#and i do not believe the torture beat that steel out of her if anything i think we will see more of it in season 2

[e-the-village-cryptid]

the thing that’s fascinating to me about bix is that usually you when you have the character who is genuinely a good person through and through, who is always trying to do the right thing, it can make the character sort of flat or lacking depth. they become just “the good one”, you can always predict what they’ll do, maybe it even gets a bit unrealistic. but bix, by being the one who is always trying to protect her people and do what’s right, actually opens an entirely new window through which to see the story.

when we’re empathizing with or seeing the story through the eyes of morally grey characters like cassian or cinta, it’s easy to see the story from a sense of self-preservation or “ends justify the means” reasoning, and understand or even support it. but it’s only when we see the world through the eyes of someone like bix that I think we realize the complicated moral choices aren’t just things like “the moral choice vs. the sacrifices it takes to do the right thing”, it’s that even if we were perceiving every choice through a selfless lens, we genuinely do not know what the right thing to do for others is. from the very beginning, should bix protect cassian by putting him in contact with luthen, or should she protect paak and everyone else involved by not contacting luthen more often than necessary? is it right to try to contact cassian when maarva is dying, or is it wrong to risk bringing imperial wrath down on ferrix if they intercept the communication? what do you risk when you trust the people you love? what do you risk when you don’t trust them? timm couldn’t have betrayed cassian if he hadn’t had the info that cassian was from kenari, but maybe he also wouldn’t have betrayed him if he knew about luthen and knew that by betraying cassian, he was risking bix’s safety as well.

many other characters show us how hard it is to make the right choice in terms of the sacrifices it will demand or what it will cost. bix shows us how hard it is to make the right choice because usually, we don’t even know what the right choice is.

(bix is also absolutely not the only character who does this; the show is packed with difficult moral choices throughout and many characters face this crisis of how to know what the right thing to do is. but something about bix just feels so much realer— she lives a life that is closest to most of ours in that her problems (at least in episodes 1-8) cannot be solved with blasters and battles and rebel hideouts but with interaction with her community and difficult but more mundane choices about what she can do for the people in her life. her goodness is also so focused on protecting her home and her people, which is a much more personal scale than trying to win a fight for the entire galaxy.)

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: 4.6k 🥹

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath | Marionette | Invisible Strings (you are reading this)

Crown Prosecution Service

"Ladies and gentlemen, the accused, Simon Finn, is guilty."

You and your fiancé sat in the prosecutor's corner, as the blonde CPS officer in a lovely pinkish blazer and skirt spoke from the record of the detective's report. The snort from your lips when the following line came from her over there.

"Jersey wasn't even his true name. And his merciless murder spree has terrorised our community. Many innocent people, including some of our brave officers from New Scotland Yard, were all targeted for no other reason than to play Simon Finn's sadistic game."

Your eyes is locked on the other building, your countenance blank. Sherlock observes you, wonders what is going on in your thoughts, but refrains from asking questions; the man who murdered people close to them has finally been imprisoned, so he assumed it is only natural for you to have a lot on your mind at the moment.

“Simon Finn has confessed to every single one of these crimes. I ask that the court consider Simon Finn’s voluntary confession for his crimes. He has spared the victims families a prolonged trial, and in doing so has demonstrated a glimmer of remorse. Therefore it is my recommendation that Simon Finn be spared the death penalty, and instead sentenced to life in prison with no possibility to parole. Thank you.”

But at last, you could find rest now.

"It's over," Sherlock mutters as the judge sentences Simon to death by lethal injection, his eyes finally locking on yours, a little smile curving on his lips. "We did it." You notice one of his steadfast hand strokes on yours, where the sparkling shine of the diamond engagement band illuminates through into your eyes.

And an outpouring of pride washes over your soon-to-be lifeline, he finally bringing you serenity; which you truly not believe in this Simon Finn’ confess at all. "We did."

Your drifting sensation and eye contact unintentionally collided with Simon's in the relieving slumber, his look strained but with a smirk as opposed of a grimace; terrified to be execution, manifesting your chest to swell. It echoed in your head, ‘he’s not the real murderer.’

The silence is thick and oppressive, vibrating within the catastrophic white walls of Simon Finn's residence. No one dares to speak, no one dares to move a finger. 

Sherlock leaned over his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of the steel surface where he lied, pallid and lifeless after being discovered with a hole in his nape, spineless. A horrific method of murder, slow and certain to be agonising.

His gaze stayed fixated on the J engraved directly beneath Mycroft's collarbone.

When Sherlock is permitted into Simon's cell, the first thing he does is tie his fist to the prisoner's jaw.

"Oh my," you hissed behind him, but it didn't stop him from throwing another punch at the man. Sherlock was furious beyond comprehension, having left the mortuary without saying anything and going directly for prison to confront Simon - Jersey - himself.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, his voice trembling and his breathing irregular. "Why was Mycroft killed? How?"

In response, Simon gives him a nasty grin, prompting Sherlock to hurl him against the wall while seizing the taller's collar. There's no way Finn could have killed Mycroft while he's only been in this prison for over two weeks, waiting to pay for all the crimes he committed here and everybody knows. "Are you the only Jersey? Is there any more? Do you have people working for you?"

"Sherlock," you call from behind them. "I'm all for you beating the crap out of him, but let's not get into trouble here, okay?"

He heard you, acknowledged your remarks, but his gaze didn't stray away from Simon, retaining a firm grip on him. Simon, on the other hand, had his gaze fixated on you, the sick grin staying on his lips, and Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you!" He insists, but Simon's eyes is fixed on you.

"London bridge is falling down," Simon singsongs softly, prolonging the syllables, his grin becoming broader. "My lovely lady."

Sherlock lets go of his hands, gazing at you, who are looking back at him, bewilderment evident in your stare, and Sherlock makes an impatience sounds before slamming Simon to the floor.

He rushes out of the a jail cell, leaving you with Simon's distant laughter ringing in the recesses of his eardrums. You perceive Sherlock needs alone time, which is why you hold your ready-to-wreck-down body to sit facing Simon, and remaining silent for a couple minutes rendered him stand up by himself and fling his ass onto the seat. You can bet he noticed you sweating, but it wasn't because you were scared or worried, rather because you always trust what your gut tells you. 

"I can feel you’re not the real Jersey." Before he could say anything, you began with your hoarse speaking; a slight smile formed as his grin rose while his hands with handcuffs grabbed his wounded bruise that your fiancée had made. “Well, I’m gonna die a liar anyway. The dirty liars.”

You lean back and nod with caution your head dipping slightly as you murmur, an enticing grin on the bridge of your mouth as you cross the spaces between your legs. "Then who did?"

"I've got a place; it's your job to find out." Simon claims it all in one breath, which leads to your brows with a furrow significantly. “Where?”

"-It's not, uh, better if I draw you a map." He ignores what you have to say and proceeds. He looks at your notebook with a treacherous smile on his lips. "You going to draw me a treasure map?" You pat the desk twice and stifle a giggle. "No, you've got word, just say it."

Simon's gulp drops, followed by a loud whistle from the prisoner. "I just want to show myself to you, lady."

You only nod contentedly. "So, let's say you're telling the truth, I assumed it’s seems like the real Jersey promising to get you out but he left you high and dry-" your cheshire cat-like sneer on Simon's hiss voice that is so audible it pierces right through your attention span, and that's saying something.

“My dear Marney, you seems don’t know a thing.”

"And I might bring you out in the next half hour to reenact the murder scene." You say this as you stand back up, pick up your notepad and tape player, and gesture to the cops to wait for you. You pause before answering the door, shifting back to meet Simon's satirising smile. "Does that sound like a fun way to celebrate your final 20 hours before the execution?"

"Do me a favour, Y/N. And just make sure he doesn't try anything." 

"Oh, he can certainly try."

Simon overheard Greg and you conversing, but paid scant close attention to you two, not bothering to digest your words as his thoughts focused on taking a deep inhalation in with a broad smile on his face, standing in front of his own residence. He was handcuffed, where he is accompanied by the two policeman officers behind him.

It wasn't difficult; it shouldn't have been difficult, but some pieces didn't quite fit in, and Sherlock lightning-fast assumed Simon Finn was the Jersey, and if he thrust them harder than necessary, you were able to predict Sherlock might break and ruin the entire puzzle, just like he only discovered 'who did' as opposed to 'why did that.'

"Don't get any ideas." You attained for Finn's handcuffs, and he takes his attention in unambiguously, almost latching on you for a moment. He gave you the typical greeting green signal and your petite smile spread with your dead outstares. "Good to see you again, cunning."

There was nothing to toy with, because the only thing written on your serene face was the phrase 'do not try me.'

"How's it going with your bracelets?"

"Well, I can't feel my fingers if that's what you're asking." Repiled you with a voice lower, like he attempt to convinced for some of your less generous tolerance. "You gonna help me out or what?" Now he asks in a more hushed but inquiring tone, to which you merely shrug and tighten his cuffs even more. "How's that?"

"Thats so kind of you."

Simon, move away with your arms folded behind you. "So, is this where you confessed that this was your treasure map?" You grumbled, with your eyebrows barely wrinkled. He simply sends you nods, and you bring him on the inside with Greg.

As soon as you notice the stairs, which must lead to the second and third floors, an officer approaches to report you. "All things is fine. There are actually two squatter nests, but they appear to be split." You drew your lips down to him, still not sure. “Alright. Just give us five."

It was Simon's turn to stare out at the view of his own house, which was visibly tense. You gave him a quick glance before poking his leg with your foot and angling your head. "Start the tour, boss."

"Here's Jersey, using my house as a treasure trove after running." The three of you subsequently followed Simon, who was waiting for Greg to unlock the door room on the second floor, but he was handcuffed. 

"It appears that nobody has been here in years, Finn." Greg makes a remark while pacing back and forth in Simon's sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Confusion can be heard in Simon's speech. "I didn't say he'd be here to greet us either."

"There are still traces of footsteps." You shrugged, swinging your hands a little as you maintained your constantly wandering. Cast your torch towards a heap of papers. "That's all the newspaper has to say about 'J,'...I'm sure he's impressed by his reputation."

“He is.”

"Well," you breathe in, stating your thoughts and ignoring - or rather, hardly hearing - Simon's inputs. "In my little hope, I didn't plan to investigate any of the evidences for the aleatory case that simply does not make sense for months, Finn."

Simon is looking at you with furrowed brows and a thoughtful, perplexed gaze. "...You want me to tell you who's Jersey?"

"That was before we ever met, actually." You explain quickly, your face screwed somewhat in irritation. "If you're just trying to fool us, I'd say your death is impending." You breathe out eventually coming to a halt.

"From what I can tell, the killer was murdering for fun, for his own amusement, carving J's and dropping clues just to form tight headache knots in detectives' skulls." 

"That's the cost of doing business; I'd make a provision." You responded, then turned your focus towards Greg. You did this for a long, pacing around Simon's room, fingertips pushing together as you leaned your face against your hands, as if it would help you think better.

Greg's phone started ringing at that point. Reminding you that you squandered those five minutes looking for your restricted blocked hints. "For God's sake. I needs take this. Y/N, are you going to-"

"We're good." You notice Greg's worried eyes, despite your assurance and a little faith in Simon, making him goes away.

"Do you still think I'm making this stuff up?" Simon questions, almost cautiously.

"Less or less, if you don't play a game on me; the real Jersey is still running around the playground..." You state, emphasising your words as irritation rises once more. "And you can't offer me any proof that you're not Jersey anyway." 

"I can get you proof," Simon grunts as he approaches you. "No. You can't." You murmur, knowing your body despised practically instantly as he began confronting you. "You are correct. Not like this, I can't."

Your sternum is flailing in wrath, and when he speaks to you in that gentle voice of his, it almost feels as if you are bound by the lies. "You're nuts. I'll remind you that you just have a few hours to be executed." 

His frowns and glances elsewhere, a pout forming in his lips as you continue to hold your gaze up to his. "Look, you're correct. He left me high and dry, dying with the accusations I didn't do. I’m sure he won't feel like his ass has caught fire if I'm still in jail, as a soon-to-be executed criminal." 

You creak in response, feeling a sense that you shouldn't be wasting time like this when you should be working on the case, but when Simon continues, your intestinal tract seems to come back to live. "But now that I'm on my own, I can entice him and serve him up on a silver platter."

"Even if you are right, I have no right in offering what you need, Finn. Didn't you forget you're on death row?"

"For crimes that I didn't commit. Did you forget?" You slumped and went silent, not realising Simon was moving approaching. "Look at me. I could knock you out in an instant. The police would buy it, and we could make it look real, but I assure you that you and your tiny Marney would be perfectly unharmed."

Your lung is shrieking incoherently, -how could Finn be cognizant of this? You know how Sherlock always noticed an insignificant illness that affected you for months and you gave him your positive pregnancy results from the test, but soon you two were busy and forgot to mention it.

The stronger the air you breathe, the sharper your intuitive sense contrasts with the beams of light from the retreating obscurity you generate...

Simon Finn has had more contact with Sherlock than anybody else. Perhaps more than you realise.

“Prisoner 75427 is requested to be returned to custody immediately.”

“This is officer 926 receiving request . Please stand by for confirmation.”

The rejection of your attempt to ignore the reality blasted forth and back over your head. You cast one final glance at Simon and decide to believe in Simon Finn. You close your eyes after unlocking Simon's shackles and grasp the handcuffs key in your palm. Simon is already liberated as a result of your decision. 

He waited for your signal in quiet and reserved until you finally looked up at him. Your answer reinforces what he already knows.

“Do it.”

You awoke at Sherlock's flat with an aching neck. Mrs Hudson stated that he has been out with Greg since the officer brought you here an hour ago while arranging for you to change clothes and be ready for teatime with her.

Teatime and the wedding plan that the elderly woman advised were both superb, although your hand couldn't remain still as you discovered Finn's literally unreliable signal on your phone.  

Don’t bother catching a cab despite the fact that it began to rain meanwhile, feeling that walking your path back home would be calming to your nerves at least slightly so. You walk out the Baker street fast, hands stuck in your coat pockets, hair starting to stick to your forehead from the small but persistent raindrops. You bumps into one or two persons on your way, all of them attempting to escape the rain or fighting against the wind that attempted to take their umbrellas, but there's not a single worry on your mind despite the fact that this case was, after all, unsolved still.

You were already more than halfway to your destination when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you clicked your tongue, thinking it was Sherlock since you had just realised he had left you in his flat and you had always failed to follow following.

Nothing could possibly have prepared you for the text. Not even from Finn, as the red dot continued to run, heading and pausing at St. Bartholomew's Hospital for several minutes.

from: unknown

let's meet up? just us two…

— J

Never did you reply to a text so fast. And then, unexpectedly, a harder grip grabs your limb and takes you across into the area between blocks around the corner of the street. You could be recognised by the scent of nicotine mingling with body odour that you've been living with for years of age; it’s Sherlock.

“What the hell are you think?” He goldsmiths his quivering hands passionately, prompting your hold to tighten even more, disregarding your broken appearance further. “I know you let Jersey go.” 

In a rage of fury, you poured your scorn and suspicion on Sherlock back to Him, struggling to breathe. "Can you just listen to me?"

"Listen to you?" His inhales are sharp, and he counterfeits a witty smile that persists on his entire face. “I did- listen to you. And that's exactly how this happened!”  

You let yourself to get carried away in an ocean of rage, not his, but yours. There's no need for you to talk to Sherlock at this point if you want to break free from his clutches and walk away with no apology for whatever you've done.

The chosen location wasn't thought to be the most strategic on Jersey's part, being one of the few open fields on the outer edges of the city where buildings had yet to be built, but it wasn't a bad option either. Although there were houses nearby, there was no one on the streets; the mild rain became heavier, and the sand and dirt beneath your shoes turned to mud as you approached closer to the centre, a careful gaze observing the surroundings.

There wasn't a single person or sound but the static sounds of the pouring rain — Until, at last, someone turned around the corner of a werehouse, feet going to the wide field where you stood.

You blinked, wondering whether the poor weather was distorting your eyesight; nevertheless, at least for today, nothing could be worse than the battle with Sherlock. But no one was deceived by the guy approaching, and your expression was filled with perplexity.

"Sherlock?" You call, unclear how he could have followed you there, and afraid of why he would.

"Hello again, love." He welcomes you quietly as always, pausing solely a few metres away, a smile forming on his lips as his head tilts. "Did you miss me?"

You are certain that you have forgotten how to breathe.

The enormous sighs, as if the sudden revelation had sapped all vitality from your body, depriving you of your confidence and left you fatigued, bewildered, conjectured, and all that you had been sleeping with and stuck lingering inside you from the beginning of this case. You're still floating in a mass of haze and don't want to accept it, although his sharp glance aren't going to allow you to do so. You fail to locate your own voice though the question you pose to him. "Why?" 

"Why not?" Sherlock hums back, lifting his arms slightly to emphasise your query and taking tiny steps closer. "I thought it would be fun. Such a young man, Sherlock who inspired by detective novels and films, was duped by his own thinking but he always solved it all. Everyone is proud of whoever is in existence and has written history; they have faith in that. Am I horribly adorable, darling?"

You shake your head in bewilderment, your throat aching near to explode. "Finn—"

"That complete moron. As screwed up as we both are." Sherlock whistled as if he were telling you an intriguing tale. "Simon did whatever I ordered him to do like a puppy eager to impress. Still extremely efficient. I basically needed to give him a name and my favourite method of murder. Isn't he a fantastic actor? Even the murderer, who actually me, and his manipulation all of you as the true murderer, he should feel honoured."

He flicked on the lighting, enabling you to spot Simon's corpse on ground covered in bloodstream, and you were certain he was murdered before you came. Sherlock tosses the body away with one of his foot as he begins to approach you. "Now I sent him back to where he belonged... quicker than on death row."

"So all this time-"

"Of course, baby." Sherlock squeaks. "It's always been me. It was me long before I produced Jersey." He continues, his smile widening as he notices the way you express yourself. "I've wanted to play a game with you ever since we met. I mean, young detective Marney, who believes 'Me' can figure out a person's history just by looking at their clothes- you're quite naïve to the actual world. You believed you had matured, but wasn't it all a façade?"

The lips of yours emerges then shuts, and you're not quivering from the thunderous downpour.

"Who do you suppose left the clues in all those murder cases we solved, love? Who do you think led us to success, to solving it so effortlessly?"

Hanging your head down, his words are like razor-sharp knife cuts, slicing your assaulted edge into parts, and you have no voice appealed to him to stop.

"It was me. I killed them and then watching you be so appreciative of me, of your incredible talents when you were, in fact, just a child fitting jigsaw pieces together." He amusement. "I must admit that I became fond of you at some point, which is why I thought it was about time I put up an encore monumental game for you. Feelings mess you up, darling. I won't be the one to fall."

"You slaughtered your friends and mine," you exhale, unsteady, your thoughts far too rapid and far too loud for someone who has just been locked in time, tossing one great fist slamming over his face. "And I broke down for months over them!"

"Of course we did," He say. Sherlock responds casually, his brows rising high in his forehead as he attracts you away. You're standing staggeringly, like if he's left a gigantic hole inside you, and you cannot stabilise yourself from being off-balance. "How could you have trusted me otherwise? You figured me out several times back there, Y/N, but you're too far away to prove it. I needed to make sure you wasn't believe that it was me till now."

Dazedly looking at the muddy ground, rendered speechless. After a little while, your body yields and you collapse to your knees, shed tears streaming down your cheeks. For so long, you let your people down since the invisible strings veiled themselves by your neglect; it was all right in front of you.

"It's going to be okay, baby." Sherlock coos once again, and despite the fact that you're no longer gazing at him, you heard the cocking of a pistol. Sherlock kneels in front of you, his free hand caressing your cheek, and his lips press against your soaked forehead. "I truly cherish you; nobody ever loves me as you do, I vow. I'll do it without making you feel anything."

Sherlock stands up again, and you still don't move, not even a twitch of a muscle.

Reality settles in, leaving you devoid of responses and options; instead, you accept it.

You lost by your trust.

The cold metal of the gun's mouth presses on the top of your head, and you sense a smirk on Sherlock's lips. "Any last words, my love?"

The tiniest shudder travels down your spine, and your eyes close.

You smile. Because he was correct; this is for the record. The victor writes history. History is littered with liars. If he lives and you die, his words is written into stone and yours is lost.

Sherlock notices the wry grin on your sorrowful face. "I wasn't pregnant; there was no trace of it. It's only my amazing talents to falsify my pregnancy test- and you're trapped-" His pistol mouths thrashed on the skin of your cheek, and you could feel lifeblood running through your pearly whites. 

"And I spent my spare for engagement to little brat for GPS monitoring." You push yourself to crack a smile only to see Sherlock's grin widen. "Indeed, she's still wearing that stupid ring. She's even come here by herself to seek out her own tomb." 

Sherlock's about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But that’s only if he lives, and you die.

Sherlock was incorrect in the meantime of the twinkling of an eye. And your hoarse voice demonstrates that. "You think it's just us here?"

“What?”

The death Finn then stands up and pulls the rope from the ceiling down, falling over Sherlock's. You observe his centre body becoming intertwined and these ropes hanging him up there with his scream; as soon as his pistol drops, you rise up and move away from where you entered this warehouse.

Greg and the other cops make goosesteps from everywhere, and you notice his exhausted and grateful gaze from his restless eyes, so you stroke his shoulder before disappearing into the stillness of the night.

Simon approached Greg with his stump feet by the sticky fake blood, thrilled by the sight he seen. “You talked too much Mr detective.”

closure

Strange wind blowing throughout the empty place it may be gliding to. You're standing in front of a black marble headstone, surrounded by greenery and the chirping of songbirds. The flowers are now at the foot of the monument. You stare at the beautiful black stone that just says SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sigh, drop your head, and stand there but you moved to another black stone. You figure looks to have the name of Molly and Mycroft etched straight across your chest, as reflected in the polished marble of the headstone. You lower your head even lower and cover your eyes with one hand. Knowing that all of the corpses doesn't appear to underneath here, rather in the mortuary. Then your phone vibrates with an incoming call.

"They say he murdered himself by drowning himself with hydrochloric liquids," Greg slows down with his own gasp. "Only hydrogen chloride vapours create considerable difficulty breathing when- you know, just cleaning the restroom." 

You're now in the car, patiently absorbing his words through the phone conversation before signal the light to turning the car into Smithfield Street, and Greg continues to explain what he knows. "In his instance, continuing to breathe at such high rates may be fatal, but he had absorbed it into his body... in his own way, for several weeks in after bang up there, not just by breathing it in."

You two leave a little time of stillness, holding the call and sinking into contemplation of the whole situation that happened until you are the one who smashes it. "I'm in the mortuary now. Which room?"

Greg opens the door behind you, his strained voice in the queue just acting as if you could see his burning face, which was only fighting not to sob in front of you. You drew him into your shattered hug, and it seemed that for all the secrets of the Sherlock Holmes's, he left you two to feel grief like dying while remaining alive

“You may need some alone time here.”

Every step you take to get closer to the lifeless corpse is precisely the same as when you first met, but there is no longer any of Sherlock's façade lies.

You leaned down and pulled aside the sheet, uncovering Sherlock lying beneath it, pallid and bare, his eyes closed. Tenderly strokes his curling bangs hairline, long lashes and nose bridge, which once it always necked at your cheeks, yours.

'S.Holmes' possessions' package captures your glance from the corner of your field of vision.  You snatched it and saw your golden pen, the long-awaited souvenir for you and his first anniversary. It's been roughly four years since then. And while you were putting it back, you saw a torn paper on it, and there was Sherlock's handwriting; uncleared but still could recognizable text.

‘May we meet again, Y/N’

a/t: well me too ;_; sorry guys if the ending wasn’t what you thought 🥺🥹 murderer sherlock smell so nice to me oi and for this story ive my lovely bestie to help me created murderer stage name! its @lady-harvey ♥️ my gurl, tysm again ♥️❣️❣️now i think i need to take a little break from writing 😭 but im still here just back to manage my undone work and ill brb asap but for sure ill still online here huhu, not gonna mia in this soon hue hue

[biskael]

❝ do you believe in fate? ❞

THAT GIRL WAS SPEAKING . AGAIN . not that it seemed like there was any way she would really be silenced . and he had no reasons to truly torture her . any secrets , he could've rung out of her long ago , and no doubt she had a few worth hearing . surely , the grandmaster would know better what to do with her than he .

of course , healers were always interesting to him . or whatever it was that she'd possessed . quilge hadn't gotten a better look at it , yet . mending the body , but not quite mending the mind . it always made for surprising torture sessions . pain that only stopped , for but a moment , only for it to begin all over again . the torment , circular and unending . something quilge would never truly tire of . not that he'd laid a finger on her , besides gripping her by the scruff like a whelpling & shoving her out of his way . she was just mortal . he could smell the mortality on her .

still , with knife-sharp consideration , quilge reflected on her words . something so profound to just ... say . he wouldn't tell her that he was struck , so suddenly . his heart , its beat going rigid for a breath , when the first face appeared within the forest of his mind . pale , beautiful , slender & dangerous . tall , so monstrously tall . the most beautiful man he had ever seen . reeking of blood . one-eyed . hungry enough to tear anyone apart & strip the remains from their blood-slickened bones . he was his . and he was his . the most prominent of all . out of anything , out of everything , that had to have been fate . how else could've two , so torn by war & born stars apart , have met ?

the hunter flickers his cold gaze her way . the other men are busily setting up their camps once more . shouting orders at each other , hoisting cloth & steel up on high . another day of travelling to the teleporter . then , he figures , she would be out of his company . so , he spares her a humoring answer :

" at times , yes .

i do believe that my consort & i were fated to belong to each other ... there's no other way i could describe such a phenomena . a perfect monster was created for a perfect hunter . " a pause , recalling . " in other ways , i haven't thought . for many years , i never gave it any thought .

pray that satiates your curiosity ."

GOD OF WAR : RAGNAROK STARTERS . ACCEPTING .

for @inouehs

[cupcakes-and-pain]

Rat: Chapter 3

Rat’s first day of torture! Isn’t this exciting? This shorter than what I’d like, but I was having trouble writing a torture scene, so 🤷‍♂️

Rat’s capture Whumper’s Friends

CW: captivity, stress position, multiple whumpees, manhandling, blindfold, torture, broken bones, believing they’re going to die/expecting death, kicking, begging, crying, passing out, stabbing

———

Whumpee shivered and groaned. His hands were pulled and tied far behind his back, putting a lot of strain on his back. This burning type pain was the worst pain he had ever been in. It was hard to imagine that any pain could be worse than this. Would he be left like this forever? This was agony! Anything would be better than this. It had to be.

The door thundered open and everything went quiet. The others, who he had almost forgotten about, all went silent. After a while, he had stopped noticing the sound of breathing and the occasional muffled groan. At least, until it ceased.

“Who’s turn is it? What do you think, my prey? Come now, it’s just a bit of pain. Scream once if you want to be chosen.”

If it were possible for things to become quieter, they did.

“No volunteers? No one wants to take one for the team? Shame. Hmm... I’ll go with this one for today.”

Whumpee was pulled to his feet and he yelped. His heart stopped briefly before seemingly beating one thousand times a minute. His legs failed underneath him, although from stress, fear, or days without use he couldn’t tell.

“Tsk tsk. I don’t like difficult prey. Come on.”

Whumpee was dragged so forcefully and suddenly that he kicked out of instinct. He hit someone and there was a hiss of pain, but that was the end of it. He hoped they were okay.

Whumper deposited him in a new room and took off the blindfold. He took a glance around and immediately missed the piece of fabric. Ignorance was bliss, unlike this. There were more knives, whips, and canes than he could’ve ever imagined. Plus so many other things, few that he knew the name of, although it seemed that there were many muzzles, tasers, ropes, and a… fire poker? That could not be good. Tears began forming in his eyes.

Unfortunately, he did not get to see much else, because a second later his face was flushed with the cement floor as a heeled boot dug into the back of his neck, after shoving him down.

“Aahhh!! My nose! Aghhh, I- ohh,” he sobbed.

“Save your breath. That little broken bone is the least of your worries. Tell me, little rat, just what the fuck were you thinking? Taking my money? Worthless thing.”

Her boot released his neck only to connect with his ribs a moment later. Over and over again, the blows raining down, the cracking of his bones underneath the steel tip of her shoes. The pain was blinding and it seemed far too many kicks came down upon of sensitive shoulders and back for it to be an accident. Or maybe he was just imagining things. His life, just as worthless as she said, was over. He was a dead man. At least it would all be over soon.

He started crying and wailing, or maybe he already was. But none of his tears were out of sadness. The was peace in accepting his death. But Whumper did not like this.

“Why are you whining, bitch?“ She grabbed him by as hair and pulled him up to her eye level before spitting in his face. “I don’t remember giving you permission to cry.”

“I’m sorry, I-“

She threw him back to the floor, cutting him off instantly. Then she picked him back up, tears still falling from his eyes despite how much he tried, and then he went flying. He landed on his back with both his arms twisted all the wrong ways and promptly blackout from the sheer amount of pain.

- - -

When he awoke, he was strapped to a table, his face drenched after he apparently continued to sob in his sleep. When he tried to move, his arms screamed at him in agony and his vision blacked out for a second. He did not try to move again.

Whumpee found himself missing the stress position as Whumper noticed his consciousness and approached him, knife in hand.

“Good morning, Rat. You left far too early. And that, my disgusting fleabag, is not going to fly.”

“Please, I’ll take it well, just some mercy, please-“

“Mercy? Ha, mercy! You’re funny, little rat. Too bad you took what wasn’t yours. My friends would definitely like you, but they go to easy on traitors and you need a thorough punishment for what you move done. Maybe you will meet them one day.”

She leaned down and whispered in his ear. “But until then, it’s just you, me, and these knives.”

She plunged one into his arm and he screamed, tears falling from his eyes.

“Oh no, that won’t do. I thought I told you, I. Hate. Crying.”

She emphasized each word with another stab into his left arm before turning and seeming to study his right one.

Yep, he missed his stress position. Turns out, there were things worse than that.

———

Tag list: @kim-poce @lumpofwhump just ask if you want to be added or removed

[havenoffandoms]

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

[kstewdeux]

Separation Anxiety

Summary: Inuyasha is not handling the birth of his child well.

 Letting out a shuddering breath, Inuyasha’s hands trembled as he pressed his fingertips against his temples and fought against his better judgment to stay by the Sacred Tree while Kagome suffered inside Kaede’s hut. If it wasn’t for the fact he was absolutely confident that Sango, Kaede and Rin knew what they were doing, he’d be losing his god damn mind. Still, it wasn’t like he didn’t know what Kagome’s body looked like – that being the entire reason this was happening – so why was it so wrong to be in there, huh? What moron decided a husband couldn’t be there to hold his wife’s hand or try to help or…or welcome his own baby into the world or be there for their first breath or...

Or…

Or…

Oh god…

Taking a gulp of air, Inuyasha pressed his shaking hands against his eyelids before pulling them taught and outward in an attempt to relieve the tension permeating every fiber of his being.

A soft whine escaped him as his blood went cold and his heart skipped a beat.

Kagome was screaming. In pain. In misery. If there was one thing that gave him a heart attack every damn time it happened, it was her screaming. Especially if it was in pain. So much screaming was occurring. Too much. And…and she was asking for him. She was asking for him and was being shot down and Miroku had straight up sealed the hut so he couldn’t answer her calls.

He was just expected to be out here all calm and patient like childbirth wasn’t something that could go horribly, horribly wrong.

Because of some bullshit about it being a woman’s business.

Because all he’d be doing in that room was be a distraction.

Because it’d be bad luck.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, the exhale that followed was broken and shallow.  Three years he’d waited for her to come back through the well. Three long, painful years where she was kept from him. This wasn’t supposed to happen again and yet...

She was somewhere he couldn’t go. He couldn’t get to her even if he tried! It was the well all over again but impossibly worse. He could still smell her. Hear her. It was torture. The screams...and…she was crying and asking for him…

The screams…

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The hitching gasping sounds he was making sounding strange against the backdrop of softly chirping birds and gently rustling tree branches.

“I have some news for you,” Miroku’s weary voice quietly offered making Inuyasha’s heart plummet to the bottom of his stomach. When the hell did the monk get here and why did it sound like something was wrong? Something had to be wrong and he hadn’t been there…

Kagome came back. Everything was supposed to work out for them. Hadn’t he gone through enough? Hadn’t she? And…and if something happened to Kagome and there was only the baby left, how was he supposed to take care of it?! He didn’t know anything about that kind of shit. Barely knew how to be a husband and he royally screwed that up on an almost daily basis. What if neither of them made it, his whole family gone in a heartbeat and he hadn’t even been there…

Didn’t even get to say goodbye...

A cold sweat began breaking across Inuyashsa’s forehead as he tried to steel himself for the bad news he knew was incoming. Tried being the operative word.

Meanwhile, Miroku subtly cringed at his introduction that he belatedly realized should have been phrased in any other way.

“As Kagome-sama is from a time so different from our own, perhaps arrangements need to….” Miroku tried to amend before trailing off when Inuyasha began to hyperventilate – pressing his hands over his hands over his nose and mouth like somehow he could stop his nervous breakdown.

Again, the monk cringed at the acknowledgment that his statements were not helping his friend’s nerves in any way whatsoever. He needed to be more direct. Quicker to the point perhaps.

“Allow me to rephrase. I believe, and Sango has agreed, that breaking with tradition seems…appropriate,” the monk offered with no lack of sympathy as he offered his friend a reassuring smile and tilted his head to get a better look at the half-demon’s face, “After all, Kagome-sama has been asking for you and confided in Sango that in her era men are regularly present during the birthing process. We see no reason why that should not be the case here.”

Still struggling to breathe, it took longer than it should have for those words to register. Once they did, dilated amber eyes opened and searched the monk’s face.

“I-I can g-go in?” Inuyasha managed before immediately and unsteadily getting to his feet.

The monk held up one hand. The half-demon froze – every fiber of his being trembling uncontrollably as he waited to be told he misunderstood what was said. That his wife and baby were dead or hurt or dying or…

“Only if you calm yourself first,” Miroku countered gently and Inuyasha visibly sagged in relief, “If you are to go in, you need to ease her nerves and not distract her from the task at hand. In your current state, Kagome-sama will undoubtedly be more concerned with your well-being than with her own.”

Inuyasha let out another shuddering breath and nodded jerkily – clearly trying to hone whatever it was that allowed him to stare death in the face and not flinch. For someone who, by all outward appearances, was as reserved emotionally and distant as Inuyasha always had been, this reaction was most unsettling and uncharacteristic.

Then again…

As Miroku mulled over this development in an attempt to understand, Inuyasha rubbed his hands over his neck and messaged its base – turning his neck this way and that in an attempt to crack it. A subtle roll of his shoulders and a few long breaths….

“Don’t be an idiot. Course I’m not gunna cause problems,” he scoffed cockily – something which would have been more believable had the half-demon’s voice not cracked. Then his confident smirk faded and he licked his lips, “But…in the future, no matter what might happen, don’t lock her away somewhere I can’t go, alright? She always wants me there. Always. Don’t forget that.”

Violet eyes softened in sudden understanding and the monk nodded his acceptance of this surprisingly confident demand.

“Wash your face before you go in,” Miroku advised sagely before taking a step closer and grabbing his friend’s shoulder – giving it a light squeeze of reassurance while the half-demon continued trying to collect himself. A moment passed, then two and the monk added with a somewhat wicked smile, “And know that Kagome may very well curse your existence and damn you to the depths of hell but that this is very common and not reflective of her true feelings.”

Amber eyes widened in mild horror and Inuyasha’s mouth fell partially open.

“W-wha…”

“Enjoy,” the monk laughed softly before turning back towards the village while a somewhat shaken half-demon quickly passed him up at a dead run. The monk took his time as he smiled to himself and shook his head. In retrospect, they really should have foreseen that ‘locking’ Kagome away from the man who tried the well every three days might be triggering.

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 days 12 + 13

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

Fracture | Dislocation | “Are you here to break me out?”

Technically, we’re getting down to the duel at Zuara. But that manifests differently in the AU. With more...torture, basically.

CW for ummm where to start. Imprisonment, solitary confinement, darkness, torture, beatings, SA, psychological fuckery, drugging, restraint, psychiatric malpractice, personal data and privacy breaches, oh yes, limb dislocation, childbirth mention, allusions to rape and SA...😬 oh and cave ins! Flooding. Violent use of stationery. Blood. Homophobic slurs. Threats of the care system and the use of lobotomy. Can I just say CW Graham Reid Malett? It would save time.

It’s also about 7,500 words, I know tumblr isn’t the ideal platform for reading, it will go on ao3 at the end of the month with everything else.

So anyway, repeat after me: Whump Room! Whump Room! Whump Room!

I’m going to go and do penance for this now k bye. So much love to all my gremlins who want to read this! <3

---

Notes: Vadan is Jerott’s old sannyasin name, as Geetesh is GRM’s name. Baron Morgan is the Aga Morat. Khaireddin is Kailam/Cai. Kiaya Çalışkan is Kiaya Khatún. If anything else needs explaining do ask!

---

Francis wasn't certain how long he'd been in the tunnels below the ashram. His days began whenever he woke - or, more often, was woken - in darkness, and ended the same way. He had become Graham Reid Malett's latest living experiment, and as far as he knew, his life only mattered because it protected the lives of others.

Oonagh was alive, he had been told, though he hadn't seen her; her son - Francis' son - was alive. There was the boy Joleta had given birth to at an age it appalled Francis to even imagine; there was Philippa, supposing that her cover was safe as she worked with both children in the nursery; Archie and Salah, who would be looking for Francis, risking themselves the closer they came to discovering to the truth; Marthe, brought into all this against her will, seething at finding she couldn't just leave; and Onophrion, Gaultier, the boy Mikál who Philippa had formed a bond with...a whole community for Swami Geetesh to fuck with in the cause of keeping Francis compliant.

It had been made exquisitely clear to him that help was not coming. It would not be permitted to reach him, even if it were to be offered.

Since the first time he'd been brought rudely to consciousness, Swami Geetesh had let him believe that Jerott was already lost - an accident on the road as he had tried to escape and get help.

Francis couldn't say how many days ago it had been, but he recalled the sight of Geetesh's fascinated expression, lit in patterns of jagged contrast by the lone, caged bulb affixed to the wall. "He won't be bringing anyone back for you, my dear, do you understand that?"

It was impossible to process in the unreality of the world Francis had found himself in. It simply wasn't comprehensible that Jerott might not exist any longer - it seemed far more likely that Francis himself had ceased to be, and had found himself in some auto-purgatory, smothered by his own worst nightmares.

Before this, he had been helping Onophrion and another of the sannyasins clear brush in the woods; someone had offered him a sip of water from a flask and he'd grimaced at the bitter, metallic taste, supposing that the bottle was new and hadn't been cleaned well. He didn't remember losing consciousness, had merely woken to find himself pinned to a narrow bed with Geetesh sitting next to him. His hands had been cuffed to the steel frame and nausea had scoured his body from the tips of his toes to his scalp.

Geetesh had scowled at the sound of Francis retching. "Pull yourself together. The facilities in here are limited - if you ruin these clothes and this mattress I shan't be able to bring you replacements."

He'd had to force down another spasm of acidic rebellion as he contemplated spewing directly into that smug face, but logic clamped down on the temptation swiftly. He needed to know where he was, what was happening, what on earth Graham Reid Malett intended for him now.

That, of course, had all been information that Geetesh had delighted in spooling out over various indefinable moments of consciousness. When he visited, Francis always woke to find himself chained to the bed; when he left it was usually when Francis was on the brink of passing out for one reason or another, and in no fit state to fight Geetesh for the door key.

The room had a door at each end -  they were sold, metal constructions. The floor was poured concrete and the walls and ceiling were bare rock. As well as the bed there was a stool and a heavy desk affixed to the floor, and a bare metal toilet bowl, like one would find in a prison, plumbed securely into the concrete. The light only came on when Geetesh arrived.

It emerged that Francis was being kept in this empty, soulless space in order to contribute to Geetesh's musical ambitions. Once Geetesh had explained his vision, he brought sound equipment down with him and set it up on the desk. The power source was outside the room, and a red extension cable trailed across the the desk from one of the doors, taking mixing decks, recording devices and other gadgets in its sockets. Sometimes it took Geetesh some time to set up the paraphernalia; sometimes all he did was press play on a battery powered cassette player and watch Francis' response. Once or twice he did not press play, but rather record, and those were the visits Francis resented most.

It turned out that Geetesh had been keeping archives of every one-to-one therapy or meditation session run out of the ashram, as well as recordings of the ambient trauma of collective samarpan sessions. He had some theories about human empathy, about the need some people felt to respond to the suffering shown by another.

"Listen to that," he might breathe, pausing the cassette after a pupil made a sound that weighed more than words - a sigh, a whimper, a groan of revelation. "What is it that makes us respond to music, Francis?

"The way the professional singer can channel feelings it isn't possible or desirable for us to express in our day to day lives. The kinds of feelings we may express instead in a closed therapy session. But it's always an act for the singer, isn't it, my lyrebird?

"You withold yourself, even when you are on stage. You perform. But what if your music was real? What if you let the audience have your real, authentic self? How much more cathartic might it be for all?"

When Geetesh depressed the button marked record, Francis knew it was time to be as silent as possible. Geetesh's approach varied - but never his goal of stripping Francis back to his 'authentic self'.

Sometimes he spoke to Francis like a psychiatrist might, leading him to the worst occasions in his life that Geetesh could summon: the year of slavery spent working for the New York mob, the disappearance of his young sister, the disaster in East Berlin, the night of misguided, narcotic-fuelled sex he'd shared with Geetesh's own sister. But, by and large, all these occasions that Geetesh knew about were a matter of public record already - and Francis had heard everything the world could throw at him regarding these moments. He didn't need Geetesh to tell him to regret his actions.

"And wouldn't you say that you enjoyed feeling important? Knowing that your music was worth killing over? You liked the idea of being a figurehead for freedom fighters...But a figurehead was all you were. Absolved of responsibility, merely a trinket for the serious men to display - free to deny it all...

"Of course, you let Eloise down. She trusted you, didn't she? She thought you could save her, offer her the life of luxury that would take her away from Gavin Crawford. But you're selfish, Francis. You didn't want to share. What if the world had loved her even more than you? You couldn't bear to let her in, so you drove her away. It's your fault she's never coming back.

"Those poor young things in Berlin - what a merry dance you led them on. Hope is the most dangerous weapon in a musician's arsenal, wouldn't you agree? To bring them the hope of acceptance - offering them the chance to be themselves even as you appeared in disguise - knowing that it would likely just get them killed...Was it worth it, for your career? How many times will you try the same trick - dying in order to boost your record sales?

"What you did to that girl is unconscionable. Unimaginable. She was nothing to you, was she? Just another little groupie you could teach a lesson to. Just a way of hurting me. But I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you, Francis? Having power over one so young. Testing the feeling of a nubile body beneath yours, showing her all the ways of the world she couldn't yet have experienced. You wanted to ruin her, and you got a thrill out of doing it."

These sessions left Francis calmly impassive. Geetesh was opening no new wounds, and when such accusations were thrown out only with the intention of getting a response from him, Francis was well-practised in acting indifferent. He already knew that the insinuations behind all Geetesh said could hurt him - but the pain was worst when Francis was the one carving blame into himself. And he had already hurt himself more deeply with those thoughts than Geetesh could possibly hope to do, lacking, as he was, the precise reasons why Francis already held himself fully accountable for the lives ruined and lost in the wake of their association with him.

So just as Francis declined to show any great emotion regarding his sordid past, Geetesh resolved to hide his own frustration at Francis' self-control.

This he managed some days better than others. Sometimes, the record button was pressed to catch the sounds of a clinical, thoughtfully-plotted beating - nothing serious enough to impede Francis' creative abilities, merely, as Geetesh called it, "A purgative. To help me to centre myself again. To remind me of the greater things that will be possible when you submit."

He would leave Francis with hidden bruises, scrupulous about wrapping his preferred implement in soft padding before the act. Afterwards, he might mix the new recording into a session taken from a group meditation and invite Francis to pick out his own grunts and cries among the screams of devotees letting loose.

Francis didn't know how many sessions of this he had endured when Geetesh decided to forcibly remind him of his obligations to those he loved.

He had already played dozens of tapes to Francis, narrating over other people's private confessions as though, by his intervention, he had collected the essence of each individual and contained it in a tidy arc: beginning, middle, end - and Geetesh's concluding moral. But on one occasion he woke Francis without preamble, leaving him in the darkness with only one track playing.

On it: a woman's voice - she had a Donegal accent - and the murmurs of a solicitous helper, someone with the disingenuous, soothing tones of a medical professional. Geetesh's own instructions, spoken too quietly to be heard precisely, and a bustle of activity and beeping monitors.

"You couldn't be there for the birth," Geetesh murmured from the darkness at the foot of Francis' bed. "So I thought I would preserve it for posterity."

Of course, this most precious of moments was accompanied by the pointed reminder that Geetesh expected some return for his generosity in sharing Kailam's first breaths - and that if Francis did not oblige him, he would make sure the relevant parties suffered.

It got him writing, at last. It forced him to compose, and it was, undeniably, inspirational.

Geetesh let Francis sit at the desk, uncuffed, and he lay on the bed, smiling, waiting for Francis to share what he had created.

Bitter, hopeless, and exasperated by the task, Francis finally exclaimed: "Don't you think the work might be more natural if I wrote about fatherhood from the perspective of one who is allowed to be a parent to their child?"

Geetesh stared at him dumbly for a moment, his brows raised and eyes wide. Then he rolled his head on the pillow and laughed uproariously at the ceiling. "You? Parent? I don't think so, little lyrebird. Besides, it's your pain that I want. That's what will sell best. The market for those sappy peans to parenthood is...limited."

Stupidly, after all the disdain and abuse that had fallen from his lips already, Francis found this got under his skin more than anything else had done  His grip tightened on his pen, and he imagined driving it into Geetesh's eyeball.

No. Early on, Geetesh had told him that there was a pager hidden on site, rigged to sent an automatic message out if Geetesh did not override it within a number of hours. The message would ensure that Francis' family was scattered to the four winds: that Cai would vanish into the adoption system and Oonagh would be sectioned, and who knew what else would happen to the others. Any harm to Geetesh risked triggering this if Francis could not search thousands of acres of land and find the pager in time - or if he couldn't guarantee an escape for them all before then.

Francis had only one very dim hope regarding this. It hinged on circumstances that were, regrettably, beyond his control, but he had to believe that nature hated Graham Reid Malett as much as he did.

He had managed to escape the confines of his dingy cell just the once, when, having administered a beating, Geetesh had removed Francis' cuffs and wandered over to the desk to jot some things down in a soft-bound notepad. Francis' limbs had taken the brunt of it that day - his upper arms felt puffy and weak, his legs shook, and the soles of his feet were in agony. He lay curled on the concrete floor, his breath ragged and pained, and he noticed that one of the heavy metal doors hadn't been fully closed. There was a light seeping in that wasn't the same colour as the dim yellow of the bulb in the room - this light was cooler, perhaps more natural. Francis' hopes rose - maybe freedom was closer than he had thought.

He rolled over with a groan so that he was close to the door, and Geetesh turned to look at him.

"Good, lyrebird. That's material we can work with," he said smoothly.

Francis waited, prone against the cold, hard floor, until Geetesh had turned away again. Then, summoning the strength to stand - simply because he had to - Francis got up with the aid of the wall and the door jamb, grasped the edge of the heavy metal door with his fingertips and wrenched it open, and stumbled into fresher air.

He had found himself at the foot of a vertical shaft lined with metal rungs. It seemed to rise endlessly, to the source of the cool, white light he had detected. He grimaced at the distance, though he moved towards the rungs with the intention of climbing.

But the nerves in his fingers tingled from the blows that had been struck to his upper arms, and the pressure of one rung under the sole of his bare, whipped, foot was unbearable.

He had leaned his head against one of the cold metal bars and gasped back a sob of anguish, and then, even as Geetesh's steps casually approached from behind, he had noticed the water and minerals beading on the surface of the rock and he had recalled the maps he'd seen of the area.

Miles of unmapped tunnels and aquifers; cave systems that people disappeared into never to be seen again; unpredictable, changeable arroyos; old wells and sinkholes; a land that was as restless and vindictive under modern human occupation as an unbroken animal. When Francis had been removed to this cell, they had been approaching autumn and the rains. Was it too much to hope for, that this recently dug tunnel might not be able to withstand the forces of the seasons when they were unleashed?

Geetesh had wrapped his arms around Francis' biceps and torso and plucked him from the ladder like he was plucking a bug from a tree trunk. He had deposited Francis heavily on the bed, face first among sheets that already now smelled of Geetesh, and he had left immediately, taking his recording equipment and mixing deck with him, switching the light off and slamming the door.

But since then, Francis had thought often of the damp wall and what might be behind it. He didn't consider himself a man of faith, but he prayed to that wall and to the aquifer that lay behind it, and he willed it to break through and sweep both him and Geetesh away.

He tried not to let it work its way into the songs he wrote - this flood imagery and the potential of primordial power that lurked, always, in his subconscious. In this way, he found that he could write the miserable memoir Geetesh craved, while even so retaining his true feelings - his authentic self - from his tormentor.

It still wasn't easy to pluck what Geetesh desired from the knotted tangle of horrors that passed for emotions in that cell, and writing was a constantly draining task. Francis offered up his own self-loathing regarding the events Geetesh had questioned him about - he wrote confessions daily - or hourly - or at the very least every time consciousness arrived, wearing pink linens and a cruel smile on its face. But he did not preface them with forgive me, Father. He wrote for the impatient, seething morass that was the public court of opinion, knowing that no amount of sugar-coating with circumstance could absolve him.

The titles came and came, the confessions poured forth until there was almost an album's worth:

Galley Boy

The Sympathiser

Blood and Treason

The Tragic Moves

Strange Refuge

An Accident Happens

Distress is Not Released

The Lusty May

Flaming June

Pawn in Frankincense

Francis was at his lowest ebb. The tunnel he was in was deep enough below ground that he still had no inkling of the season. Wherever Geetesh arrived from, he never came direct from the outdoors, wet or bundled up against the cold. For all Francis knew they might have passed through winter and emerged again into spring.

But no - when Geetesh got close to him under the dim yellow bulb, Francis could see that his summer colour was absent. His skin was pale and his hair was a more muted gold. He smelled of wood smoke as much as patchouli, and the food he brought Francis was heartier, warming stuff.

He also seemed to sense that Francis' inspiration was beginning to wither, that his resources were running low, and that he could no longer push himself along only on the empty fumes of fear and stubbornness. He brought the tape player back in.

"I decided to share something special with you today, lyrebird," Geetesh told him. Settling at the foot of Francis' bed, cross-legged, his feet bare, he laid the tape player down between them like he was a teenager about to present a mixtape to their crush. "I'm sure you miss our foolhardy young friend almost as much as I do - and I thought you might like to hear his voice again."

Francis sat with his back to the headboard, frowning as he sought after Geetesh's meaning.

But then Geetesh pressed play, looked at Francis with mischief in his eyes and - to Francis' horror - pulled his linen top off. "It's one of my favourite sessions," he said by way of explanation. "I like to be comfortable when I listen to it. We made such a breakthrough! Ah, what might have been..."

He placed his large hands on his knees and drew an extravagantly deep breath that was designed to show off every muscle in his abdomen and chest - and the mastery which he had over them all. His wooden mala hung over his skin, and on it, the bearded face of Shree Rajneesh smirked at Francis on Geetesh's behalf.

Soon, two voices began to speak, and Francis closed his eyes when he recognised who Geetesh's patient - or pupil, or disciple, or whatever he called them - was in this session.

The accent was unmistakeable: Kelvingrove via Paris. Abrupt phrasing, heated and passionate one minute, stunned and defensive the next. A little younger, a little higher than it had been the last time Francis had spoken to him - cigarettes and booze had brought it down to something with rougher edges. But it was Jerott Blyth, and he was talking to Geetesh about a cassette he'd bought at a gas station.

The album he mentioned was Lymond's third, recorded with Will Scott, Christian Stewart and Turkey Mat. He seemed to have spent some time listening to it, to the point where Geetesh termed it an obsession and began to probe into how Jerott came to know the singer whose skill he praised so highly.

Francis, his eyes closed, remembered sleepless nights of innocent mischief in Carlisle. He remembered jamming at the youth hostel, swapping cassettes, raiding charity shop record bins, singing together, drinking together, singing together again and going back to the hostel to play guitar together again, and never wanting the month to end.

He still couldn't really fathom the thought that Jerott was truly gone - he had seemed indestructible, not least after surviving the fire and the cyanide and the delerium tremens. Not least in the wake of the betrayal he had felt when he'd discovered what Francis had done to keep them safe at Baron Morgan's Oasis, and the way he had pushed past that hurt in order to give the glorious, rousing, ecstatic performance he'd shared with Francis on their last night at the Oasis.

Francis had always supposed that Jerott, despite a propensity for finding trouble, would outlast him by a lifetime, would be the one to keep playing Francis' songs long after others forgot him. And now Francis found that the lack of him was an open wound that Geetesh had finally learned he could access.

On cue, Geetesh leaned forward and prodded Francis' leg. "Do you hear, my sweet? Did you know he thought that of you?"

The tape played, and Francis could not open his eyes as he heard the old conversation flow over him.

...

"Yet you say he's beautiful."

"Well, yes, but...so are...sunsets! I wouldn't have sex with a sunset."

"No. But a beautiful woman?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Then why not a beautiful man?"

"Well it's. It's not right. It's perverted. Bhagwan says we need to be balanced. He says... that's unnatural, unbalanced. The people doing it have just got into bad habits."

Geetesh chuckles; indulgent.

"Is that what it was, when you came to me in Pune?"

"I... that was different." His throat sounds dry.

"Oh? You don't find me beautiful, Vadan?" Geetesh is smiling; it can be heard in his rich voice.

Jerott's laughter is nervous.

"No, I...that is...not...beautiful. Um. I just. I suppose I found myself thinking about it."

"It?"

"...Sex. I guess. With..."

"A man?"

"You."

Silence crackles on the tape before Jerott speaks again: "And I couldn't move beyond it, like Bhagwan instructs us to. So. I thought...um. Trying it would help me move beyond."

"Even though it's a perversion?"

"Well...I didn't think you would...judge me."

"I'm not judging you, Vadan. I would never, ever judge you - not least for such an...innocent curiosity."

"Yes - curiosity! That was all." He sounds so relieved.

"Yes. Now tell me, if this boy you knew came here, to the ashram. If you lived with him as you live with the others, and you felt that - curiosity - would you not act on it?"

"Um. I don't. I don't know..."

"Think about it, Vadan. How did he make you feel? What was it like being around him?"

"I don't...I only knew him for a few weeks, it's silly, really."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You're minimising it. You're belittling your own feelings instead of acknowledging them, instead of seeing them clearly. They may make you uncomfortable, Vadan, but they are true, and real, and you. Did you love him?"

"Um. Maybe? I don't know. I never knew anyone like that before. Never...never felt like that before."

"You didn't have girlfriends?"

"Yeah, yeah of course. But I didn't love them. It was just...that was just fun, you know?"

"I understand, yes."

"But I wouldn't want to spoil it. We were friends. Maybe it couldn't have lasted if...if anything else had happened."

"At least, I think, you understand why I rejected you in Pune, then?"

Jerott sighs.

"It's the same?"

"Only you can say, naujavaa."

"I mean...maybe, when I left, maybe he could have persuaded me to stay."

"He didn't try?"

"No. Yes. But...not hard enough."

"You wanted to stay, then? Deep down, you wanted to be with him, to be in his band, to give up your fiancée and your father and follow this musician?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. It was different, when my dad was alive. When I thought I had a plan."

"I think, Vadan..." Geetesh's voice turns ever so soft, like a hand extended to a frightened animal. "I think you have been waiting for instructions ever since that time. You have been following the orders of those around you. The first decision you truly made for yourself was to come with me. Before then, you were shackled to this moment, to the hope that this boy would persuade you, would tell you what to do. You put that decision in his hands, and he didn't help you make the choice you wanted. So you absolved yourself of all choosing. Is that not so?"

Jerott draws a breath: sharp and sudden."Yes?"

"You were letting him rule you, letting the time he didn't try hard enough to persuade you to stay be the root from which all your problems stemmed."

"Yeah..."

"Good, Vadan, good! We have really made some progress today. Now your journey will involve moving past this boy, this love. He has hampered you for too long. We will go beyond him, you and I, and you will find that new loves appear."

...

Francis felt water on his cheeks. He'd cried at the sounds of Oonagh giving birth to Cai, but at nothing else that Geetesh had played. He hadn't expected to be confronted with anything that might make him feel in a way to rival that moment.

This, though, was a fist inside his chest all over again, a hand squeezing on his heart every time it tried to pump. It wasn't that he longed to be with the person he heard - not like he had needed, physically felt the compulsion to be at Oonagh's side when he had heard her animal roar and heard Cai cry out - but he found that a regret had been articulated by this recording that he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. He hadn't formed a callus over this injury, because he hadn't had the chance to build one up with preparatory, introspective self-flagellation.

He hadn't even thought that Jerott had wanted to be persuaded by him that night in Carlisle after the Solway Battle of the Bands. He had thought that arguing with Jerott about that would have been to show disrespect to his family and their priorities and customs. And he had never been at all certain of Jerott's feelings in those days - maybe Jerott hadn't been sure himself until he had gone to the ashram in Pune and discovered new depths to his being.

But really, Francis thought he was crying for what he knew Geetesh had done to the boy in the recording. For the knowledge that the replacement love offered by Geetesh had been poison from the start, and all his psychiatric language and half-truths only concealed the fact that he had been Jerott's new master and manipulator, the real chooser of his destiny. Francis was only swallowing down bile and tasting salt on his lips because of the knowledge of what Jerott had offered to Geetesh in Pune before Geetesh took it forcibly in the basement studio at St Mary's. Right under the bones of Francis' home, and he hadn't done a thing to stop it.

Jerott's words at the Oasis rang in Francis' memory: You fucking faggot!

Francis let out a sigh.

"Exquisite," Geetesh gloated. "I knew you would appreciate it."

"Fuck you..." Francis said wearily.

Geetesh's lips curled in a sneer. "How coarse. I expect more eloquence from you, pet. But I suppose, as you evidently care so much about our mutual second, you would like to hear about how I helped him to go beyond the base desires that were limiting him?"

Francis let his expression suffice as an answer. His body ached in ways that he could no longer enumerate or define; he couldn't say whether the sleep he was getting was too much or too little, but it wasn't at all restorative. Meal times were sporadic, and he couldn't remember the intervals between them because he was sure it changed each time. Sometimes he would wake to find Geetesh above him, his body pinning Francis to the mattress, his grip tight on Francis' jaw, and a razor in his free hand. Time couldn't even be measured by beard growth, although Francis found that he was getting confused about that process anyway - didn't it need light to grow? In short, he was in no position to stop Geetesh from monologuing about his achievements, but he doubted that this approach could wring much more material from him. He could only write with his 'authentic self' if he remembered what that was, after all.

Geetesh wasn't to be put off, though. He fingered the beads of his mala and gave a self-satisfied chuckle. "He thought I just needed to see your genius, little lyrebird."

Francis said nothing.

Geetesh took the cassette from the deck and put a blank in. He depressed the record button.

"That's why he invited me back. He thought he needed to save me, that if I could just see what he saw - how wonderful you are - we could all be one happy family."

Francis leaned his head against the stone above his headboard and closed his eyes again, envisaging a cleansing wave sweeping them both away, slamming their bodies against the uneven, jagged walls.

"As if I couldn't already see your genius. As if I wasn't already better equipped to understand you than he could ever be. As if we were his to share. He grew arrogant around you. You let him think he had more to offer than he did, and it was up to me to remind him of his place."

His breathing grew louder - Francis heard the excitement build in his voice as he recounted, blow by blow, what he had done.

He was recording himself - Francis didn't make a sound, just sat there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, trying not to flinch at the picturesque account Geetesh delivered.

All too well, Francis remembered the state Jerott had been in afterwards. He had never needed to hear any of this to know enough about what had happened.

"So you see," Geetesh said lovingly. "It was what he had asked me for. How could he overcome his obsession if he never experienced what he desired? Unfortunately, our dear Vadan was never as receptive as he ought to have been. I don't think he understood the gift I gave him."

Despite the outward appearance of calm, Francis' pulse had spiked. He was trying not to think of anything at all, trying to empty his mind like he'd done whenever Baron Morgan had taken him back to his cabin and demanded payment for their stay. He'd endured that, he reminded himself. He could endure this. And Jerott wasn't alive anymore - Geetesh couldn't hurt him anymore. These were just words, aimed at lighting the fuse on Francis' imagination, and so Francis could fight them by keeping his mind blank.

"He showed me that he had never understood Bhagwan's teachings. He was supposed to take that experience, learn something about himself, and move on - but he only grew more obsessed with you, didn't he?"

Francis' thoughts of collapsing cave walls were coming into conflict with the maintenance of his own defenses. Too much was clamouring at the edges of his mind, too many recent traumas that he hadn't been able to deal with - displaced onto the hurt that had been done to another instead of the hurt done to him, these memories grew more powerful. He saw again and again that he should have tried harder, done more, stopped things from reaching this point.

He thought of Baron Morgan leering: "I seen how he looks at you."

Marthe, with a cynical curl of her lip, implying that Morgan's attentions might, in fact, have been just what Jerott needed. And later, thinking she was alone with Jerott in the pool: "It's because you can't have Francis Crawford that you want me."

Again, Jerott swinging a blow at Francis' face - one that had real, savage intent behind it: "You fucking faggot!"

Jerott later that night, after the triumph of the gig, after the escape, after the wild motorbike ride through the desert, his arms clasped round Francis' body as they rode into Salina, his cheek resting against Francis' back, his thighs behind Francis' thighs. Murmuring Arabic from a poem he'd recited to Francis back in Carlisle - lines he didn't realise Francis had looked up and memorised, as he memorised all poems he encountered.

«My drink and my ride are sweet

and my beloved takes care of me.»

Geetesh shifted his weight and Francis' eyes snapped open - a response born purely of self-preservation.

He had moved the tape recorder aside and leaned forwards to peer at Francis' expression. One of his hands was down the front of his trousers, moving slowly, thoughtfully over the erection that showed beneath the fine fabric.

Francis drew a sharp breath and wedged his body back against the headboard, his fingers knotting with disgust in the sheets to either side of his hips.

"Were you never tempted by him yourself, Francis? Or was he supposed to follow you forever, receiving nothing in return?"

Francis just shook his head and tried to keep his eyes on Geetesh's face. There was a furious trembling inside his chest, fighting to radiate out through his body - but he wouldn't give Geetesh the satisfaction of seeing him shudder. He wouldn't.

Geetesh smiled. "I did at least spoil him for you, then, didn't I? I am pleased. At least the experiment wasn't a total failure."

He moved forwards again, one hand on himself, the other dropping to Francis' knee. His expression was terrible, unblinking, full of a wondering fascination with Francis' own repulsion. "But I think you're subtle enough to understand me better, Francis. And I understand you."

Francis went to remove Geetesh's touch from his knee, but Geetesh was quick as a snake striking. He pinned Francis' wrist down, and the hand that had been busy inside his own trousers emerged and gripped Francis' jaw with bruising, searing strength. Francis smelled the hidden parts of Geetesh's body on his fingers, savoury and musky. He gagged even as Geetesh tilted his head back against the top of the headboard and shifted to straddle him.

"Don't fight it, sweeting. I will have you. Not like that farmer in the desert had you - oh yes, I know all about Mr Morgan and how you debased yourself for him - not like that Cypriot courtesan who thinks her influence extends further than it does. Not like Margaret Douglas and her...plain, old-fashioned wants. I will have the real Francis Crawford, however I find him."

Francis' mind scrabbled for purchase on the information concealed in Geetesh's words. Some of this...some of this he shouldn't have known about. Who could have told him about Baron Morgan and about Kiaya Çalışkan? It was hard to think, though, when he felt the hardness of Geetesh's groin jammed up against his stomach, when the skin on his wrist felt raw and burnt from Geetesh's twisting, tight hold.

"It's ok if you're afraid, gentle bird," Geetesh murmured above his lips. "Let yourself be afraid. I want to see it all."

Francis' body juddered involuntarily. His eyes were screwed up and his jaw was clenched as he felt his cheeks squeezed against his teeth by Geetesh's thumb and forefinger. It took him a moment to realise that the tremor hadn't just occurred within his own limbs. The wall had rumbled, hadn't it?

Geetesh looked around the room with a scowl and then leaned over Francis' face again. "You and I will make the earth move another time, lyrebird. For now, I hope you find that you have enough material to finish your magnum opus."

He got off, picked up the tape player and stopped the recording, gathered the other cassette, his notebook and his shirt, and left.

The light went out and Francis remained in darkness, gasping, gulping, begging for air to reach his lungs as the panic he hadn't shown earlier flooded into his nervous system. If the tunnels and the room had caved in then and there he wasn't sure he'd have known the difference. Only when it ended, and the fear was gone at last, would he know he was free. He wished it would happen, and then pulled himself up short - he needed Geetesh to die with him. He needed to stop that man from doing any more to anyone else.

His hands were shaking, and Francis splayed them against the sheets, steadying himself, trying to find stillness.

Beneath one finger, he felt something unexpected: hard and plastic. A pen? A pen.

His heart thundered hard enough that it seemed to bruise itself with the effort. Geetesh had left him a weapon. And next time, pager or not, Francis was going to use it. He didn't care what he had to do to rescue Oonagh and Cai and the others. He'd run himself straight to jail if he had to, but he realised now that no amount of waiting would present him with an opportunity to defeat Geetesh without ending him.

Francis grasped the weapon in his fist, breathing hard. In the darkness of the cell he prepared himself to become a killer.

---

It was impossible, as ever, to know how long the interval between Geetesh's visits was. During this stretch of darkness Francis felt the ground shiver on a number of occasions, and the air emerging from the vent in the door seemed cooler and fresher.

He supposed this was connected to Geetesh's manner: when he next appeared his mood was sour. He switched the light on and slammed the door. His hands were already shaking with fury as he struggled to insert the key in the lock.

Francis had formed his plan, but he wasn't certain how it would go over with Geetesh in this temper. He waited, standing between the bed and the desk, the pen concealed in one hand.

Geetesh visibly imposed calm on himself before turning to the room, arranging a grim smile onto his features. He looked Francis up and down and raised a brow.

"You may sit," he said impatiently.

Francis glanced between the stool and the bed, and Geetesh snorted.

"What? Would you like me to just get it over with, my sorry, hungering slut?" He crossed the room with his long stride and grabbed Francis' wrists.

He didn't seem to have noticed what Francis held in one hand, but Francis couldn't do anything with the pen anyway, not when he was held in this furious, agonising grip.

Geetesh gazed down at him, and Francis realised he hadn't come with a schedule, as he usually did. He was deciding what to do only now, and Francis' anticipation that he would pick up where he'd left off had been what prompted his current inclination.

"You think you can make yourself into whatever anyone wants, don't you? A Protean whore, always aiming to please. You've remodelled yourself so often you don't even know who you are or what you want anymore. Would you like me to remind you, Francis?"

Francis bit the inside of his lip to distract from the pain in his wrists. He stared up into the mad periwinkle blue of Graham Reid Malett's eyes and begged his terrified animal body to have patience with him.

"You don't need to pretend for me," Geetesh hissed. He flung Francis down onto the mattress, and Francis landed messily, his head colliding with the back wall. He felt the pen lying concealed beneath his palm still, but his ears rang from the blow and he felt a cool spot on his scalp, as though blood was beginning to seep from a wound. Geetesh pulled his top off once more and reached a hand into his trousers, jerking quick and rough to get himself hard. He stepped forwards, leaned one knee on the mattress, and reached for Francis' waistband.

He was within striking distance, and Francis raised the pen and brought it down as hard as he could on that sturdy, muscled thigh. Geetesh's flesh was hard, the pen was blunt, but fear gave Francis strength beyond hope, and the nib pierced skin and burrowed into Geetesh's leg.

He roared, his breath hot on Francis' face, and he plunged a fist into Francis' solar plexus.

Francis just gripped the pen tighter, tried to force it deeper into the thigh, tried to tear the wound wider, seeking the deep artery however he could.

Geetesh didn't seem concerned with removing the weapon from his body though: just with getting his revenge, just with having Francis how he'd resolved to have him. He grappled with Francis, their bloodied hands tussling until Geetesh held both of Francis' wrists again. He hauled Francis towards him, slipping back off the bed's edge to bring them both to their feet - another bellow of rage was the only sign he gave that the item of stationary embedded in his thigh was causing him any discomfort.

He spun Francis round like a ballerina pirouetting with her hands above her head and then jerked and twisted one of Francis' arms as he pulled it down.

There was a wet, snapping pop. White hot agony exploded in Francis' shoulder and he yelled as loud as Geetesh had done. He thought he might have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he found himself face first on the bed, his arm still held behind him at an improbable angle - dislocated, for sure - and Geetesh's hand was fumbling inexactly at the fastenings of Francis' trousers. His breathing was ragged and he seemed to be struggling with his coordination.

The room juddered and rumbled, and Francis knew that finally he had done enough, and they were both going to be buried there by the flood that had to come.

"Do you...do you think you've won, lyrebird?" Geetesh's voice rasped in his ear. "Your recordings are safe. They'll be released, one day. Your brood mare won't last long once she's separated from the child for good. Maybe they'll lobotomise her, maybe it will be the only way to pacify her. That boy won't last a month with any foster family. He'll be driven from pillar to post, cast out wherever he goes, never able to understand why no one loved him enough to want him, to keep him."

Francis screwed his eyes shut and a gasping sob escaped his clenched teeth. He'd had no choice. In the end, he'd had no choice. Graham Reid Malett had to be stopped.

It sounded like there was a thunderstorm behind the door and the room went dark - the bulb had put up no resistance. The bed rattled and its legs thrummed against the floor, and the door creaked and juddered. Pressure built, and then a vast body of water slammed into the room, throwing the door off its hinges and blasting it into the desk.

Their bodies were gathered up in the maelstrom, and Francis was lost in the black swirling current, battered against ceiling and wall.

He wasn't conscious and couldn't know that the water had had enough force to drive through the door at the other end of the room as well. After a few seconds in which a raging torrent scoured the cell, the water levels dropped, releasing two bodies as they did: Geetesh landed face-first on the soaked bed again, his bodyweight pressing the pen deeper into his thigh as he bled out; and Francis' sprawled messily on the floor, filthied by mud and soil and stones that had been dragged along by the water.

When he came to, he was in a tunnel, lit by the light of an electric torch. There was a brown-skinned, bearded man leaning over him, a wild look in his eyes. Fucking hell, thought Francis. That can't be right.

He remembered Geetesh's final words, the threat to his family, and he screwed his eyes shut against the realisation that, dead or alive, he had given them up in order to stop Graham Reid Malett.

"O mill, o mill...what hast thou ground..." he murmured lyrics from the compositions Geetesh had wrung from him, and the man leaning over him touched his face tentatively.

"Francis?"

Francis blinked his eyes open. That definitely couldn't be right. He must have been dead after all. It seemed unfair to be dead and still hurt so much, though.

"Francis...I think...I think he's...gone," Jerott Blyth was staring at something beyond Francis' head and his voice was quiet and fearful, but it was his voice behind the scruffy black beard, and it was the voice of someone who seemed, despite all previous information, to be very much alive.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink. 

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself! 

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.  

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.      

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.  

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”  

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.    

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.  

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.  

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.  

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.  

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”  

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.  

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.  

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.    

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.  

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”  

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.    

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.  

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.    

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.  

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.  

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“    

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself. 

“The whole process, it feels sort of  - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.  

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.  

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.    

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.  

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.  

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.  

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

-

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?  

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.  

Yours,

Bucky”

-

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

[sserpente]

Seeds of Doubt

Synopsis: Months and months after grieving in your home realm Asgard, when you find out that Loki, the man you had promised to marry one day is still alive, you accompany Thor to Earth to bring him back to his senses. Your strong feelings for one another overwhelm you and you join the God of Mischief on his conquest to become a fearsome king. Together, you survive the strongest storms. Together, you win every battle. Together, you rule Midgard. As the sceptre’s steel grip on you becomes stronger and stronger, both Loki and you fall into a tyrannical frenzy feeding off of the fear of your mortal subjects and only once the sceptre is taken out of your reach do you begin to doubt your ways. What will be stronger in the end? Will it be the power of the mind stone… or your unconditional love?

A/N: Here it finally is! This is the 20k Follower Special! It’s a personalised Imagine written for @nebulousfishgills​ who won! ♥ The Reader in this story has a name, a specific appearance, traits and characteristics, so it’s a little different than usual! Enjoy, everyone! ♥

Words: 10469 Warnings: Loki wins!AU, Dark!Loki, Dark!Reader, Dom!Loki, mentions of slavery, violence, murder and gore; torture, dystopian universe, smut, dub-con, angst, mild exhibitionism

“Where is he?” Your voice echoed through the hall like a mother’s desperate scream for her child. They found him. Hysteria spread in your chest like a parasite, your feeble attempts to swallow down your worry for the man you loved all but fruitless. Your green cape—a homage to Loki—fluttered behind you like you were riding a tidal wave ready to destroy everything in its path. Perhaps you were. Perhaps today was the day you were going to hold the people who wronged him accountable for it and perhaps soon, you would finally hold each other again.

His death had ruined you. Day in and out, Frigga would find you crying in the library grieving the love of your life all the while Thor undid the damage they blamed on Loki, hiding in the very same spot he had spent most of his time in to read in peace, knowing that his tactless brother would hardly seek out a place of pure knowledge and wisdom.

The Queen knew better than to tell. Heads would roll if the kingdom found out about your tears, regardless of how inseparable Loki and you had always been. No one but him had ever seen you cry and you took pride in keeping it that way.

As of right now, your concern and anger overwhelmed the numbing sadness. Had you not overheard the einherjars’ heated conversation about the lost prince having returned from the dead and wreaking havoc somewhere you could not be a part of it, you might have never learned that Loki was alive until they brought him back and… and what?

Something was wrong, you could feel it in the very core of your being. Clenching your fists, you barged further into the throne room unannounced, ignoring the weak protests of the guards. Each of your steps was confident, calculated—even though there was a part of you that was on the verge of tears.

“Amnerys…” Thor spoke your name as if it belonged to a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Where is he, Thor?!” You spat through gritted teeth, narrowing your blue eyes at him.

The God of Thunder took a deep breath. “He is on Earth.”

“Midgard? What is he doing on Midgard?”

“Heimdall witnessed him entering the realm through a portal and slaughtering innocents. He means to rule the mortals as their king.” Odin said. Your heart skipped a beat. Loki… your sweet, loving, caring, perceptive and mischievous Loki, your mirror…

“This is not right. Loki would not… not like this.”

“It matters not,” Odin continued unfazed, “Thor will be sent to Midgard to put an end to his childish schemes and he will face trial for the damage and chaos he has caused across Yggdrasil.” No, he will not. You glared at him. Had you treated him differently, he would never have been tempted to throw a foreign realm into an absolute monarchy in the first place.

“I demand to come with him.”

“You, Amnerys? You wish to accompany Thor to Earth?” Incredulousness swung in Odin’s voice, his white eyebrows raised ever so slightly. He clenched his spear when you stood your ground, lifting your chin as if nothing was about to stop you—and nothing was, as a matter of fact.

“You know who he was to me. This is the least you owe me, your majesty.”

~*~

Odin knew. He knew you were not to mess with and he knew that it was solely Loki’s death that had kept you at bay. He would never admit it but your intelligence intimidated him. You could be dangerous if only you wanted to. Odin had learned during your early childhood already that keeping you close to the palace meant to remain safer than banishing you to a foreign realm where you would plot revenge until he fell. An eye for an eye. You would only ever treat the people who wronged you like that.

Dark magic was still sizzling in your blood when the clouds spat you both out and sent you flying through the crisp air, right until Thor slung his arm around your waist and brought his hammer down into utter nothingness, enveloped by heavy rainclouds and blinding lightning bolts in the distance.

You hit the roof of an aeroplane or something of the like. Mortal technology was beyond your comprehension, for neither Loki nor you required a machine to fly if you could simply transform into a bird and take to the skies.

“Don’t back down now, hammer boy.” You yelled across the stormy wind. Thor shot you a meaningful look, even more so when the hatch opened and you both jumped.

Loki. His eyes widened when his brother marched towards him like a bilgesnipe all the while an invisible force appeared to rip your heart right out of your chest only to mend it with the soft hands of relief. Loki’s gaze met yours, blue locking with blue and your souls intertwining like eager fingers.

Thor jumped and you followed, leaving the dumbfounded mortals behind.

Your digits were tingling with seidr as you landed on the cliff, your nails digging into the relentless rock to your feet. Thor was nowhere to be seen, not until you heard his battle cry in the distant forest. Odin would have expected you to help him but that was not what you were here for. You only had eyes for him.

“Loki…” His lips parted and several painful heartbeats passed in which he observed you like the antique paintings in the palace library. Doubtfully. What was it he expected to see? Your grief had made your round face grow older and your skin even paler than it already was and yet, you were still the same woman with blue eyes and those chestnut brown hair he used to love burying his fingers in.

“Are you real?” His voice was weak, wary. Frowning, you stepped closer to him, close enough for him to reach out and touch you. Loki was frozen on the spot like an ice sculpture in the deepest winter of Jötunheim.

“What? Of course I’m real.” You never noticed the tears swimming in your eyes until you took one final step and lifted your chin to look him in the eye. You were tall, taller than the average mortal woman and still, Loki towered above you like a true king. Like the true king he used to be before Odin and Thor drove him to attempted suicide.

He looked older, and colder. Worn out. Your voice was but a mere whisper, your palm cupping his right cheek. “What happened to you?”

Loki swallowed, making you gasp when his hand wrapped around your wrist. The moment he blinked was the moment you threw yourself into his arms. Inhaling his unique scent, this delectable mixture of molten metal, ice and leather, you pressed your face against his chest with your eyes closed, bathing in his presence and his touch, both of which you had missed more than anything in all of the nine realms.

The first, desperate sob escaped your lips when he hugged you back and rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I missed you so much… I thought I had lost you forever.”

“You did not.” He replied, his lips against your chestnut hair.

“Why… why did you not contact me? Where were you?”

“Contacting you would have put you in danger. It was for the best you believed me dead.”

“Was it?” You raised your voice. “Was it really? Do not patronise me, Loki, you know very well I can hold a candle to you.”

“Yes…” He pondered. “I know that.” Silence. Uncomfortable and peaceful at the very same time, you both stood there as if there was a canyon between you, lost time you had to make up for.

“Have you got any idea how much I suffered without you?” You continued, your voice shaking.

His expression hardened. “Did Odin harm you?”

“No. No, he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me. I was mourning, Loki. When you died… a part of me died with you and now… now I feel like it is coming back to me.”

His blue eyes locked with yours. “Join me.”

“W-what? Loki… I came to take you home with me.”

The God of Mischief shook his head bitterly. “Asgard was never truly my home, now was it?”

“It’s the place you grew up in, the place you know better than any other… the place where you met me. Is that not enough? Odin will not live forever. We will be free, Loki.”

“Yes,” he breathed hoarsely, “We will be free. With this.” Seidr tickled his palm, enveloping his hand in a beam of green light to reveal the sceptre.

“He will have me executed for this—you know this.”

“But you don’t want this. Midgard… why would you want to rule the mortals?”

Loki did not respond and yet his glance spoke volumes. Something is wrong, I can feel it.

“Why won’t you tell me?” You chirped, hot tears worsening your sight once more. If your cheeks were wet and reddened, you never noticed. Then, his expression hardened once more.

“But I am. This is it, my sweet Amnerys, my triumph. I will rule, I will be powerful and I will prove myself a worthy king. Is this not what we always dreamed of as children?”

“It is. Loki, it is… but…” But what? He was back. Loki was alive and you could not care less about the mortals’ fate if only he would never leave your side again. Loki was your soulmate and you were his.

This was wrong. You knew it was wrong and yet… the urge to give yourself to him rose with every single heartbeat.

“Join me.” He repeated. A disarming smirk played on his lips, even though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Be my queen.”

You gasped for air, your hesitation dissolving like moist fog in a spring forest. By the time Thor returned with the mortal wrapped in metal, you had gone.

~*~

5 years later

Loki chuckled at the words he himself had written, his fingers entangled with yours and his thumb stroking the back of your hand. Propping his chin up with his free hand, he watched the hilarious play unfold on the small stage he’d had built. The actors were sweating, yet a look into their terrified and helpless eyes proved it was not the warm stage light increasing their body temperature.

Loki had executed three actors over the past week because they had failed to please him and play their part convincingly. Naturally, they had all played the parts of Thor, albeit a humiliated and weak version of the God of Thunder who was currently in exile.

You still remembered the day of victory like it was yesterday, the adrenaline and the rush of power coursing through your veins like liquid fire. The Chitauri had overpowered the Avengers almost too soon for your entertainment. A few of them, Thor, the redhead Natasha Romanoff and the green beast they called the Hulk remained alive, plotting revenge and assassinations.

Not one month went by in which Loki and you did not publically execute a hitman or a hitwoman, and yet their feeble attempts to murder their king and queen were all but pathetic. Only the fewest made it past the heavily guarded entrance doors of what used to be Stark Tower and now posed as a striking palace you called your new home. Midgard was not so bad, after all.

Terrorising its people was quite fun, actually and thanks to Loki’s sceptre, getting them to bend to your will was not only fun but way too easy and convenient. The God of Mischief had soon gotten rid of the leaders the mortals called their would-be queens, kings and presidents anyway. Those who had resisted were now rotting away several feet below the earth.

Oh yes, the sceptre was truly a most marvellous object. You fancied a foot massage? The sceptre would convince the helpless mortal in charge of gardening the roof terrace. You wished for a special food delivery? Anything was possible with the mind stone. They were so easy to manipulate, so easy to control and undermine, to step on like a boot would step on an ant. It was fun. Nothing less did those petty and ignorant mortals deserve after polluting their own planet to the point of death and destruction. They were paying the price for it now.

In your youth, years and years had gone by on Asgard where you would study the powerful stones until you knew all of its secrets. The Tesseract was gone—Loki had failed to tell you whom he had given it to after the successful invasion of the Chitauri, nonetheless, as long as you still had the sceptre, you were not going to complain. It felt like the mind stone was connecting you two, wrapping a steel rope around your love for one another. Love which you never failed to act on at any given opportunity, for your days were mainly spent cuddling and, quite frankly, fucking on every possible surface of Stark Tower, having luxurious dinners and Loki sending terrified mortals to buy you expensive gifts and jewellery.

The humans feared you and unlike what you had expected from yourself, you were enjoying it. You were bathing in their terror, their anxiety and their tears, even their blood—metaphorically speaking—especially after Loki put you in charge of labour distribution.

What was the play about again? Snapping yourself out of your trance, you sighed, even more so because Loki’s hand had discreetly disappeared under your dress under the table, his thumb caressing your clit. There was no need for underwear here, after all.

“He is positively the most unenthusiastic Thor of the whole week.” You choked out when he slipped two fingers inside of your warmth, his free hand coming up to stroke your pale arm. “He is boring me.”

“Is he now? I believe the reason for your boredom is that I have not yet sentenced him to death. He is rather delightful. Look at how much he is shaking.” He chuckled. “He is trying so hard to appear devoted. He will live, for now.”

A moan escaped your lips when he curled his fingers inside of you, repeatedly stroking your g-spot. Loki chuckled once more. “Oh, what is it, my sweet Amnerys? Will you come for me? Will you come undone before all these people?”

Slaves were positioned to either side of the long table. If they knew what Loki was doing to you right now, they’d do well to keep their mouths shut and pretend they did not notice and the actors on stage were too caught up in their own panic to realise. Whyever not? You moaned once more. No one would know and if there was something Loki wanted, then he would get it anyway. That included your orgasms.

“I… I will…” You whispered, blood biting at your pale cheeks. He raised his eyebrows slightly, a mischievous smirk growing on his lips. His thumb applied more pressure, making you throw your head back into the cushioned backrest of your throne. By the time you let go and let pleasure consume you, Loki had lost all interest in the play. His blue eyes were fixed on you and your sweet whimpers, his heart pounding fast in his chest upon realising one too many times that you belonged to him.

“My queen…” He purred, helping you ride out your orgasm all the while you attempted, miserably, to keep a straight face. It was then the slaves in the room began to clap and the actors on stage bowed, relieved it was over.

“You are dismissed. Get out of my sight.” Loki barked. You giggled at the way they almost fell off the stage, hurrying to get away from you two.

“They are like lambs,” you remarked, still panting. “Like innocent lambs and we’re the wolves.”

“Hmm… lamb sounds like an excellent idea for dinner, would you not agree?” He hooked his index finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him—not that you had wanted to look away anyway. The remaining mortals in the room knew better than to wait for an order. Without a word, they rushed towards the kitchen to prepare the meal—regardless of how they would acquire a lamb.

Then, finally, Loki’s hand retreated from under your dress, his digits coated with your juices. Your lips parted when he brought them to your mouth, having you suck them clean which you did with no hesitation.

“I have to leave New York for a few days tomorrow.” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on your lips wrapped around his fingers. You released him with a silent smack to pout.

“Without me?”

“Yes, my love. There have been concerning reports of riots in New Jersey. Now we cannot have that, can we?”

“No… of course not.”

“I shall be back soon. You will rule this meagre place just fine without me until I return. You know how to put the mortals in their place, no?”

You giggled again. “I do.”

“That is my queen. I trust you, my sweet Amnerys.”

~*~

I trust you, my sweet Amnerys. You smiled. You were the only one in the nine realms that the infamous God of Mischief trusted. Even a few days without him would be hell. You would handle the kingdom well, there was no doubt about that and yet… you already longed for him to hold you in his arms again. Throwing back the satin green covers of the huge king-size bed the two of you slept in, you climbed off the soft mattress all but naked, your smile widening when your blue eyes fell on the golden fountain pen Loki had gifted you, along with a bouquet of blue roses, your favourite flowers—one of his first gifts, back on Asgard when you were only five-hundred years old, right before you had run off like children to practice magic with Frigga. So young, so naïve, so in love.

Loki had always been so gentle, so considerate… your smile faded. He had changed though, had he not? His behaviour towards you was no different in the slightest bit, but even though he radiated dominance like a radioactive gemstone, you wondered why it was only now you realised how cruel he had become. The humans were shivering with fear when they spoke to him, barely able to kneel properly for their trembling robbed them of their balance. And what about you? Were you not inflicting the same amount of pain and suffering?

You scoffed. Where were these thoughts coming from? This was ridiculous, right? You were a queen, Loki’s queen, and you were together and happy. It mattered not if the mortals lived in agony for this cause… only it did.

Your lips parted. When was the last time Loki and you had spent a peaceful day together outside, without anyone attempting to assassinate you? Without anyone quivering in fear of what might happen to them if they displeased you?

When… when had you become like that? You swallowed thickly. Loki had left earlier this morning. You were not going to sulk away in his absence, now were you? He had left you in charge for a reason and you would make him proud.

“Y-your majesty?” It was one of the maids, standing in the doorframe like she was about to be sacrificed to the Norns and hence ripping you out of your thoughts with brute force, making you drop the fountain pen back on the desk and spin around.

“Don’t you know how to knock, you silly girl?”

“I… I did, your majesty.”

“What is it?” You barked.

“There… there has been a brawl on the street right in front of the Tower. The guards have told me that two… two men were fighting over a stolen loaf of bread.”

You rolled your eyes. Well, theft was a crime and it was going to have to be dealt with.

“I am to let you know, I wasn’t going to let them in just in case you were not decent yet… which… which you aren’t, so I was…”

“Get me my morning robes,” you cut her off. “I shall get freshened up and meet the culprits in the throne room.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The maid nodded and hurried away quickly but even the hot shower you took before she returned did not succeed in washing away the seeds of doubt in your mind. Something was wrong. It was the very same thought you had harboured back when you had first found Loki again after his attempted suicide. It felt like ages away now and yet… you remembered your concerns like they’d been keeping you awake only yesterday.

When you entered the throne room an hour later, the two men were quivering, one of them crying even and the fight they had had over a mere loaf of bread—pathetic—all but forgotten. You tilted your head as you raised your eyebrows and made yourself comfortable on Loki’s throne.

“Well?” You spat.

“My q-queen, w-we are so sorry. I-I just… I need to f-feed my family. We have been living in p-poverty after K-King L-L-Loki shut down m-my b-business. T-the oil factory?”

“The oil factory that kept polluting the seas, you mean? Killing the fish, contaminating all of your drinking water, making you all die even faster?” You scoffed. “Perhaps now you know what the fish must have felt like.”

“N-no, I-I mean… y-yes. I… r-realise my mistake but my… my family, they had nothing to do with it. I need to f-feed them. My w-wife s-suffers from severe social anxiety, she is unable to work. O-our children… we are going to starve to death. W-we… I would have paid for the loaf if only I could have, all I want is to k-keep my f-family alive!” His last words were swallowed by pathetic sobs. The urge within you to roll your eyes grew with every passing second and yet, for some peculiar reason and for the first time in years, you felt your heart clench with something you almost did not recognise anymore. Compassion.

This man had not stolen out of spite or malice. He had stolen out of desperation. The other man, you presumed, must have been the vendor then. He too now feared for the worst for causing a scene. The punishment for theft was execution by dismemberment. Fingers first, arms next, lastly the head. It was a surprisingly effective way to keep the robbery rate at a minimum.

“W-Will I… will you have me killed, my queen?”

You took a deep breath. Whatever it was that overcame you, Loki would not be pleased. But this man had not truly committed a crime, now had he? It was a loaf of bread, for Heaven’s sake!

“No. Now get out of my sight and you,” you pointed at another maid, “have that bread replaced for the vendor.”

One of the maids had once called you “ruthless” and “dangerous”. Loki had had her executed for her disrespectful behaviour and gossiping behind your back. As of today, however, you were wondering if she was right. The maid who had caught you off guard earlier this morning, she used to be a Mathematics student, you knew that from when you had taken her belongings back at her arrival to see if she had anything you liked. She did, as a matter of fact. A beautiful emerald stone necklace reminding you of Loki’s colours. You had barely worn it since, it was more the principle of being able to simply take what you wanted. Not to mention what the mortals were to expect if they resisted you. As if on cue, your seidr tickled your fingertips, once more reminding you of Loki.

Tricks and pranks you had always enjoyed together but this? You did not want to give up the life you had, did not want to give up Loki because what was done was done. He ruled Midgard now, with you by his side, you could not have one thing without the other.

But when… when exactly had you begun to doubt that a kingdom drowning in blood, tears and hard labour was not what you wanted after all? After everything Loki had gone through? He deserved happiness, he deserved to rule but not… not like this.

You growled. “Run me a bath.” You ordered, avoiding looking at your shivering maid.

“Y-yes, o-of course, Your Majesty. Would you like a bath bomb, too? I… I had them brought to the Tower for your baths. They are with… with lemon tea, your favourite scent.”

Really? You meant to say. Instead, you froze her in place with your scrutinising gaze. Your expression uncontrollably softened when you met her terrified and tear-stricken eyes. “Thank you.”

The maid’s eyes widened. “O-Oh! Y-You’re welcome, my queen. I… I will also prepare your favourite wine for you.”

Well… She doesn’t do this because she likes you or respects you, a reproachful voice in your head whispered. She does it because she’s afraid that you will kill her if she so much as breathes in your direction at the wrong moment.

~*~

Loki had made sure to have all of your personal belongings, along with your beloved fountain pen, brought to Asgard. Stacked away, somewhere in this gorgeous bedroom, were your old books too. Books that you had studied so intently and so often that they were on the verge of falling apart. Most of them were about the Infinity Stones and their creation.

You could not shake off the feeling that your subconscious was trying to tell you something—yet all you knew was that the answer was hidden in between the lines of your books. It had to be. Seeds of doubt had clouded your mind after Loki had gone, alas once he returned… you had felt more powerful than ever.

And now, something was keeping you down like a heavy blanket of snow on Jötunheim.

“One of the maids was caught snooping around in our bedroom last night, did you know?” Loki said casually when he entered the room, his armour melting off of his body to reveal a pale but well-defined body. Distracted, you blinked, losing all focus on your books.

“Which one?”

“You know the girl with the brown hair who spends most of her time in the kitchen. Only the Norns know what she is doing in there when it is not meal time.” He began to smirk, bending down to kiss you gently.

“Would you like to have her?”

You grinned. “With pleasure. I don’t wish to kill her though.” You replied. Loki frowned. “She is one of our best cooks! Let us torture her a little and punish her for invading our privacy like that. If she has not learned her mistake by then, we can still kill her.”

Loki sighed. “Well then. As you wish, my queen. Now come to bed. I wish to feel myself inside of you.”

~*~

You laughed, hysterically almost, when the maid screamed. Your fingertips were tingling with seidr, one of your hands clutching Loki’s sceptre. Pain distorted the girl’s face as she cowered on the ground before you, trembling to the point she would be unable to stand on her own accord. Her eyes were glowing blue, the sceptre’s influence clouding her mind.

Power rushed through your veins, from the mind stone into your arm and through your entire body, making you feel invincible.

Loki chuckled behind you. If you kept going for much longer, the nosey maid would die after all. But oh, playing with the sceptre was just too much fun.

“Go on. Hold your arm into the flames.” You commanded, nodding your head over to the chimney. The fire was crackling peacefully, the warmth spreading all over the throne room. The maid’s lower lip, chewed on to the point it was bleeding, was shaking. You sincerely hoped there was still a part of her knowing what was going on, knowing what she was being forced to do and yet, without any hesitation, she crawled over to the fireplace, stretched out her left hand and held it straight into the flames.

Her ear-piercing screams echoed through the room like sharp needles stabbing your skin and from the corner of your eye, you could see the other slaves in the room swallowing thickly, forced to watch the horror unfolding before their eyes as a lesson that would surely not fail its impact.

“See… who plays with fire will likely burn themselves.” You spat through gritted teeth, albeit with a dangerously sweet voice. Then, before she could utter a single word, you knocked her out, hitting her hard on the head with the blunt end of the sceptre.

She would not need any more mind control when she woke up and yet, the moment the sceptre struck her, a painful sting tore through you, her physical agony turning into mental torment for you. For just a brief moment, you saw a young, innocent girl who had been robbed of her entire life to serve you and Loki as a mindless slave to be punished severely if she dared to step out of line.

You blinked, stumbling back a few steps to chase away the atrocious feeling in your guts, crashing straight into Loki. He frowned, steadying you, and took the sceptre from your hand in response. The moment it left your grasp, the sensation grew even worse. What was wrong with you?

“Are you quite alright, my love?” Loki whispered, quiet enough only for you to hear it. You nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I feel a little dizzy, is all. Let me go lie down for a bit—and tell the maid to prepare us supper with salmon when she awakes.”

The God of Mischief was still frowning by the time you fled from the throne room and retreated to your shared chambers.

Heavens, what in the nine realms was going on? Staggering over to the window, you gaped outside to take in the beautiful skyline of New York City and rubbed your eyes. It almost felt like you had been seeing the world in black and white and, for some dubious and peculiar reason, the colours were now slowly pouring back into your perception. It scared you.

You were not surprised when Loki entered the bedroom not soon after you had stormed out, finding you biting your nails nervously—which was something you had never down before.

“Perhaps you should tell her about supper yourself. She is even more terrified of you than she is of me, my queen.” He chuckled, stroking over your hair as he approached you. When you only sighed with hesitation sparkling in your eyes, Loki’s lips parted.

“You are unwell.”

“I’m fine, I…”

“You are not. Should I call for a healer?”

“They’re called doctors here.” You replied weakly.

“I do not care what they call them as long as one of them helps you, my love. I will not have you suffer.”

“Perhaps it is my cycle, Loki. I am fine. Let us—“

There was a sudden tumult in the throne room that interrupted you both. Loud gasps and even screams became audible with a start, almost as if a wave of relief washed over the entire staff… well, your slaves.

“Sire! Sire! Help!” Alarmed, the both of you exchanged a look. Your heart sank to your boots when you hurried back into the throne room and were greeted by an assassination commando.

“Loki. Amnerys. It’s Game Over. Stand down.” Red dots in your field of vision blinded you when you came to a halt, laser pointers, so you figured, belonging to heavy machine guns aimed directly at you two and before you… Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner and, much to your surprise, Thor.

“Chloe… take the elevator downstairs, someone will be waiting for you there. And take all the others with you.” Loki glared at her. It was the maid Thor had addressed and if looks could kill, the poor girl would have dropped dead this instant. You should have killed the stupid wench after all. She had been spying on you all along, catching glimpses of moments where you would be unprepared… Both Loki and you growled.

“Thor… what a lovely surprise.” The God of Mischief announced then, arrogantly lifting his chin. “Have you at last decided to see for yourself what I have done to your precious Earth? Is it not better to keep the humans under control like this, to keep them from destroying their own planet?”

“By enslaving them and working them to death? I don’t think so, Loki. This is madness.”

“Perhaps. But so is you coming here.” His expression hardened. “You have signed your death warrant, brother.”

“Not this time. Our father—“

“Your father!” Loki spat.

“We did not want to do this, Loki. But you left us no choice. You must be stopped. Both of you.”

“Skip the reunion speech, Thor…” Natasha muttered. You snarled at her all the while holding on to Loki’s arm. What did he mean by no choice? What had he planned?

With your heart in your mouth, you soon found your seidr tickling your fingertips, ready to fling them all straight into the nearby wall to listen with delight how several of their bones would break in the process.

When you turned your head back to Loki, he gave you a barely visible nod. It was in the very moment you sent both Natasha and Bruce flying through the throne room with but a flick of your hand that Thor called for his beloved hammer—only it was nothing like you remembered it anymore. It was enveloped in orange fire, its flames licking high up into the air, ready to devour. Blood Orange. There was only one being in this universe who was able to create such indestructible and powerful flames—Raskk, the highest fire demon from Muspelheim.

If Thor intended to use his hammer against Loki… as a Frost Giant, he would be dead before it dawned. Surely, your heart had now stopped beating altogether.

“Loki…”

The God of Mischief growled in response. His hand found yours, fingers entangling and before you knew it, he materialised the sceptre just in time to catch his brother off guard. The both of you teleported.

Knowing how much harm Raskk’s fire was able to do to your husband and king, something inside of you snapped. If they found him again… they would kill him for sure.

You felt broken and mended at the very same time. Like a thread cut in two with a pair of sharp scissors, your vision cleared to finally reveal all the colours drained from your eyesight for so long. Breathing heavily, you gasped for air in a desperate attempt to fight off a panic attack.

“Amnerys…” Loki caught you in his arms before your shaking knees hit the floor of the shabby motel he had brought you to, an inconspicuous place you had discovered a while back on the hunt for electricians to maintain what used to be Stark Tower. Loki had done well to remember the tacky place in the suburbs. You would be safe here until you could come up with a plan.

The truth was, Thor’s hammer, strengthened by Raskk’s blood orange fire, had caught you both off guard. Loki had expected any form of resistance from his brother—not, however, that he would try and end his life in such a brutal and excruciating way.

Your fear for Loki’s life… it had broken the influence of the sceptre. You saw it so clearly now… how it had been the weapon all along, dragging you down a rabbit hole so dark it had blinded you.

“I… I…” Unable to speak, you allowed him to scoop you up into his arms like a bride. Your thoughts were too tangled up to follow the harsh commands he barked at the poor receptionist behind the desk in the foyer, only dared to whimper once he had closed the door behind you.

He put you back on your feet, ensuring you would not simply drop like a marionette. “Amnerys, speak to me. Are you in pain?”

It took you another moment to pull yourself together. With a deep shaky breath, you locked your eyes with his.

“What have we done?” You whispered, your lower lip shaking. “Loki, what have we done…”

“What?”

“What have we done… the slavery, the torture, the murder… Loki… we turned Midgard into another Helheim.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? It’s… the sceptre. It’s been the sceptre all along… it… it brainwashed us like puppets!”

“You are confused.”

“I am not. Loki, listen to me, please!”

He shushed you, pressing you against his chest. With his heartbeat against your cheek, you could not help but relax into his arms, your rapid breathing calming down again—if only a little.

“We are safe here. Relax, my queen.” His lips found your neck, planting feather-light kisses on your sensitive skin in an attempt to distract you further. His mouth on you did not fail its effect. Your eyes fell shut with a sigh as you went limp in his arms, albeit reluctant to allow him to seduce you now of all times.

“Loki… w-we shouldn’t… not now… we have to… Raskk’s fire, we… you h-have to get rid of the sceptre. Thor will listen to reason once he learns—“ You were cut off by his tongue demanding entrance into your mouth, forcing you into a kiss that stole away your breath. Loki pushed you down on the hard mattress of the motel room, one of his hands capturing your wrists to pin them down above your head, rendering you completely helpless.

His sheer strength overwhelmed you and despite your Asgardian blood, you were no match to Loki… at least not when he had you on the brink of utter submission and with pleasure coursing through your blood, clouding your mind as your body kept pleading for more and more of his pampering.

“Loki… please. Loki, listen. We have to… this isn’t right… Thor… P-please… get rid of the s-sceptre, you’ll see it’s…”

“Amnerys, stop it!” He growled with a start. His dark and chastising glare sent both fear and excitement through your veins. “What is it with your obsession with the sceptre? It is making us powerful, is it not? You, my dear, are the one with the insatiable interest in the Infinity Stones and their workings.”

“I was wrong… Loki, I was wrong, we were wrong, I…” You groaned when his digits found the hem of your dress and pushed it up your pale thighs to give himself access to your wet folds, your whole body shivering the moment his fingertips brushed against your lips and finally, parted them to reveal your throbbing clit to his greedy eyes.

“L-Loki… Loki, l-listen to me…”

Part of you wanted him to stop, to talk to him rationally but… oh… it just felt too good. Your blue eyes rolled to the back of your head, your nails digging into his naked back. You hadn’t even noticed him removing most of his clothes.

“Oh, I am listening. I will be listening to your moans and whimpers as you come undone for me, my sweet Amnerys.” He paused, indeed eliciting a defeated whine from you. “Tell me you want me inside of you.” He whispered into your ear, sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine.

You swallowed thickly. You did. Your quim was aching to be filled by him, to have him mark you with his Jötun seed and make you his like he had done so often in the past and yet… was now really the time for pleasure? Now that your husband’s life was at stake? Now that you had realised the harm you had done to this planet, to its people? You were monsters. You had become exactly what Loki had feared to turn into when he had first learned about his true heritage.

Loki made you gasp for air when he slipped two of his long fingers inside of you, curling them at your g-spot and making your back arch.

“Tell me.” He spat through gritted teeth. He was in a frenzy—and you were unable to shake off just how much you loved his dominant side, this side he had developed the very moment Frigga had handed him Gungnir. You were lost. Lost in his embrace, lost in his desire, lost in his love for you.

“I do… I always do…”

He chuckled, content with your response. Freeing himself from his remaining armour with his seidr, he pushed your legs apart meeting only little resistance and positioned himself at your entrance. A moan escaped your lips when you felt his rock-hard cock press against your slick opening, the red tip leaking pre-cum already.

He never let go of your wrists, even when he sheathed himself deep inside of you with but one firm thrust, watching with an animalistic growl how you threw your head back in pure bliss, welcoming him in. His free hand was all over your pale skin, exploring every inch of your tall body.

Your walls clenched around him at once, moulding around him perfectly and unwilling to let go of him again, no, willing him even deeper when he retreated only to plunge back in and claim you thoroughly, fucking you with a steady but firm rhythm stealing not only your breath but all of your senses.

Your mind drifted away from how Loki was still under the sceptre’s control and how it made him more ruthless, more dangerous and more villainous. His lips found yours again to keep you from talking, his strokes getting more and more frantic.

You moaned when his free hand found your clit, massaging it swiftly and applying just enough pressure to send you flying. You tightened around him fast, with his name on your lips like a prayer.

Again and again, his length grazed all of your secret pleasure spots, some of them hidden deep inside of your quim. Loki moved the way he knew he would throw himself off of this delectable cliff of pleasure with you and when you came undone, rhythmically clenching around him and milking him for all he was worth, you instantly triggered his own release.

With but a few more eager thrusts, he emptied himself inside of you, coating your walls with his warm seed of which he shot rope after rope into you. He stilled, his length throbbing hotly inside your cunt as he filled you up.

No less than ten seconds passed, seconds in which you were still pulsing around him, failing to come down from your high and the pleasure and the love you felt for this man as it overwhelmed you once more, even more so when he collapsed on top of you and you inhaled his intoxicating scent.

Another ten seconds and you could Thor’s voice bellow through the lobby. You gasped.

“I shielded this place. The motel owner must have told them. I will tear him apart.” Loki growled and jumped out of bed. Your legs were still shaking from your orgasm, his warm seed dribbling out of you and running down your inner thighs when you stood to follow, enveloping yourself with seidr to get dressed much like Loki had done and followed him—only to stop dead in your tracks when ice-cold realisation hit you. You had only just arrived. There was no way the motel owner had been able to alert the Avengers this fast, let alone reach them when they were out and about to hunt you down.

Your lips parted. “They’re after the sceptre. It’s not the owner, Loki, they’re tracking the sceptre! It must be just like the Tesseract, the stone gives off traceable energies.” And the only reason they had not done so before was proper preparation. And a risky alliance—with Raskk.

The God of Mischief slowed down and glanced at you from the corner of his eye but did not halt. Too angry were his steps leading him back towards the lobby, ready to murder the receptionist despite the unusual alliance Thor had formed with one of Muspelheim’s most dangerous fire demons.

“Loki, stop! Listen to me!” Finally, he obeyed albeit turned around so slowly you feared he might pounce on you like a wild wolf at any moment. “Please. Leave the motel owner alone. We have to get out of here, we…” You gasped once more, your feeble attempt to calm yourself with deep breaths failing miserably. “Leave the sceptre behind.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leave it behind! Else we have to find a way off-world, Loki. Listen to me, I will not risk you dying at the hand of Raskk’s fire just because you are too keen on satisfying your enormous ego!” You shrieked, clenching your fists so hard your knuckles turned white. Your heart was pounding in your chest so loud you feared his words would be drowned by the blood ringing in your ears.

Loki’s nostrils flared. “I am not leaving our kingdom behind for Thor of all people to overthrow it!”

“Then give me the sceptre!”

“No!” The word was so loud it echoed through the entire dimly-lit hallway, without a doubt giving away your location and you realised in that very moment that he was not going to relent. The sceptre’s influence kept its steel grip on him like an unescapable prison.

Tears formed in your eyes when you swallowed, locking your eyes with his—you had never noticed how the blue colour of his irises had intensified to the point of utter mind control. Whoever was behind this… they would pay for it but for now… for now, you had to save Loki’s life.

“Then go. Take it and leave. I will find you.”

“What?”

“I am going to distract them. Go. You cannot go near Thor’s hammer.” Loki hesitated. His thin lips parted once he understood you meant to give yourself up in order for him to escape.

“You are not leaving my side.”

“Do not argue with me, Loki. You know they will not kill me.”

“No,” he growled, “worse. They will torture you.”

You scoffed. “Do you truly believe that?”

A young man stumbled out of one of the motel rooms, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips when he spotted you both standing in the hallway, and legging it instantly.

“Thor has always liked me, Loki—he knows how much I love you and why I did this.”

“If he is prepared to kill me in the cruellest way possible, what makes you think he will not make you suffer a similar fate?”

“They’re up here! Up here! Avengers! Help!” Loki gritted his teeth. With but one swift hand movement, he shot an energy blast from the sceptre into the panicking young man’s direction. It hit the railing of the stairs with an ear-piercing crack, sending pieces of sharp wood flying through the hallway. Luckily, only one of them hit the man in the thigh, who, screaming in surprise more than agony, almost fell down the carpeted stairs and straight into the Avengers’ arms—one of which had turned into a giant green rage monster.

Loki growled once more when you attempted to push past him, his free hand slipping around your waist. He pressed you close against his strong body in an attempt to teleport you both to safety once more, heeding your advice even if he would never let go of the sceptre after everything it had done for him. You spun around, cupping his face in your hands and kissed him hard.

“Go. Do you not trust your queen?”

His lips parted and he scowled. He had no need for a reply, for he did. He trusted you with his life and by the time the Avengers finally reached you with their weapons raised, only you were left standing there, your fingers tingling with seidr urging to be released to help you survive.

Thor stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you, his mortal companions following his actions suit. Your gaze found his glowing hammer spitting Raskk’s fire.

“Amnerys?”

“Hulk? Any moment now.” Widow said surprisingly calm.

“Don’t. Please. I am unarmed.” Lifting both of your hands to prove your intentions, you met Thor’s puzzled expression.

“Where is Loki?” The redhead’s voice was harsh, her glare deadly. You understood now why she was one of Earth’s fiercest assassins and yet, she did little to intimidate you.

“Gone,” you spat in response, “for now. I know where he went. But… but first… we need to talk.”

~*~

Thor buried his hands in his face. “So what you are saying is that this whole time Loki has been under the influence of the sceptre?”

You nodded, shifting on your seat. The Avengers’ hideout was filthy, hidden away in an alley you would have never even set a foot in under different circumstances.

“I have been to. That is why… by the Norns, all those people we killed… all those innocents we tortured… I cannot believe what I have done.” Looking up, your expression hardened with a start. “Loki and I have always been mischievous, you know that. But neither of us would ever have intentionally hurt anyone.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe that, you know.” The Black Widow gave you an incredulous look.

“I agree. What if this is a trick? What if it’s a trap?” Bruce whispered. He was himself again, wearing no more than a pair of ripped jeans that were way too big on him and appeared to swallow up his mortal body whole, making him look even more fragile and meagre than the humans already were. You rolled your eyes. Of course they would not trust you… but then again, you understood. You would not have trusted yourself either, not after everything you had done.

Thor lifted his chin and gave you a warning look. “I have known Amnerys my whole life. She loves Loki, she would do anything for him. I have Raskk’s demon fire—if she is luring us into a trap, my brother will not live long enough to see daylight tomorrow. She knows that… don’t you, Amnerys?”

You swallowed. All of a sudden, all you could muster was a weak “Yes”. Your heart was beating like a steam hammer, your instincts screaming at you to either run or kill. You were with your greatest enemies after all. You were with the very people eager to send your husband to Valhalla, sitting at the same table and drinking tea that might as well have been poisoned.

“If what you are saying is true… then how did you break the sceptre’s influence?” Bruce asked. And it was a good question, one you did not quite know the answer to yourself.

“I am not sure,” you responded, “I had… these strange moments of clarity, a whispering voice in my head telling me to practice caution but once…” You paused, pondering. “Loki was gone. He travelled to New Jersey and he took the sceptre with him, that was the first time I felt these… all these doubts about… about all this.” You motioned around yourself, shame and remorse once more rolling over you like a tidal wave.

“And then?” Bruce probed.

You looked up, your blue eyes once more falling on his oversized jeans. You frowned. “You. I think it was you. All I could think about was how Loki’s life is in danger, how scared I am to lose him… I think this ultimately overwhelmed the power of the mind stone.”

“You know about the Infinity Stones then?”

“Better than you think.”

“What I still don’t understand is what you’re expecting from us now, Amnerys.” Natasha tossed in. “Loki is a criminal and so are you. He will be arrested once we get his hands on him… until Thor can take him back to Asgard, at least.”

Your eyes flew in Thor’s direction. “Odin will have him executed.”

“Not if my mother gets a say in it.”

“You truly believe Frigga will be able to stop him? Face it, Thor, Odin has been looking for an excuse to get rid of him ever since Loki found out about his true heritage. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he knew that he was still alive somewhere and yet he chose to feign grief.”

Thor opened his mouth to contradict. You cut him off before he could even take a breath.

“Swear to me on your life that no harm will come to him.”

The God of Thunder looked up, meeting your stern gaze with all but resignation and guilt. “Amnerys… I… I cannot swear. I shall speak to Mother and Father, that is all I can promise you to do. You are coming home with us, are you not?”

“Where Loki goes, I go.” It was one of the most sincere truths you had ever spoken.

“So here is what we will do then. We’ll gather the team and you will lead us to Loki, like you promised, we capture him, Thor gets him off-planet. That sounds simple enough. It shouldn’t be too difficult to overpower him now that Min-… Amy…? I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Bruce raised his eyebrows and pointed a finger at you, making you roll your eyes in response.

“Amnerys. My name is Amnerys. Out of mere curiosity… why do you not track the sceptre down again?”

“We could do that eventually but it requires a lot of power. You see, these wires connecting to the…“

“Don’t,” you interrupted, “I have no idea what you are talking about, Dr Banner. It’s electricity, that is all I need to know.”

“Well, yeah… what I’m trying to say is that it will take a lot of time to recharge without cutting the power in the entire city… which would make it even easier for Loki to disappear unnoticed.”

“We never expected you two to separate.”

You scoffed. “I know.” But we will not be for much longer, you added silently.

~*~

Loki was indeed where you had expected him to be. And you had a plan. Centuries ago, the fetid sewers of New York used to be a labyrinth made of beautiful caves and underground rivers—one of which led straight to a secret passageway to Asgard. Loki had discovered it one day, by accident, if anything, for he had been looking for a way to enter Helheim for minerals. Back then, you had been too young to comprehend that Loki had taken you to Midgard a while later.

“Are you sure she’s not leading us straight into an ambush?” Natasha whispered into Thor’s ear. With your heightened hearing abilities, however, she looked to the moist ground quickly when you turned around to raise an eyebrow at her—warningly.

“Trust me,” you spat, “if I had wanted to kill you, you would all be dead already.” You smirked. “Thor is very well aware of how powerful I am.”

Bruce cleared his throat. The sound, much like your voices, travelled through the long and disgusting tunnels seemingly endlessly. “I don’t like this. Where is he?”

“Keep your mouth shut and follow me. Loki’s hearing is as good as mine. And watch your step.” The mud, dirt and brown water to your feet had mixed with garbage only the Norns knew how old. You had already cast a spell to hide your sounds from unwanted ears—you just didn’t want to have to listen to the remaining Avengers expressing their concerns about your person like you were a mischief-maker with no heart or soul. You shook your head silently. They thought the same of Loki, did they not?

Your plan was simple enough. Loki and the sceptre had to be separated, for good. And the best way to do that, if not for your persuasion skills which had failed this time despite how infatuated he was with you, was for the Avengers to do the job for you.

You were not going to let them take him to be executed by Odin. In fact, you would murder them all in cold blood before they even tried.

Now one more turn to the left and then…

Loki would not dare use the sceptre in the sewers due to the underlying danger of collapse; he’d rely on his seidr and his swift fighting skills instead.

You turned around the corner and he looked up as if ripped from a deep thought. His face lit up when you approached him. He stood from his crouching position on the ground and away from the fire he had lit and which was throwing eerie shadows on the wall, and opened his arms for you to embrace him.

You did. A sigh escaped your lips the very second you wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your face against his chest. “I’m sorry…” You whispered.

“Whatever are you sorry for, my queen?”

You glanced up, praying to the Norns that he would take the hint and see the deceit and mischief sparkling in your blue eyes when the Avengers entered one by one, their weapons aimed at the both of you.

Loki’s face fell, his soft expression transforming into a frightening rage. Not directed at you—but at the god he had called his brother for centuries. Staring daggers at Thor, his voice when he spoke was so dark you felt shivers racing up and down your spine.

“Did they hurt you?” He asked you.

“No. I’m fine, Loki.”

“Actually, she took us here.”

“What?”

His eyes met yours again and in this very moment, you wished you had worked harder on your telepathy skills. Loki had introduced you to the art only two decades back…

“I did this for us, Loki. There was no other way anymore.” You mumbled, inhaling his heavenly scent. He had to understand. He had to understand why you were doing things the way you were doing them.

Just trust me, you willed for him to hear in his mind.

But in the end, your unease betrayed your body, whatever happened next happening too fast for you to comprehend. Someone pulled you to the side and whoever it was, their grip felt like steel around your upper arm. There were shouts, screams, sounds of rage and torment, growls and pants and then… then you heard a pair of Asgardian shackles lock in place around Loki’s wrists, the sceptre clattering to the ground with an ear-piercing noise ricocheting through the cave. Just like that, the God of Mischief, eager to avoid the flames dancing on the indestructible metal of Thor’s hammer, was defeated. Or so they were led to believe.

They did not let you carry the sceptre, of course. Natasha Romanoff never took her eyes off of you on the way back to the Avengers’ secret base, wary and vigilant in fear of you turning the tables after all.

Meanwhile, you did not dare look Loki in the eyes, not until you would be alone together again, and part of you even longed to join him in the cell a man called Nick Fury had been working on for months after Loki’s and your triumph and beginning of a tyrannical reign.

“Thank you,” Thor said, observing his brother on the camera they had set up in the cell. He was sitting there on the wooden bench like a Greek statue motionlessly, staring holes into the metal walls with a blank face. There was disappointment, unease and even… even remorse clouding his flawless features like eerie fog on a gloomy day in the woods of Niflheim. “I owe you, Amnerys.”

“No, you don’t. I did not do this for you. I did it for Loki.”

“I know. I still owe you my gratitude.”

“Just remember your promise, Thor.” You only hoped he would not have to act on it anytime soon.

“I will. Good night, Amnerys.”

It isn’t Good night for me, you thought as you watched him walk off. Regardless of how well the remaining Avengers had prepared for this, their security measures were meagre, embarrassing almost. You were quite surprised they had not locked you up as well for the night after all, as a matter of fact. As of right now, the only thing keeping Loki in his cell was the threat of Raskk’s fire. Nothing, whatsoever, that would harm you any further than inflicting a second-degree burn.

The spell you cast that night to shield both Loki and yourself from the cameras was so simple you resisted the urge to laugh out loud as you snuck through the dark and scabby hallways and eventually reached Loki’s cell.

“My love…” You whispered. The Trickster looked up, glaring right through you for a second before finally meeting your blue eyes.

“Thanos…” He began.

“What?”

“His name is Thanos. He was the one who handed me the sceptre. He promised me victory and power in return for the Tesseract. He manipulated me. Tortured me.” Your lips parted. “I wish I had truly died the day I let myself fall off the Bifrost when I subjected to the pain he made me feel.”

“Oh Loki… this is not your fault, none of this is…”

He snorted, gaping at you darkly. “Are you still blaming the sceptre, my queen?”

“Loki…”

“I heard your plea in my mind… and yet you have signed my death sentence, my sweet Amnerys. Did Thor not tell you what will happen once the Bifrost is fully restored?”

“I do. I know exactly what will happen.” You replied as you unlocked the door and swiftly stepped inside. “They will be looking for us. They will tear the nine worlds apart in their search and yet they will never find us. We will be free, Loki. Just us. No thrones, no sceptres, no obligations and rules.”

Loki began to smirk, warming your heart. “We leave it all behind?”

You nodded, reaching out for him so you could teleport together. “We leave it all behind.”

And you would start by planting little seeds of doubt into his mind, seeds that you intended to grow into nothing but unconditional love.

~*~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Head over to my blog to read more of my writing and to find my Kofi link! ♥

[hualianff]

Thinking about a historical AU with prince XL and rogue merchant HC.

They’ve grown up knowing each other when XL would convince his caretaker to venture outside of the palace and HC was on the streets begging for or stealing food. XL was the only person who acknowledged HC’s pathetic existence during that time. He brought HC food from the palace and bought him trinkets from the vendors using XL’s own allowance money.

With HC’s survival and fighting skills, HC makes the decision to travel with a band of rogues to climb the social ranks and improve his quality of life wealth-wise. He’s only seventeen when he leaves for the first time.

He makes sure to tell XL before he goes.

While XL completes his duties as prince, HC is on the road making a name for himself. He loses his right eye early on due to an ambush where he was the only one to make it out alive. He’s very distinguishable with the eyepatch, but no less handsome, as XL claims.

Whenever they can, HC and XL meet up to share their stories and check in with each other. They fall in love during these times. HC promises to always come back for XL, and XL says he’ll always be waiting for HC to return home.

Except eight years later, when HC is on his way to the furthest kingdom he’s traveled to yet, equipped with a hefty amount of men and goods (XL’s letters kept in his pocket), HC catches wind of a siege on Xianle kingdom.

He immediately turns his caravan around to head back to his home—to XL.

HC is too late. Bodies litter the streets as well as the royal palace. Countless individuals are missing too, including the prince of Xianle. The queen, with her dying breaths, tells HC that they took her son, before falling against the king’s limp body, open wounds pooling blood on the plush carpet.

HC screams.

A split-second decision has HC hunting down the culprits who attacked the monarchy. It turns out to be a local group of rebels who had succeeded in gaining foreign aid, something HC was completely oblivious to; he hadn’t been around often to know of the trouble they caused, nor did XL mention anything in his letters.

The fortunate thing about working with the same people for the better half of the decade means HC has people he can trust and who can fight to fend for themselves.

Leaving his crew to deal with the remaining rebels, HC sprints to the prince’s chambers, where it looks like a tornado came by and wrecked everything in its sight. The bed, the drawers, the empty spaces where furniture should’ve been.

HC finds crumpled pieces of paper on the otherwise empty waste basket.

It’s a half-written letter addressed to “Beloved,” XL’s signature elegant penmanship stopping mid-character when he appears to have been interrupted.

HC clutches the piece of paper to his heart, tears gathering in his eyes, XL leaving nothing more than his jasmine scent.

HC ends up taking control of the palace, having enough men and connections within the kingdom to gain legitimate control, as none of the royal family members were present or alive to do so.

It takes months to clean up the aftermath of the attack, and another year to organize tasks for workers who have never set foot in the palace before and messengers to learn the routes around the town.

HC also has a team specifically assigned to search for the prince. There has been no report of XL’s body, so HC has reason to believe his beloved is still alive out there.

HC is determined to get him back.

Over the years, HC interrogated (tortured) all the rogue groups that contributed to the attack through the local rebels. He has task forces tracking those groups down, leaving few alive for further interrogation on the prince’s whereabouts.

Three years after taking control of Xianle kingdom, HC’s men locate the final rogue group, taking in three prisoners.

The first one has a noticeable limp and curses loudly regardless of who he talks to.

The second one has a cold face of steel, head held up in defiance as two men restrict his movements.

The third one wears an iron mask that appears to be bolted into the side of their temples, head bowed in submission.

All three of them have the rogue symbol burned into the backs of their necks.

The two maskless prisoners hold firm that they were not involved with the rogues during the attack of the kingdom. Their marks are proof, as the members of the group who join willingly may choose an area besides the backs of their necks to place the rogue symbol.

HC doesn’t like their tones one bit, too brash and disrespectful in his presence. Though they pose a logical argument, HC doesn’t really have time to deal with them.

As he’s about to signal his men to finish the job, the one with a limp suddenly speaks out.

“We would never bring any harm to His Highness or his family. We knew them personally...they quite enjoyed stopping by our vendor back in the day. If anything, we hope you can allow us to labor in the restoration of the kingdom Prince Xianle and the king and queen helped cultivate.”

Burning hot rage fills HC’s gut. For some reason, appealing to XL seemed to be this man’s last attempt to earn HC’s mercy.

“It will not do you any good to lie,” he says icily.

“It’s true,” the other stone-faced prisoner says. His mouth twists in bitterness. “His Highness had many dreams to fulfill when becoming king.”

HC’s lips curl in a snarl.

“A garden. In the front for anyone to enjoy,” the man continues. “Filled with roses, lotuses, and magnolias.”

“Jasmine,” HC mutters to himself. He rubs his temple tiredly.

The trial had gone longer than it should have. But a sliver of hope clutches at his heart. Perhaps he can take a chance on these fools.

“You, with the mask, do you have anything to say for yourself?” HC addresses the third prisoner, making sure they are on the same page as the other two.

The masked prisoner keeps their head bowed. Their hands make a flurry of gestures that make no sense to HC. Before HC can question it, the first prisoner says,

“Forgive this one, for he cannot speak. He’s had a terrible beating to the skull about a year ago by the leader of the rogue group we were captured by,” he explains. “But he is willing to cooperate under your rule, as we all are.”

HC slams his hand down on the arm of the throne.

“Very well.” He turns to the guards. “Take them to the dungeons. Await my orders about what to do with them.”

The guards comply, heaving the prisoners up and pulling them to side doors, the dungeons in a separate structure than the palace.

HC unconsciously touches the pocket of his robes where XL’s final letter resides.

“Soon, my love. Soon, I will find you and bring you home.”

[jean-does-not-have-a-horseface]

Last kiss

This is uhm, I took three days to even brainstorm this as a whole and it was supposed to involve a lot of other things but I decided to leave it here and see if you guys wanted to see more of this

Summary: Zeke confesses to you and all youre forced to have to bid your lover goodbye in hopes of sacrificing yourself for greater good.

Pairing: Levi/Reader, Zeke Yeager/Reader

Maybe you should have died back then, while reclaiming Shiganshina, with all of your other comrades before Zeke ever had a chance to lay his eyes on you. Maybe you should have been shot by Kenny or get eaten by a Titan on a casual expedition, anything would've been more preferable than having to listen to Zeke confessing to you.

"You understand this is something you can't tell to your subordinates right?"

This was pure, painful, agonizing torture. Sitting there with your back turned to him, hidden in the darkness of an alley. You didn't know how to respond and frankly you didn't even want to. It felt like daggers piercing through your thin sensitive skin, through your camel colored leather jacket.

"I don't know what you expect from me Zeke." You speak, just above your breath, back still turned to him and your eyes shut closed as you refused to spare a look on his form or even on his shadow.

In all honesty you don't feel like he expects something from you moretheless. Perhaps he enjoys having you cornered like a rat right then and there and perhaps this is his way of trying to get to Levi's head, to strip him of anything he has left and make him a weak opponent.

Then again if he wanted to get in his head he wouldn't be here, talking to you for all that matters. He's be attacking him.

"Come on! Why do you even associate yourself with that midget of man. I could-"

"Stop!"

"I could take you see the world and maybe-"

"Stop, really" You halt his speech once again, silently, as if you're trying not to wake him up from that idiotic dream world of his in which he thinks you can ever even have a shared future. This time you turn to look at him, wide eyes painted with agony, with hot flowing streaks of tears with watered eyes and clear stained cheeks. "You really think I can forgive a man who massacred my friends? You think you have any right to intervene between me and Levi?"

As he begs you to reconsider your beliefs, to have a chance of heart, you avert your gaze to the stone ground of the alleyway. You can't bear to spend your gaze on him not even if it's driven by rage. Not anymore. Yet you decide not to speak of your personal hatred towards him. You only mutter him a tiny 'I'll think about it' as you begin to stomp away.

It's not like Hange would ever advice you to engage so close with an enemy who slaughtered your comrades to no end that eventful day.

You're surprised when you find out she thinks otherwise to the point you regret ever speaking of it. Withholding important information on the enemy is treason, an act you are not about to commit for you've fought very hard for the people inside the walls to be alive an free. So why is Hange depriving you from living that way.

Steel grey eyes blink into yours with mutted rage as you speak of Zeke's words concerning their mighty owner. Not only was that blond bearded piece of shit the cause of all his comrades death he now had the audacity to claim you his most prized possession. Levi just despises the way Zeke thinks that everything belongs to him, how he's taken everything from him and now is launching on for more.

Levi, although he never speaks of it outloud, can see the look of horror and disgust plastered on your face as Hange encourages you to take a positive action against Zeke's proposal. And even the sound of it manages to pain him in ways he had never thought were possible.

"What if he kills her, Hange. What if this is all a plan and that's why he didn't want her telling us about it."

Hange answers in inaudible muffles, unsure of what to say or believe. He watches as you try to object, to shriek your way out of this horrible mess you're about to be put in and all because you love him. And Hange knows even if she refuses to bring it up at the moment, as if it means nothing to anyone.

"Dedicate your fucking heart, this is your oath!" His breath is cut short as he utters the words, looking directly in your eyes, flooding your insides with guilt and horror for what's to come next.

"No" it's a simple, rebellious reply, that you've only just decided to adopt when addressing him "I'm not doing anything if it means I'm going to lose you."

Levi bites his lower lip and squints his eyes shut; how can he ever even fathom having to endure seeing you in Zeke's arms and why should this be done for the sake of humanity. You weren't an object to be used against Zeke, he could scream of it at the top of his lungs if the circumstance even so slightly needed it.

"All I'm saying is, approach him."

"He won't believe me."

Hange explains that this weakness he's shown may be the end of him for all you've known, but Levi and you refuse to listen as you fix your pained eyes on each other with despair. It occurs to you that this may be the last time, hopefully in a while, that you ever get to encounter him like this and the thought proceeds to munch on your brain like maggots on a rotting corpse. You're lost in the moment, in his eyes, in Hange's earth shattering statements.

Nothing's fair in war and love you know yet it's difficult to even bat an eye in positive response to this plan as your heart is pressuring to know why you have to be the one to take a stand in taking out the enemy from within. But there's no such answer to your question. Humane emotions are unpredictable, unstable and unusual and in any other circumstance, it wouldn't be bad for Zeke to have fallen for anyone. Given your context though, not only was it bad, it was suffocating. You refused to have anything taken from Levi every again, yet here you are, stepping into the corpses of those words as his despairate eyes are pleading with you in silence.

_____

The plan is simple.

"Zeke?" Tears run down your eyes as your soft voice grazes his eardrums in the lowest of pained tones. He takes a look at your form, particularly in that muddy nightgown that adorns it and then your shoveled hair and that deadbeat expression in your watered orbs.

You reach out to him in the middle of the night, crying, wheezing, supposedly after a fight with Levi, anything to get his sympathy. Seeing his biased behavior over you this will be easy as blinking your eyes.

"P-please take me to see the world!" You utter and watch as Zeke's eyes widen with hard hidden happiness. He can only imagine what has went wrong that has made you decide to come to him but he never asks, nor does he ever ask about Levi, a fact that assures you his motives aren't what you had suspected.

And it tears your heart in a million little pieces in a way no titan ever could; the way he lifts a hand up to caress your cheek, they way his eyes glimmer with love, his ever so respectful movements towards you as if not to force you into anything. Those thoughts, those brain eating maggots are rapidly moving to your chest, to your stomach, everywhere in your body in hopes to leave you hollow, to assist you in that situation.

You don't have to give in to anything he wants. You can work your way around him and establish what you want but be prepared for anything. This is our only chance to be exposed to such a tremendous weakness. Our future is in your hands just as much as it's on our army. Don't let us down.

As that giant, disgusting, furry hand lifts you up from your feet your mind travels to your lover's chaste last kiss on your dry lips. The pleasurable happiness kisses like this would give you has now scattered away in greater sacrifice of this very moment. In the blink of an eye your life can be taken away from your mortal, expansible hands, fading into complete frightening darkness but what happens when all you're left with is a hollowed body who gets to experience pain and misery and no other option than to have to endure. Your heart is burning the insides of your chest, crawling up your skin with sharp claws that rip through flesh, but nothing ever happens. It never bursts, it never slows down it's beating either. You're only trapped, once again like a death sentenced rat, between Zeke's hand and your horrifying emotions.

It'll be over in no time, I promise you it's for the greater good.

Hey! I hope you enjoyed this 💕 if you want to see more leave a request in my askbox. Thank you for reading I love you all💞

[eyeofthedrgn]

A Heavy Battle Symphony Chapter 5

Catch up here >> AHBS Masterlist

TW: language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), just a lot of trauma, angst, smut - lots of lovely gay smut

Chapter 5 - With You

When things go wrong I pretend that the past isn't real

Now I'm trapped in this memory

And I'm left in the wake of the mistake, slow to react

So even though you're close to me

You're still so distant and I can't bring you back

"What the fuck is that?"

He was sitting at the breakfast table doing homework, after he had completed his chores when his aunt and Perrington had walked through the front door. Wearing one of the only t-shirts he owned and a pair of shorts, he sighed before looking up at his aunt.

"What is what?" he said, running his hand through his hair. Though, he knew what she was talking about. Why hadn't he kept his hoodie on? Not that that would have helped, the drawings covered his hand too.

She grabbed his arm and forcefully pulled on it. Lorcan let out a hiss. "What bullshit is all over your cast! That cost good money-" she froze. Understanding dawned on her face, eyebrows shooting up. "Oh. Did you find some people to pity you?" Her words dripped with poison. "You know you're worthless, right? No one could ever love you. You are a bastard born, half breed. Your own mother deserted you!"

"She died!" Lorcan yelled. That was too far and she knew it, but she didn’t stop there.

"She killed herself to get away from you, you ugly half-breed."

Lorcan never wanted to believe that. Never. Not that he was an ugly biracial kid, but that his mother killed herself. Why would she want to kill herself when she had him? Or maybe it was his fault. Maybe he drove her crazy enough to take her own life. Maybe...

Maeve just laughed smugly, cutting off Lorcan’s thoughts as she walked down the hall to her room and came back with a bottle of what looked like alcohol and a towel.

"Arm." He reluctantly held his casted arm out to her as she sat in the chair next to him. She started cleaning the metallic ink away. She wasn't gentle. He clenched his jaw and focused on his breathing.

Lorcan had to admit it was a good plan to get the people who were starting to befriend him, to turn their backs instead. Yet another way to break him down. They weren’t friends anyway, why would they care that their mark on him was gone.

The whole time Maeve was scrubbing his arm, Lorcan couldn't stop thinking about how he wasn't good enough for anyone. Not for his mother and definitely not Rowan. He didn't deserve the sparkle that twinkled in those green eyes when they looked at him. Why would Rowan even look at him like that? He was an ugly, bastard born half-breed after all. Too skinny, awkwardly tall, dark olive skin, black eyes.

His vision was blurry from the tears he wouldn't let fall. He couldn't let his aunt see his weakness.

"There," Maeve cooed. "All better." She looked at him with a sick sense of joviality. "Now go to your room." The way Maeve's voice went from saccharin to steel nearly gave Lorcan whiplash. He quickly went to his room after gathering his things and gently closed the door.

Lorcan closed his eyes and tears leaked out. He wiped them away. Why was he so emotional about this? He never got this emotional about anything. Fuck, he hated Orynth.

His cast was a mess now. Some of the designs were smeared beyond recognition, others completely gone. Maeve destroyed it, like she destroys everything. Elide's trees, gone. Rowan's line doodle was smudged into a big blob, but the 'Ro' of Rowan was still faintly visible. Somehow, that made Lorcan feel worse. Why were there so many emotions he didn’t know the names of when Rowan flitted through his mind?

He dug into his sleeping bag, grabbed his journal, pulled a razor blade out of the spine, and went to the bathroom with his pajamas and razor blade. Lorcan's thoughts were a jumble of negativity, he couldn't sort through them so he just pressed the blade to his forearm, dragging through other scars, deeper than he usually did. He grit his teeth through the pain. Lorcan deserved it. He was an unloved, unwanted mixed race bastard. And he was way too fucking emotional.

After letting his blood drip in the sink until he started getting a little lightheaded, he cleaned himself up, and then changed. His torso still covered in an ever changing modern art painting. He thought that maybe Jackson Pollock would be proud to have a painting that looked like his bruises. Lorcan just huffed a laugh at his sick humor.

Back in his room, he wrote in his journal, recording the worst beating of his life and the following days. Including how stupid he was today, to let Elide's smile cause him such grief once his aunt saw the product of his stupidity.

++++

"Mom, he has a cast!" Rowan was so exasperated. He threw his arms in the air.

Rowan's mom knew he was concerned. He had told her about the bruises he saw on the black haired boy's neck.

After dinner, Rowan went up to his room, pulled out his laptop and decided to video call with the group. He just wanted to think of something besides the pain that filled those onyx eyes that were staring at him throughout lunch.

His friend's only helped a little. They were mostly talking about their homework. Elide read one of her new stories for creative writing. Rowan wanted to ask her if she had read any of Lorcan's work, but he didn't feel comfortable asking in front of everyone. So, he didn't.

---

Lorcan woke up at 5am. He checked the gauze on his arm, it hurt. There was blood staining the gauze. I guess that's what happens when you cut deeper. After redoing his bandage and making sure his blade was secured in the spine of his journal, he threw said journal in his newly repaired backpack that broke last night after he was trying to put his schoolwork away. For some reason, he just didn't feel like his journal was safe being left in the apartment anymore.

After dressing and making breakfast for the despicable adults of the house, Lorcan left for school. He left earlier than usual and decided to walk through the park that was between the apartment and the school. Lorcan's hood was down, his man bun was messy, some of his wispy hairs falling in his face, his hands were stuffed in his hoodie pocket. The rain puddles he walked through leaked into his shoes and soaked into the frayed hem of his jeans. Despite having wet feet, it was a nice morning. Except for the undefinable tightness in his chest and the pain in his arm that he tried to ignore.

Lorcan walked one of the winding paths beneath the trees and noticed that some of the greens matched the color of Rowan's eyes. He shouldn't be thinking of those types of things. Never having had a crush before, he didn't understand what and why he kept comparing things back to Rowan or how his stomach would flip when the other boy flitted through his thoughts.

From behind, he heard laughter from multiple people. He switched paths and started walking faster. The laughter was familiar and he had a feeling it was Elide's and Rowan's friend group. Today, he would do his best to avoid them.

++++

Rowan noticed Lorcan ahead of them on the path and then saw him veer away and speed up. When they were about to pass the way Lorcan had gone, he made a decision.

"Hey, I'll meet you all at school." He didn't wait for an answer or reply to the questioning. They knew he was crushing on the new kid.

Rowan was on a mission. Half jogging to catch up with the long strides of his crush, he finally caught up with him.

"Lorcan!"

Gods above, he started going faster.

"Lorcan, please." He stopped suddenly and Rowan jogged a couple paces past him and turned around.

Lorcan's expression was hard, his eyes blank. They were nothing like they had been yesterday when they were almost hopeful. Today they were dull and vacant, it gave Rowan an uneasy feeling.

"Um, hi. I just thought-"

"You thought wrong." And started his swift pace past Rowan.

"But-" Rowan sighed and just did his best to keep up with Lorcan.

He really needed to work on his cardio, he was a bit winded when they got to the school. Lorcan disappeared into the throng of high schoolers. "Fuck," breathed Rowan.

All Rowan wanted was to be friendly with Lorcan. He was sad and frustrated when someone touched his shoulder.

"I'm sure he'll come around someday," Elide said with a knowing look.

"I just.." Rowan didn't know what he was saying.

"I know. Let's go to class." Elide looped her arm through his and they set off for History of Erilea.

---

Lorcan was sent to the library again for his P.E. class. He sat in a secluded corner, hoping Elide wouldn't find him. She didn't. Thank Hellas.

Pulling out his journal, he decided to write about Rowan, about how he didn't deserve a friend in Rowan. It was strange for him to use this journal for something other than an abuse record. Although, maybe this was a different sort of torture, a personal one. He couldn't have friends, and he definitely couldn't have anything more. They would likely be moving in a month or two anyway.

But Lorcan kept going back to how it felt when Rowan had touched his hand. There were butterflies in his stomach every time he thought about it. Did he really have a crush on this guy? For his whole life, he has done his best to keep the world out and now, somehow his walls were cracking. He was desperately trying to fill those cracks back in, he couldn't break now. He wouldn’t let his walls fall for some pretty boy.

The bell rang for lunch, he was starving, but he wanted to be alone in the quiet. He decided to eat quickly and then come back.

That didn't work out so well.

After sitting at the empty table in the corner and shoving food in his face, the silver haired boy sat across from him. He didn't say anything, he just ate. Lorcan just stared at him, food half raised to his mouth. Realizing Rowan wasn't going to say anything, he continued to eat.

His food was gone and now he didn't really want to go back to the library. Somehow it was comfortable sitting here with Rowan, so he just got out some of his homework instead. It really would be best to go back to the library.

++++

Yes! It was working!

Elide had suggested to Rowan that maybe he should sit with Lorcan at lunch and just be quiet. So he did and Lorcan didn't snap or run away. It was progress!

Rowan felt elated at this, especially when it looked like Lorcan was going to leave, then decided to stay. He did his best to hide his smile. But gods above, he was excited. He texted Elide.

RoRo: it's working!

Ellie: That's because I'm amazing! Haha!

RoRo: omg elide

Ellie: I'm happy it's working, Rowan. I really am. :)

Rowan looked up to see Lorcan lost in thought with his pencil down his cast. It probably itched like crazy. But then, he saw it or lack of it. All the doodle marks were nearly gone. Tears pricked his eyes, and his throat tightened. Was yesterday some sort of joke? Gods, he was stupid.

RoRo: he cleaned his cast off…

Ellie: What? Seriously?

He couldn't sit there anymore. Rowan angrily grabbed his stuff and went back to his usual table with his friends. He just hoped that Lorcan didn't see the tears that fell down his cheeks. It was embarrassing how emotional he could be sometimes.

Fen saw Rowan coming over, he was wiping his face, "You're sure he cleaned his cast off? I didn't even know you could do that without compromising its durability."

"There's smudged Sharpie over the part I could see," he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Everyone frowned. Aelin threw her arms around him. "He's just an asshole."

---

Lorcan had wondered how long it would take for Rowan to get fed up with him and leave. But he wasn't expecting to see him crying as he left.

He felt like shit. Looking at the exposed cast, he saw Rowan's faded and smudged doodle. Fucking Hellas. This day has turned to complete and utter shit and needed to end.

Thankfully, the rest of the day went by quickly. Elide had ignored him in creative writing. Obviously, Rowan had told everyone. This was probably for the best anyway.

____

Thanks for reading! Let know you would like to be tagged.

@thenerdandfandoms @starlightorstarfire

[everlarkficexchange]

A Simple Choice

Written by: @justajjfan​

Beta’d by: @sunsetsrmydreams​

Prompt 83: Katniss is whipped instead of Gale in Catching Fire, Peeta’s the one who’s there to take care of her after. [submitted by anonymous].

Prompt 116: Peeta braids Katniss’ hair to soothe her. [submitted by anonymous] 

Rating: Mature 

Warning: Mention of whipping 

A/N: My thanks to @everlarkficexchange​ ; @javistg​ and @xerxia31​ for allowing me to go way over the deadline. It was a real struggle but I’m so excited I finally have something post-worthy. My apologies to the 2 anons who have been so patiently waiting for their prompts to be turned into stories. I hope you like what I’ve written. A special thank you to @sunsetsrmydreams​. This story would be nothing without you. 

 ~~~

Chapter 1

“Trust me.”

I did. I trusted Katniss with my life, and so it seemed at the time…with my impending death. 

After everything we both went through to survive, enduring the pain and horrors only The Hunger Games could bring, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough. 

The Capitolites craved this abhorrent form of entertainment and under the watchful and devious eye of President Coriolanus Snow, thrilled at the sight of children kill and be killed.   

As it was in previous games, once the first wave of bloodshed was spilled, tributes from Districts 1 and 2 formed packs like wolves and hunted down the weak and vulnerable one by one before turning on themselves until only one was left standing.   

The Victor.

All this savagery was broadcasted live each year across Panem in all its goriest detail and deemed mandatory viewing for every citizen.

Through it all, Katniss and I beat the odds and fought our way out of the gruesome web the Gamemakers spun to be the last two remaining tributes from the same district. But I should have known better…should have never allowed myself to be duped into believing the odds would at last be in our favour. 

All our valiant efforts to stay alive was thrown in our weary and battle-scared faces. 

President Snow had no intention of honouring the change in rules by allowing both of us to live and for the first time in The Hunger Games infamous history, have two tributes jointly crowned as Victors. So when the words bellowed in the air announcing the revocation of those rules, it came as little surprise to me. 

The promise of a peaceful life and all the wealth any citizen could ever want held no sway over me. Already knowing the odds would never be in my favour, I accepted my fate. 

For as long as I could remember, it had always been a fanciful dream of mine to live a life with Katniss, if she would allow it. Dreaming of our toasting and the vows I would say to her as I broke a piece of bread I baked myself and brought it to her sweet mouth. The feel of her soft body as we made love for the first time, even as far as raising a family of our own someday was a stupid pipedream, and I foolishly clung onto it all. Any hope of it becoming a reality was ripped from my grasp and shattered into a million pieces. 

The choice was a simple one. When we were reaped, I vowed to do everything I could to protect Katniss even if it meant sacrificing my own life so she could live. I had no chance of winning and besides…no one needed me back home. But it became apparent Katniss had other ideas. 

“Together?”

The sound of her voice echoing my question came as a soft whisper and in that moment we understood each other. If we couldn’t leave the arena together, then we would die…together. 

In the face of death itself, that one singular word gave me a strange sense of calm and peace. 

“One.” 

Starting off the count knowing how little time I had left in this cruel and merciless world, the chance to tell Katniss what I’ve always felt in my heart was before me…and quickly ticking by. 

“Two.”

I inhaled a deep breath sure the words would flow but instead my voice fell silent. Time was clearly against me but how many words would I need to express what Katniss meant to me?

In the precious dying second, my hand as if possessed with a will of its own, reached for her braid. This was something I had always longed to do and if I couldn’t say those words to Katniss, then I hoped she would feel them through this one innocent touch.

I would have given anything to sketch those steel grey eyes staring back at me. A chance to kiss her deeply and unravel her braid as I gently combed my fingers through the silky dark tresses the way I hoped she would like. Just one last chance to watch over her as she slept soundly in my arms and whisper the words she should have heard me say years ago.

But this was the cruel reality I was faced with and the closest thing I would ever get to realising any part of my dream. And I made sure not to let that final moment between us slip by.  

“Three.”

I focused on the only image I would take with me into the darkness…her eyes.

Slowly, we brought the handful of poison berries to our lips, ready to end this before the Gamemakers took the choice away from us when the deafening sound of Claudius Templesmith’s desperate shout rang out from the hidden audio speakers, freezing us both from any further movement.

“STOP! STOP! STOP”

…and so we did.

***

All that seems like a lifetime ago instead of weeks. The Hunger Games, The Victory Tour and everything in between changed after the cameras finally stopped rolling and we boarded the train for home. And as we sped closer to District 12, Katniss began to withdraw from me and eventually shut me out completely and it confused me.

What did I do to make her feel so indifferent towards me?

Those lonely nights on the train were the hardest to deal with. Sleeping without Katniss beside me was a new torture all on its own but it was what she wanted. I guess in the end, conscience got the better of her and I was finally put out of my misery with the hurtful truth.

It was an act…a show that Katniss and our mentor Haymitch Abernathy devised to fool the Capitol into believing we were star-crossed lovers desperate to be together even in death, only it was me who was completely fooled.

But their plan worked, and it kept us both alive. The cave…the embraces…the whispered words…all those kisses were just part of the act and she wanted to forget them all…but I didn’t.

When we finally arrived home, the citizens of Twelve were all at the train station to welcome us home. To my astonishment, they were cheering us both as heroes. Perhaps they too, were acting in front of the cameras. But as soon as the scripted speeches were done and the crowd slowly dispersed taking Katniss and her family along with it, the finality of it all hit home.

I was alone.

***

Living in the Victor’s Village was a new start. But even in our proximity, Katniss avoided having any sort of contact with me. I tried my best not to let it affect me, but the hurt I felt inside festered like an open wound.

I missed her so much.

At first, I blamed myself for Katniss distancing herself from me. She said she wanted to forget and maybe I reminded her too much of the arena and the nightmares those memories brought her.

But I had nightmares too.

Hearing her screams in the dead of night will haunt me forever and even now, it takes all my willpower to stop myself from crashing through her front door and rushing to her side.

She doesn’t need me.

At first, I thought time alone would help her figure things out in her head and I of all people, understood. But time wasn’t what she needed. I finally came to terms with what was real.

Gale Hawthorne had been her choice all along.

***

As one lonely day slowly creeps into the next, working in my family’s bakery has been my saving grace, helping me cope with my new life a little more each day. With both Bran and Rye learning new trades from the Merchant businesses they successfully married into, it left my father with no resources to help run the bakery, making me his only viable option.

The strain showed on his face and although dad would never admit to it, especially in front of my mother, I knew he needed my help desperately. So, when I suggested I could work in the bakery for a few hours each day, he accepted my offer in a heartbeat. In an odd kind of way, it felt good to be needed even if I was being used to keep our family business afloat.

It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

Understandably, my older brothers were quick to register their new living and working arrangements at the Justice Building, automatically forsaking any claims of inheritance or ownership of the bakery. But it was a small price to pay as far as they were concerned, if it meant being free from under our mother’s thumb.

So, technically speaking I am now part-owner of the Mellark Bakery with all rights and privileges bestowed to any Merchant business holder, making mother my employee.

An ironic twist in fate.

***

Safely hidden in the darkness of my own room, my racing heart begins to calm after waking from my usual nightmare. As it is on most nights, my first compelling impulse is to rush towards the opened bedroom window and look in the direction of her room and breathe out a sigh of relief when I see her.

“It’s okay…just another bad dream…she’s safe,” I whisper to myself as I stare at the shadowy figure pacing the floor from across the way. Even in the darkness of her room, I would recognise her silhouette anywhere and she’s becoming alarmingly thinner by the day.

Katniss always leaves her lamp on during the night because she fears being left in the dark. Her phobia started soon after her father’s tragic death in the mines and the thought of him being buried alive in the explosion has left her emotionally scarred. At least that’s what she told me once before she drifted off to sleep in my arms.

Now, each night I watch on helplessly as Katniss paces her room. When I leave my house in the early hours of the morning for the bakery I try so hard not to look, but it only takes two steps outside my front door before my eyes dart towards her dimly-lit bedroom. She’s always there. Standing at her window, sleepless, anxiously twirling her messy braid around her fingers. When she spots me, she’s quick to move from sight.

I tell myself I must be imagining it, but I swear I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head as I walk along the pathway, towards the gate. But I won’t allow myself to turn around and see if I’m right. She’s probably glad to see me leave while she waits for Gale Hawthorne to arrive.

It’s no secret Gale and Katniss are together now. My mother takes great pleasure in reminding me of this fact.

“Stop pinning over that Seam trash! She used you! It’s a known fact what she does with that Hawthorne boy in those woods. She’s probably carrying his brat inside of her. Time to get on with your own life and find a wife to help you in the bakery…a nice Merchant girl…someone pure like Delly Cartwright. She’s smart, pretty, comes from a respectable family. Those qualities are a rarity. Delly’s the perfect choice for you.”

Choice. Why do I always cringe when I hear that word?

I can’t continue to ignore the facts before me. Katniss hates me. She spends every Sunday with Gale sneaking off to the woods for hours. When they return, he stays at her house until late and the curtains in her bedroom which are usually left open even during the night, are drawn until he leaves.

I’m surprised Mrs Everdeen who was brought up with Merchant values would allow such a thing, but I guess after watching us in the cave during The Games and The Victory Tour, she’s not troubled by it now and happily overlooks her daughter’s lack of propriety because it’s with Gale Hawthorne after all.

I’m sure to hear the announcement of their toasting soon.

I need to keep reminding myself what Katniss does with her life is none of my business. What made me think it ever was? She’s clearly moved on with her life and maybe it’s time I thought about doing the same with mine.

For once my mother may have a point.

tbc…

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Guardian of Creatures; AU! Queen x oc female x reader Chap. 14

*Author’s note*

Well it has been awhile since I did an update with this series but I finally took some time and finally came around to do this chapter.  Now idk when I’ll do the next chapter but I hope it’ll be soon. I really don’t wanna give up on this series and I hope you all haven’t given up either. I know the Queen/BoRhap fandom’s been almost silent lately but I hope we stand strong.

Warnings: swearing, torture, abuse, animal (in this case magical creature) cruelty/abuse

Chapter 14,

Kidnapped, tortured and broken

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@simonedk​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@queensdivas​

@queen-paladin​

@queendeakyy​

@glitter-at-the-panic​

@geek-and-proud​

@kinole009x​

_________________________________________________________

All you saw was pure darkness.  All you could hear was the sound of your heavy breathing and you thought you could also hear the shrill of a woman’s voice.  Suddenly your vision came back to you however you found out that you were forced down on your knees with your arms behind your back.

“So this is the so called human savior that my foolish nephew Crowley found eh?” you looked up and saw the familiar crazed curly hair of John’s mother Bellatrix Deacon.  Seeing her up close and personal was like you were looking at a rapid animal.

Her pupils were so dilated you could barely see the brown color in them, hell if you didn’t know any better you’d say she could pass off having black eyes.

“Indeed it is.” The shadow wizard wearing glasses and had sleeked back black hair and piercing cold light blue eyes said.  She scoffed. “Filthy muggles. Thinking they can learn our ways of magic! The world would be better off without ‘em!”

“Madam has such a sharp sense. Clever in every sense…..” a large fat, bald male said.

“Shut up Gollum!” she snapped at the creature.  Gollum, oh yeah you remember reading about them in the Magical creatures book.  They’re basically slaves to Wizards but never mistake them for weak.  They may look fat and slow but they are able to lift things 50x their own weight, and can snap a person’s spine in half if they are ordered to do so by their master.  The Gollum submitted and whimpered fearfully at Bellatrix’s fury. “Did you find the others?”

The man snapped his fingers and soon more shadow wizards came in, coming beside them were cocoon-like shadows.  One large one stood beside you and the other looked smaller, soon enough the smaller one revealed itself to be Roger and the taller one was Thor. From Thor there was Brian and Seraffel. And from Roger there was John and Ardeth.

“Hello sweetie, you miss me?” Bellatrix said to John.

“I could say a lot of things about you and not one of them would be anything in the ties of family feeling.” She did a slight tick.

“Is that any way to speak to your mother!?”

“I think we have very different definitions of being a ‘mother’.” Her right eye twitched then she slapped John across the face, the slap actually echoing throughout the entire room.

“DAD!!” Thor and Seraffel cried out.

“You psychotic bitch! Touch him again and I’ll freeze your ass so thick that not even a blue flamed dragon will be able to thaw you!” Seraffel growled threateningly.  Bellatrix then turned to Seraffel and even gave him a slap across the face.

“You do that and you and your brother will be locked somewhere where not even the crows can land their droppings on you.” She hissed into his face.  “What of that snake beast that’s always with them?” she said as she stood back up and paced in front of you all.

“We’re taking care of him. In fact I gave him a special little concoction of my own design. He’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“Excellent. And what of little Serafina? Your brothers having their way with her?” she cackled softly with a sickening grin.

Jesus this woman….if you could just move your arms you’d sure would like to wipe that grin off her face.  How dare she speak of Serafina like that!

“She was not with us when you sent these mages to collect us.” Ardeth spoke.  Bellatrix cackled and she said.

“As if I would ever believe that, Arabic dog!” She leaned down towards Ardeth.  She stood back up and walked towards the shadow wizard wearing the glasses and continued, “Now come on enough games where is she? That little wench has been clingy to my poor excuse of a son ever since they could walk. Wherever he goes, she’s sure to follow. Like a good little puppy.”

“I’m—afraid he’s not lying.” She turned to the man.  Her facial expression in a stoic gawk.  Her eyes wide as she let out a whisper.

“She wasn’t there?” the man shook his head. Bellatrix then began to frantically pace around the nearby fireplace which was roaring with a huge fire.  

Then in a flash she raised her wand and fired a green fire blast at the fireplace which made the fire explode behind her, her hair fanning out like a deranged demon.  With a flick of her wrist with her wand, a whip came out and attacked the shadow wizard standing behind John.

“How dare you—” a female shadow witch proclaimed but she was silenced when the whip wrapped around her throat.  She was the flung out the window before Bellatrix attacked another male shadow wizard that stood behind you.  She forced him across the room, hitting the wall.

“GO! FIND HER! FIND HER YOU MONGRELS!!!!!” she roared out in pure anger.  Not even wanting to test her again, the shadow wizards disappeared all except their leader. “Corvus! Put the creatures in their cages! I want to have a little conversation with my sonny boy. Mummy to son!” She said as she went up to John and actually pulled him free from his shadow binds, pulling him right up to her face.

You as well as the others were soon being forced to walk out of the room and towards what you would assume would be the dungeons.

“Dad! No dad!” the boys called out.

“John!” you called out.

“I’ll be okay you three. I’ll be okay.” Was the last thing you heard him say to you before the last thing you saw was his mother smirking maliciously at her own son.

You were then pushed into a cage and heard it lock behind you before the shadow wizard known as Corvus walked away after sending the others into their own cages.  Already you could hear Thor and Seraffel trying to bust down their cages.

“It’s no use boys.” Brian said.

“What you’re giving up already Uncle Brian! You know who our dad’s with we can’t just leave him alone with her!” Seraffel said.

“I understand your concern for your father ice dragon. But these are not ordinary cells. These have been engraved with ancient ruins. Which means we can’t use our powers and no amount of strength can break these bars.” Ardeth explained.

“So-so we’re just gonna stay locked away down here!?” Thor asked is disbelief.  You wanted to agree with them but upon closer inspection you saw that what Ardeth had said was true.  Ruins aligned the bars; they were small and faint but you could somehow see them carved into the iron.

You sat down with your knees to your chest and thought about John and prayed to God that he’d survive whatever torture his mother was about to do to him.  You also prayed that wherever Serafina was, she’d hear him and come save him as well as the rest of you.

*3rd Person POV*

John collapsed to the ground.  His whole body trembling after being hit repeatedly and mercilessly with the Crucio curse.  He was then spun onto his back while his mother hovered over him with the very same knife she’d use on him as a child.  He once again felt like that frightened child as she held that knife right up against his cheek, allowing him to feel the hauntingly familiar steel blade.

“That wench of yours has never once left your side and now she just pops off to Merlin knows where! You will tell me where you sent that FILTHY HALFBLOOD WENCH!!” she first started off in an icy whisper before finally screaming in his face.

“Don’t know……she went……I swear! I don’t know where she is!” John pleaded with his mother.

“Oh I don’t believe you.” Without hesitating, she held down her son’s head with her left hand and with the right, she began to carve out a word under John’s forearm.  Echoing throughout the entire mansion, John’s agonizing screams pierced the air.  Mixed in with his mother’s sadistic cackling it was like being in an insane asylum.

Below in the dungeons, everyone could hear the agonizing screams of John and Bellatrix’s insane cackling and demanding screams. Thor and Seraffel shook in pure anger before they decided to hit their cages as hard as they could with their bodies. Slamming against the iron bars trying to break free (even though it was pointless).

*2nd Person POV*

Hearing John’s screams just made your heart stop and your stomach drop.  There was nothing you could do.  It was almost too painful for you to listen to John’s screams anymore, so you closed your eyes and covered your ears but you could still hear his agonizing screams.

Goddamnit Serafina where are you!? Can’t you hear your husband’s pain? You guys are already connected so you should feel it right!?

Footsteps soon came down the corridor, through whatever light could be seen from the moonbeams that shined in the dungeons, you saw that it was the Deacon’s Gollum as well as the glasses wearing Shadow Mage known as Corvus.

“The dragons, the elf and the Nokk. You four are to come with us.”

“Oh yeah? And where’s that?” asked Roger.

“Let’s just say your presence is needed—elsewhere.”

“And just what do you mean by elsewhere?” Seraffel demanded.

“That is none of your concern dragon. Just know that if you refuse to cooperate,” that’s when you felt something beginning to squeeze your heart.  Your throat clumped up and you could literally hear your heart beat ringing in your ears, “The muggle will die.”

“You sick bastards let them go!” Seraffel shouted.

“They’ve got nothing to do with this!” Thor tried to reason.

“Oh you’re right. They do have nothing to do with this, after all—they’re nothing to us. Just another, worthless, pathetic muggle born.” Corvus’ eyes turned to you.

From what you could see, his blue eyes were nothing but ice cold as the pain in your chest continued to grow and grow.  Your heart racing even faster, pleading for air. You tried to speak but it was as if your voice was silenced permanently.

“Alright we’ll comply!” Brian shouted.  Corvus turned to Brian’s cell. “We’ll comply with you. Just don’t hurt them.” Corvus’ lips turned up into a slight grin and just as suddenly the pain was in your chest, it was released and you let out a loud, desperate inhale of air.

You began coughing and felt something warm land on your lips, you raise your fingers to see just what it was only to see the familiar thick red substance of blood staining your fingertips.

“(Y/n), you alright?” Roger spoke to you worriedly.

“I’m—I’m okay.” Soon you heard the cell doors open and out came Thor, Seraffel, Brian and Roger.  The Gollum tied up Brian’s hands with rope while Thor, Seraffel and Roger were given chains around their necks.  Soon the four of them were led out like dogs on a leash until they disappeared up the stairs.

“Ardeth?” you call out.

“I’m here.”

“Do—do you think…..we’re gonna get out of this alive?” he was silent for a long moment.

“To be honest, I do not know. But we cannot allow them to break us, Shadow mages pride themselves in their arrogance. And harming others is what gives them that ego boost.”

“But what about Brian and the others?”

“I wouldn’t worry about them. All of them are clever and strong. They won’t break as easy as the Shadow mages think they will.”  You hope he was right.

*Roger’s POV*

We were lead outside the manor and saw a bunch of other Shadow Mages outside, however unlike the ones that captured us, these guys had a jaguar brands on their arms.

“As promised, four new toys to try out.” Corvus stated.  A female Shadow mage with silver hair and piercing honey-like eyes came up to Thor and lifted his chin up.

“The dragons and the Nokken will be most useful. The elf, maybe not so much.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware of Celina, Elves are notorious for their healing abilities. Perhaps he can be used to heal some of your clan members.” Celina smirked before releasing Thor’s chin and she said to Johnathan.

“Alright Corvus, you’ve got a deal.” She gestured one of her boys to come forward and he handed Johnathan a sack of sorts.  Johnathan opened it to reveal about 200 pounds. These sick, twisted Mages, they’re selling us like cattle!

“Pleasure doing business with you Felidae.” Johnathan said with a smirk before he and the Gollum walked back towards the manor. Soon each of us were pulled by our binds and forced to walk with these mages now.

My nephews and I were the ones who tried to break free from our bonds.  Chaining us up like we were no more than human dogs to them, I especially hated the feeling of being bounded by something.  Minus Serafina’s magic, having being bound by something whether it’s magic or chains it’s like—being molested by an unknown force that keeps a tight hold to you and will never let go.

For days we trudged on the open country side of jolly ol England.  I don’t know whether they were trying to break us this way or just tire us out, either way it was a foolish way.  Once I trekked the entire land that would soon become both North and South America twice without rest.  Brian’s kind, they can last several days without rest since Elves have a slower metabolism, basically they’re super human and don’t break that easy if they don’t get food or water for a few days.

And of course with Thor and Seraffel being dragons, they’ll last since Ardeth’s people supplied with a dragon sized meal for them.  But I knew their bonds must have bothered them as much as it did me.  For the Mages also decided to bind them by their backs, preventing them from spreading their wings once in a while.

You know how you’ll see birds shake themselves out by flapping their wings, well that keeps blood circulating through their wings and keeps them healthy.  When dragons are in their human form, they have to every once in a while spread their wings out for the same reason, cause if they don’t it causes them serious back pains and can even paralyze their wings if bounded long enough.

By day 5, I could already see from the lads that their backs were starting to ache them as they would shift their shoulder blades, roll their shoulders, anything to try and ease the aching muscles in their back.

It even got to the point where Thor was so uncomfortable, he actually created a thunderstorm right over us.  Not any rain but there were definitely some thunder and purple lightning flashing the sky.

“Oi Storm dragon! Yah might wanna cease this yammerin in the sky yah?!” one of the Shadow mages spoke with an Irish accent.

“He would if you would allow us to stretch our wings out you damn eejit.” Seraffel defended his little brother.  The Irish shadow mage turned around and was about to punch Seraffel across the face when he was forced to stop mid-walk by none other than Celina.

“My husband paid good money for these beasts. If any of them are harmed, it’ll be your head Seanie do I make myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am.” She freed him which made him drop to the ground.

“Keep moving, I promised him we’d be back in 6 days with his prizes.” She ordered the rest of the shadow mages.  They obeyed her with a ‘yes ma’am’ and forced us to continue walking.

The next morning I smelt something in the air.  It smelt like—brimstone? And…..horse manure? As we came over a hill that’s when we saw it.

A fortress like structure with walls well over Thor’s dragon height, steal iron and it even had runes on them.  What do I mean by runes, well I mean magical ruin, symbols that date back to the Anglo-Saxon era of man.  Serafina told me that only the witch or wizard that cast them can use their magic.  So even if you are the most powerful creature on earth, if you’re trapped within a rune binding, you’re basically a sitting duck.

We got closer and closer to the fortress, meeting some other Shadow mages with the same Jaguar symbol branding on their arms, and even the fortress walls bared the Jaguar shadow symbol on a flag.  

One shadow mage took control over Brian’s body using his shadow sorcery, 10 men came up to handle Thor and Seraffel (five shadow mages each took care of them) while 4 handled me.

I shifted into my white horse form trying to give me some more weight for them to try and drag them down but they held my chains firm.

“Open the gates!” Celina called out and when they did, we were greeted with an awful sight.

Obviously this place was bigger than it looked.  A fight ring on one side of the fortress, a corral on the other, and a stable that went all the way around the entire fortress. Dragons from fire drakes, to the peaceful Asian water dragons were kept in cages, being whipped or forced to submit to the Shadow wizards that stood at their cages.

Elves in chains forced to be slaves as they walked back and forth making weapons or potions to probably benefit Grindelwald’s followers and maybe even harm us magical creatures.   I turned around and watched as the gates were sealed shut and lit up with the runes, locking the doors permanently.

“Separate them!” the Irish mage Seanie said and soon the boys were taken towards the East end of the fortress while Brian was forcefully escorted to the upper levels of the fortress to be put to work.  Meanwhile I was forced to walk straight ahead, and that’s when my heart dropped.

As we walked along further into the fortress, I could hear the sound of thunderous footsteps.  But they didn’t come from any dragon or giant, not these steps I knew all too well.

That was the sound of a Nokken army.

And that’s when I saw them.  All of my brothers being ridden on like actual horses, all of them walking as a single unit, looking down and obeying these Shadow mages commands. My younger brothers were now slaves to these brutes.

All of them—broken.

I let out a frantic, desperate neigh as I called out to them hoping they would recognize me.  That’s when a tall, skinny black stallion looked up and nickered surprisingly.  Tommy, my youngest brother in the pod.  Back before I left the pod to join Fred and his cause, he and his twin brother Nikki were just colts.

But now he was practically a juvenile standard of Nokken. Black stallion (contrary to popular belief, we have to earn our white coats with age and experience. We’re first born as black stallions, then slowly become brown before finally we turn white).

That’s when I saw that bumping behind him was none other than his twin brother Nikki.  No just how many of my younger brothers do they have here? What did these shadow wizards’ need us for? The Shadow Mage riding on top of Tommy gave him a whip to his behind to get him back in position.

I pleaded one more time to my brothers but this time none of them even looked up at me.  They just kept marching, and marching, and marching.

Rage boiled up inside me till I just lashed out and tried to make a break for it.  The shadow mages that held onto me, tried to pull me back but I was a true fighter, I wasn’t gonna obey them.  I bucked, kicked, reared, stomped, anything I could to intimidate them.

That’s when a Bombarda spell came down just barely a foot in front of me stopping me in my tracks.  Before me was (who to me) looked like the Shadow mage in charge.

He had sleeked back dark brown hair, piercing cold blue eyes much like Johnathan Corvus did, he wore a fancy black dress suit and tight leather gloves on his hand.  Around his neck was a silver broach with (you guessed it) the Jaguar family crest.  I huffed at this wizard as I bared my teeth at him, flicking my tail angrily telling him I meant business.

“What seems to be the problem cousins?” he spoke in a pure, rich British tone.

“We got us a wild one this time Malcolm.” Said one of the shadow mages that held me.

“Deacon and Black’s pet Nokk cousin.” A Scottish shadow mage spoke up.

“Really?” Malcolm piped in arrogantly.  He walked up towards me, took out his wand and lifted my chin with it.  “We’ve broken many stubborn Nokkens in our life time. This one will be no different.” How dare he……

I then took his wand between my teeth and snapped it in half before spitting it down to his feet.  For someone who takes their shadow abilities based off the animal of humans, he definitely wasn’t no jaguar.  Malcolm smirked at me, picked up his wand and snapped it till it was completely in two before carelessly tossing it aside.

I stomped my front right foot as a challenge for him but he looked at me as if I were nothing but a worthless dog, all bark and no bite.

“Conduct him like the rest of his brothers.”

“Yes cousin.” Just looking into this guy’s eyes alone I was thinking—sea snake.  I huffed and snarled at him, keeping my eyes on him till he left me alone with his cousins.

I was dragged towards some sort of preparation stable. They placed me between these two iron-plated gate and wrapped my chains around the poles of them.

“Alright Graham, he’s all yours.” Said another Irish shadow mage.  I reared my head downwards giving him a snarl as he jumped back trying to dodge my teeth. “Be careful though, he’s a wily one.” A deep chuckle came out from a blacksmith shop nearby.

A pudgy, fat old wizard soon came out wiping his hands of the grease and grime.  Thinning white hair and a little tache above his upper lip and he spoke with a thick Irish accent.

“See ‘ow wily he is once I’m through with ‘em.” He took out a pair of scissors.  Oh fuck no! he came right up to my mane and was about to cut a chunk of it off, but I quickly turned and bit him in the hand.  He jumped back grabbing his hand and checked it out.  I huffed and gave him my best stick eye.

No one but Serafina Deacon-Black touches this mane.

“A fighter eh?” next thing I know, my head was forced down into a bagged muzzle and I could only watch as each strand of white horse hair fell down onto the ground.  The fat bastard chuckled as he continued to cut my mane but then another idea came into mine.

They may have pinned my neck and head, but these mages sure as hell didn’t take my whole body into consideration.  So I simply just leaned a bit to the left, pinning his hand against my body and the iron cage.  The fat mage cried in pain as he tried to free his hand and fell to the ground in the process.

Once he was free, I nickered out a laugh through the bag as I looked him in the eye.  He gave me his best glare as he muttered.

“Alright.”

*3rd Person POV*

After completing their marching exercise, two of Roger’s brothers that he had seen Nikki and Tommy took notice of their older brother’s games with the old fat bastard (as all the Nokks referred to Graham).  Nikki nickered curiously as Tommy turned and followed his older twin’s gaze.

Due to that little stunt, the shadow mages now used a spell to paralyze Roger’s whole body so that Graham could continue his work.  Now taking a small knife, he picked up Roger’s front right hoof and began cleaning out all the gunk, dirt, coral, anything that could be trapped underneath his hooves.

Now he wouldn’t know at the time, but he managed to move that leg out of Graham’s grasp and quite literally, kick him in the ass. Leaving a well deserved hoofprint on the old geezer’s trousers.  Roger laughed again through his sack-like muzzle.  From their spot, Nikki grinned while Tommy whinnied out a laugh, remembering just how much Roger loved to toy with wizards, especially the male ones.

A shadow witch came and bound Roger’s leg that kicked Graham with a chain this time.

“I told yah, good ol iron will always do the thing instead of relying on magic too much!”

“And I told you yah old geezer, we don’t know how his leg got free! No one is ever able to break our shadow paralyzing spell.” The younger witch snapped at him before leaving.  As Graham went back to work, this time hammering a new horse shoe onto Roger’s hoof.  Roger nickered softly and soon felt his back foot raise up ready to kick Graham right in the face.

“Graham watch it!” another witch called out to him but it was too late.  The second he looked up, Roger’s back leg socked him in the eye sending him onto his back.  Nikki and Tommy both let out whinnies of laughter at their older brother’s games which soon caught the attention of the other Nokks as well, including Roger’s twin brother Vince.

Graham grunted and rubbed his head before glaring back at Roger who glared at him.  This was the last straw for Graham, playtime was over.

He had all of Roger’s legs triple chained up to ensure that he couldn’t escape this time.  In his shop, Graham was pumping up the brand of the Felidae family and was going to brand Roger with that very mark on his side.

“Yah bloody wanker this ‘ill teach yah to mess with me.” He muttered.  Nikki cringed out a worried nicker while Tommy lowered his head bending his ears back so that he wouldn’t hear the painful roars to come.  

In Vince’s stable he lowered his head, many Nokks, including him have broken once they’ve been branded.  Being water creatures, any source of heat is painful for them if it gets on their skin, and this guy brands this in blue dragon fire which makes it twice as painful and more torturous than any Nokken could ever take.

Graham came onto Roger’s right side, holding the flamed poker with the brand at the end, chuckling arrogantly.  But Roger wasn’t going to go down without a fight.  He wriggled and wormed his head around until finally he got free of his muzzle, his head hovering straight over Graham’s entire body.

He let out a gasp while Roger smirked at him before giving him a well-earned, hard, painful headbutt, knocking Graham out cold.

“Graham, you alright mate?” asked a shadow mage as Roger snorted at him, claiming his victory.  Nikki, Tommy and Vince all whinnied out laughter at their brother’s play.

“This Nokken is unlike any of the others. He’s even managed to slip pass our spells.” Said one witch.  “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know.” Said another female witch as they both stared at Roger, who raised his head up high, glaring at anyone who dared try to brand him next.

“Elizabeth, Robyn, you two rally your brothers and—tell them to take this Nokk to the stables.” Said a male shadow wizard.

“Not the stables James.” Malcolm’s voice soon spoke up. The three of them turned to face the head of the Felidae shadow clan.

“Malcolm?” James asked.

“The corral. It’s time we broke this beast.” Malcolm’s final command was.  And whatever the head of the house says, the others must obey.

*Roger’s POV*

The corral huh? Break me? Heh, good luck with that.  I was taken to the corral and as if I were a normal horse, they saddled me up and forcefully tried to pry my mouth open so that I was forced to feel the touch of their shadow reins.

Let me tell you it felt and tasted revolting.  Try to imagine a thick stripped down rag being gagged between your teeth that felt as hard as steel itself.  I gave them a fight but one of them just had to cheat and give me a good, hard shock to force my mouth open.

I reared and shook my head as I felt the first shadow mage get on top of my back.  All right, you Mages think you can break me? Well come on then, let’s ride!

The second that gate opened, I bucked madly which shook the young male wizard on top of my back like a ragdoll.  I made an erupt stop and he slammed right into the back of my neck making him disoriented.  I quickly spun around before giving him one final buck, sending him flying into the air and landing right on his stomach in the dirt.

I gave him an arrogant huff before turning to Malcolm who only gave me a glare.  Next in line.

The next rider was a slightly older male shadow mage sporting both a tache and beard.  Arrogantly he thought he could last longer than the other guy, yeah right.  I took him out quicker than the last one, sending him right on his arse.

Of course as I walked away he shouted a profanity at me. Calling me a ‘lousy piece of horse shit’.  And like hell I was just gonna take that lying down, I charged head on at him to which he ran for his life.  Barely making it out of the corral before I gave him a quick bite to his arse.  From the nearby stables, I could hear some of my brothers laughing out, I turned to see it was none other than my brothers Tommy, Vince and Nikki.

I nickered to them thanking them before trotting back, my tail flicking with pride and my head held high.  Once I got back to my so called ‘kennel’ I snorted out at the witch who stood in front of it, making her reel back in disgust as I got back into place, nickering arrogantly.  Next!

“This one will break ‘em.” A Welsh witch spoke as a big Scots shadow mage came at me with a horsewhip in hand.  Please like he’ll be any different.  I threw that big lug off of me under just one second.  All it took was one good leap and he went soaring through the air, even knocked another wizard who was sitting on top of the corral fence.

Even some of the witches tried to ride me but just because they were girls didn’t mean I gave it to them any easier.  In fact I made sure to buck those bitches off of my back even harder, because like I’ve said before.

The only witch who I allow on this stallion’s back is Serafina Deacon-Black.

Now to really show these bastards I meant business.  I charged at one end of the fence baring my teeth and stomping my hooves aggressively.  I then charged towards another section of the gate, scaring the shadow mages there, even knocking some of them into a trough.  Finally my eyes turned to Malcolm, I charged head on right towards him.  

The mages around him backed up but he stood firm with his hands behind his back and his eyes narrowed with hate as I growled right in his face, my breath even making parts of his short hair flow freely from its sleeked back form.

I stood face to face with Malcolm panting heavily.  My eyes piercing red at this point, my blood boiling and my heart racing.  You have proof yet you cocky little shit?  I don’t go down without a fight.

“Celina!” Malcolm called out.

“Yes Malcolm?” the woman who brought us here stood by Malcolm’s side.

“Take this Nokken down to the boiler dungeon. No food or water. 2 weeks.”

“With pleasure my darling. Plus with a little more fire power from those fire drake’s we got, the boiler room will be extra hot for this one to—cool down.” She said with a sadistic smirk.

Next thing I know I was trapped within a cell and all I could feel was hot air surrounding me.  It was also strange that I could feel that my legs weren’t chained up at all, nor was my snout or neck.  But still it was scorching hot in here.

I laid down in my cage, smacking my lips already starting to feel my mouth growing dry.  I huffed and nickered softly.

Damnit Serafina where are you? And Freddie, what happened to him? Was he here with us or was he still at the manor with John, (Y/n) and Ardeth? And just what the hell was this place exactly? Why would the Shadow mages want all of us creatures for?

[mileycyprus-hill]

A Simple Kindness

Kieran x Reader 

Had this on the back burner for a while and realized I haven’t written a Kieran x reader fic. So here’s a bit of fluff.  

Summary: You begin to sympathize with the new O’Driscoll prisoner, and decide to give him a little help. 

Warnings: none.

You weren’t exactly sure why this O’Driscoll was in your camp, but you didn’t bother to question it. You were taught to despise any member of Colm’s gang and you thought to do the same to this poor man. 

That poor man. 

He didn’t seem up to par to the common O’Driscoll, sniveling and begging for mercy while tied to that tree. He never cursed at any passerby. Never threatened death upon anyone once he would be free. 

He only begged for mercy. 

You never met a man that soft. 

Was this man really an O’Driscoll? A member of a ruthless, bloodthirsty, thieving, murdering gang? 

Hardly. 

It had been a week since Arthur had brought him back to that cold barn in Colter. He was tied up in the back of a wagon during the trip to Horseshoe Overlook like some prisoner. 

Well, he is a prisoner. 

Left to blister in the sun on this high bluff with no food and what little water he could swallow from the passing rain. That poor man sat there, his arms tied behind him on that birch tree. The papery bark scratched against his tender forearms while the thick hemp of his binds cut into his wrists. Blood red cuts and rash marks painted his pale arms that lay exposed beyond his rolled up sleeves. 

The past few days, you watched him struggle to stand against the tree, his head dropped to his chest in exhaustion and self-pity. Sitting from the table across the way, you’d watch his legs tremble and buckle beneath him as he’d struggle to hold his own weight. He’d squiggle and squirm and whimper to get just a little more comfortable. 

You had half a mind to shout at him, tell him to ‘man up’ and be strong. But watching him pull against his binds was like watching a stray dog pull against a short leash. 

Frightened. Alone. Starving. The only attention came from the daily beatings and tongue-lashings. 

A scrap of bread would be tossed at his feet. Barely enough to satisfy a hungry dog. It’d lay there, taunting him as he’d struggle to kick it closer to himself. Even if he could, how could he grasp it with his arms bound behind him? 

You’d watch him struggle for it anyway, his will driven by hunger. Day by day, that piece of bread would lay there. What was left behind by the pecking chickens would turn to mold and only the flys would claim it.  

How much longer would Dutch allow this to continue? Until the man dies? Or when he gives information that he deems satisfactory? 

From what you’ve heard while eavesdropping, this young man wouldn’t know anything reliable, being Colm O’Driscoll’s abused stable boy. 

You began to fear for him. Truly. 

What would he know, being a newly initiated member of Colm’s circle? For all you knew, he was excluded. Cast onto the edge of the social circle of the gang, left to chat only with the horses and other members of the lowest caste. 

Day by day, you struggled. What was it your mother always taught you? 

“If you watch an evil being done unto someone and don’t stop it, you will be judged for the same crime by doing nothing.” She would say. 

Could you stand there and do nothing? What kind of a person were you? The men around would say you’re a survivor. But is this surviving—torturing a man for information in a petty rivalry? 

When you reach those golden gates and are asked, ‘Why have you done nothing?’, what would you say? 

Because it wasn’t your place to interfere? Because you didn’t want to get in trouble? 

...........

You awake just as a the sun rises and decide this is enough. Only a select few gang members are awake as they stayed up too late and too drunk the previous night. Those who’re up are tending to their own business or had already left.

Walking towards the back of the provisions wagon, you notice he’s alone. Looks like no one’s started the torturing ritual yet. Bill’s talking to Arthur about some stagecoach job over by the horses and Dutch remains shut in his tent with Molly. 

You step briskly as you saw your chance, walking towards the small cooking fire and grabbing a tin cup that rests on the ground next to the warm percolator. 

Looks like Pearson just finished making the coffee. You peek over to his work station and find him deeply focused on preparing today’s stew.

“Psst!” You hear from your right. 

You dare not to look towards the source to avoid suspicion. Discreetly, you turn your head only slightly, pretending to check the hem of your skirt and peek from the corners of your eyes. 

From your downward gaze, you catch Kieran staring at you. You watch him desperately try to get your attention without alerting anyone else. 

Pretending not to hear him, you walk past him with your cup full of coffee and ignore his whispering pleas for water. You stop at the back of the food wagon, hiding yourself behind its large wooden panels. A bucket of rain water sits by a steel dish tub on the table, waiting to be dumped into the tub and used as dishwater. 

You hear Kieran drop his head in defeat behind you. An aching, heavy weight pulls downward in your chest. 

Taking a sip of your coffee, you fake a look of disgust. You take another sip and repeat your act before dumping the contents from your cup. 

Quickly, you dip your cup into the water bucket to rinse the taste from your mouth. 

The cool water touches your lips but you don’t sip, keeping your lips tight against the rim of the cup. 

The coast seems to be clear. No one’s watching or noticing. Checking around you, you dart over to Kieran. He hears your quick steps against the grass and almost yelps in fear. He looks up and sees your face close to his, causing him to drop his eyes and cringe in submission like a beaten dog. He pants pathetically and waits for you to strike him. 

Avoiding eye contact, you grasp his chin and gently prop his head up. He lets out a tiny whimper until you bring the cup to his lips. His eyes grow wide at this merciful gift. The cold metal clanks against his teeth and the cool water rushes through his chapped lips. He feels his throat expand as the water flows like a spring flood rushing through a dry desert canyon, washing away the dirt and dust.  

You continue watching around you for anyone who may come walking and hear him slurp from your hand.  

No one seems to notice, so you move your eyes over to watch him. He sips greedily from your cup, making you tilt it towards him so he can gain every last drop. His Adam’s apple protrudes from his throat in a sharp angle and bobs with every gulp. 

With a final gulp, he exhales in relief and attempts to breathe a ‘thank you’, to which you quickly silence with a finger to his moistened lips. 

“Nothing happened.” You stare at him with such intensity, it’s almost threatening. 

You step away with your dry cup and hear him speak to you in the softest whisper. He mumbles a sweet “thank you” under his breath, nearly undetectable. You smile softly on your way back to your tent until you see a pair of eyes watching you. 

Shit.  

Mary Beth. 

She stands by the rounded table, her hands paused from opening the domino box and watching you curiously. You freeze in place and plead her with wide eyes and upturned brows. 

Please don’t tell. You beg with a silent, sorrowful look. You don’t know what would happen if the others found out, but you’re sure it won’t be pleasant for you. 

A tight-lipped smile grows on her face and she gestures with an open palm towards the dominos. Her invitation is met with hesitation. Can you trust Mary Beth? You haven’t known her for that long and have kept your secrets to yourself. But the look in her eyes show comforting sympathy, not judgement. 

Stepping with bated breath, you bring yourself to the chair across from her. 

Neither of you speak while she shuffles the dominos on the table. The gentle clicking of the ivory rectangles seem so deafeningly loud compared to the unspoken words you pass to each other. 

Mary Beth gives an understanding nod and looks into your eyes with a sweet smile. No doubt she’s gushing at how romantic and noble your simple gesture was to the prisoner. 

You didn’t realize how long you had been holding your breath until you let out a relieved sigh through your nose. You sincerely hope Mary Beth can keep a secret. Sitting here with her, you begin to believe she’s more trusting compared to the others. 

However, you still worry she may not be the only witness to your act of kindness.

.........

Another day passes by and you hear a startled cry followed by angry shouts. The eruption startles you and the grooming brush drops from your hands. Your horse beside you immediately senses your alarm and reacts with a twitch of her muscles and a jerk of her head. She promptly resumes to grazing while you bend to pick the brush off the ground. Holding the brush against your chest, your fingers run against its thick bristles. Your heart rate quickens and you step over to look towards the dead birch tree. A sickening unease washes over you as you watch Arthur, Bill and Dutch surround the Duffy boy. 

You stop in your tracks as you watch Bill hold a pair of iron tongs with a sadistic look on his face. The edges of the tongs are glowing red and sparks fly with every metallic snap Bill makes. Arthur’s broad frame blocks your view of Kieran, but you can barely see his trousers that pool around his ankles. 

Your feet remain frozen in place. You hear Dutch’s voice but your mind doesn’t process his words as you’re too focused on what torturous act is about to happen. 

Tongue fat and lips glued shut, you stand there in the open, unable to prevent Kieran’s frightened pleas from entering your ears.

Just talk, boy. C’mon. Your thoughts scream. An internal conflict burns within you: desperate to intervene but the paranoia warns you’ll be ostracized and labeled a traitor for defending an O’Driscoll boy. 

“All right, I’ll talk!” He cries. 

It’s as if Kieran heard your thoughts. He spills everything. Colm...Six Point Cabin. 

But you don’t feel relief just yet, eyeing a disappointed Bill who still holds the hot tongs close to Kieran’s naked bottom half. 

It isn’t until you see Arthur cut his bonds that you finally loosen the tight fists at your sides. Your fingernails leave marks against the skin of your palms.

Pulling his trousers up to hide his shame, Kieran’s eyes catch you across the way. He sees the fear wash from your face as he follows the men to their horses. He still looks deeply terrified, unsure of whether this ride with John, Arthur and Bill will lead to his execution. 

“Be safe, boys!’ You call to them. 

The four of them, including Kieran who sits behind a disgruntled John, turn to you in their saddles. They look at you as if hearing a babe say its first word. The slight surprise mutes them for a moment until Arthur finally speaks. 

“We’ll be fine, (Y/N)” he says, “Don’tchu worry.”

You watch them ride off down the hill to Six Point Cabin, the location Kieran mentioned. You may not read people as well as others in this gang, but his words seemed true and genuine. You can only hope your instinct is true until the men return, and then you wonder if Kieran will be turned loose...or killed after the job is done. 

You sincerely hope it’s the former.

...........

It’s late afternoon and supper is just ready. The men have been gone for several hours now and your thoughts are no longer kept at bay by busy chores. You don’t hear the subtle hoof beats entering camp, nor the teasing remarks passed between the riders. 

Until a shrill voice startles you from behind, causing you to early spill your dinner. 

“Get this man a bowl!” Bill’s voice yells behind you, “We ain’t found Colm, but this lucky bastard here saved Arthur from gettin’ a bullet in the head!” 

Mumbled voices around the fire exclaim in shock and relief for Arthur’s sake, but little ‘thank-you’s are expressed to Kieran. He steps behind you as you turn to smile at him and Bill, grateful for their safe return. 

You watch him happily grab a bowl of stew and sit on a log next to Uncle, who makes a grimaced look of disgust and moves to a different spot—preferably upwind. 

“Thank you Kieran,” you gently call over, “For saving Arthur.”

He looks to you with those big doe eyes and smiles awkwardly at your statement of gratitude. 

Standing and rubbing your sore hip with one hand, you walk over and extend your bowl to him. He scarfed his food so quickly that his bowl looks almost sparkling clean. 

“Here,” you offer the rest of your dinner, “You sure look like you could eat.”

Kieran stammers, “Oh, no ma’am. I couldn’t do that.”

“Please. I’m not that hungry anyway...Hate for it to go to waste. And Pearson never makes enough for everyone.” You give a gentle smirk. 

“Thank you miss,” Kieran blinks. “That’s very kind of you.” 

He holds his bowl steady with his eyes darting nervously across your face as you transfer your leftovers. You nod and start to walk away until he stops you.

“Oh, and miss?” He whispers.

You turn to him, an eyebrow slightly arched at his politeness.

“Thank you for...yesterday.” 

“Don’t mention it,” you smile. “It’s the least I could do.”

Little do you know when you leave, Kieran feels eternally blessed by your act of kindness. It may not seem like much to you, but to him that showed your true soul. This world is brutal and unforgiving, but your empathy and tenderness is what gives him hope and comfort. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

[redstainedsocks]

Baby It’s Cold Outside Inside

Fill for the @whump-advent-calendar! These are still sort-of chronological for the series, but don’t follow on exactly from where I’m posting with the rest, just other fun (for us, not for them xD) things I imagine happening. Think of them as random snapshots of their time in captivity ;)

Warnings: Hypothermia, cuddling for warmth (creepy style!), forced to strip, forced nudity, ice bath, waterboarding, begging, torture, hurt as punishment, defiant whumpee, conditioned whumpee, pet names, creepy whumper, lady whumper.

“Strip.”

The order is simple enough but it still makes Alex’s mental gears grind to a halt. He knew he wasn’t going to get out of this lightly, but being cornered in the bathroom while Adria has a look of absolute glee on her face, is making his heart beat painfully hard.

“Why? What are you gonna do?”

“Me? Darling boy I’m not going to do anything, you made it quite clear how much you don’t want my touch.”

Which is true. He’s pulled away one too many times, hissed in pain and disgust, flinched, shrugged off her hands… he doesn’t know how Jasper does it, just puts up with the scalding heat of her touch. He eyes the full bathtub, the water cool--no fire beneath to warm it like there usually is. He gulps. He could try to fight this, shove and push and run, but there’s not really anywhere to go and as soon as she catches him it will be worse. He’ll just make it worse. Slowly he lifts the hem of his jumper and pulls his t-shirt off with it.

So far he’s kept a little of his dignity here, some small amount of privacy. He’s changed in the bathroom, and never been naked. They’ve seen his skin injured and bared, but they’ve never seen him stripped bare, not like this.

She watches him like he’s a treat to savour, and he waits to see if she’ll lick her lips like a cat, or bat him around like a mouse between her paws.

He covers himself once he’s naked, and her eyes alight, her smile widens. “In you get.”

He glances at the full tub and grits his teeth. Steels himself. It can’t be that bad, can it? He can do this. He climbs in, wincing at the cool wash of water over toes, ankles, calves, knees. Lowers down into it until he sits with his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around them.

“Now what?”

She shrugs, cocks her head to the side. He listens too, hears the sound of Jasper tap-tap-tapping in the room next door. The cold room. Several feet lower down, there’s a flight of steps down into the room. The tapping is an ice pick. It’s Jasper chipping away buckets full of ice from the large behemoth blocks that keep the room cold.

Alex shivers just knowing what’s coming.

Jasper comes huffing and puffing into the room, nose and cheeks red, but his body warmed by exertion. “All of it?” he asks, accent thick with worry.

Adria kisses him on the cheek and gestures him passed her, where she stands guard in the doorway. “All of it, pet.”

The ice hits the water in a haphazard series of clunks, clattering down and splashing Alex with the tepid, room temperature water that he’s already sitting in. The ice hits his toes, his shins, and it only takes a few seconds for the first bucketful to lower the temperature. His bare skin feels the shift and he cries out, moving instinctually to get up, get out, not thinking only reacting.

“Do. Not. Get. Out.” Adria’s voice cuts through his clouded senses and he stops halfway out of the water.

Glaring, not willing to back down, he lowers back into the water. Three more buckets of ice follow.

There’s a hand on his head, fingers wrapped into his hair, and it’s holding him under. Ice in his lungs, freezing water squeezing every muscle, constricting his ribs and his stomach, and he can’t draw breath and his eyes sting in the cold. He thrashes, weaker now than before, desperate for air and release and warmth and--

The hand hauls him up and he coughs, bitter cold acid in his throat and he chokes as his teeth chatter. Jasper’s hand loosens, pets shakely at the back of his head. Alex watches with wide eyes, as Jasper looks anywhere but at his face.

“Thank you, pet, that will do.”

“Yes Mistress.”

Jasper is all hollowed out, his eyes empty, and it makes Alex feel even more alone. Jasper just… goes away, and Alex doesn’t know how he does it, but he becomes a vessel and tool for her hurt. He shivers harder, sending little ripples across the surface, as Jasper stands and leaves.

“H-how much longer?” Alex asks, between the clashing of his teeth.

“Until you beg for my warmth and mean it.” Adria crosses her arms and leans against the door frame. Drinking in his suffering. Her red hair and creamy skin look so warm and inviting, but the look on her face is utterly devoid of anything human, any compassion.

Still, he opens his mouth to speak, willing to say the words right now if it gets him out of this. One swift raise of her hand stops him.

“Not until you mean it, or I’ll come over there and boil you alive.” Adria snaps her fingers, and he flinches.

He wonders if he lays very still if he’ll notice the water level rise as the ice begins to melt. He won’t try getting up again, or lifting more of his body above the waterline. Being held under by Jasper over and over was enough to learn that lesson, the threat of her touch turning the ice water to searing steam is enough to make him wait it out, too.

---   ---   ---

His skin has paled, and he’s mesmerized by his palms, so much lighter than usual. His jaw aches, deep into his skull and bringing on a headache the likes of which he’s never known, all from his teeth clattering. Jasper has reloaded the tub twice, and Alex can’t even tell if he’s crying, or if his face is just wet from the rising water, and the way he keeps slipping below the surface.

He hears them talking about someone who will get them more ice, and they can use as much as it takes for him to submit, and he can’t make sense of any of it--except for the idea that he has to do something to put an end to this.

His eyes skim around the room, landing on her face and skittering away again. She won’t let him die, will she? He groans, as more muscles seize and ache, his back arching against the pain. Then he flops back into water and another round of violent shivering. He bites his lip and listens to his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

“Please, it hurts. H-h-hurts, let-let me out.” he looks to her, cries out, and bites his own tongue as his body clenches. Metallic liquid floods his mouth and his hands fly out to the sides of the tub. His fingertips are ashen grey. “Please, my queen, please.”

She waves one hand, “Continue.”

He can beg now? It's time? The words tumble from his mouth, asking for warmth, begging for touch, agreeing not to pull away again, to be--if not good, at least better. He hopes he isn’t making promises he can’t keep. He probably is, but he’s too far gone to care.

---   ---   ---

Jasper helps him get dry, and into a pair of loose sweatpants, and Alex clings to his warmth. He’s still shaking, and he flinches as Adria approaches. He hopes it doesn’t look like more than a violent tremble.

She has a blanket and pulls him close, folds his arms over his chest and wraps the blanket tightly around him. He is pliant, even as his limbs ache and won’t loosen. The blanket pulls tightly around and around, wrapping between one arm and over the other until he’s swaddled so completely he can barely move his upper body.

“There, now, would you like to sit with me by the fire?”

He nods, even as he tests the hold of the restriction.

“Words, Alex.”

“Please… umm, please take me to the fire. I, I would like to sit with you, near you.”

She smiles, teeth glinting, and leads him to the main cavern where a fire is roaring in the pit and cushions are piled on the seating around it. It takes both Adria and Jasper to keep him on his shaking feet.

She pushes him to the ground, between her knees, and he folds up there caught in the hold of her swaddling--trapped in the room of her making, and the punishment of her choosing. She cards fingers through his damp hair, strokes the sides of his face. He aches, even as the warmth seeps into his bones.

She tells him it’s better when he’s good and he nods, even though he doesn’t believe it. She tells him it’s easy to give in, and he watches Jasper’s face twitch, and then grow distant all over again.

And later, when she slips a burning hand below the folds of the blanket to touch the skin of his shoulder and his neck, she lets him turn his face into the soft swell of her thigh, and scream.

[Taglist: @lonesome--hunter, @whumpthisway, @slaintetowhump @untilthepainstarts @sneeze-queen @muddy-swamp-princess @i-contain-multitud-s @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]