#a man with a fire beard looming

[ode-to-melpomene]

Stray

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Jason doesn't believe in good intentions. Word Count: 2313 Warnings: Stalking, but no ill intent. Minor depictions of gore and injuries.

The first time Jason saw you, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Enamored was too strong a word to describe the way his gaze followed your figure far below him. Captivated, maybe? Yes, captivated by the nervous way you sidled into Crime Alley, moving like an anxious cat as you hugged the wall and kept to the shadows. Skittish, and clinging tightly to the box in your hands as if it might grow legs and run away.

He watched you closely from his perch on a fire escape. The nearby flickering neon light cast a glow over you and the dirty street. Your breath fogged in front of your face.

Jason climbed to the edge of the fire escape, then stepped off onto a windowsill. He moved across the face of the building that way, clinging to sturdy drain pipes and window ledges as he loomed over you. You turned right onto an open street, and his brows furrowed beneath his helmet.

His eyes narrowed when you scampered across the open street and towards a dilapidated overhang that shadowed the entrance to an abandoned building. That was a squatter house, one he frequented on his patrols. Pretty bird in his territory, clothes too nice for this part of Gotham… what were you doing here?

His question was answered when the door to the building swung open with an echoing creek. A man with a thick beard and a knitted hat met you at the door. The warmth of a fire inside the building backlit him, obscuring his scowl.

You outstretched the box in your arms to the taciturn old man. He pulled back the cardboard flaps and looked inside, delivering a curt nod of approval in response. He snatched the box from you unceremoniously and quickly shut the door to the biting cold and your lingering gaze.

It was beginning to snow when you stepped out from under the building's cover. You rubbed your hands up and down your arms, then scampered back across the street and hid in the shadows once again. Jason watched you go, unmoving from the ledge he perched on in the darkness. When you were finally out of sight he dropped to the ground.

The light dusting of snow crunched under his boots, turning to dirty slush as he crossed the street. His gloved hand rose to rap against the creaky door. A curse came from inside, followed by shuffling.

The old man opened the door. Red Hood shouldered his way past the man and into the den, lit by the warm glow of fires in metal trash cans. There must have been twenty people inside, three or so up and moving and passing out… blankets?

“Got yourself a new delivery person, Roger?” Red Hood asked as he turned to face the old man, the firelight glinting off his helmet.

The man, Roger, crossed his arms over his chest and glared a bitter, distrustful glower. “That a problem?”

He paused for a beat, glaring at Roger through his helmet. “I need to know who’s coming in and out of the Alley,” Red Hood retorted, a mean scowl hidden on his face. His helmet turned on a swivel, taking in the state of what used to be a restaurant. “Thought I told you not to start fires in here. Don’t want you to get-”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning, yeah, heard you the first fifty times,” the old man answered with a dismissive wave. He moved around Red Hood on achy knees and snatched the now empty cardboard box from the ground. “Not much other options. You saw the snow coming down out there.”

“I won’t let you freeze to death.”

Roger scoffed and tossed the box into one of the makeshift fire pits. The flames sputtered a weak ‘thank you’ and hungrily consumed the cardboard. “Look, kid. We appreciate the bravado, but you can’t help all of us.”

Red Hood huffed out an angry breath. “I can’t clean up the Alley if-”

“You can’t clean it up at all,” the old man snapped, catching Jason off guard. He ground his teeth together when Roger turned away and marched across the open room. Jason followed close behind, teeth digging into his cheek. “It’s just how things are, kid. You’re too wrapped up in this filthy cesspool as is. We can’t exactly afford to repay you.”

Jason halted beside a fire pit. Roger froze several steps ahead of him, sensing the vigilante’s hesitation, and turned back to him with a raised brow.

“That goes for your delivery person, too?”

Roger shrugged and buried his hands in his coat pockets, chasing away the burning pink that blossomed across his cold fingers. “You’re not the first one I’ve told to not bother. It’s nothin’ malicious, I’d reckon, but self satisfaction is still a hell of a drug.”

Jason’s knuckles were bloody beneath his gloves the next time he saw you. 

The canvas of his gloves rubbed the split skin raw each time he opened and closed his fist. His eyes were wild beneath his helmet, darting across the rooftop he stood on for any other signs of life–well, life beyond the one figure who seemed to still be struggling to breath. The man leaned against the wall, face bloody, hand pressed over his abdomen, eyes closed. He looked better off than his companions.

Drug dealers. Jason lifted his helmet high enough to spit on the corpse a few feet from him, the rapidly dissipating heat of the pooling blood steaming up the cold night air. Served them right, he told himself.

It was when he looked down at the street below, gauging the drop, that his gaze zeroed in on you. A familiar figure weaving through the shadows. Your gait was burned into his memory. He knew it was you, despite the thick wool shawl wrapped around your head and shoulders to protect from the biting wind. Another box in your arms.

Jason stepped to the ledge with narrowed eyes. What were you doing this time, so close to the center of the most crime-ridden district of Gotham? The tips of your boots kicked up dirty, slushy snow, piled an inch thick on the scarcely used backroad. He walked along the ledge, following you from easily fifty feet above. His shadow fell in behind yours, looming like a wolf behind an unsuspecting lamb.

You turned left. Left, towards the red light district side of town. Jason scoffed and hopped down from the ledge, his boots crunching on gravel–if you wanted to get yourself killed, that was your own prerogative. You didn’t belong in Crime Alley anyway. Not his problem.

Jason carefully tugged on the gloved tips of each finger, slowly releasing the fabric. With a grunt, he yanked the canvas and shook his hand at the sting. His broad, scarred hands were dappled with bruises along his knuckles. Green met red in tender circles, purple blooming at the peaks of his bones. He clenched his fist, watching the skin split along the ridges, crimson rapidly filling the valley. The damage wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. His fingers pried open the glove, surveying the inside. Maybe he should invest in some gloves with better lining…

He twisted to look over his shoulder, lower back popping twice at the change in angle. He was stiff, his broad shoulders sore. And yet, he held that angle as he stared down the side street he knew would only spell more trouble tonight. He’d already accomplished what he intended for the evening. It was risky to stay out any later. Who knew what sharks were lurking in the waters?

But…

Jason turned forward again as he tugged his glove back on, stretching his fingers inside the rough material. His hands were so cold he hardly noticed the sting against his knuckles. Snow touched the black fabric, held steadfast for a moment, then melted away. He watched a perfect snowflake, fully intact, touch down on his glove in one instant and fade away in the next.

He sighed as he turned back to the ledge, stepped up, and jumped.

It didn’t take him long to spot you wedged between a dumpster and a side door that led into a less than reputable strip club. He perched on the ledge of a nearby building with his elbows planted on his knees.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open and a woman stepped out. Blonde, although the color didn’t look natural, with lips that color of his helmet and strappy heels to match. A pink beaded corset, and a feather boa wrapped around her shoulders. The woman stepped into the alleyway and unceremoniously dropped against the brick wall a few inches from you.

Jason narrowed his eyes as he watched you try to pass the box to the woman. She waved dismissively and instead pulled out a pack of cigarettes from where she held it tucked under her arm. A lighter was snatched from the edge of her corset and quickly replaced when the cigarette between her teeth was lit. She stared through heavy lashes at the cherry red end, took a drag, and began to speak.

The dancer talked for several minutes, taking periodic drags of the cigarette between words. She occasionally tipped her head towards you, gauging your reaction despite the thick shawl that obscured your face. She laughed in response to something you said, then dropped the butt of the cigarette and stomped out the light.

You tried to hand her the box again and this time the blonde woman accepted. She hefted it into her arms and balanced it on one as she rifled through the contents. Jason scowled when she withdrew a soup can and presented it to you with a wide smile and a giddy laugh. She replaced the soup can and used her free hands to pat your veiled cheek affectionately.

Then she was gone, back into the shadowy, smoke-filled club. You stood by yourself outside the door, hands limp at your sides as you stared at the door. You looked so small.

Jason’s heart stopped when you turned on your heel and looked right at him. Your eyes scaled the building slowly, almost as if you were tracing his shadow until you finally settled on him with a weighted stare. A predator’s stare. Jason wasn’t used to feeling like prey.

His skin crawled, and the feeling stuck even when you turned from him and stomped through the growing piles of dirty snow back the way you came. His heart thundered in his chest as he watched you drag your heels through the slush.

Jason followed. He knew he shouldn’t, but curiosity wormed itself deep between his ribs and egged him on. He walked along the ledge above you, no longer feeling like a wolf tailing a lamb. Suspicion brewed–sure, maybe you were just being a kind person, if there even was such a thing… but how often did people spot him like that?

So, he followed, despite the way it made his teeth grind and his skin itch. Jason kept the shadows, leaping from rooftop to rooftop and scaling walls while you skittishly meandered through the streets of Gotham. Your stride shortened when you finally exited Crime Alley. The warm glow of cleaner streets blanketed you in a golden haze.

Jason jolted from his thoughts when you climbed the steps of a brownstone apartment building, your cold hands fumbling at the door knob for just a moment before you slipped inside.

So that was it. You were gone, snatched from his vision as quickly as the snowflakes that melted on his jacket. He knew he should leave, that his hunt was over… so why did he stay rooted in place?

Jason found his answer when a light flicked on in a fifth story window. Warm, golden light slipped from your window invitingly. He wondered… Jason crouched on the balcony he stood on. Yes, he could see inside. It was a sparsely decorated apartment that hardly looked lived in, a simple sofa against one wall and a foldable table with three chairs in the center of the living room.

His skin crawled.

He flinched when you reappeared, your hands carefully unwinding the thick scarf from around your head and shoulders. He was right, you were the person he had seen before. He recognized the downturn of the corners of your mouth and the crinkle in your brow as you toed your boots off.

Enamored, maybe. Yes, enamored was the right way to describe how his eyes greedily followed you shucking your coat. Enamored by the way you dropped it on the floor without a care. Enamored by the way your nails raked your scalp and your lips split in a yawn.

Sullen when you once again disappeared from view.

Jason’s mind screamed at him to move. This wasn’t something he should be watching–this was a private, domestic moment for your eyes, not his. He was no better than the men he put down.

And yet his heart raced when you reappeared. You opened the window that led to your fire escape, heat fogging up the chilly air. The curtains around the window drifted around you in the subtle, crisp breeze. Jason watched you with bated breath as you turned, bent down, and gathered something in your hands.

His brows furrowed in confusion as you held a mug of some steaming liquid in each hand. You took a sip of one, then set the other down on the ledge outside the window.

The window slid shut with a deafening click, and you disappeared. The golden lights of your apartment were snuffed out minutes later.

The steam wafting from the mug eventually faded. Jason remained frozen in place.

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

[the-californicationist]

he lets you watch

When you overhear Captain Price watching porn in his office, you decide to turn his fantasies into a reality.

Link to AO3

MDNI/18+

TW: femdom, gagging, one slap

You were working late. Again. It was the most frustrating part of any operation: recon review. All the footage collected from all the soldiers’ body cams had to be reviewed and documented. Any dialogue? Syntactically tagged. Any shots fired? Counted. Any kills? Confirmed. You were glad to help the team, but this stage of discovery was dreadfully boring. 

Even worse, your new-found crush on your captain was driving you insane. To be honest, you’d had your eye on him for a while. There was something about a man in charge, but it was when this last set of footage came through that you really went off the deep end. 

Price had gone with Gaz into a warehouse that was suspected of housing enemy munitions, and the captain had uncovered crates and crates of target-marking spray paint. Huge canisters that attached to the bottoms of planes were all stuck in little rows, lined up and ready to use. 

Unfortunately for the captain, one of the canisters was propped open on the top of its box, and when he lifted the lid, he got covered in red dye. You watched it explode, covering the camera, and then when it reconnected, there he was. Shirtless. Down to his boxer briefs. Wiping red dye off of himself with his clothes. Gaz had brought a full kit, so Price was changing out, hoping to stay covert and camouflaged in the clean gear. Couldn’t well be a glowing red dot while trying to escape enemy territory. 

His chest was broad and full of dense, dark hair, laying flat like soft fur, untrimmed and natural. His beard was streaked red, and half his face was painted, making him look like an ancient Celt, ready for brutal highland battles and bedding willing lassies. He was frustrated by his accident, so all of his movements were sharp and aggressive, his muscles raging and wrestling against his skin. Then, he moved closer to the camera, and the bulge in his underwear became glaringly apparent. 

Hung. Thick. Not so long that it was out of place, but heavy. His cock was imposing, and when he readjusted himself, you could see how dense the muscle really was. You couldn’t help but pause the film, staring, in glorious 4k. You nearly had to wipe the drool from your mouth. 

Price looked so confident here. He was always self-assured, but sometimes, when you spoke with him, there was something that he was holding back. Some shyness perhaps, maybe just a reserved nature, but not here. Not in his livid rage, he was like a wounded beast - angry and virile. Full of righteous energy. It made you imagine making him come undone in other ways, in the ways a woman was meant to make a beast like that come apart at the seams. Ripping the constricting threads and freeing the hulking creature looming within. 

Now, he was sitting in his office, right next to yours, and he’d started watching footage of his own. Or, at least, you thought that he was watching the cams…until you heard a woman’s salacious moan penetrate the thin wall between you. 

Your eyes grew wide, and your breath caught in your chest. You sat in the silence of your office, hearing your heart pound in your ears. You waited to hear it again, just to be sure.

Then, a very quiet, 

“You wanna come?”

You let out the breath you’d been holding. It wooshed from you like a wave crashing against miles and miles of sand. 

Something snapped, some darkness possessed you. You found yourself standing, walking toward the door to his office. It was so late, everyone else had turned in. Just you and him in the west hall of the base awake. He never slept, it seemed. A night owl like you. 

You opened his door without knocking. You’d never done that before, and objectively, it was a truly insane choice. 

In your mind, his hand had lingered when he took his cup of coffee from your hands. In your imagination, he’d cocked a sly smile when you made a joke, just between you and him. You thought you’d seen him checking out your ass in the gym. But, you didn’t have any real proof. 

Popping open his door was the equivalent of pulling the trigger on a bazooka. 

He stood, caught like a fox in a snare, his chair clattering as you came into the room and shut the door behind you quickly. 

“Sergeant, uh,” he recovered, “What happened?”

“Captain.” 

It was a full sentence. And, it was all you had. You were finished. 

The video was still playing. The lurid slapping of skin on skin. Her over-acted moans, his ritual panting. Every few seconds, you counted three, there was another soft,

“You like that, daddy?”

You smiled. He turned red, just like he’d been painted again. 

“Sergeant, I was just…”

He paused the movie. Then, with his body, with the hand roughly rubbing down his face, with the palm tightly covering his mouth, he said a million other words. He was still pink with shame, and then he laughed,

“Yeah, no. I was ‘bout to have a wank. Not sure why I was trying to make you believe otherwise, love. Sorry. It’s too loud?”

You smiled wider. His genuine honesty was so smooth and effortless. A thief caught with his hands in the cookie jar, begging you to punish him for it. 

“No,” you shook your head, “Just wanted to see what you were watching.”

He didn’t register what you said at first, still staring down at his boots. Then, realization washed over him and he looked up at you, eyes shining, brows arched.

“Oh? That so?”

You nodded,

“Let me see what’s got you up so late.”

The captain rubbed a big, calloused hand across his mouth, smoothing his beard, a bit nervous. Then, he pulled a chair around and motioned for you to sit beside him. You sat. He sat. He hit play. 

A woman was straddling a man, both of them hairless and slick like brand new Barbie dolls, spray-tan orange and bleach-blond hair. Americans. She was riding his larger than average dick slowly, deliberately slow, edging him with her pussy. She had a hand around his throat, grasping his jaw tightly, pushing his head back. He was tied to the chair, straining against it, clearly desperate as he writhed beneath her, fighting his restraints. 

“Please, baby. Please, let me come?” He begged. 

“You wanna come, daddy?” She teased. 

“Yeah, can I come?” He begged. 

“Ah-ah! I don’t think so…” She teased. 

Begging. Teasing. Begging. Teasing. A vicious, uncontrollable cycle of cruelty on her part, always pulling the proverbial carrot farther and farther from his snapping jaws. 

You turned to Price who was watching, rapt. He noticed you staring at him. Before he turned to face you, he smiled, sighing,

“Sometimes, when you’re the one barking orders all day, it’d be nice to turn your head off and follow someone else’s for a change.”

“You could follow my orders,” some psychotic part of you spoke. 

He gripped the side of the chair, his once-relaxed hands now making the cheap aluminum frame creak and pop. 

“What’d you say, Sergeant?”

“You heard me, Captain,” you didn’t know if you should call an exorcist or what. Who was this version of yourself and how quickly was she going to get you court martialed?

“You think you can order me around?”

You leaned in, close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath, Cuban cigars leaving earthy notes of vanilla and licorice behind. You whispered,

“I know I can.”

He breathed out, his exhale caressing your lips, threatening to kiss you. 

You didn’t move. Not a muscle. You locked eyes with him, 

“Sit on your hands, Captain.”

“Sergeant,” he tried to kiss you, but you pulled away quickly. 

Part of your body screamed at you, wondering why you’d avoid his advances, but your mind knew what he wanted. He needed to lose control. For a man like Price to lose it, it must be taken from him. Forcibly. 

“I said sit... on... them,” you sneered, making yourself larger by standing over him, placing your hands on his thighs to press into his skin. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, patronizing and light-hearted. It made you want to break him of that habit. Of thinking you were just his sergeant. Just the girl who brought him coffee. Just his gym buddy. 

He still hadn’t complied, chuckling to himself. Out of no where, you straight up fucking slapped him. Hard. Right across the jaw. Grabbing him by the collar,

“Sit on your fucking hands, soldier. That’s an order,” you barked. 

He sat on his hands, staring at you like you had doused yourself in gasoline and caught yourself on fire, in awe.

You pushed his chair back until you had room to move in front of him, and you began peeling off your clothes, one by one. Your shirt, your cargos, your bra, your panties; they all ended up on the floor, leaving you naked and touching yourself lazily, letting your hands wander. 

He moved to lift his hands off his seat, wanting to touch, so you backed away from him. It was a warning: move and this ends. Follow my orders, and I’ll stay. He settled back down. 

“You know, I should punish you for slapping me, Sergeant. That’s insubordination,” he chided, trying to regain control of the situation. 

You took your panties off the ground and found the wet stain he’d caused, showing it to him coyly, like you’d picked up a pretty shell from the beach. It gleamed in the light of his desk lamp. Then, you walked over to him, swaying your hips, and bent down as if to kiss him. 

As he opened his mouth to kiss you back, you pushed your panties into it, past his teeth, clutching at his jaw with the other hand as roughly as you could, knowing you couldn’t hurt him. You shushed his surprised noises, putting a finger to his lip,

“Shh, Captain. That’s enough. You’re not in charge anymore, are you?”

He furrowed his brow as if he would fight back, as if he would remove his hands and teach you a lesson. Then, as he tasted you on his tongue, he realized that you were offering prizes for obedience. He would reap the rewards, if he was willing to play along. His face softened, and he shook his head no. 

“Good boy,” you whispered. 

You kissed his mouth, awkwardly, since it was full of your wet panties, there was little he could do except experience your kisses. He reacted as if he wanted to kiss you back, and as you moved to kiss his jawline, he moaned. 

Price’s moans were rumbling and deep, long and low like a bull elephant’s roar. You wanted to drag that noise out of him again. Your hand found his belt buckle, and you rugged at it, willing it to loosen. As you kissed his neck, you drug down his zipper and freed his cock from the fabric. 

The captain was not soft. If anything, he was harder than he should’ve been for a little teasing and some neck kisses. You decided to use that to his disadvantage,

“My, my, my. Someone’s eager…”

You tugged up and down with length in a long, languid massage, feeling how his foreskin slipped over the head and down the shaft, smooth and supple. He was hairy around the root of his cock, just as you’d hoped, and after seeing the video of him covered in paint, you wished you could strip him down and run your fingernails through his chest hair, delicately scratching his skin and peaked nipples. 

For now, you spit on his cockhead, using it as lube as you rubbed him. He threw his head back in ecstasy. You removed your hand. He snapped back to attention, staring at you a bit desperate for relief. 

You giggled, 

“Is this for me, or for her?”

Pointing over your shoulder, you motioned to the paused video. You took your hand away, feigning hurt feelings.

His body arched toward you, missing your touch, and he shook his head, trying to say something. 

“For her? How disappointing,” you pouted, playing with the head of his cock with one finger, drawing circles around the edge. 

Price was saying something muffled through the fabric of your panties, shaking his head, scooting his chair closer with a quick thrust of his hips, making his cock flag from the jolting movement. 

“You know,” you whispered, drawing him in with your quiet tone, “if this was for me, I’d really be looking forward to feeling it inside of me.”

“Mmm. Mm, mm!” He tried to correct you, his shoulders straining as he pulled them forward, struggling against his self-imposed restraint. 

“Oh?” You caressed his face, rubbing your hand through his soft beard, feeling the stubble on his chin, “It is for me after all?”

“Mm hm,” he nodded, leaning his cheek into your palm, eyes hooded with relief. 

You could tell he was enjoying the game. You were enjoying it, too. You could feel how wet you were, watching him gaze at your shining folds hungry. Impatient. 

“In that case…” you straddled him, planting your knees on either side of his hips, trapping his cock between you both. His body felt warm, and his breathing was labored. 

You rubbed your wetness up and down his shaft, spreading yourself along his length, making wet little sounds as you smeared him until he was slippery. 

Carefully, you moved his head into your eager pussy, your walls pounding for him like a heartbeat. Then, you held his throat with your hand, forcing him to look at you. 

“You don’t get to come until I tell you to. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Mm, hm,” he nodded, rolling in the ecstasy of your tight cunt. 

“Good, boy.”

[alsanderecho]

Tales of San Derecho: The Portrait (Part 1)

"Why do we have to hang that old portrait here, Karl?"

"We don't have much of choice, Jason. It has to hang in one of the fraternities or else the university loses a huge endowment..."

"But that old man is pretty creepy."

Karl Sanderson couldn't really disagree with his fellow fraternity brother. The portrait of the late Walter J. Truman showed a silver-bearded man of later years, dressed in a dark suit. His clear blue eyes seemed to be passing judgment on anyone who looked at him too long. He shuddered unconsciously.

"I know, but it's only temporary. A few weeks at most."

The dean of the university had been quite insistent that portrait needed to go up in Gamma Alpha Epsilon's main room. It had been one of the few things recovered from the fire that destroyed the frat house it had previously been in. That the dean had also strongly hinted that this wasn't a request that ΓΑΕ could refuse, unless it wanted to be blamed for costing the school millions of dollars in funding.

"I hope so, Karl. It's really gonna be awkward in here until it's gone."

Jason Chang looked down at his smart watch, seeing a rainbow colored alarm going off.

"Hey, we gotta get ready. The girls from Delta Iota Kappa will be here soon to duscuss our plans to protest at the Governor's speech tomorrow afternoon..."

The gay fraternity members turned and left the room, not noticing that the man in the painting's expression has grown considerably more dour. A flash of something sparkled in his cold blue eyes...

==========

During the meeting, someone brought up the new decoration in the ΓΑΕ house. Carl wasn't sure who, but it quickly became a very hostile topic. In particular, the president of Delta Iota Kappa, Sandra Lake, had some very choice words about the late Mr. Truman.

"That old pig was not only homophovbic but massively misogynistic! I heard they only allowed women to be awarded scholarships when he finally died!"

Carl nodded slightly, as he'd heard the stories from some of the professors over in the Social Sciences department.

"It really sucks that bastard of a Dean stuck you all with that painting. I mean, it looks like the old goat is judging us or something!"

And it was true that Truman looked out very harshly from the painting, those cold blue eyes staring at the gathered students. Of course, it was still a shock when Sandra threw her soda at the portrait, the sticky drink dripping down the glass that protected the canvas.

"Sandra!"

"What, Karl? He deserves it! Hell, the Governor deserves the same!"

After that outburst, the meeting really broke up. They all knew whst thry were doing tomorrow anyway. The fraternity members went back to their rooms, while the ΔΙΚ girls left. However, Carl escorted Sandra outside personally, as he has something to say to her.

"I get that you have real issues with the history of this university, Sandra. But I think that was a bit out of line."

"Maybe, Karl. But it sure felt good to do it though. Just like it's gonna be tomorrow at the protest!"

The frat president could only shrug in agreement. He and Sandra were very different people. He preferred to talk things out, while she was all about taking action.

==========

Sometime later when Karl woke up, he was surprised to find himself on the couch in the main room. His memory was fuzzy, but he swore he'd gone upstairs after his chat with Sandra. But then his eyes locked onto the portrait of Walter J. Truman, as it seemed to loom larger on the wall.

Those eyes…it's like they can see right through me…

The Midwest-born president of Gamma Alpha Epsilon shook his head. He was letting himself get spooked by a painting. Yeah, he knew that Truman had been a big mover and shaker here in San Derecho decades ago, but Sandra had had a point earlier. His time was past. So what if the university was funded by his money? That didn't mean he had to agree with the dead man's well documented bigotry against gay people.

Standing up, Karl took a long look at himself in a mirror hanging on another wall in the room. His normally well styled sandy blonde hair was a mess, a proper nest of bed head. He ran his hand through it, but his eyes suddenly noticed something was off with his clothes…

The fuck…

He was sure he'd changed into a set of old comfy pajamas, but now he was wearing a pair of oversized khaki shorts with a dark red polo shirt. The whole outfit hung loose on his thin body. He squinted a little, his vision blurry until he took off his glasses, not yet realizing his vision was now a perfect 20/20.

On the right side of the polo shirt was the Greek letters ΜΑΝ. His mind surprisingly knew it stood for Mu Alpha Nu. But there wasn't any fraternity called that on campus, right? At least, he was sorta sure there wasn't.

Suddenly, Karl felt a tightness in his stomach, and dropped to one knee. It felt like someone had slugged him out of the blue, so he lifted the polo shirt to see what had happened. His abs were now very prominent, a six pack you could grind meat on.

"This isn't right…brah…"

His panic at the sight meant when his pecs surged forward with mass, Karl was caught off guard and fell back onto the couch. Tossing and turning, his body began to swell with muscle, even as his Midwest accent began to mix with very chill "bro" lingo.

Inside Karl's mind, he was struggling with new thoughts invading his mind. Memories of wild parties slipped in as his knowledge of the law and progressive causes fell away. He was straining now to remember why that stuff was more important than hanging with his frat brothers.

"Like, duuuuude…"

As he stood up, there were several faint popping sounds from his spine, as his height climbed up almost half a foot. The polo shirt was clinging pretty tightly to his rather swole body, the khaki shorts doing nothing to hide that this BRO never missed a leg day. He looked up at the painting again, his jaw widening into a rather cocky smile.

"Wassup, old man? Like what you see?"

But those words struck him as very inappropriate, even as a joke. After all the founder of this fraternity wouldn't ever look at another man like that. EVER. Bros don't do bros!

His now tremendous feet slapped down on the floor as he turned to look around the room. On the left was a massive built-in bar, with racks of bottles and glasses.

"SWEET! Looks like we restocked after that last party…"

As a new tan settled over his skin, Carl Anderson was focused on getting himself a brewski, sliding to his usual spot in front of the frat's private bar. 

His favorite pair of shades dropped over his now cool blue eyes, as the sound system sprang to life. The thumping beats began to reverberate through the whole house, and into the sleeping members of Gamma Alpha Epsilon, starting their own transformations into the brothers of Mu Alpha Nu...

=============

Outside of the house, the Greek letters of the fraternity that hung next to the front door were shifting in time to the beat inside from ΓΑΕ into ΜΑΝ. In the back, the fraternity's carefully maintained garden was ripped apart by brick and mortar as a huge bruck barbecue sprung up. There was a loud pop as an extra large jacuzzi dropped into place where a fountain had been. Strings of cheap lights dropped themselves across the now dryed out trees and began flashing in sync with the rhythm of the music.

Back inside, the eyes of the portrait had returned to a neutral state, almost pleased with the changes it had wrought so far. But its power wasn't limited to this building, having found another victim not to long ago...

==========

Sandra Lake, president of the Delta Iota Kappa sorority had taken a slightly longer walk back to their house. A trail of cigarette stubs followed the outspoken lesbian. She'd wanted to be alone for awhile, her mind on that awful portrait back at the ΓΑΕ house.

Truth be told, she'd heard a lot of rumours about it than she'd been willing talk about at the protest meeting. Like how it had passed from fraternity to fraternity, each changed by their time with it. It sounded like just some mumbo jumbo, but seeing the item in person, she somehow knew that wasn't actually the case

She shuddered slightly, not realizing that she was about to experience those rumours first hand. Her outburst earlier had drawn the portrait's attention and its influence began to work its power on her.

As she walked, Sandra's very masculine wardrobe began to change, her baggy flannel shirt and well- worn blue jeans shifting and warping into something more appropriate for her new self. The flannel became a dark pink zip-up baseball jacket while underneath, her plain white t-shirt became a hot pink crop top against which her now d-cup breasts pressed outward to command attention, where the Greek letters for Beta Alpha Epsilon were now streched across them. Her now tight low-rise jeans hugged her juicy heart-shaped rear as a black thong nestled between her full and round cheeks which peeked over her jeans.

Her hard-edged face disappeared under a layer of cosmetics that served to emphasize her plump red lips and high cheek bones. Dull brown eyes soon dazzled into clear blue. The dry brown hair she'd had trimmed into a tight buzz cut flowed outward in an explosion of shiny blonde that came down to her back. Her engineer boots began twisting themselves into a pair of black sneakers with pink accents.

Inside her mind, Sandra's thoughts of fun with other girls were being interrupted by a flood of the things she could be doing with some cute guys. She shook her to clear these strange thoughts, but only found herself returning to them. After all, this university had the hottest guys in the country, according to her fave sites on the web. She moaned a little as thoughts of those hot bods welled up from her memories, even as her various lesbian encounters faded.

Other accessories for the blonde bombshell of a sorority sister soon appeared. An old flip-phone became the latest model of Peachtree smartphone, with all sorts of bling decorating its case. Shiny gold bracelets wrapped around her wrists, as bejeweled rings slid onto her thin fingers. The tips of her pink nails were adorned with a single fake diamond.

Chewing on the bubblegum that had appeared in her mouth, Shondra Waters, the president of the soon to be formed Beta Alpha Epsilon approached the doors of the Delta Iota Kappa sorority house. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the place before pushing her way inside.

As the doors swung closed behind her, the first insults to her once-fellow lesbians spilled out of the hyper-hetero slut's mouth and began to spread the influence of the portrait. It wouldn't be too long before this sorority became Beta Alpha Epsilon, as evidenced by the Greek letters ΔΙΚ on the sign outside of the building which began twisting into ΒΑΕ...

//////////////

The first part of a sub-series for San Derecho. It's based on some old CYOC stories I did, but reworked to fit into this world. I hope to have more in the future, as we see the transformations of others at the fraternity and the sorority. The images in this story were AI generated, but the text was not.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S1 Epilogue-S2 prologue

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 99: Epilogue-Prologue

AO3 - Masterlist

I will not fail you.

Fenrick lay stretched out by the fire, feeling the rough weave of his cloak beneath him and the faint warmth of the flames at his side. Above, the night sky stretched endlessly, the stars cold and bright against a velvet blackness, their light sharp and distant like the glint of steel.

The forest around him was deep and quiet, the kind of silence that carried weight, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. The trees loomed close, their branches entwining overhead to form a canopy so dense that only scattered patches of starlight broke through, dappling the ground in a pale, ghostly glow.

The air was thick with the earthy scents of pine and moss, mingling with the faint, woodsy smoke from the fire. Fenrick was two days out from Duskendale, his destination before he would bribe a fishing vessel to ferry him to Dragonstone. The journey had been a tense one, marked by solitude and vigilance. 

The day he had been released from the dungeons of the Red Keep and escaped King’s Landing, played through his mind. The bustling city teemed with eyes, any one of which could betray him. As he had ridden through the crooked streets, a member of the City Watch had approached him–an action that nearly stopped his heart. But the mane merely handed him a folded note with an all too familiar handwriting.

The message had been brief and direct, leading him to an unassuming brothel tucked away in a less-traveled alley. He had hesitated at the threshold, his pride warring with necessity. He’d never set foot in such a place and wouldn’t have under any other circumstances.The madame had greeted him with a knowing smile, her sharp eyes appraising him. She had said nothing, only gestured for him to follow. The back room she had led him to was simple, with a cracked mirror and a basin of water. 

There, Fenrick had shaved his beard–which had been a defining gesture for years–and his hair cropped short. The madame had handed him a threadbare set of clothing, far removed from his usual attire–worn, patched, and meant to pass him off as a man of no standing. His own attire was given to another man with the same color skin as his own, dark eyes and hair, with a thick beard. 

By the time he left the whorehouse, he was a different man. 

Finan had arranged for him to board a cart headed out of the city, the kind used to transport goods and unlikely to draw attention. He had sat in the back, hidden among barrels and sacks, his sword concealed beneath the folds of his new clothes. When the cart had reached the outskirts, they stopped in a quiet groove. There, a horse awaited him, saddled and stocked with supplies, along with a modest pouch of coin. 

Since then, Fenrick had been on the road, always moving, always wary. The fear of being followed keeping him vigilant, his eyes wary of every passing traveler. He kept to the quieter paths, avoiding towns and larger roads where questions might arise. 

Tonight was the first time Fenrick had truly allowed himself to stop. He’d built a small, crackling fire, its faint warmth a feeble shield against the creeping chill of the night. The flames danced, casting flickering light on the surrounding forest, their glow barely penetrating the deep shadows between the trees. Overhead, the canopy shifted and sighed, leaves rustling softly in the light breeze as though whispering secrets to the stars.

The ground beneath him was hard and unforgiving, the cold seeping through his thin bedroll and the worn cloak he had wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the ache of his journey in his bones. The air carried the unmistakable bite of the changing season, crisp and sharp, a reminder that summer had truly ended.

Fenrick exhaled slowly, his breath misting faintly in the firelight, and pulled the cloak closer, trying to ward off the encroaching cold. The night was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire or the distant rustle of the forest. It was a stillness that should have brought peace, but instead it left him restless, his mind turning over thoughts of what lay ahead–and the memories of what he had left behind.

He thought of Daenera and Patrick. 

Their faces lingered in his mind, a bitter ache that refused to fade. His chest tightened as she recalled the boy–his cries still ringing in his ears. Patrick had clung to him with desperate strength, screaming for the guards to stop, screaming at Fenrick not to leave him. His small hands had grasped at Fenrick’s clothes, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. But there had been no choice. He had to go, no matter how much it tore at him. 

And then there was Daenera. Her face lingered in his mind with relentless clarity, tormenting him during every moment of his imprisonment. It was her that had kept him awake at night, worry and regret gnawing at him like the rats in the dungeon that swarmed whenever he stayed still for too long. He should have done more. He should have insisted.

He cursed himself for his inaction, for his failure to protect her. He should have forced Daemon and Rhaenyra to take her back with them immediately, regardless of the cost. He should have told them everything–the whispers he’d overheard, the suspicions that coiled in his gut like venomous snakes. But he hadn’t. He had kept his mouth shut, fearing her reproach to the betrayal should he have said anything, and in doing so, he had left her exposed to the dangers he’d feared the most. 

Aemond. The Kinslayer. The thought of him filled Fenrick with cold fury, a bitterness that clenched his jaw and burned in his chest. He’d seen the way Aemond looked at her, a predator circling its prey. Fenrick should have taken action then, should have stopped him. And now, that hesitation felt like a betrayal all its own. 

He would have betrayed her again if it meant saving her. He would have faced any consequence, shouldered any guilt, and bared his neck for her fury, if it could have ensured her safety. The cost meant nothing compared to keeping her away from him and his family.

The leaves above whispered softly in the gentle breeze, their rustling a delicate, almost lilting cadence that filled the forest with an air of quiet solitude. The world around him was shrouded in stillness, broken only by the occasional beat of wings or the distant scurry of unseen creatures. In these moments, deep into the night when the fire was roaring with life, Fenrick allowed his thoughts to drift where he rarely let them go: to Joyce.

Her name lingered in his mind like a faint melody, bittersweet and haunting. He could almost see her, the way her laughter had lit up the dullest days or the way her hair caught the sunlight just so. It was a memory he both cherished and avoided, a fragment of a life that now felt impossibly distant–a life that had never really been. When he thought of her, the ache in his chest was sharp, raw. The quiet forest seemed to echo the void she had left behind.

Fenrick leaned back against the makeshift pillow–his satchel– the cool night air brushing against his face. His eyes fixed on the canopy above, where slivers of moonlight filtered through the leaves, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow. He could almost hear her voice, soft and teasing, urging him to let down his guard in a way no one else ever could.

“I always said you brooded too much,” she’d once told him, her tone light but her eyes warm. “One day, all that weight you carry is going to sink you.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips at the memory, but it was fleeting, replaced by the familiar heaviness he’d carried since her absence. He clenched his hands into fists, the rough texture of the dirt beneath his fingers grounding him. He couldn’t afford to dwell on Joyce, not now. Not when every thought of her threatened to unravel the fragile composure he clung to.

His resolve hardened like steel tempered in fire. Justice. He would see it done–for her, for every one of his men who had suffered, and for those who would never again draw breath. 

A sharp crack echoed through the forest, the sound of a branch snapping in the distance breaking the stillness. Fenrick sat up abruptly, his body tense as his eyes scanned the darkness. The shadows between the trees seemed to deepen, shifting and twisting in the flickering firelight as though taunting him. Every instinct told him to stay alert, to trust nothing in this silent, unfamiliar wilderness.

His hand found the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around the worn leather grip as his heartbeat quickened, pounding a steady rhythm in his ears. He strained to hear past the fire’s soft crackle, his breath shallow as he focused on the distant sound. The forest gave nothing away, the silence now heavy and oppressive, as if it were waiting for something.

His horse, a plain brown mare tethered nearby, shifted uneasily. Her hooves stamped against the ground with soft, irritated thuds, her head tossing as she huffed in agitation. Fenrick’s eyes flicked toward her, noting her flaring nostrils and the tension in her posture. She sensed something–or someone–nearby.

Lowering himself onto his knees with deliberate care, Fenrick pulled his sword partway from its scabbard. The faint scrape of steel against leather sounded loud in the quiet night, and the weight of the blade in his hand brought a grim sort of reassurance. His awareness prickled, every nerve on edge as he listened, watched, and waited, his gaze fixed on the shifting darkness beyond the firelight.

“Who goes there?” Fenrick called out, his voice firm, cutting through the stillness of the forest. 

“We mean no harm,” came the reply, calm but edged with caution. The voice belonged to a man who stepped slowly out of the shadows, the crunch of leaves underfoot betraying his approach. His hands were raised in a gesture of surrender as he pressed forward. He stopped just at the edge of the firelight, his face partially illuminated, the rest still cloaked in darkness. 

Fenrick rose to his feet, his sword scraping further free of the scabbard. The blade glinted in warning. His eyes darted towards the darkness beyond, scanning the shifting shadows, his unease sharpening at the man’s choice of words. 

“We?” He echoed, his voice colder now, edged with suspicion. His grip tightened on the hilt, the muscles in his forearm tensing as he prepared for anything. The forest was too quiet, the firelight too narrow to reveal the answers he sought. Somewhere out there, he knew, there were others, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down until he saw them–and understood their intent. 

Another branch snapped. The first man’s gaze shifted to the side, his head tilting, and Fenrick instinctively followed it. From the opposite edge of the firelight, another figure emerged–a boy, no older than twenty. He moved hesitantly, his steps cautious as his wide, wary eyes flicked between Fenrick and the man who had spoken first. The boy looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. 

“We only wish to warm ourselves by the fire,” the first man said, his tone smooth, almost too casual. He took a step forward, but briefly stopped when Fenrick turned his full attention on him, his piercing gaze halting the man in his tracks. His hand remained steady on the hilt of his sword. 

The man’s lips quirked in a faint smile, something unsettlingly amused flickering in his eyes. He spread his hands again in a placating gesture, but there was an ease to his movements that Fenrick didn’t trust. 

“It’s getting cold,” the man continued, his voice light, conversational. “Summer is fully over.”

“Leave,” Fenrick growled, his tone sharp. “Build your own fire. I don’t care for company.”

The man chuckled softly under his breath, a sound that grated against Fenrick’s nerves, and instead of retreating, he pressed forward again. Fenrick stepped back, his grip tightening on his sword, the tension in his body coiling tighter as the man casually moved closer to the fire. 

Once beside the flames, the stranger bent at the knees, lowering himself to sit. He stretched his hands towards the warmth, his posture relaxed as if Fenrick’s–now drawn–blade were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Come now, ser,” the man said smoothly. “Would you begrudge a fire to a lad barely old enough to lift a blade?” He glanced at the boy, whose wide eyes lingered on Fenrick’s sword. “The boy’s seen no end of trouble. But then, haven’t we all?”

Fenrick didn’t lower his weapon, his instincts screaming at him to stay on guard. His eyes darted between the man and the boy, watching every move they made, every shift of their posture. 

“It’s dangerous times,” the man said, his voice low and measured as he took a slow, deliberate breath. The flickering firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and casting shadows that seemed to deepen the suggestion of something sinister lurking beneath his calm exterior. “Being on guard is wise–very wise. You never know what might step out of the shadows. But then, sometimes the blade you draw tonight earns you the dagger in the back tomorrow.” He tilted his head slightly, his smile faint but unsettling. “Better to make a friend than an enemy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fenrick’s grip on his sword tightened, the steel glinting coldly in the firelight. His gaze didn’t waver as he leveled the man with an unflinching glare. “Leave, I won’t ask you again,” he said, his voice steady, cold, and unyielding. The single word carried all the weight of a warning, a final barrier against whatever game the stranger was playing.

The man let out an exasperated breath, his shoulders sagging slightly, and in a tone that was almost bored, he hummed, “Very well.”

Fenrick kept his eye locked on him, but out of the corner of his vision, a flicker of movement caught his attention. Before he could fully turn, something struck him hard and fast–a brutal, unforgiving blow that exploded across his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side, pain lacing through his skull as his vision blurred.

A second blow followed, this one slamming into his ribs, sharp and punishing. He staggered, barely holding his balance before something hooked his hoot, wrenching it out from under him. He went sprawling on the ground, the rough forest floor scraping against him as his sword was ripped from his grasp. It clattered against the dirt, spinning just out of reach. 

Pain flared in waves as a meaty hand latched onto his hair, yanking him up from the ground in a cruel, unrelenting grip. Fenrick grimaced as the jagged pull forced him onto his knees, his body aching from blows. The cool, deadly pressure of a blade pressed against his neck, a silent promise of violence. 

The forest seemed to swim before his eyes, the pain in his ribs and the pounding in his skull making the world tilt and blur. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and bitter, and he spat it onto the ground with a frown. Slowly, his eyes focused, glaring up at the man who now loomed over him. 

A round, fat face sneered down at him, the firelight playing cruelly across the grotusque details. Half the man’s nose was missing, the torn flesh still fresh and pink, the edges raw and angry in the glow of the fire. The sight was almost as unsettling as the reek of his breath, rancid with decay, that hit Fenrick like a wave as the man laughed, a low, guttural sound full of cruel amusement. 

“Well now,” the man sneered, his grin widening to reveal blackened, rotting teeth. “Yer not so quick with that blade now, are yer?” His grip tightened on Fenrick’s hair, jerking his head slightly to expose his neck further to the blade’s edge. 

Fenrick swallowed hard, the metallic tang of blood lingering in his mouth as he gritted his teeth against the pain. The fat hand gripping his hair yanked, forcing his head to tilt slightly, and the blade at his throat bit ever so slightly into his skin, cold and unyielding.

The first man, who had spoken with such calculated ease earlier, straightened to his full height, his movements languid and deliberate. His air of nonchalance made the scene feel all the more oppressive. “You are a difficult man to find, Ser Fenrick Locke,” he said smoothly, as though they were discussing something as mundane as the weather.

Fenrick’s glare burned into him. “Who sent you?” he growled, his voice low and ragged. He hissed as the grip on his hair tightened further, pulling hard enough to strain his neck, while the edge of the blade pressed more firmly into the delicate skin just above his collarbone.

“Let’s just kill ‘im and be done wit’ it,” the noseless man barked, his voice thick and guttural, the slurred words warped further by the strange nasal whistle of his mutilation. His eyes gleamed with a savage glee as he looked down at Fenrick, his sword held tightly in his other hand.

The first man shook his head, his expression turning hard and calculating. “No,” he said firmly. “We’ll kill him, but not before he tells us what the Lord wants to know. How he escaped.” His voice dropped slightly on the last word, as if savoring the idea of prying the information from Fenrick. He turned his gaze sharply to the young man, who still hovered uncertainly near the edge of the firelight, clutching a dagger with trembling hands.

“You,” the leader said, his voice snapping like a whip. “Search his belongings. Now.”

The boy flinched, hesitating for a moment before obeying. He knelt near Fenrick’s small pack, his hands fumbling as he rifled through the few items Fenrick had carried with him. The firelight caught on the edge of the dagger he held, the weapon shaking slightly in his grip as he cast nervous glances at Fenrick and the other men.

Fenrick’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing even as he kept his face set in a defiant scowl. The noseless man’s grip and the blade at his neck were unrelenting, but his thoughts burned with fury and the desperate calculation of how to turn the situation in his favor.

As the young man rifled nervously through Fenrick’s belongings, the first man stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the forest floor. His voice dropped to a low, almost conversational hum, but there was a sharp edge to it, like the blade hovering at Fenrick’s throat. “How did you get out of the city?”

Fenrick kept his jaw clenched, refusing to utter a word. The risk was too great–he would not betray Finan, nor let any hint of information lead back to Daenera.

The noseless man sneered, shaking his head violently as though Fenrick’s silence was a personal insult. He leaned closer, the reek of his rotting teeth hitting Fenrick like a physical blow, twisting his stomach. 

“Answer,” he snarled, his voice guttural and sharp, the blade at Fenrick’s throat pressing just enough to send a warning sting through the skin.

He didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on the firelight flickering in the first man’s eyes. His silence seemed to do more than frustrate them–it amused the leader, who let a faint smile curve his lips. 

“Who helped you escape? Hmm?” With a slow, deliberate motion, the man stopped and picked up a long, dry branch from the forest floor. Turning it over in his hand, the held it just above the flames, watching as the fire licked and bit at the wood, sparks snapping as the branch began to catch. 

“We’ll get you to speak,” the man said, his voice low, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “One way or another. My lord has taught me many things in his service–things I’m quite adept at applying when someone needs a little… persuasion.”

Fenrick’s eyes darted briefly to the branch as it began to burn, the flame traveling up the dry bark, casting a sinister glow against the man’s face. His stomach knotted, but his expression remained resolute. He would endure whatever came next, for the alternative–betraying those he swore to protect–was unthinkable. 

“And which Lord is that?” Fenrick bit out through gritted teeth, his voice sharp with defiance. He didn’t expect an answer–not one that mattered, anyway. The question was more for himself, a small act of resistance as he stared down the man who loomed before him. If he were to die here, a little knowledge wouldn’t change his fate.

The first man offered no response, only a slight shift of his expression, as if Fenrick’s words were nothing more than a passing breeze. Fenrick’s eyes lingered on him, studying his movements, his attire, every detail that might offer a glimpse into his intentions. The boy continued to rifle through his belongings, upending the pack and spilling its contents alongside the satchel, but Fenrick knew he would find nothing of use. He had ensured that before he set out.

The first man seemed unconcerned with the boy’s search, his attention riveted to the branch in his hand. The wood was burning steadily now, the fire eating through its end, glowing red and hot. He watched it with unnerving focus, his dark eyes alight as he leaned forward and blew out the flame, leaving the charred end smoldering. He turned the branch over in his hands, as if mesmerized by the glow of the embers, his fascination almost childlike.

Fenrick’s gaze flicked over the man’s attire. The worn black leather he wore was sturdy, practical, and covered by a heavy wool cloak that hung about his shoulders. His hair was trimmed short, his jaw partially shaven, though weathered lines etched deeply into his face spoke of a hard life. Whereas the other two were clad in tattered rags patched together with carelessness, their garments soiled with mud and who knew what else. Their weapons matched their appearance–rusted, poorly maintained, barely reliable. But the first man’s blade was different, of far better quality–a long dagger. Its hilt gleamed faintly in the firelight, a detail that marked him as something more than a common brigand.

“Nothin’,” the boy muttered at last, rising from where he’d knelt, his voice tinged with unease.

The man’s lips twisted into a grimace as he turned his dark eyes back to him. There was no amusement in his gaze now, only cold purpose. “Search him,” he ordered flatly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air.

Fenrick’s muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring as the noseless man moved closer, his hands reaching for him with a cruel eagerness. His mind raced, calculating his options as the firelight cast long shadows, and the embers of the branch smoldered ominously in the hand of his captor.

The noseless man’s hand slipped under his doublet, his fingers rough and invasive as Fenrick thrashed against him, struggling to tear the hand away. The blade in the man’s other hand hovered dangerously close, its tip grazing Fenrick’s side as he fought to free himself. Despite his efforts, the man’s filthy smile widened, his blackened teeth gleaming in the firelight.

“Well, what do we ‘ave ‘ere…” the noseless man sneered, his voice thick and guttural as he yanked something free. Fenrick froze, his heart lurching as the man withdrew the letter Daenera had entrusted to him. The pale parchment seemed to glow against the darkness, a fragile beacon in the grim night.

The man held it aloft with a twisted grin, passing it to the leader with a mocking flourish. “Lookit this,” he muttered. 

The leader’s eyes sparked with interest as he discarded the branch into the fire, the smoldering wood hissing as it landed. He plucked the letter from the noseless man’s hand, the firelight reflecting off his sharp features as he unfolded it.

Seeing the letter in the leader’s hands, Fenrick surged forward with a desperate roar. He twisted sharply, driving his elbow into the noseless man’s chest, forcing him to stumble back. Fenrick threw himself toward the letter, his knees scraping painfully along the forest floor as he lunged. His fingers reached out, straining, but closed around nothing as a heavy boot struck him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

He hit the ground just beside the fire, the searing heat from the flames licking dangerously close to his skin. The acrid scent of burning wood filled his nose as he scrambled to recover, but the noseless man was on him in an instant, slamming a knee into his chest. The force pinned him down, driving the air from his lungs.

The blade returned to his neck, pressing harder this time, its cold edge biting into his skin. Before Fenrick could react, a swift, brutal blow landed against the side of his head. Pain exploded across his skull, his face snapping toward the fire as the impact split his brow open. Blood trickled down, warm and sticky, as his vision blurred.

“Yer fuckin’ cunt!” the noseless man bellowed, his face contorted with rage. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed, some of it landing hot and wet on Fenrick’s cheek. “I’ll fuckin’ cut yer throat, I swear it!” His grip on Fenrick’s hair tightened, jerking his head back as the blade hovered ominously close, the promise of violence heavy in the air.

Fenrick blinked against the throbbing pain in his head, his vision swimming as he turned his face toward the leader. He watched, helpless, as the man broke the seal on the letter, his fingers unfolding the parchment with deliberate ease. A bitter sense of failure burned in his chest, searing through him like a brand. Daenera had trusted him with that letter, and now it lay in the hands of men who would twist its contents to their own ends.

Pressing his hand against the damp, leafy forest floor, he searched blindly, his fingers brushing over the dirt and debris, desperate to find something–anything–that could serve as a weapon.

“What does it say?” the boy asked nervously, stepping closer to the leader. His voice wavered slightly, betraying his unease.

The leader shrugged, tilting his head as he glanced down at the letter. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his tone laced with irritation. His dark eyes lifted, locking onto Fenrick with a cold, calculating glare. “What does it say?” he demanded, holding the parchment aloft like a prize.

A bitter laugh bubbled up from Fenrick’s throat, spilling out in defiance as he grinned through the blood streaking his face. He said nothing, his silence as sharp as any insult. The grin only deepened the lines of his defiance, even as the leader’s expression darkened.

The response earned him another savage blow. The noseless man struck him hard, the impact radiating through his skull and sending fresh pain shooting through the still-healing bone of his broken nose. His head snapped back, blood spilling anew from his nostrils as he struggled to stifle a grimace.

“‘E asked ya a question!” the noseless man snarled, his voice rising with frustration. Spittle flew from his cracked lips as he leaned closer, his blade pressing harder against his neck. 

Despite the pain, Fenrick refused to speak, his defiance burning just as fiercely as the flames beside him. He would give them nothing, even if it cost him everything.

His fingers inched closer to the edge of the fire, the heat biting at his skin, blistering with each moment he lingered. He couldn’t reach the dagger tucked into his boot, but his eyes locked onto the burning logs within the flames.

Gritting his teeth, Fenrick fought through the searing pain and closed his hand around a fiery piece of wood. The bark scorched his palm, the agony immediate and sharp, but he swung it upward with all his strength, slamming it against the noseless man’s skull.

The log exploded into glowing embers and charred fragments, swirling through the air as the noseless man let out a guttural scream. He staggered backward, clutching at his head as flames licked at his hair, the acrid stench of burning flesh and hair filling the clearing. His howl of pain echoed through the forest as he crumpled to the ground, swiping desperately at the fire consuming him.

Fenrick surged upward, his heart thundering within his chest. His injured hand throbbed, but he ignored it, reaching down to his boot. His fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of his dagger, and he pulled it free in a smooth, practiced motion. The weapon glinted menacingly in the firelight as he turned to face his attackers.

Scrambling to his feet, he moved with ruthless precision, driving the dagger into the noseless man’s side. The blade sank deep, angled upward with grim intent, finding its mark. The man let out a guttural, animalistic howl, his voice raw with agony.

When Fenrick yanked the blade free, a sickening, wet swoosh followed, the unmistakable sound of a lung collapsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark and viscous, soaking the man’s tattered clothing and pooling beneath him as he crumpled to the ground. He choked and gasped, his breath coming in sharp, ragged stutters, each attempt at air a losing battle.

The noseless man writhed, his screams giving way to gurgling noises as blood bubbled in his throat, while the boy, wide-eyed and trembling, rushed forward in a desperate attempt to intervene. Fenrick pivoted sharply, his dagger held steady as he lashed out–not with the blade, but with the back of his free hand. The blow cracked across the boy’s face, sending him stumbling to the ground. Fenrick loomed over him, his voice a guttural growl. “Stay down.”

The boy froze, his dagger falling from his hands as he raised them in surrender, his face pale and streaked with tears.

The leader, however, wasted no time. The rasp of steel sliding against leather filled the air as he drew his blade, the weapon gleaming wickedly in the firelight. He stepped forward with deliberate menace, the blade held steady as his dark eyes locked onto Fenrick. The flames cast jagged shadows across his face, making him appear even more sinister as the tension crackled between them, heavy with the promise of violence.

Fenrick shifted into a defensive stance, his dagger held firmly despite the pain in his burned hand. His gaze narrowed as he faced the leader, the clearing alive with the echoes of the noseless man’s howls and the distant crackle of the fire. The fight wasn’t over yet.

“It matters not who helped you escape the city,” the leader hummed, his tone maddeningly casual as he held the crumpled letter in his hand. His eyes flicked down to the parchment, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “We’ll find them eventually, rat them out one by one.” He shrugged, the gesture slow and deliberate, as though the weight of his words didn’t carry the threat they truly did. “The Lord will have to content himself with this letter.” His smirk deepened, twisting into something more sinister. “It seems quite important, judging by your reaction. I wonder…” He tilted his head mockingly. “...how it might implicate the bastard princess.”

The words were a spark, igniting a fury Fenrick couldn’t contain. With a roar, he lunged forward, his body driven by desperation and rage. His dagger slashed toward the man, but the leader moved quickly, blocking the blow and countering with one of his own. The clash sent them grappling, their arms locking as Fenrick clawed for the letter.

Their struggle threw them off balance, and both men tumbled to the ground in a heap. The impact sent a grunt of air wheezing from the leader’s chest, but Fenrick barely registered it as they scrambled dangerously close to the flames. His eyes locked on the letter, which had fallen free, the wind pushing it closer and closer to the fire. The edges of the parchment curled as the flames licked at it, darkening and charring.

Fenrick stretched toward it, his fingers scraping the ground as he reached desperately for the letter. His fingertips brushed the edge just as the leader twisted, throwing them over again. They rolled, his body colliding painfully with the forest floor as the leader wrestled for control. Gritting his teeth, he threw his weight into the struggle, managing to twist them once more. He lunged for the letter again, grabbing it just as the fire began to consume the parchment.

With a desperate motion, Fenrick flung the letter away from the flames, saving what remained even as the edges smoldered. His relief was short-lived. The leader’s fist came down hard, striking his cheek and snapping his head to the side. Stars danced in his vision as the man surged forward, flipping them yet again.

The leader straddled his waist, his expression twisted with grim determination as he pried the dagger from his grasp. The blade glinted in the firelight as the man gripped it, raising it high, his weight pinning him down. He snarled, his arm driving the dagger downward, aiming for Fenrick’s chest. He bucked against him, his arms straining to catch the descending blade.

The blade inched closer to Fenrick’s chest, its sharp tip pressing against his doublet, the worn leather giving way under the relentless pressure. The pain began as a sharp pinch, a needle-like intrusion that deepened into a searing burn as the blade broke through his skin. He growled low in his throat, his muscles straining as he bucked his hips against the man, disrupting the downward force just enough to shift the blade’s trajectory.

Gritting his teeth, Fenrick adjusted his grip, his hands scrabbling for purchase before he grabbed the man by the collar. With a burst of raw strength, he yanked himself upward while pulling the man down. His forehead collided with the man’s face in a brutal crack, the impact reverberating through his skull. Pain flared momentarily in His brow, but he felt the sickening crunch of cartilage beneath the blow and knew he wasn’t alone in suffering. Finally, he wasn’t the only one with a broken nose.

The man reeled, his head jerking back as blood poured freely from his shattered nose. He snarled, trying to drive the blade downward again, but Fenrick twisted sharply, throwing their bodies to the side. The two of them tumbled, scrabbling along the edges of the fire, embers sparking around them.

Fenrick slammed his fist into the man’s face, the force snapping his head to the side. The leader’s eyes rolled back briefly, dazed, and Fenrick seized the fleeting opportunity. He reached for the blade, prying at the man’s grip, his fingers curling around the hilt. Just as he was about to rip it free, something barreled into him from the side, dragging him off the leader with surprising force.

Reacting instinctively, Fenrick twisted around, driving the blade forward in one swift, practiced motion. The resistance of flesh and muscle met his strike, and a gasp of shock broke through the chaos. He blinked, registering the boy’s wide, astonished eyes as he staggered back, the blade jutting from his stomach.

The boy looked down at the weapon embedded in him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pain. His brow furrowed deeply, his voice soft with astonishment as he stammered, “Y-yer stabbed me…”

Fenrick shoved the boy away with a grimace, snatching the blade from his trembling hands before spinning on his heels. He turned to finish the leader, only to find the space where the man had been laying now empty. The trampled forest floor bore the marks of their struggle, but the leader was gone, vanished into the surrounding shadows.

His heart thundered in his chest, a drumbeat of battle and anger. His breaths came quick and shallow as he clutched his side, his ribs aching with every inhalation. The sharp pain in his lungs burned like fire, but he forced himself upright, his gaze darting across the darkened forest. He spun slowly, surveying the trees for any sign of movement, but the silence pressed heavy around him.

Behind him, the boy’s voice cut through the stillness, faint and trembling. “Yer stabbed me…” he murmured, his tone full of disbelief. He repeated the words, over and over, each utterance weaker than the last. Stumbling backward, the boy’s legs gave way, and his spine hit a tree. He slid down the trunk until he sat crumpled at its base, his wide eyes locked on the dagger protruding from his stomach. “Yer stabbed me…” he whispered again, his voice barely audible now.

Fenrick ignored the boy’s words, his focus unyielding as he twirled the stolen blade in his hand, adjusting his grip with practiced ease, his palm burning. His stance shifted, remaining vigilant as his eyes roved over the clearing, searching for any sign of an ambush. With careful steps, he approached the fire, scanning the ground for the letter.

His heart sank as his eyes found it. What remained was little more than a charred scrap of parchment. He crouched by the flames, picking it up gingerly, his blood-streaked fingers smearing the crumbled remnants. The edges were blackened and curled, and only a few paragraphs of text were still legible. The intricate glyphs on the paper were foreign–High Valryrian–their presence confirmed the letter’s importance–and the magnitude of its loss.

He stared at the damaged letter, his chest tightening with frustration and regret. The weight of failure settled heavily on his shoulders, even as his grip on the blade tightened. He couldn’t dwell on it now; the leader was still out there, and the danger hadn’t passed. Standing, he cast one last glance at the boy slumped against the tree before turning his attention back to the shadows.

Fenrick tucked the charred remnants of the letter back into his doublet, pressing it close to his chest as though the act alone could shield its significance. Whatever was left of it would be delivered to Rhaenyra–he swore it, even if he had to crawl to Dragonstone with his dying breath. He would not fail Daenera, not again. 

He strode across the clearing, his steps steady despite the ache in his ribs and the searing pain in his hand. Kneeling down, he retrieved his sword from the dirt, inspecting it briefly before sliding it back into its scabbard. Without delay, he began gathering his scattered belongings, shoving them into his bag in haste. His movements were efficient, his mind already turning to what lay ahead.

Stopping momentarily, Fenrick grabbed his waterskin, pulling the cork free with his teeth. Holding out his burned hand, he tilted the waterskin, letting the cold liquid pour over the blistered, raw skin. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the pain immediate and biting, his jaw clenching against it. The blisters had already formed, some burst from where he’d gripped the daggers, leaving patches of tender, exposed flesh. He bit down hard on the cork, hissing softly as the water cleaned the wound. 

Tearing a strip of cloth from his pack, he soaked it with water before wiping it over his face. The cool fabric stung as he dragged it across the cuts and bruises marring his skin. He scrubbed away the blood from his brow, beneath his nose, and along his split lip. Through each movement, his eyes flicked towards the shadows surrounding him. The forest seemed to press in on all sides, its dark recesses alive with the possibility of danger. 

Fenrick’s ears strained for any sound–the snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves–anything that might signal the man’s return. The clearing smelled of charred wood and blood, it clung to his nose as he tossed the rag aside with a grunt and reached for another, cleaner strip of cloth. 

“Yer stabbed me…” the boy muttered again, his voice trembling, the same words tumbling from his lips like a broken refrain. “Yer stabbed me…” Over and over, the sound grated on Fenrick’s nerves, the repetition needling at him. 

He ignored the boy, his focus remaining on his injuries. He wetted the clean cloth with water, wrapping it carefully around his burned hand. The cool dampness offered some relief, though the seared skin throbbed relentlessly. 

Fenrick grimaced as the pain in his hand and ribs flared with every movement. He flexed his burned fingers gingerly, the makeshift bandage doing little to dull the persistent sting. His mind drifted briefly to Daenera–her calm, confident hands tending to the injuries. She had always known how to find relief in the simplest things, and one memory surfaced clearly: the willow bark.

He’d have to find some. The thought struck him with practicality rather than hope, a small step toward managing the pain. 

Corking the waterskin and tucking it into his bag with a decisive shove, Fenrick pushed himself to his feet. His muscles ached, his ribs protesting every movement, but he ignored the pain. Raising his sleeve, he wiped the lingering blood from his nose and split lip, the rough fabric scraping against his skin.

His eyes swept the forest, sharp and searching, scanning the darkened treeline for any sign of movement. The firelight flickered faintly, casting dancing shadows across the ground, but the surrounding woods remained eerily silent.

Turning his attention to the boy, Fenrick approached him slowly, his steps measured. The boy’s wide, tearful eyes remained on the blade protruding from his stomach, filled with shock and disbelief. He didn’t try to move, his back pressed against the tree he had slid down. 

Fenrick crouched, bringing himself to the boy’s level, the flickering firelight casting grim shadows across his face. His hand reached out, gripping the boy’s shoulder firmly but not cruelly. He stared into the boy’s eyes, his expression hard but devoid of any cruelty. There was no pleasure in what he had done–or in what he was about to do. It was a necessity. 

He had seen wounds like that before, and he knew the signs. The blood pooling beneath him, the pale, clammy skin, the way his breath came in short, ragged gasps. Even if help were nearby–and it wasn’t–the boy would bleed out long before anything could be done to save him.

Fenrick looked down at him, his jaw tightening as the boy’s wide, frightened eyes flitted between him and his wound. 

“Who sent you?”

“Yer stabbed me…” the boy croaked again.

“I did. Who sent you?”

“Yer stabbed me…”

Fenrick’s patience frayed, a low, frustrated sound escaping his throat. He couldn’t afford to linger here, not with the leader still out there. His hand gripped the hilt of the blade embedded in the boy’s stomach, tightening just enough to send a fresh jolt of agony through him–and through his own hand as well. The boy let out a shocked gasp, his legs kicking weakly as his fingers clawed at the roots of the tree he was slumped against. 

“Who sent you?” He asked a again, leaning closer as he twisted the blade slightly. The boy choked out a scream, a high, shrill sound that cut through the stillness of the forest. 

“Tell me,” Fenrick hissed in low menace, “and I will stop.”

“I–I don’t know!” The boy gasped, his voice hitching between sobs. “P–please! I don’t–”

His words dissolved into a desperate, incoherent plea, his pale face streaked with tears. Fenrick’s jaw tightened as he studied him, searching for any hint of deceit, weighing his options against the boy’s evident panic. There was no triumph in the act, only necessity, as he tried to force the answers he needed from a dying boy.

“Who is this Lord of yours?” He demanded as he twisted the blade just enough to elicit another gasping cry from the boy. Tears streaked the boy’s pale, dirt-smeared face as he choked on his cries, his thin fingers wrapping futilely around Fenrick’s wrist, their feeble grip shaking. 

“Did Prince Aemond send you?” Fenrick pressed, his voice darker now, edged with suspicion. The thought gnawed at him–Aemond was cunning and cruel enough to orchestrate something like this. They might call this mysterious figure a lord, but he couldn’t shake the belief that the Kinslayer’s had was behind it. 

It wouldn’t surprise him if Aemond had gone back on his word, sending men to eliminate him under the guise of bad fortune on the road to Dragonstone. Yet, at the same time, it didn’t make sense. Aemond had been so set on sowing discord–and he needed him alive for that. Killing him would serve no purpose. He still remembered his smug expression he had worn when had him dragged into an interrogation room. 

The boy’s head shook frantically, his whole body trembling as sobs wracked his frame. “I don’t–I, please stop!” He begged, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to die. I don’t know. I don’t know,” he repeated, tears mingling with the blood that dripped down his chin. His breath hitched, and his words tumbled out in a rush of desperation. “They said I’d be free if I did this one thing. I never–I didn’t want to hang. I didn’t want to be sent to the Wall.”

The boy’s pleas rang hollow and pitiful in Fenrick’s ears, but the raw fear in his voice made him pause for a heartbeat. The boy’s sobbing echoed in the stillness of the forest as he stared down at the boy, his expression hard and unyielding. He did not doubt the boy’s ignorance–it seemed clear enough that whoever had sent him, along with the noseless man, had preyed on their desperation. Promised a chance to avoid the noose or the Wall, they had latched onto this grim task as their only hope of survival. Yet ignorance was no absolution.

Without a word, Fenrick drew the blade from the boy’s stomach. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling over his hands as it soaked his shirt, spreading across the fabric like a grotesque, blooming flower. The boy’s eyes widened in shock, his trembling hands instinctively pressing against the wound as though he could somehow hold the life from spilling out of him.

“You should have stayed down,” Fenrick said, his voice low and cold as his grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder. He leaned closer, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Or led a better life.”

Before the boy could utter another plea, Fenrick drove the blade into his neck with unceremonious precision. The boy’s eyes shot wide in a final, silent gasp. Blood sputtered from his mouth, a crimson spray that spilled down his chin as he gagged around the steel. He held the blade firm for a moment before pulling it free, the withdrawal accompanied by a sickening wet sound.

“May the Father judge you kindly.”

Blood poured from the wound, gushing over the boy’s chest in rhythmic spurts as his life slipped away. His eyes fluttered, his lips parting in a faint, futile effort to breathe. His arms fell heavy into his lap, limp and useless, as his gaze drifted upward. Fenrick watched as the boy’s glassy eyes fixed on the canopy above, the flickering firelight reflected dimly in them.

The boy’s chest stilled, the light fading from his wide, unseeing eyes as death claimed him. Fenrick swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to ease as a heavy weight pressed against his chest. The boy’s death lingered in his mind, unwelcome and bitter, though he forced himself to suppress it. There was no room for guilt now; survival demanded his focus.

He straightened slowly, his body aching from the struggle, and made his way back across the clearing. His bag lay where he had left it, scattered amidst the remnants of the scuffle. He grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder with a grunt of effort. His ruined bedroll lay nearby, abandoned beneath the lifeless form of the noseless man. Pink froth clung to the corners of the man’s slackened lips, his eyes frozen wide and empty in death. He spared him only a passing glance before turning away. The dead were beyond his concern now.

As he retraced his steps across the forest floor, something caught his attention–a faint glimmer amidst the scattered leaves. Fenrick paused, narrowing his eyes as he crouched down to investigate. Brushing aside the debris, his fingers closed around a small, cool object.

He lifted it into the firelight, inspecting it carefully. It was a pin–small and brass, faintly tarnished but still catching the light. He turned it over in his hand, his brow furrowing. The shape came into focus: intricate and strange, crafted to resemble something organic. At first glance, it resembled a toe, but as he rotated it, the unmistakable form of an insect revealed itself.

Fenrick frowned deeply, his thumb brushing against the pin’s detailing as unease prickled at the edges of his thoughts. The object was peculiar, out of place amidst the blood-soaked ground and scattered belongings. It must have fallen off the leader in the scuffle.

Tucking the pin into his bag, Fenrick rose to his feet again. His eyes swept the darkened forest, the clearing now quiet save for the crackle of the dying fire. Whatever the pin meant–if it meant anything at all–he couldn’t linger. He adjusted his bag, steeling himself, and moved toward his horse.

Fenrick secured his bag tightly to the horse’s saddle, his movements slow and deliberate as pain throbbed through every fiber of his body. His ribs ached with every breath, his burned hand stung with raw intensity, and his muscles screamed in protest as he hauled himself into the saddle. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the reins, steadying himself before nudging the horse forward.

The mare stepped cautiously at first, sensing his unease, but his urged her into a steady pace. He would not stop–not for the pain, not for the exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight. His goal was clear: Duskendale. From there, he’d find a ship to Dragonstone. Nothing would keep him from fulfilling his mission.

I will not fail you, he had promised her.

The memory of those words lingered, a solemn vow carved into his soul. Fenrick straightened as much as his battered body would allow, his grip on the reins tightening. He would endure, fight, and push forward.

Whatever it took to keep that promise, he would do it.

Mother,

I am alive and well, though my thoughts are never far from you. I have entrusted this letter to Fenrick, trusting him to ensure it reaches you safely. 

I write to you with a heart heavy with grief and sorrow, knowing no words can truly comfort the ache that now resides within us. Lucerys was my brother and his loss feels like the loss of a limb. And yet, I cannot begin to fathom the depths of your grief, for you carry burdens far heavier than mine. 

It takes a rare strength to continue after such loss–a strength I know you possess. You passed it to me, Mother, and for that, I am endlessly grateful. We endure. I know you have been searching for him. But please, in the midst of this search, do not forget yourself.

The realm depends upon you, and we, your children, cannot bear to lose you too. You must think of your health, for your sake and for the sake of the baby you carry–little Visenya. I long for the day I can meet her. I hope she brings you a measure of solace amidst your grief. 

When that time comes, tell her of me. Speak my name to Aegon and Viserys as well; I do not wish to be a stranger to them when we finally meet again. Of that, I am certain: we will see each other again. 

I know that my absence has cast doubts upon my loyalty, and I ache at the thought of being a source of pain or uncertainty to you. Though I am far from you, know that my thoughts remain with you and our cause. 

I ask for your forgiveness–for not being at your side, for the choices forced upon me, for the deeds I cannot speak of. Though I may not stand beside you, my heart remains yours, bound by love and sorrow alike.

They adorned me in white and called me a bride, they cloaked my shoulders in green, but my heart remains black. They speak of love and choice, as though my marriage to Aemond is anything but a shackle. Any love I bore for him died along with Lucerys.Yet, he clings to me still, as though he might tether me to him with force, where affection has long since withered. This marriage is a cage, its gilded bars forged in blood and ambition. He seeks to keep me close, not out of love, but to control, to possess, to ensure I cannot be used against him. I am not his wife but a pawn, held in place by his will and the chains he has wrapped around me in the name of duty. Know that I do not yield to him in spirit, Mother. Though I must tread carefully, wear their colors and play their game, my heart remains free, untouched by his and his family’s schemes. I am but a piece on the board, moved at their whim. 

I am haunted at the thought of rumors of my supposed support for the traitors that may have reached you and cast doubt upon my heart. Let me be clear, Mother: my heart, my loyalty, and my faith belong solely to you and our family. You are the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I have never wavered in my belief.

My smiles are a weapon as much as it is a lie. Every step I take is in service to our family. Trust that my loyalty has not wavered, even if I am forced to speak their words and play their games.

Do not fear for me, Mother. I endure this for us, for the greater cause, and for the hope that one day, I will return to your side. Until then, hold me in your thoughts, as I hold you in mine.Your loving daughter, Your loyal subject, Daenera Velaryon.

[southern-god1]

Beer And Thunder: Thor and The Southern Avengers

Out of the clear blue Florida sky, there was a massive bolt of lightning, followed by an earsplitting crack of thunder that boomed for miles. The bolt of blueish lighting was immense, and persisted for a few moments, unlike regular lightning. The literal bolt from the blue shook the ground and left a deep crater, as though something had slammed into the Earth at high speed and with great force. From the smoking crater came a large hand, gripping the lip of the crater and hauling someone up. 

The figure stepping from the crater was a huge man. No, not a man; a god. Standing at 6 foot 3 inches, he stood tall and strong, and would have loomed over many a mortal. He wore a suit of armored plate that weighed as much as an Abrams main battle tank, yet he barely felt it. His armor covered his chest, leaving his massive biceps free, ready to swing the immense hammer in his right hand. His long blonde hair fell down over his bright blue eyes, and he swept it away. Thor, Son of Odin, frowned in confusion. This was…definitely not Midgard. Or, not the Midgard he remembered. Where was the snow? The “big” and “strong” Viking warriors -small to him, like all mortals- come to offer him tribute and mead? The small mortals bowing before the mighty God of Thunder? And why was it so hot?!? It was hot and humid, like the fires of Muspelheim! In the far distance, he saw strange clusters of steel and glass, rising into the horizon. Ah, mortals! He begin to swing his hammer, before slingshotting himself far into the distance.

It was a fine day in Jacksonville, Florida. There was going to be a Gators game later that day and people were getting ready for tailgates; buying beers, brats, and Yankees to worship them as they enjoyed the game. Huge trucks drove through the streets, blaring both the AC from the vents and bro country from the speakers. That changed abruptly when something came slamming into the pavement, leaving a small indentation where it landed. A huge Ford slammed on the breaks, narrowly avoiding toppling into the hole, front wheels hanging into the hole. Baffled passersby got close, only to see a tall and muscular figure with long blonde hair standing in the hole, climbing out. He was tall, very muscular, and was already sweaty from the heat as he rose and took a look around, surveying the mortals. 

“Ah, mortals! I have found you, at last. I am Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder, Lord of Asgard, and this land is mine to claim!”

Thor looked around, confused when they did not kneel before him in stunned worship. These mortals were quite tall, some even taller than him. They must be giants? Their words had a strange accent as they whispered.

“Who is he?”

“One of the Avengers?”

“Claim? This is Florida, not California!”

Thor had no idea of where he had landed; one of northern Florida’s biggest cities and the birthplace of Tim Tebow, Jacksonville was full of Southern men who did not take kindly to the idea of being “claimed”. He knew it was hot, and he was sweaty. 

“Mortals! Bow before-“

Before he could finish his sentence, a booming voice cut through the crowd.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Thor turned to see a trio of men, each standing at least 7 feet tall, looming over even the Mighty Thor. One of them was a tall and thin -relatively, he was still quite muscular- figure with a scruffy beard, wearing an armored jumpsuit in grey and dark red. His hair and beard was dark brown, and a pair of intense green eyes peered at Thor as he hefted a heavy shield; it was clearly very sturdy, strong, and bore a red, white, and blue emblem Thor did not recognize. It was pointed at one end, enabling it to be used offensively and defensively. 

The man next to him was not a man at all, at least Thor didn’t think so. Its flesh was shining in the Florida sun as though made of metal, and was red and blue. A central sphere glowed, as did the creature’s eyes. The only way Thor knew it was alive was that it spoke. 

“Getting impressive energy readouts Cap.”

The first man nodded curtly. The third figure loomed over even his comrades; he was a bulky behemoth of a man, huge and beefy, with muscles that made even Thor look small. This impressed and confused Thor. He wore a tight-fitting shirt that hugged his arms, and a pair of mesh-like pants that did little to conceal his beefy ass. It was a mix of red and grey and blue and orange, an odd mix that managed to work surprisingly well. He said nothing, but his blue eyes roved over Thor. He folded his arms over his pecs and smirked, satisfied that he was bigger. The first man spoke again.

“Again, who the fuck are you?”

Thor hefted his hammer.

“I am Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder, Lord of Asgard! And yes, I am quite impressive, metallic imp. Who are you? It is clear that you are the lords of this land, aye? You must be related to Frost Giants! But this land is not yours; Midgard rightfully belongs to me. Do you intend to deny my righteous claim as Lord of the Nine Realms?”

The first man almost laughed.

“I’m Captain Confederate, and you seem to be lost; this ain't a damn renn fair…and is that a goddamn hammer?”

The metal man spoke to Cap, evidently the team lead.

“Uh, Cap; Thor was the Norse god of thunder, lightning, fertility, and trees. I think that’s Mjolnir, his hammer.” 

Thor brightened.

“So you have heard of me. Good, the mortals still worship me!”

The third man unfolded his arms and strode forward.

“Thor, huh? God of Thunder? I’m Tim fucking Tebow, but you can call me Stonewall. Yer lookin pretty puny for a god, and you sure as hell ain't from here, so you ain't a god. Put down your toy before I have to break it.”

Thor grew irritated and indignant. 

“You dare challenge my might, ogre? I shall claim this land for Asgard, and you shall kneel before your rightful Lord. Now, feel the wrath of the Mighty Thor!”

Thor aimed Mjolnir at Stonewall, and there was a huge blast of lightning, arcing from the mighty hammer and into the humungous football players beefy chest. To Thor’s astonishment, the hulking brute was knocked back maybe half a step, but was otherwise unharmed when the smoke cleared. Stonewall glared at Thor.

“That tickled. Now I get to break you.”

Taking two steps forward, Stonewall swung his huge fist at Thor, hitting him right in the chest and sending him flying into a wall. Thor was dazzled, but stood from the wall and charged forth. Just as this occurred, the tall Texan, Captain Confederate, took a running leap, vaulting up a truck and leaping from the roof, coming down as fast and hard as surely as a shell on Fort Sumter, his shield with the battle flag slamming down hard into Thor. The shield itself weighed several hundred pounds, and there were several hundred pounds of Texan muscle behind it as well, propelling the pointing shield down onto his head, a single tiny drop of divine blood falling from his forehead as he was propelled backwards by the impact. Thor roared and emitted a mighty blast of lightning all around him, throwing Captain Confederate back, though he swiftly converted the tumble into a deft roll backwards, already kneeling and using his shield for cover as he fired on Thor with his custom 1911. The bullets compacted into tiny metal discs upon impact with Thor’s massive muscles, completely useless. Cap frowned, concerned by this, as Iron Rebel hovered overhead, blasting Thor with his energy weapons.

The Alabama billionaire hovered in his armored suit, blasting Thor with his repulsors, but was confused. They didn’t seem to be having much impact. His AI, Jaxon, chimed to life. 

“Sir, energy levels rising in the target.”

“Explain.”

Colin replied as he kept blasting Thor, pumping up the energy in the blasts, hoping they might prove more effective.

Thor grinned below, and locked eyes with him.

“Energy levels increasing dramatically s-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Thor emitted a burst of lightning directly at him, thunder rumbling through the cloudless Jacksonville sky. The suit was of course, fully insulated, but the sheer power behind the blast shut down his armor, and he dropped like a rock, slamming into the ground and attempting to reactivate his systems, cursing loudly as he did so. 

The clang of Iron Rebel against the ground drew Cap’s gaze, and he rushed to his aid, still firing with one hand at Thor. Stonewall gave his partners a quick glance, and, almost sensing that Colin was ok despite having fallen from the sky, strode towards Thor. The bulky footballer walked forward casually, as though walking out to the middle of Gators stadium for the coin toss. He reeled back to punch Thor again, casually ignoring another blast of lighting as he drew closer. Thor, frustrated that nothing seemed to be hurting the Florida football colossus, hefted a nearby truck that had been abandoned, and hurled it at Stonewall. That caught his attention, eyes widening as it came hurtling towards him. Tim put out his arms, and, to Thor’s astonishment, he caught the truck and simply set it down, gingerly, as though he wanted to avoid breaking a fellow Southerners property. He continued to stride towards Thor, steps leaving small divots in the asphalt as he grew himself slightly bigger with casual ease, gaining two more feet in a few strides, looming over Thor. The thunder god hurled Mjolnir at Tebow’s head, which actually seemed to have an impact; the force behind the throw seemed to hurt, knocking his head back on his neck as though he had just received a strong punch to the face. His casual grin was now an irritated frown. 

Thor held out his hand for Mjolnir, waiting for it to come back to him. It came racing back to him, but then, at the last second, the red and grey figure of Iron Rebel rocketed past, snatching Mjolnir from the sky. Iron Rebel was surprised by how easy it had been to chart the hammers course and arrange an intercept pattern. His systems had rebooted and he was eager to do something, so upon seeing him hurl his mighty hammer, he decided he could at the very least take away Thor’s weapon. The hammer strained, exerting force, trying to return to Thor, but Colin’s armor -and his muscles under it- was strong enough to keep it firmly held in his gauntlet. Thor was about to fry the iron pest when Tim Tebow slammed into him with all the force of fifteen freight trains, propelling him backward. His legs, which had driven even other Southern Gods back with their sheer driving force on the gridiron, pumped, combat cleats tearing into the asphalt, muscled arms pushing Thor back, and then pinning him. Thor fell onto his back, and felt an impossibly heavy weight on his chest; Stonewall’s huge combat cleat, pinning him to the ground as if he was a magnet stuck to it. He struggled, but couldn’t move. 

“Unhand me, ogre!”

Captain Confederate strode forth, glaring down at Thor, and placed his shield against his throat, the pointed tip like a guillotine blade. 

“I should kill you right now for what you’ve done. Challenging us, hurting my friends, causing so much damage. For challenging our honor…”

He pressed the tip into Thor’s neck, a tiny pinprick of blood oozing forth. He did not press it further, thinking. Stonewall spoke up.

“Thanks for that. First real fight I’ve had in ages. That hammer a yers packs a punch.”

Speaking of the hammer, Iron Rebel strode up, still holding Mjolnir, effortlessly keeping it from Thor’s hands.

“Please just cut his head off Jensen. I’m going to have to completely redesign the suit now.”

Thor let out an indignant roar, struggling anew against the combat cleat. Stonewall frowned.

“Naw, that’d be a waste. He’s big, strong, hot, just needs a haircut to get rid of that damn hippy hair and a Rebel Brew to become a real God. Let’s Southernize ‘im.”

Colin was alarmed by the idea.

“WHAT? No! I am NOT being partners with a walking Tesla coil! You saw what he did!”

Jensen paused, seeming to consider this. 

“You recovered. Tim’s right.”

He pulled the shield back, resting it beside him, as he reached into a small pouch on his belt. Between his fingers rested a small metal vial, marked “SS-004 CONCENTRATE.” A heavily concentrated form of Southernizing agent, he kept a few vials on his person if he ever ran across someone worthy of ascension during a field op. He opened the vial’s lid.

“I heard ya like beer? Get ready for the best beer of your life. Yer about to become one of us.”

As Thor continued to protest, he leaned down and poured the vial right down his throat. The god spluttered, almost gagging on the substance. 

Thor continued to protest the mortals when the scruffy one with a heavy shield poured something right down his throat. He spluttered as it splashed down, the intense taste of hops too much even for him. Almost immediately, a strange heat washed over him. Then, his eyes almost rolled back in his head from the sudden explosion of power blasting through his body. The warmth washed over every inch of his body, every atom suffused with energy and power. His biceps and triceps, already impressive, began to grow before the eyes of the Southerners. Thor’s muscles, be it in his boulder biceps, thunder thighs, princely pecs, or elsewhere, grew hundreds of times denser and stronger in moments, flooded with strength, strong as white titanium. His muscles and sinews stretched, bones popping as they expanded. Sweat covered his body anew, glistening in the hot Southern sun as he kept growing. His cock would be an impressive eight inches when completely soft, balls churning with superior seed as his DNA was augmented and remade into a hybrid of Southern strength and Norse divinity. 

As if being diverted from one part of him to another, Thor’s long blonde locks receded back, becoming a much more conservative cut, as a beard grew out, thicker and mightier. His feet strained against his boots, growing several sizes in moments, stinking and sweaty. Thors mind began to change. He felt a haziness wash over him, clouding his memories. No longer had he been entirely Asgardian. No, his father had had some fling with a mortal from the South, and he was the result. A mighty hybrid, raised to take over when his father passed. He felt an immensely strong attachment to the South, having visited it and fallen in love, and now he fought alongside the Southern Avengers when he was not expanding the Asgardian Empire, which he ruled as God-Emperor. Thor looked around, wondering why he was on his back. His armor had expanded to accommodate his new size, but now bore motifs of miniature battle flags alongside norse runes, his dual heritages reflected in his armor and his accent when he spoke. Standing up, he opened his mouth to speak, but something else came out. 

“BBBBBUUUUUUURRRRPPPP!”

The thundering beer-heavy shockwave of his burp shook the ground under his feet, and shattered windows already weakened by their fight. He flexed his immense white biceps, soaked in sweat, and proudly proclaimed.

“I am Thor - Son of Dixie!”

He smirked as he flexed, feeling absolutely at home in the Jacksonville sun. The others watched him in awe, and Thor was puzzled. 

“What’s wrong my friends?”

Jensen spoke first, improvising quickly. He was pleasantly surprised by the results of the vial. Perhaps because Thor was a god to begin with, the results were especially impressive, making him into a very literal Southern God.

“Nothin Thor. That was just…a damn good burp.”

“Of course it was! What has happened here?”

Tebow spoke up now, clapping Thor on the back; he was delighted by the new stud, his muscles rivaling his own beefy muscles. 

“Oh, we took down some terrorists. Made a real mess, but nobody got hurt. Ya did good today Thor. Now, let’s help em fix things up, then we all go out for some dinner?”

Thor nodded enthusiastically, and began effortlessly hefting vehicles that had been turned over. 

Two Days Later:

The ground shook as the Yankees prayed, invoking their precious God, imploring him to save them, to deliver them from evil, to watch over them in their hour of need. The ground shaking was itself not unusual; Southerners frequently made the ground shake for one reason or another; walking, burping, farting, rumbling by in their huge trucks. But now the stained glass windows shook dangerously, quaking in their frames as if the saints themselves feared what was coming. They prayed harder. Then, a huge hand ripped apart the church steeple, massive fingers ripping apart the roof and steeple, sending beams falling down into the church and onto the terrified parishioners. The hand pulled away and the remains of the roof and steeple were casually tossed over the titan’s shoulder as if it were merely a beer can. A huge face bent down to peer at the puny Yankees; it was huge, filling the sky, a scruffy dirty blonde beard taking up a lot of the view, each hair easily three times the size of the largest man north of the Mason-Dixon. They didn’t recognize him, but that, again, wasn’t unusual. Southerners came and went, sowing havoc in their wake as surely as ozone follows lightning. He smirked down at the tiny Yankees, and chuckled, voice shaking the ground when he spoke.

“HELLO YANTS! ARE YOU PRAYING TO YOUR RIGHTFUL SOUTHERN GODS?”

The accent was not one they recognized; it was kinda Southern, but there was something else. This was confusing. He peered closer, and his huge lips pursed into an irritated frown. 

“ANSWER ME, KNAVES.”

Knaves? What sort of person called someone a knave?

The terrified father seemed to regain some small measure of faith and stood, trembling but still standing.

“N-no, we are worshipping the one true God-“

He was cut off by an amused guwaff from the titanic stud looming over them.

“GOD? THERE IS NOT ONE GOD, PUNY BUGS, BUT AN ENTIRE RACE OF THEM LIKE ME. BOW BEFORE THE MIGHTY THOR, GOD OF THUNDER, PATHETIC YANTS, AND PERHAPS I SHALL TAKE YOU AS MY PLAYTHINGS.”

The terrified Yankees stared up in horror at the colossus. Since when did the so-called gods have dominions? Some were already on their knees, knocked down by falling debris, the quakes from his footfalls or the beer-scented wind from his booming voice. Others, however, refused to kneel, secure in their faith, albeit still alarmed. Thor titan waited for a few moments, before opening his mouth to speak again, only for a hurricane-force burp to rumble forth from his mega stomach. There was an ominous rumble and then when his lips parted, hell burst forth into the sanctuary. 

The beer-and-protien-scented shockwave of gas and heat obliterated all the remaining stained glass windows as if purging the land of false idols in an act of masculine potency and southern rage, leaving not a trace remaining. The doors flew off their hinges, one door slamming into and through the store across the street, the other door reducing a passing Yankee to a bloody smear on the sidewalk. The walls bulged and strained, bulging out in crazy angles in some places, completely destroyed in some places. The inhabitants fared worst of all. 

The sheer heat of Thor’s massive burp seared them, their screams utterly inaudible as they were cooked to a crisp, burned and charred in a few mercifully quick seconds before death supervened. They had literally been fried by the heat, skin forming a crust-like texture of flash-hardened burns. 

A low whistle came from beside Thor. Stonewall towered beside him, having been watching beside Thor as he exercised his power.

“DAMN! YOU COOKED EM!”

Thor grinned with pride.

“DIDN’T KNOW I COULD DO THAT! I WONDER…”

He trailed off and grabbed one of the petrified Yankee bodies, still kneeling in terrified supplication, and tossed it into his gaping maw.

“NOT BAD! CRISPY AND WARM.”

He reached down and grabbed more, as Stonewall just laughed, thunderous laughter shaking the ground. This had been quite a fun way to see Thor in action, allowing Tim to gauge how he was acclimating to his powers. Evidently he was adapting quite well. He knew it had been a good idea to Southernize the colossal Nordic hunk, and this casual display of power and dominance seemed to confirm it. He smiled and patted his friend on the back. 

“WANNA GO FIND SOME DUMB PROTESTERS TO STOMP ON, MAKE SOME YANTS BOW DOWN?”

Thor grinned. 

“OF COURSE! MAYBE I CAN FRY SOME MORE!”

With that, the two stomped off, Cap joining them, having been busy stomping out a minor disturbance under his boots. The trio of titans stomped off to find more Yants to have fun with, knowing that they would tremble at the sight of the newest member of the Southern Avengers: Thor, Son of Dixie.

-

How Thor joined the ranks of the Southern Avengers! Hope y'all liked it! Lemme know that ya think; comment, send me a message, or via an ask -anon or otherwise-.

[thezombieprostitute]

A Change is Coming

💐Send a whole bouquet!💐Write a surprise drabble or create a moodboard for them. 

This is an idea I had floating around and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to use it on a full fic so I will dress it up in daisies for you, dearest Zombie. Hoping it isn't too dark or bloody.

Warnings: Injury and Blood.

You never thought you’d be a runner. How often did you see those people in their short shorts and loose tanks, toned legs and sweaty foreheads, bouncing with their earbuds in, arms pumping, knees lifting. You could never be one of them... 

Well, now you are. It’s a change. A big change. One long-needed. One made out of fear and panic. 

You have to get healthier. You have to try. You’re starting to feel your age, really, you feel beyond it.  

You tried other things. Yoga was too slow and breathy. Weight-training a bit too heavy and too much. And the gym in general sent you running with sore muscles and no less self-esteem issues. 

Running. Rather, jogging. You’re starting off easy. A slow pace through the trail. You don’t need to worry about the gym bros and their judgment or the girls in their tight leggings filming for Tiktok. It’s just you and nature and oof, your knees! 

Two weeks now. That’s an achievement. Sort of. Two weeks but you gotta keep it up. No time to start patting yourself on the back until you see results. 

Your breath is harried and burning. Your fitbit buzzes at you, slow down. You ease up as you come up and incline. Your thighs are on fire. You wait until you reach another dip before you speed up again. Your heart pumps hotly and you feel that odd calm that comes at your peak. You feel almost good. You feel-- 

Something catches your ankle. Something you couldn’t see as you kept your eyes six feet ahead. At first, the pain doesn’t occur to you, not as you’re sent stumbling forward, crashing, arms flailing as you land on the leaf-strewn trail.  

You lay on your stomach, panting. You groan and roll over, sitting up as you spot the obstruction that tripped you up. A wire tied across the path. It can’t be a coincidence. It’s a trap. 

You look down at your ankle, the one that met the wire. You nearly scream as you see the gash and how your foot hangs to one side. Then you feel it. Your adrenaline courses but cannot numb the agony that creeps up from your injured leg. You hardly feel the scrapes all over your arms and knees as you stare at the torn flesh. 

You babble dumbly. What do you do? How do you get out of here? You’re too afraid to move. Oh god. What’s happened to you? Why you? 

Your hands shake as you hold them before you in shock. You hear a rustle of leaves and the wire slackens. You blink and stair as a man walks across the path, winding it up around his hand. He turns to face you as he unhooks it from the other side. 

He tuts as he comes closer, looming over you. He wears a hoodie and a beanie, a dark stubbly beard across his jaw and cheeks, his blue eyes the only bright thing about him. He tilts his head and squat before you as he examines your ankle with a suck of his teeth. 

“Yikes, that really did a number on you,” he comments, “won’t be walking this one off.” 

You whimper, terrified. He’s unfazed by the sight of your blood. In fact, he’s not bothered at all by the scene before him. By the way he holds the wire, you know he set it up. 

He looks you in the face and tilts his head, “you’re not the one I wanted...” he pulls the knapsack off his shoulder and tucks away the wire inside, “but you’ll do.” 

He swings the bag over his back and moves over you. You cower as he bends to hook his arms under yours. He braces you, the smell of the forest clinging to him. 

“Now, you wanna keep your weight off the right foot, so work with me,” he girds, “you’ll be better off if you do everything I say.” 

You shudder and suck in air as he makes you stand. Your toe hits the ground and jars your ankle. You yelp and cling to him out of instinct. 

“Keep that foot up, sweetheart,” he warns as he turns to stretch his arm across your back, “we got a long way to go.” 

Thanks so much for this, Roo! I really appreciate it!

Is it bad that my first thought is "he's selling me to Kemp!" 😅

Kemp has to back out of the chase for a while, too familiar to too many people. So he hires a few people to do his hunting for him. He doesn't care how they get the girls so long as the girls are alive and pretty.

So Curtis relies on his trapper skills. He finds his prey, gets her usual routine figured out, and sets his trap. But he catches you instead. Pretty enough, Curtis thinks. Can still get my payday.

The trek back to his truck is, of course, slow and painful. You vomit at least once from the pain. Sitting in the truck doesn't help much, either. At least he's got some medical supplies there and starts treating the ankle though you throw up again from the pain.

By the time you get to your destination much of the shock has worn off and the tears are flowing. He helps you limp inside. You know you should scream, try to fight, something, anything but with how casually he treats your pain you get the impression he could make it so much worse without care.

When you're sitting down again, your captor calls out for someone named Kemp. Kemp walks in, sees you and says, "I said 'pretty' girls, Curtis. I'm not buying this one."

"She's pretty enough for your clients. You can always sell her parts with someone else's photo."

"I have a reputation to keep amongst my clients. One hint that they're not getting what they ordered I could be ruined."

"Fine, just pay me half but you're keeping her."

Kemp considers you. "She does seem rather docile. Maybe I could find another use for her besides meat."

Should the story continue? 😆

[drewsbuzzcut]

https://www.tumblr.com/drewsbuzzcut/748951015451164672/httpswwwtumblrcomdrewsbuzzcut748950486742368

Does model reader like Mat’s beard🥵

Warnings: smut and unedited (and yes she loves his beard)

“Just like that, Barzy,” you moan, withering underneath your boyfriend.

His cock is buried deep inside of you, already having pumped you full of his release. It feels so good to finally have him back in your bed.

“You feel so good, pretty girl,” Mat groans into your ear, his teeth nip at your earlobe and pull more of those honeyed moans from your throat.

Your nails dig into the thick, corded muscles in his back. The angry red trails are your favorite thing to look at after you’ve both been satiated. You writhe under your boyfriend after a particularly deep thrust. You can feel him pulse inside of you as he’s already overstimulated, but just can’t seem to stop.

“I’m so proud of you, Barzy. You’re a wonder to watch out on the ice,” you praise him, yours words disguised in a whimper.

Mat rocks his hips at a faster pace and lifts himself up on his hands to watch the erotic sight. Your pussy sucks him in only to reluctantly release him, coated in your arousal. Your legs are trembling due to exertion and over sensitivity, but you still beg for more. Your kiss swollen lips fall agape and plead for more of his cock to fill you up. Your hands grip at him, holding him to you as if he’d ever leave. Never. Not when your pussy keeps squeezing down on his length, and not when he’s so utterly in love with you.

“I love you,” your boyfriend mutters.

He takes your lips in his, his tongue thrusting into your mouth. He devours you. He takes all control, fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips and lifting you to match his thrusts. You try to stay involved in the kiss, but his cock drilling into you makes you scream. Mat takes advantage of your unavailability of keeping quiet. He sucks your tongue in his mouth and you can still taste yourself on him. The scruff of his incoming beard scratches delightfully at your skin, catching you both into a raging fire.

“I love you,” you reply breathlessly, chest heaving when he finally detaches from you.

Leaning back down, Mat rests his face in the crook of your neck. You arch into him, already obsessed with the feeling of the coarse hairs on your skin.

“I’m going to come,” you announce with beads of sweats lining your forehead and your hair fanning out around you.

Your tight, wet walls start to cave in on him, pulling him into his own orgasmic state. His large body looms over you and he sets his hands into the free space above your head. His hips snap into yours at an unforgiving speed and his finger finds your clit in slow, torturous circles.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Make a mess on my cock,” he practically demands, his words husky and hot.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” You chant as you allow yourself to be swept up in a wave of euphoria. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears, barely being drowned out by Mat’s moans. Your body burns, but somehow feels cold without your man on top of you.

“Holy fuck,” Mat whispers, laying his body flush against yours. You can feel his body shake on top of you and feel the thrumming zip up your spine from where his cock is still sheathed inside of you.

“I love you so much, baby,” you cry and let your hands wander the chiseled curves of his godlike body.

Softly and slowly rising off of you, he lets his lips travel each crevice of your body he can reach. He kisses his appreciation into your skin and his affection is delicately laid over your bare body.

“Without you, none of this would mean anything,” Mat states, declaring his words final with another breathtaking kiss.

[boosmidnighthour]

Uh, happy pride month, by the way! I wish I was a faster writer or just planned things in advance; I don't have any fics that celebrate the month.

Instead, have another WIP before the month ends.

Fandom: Ninjago Working Title: Possession/Disbelief (definitely needs a different name whenever I actually post it) Rating: General

◇◇◇

Cole sighed as he made it over the last ledge. It felt good to be solid again. The gravel and dirt felt almost heavenly against his scraped palms. He had missed it all too much. He should really take up rock climbing again-

“Ugh, finally!” Jay started from where he was with his dragon. “Y'know, I was supposed to tag along with you, not the other way around…”

“What? I had to climb the mountain properly this time. It felt almost disrespectful not to,” he argued with a roll of his eyes, lifting himself up the rest of the way and dusting his hands off. “Plus, now that I'm no longer a ghost, I have to treat my body right.”

“You nearly ate an entire cake as soon as Zane pulled it out of the oven.”

“Treating my body right includes indulging in my ignored sweet tooth. And it smelled delicious; if Zane had brought anything else out, I would've eaten it just the same. His cooking is near godly.”

“Whatever you say, man,” he huffed. Then he clapped to get them both back on track. “Anyway, you're here to see into your future. Get to it. It's getting dark, and when it gets dark, it gets cold. I'd prefer to be in bed after a nice hot meal before that happens-”

“With the fire master.”

“What?”

“You'd ‘prefer to be in bed after a nice hot meal’... with the fire master,” Cole snickered, watching as Jay's cheeks turned bright red. “That's a pretty important detail to skip over-”

“Stop stalling and go look before I drag you back down this mountain,” he growled irritably, petting at Wisp's snout. If the dragon hadn't been there, it wouldn't have been as threatening.

“Okay, okay. I'm moving.” So what if he was still a bit of a wuss around dragons?

Cole made his way to the entrance, more hesitantly than he would have liked to admit. The crack in the earth was daunting, looming over him as if to scare him off. He wondered if he actually wanted to know the answer. How far into the future would this take him? What if it was the day before he died? What if it didn't show any future for him at all? What if-

Okay, he had to stop before he thought himself into a trap.

After having paused, he continued forward into the tunnel, feeling along the walls to keep himself steady and to push through his growing nerves. Maybe this was a waste of time, but… now that he was human again, he wanted to see if it had changed at all. As the walls turned to ice and his breath began to fog, he saw the light of the sky reflecting back to him.

The labyrinth, while absolutely freezing and without much else to look at, had beautifully smooth ice. Even with the people that have come and gone, it was still spotless. When the light shone on it at just the right angle, the ice looked like crystals, sparkling like glitter. He tried to remember if Zane had commented on it the first time they'd come here.

Before he looked at himself on any of the walls, he took a deep breath. “Okay, ice… show me something new,” he whispered in the quiet of the cavern. Then he steeled himself and looked towards his reflection.

For a moment, it didn't show him anything, and his heart sank. Maybe this had been a waste of a trip… Then there was a wavering image of… someone walking towards him. It seemed like the ice couldn't decide what to show him, the image wavering indecisively, and it only made it more clear to him that he should take whatever this thing told him with a huge grain of salt.

Finally, the image of this future Cole became clear, and it stood right before him. He looked… well, older, obviously. Maybe a good thirty or forty years ahead. He was nearly the spitting image of his father, which he didn't know how to feel about. A full beard had grown on his face, hair even longer in his bun than now, hairs growing gray with age. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his eyebags much more prominent, some smile lines at the corners of his mouth and nose. He looked happier than he ever had been.

Surprisingly, though, he wasn't wearing the ninja gi. Everyone else's reflections had, from what he could remember, but… why wasn't his? Instead, he wore some comfortable attire, looking as if he was enjoying a day off from work. He seemed to have gained a few scars, but they all looked rather old. His fit yet pudgy torso had thickened up a bit, but he still looked quite strong… did he still have his super strength? He couldn't tell. His hands looked even more calloused than they do now, though. He squinted more at his fingers, seeing something glint on one of them. He froze.

Was that… No, there's just no way. Who the hell would-

The Cole in his reflection turned away from him and gestured for someone to join him, and he suddenly felt like this was all too much. It was lying to him. He couldn't look away.

Zane made his way over to stand beside him, holding a small child in his arms, a teen walking just behind him. The nindroid was sporting a new skin, one as aged as he was. It was similar to how he had looked when they had first met, skin just as dark as he remembered. He still wore his ninja garbs, but he was also wearing a ring on his finger. There's no way Zane would wear a ring while still being a ninja; it was too easy to lose, it would be uncomfortable to wear while fighting, and if the press saw it, forget living any semblance of a peaceful life.

He couldn't help but yearn for such a lie.

There was no way any of this was real, but he wanted it to be. Maybe add a cat or two, and that would be the dream… No. No, no, no- it wasn't real! It was just the reflection telling him his dream life; it was just his brain projecting his hopes into the ice- none of that was possible. Not for him.

He tore himself away from the walls of ice and rushed out, his mind screaming at him to forget such scarring images.

◇◇◇

Only a snippet for y'all. I've gotten much farther on it than just this, but still have a long way to go. Yes, this has to do with that one episode where they saw their future in the ice or whatever. I haven't watched that episode (or that season) in a very long time, and I don't feel like going back to watch it, so we're gonna deal with some flawed memory and inaccuracy.

Yes, I did look up the dragon's names and ended up finding some fan-made ones.

Happy Pride Month!

[rynneer]

Blood of Durin: The Complete Edition

Chapters 1 & 2

Y/N doesn’t know how she found herself in Middle Earth, how she found herself among the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or how she let herself be captivated by the elder Durin prince—but she does know one thing: She’s carrying his child.

Updated weekly, or read the full story here

Chapter 1: Don’t Think, Just Run

all eyes on you, so much to prove...

–Don’t Think Just Run, Beth Crowley

“What… who is that?”

“‘Tis a lass!”

“Do we tie her up?”

“Wait—she’s moving!”

“Out of the way!”

Unfamiliar voices rouse you from sleep. You shift in your sleeping bag, but freeze as something cold touches your neck. Opening your eyes, you find yourself surrounded by dark, looming figures. A blade presses into your throat—not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly enough that you know whoever wields it means business.

Your mind races, survival instincts kicking in. There are rangers around the park where you’ve camped for the weekend, but you set up your site in a remote part of the woods. Your phone is in your backpack. Your backpack is by your sleeping bag. If you make a move for it, they slit your throat. You swallow. Time to talk your way out.

“Who are you?” The tallest figure stands over you. Backlit by the rising sun, you can’t quite make out his face, but his voice is oddly familiar.

“Let me go, or I’ll scream,” you rasp, voice rough both from sleep and the blade against your neck. “My… my boyfriend is on his way back.” It sounds stupid and desperate. It is stupid and desperate.

“You are the intruder here,” he growls. “How did you get here?”

Intruder? “It… it’s a state park…” you stammer. Time to change tactics. “Look, I can’t see your face. Let me go, and I swear I won’t tell the cops!”

“Cops?” one questions. He sounds younger.

“I say we just get rid of ‘er,” another one grunts from behind you.

You start to shake. “Please just let me go,” you say, your voice very, very small. This is it. You’re about to become the topic of an unsolved true crime podcast episode.

A sigh comes from your left. “Let her up, Dwalin. Thorin, look at her. The lass is terrified.”

The blade withdraws from your neck. Your mind spins. Dwalin? Thorin?

With your eyes adjusting to the early morning light, you finally get a chance to sit up and look around properly. “No way,” you mutter. “This is a dream.”

Around you are four short, bearded men. But they’re not men, are they? They’re dwarves, and you know these dwarves. Standing over you is a dark-haired dwarf, glowering down at you with folded arms. Flanking him, two younger dwarves: one blonde, one brunette, peering at you curiously. And at your left, an old, white-haired dwarf with a kind face. Another one—bald and tattooed, it’s Dwalin—steps into view, running his thumb along the blade of an axe. He must have been the one holding you down. Past Thorin, you see the others crouched around a fire pit or rising from their bedrolls, all eyes fixed on you.

You back out of your sleeping bag slowly and lift a shaky finger. “Balin, Dwalin… Fíli, Kíli…” you point at each of them in turn. “Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Óin, Glóin, Nori, Dori, Ori… and Thorin.”

There’s a few seconds of silence as all thirteen dwarves stare at you in bewilderment. Then, in a flash, you’re pushed back down, a knife at your throat.

“How do you know who we are?” Thorin demands, his hand pinning your shoulder to the ground roughly.

“Is there a reason you’re holding a young woman at knifepoint, Thorin Oakenshield?”

That voice. You’d know that voice anywhere.

Thorin hesitates as a tall man cloaked in gray emerges from the trees, sucking on a long-stemmed pipe. Gandalf’s eyes are curious, if guarded as he looks down at you. He motions to Thorin to let you up. Reluctantly, the dwarf does so, and you scramble away, pressing your back against a tree. This definitely isn’t the forest you went to sleep in. All that remains of your campsite is your sleeping bag and backpack. No tent, and no car. Just thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and, stumbling into the clearing behind Gandalf, a hobbit.

“Where am I?” you whisper.

“The woods,” Bofur supplies.

“We’re still within the borders of the hobbits’ lands,” Ori offers more helpfully.

“You mean I’m in Middle Earth? Like, J. R. R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, Shire and Gondor and Mordor Middle Earth?”

Gandalf frowns at that last addition, but nods. “This seems to be distressing to you.”

“But… but you’re not real, you’re just stories,” you protest. Your mind races and you scramble for your backpack, digging around for the book. The Hobbit. You brought it along for some thematically appropriate reading.

Fíli smacks Kíli on the back of the head, making him yelp. “Seems real enough to me.”

“No,” you insist. “No, no, you’re fiction. You were made up by a brilliant man who wrote some of the greatest books of all time, and you’re not real, and–” you halt, staring down at your book in disbelief. The well-thumbed pages are blank. You flip to the beginning. All that remains is the first two chapters, just barely. The book falls from your grasp and you put your face in your hands.

Spying the book, Bilbo moves closer to you, though still maintaining a cautious distance. “Does that say… hobbit?”

“The Hobbit,” you reply, voice muffled. “It’s the title of the story. The story of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield journeying to reclaim the Lonely Mountain from the dragon Smaug. Told from the perspective of Bilbo Baggins. There and Back Again, a Hobbit’s Tale. A book for children.” Peeking over your fingers, you find Thorin’s face. His brow is furrowed.

“You are saying… you are not of this world?” he asks, slowly putting the pieces together. “And in your world, our quest is a mere story for children?”

You nod and clear your throat. “Have you gotten to the… the…” you trail off, racking your brain.

Something’s wrong.

“…I don’t remember what comes next.” Your heart pounds in your ears and your breathing quickens. “I know the story by heart, why can’t I remember what happens next?”

It’s silent as the dwarves watch you.

“Well, ‘tis no different than the rest of us,” Óin remarks eventually. “No one knows what’s to come.”

You wipe at your eyes and sniff.

“So…” Fíli scratches his beard. “What do we do with her?” He grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet and looking at Thorin questioningly.

“We can’t just leave her in the middle of the woods, Thorin,” Balin says quietly.

Thorin looks from you, to Fíli, to Gandalf, to Balin. “We leave her in the next village the moment she becomes a burden,” he grumbles. He leans close to Kíli. “You two keep an eye on her,” he mutters, just barely audible. “Pack up your things. We stop again at midday.”

That breaks the dwarves out of their silence. The morning fills with hushed voices as they bustle around, packing bags and rolling up blankets and bedrolls. Bombur pours a small pot of water over the fire.

Kíli jerks his head towards the ponies. “Flip a coin for who she rides with, Fee?”

Fili lets go of you and brushes you off. “I’ll take her—I’m the better rider anyway.” He pauses to let you gather your things. You were so exhausted after setting up camp the night before that you crawled into bed fully clothed. Seeing you struggle with your sleeping bag, he bends over and rolls it up, fiddling with the elastic cords to tie it shut.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“No trouble.” He straightens up and gives you a small bow. “Fíli, at your service.”

“I know. I’m Y/N.” You keep your gaze lowered, hefting your backpack up on your shoulders and following Fíli to his pony. The tan beast snorts and stamps an impatient hoof. The others, even Bilbo, are already mounted and waiting.

Fíli plants a foot in the stirrup and swings his leg up and over. He holds out a hand. “Up you get, lass.”

Hesitantly, you grip his forearm, surprised at how easily he’s able to pull you up. You stand higher than the dwarf, but he clearly outmatches you in strength. The saddle doesn’t quite fit two, and you wobble, nearly slipping off the other side. Your arm flies forward reflexively to grab Fíli’s shoulder to steady yourself.

“Easy, there!” he cautions, scooting forward to allow you more room in the saddle. He looks back at you. “First time riding?”

You fidget, trying to settle comfortably. “It’s been a really long time.”

He smirks. “Try not to fall off, aye?” He moves your hand to his side and snaps his reins to catch up with the others. Gandalf brings up the rear.

Soon enough, the air is full of chattering and laughter as the Company trots along the path. Bofur starts up a rowdy riding song about a drunk horse. What a strange sight it must make for any passersby: thirteen dwarves with all manner of weapons, a stiff, nervous hobbit, a tall wizard on a great, white horse, and a young woman in strange clothing.

The April air is thick and humid, clouds heavy with the promise of storms to come. Woods gradually open up to rolling fields, back to more woods as your party leaves the Shire behind. Still clinging to the dwarf, you crane your neck and search your surroundings for anything to indicate where you are in the story. Your memories are fuzzy, something about trolls hovering at the back of your mind. All you can think about is losing supplies when a pony bolts and gets swept away in a river—how comforting.

“Lass?” Fíli elbows you, startling you from your thoughts. “We’re stopping.” He hops off the pony, holding out his arms to catch you.

You ignore them, sliding off yourself, but your heavy backpack causes you to stumble. Not completely zipped, its contents spill out onto the ground.

Fíli raises an eyebrow. “No shame in accepting help.” He crouches down to gather things up, but pauses with a puzzled expression. “What are these?” His hand lands on your phone first, staring at it in wonder as it lights up beneath his fingers. He nearly jumps out his skin when it vibrates, informing him that facial ID didn’t work.

You snatch it back from him and shove it in your pocket. “Later,” you grumble. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the rest of your stuff scattered across the leaves. A journal and pen, a few bags of trail mix, some granola bars, a bottle of water, and a half-finished soda from the drive up to the park. You hastily scoop them up and check your backpack for the rest. A fresh set of clothes, a hoodie, some pajamas, basic toiletries, and your solar phone charger. And, of course, The Hobbit.

Fíli frowns at the book. “Do you really know what happens on the journey? How it ends?”

You puff your cheeks out in a sigh. “I should, but it’s all… blurry. I can see the next couple days, though—we’re gonna lose a pony.”

“Fíli! Lass! Planning on joining us?” Balin calls from a short distance away.

You shake yourself, zipping your backpack shut and heaving it off the ground. Gandalf and a few others puff on long pipes, blowing out competing smoke rings. Ori and Kíli munch on apples in a circle of tree stumps. Thorin sits nearby, watching you through narrowed eyes.

“A lass looks good on you, Fee,” Kíli teases as his brother plops on the ground beside him. “Thought you’d never find love.”

Fíli rolls his eyes and punches Kíli’s arm.

You settle against a stump across from the siblings. Kíli rubs an apple on his shirt and tosses it your way. You catch it and nod your thanks. It’s large and sweet, sweeter than any apple you’d bought at the grocery store.

A shadow falls across your lap.

“You.” Thorin looms over you. “What is your name, daughter of Man?”

Daughter of Man? “Y/N,” you mumble.

“What skills do you possess? Can you wield a blade, a bow, tend to wounds? Fight, defend yourself?”

You get his point. “I, uh… I know how to throw a punch. And some basic first aid?”

He doesn’t look impressed.

Desperately, you search your brain for anything useful you could offer him. “I know a lot about Middle Earth history and lore?”

Across from you, a thoughtful look crosses Fíli’s face. “Y/N, what’d you say happens in a few days?”

“A pony bolts during a rainstorm and drowns in a river, and we lose supplies. Mostly food.” Your response is nearly automatic.

Fíli looks at Thorin pointedly. “Give it a couple days, and we shall see just how good of a prophet we have on our hands.”

Thorin presses his lips into a thin line. “We shall see.”

You knew the rainstorm was coming, but it’s still unpleasant. Your hoodie is soaked through, and you can only hope your things are safe inside the emergency plastic bag you keep in your backpack. Water seeps through your fingers from where you hold onto Fíli’s cloak. The wind tears at your hood, ripping it from your head. The only consolation is that the wind is breaking up the clouds, allowing a few rays of moonlight to filter through the woods.

At the head of the party, Thorin halts his pony. “We must find somewhere to take supper,” he mutters. “And where shall we get a dry patch to sleep on?”

“Should we not wait for Gandalf?” Bofur cries from the back of the group.

“What d’you mean, wait for Gandalf?” Kíli asks, puzzled.

“He wandered off a while ago,” you pipe up. “He’ll be back.”

Thorin grumbles something about “Mahal-damned wizards.”

Pulling their hoods tightly around their faces, Bifur and Glóin hop off their ponies, landing in the mud with a squelch and vanishing into the trees. Your butt is quite sore by the time they return.

“There’s nary a dry place to be seen,” Glóin reports. “We may as well camp as we stand.”

You slide from the pony with a groan. “Could’ve told you that myself.”

The rest of the Company seems no more pleased than you at setting up camp beneath the dripping leaves. To keep busy, you help Dori tie up the ponies, but you keep looking back over your shoulder off into the distance at the swollen river you’d forded.

Kíli frowns. “What’s wr–”

He’s interrupted by a screech from the pony Dori is handling. The rope rips from his hand and it bolts—straight for the river.

It happens in slow motion: Fíli and Kíli chase after it, ignoring your screams to stop. Kíli reaches the rope first, snagging it with a hand but instantly getting dragged to the ground. Fíli grabs his boot, only succeeding in yanking it off.

You sprint as fast as your legs will carry you, but Kíli’s already in the river, swept under. “Fíli, don’t you fucking dare–”

And Fíli dives in after, vanishing.

Footsteps pound behind you and a rope lands in your arms. “Move!” Thorin barks.

You run through the trees, chasing the current. Thorin pushes you forward. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you search the water. There!

You spot a dark patch in the water. You fling the rope at him. “Kíli!” you scream.

His hand shoots out and seizes the rope.

Thorin is at your side in an instant. “Pull!”

You yank on the rope for all you’re worth, bracing your legs against a rock. Thorin hollers back toward camp, bringing half a dozen dwarves racing through the forest. As they start hauling Kíli out of the water, you let go of the rope and scramble towards the riverbank. “Fíli?!”

A shout comes from further down the river. A yellow head pokes out over a log stuck in the bank, the dwarf clinging to it for dear life.

You struggle against the sucking mud, reaching out an arm. Fíli grips it tightly and you pull with all your might, clawing at his sopping wet sleeve. Strong arms wrap around your waist and heave, dragging you backwards, Fíli along with you. The momentum sends him crashing on top of you, and you both fall into the mud with a splat. The weight of the dwarf on your chest knocks the wind out of you. After fighting the current, the poor thing is too exhausted to do much more than collapse on top of you, his head resting on your shoulder.

You pat him on the back, chest heaving. “You alright?”

“I’m alive,” he wheezes.

You sigh and let your head fall back against the ground, for the moment not caring about the mud caking your hair. You’ll wash it out later.

Thorin’s face appears above you. He hauls Fíli off of you and offers you a hand. Pulling you from the ground, he wipes a smear of mud from your face.

“I told you,” you pant. “I told you we’d lose a pony.”

But Thorin doesn’t argue. He claps your shoulder. “Welcome to the Company,” he grunts.

Chapter 2: Quiet

Trigger warning: panic attack

and the heat and the shouting and my heart is pounding and my eyes are burning

–Quiet, the cast of Roald Dahl’s Matilda: The Musical

Something’s not right.

There’s a knot in your stomach that becomes more strained as you trek through the woods, yours and Fíli’s pony plodding tiredly beneath you. Thorin rides just ahead, grumbling under his breath. He’s been in a foul mood for days, under the combined stress of Gandalf’s sudden disappearance and the loss of the pony that carried a considerable amount of food. He won’t admit it, but you think Fíli and Kíli’s near-drowning has shaken him as well. It’s the first time so far the Company has encountered real danger, and for it to involve his closest family must weigh heavily on him.

Everyone’s nerves are strained, in fact. Even Bofur hasn’t felt up for a song. With one mount down, the dwarves are alternating between who gets to ride, and who has to walk. So far, you and Bilbo haven’t been in the line up—someone else is always quick to volunteer in your place.

“Something bad is going to happen soon,” you mutter in Fíli’s ear. “I can feel it.”

Thorin lets out a low growl. He may have accepted you as a member of the Company, but you can feel his patience waning. The warning you gave didn’t stop the pony’s loss, and since then all you’ve had to offer are vague, dark feelings.

Fíli reaches back and pats your thigh. “I’m sure we can handle whatever comes our way,” he says.

Thorin pulls back on his reins, halting his pony. “We’ll stop for the night,” he grunts. A sigh of relief ripples through the Company.

The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens. Something about this decision feels wrong, but you try to ignore it as you slide off the pony and busy yourself setting up camp. But it only gets worse, escalating to physical pain. Briefly, you wonder if your period has come early. When you sit down next to Bombur’s small fire, you hiss. It feels like someone’s stabbed you with a hot poker.

“Something wrong, lass?” Bofur asks, dumping wood on the ground.

“I don’t know,” you reply through gritted teeth. “I don’t think we should be stopping.” As you say it, the pain eases slightly.

Thorin frowns from his place across the fire. “We stop when I say so.”

“Something doesn’t feel right about it,” you say again. “The story–”

Thorin’s eyes flash dangerously. “This is not one of your stories.”

“No, we have to keep going,” you protest. You can sense his anger about to boil over, but you press on. “You have to do what Tolkien said you’re supposed to do!” You regret your phrasing as soon as the words leave your mouth.

“I do not want to hear another word of this Mahal-damned Tolkien and whatever nonsense he penned in your world,” Thorin snaps. “I will not suffer a challenge, least of all from someone who is only on this quest by unfortunate chance!”

Kíli jumps to his feet. “Thorin, you shouldn’t speak to her like that!”

“Be quiet, Kíli!” Thorin rounds on his nephew.

Several others rise and the air fills with a clamor of voices—some coming to your defense, others supporting Thorin.

Shouts ring out.

It’s too loud.

The noise is overwhelming.

Get out.

You can’t hear anything anymore.

You’re useless.

Everything is blurry.

This is your fault.

Your hands begin to sweat.

You can’t change anything.

You’re consumed by just one thought.

I need to get out. Get out. Get out get out get out get out.

You scramble to your feet and bolt, ignoring the cries of the Company and running blindly through the woods.

Get out get out get out.

Your foot catches on a root and the ground rushes up to meet you.

Your pulse races. Your breaths come quick and shallow, barely taking in any air before it’s forced right back out. Somewhere, in a detached part of your mind, you’re aware of what’s happening, but you feel like a passenger in your body as waves of panic slam over you.

“Y/N?”

Arms find you in the shadows. You flinch away, curling into a ball and burying your face in your knees. “I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t–” you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips out of your control. “I can’t breathe, I can’t–”

A hand grips your shoulder, hesitantly at first, then more firmly. “Hey,” a voice murmurs. “Hey there. Easy, lass. You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Even as you stiffen against the touch, an arm works its way between your knees and your chest. It gently uncurls your body and pulls you into a tight embrace. The hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your head, pushing it down lightly. Your face is buried in a mane of soft hair, cool beads pressing into your cheeks.

“That’s it, lass. Breathe.”

With trembling hands, you dig your fingers into the back of whoever holds you. It takes tremendous effort, but you suck in a deep, shuddering breath. The scent in your nose is musky and sweaty, grounding you in the moment. This is real, a voice whispers in the back of your mind. This is safe.

Your stiff body finally loosens, and the hand lifts from your hair. You raise your head and meet a pair of kind eyes.

It’s Fíli. His brow is slightly creased as he searches your face. He eases his hold on you, but keeps his arm wrapped around your middle.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears spilling over your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

He squeezes your side. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” There’s a dark patch on the shoulder of his tunic from your tears.

You duck your head, avoiding his face. “I knew this would happen,” you say softly, bitterness lacing your voice. As the adrenaline drains from your blood, hot shame replaces your fear.

“Does this…” he hesitates. “Does this happen often?” Fíli lowers his head to get in your line of sight. “Y/N?”

“Sometimes.” You pause to take a few more deep, steady breaths, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. “I ran out of my medicine last week. It was just a matter of time.”

“Medicine?” His eyes darken with worry. “Are you ill?”

You let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. “Mentally? Yeah. And all this…” you wave your hand in the air, “…it isn’t helping.”

“Nor is Thorin, I’m sure.”

“It’s not his fault,” you mutter.

Fíli shifts into a cross-legged position. He takes one of your arms and puts it around his neck, carefully pulling you into his lap. You sink against his chest, trying to match his even breathing and listening to his heartbeat. He rests his chin on your head and starts humming softly. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to him, to any of the dwarves, but you couldn’t care less. You’ll take comfort from any source. You close your eyes with a sigh.

“Uncle doesn’t mean it,” Fíli whispers after a long time. “He values you, I promise.” His chest vibrates as he chuckles. “If he didn’t, you’d have been left behind long ago.”

“Gandalf values me,” you reply morosely. “If it was up to Thorin, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. Or if it was up to me,” you add, voice small.

Fíli squeezes you. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs. “Kíli’s glad you’re here. Balin’s glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re here.”

You swallow down more tears. “Fíli, face it. The only thing I add to the party is a vague idea of what will happen in two or three days. And what good is that if Thorin won’t even listen?” You start to shake again as you finally put to words the thoughts that have plagued you for days. “I’m just dead weight.”

“You keep me going,” he whispers, voice cracking slightly. “You’re a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. You’re our lass.”

Silent tears course down your cheeks. Fíli starts humming again.

“I won’t let him say anything like that ever again,” he promises. He pulls back and gives you a small smile. “…markhûna.” [she who is desired]

The meaning of the Khuzdûl is lost on you, but you weakly return his smile.

“Y/N? Are you…”

Kíli pushes through the brush. You expect Fíli to push you away hastily or try to explain your entangled position, but he makes no attempt to move you. He merely stands with you in his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist to support yourself.

“Has he cooled off?” Fíli asks warily.

Kíli shrugs. “He hasn’t said a word since she, uh…” he trails off, giving you a careful glance. “Yes. He’s cooled off.”

Fíli nods slowly, and you drop your legs, letting him place you on the ground. “Will you be alright?” he whispers in your ear.

You nod, releasing your arms from around his neck and untangling your fingers from his hair.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll look after you.” Kíli grins and pats you on the back heartily. “You’re one of us now.”

[please-let-me-be-horny]

The Good, The Bad, The Neutral: Devils Night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Devils Night. Mischief Night. The night before Halloween where Antisocial behaviour sky rockets. Petty vandalism, public intoxication, and public indecency is the rule of the evening. For Good, Bad and Neutral, it was the only night a year where they could safely go on a night out. When everyone is in costume. In masks. When it's normal to be anonymous.

Good had been excited for tonight for the last 12 months. And the wait was finally over. Standing Infront of the mirror, he adjusted his fake beard and glasses, ensuring his face was concealed whilst maintaining the excellent Wizards costume he had put together this year. Behind him, The Intern was helping Bad with his Ghost face costume.

"Newt! Hurry up! We only get one night a year to do something fun and I'm not wasting it waiting for you to choose the right cufflinks."

"do you guys really only go out once a year? Like you guys don't even go for a nice meal on your birthday or anything?"

"Yeah, that's Newts idea. Says it's only safe for us to be out and about tonight and tomorrow night because of all the costumes and because security is gonna be too busy trying to keep things in order." Good rolled his eyes, placing his hands over his ears in a lazy attempt to mimic Neutral. "Blegh blegh, it's too risky, blegh blegh, we have to stay under the radar, I don't like it when my mash potatoes touche my peas, bleegh"

"yeah well, one of us has to be the buzzkill around here..." Neutral came out from behind the door to his room, wearing a suit. Beneath his jacket was a battle belt, containing a series of prop weapons magazines.

"...I thought you were dressing up?"

"I am dressing up! This is Val Kilmers look from Heat..." Neutral huffed, quietly disappointed that no one recognised his costume.

"You look great, mate, now come on, you're our designated driver!" Good gripped Neutral by the shoulder and began walking him towards the van. "Chick? We'll be back in the morning. There's food in the fridge, don't do anything that would cause Newt to have an aneurysm."

"and don't touch my stuff!" Neutral called back, before getting bundled into the driver's seat if the van.

Behind them, Bad glanced at himself in the mirror, checking his costume, and flexing his hands in the leather gloves.

"Yeah...it's based off his outfit from Dead By Daylight...he's my favourite Killer..." The intern blushed slightly as Bad turned to face her in his mask. She was used to being able to see his eyes, but in this mask, they were replaced by deep, empty voids. She couldn't read him as he approached, head cocked to the side in his usual form of curious observation. He loomed over her for a moment, before reaching up and gently petting her in the head. Satisfied with his costume, Bad approached the back of the van, stepping in through the side door, and slamming it shut behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's difficult to get into a nightclub without an ID, but it isn't impossible. Especially when the bar staff forget to close the fire escape properly after they've finished their smoke break.

"You'd think security would be more careful about their capacity after The Station fire..."

"Newt, with the super morbid reference to a tragedy. Man, you really are the life of the party, aren't you, bud?"

"I'm not here to party, I'm here to make sure you two don't end up in handcuffs."

"really? I thought I was because you couldn't get any bitches on your own" Good offered a smug grin, before turning back around and opening up the door that connected the service corridor to the club.

The dance floor was packed with an assortment of colours and masked faces. Zombie Athletes, Toilet paper mummies, a few vampires, and as always, the infinite spectrum of "sexy" occupational costumes. Good took in a deep breath through his false beard, smelling the aroma of sweat, sugary alcohol and the conglomeration of perfumes and colognes. "Fuck, boys...we're missing out..."

"it's disgusting"

"IT'S BRILLIANT!" Good chirped happily, dancing in place to the music whilst Neutral stood, arms crossed and visibly uncomfortable about how sticky the floor was.

"Now, if you don't mind, gents..." Good peeked over the top of his glasses, spotting a girl at the bar dressed as a witch. "...I think I need to see a lady about a broom..." Neutral rolled his eyes as Good slinked his way across the dance floor and through the crowd towards his desired partner.

"Well, I guess it's just me and..." Neutral turned to address Bad, just in time to see him getting dragged away by the wrist by a group of girls, all giggling and fawning over his ghost face mask. He reached up to rub his eyes, trying to push the migraine out from behind them.

"Sorry about that...They've all got a bit of a thing for ghost face these days..."

Neutral turned to locate the voice speaking to him, only to find his vision casting downward to a small girl with big curly 80's hair, wearing a green jumpsuit and white converse. She couldn't be any taller than 5 foot nothing.

"...Ripley, Alien, 1979....good movie."

"well done, most people tonight keep thinking I'm Maverick from Top Gun" she chuckled softly, before casting her eyes up and down over his costume. "Hmm...I preferred Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday...but his costume in Heat is definitely an easier and safer option...buy a girl a drink?" She offered a smirk up towards him, biting her lip slightly as she blushed.

"I don't drink." He turned back towards Bad, to find him with his arm around a girls neck, with his hand gripped her face. Swearing under his breath, Neutral moved to seperate them, only to be stopped by the little Ripley taking a hold of his arm. "Hey, it's ok, it's just for the pictures, they're enjoying themselves...you don't get out much, do you?" Neutral huffed, turning back to face her, and taking his arm out of her grip. "No. We don't get out often. And if you don't have money to buy your own drinks, then you shouldn't be asking strangers to pay for them for you." He rolled his eyes, brushing past her and storming off toward the bar.

"...oh yeah? See I thought you'd only use candles in your little pentagrams, but if you're feeling creative, I'm sure we can find some other-" Good trailed off as he saw Neutral approaching, letting out a jeer of approval. "Woooaaah, hey bud, How'd you get on with Maverick? I saw you two talking, you dog" he cackled, sipping his drink and nudging him with his elbow.

"First of all, she's dressed as Ripley, from Alien. Secondly, we weren't flirting, she just wanted money for a drink."

Good looked at him confused for a moment, before leaning in and whispering "....did she ask you for money for a drink, or did she ask you to buy her a drink?"

"does it matter?"

"yes, idiot, if she asked you to buy her a drink it means she was trying to flirt with you..."

The witch on Goods arm snorted, trying to conceal a laugh as she hid behind the drink Good has bought for her. Good turned to face her, offering her a defensive glare. "Don't laugh. He doesn't get out often...excuse me..." Good reached up, taking the drink out of her hand, before turning his back to her and looping an arm around Neutrals shoulder, leading him back into the dancefloor and away from the bar. "Right, first thing you're gonna do, is go find her and give her this..."

"Good, this is your Witches drink."

"Oooh no, she's mean, she can buy her own damn drinks. Now. Go talk to Cher-"

"Ripley"

"ok, go talk to RIPLEY, give her this, and then start talking to her about aaaaall the cool stuff you know about Heat, so she knows who you are and-"

"oh she already knew. She said she preferred Val Kilmer in Tombstone."

"Jesus Christ, mate, how are you this clueless? Right...just go be yourself...well maybe not yourself but the nice version of yourself."

Neutral took the drink and rolled his eyes. "This is stupid"

"it's a night out, Newt. You get one a year. Enjoy it. Take the stick out your arse and talk to the pretty girl."

Neutral nodded, as Good gave him a pat on the shoulder and disappeared back towards the bar.

It didn't take long for Neutral to find her again. The growing crowd of drunken girls surrounding Bad was enough of a sign that she was in the area. Upon locating her, he sidled up beside her quietly, standing unnoticed for a moment before offering her arm a gentle nudge with his elbow.

"oh...I thought you didn't drink?" She raised an eyebrow, clearly a little insulted from their last encounter.

"sorry...I don't get out much...this is for you..." He offered her the drink, and bowed his head in a subtle apology. "So...what's your name?"

"hmm...you already know who I am...I'm Ripley." She accepted the drink and offered him a smirk, before turning her back towards him and watching her friends. "So what about you? What's your name?"

"I'm Nnn...." Neutral hesitated for a moment. It wasn't a subtle hesitation either. It lingered. "...nnnathan...my name is Nathan...sorry..."

She chuckled, peering at him over her shoulder. "Well Nnnnnnathan...thank you for the drink..."

There was a moment of silence between them. Awkward silence. Both of them knew one of them should probably be talking right now. But neither one of them had anything to say.

"So the Shootout in Heat wa-"

"So where are you guys going aft-"

They spoke at the same time and cut eachother off. They chuckled, and Neutral guestured for her to continue.

"sorry, I was just gonna ask where you guys are going after this...look, this is clearly awkward for you, so I'm just gonna come clean, I just got out of a relationship and I'm really not used to talking to guys in clubs....he never really let me go out with friends." She chuckled nervously, looking to the floor and hiding her face.

"no, it's ok...I don't even have an ex, so you're already better at this than I am..."

"oooh, so you're fresh meat, huh?" She smirked again, offering a wink, before shuddering under the weight of her own cringe. "Sorry...still getting used to flirting again."

There was another moment of silence, before Neutral spoke again.

"well listen...I don't really do well with loud music...maybe this would go a little better if we went somewhere more quiet?"

"oh yeah? And what did you have in mind?" She raised her eyebrows, a little surprised by how forward he was being all of a sudden. Little did she know that he genuinely did just want to get away from the distraction of the noise.

"well I'm the designated driver for the other two idiots, so I have a van parked out back..."

"man, you really did lean into the bank robber aesthetic huh? Ok sure...lead the way, Nnnnnnathan..." She threw him a knowing smirk, before offering him her hands. Neutral hesitated for a moment, glancing over towards Good, who motioned for him to go for it. Taking her hand, he smiled softly down at her from behind his mask, leading her back towards the service corridor.

At the bar, Good was resting his chin in his palms, watching his brother leave with a pretty girl in his arm. He let out a dreamy sigh. "They grow up so fast..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was closing time. 4am. And Good was currently slumped over Bads shoulders, mumbling his way through Abba lyrics as they made their way out the fire escape. Good had gotten distracted taking body shots off a sexy fairy, and Bad had found himself in possession of at least 15 napkins with phone numbers scrawled on them. Needless to say, they had lost track of Neutral all together.

"I wasn't jeeeaaalous before we met...DOo DOo DOo DOo....now every woman I seeee iiiiisssaaaa poootentialthreat!....hey wayaminute....where'sh Newty? NEWTY?!"

Bad slapped a hand across his mouth before he made any more noise. Resting Good against the back doors of the van, he tried the doors. Locked. And Neutral had the key. Bad was about to send him a text when the side door slid open, and Little Ripley stepped out the back, zipping her Jumpsuit up. "Oh....he's in there....listen I don't suppose I could borrow your phone? My uh...friends are probably worrying about where I am..."

Good and Bad stood silent, astounded. Good offered her is phone, and watched as she made a phone call to her friends. Whilst her back was turned, Bad peered into the van through the open side door, seeing Neutral laying naked under a blanket, looking shell shocked and holding a lit cigarette between his fingers.

"sssho....you needa *hic*....you needa ride?" Goods words came out like Alphabetti Spaghetti, luring a chuckle out of her. "Thank you, but I think I'm good, my friends gonna come pick me up...besides, I think I've had enough risk for one night...following one stranger into his van is one thing, but joining all three of you? Hmm...one was more than enough..." She blushed deeply, before stepping past them and heading for the main road at the front of the club.

Good peered into the van to see Neutral, stumbling and crawling his way in to sit next to him.

"....you don't smoke..."

"Nope"

"...did you two...?"

"yep"

"....was it-?"

"Yep!"

Good sat in silence for a moment, before reaching for the open packet of cigarettes on the floor, slipping one between his lips, and lighting it. "...Ripley was hot in Alien to be fair...Good job, mate...proud of you."

"yeah....tonight was fun...." Neutral continued with his thousand yard stare, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a heavy drag.

There was silence between the three of them as Bad made his way into the driver's seat. Starting the van up, He cautiously pulled foreward out into the main road. The sun was coming up.

And it was time to go home.

[goldenavenger02]

all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest solider

Whether it was something as simple as illuminating the metaphoric dark sky that loomed over his parents or his ramblings being so quick that no one knew what he had said, all he knew was that his brain, his hands and his mouth moved faster then everyone’s around him and usually before he could fully grasp the impact of the decision he had made.

Even as a child, Jay had been described as a flash of lightning. 

Whether it was something as simple as illuminating the metaphoric dark sky that loomed over his parents or his ramblings being so quick that no one knew what he had said, all he knew was that his brain, his hands and his mouth moved faster then everyone’s around him and usually before he could fully grasp the impact of the decision he had made.

So when he crashed through a window with wings made out of scraps attached to his back only to find himself sitting beside a man with a long white beard and a teapot sitting next to his crossed legs, he wasn’t exactly surprised to hear the man say that the lightning sparked brightly inside of him.

What had been surprising to the fourteen-year-old was that just based on that one conversation about impossibility he found himself journeying with the man, who he learned was named Wu, up a large mountain to his monastery where he would “begin his training to harness the lightning inside”. 

Despite his first lesson being entirely focus-based and nothing to do with the training course that he watched the other two teens adorned in black do from the windows, Jay couldn’t lie when he said that he was excited despite envying the Sensei’s other students.

“I know that focus doesn’t come easily to you, that you would much rather be outside and meet your fellow teammates,” Wu had spoken in the dimly lit room as the two sat across from each other and the smell of the incense burning in between them made Jay’s nose twitch, “but in order to harness lightning, one needs to have some sense of grounding.”

“But if I have to control lightning, shouldn’t I be near it?” Jay questioned with as much of a respectful tone as he could despite the fact that his sensitive nose was going to make him sneeze sooner rather than later.

“We are not in a storm right now.”

“No, I mean outside. Near the clouds and the fresh air and-”

“If I was teaching you to control the lightning, yes,” Wu cut him off before neatly folding his hands back together, “but, there is a difference between control and command and I am teaching you command. After all, control means that there will be resistance, whereas command means that your internal element will work with you.”

“So I need to work with the lightning?” Jay couldn’t stop himself from questioning Wu’s teachings but his curiosity always seemed to get the better of him even when he knew that it wasn’t for the best.

But, he was surprised to see a smile grace the Sensei’s face, “Precisely, Jay. Some say that fire is the most destructive element with the way it burns and destroys. Others would say wind is due to its tendency to be stubborn and unpredictable. I am of the opinion that it is lightning because it combines the destruction of fire with the spontaneity of wind, which is why it is imperative that you work with it so it cannot work against you.”

“I’m sorry, Sensei Wu,” Jay apologized as he bowed his head in respect, “but I think you got the wrong guy. I’m not dangerous unless it’s my stupid mouth and I’m not this super strong lightning master either. I’m just a kid from a junkyard.”

“You are not a master yet,” Wu corrected while standing, “and you are not just a kid from a junkyard. You have great potential, Jay Walker. I am just here to guide you as you work to harness the lightning,” he reached over and moved the small bowl of burning incense away from Jay before going to exit through the sliding door, “that is your lesson for the day, but I encourage you to ponder what we have discussed and finding what grounds you.”

And with that, he had left the room leaving Jay with swirling thoughts as he continued to sit in the dark room. After all, he had never come across a problem that he couldn’t figure out. ‘Why would this one be any different?’

…

Four years later, Jay would argue that he had gotten very good at controlling lightning. 

Yes, there had been that scrimmage with Morro that had him realizing just why Master Wu had been so meticulous in warning him about the dangers of wind, as well as the battle against Nadakhan that he’d rather forget, but aside from that, the feeling of lightning flowing through his veins before finding its exit from his fingers was something that would never get old.

Even when it had its downsides, like causing lichtenberg figures to appear across his body that made his hands tingle whenever he was stressed or attracting storms to The Destiny’s Bounty forcing him to be the ship’s one defense by acting as a lightning rod, Jay couldn’t be more happy that he had been found all of those years ago by Master Wu.

But the current events around him as the ship rocked back and forth in the harsh storm, he was feeling anything but happiness; it was impossible to feel happy as the group sans Nya, who was making calls and piloting the ship, crowded around an unconscious Lloyd.

Lloyd, who was usually the one to bring the rest of them out of their individual funks, was laying on the metal slab where they had repaired Zane just a few days before, his breaths coming in and out too fast to be normal and blood mixing in with the tattered green fabric that covered his more than likely broken bones.

The one who had always seemingly been the strongest out of all of them was so broken that it was hard to tell if he was still in there and still fighting.

“-need to stop the bleeding-”

“-running a fever-”

“-signs of a punctured lung-”

The scattered yells of his teammates trying to stabilize Lloyd went in one ear and out of the other as Jay pressed his back against the wall; he had never been good with the medical side of being a ninja, just barely completing any of the lessons Sensei had given them regarding first aid on the battlefield, but he did know when to stay out of the way.

After all, between Zane and PIXAL’s expertise, Kai’s knack he had for knowing where to start when a multitude of injuries occurred and Cole there to hold Lloyd’s hands for both support and to keep him still, Jay wasn’t entirely convinced that he was needed in the control room of The Bounty to the point where he was about to slip out the door to see if his girlfriend needed help.

Until he heard two of the most terrifying noises to date; the sound of the medical equipment dying with the power around them and Cole’s panicked shout of “he stopped breathing!”

As the shouts only grew more frantic, Jay lacked to find his own voice in the chaos; all he could focus on was Lloyd’s slack body as Zane’s metal hands started to rapidly press down on his chest and the crunching of ribs under the weight of compressions.

“You have great potential, Jay Walker. I am just here to guide you as you work to harness the lightning.” Wu’s voice echoed in his mind, instantly bringing him out of the outsider perspective and to the present.

‘First Spinjitzu Master, help me save Lloyd.’

He pulled himself away from the wall and rushed forward, powering up just enough lightning in his palm as he shouted “open his shirt! I know what to do!”

Jay ignored the shouting around him as the green gi was pulled away from Lloyd’s chest and despite his stomach churning at the sight of the bruising that adorned his body and pressed his lightning-filled hand to just above his heart while shouting “back up!”

The lights flickered as Lloyd’s body pushed upward into his hand, but when he pulled away, his body remained still and his ears started to phase out the shouts surrounding him.

“-didn’t work!-”

“-start compressions again-”

“-ome on, Lloyd…don’t do this-”

“There is a difference between control and command. I am teaching you command.” Wu’s voice echoed in his mind again, forcing Jay to take a deep breath while charging up his hands again as he thought to himself, ‘command the lightning, Jay. Don’t control it.’

“Clear!” He shouted again to give Zane a warning before pressing both palms to Lloyd's chest while the lights flickered around them again, feeling his slack body arch into his touch again. 

The energy coursed through him violently, ripping through his veins and filling Lloyd’s as Jay desperately fought against fate but when he let go and his knees collapsed under him with exhaustion, the lights stayed on and the hum of the medical equipment returned as it powered back to life.

But despite Jay fighting against his body’s need to fall unconscious, he did succumb to the mind-numbing darkness only after he heard Cole’s voice stutter with relief, “h-he’s breathing.”

…

Jay wouldn’t even have the chance to turn eighteen before he was commanding lightning into Lloyd’s body for the second time in a year.

The events had been more blurry and chaotic, with the Oni attacking the monastery as well as using the Tornado of Creation for the first time in four years, leaving him light headed and exhausted even without the screams of panic when they discovered Lloyd’s lifeless body under the broken doors of the monastery.

When Wu had held his nephew’s wrist in his palm before saying “there is nothing to be done”, Jay had stepped forward automatically, the lightning under his command in his palms as he pressed them against Lloyd’s chest.

He would never be used to feeling a slack body arching involuntarily into his touch as the lightning tore out of his veins. In the aftermath, Jay could only feel relief when it had only taken one burst of power to send Lloyd gasping and coughing while his heart started to beat once more.

The cheers of relief from the others despite Jay sinking to the ground were short-lived when Lloyd tried to sit up, only to fall back with an arm over his ribs and a harsh hiss through his teeth filled with pain.

Despite the woozy feeling that filled Jay’s body where the surge of lightning had once resided, he could feel his heart start to split at the seams as the others helped take Lloyd to his bedroom and he heard the boy’s voice shake as his soft plea of “dad” echoed in his head.

And with that one word alone, Jay found the strength to stand again and push himself toward the Oni that towered over him who was trying to make a quiet escape down the steps of the monastery.

“Garmadon!” He managed to shout, watching as the large figure turned with a raised eyebrow that still filled his heart with fear, but he held it together, “I’m talking to you!”

“What do you want, blue ninja?” He seemed indifferent, maybe even annoyed, but Jay held his ground as he pushed back thoughts of letters and Cliff Gordan and unknowns.

“I don’t know why Lloyd insists that there’s any part of our former sensei inside of you, but he called out for you. He was pleading for you.”

“That boy is pleading for a distant memory,” Garmadon brushed him off, sending angry heat into Jay’s cheeks, “I am not what he thinks I am.”

“He just died, for the second time I might add, because of you!” Jay shouted, unable to keep any part of himself neutral in the situation as Lloyd’s desperate plea rang in his ears, “the least you could do is take five seconds and look out for someone who was once your son!”

“I did,” Garmadon snarled, taking a step forward to look into Jay’s eyes, “I stayed and watched as you sacrificed your power and energy to revive him for what you said was the second time. But regardless of whether there is any good in me or not, he will never forgive me for what happened in Kryptarium Prison and I do not blame him. I am not the Garmadon he remembers.”

“You can’t just leave!” Jay shouted as the Oni turned away again, but he refused to acknowledge him again and continued to descend down the steps, leaving Jay at the entrance while his legs wobbled under him, threatening collapse.

He forced himself back onto even ground before his adrenaline ebbed away and he was forced to sit with his head against the wall, his head spinning with thoughts of inheritance and abandonment until Nya approached and sat beside him, letting him rest his head on her shoulder.

That one comforting touch of her hand in his messy hair made the dam burst as he started to sob as everything fell together in a wave of emotions; images of Lloyd, Cole and Garmadon swirling in his mind as she held him close, his body shaking against hers.

“None of it is on you,” she insisted, her hand moving up and down her back as he continued to replay the moments in his head.

Cole fell when he was right there beside him and Lloyd’s slack body under his palms and Garmadon disregarding not only his pleas but the pleas of his own flesh and blood when it didn’t seem so long ago that he would have broken his own personal beliefs to protect Lloyd. 

He was overwhelmed with the events of the last twenty four hours, every single scar from using his powers ached painfully and he was so, so tired; in fact, when his sobs subsided, he let his yang guide him on shaking legs to his room, unable to help her change out of his dusty gi and into his pajamas.

She pulled the blankets over his shaking body and gently ran one hand through his matted hair while the other cupped his cheek, her voice coming out in a whisper as she told him to “get some rest” which was impossible to refuse while drifting into the blissful dark of sleep.

…

It took Jay two days to gain the strength to see Lloyd.

In his defense, he had spent the better part of that time sleeping as his body regained its strength as well as holding onto Nya like a lifeline as he fully processed what had occurred.

However, he could not defend purposefully avoiding the green ninja and avoiding having to admit to the conversation he had with Garmadon on the steps of the monastery.

“Lloyd is going to be alright,” Wu insisted when he came to check on Jay that afternoon, “while I hate to be the one to say this about my nephew, he has survived much worse than a few broken ribs.”

Jay nodded as he bit the inside of his cheek, his mouth tinged with the metallic taste of blood as a result.

“But, Lloyd’s condition is not the only reason I came to see you,” Wu admitted as he sat down in the chair that had been occupied by Nya for the last day, “do you remember the first thing I taught you when you arrived here?”

“Command versus control,” Jay replied as he refused to look his master in the eyes, choosing to focus on his tingling hands, “that I had to learn to command lightning instead of letting it control me.”

“Exactly,” Jay looked up to see Master Wu nod in agreement, “you learned control with the nunchucks of lightning as well as when you were granted your raw, elemental power. But from what I’ve been told by the others, you only learned command that night on The Destiny’s Bounty after the fight against Lloyd and his father.”

Jay nodded, his voice tangled in his throat as he remembered the flash of sending everything into Lloyd’s chest like a general commanding an army.

“And after seeing you do it again a few days ago, I can now say that you only have one thing left to do before you complete the very first task I gave you four years ago,” Wu explained while standing and starting to head toward the door, “finding what grounds you.”

Jay already knew the answer; he already knew that what kept his head steady and his feet on the ground were his teammates and while learning to just be himself had unlocked his true potential, that they were part of the reason he had been able to find his full potential in the first place.

“It’s knowing that the others will always be there for me,” Jay spoke, peaking Wu’s interest, “that after I passed out on The Bounty, Cole and Kai carried me to my room and watched over me. After what happened with Garmadon, Nya was right there to help me when I was paralyzed by my own mind. That no matter what happens, one of them will always be able to help me off the ground.” 

“Then I think you know what you need to do now.” Wu said while exiting the room, leaving him in silence just like he had four years prior.

Only this time, he refused to sit still in the dimly lit room by himself and try to figure out the vagueness in Wu’s words because he already knew what he had to do.

Be there for Lloyd the same way the others had been there for him.

Jay knew that none of the others thought of him as someone who thought things through before doing them which is exactly why he made his way towards Lloyd’s bedroom with zero idea on what he was going to say.

But when he opened the door, he was surprised to see Lloyd not only awake, but despite the gash on his forehead that had been neatly stitched back together, he looked like himself; he knew that healthy wasn’t the right word, since the green ninja was still two shades too pale, but he looked better then he had the last time he had seen him which he considered a major improvement.

But the last thing Jay expected was the words that left Lloyd’s mouth after they made eye contact, “what did Garmadon do?”

Not dad, not my father…Garmadon. Jay wasn’t sure he had ever heard Lloyd refer to Garmadon by his first name.

“Lloyd, are you su-”

“Just tell me,” Lloyd cut him off, “I need to know.”

“I asked him to stay, for you. He…” Jay swallowed as the marks on his hands tingled with nervous energy, “he said…that you were calling out for a memory.”

“Jay?” Lloyd asked softly, resting his calloused palm over Jay’s shaking knuckles, “Jay, why did you ask him to stay?”

“Because you called out for him,” Jay insisted, watching as Lloyd’s body stiffened with a mix of what he assumed was fear and embarrassment, “when they carried you inside, after I…I shocked you, so you’d start breathing again.”

“I…” Lloyd swallowed, tears pricking at the edges of his shiny green eyes with red flecks in them as he shook his head, “I died?”

Jay nodded, pulling Lloyd into the tightest hug he could once he heard the first hitch of breath; his body shook with sobs of realization and while he was mentally kicking himself for not consulting the others about what they were telling Lloyd, Jay knew that the truth was for the best.

“Oh FSM, I died. I wasn’t breathing and I…” Lloyd choked out around sobs, his chest heaving against Jay’s tight hold.

“You’re safe now. You’re alive, that’s what matters.”

“A-and I asked for…him?”

Jay nodded as confirmation, feeling Lloyd hold on tighter and tighter despite the sobs starting to slow; he took in the truth of his words and for once, Jay knew better than to speak. Especially given his own experiences with grief as well as trying to understand the actions of parents who you never really knew.

It wasn’t until Lloyd pulled in a snotty sniffle and pulled away from Jay, wincing as he wrapped a loose arm around his broken ribs that the blue ninja let go of him and moved to help Lloyd lay down, brushing his wispy blonde hair out of his face as shiny, green eyes reflected in his blue ones.

“We aren’t our parents,” Jay finally spoke, his mouth dry as he recounted the night where he had told Lloyd about the events with wishing magic, sky pirates and most pressingly, his biological parents, “even if it doesn’t feel like it, we choose our own path.”

“I-I know,” Lloyd stuttered as he reached his left arm upwards to wipe at his wet cheeks, “you aren’t the first one to tell me that.”

“Yeah, but you looked like you needed to hear it,” Jay shrugged before settling in the green recliner next to Lloyd’s bed, watching as the boy’s eyes started to flutter shut, “do you want me to stick around for a bit?”

But Lloyd was already letting out a soft snore of sleep, so Jay settled in the chair, grabbed the closest Fritz Donnegan comic from Lloyd’s extensive collection and commanded a small flash of lightning to illuminate the small lamp that sat on the boy’s bedside table.

[wellthebardsdead]

Taliesin: *hair loose and clinging to his dewy skin as he falls back into the furs panting softly* gods- *breaths deeply and smiles up at his antlered lover as he smiles back*

Flynt: *smiles down at him and slowly leans down giving him a kiss before laying against his chest* was it good?

Taliesin: Yes. *slides his arm around him and traces little circles and patterns on the bosmers tanned freckled skin* I never thought being able to hear your voice while making love would make such a difference, but, gods, you have a filthy mouth~

Flynt: *smirks up at him* you say that as if you didn’t enjoy me whispering those things into your ears~

Taliesin: Cheeky~ *sighs and relaxes into the pillows* but now that you can talk again… I’d like to know more about the Mer making love to me.

Flynt: hm? *tilts his head up as if looking in his direction* of course love, what do you want to know?

Taliesin: a lot of things, but… you mentioned your father a lot but never your mother, or any other family.

Flynt: my mother left me and my da when I was only a babe. She followed the green pact and longed for the wilderness. My father was a guard who resented the green pact for how bosmer were perceived because of it. So one night she left with only a note to tell us she was gone. My father raised me well and when word of war was looming, he joined the army… *sighs* he died during the aldmeri dominions first invasion. His armour and sword were given to me with his remains. So I joined the legion and fought with them… the rest well, you know… *sighs* when I was returned to the imperial city I fumbled blindly for days before finding my way to my old home… all my possessions had been auctioned off along with the house, when I tried to explain that I was alive and it was my property the guards just chased me away… I’d lost everything.

Taliesin: *slides his other arm around him hugging him tight* I’m so sorry my love…

Flynt: don’t be… if it hadn’t of happened. *traces little circles on the high elfs chest* I’d of never of found you, my honeybee~

Taliesin: *chuckles and kisses his forehead* my Goofy little acorn. *smiles sadly* have. You ever thought about contacting your mother?

Flynt: nope… I… know it sounds harsh but. She was never a part of my life. As far as I’m concerned, she’s made no effort to find me. So I’m not going to find her… why would I want to when I already found a family in those around me?

Taliesin: I… I suppose you’re right.

Flynt: …Sweetheart?… are you okay?

Taliesin: I’m. I’m alright. I suppose I’m just missing home but… your father. What was he like?

Flynt: he was a good man… he looked like me, had a bushy beard, and a scar across his brow. But he could light up a room with a smile, always told the best stories. He could make me laugh so easily… I miss him a lot.

Taliesin: *recalling his first battle on the front lines, the air thick with smoke from fire, man and Mer alike screaming in agony and terror, and a searing pain up his side as he lay amongst a pile of bodies after being knocked prone. Only to look up and see a bosmer just like flynt described staring down at him, sword raised but hesitating in killing him… just long enough for another aldmeri soldier to run him through saving taliesins life* … I think… he misses you a lot too…

[villainousshakespeare]

Therapy Fit for a God Chapter 30

Loki/OFC Rated E: Trigger Warnings: Smut, Sex, Oral Sex, Angst, talk of suicide, therapy, unhealthy family dynamics, mention of torture and mind control, touch starved, drinking, memory loss.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29

Loki’s plans to conquer and rule Midgard have come to a disastrous end. After being captured by the Avengers, he is being held on Earth. Odin has refused to interfere, and the outlook for the God of Mischief appear bleak. His only hope may lie in one mortal woman, a Psychiatric expert brought in to interrogate him.

Dr. Caroline Thorpe is intrigued by Loki and thinks that more lies beneath his actions than is commonly known. Can she find out the truth before he is shipped off to die for crimes against the Earth? And can Loki bring himself to care?

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @yespolkadotkitty@maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack @loki-yoursaviourishere @ghostypau @ms-cellanies @colorfulfreakstudentpizza @mareebird @colorfulfreakstudentpizza  @szycha22 @chokemedaddyloki @queenofallhobos @just-the-hiddles-reads  @alwida10  @justjoanne242 @chantsdemarins @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokiprompts @evieplease @unlucky-number-13 @bitchassbecky691 @georges-left-ear @mischief2sarawr @thedistractedagglomeration​

Everything in the world seemed big. He was scared. Cold. Could not bring his mind to form words to fit to his thoughts.

Ice and rock surrounded him, looming up from the ground and down from the ceiling like monster fangs ready to devour him. The dark haired woman who had cooed to him, who had looked at him with a soft, gentle gaze, was no longer within his range of vision. He was alone. It was terrifying.

Yet as terrifying as it was to be alone, the giant who burst into the space was infinitely worse. He was huge and wild, covered in blood like some beast. One hand gripped a brutal looking axe, and a gauged hole was all that remained of one eye.

"Odin," the voice in his mind breathed. He was not alone then, not completely.

As Loki shrunk back onto the slab of stone the woman had carefully placed him on, the giant turned and pierced him with his one good eye.

"What have we here?"

His voice was little more than a growl. Loki could feel the animosity in it. Rough hands reached down to pick him up and carry him closer to a bristly beard and mustache surrounding a pair of pursed lips. There was no warmth, no kindness for him in that look. Instinctively, wanting to calm the fire of the creature's dislike, Loki tried to figure out why this man might loathe him so. He must look like a monster to the monster, he reasoned. Hoping to mollify the man, he thought of the woman who had held him before, the one other face he could remember. Bringing all the concentration he could muster, Loki willed himself to appear more like her.

He must have done something right, because the huge man looked intrigued now, rather than repulsed. Still, he kept Loki clutched in his oversized hands.

"Odin," the dark-haired woman's voice was not as it was when she had spoken so sweetly to Loki. It seemed as cold as the room around them.

The giant spun, and Loki was able to just make out once more the woman. She was slumped on the floor, fatigue stamped onto a beautiful face. Loki could feel waves of love around her and wished that it was she who held him now.

"Volla!"

He feared for a moment that the man would drop him and let out a startled little wail. The hands instead closed tighter around him, and he found that this was almost as bad.

"Where have you been? We have been frantic in our search for you!"

"I have been here, at least of late," her voice held humor, but a touch of pain as well.

"You sister is mad with worry. You disappeared without so much as a by your leave!"

"Perhaps because I tired of living by your leave, Odin Allfather. I wanted to live for myself, to find out what the worlds had to offer."

"Had to offer? I had secured you an offer of mariage that would have made you a Queen of Alfheim!"

"Yes, but I never really cared for Elves. Too much musty, esoteric poetry. And Freyr is such a bore. We would never have suited."

"You could have said as much," his voice was angry, and Loki began fussing in his grasp.

"I would have helped you, Volla. I would have given you the life you desired. I only wanted to protect you," the voice in Loki's mind sounded sad.

"You expect the Goddess of Secrets to share her inner thoughts?" Volla asked, again with a mischievous curl of her lips. "No, you know you would not have approved of what I wanted for myself."

"And what was that?"

"Adventure! To live a full and tumultuous life."

"And I suppose this creature here is the result of that? He is yours I take it?"

"He is," Loki heard pride in her voice, and a warmth spread through him despite the cold. "My little Loki."

"My little Loki! How could I not have known?"

"And where is the father then, who left you here to suffer the trial of delivery alone? Does he have so little respect for a Goddess?"

"He could not be with me," she said with a frown. "Some bellicose berserker of a King came rampaging in with an army, forcing him to go to war."

"Then I was right. It is the child of one of those cursed brutes."

"It is the child of ME!" she corrected, struggling to rise up as much as she could. "The son of a Goddess and of a King!"

"No!" Odin gasped, holding Loki further from his chest, bringing back the fear of plummeting to the stone floor. "Even you, wild and capricious as you are, would not be so brazen!"

"You hold in your hands the first-born son of Laufey, King of Jotunheim," her words echoed about them.

"Laufey's heir!"

"Perhaps," her voice lost some of its assurance.

"What do you mean? If this is his son..."

"Not if Odin. It is his son. But while Laufey would love the babe, there would be some trouble with his subjects. As you well know, I am not his wife. And Hyrrokkin is a jealous bride. She would attempt to set him aside so that her brood, if she can ever tempt Laufey to her bed long enough to sire one, would rule."

"And yet you lowered yourself to birth his bastard," Odin's voice dripped with disappointment.

"I wanted a child. A strong, clever child. Laufey gave one to me. It is an unexpected misfortune that I will not be around to guide him to his birthright."

"What do you mean?"

"Use your eyes, Odin. Or eye, I should say. I am dying. My time came early, and as you so kindly pointed out, there was no one to assist in the birthing. I fear my little Loki will have to make do without me."

"Volla, no!"

"Oh, my darling girl." Loki wished he could comfort the lady who's voice he heard, so bereft did she sound.

Odin knelt down beside her in a movement so sudden that Loki cried out in fear. He could smell her now, though. Even though her scent was mixed with sweat and an odd metallic tang it still comforted him to be near her.

"I fear it is so," she said simply, reaching out to tenderly brush Loki's face.

"I will not lose you. Frigga loves you too well, and you have been all but a child to us both. A willful, stubborn child, but no less dear for all for all of that."

"Even you cannot stop death, Odin. But while I may not be able to return with you, I leave you a happy replacement."

"You cannot mean for me to take the child?"

Loki realized on some level that they were talking of him now, and anxious noises began to bubble up from inside him.

"I cannot raise him, and in my absence Hyrrokkin will seek to do him harm. Bring him to Frigga. Let him help heal the hurt my death will cause her."

"Nothing will do that. This will destroy her. The babe that killed you will be no substitute."

"My sister is stronger than you think. And Loki did not kill me! That was but chance and my own will to do as I please. Promise me, Odin Bor's Son. Swear to me now an oath over my death's blood that you will take my child to raise as a Prince of the Nine Realms."

"She knows me better than you do, old man."

There was a long moment where only Loki's own soft cries broke the silence. At last, the giant holding him bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I so swear. Loki son of Volla shall have a place in my hall and at my table, to be cared for as befits his birth and station as child of a Goddess."

"Thank you."

It was as though all the energy she had put forth to extract the promise from him had been the only thing holding her upright. With her words, she sank back against the wall, limp and spent. Odin took her slim pale had in his and brought it to his face in an oddly gentle gesture. Loki was surprised to see a fat tear fall from his intact eye.

"Ancestors," Odin intoned, words sound ripped from somewhere deep inside him, "Volla, Goddess of Secrets comes to you now. Know how much she was loved in life and grant her a seat in your halls among the glorious dead."

Another tear fell down, splashing onto Loki's face and causing his own eyes to close and for him to begin to cry as well. The tears mixed together, and in the swirl of saltwater his mind began to blur again.

He wanted to stay. He desperately wanted to stay with this dark-haired woman who named him and loved him. But the other woman, the one who had kept watch over him and helped to steer his course through all of these swirling memories was weeping. He could do nothing for the one but perhaps, if he could find her again, he could be of aid to the other.

"Come back to me, my Loki, my nephew and my son. Come back to yourself. Be whole and be happy."

***

"Odin, Son of Bor! We need to have a conversation. Now."

Caroline winced involuntarily as the door to the room slammed behind Frigga. In her brief time on Asgard, Loki's adopted mother had been kind, understanding, regal, everything one would expect and hope for her to be. While Caroline had been a bit intimidated by her, it had never occurred to her to outright fear Frigga.

That ended now as she stormed up to her husband, eyes blazing with anger. While not as bulky as her husband, Frigga stood nearly as tall as him, and the way her hand fingered the dagger on her hip spoke of more than a passing familiarity with a blade. Against her natural inclination Caroline could almost feel a reluctant sympathy for Odin.

"Frigga, you look upset," Odin stated the obvious. Is something bothering you? Perhaps we should go someplace private to discuss it."

Frigga's eyes narrowed to slits as she glared at her husband.

"We will speak right here and now," she proclaimed, voice commanding the room. "Is there anything you wish to tell me, my husband? Think long and hard."

"Asgard could not wish for a better Queen than you." Odin tried.

So fast that for a moment she thought she had imagined it, Caroline saw Frigga's hand shoot out and strike Odin squarely across his face hard enough that his whiskered head snapped to one side.

"Try again," his Queen instructed.

"Mother, what has come over you?" Thor's voice rang with concern.

"I wondered," Frigga's eyes did not move from her husband's face, "why it was that you were so opposed to Loki regaining his memories. After all, the secret had been let out. Our son might not remember his true origins, but enough others did that it hardly mattered beyond a personal level. The tale of Odin Allfather adopting the son of his mortal enemies and raising him for reasons benevolent or nefarious depending on the teller's inclinations was loose in the world."

"I wanted to spare you and our son grief," Odin tried to explain.

"Silence!" Much to Caroline's surprise Odin's jaw snapped shut. "As I was saying, there was no reason to keep secret the truth of Loki's Jotun blood. What then, would it be that you feared from the procedure?"

"Could I not simply worry about my younger son?"

"You could," Frigga snarled. "But you didn't. You feared something else. Tell me, Odin Allfather, Son of Bor. The story of how you found our son, a newborn babe, left all alone to freeze to death on an altar to some unknown God. That wasn't quite the way it happened, was it?"

"Frigga - "

"Mother, what are you saying?" Thor was blinking with confusion.

"You said it was a temple, didn't you?" Frigga asked in a tone of clamped down anger.

"I did, and it was."

"What sort of temple?" Frigga demanded.

"I don't see why -"

"WHAT SORT OF TEMPLE?"

"A Valor temple," Odin muttered.

"A Valor temple. On Jotunheim. That didn't strike you as strange?"

"Of course it did," Odin sounded like a truculant child. "That is why I was investigating in the first place."

"I see. And this temple, was it to any particular Valar God?"

"If you have something to say, just say it, Frigga," Odin snapped, changing tactics as his face turned red, obscuring the mark of his wife's handprint.

"Volla." Frigga hissed. "It was a temple to Volla."

"It may have been."

"May have been," Frigga mimicked harshly. "You think that in any universe I would not recognize a temple to my own sister?"

Caroline was uncertain what was happening under the words spoken by the Asgardian royal couple, but the air vibrated with tension and hostility. A quick glance to Thor was enough to show her that he was almost as lost as she was.

"My love -"

"You saw her!" Frigga wailed. "You spoke with her. My sister, the child I had all but raised after our parents left us for the ancestors' halls. I was nigh mad with grief and worry, scouring the universe for her. You found her and you hid that knowledge from me. You let me go on searching for her for decades, when you had witnessed her passing yourself."

"Father is this true?"

"Stay out of this, Thor," Odin shouted at his first born.

"Do not take out your guilt on our son!" Frigga stepped between Odin and Thor. "Answer me, husband. You saw my sister in her last moments."

"I did," Odin admitted reluctantly after a pregnant pause.

Once more, the sound of Frigga's slap echoed through the room.

"She had disgraced herself!" Odin said, clearly in pain but ignoring it. "We had thought she might have been abducted or have been on some secret quest on behalf of her devotees. Any of a dozen explanations had been bandied about as a reason for her disappearance, and any of them would have been more admirable than the truth that. I wanted to spare you the knowledge that your sister had left us of her own free will to become whore to the enemy."

He was clearly expecting the third slap, as he grabbed her wrist mid-swing. He was not, however, expecting the quick knee up that followed it. Odin staggered backwards, releasing Frigga as he doubled over in pain.

"My sister was a Princess of Valor and the Goddess of Secrets," Frigga's voice was ice cold. "She was no whore. She was a free spirit who chose to give herself to a King as his Consort. There is no shame in this. She gave birth to a son, the firstborn son of a King and a Goddess, a God in his own right. Her only mistake was in trusting you to care for him."

"I did care for him!" Odin's voice was rough with pain. "I brought him to you!"

"Yes, you brought him to me. You gave me the great joy of a second child to love and take pride in. You watched as we formed a bond of great depth, forged in no small part by our shared attributes. And did it never once occur to you to tell me he was my nephew? I had a living connection to my sister in the form of her only child and you kept that knowledge from me! How could you?"

"The people would not have understood her liaison to the leader of our enemies. That would have tainted their love of you. I wanted to protect your name!"

"You wanted to protect yourself! I don't give a damn about my name, and you know that. Let the people come to me if they have concerns. I have never once done anything to give them reason to doubt my devotion to the realm."

"The people love mother," Thor said quietly, daring his father's anger once more. "Of all of us, she is most beloved, and with reason."

"Thank you, Thor," Frigga's tone softened as she looked at her son.

"What does all this mean, mother?" Thor asked, struggling to make sense of it all.

Caroline couldn't blame him. The accusations had flown fast and viciously. She herself felt like an uncouth interloper in the middle of a family drama. Still, she felt the need to bear witness for Loki's sake, that she could let him know the level of devotion his mother showed him and, it seemed, his mother.

"It means that Loki was not just a random foundling," Frigga explained gently. "Nor just the cast-off son of King Laufey. Loki is more than your brother of the heart, Thor. He is your cousin, by my blood through his mother. My baby sister Volla, Goddess of Secrets. Who I loved more dear than any until I gave birth to you."

"More than your husband?"

Caroline would give Odin this, he was no coward. The question hung in the air as his queen squared her shoulders and turned to regard him with contempt. Slowly, she took a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, finding a calm Caroline could only envy.

"Despite my best instincts I do have love for you," the Allmother said at last. "If you wish for that to continue, I suggest finding something to do off realm for the foreseeable future. Perhaps absence will dull the killing anger that assails me when I look at you."

As she watched from the outside of the family triangle, Caroline held her breath, waiting to see how the all-powerful God would take being so dismissed. Thor's eyes comically flickered from his mother's steely stare to his father's glowering indecision. Caroline completely sympathized with him.

"I believe that there is some business on Nidavillere that could use my attention. I will leave in the morning."

"You will leave at once," Frigga's voice left no room for debate. "And you will take your time sorting out this business."

"I will leave at once" Odin growled in defeat. "Thor, you are Regent until my return."

"Yes, Father," Thor said in hushed voice full of amazement.

Odin spun and strode to the door. Only at the last did he stop, turning back to face his wife.

"Tell my son that I am glad that he is well. I do love Loki."

"In your way," Frigga qualified.

"I am what I am, Frigga. You knew that when we wed."

"Go, before I change my mind."

"Farewell, my love."

As Odin swept out of the room, it was as though tide of anger and tension left with him. The moment the door closed behind him it was as though the taut chord that had been keeping Frigga standing was snapped, and the tall, powerful Allmother who had brought low her husband crumpled to the floor, shaking with the tears she had kept unshed all through the confrontation.

***

"Take it slow, Princeling. Your mind is still settling."

The words were said in the dry, confident voice he had known all of his life.

Loki blinked his eyes into focus and saw Eir sitting across the room, legs crossed neatly and a small smile of accomplishment on her face.

"How does it feel to be whole again?" she asked.

"I will let you know," he said, rising carefully to a sitting position. "Was it real? Everything I saw and heard?"

"As real as any memory," she replied. "They lie, of course, from time to time, and are colored by our own perspectives, but for the most part what you saw is what happened."

"I am part Jotun."

It was not quite the first thing that came to his mind, but it was the first he felt comfortable saying in front of the healer. He did not think she would care to discuss how much he longed to go find Caroline and recreate their one blissful night together. If he thought his legs would hold him he would already be out the door.

"You are. Welcome to the family."

"That's right," he looked closer at the woman. "You have Jotun blood as well."

"I do," she said, as though confirming that she had blue eyes. "It was not always as uncommon as it is now."

"You told me that on purpose yesterday, didn't you?" he was still putting things together.

"It occurred to me that you might need someone to talk to who did not share our culture's prejudices. Someone who could share some of the more positive aspects of Jotunheim. I did not realize..."

Loki watched as the Eir drew a breath, clearly working out some internal conflict. It was strange. She had always seemed so unflappable. It was as if she herself was one of the frozen peaks of Jutonheim, cold, immovable, and unforgiving. Perhaps like that realm there was more to her than first glance suggested.

"Your mortal," she said at last. "Caroline. I understand now."

"Understand?" he asked, uncertain what she alluded to.

"I did not see why she should matter to you," Eir explained, if a bit reluctantly. "Mortals have such a short lifespan. They always struck me as shallow, fleeting things. What could they possibly do or say that would be of weight in the grand scope of our lives? Your Caroline though, she is something different. She saw the need in you, as clearly as any healer would, and found a way to help make it whole. She is a remarkable woman."

"She is indeed," Loki smiled, thinking of his tenacious little love building a Jotun bonfire in the woods. "I do not deserve her."

"Few of us get what we deserve. Don't let that stop you."

"Oh, I don't plan to," his grin widened, thinking that nothing would stop him from having her.

"Odin will not like it," Eir warned.

"Imagine how little I care," he replied.

Thinking of his father, Loki was suddenly transported to the memory of Odin confronting the dark haired woman in his memories.

"She was your mother," his expression must have given away his thoughts, as she easily tracked them. "The woman at the end."

"Volla," he said, feeling out the name.

"I knew her a little," Eir told him. "She was young, for a Goddess. Willful, daring. Frigga doted on her and, to my mind, overindulged her. Odin wanted to marry her to Frey, I think in an attempt to steady her. Anyone who knew them could see it would not suit."

"And so she ran away," he filled in the blanks. "And she ended up on Jotunheim."

"It would have intrigued her, I think. Volla loved secrets, finding them, keeping them. A forbidden world would have delighted her."

"I can understand that," Loki said, thinking that he might have more than one part of his legacy to explore in the not too distant future.

"I thought you might," Eir said with a laugh.

"The last part of my memories," he said, thought suddenly coming to him. "Or, should I say, the first. That was not during the period of my lost time."

"It was not."

"Yet you had me relive it anyway. Why?"

"Odin is a strong King of Asgard," Eir said carefully. "But he is not without his flaws. His manner when he returned with you always seemed off to me."

"You were there?" He asked. "You were privy to the secret?"

"I was," she nodded. "They knew, of course, of my heritage, and so they could trust me not to be horrified by a Frost Giant in our midst. I also would understand the prejudices the riled the realm in the wake of the war. I was sworn to secrecy, and then brought in to examine you, to make sure you were not ill, and that you would not suddenly return to your blue color, I am sure. Frigga was too caught up in the joy of a new babe to love, but it seemed to me that Odin was hiding something. It has bothered me all of these many centuries. I have tried to bring it up with Frigga, but..."

"She would not hear a word against her husband," Loki sighed, knowing all too well the wall that went up when Odin was maligned to his wife.

"Indeed. I'm afraid, with you mind laying open like a book before me, I could not resist flipping to the pages where the truth was written and bringing your mother with me. I am not sorry that I did so; Frigga needed to know, as did you. But I acknowledge that I broke my word to you not to dip into your other thoughts. I therefore apologize and will accept your condemnation."

"Given that your suspicions were proven more than right, I accept your apology without condemnation." Loki's face split into a wide, wicked grin. "After all, you were already witness to other memories of a far more personal nature."

Loki was delighted to see Eir's face tinge to scarlet as the memories he referred to crossed her mind.

"As I said," she mumbled, discomposed for perhaps the first time he had ever seen, "I might have underestimated your mortal. She is truly remarkable."

"That she is," he agreed whole heartedly. "In fact, now that the circulation seems to have returned to my legs..."

"And other places," Eir's eyes darted to that part of Loki that always seemed to know when Caroline was being discussed. "Go. Your champion deserves to see you well and whole."

"Thank you, Eir," he said, surprising them both by pulling her into an embrace. "I will never forget what you have done for me."

[thedunesea]

NOT QUITE A WIP WEDNESDAY

(more a snippet-of-random-depressing-plot-bunny Wednesday)

I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy last month and I haven't been able to get into any other book since then because it absolutely blew my mind with how raw and strong its prose was. I hadn't wept for a book in ages (well, more than a year, which given my tastes in literature for me is ages).

So of course, as it happens, this morning while I was on the bus going to work a flash came to me from the Force itself - what if it was TPM Obi-Wan and Anakin in a universe in which the war was already raging and Order 66 was somehow triggered while they were on Naboo?

So here it is. It's very heavily based on the first page of the book, so the sudden sparks of brilliant prose are McCarthy's, not mine.

Carry the fire

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. The Force dark beyond darkness and the days more bleak and hopeless each one than what had gone before. Like a galactic sarlacc opening its unfathomable maws to swallow stars and galaxies and all that was light. The far bright center of the universe dissolved into gastric juice of a hungry beast. His braid rose and fell on his chest with each painful breath. Unkempt and too long and there was none left to cut it.

He pushed away the heavy brown cape and raised himself up to a sitting position in his stinking and scorched robes and breathed in and out to find his center and his balance but there was none.

Only the sleeping child beside him and the promise of hope for the universe and the hopeless promise he’d made to a dying man. 

In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in the ice caves with the child leading him by the hand. The kyber chiming deep into the stone walls and its light shimmering on the watery surface of the rocks. Like pilgrims from a Temple fresco depicting a tale turned legend in the aloof passing of time. They had waded deep into the ice and come to an empty chamber so vast stars hung in its darkness. One loomed giant among the others and it was whiter and colder and dead. He had no words to console the child when he began to weep. Crouching there small and helpless before the end of all things. Cold in his heart, fire in his eyes. Neither of them knew how to help him. The child turned between him and the white star and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.

With the first pale light he rose and left the boy sleeping and walked out towards the road and tried to see what came next after the forest. Looking for a flash of color or a tendril of smoke or the trail of a starfighter. Even with his binoculars he saw nothing but wood and dark green foliage and a spatter of dull gray sky.

It had been three weeks.

They were moving south towards a smaller spaceport. They had to steal a ship. There’d be no surviving the Purge here.

When he felt calm enough he tried again looking into the Force. Searching for a flicker of life. A familiar touch. A plea for help. Only the silence of weathered stone answered him. Everything turned to nothingness and his soul a barren land swept by a wordless wind. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and scratched at the stubble of a beard. Then he just sat holding his lightsaber in his hands and watching the birth of a day no other Jedi had lived to see. He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the will of the Force then the Force wills nothing.

When he got back the boy was still asleep. He tucked him into his dirty brown cape and rummaged into their backpack for their plates and two ration bars and a canteen of water. He spread one of his tabards on the ground and laid everything out and then unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and laid it on the cloth and then just sat there watching the boy sleep. He watched the boy and reached out with his consciousness beyond the trees. This was not a safe place. The clones’ binoculars could sense life forms warmer than the trees.

The boy turned in the cape. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Master, he said.

I’m right here.

I know.

[iinafarawaygalaxii]

Assassins Creed: Valhalla | One Shot

Eivor Varinsdottir x Vili Hemmingson

Chicken Draugr

Summary: A shadow falls over Northumbria. With Halfdan incapacitated, the weight of leadership rests solely on Vili's shoulders. He summons Eivor, his childhood friend and fellow Jarl, to aid him against a looming threat. But as they face the crisis together in the snowy embrace of Snottingham, their shared history kindles a warmth that melts even the iciest of winters. Duty calls, but so does a connection that transcends alliances and battles.

WC: 2.7k

Warnings: None, SFW, 18+ MINORS DNI

Eivor traced her fingers over the delicate vellum, a smile blooming on her lips. It was a letter from Vili. Though it had been only a full moon since they'd last met, the anticipation to read his words always sent a delightful shiver down her spine- a guilty pleasure she had yet to admit to herself; "To Wolf-Kissed, the Mightiest Chicken-Dragur Alive-" She chuckled, an eyebrow arching playfully at his signature teasing but despite the jest, couldn't deny the warmth that spread through her from his words. "Found King Bacrauts scouts in Northumbria-" She read on, her smile fading as concern crept in. "With Halfdan gone mad and trade in decline, it's difficult to say why they are here. We have captured one, though he will not speak to us. I call upon our oath, friend. Help me defend my lands, and I'll let you drink my mead for the next month." 

A month's worth of mead? A tempting offer, indeed. But Eivor knew her true motivation ran deeper than that. With a resolute grin, she crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire. "Off to Snottingham, then." She declared, her voice echoing with determination as she gathered her gear and summoned her loyal Jomsvikings- setting sail to the Swan Road. Her heart pounding with a mix of eagerness and the familiar thrill of adventure. She was on her way to aid her childhood friend, and perhaps, to steal a few more precious moments with the man she secretly loved.

And the moment Eivor's river steed touched the docks of Snottingham, a wave of familiar faces surged forward, eager smiles reflecting their anticipation. At their center stood Vili, arms crossed, a grin splitting his bearded face. But before the ship could even fully dock, Eivor leapt ashore, her own grin mirroring his. She strode towards her childhood friend, her eyes sparkling with playful challenge. "Chicken-Dragur?" She quipped, gripping the fabric on his chest firm- rather suddenly, as that familiar eyebrow twitching returned, her lips curling into a smile.

Vili's laughter boomed, filling the air with warmth. He gently grasped one of her wrists, steadying himself by placing his other hand on her waist. Their proximity sent a shiver down Eivor's spine. "You waste no time trying to get your hands on me, Wolf-Kissed." He retorted, his voice a low rumble. "I'm flattered-" She gave him the viking hello, placing her hand on his shoulder and head butting him forward. "Shut up Ergi! Hemming taught you how to treat a woman did he not?" She chuckled trying to hide her facade because really... She did just want to touch him. 

They paused for a moment as Vili captured her arms for payback and flipped her around, embarrassing her in front of all their men. He leaned closer, his breath a warm against the cool air brushing her neck. "He did-" He murmured, his voice a mesmerizing caress. "If you like, I can show you..." Eivor felt a familiar twitch in her eyebrow, his words stirring a longing within her. She struggled against his gentle restraint, her heart pounding in her chest. "But first, how about some mead?" He hummed, his voice sending a blush creeping up her cheeks. Goosebumps erupted on her skin, and not from the cold. 

He was teasing her, unregrettably "Let me go," she managed, her voice a breathless whisper. His grip tightened, pulling her closer still. "Not until you apologize," he said with a playful grin, his eyes twinkling as he watched a group of Drengir pass by, their faces lit up with knowing smirks. "You first," Eivor retorted, meeting his gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin. Finally, with a chuckle, he released her. "Fine-" He conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. "-A draw, then." He extended his arm and Eivor, unable to resist his warmth, stepped into his embrace. 

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close in a proper hug as she threw hers around his neck. The world seemingly melting away, leaving only the two of them, their shared laughter echoing in the crisp winter air. "In all honesty, I am glad to have you here Wolf-Kissed. Im worried about what these scouts mean for our future." He lead her towards the heart of the Jarl of Snottingham's stronghold inside the mountain. A massive fortress, carved from the very stone, loomed before them, a testament to Vili's commitment to security. 

Without hesitation, he guided her through the winding corridors as Vili lead her straight to the brig deep below ground. "Straight into the Fray." Eivor quipped, a playful smile flickering across her face as she followed him down the darkened hall and reached a cell shrouded in shadows- a lone figure huddled in the corner. The man was a picture of misery: dirty, wet, and shivering from the cold. "This is the man?" Eivor asked, her voice firm when Vili nodded, unlocking the heavy iron door with a clang. 

Eivor stepped into the cell, her keen eyes assessing the prisoner. "Stand," She commanded, testing his comprehension. The man merely glanced at her, his eyes dull and lifeless, before turning away. His battered and bloodied form painted a grim picture of the interrogation he'd already endured. He seemed weary, defeated, as if he'd surrendered to despair- Painting a grotesque picture of what they had already done. Eivor knelt before him, her gaze unwavering. "I can help you-" she offered, her voice surprisingly gentle. 

At that moment, Agnar, Vili's trusted warchief, entered the cell, a torch in hand, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Eivor took the offered waterskin and held it out to the prisoner. He snatched the leather, gulping down the contents with a pained urgency before tossing it aside and retreating to his corner. "Whaddya want..." he rasped, his voice rough and hoarse. Eivor's grin widened, a predator sensing weakness in its prey- she knew this man. "I want information." 

The man's gaze shifted to Vili, his eyes burning with hatred for the Jarl of Snottingham. But then, recognition flickered across his face as he looked at Eivor. Despite his allegiance to the King of Wessex and his deep-seated animosity towards Norse and Danes, he couldn't deny the presence of the woman who had saved his family in Cent. "So you do recognize me?" Eivor's voice was laced with a hint of surprise, a touch of amusement at the unexpected connection. It seemed fate had woven a tangled web, bringing them face-to-face once again under very different circumstances as the mans eyes widened and straightened his posture. 

"You know this man?" Vili asked, his voice laced with suspicion as he stepped closer. Just then, the scout spat a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground at Vili's feet. The Jarls face hardened, his anger simmering at the blatant disrespect. But Eivor merely chuckled, a dark glint in her eyes. "My friend-" she said, her voice dangerously low, "-you cannot do that to a Jarl. It is a sentence for death, an insult we do not take lightly." With a swift movement, she grabbed the scout by his soiled tunic and slammed him against the cold stone wall. "I may have saved your land-" She growled, her face inches from his face, "-but I will not tolerate your disobedience in ours."She released him, her imposing figure looming over his cowering form. 

"I-I'm... S-sorry!" he stammered, his fear palpable. "I didn't know you belonged to the Jarl Hemming- I was just following orders!" A chuckle escaped Vili and Agnar's throats, the absurdity of the situation and his comment momentarily breaking the tension. But Eivor's patience was wearing thin. The familiar twitch returned to her eyebrow as she glared at the pathetic man before her. "Speak quickly," Eivor commanded, her hand resting on her axe's hilt, impatience edging her voice. "So that I may be done with this." The man, sensing her resolve, spilled King Alfred's motives. The Wessex king sought to gain a foothold with the Picts, a surprising development Eivor and Vili hadn't anticipated. 

The revelation left them pondering their next move, the scout's fate hanging in the balance. "I say we kill him." Agnar declared, his voice gruff. Vili glanced at his compatriot, silently seeking her counsel watching her look down at the frightened man, recognizing a desperate soul misled, not a hardened killer. "There is no honor in killing a man misled." She declared, her voice resonating with conviction. She unlocked the shackles binding the scout, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Hear me, friend," Eivor continued, her voice firm but not unkind. "Return to your family, knowing that the Jarl of Snottingham has shown you mercy. But remember, your next offense will be met with his raven's blade." 

She drew her newly gifted axe, its gleaming edge catching the torchlight, a silent threat hanging heavy in the air. The man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his whole body trembling. "Do not fail me again." Eivor warned, her voice echoing in the damp cell. She stepped back, allowing the man to scramble away, his footsteps fading into the darkness of the corridor. "Are you sure this is wise, Eivor?" Vili asked, his brow furrowed with concern as he watched the scout disappear. "Yes," Eivor replied confidently, her grin unwavering. "He's no fighter, and he fears me more than he fears his god." With that, she turned and left for the throne room, eager the promised mead and for such a small favor... The reward was indeed generous and one she was looking forward to. 

Vili followed in her wake, his admiration growing with each step. He marveled at her ability to resolve situations swiftly and decisively- her knowledge of the lands that surround her and the people within it. She was a pillar in England and reveled in the challenge to claim it- to claim her, as his own. "How is it that took her less than a few minutes, and us days?" Agnar mused aloud, his confusion evident. Vili chuckled, his eyes lingering on Eivor's retreating figure. "Because of who she is." He replied simply, a warmth spreading through his chest. 

They entered the brightly lit longhouse, the sounds of revelry washing over them and a warmth that could belly any cold. There was mead, spice, and everything nice as another night of feasting and celebration awaited. But for Vili... the true highlight would be the company of the remarkable woman who held his heart captive, a celebration of the Prince and his deadly Raven as the two spent the evening telling stories and claiming Eivor gift.

Though as the evening drew to a close, a tipsy Eivor found herself standing before the Jarl of Snottingham's bedroom door, her knuckles rapping gently against the wood in wonder of his next move against King Alfred and the Picts. "Come in-" Vili's voice called out, a hint of amusement in its tone. Eivor pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to be met with a sight that sent heat rushing to her cheeks. 

Vili had just emerged from a bath, his broad chest bare and droplets of water clinging to his skin. She quickly averted her eyes, turning her back to him. "You could have told me to wait, Arse-Stick." She mumbled, her voice thick with embarrassment. The memory of their shared moment at the waterfall, not far from here flashing through her mind. She had promised herself to stay focused on the alliance, but the image of her pressed against his bare chest was stuck in her mind like stubborn sap. "I could have-" Vili replied, his voice a low rumble of thunder behind her, "but what would be the fun in that?" Eivor felt his presence approach, the warmth of his body radiating even from a distance. 

Suddenly, a hand found its place against the door in front of her, trapping her between the wood and Vili's solid frame. Slowly, she turned around, her earlier embarrassment forgotten as she took in the sight of him. Caught in his gaze, Eivor's breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs in a wild rhythm that matched the intensity in his eyes. She raised an eyebrow- a silent challenge even as her body hummed with a potent mix of desire and trepidation. 

The thin silk tunic she wore did little to conceal the curves of her form, and the lingering scent of ale clung to her, a stark contrast to his own intoxicating aroma of fresh pine and worn leather- a scent that always calmed her, grounded her, and now- stirred something far more primal licking every inch of her nerves as their gazes locked, and Eivor knew she could no longer deny the undeniable attraction that crackled between them. "Put on clothes, Vili-" She managed too squeeze out, her voice a husky whisper. 

The sound of his name on her lips, a rare occurrence, sent a thrill through them both. He arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "And what if I don't want to?" he countered, his voice a low rumble. "You are in my room, are you not?" Eivor couldn't suppress the grin that spread across her face. He was right, and the realization was both exhilarating and terrifying inn equal measure as she cleared her throat- her voice a mix of nerves and newfound boldness. "It's common courtesy, Vili." She pleaded, her voice a soft murmur as she averted her gaze. 

A blush warmed her cheeks, struggling to control the frantic rhythm of her heart and with a final glance- she turned away, giving him a moment of privacy to dress. "Fine..." Vili sighed playfully, slipping his cotton pants and belt on before settling on the edge of his bed for the remainder of his garments. "Tell me, then," he prompted, curiosity lacing his voice, "What is it you came for?" Eivor remained facing away, her breath caught in her throat. Images of their time by the waterfall, of his bare skin against hers, flooded her mind blocking out his voice. The temptation to turn around, to let her desire take the reins, was almost overwhelming. But she couldn't, not yet. "Remember..." She began, her voice barely a whisper. Taking a deep breath as she turned to face him- her gaze steady and determined. 

She raised a brow realizing Vili had not followed her orders, leaving himself bare chested on the edge of the beg with his tunic in hand. He leaned forward with a grin awaiting her answer- The air crackled with unspoken desires as the promise they made hung heavy between them like a pendulum. A line to never cross until their duties were complete- or until Valhalla. But given how their passions had been ignited once- Eivor knew that this night, they would burn brighter than ever before as the walls she so desperately build instant crumbled at the sight of him. Eivor moved with a deliberate grace, her desire radiating from her every step as she walked towards him- her mind faltering from the ale when she positioned herself directly in front of him, straddling his lap on the edge of the bed. 

His hands found their place on her ribcage, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart beneath his fingertips. "Curse you, Vili." She breathed, her voice husky with longing as she leaning forward and captured his lips in a passionate kiss, one knee on either side of him, her hand reaching up to cradle the base of his jaw. His touch was electric, sending shivers down her spine as his hands slid down her back, gripping her thighs with a possessive firmness. Her senses ignited when his fingertips grazed the sensitive skin just above the sensitive jewel he so desperately craved, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Eivor, we..." Vili began, his voice thick with desire. "I know." She murmured, her own voice a soft moan as she shifted her weight, seeking a moment's respite from the growing heat between them. Vili pulled her closer, his lips meeting hers in one last, searing kiss when they finally parted, breathless, and flushed. He looked at her with a question in his eyes. "What was it you needed?" Eivor blinked, her mind momentarily blank. The intensity of their shared moment had swept away all thoughts of her original purpose. "To be honest, Vili," she admitted with a sheepish smile, 

"I forgot."

[mintly]

The Legend, The Nightmare

nsfw, unreality, blackbonnet, 207 words

Awareness comes to Stede suddenly with the crackle of the fire in his cabin. He's sprawled on the carpet, naked, and not alone.

Ed looms over Stede, his face shadowed entirely by the fall of his tangled hair. Smoke wafts from his beard and swirls in the thick, warm air. He makes a strangled noise and rocks forward. Ed's erection, hard and dripping with precome, bounces as he lifts himself up and sinks back down over Stede's cock.

Pleasure as searing and devastating as pain scorches through Stede. His hands shoot to grab Ed's hips, soft and scarred with age and a thousand battles. "Fuck, oh fuck—"

"Yeah," Ed pants. His voice is too deep, resonant, layered with smoke and legend. "Fuck me, use me, say my name."

Stede wants to. For him, he'd do anything. “Ed!"

Ed slows and then stops, holding himself torturously above with just the tip of Stede's cock still sheathed within the searing heat of his body.

"I'm Blackbeard, mate," the man fucking Stede into the rug says.

"Ed's dead." Blackbeard leans forward, close enough to whisper, and jabs a soot covered finger at Stede's heart. Blackbeard's eyes are a burning red, hot coals in the choking smog. "And you killed him."