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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

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Hrygð (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Hrygð: affliction, grief, sorrow (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A night post Chapter 45. I told ya Ivar was under a lot of pressure from the Greeks being around, and he does stupid shit under pressure.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: The usual for the story, plus mentions/descriptions of dead bodies, allusions to murder, hallucinations. My best attempt at writing a downward spiral. And oh, THE ANGST. Yes, bold, italic, capital letters angst. It warrants it, believe me.

A/N: So, I promise this makes sense when you get to the end. Trust me.

You wait for him in your bedroom, he knows you do.

He wishes he could walk inside and tell you he regrets it, he wishes the Greek blood staining his hands were something he wanted to wash off.

But he doesn’t.

They didn’t leave him any choice, they forced his hand. He couldn’t let them take you from him, he couldn’t let anyone take you from him.

If he has to deal with your rage, then so be it. You will be angry, and you will grieve, but you will understand, Ivar knows you will.

When he walks in, there is no rage, and that does unbalance him. It makes grow in his chest what a weaker man would call fear, to see you so deadly still.

You don’t turn around, leaving him to look at the straight line of your back, leaving him with nothing to read in you except your voice when slowly, expectantly even though you know the answer, you ask, “What did you do to them, Ivar?”

“They were a threat and you kn-…”

“What did you do to them?” You interrupt. When you turn around, the first thing he notices is the stains the dirt left on your dress. He tells himself that is the first thing he notices, because he refuses to admit he notices the redness in your eyes, the tremble in your lip. “What did you do to my people?”

“They aren’t your people. The people of Kattegat are your people.”

You shake your head, resolute, unwavering. It grips tight at his heart, the way you seem to be unmovable, the way you feel locked away from him somewhere he can’t reach.

Anger burns at him from the inside, bubbling under his skin and making his grip on the crutch tighten until he fears it will break. You made him do this, he did this for you, and now you will turn your back to him?

“I will always be their daughter before I am your wife, you know that. You know before there was a ring on my finger there was Greek blood running through my veins,” Your voice starts to rise, your anger breaking past the cold distance of your disdain; and he almost feels relief at the sight of your rage. “The same blood you have spilled.”

“You made me do it!” He yells, uncaring with how your eyes widen in affront. He wants you to be angry, he wants you to fight. He cannot stand the thought of doing something that makes you surrender. “You let them get close, you-…I know you will choose them over me, over everything I have given you!”

You walk closer, deliberately slowly.

“Everything you have given me!?” You repeat, disbelieving. “You have given me chains, Varangian, nothing more than that!”

His breath stutters and gets stuck on his throat, and Ivar can only look at you with wide eyes.

Varangian.

The fight leaves him, the fire leaves him. He remembers what that feels like, the useless struggling as air is unavailable and useless lungs slowly suffocate him no matter how much he fights against it, he remembers what it is like to be tied to a mast and dragged down to the depths in the inescapable grasp of Rán’s net. It feels exactly like this.

You continue attempting to ignore him, but he won’t be overlooked, he refuses. It is maddening, because he…he believed that was over. He has lived with the uncaring glances, the irrelevance, all his life; and now things are supposed to be different. They have to be, he is better now, he is King, he…

“I must tend to the wounded, Varangian.” You tell him, returning your gaze, your attention, to your work.

Grabbing onto that knife feels like relief, feels like control. When the drops of blood hit the floor, he feels his lips tremble into a mad smile he has to bite back.

By force if you make it so, by fear if he has to, but he won’t be ignored.

Ivar feels like his head is filled with noise, and he stumbles back, catching himself on a wooden post. Dazedly, he thinks he remembers sitting on the ground before that pillar, with you sitting between his legs, your back against his chest, as he taught you to throw knives and watched you fail miserably.

Varangian.

He shakes his head, or he thinks he does. He isn’t sure of that. He isn’t sure of anything, really.

He isn’t even sure that memory of you in his arms is real.

You lift your hands between you, the rattling of chains making him grit his teeth.

“I refuse to die a Varangian’s prisoner.”

Your eyes are burning with a disgust he is familiar with, though not when it comes to you, and that is what makes him want to make you pay for looking at him that way.

So, he chuckles, mocking you and your anger, and your pride. He’d rather have you hate him, if that is all he will have.

“You think you have a choice.”

Voice rough, he orders, “Do not call me that.”

Varangian, Varangian, Varangian, it rattles inside his head. Taunting him, mocking him.

“That is what you are to me,” You retort coldly, cruelly, “That is all you will ever be. The Varangian that took me from my people, that slaughtered them!”

Ivar stops by the door, gripping tightly onto the crutch by his side. Slowly, he asks you to repeat yourself, dares you to.

But he should know the kind of woman you are by now, he should know you are too stubborn to keep your mouth shut. He wishes he could hate that about you.

“You need my consent for us to be married, Varangian,” You state proudly, standing up. He turns to face you, gritting his teeth, and you continue, “I am a free woman, you can’t force me. You won’t break a promise, so you won’t make me a slave.”

Ivar feels the familiar burn of anger and resentment, a pointless and pathetic hope dying somewhere, and he steps forward. He refused to tell you about your mother’s deal with him, but now you’ve forced his hand.

If you ask, he will tell you he hid it for this long because you wouldn’t believe him, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows he did it because he held the stupid hope that marrying him could somehow be your choice.

“I am your husband.” He corrects you. When your eyes are drawn to it, he notices his hand not on the crutch clenched into a fist.

You slowly lift your gaze to him, and demand, “I want you to tell me what you did to them. I want to hear it.”

You don’t, but he was never one to refuse a challenge.

Ivar steps forward, a deep thrust of the crutch against the wooden floor that he didn’t intend to make you flinch, but finds himself almost satisfied that it does. If nothing else, he will take fear.

He will take fear, he will take hatred. Anything but indifference, anything but that distance, that coldness.

“Our men attacked while they were sleeping, lit their homes aflame. Most died screaming, burned alive,” It is a lie, it was just iron and arrows that ended the Greeks, but he knows what will make it more painful. “The ones that ran out were struck down, forced to watch. Happy?

You stay silent, eerily silent. Tears run down your face when you close your eyes, but there’s a jarring kind of peace to your expression as you accept his words that makes Ivar feel like the ground isn’t solid under his feet.

“Answer me!”

“You betrayed me.” You tell him, and he hates it, he hates the way your voice has no tone to it, even the accent seems gone for a moment. He hates the way he made you sound dead.

But no, no, this isn’t his fault. You forced his hand, you and those Greeks.

You have to understand that it isn’t his fault.

“And what are you going to do, hm?” He dares, and he isn’t sure what he wants to hear as an answer. He isn’t sure if it is the part of him that wants more than anything to hear that this is something he can fix that makes him ask you that, or if it is the part of him that has always known you would turn your back to him at the end that does.

Whatever the answer is, it is better than this silence.

You shake your head, though he isn’t sure if it is at his question or at your own thoughts.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Ivar,” You confess breathily. When your hands join together in front of you, he can’t help but notice you aren’t twirling your wedding ring on your finger as you usually, do, but clawing at the edges of it, as if trying desperately to take it off, though you don’t attempt to. “I do not want to fight you.”

He does. Still, he walks closer, his free hand reaching for you.

Ivar cups the back of your head, noting the way you lean tiredly into the caress and finding his breathing gets a little easier at that simple gesture.

“Can you forgive me?” He asks, though he knows he shouldn’t. He still doesn’t regret it.

Your lips pull into a trembling smile, “I have no choice, do I?”

Instead of giving you an answer, Ivar brings you to him and kisses you deeply, letting himself believe when your breaths are one that everything is as it was, or that it will be, somehow.

Brow pressed against yours, he studies your features carefully, noting the strain in your expression even as your eyes remain closed.

“I love you.” He whispers, and he knows you are aware it is a pathetic and desperate request to hear it back, but he doesn’t much mind anymore.

Your eyes search his, bloodshot and tired and defeated, and he knows he is the reason why. He knows, and it tears at whatever is left of his heart, but he still cannot regret what he did.

The silence deafens him, and he grits his teeth to keep at bay desperation made words.

Say it back, even if you don’t mean it. Lie to me if you have to.

A few quick blinks as if to dispel any tears, and you offer the faintest of smiles. Your hand lifting to cup the side of his face lets him breathe easy, and Ivar doesn’t bother stopping himself from leaning into the caress, the softness.

He hasn’t lost that yet, he hasn’t lost you.

“And I love you,” You tell him. He can pretend your voice doesn’t break halfway through; he can do that, and he can pretend everything is as it was, especially when you press a gentle kiss against his lips and whisper, as if nothing had changed, “More than anyone, more than anything.”

____

When Ivar first wakes up with his arm stretched over the empty space where you should be, he keeps his eyes closed, knowing he will soon hear your soft footsteps as you go about the room, hear you cursing to yourself in your native tongue as you skip over the cold wood, hear you poutingly asking that he move to the colder side of the bed to leave room for you.

He tells himself to wait, and he does, for so long he can no longer pretend the empty side of the bed is still warm in your absence.

Ivar opens his eyes half-expecting to see you there, sitting silently by the dim fires, lost in your own thoughts. When you see he is awake, you will return to bed with him, with your always slightly-cold skin pressed against his, and it will stave off the bubble of fear that is growing in his chest, leaving no room for his lungs to breathe or his heart to beat.

You aren’t there, you are nowhere he can see, even as he sits up on the bed and looks around the darkened room.

But you wouldn’t leave, you wouldn’t leave him. He knows that.

He asked you once, demanded out of you maybe, that you promised to never turn your back to him, to never lie to him; and you gave it, you gave him your word and your trust and your heart and…and he still has them, all of those.

You wouldn’t leave him, you love him. You told him you did, and you don’t lie to him.

So, he calls your name. You’re probably on the other part of the room, moving the weakest of plants you continue to insist on taking care of towards the windows so they can soak up the sunlight.

You will hear him call for you, and you will return, muttering about how it was a mistake to try planting those seeds from the East this far into winter. You will burrow close to his chest, seeking his warmth, and he will wrap his arm around you and everything will be as it was, everything will be as it should be.

But it isn’t, it won’t be.

You are nowhere to be found.

He finds you, eventually. The old bedroom you used to occupy before you were married to him, the one that you still lose yourself in sometimes, with the tougher plants that need less frequent care from you.

One of the thralls told him you had gone there sometime during the night, and hadn’t come out yet. Ivar knows what he did is wrong, and he knows…he knows it will be difficult for you to forgive him, but he will convince you to return to the bedroom you share. He hates the idea of sleeping without you by his side.

He opens the door with his free hand, walking in and immediately recognizing the familiar scent of lavender. It is comforting, more than he would like to admit.

Until he sees you.

There lays the bloodied and lifeless body, blade embedded deep in the chest, round handle of the knife almost hidden in the bloodied folds of the dress. The knife he gifted you, so long ago.

I do not fear death, no Hiereia of the Dread Gods fears death, you told him once.

He has always known you’d prefer death before chains, he has always known above anything else you would choose your freedom.

“N-No, no, no,” Shaking hands drag him to you -he doens’t know when he fell to the floor-, and the way your body lolls lifelessly when he holds you to him makes him feel like vomiting. All that leaves him are choked gasps, he isn’t sure if the ragged and roughened sound that he hears is his voice, but it seems like it. “No, p-please, I-…”

He doesn’t know what he is talking to, he surely cannot talk to you since you are…

No, it isn’t you.

The shape of her nose is wrong, and the color of her eyes, even past the veil of death, is wrong. Everything, once he can actually think clearly, looks wrong about her.

She isn’t you.

He is going to lose his mind, he is sure of it.

Ivar moves away from her, from…it, but the way she still resembles you so strikingly makes him sick, and the sound the body makes as it stiffly falls from his lap to the cold wood rattles inside his head.

He closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. She smells like lavender, like you, and…yes, he is sure he will lose his mind here.

Ivar doesn’t know how much time it passes, how long he stays there in that room with a dead woman. He knows at some points he forgets it isn’t you, and at he knows when he remembers it isn’t that he realizes this is your last message to him.

By the end of the day, Ivar stumbles back into an empty bedroom after standing for so long as they celebrated a funeral for a woman that lives and breathes, but even as darkness presses ruthlessly against the dim lights of the room, he refuses to get in the bed to sleep.

He will not lay alone in that damn bed again. Not until you return to him.

And you will.

____

He knows you went to them. He knew that, long before they received word from their scouts that you had reunited with the surviving Greeks.

It took them four days to find where you had been, and three days of travelling. Ivar wants to find those responsible for taking this long and punish them for their slowness.

If he could focus on the anger for long enough, he would, but he can’t seem to focus on anything.

“Our faster men can reach that town in a day and a half, let m-…”

“She will come back, brother,” Ivar interrupts, eyes focused on the shape of the snake in the bracelet you left behind. Since he gifted it to you, you haven’t parted it from it, wearing it as often as you can. He knows you wouldn’t leave it behind if you didn’t intend to come back, he knows you left it as a sign to him, a promise that it is only a matter of time. Like the knife he gifted you, it was all a message, he knows it. Ivar swallows thickly at Hvitserk’s silence -it sounds so much like pity, he hates it-, and insists, “She didn’t leave me, didn’t b-betray me.”

“You betrayed me.” You tell him, voice by his ear, a defeated sort of numbness in your voice that he remembers from that last night. Sharply, he turns to you with a gasp that dies on his throat.

But, of course, all that he finds is nothingness.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk calls out, an edge to his voice. He turns to his brother, finds a frown marrying his features. “I can go myself. Let m-…”

“She will come back!” He interrupts again, though it sounds manic even to his own ears. He tries making his body let go of the stillness that makes even breathing difficult, but he can’t. Still, he offers a smile that his brother almost flinches at, and insists, more calmly, “I know my wife better than you, hm? I know…I know her, just-…you’ll see.”

Offering only a sigh, his brother stands up, “At least get some sleep. You haven’t slept in…what, three days?”

Seven.

____

Days continue passing, and almost as a punishment for refusing to accept you are gone, for insisting on not even looking at that damn bed until you are back by his side, Ivar hears your voice more and more often.

Today, you are talkative, and you sound as if you were sitting by his left side in the emptiness of your bedroom. He wishes with your voice also returned the familiar scent of lavender that seemed to accompany you everywhere. He misses that.

“Find a way or make one, but you will always have a choice.”

You told him that before, when you were sanding by his side, and your hand was solid and comforting in his grasp. He wishes he could pretend he still feels the press of your lips on his shoulder from that day, he wishes he could pretend he still feels you next to him.

Still, because it is just him and your absence now, no one left to see he has lost it, he asks the nothingness, “What choice did you leave me with, hm?”

He hears a delicate laugh somewhere at his left, and that is all the answer he gets.

Ivar knows what the people would whisper when he first brought you here, those tales of a half-mad king that lost what was left of his mind to a foreign witch.

He realizes with a laugh that bubbles in his chest but sounds choked when it stutters past his lips, that maybe they were all right. Maybe you did bewitch him, or curse him. Maybe he did lose his mind because of a foreign witch.

Your voice breezes past his ear, this time startling him less, “With all the ways we drive each other mad, you still think the Gods fated this?”

It isn’t the teasing edge of that day, the smile he can hear in your voice isn’t the soft and disbelieving one. There is no warmth to any of it.

It is mocking, it is the disdain he made you queen to avoid facing, it is the coldness of the woman he never wanted to see you lose yourself as.

Your words from that day, the words your ghost -his mind?- spits back at him seem fitting, in a way. A twisted, ironic way, but still.

Because you did drive him mad after all, just not with your presence. With your absence.

Regardless, after nearly two weeks, he realizes you aren’t coming back.

He supposes it shouldn’t have taken that long, but then again there’s a part of him that still dares think this is all some twisted nightmare.

They tell him most of the Greeks, including you, have left with merchant vessels near Eldham towards the Mediterranean, they tell him there is no way to track you down now.

They don’t tell him, but he hears it regardless, that you are lost to him.

Ivar’s eyes are trained on this small and pitiful plant you kept potted near the table where you’d rest against at night as you took off the earrings and jewelry you wore that day.

He cannot take his eyes off this insignificant, withered thing. It almost seems impossible, that it looks like that. You’d spend half a day if you had to looking after these things, making sure they were as vibrant and lively as you could keep them.

It dawns on him that it died in your absence, in the absence he had convinced himself was a passing thing, temporary, inconsequential.

You told him things said aloud are made real, you told him that by will alone he could achieve anything he wanted, and he believed you.

He believed you when you told him those things, just as he believed you when you told him you were staying. Just as he believed you when you told him you loved him.

With a yell that sounds like a roar to his own ears, he puts all his strength behind the movement of his arm as his hand grips the edge of that table, flipping it and throwing the things on it, even that damn plant, across the room.

Almost two weeks without sleep have left him weaker than he would like to admit, and it isn’t easy to move his limbs to stop himself from falling painfully to the ground, the movements too uncoordinated, too sluggish.

Resigned to the cold and hard ground, Ivar turns to lay on his back.

With the silence ringing in his ears, he finds himself asking, “Will you stay?”

If all he has is a ghost, he might as well be on good terms with it.

“Of course I will stay. I wanted to, you know,” You reply somewhere at his right. This is the first time you’ve spoken something you haven’t said before, this is the first time your ghost seems to answer coherently. That is, until you whisper, “If you had asked, I would have said yes.”

The words sound more mocking and crueler than they ever did, though perhaps he was foolish to think they were ever anything other than a reminder of what following his father’s last advice cost him.

Be ruthless, be ruthless, be ruthless.

It echoes in his head, louder and louder each time. At some point he realizes that even if the voice of a ghost gets loud enough that he has to resist the urge to uselessly cover his ears with his hands, it at least drowns out his thoughts, and it silences you.

On the floor by the bed he refuses to even touch since it still doesn’t have you in it, he lets himself sleep for the first time in so long.

____

He wakes suddenly, sitting up on the bed and taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs, eyes wide as he searches the nothingness in front of him.

“Ivar?” You ask, and the bed dips when you move to sit up as well. “Ivar, what’s wrong?”

The plant is alive.

And he cannot take his eyes off it.

It is still a small, pitiful thing, but he cannot look away from it. His breaths quicken as he blinks rapidly, trying desperately to get used to the darkness of the room, needing to see clearly that the damn plant truly is alive.

The more time it passes the more he starts to see it withered and dead, and even as through gasping and frantic breaths he somehow smells the comforting scent of lavender and you, it somehow isn’t enough.

It terrifies him, that he doesn’t know what is real and what isn’t.

He knows what he wants to be real, and it is the bed soft and warm underneath him, the sound of your voice being more than an illusion, the damn plant being alive still. But somehow wanting it to be real makes him think that is the one it isn’t.

“Ivar!” You insist, voice more anxious. Your hand on the side of his face almost makes him flinch, but when you turn his face to you, he can see you there beside him. He lifts a hand desperately to hold your own against his face, lest you stop touching him and disappear. Or he does. He isn’t sure. Your eyes search his, and your thumb runs back and forth over his skin. It’s soothing, more than you could ever know. “It was just a nightmare, love.”

Was it?

You are straddling him, arms wrapped tightly around him, hands running up and down his back. He doesn’t know when you moved, but he is grateful for it.

His hand reaches tentatively for you, still irrationally afraid you will vanish, and when he finds soft skin under his grasp, Ivar feels a breath leaves his lips in something too close to a sob.

“Shh, it is alright,” You whisper, soothingly, though he notices the tremble in your voice. “Just a nightmare. I’m here, it’s alright.”

Yes, of course it was a nightmare. He never attacked the Greeks, you never left him.

He knows that now. It felt so real, though.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, surrounded by the feel of you and the maddening scent of lavender, and matches his breaths to the cadence of your own, trying to hold on to the calm you so easily offer.

Ivar isn’t sure how much time it passes, it is more than enough for the sweat on his chest and back to have been bitingly cold and now be gone, it is more than enough for his breaths to be back under his own control. It isn’t enough for his hold on you to loosen, but not enough time can pass for that to happen anytime soon.

Laying back down on the bed with you, keeping an arm safely secured around you as you two lay on your sides, Ivar keeps his eyes roaming over your features, uncaring that you do the same -though you are most likely studying for any tell that he still isn’t well, which he isn’t-, taking in the way your eyes soften to accompany the small smile you offer and the familiarly unpredictable way your hair is tussled by sleep.

“Will you tell me about it?”

His answer is immediate, “No.”

Your lips furrow, and he knows you will insist by that alone. Stubborn, insufferable woman.

“Was it about me?”

“I said I don’t want to tell you.” He snaps, but you don’t seem to mind the brashness.

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t real.” You reassure him. He hates the fact that he clings to those words, he hates how they fill him with a relief none of his assurances to himself couldn’t match.

“I know. Stop coddling me, woman.” He grumbles past gritted teeth, prompting only a smile from you.

“You secretly love it,” You tease, leaning close to press a kiss over the scar on his cheek. “What would you do without me pestering you, hm?”

He swallows thickly, and doesn’t answer. Settling a little closer, you meet his eyes again, a tranquility to your gaze he wishes he could find again, and he gathers he can, as long as that adoration and that softness that shine in your gaze don’t go anywhere just yet.

“You should sleep some more. I promise, Melinöe won’t claim you while I’m here,” You offer with a glint in your eye, managing to make his lips pull into a smile. Closing the distance between you, you rub your nose against his before kissing him sweetly, so softly it almost makes Ivar feel he will shatter at the gentleness of it. Breaths one, you promise, “I love you.”

He exchanges seeing you for feeling you, and closes the distance again, claiming your mouth in a short kiss.

Pulling away, Ivar finds himself asking, “Tell me again.”

Without hesitation, you whisper, “I love you, Ivar. More than anyone, more than anything.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie. Even if it is, he doesn’t care.

____ ____ ____

First of all, I’m sorry. Second of all, I hope it made sense. Those of you that read ἀλήθεια know what Ivar was living through, since this was brought to life by @youbloodymadgenius‘ request of an Ivar PoV of the night she left him in Alatheia and the times that came after that. But, because I am one soft bitch, I couldn’t bring myself to write all that hurt without at least some comfort, so...here ya go!

I would love to hear your thoughts on this!

Btw, technically hallucinations as a result of sleep deprivation go from visual to auditory, but fuck it, y’know? I do research to confidently write down useless stuff, yes, but I also do research to stubbornly go against said research for the sake of plot. This time it was the second.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog @kaitieskidmore1

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Good Omens - A Historic Blunder (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley shows up in the Bastille to rescue Aziraphale, but for some reason, when he snaps his fingers, it doesn't only release Aziraphale from his chains, it switches their places. Miffed at all of Crowley's mean comments about his beautiful suit, Aziraphale doesn't just opt to free Crowley, but forces him to earn his way out of his chains by putting his smart mouth and sharp tongue to better use. (1999 words)

Notes: Written for the @coldomenszine - nsfw digital-only edition. Warning for bondage and oral.

Read on AO3.

“What in the …?" Crowley glares at the shackles clamped around his wrists and Aziraphale's gold brocade suit miraculously tailored to his body. His eyes dart over to Aziraphale, clothed in the burgundy coat he arrived in. "Why am I wearing your clothes? And your chains? How the Heaven did this happen?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale says, massaging his wrists, rubbed raw by the shackles he'd been locked in. Indeed, how did this happen? Just moments ago, between pleasant banter and derisive remarks in regard to Aziraphale's unfortunate clothing choices, Crowley had snapped his fingers, performing a demonic miracle to set Aziraphale free. Which he did, so, of course, well done him. But now Crowley is the one in chains ...

... while Aziraphale is dressed like a peasant.

"Are you losing your touch?"

"Very funny.” Crowley snaps his fingers again. And again. And again. But no matter what he does, he can’t break free.

Most of what he'd intended when he snapped his fingers happened. Aziraphale is unbound, and the guard who had been sent to fetch him standing paralyzed in the corner. Other than that, nothing else worked the way it was supposed to.

It's almost as if his spell backfired.

"Could this be a punishment from Hell for you rescuing me?" Aziraphale asks with genuine confusion. "You said your lot don't send rude notes. Could they have taken away your power instead?"

“Don’t know," Crowley says, examining his hands for answers. "Does seem like something they'd do.”

Aziraphale gasps. "Maybe they know you're here, and this was a test! Or maybe this isn't Hell's doing at all! Maybe this is Heaven's!" He looks up and around, trying to sense any Holy influence in their midst. If he finds any, he's going to be very put off, seeing as they made no move whatsoever to aid him.

"All interesting theories," Crowley agrees, giving the shackles a tug, checking their strength. "Theories I would love to discuss with you at length somewhere other than here. So why don't you get me out of this mess?"

Aziraphale tuts at Crowley's tone. He's every inch a demon of Hell, with demon manners, too. "What's the magic word?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. He considers not saying it out of spite, but what other option has he? "Please."

"Could you possibly say it nicer?"

Crowley fixes Aziraphale with the fire of his fierce, yellow eyes. "No."

"Fine." Aziraphale raises a hand to snap his fingers, but he hesitates.

"Wot?" Crowley shakes the chains to remind Aziraphale what he should be doing. "Wot's the matter?"

“I don't know."

"Wot do you mean you don't know?"

"It was nice of you to sweep in here and help me, but you're being mean to me."

"I'm being mean to you?"

"You made fun of my clothes!”

Crowley sputters like a car struggling to start. “You’re ... you're ... you're going to let me get discorporated because I made a comment about your outfit?”

“It was rude! I'll have you know that suit was a gift from Marie Antoinette herself!”

"Pfft. Fitting you'd be wearing it here then."

Aziraphale tsks in disgust. "Was that really necessary?"

Footsteps overhead, coupled with the sounds of cells opening and shrill cries for mercy, draw Crowley's attention away, make him swallow hard. "Okay, look, none of that matters right now! I got you out of your chains, yes? Tit for tat, angel. Bust me out!"

"Quite right, quite right. I could do that. Bust you out, as you say. But what’s in it for me?”

"Aside from you not losing your head?"

"Yes. Obviously. Aside from that."

“I’ll take you to lunch," Crowley offers.

Aziraphale shrugs. “Alas, I’ve already eaten.”

Crowley pulls a face. “That’s never mattered before!”

“Yes ..." Aziraphale grins "... but today it does.”

"Wot else could you possibly want?"

"What are you willing to give me?"

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, fumbling with the cumbersome metal links so he can manage it. "I know you've got something on your mind, angel. So could you help me out? Give me a hint?"

"Well ..." Aziraphale rolls his eyes to the ceiling, stalling in the hopes Crowley might figure it out "... it's been terribly stressful here, locked up by myself, waiting to be executed ..." He busies himself picking nonexistent lint from Crowley's jacket, feigning nonchalance. He has no intention of letting Crowley lose his head. He's having a bit of fun with him.

But maybe he can finagle a little something more.

"So you're wanting something to relieve your stress, is that it?"

"Perhaps ..."

Crowley smirks. "The stress of being locked up or the stress of being an arsehole?"

Aziraphale huffs. “Remember, my dear, I can’t stop time the way you can so we don’t have a lot to play around with.”

“How much time are we talking about exactly?” Crowley asks, dropping to his knees. Aziraphale hides his triumphant grin behind a scowl when he sees the immaculate hem of his pants and the toes of his satin shoes come in contact with the grimy floor.

“There are guards strolling the halls, checking on prisoners several floors above us. There’s one a few floors down doing the same, coming up this way. So I’d say you have roughly twenty minutes.”

"Twenty minutes!?”

“Nineteen now.”

“Knowing the response time of your cock when faced with my tongue, I’d say that’s more time than I need.”

Aziraphale glowers. "Eighteen ..."

"Alright, alright! Help me out! Undo your trousers!"

"You're already down there. I'd say you're in a better position to undo them, don't you?"

"Bastard!" Crowley growls. He snaps his fingers, quadruple checking that it won't work. Wouldn't it be the dog's bollocks if his magic came back in time to shove Aziraphale's snarky attitude right back in his face?

But it doesn't.

Crowley unfastens the fall-front of Aziraphale's trousers, the rough metal of the shackles doing no favors for his wrists in this position, but that barely fazes him, focused on this particular task.

It's been ages since he's seen angel's cock.

He removes it from the confines of angel's trousers, holds it in his hand, and wonders - has it gotten bigger since? Has Aziraphale been putting extra effort into this part of his anatomy since the last time they were together?

Or is he doing this now for Crowley's benefit?

To make Crowley desire him?

Crowley opens wide, takes him in his mouth, but slowly. More slowly than usual. They might be pressed for time, but Crowley feels a need for vengeance. He's going to drag this out, use all of the eighteen - no, seventeen - minutes they have to frustrate the Hell out of Aziraphale.

Teach him a lesson he won't forget anytime soon.

Crowley's lips around Aziraphale's cock nearly discorporate Aziraphale in an instant. It's been too long since he's sampled this demon's pleasures - his warm mouth, his quick wit.

His exquisite company.

"That's is," Aziraphale moans as Crowley wraps his serpent tongue around him, then drags it down his length. "That definitely hits the spot."

Crowley pulls away. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. My knees are aching like Christ on the cross."

"Too soon, my dear," Aziraphale mutters, eyelids fluttering shut to block out sounds of clattering chains, guards coming ever closer, screams of prisoners dragged to their deaths, the ominous drop of the guillotine. "Too soon."

This is the way things have been between them for as long as Crowley can remember. These small indiscretions, stolen taboos, are all they're allowed. They never know when they will have time together, so they relish it whenever it comes along. As fun as it is riling angel up, Crowley can't help wishing he could do things up proper: in the quiet of his flat, on a bed of rose petals, with a bottle of champagne, a bowl of fresh cream, and all the time in the world to enjoy it.

“Crowley!" Aziraphale whines, hips bucking, desperation saturating every breath. "They're coming!"

"Are you?"

"This isn't the time for humor!"

"How much time do we have left?"

"We don't have any left!”

As if on cue, the guards Aziraphale has been sensing arrive, going on loudly about what could have happened to their companion (Marcel - the man stuck in the corner). They stop, do a double-take, then go bug-eyed when they spot Crowley, dressed like a member of the haut monde, on his knees in front of Aziraphale.

At first, they don't know what to make of it. They would chalk it up as a victory if not for the fact that, even dressed like one of them, they have no idea who Aziraphale is. And though they recognize the fancy suit Crowley is sporting, they have no clue how the man inside went from plump and pale to thin with flaming red hair and dark glasses.

They try to think up a practical explanation, but as former men of faith, they come to the conclusion that what's going on inside the cell is the work of the Devil. They hurry off, presumably to summon back-up, screaming about witchcraft and perversion. Aziraphale doesn't know for sure. They could be yelling about the weather. His grasp of conversational French isn't as good as it should be. He could ask Crowley to translate, but he wouldn't remove his mouth from his cock for anything.

Tragically, Crowley does so himself. "I think we've been spotted."

"How did you guess?"

"Are you even close?"

"Yes! Yes, I am! I ... oh, let me! May I?" Aziraphale grabs Crowley's head but waits for a consenting nod before he holds him still and fucks his mouth to the finish. And Crowley lets him. He may as well have some fun with his mouth before he and his head become strangers. Not that he thinks Aziraphale would leave him there to be beheaded.

But would he?

"Oh! Oh, dear! Oh for Heaven's ...!" Aziraphale comes down Crowley's throat in a wash of Holy light enough to burn straight through to his stomach, but that's part of what he enjoys about letting angel use him.

That taste of Heaven that accompanies his orgasm.

"Oh my goodness!" Aziraphale pants. "That was exceptional, my dear. Bravo. You really know how to rise to a challenge."

"I'm glad you're satisfied." Crowley wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then licks up every last drop. "But there's still the matter of you breaking me out."

"Yes ..." Aziraphale awkwardly clears his throat "... that."

"You are going to free me, right?"

Aziraphale shoots Crowley an offended look. "Of course, I am! I'm an angel of my word!"

"A-ha. And how do you intend on doing that when you didn't want to use a miracle to free yourself?" Crowley asks, kicking himself for not considering that at the beginning of all this.

"Oh! Well, you see, I nicked the key from that chap over there ..." Aziraphale pats down the pockets of Crowley's coat, then the pockets of his own, chirping a tiny, "A-ha!" when he finds it.

"Why didn't you tell me!?"

"You didn't ask!"

"How did you get it off him without his noticing?"

"Nu-uh." Aziraphale sticks the key in the lock and gives it a twist. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

"Wait! That means you could have gotten yourself ... and me ... out of those chains this entire time!?" Crowley hisses, shaking out the throbbing in his wrists as the chains fall to the ground. But Aziraphale sidesteps Crowley's question and helps him to his feet.

"Come come now! Let's get moving!" With a snap of Aziraphale's fingers, Crowley is re-dressed in his original clothes while Aziraphale reluctantly switches outfits with the still frozen guard. "We mustn't hang about!"

When the guards return, there's only one prisoner in the cell.

The aristocrat on his knees and the revolutionary he was servicing are gone.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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forget-me-not-s · 4 years ago

Text

Forbidden

Day 4 of Elriel Month

Word count: 2401

Content Warning: Slightly NSFW, spoilers for ACOSF and Azriel exclusive POV.

These past few weeks had been a new kind of hell for Azriel. Since Rhysand ordered him to stay away from Elain, his days have been immersed in darkness and his nights restless. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, her smile had lightened up every room, her laugh his favourite sound and her smell his favorite aphrodisiac.

Part of him understood the reasoning behind Rhys command, but Rhysand had risked everything for Feyre. What he didn’t comprehend is why his own brother wouldn’t want to see him happy. Elain should be able to choose who she wants to be with, even if she never ends up choosing him. He knew he would always put Elain’s choice first even if it meant destroying himself.

In the past months he had realized the true depth of his feelings for the seer. Azriel had thought he would never stop loving Mor, but since Elain came into his life, he realized that he was deceiving himself. He was in love with the idea of love, not with Mor, at least where the last centuries were concerned. Deep down he knew he had loved her once, but Elain’s kindness had opened him to another kind of love, more pure and real, one that he never thought he would have or deserve.

The Cauldron had to be punishing him for all the sins he had committed, Azriel knew he wasn’t deserving of love. He had finally found the female he wanted to share his immortal life with, just so the Cauldron would choose another male for her.

Today was going to be especially hard for him as he wouldn’t be able to escape seeing her. He had tried to avoid her after the incident on the stairs, but today would be impossible not to be near her. Part of him needed to see her one more time, as he was a starving man and her sight would be the only thing that would satiate him. Feyre had asked his council on a matter regarding the human courts, and Nuala had confirmed Elain would be present during the meeting.

Surprisingly, when he arrived at the River House Elain was the only one there, no sign of their High Lord and Lady to be seen. She looked beautiful, her hair down, ruffled by the early spring breeze, face sun kissed probably after spending the morning tending her gardens under the sun. Azriel knew the moment she saw him, as her scent changed, he had to contain the groan that wanted to be released.

Elain felt more than saw the shadowsinger appear in the kitchen, her breath catching and her cheeks blushing. She couldn’t help it, she had been preparing herself for this encounter for days. It had been almost three months since the ill fated night, and he had been avoiding her. She still couldn’t believe how close she had been to kissing him, part of her was still furious at the interruption. The moment she had believed what Azriel had told her, that it had been a mistake. That’s why she returned the necklace, because the last time a male had gifted jewelry, he had called her a monster and rejected her love and she didn’t want to feel like that ever again, even if it broke her heart parting with that thoughtful gift. But now she knew it hadn’t been a mistake. Azriel had been forced to flee her side and to never approach her again. What made her furious was that it wasn’t caused by an enemy force; the cause of this had been her own brother-in-law. When she saw what had happened in one of her visions, she confronted Rhys.

She had had enough, she wasn’t a child to be coddled. Her life had been taken away from her since the moment she was forced into the Cauldron, her future forever changed. None of it with her consent, none hadn’t been her choice.

So she was mad at Rhysand as he was taking away her choice once again, by forcing Azriel to never follow that path with her. Even if it meant hurting them both. It seems like she would never be able to choose for herself, the Cauldron forming a bond with a male who didn’t understand her, that played a small part in her trauma and that he wasn’t HER choice. For the first time ever she made her voice heard, she wouldn’t be stifled again, not with this and not with anything else moving forward. She had had enough, she was the only one who would decide her own destiny. And she had chosen Azriel. She wouldn’t hide her feelings for the shadowsinger, she wouldn’t let Rhysand or anyone dictate her life, she wanted to love freely, her love wouldn’t be a forbidden union. She realized that in her new world people would tell her who she needed to be but she would have none of that, she would fight back and say no, this is who I am.

Her first step had been speaking with Rhys and telling him she would talk with Lucien, that’s when she found out she could actually break the bond. Knowing this felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She clarified that she wanted to break the bond. Not because of what had happened during the Solstice but because she needed to make her own destiny and the bond was a prison for both herself and Lucien. Feyre had been present for the last part of the conversation as her powers had gone out of control with all her emotions running wild. That’s how she managed to trick Azriel into coming to the River House, he thought he was meeting her sister. She had tricked him, but they needed to talk.

Her conversation with Lucien had gone better than she expected, it hadn’t been an easier one, but necessary nonetheless. After hours of talking, they had agreed that it was better if they broke the bond. She wasn’t surprised when Lucien had been a bit reluctant at first, as the mating is more instinctive for the male, but what had shocked her was that Lucien told her how he believed he was starting to develop feelings for Vassa. She teased him endlessly. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, morning came and they had still been deep into conversation, funny how the day they had finally broken the bond was the day they talked as friends, free at least from those invisible chains.

Azriel saw Elain’s shy smile appear and he couldn't help returning it. There was something different about her, her eyes were clear, she looked rested, and somehow free. Her distinctive smell had also been altered.

“Elain, I thought I was supposed to meet Feyre” he said while walking closer to her.

“I know, I asked her to fake the meeting so we could talk” he stopped walking, surprise appearing on his expression.

“Are you ok? Has something happened?” His facial expression turned murderous, if someone had hurted her, he was dead.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you about what happened that night” Elain's heart melted at his concern.

“Elain I…” Azriel started to say, part of him just wanted to tell her how he never thought she was a mistake, he wanted to make things right, but he was scared that it would hurt her more, as they couldn’t be together, he wasn’t deserving of love.

“Azriel I know what happened, I know it was Rhysand that stopped it” she interrupted him.

“What do you mean?” he knew he sounded stupid, but she took him by surprise.

“I know it wasn’t a mistake, '' Elain said while she closed their gap, her hands softly grabbing his “a few nights later I had a retrocognition. I saw everything that happened after Rhysand saw us. He had no right to stop what would have happened” she said while her hands brought his scarred ones to her lips. Azriel's voice cracked as he talked “I shouldn’t have said it was a mistake, Rhys or no Rhys you could never be a mistake Elain, you are everything that’s good” his hands moved to grasp her face, bringing his forehead to lay on hers. “I know that now, but I would be lying if I told you, you didn’t hurt me, it felt like Greysen all over again” Azriel heart broke, that was never his intention, he would kill himself before hurting her “I am so sorry, what can I do to fix it?” he needed to get things right, he would beg on his knees for her forgiveness. “Just kiss me and make me forget it ever happened” she murmured.

Azriel didn’t hesitate, he closed the gap and finally ley his lips on hers. The kiss was soft, innocent even, an apology and a promise all wrapped into one perfect gift. Elain’s arms wrapped around his neck, bringing them closer, her tongue graced his lower lip asking for permission, turning the soft kiss into an explosion of passion.

Azriel hands were everywhere, he needed to touch her, to prove this was real, that it was actually happening and he wasn’t in one of his dreams. Elain let out a moan when his hands graced her sides, getting closer to her aching breasts. “Elain as much as I love this we need to talk” he said trying to distance himself from her even though it pained him, but they needed to discuss what happened next, he still had orders and she was still mated.

“Fine” she said, not without giving him a quick kiss. She would be his death.

“What happened after you had your vision” he asked, his fingers running small circles on her arms.

“I told Rhysand that that would be the last time he would take away my choice for political reasons. All my life I’ve been an afterthought, I never had much choice, and when Hybern took me and I was forced into the Cauldron I was stripped of everything. Now that I was finally getting my voice back, Rhysand took it away from me once again, and I had enough. No one will tell me who I should love, not a High Lord and definitely not an ancient bond”

He now realized what the change in her smell meant, under the small hint of arousal, he smelled her and only her, no trace of the bond couldn’t be found. He almost fell to his knees begging for a chance to love her as she deserved to be loved. His kiss was bruising, the passion soaring, he wanted to convey everything that he was feeling on that kiss. Elain was giving him everything he thought he would never have, she was choosing him. For the first time in his life someone was willing to risk everything to be with him.

“Azriel” Elain said in between kisses, her melodic laugh appearing when he couldn't stop giving her small kisses around her neck, making her shiver. “All those moments we shared in our gardens, the small touches we were brave enough to have, made me realize that you are my choice, that even if the Cauldron didn’t tie us together, you are my mate, the one I choose. The one I love” she said while tears running down her beautiful face “don’t cry my rose, you have made me the happiest male, I love you more than words can convey, you are my everything Elain” he responded while lowering her on the soft grass, his hands tenderly caressing her face, collecting those happy tears.

Elain’s hands grabbed his hips, making him fall on top of her, straddling her hips. Azriel let out a groan at the friction this position bringed to his aching cock, her hands started untying his fighting leathers“ Are you sure Elain?, We have the rest of our lives for this” he said while giving small kisses where her neck met shoulder. “Yes I need to feel you, to feel our love in the most carnal of expressions ”

They made quick work of their clothes, Azriel started a trail of kisses, lowering himself between her legs. Elain’s hands wreaked havoc on his hair as he finally got his first taste of her, sweet, she was so sweet and wet. Her whimpers the only sound beside the birds chirping, his tongue creating an increasing crescendo of pleasure as he licked her soft folds, putting pressure on her clit making her even more wet. He was a starving male and Elain his only salvation. When she felt she was close to her climax, she pulled him off her “I want to fall with you inside me” she said, her eyes dark with lust. He kissed her, her mouth warm and soft, he bit back a groan as she took his cock and brought it to her entrance, the sensation overwhelming. They both moaned as he started moving. Slow at first, making her go crazy with desire, she needed to feel more “harder Azriel, I want to feel all of you, you won’t hurt me” she said while coaxing him with her hands on his back, his body went still, his entire world stopped at her soft cares on his wings. The groan he let out was feral, deepening his thrusts making them both moan louder. The sound of sink on sink and their encouraging sounds the sole symphony as they chased their climax. Azriel kissed her to stifle her moans, his hand touching her at the apex of her tights making her go over the cliff, Azriel joining her thrusts later when Elain found a sensitive place on his wings. Making him roar with pleasure.

Afterwards when they were both satiated Elain kissed him softly, her hands drawing small circles on his back. A sweet smile on both of their faces. Happiness, utter happiness ran through them as they rejoiced in their love making. They both knew this was a new beginning, their relationship barely starting, they had so much to learn and discover. War was starting once again and they would have to fight for it, this time would be different, the stakes higher as they would fight to get back to each other. But together they would overcome everything. Together they would fight as one.

#elriel #elriel month #elrielmonth #elrielmonth21 #pro elriel #elriel ff #elain archeron #Azriel

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kyloren-theprince · 5 years ago

Text

Feral

What makes Hux more feral than Ren? Lack of consent? Maybe, but Kylo isn’t one to always adhere to your every plea; sometimes what he needs is to fuck you hard and fast and without remorse and he never really asked to do that. But deep down, you and Ren both know what you want is each other.

Warnings: smut, edging, inappropriate use of the Force, swearing, brief mention of assault, blood

“Damnit, Ren!” He stands between you and the door, his body solid and taut with barely – just barely – contained rage. He could kill you no problem. But it's not about whether or not he could, the matter at hand was would he. You clench your fist, steeling yourself. “Move.”

He takes a jagged breath, bracing, everything about him so barely controlled. The air hums with an electricity that makes your hair stand on end, makes the lights buzz a little louder than before. Without his helmet, the dark tresses of his hair fall over his face, curling handsomely around the edges of his cheekbones.

“No,” he growls lowly. His left eye twitches. “You’re not leaving.”

“Like fucking Kriff I am!”

“Where are you even going to go?” He’s challenging, squaring off. You roll your eyes. “Are you running to the resistance? Go fuck off with whoever’s left?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Don’t be a fucking child. I’ll stay right where I’m needed-“

“And yet you want to leave,” he interrupts.

“Yes!” You manage to sidestep him, closer to the door, but not yet there.

There’s pressure on your wrist, not warm enough to be his hand, but firm enough that it’s clear you’re not getting out of this quite yet.

“Why? Give me one good reason why.”

You turn on a credit, the hair that managed to free itself from it’s braids flying wild. “You are a lot of things, Kylo, but a man of reason is not one of them.”

“One!”

You watch the way his chest heaves, his fingers twitching. A pain taps the nerves in your arm. You must flinch because he releases only a hair, but it's enough that he’s not hurting you. You look at him, in his eyes, and your heart aches at the sight.

They’re red, glistening enough to know that he has tears in his eyes. You were the only one to ever see him cry (and live), but now you were the cause. Your voice softens.

“I need you to understand that I am not you little fuck toy. You don’t get to use me and then leave for days – weeks – and then get pissed off when I’ve left these quarters during that time.”

His lips press together tightly. You consider the idea of continuing to talk, but you just swallow, feeling the ghost of a hand trail across your palm, pulling on your fingers just enough to have a sense of longing. But then it’s gone, and Kylo lets you walk through those blast doors without another word.

––––

Two, almost three, weeks have passed since that night, and while the ache of Kylo’s absence weighed heavy on your spirit, other issues have arisen. These ones, however, you never realized the extent of before now. Most personnel on the Finalizer recognized your authority, and regarded you with the same respect as before, but there were few outliers.

Take General Artimage Hux for example: he’s a man of some power, and with the idea that he is irreplaceable in his head, he’s proven himself quite the pain in your ass.

He was always on your heels, offering you comfort you didn’t ask for, kind words you didn’t want to hear, gentle reassurances that made you want to pull your hair out, grab him by the ear and thunk him on the forehead, right between his eyes. Either that or kill him.

Right now, as he’s calling your name from the other end of the otherwise empty hall to your temporary quarters, you’ve decided on killing him.

“What is it, General?” You slow enough to glance over your shoulder, hating how close to you he always wants to be. “I’ve somewhere I need to be.”

“And where might that be, darling?” He teases, smoothing over his uniform.

His voice. It’s grating on your ears, makes your head hurt in the worst way. Stars, debriefings with him were awful but this was outright torture.

Maybe that’s how we should interrogate the prisoners, you think. Make him talk to them for a few hours. Melt their brains with his bantha shit.

“None of your concern,” you reply curtly. You don’t give him the courtesy to look at him, you don’t have to. “You’re supposed to be on the bridge.”

“I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

Your door is in sight, but he’s still here. “Actually General,” you snap, turning sharply to face him, “you don’t. Report to your post immediately.”

The cocky motherfucker has the audacity to stop as well, flash his teeth in a smile, bend at the waist and ask, “Or what?”

A beast within you runs rampant, gnashing its teeth, scratching, writhing in his presence. You don’t move, only watch as he flinches, clutching his neck as he chokes.

“You seem to have forgotten your place,” you snarl. “Or you’ve forgotten mine. Which is it?”

He garbles around the pressure on his throat, usually so pale face having taken on a red tone, ripening into a purple. You release him, and he sucks in deep, lungful of air. He’s panting when he looks at you again, his eyes no longer teasing, but dark and dangerous. In a moment, your head throbs upon its impact against the wall, your arms pinned between your bodies. Hux’s breath on your face makes your skin itch.

“Your place has been Ren’s whore.” You thrash, and he takes hold of your chin, knocking your temple into the support pillar. Your vision goes spotty, but you still push against him. “But now he’s thrown you out like the cheap thing you are.”

So many emotions are screaming through you, your fight or flight going haywire. Was your brain even processing? Ren’s whore, you hear him say. His hands are moving, dragging, feeling across the planes of your torso.

Spiraling, your consciousness produces the image of walking into your quarters, the one you shared with Kylo, and burying yourself in his chest, running your hands through his hair. Even in the daydream, you’re crying, apologizing over and over. You imagine him saying your name.

Maybe he hates you for what you did, and that makes it worse, so much worse, because that’s the only place you want to be. You want to be in the arms of the person who hates you so fucking much. You’re slipping under, drowning in whatever nightmare this is, shutting down, but you don’t want to. No, no this is not going to be how this turns out. You’ll die before then.

“What was that?” It’s Hux again; grating, disrespectful, disgusting Hux. “I thought you said something, darling.”

You pry your eyes open. You bring your knee up, but he pins both legs with his own, amused by your struggle. He opens his mouth to say something, but you spit right there on his face, wishing it were poison or acid instead.

“You,” he says lowly, leaning close to your face, “are going to regret that.”

You bare your teeth. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Without further warning, you bite down on the bridge of his nose, forcing your teeth down tight around the bone until there’s a resounding crack, copper on your tongue. He shouts, smacking at your face until you let go. He prods at the break, flinching, staring at you with wide and pissed off eyes. He shifts his weight towards you, the very beginning of a step, but you throw him back with the Force. He crumples to the ground, rolling slowly to his hands and knees.

Ever on time, the patrol of the evening comes into view, and with one little flick of your wrist, Hux is sent flying to their feet. They stumble to a stop, looking to you for orders.

“Take him,” you instruct.

They move without hesitation, binding his wrists together, and escorting him to the brig eight levels down. You stand there, in the middle of the otherwise empty hallway, just breathing.

Kylo, you think, hoping – knowing – he can hear you, meet me at the throne.

––––

He’s come home from battle looking better than he does now; the bags beneath his eyes are prominent, shoulders slumped with their own weight. He doesn’t move when you enter the room, doesn’t say anything as you walk towards him. He just watches with those sad and tired eyes. You stand next to him, inches from the throne, studying its intricacies that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Do you understand why?” Your voice is soft, fragile even. He feels his heart twist in his chest, guilt sinking lowlowlow. There’s another moment of silence save for his breathing, and you pull him from his thoughts with the gentlest call of his name.

“I do,” he answers, fearing he’s spoken far too loud for the moment. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t defend himself in anyway, he just knows these last three weeks have been eating him alive. He was rotting in ways he hadn’t expected to. And maybe to say he understood was a lie, but he knew he’d at least try to accommodate, to listen to you a little more than just your moans.

You nod once, eyes somewhere else entirely. Gentle is not his forte. You knew this, you didn’t expect him to console you, you didn’t ask him to, but carefully – awkwardly, even – he reaches out, pulling you into his chest.

“Kylo,” you mumble against the fabric of his shirt, feeling every thump thump thump of his heart. It felt good to say his name, feel it roll on your tongue.

His hands move from your back to your face, ducking down to kiss you deeply. “Say you won’t leave.” You run your hands through his hair, fingers spread wide over his scalp. “Tell me you wont leave again, ever. You can go wherever the fuck you want, but you’ll come back to me.”

Ren’s whore.

“If you promise me the same.” His brows are twisted, and you know with that one look that he’s heard Hux’s words. You shake your head. “I don’t know what I’m-“

He kisses you, short and fierce this time. “You’re Empress. You rule beside me.”

“Wha-“

“And you’ll stay by me.” His words are sharp, but he softens when he says, “Please.”

Though weak, you smile. “How could I ever refuse you?”

His sinks, smashing your lips together in a flurry, and you take it as an apology. Words he was terrible at, but he could show you, Kriff could he show you.

There more he kisses you, the more you dissolve into his touch, shaking, melting away at his fingers. His grip turns a little harsher, nose scrunching up.

He spins, sitting on the throne and pulling you with him, onto his lap. “You-“ he runs his hands up your thighs, thumbs drawing harsh circles “-fuck.”

You cup his face, kissing him, letting his hands roam, but keeping his lips firmly against yours. He’s jumpy, hips rocking, grinding his covered cock against your heat, growling when you don’t move more than your lips against his.

He wants control, needs it; can feel it scathing beneath his skin, but you’re not backing down this time. You need this just as much as he does, more maybe.

You tug at his belt, pulling away to tear off his pants, hands sliding up over his thighs, the thick muscles would tight and jumping at the press of your thumb. His eyes burn into yours, nose scrunched up.

“If you don’t sit on my cock—“

“You’ll what?” He doesn’t flinch at your sharp tone, but his face relaxes, lips parting so pretty, pupils blown wide. You push his arms down to the throne, pinning him by his inner elbow as you shift back onto his lap. His fingers flex. You gyrate your hips, barely dragging your heat over his aching erection, and he visibly shakes.

You’ve never felt this powerful in your life; not when you cut down enemies, had troopers obey your every command. No, having the mighty Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the galaxy, trembling beneath you was what made you feel fucking invincible.

Almost drunk on it, you lean forward, daring, “What will you do, Kylo?” He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Bend me over? Fuck me stupid?”

Poking at the beast is fun. He locks up, every muscle drawn tight, and he gives a clipped, “Yes.”

You reach out with the Force, seeing bind to his arms, and falling heavy with weight. You knock the snarl off his lips when you take a fistful of his hair and tug, pushing his head against the back of the throne, baring his pale throat. His lips part again, arms taut against the invisible pressure.

“Then you,” you taunt, leaning in close, “haven’t learned your lesson.”

All the ways you could bind him flit through your mind, and you know he sees them too, you make sure of it. His eyes grow darker. Every heavy breath makes his chest puff, flexed, bracing for something that might happen, might not. Nearly lost in it, you bring him back to reality, letting only the head of his dick slide into your wet hole.

“Is this what you wanted?” You sink, just enough to watch those pretty lashes flutter, before rising again. He growls through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna have to use your words.”

He hates this, hates you’ve turned the tables. Or maybe he likes it. Fuck if he really knows. He does know he likes seeing you like this, all commanding, rich with… stars, he’s not sure what this is. But you’re flushed, focused, articulate even as your cunt drools all over his lap. It’s a tug of war, whether or not he submits, so he gives back what you’re so good at: being a brat.

“Is this what you wanted?” He lets his tongue drag over his teeth, watching your head tilt as you follow his eyes. “You wanted to come prove something to your Supreme Leader?”

“No,” you hum and oh, he’s in for it now. He holds his breath when you lean forward, the pressure of hands working over his hips and pressing down at the tops of his thighs. “I wanted to break you.”

His back arches, breath coming in harshly, eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack as he moans, wishing he could hold your hips down on his, your cunt sheathing him so suddenly he’s keening. He groans, the sound catching on the back of his throat, reverberating. You wigglegrindclench, and he gasps, willing you to move. Your grip on his hair loosens, running your hand through the dark tresses, stopping only at his jaw to tug his lower lip. Kylo’s eyes are glazed over when he looks at you again.

“Please,” he breathes, the plea surprising you both.

“Please what?”

“Fuck!” He snaps weakly, breath leaving in a big sigh. “I don’t know, just please move. Please.”

You roll your hips, biting your lip when he chokes on his own voice. “Will you be good?”

There’s a moment of mixed emotions, clarity returning to his eyes. He blinks, face scrunching up, shaking his head of whatever thought occupying it.

You click your tongue, “What a shame.”

Pressure at the base of his dick and he jerks his hips up, eyes wide, flitting between a plea and a threat as you tighten the grip, fucking yourself on his hot length. He swears, pants, leans forward to bite at your breasts, but you take hold of his chin, pushing his head back against the throne.

“Uh-uh,” you chide. “You didn’t want to be a good boy, so this is what you get.” Breathless but determined, you lean forward, still bouncing. “I’m gonna use you like some dumb fuck doll, and you’re not gonna do a thing. You’re not gonna touch me, taste me—“ you make a point of tightening the invisible cock ring, earning a low, gutteral moan “—and you’re not gonna cum in me either.”

The threat almost makes him scream. He tries to bite it back, but your walls are hugging him so tightly, making this obscene squelching noise everytime you move. Sweat drips down to the hollow of your throat and stars does he wish to drink it down. He breathes your name, husky and desperate for you, for release, both.

“Please,” he begs again. He closes his eyes, nearly melting when your lips ghost over the smooth skin of his neck, nose following the line of his scar. “P-please! I’ll be a good—“ his throat clicks “—good boy! Let me cum, fuck, let me cum please!”

Those words felt foreign on his tongue, but how his whole being sings when your fingers dig into his shoulders. He’s almost there, would be if not for your hinderance, but he can feel the way your walls flutter and clench, and he knows he’s not the only one.

“Do you think you deserve to?”

“No!” Spitting that out was easier than he expected. So was, “I don’t deserve you or your cunt!”

You hum, but don’t acknowledge it further, chin dropping to your collarbone as you pant shudder shake, heat coiling at the base of your spine, muscles flexing. Kylo’s back bows, chest and face angled towards the ceiling, a loud, low moan rumbling through him.

He tries not to think about it — how fucking badly he wants to cum, fill up your pretty cunt — tries breathing, counting, squeezing his eyes shut. He forces his mind away from his orgasm, and of course it goes to you; his conscious seeks out the thread intertwining the two of you, the shared bond through the Force.

A new sensation zips through him, flitting through his thoughts, makes his brain buzz on his own skull. You sigh, moan, and he feels it, feels it against the planes of his face, feels it hum through his head like a tidal wave. Everything is so bright and electric, but there’s something there.

It’s small, tucked away, felt by numb fingers. It’s young and fleeting and yielding and disappearing melting hiding gone behind the eruption of your orgasm, and Kylo feels all of it.

In every cell in his body, he feels you clamping down on his cock, gushing, cumming all over his lap, moaning loud loud loud for him. He feels your release through you and his mind is spinning because Kriff his cock is still so full and aching as you pull away. He whines, low and pitiful.

“Go on.” His whole being hums with your voice, the pressure of the cock ring relieving into a stroke over his shaft. “Cum, Kylo.”

And he does, he fucking cums; thick spurts that touch his chin and splatter on his chest, such a big load that lands all over him. His body sags against the throne, breathing deep through chapped lips.

Fuck, maybe he blacks out for a moment, dragging his eyes open when his cloak is tossed over his lap, the fabric making his over sensitive cock twitch. When the blast doors hiss open, and troopers march in escorting Hux, Ren doesn’t move.

You briefly admire Kylo; the sweat makes his hair curl into his eyes, everything about him draped so leisurely across the ancient seat, thighs spread. The flush of his usually pale skin, little marks across his neck, make him glow. His gaze meets yours, unchanging, but curious. Hux clears his throat.

“Supreme Leader,” he acknowledges almost reverently, falling to one knee.

That something is back, scathing and scratching behind the walls of your mind, and Kylo sees it, turning to Hux slowly. “Your business here is not with me.”

You turn, and it’s now that Hux swallows thickly. At the bottom of those steps, he looks so small and scared, as he damn well should be. His back straightens when you walk forward, the troopers moving back as you approach.

“Empress,” he says lowly, far less reverently. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Something dark clouds your eyes, and Hux’s façade fades further. He reaches out, just the barest lift of his fingers, and that’s it.

Kylo’s saber flies easily from its hilt, landing in your palm, burning hot as it cuts through the air, through skin and bone, Hux’s hand falling to the floor in a sickening heap. He cries out, cradling his arm, wailing, face red. The smell of burnt flesh curls at your nose.

“If you touch another woman without her permission,” you promise, low, dark, and deadly. You put the tip of the saber beneath his trembling chin, forcing him to look at you. “I will take more than your hand.”

He nods as best he can, whispering hoarsely, “Yes, ma’am.”

What a sight to behold: an empress wielding a blade to a feral man’s throat, threatening his life with little effort and full understanding.

When Hux is half carried away on tremebling knees do you turn back to your husband. You kill the saber, slowly retuning to him, offering it for him to take. Your heart was hammering in your chest. Whether that’s from the exertion of fucking him or the adrenaline of Hux’s punishment, you weren’t sure.

Kylo’s lips remain parted, eyes wide as he pushes the saber away with the side of his pinky, his focus zeroed in on you.

“Is that what possessed you?” His voice is low, hoarse despite the way he tries to clear it. Your lip twitches and that’s all he needs to know.

He urges you forward, the Force gentle at your back, but buzzing with anticipation. You stand between his parted legs, letting his hands touch your waist, sliding up to your ribcage as he sits up. His thumbs move soothingly. He angles his head upwards, almost your height, but not quite given he’s still sitting.

He wants to say something, he should, but he’s replaying that moment in his head over and over and over until he’s dizzy with it. The power and radiance of you always left him so hard, and now was no different; with his shifting, his robe falls, revealing his cock, already flushing a deep red, precum falling from the slit.

“You are exquisite,” he breathes finally, loving the way your pupils blow wide at the sight of him. And while he doesn’t have words beyond that, your lips meet fiercely in a kiss that you both moan into, and stars he can show you just how much he needs you.

#kylo ren #x reader #kylo ren x reader #reader insert #smut #kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader smut #empress!reader

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years ago

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Geralt and the Minotaur p6

Y’all im so fucking sorry this took so long. This part of the myth was tricky but I think I weaved it in okay? Don’t read me to filth? Please?

Warnings: swearing, unwanted advances, discussions of promises/consent, surprise! there’s a god!, otherwise pretty tame.

Fun Greek Fact: only the top few wealthiest families in Athens paid taxes to support the infrastructure and feed the poor and such. It was seen as a rite into higher society.

-we’re picking up right after the last part!

____________

They had to rush the doors and throw their whole weight into them to break the plank of wood securing them inside. With scrapes on their shoulders and adrenaline in their veins, they partially closed the doors and set the Minotaur’s head at the bottom of the steps, a clear message to the king.

Geralt led them back the way they came, scampering under open windows and sprinting down streets one by one. It must have taken longer than he’d realized to find the beast because by the time they reached the docks livestock was stirring and roosters were crowing.

There was only one problem.

“South docks?”

Triss lounged on the boarding plank like it was a throne, her toga barely considered decent.

Geralt cursed under his breath and took a step forward, “At least let the others pass. If you take issue with me, do not sentence them to death.”

She lunged forward, stepping so close their chests nearly touched, “My prize, I’m only here for you.”

Geralt grit his teeth and waved everyone onto their ship.

He made to snap at Jaskier and insist he follow them but Triss trapped his chin between her thumb and forefinger, “You promised. I thought heroes kept their promises.”

Geralt almost growled his response, “Would you consider words said under the fear of one’s life a true promise?”

Jaskier raised a finger, his voice full of indignant rage, “Technically-”

“Hush child.” Triss snapped, “We’re leaving.” She nodded at Jaskier to board the ship as she hooked two fingers through Geralt’s belt and started walking backwards up the plank, whispering as she went, “I don’t like being lied to.”

“I thought these were the south docks.” Geralt had never been a good liar and his luck had seemingly run out.

“I’m not stupid Geralt,” Triss sighed, “I know you’ve got some strange infatuation with Blue Eyes. But you’re to be king, so I hear. You’ll need someone to provide an heir, someone well versed in royalty and politics.”

Finally on the deck, Geralt sat on the edge of what had been their prison not two days ago and now felt not all too different, “Athens is a democracy. Your political knowledge isn’t applicable.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier watching them like a hawk. He absently chatted with one of the deck hands, now wearing Athenian colors, but his eyes never left Geralt.

Tris sat next to him, wrapping her arms around his and leaning on him heavily. It felt wholly underwhelming, nothing like when Jaskier had cuddled up to him in much the same fashion. He felt warm and safe and inviting, Triss just felt heavy.

“You still need an heir, and I still want you.” Her face said this was supposed to be a compliment, “Don’t you want to find out what you’ve been missing? Why staying pure is such a challenge?”

Geralt smirked, looking her dead in the eye as their boat drifted out of port, “No.”

“Oh, my prince. My pretty naive prince…” Triss toyed with the hem of his chiton, avoiding the bloodstained sections, “I could change your mind. Make you see the stars in broad dayli-”

Geralt jumped when he felt a hand press down on his shoulder and hot breath on his ear but an unfamiliar voice to accompany it, “Just who the fuck do you think you are?”

Before he could answer, Geralt was shoved forward, stumbling to keep from falling flat on his face. Triss shouted and a few crew members moved to intervene but with a flick of his wrist, the stranger froze them in their place. His eyes glowed gold and his toga almost sparkled it was so bright.

“Did you learn nothing from Minos? It doesn’t pay to cross the gods.” the man sneered.

Geralt felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up and he wanted to dive off the side of the boat, but that wouldn’t be very becoming of a young prince. Instead he stood there with a dumb look of confusion.

Triss yanked her arm away in a rage, “Dionysus! You take other lovers, why can't I?”

Geralt’s eyes bulged out of his head and he tried to hide his face behind his hair as he dropped to one knee, “I’m so sorry your grace, I had no idea.”

“Oh get up,” Dionysus scoffed before turning back to the princess, “Mortals live by a different set of rules, love.”

Jaskier piped up, hesitantly stepping forward, “I’m sorry, what am I missing here?”

“We are,” Triss rolled her eyes like a spoiled child caught with her hand in the jar of molasses, “what one could call betrothed.”

Geralt did his best to keep the hopeful smile off his face as he opened his mouth to speak but it was snapped shut with another wave of Dionysus’ hand.

“Please, child, save your breath. We’ll be going now.”

Geralt blinked once and they were gone. He blinked once more and Jaskier had flung his arms around his neck.

“Thank the gods! I’ll be sacrificing to him as long as I live.”

“Relieved?” Geralt chuckled, resting his hands on Jaskier’s hips.

Jaskier placed a quick peck to Geralt’s lips, “I thought this was going to end sooner than it had to.”

Geralt frowned and tilted his head, tightening his grip on Jaskier, “End? Why would it end?”

Jaskier blushed and smiled to hide the hurt in his eyes, “My sweet prince. I’m no fool. I come from a large farming family but we certainly don’t pay taxes. I don’t belong in your high society.”

“Nonsense.” Geralt insisted, moving to place his hand on Jaskier’s cheek but thinking better of it when he remembered the monster blood coating his palms. He settled for pressing a kiss to his forehead, “You belong where I am. If you want, for as long as you want.”

A dreamy sigh reminded them they had an audience, sending them into a fit of nervous giggles.

Jaskier played with the clasp at Geralt’s shoulder, “I’d love that.”

“Good.” Geralt hummed, drawing him close and resting his chin atop his hair.

“Mhm! But maybe, darling, maybe you should change? And wash off the monster bits sticking to you?” Jaskier suggested, making a point of picking at a piece of his chiton soaked in black blood.

“What would I change into?” Geralt asked, leaning closer to Jaskier’s ear, “I’m sure the crew wouldn’t appreciate me wandering the deck in the nude.”

Jaskier laughed, “I beg to diff-” he was cut off by a sweet kiss from Geralt before he was able to continue, a little breathless, “Then what did you stowe in the rope pile when you boarded?”

“Fuck!”, the realization hit Geralt harder than the minotaur and he immediately ran to the corner of the deck, digging through the coils of rope and oars.

“What-? Geralt!” Jaskier called after him.

“Sails!” Geralt shouted, spinning to the nearest crewmember, “There were sails here, what happened to them?”

__________

next part here!

tag list! I still have it! I promise!

@hailhailsatan @so--many--fandoms @the-blondey @patchwork-quilts @honeysuckletook @peach-colored-sun @moretomhardy @artisanbaguette @iamaqt314 @lady-laufeydottir @localgaycatastrophie @sleepy-theif @fandommagpie @ineffable-lasagna

#fuck i told yall i didn't abandon this one!#lmao #geralt and the minotaur #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier greek au #greek mythology au #the witcher #the witcher au #the witcher greek mythology au #the witcher greek mythology #greek gays #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia fic #jaskeir fic

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dangermousie · 4 years ago

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I love how they mirror each other, here they say the same thing in unison - they definitely fit well together (and that goes even in things like keeping the other person in the dark for their own good/taking decisions out of that person’s hands - this is such a pattern between them that honestly it doesn’t bother me because it’s clearly a basic character trait and it would be weird for it to disappear. She pushed him away on the mountain, he pushed her away repeatedly as Lord Bo, she drugged him to go and rescue his brother etc etc. That’s just how they are dysfunctionally built.)

This happens much later but I feel like bringing it up now so:

They have clearly cut the FUCK out of the plot. I mean, this comes out of nowhere - now she has super strength thing (and probably hulked out since she asked Snake Lady about whether she hurt her) like Wolfie used to but also black blood which means imminent death and WHAT HOW WHY I feel like I skipped five episodes. Honestly, the things I want to do to the censors should be banned by the Geneva Convention.

I mean, three versions - (1) she decided to take the hulk out medicine because she wanted to go rescue Fourth Brother so Wolfie won’t go and die. She didn’t care about the side effects danger because she doesn’t want to live without Wolfie anyway but they are even quicker and more severe than she thought. That doesn’t make sense since she has a whole army at her disposal, she doesn’t need to go by herself. (2) She took it as part of effort to find antidote for Wolfie’s issues and either it failed or she didn’t lie when she told Wolfie during their wedding there is an antidote (and there is some plot reason why he could have it but she can’t.) (3) Remember that weird as hell treatment the King told Snake Lady to give to her supposedly for her legs back way when and it was gonna be a means to control her and there was something creepy in the water but they never showed what and it seemed to have been dropped. I think the King could have ordered Snake Lady to give her that stuff, but it was only a little and maybe the plan went haywire later with all that happened, so it didn’t really catch up with her until now.

I mean, I really NEED to know that stuff. It drives me crazy that it clearly had a very functional plot (no, it was never going to be Joy of Life or The Story of Minglan, but it clearly had a thought out dark fairy tale type of plot - certainly as solid as e.g., Prince of Lan Ling, Love and Redemption or similar) but because of the cuts, some of it now lurches as a no-leg monster. The drama still works so much for me because of its emotional, shippy and character beats, but objectively the narrative becomes a huge mess at times.

The other thing (I was talking about it to @andoqin and I am lazy and am stealing a lot of it from what I said in chat), is in the original Wolfie killed her father (just take a look at those scenes - the build, the weapons, the clothes, it’s Wolfie) and censors made them cut it. Which - then the story then becomes “I hated him but now I know he didn’t kill my dad, I do not” and that is a fun cliche but cliche. But it’s a factual mess and emotionally the other narrative is more interesting.

Factually:

1. She never talks during her big taking him back scene about “now I know you are utterly innocent of killing my dad” which you would think be the biggest relevant point. No, all she talks is his expiating and redeeming and paying back.

2. If he never killed her family and didn’t even know they would be killed (which wtf - the King clearly thinks he is capable of killing the woman he loves if the king asks, but will cavil at killing a random old man?) plus we never see his supposed atrocities, what does he need to atone for? Sure, he executed some people on orders of king but all we see are adult rebel types. And he was an epic jerk to her. But being a bad boyfriend and carrying commands of the king (and none of these commands are particularly depraved thanks to the censors) is run of the mill feudal lord behavior. I mean, the way the censors left things, he’s better than Feng Xi in Twisted Fate of Love who killed the heroine upon meeting her (and he didn’t know she was immortal and come back), whipped her (to free her from prison; at least none of Wolfie’s insanity included a whipping), and does a hell of shady stuff for noble vengeance reasons. But (rightly), there is no issue with Feng Xi because he has ok reasons for his actions, falls hard for DY, is willing to die for her etc. Feng Xi is certainly not being shipped to the mines and repenting like he’s been murdering babies. No should he be, I hasten to add, but in the modified narrative, neither should Wolfie! I mean his horror and repentance and hitting rock bottom and all that suffering become out of proportion to any of his wrongs (he is solidly middle of the pack as far as period cdrama heroes and bad stuff.) Like - unless they are all Quakers, he doesn’t have that much to repent for to that extent. “My father the king is a douche and I treated you badly” might be break up territory but it’s not REPENT SINNER one. (Same goes to everyone calling him a monster and him believing it and how hard it hits him just as it hits him hard when she insists he’s a human. Since he doesn’t turn into a literal physical monster any more nor has he even been shown to do horrific things other than some really veiled allusions, it makes me think all those other people calling him that are a bunch of hysterics.)

3. In this narrative, the Trio were the only ones who killed Daddy. Fine. But she has no interest in seeking revenge on the remaining two. None.

And that brings me to the point that emotionally, the original narrative to me is so much stronger because there he (and Trio) killed her family but she can look past it because she realizes they were all tools of a monster who were brought up and gaslit and brainwashed and had basically no choice about any of it, and they genuinely cared for her. With respect to Wolfie, he was basically tortured into inhumanity but he still loved her so much and all of his actions where he was horrid to her were driven not by cruel enjoyment of her suffering or lack of feeling but by his love and need to protect her. And he literally tried to die to expiate. And I love that this is what matters to her - what was the deal breaker for her never was her family’s death because she understands even early on that none of them had a choice or even ability to fully consent and comprehend what they were doing. Her deal breaker was not that he (and the Trio) was damaged and was forced to do awful stuff, but that he enjoyed it, that he didn’t care, that his love was not genuine, that he didn’t have a loving loyal heart under all the damage. And honestly, that narrative is so much more powerful to me.

#cdrama #the wolf #li qin #darren wang

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rippedjeansandfadeddreams · 4 years ago

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Okay here we go!

@badthingshappenbingo

Original content

Prompt: Prisoner Exchange

This story is on that I’ve been working on for a year. I’ve been using the bingo card to get inspiration for this story. Here is a chapter that I’ve written to fill this prompt on the bingo card. I’m probably not going to post the entire story on tumblr, just a few chapters.

A little bit about this world and story:

The world has magic. Everyone under the age of 16 has what is called Child’s magic. This magic is relatively harmless. Once a child turns 16, their magic either leaves or it stays. 2 out of 5 people will end up having their magic stay. If their magic stays, it turns into Adult magic. This magic is the real deal. Danger and all that. The people in power all over the world do not know what to do. After they run some tests on people with Adult magic and, with parental supervision and consent, Child’s magic, they have come to the conclusion that the best thing to do is to take those with Adult magic and keep them in what is called the Magic Market. The Market has trained people to keep those with magic under control. They are called Handlers. The Market also has collars that block magic from being used. When people are first taken to the Market, they are tattooed with a number, the date they were brought in, where they were brought in, and the city and state. This is their Mark.

Adam, the main character, is fighting against the Market. In this chapter he has been caught by the Market.

CW: Collars, manhandling, chains, non con touching and stripping (non sexual), prisoner exchange, modern human trafficking, non con drugging, examination, panic attack, blood mention, scars. Let me know if I missed anything! (Adam does question his age, he’s 19.)

I wake up to the purr of a van. I jerk up, choking. The Boss has a attached a chain to the collar. The chain is attached to the floor of the van. I look up to see a Handler grinning at me.

“Enjoying yourself?” I spit.

The Handler doesn’t respond. Of course. They never respond to me, or any worker.

I roll my eyes and try to get comfy on the floor. Luckily, I don’t have to stay on the floor for too long because the van stops after a few minutes.

The Handler stands up and unhooks the chain. He pulls me to my feet and shoves me out the doors as they open. I stumble out of the van and two other Handlers grab onto me. I struggle in their grip.

“Get off me,” I growl.

The Handlers just laugh as they drag me inside the building. It looks like a mini airport. I kick at them the entire way in.

“Adam, good to see you again,” The Boss says.

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” I say as the Handlers shove me forward.

The Boss just chuckles and waves me forward. “I see that fire of yours hasn’t died yet,” he says.

“Only in your dreams,” I say, sticking my hands in my pockets.

The Boss smiles and turns around. He waves me forward as he walks deeper into the building.

I eye the Handlers next to me. They’ve let go of me. I slowly walk forward, following the Boss. “Hey, uh, why haven’t you cuffed me?” I ask the Boss.

“Because, where you’re going, you aren’t supposed to be cuffed,” he answers.

“Where am I going?” I jog so I’m walking right next to him.

The Boss just looks at me.

“Where am I going?” I ask again.

“You’re being introduced into a new program we have. And the people who will be receiving you don’t like it when their shipments are in cuffs. It bruises the skin, you see,” he explains.

We’ve walked to the edge of the airport, where the boarding happens. There isn’t anybody else here. “These people don’t like bruises?”

“The workers we send them are normally the rowdy ones. The untrained ones. We send them to our partners where they train them. However, they don’t like it when our workers arrive battered and beaten. It dampens the effect of the training,” the Boss says.

I take a deep breath in. “How long does this normally take?” I ask. I wanted this to be over as soon as possible. If I could pretend to be trained, they might let me out.

“We’re sending you over for a year. If they need more time, we’ll extend your stay.”

“A year!” I back up, running into a Handler. He grabs my arms and holds me in place. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll escape?”

The Boss looks amused. “Not at all.”

“Why? I’ve done it in the past.”

“In the past, you’ve been in some place familiar. Here, you will be going overseas.”

My heart drops. “Overseas?” I whisper and drop to my knees.

The Boss nods and crouches down. “You’ve caused far too many problems for us and I want them to end. In order for them to end, I need to fix you. This will get you out of my hair long enough to fix the problems you’ve started. And when you get back, we can continue our tests. So, be a good worker, and you’ll only be there a year.” He stands up. “Get him on the plane.”

The Handler pulls me to my feet. I stumble across the room and out of the door. I kick at the Handler, hoping he’ll let me go. He just hauls me over his shoulder and carries me onto the plane. He tosses me into a seat and straps me in, locking the buckle so I can’t get out. I pull at the straps, feeling my heart pound in my chest. The Handler watches me and laughs, walking away, tucking the key in his pocket.

I growl as I try to get out of the seat. “Hey!” I shout. “Let me out of here!” Eventually, I give up struggling and stare out at the airport, watching as they load up baggage and other things I don’t recognize.

“Enjoying the view?” The Boss says, striding into the cab.

I glare at him. “Let me out of here,” I say.

“Now why would I do that? I just got you here.” He sits down opposite me and crosses his legs.

“C’mon, please,” I say. “Why don’t you just take me to a training center here? This place can’t be better than why we’ve got here, can it?”

The Boss just smiles and shakes his head. “They are much more efficient that us. And you are a special case. When you are working and obeying orders, you’re extremely useful, like when you first came to us. We need that same work ethic back.”

I lean back in my seat, not saying anything.

The Boss checks his watch. “We’ll be taking off soon. Enjoy your flight. I will see you when we land,” he says before leaving me alone.

The flight isn’t so bad, it’s almost pleasant. There are people bringing me food over the ten-hour flight. I doze a little and they let me out for frequent bathroom breaks. About three hours in, they unlocked the lock on the buckle and let me roam around the plane. Although a Handler follows me everywhere.

“Sit down,” a Handler growls at me.

“Why?” I ask. “I haven’t done anything.”

“We are nearing our destination. Sit. Down,” he says, pushing me into the seat.

I sit down and buckle my seatbelt. The Handler pulls out the lock. “You don’t have to lock me in,” I say. “I won’t run. I won’t fight.”

The Handler stares at me before finally putting away the lock. I let out a breath and stare out the window. The city is green, much greener than anything I’ve seen at home. I stare at it, forgetting for a moment that I’m here to be trained. For a moment, I just let myself be caught up in the beauty of the sight.

When we land, the Handler stands by the only exit. I watch out the window as people swarm the landing strip. My heart pounds. I raise a hand to the collar and my Mark. These people are here for me. I can’t escape them. There is nobody coming to save me. I’m here, alone, with people who want to hurt me, beat me, strip me of my identity. I push myself back in my seat as I feel them board the plane.

“Take it off,” I whisper to the Handler. “Please, take it off.” I claw at the collar. The Handler just watches me. “Take it off, please. Please, I won’t use my magic. I won’t fight back.” The collar feels too tight. I can feel my heartbeat against the metal. I can feel my throat closing off.

The door opens and people dressed in suits walk in. There are four of them. I sit up straight. “Evening, fellas,” I say, trying to hide the panic that rises into my throat.

They don’t say anything as they unbuckle the seat belt and pull me to my feet. They walk out, two of them have iron grips on both my arms. I stumble as we walk off the plane. We meet up with five more people in suits. They surround me and push me into a van. I sit awkwardly between two men. Before we leave the airport, I see The Boss talking with a few more people. They shove someone forward. It’s a girl in the dull brown clothes of the Market, and a thick collar around her neck. She looks at her feet, her head down. The Boss grabs her arm and leads her to the plane. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. That’s what they are going to do to me.

We pull away and start making our way through the city. The city is beautiful. I admire the architecture and the people that we pass. Nobody forces me back. Nobody forces me to stop looking. If it weren’t for the collar around my neck, I can almost imagine that I’m here to tour the city. I might come back here one day, when this is all over.

We near a large building. My heart pounds as we pull into a parking spot. They pull me out of the van and into the building. I dig in my heals, trying to pull out of their grips. My struggling doesn’t faze them. They just pick me up and carry me into the building. Fear grips me and I fight harder. They just shut and lock the doors, carrying me further into the building. When they finally put me down, I’m in a room full of people. Most are dressed nicely; the others are dressed like Handlers. I back up towards the door, but hands grab me before I can ger farther than a few steps.

“Get off me!” I shout. “Don’t touch me!”

They ignore my cries and rip off my shirt. They take off my shoes and socks as well. I kick at them but that doesn’t bother them. I scream and yell, hoping someone will hear me inside this nightmare.

They lock heavy metal cuffs onto my wrists, a different kind than I’m used to. These don’t attach to each other. They have rings on both sides so they can attach to other things. They attach a chain to either cuff and chain me to the walls, spreading my arms wide.

“What are you doing?” I ask one man as he comes up with a clipboard. Another comes up with medical equipment. I pull on the cuffs. They ignore me and continue with their examination.

“Make sure to note that he’s extremely stubborn. Harold told me to make note of this,” one of the men says.

The man with the clipboard nods and scribbles something down.

“Who’s Harold?” I ask.

Nobody answers me. I sigh and fall silent. They poke and prod at me, jerking my head back to get a good look at my face. Trailing their fingers across the scars on my back, feeling for any injuries I might have. I squirm under their touch. That doesn’t seem to bother them. Eventually, they stop and start to leave the room. I start to panic. “Hey! Come back!” I shout. “What’s going on?”

Nobody answers me. Nobody comes back.

I pull on the chains, hoping to get free. All I accomplish is cutting my wrists. I feel warm blood dribble down my arms. I feel a pit in my chest. These people don’t want bruising. What about cuts? How would they react? My breathing becomes faster. “Hey!” I shout. I start yelling as loud as I can. “What are you going to do to me?”

I fall silent as the door opens again. Two people walk in. One with a bucket of toiletries, the second empty handed.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask quietly.

As per the usual, these people don’t answer. The man who walked in empty handed grabs a showerhead off the wall. He glances at my arms and then points the showerhead at me. He nods to his partner who sets down the bucket and walks towards me. He undoes my belt buckle and pulls off my pants, leaving me in my underwear. He then walks away. The first man turns on the water. The cold water hits me on full blast. I gasp, sputtering as the man sprays me down.

It’s a short process. The second man washes me, and the first man sprays me down. I’m shivering by the end of it, but the blood and sweat are gone. They pick up their things and leave me alone in the room once again.

I don’t shout while they’re gone. I just shake my wet hair out of my eyes and hope I warm up.

A new person comes in a while later. It’s a woman this time. She lowers the chains so that I’m kneeling and she starts on cutting my shoulder length hair. By the time she’s finished, my hair is short and tidy. I watch her sweep away the hair and then she leaves. I am not let off my knees.

It feels like hours before the door opens again. I look up to see a large group of people walk in.

“Hey guys, I though you forgot about me. Thanks for coming back,” I say with a smile.

Nobody responds. One man steps forward and starts walking around me. He tilts my head from side to side, then runs a hand through my hair. He continues walking around me. He fingers the scars on my back, sending shivers down my spine.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl.

I get no response, but the man doesn’t listen to me. He keeps fingering my scars. The man grabs my chin again and forces me to look at him. I glare at him. He looks at me like someone would look at an art piece, or something they want to study. Finally, he lets me go and walks away. He nods to a group of people and they walk towards me. They pull me to my feet and unchain me. I start to run, but they grab me, gripping my arms and wrapping their arms around my chest.

“Let me go!” I shout. “Let me out of here!”

They just force me into the rough clothes of the Market and chain my arms behind my back. They unhook the collar from around my neck and attach a bigger, thicker collar. I gag as they lock it on. Its weight makes me want to collapse and it’s tighter around my neck, making it hard to breath. I gasp, stilling as they continue to lock cuffs and chains onto me.

One man walks up with a syringe full of an odd colored liquid.

“What’s that?” I ask.

I get no answer. They only hold me against a wall, making sure I can’t move as the man comes closer. One man tilts my head to the side, pressing it up against the wall. I cry out as the needle pierces my skin. I feel the liquid work its way through me. It’s a drug, I think as I start to feel sluggish. My struggling becomes weak and I feel heavy.

They step back, letting me go. I lean up against the wall, trying to stay upright. The drug starts to kick in more and I feel ready to collapse. The men come towards me and I lash out, awkwardly lurching forward towards them. I almost collapse, but I somehow manage to stay on my feet. They step back, surprised.

“Give him another dose,” one of them says.

They hold me down again as they insert another needle into my neck. I slur a ‘no,’ but nobody listens to me. The second dose kicks in and I collapse, barely able to keep my eyes open. The men pick me up and carry me outside where I am chained to the wall by the collar and forced to kneel in line with the others they already have out. My head hangs and I focus on my breathing.

Voices swirl around me as I kneel in line with the other workers, the only thing keeping me upright is the chain that’s hooked to the wall and attached to the collar. I can’t see straight. I feel like I should be fighting but I can’t even move.

“Look at this beauty,” someone says.

I feel hands on my face, lifting my chin. I let out a weak whimper. The voice laughs.

“He can’t even see straight. Doubt he even knows what’s happening to him,” a second voice says.

A hand runs through my recently cut hair, pulling my head back.

“This is one of the American’s we get through the Trade,” the first voice says.

“How long is he here for?” The second voice.

“A year. But it can be extended if he’s not cooperating.”

A year, please let it only be a year.

A hand on my chin forces my head to the side.

“He seems docile enough.”

“His dose was doubled so we could get him here,” the first voice says.

“How old is he?”

I should be nineteen, right?

There is a hand on my neck, touching my Mark. “Says here he should be nineteen.”

“I’ll take him,” the second voice says.

Leave me alone. Please. I think, silently begging. The rest of the conversation is lost as I am roughly unchained and hauled out of the building and into a separate room. I feel a prick in my neck and a moment later, darkness pulls me under.

#Unbroken Spirits #non con touching #non con drugging #manhandling #panic attack #modern human trafficking #whump #magic whump #bad things happen bingo

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yeoldemothmemes · 4 years ago

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Cinema Therapy reacts to Twilight Sentence Starters 2

Because people suffering through twilight is hilarious to me and thought and could make for some fun starters Feel free to change pronouns etc Content warnings: abuse, murder, death, blood, alcohol

“I just figured out the problem with ______” “I wasn’t prepared for this” “This is actually about dealing with my own trauma” “I’m supposed to be his friend” “I just love you so much” “We’re doing this my way” “If you get married, then you will have free will and not before” “I am a trophy, put me in a bookshelf” “I guess that’s romantic” “I’m gonna hang back unless you need me” “Lets take this out of the fantastical situation and put it in the real world” “Nobody asked him to be there” “In case the deal goes south” “He’s got no government oversight” “I have identified a problem with you” “How is it my fault? “I must have caused this” “So many relationship ideas that guys have that are messed up” “He courts you, the way batman terrifies criminals” “He’s batman as a boyfriend” “I am a giant red flag” “I am a giant red flag, don’t date me” “How dangerous a concept is that” “He’s in prison for a lot of things, that was just part of the tab” “Did you see any red flags when you started dating him?” “He was awful to everybody” “He was really sweet to me” “I thought I brought out the best in him” “We’ve all got some rough edges” “It’s a myth, it’s not true” “I love romantic comedies” “Movies aren’t real” “It lasts for a couple weeks, it’s generally not a long term thing” “It gets real bad afterwards” “When you are with someone who is more stable and grounded, it’s more likely to work out” “When you are with someone who is more stable and grounded, it’s not going to burn your house down when it doesn’t work out” “I’m sad and alone on a Friday and i miss _____” “It’s not the end of the world” “Stay away from that” “Try and make a sundae out of rocky road, you’ll be disappointed” “I’m a vampire, but I’ve got it under control” “I’ve spent a hundred years crafting and perfecting this” “If you go on a date with someone and on the first or second date, they say I’m in AA, I don’t drink. I can’t drink because I had a problem” “They’re up front about it, and now you know” “I gotta stay away from that I guess” “It makes no freaking sense” “Lust is not love” “Attraction doesn’t mean it’s right” “Chemistry is not the only factor at play here” “This is not a healthy relationship” “I’m a vampire, I’ll try not to kill you. Thanks for noticing me” “It’s actually more enjoyable this way” “It’s the story of a terrible teenage couple who slowly breaks up” “I willfully suppressed a lot of this movie” “Three words. Life changing words. Words to live by. Consent is Key” “Three words. Life changing words.. ____________“ “You could leave” “You’re immortal” “It’s not like you need your family to feed you” “I mean, that’s really bad” “I don’t know a lot about relationships, but i know that co-dependency is a very bad thing” “I’m okay without you. I will survive and have a fulfilling life.” “I’m okay without you. I will survive and have a fulfilling life. but I choose to share it with you and I want you with me” “As far as romantic dances at a prom goes, this is the best” “This is not what you want out of a relationship” “You don’t want this” “You want to slow it down, to see if this is real, to see if this person is who you think they are” “Not just have chemistry, but have friendship” “Can we be truly friends?” “We can’t be friends, I don’t think we should be friends” “I will kill you”

#Cinema therapy sentence starters #rp sentence starters #roleplay sentence starters #sentence rp meme #web show sentence starters #web series sentence starters #webshow sentence starters #Twilight Saga Based Sentence Starters

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fuckallthegood0nesweretaken · 5 years ago

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The Dove and Her Hound - CH. TwentyNine

Title: A New King

Words: 2,040

Warnings: Slight language

A/N: It’s almost over! Just one more chapter and the series is done, I can’t believe it! Also, if you’d like to request something, send me an ask. I’d love to write something for you!

Taglist: @tonbluemchen @affection-rabbit @art-flirt @10morgan10 @thatting @iwontdance-dontaskme @simsvetements

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Sandor Masterlist

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Masterlist

~~~~~~~

It had been a week since your son had been born and many things had happened. You learned that one of Daenerys’ dragons had been killed, most of the fleet destroyed, and Missandei captured. Brienne had come to visit you and the child as well. She apologized for the way she handled things when she encountered your trio years ago. She did not know the significance Sandor had in your life and never knew how to approach you about it. You accepted her apology immediately and you apologized to her as well for your naïve attitude and your hate towards her.

The same night Brienne apologized to you, Jaime Lannister fled Winterfell to go back to Cersei. You had known that Brienne and Jaime were together and when you found out he left, you went to console her.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” you said. “If he leaves you for another woman when he had you then he’s not worth your tears.”

You wiped away the tears running down her cheeks and looked her in the eyes.

“You are strong. You are beautiful. You deserve better. Don’t let one man ruin things for you forever. It’s okay to still love him, but don’t let that take over everything.”

Brienne gave you a watery smile and sat up a little straighter.

“Thank you, Lady [y/n],” Brienne said. You stood up and kissed her forehead.

“You should get some rest. I have a feeling that we’re going to do some traveling soon.”

---

Turns out that you were right. A raven arrived from King’s Landing a week later and before you knew it, you were traveling down the Kingsroad. Brienne and Sansa hadn’t wanted you go with them because of the baby, but you went anyways. It took little less than a month to get to the Capital and it looked nothing like you remembered.

Buildings and houses were charred and crumbling. Ash was still on the streets, swept away into corners. The Red Keep was almost all burnt down. The people of King’s Landing were trying their best to rebuild their homes and lives but it would take years to get things back to the way they were.

The raven had told you where to go and once more, you found yourself in the Dragonpit. You were seated between Sansa and Brienne, your babe on your lap. Bran and Arya were next to Sansa. You were the first ones there. Ser Davos and Gendry were the next ones to arrive, with Yara, Robin, Yhon Royce, and the rest to follow. Another person showed up with the last group and you couldn’t breathe. It was Sandor, alive and well. The two of you locked eyes and your chest hurt. He looked like he was going to approach you when Greyworm brought out Tyrion before you in chains. Jon was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Jon?” Sansa asked Greyworm.

“He is our prisoner.”

“So is Lord Tyrion,” you said. “They were both supposed to be here.”

“We will decide the fate of our prisoners. This is our city now.”

“If you look outside the walls of your city, you’ll find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest.”

“And you will find thousands of Unsullied who believe that it is.”

“Some of you are quick to forgive. The Ironborn are not. I swore to follow Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow put a knife through her heart. Let them give him what he deserves,” Yara said, venom spewing from her words.

“Say one more word about killing my brother and I’ll slit your throat.” Arya’s face was ruthless and cold. Yara made to stand up but Ser Davos beat her to it.

“Friends, please. We’ve been killing each other for too long.” He turned to face Greyworm. “Torgo Nudho. Am I saying that properly? If it weren’t for you and your men, we would have lost the fight with the dead. This country owes you a debt that can never be repaid. But let us try. There is land in the Reach. Good land. The people that used to live there are gone. Make it your own, start your own house with the Unsullied as your bannermen.”

“I agree. We’ve had enough war. Thousands of you, thousands of us. You know how it ends. There has to be another way,” you said.

“We do not need payment. We need justice,” Greyworm spat. “Jon Snow cannot go free.”

Ser Davos sat back down and Tyrion let out a small breath.

“It’s not for you to decide,” Tyrion said.

“You are not here to speak!” Greyworm shouted. “Everyone has heard enough words from you.”

“You’re right. And no one’s any better for it. But it’s not for you to decide.” Tyrion looked up at everyone. “Jon Snow committed his crime here. It is for our King to decide. Or our Queen.”

“But we don’t have a King or Queen,” Royce said.

“You’re the most powerful people in Westeros. Choose one.”

“Make your choice. Quickly.”

Everyone was silent for once and was looking around at the other people. Nobody spoke until your uncle stood up. He started a little speech talking about him being one of the senior lords in the country and that he knew a little bit about statecraft. It was then that Sansa intervened.

“Uncle. Please sit,” she said. He kind of spluttered a bit and only sat down when Sansa gestured to his seat with her head. He backed into a pole and it took all your willpower not to laugh.

“Well, we have to choose someone,” Royce said. That’s when Sam got up and suggested that the people help pick a monarch. Everyone did laugh at that and Sam sat back down, more than slightly embarrassed. It was a funny notion, but you didn’t laugh at your friend.

“I suppose you want the crown,” your uncle said to Tyrion.

“Me? No. Half the people hate me for serving Daenerys and the other half hate me for betraying her. Can’t think of a worse choice.”

“Who then?” You asked.

“What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags?” Tyrion shook his head. “Stories. There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it. And who has a better story than Bran the Broken?”

You sat up a little straighter and looked at your siblings in confusion. When you looked back at Tyrion, he kept speaking.

“The boy who fell from a high tower and lived. He knew he would never walk again, so he learned how to fly. He went beyond the wall. A crippled boy. And he became the Three-Eyed-Raven. He is our memory, our history. All the wars, weddings, births, massacres, and famines. Our triumphs and our defeats. Our past. Who better to lead us into the future?”

“Bran has no interest in ruling and he can’t father children,” Sansa said.

“Good. Sons of Kings can be cruel and stupid, as you well know. His will never torment us,” Tyrion said to Sansa. To Greyworm he said, “That is the wheel our Queen wanted to break.”

“From now on rulers will not be born. They will be chosen on this spot by the Lords and Ladies of Westeros to serve the realm.” He turned to Bran. “I know you don’t want it. I know you don’t care about power. But I ask you now, if we choose you, would you wear the crown?”

“Why do you think I came all this way?” Bran said after a moment. Tyrion looked a little shocked that Bran had actually said yes and you knew that the other people in this meeting were feeling the same way.

“To Brandon of House Stark, I say aye,” Tyrion said. Everyone was quiet until you and Sam said ‘aye’ at the same time. Tyrion sent the both of you a grateful look. Your uncle was next followed by the men from the Vale. Yara and the new Prince of Dorne agreed as well along with Gendry and Ser Davos. Brienne agreed as well, but you saw that Sansa was trying to pick out words again.

“You know I love you, little brother. I always will. You’ll be a good King. But tens of thousands of Northmen fell defending Westeros. And those who survived have fought too hard and too much to ever kneel again,” Sansa said. “The North will remain an independent country, as it was for thousands of years.”

Bran nodded in consent and you could see the relief flood through Sansa’s body.

“All hail Bran the Broken,” Tyrion said. Everyone stood up and repeated those words. When everyone sat back down, Tyrion bowed to the new King and started to make his way out of the Pit.

“Tyrion,” Bran called. “You will be my hand.”

“N-No, your grace. I don’t want it.”

“I know. And I don’t want to be King.” Tyrion shook his head.

“I don’t deserve it. I thought I was wise but it turns out I’m not. I thought that I knew what was right, but I did not. Choose Ser Davos. Choose anyone else.”

“I choose you.”

“You cannot,” Greyworm said angrily.

“Yes I can. I’m King.”

“This man is a criminal. He deserves justice.”

“He just got it. He’s made a lot of terrible mistakes. He’s going to spend the rest of his days fixing them.”

Greyworm was angry and he spat out, “That’s not enough!”

---

After about an hour of talking, a decision was made. Jon would go back to Castle Black as a member of the Night’s Watch. You and your sisters wanted him freed completely, but you recognized that this was the only way for your brother to keep his head. You would miss seeing him every day, but you’d lived with this before so it shouldn’t be too hard. Jon was to leave that evening and you had a few hours before you had to say goodbye. Everyone was slowly trickling out of the Dragonpit when Sandor came up to you.

“Dove,” Sandor said quietly. You froze and slowly turned around.

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“You did.”

“Why are you here, Sandor?” Your voice sounded tired and Sandor could see it in your eyes.

“I heard you were here and I wanted to talk to you.”

“Talk about what? How you left me for some petty revenge? How I gave birth with you not by my side? How I have been raising our son without you?”

“I-I have a son?” Sandor’s heart skipped a beat and your chest tightened at the sound of his voice breaking.

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Eddard. Eddard Stark.”

“Are you going by Stark too?”

“Ever since you left me.” Sandor was silent for a moment. He stepped closer to you tentatively.

“Would you ever take me back?” You sucked in a breath, eyes wide.

“I know I fucked up and I know it will take a lot to fix it. If you’ll even take me back, that is. But even if you decide not to, I want you to know that I still love you. I always have. I’ll always love our babe and I will do anything for the two of you.”

His voice was so quiet you could barely hear it, but it was also so loud that it was ringing in your ears. Your eyes filled with tears and you gestured to Sansa to take Eddard from your arms. When your arms were free, you wrapped them around Sandor tightly. It took him a few seconds to respond, but soon you were being spun around. You let out a giggle that was cut short by Sandor kissing you. It was a sweet kiss that you broke shortly after it began.

“While I love kissing you, I think you’d like to officially meet your son, yes?”

Sandor’s eyes lit up and Sansa brought over your son. You took him from her and gently placed him in his father’s arms. You showed Sandor how to hold him properly and the sight made you melt. Finally, your family was complete.

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letsperaltiago · 5 years ago

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we'll turn this better thing to the best

HAPPY MAY 15TH, EVERYONE!

Prompt #57: "This is probably a bad time, but marry me?"

This is just me not being able to resist writing something about Jake and Amy celebrating (or trying to) their 3rd anniversary as a married couple. This is also me, yet again, beating around that smut-bush, huh??:))

Jake and Amy try to have a sexy anniversary-morning, but Mac Santiago-Peralta has other plans

Read here or on ao3!

Nothing could ever come close to beating, even marginally, waking up to Jake Peralta already having his arms around middle in the lulling position that was spooning the length of her body like a perfectly fitting puzzle piece: a leg nudge in between hers while the other wrapped around them and his fingers mindlessly playing with the hem of her shirt.

The appreciation for the current state they were in was especially appreciated and heartwarming when it was taken into consideration that there’d been multiple, horrible parts of their timeline where he hadn’t been around to do so.

Everything from the sudden chaos of being sent into WitSec with Holt to him and Rosa being falsely convicted were periods they both tried to not think of and dwell on. But of course, given the powerfull impression these times in their lives had made on them, it was sometimes hard not to compare; hard not to feel that much better simply because Jake was around and not taken from her anymore. They always made sure to appreciate the other, even during eventual fights or disagreement, and if they had to say one “positive” thing about the involuntary distance WitSec and prison had forced upon them it was that it had definitely only made them grow even fonder and stronger.

So this year, another year of waking up in his arms on what she knew was an extra special day, she obviously felt crazy butterflies zooming around her belly and snuggled back closer into his hold on her with still closed eyes and a tiny content smile on her face.

This year’s anniversary had to be enjoyed for its small, tiniest moments, she knew. There was no time nor energy, they’d agreed, for grand gestures and outings when this May 15th all at once held the same special sentiment as previous year yet also a completely new range of feelings.

Today, for the past three years, May 15th had been a special date which held a dear place in both Jake and Amy’s hearts as it reminded them of the day that sealed their love for eternity. Although this year, their third anniversary, May 15th 2021 to be exact, was simply a tiny bit more special than usual: this year they weren't just the two of them - this year they had a teeny tiny son and he was as soft and sweet as he was time-craving and a tiny character of his own. Especially on a day like today, filled with an extra dash of love and reflecting upon the past, life before Mac seemed vaguely blurred: not in a bad way per se, just not as perfectly chaotic and wonderful as now that Mac Peralta was around.

Amy, still somewhat half-sleeping, quietly relished in her husband’s affectionate embrace and in the thought of having her entire world, Jake and baby-Mac, within the four walls of her home on a special day like this, but nonetheless also made sure to give some extra appreciation to the fact that Mac had been sleeping since she last fed him before bed last night. Considering the intense teething period he was currently going through that was truly a miracle she did not dare to fully believe in, but perhaps, just maybe, her little one could sense that it was mommy and daddy’s day today.

The feeling of her husband switching a bit in his spot against her back paired with a pleased sigh caught her attention hinting at the fact that he was surely somewhat awake, and though Amy wanted him to enjoy the tiny amount of sleeping in Mac they were currently offered, she also happened to crave his woken presence, deep brown eyes and loving smile.

“Happy 3 years of childish, distracting marriage…” as if on cue, having read her thoughts, Jake mumbled tiredly into the back of her head before reposition himself closer to have his head rest in the crook between her shoulder and neck nuzzling his nose tiredly into the side of her face.

Gosh, she loved him so much it still, even after 6 years together, came crashing down on her like a huge wave of giddiness and first date-feelings. She smiled to herself at his congratulations. “Dito. It’s been 3 great ones, huh?”

“It has..,” He yawned loudly, “… Especially when our son decides to sleep in like this.”

“Especially then, yes,” she huffed out a small laugh sharing the sentiment even though the fact that her baby very rarely needed night feeds anymore also meant he was growing up - too fast, if you asked her. Her barely 7-month old was wonderful and both parents had the time of their lives watching him grow up. Yet it was no lie that from time to time it’d hit Amy just how fast, almost by the day, her son grew, learned a new skill and became more of a an actual person. Sometimes even to an extent where it’d overwhelm her leaving her feeling borderline… sad? Even though it had been exhausting for the first few months, and still was from time to time, she also now kinda missed the little things like the ritual of breast-feeding. She loved sleep but loved the primal, instinctual feeling of nursing her son, even more the closeness that came with it, more.

“What time is it?”

Jake’s groggy voice snapped her out of her tumbling train of thoughts and forcing her to open her eyes to check the clock on her night stand.

“6 AM which means-“

Jake knew what his wife was about to say, but beat her to it and changed then and there somewhat narrative of their morning.

“Mac should be waking up anytime soon, I know but, babe, let him stay in bed till he asks to be picked up… Perhaps this is the morning we get lucky?”

Amy wanted to question what exactly that was supposed to mean but he beat her to it an said question was quickly answered by her husband’s warm lips sending thrills down her spine with the way they gently placed small, tender pecks to where his head had previously rested. Immediately she felt her body perk up in reaction to this and the heavy, tired feeling from before was gone within a matter of pecks. Alas, in the back of her mind, Amy knew and was still somewhat aware of three things:

One: where she wanted this to go

Two: where this could take them

Three: where her son was sleeping just 20 feet from their bed

“Jake,” the full-on whine that came out of her as provoked directly by his kisses was ascribable to two facts:

Firstly that, yes, she of course reacted by the book to her husband’s touches. But also, secondly, and if not more realistically, the fact that their sex-life had definitely simmered down for the past months - that’s what having a baby will do to you - and that it really didn’t take much for either of them, even less than before, to get foolishly, easily impassioned by the other’s intimate cues. One kiss, just a bit deeper than the casual peck, was apparently enough to throw all sense of control out the window.

If they used to be turned on by the other as effortlessly as faucets then they could now definitely be compared to gardens hoses playfully twisted by a kid’s hand as to block the water surge: bu with one move, the letting go of the hose, the water flow would pick right up where it’d been blocked within a matter of milliseconds and there was no stopping the powerful rush.

By then his hands, having previously rested on the soft remains of her baby bump that she tended to feel insecure about but he, on the other hand absolutely loved, had moved up under her night shirt only to continue to her breasts which definitely didn’t help her stay cool in the moment.

“Babe… ” she whined again even though she also definitely did not put up her strongest fight: she loved nursing her son, and although the two matters were far from comparable, she would also be the last one to complain about Jake benefiting from her breast in… other ways.

“… Mac is in the room.”

“We can be quiet,” his pecks had evolved into love bites and passionate suckles the minute his hands made their way under her shirt, and by now it seemed like they’d reached the point of no return - sleeping baby son only feet away and all.

“You know we can’t,” she breathed heavily voicing her gradual subjection to the development of the moment while simultaneously trying to stay aware of her surroundings. Alas in vain and only to come to terms with having miserably, doubtlessly failed the second Jake managed to flip her to her other side thus enabling him to push her onto her back and using his weight kiss her even more deeply than before.

“Well…” he chuckled allowing himself a short break from her lips to speak although, obsessed and addicted, making sure to pick up where he left up as soon as his talking allowed a natural pause.

“… Either that or we’ll have to explain to our baby son why mommy and daddy were making weird noises in bed.”

“Jake!” she exclaimed at this statement, the hypothetical scenarios in her head getting too real, causing Jake to react right away by pulling away using his arms to hover his weight over her thus allowing her some space and them to look get a proper look at each other.

Suddenly his before aroused expression was replaced by a note of concern in both his eyes and voice. “I’m so sorry! We can totally stop if you don’t want to go any further. I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Amy herself paused momentarily, mostly out of surprise since their mutual consent, after having been in a relationship so long, was rarely explicitly verbalised: generally being very attentive of the other during sex and knowing the other’s body and signals so well they could easily tell when to stop and when to move forward. Unless they were straight up experimenting and treading unknown land, their intimate moments had rarely to never caused this kind of sudden halts. So seeing this extra considerate side of her husband, although she never doubted that it was there to make her feel safe, made her heart flutter momentarily reminding her of the feeling of Mac’s tiny kicks inside her womb months ago.

“Hey, don’t worry,” she reassured him by reaching up to run her fingers through his curls aka. an attribute of Jake’s which their son (to her very immense satisfaction) had inherited. “I know you meant well and I didn’t mean to proclaim like that,” she made sure to throw on her warmest smile and eyes to reassure him. “I was just being weary of Mac, but I think I need to allow myself some…not very mommy-like pleasure.”

He smiled letting her speak out.

“Also I just, like completely out of nowhere, remembered reading this article pointing out that babies this young won’t actually… ” she tried to form her point in her mind whilst her husband looked at her with an amused smile on his face “… like, they won’t be affected by it so, I guess we could…”

How come she all of the sudden, as a woman in her late 30s, suddenly felt like a silly teenager when talking about something as natural to them as sex?

“Honey,” he disrupted her internal spiralling running a hand through her hair the way she’d so lovingly done just seconds ago. He trailed and picked at it where was spread out across her pillow with his fingers as his amused grin took on a more comforting nature. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, okay? Today’s date, and the fact that your butt will forever be the bomb, just got me caught up in the moment. But I totally get it if you feel weird doing anything with Mac around and you shouldn’t have to compromise that - even for me. It’s more than okay,” he lowered himself to peck her forehead before refocusing on her face and what she was about to say.

And how she loved him even more for always taking into consideration her feelings and reactions, even after 6 years together, but something about his strong arms flexing under his weight on either side of her head, his ruffled-up curls and already saturated, glowing even, pink lips made something in the back of her mind click. She quickly did the math in her head:

Mac was still an infant lacking anything near the ability to understand the nature of the sounds his parents were making and the concept of sex. He was feet away, safe in his crib with no direct outlook on them, and all of this was not even taking into consideration that he was still fast asleep. It was now or never - or so it felt like.

“Jacob Santiago-Peralta,” her eyes suddenly switched to a shade of dark, almost black, brown Jake hadn’t seen in quite a while immediately causing more than just his eyes to bulge. “We’re definitely inaugurating our third year as a married couple and we’re doing it now.”

And seeing a more than convincing look on his wife’s face Jake didn’t have to be told twice before crashing their lips together, resuming him repositioning himself between his wife’s thighs to give her sacred body, the one that carried their son for 9 months, the love it so very much and rightfully deserved.

Within minutes the very limited pieces of clothing they slept in were discarded, thrown carelessly onto the bedroom floor as if they were discovering each other for the first time, and after a reasonable amount of foreplay (mostly timewise since Mac waking up was just a matter of minutes) Jake painted a trail of sloppy kisses along his wife’s sleek collarbone as he, after a lot of shifting and moving around during preceding sexy actives, repositioned himself one last time.

Under the weight and spell of his naked body, physically and metaphorically, Amy was desperately writhing having thrown all sense of control and modesty out the window a long time ago and grasped onto his upper back in a demand for more and an urge she’d put aside so many times these past months for the sake of dedication to being a mother.

“God, please don’t laugh at me when I definitely, ‘cause I will, finish within 5 minutes,” she finished her sentence with a moan as he bit down on the skin spurring her collar bones. Perhaps 5 minutes was even an optimistic exaggeration when her body already felt on the urge of exploding and he hadn’t even entered her yet.

She could tell her very honest comment earned her a soft chuckle, but she was too far gone and caught up in a whirlwind of pleasure to care plus, even if it would only last minutes, she just needed her husband inside of her now.

“5 minutes sound incredible, Ames,” he breathed out frankly not even minding the fact that their before very vigorous stamina had definitely gone downhill since having Mac. Instead he simply appreciated his favorite feeling in the world which, since the day he got to feel it for the first time, was the one of Amy Santiago wrapped around him.

Though he would never give it up permanently for anything in the world, even incredible sex with his incredible wife, he was just as excited as her to slip out of his father-role for what would probably end up being just a matter of 20 minutes in total or so. He was breathing heavily, growling, as he redirected his lips to hers where he hoped to, although the method had been proven faulty before, quell her upcoming sounds of pleasure.

“I love you,” she claimed out of breath bracing herself for the wonderful stretch she knew was approaching by the second.

“Love you too,” he sloppily replied between kisses. “So much,” was added in closing of the exchange of words of love as he braced and steadied himself for the initial thrust.

Then, planted so horribly perfectly that they could’ve sworn they were taking part in a movie, a cry cut through the thick intimate tension without delay bursting the bubble Jake and Amy had formed around themselves in the heat of the moment.

Becoming a parent came with the incredible ability to completely switch your focus within matter of seconds and thus react to whatever need your baby called out for. Right then and there was a perfect example, and though picking up where they’d come to, which was so close, seemed dangerously tempting they both knew there was no way they were actually going there.

They were a married couple wanting to celebrate each other and their love, yes, but first and foremost, even more importantly, they were parents.

Jake carefully bent his arms not needing the leverage anymore and lowered himself onto his wife before rolling onto his back besides her. Both started blankly into the air for second, almost unknowingly recreating the scene after their first time together, not saying anything but burning with repressed lust on the inside.

Then they broke into a collective chuckle.

Amy turned onto her side to look at her husband’s profile, taking it in before he imitated her action and they were left staring into each other’s eyes with knowing, amused expressions.

This was really their life now and though not always as easy as being “just married” it was definitely the life they’d always wished for and felt blessed to have. The irony of it all which existed in the clash between their love and physical yearning for each other, and their shared responsibility and love for their son, interruptions considered, was all at once humorous and tragic. But even then they had no doubt in their minds: their love for each other was unbreakable and celebrating their three years of marriage with their so very loved son interrupting much needed sex was still collectively considered somewhat perfect.

Nothing could ever take away the melting feeling she still got whenever Jake looked at her like he did now, so calm and in love, and knowing he now also shared that look with their son still reminded her of a surreal, perfect dream. He had so much love for the both of them: so much that she was sometimes convinced of the fact that it couldn’t be real. But then times like these reminded her of the fact that it was indeed very much so and that she would marry him all over again if she was given the chance.

The fussy sounds coming from the crib increased by the second and Jake knew that the second either of them decided to get up for their son, which would be sooner than later, this tiny bubble of an amorous moment would be gone. And so he decided to just go with what felt appropriate because, really and truly, looking at her right now he felt as if he could marry her all over again.

“I know our baby is screaming for attention, and that he needs it more than me and that this is probably a bad time but… marry me?” He smiled widely running a hand through her tousled hair earning him a just as wide smile of appreciation and adoration back.

She leaned in and offered him a kiss, long and tender but controlled as she knew she’d have to get up now. Managing to not get caught up she pulled back caressing his cheek with the hand that allowed him to feel the soft stroke of her wedding band and engagement ring.

“First I’m going to go get our son, but then…” she leaned in and gave his lips a final peck, this time withdrawing just enough to look at him but still have their noses touch before finishing what she’d started, “… Yes, I will marry you all over again, as many times as you want, every day, week, month and year, for eternity and beyond, Jake Peralta.”

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batskulldrag · 5 years ago

Text

Phoenix by Fallout Boy

Here’s chapter Two

Trigger warnings for abuse, this story has a lot of abuse mentions in it.

Chapter Two: Let It Burn by RED

The trio watched in stunned silence as Payton argued with the receptionist over something and stormed past her. Just to look at him or be near him made their collective blood run cold. Something came off him, something untrustworthy. This was a man who could bend and break people, and he used to practice on them.

He moved past them without so much as a glance in their direction. Good. And stormed directly towards a single room. A doctor took everyone by surprise and blocked his path.

The doctor in question was a tiny morsel of a person with bright red hair and glasses that framed their face. That this of anyone would stand up to the literal worst was amazing.

“I’m sorry, but no one in allowed in this room right now.” The doctor said, all five feet of them standing confidently.

“I’ll have you know that my son is in that room! And you have no right to forbid me to see him!” Payton seethed.

“Your son,” The doctor spat the words back at him. “Has been sedated and is now sleeping. And I have every right to keep you from charging in there and waking him up!”

“I could sue you for malpractice as easy as I could snap my fingers!”

“Oh, on what grounds?” They mocked in return.

“Operating on a minor without parental consent! And denying access to the legal guardian.”

“We did no such thing. And all I asked was that you don’t charge in there and wake up a child who had just been through considerable trauma.”

“Do you have any idea who I am in this city?” He hissed.

“I don’t care if you’re Jesus, you stay out here until the doctor decides that our patient is ok to have visitors.”

“Let me through or I will have no choice but to report your insubordination to an actual doctor!” Many people looked over at him as he yelled.

“You think you can get up in my face ‘cause I’m TINY?!” The doctor snapped right back at him, not moving an inch. “Because if I call security right now only one of us is getting thrown out for causing a disturbance! I’ll let you guess who!”

“You- you should be arrested for impersonating a doctor!” He fumbled the insult as he backed down.

Roman walked up to the doctor as if he were in a western.

“Is this guy giving you trouble?”

“No, I took care of him.” The doctor said smugly.

“It seems like you’re suddenly everywhere, Roman.” Payton sneered.

“And it seems you weren’t home when I pulled your son from a burning building.”

“Well if you were so conveniently there, I think that would make you a suspect.”

A tired, disgruntled police officer came between them. Roman knew them.

“So, you’re the kid’s dad?” The cop, Officer Joan asked.

“I am, and it was my house that’s been burnt to ashes.” He rubbed his temples. “I feel like the world is testing me.”

“Where were you at the time of the fire?” Joan didn’t care about his problems.

“I was meeting with my campaign manager from ten o clock until twenty minutes ago, when I was called and told that my son was in the hospital.”

“Can they verify that?”

“Am I a suspect in this? Why would I destroy my own home, or endanger my son?”

“I have to ask everybody these questions, I asked crazy twin guy the same things.” Joan rolled their eyes, pointing backwards at Roman. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Yes, and more keep coming out of the woodwork.” He shot a glare at Roman. “I’m a very successful prosecuting attorney, I’ve put plenty of criminals in prison and angered even more defense lawyers. I’m also running for mayor, on the platform of clearing the city of immorality, which gives my opponents a motive. And my brother and his friends have started a smear campaign against me. Which I suppose makes them suspect, especially when you consider who was at the scene of the crime first.”

“Crazy twin guy has an alibi that can be verified by about two hundred people. Save your bullshit for your day job.” Joan made a few notes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to accompany me to the station so I can ask you a few more questions.”

“About what? You can’t honestly believe I started that fire!”

“No, this is about a few things we found odd about your house layout and son’s condition.”

“I beg your pardon!” He said through gritted teeth.

“That’s what you say to a judge, not a cop. You gonna come quietly or do I need to put the cuffs on you?”

“What has Virgil been saying!? I demand to speak to him immediately!”

“He’s been passed out for the past hour. And he was barely conscious when he got here.” The doctor chimed in. “He hasn’t said anything. Why? What were you expecting him to say?”

“I invoke my right to speak to my accuser.” Payton hissed, rapidly losing control of the entire situation.

“Me bitch.” Joan said, pulling out handcuffs. “Let’s talk in the car.”

“Payton Foster, I’m arresting under suspicion of domestic abuse, child endangerment, disturbing the peace and arson.” Joan slapped the cuffs on. “You have the right to remain silent…”

The sound of Joan reciting the Miranda bill faded as the two walked down the hallway and outside.

“Doctor,” Patton asked timidly raising a hand. “Can you point me to the bathroom? I think I need to throw up.”

“Right down that way.” They pointed.

Patton darted off and only just made it to the toilet before everything came out. Had Payton really… could he? Sure, supposedly anyone could but, how could they?

# # #

So many memories of Payton just walking out and leaving him or their mother with the baby. Because he knew they weren’t going to leave a newborn to fend for himself. He never once thought to test of Payton would still walk out if he refused. But part of him always knew the answer.

A tornado of his brother’s cruelty hit him upside the head with a tree.

“Another ‘D’?” The taunting voice of his sibling echoed through. “Why do you even try? You should just quit school and see if someone will hire you as a janitor.”

“If only we still had a class system so that people of your skill level could still find work.”

“The only good thing about you being gay is that you won’t be able to have kids to raise to be gay.”

“Your retard called, he realized he was too good for you after all.”

“Patton does that retard know you were held back. That you literally couldn’t keep up with things the rest of us find easy?”

“If you ask me, the retard’s parents had the right ideas.”

And the ever present “What are you going to do cry about it?”

And a lifetime later, alone in a bathroom stall Patton cried about it. After some time, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to turn around or say anything to know that it was Logan. Wordlessly he slid his own hand on to his husband’s and squeezed it as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Child protective services just came in.” Logan said trying to mimic a soothing tone. “They’re going to be looking for next of kin, I think we should talk to them.”

“Is this my fault?” The words came out barely audible.

“No. It’s not.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t help. I may have made things worse.”

“Patton,” Logan stooped down to his level. “It doesn’t make sense to dwell on that. We’re here and we can’t change anything. The important thing is that Virgil is safe tonight, and his father may end up losing custody of him.”

“To who? What if it’s someone worse?”

“That’s why we’re talking to CPS right now. Come on.”

Patton pulled himself together and joined Logan back in the land of the standing. He stopped to splash some water in his face so it wouldn’t look like he had been crying and the pair went out together.

The social worker was a short man who was composed mainly of muscle. He looked like he could punch a hole in the wall, granted the hole wouldn’t be very close to the ceiling, but still. Patton couldn’t say anything about what this guy would do, but he was certain that this one could tackle somebody to the ground. But he had a kind face, and Patton could read him from across the room. He looked so sad as he listened to the doctor tell him about the case. And just a bit angry.

“Boy am I glad he’s not mad at us.” Patton whispered to Logan as they got closer.

Cobra Bubbles sighed and rubbed his face with both hands as if he were trying to wash the information off. They stopped in front of him and he looked them over.

“I’m Patton Foster.” Patton held his hand out uncomfortably while trying to pull his hoodie down over his sleep shorts. “I normally wear pants I swear.”

It wasn’t until this moment that he realized that he was criminally underdressed for any kind of interview. He wished hell would go ahead and eat him as he stood there in just his cat hoodie, with no shirt, and Blue’s Clues shorts (normally made for women, but he got an extra-large pair) that were just barely longer than his boxers, which he just realized were inside out. He looked at his feet to escape eye contact and saw that he was wearing one shoe and one sandal. Never mind hell eating him, he was already there.

Logan didn’t look any better, sure he was wearing longer pants but they were white with unicorn print. And you could totally see his underwear through them. He had tried to cover that by dawning a long coat, but that just made him look like a school shooter. And the coat was unbuttoned anyway. Patton dared a glance at Logan’s feet and saw that he had his unicorn slippers on instead of shoes. But the worst part, oh the worst part was that Logan wore a powder blue t-shirt that had “Paw-ton” written in block letters across the chest with a big old heart. It was Patton’s shirt, and now everyone knew it was his shirt. And they knew what it implied, Logan wearing Patton’s shirt.

Their eyes met in a glance of mutual horror as Logan pulled his coat closed with inhuman speed. They shared the same hope that maybe no one saw. Patton quickly sniffed the air, he couldn’t smell anything coming off them, maybe they were in the clear, at least in that instance.

“It’s one in the morning.” The social worked cracked a smile. “I didn’t think you’d look presentable just now.” He shook Patton’s hand. “I’m Thomas.”

“Oh, ok.” Patton retracted his other hand and kept trying to pull his hoodie down. “I’m Virgil’s uncle. Payton is my older brother.”

“Why are you both down here? We haven’t even started calling the next of kin yet.”

“Our friend broke his arm getting Virgil out of the fire. He called us to get him.”

“Hi.” Roman waved his cast.

“Hi.” Thomas nodded.

“I’m Logan Berry,” Logan stepped up. “I’m Patton’s husband.”

“So, I take it that you two are ok with taking care of Virgil?” Thomas said, shaking Logan’s hand. “At least until we hunt down his mother.”

“She immigrated to Italy after Virgil was born.” Patton stared at the floor. “I-if she wants custody of him, I won’t keep him from her. But I don’t know if she does.”

“Poor kid.” Thomas looked back to the room. “Well, his mom still has parental rights, so we need to talk to her. But if she left the country and left her baby behind, I’ve got a pretty good guess on how that’s gonna go.”

“Then it comes back to us.” Logan finished the idea. “And we’d be glad to take him.”

“Yeah, and we’re all teachers. So, we’re great with kids.” Patton added.

“It’s nice to finally hear some good news.” Thomas sighed. “Virgil’s not allowed any visitors tonight, so you can go. Come back in the morning and we’ll get everything sorted.”

“Ok, I’ll be back in the morning.” Patton agreed. “I’ll be here with pants on.”

His attempt at a joke seemed to fall flat, but Thomas gave him a good-natured smile. Patton and Logan backed away awkwardly before turning around and walking like normal people. Roman joined them and they all got into the car in silence. As soon as the doors were closed, Roman broke the silence by laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asked tonelessly from the front seat.

“You two and the social worker.” He choked. “And dressed like that!”

“We came down here at one A.M to get you from the emergency room.” Logan protested. “We were in a hurry!”

“It would have been weird if we were dressed!” Patton added. “This actually proves that we’d be good parents, because our priorities are in order! When you get called from the emergency room you throw clothes on in the dark and come down!”

“Must have been a good night if you didn’t have clothes on when I called.” Roman snickered.

“FALSEHOOD!!!!!!!” Logan screeched, his entire body turning red.

“I meant to say shoes! You throw shoes on in the dark! Because you already have clothes on!” Patton fumbled an explanation.

“So, Logan has a shirt with your name on it because he belongs to you?” Roman teased.

“You noticed?” Patton whimpered, turning red as well. “Do you think the social worker noticed too?”

“Ok. No one is allowed to talk until the sun is up.” Logan ordered.

When the sun did come up, and it came up rather soon especially for a Saturday, the three had other things to talk about anyway.

“Ok, Patton and I are in one room, and you occupy one room.” Logan began.

“I knew that SIRI.” Roman sighed. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, there’s still Remus’s old room, Virgil can stay in there.”

“We turned that room into a storage closet after Remus went to grad school.” Roman groaned. “I suppose I’ll start moving boxes.”

“I believe that I’ll be doing most of the moving today, given your injury.”

“I can still move things!” Roman protested.

“No.”

“Can I help arrange the stuff in the attic? That just requires me to slid stuff across the floor.”

“I will allow that. And we may find something in storage that we can use.”

“Kill two birds with one stone.” Roman nodded.

“That’s cruel and has nothing to do with-… oh. Right, a metaphor.”

# # #

Patton walked timidly into the hospital whishing he had stayed behind to get the room ready and sent Logan to deal with the paperwork. But as the legal next of kin, he had to be the one to sign everything. He wondered if he might get to meet Virgil while he was there. But what if Virgil didn’t like him?

“I see you’re alone this morning.” Thomas startled him. “But at least you remembered your pants.”

“Logan and Roman are getting the house ready.” Patton said quickly. Why did he feel so guilty, he hadn’t done anything? “They’re clearing out a room and all that stuff.”

“You seem to be adapting to all this pretty well.” Thomas smiled warmly.

“I guess, but we haven’t done any of the actual parenting.”

“What, are you worried about what you’ll do if he comes out as straight?” Thomas joked. “You won’t have time to mess up, you’ll have me breathing down your necks.”

Patton smiled back, temporarily relieved. At least this guy was friendly, he couldn’t handle a jaded, world weary social worker.

“Let’s go over the paperwork and the background checks and afterwards we’ll see if the doctors will let him have visitors.” Thomas offered.

Patton nodded and followed him to administration.

# # #

Logan finished organizing the attic and walked down the stairs only to meet Roman in the middle, dragging up a large wooden object. He used one hand and his elbow to grip it. Tell Roman he can’t do one thing and that’s all he wants to do.

“What is that?” Logan pointed stunned. “And I told you not to lift things!”

“A portion of my own bed from when I was in my teens. I got it from my parents’ attic. Now move, this thing is heavy.” Roman disregarded him.

Logan ran up the stairs, propped the emptied room’s door open and ran down to help Roman with the rest of the bed frame. After three trips, and a good deal of swearing they got all of it into the room. It was then that the truth about this bed came out.

“Roman, this is the skeleton of a futon isn’t it?” Logan asked, ready to face palm.

“Remus set my actual bed on fire! This was all they could do! And he set this one on fire as well!”

“So. There’s no mattress either?” Logan completed the face palm.

“No.” Roman looked at the ground.

“Ok, this will have to do until we get him a proper bed, and we will get him a proper bed.” Logan sighed. “Let’s just put it together, where are the instructions?”

“In the past, no one has seen them in over a decade.” Roman answered hesitantly. “But I helped put it together, I should be able to manage it.”

# # #

Logan felt a migraine setting in and Roman had exhausted his vocabulary of insults from screaming at the futon. An hour had passed, Patton would be home any minute to see what a pair of failures they were. He was at his breaking point.

“Of course!” Roman yelled triumphantly. “We can google futons like this one and use their instructions.”

“Why didn’t we think of that an hour ago?” Logan said in a strained whisper.

After that putting it together only took twenty minutes. This only added to their fury.

“Ok,” Logan sighed. “I’m going to go scream into a pillow, then we’re going to get a mattress for this monstrosity.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. We could get a normal mattress and put it on this, so then it’ll just be a normal bed.”

“Roman, you’re a genius.”

“Wow, you are out of it.”

# # #

The paperwork took longer than Patton had thought it would, and the background check took forever. Which was especially annoying because he didn’t have any criminal record. But all that was finally over, he was now prolonging the inevitable as one of the doctors explained everything that was wrong with Virgil.

“So, Virgil is a good deal underweight and he currently has strep throat. And according to his records, he’s been sick a lot both this year and last year. And there were more than a few injuries. We haven’t had anyone analyze him yet, but we suspect that he has severe anxiety.”

“Ok.” Patton nodded.

I hate my brother.

“He has a few burns from last night, mostly on the palms of his hands and the bottom of his feet. He inhaled a good deal of smoke, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage to his lungs. He also got a few scrapes and bruises from falling off the landing, and he broke his foot when he hit the ground.”

“Poor baby.” Patton exclaimed automatically.

“And the last thing is,” The doctor sighed. “He has a few older bruises on his back, torso, arms and legs. They all seem to very in age.”

Payton if you don’t go to hell, I will petition all the saints to send you there!

“Is-is that why you suspected Payton of… of hurting him?”

“Yes.” They sighed as if the weight of the world was on top of them. “One of the bruises is in the perfect shape of a belt buckle. There’s no explanation for that.”

Patton felt his heart racing, and everything turned red. All he could think of was the innocent little baby that he and his mother had taken care of because Payton wasn’t going to. It didn’t look like they were living in a kind universe, but he really hoped it was a just one.

# # #

Roman and Logan pulled into the driveway with a mattress strapped to the roof and an old dresser shoved into the back. The dresser had belonged to Remus, and for some reason he spray-painted it black, but that was ok. They could paint over that. At least it didn’t have any bodily fluids on it. Hopefully.

Roman jumped out and ran to open the door, only to trip on a medium sized box someone had left there. There was a note on the obstruction.

Crazy twin guy, dude’s going to jail for a while. Cleaned my closet out last month and was too lazy to get rid of this stuff. It’s your problem now. -Joan.

“We have a benefactor Logan!” Roman said happily. “Officer Joan has given us some old clothes and a message of encouragement.”

“What encouragement?” Logan asked, untying one of the ropes.

“Dude’s going to jail for a while.” Roman recited as if it were Shakespeare.

“That is good news.” Logan smiled. “Should we bring up the mattress first or the dresser?”

“Mattress, it should be easier. And there is not a doubt in my mind that my brother put his penis on that dresser at some point.”

“Sometimes I really feel like Remus needs to be sedated and institutionalized.”

They both pulled down the mattress and hauled it inside.

“I can’t believe we’re supposed to be identical twins. That means we have one hundred percent the same DNA! How does that make sense?”

“Only one of you got brain damage.” Logan shrugged. “Besides, Patton’s brother turned out to be a narcissist, do you know how rare that is?”

They fought the mattress up the stairs.

“Sure, but it’s not like everyone in Florida is one, just Payton. Seems pretty rare to me.”

With that they threw the mattress onto the frame.

“There.” Logan said proudly, “A bed and Payton’s old desk, now all we need to do is haul up that dresser.”

“Let’s just get that over with.” Roman sighed.

The two drudged down the stairs and found one of their neighbors standing in the driveway. This one was a particularly annoying middle-aged woman. Single and childless, yet somehow a self-proclaimed expert on both relationships and child rearing. Logan turned right back around and went back inside when he saw her. Roman reluctantly went up to talk to her, it was the only way to make her leave.

“Can I help you?” He asked flatly, hoping he couldn’t.

“What are you three doing? I heard you leave at one in the morning last night, and now you’re going back and forth bringing furniture into the house. Are you getting another roommate?”

“Yes.” A satisfactory lie of omission.

“Where’s Patton? I saw him leave this morning, and he’s not back yet.”

“He has a day job.”

“But he’s not there, I already checked.”

Roman rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t this one be a sweet old lady? Or I nice couple? Or a cute single guy, gay of course?

“I don’t know then.” None of her business anyway.

“You know what I think,”

You forgot to ask if I cared.

“I think it has something to do with his brother, you know the one who’s running for mayor, his house burned down last night. It was all over the news.”

“If you don’t mind Logan and I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Is it true what he said? You know about his and Patton’s mother?”

“No, it is a blatant lie Patton already submitted proof of that.” Roman swung the trunk open and dragged the dresser to the door one handed. “Good day.”

# # #

Patton bit his lip as he listened to the phone ring on the other end.

“Hello Patton,” Logan answered in his usual manor. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I just need some advice.” Patton sighed.

“Well, what is it?”

“Virgil’s awake, the doctors are taking care of him now. And I get to meet him when they’re done. But should I wait and introduce us all at once or do it one at a time?”

He was answered by a brief silence, then Roman.

“Hey Patton,” Roman said quickly. “Logan and I are just dealing with nothing going on right now.”

“Logan! Did you just punch me!?” Roman suddenly yelled. “You just did it again, you friggin book germ! Why are you signaling me to shut- oh.”

“Roman?” Patton asked, now very suspicious.

“Never mind all that. What do you need to know?”

“Well, I’m gonna meet Virgil, but I don’t know if I should have us all meet him at once or do in in little bits.”

“Ok, you’re already there, so I think you should just meet him as you. But you should definitely tell him that we exist.”

“Ok.” Patton smiled for no one’s benefit. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing, good luck with the kid. Bye.”

With that Roman hung up on him.

“Ok, love you, bye.” Patton said to the dead phone.

Patton returned the phone to his pocket and took a deep breath to steel himself. He glanced down at the stuffed bear he had bought from the gift shop, it had a little hive that said ‘Bee Well’ across it. That was the perfect dad joke to break the ice, and a cute animal to boot. He could do this.

He looked through the window and saw several doctors and Thomas talking to a teenage boy. Patton paused. He didn’t recognize him. The baby face had been replaced with Payton’s jawline and Virgil had no baby fat left. In fact, he had almost no body fat at all. That can’t be good. In place of his little blond tufts of hair was long black hair, well long in the front any way. His bangs swept over his face like a curtain. The only things that were the same were his eyes. The same amazing violet eyes. Worry was reflected in them now, but they were still beautiful.

Right now, he was biting his lip and pulling his knees to his chest. Thomas said something and he started chewing on the bandages that covered his hands rather than his lip, the news was out now. Thomas sat down next to him and said something else, at that Virgil put his head on his knees and covered his head with his arms. With his messed-up hands, he fruitlessly pulled at his hair. Thomas talked to him for a minute more then walked to the door to let Patton in.

Never mind. I can’t do this. Patton walked in quietly.

Virgil didn’t look up.

I can’t do this!

“Virgil,” Thomas said trying to sound upbeat. “This is your uncle, Patton. And he’s going to be taking care of you for a while.”

Virgil shuddered, and though he was trying to hide it he was visibly shaking.

Ok, natural greeting. Neutral.

“Hey kiddo.” Patton said softly.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!!

“I know this is a lot to take in, and that you’ve been having a rough time.” Patton paused, where was he going with this? “So, uh… I’m not gonna press you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. And… I would like you to come stay with me, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I mean.” Virgil finally spoke, his voice was strained. “I don’t wanna live on the street, and that’s kind of the only other option.”

Patton walked up to the bed. He knew what to do, it was as if his instincts kicked in.

“Can I sit down?” He asked. Pointing to a spot besides Virgil.

“Do whatever you want.” Virgil mumbled into his blanket.

Patton sat next to him and gingerly placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Virgil flinched. He flinched and made a kind of whimpering sound in his throat. Patton felt a rage burn inside his chest. He feared that if he tried to talk, he would breath fire.

“It’s ok,” He soothed. No fire, good. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Isn’t that the bare minimum?”

“I said we’d take baby steps. Nothing you’re not comfortable with.”

“Yeah?” Virgil looked up at him, his eyes red with tears.

“Of course.” Patton smiled reassuringly and ran a hand through his nephew’s hair.

Virgil closed his eyes and sighed almost euphorically at the contact. Patton bit back bile at the thought that this poor, innocent kid was so completely starved for affection that he would all but melt for the first person to show him basic human kindness. If Payton didn’t go to hell…

Virgil slid his head down and rested it on Patton’s shoulder. He had stopped shaking and was just at rest. Patton wished he had brought a camera, but he knew he’d remember this moment even without pictures. This one was going in the vault.

#logicality #parental moxiety #parental anological #platonic lamp #sanders side fic #sanders sides

32 notes · View notes

vannahfanfics · 5 years ago

Text

A Most Dangerous Game

Category: General Fluff

Fandom: Yona of the Dawn

Characters: Soo-Won, Yona

Requested By: Chichi_needs_hug (Ao3)

Soo-Won’s eyes were lidded as Joo-Doh’s deep baritone voice echoed through the throne room. The sound reverberated off the grand walls and columns, making the room seem full despite the fact it was only the two of them- and Yona, Soo-Won’s new personal assistant. At first, he had only given her leave of his study; he cared not if she perused the stacks and stacks of volumes contained within, after all, and he could see from the look on her face how she was vibrating with nervous energy. Had he continued to confine her to her bedroom, the girl would have done something reckless, and he didn’t care for Yona ruining the well-laid plans he had toiled over with some brash act. No, it was far better to allow her to do as she pleased for now.

After a few days, he had been the one to propose allowing her to become his assistant. Kye-Sook was vehemently against it, but ultimately bent to Soo-Won’s infallible reasoning; it was an excellent way to keep an eye on her. Furthermore, no one knew royal affairs better than Yona, so it was helpful to have her do part of his bidding. He had simply said, “She’s not my prisoner. She came to ally with me, and therefore she is entitled to be treated as an ally, not shoved in a room to gather dust like a forgotten relic.” Kye-Sook had turned a pretty impressive shade of reddish-purple before grudgingly consenting.

She had taken the job gracefully and was doing well under his watch, helping him record important information from Joo-Doh’s briefings or fetching tomes from the library. It wasn’t like she could go scheming with her dragons or Hak, given her quarantine, so Soo-Won wasn’t particularly worried about what she learned. All the cards were in his hand, anyway; he doled out cards to those he needed to, but they never had the full deck, nor knew what hidden ace Soo-Won had up his sleeve.

Soo-Won found his mind, and eyes, drifting to the red-haired princess standing beside his throne. She really was a far cry from the shy little princess who had witnessed her father’s murder that fateful night. She all but commanded attention now, her chin held high, and her eyes cold and emotionless as she regarded Joodoh as if he were but a necessary evil her eyes must bear witness to. Soo-Won supposed that in her mind, that wasn’t an entirely inaccurate description.

Soo-Won tried not to care about what others thought of him, unless it was in the best interest of his endeavors. His goals were what he needed to focus on; pleasing people was not. Yet, every so often, he found himself wondering what the young princess thought of him now. She used to revere him so. Surely now, she thought him a wretch. He supposed that was justified, given what she had been forced to endure for Soo-Won’s plans. Sometimes he wished he could just sit her down and spell it all out for her. He wondered if she would understand and join him in his efforts or oppose him. The variability in that scenario is what kept him from doing so. Soo-Won could ultimately only trust himself, in the end.

He didn’t even notice that Joo-Doh had finished his report until he saw Yona respectfully dip her head to the soldier. Soo-Won’s eyes flickered back to the man just in time to see him bow reverently to him.

“Thank you for your report,” he responded vaguely. Recognizing this as a dismissal, Joo-Doh clicked his heels together in a salute before he whirled about, cape flapping as he took his leave. Soo-Won exhaled deeply; he hadn’t listened to a word.

“You didn’t hear a word of that report, did you?” Yona chided with a click of her tongue. Soo-Won’s mouth curled upwards in an embarrassed sneer for a second, before he forced his usual serene expression back on his face and looked at her. Her dawn-colored eyes were trained on him, her hand primly holding the quill. “No matter. I recorded everything anyway, so you can always review them later,” she shrugged before looking down at them. Soo-Won’s eyebrows narrowed slightly. There was something off about her today.

“Princess? Are you unwell?” he asked solemnly as he straightened up in the throne. Her eyes flickered to him before looking back down at the documents she had scribed for him.

“I am just fine. Unless you have any more duties for me to perform today, I am going to read in the study. I’ll set these on your desk for you to peruse at your leisure,” Yona answered stiffly, and just like that, she was presenting Soo-Won the back of her kimono. He had to smile at her willfulness. He preferred people who pushed back a little against him to people groveling at his feet and obeying his every command without question… Although those kinds of people were useful, too.

He watched her turn the corner with lidded eyes. Why had he bothered asking, anyway? He knew damn well that Yona was sad, being deprived of her beloved four dragons, the medicine boy, and her loyal retainer Hak. Soo-Won knew that giving Yona unrestricted access to them at this point was dangerous to his carefully crafted plans. As much as he despised seeing her so blue, he couldn’t risk her developing some half-baked revenge plot against him. That wouldn’t do. He frowned into the palm of his hand as he tapped his index finger against his cheekbone. Unrestricted access was troublesome, but…

“You there!” he called to servant boy who had entered a few minutes ago to begin sweeping the vast throne room. The boy scurried up to him, asking how he could be of use. “I have a few messages I need you to deliver…”

~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as Yona turned the corner and was out of Soo-Won’s eyesight, she exhaled miserably and flopped against the wall. She cradled the pieces of parchment against her front, not caring that the still-drying ink smudged her kimono with black-purple splotches and pretended for a few precious seconds that it was one of her dear friends she was embracing. Pitiful imaginary visions were not nearly enough to appease her loneliness, however, and very soon, she felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Stop that, she scolded herself with an angry sniff. She rubbed at her eyes furiously with the heel of her palm. Now is not the time to cry. I need to do more research in Soo-Won’s study to find out what he’s up to! Steeling her frayed and fragile nerves, she set off with renewed vigor down the hallway.

As promised, she set the documents on Soo-Won’s desk for him to attend to later before diving headlong into the voluminous stacks of books piled high throughout the room. There were all manners of texts- atlases, history books, personal recounts by soldiers, testimonies from courts, memoirs of various royals and well-to-dos, even a set of love letters between a courtesan and a knight from one hundred years ago. They were all interesting reads in numerous respects, but none of them elucidated any inklings of Soo-Won’s motives in murdering her father and assuming the throne.

After about an hour of rifling through the stacks of papers, Soo-Won finally came along and asked her to retrieve a few titles from the castle’s expansive library. Rooting through the books had done Yona little good anyway, so she supposed a walk clear her head, lest she get too frustrated and miss something crucial.

She held the scrap of parchment listing the books Soo-Won wanted as she plodded through the halls toward the library. Yona knew her way around it well now, so she didn’t bother the library attendant with her searches, instead diving right into the area of shelves she knew they would be. She recounted the titles she passed under her breath as she strolled alongside the towering rack. As she came upon the desired title, she tugged it out and tucked it under her arm before proceeding to the next search. In no time at all, she was exiting the stacks with three dusty tomes gathered under her armpit, but they all flopped right to the ground when she saw Yoon standing in the middle of the aisle poring over a textbook of medicinal herbs.

“Yoon!”

“Ah! Young miss!” Yoon gasped as she addressed him. He snapped the book shut and held it to his chest, scurrying over to her and bending down to help her retrieve her dropped books from the red-carpeted floor. “Long time, no see,” he smiled with a hint of sadness as he straightened up, holding out a book to her. She smiled with equal misery as she took it with him and secured it back under her arm.

“Yes… How is the castle treating you? Are you allowed to study as you please?”

“Ah, yes. I came here because His Majesty Soo-Won sent a messenger to inform me that they had just acquired a most recent publication on the local herbs, so I came right over to read it,” he said, holding up the book as evidence. Yona didn’t know quite what to think about the odd occurrence. Surely it was just coincidental that they had acquired a new manuscript and Soo-Won had only been kind enough to tell Yoon. He wasn’t purposely instructing the librarian to keep an eye out for medicinal books on the market, right? Her arm was beginning to ache from holding up the weighty tomes, so she shifted them to the other.

“I see. I hope you learn something new.”

“Indeed!” He looked like he wanted to say something more, as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Ah… We miss you. We worry about you. Are you being treated okay? No one has tried to hurt you, right?” Her eyes widened slightly as he stared despondently at her, a light blush painting his cheeks. “We don’t know what to do without you…” Yona smiled sweetly and reached out to cup his cheek reassuringly. He leaned into her hand, looking at her with unsure eyes.

“Don’t worry, Yoon. I’m okay. Thank you for your concern,” she told him gently. It hurt her to see Yoon this way, because he tried his best to be strong and capable a lot of the time. Yona’s heart was aching to break down into bitter tears about how miserable she was, but now was not the time for self-pity. If she did that, Yoon might say something to her dragons, and the next thing she knew, they would be storming the castle and causing all sorts of ruckus that just wouldn’t do. I must be strong so as not to worry them needlessly. I need to wait until the time is right. I still have their support. “I am doing my best, so all you need to do is do your best as well,” she smiled brightly at him before pulling her arm back and tucking it back underneath the cumbersome stack of books. Yoon smiled serenely. He looked genuinely reassured, which Yona was glad for.

“Yes, young miss, I will. Someone has to keep those four knuckleheads in check.” She laughed radiantly at his uncouth insulting of them. The townspeople sure worshiped and revered them, but Yoon and Yona knew that they were really just a bunch of dorks. She was glad that Yoon was taking it upon himself to look after them.

“I’m grateful to you, Yoon. It does my heart good to know I can trust in you to keep them safe.” He flushed and mumbled something shyly under his breath. Yona grimaced as her other arm began to burn with the strain of keeping the books held aloft, so she switched arms again. “I’m afraid I must go. I need to deliver these books to Soo-Won.” She would really rather stay and talk with Yoon more, but Soo-Won would come looking for her eventually, and she didn’t want anything to happen to Yoon if he found out they were talking. Yoon nodded in understanding but looked just as regretful about it as she felt.

“Of course. I hope to see you again soon, Yona,” he said and stepped aside so she could walk past him down the walkway. Yona kept looking back at him as she exited the library, feeling like she needed to commit his face to memory lest she forget it in all the days she was wasting away within the castle, just waiting for the pin to drop.

She made a point to make up for lost time by all but running down the hallway back to the study; by the time she made it there, she was red-faced and panting. She plunked the books down on Soo-Won’s desk, and after holding them for so long, her arms felt like wiggly jelly. She took a seat on the stool nearby to take a moment to catch her breath, fanning herself with her hand.

“I apologize. I did not realize they were so heavy,” Soo-Won apologized in a flat tone without looking up from his reports. Yona straightened up a little as she was addressed and stopped cooling her hot face, trying to seem less worn out than she was.

“They weren’t they heavy.”

“You took a while in there. Did something happen?” His glittering eyes fixed on her, and she gulped. He held his quill aloft, dripping ink down onto the pristine white sheet of parchment. It almost seemed like he knew the answer without asking and was just trying to see if she lied.

“No. It just took longer than I thought to find one of the books because it was misplaced. That’s all.” The lie came out easy but burned like acid on her tongue. She didn’t like lying, even to Soo-Won or his cohorts. It just felt wrong, and on top of that, it would likely come back to bite her in the behind later. His face was completely expressionless as he gazed measuredly at her through lidded eyes. Soo-Won always had such analytic, piercing eyes, like they could see right through her. Yona was even more aware of that now that they were turned upon her.

“I see,” he answered simply and turned back to his desk, dipping the now-dry quill back into the inkwell. “Thank you for retrieving them.”

“You’re welcome.” She picked up the book she had been reading before she had been sent on the errand and cracked it back open. It was a memoir of a priest from the elder days. She only got a few paragraphs in before Soo-Won said in an almost expectant tone of voice, “I was hoping you could join me for lunch today, Yona.” She looked up at him, red eyes blinking in surprise. He had a small smile on his face as he regarded her, cheek in hand.

“I would love to.” Another lie, another flood of bitter acid over her tongue. It wasn’t that she hated Soo-Won. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Soo-Won, and so when they were alone, she buried herself in menial tasks to avoid dwelling on the cascade of questions his person always set off in her mind. Lunch with him would be a maddening ordeal. She would have to be on her guard as well; there was definitely a motive behind everything he did. Every move was calculated like chess. He would likely be subtly interrogating her, and she would have to have her wits about her to keep from divulging anything he could use as ammunition. It was challenging when she was trying not to think about her father’s murder or his motives or her confusing feelings-not feelings for him. “I would love to,” she repeated, softly, almost trying to convince herself that it was like old times, that she really would love to.

“Very good. I have everything arranged. Shall we?” Yona’s mouth dropped open as he suddenly stood from his desk, shoving the half-read reports aside and regarding her expectantly.

“N-now?” she sputtered, caught way off guard. She hadn’t expected him to propose it and already have it planned! Did he know that she would agree? How did he know? Oh, Soo-Won, you cunning- she thought as she bit the inside of her cheek and snapped the book shut again. It wasn’t like it was a useful read, anyway. She cleared her throat, closing her eyes to clear her mind and body back to equilibrium. Be at ease, Yona. It’s just lunch. Alone. With Soo-Won. Your father’s murderer and previous love of your life. As her train of thought all but derailed into a ravine of self-pity and discomfort, a scowl tried to work its way onto her face. Thankfully Soo-Won was already out the door, kingly robes swishing as he called for her not to tarry. “No worries at all,” she grumbled under her breath before following.

Yona did not know how long ago Soo-Won had concocted this plan for lunch, but if it were within the last few hours, the castle staff did an excellent job throwing it together. The servants had placed a small table in the castle garden, situated on a small round plaza surrounded by shady trees and aromatic shrubbery that was currently in bloom. The table was just long enough to provide respectable distance between the two of them, on opposite ends with at least six feet between them. The mahogany table was overlaid with a silk tablecloth and already outfitted with all their cutlery and plate ware, two glasses of water already poured. As Yona sat down in the chair that Soo-Won pulled out for her, she found it odd that the table was set for four others as well. Are his advisors attending as well? She wondered, nervously tucking the folds of her kimono under her thighs. She didn’t know if that was alleviating, as she would not have to deal with Soo-Won alone, or worrying, as she would be outnumbered. Soo-won’s sparkling eyes watched her with all the intensity of a coyote’s but revealed nothing.

“Are we to have guests?” she inquired politely.

“Yes, indeed. They should be escorted in any minute now,” the king responded smoothly, lacing his fingers together and laying his chin on them- elbows on the table like he had no care for manners. It was such mannerisms that almost fooled Yona into the idea that Soo-Won wasn’t a noble at all. So aloof and uncaring and mysterious… It was amazing how long you could know someone and not have any idea what they’re thinking. Soo-Won… What are you doing all this for? She wanted to scream, but she knew he wouldn’t answer her. She would have to discover the answer for herself, somehow.

A chittering noise distracted her from her melancholy thoughts, and she glanced down just in time to see Ao vault herself from the neat stone path up into her lap. Yona stared at the chipmunk in an awed stupor as she scurried up her arm to nuzzle violently into her neck. Where Ao went, a dragon followed-

“Princess!”

“Kija?!” Yona jumped up at the white-haired boy’s voice. Sure enough, there he was strolling into the garden with the three other dragons not far behind him. Yona gathered her skirts about her so she could take off in a fluster, barreling across the path to all but throw herself against Kija. He turned red and began sputtering shyly, but knowledge of his bashfulness was forgotten to Yona, for she was so relieved to see her beloved companions after such time. “I missed you all so much!” she cried, pawing at Jae-Ha and Shin-ah to tug them into a sloppy group hug. She only had two hands, but it didn’t matter because Zeno had attached himself to her waist anyway.

“We missed you too, young miss!” he trilled as he nuzzled the side of her belly affectionately. Yona had her face buried into Kija’s chest, smearing tears of joy all over his front while his fingers curled into the fabric. For a moment, she wondered if she had fallen asleep in the study and was dreaming. A cruel dream it would be, for she had to awaken eventually, but at least she could have momentary bliss. They went to pull away from her, but she adamantly held her grip on them.

“Please… For a moment, just let me… know you’re here for real,” Yona pleaded in a small voice. She heard Jae-ha snort before his hand came down to reassuringly stroke the top of her head.

“Don’t worry. We’re here, Yona.” At Jae-ha’s quiet comfort, Yona was finally able to peel herself from the very flustered Kija and look at all of them. A big smile split her face as she realized, yes, they were there, she had her dragons beside her. Hurriedly, she wiped her tears with her knuckles before tipping her head with a beaming smile.

“I’m so glad to see you, everyone!”

“Good! Now that that’s settled, what are we eating?” Zeno yipped at her hip and sniffed the air expectantly. He detached himself from the princess to scamper over to Soo-Won, grinning in that childlike manner of his. “Thanks for the invite, Mr. King! We were getting stir-crazy without the young miss.” Yona’s eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder at Soo-Won, who smiled gracefully and told Zeno that it was no trouble at all. She thought back to the happenstance run-in with Yoon in the library.

Did Soo-Won… arrange all this because he noticed I was sad? Once more, his glittering gaze turned upon her, and she was electrified. His lips curled upward into a confirmatory smile that seemed to say, “Are you pleased?” It wasn’t sarcastic or malicious in any way… In fact, he almost seemed to be relieved that Yona was happy now. Involuntarily, her hand clutched at the fabric of her kimono resting over her heart and squeezed it tight.

Soo-Won… I can’t… I can’t read you… What am I to you?

~~~~~~~~~~

Minsoo was very elated to hear that his last-minute lunch planning had been very successful. Beaming, he said, “I could see the princess’ smile even from within the castle. She looked so delighted. I am very grateful to His Majesty for allowing her to see her dragons that she missed so dearly.” Yes, Yona had been thrilled indeed. For a second, Soo-Won had almost been fooled that the same plucky, oblivious little girl had been standing before him. Surrounded by her beloved dragons shedding tears of joy, her smile was as radiant and bright as the moon at full-height, making her dawn-colored hair seem all the redder and fierier in that moment. Soo-Won had found himself smiling, too, until that dawn hair reminded him of the legend of the Crimson Dragon and his doomed family lineage. Then his mouth had run dry with the bitter ash of regret and fear. Every man feared his impending death; Soo-Won was no exception. He feared not completing his dream before his illness claimed him.

Soo-Won did very little talking during that lunch. They certainly lived up to their rowdy reputation. They all had such distinct personalities that they clashed in tumultuous thunder that was both loud and entertaining. At one point, food was even being chucked across the table. Soo-Won didn’t mind; he found the carefree atmosphere quite refreshing, actually. He was made for royalty, but he didn’t enjoy it. All the rules and expectations and manners… It was all so tiresome.

For that brief few hours, he was able to enjoy the unrestricted freedom Yona had experienced while journeying throughout the land- and he found himself sorely envying that. That is not my path, he had to remind himself, knuckles glaring white as he clenched his fingers together and watched her through lidded eyes. Smiling, laughing, talking… but every so often, her red eyes would fix on him, questioning, demanding, challenging. He certainly had a worthy and tenacious adversary in young Yona, if he ever provoked her enough. He was grateful that, for the time being, she was relatively complacent and docile. Allowing her to see her dragons and the medicine boy was the right choice, he decided.

Undeniably, however, there was something- someone- missing.

As his hawk flew overhead, screeching into the wind, Soo-Won thought of him. He had considered it. Really, he had. He knew how much Hak meant to Yona, especially after everything that had happened. However, he would already be in hot water over this orchestrated event. Kye-sook would give him an earful if he allowed Yona and Hak to meet.

On top of that, the Thunder Beast was anything if unpredictable. There were too many uncertainties and variables involved. Soo-Won had elected to forgo bringing Hak into the equation, hoping that these two meetings would be enough for the princess- and for a while, he thought his little scheme had worked out swimmingly.

That is, until that night.

After the lunch, they had returned to Soo-Won’s study, where Yona had dived back into her reading with gusto. Soo-Won finally finished reading all the reports for the day a good hour after the sun had sunk below the horizon. With a small yawn, Soo-Won leaned over the back of the chair to crack his back and stretch his arms. In so doing, he cast a fleeting glance at the princess. His gaze fixed upon her form, slumped over in a stool with her head bobbing up and down. The open book in her lap was slowly slipping over her knee in inching increments. As it threatened to drop and hit the floor with surely enough noise to startle her awake, he swooped in to catch it. He marked the page and set it aside before looking down at her. Her lips were slightly parted as she breathed deeply and quietly, shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with her chest. He could also detect a slight shiver in her form and a paleness to her skin.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” he scolded her gently. He kneeled, sweeping off the outer layer of his robes and throwing it loosely around her shoulders. He edged a little bit closer to her, on the flats of his feet to preserve his balance, then carefully gathered her in his arms. She was really such a light, petite little thing, he noticed, as he easily straightened up with the princess bundled in his grasp. Her head lolled into his shoulder, and her dawn-red hairs threaded into his long, light brown ones. He swept a few of them out of her face before exiting the study.

Joo-Doh had been stationed outside the study. His eyes grew wide as he looked upon the king carrying the princess out of the room.

“Your Majesty,” his gruff voice said respectfully.

“It’s all right,” Soo-Won interjected before he could say anything. “I am not straining myself.” Joo-Doh looked uncomfortable but was not the type to argue, so he just wordlessly followed Soo-Won as he delivered the girl to her quarters. Soo-Won crouched down beside her futon, keeping her body nestled between his body and bent legs as he nudged back the covers. She must have been exhausted, for she didn’t even stir as he lowered her down into the blankets. It would be too much of a bother to tug his coat off her, so he just left it and laid the sheets loosely over her so she wouldn’t get too hot. Just as he was rising to leave, her tiny hand snapped out to grab hold of the hem of his robes.

“Hak…” Her voice was so small. So pleading. So needy. So lost. Soo-Won stared down at her with a flurry of feeling writhing inside him as a single tear leaked out from between her lashes to roll down her cheek. Behind him, Joodoh was standing resolutely in the doorway. Soo-Won kneeled back down, acting like he was adjusting the blankets.

“Don’t worry, Yona.” His whisper was but a breath and would be drowned out by a mouse’s chitter if one was nearby. “I’ll find a way for you to see Hak very soon, so don’t worry. Be at ease.” The corner of her mouth twitched, almost like she was trying to smile in her sleep. Her breathing had hitched for a second when she had called out Hak’s name, but it settled back into the steady rhythm of sleep at Soo-Won’s words. He stared down at her, the princess who was attached to him by a cord of fate he knew not how to cut, nor had the will to.

Soo-Won had all the cards. He doled them out as he needed to, but no one but him had the entire deck, nor knew what ace he could be hiding up his sleeve. But Yona had a deck of her own, waiting for the time was nigh to play, and Soo-Won could never be at ease as long as Yona believed they were at odds. Such a dangerous game Soo-Won was playing, but a game he simply had to play. “Be at ease,” he whispered again, but knew not if he was talking to the princess or himself.

Only time would tell, as a most dangerous game continued to evolve in a country steeped in secrets and mysterious forces…

Enjoy this oneshot? Here’s Part II! Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork

#yona of the dawn #akatsuki no yona #akayona #yotd #ank #soo-won #yona #princess yona #yona of the dawn fanfiction #yona of the dawn fanfic #akatsuki no yona fanfiction #akastuki no yona fanfic #akayona fanfiction #akayona fanfic

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spectral-musette · 6 years ago

Text

For the “role swap” prompt for Obi-Wan Kenobi and Satine Kryze’s ship week:

The tables are turned during the Clone Wars when Obi-Wan is captured by an old enemy and Satine must come to the rescue.

(~2100 words)

(story and sketches below the cut)

* * * * *

“You’re too late to put in your bid, Lady Kryze. I’ve made an agreement with Dooku’s agent. She’ll arrive by nightfall.”

Night, such as it was on the swiftly tumbling dwarf planet in the outskirts of Mandalorian space where Ced Lor made his home, was approaching fast. Satine took a deep breath, fear and vindication churning through her. It may well have been foolhardy to take the shuttle against the consent of the Protectors of the Royal Guard – the Captain had been ready to physically restrain her, requiring some subterfuge to get away with her plan – but she was right that there was no time to waste waiting for aid from the Jedi Order once she had received the intelligence that Ced Lor was selling General Kenobi to the highest bidder.

“I’ve let you live out of my love for your late father, but I warn you not to try my patience as an uninvited guest.” He leaned against the table in the atrium of the domed dwelling, safely sealed away from the barren landscape of the planet. The sensors on Satine’s ship, docked at the secondary airlock, had indicated that there were only two living creatures on the icy rock.

“I knew you’d taken up hunting bounties, but I didn’t suppose you had wholly abandoned your sense of honor.”

The armored man turned to regard her with a certain condescending amusement.

“Please, I am too curious to hear your twisted view of Mandalorian honor, Lady Kryze.”

“You claim a warrior whom you did not best in fair combat as your prisoner?”

He laughed, running a hand over his close-cropped silver hair. “How do you know I didn’t, then?”

Satine narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re an old man, Ced. You couldn’t beat him when he was an apprentice, how could you do it now that he’s a master?”

“Kenobi’s not as young as he used to be either.”

“So you claim the victory?” she challenged, derisive.

“There’s no such thing as a fair fight against a Jedi. A Mandalorian with any sense knows not to pull any punches against them. So yes, I tricked him with a distress call and a derelict freighter with some frightened prisoners aboard. Then, I descended from hyperspace and boarded with enough Magnaguards to incapacitate a rancor. And when he scrapped them, I threatened to kill the bait if he didn’t surrender.”

“And you call my honor twisted?”

“You make the mistake of thinking I’ve given a damn about my honor since your father died.”

“He was your war-leader, Ced, not your conscience.”

“He was my commander. And he died on my watch. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Satine forced herself to take a measured breath as she watched the old warrior tip the liquor bottle towards his glass, spilling onto the table as his hand shook.

“Fine. If you care nothing for honor, then you shouldn’t feel beholden to keep your agreement with Count Dooku’s agent, and you can listen to my offer.”

He took a long gulp of liquor. “But, consider, it suits me far better to send him into the clutches of the Sith witch than to let you have him. You, the daughter of my friend and commander, who the damned Jedi seduced when she was a girl.”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong.”

“I saw you together,” he hissed, throwing the glass at her feet, where it shattered into glittering shards. “In the cells, when he stole you from me all those years ago. I saw.”

Satine remembered, clear as if it was yesterday, the blackness of the holding cell suddenly bathed in the familiar blue light of Obi-Wan’s saber as he cut through the door, his gentle hand on hers as he cut through her binders, and then his gasp of surprise against her mouth as she kissed him. She hadn’t known or particularly cared about surveillance in the cells at the time.

“I loved him,” she countered, defiant.

“Jedi tricks,” Ced spat, pausing to drink straight from the bottle, “on a weak-willed fool of a girl.”

“Anyone with a grain of feeling would know that a man like Obi-Wan Kenobi has no need for magic to make anyone love him.”

“There’s no accounting for some people’s taste.” He glared sourly at the nearly empty bottle.

She took another deep breath, trying to keep her composure. “All I ask is that you hear my offer.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “What could you possibly have to tempt me, Sat’ika?”

She flinched at the use of her father’s pet-name for her. Still, she hefted her case onto the table, turning it to best display the contents as she opened the latch.

Vambraces, a cuirass, and a long dagger, centuries old, forged in an era of Mandalorian prosperity when warriors wore intricately decorated armor to the royal court with Clan and House insignia artfully etched into the surface of the beskar, glinted in the dying light filtered through the dome.

“From the archives of the Sundari museum of art, excavated during some recent expansion work at the edge of the city. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the emblem of Clan Lor.”

From the hungry look on his face, her explanation was unnecessary. Ced leaned forward, a trembling hand hovering over the treasures.

“You will leave these here, and go with your life,” he ordered finally, not taking his eyes from the ancient armor.

“With Kenobi,” she pressed.

“No. You leave alone, or I’ll kill him myself. I’d see you both dead before I let him lay a hand on you again.”

Satine’s held her breath. She’d counted on Ced’s love for and loyalty to her father preventing him from letting any harm come to her all along, but she didn’t doubt his word on that matter.

“Perhaps I should kill him anyway, for daring to even raise his eyes to Adonai’s daughter. With this.”

He closed his hand around the handle of the dagger, activating a stun blast that sent him sprawling back onto his chair.

Finally.

Satine spared a moment to check his pulse. He was an old man, after all, and he’d been a good one, once, in his way, she supposed.

Ced Lor lived, and Satine left the Clan Lor artifacts and the booby-trapped case on the table.

But the light was ever dying, and the darkness was bringing an enemy who’d show no mercy. Satine collected Obi-Wan’s saber from where it hung at Ced’s belt and set out to do what she came to do.

The domed dwelling was smaller than the old Clan Lor strongholds, but the holding cells looked the same. Satine ignored the code pad, taking a deep breath before she thumbed the switch on Obi-Wan’s saber.

It felt strangely alive in her hands as the brilliant blue blade sprang from the hilt. It was a different saber than the one he’d carried all those years ago, but it felt akin somehow. His.

She cut sloppily at the door, afraid to push the blade too far in as she didn’t know the dimensions of the cell behind it – hers had been claustrophobically small.

The metal of the door buckled and warped, falling towards her and making her leap back out of its path. Minding the glowing, molten edges, she stepped through the rough opening, holding the saber up to light the way.

Inside was the dim glow of an energy field, holding Obi-Wan in place.

He was badly injured, torn tunics revealing bright red electro-staff burns, and unconscious. The controls of the energy field were locked with another code entry, so she just slashed at the energy emitters in the wall.

The field dissipated, and Satine dropped the saber as she lunged to catch him. She succeeded in breaking his fall a little at least as they both toppled to the cold floor of the cell.

He woke as he fell on top of her, her arms wrapped firmly around his chest, their legs in a tangle.

“Satine,” he breathed, lightly touching her face in wonder, even as he hastily shifted his weight off of her. “I dreamed of you, but I thought it was just a memory. How did you…?”

“Explanations later,” she scolded, scrambling to her knees and hauling him with her. “Can you walk?”

“I can try.” He picked up his saber hilt and got to his feet, swaying slightly. She grasped the front of his torn tunic to steady him, and he looked into her eyes.

Heart beating like the wings of a wild bird in a cage, she tugged him into a kiss.

He melted against her, raising his hands to grasp her shoulders eagerly.

She broke away too soon, leaving both of them breathless.

“We have to hurry. Lor said that Dooku’s agent was coming to collect you.”

“The other prisoners…”

“There’s no one else here,” she told him apologetically, shaking her head.

He paused, closing his eyes, perhaps reaching out with the Force to confirm it. When he opened them again, they were regretful. “And Lor?”

“I stunned him.”

“If we leave him here, Ventress will kill him without a second thought.”

“Then I suppose we should take him back to Sundari for trial.”

But when they returned to the atrium, Obi-Wan limping and leaning against Satine, Ced Lor was gone, along with the Clan Lor artifacts.

Aboard her shuttle, he leaned back in the copilot’s chair as she hastily programmed the navi-computer.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“No arguments. Care to be more specific?”

“Well, Sundari, before the Protectors put Korkie on the throne.”

“I was wondering how you convinced them to let you come after me.” He smiled at her, somehow still looking devastatingly handsome despite his disheveled state.

“Outright duplicity. Which means I probably won’t be able to manage it again, so you had better not get yourself captured by any more of my father’s old compatriots.”

“I’ll make an effort,” he promised, as the stars streaked and faded into the otherworldly glow of hyperspace.

She coded messages, first to the Royal Guards, that she was returning safely, and then to Anakin, that Obi-Wan was safe as well. In the meantime, Obi-Wan investigated the med kit.

Finished with her messages, Satine took hold of the kit.

“Tunics off,” she instructed firmly.

“And they say romance is dead.” He tried to smile, wincing as he shifted the fabric over his burns.

“Who says that?” she asked, counting out sterile packages of bacta patches for each burn as he stripped off his torn tunic.

“The jaded poets of Coruscant, I suppose.”

“And you agree?” She tried to hide her smile as she tore open one of the patches.

“Do I look like a jaded poet?”

“Do they have beards and mussed hair?” She placed the first patch over the burn on his shoulder.

“They might. But…” He caught her hands, pressing kisses against her fingers. “I still don’t agree.”

“I need those to finish treating your electrostaff burns,” she pointed out, tugging one hand away and smoothing his hair with it.

“Yes, well, you should see the other fellows,” he joked.

“I’ve seen enough holonet coverage to know what you do to battle droids.”

His expression turned somber, whether at the thought of her watching him fight in a war she hated, or the circumstances in which his current wounds had been incurred, or both. “All for nothing, after all,” he said grimly.

She placed the second patch, and then stroked his hair again soothingly. “If it helps, I don’t think Ced Lor would be needlessly cruel. The prisoners you tried to save are probably all right.”

“I hope you’re right. But I’m afraid he isn’t the man who used to be your father’s friend anymore.”

“Are any of us who we used to be?”

“Despite the wear and tear,” he replied, as she placed yet another patch, “there are some things that don’t change.”

She smiled softly, fingertips skimming across his shoulder. “It did bring back some memories, didn’t it?”

“Since it was you who came to my rescue this time, I think perhaps… I owe you a kiss.” His clear eyes were a little playful, a little solemn, and full of longing.

Satine felt her heart quicken as she rested her hand against his chest and knelt down next to the copilot’s chair. “And I am ready to receive the rewards for my heroism.”

He leaned towards her, pressing his forehead against hers for a moment before cupping her cheek with his hand and kissing her breathless.

(doodle of leaning on Satine during the rescue)

(and smooching)

#Obi Wan Kenobi #Satine Kryze #obitine #obitineweek2019 #Obi Wan/Satine #Star Wars fic #I wrote a thing #Star Wars art #my art #pencil sketches #long post

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