was called ‘Saarebas.’    

She was young when her powers had been discovered.  There had been older Qunari watching her.  She had been told not to speak to them.  They had always suspected she would show signs, they said, and thus they watched. 

Her first spell had been an accidental summoning.  A light, small and bright, had appeared and bounced around above her cupped hands.  She had watched in stunned silence, a flood of warmth filling her body as the light danced for her. 

That was when the older Qunari had grabbed her, and the light disappeared.  She was told later that it had been a demon, and that she had summoned it. 

She was told later still that it was not a demon, but was instead a harmless spirit.  She still wasn’t quite sure whom she believed.

That had been her first taste of magic.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  They began to teach her immediately after her magic was discovered. 

She had always been isolated growing up, always kept from others her age, though there was always at least one other older attendant with her. 

Today that changed. 

She awoke before dawn as she had been trained, and when she pushed herself up to her feet, there stood two warriors waiting for her.  At that moment, she did not know that they were Arvaarad.  That would come later.

“Come.  Now,” one commanded.  She obeyed wordlessly, moving toward them without hesitation.  She stopped, no less than five paces between them, as she had been taught. 

“Keep your distance, but don’t go so far that no one can reach you.”

“Saarebas, to me,” the other one ordered.  And then they began to walk.  She followed, never having heard the term ‘Saarebas’ before, but knowing somehow that it referred to her.

They covered her face once they were outside, and led her forward by a hand on her shoulder.

“It is for you to learn to rely on them, Imekari, that you will never think to move without first seeking their guidance.”

Saarebas counted as she was moved, practiced her breathing.  She only stumbled once, and her escorts silently corrected her without a hitch.  She almost wished they would speak, even to berate her.  There seemed to be no sounds but their footsteps on the uneven ground.

Finally, she felt one of them at her back, deftly removing the cover from her face.  She blinked and raised a hand to rub at her eyes. 

“Saarebas.” 

Saarebas paused and looked up at her escort. 

“Look.”

Saarebas looked.  Her jaw slackened. 

Ahead of them was a great ravine, wide around and long across.  At the bottom there looked to be a great body of water, rapid and rushing, white-capped and aggressive.  Saarebas watched in fascination for a moment before a controlled press against her shoulder drew her attention away.  She followed her escort’s gaze and caught sight of the platform, far above the ravine, isolated between the cliff edges, supported by a single pillar, narrower in the center, wider at the ends.

Leading to it, across the ravine, were two bridges, one on each side of the ravine’s cliff edges.  They were narrow.  They had no hand rails.  Saarebas could not tell how sturdy they were.

“Come.”

Saarebas hesitated.  A hand gripped her shoulder.

“Come.” 

She went.  They filed forward, one escort in front of her, one behind her.  The grip on her shoulder didn’t ease until her first escort had gone nearly halfway across.  When it loosened and pushed, she walked toward the bridge.

At first, she was scared.  She was high up, higher than she could ever remember being, and she could feel the strength of the wind all around her as she moved.  It could upset her balance so very easily, if she proved to be too careless.  Automatically, her body compensated where she felt the wind push.  The wind made her sway, and she made it sway right back. 

Halfway across the bridge she smiled to herself.

You test me, she thought.  You seek to test my resolve, my strength.  Almost as if in answer, the wind whistled and pushed at her arm. 

“Eh!” she called to it, jerking her arm out, against the direction of the wind. 

You won’t find me wanting.

“Saarebas!” 

Saarebas looked up, and the smile fell from her face.  Having finished crossing the bridge, her first escort stood on the platform, facing her, watching her intently with sharp eyes.  His hand was on his weapon. 

“Come.”

Saarebas bowed her head and continued walking.  But as soon as her head was lowered the smile returned.  Her escorts knew what she was doing, they had to.  This was their test.  They had to be firm with her, but she had succeeded in this, she knew.  She knew.

Once she had crossed, she waited silently by her first escort until the second finished the journey, and then she was taken to the center of the platform. 

She blinked, confused, as they stood and stood and nothing happened.  What was supposed to be done?  Did she have to do something?  There were no others there aside from her and her escorts, and there seemed to be no place to go from the platform but to the other side of the ravine.  And that—

Her thoughts ground to a halt as several figures appeared on the other side of the ravine, coming through the trees of the forest that led to the great city that she had only heard tales about.  Her eyes widened.

She couldn’t quite make them out, but she caught the glisten of jewelry or armor of some kind, and her heart began to pound. 

They were here for her. 

The figures drew closer, and the pounding in her chest grew louder, at least to her own ears, and then they stopped before the bridge.  And that was when Saarebas was able to see them more clearly.  And she saw, the glisten wasn’t from jewelry; it was from chains.  The chains about one of the figure’s necks.

The chained one began to walk across the bridge, the one holding his chains following closely.  The others moved after. 

Saarebas’s own escorts stepped forward, weapons at the ready, between her and the chained one.

Once across, the one holding the chains faced her escorts.

“Saarebas is here to teach the child,” he said.  Her escort nodded.

“So it shall be,” he replied.  It sounded like the words to a ritual; invocation and response.

At that moment everyone seemed to be moving, and Saarebas watched in nervous confusion as her escorts separated and began to walk to either side of the platform.  Startled, she tried to follow them, unsure of which one she should follow until the one on the left turned and stopped her. 

“Stay.” 

Saarebas looked up at him and took several shaky steps back to the center of the platform.  Her escort paused and looked down at her.  He inclined his head.

“Do not fear, child.” 

Imekari.

He turned and resumed his stride, and Saarebas tried to banish the fear from her mind.  Imekari.  That word somehow always carried with it more lightness than weight, and Saarebas did not know why.

When the movement stopped, all but she and the chained one stood by the edges of the platform, weapons still out, expressions impassive. 

Saarebas observed the chained one in silence, a slow churning in her gut getting louder and wilder the longer she looked. 

His arms were bound behind his back, the rope tight and painful-looking.  His wrists were cuffed together with some contraption Saarebas could not see well from where she stood.  The chain that had glistened in the sunlight was attached to an elaborate golden yoke about his neck that sat heavily against his shoulders.  He wore a mask over his eyes, and Saarebas could barely see through the elaborate metalwork. 

But the thing that frightened her the most, the thing that Saarebas could not stop looking at, was the chained one’s mouth. 

A long string, maybe a rope, criss-crossed morbidly across his mouth, from top lip to bottom and back again, over and over, ensuring that he could not move his lips, could not speak, and what purpose did that serve? 

The string glowed and Saarebas stared in open awe for as long as she dared.  The chained one didn’t move, didn’t make a sound as he endured her scrutiny. 

After several minutes of this silent observation, Saarebas became emboldened.  She remembered the wind, and the way it pushed, and wondered if this was another of her tests.  She would not be afraid.

Drawing herself up, Saarebas took one step forward, then another, eyes on the chained one. 

When she had gone three steps, he made a sound in his throat, a small whimper, and tried to shy away.  Her brow furrowed and she stopped. 

Why…?

She took another step, expecting to hear the same sound from him.  But it seemed he had mastered himself in that moment; nothing happened. 

She reached him and raised a hand to touch the collar around his neck.  She caught herself just in time, just as the one holding the chain yanked it hard and sent the chained one crashing to his knees. 

“Down!” he shouted.  The chained one looked to be frozen, but Saarebas was not afraid.  She knew she was supposed to overcome this.  This was another test. 

She kept moving forward, gently and slowly lifting her hand again.  She managed to place it on the chained one’s shoulder before he could move back any further.  She peered at him closely and sucked in a breath. 

Beneath his mask, he was crying.  Saarebas recognized the sight of tears.  Tracks, nearly invisible to her eye, dark against dark, ran down the chained one’s cheeks, and a spike of worry pierced something in Saarebas’s chest. 

Without thinking, she raised her hand to his face, awkwardly reaching over the collar, stroking and soothing as best she could.  As her caretaker had once done for her as a young child.

“Are you in pain?” she asked softly.

He did not respond.  No one said anything. 

Later, Saarebas would learn that they had allowed her to do this, allowed her to go to him, because they were waiting to see how he would respond to her.  Like animals, Saarebas and the chained one were thrown together to see if they would come to accept one another, or savagely attempt to kill each other. 

But in that moment, Saarebas knew nothing of the sort, and her eyes were only for the other, kneeling before her, submitting himself to the actions, the judgment of all those around him, even her. 

She hesitated, then left her hand where it was.

“It will be alright,” she said quietly. “This is a test.  I know it.  It will all be well.”

The chained one made a sound in his throat, an awful choking sound, like a twisted parody of a laugh, and his body jerked away from her.  He began to glow, and the cuffs began to rattle.  Saarebas gasped and jumped back.  The chains were jerked and the chained one was dragged to his feet as the one who held his chains rushed swiftly forward. 

“Saarebas, move away!” 

Saarebas blinked and began to move away, as instructed, but realized that the one who had spoken had not spoken to her.

“Imekari, to me!”

Someone grabbed her about her waist and pulled her up.  It was her escort, the one who had told her not to fear, but she wasn’t thinking about that.  Her eyes were wide as she watched the chained one shake and stumble, jerked about by the one holding his chains.  He had been the one told to move away. 

That was when it hit her.

They said that someone – Saarebas – had been taken here to teach her – Imekari. 

He is Saarebas too.  He, Saarebas, was there to teach her, also Saarebas.  Saarebas to Saarebas.  And he was chained.  Silenced.  Saarebas’s eyes widened as she watched the chained one submit to his master.

That was to be her one day.  Perhaps one day soon.  She would be told to submit, made to submit, by a chain about her neck, and ropes about her arms.

The chained one – Saarebas – was brought back to his knees.  The one holding his chains – she did not know what he was called – held a rod at his back.  The rod was glowing, and so were the cuffs.  Saarebas shook.

There were supposed to be lessons.

There were no lessons.

She received the stitches to her mouth that very evening.  The next day she received a new teacher.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Being Saarebas was… many things. 

From her teachings and the constant reminders of her superiors, it was ‘evil.’  But from the manner in which she was employed in battle, used to fight the Bas Saarebas, she was only able to conclude that it was also ‘necessary,’ which she did not understand.  Her hands were bound, her mouth stitched shut, and every waking hour she was shadowed by her Arvaarad.  She was allowed no liberties because of the danger she posed.  Everything she had come to know about what she was had led her to believe that she would better serve the Qun if she were dead.  Yet none would allow her to die.

On the contrary, she was guarded almost religiously.  It had been thus for decades.  Since that first lesson on the platform when she was a child, and even before.

Her primary function was to serve the Qun in battle, fight insurgent Tal-Vashoth, and counter the magic of the bas nation Tevinter. 

She never questioned it.

Her Arvaarad was, she had heard, a warrior of great honor and skill.  Once before, he had had guardianship of another Saarebas, who had been killed in a skirmish with the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter.  He was proud of his skills, and had every right to be, and many young soldiers of the Berasaad looked up to him, as one who held great power – great evil – in check.

When she had met him, Saarebas had not been sure if it was confidence he possessed or arrogance.

She bowed anyway.  

He held the rod aloft and bid her to her knees.  Others stood beside him, looked down upon her in unreadable silence, their faces indistinguishable while they wore identical helmets.

“Saarebas,” Arvaarad spoke in a firm tone.  His voice was low and rough like gravel, and Saarebas shivered, thinking involuntarily of a faceless Qunari from her memories, with a voice like this one, who had led her to a raised platform, and told her not to fear.

“We are to be Karataam, and you are our charge.  As your kind must be, you are a blight on the world, and cannot be allowed to move unchecked.  But you can still serve the Qun, even with this curse.

“You will answer to us, and obey, and in your obedience, you will prove devotion to the Qun.”

Silence followed his words, and Saarebas went over those last words in her mind. 

Devotion to the Qun…  Yes.  She wanted that.

“Now stand.”  The hold over her body lifted, disappeared, and she stood.  Her Arvaarad seemed to tower over her.  He bore the marks, the vitaar, of an honored one, and Saarebas felt a moment of envy.  Were she not a vile and dangerous thing, she could be allowed to earn such markings herself, even if not in battle.  His bindings proved his honor as well.  Saarebas’s bindings were for function, there was no honor in them.  Her arms were bound back, her horns bound symbolically together, everything about those ropes meant imprisonment.

Arvaarad held her gaze and something behind his eyes flashed.  Saarebas wanted to look away.

“Saarebas,” he greeted.

She said nothing and inclined her head.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She served with the Arvaarad and the Karataam for several years, and they traveled down to Seheron, where Saarebas was told to direct her cursed magic against the bas of Tevinter who constantly attempted to siege what belonged rightfully to the Qunari.  She was allowed to continue serving the Qun in the way she did best.

It was easy to stand in battle against the bas of Tevinter.  She learned their tricks through observation and turned them back against their Bas Saarebas.  Her skills grew as she fought and she became stronger and stronger the more battles she survived.

She became easy with her Karataam, or at least easier, and they with her.  As time passed, there passed fewer looks of distrust, of disdain, between them, and they came to rely on one another in the heat of battle, in the thick of a fight.  Many times, Saarebas had saved the life of one of her companions, only to have them turn around and return the favor come the next skirmish.

Perhaps it was that easiness and familiarity that caused Saarebas to miss the change in Arvaarad, in the looks he gave her every time she cast a powerful spell, and after every battle when they regrouped and Saarebas’s wrists were cuffed and her arms were bound.

It had been suspicion in his eyes, she knew that now.  But then, she was none the wiser to the distrust that crept onto his features – distrust and conflict, and no matter how much she thought on that, she was never able to comprehend it.  Sometimes she still wondered if the distrust had always been there, or if it had been new.

The final mistake was made south of Seheron, in the wild jungles that hid the true dangers of that land. 

A unit of the Antaam had been cut off from the Kithshok’s main camp, penned in by the Fog Warriors, and were unable to extract themselves to escape the jungle.  They had sent for reinforcements, and the Karataam had been the closest unit in the area. 

They reached the others within two days, and when they arrived, it was clear that the soldiers would not last more than another day or two without aid.  They had soldiers dead, soldiers wounded, and one soldier had deserted. 

The Sten of this company and Arvaarad had formulated a plan to help them all hold out until the other reinforcements arrived.  It was nothing entirely too inspired.  Ultimately, it amounted to, “stay together and don’t die.”

When dusk arrived, there was nothing Karataam could do but wait.  So they dug in and prepared themselves.

Then the fog rolled in, tendrils of thick choking death, and the Fog Warriors attacked.

The battle raged.  And though Saarebas and her fellow Qunari were pushing themselves well beyond their limits, chasing victory with all the madness of a starving man in the desert, they were slowly worn down by the methodical, patient, and unrelenting attacks of the Fog Warriors.  The fog never abated.

Sten’s unit fell easier and quicker thanks to their exhaustion, and the Karataam’s inexperience with Fog Warriors handicapped them.

Saarebas took a strike to the side and an arrow to the leg.  Her wounds tired her, and the constant use of magic drained her.  They were losing.

Soon, she found herself on her knees.  Arvaarad stood before her, breathing heavily, weapon clenched in his fists.  At least two of the Karataam were dead.  Sten’s unit was separated from them. 

They were alone.

Other shapes began to form in the fog, and Saarebas knew them to be the Fog Warriors.  A loud whistle sounded somewhere to her right.  Arvaarad swung his sword wildly in the direction of the sound.  He met with nothing but air and fog, and grunted as something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground. 

Their enemies were toying with them now.

Arvaarad bellowed in anger as he scrambled to his feet, sword again at the ready.  Another shape came at him from behind.  Knocked him down again. 

Saarebas released a helpless whine as she watched the Fog Warriors get between the Karataam soldiers, distract them from one another.  Separation was what they wanted, it was how they defeated their enemies, they had to see this, had to stop it!

But what could she do!?  On the ground and helpless, with no energy left for her spells! 

No.  No, no, no.  She couldn’t surrender yet.  She closed her eyes and took in a breath.

Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.

She remembered the wind.

I refuse.

It had pushed.

I refuse to suffer this.

She had pushed back.

A form was coming toward her, painted and wild, daggers in hand.  She couldn’t stand, not with the arrow still lodged in her leg, the wound still throbbing at her side.  Her vision was beginning to blur.  She raised her hand, pointed it toward the figure, and poured all the energy she had into one final spell. 

The warrior yelped as the cage closed around him, the bars of energy pinning him in place, locking his body into an unnatural grip.  Somewhere beyond her, Saarebas heard a shout of surprise, but she ignored it.  She watched the warrior shake in her spell’s hold.  She twisted her hand and slowly pulled her fingers in, formed a fist.  And then she ripped.

The warrior didn’t have time to scream. 

His body fell and Saarebas dropped her hand.  Her body sagged but she fought the lethargy and exhaustion.  A shadow fell over her.

“Saarebas…” Arvaarad called.  Saarebas’s head snapped up and she looked at him through the cage over her eyes. 

It was the first time she had ever heard him speak her name with anything other than authority or firm detachment.

He held her gaze for a moment.  She couldn’t read his features.  A barrier.  They needed a barrier. 

Trying to summon the last bit of strength she no longer had, Saarebas forced the energy of the beyond into a field of magic to surround them all.  It flickered and sputtered, and most likely wouldn’t repel even the simplest of spells or projectiles.  Saarebas’s eyes narrowed, and she felt the sting of oncoming tears. 

Come on!    

“Saarebas.”

Arvaarad.  Saarebas raised her head.  Arvaarad looked down at her for a moment and nodded.  He raised his weapon.  Turned toward the fog.  Roared a battle cry, one he had not used before.

“Nehraa kadan!”

Brothers, sisters, comrades, companions.

Arvaarad charged through the dying barrier.

No… 

Saarebas collapsed.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  They did not die.  They held the warriors off long enough for the other reinforcements to arrive.  The Fog Warriors had been pushed back.

Arvaarad survived. 

It almost would have been better if he had died in the battle.  Then at least Saarebas could have remembered him as honorable.

She didn’t find out that she had been reported until Arvaarad delivered her to the Viddasala. 

“This is the one who has been using blood magic?”

Something froze in Saarebas and an impossible weight settled in her stomach.  Blood magic?  No… That was vile stuff, truly evil, the unmistakable sign of a soul lost to demons, and they thought that she—

“Yes.” 

Her Arvaarad’s voice rang in her ears, and Saarebas could not stop herself from turning to face him, eyes wide.  She caught barely more than a glimpse of him before she was forced back around.

“Do not move without my leave, Saarebas.” 

The Viddasala’s face filled her vision and she bowed her head. 

“Arvaarad.  Speak.”

Saarebas could only look at the ground as her Arvaarad explained the spell that he had seen her use against the Fog Warriors.

But that hadn’t been blood magic.  That had simply been Saarebas.  She knew, she had felt the pull of the energy herself, had pushed when it pushed back, had sent it through, directed it at the Qun’s enemies.  There had been no blood.

But she couldn’t say that.  She couldn’t speak, not even to defend herself.

And in the end…

“This sounds like an exceptionally dangerous creature, Arvaarad.  You have done a service to the Qun in bringing her to me.  We will keep her here to determine her fate.”

Reeducation or execution.  Saarebas had an idea as to which one was more likely.

“You need not concern yourself with this matter any longer.  Dismissed.” 

Saarebas felt the urge to turn and face him so strongly that it physically hurt.  If only to see his face, to see if there was any sign there that he had not wanted—

But she was not allowed to move without the Viddasala’s leave.

No footsteps sounded.  Saarebas closed her eyes.

“Dismissed, Arvaarad.”

There was another pause and then the sound of footsteps echoed in the chamber.  For several moments, that was all there was, until they finally receded and the sound of a door closing followed. 

Saarebas was left alone with Viddasala. 

Her death would come soon.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Again, events did not transpire as she had expected. 

Saarebas sat waiting in a cell for weeks, starved and weak, knowing only that her execution was imminent.

She would have been surprised when Viddasala came to her one night, cloaked and hooded, had she the energy.

They took her from the compound where she was held, with her face covered, and when she was able to see again, Viddasala stood before her, expression cold, eyes colder.

“Saarebas, kneel.”

She knelt.

“From this point onward, I am Arvaarad to you.  You obey me and only me.  Disobey, and your life is forfeit.” 

There was no question of understanding, no waiting for Saarebas to acknowledge her new master; this was the way things would be, and if she failed to comply, she would be killed.

Saarebas lowered her head.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She never learned why Viddasala had kept her, but everything became worse afterward.  The ropes were never untied, the cuffs never unlatched, and instead of a mask that covered her eyes, Saarebas was made to wear one that covered the entirety of her face, grotesque and heavy as it pulled her head lower down, closer to the ground, a constant reminder that she was lesser, that she was no more than a thing, disgusting and dangerous and the antithesis of what they all said the Qun meant.

She did not know how long she had been in Viddasala’s service when she heard the rumors.  Four Qunari had defected.  They had booked passage with smugglers, and none had been able to find them.  It was quickly covered up, but not quickly enough; Saarebas was the slave to a spy.  And it was just as well.

It was this rumor that pushed her past the point of no return. 

She had to escape too.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She got her chance a week later.

Viddasala wanted a live prisoner from the army of Tevinter, someone important, a Bas Saarebas leader, who would be interrogated for information on the bas nation’s movements and magical practices.

Saarebas was sent into battle with a unit of the Ben-Hassrath with the express intent of finding and capturing such a subject.

But the thick of battle was a confusing place to be.  And very often, one found oneself separated from companions. 

Saarebas made sure of it.

It helped that the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter were just powerful enough to distract her Ben-Hassrath handlers.  It was not the usual role for spies, to be at the vanguard in a fight, and Saarebas took advantage of that.

She did not know where her rod was.  It did not matter.  Soon the trappings of a Saarebas would be gone, and then the rod would be useless. 

She fled through the carnage, the battle raging around her as she moved her way around the outskirts, through the trees to hide from bas and Qunari alike.  She did not know where she would go, but the sooner she got away from there the better.

She made it to the surrounding woods not unscathed, but well enough to continue, to make her way to a port town, and without any of her handlers following her.

There were no cuffs about her wrists and no ropes around her arms.  The mask had been cast off.  The chains were broken.  It was a good start.

The path she took was no path at all; it wound its way through the jungle, and she was lucky that none found her. 

Against her will, she imagined that Arvaarad had been there, at that battle.  That he had seen her flee and let her go.  That he had whispered, “nehraa kadan” to the wind as she fled, and prayed for her safety.

But to garner comfort from such thoughts would be to take solace in an illusion, and she would not be overtaken by desires for something that never existed.

She pressed on.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  The nearest port town was not far from where she was.  Thankfully, the ships harbored in the port were still there as well.  She would not be stranded here.

However, Saarebas then found herself faced with a new problem: how to book passage aboard one of these ships.  She suspected that one of them was harboring smuggled goods, and so perhaps would smuggle her, but she was not simply fleeing Qunari looking to make their way south to escape the skirmishes; she was a Saarebas.  No ship captain in his right mind would take her on as passenger.

Then again, she had spent months as the slave of a spy who excelled in underhanded dealings when it was necessary to further an agenda. 

In the end, all it took was a subtle threat, a hint of danger, a smooth suggestion.  The mousiest of the captains saw the stitches in her mouth, the broken chains dangling about her shoulders, a controlled ball of fire in the palm of her hand (hidden from onlookers by her body, she was no fool), and had come to the conclusion himself.  All she had to do afterward was gesture to herself and then his ship.

“Fine, fine, just stay down with the cargo!”  “Just don’t hurt me” went unsaid.

She had her ship.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Saarebas quickly learned that she did not like sea travel.

At least, not in the cargo hold of a smuggling ship. 

The journey was long, the waves were choppy, and no matter where she moved within the hold, she could never quite escape the feeling of the ship’s rocking. 

The one thing that eased the discomfort of the journey – or at least it distracted her somewhat from it – was listening to the people who spoke around her.  It wasn’t often that anyone was close enough to listen, but occasionally, a few bas sailors would venture down below to check on the cargo, and Saarebas would hide away and listen as they chattered.

She never understood what they were saying, but she found that she enjoyed the sounds they made nonetheless.  The difference from her own Qunlat fascinated her.

Even the captain sounded different when he descended to the cargo hold with one of his crewmembers, speaking rapidly in some language Saarebas had never heard before, instead of his broken smatterings of Qunlat.

Sometimes she would make the whole thing into a game to pass the time; she would remember certain phrases that she’d heard multiple times and go over them in her mind, trying to figure out where one word ended and another word began.  And then she would listen to the tones of their voices and try to figure out what the phrase meant.

It was certainly preferable to focusing on the nausea when it hit, roiling about in her stomach so that even the smallest of the meals the captain slipped her wouldn’t stay down.

All she could do now was wait.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  When the ship arrived at a port late one afternoon just before the rain hit, Saarebas was hungry, weak, and confused.  She woke to a rough shove at her shoulder and reacted instinctively by grabbing for the offender and pulling them away.

“Hey, let go!”  It was the captain.  Saarebas forced open her eyes – crusty and unused from too much sleeping – and focused her gaze on him.  He glared. 

“Time to leave.”  Saarebas did not resist.  She was glad to be rid of him.  She went.

The only courtesy he paid her was to tell her the best places to avoid detection, before shooing her away and leaving her to fend for herself.

The port was a strange one, and Saarebas did not know its name, did not know where in Thedas they were.  She suspected Rivain by the smell of the spices in the air.  She had heard stories of this place as a child.

For a moment, she stood on the docks and looked around, curious and with nowhere to go. 

Bas milled about on the docks, some working, others simply passing through, others still just talking.  The language was foreign, and their manner of dress still more unusual.  Saarebas felt her differences from these people to the core of her being in that moment, and wanted to draw her hand up to cover her face. 

Some of the bas turned and stared at her.

Her stitches pressed against her lips in a way they hadn’t for the entirety of the voyage.  She could break them now, remove them from her body now that the rod was gone, now that there was no longer an Arvaarad to use it.  It would, at the very least, render her slightly less obvious.

She resisted.  There was a reason she had kept the bonds in her skin intact for so long.

She ducked her head and hurried away from the docks, her shoulders hunching forward in a familiar and – she hated to admit – comforting motion as she fled the port town.  The enormity of what she had done was catching up to her, the overwhelming fear of having nothing clawing at her insistently, but she pushed it back with the discipline honed from years of devotion to the Qun.

Later.  She would worry about all those things—

Food, water, shelter, money, magic—

Later.

She refused to allow herself to move faster than the brisk stride she had assumed while leaving the docks.  She forced herself into a state of control, counted in her head, practiced her breathing. 

She would not be mastered by her fear.  And she had something she needed to do.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- 

  This place looked more like the mountains of Par Vollen than the jungles of Seheron.  And yet it was entirely foreign.

Saarebas stood alone in a land that wasn’t home, knife ready in her hand.  She felt the stitches in her lips, sitting snuggly where they always had been.  They had stopped paining her skin years ago. 

There was a small knot in the rope, she could feel it against her skin, which Arvaarad would untie in order to change it for a new one.  This was only ever done to avoid infection.

She would not use that method. 

Raising the knife to her lips, she guided the tip to the rope and cut.  The rope tightened, then snapped. 

Her lips twitched reflexively and she pulled in a slow breath, composing herself.

She gently placed the knife on the ground before her, straightened, and began to weave the rope through the holes in her skin.  One stitch at a time, the rope came out, and soon it was gone from her body completely. 

Saarebas held the rope – it really was little more than string, wasn’t it? – between her thumb and forefinger and stared at it.

This was the last rope Arvaarad had changed before he’d—

She dropped it to the ground.  This wasn’t over. 

There was a rope she had hidden in the folds of her clothes, taken from the ship as the knife had been.  She pulled it out and held it before her.  It wasn’t the rope of her people, sanctified by the priesthood.  It wasn’t the physical manifestation of the sacred bond between the Qun and its followers.  It was twine, used to tie crates and boxes together, and it was the thinnest rope she could find aboard that damned ship.

It would do.

She took the twine to her hair.  Slid it under to her scalp, pulled tight.  Over, then cross, then under, repeat.  When the binding of the rope was done, she stood straight, relishing the press and pull of it in her hair, against her skin.

Willing submission to the Qun, as she had always desired, but was never allowed.  Her choice to submit, to offer herself, and she would. 

Somewhere – the tide ebbs and flows, rises and falls – those from whom she descended looked on her devotion with pride.  For she had mastery of herself, and still she chose to serve, and that meant more than any coercion she suffered in Par Vollen or Seheron.

Standing in this strange new land that would have to be home, path clear before her in a way it had never been before, body and soul strong in the conviction of her mind, Saarebas breathed in deep, opened her mouth wide, and screamed. 

The beauty of it was, now she could.

[fountainpenguin]

Happy 3rd Anniversary...

And I’m still so glad you’re here.

January 5th, 2014

Gavin and Ethel’s first concept designs: A mute pirate without a tongue and a clumsy, awkward stage magician with a magic hat. My plan was to write a journey story where the main characters, a boy and a girl, grow to hate each other instead of falling in love.

With this supposedly being a middle-grade book, its working title is the silly “The Awesomely Epic Adventures of Gavin Finch and His Charming Assistant Lady Ethel Starflower”.

In this early draft of their story, Gavin and his family had just stolen a statue of an ancient warrior prince that, when connected to its base (located in a museum on Ethel’s island), came to life and obeyed the commands of the one who woke it. Rival pirates interfered, cut out Gavin’s tongue, and left him to drift in the sea, until he came across Ethel on her island.

Ethel nursed Gavin to health for a day, but along with being an absolute grump who hates everything, he was eager to get moving. He managed to communicate to her that he wished to get to the far side of her island country. Coincidentally, she was going that way to fill in for her late uncle at his show. Since she’s shy, Ethel uses Gavin as her mouthpiece to insult others or otherwise stand up for herself. She also has a pet rabbit named Bunny.

After a journey full of danger, they arrive and confront the pirates. Gavin sacrifices the statue to save Ethel, ending up hospitalized as a result (So, there goes the ‘hate each other’ idea), which brings us to how we met him in the first chapter of the story.

Once upon a time their names were Xander Skyxx and Angela Frostborn, but we don’t talk about that phase of their lives...

March 9th, 2014

First time in color! Ethel has actual magic now. She got a complete redesign too, though Gavin's mostly the same. Trying to design the magic system and leaning towards alchemy. Gavin and Ethel become awkward friends at the end of the story rather than completely hating one another.

Title has been shortened to “Gavin Finch” as a nickname.

This time, our story opens with Gavin and two of his friends stealing the old statue, rather than beginning with his family celebrating on their pirate ship after having stolen the statue from the mansion. They get caught in the process, and attacked by the old man’s pet phoenix. Gavin ends up tumbling over the edge of a cliff.

Ethel was down below at this time. When she sees Gavin falling, her first thought is, I hope he doesn’t bite his tongue! It’s night and she has little control of her powers, so her moon magic triggers and inadvertently burns his tongue out of existence.

Funnily enough, despite me shifting the entire story backwards, I submitted this first chapter for critique at this writing conference I attended, and was told that I hadn’t started back far enough.

There was also a wizard named Leonard in the story at this point, who used fast sun magic as opposed to Ethel’s slow moon magic. He was met halfway through the story after Gavin gets sick due to Ethel drawing power from his life force to use her magic. He calls Ethel out on this. She shocks everyone when she reveals she was doing it intentionally because she really wanted to use her magic again after such a long time spent smothering it and she’s just selfish like that.

I removed him due to the release of “Total Drama: Pahkitew Island” and the introduction of Leonard the LARPer, who may be more delusional than an actual LARPer as he legitimately believes in his powers and has next to no sense of self-preservation. I love him, so I accept this trade-off.

Ethel’s pet rabbit became a jackalope. This is about as far as I got before scrapping everything again, seeing as I’d lost my rival pirates and was becoming discouraged overall. Their story was put on hold as I got distracted with writing Total Drama fanfics and participating in PMDU.

May 11th, 2015

Gavin's first time in digital color! He is now an ambassador-in-training instead of a pirate. Drawn along with the heads of all the other ambassadors at the Sikhorian embassy.

And this one’s not mine, but....

May 15th, 2015

Completely out of the goodness of her heart, @sieryn randomly surprises me with the first piece of fanart for my story, which to this day still melts me because she’s so cool and I’ve always liked her a lot.

It’s a bit of a wake-up call too, and I’m greatly encouraged by the idea that other people might like my original characters. Maybe they have a chance of surviving in the big leagues after all! I start to wean myself off Total Drama stuff and begin working on their story again with renewed vigor. A-and... I like it?!? 

Sieryn, you might’ve just saved their little tails from the trash can or the eternal WIP heap, and I will always owe you for that!

June 3rd, 2015

Since Gavin is no longer mute, there is now a language barrier between him and Ethel. Also, Ethel officially becomes the chillest character I've ever made.

Story has now been nicknamed “Stars and Finches” as a joke since Ethel’s last name was changed from Starflower to Vinalla and Finch became Eastwist. I have no ideas for an actual title.

Ethel’s country officially has a name by this point (Sikhoria) as does Gavin’s (Krindan), and several others. Sikhoria is now a peninsula instead of an island, though it remains a tropical tourist trap.

As mentioned above, the plot changes completely- the statue of the warrior prince no longer exists. The goal of the story is now to bring Gavin to the embassy after he’s shipwrecked, following the disappearance of the former ambassador, his father, Sebastian Eastwist. Although they still face bandits, a mermaid attack, and a dragon, they now also deal with fantastic racism, and they get along a little better than they did before.

There was also a brief period where I toyed with the idea of Gavin selling diseases in jars. Y’know, like vaccines? Might come back to that someday.

January 18th, 2016

Ethel's first time in digital color! Total Drama ‘fics and PMDU have sapped the majority of my attention, so little about the story has changed. Ethel now saves magic spells on her arms and triggers them for future use.

The story is still being referred to as “Stars and Finches”.

I played with the idea of Gavin’s eye glowing when Ethel uses her powers, due to her stealing his life force when she channels her magic. This piece here shows how much their personalities have flipped from the olden days- now it’s Ethel who’s acting the more threatening, and Gavin who’s more cautious. He’s holding ambassador paperwork, if you were wondering.

Their personalities may have slowly shifted, but their designs remain much the same. Gavin still looks rather shipwrecked and has his ambassador scarf, while Ethel still wears long-sleeved robes despite living in the tropics in order to hide the marks on her skin, since she’s practicing magic illegally.

This time, fantastic racism issues really control a lot of the story. Gavin and Ethel have opposing views and, although their journey had brought them together, begin to grow apart towards the end. Details are still somewhat fuzzy.

It was also my first time attempting a bokeh background.

December 6th, 2016

These two are finally looked at again after many months of me playing around with “The Fairly OddParents”. Gavin has always been half-elf, but now looks less "human" than before. He has feathers now. Same scarf, still the Krinnish ambassador. Ethel has a new design for a more modern culture. Freckles too.

A few titles are debated: “Painting Finches In the Stars” and “The Finch In the Boardroom”. The latter is tempting, but writes Ethel off and she’s too important.

The plot remains fuzzy at this point. Ethel’s motivation for leaving her home has been called into question so many times, now that she’s no longer a stage magician. Her hat was removed because of "Fairly OddParents". After being told that “glowing tattoos” was a cliche, I removed them. This leaves me at a loss for a magic system, apart from the “soul color” system I had long been working to perfect. The existence of “Undertale” does not help matters.

As mentioned above, these two had their clothing changed completely, and have no sleeves because the setting is the tropics. The magic system remains questionable. Gavin is half-witling and Ethel is a full-blooded fauner.

January 5th, 2017

Three years later, Gavin and Ethel’s designs have been finalized. Their 100% fantasy world has been fully constructed. The magic system - one that uses neither wands nor glowing tattoos nor elemental powers nor even magic as a genetic thing or as an STD - is in place. It’s completely unique and 99.99% guaranteed as not having been thought up before, or at least not seen as far as can be confirmed. A fresh plot has been outlined. They’ve come a long way.

It’s go time.

[motherof4dragons]

Sample Chapter

I've been writing fan fiction, but I recently started a fan fic that I really enjoyed the premise of.  I thought I could really do something with it outside of the fandom.  I read a ton, and did some research on 2nd chance fictions and friends to lovers stroeis and I think this would be pretty unique in the genre.  

So I stripped the story of all of the original content that connected it to the fandom and tried to write a first chapter, or first several chapters depending on size for a "real" book.  Please tell me if it's ok, and if it is too closely resembling it's origin content.  I'm purposefully leaving out any tags so that maybe someone who doesn't normally know what I write about can read it hopefully not draw the connections to the fandom.  Does that make sense?  Try to read it as if you just picked the book up off of Kindle's 1.99 list.

------------------

May 2018

I’m in the middle of discussing today’s surgery with my patient and her family when I hear my phone and my pager go off simultaneously.  That’s never a good sign.  Giving my patient my best Anderson smile, I look at my pager, then swipe across the front of my phone.  Both alert me to the same thing.

MASS SHOOTING ETA 15 minutes out.

I learned long ago to turn the news alerts off on my phone, otherwise I wouldn't be able to concentrate on my day without worrying about what my day could turn into.  So 15 minutes out for us means the shooting probably started a half hour to an hour ago, which means I need to get a move on it.

 I turn back to my patient and her family and put an end to our pre-op conversations.

“Excuse me guys, I am so sorry. It looks like we may have to put todays surgery on hold, there’s been an emergency. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” I pat my patient on her back, shake her husband’s hand and leave the room as quickly as I can.

Heading out of the patient’s room and to the nurse’s station, I put the tablet back on the charging station then head to the surgery board where I know everybody will be meeting. Sean, though not technically our chief of staff anymore, is up front leading the charge.

“Ok people, we have a mass casualty event. Shooting at the mall. We can expect the majority of the victims to come to us. We don’t have an estimate yet as to how many that may be, but it sounds like he got a lot of rounds off before he was taken down by a civilian. The ambulances are waiting on the all clear to start scooping them up. I want OR’s 1-5 on constant rotation. Don’t take the time to make it pretty people, get in and get out. All elective and non-emergent surgeries have been cancelled and the patients that can be are being discharged. Move all non-critical ER patients to the clinic. The blood bank is sending up all available units. I want every available surgeon in the pit in 5. Get a move on it.”

I’m a reconstructive surgeon.  I trained as a plastic surgeon, but I really dislike that title.  I don’t work with plastic.  I work with people.  That’s not to say that plastic doesn’t have its place.  I think every human has the right to feel good about themselves, and if that means a person needs a boob job or a butt implant, then the more power to them.  And that’s not to say that I don’t still do the occasional ‘plastics’ job.  Liposuction keeps the lights on as my old mentor used to say.  But my specialty is reconstructive surgery.  I take something that was once beautiful, but damaged due to life and circumstance, and make it beautiful once again.  I specialize in burn victims and gender reaffirmation surgeries.  Two of the toughest life events any person will ever have to face. I’m to the point in my career where I can pick and choose what surgeries I want to do, so I do the occasional pro-bono cleft palate surgery to make the soul feel good too.  I’m a board certified ENT as well, but that really only falls into play with burn victims, and the occasional hard intubation in the emergency room. But no matter their specialty, a surgeon is still a surgeon. And a requirement for working at a hospital like Riley’s Memorial is that you have to be proficient in trauma.  We’re the largest hospital in the state, with a trauma and burn department that is world renown.  If you get severely hurt in the state of Colorado, there’s a large possibility that you’ll end up with us.

Noah takes the time to swing by his locker to hang his coat up then heads  down to the pit.

--

 “Anderson, have you talked to Lizzy today?” Sean stops and sticks his head into the trauma room Noah is just finishing up in. Superficial injuries, but she cut herself pretty bad on something running away from the shooting, and had an eight inch laceration that required stitched. Normally I would have a resident or intern do it, but it’s in a pretty visible spot, and I wanted it done right.  Every wound I can repair properly now is one I won’t have to go back in to fix at a later date.

“No, why?”

“Because several of the victims are saying they were triaged on scene by someone who says they were a doctor.”

“So what?”

“A redheaded female doctor.”

Elizabeth Marie Stewart, former trauma surgeon and current Assistant Department Head of Public Health.  She also happens to be the mother of my children, my ex-wife, and the probable love of my life.  And yes, she is a red headed female doctor.

We’ve gotten the first wave of ambulances emptied and into the emergency department. I did notice that some patients have the trauma triage color codes written on their bodies, but I just assumed that they didn’t have the tags at the scene.  However, that’s a trick they use out in the field in the military, and both Sean and I know it.

The chances of that being Lizzy are pretty small, but I snap off my gloves and pull my phone out of my pocket anyways. We just went to church together with Lillian this past weekend. She didn’t mention going to the mall this week, but then why would she. We may share a daughter, and since her accident, we’re back to being good friends, but long gone are the days where I got daily reports of her plans and movements.

After 4 rings it goes to her voicemail. “Hey Liz It’s me. Listen, I know this is going to sound weird, but there was a shooting at the mall, I’m sure you’ll have heard about it by the time you get this, And I bet you’ll get a kick out of this but some of the patients are saying they were triaged by a redheaded dr. So now I’m worried about you. Call me back."

Thought of her at that mall, despite how improbable that may be makes my heart speed up a little. I decide to shoot her a text too.

Noah: Hey. Mass shooting at the mall. Check in with me please.

I debate sending a text to her husband, but I think Lizzy said he’s out of town, so I put my phone back in my pocket and try to shake it off, then head back into the fray.

  --

“Next wave coming in guys!”

I’m in the middle of assessing a middle aged man with a gunshot wound to the thigh, through and through. Whoever is on the scene knows what they were doing, that’s for sure. The patient’s own belt is wrapped around his upper leg to stem the blood loss and the words “yellow tag” were written in blue ink across his forearm. He told a more exaggerated story of the redheaded angel running into the middle of the bloodshed single handedly saving every person she touched.  The guy is seriously smitten.  It’s one of the more extreme versions of the story of the red head I’ve heard today, and I’ve heard variations of the same thing from multiple sources over the last hour.  The more we hear, the more I’m afraid it may really be Lizzy.  She hasn’t replied back to my messages yet.

And then he hears Her.

“22 yr old female, 3 gun shot wounds to the right arm, hip and thigh. Approx. 2 liters blood loss in the field. 2 large bore ivs placed in route. Her driver’s license states she’s o+ so let’s get a trauma panel, type and cross match and get blood hung. We also gave 4 of morphine. She’s passed out but she’s going to hurt like a bitch when she comes to. I need ortho in here stat, her pelvis is probably shattered. Get me x-rays and then let’s get her up to an OR. And someone find me a pair of scrubs please.”

Lizzy’s voice is authoritative and electric. The sound of it issuing out commands flashes me back to ages before. The ER is her domain, even if she hasn’t stepped foot in it for over 2 years. I can’t see her, but I can see the ER’s response to her. Residents and nurses that know her are scattering in different directions to obey her orders. The interns in the room with me are watching the chaos in awe, this stranger who can waltz in and command everyone’s immediate obedience. She yells out louder than the other orders, “also someone find Davis to give me privileges!” I look up and meet Emma’s eyes to see my grin echoed on her face. “Stewart’s back” she says and snaps her gloves off to go help Lizzy.

Emma takes two steps out of the trauma room and freezes. “Shit” she says with passion, then quieter, “Noah.”

I move to where she is standing, and feel the grin melt off my face and my blood run cold. Lizzy is in skinny jeans and what may have once been a lighter colored t shirt. Her red medusa like hair is piled on her head in a messy bun with hair streaming down around her face. And Lizzy is covered head to foot in blood and gore. While most of it probably isn’t hers, some of it obviously is. She has a bandage wrapped haphazardly around her left upper arm, and there is a small trickle of blood still dripping down off of her bent elbow. She’s wearing gloves, but it’s apparent from the distorted color of them that there is just as much blood inside the gloves as outside.  Seeing the blood all over her body, I feel all the blood drain completely out of mine.

“Lizzy, oh my god Lizzy were you shot?”  Emma’s the first to react, moving towards Lizzy and the patient.

She looks down at her arm like she’d forgotten about it and shrugs, hands still on the patient.

“It was just a flesh wound. Noah, can you call the nanny and have her pick up Lillian today?  Have them go back to your house. Nathan and River are going to be at his parents’ house for the rest of the week still. I told the paramedics on scene to send all non-critical to St. Mary’s Hospital so that we could concentrate on the critical. The first paramedics to arrive tried to give me push back until Warren showed up, then they let me control the scene. Where’s my ortho consult?”

I’m standing there looking at her like an idiot.  I hear her speaking, but for some reason none of it is computing in my mind.  She’s just so casual, like this is an everyday occurrence.  Yes, rearranging childcare isn’t exactly a new situation, seeing how our entire community are either doctors or in the medical field.  But this, this catastrophe she just walked in with?  This certainly isn’t our normal operating method.  Wait a minute? Warren knew she was there and didn’t bother to give us a heads up? As soon as I see him I’m going to kick his fucking ass.

The sight of a nurse coming in with a set of black scrubs finally spurs me into motion, and I take them from her.

“Emma, take over the patient. Lizzy, come on, let’s get you stitched up.”

“Just throw some antiseptic on it and I’ll worry about it later.” The portable x-ray is in here now and she steps back, momentarily putting the safety coveralls on while the pictures are taken.  I cringe at the amount of blood I can now see on the inside of the x-ray shield.  It’ll need to be hosed down before it can be used again. And why am I worried about the x-ray shields?  I wonder if I’m going into shock just from the close contact of Lizzy. 

“ELIZABETH!”  I yell it out into the room, voice laced with all the fear and anger and frustration I possess and feel rather than see half the department stop and look at me.

When she finally turns to face me head on, her shoulders fall and her face softens. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but it makes her acquiesce to my request. She nods sharply and starts to remove her gloves, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of the trash.

Alex comes into the trauma room grinning, arms crossed over his chest, light on his feet despite the situation. “You know Stewart, if you missed us that much all you had to do was call. There was no need to get yourself shot.”

Lizzy returns his grin ear to ear. “You know me Davis, I like the drama. I’ll meet you guys upstairs, which OR?”

Davis’ eyes flick to me momentarily and I read the concern in them with years of practice. I nod, not giving my ok but acknowledging that I’ll take care of her.

“OR 4 should be ready for turnover in 20. I expect you clean and stitched before you enter my scrub room Stewart.”

“Sheesh Davis, the power’s gone to your head hasn’t it? Fine. Have ortho stabilize her before she goes up.”

We start to walk out of the trauma bays towards the elevator when we hear Davis call out “good to have to you back Stewart.”

--

We head into the attending’s locker room and I walk straight thru to the bathing area to turn on the shower. I put the scrubs on the counter and go back out into the locker area to find some soap and shampoo for her. She’s taking off her tennis shoes and examines them critically before tossing them into the corner. Her t-shirt comes off and goes straight into the trash. She has her hands on her jeans and is halfway thru pulling down the zipper when she looks at me. It takes her cocking her eyebrow at me before I realize I’m staring at her half naked. God she’s beautiful. But that’s not what I’m staring at, not really.

If our bodies are a road map, hers has taken some very painful turns.  I can see the faint outlines of her chest tube scars across her chest, upraised and evident with the goo coating her. I see the jagged c section scar low under her belly button above her panty line where our daughter was pulled from her body. The dried blood all over her torso is horrifying.  It’s left weird patterns on her skin as it’s dried through and from the contact of her clothing.  She almost looks like a walking Rorschach painting.   And I think, this is the third time she’s almost been taken from me. The thought makes me sick.

I put the bottles I took out if Amanda’s locker into the shower stall, then turn and pull her towards me. I embrace her harder then I mean to, and seeing as she’s married to another man, and half naked, it’s completely inappropriate, but I can’t let her go.  

“Noah? I know Noah, I know.”  She squeezes me back tight, then takes in a shaking breath herself.  “I can’t, I can’t fall apart yet Noah.  There’s still stuff to do.  We can’t fall apart yet.”  She sounds like she’s trying to separate herself from me but still, she doesn’t try to pull away and I tighten my hold just a little more.  She runs her hands soothingly over my back and I bury my nose in her hair. Even under all of the blood I can still smell her flowery conditioner.  “I’m alright Noah. I’m alright”  

When I feel myself on the verge of cracking, I let her go and quickly wipe the moisture from my eyes. “You shower, I’m going to go get a suture kit. We have about 15 minutes before they’ll be ready for you. I’m assuming you’re wanting to operate? You haven’t been in a surgery suite in a while.”

“I’ve kept all my certifications up to date and done more continuing education credits than I’m required to, due to boredom mainly.  I still do ride alongs on a quarterly basis.  And I think I proved today my trauma skills are still sharp."  She points at me before she resumes the removal of her pants.  "You need to change your scrubs too, you’re covered in blood now.” I look at myself and see that she’s right. Her blood covered imprint is now on my shirt.  It’s hard to tell from the dark color of the material, but I can see the strange patterns the blood has left on the fabric.

I decide to ignore the boredom statement, but push it into the back of my mind to consider later. “Ok. I’ll be right back.” I pull her to me one more time and kiss her forehead, blood and all, then leave the bathing area and shut the door behind me. I lean against the door after I shut it and try to gather my thoughts.  Lizzy, my Lizzy, was shot.  Never before have I been so happy we got Lillian into that fancy preschool. I don’t know what I would have done if they had both been there. The thought makes my knees weak. But there’s luck there for another reason too. There are a lot of people alive right now because Lizzy was in that mall today. If Lillian had been with her she would have been protecting her instead of helping all those people. She’s a hero.  Another wave of adrenalin or some other hormone shoots thru me, and I will myself to calm down.  I’ve felt on the verge of a panic attack since I first laid eyes on her, but she’s right.  Now is not the time.  We still have stuff to do today.  

Get yourself together Anderson. Scrubbing my hands vigorously over my head, I push off from the door and head out in search of a suture kit. When I see a supply cart, I grab supplies to draw some blood too. With that much blood mixing over her we’d better do some blood tests at well. Rapid HIV, blood counts, std’s, pregnancy, the works.  Oh god.  The thought of Lizzy pregnant makes me feel sick.  I let myself into the drug closet and grab the lidocaine and some pain killers, then head back into the lounge and place it all on the table. I’m getting everything set up with a bottle of water on the table for her when she comes back out of the shower.

To my surprise, she has the scrub bottoms on but not the scrub top. She has the towel wrapped around her torso, but they aren’t really made to wrap all the way around a woman’s curves, so there’s a damp line of bare skin showing from her shoulder to where the scrubs start low on her hip. She’s run her hair through the towel, and it is hanging damp down her back, wavy from the water instead of her usual beach curls. It’s darker that way, and I’m transported to a time when she would leave the bathroom like that, towel dried and damp, and climb naked into the bed we shared.

I have no idea what has gotten into me all of a sudden, and luckily she doesn’t seem to notice as she wanders over to the lockers. I should not be thinking of Lizzy this way. The only excuse I have is the stress and hormones pushing thru my system at the thought of her being hurt at that mall.

“I had to toss my bra, I couldn’t put that thing back on again, and I didn’t want to put the scrub top on until you stitched me up in case I got blood on it too. As you can see I kept the bandage on and it’s probably pretty gnarly under there. Emma used to keep a full change of clothes in her locker. Do you think she still does?” She pops the door open and bends down to the bag in the bottom. “Aha” she says, so I assume she found what she was looking for. “Don’t peek” she says, then drops the towel after she moves so that her back is facing the door. She puts the bra on upside down and backwards in the way that women do, and begins to rotate it to the front. I do the complete opposite of not peeking and stare at her as I have been since she walked into the ER this morning until I feel my cock start to twitch, then I quickly avert my eyes.

When she comes and sits at the table with me, I find that looking at her with Emma’s bra on is worse than seeing her bare back and sides. Whereas Lizzy always favored bras with the firm cups that offered extra support, this bra is low and lacy, and I can see the outline of her nipples thru the thin fabric.

Clearing my throat, I hand her the Tylenol and the water bottle and wrap the band around her good arm to draw her blood.

“Any chance you could be pregnant?”

”No.  Definitely not.”  I ignore the wave of relief that passes through me at her firm assurance.  I tell myself it’s just because I hate the thought of her endangering an unborn child with her stunt today and not because I hate the idea of her having another man’s baby.

”I’m going to test for everything ok?”  Her only response is a nod.

That done, I turn her to the side so that I have access to her bad arm as it rests on the table.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Well really, this is all your fault.”

“MY fault?! How so?”

“Well, you know Lilly starts dance class next week. And I was going to go to payless to get her tap and ballet shoes, and then I heard your voice in my head going ‘really Liz, Payless?’ So I went to that specialty store in the mall that costs 4 times as much for the exact same thing.”

I scoff at her, then tell her “This is going to burn” As I unwrap her arm.  She was right about it being gnarly. I know from past experience that she has a high pain tolerance, but she must have a pain tolerance thru the roof, because the wound is ugly and jagged, and deeper than I feel comfortable with. It’s more a thru and thru than a graze in my opinion, but there doesn’t appear to be any muscle compromise, and she’s obviously been using it ok. I grab the antiseptic to clean in.  I nod my head in her direction and tell her, “Go On.” Her face pinches tight for a minute, but whether it’s from the pain or the story I don’t know.

“I was in line to pay when it started. I heard the first shot and froze, unsure about what I was hearing, but then the next started rapid and close together and there was no doubt. I dropped my bag onto the register counter and told the clerk to go hide in the back room. She told me to come with her, but I knew there’d be injured. I’m a war trained trauma surgeon so…” She trails off and shrugs again, then winces. With the adrenalin fading I bet she’s starting to feel it more now.

“I grabbed a sharpie I saw on the counter, and started heading towards where everyone was leaving. He started in the food court I think. It’s a weekday, so it’s not as bad as it could have been, but it was bad enough. I was able to hug the wall and inch towards where it was coming from. There were two civilians, ex-military from the look of them, doing the same thing. They told me to scram, but I told them I was an army surgeon, and if there were wounded I was going to help. I couldn’t get too close to the action for fear of being shot myself, but when he started strolling, he was just walking as calm as could be Noah, like he didn’t have a care in the world.  That was more disconcerting than him opening fire.  He didn’t seem mad, or insane.  He was just going for a stroll in the mall.  With a bag full of automatic weapons.”

Aa a trauma center, we often see the results from the worse of humanity.  I’ve treated rape victims and rapists.  Assault victims and people arrested for murder.  This isn’t even our first face to face with an active gunman.  But this time feels different.  And hearing her retell the story to me is haunting.

“He was going the opposite direction from us, so I started darting in and pulling wounded to the side, triaging as I went. I used the marker to tag them as I felt appropriate, did what I could to stop the bleeding or ease the patient with what little I had, which was nothing of course, and went on to the next one. Ike and Mike we’ll call them, split, one on either side of the corridor, so when he dropped both guns to grab another pair they went at him from both sides. That’s when I got hit. He got a spray off as he was being brought down and I’d gotten too close pulling a victim with an abdominal wound to safety. They broke his arm. Bad.”

“Good.” Somehow I managed to keep my hands steady through her story despite my heart rate racing and my system flooding with adrenalin. So she didn’t just happen to be close to the shooting. She ran into it. The fucking mother of my children ran towards gunfire with no regard for her, her children or anyone who cares about her. I close my eyes and take a hissing breath in through my nose, trying to calm my raging emotions.  I place my hands flat on the table for a moment to try to center myself.  I can feel her watching me.  This is going to be a make or break moment between us.  If I react wrong, this could end very badly.  I pull my composure out of the surgeons vault, and when I reach for my supplies again my hands are steady.  I can actually see some of the tension leave her body at my choice not to throw down with her right now.

“Here comes the stitching.” I’m going to kill her with my bare hands. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry in my entire life, and lord knows Lizzy’s done a lot to piss me off over the years. Her phone rings, and she picks it up and hits ignore. 20 seconds later it’s ringing again. Releasing a big sigh, she answers it this time. Her voice is overly perky and it takes me off guard for a minute, helping to calm my raw nerves.

“Yea I heard about that. Crazy huh? No no, of course we’re ok. I was thinking about going to the hospital though and seeing if they need any help.” There’s a lull in her side of the conversation here, and I can tell by the tightening of her posture that whatever being said is making her less than happy. “Of course, no, you’re right, they don’t need me. Yea. Ok. You too.” She puts her phone down and turns her face to me giving me a half smile.

“I’ve been contemplating coming back to the hospital, have I told you that?” Her statement takes me by surprise. She hasn’t given me any indication that she was anything less than satisfied with her work at the clinic.  I wonder if she’s told anyone else this.

“Nathan, he doesn’t want me to. If I told him about all, this” and here she uses her free hand and wiggles it around in the air, indicating everything and nothing at once “He’d probably think I arranged the shooting on purpose.”

“Lizzy, he’s your husband. Don’t you think he’d want to know you’ve been hurt?”

“I’ll tell him later tonight. It’s not a big deal, and you took care of me.”  She says it with surety and confidence and fixes me with a sweet smile.  I’ll always take care of her. “Are we almost done?” She twists sideways to try to get a look at the wound. I could have done it a lot quicker, but I’m tired of seeing scars all over her body. So I took my time, and hopefully in a few months we’ll have only the faintest memory that this ever happened. I put some gauze over it, then a bandage over that, when wrap some of the double sided sticky wrap over top of all of that. The need to continue to touch her, to reassure myself that she is in fact ok is overwhelming, so I push her hair behind her ears and cup her face in my hand. Instead of pulling away, she leans into it, putting one of her hands over mine and closing her eyes, breathing in deep.  We stay that way for a few moments.  Breathing and ensuring each other of our presence.  But times a ticking and I’m sure they’ve started without her.

“Come oh trauma goddess, let’s get you to the OR.” I pull her to her feet, watch her put her top on, and then follow her out of the room.

[imagine-loki]

Yes, Mistress

TITLE: Yes Mistress CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 28 AUTHOR: angryowlet ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine after a heated argument with Thor, Loki turns himself into a woman out of spite. RATING: Mature/Explicit NOTES/WARNINGS: NSFW, This is a F/F BDSM relationship. If that’s not your cup of tea, don’t drink it. The events in this fic take place before the first Thor movie.

I was gonna write, then Endgame feels happened.

TW: Mild pain and nipple play in this chapter.

Also on AO3

The sight and sound that greeted Loki as she opened the outer door of her chambers was worth the rush.

Her Pet was lounging on the divan, reading a book and laughing aloud at it’s contents. She looked up when Loki came in and smiled warmly at her. She marked her place and sat up. She set the book down on the table and picked up a sheet of paper.

Sanna was wearing her new purple wrap over her thrall dress and let it slip off her shoulders as she stood, draping it over the back of the divan. She walked around the furniture to stand directly before her Mistress, presenting her with the lines she wrote as punishment for hiding her injuries that morning.

“Welcome home Mistress.”

“You’re in a good mood.” Loki took the paper and looked it over, counting the lines and smiling at her Pet. “Good girl. Now, why were you punished?”

“I was punished for hiding damage to my Mistress’s property.” Sanna said in a very contrite voice.

“Do you understand why you were punished?”

“Yes Mistress. I failed to tell you I had injured myself.”

“Will I have to punish you for this again in the future?”

“No Mistress. I swear it,” Sanna promised solemnly.

“Very well Pet. I forgive you. We don’t ever have to speak of it again.” The paper vanished, Loki stepped closer and kissed Sanna’s forehead. She whispered in her ear, “Now greet your owner properly little thrall.”

Sanna shivered with excitement as she turned to face away from her Mistress and knelt down with her knees spread and crossed her ankles. She pressed her forehead to the floor and crossed her wrists behind her back. She didn’t see her Mistress’s expression, but did just catch the whispered, “very good” as Loki walked past and went first into the bathing room and then the bedchamber. Sanna listened patiently for the sound of her Mistress’s return. She heard the rustle of her Mistress’s robe and the pad of her bare feet. She felt the cool touch of her fingers and breathed in the faint scent of the leather cuffs as they were fastened onto her wrists and ankles.

“Kneel with your legs apart and sit back on your heels,” Loki’s voice was soft, but her tone was firm. “Hands on your thighs, palms up.”

“Yes Mistress.” Sanna obeyed.

“This is another position you’ll become accustomed to, in time.” Loki spoke as she fastened the collar around her Pet’s neck. “I see you kept the rope on while I was gone. How did it feel, wearing it all day?”

“It was wonderful Mistress. It felt like you were with me the whole time. Whenever I was upset or nervous, it felt like your arms were around me, holding me. Giving me confidence.”

Loki stood facing her Pet and reached out, tilting the girl’s chin up to look her in the eye, rubbing a thumb over her cheek. “Why were you upset?” she asked softly.

Sanna swallowed. “It’s a long story Mistress. May I wait and tell you as we eat?”

Loki suspected her mother’s hand in the tale. “By chance, did your anxiety today have anything to do with the Allmother?”

“How did you–”

“She came to see me in the Archive and our conversation included your desire to know more of Lady Audney’s life at court. She told me she would speak to you about it.”

“She sent me an invitation to tea. We talked of many things,” Sanna gave her Mistress a shy smile, “including you and my position in the palace. But as I said, it is a long story and this floor is rather hard and cold.” She grimaced.

Her Mistress raised an eyebrow. “Yet another thing you will learn to endure. Now, get into the position you are to be in for inspection.”

“Yes Mistress.”

Sanna got to her feet and stood with her legs apart, mouth open, and her fingers laced together behind her head.

Loki used her seidr to remove the thrall dress and the rope. She moved behind her Pet and ran a fingertip from just below the collar to the cleft of her ass. Sanna shivered involuntarily at her Mistress’s touch.

“Stay still thrall. If you pass inspection, we will begin your nightly edging. There should be just enough time before the evening meal is delivered for what I have in mind.”

Loki circled her a few times, running her nails over her Pet’s back, squeezing her ass and giving it a few, gentle smacks. Commenting aloud about it’s firmness before moving on. She traced the faint lines left by the rope, whispering “beautiful” as she did so, rubbing the girl’s nipples into stiff peaks with her thumbs.

“So responsive Pet. But I think we will come back to these after your inspection is over.” Loki grinned wickedly at her.

Once again, Sanna felt like an animal at auction. Being poked and prodded, reduced to a thing instead of a person. She felt herself growing wetter and wetter the longer it went on. She tried so very hard to stay silent and still. Sanna wanted be good for her Mistress, but she also wanted to moan and squirm. To touch her Mistress. To touch herself! To kneel before her Mistress and pleasure her like a proper bed slave in order to prove she was worthy.

Both of her Mistress’s hands came up to cup her jaw, tracing the open lips lightly with a thumb before slipping inside and pressing down on her tongue.

“Push back against my thumb thrall.” Loki ordered.

She kept the pressure on her Pet’s tongue until Sanna was nearly drooling.

“Hmm… Not bad, but there’s always room for improvement. Your oral training will resume in the morning.” Loki released the girl’s tongue. Her left hand came down to wrap around her Pet’s throat, thumb rubbing lightly above the collar, squeezing gently.

“Eyes up. Look at me,” Loki commanded. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

Sanna obediently brought her eyes to her Mistress’s face.

“Shall we see if your other hole is as wet?”

Loki watched her Pet’s face as the fingertips of her right hand trailed down between the girl’s legs. She saw the sharp inhale of breath as she ran two fingertips over her Pet’s outer folds, tracing the damp seam before parting them to stroke the inner. Loki felt the vibrations of her Pet’s throat and the choked back whine when a probing finger found her clit and began to circle it.

“Such a responsive little thing. I barely have to touch you and your hungry little kunta is dripping for me.” Loki left her clit to circle her Pet’s entrance. “Mmm,” she slipped two fingers inside and felt her Pet instinctively constrict around them. “Tight, wet, and ready to be used. I think you’ve passed your inspection little hóra, shall we begin your edging? If you’re a very good girl, I may even let you cum at the end. Would you like that?”

“Yes Mistress. Please let me cum.” Sanna pleaded.

Loki removed her fingers and held them up to her Pet who obediently sucked them clean.

“We will see, little thrall. Put your hands behind your back.” Loki said, and moved to secure the cuffs when her Pet did as she was told.

The new position pushed Sanna’s breasts forward. Loki lingered over them, pinching and tugging her nipples. She squeezed them hard as she spoke, forcing Sanna to whimper.

“I think it’s time we did a little more with these, don’t you?” Loki used her seidr to call a small black box to her. She opened it and considered it’s contents. “Hmm… Where to begin? I think these might do, for now. You’re far too untrained yet for anything harsher.” Loki held up a matching pair of what looked to Sanna like grooming tools, yet these had little bells attached at one end.

“What– What are those Mistress?”

“A very special type of clamp.” Loki closed the box and dismissed it back to where it had come from. She shook them just enough to make the bells jingle, and pinched one of Sanna’s nipples very tightly. “You won’t have to wear them for very long Pet. Not yet anyway.”

Her Pet’s nipple was firm and hard as Loki positioned the pinching end of the clamp over it. She adjusted the pressure, keeping it light as this was the girl’s first time and Loki didn’t want to make her fear the bite of the clamps. She stopped when Sanna let out a small whimper.

“There are so many things you will learn to first endure and then embrace as my bed slave. A touch of pain can significantly heighten pleasure. Like the rope, it is another form of service to me. I wish you to feel a little pain now, so you may have greater pleasure later, but we can stop if it’s too much for you. Do you wish to continue?”

Sanna took a deep breath through gritted teeth. She nodded, “Yes Mistress. I wish to continue.”

The bell jingled softly and her nipple stung, as did the other one when her Mistress had applied the second clamp. It felt as if a cord of fire connected her nipples to her clit, and she could feel herself growing more desperate for her Mistress’s touch there.

“How does it feel Pet?” Loki asked as she gently caressed the sides of the girl’s breasts, careful not to touch the clamps where they dangled down.

Sanna whimpered, “I don’t– it hurts– but it feels… good?” The new sensation was confusing to her, but she knew she wanted more. “Please? Touch me Mistress?” The bells jingled again as she shivered.

“Oh I will Pet,” her Mistress stepped closer and hooked her finger through the ring on the collar, “but not in the way you wish. Now that you’re properly prepared, we can begin your edging.”

“Begin?” Sanna’s eyes went wide and she groaned softly as her Mistress lead her over to the divan.

Loki sat down in the middle and helped her Pet to straddle her. She spread the girl’s folds with her thumbs, touching her everywhere except where Sanna wanted it most.

“You are very wet little hóra. You were wet after your first punishment too. Do you remember my hand on your ass? I think you might enjoy a little bit of pain with your pleasure. Your body certainly seems to.” Loki blew a puff of air gently over her Pet’s exposed clit.

Sanna jerked and cried out, “Please Mistress? Please touch me? Please?”

“As you wish–”

Her Mistress’s right hand came up in a flash and lightly slapped the side of Sanna’s left breast making both bells jingle. A fresh surge of arousal flowed out and coated her inner folds as she cried out in surprise and pain. She whimpered, and Loki lightly slapped her other breast in turn.

“Gah! Too much! It’s too much Mistress! Please? No more?” Sanna begged, tears in her eyes.

“Shhh… Alright Pet. You’re alright…” Loki cooed at her as she ran her hands up and down her Pet’s arms and thighs, soothing her. “Let’s try something softer.” She ran her fingertips gently over the mounds of Sanna’s breasts, avoiding the clamps and gently massaging in little circles. “Better?”

Sanna sniffled and nodded, “Yes Mistress. Thank you.”

One of her Mistress’s hands continued to massage her breasts while the other trailed down to tease at her slick folds. Parting them, Sanna moaned when her Mistress finally moved to stroke her thumb delicately over her clit. She easily slipped one finger and then another inside Sanna’s entrance, gliding over her spot slowly. Too slowly. She pressed her thumb to Sanna’s clit again and worked it at a steady and deliberate pace.

“Thank you for using your words little thrall. You know you can always tell me to stop at any time with you safe word, don’t you?”

Sanna nodded.

“And what is your safe word, Pet?”

“Apple,” she whispered breathlessly. Sanna was trying not to move, not to squirm to get more friction on her clit.

“Good girl. We’re learning right now, you and I, where your limits are. In time, and with your enthusiastic consent, I’ll help you stretch yourself beyond those limits. To be the best thrall, the best bed slave, the best servant and companion you can be. And then we will see what you are truly capable of, won’t we Pet?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“My good, obedient little Pet. You’ll make me proud of you, won’t you?”

“Yes Mistress.”

Sanna bit her lip to hold back a whine. Her Mistress’s words –and fingers– were making her want more, but she also wanted to prove herself. To obey.

Loki touched one of the clamps. “I think it’s time to remove them, don’t you? The truly fascinating thing about clamps is that the real pain comes when they’re removed. Wouldn’t you agree Pet?”

Loki had eased the clamp off Sanna’s right breast as she spoke.

Sanna gasped as the blood came rushing back to her nipple. She stared at her Mistress– open mouthed– shocked at the sensation. There was pain, but that wasn’t all she felt. She didn’t know how to describe the feeling. Unconsciously, she clenched tight around her Mistress’s fingers. She was breathing hard and could only watch as her Mistress leaned forward to take the aching bud in her mouth and begin to suck. Sanna made a gasping, keening sound. She clenched hard around her Mistress’s fingers and began to shake.

“Mistress! I’m going to cum!” she croaked out.

Loki’s mouth came off her Pet’s nipple with a wet pop. Her thumb stilled on her Pet’s clit but she kept her fingers moving slowly and softly.

“Not yet Pet. We’re no where near the end of your edging. Remember, you can use your safeword at any time and we will stop.”

Sanna felt tears sting her eyes as she nodded. She watched, knowing what was coming, as her Mistress reached for the other clamp. She began to whimper before her Mistress had even touched it, bracing herself for the sensation. Tears fell down her cheeks as the clamp was released. She cried out again as her Mistress took her breast in her mouth, this time massaging it with her tongue instead of sucking. Stroking her clit and spot until Sanna was begging to cum, only to pull back at the last moment.

Over and over again, Loki used pain and pleasure to bring her Pet to the edge only to pull back and soothe her with praise and gentle touches before starting again.

Sanna slipped into subspace when her Mistress finally let her cum. She collapsed forward to rest her head on Loki’s shoulder. She didn’t notice when her hands were released or feel herself being shifted around and cradled on her Mistress’s lap. Loki summoned a warm, wet cloth with her seidr to clean them both.

“Good girl,” Loki whispered. “I’m so proud of you, my darling Pet.”

She lifted the girl with ease and carried her to the bedchamber. Loki set her down on the bed gently and pulled a light blanket out of one of the storage chests in the room. She covered her Pet, gently wrapping her in the blanket before lying next to her. She spoke soft, soothing words of praise in between kisses to her Pet’s face. Loki left her side only briefly to let the servant in with their evening meal before returning to her efforts to coax her Pet back to reality.