#and when the rebel finds him again hes half starved and they cut his hair and have him wearing a muzzle

[befuddled-calico-whump]

anyways guess who had ✨another✨ whump dream

(it was me btw)

Pretty vague but a kingdom was overthrown by a more corrupt faction, leading to five or so years of misery

During the initial power struggle, the OG rulers sent a champion to fight one of the leaders of the faction, but the champion was never heard from again and assumed dead

Fast forward, a rebel group sent someone to infiltrate the new court, but when they got there, they saw the champion was still alive, and basically being kept like a trophy by the new ruler (and barely recognizable in the state he was in)

[sinner-as-saint]

All For Love.

Cherry!seb/Mob!seb x Reader AU

Run-through: Your father is an influential and prominent figure in the business world. Naturally, you have guards around all the time. Which means that you’re not allowed to leave the house and go out whenever or wherever you want, despite being a grown woman; therefore your boyfriend frequently has to sneak in and out of your heavily guarded home when he wants to see you. It would have been much easier if he wasn’t a mob boss, or if your father didn’t hate him so much. The mob boss knows it’s risky, but he’s willing to risk it all, for love. 

Themes: smut, fluff, cherry!seb, daddy kink

a/n: just a quick little fic because I missed cherry!seb too. 

“I’m just gonna be gone for two hours, dad. Just two hours.” 

You whined on the phone. You hated how your father made you feel like a rebel teen; confined inside your own home. Then again, you knew he was doing it for your own safety. 

“Absolutely not.” He used his typical dad voice. “I told you, it’s not safe out there right now. And I need to keep you safe so please just listen to me, stay home safe.” You had heard that sentence a thousand times. “I’ve spoken to your guards, you are in safe hands.” 

You sighed, knowing this was a losing game. “Where are you going? When are you coming home?” you asked. 

He chuckled. “Oh that’s for me to know.” 

You scoffed, trying to figure out where he could be going since he left in such a hurry, without informing you. “What, you don’t trust me?” 

“No, I trust you. It’s that good for nothing boyfriend of yours that I don’t trust.” Oh there we go again. “Seriously, you can do better than him.” 

“Dad, I love him. You just have to accept it.” 

“No. Never.” 

You sighed. “Whatever, bye dad. I love you. Come home soon.” 

You ended the call as soon as he said bye and you were about to call someone else but you gasped when you felt strong arms wrap around your waist; pulling you into a muscular chest. 

You smiled as his scent wrapped around you. “How long have you been here?” You turned your head to the side to find your boyfriend smiling down at you. You still had no idea how he managed to sneak into your home whenever your father left. And no matter how many times you asked him, he always answered saying: ‘I have my ways.’ 

“Couple of minutes.” He mumbled, pushing his face into the crook of your neck. “Your old man still hates me, I see.” He noted, nibbling on your skin. His hands found their way under your shirt and he gently fondled with your breasts. 

You closed your eyes, relishing his touch. “I’m sure he’ll come around soon enough. He didn’t even tell me where he’s going.” 

Seb chuckled. “Europe. On a business trip. He’ll be gone for a week.” He answered, baffling you with the information. 

You gently stepped out of his embrace, making him groan as you stepped further from him. “How do you know all that? Dad wouldn’t even tell me anything.” 

He gave you his signature smirk. “I have my ways.” He stepped forward and grabbed you by the arm, pulling you close again. “Come here,” he leaned in and kissed your lips gently, “Daddy missed you.” His kiss was passionate. He was eager. 

He walked the two of you backwards as he nibbled on your lower lip before letting it go; pushing his tongue into your mouth. His kiss had you breathless before you even made it to your bed. You ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp; making him moan through the kiss as he managed to slip his hand under your oversized shirt. He dragged your underwear down your legs in no time, throwing it somewhere on your bedroom floor. His hand found its way in between your legs quickly, and he touched you like he was starved. 

“I’ve missed you too…” you whispered against his lips. He moaned against your lips in response as his fingers slipped past your entrance with ease, and he stroked your walls slowly at first, then picking up his pace as he went. And he had you whimpering and moaning in no time. 

“Always so wet for me, aren’t you babygirl?” he whispered against your skin as he kissed down your throat. 

You whimpered as he removed his fingers from you, from in between your legs and shamelessly pushed his two fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning as he tasted you. 

“So sweet,” he mumbled as he kissed his way down your body until he was on his knees in front of you. He looked up at you with a feral look in his pretty blue eyes; his lips swollen. 

His hands held you at each side of your hips and your hands found their way into his hair. He inched his face closer to your core. You let out a quiet moan once you felt his tongue diving into your folds. He wasted no time in sinking two of his fingers into your entrance and curling them each time they pumped in and out of you while he teased your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

You tugged on his hair as he devoured you to satiate both your hunger. You looked down and bit your lip at the sinful sight. Him kneeling at your feet, half of his face buried into your core; his eyes closed as he occasionally moaned at your taste on his tongue. The sounds he made drove you wild. 

You felt the pressure building up again at your core with each stroke of his fingers and each lick of his tongue; circling the skin around your throbbing clit. Your body squirmed under his. 

“Cum for me, baby.” He mumbled, flicking his tongue faster, teasing your clit and pumping his fingers in and out of you until you gushed out all over his mouth and fingers. You came, hard; moaning, whimpering and tugging at his hair. 

He pulled away and smirked as he kissed his way up your trembling body. He leaned in and kissed your lips again; feverishly. You both managed to get each other undressed, while still being unable to keep your mouths off each other. 

He hovered over your bare body in no time, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above your head. “I love you,” he whispered and leaned down to kiss your swollen lips. 

You mumbled against his lips, “I love you more.” 

He pressed his forehead down onto yours gently, while he pushed his erected cock past your tight entrance. You moaned out loud as he did. He grunted once he filled you up entirely. You shuddered as you felt all of him. His lips found yours again, trying to get you to stay quiet while he rolled his hips against yours.

He removed himself and pushed himself back into you. You heard him panting and swearing under his breath as he rocked into you. Your nails sank into his skin, around his shoulders; which you held onto for dear life as he pounded into you. “Fuck..” he moaned into your ear as he fucked you relentlessly. 

You whined, throwing your head back and moaning at how good he felt. He growled right in your ear as your walls clenched around him. 

He reached up and grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “You feel so good, babygirl…” he whispered. His blue eyes were wild and fierce; staring deep into your soul. His gaze made you shiver. You liked it when he looked down at you, like he owned you.

You whined again. “Daddy… please, I-,” 

The sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table cut you off. For a brief moment, you saw panic on Seb’s face. He froze, as did you. 

He stayed still for a moment, his cock still buried deep inside you as he reached out to grab your phone for you. The slight friction made you moan again but you panicked as he turned the phone screen towards. It was your dad calling. 

Shit. 

“You think he-,”

Seb cut you off, with a mischievous smirk on his face. “Pick it up.” He simply said and you felt your heart skip a beat. 

“What?” You frowned in confusion and tried to sit up but he pushed you back down on the bed, and shut you up with a deep kiss for a brief moment. 

“I said, pick it up.” He whispered against your parted lips. 

The phone kept buzzing in his hand, right beside your head on the pillow. “No, you-,” He sighed and cut you off by answering the call and tapping on the speaker icon. Your eyes widened in panic. ‘What are you doing?’ you mouthed at him before speaking up. “Hello?” 

“What took you so long to pick up the call?” your father sounded a little irritated. 

You tried to ignore the way Seb bit your neck and kissed down your throat, making you shiver. 

“I was, uh, downstairs.” You answered, trying your hardest to maintain your calm and composure. 

Seb pulled away and stared down at you. ‘Liar,’ he mouthed as he hovered above you, pulling out of you just a little before pushing back in. You bit down on your lip to avoid making any sound. 

“I wanted to let you know that I won’t be home until next week. But mind you, that useless boyfriend of yours is not to be seen anywhere near you or the house while I’m away, you understand?” 

Your dad’s words made little sense at this point as Seb slow fucked you; kissing the shell of your ear and moaning quietly just for you to hear as his cock stroked your walls gently. You tried your hardest to keep quiet but Seb let out a soft, breathy chuckle upon hearing what your father just said. 

“Oops.” Seb whispered in your ear as his long, warm fingers wrapped gently around your throat. 

Your teeth released your bottom lip and you answered, “I understand.” You panicked just a little as you sounded quite breathless, courtesy of your boyfriend, but luckily your father didn’t notice. 

“I will also be sending another security team to…” 

You could no longer focus on what your dad was saying as Seb pulled out of you and kissed his way down your body again; realizing that he wasn’t teasing you well enough. 

You almost moaned out loud as he settled in between your legs again, and spread them even further; sticking his tongue out and teasing your entrance slowly while he looked up at you. His tongue poked around at your entrance and you felt like you were just about to lose it. 

“...are you even listening to me?” You heard your father’s irritation on the other side of the call. 

Shit. What did he say again? “Yeah, yeah. Uh, I agree, yeah.” 

Seb lazily circled his tongue around your clit, flicking the little bud with the tip of his tongue. And you bit on your bottom lip, careful as to not accidentally let out a moan.

“Oh,” your father sounded surprised. “Well good then, also I was thinking that maybe we should open another…”

And yet again, you couldn’t keep up with what he was saying because you were busy trying to hold back a moan as Seb slipped one finger through your entrance. He smirked and kissed the glistening skin along your wet folds. You tried scooting away from him but his grip around you was very firm. 

You supported yourself up on your elbows and bit your lip as you looked down at him. You could barely hear the voice on the phone anymore. Seb was the only thing you could focus on. He stared deep into your eyes, kissing along your inner thighs as he slowly finger-fucked you. 

You almost let out a whine, but caught yourself just as you were about to. Brows furrowed at his own inability to make you lose control, he placed his mouth over your clit again, stroking your walls with his fingers at the same time. He applied just the slightest bit of suction on your sensitive bud and you bit down hard on your lip; turning your face as far away as you possible could from the phone.

“...what do you say?” you heard your father ask. Oh this was a mess. 

You cleared your throat, “Uh, yeah dad. Sure. We’ll discuss it further when you get home.” He agreed and ended the call. 

Seb looked up at you, his mouth submerged completely in between your legs. He lifted his mouth off you and hovered above your squirming body. Slowly, he removed his fingers from you and pushed them through your already parted lips, placing them on your tongue. 

He pumped his fingers in and out of your mouth. His lips trailed along your jaw and finally kissed underneath your ear. “You bad, bad girl.” He spoke as he slowly pushed his fingers further into your mouth. “Lying to your father like you’re doing no wrong.” He whispered, kissing down your neck and nibbling along the skin at your collar bone. “When in reality,” he nipped at your skin, making you whine, “here you are, being such a perfect little slut for daddy’s cock, huh?” 

You moaned at his voice alone, your own voice muffled by his fingers in your mouth. He eventually pulled them out, leaving you wanting more and panting. 

“Please…” you whispered, unable to take it anymore. You needed him. Bad. 

He smirked, tracing your mouth with his thumb slowly, taking his time. “Please what, baby?” 

“Please fuck me… I need you. Please, please daddy…” 

He smirked wider. “Well since you’re asking so nicely,” he leaned in to kiss your swollen lips again, then pulled away from your lips, and pressed his forehead on yours gently, while he pushed his erected cock past your tight entrance again, pulling your legs up to wrap them around his waist. 

You moaned out loud as he pushed into you. He let out a grunt once he filled you up entirely. He then grabbed both your hands, laced your fingers together with his and pinned your interlaced hands down on the bed, above your head. 

His lips found yours again, as he rolled his hips against yours. He pulled out and pushed himself back into you. He lowered his face, and leaned into your ear; growling and moaning and panting as he fucked you, finally. “So good for daddy…” 

At some point he let go of your hands to hold your body. He gripped your waist and pushed deeper into you. You heard him moan and swear under his breath as he rocked into you. Your nails sank into his skin, around his shoulders; which you held onto for dear life as he pounded into you mercilessly. 

You moaned out loud; wantonly, as he pushed deeper and deeper into you each time.

He bit your lips as he kissed your open mouth; shoving his tongue into your mouth like he owned it while he rammed into you; and you never once complained. Your legs trembled around his waist, he thrust deeper into you, mumbling how good you felt.

“Fuck…” his voice cracked as he moaned. The sound of his moans and grunts sent tingles dancing down your spine. Your back arched off the bed as you felt a familiar warmth washing over you. He growled and bit down on your shoulder to keep himself from making any loud noises while he fucked you. He was relentless. And you loved it, as always. 

His hand wrapped around your throat again, and he very gently squeezed the side of your throat. But enough to make you lose your mind. You could only moan and whimper in response while he kept pounding into you incessantly. 

“Come on baby, cum for daddy…” 

You felt the sweet pressure grow in between your hips as you tightened around him, feeling the burning hot need to cum grow hotter and hotter inside you until it exploded. You came with a loud moan, gushing all around him. Seb came right after you; buried deep within you – growling and mumbling swear words under his breath. His warm cum shoot at your walls and trickled out of you when he carefully removed his length from your entrance. 

He collapsed right beside you in your bed, pulling your naked body closer to his and wrapping his arm around you while you both caught your breaths. 

“My dad will kill us both if he even finds out you sneak into my room all the time.” You whispered, kissing his damp chest before laying your cheek upon it. You smiled as you heard the steady beats of his heart. 

He chuckled, tightening his grip around you. “I know. But that’s the risk I’m willing to take for you.” Cheesy as always. 

Then you remembered. “Dad said he’s sending another security team over.” You sounded a little sad because that meant that Seb wouldn’t be able to stay much longer. 

“So?” He sounded so cocky, one of the main reasons why you fell for him in the first place. 

You giggled. “So, that means you have to go before they get here and catch you.” 

He smirked. “They’re my guys. They would never.” 

You shot up in a sitting position, grabbing the sheet and wrapping it around you. Your brows furrowed in confusion, again. “What?” 

He had that mischievous smirk on his face. “Your dad keeps hiring the best security teams for you, without realizing that they’re all my guys.” 

Your jaw dropped. “So the guys downstairs guarding the house, they-,”

“Work for me.” 

“Seb!” you couldn’t believe it meanwhile he laughed at the face you made, reaching out and stroking your hair lovingly. 

“What?” he grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles as he watched you process the information. “I had to trick your dad because I couldn’t possibly sneak into your house so many times had they been other guards. But hey, this way I know you’re always safe. Even when I’m away.” 

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re insane.” 

Seb pulled you back on top of his chest, kissing the top of your head as you laid on top of him lazily, without a care in the world. “A little, yes.” He ran a soothing hand down your back. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, you crazy man.” 

He chuckled. “Well, now that we have the following week all to ourselves, what do you wanna do?” He asked. 

“You.”

[b-else-writes]

the tiger shark and the sun

My Avatar the Last Airbender/Rogue One-Original Trilogy fusion that literally nobody asked me to sink this much energy into, but is happening anyways.

Read on AO3

Pairings: Jyn/Cassian, minor Baze/Chirrut and Han/Leia, other random background pairings

Rating: T

When exiled firebender Jyn Erso lands on his doorstep the day Cassian, last Southern waterbender, meets the Avatar, she seems just another obstacle in ending the War against the Fire Nation. An obstacle he would willingly remove. But as their paths keep crossing, and the twins discover that destiny and balance are more than they expect, Jyn and Cassian find that they are more alike than they ever thought possible.

Snippet of Chapter One below the cut!

It was sunrise when the message in old Fire Nation code came.

Cassian had risen in before the sunlight pooled across the glacier, and gone to wake Leia in the chief's house. Blearily-eyed, they'd eaten strips of tough seal jerky and seaweed as Leia braided her hair into twin buns. Cassian, as always, threw some food into the water as an offering to his family. Then he dragged Leia out past the edge of the village to practice their waterbending.

"Does he have to come too?" Leia yawned, pointing towards the black mongoose lizard, watching with pale, unblinking eyes. "He's creepy, looks hungry, and he's probably cold."

"Kay will manage," Cassian said. Kay gave a long-suffering huff, but assumed a more alert posture, scanning the horizon. Good.

"How did you get a Fire Nation beast, anyways?" Leia had removed a glove to bend a large orb of water.

Cassian bent the orb away from her, which distracted Leia from looking at his face. "Luck and determination."

Leia snorted. They engaged in a brief tug of war over the orb before Leia split it in half with a well-placed slice. "You've been keeping to your lessons. Well done."

Leia smiled at him. "I'm glad you're back."

So was Cassian. It was easy not to think in the near-blinding white of Alderaan. The mission had been too long. He'd extracted the information, and he'd gotten Kay. He was giving the Southern Tribe some hope that the raids would end and the War could be won. Someday.

Leia splashed his face with water. "Why yes Leia, I have missed you also."

Cassian rolled his eyes. The training devolved into a sloppy combat, before he set her to work on making ice daggers and discs. Cassian slid into the low stance of a water whip. Once again, the water refused to obey properly, splashing back into the ocean. Beside him, he heard Leia grunting in frustration. "How are you so good at these stupid things?"

His face slid very easily into a relaxed smile and his tone lightened. "Practice."

"Well, it'd be easier if the scrolls that survived had clearer instructions."

The weight of this statement hung between them for a few moments, before Cassian said, "Give it time."

In truth, Leia learnt at least five times more quickly than Cassian did. He had little frame of reference, but there was no doubt Leia was a waterbending prodigy. Her pale skin stood out amongst the olive to brown tones of the Water Tribesmen, but there were many pale as her in the Southern Isles between the shores of the Four Nations. After all, Avatar Mace Windu had been from there, and he had been as dark as the Air Nomads. Cassian had been only eleven when Leia's mother had brought her to Alderaan, a dark-haired woman with angry scars along her slim pale neck. And then it had been just them. Only two.

Sometimes Cassian wondered if his little sisters would have been benders too, if they had survived past early childhood. Would he have stood over them, coaxing Ysabel and Juana's pudgy fingers to form the careful shapes? Would his parents have said, mijo, you've done well? Some were hopeful there would be more benders born, but Cassian was realistic. It might be lifetimes before enough children were born to counter what had been lost. They needed to win this War.

Behind him, Kay made a noise.

"Cassian, look," Leia said.

A messenger bird was flying over the horizon, a scroll tied to its back. Cassian knew every bird they used on sight. He had never seen this species before. It was a dull yellow colour, stark against the snow. They watched it grow larger and swoop towards the rookery. Then a Tribesmen emerged, running towards the Chief's house.

"What do you think that's about?" Leia said.

They received their answer several minutes later. Sheltay, one of the Chief's aides, was hurrying over to them. "Come with me," she said. Leia dropped the stream she'd been bending, but Sheltay shook her head. "Not you, Princess."

"Move closer to the town," Cassian said, seeing Leia scowl in annoyance. "Practice bending the snow."

Leia made a frustrated sound as Cassian signalled for Kay to remain by her side. Sheltay gave no explanation as they entered the Chief's house. Breha was seated on great wolf skin pelt in the meeting room, with her lover, Bail, beside her. A few other close tribespeople were there as well, including Breha's advisor, Visaiya, who wore matching bracelets with her Chief. Breha's attendant, Falena, practiced her ocarina quietly in the corner. Leia's hyper-anxious iguana parrot, Threepio, was also present, muttering nervously to himself. Cassian made a respectful gesture to Breha, before taking the only remaining spot.

"Before winter began, we sent a message to an old friend of Bail's in the Earth Kingdom at great risk," Breha said, "The Fire Nation has been plundering raw materials from its occupied territories at explosive rates. It does not bode well. This friend will be bringing…a very special person with him. He arrives in a matter of hours."

Cassian could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He nodded.

Breha smiled. "He apologizes for the lack of warning."

"Cassian, you have watched over Leia for fifteen years now, training her as best we are able," Bail continued, "I am asking you to remain by her side. Keep her safe. Many things are about to change."

"Of course," Cassian managed.

He was unsteady as he emerged from the house. Leia was standing outside, ankle deep in a snow pile. "Well?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

It had been nineteen years.

"The Avatar," Cassian said.

Jyn watched the glacier draw ever nearer. She fingered the kyber crystal around her neck, stroking its surface, worn smooth.

"Thirteen years," she murmured.

The white around them was blinding. There was nothing like this in the Fire Nation, but Jyn was not always certain of her memories. It had been five years since she had been on its shores.

"I still think," Bodhi said beside her, a tremor in his tone, "That this yet another wild chase. I mean, it was some guy that other guy saw in a bar!"

Jyn frowned at him. Her contact at Wohbani was trustworthy, or as trustworthy as starving farmers could be. "What choice do we have but to explore every rumour?"

"Well…anything else? Find the rebels?" Bodhi hazarded. He was fiddling with the googles on his head.

"Don't quote my father at me."

Bodhi met her sharpness with his own. "It's hard not to since he personally assigned me here."

Jyn sucked in a deep breath, allowing the heat of her inner fire to settle. Reining in her temper, she said, "You can tell him all about it when he's on the ship. Soon."

She didn't allow him time for a retort, heading towards the gathered crew. It would work. It had to work. Those horrible yellow eyes would have no choice.

Soon.

[dhwty-writes]

Zutara Week Day 2 - Counterpart

Day 2 already, wow! I really enjoyed all the amazing content over at @zutaraweek! Anyways, here’s my day 2, I recognise that I took some liberties with the prompts, enjoy it anyways. (Also, I heavily recommend that you read my day 1 first, as you might not understand what's going on otherwise)

Read on AO3

Dinner had been a quiet affair, both of them not entirely sure how to bridge the gap that four years without any contact had left between them and much less sure how to address the issue that somehow, they found themselves on two opposite sides of hostilities. Again.

Still, when Zuko asked her to stay for a drink she accepted. A drink would hopefully calm her nerves. So, she let him lead her to a sitting room where he poured her something that was hopefully very alcoholic and handed her a glass.

"So," he said crossing his arms. "You started a rebellion. Again."

Katara sighed and sat down on the couch. "I didn't really start it," she tried to defend herself but even in her ears that excuse sounded weak. "I just... I was travelling a bit, can't really settle down anymore since... well, since the war. I came through this town and..." She looked up at him pleadingly. "Zuko, it was so bad. I mean, it's still bad now but before- It was even worse."

He looked at her for a while, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. 'Like a true Fire Lord,' she thought for a moment and it was the truth. He looked good, though. Handsome even. His hair was still short, all of it tied into a topknot and showing off the scar which had once been a mark of shame. Now he wore it like a badge of honour. His shoulders had gotten broader than the last time she had seen him four years ago, evident even without the atrocious shoulder pads that had gone out of fashion half a century ago without anyone in the Fire Nation getting the memo. He was taller now, too. She had to look up at him even when they were both standing. All in all, being Fire Lord became him better than she had thought.

He sighed, too, and sat down next to her. "Tell me about it," he said so quietly that she'd almost missed it.

"I've seen bad things in the war," she began quietly, not quite trusting her voice, "I mean, we both have. Women raped, men killed, children maimed. Burnt bodies that were barely recognisable as humans. You know it."

He hummed in agreement, not quite able to meet her eye. "Yeah. I know plenty about that."

Without a second thought she extended her hand to him. A few moments passed and he took it. Together they took a breath and suddenly the tension vanished from both their shoulders. And suddenly it was as if there hadn't been four years gone by without seeing each other. Suddenly they were just two old friends again who had gone to hell and back with each other.

"But this," Katara continued, only a bit ashamed that her voice was trembling, "this was worse. There were so many sick people, Zuko. They were just lying in the streets because the hospital was full and there was no-one left to take care of them. I buried children who had starved to death without seeing their second birthday. I carried a half-decayed body out of a house because she had died and none of her children had the strength to move her. The oldest of them was eight. Eight, Zuko, with four siblings living in a house with a corpse because no-one cared. Because no-one could care. I had to do something. I will never turn my back on people who need me." There were tears streaming down her face now but she didn't care anymore. And she knew that he wouldn't either.

"No," Zuko answered and squeezed her hand. "You never should. That's why you were one of the good guys from the start."

"I couldn't do much. But I tried healing their sick. Those who I could heal at least. I buried their dead. I consoled the living. With the money I had I bought food but it was so little. So little I could do."

"So, then you started a rebellion?"

She huffed. "I told you, I didn't start it!"

He shot her a short smile. As if he didn't believe her at all. Jerk. "Then how did it start?"

"One of the women I had healed stole something to eat. It wasn't much. I don't even remember what it was. A bowl of rice, a dumpling, something like that. I don't even know if it was true. She was in the hospital the whole day and two hours after I let her go, they dragged her out to the square for- for-! It was so... so..."

"So little. Trivial. Insignificant."

"Right. And they wanted to cut her hand off for that. And I wasn't having that. I had just healed her and they dared to touch her. I stepped in. I pushed the guards back with my water. I wasn't hostile. I was just protecting her." She took a deep breath. "And then a stone flew. I don't know where it came from but suddenly people around me were fighting and most of them were non-benders for the spirits' sake! I had to protect them!"

"So, you did."

"So, I did."

Zuko nodded solemnly. "You've always been a protector."

She huffed a laugh. "I really didn't mean to get caught up in this but suddenly everything spiralled out of control and they pronounced me their leader. So. There you have it. I didn't really start a rebellion. I just... sped the process up."

He didn't reply anything to that.

With every moment that passed she grew more nervous. After a minute or so she wrenched her hand free and started picking at the loose threads of her tunic. It felt wrong to be holding hands with him all of the sudden. He just grunted at that.

"So...," she said slowly. "Are you going to throw me out of your country?"

"What?" Zuko sounded startled as if he'd been lost in thought. "No! Of course not!" He looked appalled that she even thought of such a thing.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know, yet," he admitted. "But we'll figure something out. Together. As leaders."

 The former hospital had basically been converted to a fortress since Katara's arrival. She still healed the sick and the injured but now its most important function was defending the rebels from the firebending guard of the governor.

So, naturally, when the Fire Lord turned up on the doorstep, looking the least intimidating as possible, his hair let down and in normal clothes, there was a healthy amount of suspicion. They almost drove him away before Katara showed up insisting that he was welcome and tugging him inside.

"How's the peace talks going?" she asked him because she hadn't been asked to attend anymore. Instead she had both her hands full with calming the tempers of the rebels trying to get them to trust in their Fire Lord again.

"Slowly," he said with a wince as she pushed him inside her room and shut the door to give them at least a bit of privacy. "There's only so much I can do right now. There is, however, a shipment on the way with food and water and healers. It will arrive in a week, hopefully. Have you found out why their water isn't drinkable yet?"

She rolled her eyes. "Zuko, I've known that for weeks. The problem isn't finding the source, it's finding the solution."

He raised his eyebrows and gesticulated in an invitation to carry on.

"The old factory's leaking. It's still polluting the river."

He cursed under his breath. "It's been inactive for the better part of ten years!"

"That's why it's leaking. You'll have to tear it down before you can start cleaning the river."

He cursed again. "I was hoping to re-open it to manufacture something useful."

She huffed a laugh. "Yeah, that's not going to happen. Besides, even if you build a new factory, you'll need to come up with a concept to have it stop polluting the river first."

"If it's so bad, why didn't you tear the factory apart instead of Governor Yozin's house?"

Katara, in an incredible feat of self-control, managed not to wince. Yeah. That. That was something that happened two nights earlier, resulting in even more guards in front of the hospital and they were not for those inside. "Because the factory doesn't sit on a pile of money that's so fat it stinks,” she answered instead, “And it doesn't cut people's hands off."

He worried his lips between his teeth and against better judgement Katara felt a pang of compassion. "So, what do you propose?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure, yet. Everything I've come up with would require a lot of money first. Like, a lot a lot. More than you could spare."

"Well, it can't be any worse than the current situation."

"Tourism," she said with a sigh. "Trade. Maybe fishing. There could be pearls and corals once the nature regrows. But that all takes time."

"You're the one who demanded an economic masterplan."

"Right." Her expression hardened. "Because that's what's needed. I can't come up with one."

He scowled even deeper and nodded, not saying anything for a while.

Then Katara asked: "What about the charges against me?"

He winced. "That's a tricky situation. A few years earlier, with the general uprisings going on it wouldn't have been a problem. But you did prevent Fire Nation law from getting carried out-"

"That's because the law is stupid," she interrupted him fuming.

"Let me finish! I told you it was tricky. You were also seen leading an illegal uprising against the lawful government."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "So what? You'll throw me in prison?"

"No." Zuko scowled. "I'll figure something out. If we could prove somehow that the punishment of the accused thief was indeed unlawful, however, your intervention wouldn't have been incriminating. Your little rebellion would still be unlawful but it would put me into a position to remove the governor and re-evaluate the situation."

"Right." She nodded. "I'll think of something."

He stood up from the shaky chair he sat on. "I'll have to get going. Meet back with you once one of us has got something?"

"Sure thing. I'll bring you outside." Katara opened the door to her room and saw a young woman standing in front of her, one hand raised to knock and looking as if they had grown a second head. Katara smiled. "Hello, Ni. How's the scarring coming along?"

"I think it's fine," she said hastily, her eyes fixed on the looming man behind Katara.

"Oh!" she said and stepped aside. "I believe you recognize the Fire Lord? Ni, Fire Lord Zuko. Zuko, Ni. She's the one I told you about."

Ni stared in horror before quickly sinking to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor. "It is an honour to meet you, your majesty." Quickly, the rest of the bystanders followed suit.

Zuko's expression hardened, though Katara couldn't tell why. "Please, rise," he rasped quietly. "All of you." He looked around with a faint blush rising on his cheeks and suddenly he reminded her very much of the awkward teenager who had stumbled into their camp begging their forgiveness.

Slowly the Fire Lord bowed. "I am truly sorry for the hardships you had to go through." Something inside her chest clenched and she had to resist the urge to tug her friend into a tight hug. "It is unforgivable. Yet, I hope that I might earn your trust again."

He straightened again and looked around, taking in the stunned faces of the people surrounding him. Lastly, his gaze fell on Katara. She smiled in encouragement and he just nodded. "See you in a few days," he said quietly and almost bolted for the door.

Katara watched as he crossed the town square and vanished between his guards who were already getting anxious.

"It is good of the Fire Lord to treat us with such kindness," Ni said from her side. "And to help you like this."

Her smile broadened. "Of course. We're old friends after all."

"Yeah," she answered with a clouded expression, "Friends."

 There were moments in life when Katara really wished to have Toph's metalbending abilities. For example when she had been thrown into jail in the Earth Kingdom. Or when she had been shipped off to the Southern Watertribe afterwards. Or when there were manacles chafing against her wrists as she was on trial for high treason.

Zuko presided over the whole thing, looking all regal in his Fire Lord's robes with a stern expression on his face that made a shiver run down her spine. At his side sat Governor Yozin and a wiry old man Zuko had brought with him that appeared to be some kind of expert in Fire Nation law.

Governor Yozin was droning on and on and on, listing off all her trespassing and the appropriate punishment for those - death by the sword sounded like the most merciful. Finally, the governor shut up.

"Katara of the Southern Watertribe," Zuko said with a booming voice, "how do you plead?"

She raised her chin. She was a proud woman and she would not quiver or budge, no matter the charges they laid at her feet. "Not guilty," she replied.

She watched with pleasure as the governor's face went red and he appeared to struggle to breath. "Do you deny that you interrupted the execution of Fire Nation law, witch? Do you deny that you used force against Fire Nation officials? Do you deny that your protesters destroyed public property?"

"I do not," she confessed. "However, I never touched your precious public property. And while I did use force, it was entirely for my safety and that of others."

"You still interrupted the prosecution of a criminal!"

"I did," she admitted. "It was, however, not a lawful prosecution. The accused was innocent."

“Liar!” the governor screeched. “She is a liar, your majesty!”

Zuko looked entirely unfazed and turned to Katara. “Master Katara, if you would elaborate?”

The shadow of a smile passed over her lips before she stood up. “I am certainly no expert in Fire Nation law, your majesty,” she began and the look he shot her was almost ridiculously pleading that she took that seriously. Well, for his sake she would. “However, I was given to understand that every accused is assumed innocent until proven guilty.”

“That is right, Master Katara,” he answered. “Was the thief not proven guilty?”

“She was!” Governor Yozin insisted. “One of my guards saw her do it!”

“Governor, if you cannot control your temper, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Zuko said and Katara could see how close he was to losing control of his temper.

Katara ignored them both. “I was also told, that only a trial can prove the guilt of a person.” She could see the governor pale. “Ni was not given a trial.”

Zuko turned to Yozin. “Is that true?” he asked with a voice that sent chills down her back. She was glad not to be in the governor’s place.

“I- your majesty! She- she is only a thief! Only a peasant.”

She watched in surprise as the candles in the room flickered higher. She hadn’t seen Zuko this angry since… since before they’d ended the war. But apparently, he was furious. “Ni is a fire nation citizen from your island and thus under your immediate protection. It is your honourable duty to provide her and all other people on this island with a livelihood, a duty that you have neglected for years. And now, it seems, you add abuse of power and unlawful prosecution to the list of your misconducts.” The Fire Lord stood. “I hereby permanently revoke any and all titles and position that you and your heirs hold, effective immediate. Guards, release the waterbender. We are done here.”

Katara watched in perplexed awe as Zuko left the room. It took a few moments before she caught up to what had happened and hurried after him.

"Go away," Zuko said the moment that Katara stepped into the deserted hallway he had vanished into. 

"I just wanted to thank you," she said coldly, yet a smile danced around her lips. "But if you don't want my thanks-"

"It's you," he said relief washing over him.

"Who else would it be? I don't think the others have found their voice again."

She had meant to say it as a joke but still he winced. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."

"I think you did just fine," she tried to soothe him.

Instead he just looked away.

Katara sighed and stepped closer, gently wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "You know, I think sometimes a little anger is your necessary," she said softly. "For example, to put a nasty sour old asshole in his place. Or to get your step-grandfather to train you. Oh wait, that's just the same." He chuckled a little and she felt relieved. "Or to wake the Avatar from a 100-year nap in an iceberg with waterbending."

"You did that?" he asked incredulously. 

"I never told you?" She wrinkled her nose. "Spirits, Zuko we know each other for ten years and you don't know that your very best friend in the whole wide world has started the process to save it?"

"Sokka can waterbend?" he asked with a sly smile on his lips.

She scowled and removed her arm from around his shoulders. "Your very best female friend in the whole wide world."

"I thought you guys met Toph and Suki later on."

She huffed and shoved at his shoulder. "You are a menace."

"Says the one who started a rebellion in a foreign country."

She flashed him a bright smile. "You can thank me later. Anyways, I've got good news to deliver." She turned and started walking towards the door, leaving Zuko behind.

The last she heard of the firebender was a quiet huff and what sounded suspiciously like a muttered "Believe me, I would." But then Katara decided that she got more important things to worry about. For example, how to break the news to her rebels. And what she would do once she'd inevitably leave the island.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Please, obligatory "hunger games au" please?

[Technically a Catching Fire AU, since I didn’t actually want to write all the protagonists killing each other, but the concept is the same.]

When the announcement of the Quarter Quell comes, past Hunger Games champions to be reaped all over again, Rachel thinks Oh.  Thinks, they were always going to find a way to get rid of me.

She cheated, after all.  Broke the Games, ensuring two winners instead of just one.  The poison passing between her lips and Marco’s.  The defiant dare: that the Capitol could have two survivors, or it could have none.  She and Marco sobbed out their love as they clung to each other later that day, and it’s been enough to keep them alive until now.  But it was never going to last.

When she tells Marco this, he laughs.  “It’s not just us, though.  Think about it.”  He ticks them off on his fingers as he goes. “Erek sabotaged the Arena itself to win.  James was one of the figureheads of the District 6 protest.  Ax is too well-liked by too many important people.  Even your boy Tobias smuggled all of those Avoxes out of the Capitol — no, don’t try to deny it, it’s not like I don’t know.”

“So it’s not just us people are rallying behind,” Rachel says.  “We’re not the only troublemakers.”

Marco winks at her.  “You are the rallying point, my dear.  I’m just your adorable side piece.”

“If it had to happen again, better that it do so while you’re still young and strong and pretty,” Alloran intones.  He’s looking over Ax and Estrid, unamused as always.  “Better yet, Aximili, you could’ve kept your mouth shut and we wouldn’t be here at all.”

Ax shrugs.  He’s one of dozen surviving male champions from District 4, so it’s just bad luck that he’s got an honorable streak he can’t seem to shake.  Ax is pretty sure that if his own name had been called then Alloran would’ve volunteered in his place, which is why he’d volunteered for Alloran.

“We’re both out of practice,” Estrid says.  “I’ve been in biotech labs for most of the last thirteen years, and Ax’s been getting fat entertaining the upper crust—”

“Do not speak about things you do not understand,” Alloran says flatly, and Estrid shuts up.

Ax keeps his expression pleasantly neutral.  He’s very good at it, by now.  “She has a point,” he says.  “We’re both past our prime.”

“Not as far past as I am.”  Alloran narrows his eyes at Ax, almost certainly still angry about Ax not letting him go die in the Games.  Alloran might have been a butcher in the Arena in his own time, but he’s seventy-six years old.

Ax lifts his chin.  “Tell us what you would have us do, mentor.”

“Go on, start making friends,” Nora says quietly, looking over the lunch room.  “It’s high time you got to work on your strategy.  Rachel’s no good at alliances — just look at that kid Karen she helped through half the last games.  So it’s all on you.”

Marco makes no move to go join anyone.  “We shouldn’t delude ourselves about my chances.  Last time, I was up against mostly half-starved kids, and I still would’ve died if Rachel hadn’t carried me through, sometimes literally.  Now?” he says.  “Twenty-three warriors.  Every single one of them a card-carrying baby-killer.  My scintillating wit and charm aren’t going to be enough this time.”

“So you have no strategy at all, then.”  Nora only says it because she knows it’s not true.  She knows his mind; she sponsored him in his own Games, and then they co-sponsored eight other kids.  Hell, after what happened to his parents, and hers, each of them is the closest thing the other one has left to family.

“Probably for the best if my strategy doesn’t depend on trusting any of these people,” Marco counters.

“Not even the District 10 girl?”

“What, Cassie?  Just because she cries over ‘em after she kills them doesn’t mean she’s not still a killer.  I don’t trust her any more than David.”

Nora smiles grimly.  “In that case, you’re probably trusting David too much.”  David won 10 years back by luring several tributes into deadly traps with promises of or requests for aid, and then ripping apart their bodies even after they were long dead.  The first kill he’d made had been the 12-year-old girl from his own district, who’d given him some of her food and then been too weak to resist as he held her face-down in the mud until she’d stopped struggling.

“Maybe I’ll go cower behind one of the Careers, see if that’ll keep me alive,” Marco says.  “Big Jake, for one.”  Jake Berenson of District 2 is from a long bloodline of Career tributes, one that has turned out more champions per dead child than any other.  He’s well-liked, well-fed, and strong enough to kill barehanded.

“Erek King,” Nora suggests.  “You know, the District 3 boy?  He doesn’t look like much, but he probably won’t turn on you.”

Marco snorts.  “He’s only a pacifist until you back him into a corner.  Just like the rest of us.”

“Hold the lift!” someone calls, and Cassie lunges forward to punch the door-open button.  Both District 12 tributes slide into the elevator with her, panting slightly.  They’re no longer on fire, she’s glad to see.

“Thanks,” Rachel says.  She and Marco are still holding hands, as always, but up close it looks like Rachel is holding Marco upright by their shared grip.

Marco barely lets the doors close before leaning heavily into Rachel’s arm and kicking off one of his shoes.  It clatters loudly across the floor, and Cassie realizes it has an almost eight-inch heel — their stylist’s trick to make Marco taller than Rachel.  Marco lowers himself to the floor, standing on his own now, and yanks at the other shoe.  It catches on the hem of his robe, and with a hiss of annoyance he rips that off too, revealing that he wears nothing underneath.

Cassie turns away, feeling her face flush.

“What, like you’ve never seen a naked man before?” Rachel asks, laughing.  “You were at the opening ceremony, you saw what Ax was — and wasn’t — wearing.”

Yes, and Cassie had felt sick to her stomach watching the way the crowd ogled him, a piece of meat that they couldn’t wait to devour.

“Come now, my love, you know style’s all part of the strategy, for that one especially,” Marco says to Rachel.  He’s not wrong: if Ax can play the crowd well enough, the sponsors might even be able to get him another version of that scythe-thing he favors.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not crass, sweetheart.”  Rachel grins at him.  “Kind of like stripping down in an elevator to try and shock the baby tribute.”

“Doubt I interest her, my darling,” Marco says, “seeing as I’m not a muttation.”  He laughs and adds, “not yet, anyway.”

Cassie realizes she still hasn’t said a word.  Not about the nudity, not about the taunting reference to her own victory, earned when she nursed an injured muttation back to life and taught it to kill for her.  And what’s she supposed to say?  One of these two will kill her, likely as not, before the week is out.

The best that Tobias can say about his own interview is that he manages not to let anything show on his face.  He does his best to answer the questions — about District 11, about his feather-patterned costume, about what he thinks Crayak has planned for the games ahead — in ways that are unremarkable and inoffensive.  He and Melissa both won, eight years apart, with the same strategy: they’re small and lithe and easily underestimated, but they’re also able to flit through the trees well overhead of their fellow tributes without being spotted until it’s too late.  Now, the advantage of surprise is gone with the broadcast of his last Games, and the advantage of agility disappeared with the bottom half of his right leg after infection set in.  He’s going to die.  But he wants to die with dignity, he told Melissa last night, even though he knows that probably won’t be possible.

Rachel and Marco both have it easy during the interview process.  All Marco has to do is tell the story of Rachel first trying on her flaming dress, and how beautiful she’d looked to his eyes even while waiting for her hair to catch on fire.  The audience is eating it up, laughing and cheering even as many of them sob openly throughout.  Rachel’s so stunning in her wedding dress, even as it crumbles to ash around her, that it’s easy to fall in love with her through Marco’s eyes.  When she promises to protect what is hers, staring fiercely into the camera with clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, half the Capitol falls in love with Marco all over again.

Cassie’s interview is still the most interesting, in that she gets six words into a protest speech about the treatment of the outer districts before her mic cuts off and a “technical malfunction” shuts down the conversation.  Jake’s is exactly what you’d expect from a Career, lots of shrugging and mumbling and letting his bulk speak for itself, while Ax’s causes no less than fourteen rapturous fainting spells as various audience members are overcome with the power of their love for him.

All in all, Tobias is pretty sure he fades into the mass of tributes — Collette in her wheelchair, Loren who smirks under opaque glasses, Taylor whose beauty remains undiminished by her three prosthetic limbs — whom everyone has written off as unlikely to win.  It’s probably for the best, Tobias assumes.  If it comes down to that, he’ll be just like the rebels and sponsors: fighting tooth and nail to keep Rachel alive.

Rachel buries her face against Marco’s neck, dark hair and blond tangling together.  “I think…” she breathes against his skin, too soft for the microphones to detect.  “I think maybe we can trust the Ellimist.”

She feels his jaw tighten where they’re pressed together.  Marco’s the cynic who dances them away from the worst of the traps; she’s the optimist too stubborn to know when she’s been beat.  They make a good team.  She owes her life to his inspired decision to declare his love for her on live TV just as much as he owes her for the trick with the berries.

“He’s one of the Gamemakers,” Marco hisses.  “Fuck that.”

Rachel shakes her head just a little.  “He showed me…  I can’t explain it, not here.  Just— Do you think you can trust me?”

“Always.”  Marco sounds like he means it, because he’s skilled like that.  “Always.”

Ax does his best to breathe, in the seconds between their ascent into the Arena and the gong signifying the land mines’ deactivation that will release them from their pressure pads to begin the Games.  He’s a warrior, the servant of his district and his family.  He has volunteered twice now, once in Arbron’s place, once in Alloran’s.  Let it be done.

Across the way, he sees that even as Rachel rises into position she’s already making some busy motion with both hands close to her chest.  Ax can’t see clearly what she’s doing, but he sees Tobias’s eyes go wide in alarm.

Tobias frantically shakes his head, but Rachel ignores him.  She scans the lines of tributes until she finds her target.  When she does, her smile grows vicious.  Her right hand flashes out as she throws an object full-force at David’s face.

It’s her belt buckle, Ax realizes.  A nearly-useless weapon, small and blunt.  But does the job.  When it smacks David squarely in the cheek it throws him off balance.  Enough that he staggers back two steps — straight off the pressure pad, ten seconds before the gong.

Wha-BOOM!

The concussion of the land mine triggering breezes against Ax’s face nearly twenty yards away.  And just like that, the 75th Hunger Games begin.

The instant the gong sounds, Marco is off and running.  Headed for Rachel.  She whips around when she hears his approach, sliding into a defensive stance, but she relaxes by millimeters when she sees that it’s him.

Without any discussion, she and Marco and Tobias fall into a loose phalanx, facing outward with makeshift weapons in hand.  All Marco’s managed to grab so far is a piece of the platform he was on, but improvised weapons have always been his specialty.  He’s yanking and twisting sharp edges into place like this is yet another chunk of District 12 fence ripped from its posts, when something whistles over his head.

He ducks, almost too late.  Taylor’s knife flies past, embedding itself in the backpack that Rachel holds up to shield herself.  Rachel yanks the knife loose and flips it around in her hand.  Beside her, Tobias holds a stick like a club, staring around wildly.

Taylor’s second knife never leaves her hand.  Instead she dives forward, headed for Marco’s throat —

Shink.

Taylor coughs hot blood onto Marco’s face.  The steel that killed her yanks loose from her body as Ax pulls his blade back into his hand.  

It’s almost faster than Marco’s eyes can follow.  The chain it’s on whips behind him, then snaps outward again.  This time the scythe-thing takes a girl’s hand clean off at the wrist.  Again Ax snaps it back to himself, coiled and at the ready faster than thought.

Marco sees Rachel go pale as she registers the kusarigama in Ax’s hand.  It’s like a chain mace with a bladed head, a machete attached to the end of a bullwhip.  Not the kind of thing that one finds at a corner store in Panem.  The kind of thing that the Gamemakers must have placed here, after having seen the way that Ax wields one like it’s an extra limb.  The kind of thing they must have put down deliberately, if they wanted him to win.

“We have to go!” Tobias shouts.

Marco gestures for him to lead the way.  There’s no use sticking around to get slaughtered at the Cornucopia, and especially no use risking Rachel.  The three of them take off at a steady run, leaving Ax’s graceful slaughter in their wake.

Jake kills a muttation just as it is sneaking up on Marco and Tobias.  This makes no sense, Marco concludes, but there’s no time to question it.  

Marco takes a thrown hatchet to the shoulder protecting Rachel, because that’s all he can do.  He tells himself that he isn’t hurt when she hisses angrily that there’s no one left to impress so he can just stop with the lover-boy act now.

Ax kills the District 3 tribute who nearly killed Marco, but then refuses to kill Marco even as he’s lying wounded on the ground.  

They don’t seem to understand, Marco wants to shout, that he’s not important.  Rachel — beautiful Rachel, strong fierce tough Rachel, Rachel who can launch a thousand ships with the power of her bravery — is the important one.  Marco’s just the clever little schemer who showed the Capitol who she is, just set dressing in her story.

The Games… don’t work the way they’re supposed to.  Six tributes die of smoke inhalation.  One drowns.  There are four murders, and then no more.  The remaining thirteen, and then twelve, and then eleven, keep allying with each other.  Crayak’s direct intervention, or maybe the Ellimist’s, whittles their numbers, but the survivors keep drawing in tighter and helping one another.  And if everyone is allied, no one is killing.

“So what’s it going to be, then?” Jake asks.  He glances around at all of them, but his eyes meet Ax’s and hold there.  Ax stares steadily back.

There’s a wary sort of camaraderie there, and Cassie knows its source.  In a way, these two are just the same.  Each one is his family’s second chance at a champion.  They are seconds sons, both of whom watched older brothers volunteer and be shipped off to the Arena.  Both of whom watched their brothers’ state-sponsored murder in full technicolor on 20-foot screens.  Both of whom volunteered in their turn.  Career tributes, yes, but the sort of Careers who lack all delusions of glory or honor.

“Let’s do it.”  Rachel speaks first.  She’s the first pick in her own family.  First of three.  And Cassie chills to think of the things that Rachel has already proven willing to do, in order to prevent her little sisters’ entering the Arena.

“You know I’m with you,” Tobias says, smiling sadly at Rachel.  She smiles back, brushing the back of her hand over his.

Those two are cousins, if the Capitol propaganda is to be believed, but Cassie wasn’t born yesterday.  Marco and Rachel are very good at playing the game behind the game — so good, in fact, that they’re engaged to be married and claim to have a kid on the way — but up close, they’re also very obviously playing, their flirtation only a game to them.  It’s Tobias and Rachel who look at each other with real affection, with real desperation.  But their story didn’t advance the cause, and so the Capitol took advantage of a passing resemblance — blond hair, long limbs — for its own ends.

“No offense,” Marco says, in a tone that guarantees he’s about to cause offense, “but why would we ever believe you people?  Some of us who didn’t grow up on three servings of meat a day bought by past kids’ victories need proof that you Careers aren’t just going to turn on us.”

“You have no reason to trust us,” Jake says.  “None of us has any reason to trust any of the others.  But I will tell you this much: the Capitol needs us to hate and fear each other, or else this whole sick enterprise cannot continue.  You can all do what you want, but I’m going to choose to believe that maybe, just maybe, everyone else here wants to go down defying the Capitol rather than continuing to play puppet for their entertainment.”

Ax plants the end of his kusarigama against the ground, expression hard with determination.  “You tell us what to do, and I will follow.”

“Yeah.”  Rachel laughs, tossing her head back.  “What he said.  Let’s start kicking the asses of some people whose asses actually deserve to be kicked for once.”

They’re hiding in District 13.  Turns out that’s still a thing.  Marco got away from the Gamemakers; Nora did not.  Marco surprises himself with how much he misses her, like maybe he did care about her after all.  It’s too late now, though.  The next time he sees her, she’ll be brainwashed and mind-controlled, if she’s even still alive.

“Hi, there.”  Cassie sits down next to Marco at one of the long cafeteria tables.  She turns to follow the direction of his gaze.

Rachel’s sitting across the room, leaning close to talk to Tobias.  The two of them hold hands across the table, able to be affectionate in front of witnesses for the first time in their lives.  Rachel doesn’t seem to realize, caught up in conversation as she is, how easy she is to love.  She doesn’t know the effect she has, and maybe that’s part of her power.  She wasn’t lying when she said she only volunteered to save Jordan, and she’s not lying now when she promises to save all of Panem.

“For you it’s real, isn’t it?” Cassie asks quietly.  “She has no idea, and neither did I at first… but you really are in love with her.”

Marco laughs, tempted to deny it.  But what would be the point?  “Isn’t everyone?”

[dhiabori]

BLOODBLOSSOM ―

here’s another drabble (okay, i lie, it’s 3k) featuring julien! this time the other relevant characters are tatian, the leader of the revolution/anti-royalist faction, and jelena, an arms dealer and sadist.

CONTENT WARNINGS ― graphic depictions of whipping; tying up; panic attacks; self-destructive behaviours

TAGLIST ― @doveotions

“Jelena, I assure you, it’s unnecessary. And foolish.” Tatian sighs; controlling Jelena is like putting a steak in front of a starving dog and telling it not to bite. 

No. It’s like collaring a wolf and expecting it to drop its prey at your feet; there’s nothing tame in her eyes, in her body, leaning against the windowframe. Everything from the scars on her neck to the dagger dangling mindlessly between her fingers says predator, predator, predator, an insistent thrumming in the back of Tatian’s mind. 

If she’s a predator, an idle thought asks, who’s her prey?

Glancing up from toying with her dagger, she gives Tatian a sharp smile. He knows her teeth had been filed in prison, that all Nyrish convicts did it, but— he also remembers seeing those canines stained with blood. “The people would beg to differ.”

The people. The people whose houses she’s razed to the ground, whose sons and sisters and friends she’s punished, toyed with, a vengeful demon. 

Tatian takes a step forward, meeting Jelena’s eyes. Keeping his voice smooth; dissent is a distraction, a threat, a loss of momentum. Affording her time he doesn’t have is out of the question.

“The people can differ all they want. Julien is my property, and I won’t allow you to play with him.” He can’t help glancing back at Julien, kneeling at Camille’s feet; the picture of devoted obedience. It’s almost pathetic, how eager he is to demean himself for a scrap of affection — almost, but he still looks more a crowned prince branded and humiliated, leash resting casually in Camille’s lap, than Tatian has ever looked in the mirror. 

All Jelena does is shrug, and even that’s a calculated movement, tense with the kind of power he’s only seen in a caged panther. The kind that says, come too close and you won’t live to repent it. “ Tell me, what do you care about more?” Tossing her dagger up, she catches it by the blade. Show off. “Your property, or the loyalty of the people outside?”

“It’s which,” Tatian says, taking another step, slowly circling her. Letting his hand run over the lacquered chest, not deigning to look her in the eye. “Which do I care about more. And don’t pretend to speak for the people.”

“Oh, but they want it. You know they do.”

“They might, but the people have a nasty little habit of regretting their choices. Their desires.”

“And you know all about that, don’t you?” 

“What?” It’s all Tatian can get out, but he sees it now, the corner he’s backed himself into. He’s taken this wolf in, fed her, collared her, forgotten it isn’t the collar that keeps her at his heel, it’s the meat. Forgotten that wolves don’t care what’s theirs or what’s his -- all she knows is hunger, and if he won’t feed her, he’ll become her next meal.

Jelena peels herself away from the windowsill, stepping towards him. Slow and deliberate, spinning her dagger between her fingers as she walks so it catches the light in a biting flash. This close, he has to look up to her, has to smell the sulfur and brimstone on her breath.

“Do you regret hiring me?” The words are spoken, but the dagger gives them their edge, wandering carelessly through air. A little closer to Tatian’s face than any employee of his should ever bring their weapon. “Because the way I see it, you need me. You need me to put swords in your men’s hands, bows on their backs.”

“You need me.” Even as the words leave his mouth, cracking under the effort of keeping his voice steady, Tatian knows they’re not true. He isn’t her only buyer.

Glancing over at Camille, all he gets is a pointed stare, a silent rebuke. Not here, not yet. 

Jelena laughs, almost a snarl. “Do I? Because I thought I could easily take my business elsewhere. The only thing keeping me playing by your rules is what you can offer me. Your money -- and your pet.”

She looks over to Julien, hungry hungry hungry. More than that, victorious; Tatian wants to scream in frustration, wishes he had a dagger of his own to claw out her glinting eyes, but there’s nothing he can do.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, voice taut, “Because if you break my property, I can assure you the consequences will be severe.”

All he gets in return is a derisive snort as Jelena strides over to Julien, snatching the lead from Camille’s lap. He does nothing to stop her, only shrugs, removing his hand from where it has been tangled in Julien’s thick, brown curls. 

Wrapping the lead around her hand, Jelena jerks Julien to his feet, sending him stumbling a little. “Get up, Your Grace. Your people want to see you.”

Tatian half-wishes Julien would scream, struggle, fight for his life like a deer -- but all he does is freeze like one, a single desperately apprehensive glance before his face softens into resignation and he nods.

With that, she begins to stride out, pausing as she pushes the tent flap aside to say to Tatian: “I can assure you, medvedezdha, you’ll get your pet back.”

Hearing her footsteps recede, Tatian releases a sigh, that turns into a frustrated half-scream.

“Shit,” he hisses, feeling his breath begin to hitch and race, he should’ve seen that coming, should’ve done something. Shouldn’t have seen her without a guard, now he’s lost control, and he’s spiralling, falling, slipping the maw of the past rushing up to swallow him -- 

He rounds on Camille, because it’s the only thing he can do, and he has to do something, or his skin might split from the itch that rages beneath it, the mounting frustration. 

“Why did you let her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because she wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat with that dagger?” He can only be grateful that Camille’s words still have a bite to them, that he doesn’t stand -- if he did, it would mean Tatian was slipping again, drifting further from the careful reality he’s constructed.

Tatian sighs, trying to steady himself. “Saints, I should’ve stopped her. She’s out of control.”

Sighing, Camille twists a curl of hair around his finger. “She is, but she has the upper hand now. She must be anticipating a reprisal.”

“Or she thinks she can get away with it,” Tatian returns, glancing towards the tent flap. Knowing she’s taken Julien out there, when he can hardly manage the walk from the castle to the makeshift meeting room -- and he shouldn’t care for Julien, he knows that, but all the same he can feel the affection sinking its roots into his chest, winding its thorny branches around his heart.

His instinct is to run from it. Run from the wolf, then lay your traps -- it’s always been the de Carachelles way, the reason why they survived when the de Carcassonie fell. Yet something in him rebels at the idea. Something in him baulks at leaving Julien to suffer, at letting Jelena break his toy without a witness; it all culminates in a breathless realisation.

“I caused this. I should watch.” 

Not waiting for Camille’s response, Tatian pushes out of the tent, surfacing like a drowned man coming up for air. Only the fetid afternoon heat does nothing to relieve him, only clogs his lungs with more doubts as he hurries past the soldiers. What if she kills him? What if the people aren’t on her side? He can’t decide which is more dangerous, only that he has to see for himself. That maybe Julien de Vere is more trouble than he’s worth.

The camp passes in a blur of canvas and familiar, grimy faces as he rushes to the edge, to the sound of a murmuring crowd. They’ve come from every nearby village, drawn in by Laetitia and the promise of food; now the stand, jostling, in a semicircle. Whispers ripple through them like the chittering of birds, all eyes directed to a single, gnarled cypress tree.

Forcing himself to turn his gaze to the tree, Tatian feels his breath catch in his throat.

Julien. She’s tied him to the tree, forcing his cheek into the rough embrace of its bark, face turned towards Tatian. Oh, please let there be anger. Bitterness, fear. Anything would be better than what he can read in Julien’s wide, doe-brown eyes: acceptance.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jelena’s voice cuts into Tatian’s horror, broken-glass sharp. Only half as sharp as the whip that dangles from her hand as she circles the tree like some demented kind of ringmaster. “You asked, you shall receive. The Crowned Prince, for your entertainment.”

She cracks the whip at Julien’s feet, forcing him to shy away against the tree. Its bark grates against his skin, leaving raw scrapes.

“So.” The whip snaps out again across dusty ground, rearing back, a rattlesnake in its fury. Tatian flinches. “How many lashes?”

Fluttering nervously, the crowd mutters amongst itself. Two hundred or so glittering eyes, nattering beaks, all eyeing Julien with a kind of beady apprehension, the kind that makes Tatian feel sick. You brought this on yourselves, he wants to shout, you fucking decide. You asked for this, didn’t you?

He should be asking for it, too. His mother would. His sister would, she’d be the one with the whip in her hand, breaking the figurehead of the de Veres as they’ve broken her. He should be baying for Julien’s blood, but Tatian finds he can’t. Every time he tries, he chokes on the blossoming of care that’s grown in his chest, caging the hissing, scratching thing with its thorns.

At last, a man steps apart from the crowd. Swallows, then speaks, eyes still fixed on Julien.

“Twenty-five,” he murmurs, and when Jelena glares at him, he says it louder. “Twenty-five lashes.”

Again, uncomfortable whispers flit through the crowd. Jelena only nods, stepping back as if to begin -- but she pauses, lowering the whip.

Tatian hopes for a reprieve. Knows it won’t come, but hopes anyway, watching her approach Julien.

“Someone should really cut off all this hair,” is all she says, almost casual as she gathers Julien’s curls, pushing them to the side. Exposing his back, unblemished except for a scattering of moles. “It’s just impractical.”

His stomach twists at the irony, remembering running his fingers through those same curls. All Tatian can remember thinking is they’re so soft. 

Jelena steps back again, more deliberate. Brings back the whip, then -- 

It snaps down like a thundercrack, and Julien flinches, the muscles in his back taut and straining as his shoulders stiffen. When it falls, there’s a welt, a stark red line picked out in horrible contrast to his dark, brown skin, making Tatian’s stomach twist.

Someone in the crowd calls out, one.

Before Julien can even catch his breath, the whip comes down again, again, breaking his skin. Blood wells up along the line as his chest heaves with desperate gasps; red blood, jewel-blood, petal-blood that Tatian wants to wipe away, but he can’t, he’s rooted to the spot with mute horror. As if whatever was growing in his chest has sunk its roots into the ground, not finding enough sustenance in his body.

The crowd keeps crowing: two, three. Still, Julien doesn’t scream. 

Four and five pass in a sickening blur, only the crack of the whip indicating any blows have fallen. Shuddering from the impact, Julien whimpers -- still not quite a scream, but his knees are beginning to give way, the tree his only support. Even that is hardly a mercy, the rough bark rubbing his skin raw every time he flinches further into its embrace.

Grinning, Jelena recoils for another lash, toying with her helpless prey. The whip snaps back, biting into a fresh welt. 

Six. 

Julien screams, bloody and desperate. Tatian thinks he feels the pain too; a gasp wells up in his throat, a bud about to blossom and fill his mouth with bloodstained petals. It feels like someone has pulled the world from under him, leaving him reeling, bile rising in his throat. 

Coward. Coward, he thinks, as the whip cracks again and Julien’s screams mingle with the crowd’s counting.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Julien’s knees have buckled, and he slides down the tree, leaving a smattering of blood from the scrapes on his face and chest. None of that compares, though, to the mess Jelena has made of his back, of his composure: his breath comes in choppy, strained gasps, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with fever-sweat.

By the time number ten comes, all he can do is sag against the tree, head dropping in defeat. Tatian wants to tell Jelena to stop, wants to collar and chain her again, but he knows he can’t. He can’t, unless he wants to offer himself as a sacrifice to her ravening jaws. All he can do is watch and choke on the agony of seeing Julien sob, knowing it’s his fault, his fault.

He finds his mind drifting to his mother’s garden, her beloved rose bushes. How beautiful they are, how much careful cultivation they require. Compared to them, the straggling thing in his chest that cries out, aching to hold Julien, is withered and shriveled, but it still aches.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Tatian doesn’t even want to watch anymore, doesn’t want to hear Julien scream, then cough, then gasp for breath. He hardly notices the crowd quietening, no longer crowing the numbers. Only staring, hollow and nervous.

Jelena steps back, admiring her shuddering, suffering masterpiece. Her work is enshrined on the heaving canvas of Julien’s back, blood welling up like pigment and trickling down from a multitude of welts. She’s reduced him to a pathetic, cowering thing, and it’s so wrong, so fucking jarring to see him humiliated and broken, stripped of his regal dignity. 

The whip, her paintbrush, twitches lazily in her hand; for a moment, Tatian can’t understand why she’s stopped.

“Sigolène?” Only then does Tatian glance round and see Jelena’s lieutenant, watching sullenly. “My arm’s tired.” 

“I--” Sigolène looks like she’s about to say something else, stepping forward like an antelope approaching a lion. Unsure whether she’s prey or partner. 

“Five lashes.” Is all Jelena says, shoving the whip into Sigolène’s hand. 

She looks like she’s about to object -- Tatian’s seen her scars, the luxury of a shared bathhouse, knows how many lashes the army gives for insubordination. But Sigolène simply swallows and nods.

Her lashes come thick and fast, cracks like fireworks exploding behind Tatian’s eyes; there isn’t room for Julien to scream between them, visceral noises of pain tumbling over one another on their way out. Even without the crowd, Tatian counts: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Blood, running in rivulets down Julien’s back, damning, damning red. 

When she’s done, Julien is left gasping for breath once more. His hair, so carefully tucked away, has come loose, splashing down his back in a cascade. Matted with blood from his wounds. 

For a moment, Sigolène freezes just like Tatian. Stares at what she’s done in, the whip sliding from her hand as her chest heaves, rise-fall, rise-fall.

Then she runs. 

Tatian wishes he has the right to run; wishes he could be anywhere else, but his legs are still wooden, still rooted to the spot. All he can do is watch as Jelena picks up the whip again, tossing her Nyrish jacket aside. Beneath it, her scarred arms are taut with power.

As she draws back the whip again, Tatian realises his own breath is lurching in his chest. He can’t breathe, can’t even control his own body, and he feels himself teetering on the edge, feels the abyss calling to him. The itch curling through his body, unable to be chased away, even as he digs his fingers into his wrist, scratching, desperate.

He’s lost control. Of her, of everything, of Julien -- even of his future. It hinges on victory, and Jelena can tear that victory apart on a whim, if she thinks chaos would taste better.

Twenty. Julien chokes on his own scream; Tatian feels an agonising blossoming in his chest. Pity. Concern. 

Twenty one. The crowd are staring, all staring, beady button eyes and sun-browned skin and they’re human but they’re allowing this. He’s allowing this.

Twenty two. Panting, Jelena draws back again. Stop stop stop stop -- he can’t stop it, he isn’t in control, he can’t breathe -- 

Twenty three.

Twenty four.

One last time, the whip falls, a crack that snaps through the air, cleaving the crowd’s silence into murmurs of -- relief? Pity? All Tatian feels is dizzy and sick, eyes fixed on the stained-glass destruction of Julien’s back. Some of the welts are almost concealed by a blossoming of blood, more leaking from the wounds as his shoulders heave, struggling to suck in a breath that isn’t a scream or a cough. Wherever there isn’t blood, his back is slick with sweat, the salt inevitably dribbling into the cuts to create a cocktail of agony. 

But it’s over. Jelena bows for the crowd, brushing her own sweaty hair out of her eyes -- Tatian’s hit by the realisation that her sweat comes from the exertion, the clammy afternoon she picked to display her masterpiece.

His one consolation is that there’s no applause, only that frightened, fervent murmuring. Shame, that’s what it is. Shame they have no right to, because they asked for this, they fed the wolf. Yet he has no right to it either; he was the one to bring the wolf into his house, to offer it a place by the fire, to leash it.

Slinging her jacket over her shoulder, Jelena strides away, with all the satiation of triumph. Only -- she throws a glance back at Tatian, a smile filled with too-many, too-sharp teeth, sending a shiver twisting down his spine.

At least he’s no longer rooted to the spot; at least he can move, feel like he’s doing something as he rushes to Julien’s side. 

“Julien?” Kneeling, Tatian’s heart is in his mouth as he fumbles for his dagger, clumsily trying to saw through the rope that binds Julien to the tree. He casts a quick glance at the crowd, but they haven’t noticed. They’re too busy fleeing, flitting away like starlings, unable to face the destruction they’ve caused. Cowards. “Julien, look at me--”

And he does. Of course he does, because it’s an order, an opportunity to make Tatian happy. He looks up with those melting eyes, even as his breath hitches desperately, even as he sags against the tree.

“Did I--” Julien can barely get the words out without coughing, pain written all over his scraped face. Voice laden with pathetic hope. “Did I do well?”

Tatian’s stomach drops, thorny vines of affection tightening around his heart. He knows, but knowing and seeing are two different things, separated by this kind of visceral pity. 

No-one should be praised for what Julien just went through -- but Tatian doesn’t have the courage to withhold the words.

“Yes, you did,” he murmurs, almost reaching out to run his hand through Julien’s hair. Stopping short when he remembers Jelena. “You did, and it’s over now.” 

Slumping down even more, Julien finally slides off his knees with a gasp of relief, a hoarse thank you. 

There’s a soldier lurking nearby, practically squirming with discomfort; Tatian motions her over, knowing he doesn’t have the time or the luxury to comfort Julien anymore. 

“Get him back to our tent and give him some water,” he says, giving his words a deliberate edge. “And don’t break him any more. He’s a valuable asset.”

The soldier nods, slinging Julien’s arm over her shoulder and pulling him to his feet. As usual, he doesn’t put up a fight, only follows like a lamb wherever he’s led. 

Only once they’re gone does Tatian let himself glance down at his hands. They’re shaking, the itch raging beneath his skin, forcing him to claw at his arms. Now it hits him harder than ever, how much danger he’s in, the corner Jelena’s backed him into: if it wasn’t clear enough already, his fucking cowardice has proven how he can’t control her.

She can afford to let the wolf free now, knowing he has to keep feeding it. Probably betting on him not having the courage to punish her.

Lurching to his feet, Tatian begins walking back to the tent. Back to Camille -- but he hardly feels able to face him now, knowing Camille would’ve been able to stand it. Camille isn’t afraid of wolves, would’ve known how to properly muzzle Jelena.

The inevitable realisation stabs him all over again, a knife in the gut.

Jelena has to go.

[chipfics]

Rest Easy

crossposted from Ao3 Characters: Alyssa Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford About: Relationship fluff with some spicier implications/mentions. Set in a Trevelyan Siblings AU.

Summary: Alyssa has trouble sleeping- but she’s not the only one. 1700 words.

Sleep came scarcer and scarcer each night lately.

Alyssa's quarters in Skyhold were comfortable, spacious, well warmed by the fireplace. Much different from the drafty little cabin she had shared with her brother in Haven. Now he was in the quarters just below hers in the main tower, hopefully sleeping peacefully with no whispers from nightmares or worries of any kind. And hopefully no pains from the mark on his hand. She knew it still bothered him at times.

Alyssa herself had many little things to keep her mind in ill company now.

The Ostwick Circle had fallen suddenly, before the war between the mages and templars had fully begun. The rebellious there had staged a bloody uprising, and it had left Alyssa with little choice but to flee the place entirely or be singled out as one of the rebels by the templars who would not pause to ask any questions.

She had stayed with a Dalish clan after that, until word of the Conclave reached her and she chose to attend.

She had already developed sleep problems by the time she reunited with her brother there for the first time since leaving Ostwick. Most of the dreams that overtook her were full of the smell of the Circle burning, the noise of the fighting, the ache of her feet as she trekked further north to avoid getting her family caught up in the mess that was the spreading mage rebellion.

She still dreamed of that day even now. And now also of Haven burning, of Tristan facing Corypheus down alone and being lost in the blinding white of an avalanche, thought dead for days before a rear patrol found him exhausted and starved in the snow.

By some strange twist of luck she was now settled within the position of Inquisitor as well. So many people whose lives and faith depended on her. Every word she said could be twisted for good or ill now and the anxiety of the notion kept her awake as much as trying to avoid the nightmares.

And so tonight she found herself curled against the arm of a sofa in front of her fireplace, reading through a copy of Hard in Hightown and drinking tea that had long since cooled.

She knew the crime serial almost by heart now. It had been a favorite of hers for quite some time, and it was still an odd thought to realize she was now close friends with its author. Still, even as familiar as the words and imagery were they provided enough distraction to keep her calm. And failing that, she could always dress herself again and take a brisk walk. There were night patrols and it wouldn't be unsafe as long as she stayed within the fortress walls.

She was in fact beginning to consider doing just that when she heard the knock. A few quick, hard raps that didn't match the knock of the runner that usually interrupted her sleep with urgent business of some sort.

Alyssa paused, at first not sure she had really heard it. Several seconds passed, and she heard it again. Real, then. She marked her place and stood, smoothing out her shift and reaching for her nightrobe. She pulled it on and tied the belt then padded across the floor and to the door. She hesitated only a moment before opening it just a crack. Whoever it was, they needed her for something to be there at nearly two in the morning.

It wasn't a runner standing in the darkness of the hallway like she expected.

It was a man, tall and strong, wavy blonde hair mussed and hanging into his face. A five o' clock shadow was on his chin that she would know anywhere.

“Cullen?” She asked incredulously, and opened the door the rest of the way to get a better look.

His hair wasn't combed back the way she was accustomed to seeing, and it gave him a very different air. Disheveled, almost, but still very attractive.

“I'm sorry,” He said quietly by way of greeting, “I know it's late.”

“I wasn't asleep,” Alyssa informed him, “it's all right. Do you need something? Is anything wrong?”

She reached a hand out to grasp one of his. Bare, knuckles scarred and nails cut short. Now that she looked closer he was wearing his nightclothes without so much as a robe or jacket to keep warm on his walk from his own quarters. Alyssa frowned.

They were in a relationship- she had no qualms about him being here, even if it wasn't something he had ventured to do before. Cullen was shy in some ways, and very proper most of the time.

...Very improper other times, she recalled, but pushed the thought of his desk under her back from her mind. This wasn't the time.

“I,” Cullen hesitated, “It's not...I mean, there's no work you're needed for.”

He brushed his hair back out of his face. It fell back into place. Alyssa had a brief thought that she wanted to run her fingers through it.

“I couldn't sleep,” Cullen finally said, “And I...started walking, and somehow I ended up here.”

Alyssa pulled him forward. He offered no resistance and she tugged him through the doorway and into her quarters, into the warmer air. She closed the door behind them.

“It's frigid tonight,” She reprimanded softly, “You should have at least put on your boots.”

Cullen responded by drawing her into his arms and bending to bury his nose in her hair, made a brighter orange than normal from the light of the fire. There was the sound of him inhaling deeply and letting out a long sigh.

“You smell nice,” Cullen murmured. Alyssa pulled away and bounced onto her toes, kissing his chin.

“I took a bath after returning from the Graves this evening.” She said, “Come sit down, Cullen.”

She led him to the sofa, where they both sat down. Her book sat forgotten already on the coffee table and Cullen fiddled with his hands, stared absently at the fire.

“Bad dreams again?” asked the Inquisitor. Cullen nodded dumbly.

“I...” He looked up, “You said you weren't asleep? After riding all day yesterday?”

Concern shaded his features and Alyssa squeezed his hands with her own. The smile she gave him was weary.

“I have bad dreams of my own,” She said, “About Ostwick, about Haven...Sometimes it's easier to just do without sleep than...”

“I see,” Cullen said. He laced their fingers. “I am sorry.”

“It's all right,” Alyssa said, “I feel better with you here anyway. Seeing your face always heals me.”

The kiss he gave her in response was warm, tender. It fell more on the corner of her mouth the first time, so he leaned in again after. She smiled, pressed back, and once they had parted again she picked up her book.

“You can read with me, if you want,” She offered.

“A bedtime story?” Cullen's voice was tired but tinted with humor, “Aren't I a bit old for that?”

“I guess you don't want me to do the voices then, do you?” Alyssa quipped back easily. Cullen laughed.

“Lie back,” Alyssa said. Cullen listened, propped himself against the arm of the sofa with a throw pillow. Alyssa leaned back against him and opened the book.

“I'll start from the beginning,” She said.

The next half hour passed calmly. Alyssa read just loud enough for Cullen to hear and he let his hands wander a little, pressed kisses to the side of her neck every so often. His body was chilly to lie against at first, but he warmed up to the temperature of the room quickly enough and soon his hands ceased their aimless journey and settled around Alyssa's waist.

When his breathing started to slow, she closed the book. “Sleepy?” She asked.

“Hmm,” Cullen replied, “Your voice has a soothing effect.”

The book found a place on the coffee table again and Alyssa turned over onto her stomach. She left a trail of light pecks along Cullen's jawline and moved her hands to sift through his hair. It was as soft as it looked, she decided. And she was starting to feel the need to close her eyes as well.

“We can stay here,” She said quietly, “Or sleep in the bed.”

“You want me to spend the night?” Cullen asked groggily, “People will talk.”

“I mean, you're already here.” Alyssa replied, “People already talk. And I don't think you get to talk to me about what's scandalous after taking me against your desk.”

Cullen's eyes snapped open and his face flushed. “That was-” He sputtered, “Listen, you seemed to enjoy it quite well, so-”

Laughter bubbled out of her and Alyssa kissed him silent. “I was teasing you, love.”

Cullen sighed. “The bed,” He said after another moment, then added, “So I can get you out of those clothes later if I have a mind to.”

“Going to work on memorizing all my freckles, I suppose.” Alyssa kissed his nose and stood, happily considering the prospect of Cullen's hands all over her again. Rough, strong, warm hands.

For now though, it could wait. She shed her robe and nestled against Cullen snugly in her bed, hummed old lullabies as he curled his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Soft songs from her childhood, which had the commander snoring softly in only minutes. Alyssa was not far behind him.

The nightmares were not so bad that night. Fewer, less violent. She drifted in and out but after each waking she felt Cullen next to her, resituated closer to him if necessary, and found rest again in moments.

At one point just after dawn she awoke to find him half leaning over her, eyes boring into her face. The fire had died down and the light from the tall windows cast a pale gray about the room. It framed Cullen in a cool, wintry sort of glow. Alyssa smiled blearily at him.

“We'll have to get up soon,” She murmured sleepily.

“We can sleep in an hour,” Cullen replied just as soft. “But I haven't rested so well in years, I'll have you know.”

“Me either,” Alyssa said.

“Perhaps I should stay up here more often?” Cullen bent to kiss her. She lifted a hand to card through his hair, hummed.

“Just stay every night,” She murmured against his lips. He hummed wordlessly in response and kissed her neck.

The day would have to start eventually, but they had time to sleep or fool around a little as they pleased. And Alyssa felt rested in a way she hadn't felt for months now.

[doyoungbunnyagenda]

Crown Of Thorns; Bed Of Roses - k.dy: Chapter 1

 <- [preivous] |

Summary • Alcohol and late-night rendezvous were the only things keeping the young princess Y/N stable. Doyoung was an actor finding his relief his in cigarettes and dark streets. Ever since meeting one night, they both have spent their time picking up each other’s pieces and building each other from the ground up. When Y/N thinks her life is back on track, her childhood demons come back to bite her, however this time they have a proposal. That had to do with her father, herself and a shotgun... When Doyoung tries to rescue her from her demons, he puts himself in equally as much danger.

Pairing • actor!doyoung x modernprincess!reader

Genre • drama with a whole lot a angst and small traces of fluff. royalty!au

Word count • 3k

Warnings • underaged drinking(depends on where u live), drug usage, swearing, mentions of death, mentions of corrupt governments, arranged marriage, dialogue-heavy

Songs to listen to • War Crimes, Watch What Happens Next, I Felt Younger When We Met all by Waterparks I’m a big parxs fan okay, don’t judge

A/N • @original-jomi , @elite-puppy-seungminnie So this is what I’ve been doing for the whole Christmas break. This was so much fun to write. And as this is written by me, there is barely any fluff (like four lines in total). Well nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!!!

Winter 2017

“You think you can control me like I’m some doll of yours, where you play dress up and chuck them with whatever man you think best, I’m an adult for Christ’s sake.” She shouted at your father lounging on the expensive couch like he owns the entire country which he did.

“Come on, princess it’s only an arranged marriage, nothing out of the ordinary.”

She let out a scoff at the sound of his words.

“So do you even care about me as a person? Are you even putting my happiness into consideration, or do you see me as a business transaction, a peace treaty?” She questioned starting to get to her wit's end with her Dad’s attitude.

“No the point is you fall in love during the marriage, have you seen the Jung family? I remember going to that wedding and they were arranged.” Her protests fell silent.

“If you need more examples, me and your mother we‘re arranged, look where it left us.” The King proclaimed.

“With my mother dead and with a father who only cares about his own safety and nothing else.” She gave her father an ice-cold glare as he remained stunned on the couch. Before he could open his mouth too, argue back, She spoke,

“I don’t care about what you think anymore, I’m not marrying any man you decide to put with me and that’s final, not that you’ll listen anyway.” You cut him off while storming out of one of the many royal places situated, in the middle of the capital.

In her hand, she made sure she had her black face mask and her designer beanie that she received as a gift from one of her friends. Quickly, you darted out of the house, ignoring her father’s angry desperate pleas for her to listen to him, getting quieter and quieter the further she ran. She fixed her mask on her face and went down the back passageway behind the mansion. If anyone went through the front way, they definitely would’ve been caught by security. The builders were stupid enough not to build a security system at the back of the mansion. Breaking in was a piece of cake, all it took was a jump and they were in. The girl leapt over the hedge and made it out of the courtyard, her feet landing on the pavement with a thud. No one could tell who she was and it felt good for once.

Strolling the midnight streets of her country, she turned around the block of some random fast food place. The silence of the city was something she craved. The world around her felt too loud, so she treasured the time she got alone to herself. She just wished Her dad could understand from her perspective. Her point of view. Not his own twisted perspective. 

Hers.

 It was her life he was handing over not his own. Ever since the princess was born your dad traded around her like poker chips. Anything and everything that would improve public opinion about him and his family was on the table. 

Signing her up for any elite activity he could think of. Horse riding, she started at the age of seven. Archery, she had already won several gold medals in national tournaments. By the age of 13, she was already a world-renowned child ballet dancer. On top of all of that, she had to get extremely high grades, it didn’t matter if she couldn’t, she had too. It wasn’t like the king was doing it to better his daughter's future. He only cared about his image and how he can make his family look like a trophy family when it was far from the truth. Totally forgetting that the country still hasn’t forgotten about the ‘indecent” 13 years ago.

Nights like this were nights where she enjoyed getting drunk off her head. It was always fun to drink your problems away. Wandering into the liquor store, she always visits because they didn’t ask for ID. She swore they knew she was underage. As she once walked in with her ‘friends’ from private school one Saturday night many moons ago, buying out the whole store's stock luxury red wine. From one of the shelves, her hand grasped a bottle of hard liquor, shaking slightly as she grabbed it. You went up to the cashier and slammed a tenner on the counter, then left, leaving them very confused and alone in the shop once again. Her mask was now resting on her chin. She popped open the bottle and lifted the top of its neck to her chapped lips. The burn that ran down her throat felt electric, giving her body an instant buzz. She continued to wander down this lonely road, occasionally taking swigs from the drink. She knew it was irresponsible to go out at this time of night and get so drunk she couldn't stand up straight, but it was a means of escaping her reality. And trust me she would take any chance she got.

“Stupid father” The girl mumbled as she ambled and staggered down the streets. The bottle of liquor was long discarded on some random roadside and her mask was perched on her face. She somehow made her way to the shadiest part and poorest part of town. The level of unemployment was so high in this area that many people had resorted to other (less legal) means to keep themselves alive. She honestly didn’t blame them, when the rich were using all their tax money to live a lavish lifestyle, they were in the corners starving, outcasted by their government. The only thing they should be expected to do is rebel. She mumbled another curse word before stumbling into an alleyway collapsing on the floor. She was tired. She had been awake since 6 am in the morning. She swore her dad barely understood the basic concept of sleep. Her head banged against the flimsy garage opening behind her. The princess let out a curse at the sudden pain surging through her head accompanied by a pulsing migraine.

“Problem?” A low voice from above her spoke, his tone laced in darkness. her eyes remained plastered onto the floor, too shy to look up at the person above her. 

“A shy one, I see.” The person said to themselves, they sighed deeply again at her persistent silence and spoke once again,” Not replying when you’re spoken too, is quite impolite, with the clothes you’re wearing I’d expect more of your upbringing.” The person rudely remarked.

“Excuse me, who are you to say that?” She said, with a look of offence evident in her eyes. 

Abandoning her shyness, she got the courage to look at the person who dares to insult her. If only they knew who she was. When she looked up everything she was planning to say got caught in her throat. To only be replaced by a gasp. Their presence was intimidating, to say the least. A male from what you could tell. His shoulders were broad and his eyes a piercing shade of dark brown. If it wasn’t for the moonlight, she could have sworn his eyes were as black as the world around him. Tuffs of raven hair could be seen slightly poking outside of his midnight stained hat. If she didn’t look close enough, he could be mistaken for invisible. A cigarette was held in his nimble fingers and he brought out a lighter from his back pocket. He held it to his lips and lit a spark on the end. After he took his hit, the man looked back at the girl before him.

“You realise staring is also quite rude?” The man sighed sarcastically. She remained silent. “I expected a rich girl like you to know better. Do you know how many people I know who would love to wear that coat or hat of yours.”

She scoffed,” What right do you have to say that. Have you seen yourself? Your hat, no normal person could afford that here. Who’s a credit card is that coming from hmm?” She drunkenly slurred.

The man sighed at your state and chucked lightly.” I’m self-made man, no trust fund, no inheritance, nothing of that sort. I worked my life from the ground up and see where I am now.”

“Smoking a blunt alone in the most dangerous part of town? That definitely sounds like The Life to me.” She said.

“That’s right buttercup, I’m living the life aren’t I?.” He laughed and looked into your eyes. A warm feeling crept up in her chest and a small smile that he could not see graced her features.

“But what do you mean alone, I’m talking to you right? Or has the spice gotten to me and I’m just talking to a ghost.” He joked.

“That latter obviously.” She rolled her eyes and laughed along with her.

“I like your sense of humour, what’s your name?”

Her eyes went wide. If there was one thing he couldn’t know it was her name, it was too risky, her family’s perfect image would be cut in half and plunged into disrepair.

“No can do, it’s a secret.” She teased and playfully put her finger up to her mask. “What about you?” She questioned

“That’s a secret too, I’m afraid.” The man said while mimicking your action.

After laughing at their childishness for a couple of minutes. A comfortable silence filled the air. She observed the slight rise and fall in his chest as he took a couple more hits of the drug and discarded it on the ground and stomped out the tiny flame with his foot. She would blame it on her drunken self, but he reminded her of a prince. A prince you would find in a somewhat twisted modern fairy tale. With all his money he practically could be classified as one. He had a dominative aura which she couldn’t help but challenge. The man could obviously take a joke which was a welcomed change to what she was had known and gotten used to for the whole of her life. For once the girl felt comfortable. Unrestricted. At peace with her thoughts and it wasn’t the alcohol, it was because of him.

“I wish I could be you, you seem so carefree, I want your life.” She said, out of the blue.

“I’m not, trust me, it’s just because of the drugs, I’m not like this, I’m not the person your seeing now.”

“I don’t believe that.” She said her words breathy.”I believe this is your true self when drugs and alcohol get involved, there’s no hiding from yourself. The mistakes you make when your drunk and high aren’t mistakes, they’re not late-night regrets-“

The man interrupted her drunk ramblings and said,” So if me finding myself in the bed of my best friend’s roommate isn’t a mistake, then what was it?”

“It was what you wanted to do, ignoring all the consequences of the morning. When you're under the influence, your common sense is replaced by pure desire. You don't think and that's good, right? It's hard to think with a raging headache."

He sighed,” No that’s not it and I know from experience, your deepest desires aren’t always the best for you and the people around you. The life you are describing is the life you want to get away from..."

“Am I mad for wanting to kiss you right now?” She said unexpectedly, causing a slight gasp to escape from the man next to her.

“Yes, you’re crazy.”

“I would like to I think I’m perfectly sane.”

A blush crept on to the apples of his cheeks for the first time that night. His following words were stuttered. He was flustered.

“Your mother and father must have really gone wrong to create a child like you.”

“Just father here.” You replied 

“What about your mother?”

“Dead.”

“How long?”

“13 years...” she paused before taking a deep breath and continuing. “13 years dead, 13 years of hell for me. I swear ever since she died a switch was flipped in my father. Never known why.” She sighed looking down at the gravel floor.

“13 years ago, I was a runaway. Home was never the safest place, it was for the best. I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t even go looking for me.”

“Seems the both of us have had shitty up upbringings. I guess that makes us equal"

“Well then, about that kiss...” the man trailed off-topic.

“What about it?” You laughed slightly.

“I can’t kiss someone whose name I don’t know.”

The cheesy grin plastered under her mask was embarrassing. She pretended to think about it, but her answer was already set the minute he finished his sentence.

“Well in that case I guess-“

She felt a buzz in the back pocket of her black jeans and went silent.

“Oh, shit-“ She blurted out surprised that someone would call her at this hour. She checked her phone and saw it was her cousin Youngho. She rolled her eyes at the thought of her dad calling Youngho to sort her out, being too lazy to do it himself. She opted to answer the call and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Y/N, Where the fuck are you!?” He shouted from the other end of the line. She winced at the loud noise before continuing.”

“Somewhere, I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders and saw the man next to her stifle a giggle.

“You’re so stupid, it’s 4:29 am and you don’t know where you are? I'm so done with you. I’m tired of being woken up at 4 am with your father screeching at me to go pick you up.”

You heard your cousin sigh tiredly.

“Well it not my fault he doesn’t have my number, he could care less about where I am.” She argued back.

“Shut up and tell me where you are,” Youngho said defeatedly.

“You know where the 603’s last stop is, I’m near there.” She finally remembered.

“The most dangerous part of town, I see. Whatever I’m coming to pick you up hang on in there.” He said before hanging up.

“Your dad doesn’t have your number even my father was better than that.” The man next to you commented at your conversation.

“Does it look like my dad even gives two shits? He hasn’t bothered to get my new number after I changed my phone a year ago.”

“You don’t deserve that no one does.” He sympathised with her.

“Now you know why I run away. But it’s almost 5 am and I haven’t slept in 24 hours and I don’t fancy passing out on the streets so I think it’s time for me to leave.”

“Fair enough, see you never...” He paused as if he was waiting for her to say something.

“Y/N.” She said firmly 

“Doyoung.” He stated as she walked away from him, leaving him to wallow in his own thoughts and feelings.

She stumbled to the bus stop where she said she’ll meet Youngho. Her head rested against the metal pole and she sighed. A sigh full of contentment. Remembering what happened moments earlier, her heart warmed her chest and started to beat faster than had ever been. She felt lightheaded. Duplicates of what was in front of her kept appearing in her vision. Like some weird fever dream. Her eyes were about to flutter shut, bringing her into a dream-filled sleep but she was brought back to reality by a low but loud car horn ringing in her ears.

“Get in,” Youngho said, his tone clear and flat. Her cousin turned down the tinted windows of his Mercedes Benz and looked into her eyes with no emotion what so ever. She tried to search for his the usual bright look in his eyes, normally twinkling constantly rain or shine. But all she found was black. Pits of charcoal staring into her own. Because of her wasted state, the only way she could respond was with a laugh. Youngho continued to look unimpressed.

He pushed out the door of the car, for the girl to stumble in and hit her head on the headrest. Even though he found his cousin’s fumbling and slurring funny at times, he needed to keep a straight face.

“For fuck's sake Y/N, you’re so wasted that you can’t even get your seat belt on, here let me help.” Youngho sighed. He draped the seat belt over her half-asleep body and clicked it into the latch. He sat back in his seat and ran a hand through his brown locks. She looked up at him and noticed defined black circles under his eyes. He looked about as tired as she was. He yawned before speaking again.

“I’m tired of acting like your babysitter Y/N. Why can’t you just grow up and stop stupid stunts like this?” Youngho pleaded, tiredness laced in his voice.

“If you don’t want to feel like my babysitter, then stop acting like my dad, you’re my cousin. The three years between us doesn’t mean that much.” She protested weakly.

“Someone has to care about you, Y/N. Your dad is obviously doing a terrible job so that just leaves me, your amazing older cousin.” He chuckled hoping to loosen the atmosphere. It obviously worked as she started to smile again.

“What would I do without you?” She giggled

“Crash, burn and die,” Youngho said before placing his hands on the wheel.

“Just make sure not do this again,” He followed up,” We’re going to my place, by the way, it’s closer. Your dad was like a feral dog to me over the phone. Y’know there are much better ways of getting back at him.”

“Like what?” She questioned eyes half-open and mouth agape leaning her head against the window.

Instead of an answer, you were greeted with nothing but the sound fresh raindrops beating the window from outside and the sound of Youngho hitting the gas pedal and speeding off, into the night.

In due time, the young princess fell into a deep slumber, filled with cigarette dreams, expensive wines, cherry red lips, everlasting nights and a man named Doyoung.

[something-tofightfor]

Forget It

Pairing: Sam Adams x Reader

Word Count: 3790

Rating: NSFW 

* Continuation of “Remind Me”, which can be found on my Masterlist under the “July Drabbles” section *

Author’s Note: This got real smutty real fast... and it’s all for @its-my-little-dumpster-fire, who supports me CONSTANTLY in every way possible... this is a little payback. You’re the best. 

Tagging:

@banditthewriter @breanime @obscurilicious @madamrogersstorytelling @suchatinyinfinity @chibiyanai @songtoyou @ethereal-heavcns @editboutique @marauderskeeper @drinix @ilkaeliseb @delicatelilyflower @king4thesirens  @blah-blah-fuckit-shit @ymariejp @mr-robot-x @rageshots @shinebrightlikeafanbase @littlemermaidprobz @zaffrenotes @introvertedlibrary @writing-for-a-chance @yesixoxo @ilikebeachessushiandsmallanimals @likeorions @swiftyhowlz @dylanobrusso @luminex3 @malik-payne @lexxierave @lynne1993 @elanor-of-imladris @bucky-is-my-precious @traeumerinwitzhelden @mfackenthal @weallhaveadestiny @ladyblablabla @sweetybuzz25 @dreamwritesimagines @thesumofmychoices @audreychaz @tc-elliot @dreams-with-thoughts @kind-wolf @gollyderek @honeyydippaa @thesandbeneathmytoes @geeksareunique @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @benbarnestongue @the-blind-assassin-12 @binbonsadoration @ificouldhelpyouforget @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes

“It feels so good to lay here with you, why are you trying to get up?” He spoke quietly, hand settled on your shoulder, his long, rough fingers curled against your skin. “Stay.” Though you knew there were things to be tended to, the plea in his voice kept you in place, a deep breath drawn before allowing it to escape. Fine. 

 “Sam.” You sighed, rolling onto your back and pulling the blanket up to cover your bare chest in one smooth movement, head turning to look at your husband. He had his left arm folded beneath his own head, cheek pressed against the bare skin near his elbow, and a smile on his face as he eyed you intently, cheeks still flushed. “Sam we have so many things to -”

 “They can wait.” You watched as his tongue poked out of his mouth, the hand that had been on your shoulder rising up to cup your cheek. “All of them. I want to lay with my wife.” He raised an eyebrow as you leaned into his touch, lips curving into a smile. I can’t deny him, I never could. “I’m sure you have so many things to tell me about what I’ve missed.” You agreed that you did, shifting closer to him and tucking your head beneath his chin, forehead pressed against his neck as his hold on you tightened. “You can start by telling me why you’ve allowed that beast to sleep in here with you.” 

 Giggling, you closed your eyes, one of your arms making its way around his waist. “Rogue kept me company, Sam. He barked so often when he was sleeping downstairs that I got almost no sleep, so…” You kissed his chest, inhaling. “So he came up here with me, and we both slept much better.” Though Sam had brought you the dog in the first place, you’d learned very quickly that your husband was a jealous man,  that your diverted attention - even to a dog - was enough to sour his mood at times. “But now that you’re home, I’ll have no problems sleeping, with or without him upstairs.” 

 “No,” he replied, lips finding the top of your head. “You won’t. I’ll see to it that you can’t even get the housework done because you’re so thoroughly tired.” His words were playful but the tone he used was full of promise, and you knew that he could make good on what he was saying - before he’d left for his last trip, Sam had shown you exactly how much he cared about you, and how much he’d miss you, leaving you exhausted for nearly a week. 

 Though he’d had a reputation before you’d met him, when he began courting you, Samuel Adams had worked hard to prove that though he was many things, unfaithful was not one of them. You’d caught his eye as he walked from his small home toward the tavern, and that had been enough. A shameless flirt (especially with you), it had taken only a week for you to agree to walk with him through the streets of Boston in the daylight hours, your maid following close behind, and another month or so for Sam to convince your father that though people thought the worst of him, his intentions with you were pure - as they were for the Colonies. 

 With your father convinced (and quite interested) at the prospect of Sam and the other rebels succeeding and therefore securing themselves higher positions within society, Sam was permitted into your home, where you spent countless hours during both the day and early evening learning about each other. You’d fallen in love with him quickly, and although no one but the two of you knew they’d happened, the times when he’d snuck onto the property while you were walking the grounds or pulled you into the shadows between or behind the buildings in the city were what had solidified your desire to marry him, even as things escalated around you in Boston and Sam’s activities became more dangerous. There was more to Sam Adams than met the eye, and you were lucky enough to know that not all of him was focused on the fight against the British, that he had a heart beneath the lapels of his jacket as well. 

 “Sam.” You wet your lips with your tongue, sighing. “I am starving. And you must be hungry as well, after traveling for such a long -” He cut you off with a kiss, lips molding to yours as he rolled closer to you, the weight of his body pressing you back into the mattress as it had only half an hour previously. “Samuel Adams, you are -”

 “Happy to see my wife again after months apart?”He murmured the words as he kissed you gently, lips trailing down across your chin and jaw, to your throat. “Can you blame me? You seemed more than eager to pull me into this bed, and…” He kissed you again, shrugging as he rubbed his cheek against yours. “I’ll always be happy to see you.” He sighed, one had sliding down your arm and stopping at your wrist, which he squeezed gently. “But you’re right, I am hungry, and we’ll both need to eat if we’re going to celebrate my homecoming as I plan to.” His eyes were bright as he stared down at you, lips shaped into the barest of smiles - the smirk, actually, that you loved so much on him. 

 “And how is that, Mr. Adams?” Your own hand rose, pushing his hair away from his face, fingertips lingering on the scar next to his eye. “How do you propose that we celebrate? My family would love to see you, they -”

 “Naked. In this bed.” He spoke plainly, tone honest. “That’s how I intend to spend at least the rest of today.” He paused, raising one eyebrow and turning his head to kiss the inside of your wrist, lips lingering on your skin. “And also perhaps some of tomorrow.” He closed his fingers around your forearm, moving your hand away from his face. “But first, you can make me dinner.” You laughed, nodding. “And… maybe I’ll take a bath while you do that, we can catch up…” He licked his lips, cheeks going round as he grinned. “That sound good to you?” You nodded, feeling yourself smile as well as Sam shifted off of you, sitting up in the bed. 

 “It’ll take some time to get the water ready, Sam.” You sat up too, swinging your legs over the opposite side of the bed, pulling your shift back on before you stood. “I’ll go put that on to heat while you get the tub.”

 --- 

 The process of filling the tub enough for Sam to soak had taken some time, with you putting the kettle over the fire to boil while the two of you took turns bringing in pails full of water from the pump in the yard to supplement the hot water you’d later add, but after nearly a half an hour, the water was steaming, waiting for your husband to climb in. You started to prepare dinner while you waited for the water, Rogue following you around the kitchen dutifully as Sam sat at the table, chin in his hand. “He’s truly grown to love you.” Though there was a note of disapproval in his voice as he spoke, Sam also seemed happy. “I’m thankful he’s here to protect you.” You reached down, scratching the dog between his ears and smiled. 

 “I am too.” Pulling the final bucket away from the flames and dumping it into the tub, you looked at your husband. “He’s no substitute for you, of course, but…” You grinned. “Get in, Samuel, I’ve got to finish cooking.” Unashamed, Sam stood, locking eyes with you as he pulled his shirt over his head, draping it over the chair he’d been sitting in before reaching down to unbutton the breeches he’d pulled on, letting them fall to the floor. You’d just seen him naked a few minutes earlier, but your breath still caught at the sight of your husband’s body - long and lean - in the light streaming in through the window. “I missed you, Sam.” He winked at you before lifting one of his legs and climbing into the tub, sinking down into the water with a sigh. 

 For the next fifteen minutes, Sam leaned back against one end of the tub, most of his body concealed beneath the water as he soaked and scrubbed at his skin. You kept up a steady stream of conversation with him as you chopped carrots and cut up potatoes to boil with salted pieces of ham. “I baked bread yesterday, too, so -”

 “Whatever you make, it will be perfect.” His voice was quiet, and you looked over your shoulder from the kitchen counter at your husband, hair slicked back and eyes on you. “I wish that this was all over.” He sighed, shaking his head. “We still have a long way to go until we have peace, but… we’ve made so much progress, and it’s all going to be for something, but the cost is…” He shook his head. “I hate being away from Boston, away from you.” Oh, Sam. Your husband’s emotions often were on display - that was just how he was, unwilling to hide his feelings, unwilling to sit back and let others act on his behalf, but to hear him say something so honest about you? 

 “Sam, it’s… I knew what this meant when we married, I knew that you’d be gone often.” You stirred the pot once more, putting a lid on it and setting the spoon down on the countertop before you walked over to where the back door was, opening it to let Rogue outside. That done, you turned and moved to where the tub was, pulling a chair next to it. As you settled down into it, you pushed the sleeves of your shift up, over your elbows and reached over, running your hands through his hair. “Think of what happens when this is all over, when people look back at you and your friends.” He nodded slowly, eyes focused on you, expression serious. “I’m here. I will be here. I don’t care how long you’re gone, or where you have to go, this is our home, and I am your wife.” You leaned in, kissing him beneath his eye. “You’re capable of so much good, Samuel Adams, it would be a shame for you to stay here and just be a husband to me - and I don’t want that for you.” 

 “I should have met you sooner,” he sighed, eyes closing. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have wasted so many years of my life to alcohol and being a burden to John.” 

 “Sam, stop.” You leaned down, scooping up some of the water and bringing it to his head, dampening his hair further as you worked your fingers through it. “You lost Elizabeth, and it wasn’t easy for you. No one faults you for your behavior.” Not now, anyway. Your hands continued moving, rubbing a small piece of soap over Sam’s hair, watching it lather. “You’ve grown up, Sam. I watched it, my family watched it, your family watched it, the people of Boston watched it… and without you, we’d still be…” You shook your head, hands near the nape of his neck as you continued to wash his hair for him, nails scratching against his scalp and causing him to groan softly under your touch. “Sit up, Sam. Tilt your head back.” He did as you asked, patiently waiting as you reached for the small bowl next to the bathtub, filling it with water and pouring it slowly over his head. You worked the soap from his hair, ensuring that you removed it all before nodding one at him. “There. All clean.” 

 “There are other parts of me that could use your touch as well.” His voice low, Sam’s gaze burned into you, wet fingers reaching out for your face as he tugged you toward him for a kiss. “It’s been a while since I’ve thoroughly bathed.” 

 “What, like your back?” You teased him, reaching for a scrap of cloth and another small piece of soap, wetting the material before beginning to work on the smooth skin of his shoulders which was directly in front of you. “I can understand that, even with those long arms of yours.” He laughed quietly, allowing you to clean him, fingers running over the taut muscles as you soaped him up and then rinsed him off, using the same bowl. “You’re going to smell better than me, Samuel.” He laughed again, trailing off into a contented sigh as you worked on one side of his ribs and then the other, careful not to tickle him. You knew what you were doing - knew exactly where the bath was going to go, and didn’t want to risk ruining the mood by causing him to kick, toes slamming into the side of the tub. 

 “I’ll be more than happy to return the favor for you,” he replied as he lifted one arm, allowing you to work the cloth all the way up beneath his arm, humming quietly to yourself as you did so. “I believe I know your body better than my own and I know what needs the most attention.” You shivered at his words, glancing up to see the look on his face and then quickly looked away, moving to the other side of the tub, repeating the movement for his other arm. Yes, you do. You were married, allowed to feel the way that he made you feel, in absolute awe of the things that he could do to you with only a few words or a look, but it still shocked you that despite knowing him for years and being married, the feelings hadn’t changed. 

 “Stop it, Sam.” You shook your head, cheeks blazing as you dipped the cloth back into the water, eyes on his chest. Kneeling on the floor next to him so that you had better access to the front of his body, you took a deep breath. Without warning, his hand moved from the edge of the tub, arm crossing over his body and his fingers closing around your chin, lifting your face to look at him fully. 

 “No.” He shook his head, a serious look on his face. “I won’t.” You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together, but you nodded at him, feeling your chest expand. In a split second, you decided to continue the game you were playing with him, using your left hand to rub the soap against his chest, moving it in small circles through the dark hair present there before moving lower, broadening the strokes of the perfumed chunk. You followed this with the dampened cloth in your right hand, pressing down against his skin - giving him what he asked for without speaking. You said thorough. He was silent as you cleaned his skin, focused on your task, but as you worked lower, he shifted in the tub, his right hand moving away from the lip of it and settling between your shoulders - not holding you tightly, but still letting you know it was there. 

 His arousal was visible through the slightly tinted water and you felt yourself smile at the sight - Sam was insatiable when it came to you, and though it was slightly improper, you were glad that your teasing hadn’t been for nothing. Your hand reached the water line, where the trail of dark hair on his lower abdomen began and though the soap was still between your fingers, neither of you were focused on the bath anymore. The cloth dropped from your hand with a soft splash into the water, and you finally let go of the soap as you extended your fingers, flattening them against his stomach and watching as they too dipped beneath the water. He said your name, under his breath but you didn’t pay attention, closing your fingers around him and feeling his grip against your back tighten. 

 The soapy water allowed your hand to move against him comfortably and easily, and you felt your own lips part as you touched him, breaths shortening as he stiffened further in your hand. Sam’s legs shifted to brace himself as he moved his hand upward, fingers tangling in your hair, which was pulled into a loose tail and hanging over your shoulder. You glanced up at him, looking through your lashes and found your husband staring at you through hooded eyes, tongue poking out from between his lips. “I’ve missed this.” He spoke hoarsely, shaking his head back and forth. “Your touch, your…” He groaned as you squeezed, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “You’ve never…” He panted your name out again, and you watched him, feeling a heat building up in your own belly. “Never in the water, not like this.” He could barely get the words out, and as you shifted, leaning further over the tub to kiss him, you twisted your wrist, catching him off guard. 

 Sam’s grip on the back of your head changed immediately, holding you to him tightly and even as you continued to move your hand up and down, he kissed you hard, tongue moving against yours in a way that would have scandalized you only a few years previously. “Sam…” You said his name once when you broke apart for breath, pressing your forehead against his and feeling his damp hair against your skin. “Oh, Sam.” He nodded, and you heard the edge of the tub creak as he gripped it tightly with his free hand. Your own right hand was working tirelessly on him, the cuff of your sleeve damp from skimming the surface of the water as your arm moved, and you glanced down, noticing that the end of him was peeking up above the edge of the water, droplets of moisture - from him or the bathwater, you couldn’t tell - collected on his smooth skin. 

 “I’m almost… please…” His voice cut into your thoughts and you snapped your eyes back upward, finding his wide open and staring at you intently. “Please don’t stop, keep…” He hissed, the next word leaving his lips a quiet “damn”, and you giggled, despite yourself as he continued to speak. You imagined what his friends and colleagues would say if they saw him like this- at your mercy, pleading for you to please him in one breath and praising you for your skill in the next. “Just you wait,” he whispered, lips pressing against yours roughly, a shake of his head causing his hair to fall forward and dampen the skin of your face. “Wait until we’re back upstairs.” He was panting, muscles rigid and you nodded slowly, knowing that he was close, that it would only take a few more moments. 

 “You belong in my hand, Samuel Adams,” you half whispered the words, lips next to his ear, fingers moving over the tip of him. “And in our bed, and in me.” He cried out, fingers digging into your back and you felt him shudder in your grip, hearing him let out a breath as he relaxed into the water, a warmth coating the inside of your palm and fingers - and, as you looked down and saw, his stomach as well. “Welcome home, Mr. Adams.” You leaned forward, kissing him gently on the lips before removing your hand from him and reaching into the water with the other one for the cloth, using it to wipe at his stomach, cleaning him before using it to do the same to your own hand. Discarding it onto the floor, you pushed his hair away from his face before standing, wiping both damp hands on your shift. “The water’s getting cold. You should dry off and get dressed… dinner should be ready soon.” 

 He looked up at you, still catching his breath and offered you a smile before standing too, putting his hands on your waist and lowering his head. You felt the wetness beneath his palms soaking through the material of your dress, but didn’t care as he kissed you again - this one tender and full of appreciation. “I do belong with you,” he said quietly as he moved his head away from yours and pulled you closer to him, the tub giving him some (unnecessary) added height. “And I’m never going to let you forget it.” Despite the fact that he was wet, you didn’t pull away, letting him wrap his arms around you as you turned your head to lay your cheek against his bare chest. He held you close for nearly a minute, both of you silent, and then said your name again, causing you to straighten up. Sam’s hands moved away from your torso, coming up to your jaw and he held your face between them, staring down at you. “I love you.” 

 You nodded, unable to speak for a moment as he repeated the words, a grin breaking across his face. “And I love you.” You squared your shoulders, blinking slowly. “Which is why we need to eat before we continue this.” He laughed as you turned, reaching for the clean blanket that you’d gotten ready for him to dry off with. When Sam took it from your hand, you walked purposefully over to the stove, using another scrap of cloth to remove the lid from the pot, stirring it thoroughly. Just about done. You added another few ladles full of water to the contents, inhaling as you willed your own heartbeat to slow. Though you knew Sam would take care of you later, you weren’t used to being left wanting, especially when - 

 “Here.” He reached around you, using the blanket he was wrapped in to protect his hand as he lifted the pot from over the fire by the handle, setting it down atop the counter. “Look at me.” You did as he asked, turning and realizing that he’d just draped the blanket over his shoulders and nothing more. “Why bother getting dressed yet?” Sam wrapped his arms around your shoulders, encasing you in the material with him.  “We’ll both be fine for another hour...or two.” Hands on his hips, you nodded, rising onto your toes to kiss Sam, head tilted to the side. He deepend the kiss, holding you tightly before taking your lower lip between his teeth and tugging as he pulled away. “Alright?” You nodded, breathless, and Sam grinned bending down to pick you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest before turning and carrying you from the kitchen and back up the stairs. 

---

[grizztomysam]

Put Me Back Together

Grizzam Reunion Fic

Another one...bc there are a good handful of amazing reunion fics from our talented fandom writers.

Disclaimer...it started as one thing and then grew into this monster a crazy thing that’s probably all over the place but c’est la vie...so here it is people. From the depths of my unfinished drafts list to you. I just Thank the Lord it’s one more unfinished work finally finished.

LOWKEY NSFW and some trigger warning for brief suicidal ideation. 

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

When Grizz returns, it’s to an angry and chaotic New Ham, now under moronic leaders puppeteered by a literal psychopath, Allie and Will in jail, his friends manifested into some modern type gestapo and his relationship with Sam as uncertain as the future of New Ham. 

Threat of burning into ash is strong and imminent.

He longs to march straight to wherever Sam is, start anew from where they had left off that day he decided to put down his hurt and pride and promise Sam he’d return. Wants to steal him away far from everything and into the woods. But he heads instead for the long trek to the other side of town towards his childhood home, empty and unused since New Ham happened.

He ignores how his lips still smart from their last kiss in the clearing by the woods, so sudden and ending too quick. Ignores how he can still feel Sam’s hot breath, hurried and aching against his neck, hear the quiet whimper when he hugged back, tight, that almost made him fuck it all and stay.

Almost.

But he can’t. He won’t. He mustn't.

Eden has arrived and Sam needs to step up to necessary obligations. Put all focus on keeping some semblance of peace and safety for his family. Becca needs him more. More than Grizz believes he does. Because he does not fit into the equation that is Sam’s life now.

Grizz had promised to come back safe, he did, but nothing more.

Perhaps if Campbell wasn’t sitting on the throne, orchestrating their little world to fall into rubbled ruin....

But things are different now then they had been two weeks ago. So much, too much has transpired.

A new born baby, a young mother and the possibility of everything ending in violent dissonance trumps romantic love.

Because it’s love for Grizz. For years, even from afar, it’s always been love.

Others would argue it was infatuation or some concentrated form of obsession for the forbidden. But you don’t ache like Grizz did or know for certain without hesitation you’d step into the line of fire if ever Sam’s life was in question if it wasn’t love. He would have sacrificed everything if it meant Sam would hurt a little less.

And that one night that had been so perfect he had stayed awake, his eyes wet long after Sam fell asleep, happy and sated, his head nestled close into Grizz’s chest. Stayed awake, tracing sonnets onto Sam’s arm in the dark, because he lacked the courage or his own words to say I love you in the light.

Even if the gnawing sting from his chest to his throat does not ebb after his fifth shot from the secret reserve in the bottom drawer of his dad’s home office. Even if the pain that pricks his eyes and makes his nose run wants to rip him in two when his mind clears once again from the haze and he’s left with nothing but a quiet that screams and won’t let him sleep.

And when he does it’s always filled with brilliant blues, freckled skin that tasted of salt and cinnamon, strong limbs tangled with his and a “Come back to me” whispered in his ear.

==========

A couple weeks pass and he’s proud of his resolve.

Though there is a small part that thrums with an ache. Wonders where Sam is, how the baby and Becca are doing. If she has the same brilliant blues of her father’s. Wonders why Sam hasn’t tried to contact him. He is quick to tamp it down and bury it deep with earth and cement. 

He keeps his head low. Stays home if he can help it, only ever venturing into town when summoned by the current counsel to report about there findings. He and the explorers inform with vagueness, a silent understanding and agreement to not divulge everything to the coup government. 

Because something is brewing. It is with lack of words or official declaration, but the air is thick with promised revolution. If Campbell knew this he had yet to act. But it was a matter of time before everything would come to an angry and bloody head. 

And there will be bloodshed. It’s certain when Campbell has an artillery to his disposal of almost half of the town’s confiscated guns. If only Allie had destroyed them all.

But there was a lot of things Allie should have done. 

It would be a matter of time before plans materialize and a new leader defacto arises among the rebels to free Allie and Will and save New Ham.

Matter of time.

But for now he’ll be a coward. He’ll turn from the pointed looks Gwen and even Gordie keep giving him. Refuse to open or read the growing ignored texts from the explorers and the committee for going home after catching them in a huddle one day hearing “Grizz” and “leader” among the heated but hushed exchange. Because for once he wants to be selfish.

Wants to wallow and be miserable and miss Sam and forget everything that has to do with starving to death, trials and killings, and growing up. 

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

Week three begins and a brief snow storm falls, turning into sleet and icy roads. Activities lessen, tho the garbage piles still grow in heaps across town. The cold giving small mercies as the stench is not as potent if it had been under smoldering heat of summer. Everyone stays inside with the roads becoming dangerous to even walk the small distance from home to the cafeteria.

No one thinks to salt the road. But there’s not much thinking done under the new regime. At least for rational decisions that will benefit and keep the town afloat. 

Grizz is forced to venture into town. His food rations had gone down considerably low and he needs some type of ointment for a stubborn cut he’d acquired from the expedition that has turned into a rash on his forearm.

He laughs, the sound maniacal and foreign. This human thing to want to survive and live, despite the times when he’d flirted with dark thoughts. Skimmed his fingers against the plastic, orange containers in his mother’s vanity cabinet. Solitude can be loud in letting monsters you never knew you had take havoc. Can be frightening in it’s influence. But he could never do that to Sam. 

He’d promise he would come back. Even if he had to stay away.

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

Its a slow and bitter cold walk as he inched his way to the nearest store, hoping the free for all terms Harry has laid out to the people hasn’t already depleted there food reserves. He’s careful not to slip and bash his head on the iced concrete below, but the harsh wind is a welcome distraction from cabin fever. He also admits to the sudden sharp want that perhaps he might see Sam today.

His head falls down quick onto his chest as he submits to an almost frenzied energy. It’s chanting incoherent nothings, forming into images of Sam’s lips on his. He can almost taste him. 

Fuck it all to hell because he needs to see him. 

As his feet move by some force that’s tethered to the direction of Allie’s, a pained almost animalistic cry cuts through the air and a thud as something or someone falls fast and hard on the icy ground. He thinks he hears a crack on impact.

His head turns so quick towards the fall, he almost snaps his own neck, eyes blurred against the flurries from the sky.

The figure is laying on its side at the bottom of the steps leading to the loading dock of the convenient store. Its unclear who at first, but it’s favoring its right arm, cradling it against their chest, their head curled into itself. 

When he sees the rust red hair against the garish white, curls peeking through a dark green hood, he knows its Sam. He almost takes a fall as he runs with a speed that threatens to pummel his ribs into his lungs, needling cuts into his already cold, dried and split lips.

Please be okay, the thoughts taste acrid and sour.

He skids to a stop and lands on his knees, immediate in taking Sam’s hooded head into his lap. He’s gentle but shaking, trembling hands cup Sams face, thumbs soothing against cheeks frozen and pale. The smaller boy is unusually quiet, no wails of pain. Its more choked and gutteral, broken hitches of breath, his eyes shut tight, jaw tense and clenched.  

“Baby!” he gasps “ I’ve got you--Fuck!” his lips against Sam’s furrowed forehead. One hand moves down the line of Sam’s bent and cradled arm to see if he can feel exposed bone. Sam winces sharp against the pressure but Grizz feels nothing although its hard to be sure against the layers of coat. 

“I’m here now, it’s gonna be okay” he whispers against Sam’s temple. 

It’s futile assurance. But he needs to hear it out loud. 

Then he feels a sticky wetness against his lips.

It’s blood. 

He blanches but swallows his panic, lifting the hood and combs back hair with a finger to see it’s but a small cut. He wipes the red from Sam’s hairline and from the corner of his mouth into the snow by his thigh, then moves one hand to feel into Sam’s hood and the underside of his head. He steels himself but his fingers feel only matted curls. 

He breathes, pressing once again his lips against Sam’s forehead. Sam has yet to open his eyes, but he’s leaning his head into the kiss.

He lets out a pained sigh, “Grizz?” 

And Grizz almost weeps. 

He tighten his grasp on Sam’s face, gives him another kiss, firm and on his cheek and moves himself back on his haunches. 

He squat and his thighs strain as lifts Sam to a sitting position, gripping the underside of Sam’s uninjured arm and holding steady over his bent one. 

He waits against Sam’s back when  Sam breath becomes more labored and heightened. Grizz sooths his fingers against Sam’s waist and can feel Sam’s stomach move in sporadic spasms. 

They need to get to the hospital now, but Grizz realizes that Allie’s house is closer, hoping to God someone will be there, preferably Gordie or Kelly.

Gripping his back and the underside of Sam’s uninjured arm Grizz hauls him up as gently as he can, gritting his teeth to the pained hiss from Sam’s twisted mouth. They stand for a minute, Sam’s back flush against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his waist. Then he feels Sam nod twice against his chin, a small but brave sign and his heart is so full for this boy.

He maneuvers himself to Sam’s side, tucking with one hand Sam’s head into the crook of his shoulder, the other still wrapped around Sam’s back and holding firm, Sam’s bent arm against his chest. With careful steps he leads them both towards Allie’s.

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

It’s a long walk as he tries his best from moving too quickly as to keep from hurting Sam more, the only sound is the wind that’s grown angry and harsh, whipping the loose strands of his hair from its topknot hold into his stinging eyes, and Sam’s low whimpers he can feel the younger boy is trying to hold back. 

There’s also a small feeling of shame. Perched itself in the corner of his eye, shaking its judgmental finger in his periphery. 

Because it feels entirely too good to hold Sam again.

The panic and the fear of the moment is gone and now he’s drowning because Sam is in his arms and the universe would have to pull tooth and nail to get him to let go. 

He looks down when he feels a movement against his neck. Tears have fallen now, a blue gaze is looking back at him, dull but coherent. 

And he has to summon some unearthly strength from reaching down and touching lips against lips. 

So he faces forward, blinks hard against the telltale pricking of his eyes, tightens his grip on Sam as they walk onward, a hand cradling Sam’s cheek against his chest and tells his heart to fucking stand down as Sam nips at the knuckle of his thumb that has somehow found its way to his lips.  

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

The house is empty as they pass through the foyer and God he had missed this place. It’s warm and looks as it had more than a month ago before the coups and expeditions and heavy things like Sam being a father. 

He brings Sam to sit on the weathered leather couch closest to the living room archway and motions for him to stay. He’s relieved Sam’s breathing has evened and a warm blush has crept on his cheeks as well as a redness to his lips. 

Lips so lush and taunting, he finds himself moving closer and closer for a stuttered minute. 

But he forgets himself.

With Sam he’s come to realize he always will, because the circuits in his brain backfire and synapses no longer synapse and he’s mush. Pathetic gooey mush.

He can’t help it.

Like he even wants to.

So he forces himself to remember. 

Remember Sam is hurting something awful and he needs to prioritize and compartmentalize. Needs to go find the first aid kit and text Gordie or Kelly to get there as soon they can. He knows the basics of splinting a break if there is even one, hoping again to God there is none, but he needs help.

Turns from the flash of disappointment that flits through Sam’s eyes as he heads towards the kitchen. Pays no mind the feel of Sam’s gaze following him, burning into his back through so many layers until it reaches skin that’s grown coal hot, marked with memories of tongues and teeth. He almost moans as he grips the edge of the kitchen counter, willing himself to stop.

Now is not the fucking time.

It’s a quick search when he finds the a large first aid box in the wood framed glass case by the fridge. He grabs it and hurries back.

Hurries back to something so precious he both wants to swoon and go “Awe” with the same lilt he once heard from Bean after she’d found a baby orphaned squirrel near the football bleachers at school.

Sam has laid himself back, clutching his right arm tight, like a cocooned little thing. His shoes are now off, polka dotted socked feet propped up on the coffee table, and his long lashes against freckled cheeks with his mouth in a pout.

Grizz is sure he’s grinning like fucking goon, but he’s feeling all soft from the lightness he hasn’t felt for a long time that wants to swallow him whole and he’s okay with that. 

“Stop standing their like a creeper and come fix my arm..it still fucking hurts”.

Grizz starts, a piece of errant hair falling in front of his brow, and brushes it back, a nervous tick that always seemed to appear whenever Sam’s around. The boy in question is squinting back but there’s a quirk to his lips and the crinkled lines are showing in the corners of his eyes. 

Grizz shuffles forward, with a rolling of his own and slowly helps Sam back up, propping him with several couch pillows as Grizz settles himself on the edge of the coffee table, the first aid kit by his side.

He taps his finger on Sam’s chin when the younger boy’s gaze gets preoccupied in following the movements of his hands and an almost glazed hungry look stares back at him, lips slightly parted.

Lips that almost always looks bitten and swollen and made for kissing.

He’s definitely going to hell at how fast he feels himself go hard. There has to be some hidden commandment. Thou shalt not lust after ye patient.

He blames whatever Sam is feeling to the drunken haze of pain from his arm and busies his focus on telling the younger boy he needs to take off his coat so he can properly see his arm. Its slow work and he’s trying to be careful but he almost jumps up desperate, wanting to find scissors or something sharp and pointed so he can cut Sam from this damn thing because Sam’s breathing is heavy again and his lips have gone pale from the pain. 

And when it’s finally off he tosses it angry across the room, almost clipping the framed picture of some Pressman ancestor from its hang on the wall. 

The muffled chuckle that answers is worth it.

He’d miss Sam’s laugh. Sam’s laugh, which was some addicting thing he felt he was always chasing to get a high from.

He thanks the Lord above, who’s been unusual in his merciful generosity that the shirt underneath is short sleeved. The freckled skin of Sam’s forearm has turned a mottled angry mix of purplish red and there is slight swelling near his wrist, but there is no broken skin or exposed bone. He signs for Sam to move his arm at the elbow, which he does with little difficulty but when Sam moves his wrist it’s with a pained grunt, his eyes shuttering tight. 

Grizz is quick to grab his other hand, squeezing and encouraging to squeeze back, anchoring his thighs to steady Sam’s own that has now come to be between Grizz’s legs. He wants to spout some poetic line of how he’d take on his pain.

Let me be the balm to your hurt. Can I kiss it away?

But instead hes rifles through the kit for gauze and anything else he can fashion into a makeshift splint while they wait for Gordie or Kelly to answer and arrive.

He finishes wrapping the gauze securely around the splints that’s keeping Sam’s arm straight to the wrist and shakes to activate an ice pack from the kit, placing it firm against the gauzed covering. As he keeps the ice pack in place, he keeps his head down focused on Sam’s arm, anywhere but his eyes and lips, a finger trails the edge of his untucked shirt and slips under to skim against skin now pebbled with gooseflesh. 

His breath grows shallow as he looks up to see Sam’s stare, intense and unwavering, his bottom lip between his teeth. The blue in his eyes have gone a midnight hue. 

Grizz almost drops the ice pack. Or punctures it with how tight he’s now clutching the bag.

“You have anything in there for the pain?” Sam slurs, half signing with his left hand, his gaze travel to Grizz’s mouth, eyes fluttering languid and with purpose. 

He can only nod, his tongue grown thick, words having lost meaning or connection, his brain matter having melted into a liquid mess as he turns slight to rip open a small sachet of aspirin. When he attempts to place the pills into Sam’s free hand, Sam pulls away shaking his head. He tips his chin up and opens his mouth.

Grizz swallows the “Fuck” that wants to spill out, his nose flaring as he exhales and proceeds to offer the pills into Sam’s eager lips, his tongue darting out and its tip licking at Grizz’s forefinger. 

Grizz slips and catches himself with his hands on either side of Sam’s hips before he can fall onto Sam’s injured arm, but theirs a smirk on Sam’s lips as he leans forward, cutting the distance between them.

Sam has a fucking pain kink, his heady thoughts conspire. It’s the only explanation how Sam is currently trying to seduce him rather than writhing in pain.

Fucking wrong choice of words because it goes straight to his already hardening groin. And now surely he’s headed for the deepest level of hell.

“My head still hurts...kiss it better?” 

The words pull him from the fog in his head and he’s all too quick to comply. 

Because fuck it all he wants to play too.

He holds himself up, careful not to put any weight onto Sam and shift his head until his lips touch the clotted cut near Sam’s temple. He nips the spot twice then parts his mouth slight, leaving lazy open kisses that travel down until he’s sucking onto the soft pad of Sam’s ear that’s got the younger boy clutching tight onto the collar of his t shirt, his head lolled back, his spine arching and desperate. 

“Kiss me! I want you!” 

The plea is wanton, dripping with sweat and dirt, that the sudden urge to rut and shed his skin to howl at the moon is strong and overwhelms.

Pushes him over the edge as he grabs Sam’s nape with a growl, crashing hungry lips against hungry lips.

And its fire and ocean water salt and a spice he has no name for but heats the tips of his toes to his tingling scalp as he grapples and wrestle between control so he doesn’t crush and hurt Sam and the encompassing desire to devour him.

He is drunk on the mead of Sam tongue against his; wants the taste to become imprinted into the strands of DNA; wants this to go on and on forever. 

Because he doesn’t know if he can stop. 

Until a loud rapping on the wall and a clearing of one’s throat has him jumping back as if scalded, leaving Sam to chase after his lost lips, brows knitted together, eyes still shut.

“Um...I guess Sam’s all better now?” 

Kelly stands outside in the foyer having the decency to act sheepish. 

But Kelly’s always been kind. And Grizz is tired of pretending and running and staying away.

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

Hours later, Sam returns back to Allies from the ER, his arm having been xrayed and confirmed to have a minor hair line fracture to the wrist and forearm and his splint reinforced. Kelly is nothing but professional, doesn’t try to wheedle out details he feels others would.

“Becca’s staying over with Gordie at my place to wait out the storm with Eden. She won’t be home until later this week. But I’ll let them know Sam’s ok and wants to stay at Allie’s since its closer to the hospital.” She offers this with a small smile as she hands Grizz a packet of prescription grade painkillers.

Kelly had always been kind.

And now Grizz, has, once again, Sam’s back flush against his chest as they sit up against the cushioned headboard of the guest room Sam has adopted as his own. 

“It got too dangerous, with Campbell and all.” Sam whispers this, trailing a finger down Grizz’s arm wrapped around his waist, his breath steady and calm, lids heavy, the painkillers doing their job well. Whispers it before Grizz can even ask. 

“That’s why I didn’t bother to talk to you. I heard you’d returned. I wanted to see you I really did.” 

Grizz reassures that he believes with a soft kiss into his palm, intertwining their fingers.

“And I know why you had to stay away and didn’t come back to me” Sam lifts up and turns his neck to kiss him. 

There is no need to repent.

It’s a moment he wants bottled and preserved, placed high above some tall shelf that no one can reach. Not even Campbell and his militia and guns and the need to destroy and hurt and kill. 

But he knows he can’t hide forever. Doesn’t want to really anymore. 

Sam is back in his arms, where he belongs and soon he’ll meet Eden who he certain he’ll love fierce, as much as he does Sam.

And it’s fucking time to fight back. Stop being afraid.

Because he has been. 

Stop using reasons of staying away because it’s safer for all against monsters with human skin. when in reality they are invincible together.

I Love You, he signs onto Sam’s chest and he holds him closer, the moonlight twinkles and casts shadows from the filtering light through the window.

[jynappreciationsquad]

Father, Daughter

I never fully finished Rebel Rising, for various reasons. But I have, recently, been reading up on Saw and Steela Gerrera for fic reasons, and through a multitude of quote callouts from people, noted that perhaps my understanding of Saw Gerrera has been limited. For example, I never caught the bit in the book where Saw called himself Jyn’s father, with overt pride. I’ve always believed he loved her like a daughter, and I’ve always assumed Jyn’s ferocity (and rage) came from some combo of Lyra and Saw. But I suppose it never quite hit me how much Saw really did care about her, openly and without shame.

Which made me think:

What was it like for Saw on Jedha, then, to watch Jyn watch the message from Galen? To hear Galen talk about how he thought of her every day and loved her and missed her…while Saw was the one who raised her. Saw was the one who cleaned her wounds, who arranged for someone to teach her basic period hygiene [Rebel Rising]. Saw was the one who learned to braid hair, to hug around heavy body armor, to deal with a child’s nightmares. Saw taught her to shoot a blaster, to hold a knife, to slice an electronic lock [^comic]. Saw taught her the difficult truth that the shield of her age was no shield at all [Solo novelization]. Saw held her when she attacked him out of rage and grief when Saw’s spies told them that Galen was “apparently quite good friends” with the Imperials he was working for [Rebel Rising]. Saw killed a man who looked at her too closely, studied her with the wrong expression in his eyes [Rebel Rising, Rogue One novelization]. Saw deliberately cut his last lifeline to his last family because he believed it was the only way to save her [Rogue One]. Jyn was Saw’s daughter, in every way that could possibly have mattered, and now here is a man who (from Saw’s point of view) bent himself into knots for the Empire – a man who as far as Saw can tell never made any attempt to find her or fight for her, a man who has no idea that she knows eight ways to kill a Stormtrooper with a truncheon, a man who probably would not recognize her on the street - weeping as he talks about how he loves his little girl. A girl he probably still envisions with pigtails, a muddy smock, and legions of dolls. A girl huddled in a dark cave, waiting to be rescued. What does Galen know of the way Jyn struggled to master the sniper rifle but picked up the truncheon like she was born with it in her hand? What does Galen know of the way Jyn could analyze a battlefield at the age of fifteen? How she learned Tognathi, Bocce, Mando’a simply by chattering with the various rebels in Saw’s cadre? How she learned half a dozen more tongues because she was talented and smart and thought it might come in handy? Galen never knew how thin Jyn became when she was nine and refused to eat out of guilt because other planets behind Imperial blockades were starving. Galen never knew how heavy her punches became when she was fourteen and finally started putting on some muscle.

From Saw’s point of view, it must have felt so achingly hollow to watch a man who did nothing but bow his head and sit in his comfortable cage at the expense of his battle-scarred child, crying now about how hard it’s been for him. [*]

A thousand words probably brimming on his tongue, acid boiling in his already wrecked lungs, his already wrecked heart, as Galen clasps manicured hands behind his neat Imperial uniform and smiles with tearful nostalgia into the holoscreen projector. A thousand accusations, a thousand protests, a thousand angry rejoinders and reminders surging up inside at the man who left Jyn huddled in the dark. And yet Saw stands, watches Jyn weep in response, and he says none of them. He does not undercut Galen’s message. He does not sneer or call the man a coward or liar or willing bait for an Imperial trap. He does not begrudge her the love of her blood father, however weak it might seem to him. He does not begrudge her the love of any being, because his child is a fierce and bright thing, exquisite in a way that the universe does not seem to appreciate nor deserve. [**] The next line Saw speaks in the movie, in fact, is after Cassian comes bursting in to grab Jyn. Go with him, Jyn. You must go. There is no condemnation, no anger, no attempt to remind her that he was her parent for the exact same amount of time as Galen (actually, in a way he was her parent for longer, since Galen’s story makes a point of how much time he spent isolating himself from Lyra and Jyn [Catalyst]).

Saw does not beg Jyn to remember him when he’s gone. He does not apologize for how he raised her. He does not try to explain away why he left her, or why he chooses to stay now. He simply echoes her grip on his arm for one more moment in the chaos of the collapsing ruins, and then pushes her away. Go! Save the Rebellion! Save the dream!

And, like a good daughter, she does exactly what her parent asks.

[^] There’s a comic somewhere out there with a panel showing Saw teaching little Jyn how to shoot a sniper rifle. I cannot for the life of me find it again, just like I can never seem to find that comic where Saw and Bail Organa stare at one another across a rebel HQ table with little Leia and Jyn at their respective sides, although I know it exists.

[*] For added sadness, there’s a quote somewhere in Rebel Rising where Jyn tells someone she dreams about being trapped in the cave, but Saw always comes. I imagine that was no longer true after Tamsye Prime, but it still breaks your heart a bit, yeah?

[**] And I’ve already gone into raptures about that moment when Cassian comes scrambling around the corner and Saw steps forward with his cane raised, fully prepped to throw down with this unknown, armed, healthy, young soldier as his decaying body towers protectively over the kneeling, stunned Jyn. But that is definitely a thing that happened.

[boulbilehibot]

Hard night.

( I apologize in advance, english is not my maternal language( sorry for the conjugation and awkward vocabulary!) , and it's my first... Fanfic?But I wanted to participate! :D hope some of you will enjoy!)

It was already pretty late that night. They had just return to Hogwarts after the summer cut. The marauders had gone to bed. Belly full. Exited to begin their new year.

A sound of thunder wake up Remus.

In the shining light of the moon, he could see that Sirius was out of is bed. Curtains open, leaving a view on his empty, and messy bed.

Remus knows that is friend was having hard time at home. And when they return to school, he need a time to adapt and retrieve his habitual joy.

He also know that Sirius is probably out with James's cloak.

- "I Sollemny sware that i'm up to no good" Remus whisper, with tired eyes ,over the parchment.

-"He's here... What the hell is he doing in the park?...

Remus put on his shoes and a coat and leave the room quietly.

Sirius doesn't move on the map, yet he doesn't see him as he arrive to is level.

Remus try to put his own name on top of Sirius's one on the map.

He's almost on it when he see an hand llying on the grass.

Carefully, he move his hand forward, and remove the tissue from Sirius body.

-"Fuck! "

He take less than a second to kneel by is friend, but it feels like an eternity where he notices:

Sirius eyes are closed and he got trails of his dried tears on his cheeks,

Who are thinner than usual and he can see from is shirt raised to is ribs that he's best friend is only flesh and bones;

Sirius lips are white/blue and his face, pale as paper;

Their is bruises on is chest, torso, back, arms;

But he is breathing... And shivering.

His breathing is fast and shallow.

... Why the fuck didn't he noticed any of this sooner?!

- "Hey, hey, hey, I got you buddy... "He whisper with a deep and wet voice as he carefully take the top of Sirius in is arms.

With one hand, Remus shake gently Sirius's cheek then shoulder.

-"Padfoot.... Pads... C'mon wake up... Sirius?!" He finish, his voice raising with his panic, seeing Sirius unresponsive.

-"Re... Hi." Expired Sirius With irritated voice. Eyes slowly blinking, befor weakly opening.

- "Oh pads... You scared me so freaking much! Are you ok? "

He cursed himself to dare ask this question to is friend that he had found unconscious on the cold, wet grass a minute ago.

-"Ye-yes. Sirius manages to whisper. What- What's happened?... He was shivering violently, teeth rattling . "

- "Well you tell me Pads...I found you lying here under the cloak... What's all that bruises and cuts?... "

Sirius looked away. Remus got the message.

-"C'mon, you freezing. Let's warm you up. Can you walk? "

Sirius nodded. He tried to push himself up, helped by Remus. But he was barely standing and instantly collapse on Remus.

-Gat you. It's ok Pads... Remus said softly as he catches him up by the Waist and passes his arm around his neck.

Sirius tried to swallow a sob. Only to explode in tears and cries.

-'m I'm such-a fa- a failure. Look at that. Can-can't even walk - by - by myself. She's right.

Last words chocked in is throat. But Remus understand what he had said only too well.

- ush now... Shhh, he kissed is forehead before going on

-... Sirius... You can't walk 'cause you have been starved and beaten and god knows what for weeks.

Sirius knees let go and he let all his weight fall on Remus shoulder.

-My fault. He blowned, barely audible.

Remus had put is other arm under Sirius knees and was now caring him, bridal style, to the castle. Sirius crying on the crack of is shoulder. Body limp and shaken with the spasms of is sobbing.

- "No, it's not! They can try to maltreat the Sorting hat if they're unhappy with your house! You are such a good guy padfoot... The kindest. You help me over and over, so many times. Being good IS good...You don't deserve that! Do you get it?! "

-"hmm, Sirius hummed. I'm c-cold... Is eyes closed

-"Don't worry, I'm taking care of you. A quick bath in the perfect bathroom, a piece of cake, and a good night and day of sleep. How does it sounds? "

- "Good, re'lly good... You never want me in this bathroom... " Sirius say has he's eyes closed slowly.

-"No. I don't want us to get throw out of Hogwarts. Not the same." He smiled gently

. "But here and now, the only thing that I care of, is you", he thought.

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

Remus had succeed to carry his armed friend to the prefect bathroom. Sirius switching conscious/unconscious until Remus begin to remove his clothes.

-"wht'p'ning?R you doin'? "He seemed totally lost but stop fighting as soon as he heard is friend say:

-"Hey, it's me. We are going to take you in a nice, warm, bubbly bath and then, I put you to bed . Is it still ok? "

-"k'. "Sirius whispered, a weak smile cracking on is face.

Once the werewolf had finely took off the wet and cold cloths( difficult task as the animagus was totally wasn't helping).

He carry Sirius on the gigantic bathtub.

Taking his friend under his back and neck, he let is friend sink quietly and only support his head out of water.

Body nicely enveloped in the hot water.

The boy was half asleep on Remus arms, and still, his muscles was so strained...

What the hell did Sirius had been through this time?

- "Can you... Talk?... "Asked weakly Sirius. Not even bothering opening his eyes.

-"Can I-? About what?" He interogates tenderly.

-"Donno... Whatever you wan..."

-"Yes, of course." Remus smiled gently.

And so he started Narrate all the things he could think of before telling him some fairy tails of is childhood.

Sirius was slowly relaxing on the soft voice. Totally trusting is friend's grisp. Color coming back on is face as he warmed up.

Sirius had fallen asleep. Arms and legs floating freely on the warm water. His head heavily inked in the werewolf hands.

Remus let is friend take some real rest for half an hour.

Twiddling is hair; Looking at is relax face. They never hurt is face. A son beaten wasn't really the reflection of a good and pure family...

He detailed Sirius body . He had some hematomas all over. Traces of fist, feet, belt, cuts...everywhere...everyehere a wizard's robe would cover up.

He felt so sorry, so powerless, angry and guilty for having fun this evening, not taking the measure of his best friend condition.

He needed Sirius to eat something, he barely touched is plate earlier and he was so thin... Not in a good way....

-"Hey budy... Wake up. Time to eat a little and sleep...in a bed." He was softly moving Sirius's body in the water.

This one blench heavily. Head going under the water as Remus, surprised, hadn't the time to catch him.

Remus took him under the armpits and raised him over the surface.

He literally looked like a lost, wet puppy. Looking at him with incomprehension.

-"Sorry Sirius! Didn't mean to frighten you! "

Sirius stand up, scrubbing is eyes.

-" 't's okay... What are we doing here?" Asked Sirius after noticing were he was.

He seemed more awake and alert than Remus had seen him since he had find him.

-"What do you remember?" Asked Remus.

-"Gone out for a stroll and fall... I think. "

-"Damn, that's a lot of explanation to do then. "

He explain to him what had just happen as he helped him out of the water.

-"And you didn't think about bringing warm clothes? You disappoint me Monny." Quipped Sirius to play down what Remus had just tolled him.

Remus gently wrapped him up in his coat and the cloak with a soft smile. Sirius try to walk to the door. Unsteady steps after unsteady steps.

-"Gonna carry you on my back. Come on." He said as he lawer himself down in front of is friend.

The animagus hesitated. He really didn't want to disturb his best friend even more.

Remus advanced to him and pick is frail body to is arms, bridal style once more.

-"Hey!" Sirius rebelled weakly." It's hurts... "

he put him back down

-"Sorry! Where? Ribs?... "

-"Yes." Sirius nod has he was putting his hand over his floating ribs, without touching them.

Remus take is wand and exerced the spell that he had seen Sirius do to him after a full moon.

-Better? Remus asked.

-Yeah... Sorry to bothering you Re'... Sorry.

-"Stop it, will you? We are friends, aren't we? Now come here." Remus said has he was carry him again.

He didn't struggle this time and put his head at rest on of his friends. Remus holding him firmly.

They were back in the dormitory in no time. Sitting on Remus bed.

-"Not hungry... Stomach hurt... Sorry. " Said Sirius guilt in his voice has he was refusing a cookie that Remus's mom made.

-"Stop apologizes... Lord, now I get why you always tell me that! None of this is your fault so I don't need you to apologize... Need you to get better...'kay'? "

-" 'kay." Respond Sirius with an honest smile. Cheeks blushing a little.

-"At least put this on your mouth and let it melt. You doesn't even have to chew." Remus told him, tending some chocolates.

-"Thanks Moony..." He opened his mouth.

Remus smiled, cut 3 square and put them gently on is friend tongue. He wait and did it again. To the third proposal, Sirius shook is head tu refuse.

-"Alright then, time to sleep." Remus said has he gently guide Sirius back on his bed.

-"Don't... Don't wanna sleep alone... "

-"I know. We are in my bed... "Remus said has he pulled the curtains around them. He lied down next to his friend. Softly brushing and twiddling his hair

-"Now close your pretty eyes and get some sleep. You need to rest..."

"And so do I" He add, has Sirius had already fallen asleep. A sweet smile on his face.

[whumping-newbie]

Not in Vain

Another bit of Michał that I have been writing for NaNo, based on a scene I started and planned but never actually finished.

POV: Michał

Warnings: female whump, slavery, captivity, starvation, threats, hair pulling/grabbing by the hair

I was alone as I made my way down the corridor, the corridor I had walked down just yesterday. The solitude of the quarantine cells was unnerving, even though I knew that was exactly the point. A smaller window of bars compared to the other cells, and huge stone walls covering the remainder, allowing barely any light into the cells. The lights in here are turned off when there are no visitors or food deliveries, enveloping the whole area in total blackness, leaving those unlucky enough to be locked up in here alone with their thoughts and the bare minimum.

Not that it matters when there is only one prisoner here, and that prisoner is the former Queen.

I heard a small stirring as I approached carrying the tray of food for her, crouching down to my knees and setting it down in front of the bars. It was dark in there, I couldn’t see where she was, she must be against the back, either that or just on the other side of the stone, the side I cannot see.

I felt that I should say something. I needed to. For my own sake, I needed to speak to her.

“Your rations, your majesty,” I said, pushing the tray right up against the bars softly with two fingers, still kneeling.

I heard a small yet unamused sound come from within the cell, yet the speaker made no move to come and face me.

“‘Your majesty,’“ she repeated, “that’s a funny thing to say to me when you called that traitor ‘your excellency’ yesterday.”

I gulped, returning to my feet, taking in the resigned reality of someone who has so little to live for anymore. That cell must be a torture in of itself, a crippling loneliness and dread, cold and unfeeling, the visitors being less than ideal. I wonder what kind of thoughts someone would suffer through when in a suffocating darkness, trapped with no one else, with no way out, with no hope – I imagine that this particular branch of cruelty is on a similar level with the brutality of Emil’s interrogations.

Her nephew, is all I can think of. Emil is her nephew.

“I mean no offence, your majesty,” I apologised, “it wasn’t her, I thought you’d like to know”.”

I turned away, not expecting her to respond to me.

“Come back here,” she commanded. The strength she pitched behind her words was almost welcome, considering what she had been reduced to now.

I obeyed instantly, standing to attention before her. The Queen appeared into my view, scrambling to her feet with assistance from the bars. Her fingers wrapped around the cold steel, they were almost like she had no skin, just as skeletal as the rest of her. She was clearly starving down here, her face was eerily haunting, she looked so different. She once had such a proud stance, and now…

“You came here to gloat, did you?” she asked, “to see my fall from grace?”

“No, your majesty.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Do you take me for a fool?” her voice raised, the conviction behind them is admirable.

“Absolutely not, your majesty.”

She stood there in silence for a moment, scrutinising me closely. She kept her head high as she did, looking me directly into the eyes as she continued her questioning.

“How could you do this?” she asked, “how could you do this to her? After everything that happened, you swore to protect her, and yet you’re working for the ones who want to harm her. Does that vow you made mean nothing?”

I flicked my gaze in the direction of the door, wondering just how much of the conversation the guard outside can hear. I returned to the eye contact she established, her familiar brown eyes were so empty, so hollow despite what she had said to me.

“It means everything to me, your majesty,” I kept my voice quiet, hoping that my response would not be heard.

She let out a scoff, turning around to the darkness of the cell behind her, refusing to face me, “how dare you. You think I don’t hear what happens to the prisoners here? What they are put through? I can hear everything in here, and you say that your own promise to protect my daughter means everything to you. That is some loyalty you have there. How do you sleep at night?”

I don’t, I wanted to say, but it wouldn’t have helped.

“Get out of here. I don’t wish to speak with a traitor.”

I salute once more. “Yes, your majesty.”

It’s probably going to take some convincing for her to believe that I sincerely want to help her, and her daughter.

I’m going to have to steal more from Emil.

---

“Ah, Jelen,” Emil looks up from his documents as I step into his office, and he gets to his feet. “Do you have what I asked for?”

I nod, clutching the stash of paper in my hands. “Yes, sir.”

I start making my way over to him, holding out the envelope towards him. The seal is unbroken on the envelope, a sign to him that I have not tampered with the documents within. I meet him at his desk, and hand over the envelope, which he opened and pulled out the thick wad of papers from within.

Reports, sightings. Potential leads that he himself investigates.

He takes a good, long look at the photograph of the girl in the first photograph, the one that is stapled to the first piece of paper. A young woman in Nazachodzie, that at first glance, does look like the Princess, judging by the way he is so intently staring at her. Her hair is almost identical, but there’s the way she looks, her eyes are the wrong colour for starters.

I take a glance at his room whilst he is preoccupied with staring at this photograph. There’s poor Matylda in the corner, scrubbing at the floor. She is so focussed, she doesn’t even look at me at all. The poor girl, she looks exhausted.

“Stupid cousin,” he growled, slamming the papers down on the desk and rubbing his eyes. “Every damn time.”

A frantic set of knocks pound on the door of the office with such force that I’m surprised the door didn’t fall in. Even little Matylda flinched at the sudden sound, briefly stopping whilst she looked up, before continuing her work, scrubbing the floor underneath a small table, with a wonderfully dark blue vase sat atop it.

“Who is it?” Emil called out, irritated.

“Mitrenga, Kapitan,” the voice replied, “it’s urgent, sir.”

Emil went over to the door, wrenching it open and stepping outside into the corridor.

I could hear them begin talking frantically. Something about some rebels causing trouble in Nadmorzem. I can’t even begin to process that statement, because I am surprised there’s anything left there. I saw photographs, it’s almost totally levelled at this point.

When Emil doesn’t dismiss the soldier straight away, I decide to satiate my curiosity a little by looking at the discarded pile on Emil’s desk. I pull out one of the stash, and feel my breath catch in my throat when I see who it is.

It is the Princess.

She looks to be well, or as well as can be expected. She’s filthy, her hair longer than I remember it, and tied back in a ponytail. She’s looking over her shoulder at something, clearly not noticing whoever took the photograph. The accompanying document says the source came from Podgórą, and that means trouble if she’s there.

She’s with someone else, a dark haired girl with a red streak in her hair. That’s not a good thing, that girl sticks out like a candle in the dark, and if Emil sees this photo, all he needs to do is find that girl. Not even his cousin, because she can hide, no discernible markings. Not that girl. That girl has a defining visual feature.

I take a quick glance back up to Emil who was still stood outside in the corridor. Now or never.

I swipe the paper, and fold it in half, and half again, as quickly as I can manage, but before I can stuff it into my uniform pockets, Emil has finished his conversation outside. He dismissed the soldier, and started turning around.

I stood straight again with my arms behind my back, the document still in my hand. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I’m in trouble now. He’ll see me with it, and then I’m in a lot of trouble. He won’t see this as a mere accident, or coincidence. No, this is an active crime of sabotage against him.

Especially since this one is the Princess.

Shit!

“Now, back to our trouble –“ Emil started, but he was cut off by the sound of something smashing.

Both our attention is diverted to the back of the room, where there is a broken vase shattered in pieces in front of a crouched Matylda. She’s still there, she’s stopped what she’s doing. It looks like she’s knocked the table that held such an exquisite vase.

“You clumsy little bitch,” Emil stopped in his tracks, and turned to the small girl in the corner.

“I’m sorry sir, I – I didn’t mean to -!” she said through fast forming tears.

But then, I realised.

Emil was totally distracted by this.

He was stood over the poor girl, and she was trembling beneath him as he grabbed her by the hair. I heard her yelp in surprise, but she wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at me.

I quickly used these precious moments, these golden seconds to conceal the folded piece of paper I had hidden behind me. I stuffed it into my shirt, the piercing ends of the paper catching on my skin as it slides down and rests just above my waistline.

It’s there, hidden now, beneath my jacket. No one will see it there unless I’m ordered to strip. Which, quite honestly, is unlikely.

“Stupid clumsy bitch,” Emil lets go of his young prisoner, and she’s clutching at the rag she was using to scrub the floors. He still towers over her, and she still doesn’t look at him. “Clean this mess up. That vase was worth more than you, you know. You’ll pay for this later, trust me.”

“Yes, yes sir,” she replies tearily, just looking up from the ground enough to make eye contact with me.

I was stood as I was before, both arms behind my back, with the added bonus of no risk of being caught with compromising documents on my person.

She did that on purpose. She broke that on purpose, as a distraction. She did that for me.

And she’s probably going to suffer for that.

Whatever happens now, I refuse to let that kind of bravery be in vain. She didn’t have to do that, and she did it for me. She knows what she did, and I know what she did.

However she gets punished for that, I want to make that worth it for her. I refuse to let her regret such an action. I promise that. It will be worth it.

[thiefcat-niao]

Time to be Alive

Ships/Characters: Casteshipping (Thief King Bakura/Pharaoh Atem) Rating: T (warnings for character death, declining health, a brief self-harm mention, and descriptions of grief-induced depression) It’s angst with a happy ending, I promise. Length: 3600 words

a/n: @ those I’m dragging into this ship, here’a a horrible idea I had to share. <3 Suggested listening ( ♪ ) ( ♪ ) (title taken from the later selection) 

For all the power he wielded as pharaoh, Atem found himself helpless.

The thief Bakura had been living at the palace for close to ten years—he wanted for nothing. He had good food to eat and shelter from the elements that he’d suffered and fought his whole life. He’d lost the terrible leanness and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair and skin had grown soft.

Atem heard Bakura’s breath rasp sometimes, late at night, but didn’t worry over it. Bakura never complained of trouble breathing, and if there was something wrong, surely the royal healers would be able to deal with it.

When Bakura’s health began to fail, he tried at first to hide it. He spent more time in the bed he shared with Atem under the guise of laziness. He stopped attending things like banquets, and he started drinking noticeably more wine. He preferred games of mehen to sparring matches.

Atem was glad of the slower pace. His own back had begun to ache when he spent the entire day on his feet. Thirty wasn’t young—not old, perhaps, but not the spring of youth they’d both once enjoyed. And the Pharaoh and his chosen, after all, could take life easily when they so desired. Such was the privilege they enjoyed.

Bakura’s kisses had begun to taste a bit sour, but Atem didn’t mention it. He thought it might be an embarrassment, and didn’t want to sound too privileged.

Atem was woken, one night, by a horrible retching; violent coughing. He sat up in bed, surprised to find himself alone among the blankets. Scanning the room, he saw, in the watery-gray moonlight, a shape hunkered against the wall. Bakura hadn’t quite made it to the door, it appeared, before the fit had seized him.

Atem rose; went to the once-King of Thieves. Bakura shied away at first, but then pressed his trembling shoulder into Atem’s hands. Blood dripped through Bakura’s fingers as he coughed; his whole body shook. He couldn’t seem to take in enough air.

When the episode had passed, Bakura leaned into Atem; moaned softly and mournfully. Atem held him, without question, and rocked. He murmured soothing things, and he did not ask questions.

Come morning, Atem had taken Bakura to his healers. He was alarmed by the lack of resistance he received. Bakura seemed listless; hardly spoke unless prompted. When Atem demanded he recount his symptoms, he’d relented with a weary, long-suffering smile.

Difficulty breathing; terrible pain in his teeth—two had fallen out within a month; blood coughed up in great clots, most often at night; extraordinary tiredness; poor digestion; lightheadedness; headaches; chest pain with no discernible cause. The list seemed without end.

Wine to manage the pain; any excuse to remain in bed; avoidance of crowds, since noise had become disorienting. Bakura admitted to the measures he had taken, and then confessed to being weary of them. He was far too tired, he said, to keep up the act. He was glad, in a way, he said, that the night before had gone as it had. He was relieved that Atem had discovered his condition.

Atem, of course, hadn’t noticed the signs, and wept bitterly at the fact that he’d failed to. Bakura stroked his hair.

... ... ...

Attempts were made. The healers tried everything within their power, and failed. Foreign physicians were called for. Magicians were summoned.

There was always another fit of coughing; always more blood.

Atem, frantic, appealed to the gods. He argued with Osiris about matters of fairness. He threw himself down at the feet of Isis and begged for mercy. He cut his own flesh and let his blood pour out as an offering for Set.

No gods replied.

“This isn’t on you, Atem.”

Bakura looked just as he always had, handsome, haughty, curled in a nest of pillows on their bed. His head rested on folded arms, body half-hidden beneath bedding.

Atem sat on the floor, his head buried in his hands. “We did this... my father... my uncle... we’re responsible...”

“I would’ve lived as a thieving peasant even if my family hadn’t died,” Bakura pointed out. “I’d probably have exactly the same things happen.”

“You can’t breathe—!” Atem objected, his voice rising a bit, strangled. Just as quickly, it dropped again. “You... it was the ash, you’ve told me... your village was filled with ash, and that poisoned your lungs!”

Bakura was silent; he had no reply. Eventually, he said, “I don’t remember if I had breathing troubles before then. I might’ve been born with ‘em.”

Atem shot him a severe look—one of disbelief. 

Bakura looked down. “Well... my teeth’d still be rotten. And my insides would still be eaten up alive. Thirty isn’t young, for a peasant to die. Bodies just aren’t made to last that long.”

“It may not be young, but it’s certainly no old age!” Atem snapped, springing up. He felt his own body working so well and cursed; bit his lip and shut his eyes. “It’s not right! Thirty years isn’t enough!”

“You’ll live a few more, for sure,” Bakura said. “But my body’s had it. It’s been through a lot, y’know.”

“I’ll buy you as much time as I can...” Atem said, his teeth grit. “I won’t... I won’t simply—!”

“Everything dies, Pharaoh. You will too, one day.”

“Not like this!” Atem snapped. “Not when—gods damn! You’ll fight! I’ll fight with you!”

“You’ve pampered all the fight out of me, Atem. You’ve tamed the King of Thieves.” Bakura rolled over onto his back, a smile on his face. “Come over here and kiss me. Stop taking about death, for now.”

Atem hesitated, but in the end could only obey. He climbed up over Bakura and kissed him, tenderly. He tasted blood.

... ... ...

The parasites could be staved off, and that offered some small relief. They couldn’t be gotten rid of, not entirely, but they could be controlled. There were plants known to ease breathing, although they seemed to make precious little difference. Wine and herbs helped to manage pain. Constant rest took the sting from chronic exhaustion.

Teeth deteriorated, and it grew more difficult to eat. Appetite was never a thing the King of Thieves had lacked, yet now Atem coaxed him to eat each morning and each night. The Pharaoh ordered the tastiest things be prepared in the best possible ways, so that Bakura might be tempted.

Bakura always let himself be convinced, and was grateful for Atem’s efforts.

“Wild creatures often starve, when they grow old,” Bakura said one night, curled against Atem’s chest. Though slightly taller than the Pharaoh, he’d always been fond of tucking his head low and nuzzling into Atem beneath the blankets. It felt safe—a feeling he’d had the luxury of precious few times in his life. “It’s a comparably painless way to go, once you’re past a certain point. The gods are merciful.”

“You’re no wild thing,” Atem replied, and tightened his grip. “I won’t see you die like that.”

“I’d rather not go that way, to be honest.”

“I won’t allow it.”

Bakura sighed, pressing into Atem. He could feel the grittiness in his lungs, and his heart was beating faster than it should. “I’d rather not die...” he admitted softly.

“I won’t allow it,” Atem repeated, though his voice hitched. “I... won’t...”

... ... ...

Passionate encounters calmed; became sweeter and slower, and far more tender. Rarely could Bakura manage something that didn’t allow him to lie down. Atem didn’t mind, glad to lavish his lover with affection. Atem’s body, after all, still obeyed when he told it to stay upright. His body could still support itself. His lungs didn’t rebel against him without warning. He could still breath.

They both relished the feel of one another, overjoyed simply to be alive at the same time.

Whenever Bakura was with the healers, Atem hurried off to see that preparations were made. His own tomb, of course, had been under construction since he was a child. Bakura’s, connected to Atem’s by a short, narrow passage, was a comparably new edition. There had been no urgency about its preparation, before, but now Atem hurried to get it ready. He commissioned artists to carve scenes of paradise on the walls, and ordered a banquet’s worth of food be mummified—beef ribs and roast pork and stocks of vegetables and fruits and grain. He had the best wine and honey brought in in great jars, and he filled the room with dazzling gemstones and treasures.

He oversaw the construction of sarcophagus and canopic jars, making sure each was decorated with gold and precious stones. He wept, thinking of how cold the stone resting place would be in comparison to their bed.

“Do you really think the gods will let me pass, Atem?” Bakura asked, staring up at the ceiling. He had grown weaker, in the past week or so, and Atem was doing his best to ignore the changes. “My heart may tip the scale, even after all this.”

“You’ll make it,” Atem replied, his voice soft and tender. “I’d bet my own soul on it.”

“Pray for me.”

“Of course.”

Bakura gave a coarse chuckle, turning and nuzzling into Atem’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

His breathing was rough, and he smelled of sour sickness. But Atem paid those facts no mind and held him close. He thought of the King of Thieves, the Bakura who had once tried to destroy the world. If he’d succeeded then, these things wouldn’t be happening. If the world had burned, like the village of Kul Elna, he wouldn’t be dying slowly in the arms of his sworn enemy.

“If I hadn’t stopped you, then...” Atem whispered, and Bakura looked at him in surprise.

“Then I sure wouldn’t be making it into A’aru.”

Atem shook his head; kissed the scar that ran along Bakura’s cheek. “The gods would’ve understood. They would’ve taken you in, and done a far better job of healing you than I did.”

“You did the best job, Atem.”

Atem only shook his head; kissed Bakura’s scar again, and then his mouth. Bakura stirred in response, but didn’t move. They cuddled and kissed; memorized one another’s bodies in anticipation of the day they’d be separated.

... ... ...

The morning came when Bakura needed help getting to the healers for treatment. Atem lent his shoulder. There was less than a year’s difference in their ages, but Bakura’s body felt old—there was the loss of muscle, although Atem’s efforts had prevented emaciation; the stiffness in joints that made movement awkward; the lack of ruddiness in skin tone. His eyes were dull.

Atem kissed Bakura sweetly; spoke briefly to the healers; left, as always, to see how the final touches to the tomb were coming. A portrait of the two of them—nose to nose, each equal in their splendor, a Pharaoh and the King of Thieves—had been completed just the night before and hung on one wall. They were running out of space to stockpile treasures and items of luxury, and Atem began to fret about the need for expanding the tomb. But he knew he’d run out of time for such concerns.

The healers sent a servant to fetch Atem from the tombs. Bakura, they explained, had vanished. Wild creatures, the healers said, were prone to hide when death was upon them. They were worried, honestly, that the King of Thieves had fled into the desert alone.

Pharaoh Atem only smiled, serene. He thanked the healers and then he returned to his own royal chambers. It was there that he found the thief Bakura, in no more expert a hiding place then beneath the bedding they shared. Atem lifted the blanket; met Bakura’s miserable gaze.

“I don’t want to die,” said the King of Thieves, in a smaller voice than suited him. His breath had grown labored, and there were spatters of blood on the bed near his face.

Atem crawled beneath the blankets and hid with Bakura, their bodies snuggled close against one another. Atem felt the uneven beating of Bakura’s heart; heard the hoarseness in his soft gasps.

“I’m scared...” Bakura murmured, his face hidden in the Pharaoh’s chest. “I’m so damn scared...”

“Everything’s been prepared...” Atem murmured. “You have paradise waiting for you.”

“You’ve already given me that, here. I don’t want to leave.”

Atem felt his own chest tighten, but fought his emotions down. He promised himself that he could break soon enough; he needed to hold together for just a bit longer. “I love you.”

“What if they aren’t there?”

Atem felt a deep stab of pain. Though Bakura had never spoken of such fears, Atem had suspected them. “They’ll be there, Bakura. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t try to comfort me!” Bakura’s voice rose as much as it was still capable of, and immediately broke. He sobbed—a choked, forced little noise—into Atem’s chest. “Don’t... don’t... don’t...”

Atem tightened his grip; kissed the top of Bakura’s head. “They’ll be there. And so will I, after while.”

“I can’t be alone again...” Bakura whispered. “I can’t... can’t... can’t...”

“You won’t be...” Atem murmured. “If nothing else, the gods themselves will keep you company until I arrive.”

In time, Bakura calmed. They spoke in whispers about inconsequential things like the change of the seasons. Bakura’s breathing grew shallower. They reminisced about a time when they might’ve killed each other, given the chance, and laughed about how differently things had turned out. 

“Time isn’t the same in A’aru,” Atem said, when Bakura fell silent for a long time. “You won’t even have time to miss me and I’ll be there with you.” 

“I’ll be waiting...” Bakura murmured, though his breath was coming quicker, now. He raised his head, bringing their faces close. Atem kissed him tenderly, and Bakura couldn’t quite manage to kiss back. 

“I love you...” Atem breathed, tightening his grip as if to keep Bakura with him for a moment longer. 

“Love you...” the King of Thieves breathed, and it was the last thing he said. His eyes closed and he snuggled closer; Atem held him. He stopped breathing without a struggle; without convulsions or crying. His whole body relaxed, going limp as the last rasp of breath left him. 

Atem held on tighter still, and at last wept. 

... ... ...

The Pharaoh made his way down the palace steps, a body cradled in his arms. His steps were slow; heavy. His head hung.

Atem oversaw the mummification. The mask of Anubis he wore did little to hide his grief. He clutched at the canopic jar that contained the heart of the King of Thieves, even when the embalmers needed to place it back into Bakura’s chest. He held it tightly to his chest and began to sob—broke, as he’d promised himself he could do once Bakura could no longer see it. Eventually, the jar was pried gently from his grasp, and he was left hugging his own body, curled at the foot of the sarcophagus.

The Pharaoh made no secret of his grief. Every time he went outside, it was in heavy mourner’s makeup, his clothes torn open. Most time, however, he remained locked away. The palace halls would ring with his howling, and servants would shake their heads sadly.

Atem picked at his gums until they bled. He stopped eating; he stopped sleeping. He tore at his hair until it was ragged. Despite the attempts of those closest to him—priests, advisers, magicians—his health deteriorated. He seemed to be a wraith, scarcely glimpsed outside his room; making no sound but his cries of lament.

Weeks after the death of Bakura, Atem summoned a priest to his chamber. He told him, calmly and succinctly, what was to be done once he died—soon, he thought. The priest thought he might already be dead, given how skeletal he’d become, his ashen skin caked with tears and old makeup; his hair half-gone; his eyes dull.

The Pharaoh Atem, however, did not die.

His body was strong; those in the palace appealed to him. He began to pick at food, and then to eat once again. Exhaustion made him sleep. He recovered.

For seven more years, Pharaoh Atem ruled Egypt. It was a prosperous time—he was loved.

Each night, Atem would sit at the entrance to Bakura’s tomb. He would cry—softly, now, so as not to attract attention and unduly worry anyone. He would speak to Bakura about what had been happening in the world of the living.

When the Pharaoh Atem died, the whole of Egypt mourned him. They wailed, as Atem had for the thief Bakura, and buried him with all the honors he was due. Atem met his death peacefully—welcomed it, content that the time had come.

... ... ...

“What have you done in life to make your heart so light?”

Faced with Osiris’ question, Atem stood straighter. He had done many admirable and worthwhile things as pharaoh—he was proud of his accomplishments, and had many answers he could have given.

What he said was: “I loved someone. And I was able to change his life for the better.”

The god nodded, then stepped aside. Atem walked forward without hesitation, passing through the barrier of light. He blinked, raising a hand against the warm, bright sun. He could see the Nile, flowing clean and swollen; fishermen toiled near the edge of the water. Atem turned to look behind him and saw no sign of the gods or their scale or his own tomb, which he’d walked from. He saw instead a village, and beyond that, in the distance, the royal city. The stone pathway was soft and warm beneath his bare feet.

Where... is this...?

Atem began to walk, feeling the strength of youth in his limbs. He was clad in his funerary finest—silk and golden chains—but didn’t feel the jewelry’s weight. His whole body, in fact, felt improbably light.

But this village... Atem stepped aside as a pair of children raced past him in pursuit of a well-worn ball. He looked again toward the palace, just visible on the horizon. If the afterlife mirrors your mortal one, then why am I not there? And why is there no one here that I recognize?

Atem felt a horrible chill run through him, and he stopped walking. Where is he? Shouldn’t it... didn’t he say... he’d be waiting?!

“My heart may tip the scale, even after all this.” 

No... Atem though, and felt himself begin to shake. No, that can’t be... and even if it was, Lord Osiris would have told me, when I answered the question in such a way... unless... Atem’s heart picked up speed. Unless I didn’t change his life, truly, not enough, and so I was sent here instead of the palace because there was no truth to my answer?!

“Watch out!!”

Atem didn’t have time to duck or leap aside; the ball struck him square in the back of the head and he cried out, thoughts scattering and momentarily overcome with the indignity of such an assault. He spun to shout something at the children, but then stalled when he saw the young man running towards him.

The man came up short, too—skidded to a halt, in fact, his gray eyes widening. Then his face split in a dazzling grin that warped the scar on his cheek. He laughed; dashed forward again.

“By the gods, it’s the Pharaoh! Atem!”

Atem opened his arms automatically, despite his confusion, and was nearly carried off his feet. Bakura’s embrace was powerful; he smelled of good food and wine. Though he wore commoner’s clothes, his neck and wrists were adored with jewelry that Atem had given to him and made sure to bury with him.

“You’re finally here...” Bakura breathed, and then drew back just enough to kiss Atem not once but repeatedly. And Atem, finding tears of joy and relief spilling down his face, kissed back. “You’re finally... Atem... Atem, I’ve missed you...! You’re finally here...!”

“Where...?” Atem breathed, between kisses. Bakura shifted his grip so that he could lift the Pharaoh slightly, and for a moment they fell still, Bakura gazing up into Atem’s eyes.

“Welcome to Kul Elna, Pharaoh.”

Atem blinked, then looked around in astonishment. “Kul... Elna...?”

Bakura nodded. “I never thought you’d actually show up here! I check the palace every night, but who’d’ve thought you’d turn up here!”

Atem felt his chest tighten, and he buried his face in Bakura’s neck; breathed in the scent there and cried. Bakura sunk slowly down, guiding them to the ground, and held him tenderly.

“I missed you... so much...” Atem breathed.

“We’re together, now...” was Bakura’s reply, as he tangled his fingers in Atem’s hair. “Forever. You were right. The gods are merciful.”

Again they kissed, a starved meeting of mouths; a sharing of breath itself. When they parted, Bakura was grinning.

“Come meet my mom.”

Atem blinked. “What?”

Bakura sprang up, and Atem, also rising, took a moment to marvel at how well he looked—fit and strong, his peak during life but without the shadows that had clung to him on the best of days. He shone.

“My mom,” Bakura said again, and then kissed Atem lightly. “She’s been waiting, too. Wants to meet you. You’ll stay with us, for a while. You put me up in the palace, so let me play the host for once.”

Atem nodded; breathed, “Sure...”

They held hands, fingers tangled almost to the point where it cut off circulation. Atem gazed around at the village as they walked, delighted to see prosperity and happiness wherever he looked.

“You went so damn overboard with my tomb...” Bakura growled, leaning over to kiss Atem’s temple. “All that stuff doesn’t even fit in our house. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I gave some of it away.”

“Of course not...” Atem replied, though pleased that Bakura still wore his jewelry. It was like a cartouche—an identifier. Bakura still belonged to royalty as much as the peasant life he’d been born into; he could enjoy the finest of things in his eternal afterlife. And if he wanted to share that with his beloved home, Atem didn’t mind in the slightest—was profoundly happy, in fact.

“I’m glad you took your time.” 

Atem glanced over in surprise. Bakura was still smiling, but his eyes were serious. 

“I thought you might show up way too soon. I told you you’d live a few more years. Bet you did some great stuff, too, as pharaoh.” 

Atem nodded slowly. “I... I believe so. I hope.” 

Bakura’s smile softened. “Yeah. I’m sure you did. But I’m glad you’re here now, too.” 

“So am I...” Atem breathed, and leaned over for a kiss. Bakura obliged. 

[starry19]

AN: This takes place in the How to Pretend universe, though it can certainly stand alone. For my anon who wanted DomesticGarcy - be careful what you wish for.

After The End

The first time it happened, baby Amy was five months old.

The day had been quite normal, or what passed for normal in the Flynn household. The morning was a wild flurry of loading diaper bags and getting herself ready for her Modern History lecture at nine. Amy had been perched in her father’s lap, contentedly gnawing on his wristwatch while he attempted to send e-mails from his phone before heading out the door.

She had paused for a second to kiss Flynn goodbye, Amy squished happily between them, then tickled Amy’s bare toes until she giggled. The sound followed her out of the house, and she got into her car, smiling.

Morning lectures meant Flynn dropped Amy off at the sitter’s before he headed in to work. He had gone back to the NSA, though he had announced his days of intelligence gathering were over. Instead, he oversaw their local field office and did a great deal of consult work. Mostly, he kept regular hours, though occasionally he pulled all nighters, coming home in the early hours of the next day, muttering about Chechen rebels that were never where they were supposed to be.

Her class had gone well, though she had stumbled once. It still threw her every once in a while, the changes they had made to history. Dates, events, names that she could have once bet her life on, no longer mattered or were the same.

Amy had spit pureed peaches all over Flynn that evening at dinner, and she’d laughed out loud before handing him a towel, though usually Amy ate like she was starving. Slightly concerned, she watched her daughter closely throughout the rest of the night.

By bedtime, she was convinced Amy was coming down with a cold. Unsurprising, since day cares were full of small, usually snotty children who loved stuffing things into their mouths.

A few hours later, she was getting into bed herself, curling into her husband’s arms, trying to remember if they had any baby Tylenol. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it, but she had learned that the second you counted on it not being necessary was when it became absolutely necessary.

Flynn kissed her temple, her jaw, and she smiled softly, the general craziness of the day and the warmth of his body luring her to sleep.

She woke abruptly in the darkness, confused.

Then it hit her - the baby monitor.

She sat up slightly, Flynn’s arm falling away from her. Heard what must’ve woken her up in the first place.

She moved again, swinging her legs down. There was a sleepy murmur from the bed behind her, and she knew he wasn’t quite awake yet.

“Amy’s coughing,” she breathed. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

And in the next second, everything changed.

Flynn sat bolt upright, tension practically radiating out of him.

Before she could ask, he was gone, grabbing the gun he still kept in the bedside drawer, and sprinting out of their room.

There was a shocked second where she sat absolutely still, and then…

Then she knew. He had told her the story, after all. And that night, that awful night, had started in just this same way.

She felt a shiver of terrible, irrational fear lodge itself in her chest.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, hurrying after her husband.

She found him in the doorway to their daughter’s room, posture rigid, gun clutched in his hand, the lights flipped on. Amy’s coughing had turned into crying.

Tentatively, she touched his back.

He didn’t respond, and she wondered what was going on in his head. He was reliving the worst night of his life right now. God, was he even breathing? She couldn’t tell.

But Amy couldn’t wait any longer.

She ducked around Flynn, scooping Amy up and gently rocking her, still keeping one eye on her husband. At the same time, she glanced around the room, which was, of course, empty, and wondered if she was now destined to share Flynn’s deepest fear, too.

Slowly, she approached him, baby in her arms. In the soft spill of light from the hall, his face looked like it was made of marble. When she stood perhaps six inches away, he sucked in a sharp breath, then, with hands that shook, he reached out and gently touched one of Amy’s chubby, flushed cheeks.

Then he was gone, turning abruptly.

She shushed Amy, rubbing her back, humming as her tears ebbed.

From across the hall, she could hear the sound of retching, and she thought her heart was going to break. She needed to hold him, needed to tell him it was alright, but just now, their daughter needed her, too.

When Amy was quiet again, she gently eased her back down into her crib, hand resting on her tiny back, measuring the space between her breaths.

And then she went to save Flynn from his own personal hell.

He was in the shower, steam billowing out from behind the curtains. She was fairly certain he was crying, and she suddenly lost her nerve, or wondered if she was wrong to intrude on his grief at just this moment.

Instead, she waited for him, perched on the edge of their bed.

She just…she had no idea what to do. She could never take the pain of Lorena and Iris away, and she knew that he honestly wouldn’t want her to.

When Flynn emerged, looking lost and tortured and haunted, she did the first thing that popped into her head - she opened her arms. He didn’t hesitate.

With a bit of adjusting, they lay with his head on her chest, her arms wrapped around him as tightly as she could. No one spoke, and she wondered if his English had left him temporarily.

He was utterly rigid, every muscle drawn taut, every breath sharply precise - he was holding himself together and she wanted to weep.

“I love you,” she whispered to him, but in Croatian. He’d taught her a few simple phrases over the years, and though she didn’t think she’d ever be able to have a real conversation with him in his native language, she knew enough for this.

His breathing became slightly shakier. “I love you,” she whispered again. “Everything is well.”

He looked up at her, and the pain she saw took her breath away. She kissed him, softly, tenderly, deciding that words were less important at the moment.

He kissed her back, emotion making him less careful than he usually was. Their teeth clinked together, his mouth desperate against hers.

Later, she would find bruises from his fingertips, from how tight he had held her. In the moment, it didn’t matter. She knew - knew his need to feel alive, to assure himself that his world hadn’t been destroyed again, to have proof that she was there, too, alive and whole and well. This was…life affirming.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, linked her hands behind his neck. He moved over her with deep, urgent thrusts, his wet hair falling into his face.

Her climax was sudden and unexpected, and he followed her over, her name falling from his lips at the last moment.

When he looked at her again, she recognized the person behind his eyes once more.

He gathered her into his arms, his chest heaving beneath her cheek.

“I’m-“ he began, but she cut him off.

“If you tell me you’re sorry,” she told him, forcefully, “I’m going to hit you over the head with a phonebook.”

His startled silence was…a little amused, and she was grateful for it. She pressed a kiss against his heart. She was never more grateful for the way they could leave so much unspoken. There was no need for apologies or explanations.

“I love you,” he eventually breathed.

And that was enough.

She dozed lightly, restlessly, for the remainder of the night. For his part, she didn’t think Flynn slept at all. Around dawn, by silent consent, they crept out to check on Amy.

She had rolled to her stomach, her rear in the air. She was also, adorably enough, snoring, though that just meant the poor girl had a stuffed up nose.

No one left the house that day.

Amy, even sick, was delighted with her parents’ undivided attention, and took her afternoon nap against her father’s chest, while he managed to finally relax enough to sleep himself.

That night was uneventful, though Lucy was awake more than she was asleep, half her attention on the baby monitor and the other half on the man beside her.

It didn’t happen with quite the same urgency any time after that first, awful time, but it did still happen. He never left their room armed again, but his pistol never left the drawer.

Once, when she woke to an empty bed, she found him asleep on the floor of Amy’s nursery.

He was trying, she knew that. And this would all ease in time.

She hoped it was soon-ish, because apparently they were going to need to stock up on sleep. It was going to be a rarity again, in just about 8 months.

The night she told him, his jaw dropped, and then he had grinned widely. There was no fear in his eyes, none at all, and she was so grateful for that.

For herself, she was quite convinced this child had been conceived that night, as Flynn had fought to come back to her from his nightmares, both real and imagined.

She chose to think of it as a sign from God. More giving, less taking away.

Yes, their hands were going to be full.

But so were their hearts.

[queenwinwinie]

Russian Roulette (NCT Fanfic) Mafia AU!

Chapter 2 - Mad City

In the previous chapter - Akina has finally found the mysterious mafia leader named TY as she pretends to be a mob bosses daughter, however due to a small error Akina made, he discovered that she was an undercover spy working with the South Korean MPD.

The fearful dark haired man that held her at gunpoint has taken Akina and they’re heading to an unknown location that she will soon wake up to...

Akina’s eyelids fluttered open slowly as she awakened from her deep slumber. The room she appeared to be in was dark and stuffy with multiple monitors and LED screens plastered all over the walls. She stayed in the same position before attempting to move to adjust herself to the situation and surrounding. ‘How did I get here, where even is this place? I can’t remember anything at all…’ she thought desperately trying to remember anything that happened to make her end up here. Suddenly she attempted to sit up to maneuver around the room but instantly slammed back down again onto the cold metal bench she had previously been asleep on to find that her wrists and ankles were tied strongly together with rope. Akina wriggled around before realizing it was no use and it was only making her breathless. She lied there motionless for around 10 minutes until a metal door, which was about 2 meters away from her view, clicked. She froze as a large figure strolled casually through the door, it was the dark haired man from earlier today… That’s what happened. After seeing his face she instantly recalled all the events that had took place previously for her to end up here, she had a gun pointed to her head and then the last thing she could recall was him practically kidnapping her. 

“Oh, look who's finally awake,” he said unamused, “did you have a nice rest?” He sat on the end of the iron bench, leaning over to see Akina’s blank expression. He chuckled quietly. “Who are you and what are you planning to do to me?” Asked Akina confidently. “Well, first my name is Jung Jaehyun, and second I’m just going to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.” He lifted himself away from the bench and walked over to one of the computers, the room was silent apart from the sound of Jaehyun’s shoes clicking across the hard marble floor. He quickly turned it on, signed in and then made his way back to the vulnerable girl. He crouched so that his stern face met hers and he whispered strongly to her, “what do the police want from us?” Akina stared deeply into his eyes and paused before she answered his blank question. “I don’t know,” she replied calmly, “I was just given some details and told to find the leader - which I have done.” Jaehyun sighed heavily at Akina’s useless information and stood up scratching his head. “Surely there has to be more than that.” Akina shook her head side to side and attempted to shrug her shoulders, “the only people that have that sort of information are the detectives working on the case itself, technically I was just used to lure you guys in, which I succeeded in,” she confessed. Jaehyun slyly slipped a pistol out of his pocket and held it against the skin of Akina’s forehead again, she gulped nervously. “Right… this is how you want to be then? I’m going to take you over to that computer and you’re going to do everything I say.” He ordered her and she mouthed a quiet okay in response to his task. Jaehyun grabbed Akina and hauled her across the room, still tied in rope so she couldn’t escape, and threw her onto a desk chair in front of a large computer monitor. “Tell me all the details nicely and I won’t do anything to you, but if you wanna be difficult then I will harm you if needed,” he smirked nastily. “No! I won’t tell you… I can’t tell yo-” Akina stopped mid-sentence when the harsh metal pushed into her temple and she heard the trigger click, “okay, okay,” she responded panicked, “first you need to install a private server that only employees of the SK MPD can access so type in…” She continued to give Jaehyun the details to access the information on their mafia and he searched database after database for clues and details. “I told you I have nothing on my database, assignments or records on your case, but you didn’t believe me.” Argued Akina while Jaehyun continued to search. It was silent for about an hour apart from the clicking of the keyboard and an odd huff of annoyance from Jaehyun, it felt like an eternity just sitting there unable to move or speak.

Eventually Jaehyun let out a surprised gasp and he concentrated harshly on the computer screen. Akina turned to face him then back to the screen, it displayed: ‘NEO CULTURE TECHNOLOGY (NCT)’ the only information in the database was the details Akina confirmed yesterday and some suspects. So this is their Mafia name… Jaehyun dropped the gun then slid down heavily into the chair next to her and sighed. “Nothing… absolutely nothing.” Akina looked at him helplessly and requested if he could untie her from the ropes. He agreed and took a sharp knife and aggressively cut through the thick rope. Akina let out a long sigh of relief and gently shook her arms and ankles to ease their stiffness. Jaehyun stared at her as she sat back into the desk chair and huffed defeated. After a short while Jaehyun turned to her, “at least we tried, however there is nothing on there - I suppose that’s a good thing actually,” Akina nodded in agreement, “thank you for helping though.” Akina looked at him stunned at his words and blinked in confusion. “Well to be honest I only helped you because you held me at gunpoint, but whatever.” She replied stubbornly. Jaehyun laughed at her response and stood up to turn off the computer, “right then… Let’s take you back to Taeyong and explain that there’s no information.” Akina followed his actions and removed herself from the surprisingly comfortable chair. “Who’s Taeyong?” She asked interested. “TY” He replied.

Suddenly Jaehyun grabbed Akina’s wrist and she flinched in pain, “ow!” she cried highly. Jaehyun and Akina both looked down to see that her wrists were purple and burnt from the rope and when Jaehyun held her down earlier. “Oh,” said Jaehyun concerned, “We’d better get you patched up before we send you anywhere.” Akina was surprised with his sudden act of kindness and questioned him, “wait… If I’m your hostage shouldn’t you not be looking after me? Like leaving me in a room to starve or something?” Jaehyun turned to her, “we’re a mafia, not a terrorist group. Here at NCT we want to create peace in this messed up, dystopian place we call earth. The government and higher ups have corrupted our planet and ways of living. Religion has caused outbreaks in wars and us as humans have slowly begun to destroy earth itself.” Akina stood still taken aback by Jaehyun’s powerful speech, “pollution, deforestation, racism, homophobia, the list goes on. We want to rebel against the South Korean government for their wicked rules and that’s why the police want us; they don’t want vicious rumors getting spread but it’s the truth. I’m not going to hurt you, only because you don’t understand and you haven’t actually turned against us. In all honesty, you could help us, but if you do turn away from us then...” Akina could feel the determination in Jaehyun’s eyes as he preached to her, she wished people could understand it but even she couldn’t much herself. Jaehyun suddenly twitched as though he was snapping back to reality. “I’m sorry, I let my emotions get the best of me… Let’s go and get some bandages.” For a moment he had a sad, defeated look in his eyes but immediately replaced it with his usual, bold expression. ‘I think I just saw a totally different side to this group…’ She whispered to herself.

After quickly patching and cleaning up her wrists and ankles, Akina couldn’t get Jaehyun’s words out her head. He was right about the pollution and homophobia stuff, but what did he mean about the government? What are they trying to hide? Her thoughts were disturbed when Jaehyun slapped his hand on his thigh and rose from his seat. He held his hand out for Akina to lift her up and she generously took it, “finally we can get going to Taeyong, he’ll be starting to get concerned. However he’s not gonna like the news we give him.” Akina slumped her shoulder but Jaehyun grabbed her arm and began leading her down the endless empty hallways to what is presumably Taeyong’s office. After knocking on the large oak doors, Jaehyun pushed them open to reveal a large Victorian yet oriental style room. It had red wallpaper with small golden symbols on which Akina presumed was NCT’s logo and half the wall was dark oak borders. She stared breath taken, admiring the luxurious room, only to be interrupted by Taeyong’s deep voice right next to her ear. “Take a seat Akina.” He hissed her name into her ear as she walked to the brown chairs. She took a seat and Jaehyun stood quietly behind her while Taeyong sat on the opposite side of the desk from her. “So,” he mumbled as he sat forward, “what fucking information have the police got on us?” Akina looked down as a strike of failure filled her, “none,” she replied bluntly. Why should she have to feel sad, she’s supposed to be working against them. Taeyong abruptly stood up and slammed his palms against the wooden desk and Akina flinched at the hard sound. “Right, I don’t know who you think you are but I expect answ-” He was cut off when Jaehyun interrupted him. “She gave me all the details to access the databases but there was nothing to do with us on there. The only information included was on Akina’s report from yesterday however they were very vague.” Taeyong slumped back down into his chair and fidgeted with his fingers, unsure of how to react. He smirked, “That’s got to be a good sign though,” he reassured himself, “that means we should be safe at the moment unless she hands in anything.” He stared sharply at Akina as he said this and she shrunk under his gaze and mean words. Everyone in the room was silent as they doubted and thought to themselves. “Guess we have no use for you now,” said Taeyong as he turned to stare out the large window behind him, “sadly we’ll have to keep you here though seeming as you know too much… Oh and you can’t go back to your job.” She went to argue back with him but stopped when she realised what he meant. He was right, she did know too much: their plans, who they are and what they are capable of.

After a short while Jaehyun clicked his fingers and took in a deep breath like a light bulb just switched above his head. “I have an idea,” he started, “we could use this girl to bring back information for us from the police department. If you think about it, she can access everything at her workplace.” Taeyong turned back around to listen to Jaehyun. He continued, “I reckon that some information is only accessible from the heads of department or cases themselves as you can’t reach their databases online, also a lot of discussions take place within the offices themselves so although they’re not on the database, they will be discussed in real life.” Akina’s mouth shaped a perfect O as he planned a new use for her. He was smart and now Akina didn’t have any hope of escaping this one. After a while of them discussing the cunning plan, another idea popped into TY’s head. “Ah!” He stood up proudly, “you know what else she can help us with? Making allies with other mafia organisations, we can pretend she is our ‘mob bosses’ daughter and arrange meeting for her to marry someone so we can form an alliance.” He clapped his hands in victory and Akina sat there stunned at the sudden news. “Wha- what!?!?” She stuttered aloud, “I can’t do that! That’s just crossing the line!” The two men stopped and glared at her. “Why can’t you do it? That’s the excuse you made to befriend us, a mob bosses daughter,” Taeyong smirked knowingly and watched Akina’s face drop in regret. I wouldn’t say befriending was quite the word to describe the situation she thought. “But, but…” It was no use complaining, she practically dragged herself into this one. She sighed in defeat and then Jaehyun patted her shoulder lightly as he spoke to Taeyong, “damn, she’s been quite the helper hasn’t she?” Akina sat with her head down staring at her white heels that she was wearing the night previously. Wait what time even was it? She lifted her head to look out the foggy window, it was still dark but she really couldn’t tell. “What time is it? How long ago was it since you kidnapped me?” She asked curiously. “10 years.” Joked TY as he replied to her innocent question. “About 4 hours,” answered Jaehyun truthfully, “it’s about  4:15 am currently so I reckon you should get some rest.” He faced Taeyong who nodded in agreement then turned to his desk to look at some sheets. “Before you both leave, I have the rough plans for tomorrow set out,” said Taeyong, “at about 11:50 am, Akina will go out with Kun to practise her skills needed for the mafia meetings and discuss her issues with work. After that, you will arrive back here and I will discuss matters further.” Akina and Jaehyun nodded in sync and bowed before leaving the room. “Oh also, Kun is waiting in the lounge for you two to show Akina her room,” Taeyong winked at her before she exited the lavished room and sighed exhaustively. She felt as though she was going to pass out any minute but continued to follow Jaehyun through the building to find a member named Kun.

She was starting to feel anxious as she drew nearer to the lounge. Who was Kun? His name didn’t sound Korean but she didn’t care about that, would he be another scary guy who would hold her at gunpoint until she falls asleep. She hoped not. She daren’t ask Jaehyun as he scared her enough so she silently followed his lead with the toxic thoughts deep in her mind. The pair finally arrived at the lounge after what felt like forever, walking through dark empty hallways. The walls were a light cream colour and the floor was a dark wood, drenched in a heavy woolen rug. Three large, brown leather sofas sat in the center of the room in a sort of U like shape and on the wall opposite was a ginormous flat screen television that looked as though it belonged in a cinema. There were vintage cabinets dotted over the walls that varied with all sorts of different things from: board games, bits of paper, antiques, weapons to snacks. It really was interesting. A few old paintings hung lazily on the bare walls and a glass table stood cleanly behind the huge sofa, decorated with candles, decor and photographs. It felt as though Akina was at a rich home, however this was a lounge for a famous mafia organisation. She was brought back to reality when she heard a man’s voice, “hi!” He said cheerfully, “I’m Kun, you must be Akina if I’m correct?” She nodded her head and bowed to him. Jaehyun gestured to Akina, “she’s extremely tired as you can probably tell, so I advise you lead her to her assigned room now if possible.” He declared. Akina wasn’t sure if Jaehyun was attempting to be kind or just insulting her. Kun chuckled at his comment and signalled for Akina to follow him, Jaehyun decided to tag along too. Again they wired through endless hallways that all looked the same, at this point Akina was practically dragging her feet across the laminate flooring, fortunately they arrived.

Kun quickly unlocked the door and Akina made her way straight to the single bed. She flung herself onto it and it creaked quietly under the force. Kun and Jaehyun looked at her, amused at her sudden immaturity, and laughed. Before Akina could even get undressed or wipe off her makeup, she was already flat out on the bed. “There’s no point in even attempting to speak to her now,” concluded Kun, “look at her, she seems so peaceful just sleeping there.” Jaehyun rolled his eyes at Kun’s comment and sighed. “Sure whatever. Just make sure you’re there when she wakes and try to gain her trust. We’re counting on you to help us take this plan to the next step. You need to convince her to help us...” Jaehyun continued without noticing how unbothered Kun was. “Yeah okay I understand.” Kun cut him off eventually and walked over to tuck Akina into her duvet and smiled. “Tomorrow will be a success,” He said promisingly to Jaehyun, “I’ll teach her everything she needs to know.” After that the two men abandoned the small bedroom while Akina slept heavily right up until mid-morning…