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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 years ago

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prūmӯs ñuhus (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

Read it on AO3:

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pansexualkiba · 5 months ago

Text

Midoriya went off alone. It was inevitable, but dumb.

In hindsight, Midoriya really, really should have seen this coming. There was something that was bothering him, yes, but that didn't mean he shouldn't go off on his own into an area of the dungeon no one had ever been to before.

He went off, and found his mother.

Midoriya Inko was a bit of a... Sore spot. Not because she was a bad mother, by any stretch of the imagination. Being over-protective of her only child wasn't a bad thing, certainly. No, Midoriya Inko was a sore spot because Midoriya missed her, dearly. When he was still in his world, he could at least call her on the phone whenever his homesickness flared up.

In Melini, for a full year with no possible way to contact her... Midoriya sometimes spent whole days wondering about how she was doing, whether she was worrying over her son being missing without a trace, if she was crying those Midoriya tears, if she was already signing Izuku's withdrawal from UA... Even the cockatrice katsu was an attempt to try and recall Midoriya Inko.

Katsudon was his favorite food, but his mother's katsudon would always be number one.

So, to find Midoriya Inko in the dungeon was a bit of a shock. As she drew close to him, ready to hug him and kiss him on the cheek and reunite with her son, Midoriya Izuku let his guard down.

Danger Sense blared like a nuclear klaxon, and Black Whip automatically sliced Midoriya Inko's head off.

Midoriya watched, horrified, as Midoriya Inko fell to the ground, oozing what was clearly not human blood, a thin needle poking out from her mouth.

"What..." Midoriya whispered, before the sound of movement caught his attention.

It was Midoriya Inko, but there was a whole crowd of other people behind her. More Midoriya Inkos, some naked women, some naked men, a weirdly-undressed Aizawa-sensei for some reason...

Midoriya suddenly remembered one or two corpses he had retrieved. Apparently, they were succubus victims, drained to a husk and ready to die if not given the proper nutrients. Meat for revival in their cases was always expensive, as it had to be a lot to replenish their BMI to a proper, healthy level.

Oddly enough, most were half-foots. He didn't like to think about those implications.

Midoriya Izuku was not good in a group fight. However, as he looked at the succubuses (succubi?) that had transformed into forms that weren't exactly his taste (he very much preferred his own age group!), he realized something so monumentally basic that he wasn't sure why he hadn't realized it until now -

Midoriya Izuku, the ninth holder of One for All, was never alone.

It wasn't an easy fight. However, Smokescreen combined with Danger Sense was a deadly combo, and Black Whip and Float ensured that any that took to the skies (they had wings!) would be easy to deal with as well. At some point, though Midoriya couldn't see it well, his body began to glow red as he backhanded a succubus that looked oddly like David Shield through an abandoned house.

Midoriya Izuku, however alone he may not have been, was still not built for group fights. He had to tire eventually, and at some point he felt as though he had begun to have trouble breathing. He chalked that up to Smokescreen rather than anything else.

And then something was thrown into the abyss, and all the succubi (succubuses?) froze. Another was thrown, and another, and every single monster clamored to throw themselves into the abyss after them.

Silence. Merciful silence.

Midoriya made his way back to camp, where he found a healthy Izutsumi rummaging though Senshi's ingredients in one corner of the room and four shriveled adventurers.

Before Midoriya could do anything beyond scream in shock, Izutsumi shoved a sack of... Sugar? (It was some sort of powder)... Into his arms. Apparently, she was going to milk the dead succubi behind her for nutrient slurry and mix it together with a powder to make it easily-administerable.

The end result tasted awful, but the best medicines tend to.

After Laios recounted what little of his dream he could, Midoriya was given the chance to explain himself.

"I think..." Midoriya began, thinking to those campfire pits he had seen, "We aren't alone down here, to begin with."

i'm spent all day created a cursed crossover au where midoriya from mha was like. shunted into the dungeon meshi universe at least a month before the war arc. invoke my name for details.

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howlingday · 2 years ago

Text

Cinder: Alright, now that our training is complete, we should be strong enough to combat this new foe. Especially if we work together.

Jaune: Training? What training? That wasn't even a warm-up.

Cinder: We stretched for, like, a solid five minutes, Jaune! Now get on the Bullhead so we can waste this motherfucker!

Weiss: Fine. And for the record, I do NOT want to be put in the credits for this.

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

Ruby: Man, this place looks empty as hell.

Weiss: There he is! The invading demon known as Shadow!

Shadow: Where the hell is Maria?!

Cinder: So how is this... thing... just now making itself known?

Weiss: The ancient glyph my grandfather placed to secure his universe from threatening ours has weakened since his passing. So now... HE'S YOUR PROBLEM!

Shadow: HOLD IT! YOU! COWARDS! WHERE THE HELL IS MARIA?!

Jaune: (Gulps) W-Well, looks like we have his attention.

Cinder: Maria? No one has been named Maria since the Great Color War. Last one probably died out before it ended.

Shadow: You mortals killed my Maria...?

THEN I WILL TAKE YOUR LIVES IN EXCHANGE FOR HERS

Cinder: Okay. I think he's pissed.

Jaune: What do you think we should do?

Cinder: We should get a feel for his power. See what he's capable of.

Weiss: ENOUGH OF THIS! (Leaps at him)

Shadow: CHAOS... CONTROL! (Teleports behind her) So... you're the first to die... CHAOS... SPEAR!

Weiss: (Bounds and rolls into a Weiss-shaped hole) Okay... He can handle a huntress...

Ruby: Aight! Bet! (Silver eyes flare)

Cinder: OH SHIT! SHE FINNA END THIS EARLY!

Ruby: (Red petal flutter about) Haaaaaaaa...

Jaune: FUCKING GET HIIIIIIIIM!

Ruby: (Charges at Shadow, Eyes flare wildly) HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! (Slices through Shadow)

Shadow: You call that an attack? Let me show you the true power...

OF THE ULTIMATE LIFEFORM!

Ruby: (Blown away, Left in a crater)

Cinder: Ugh, I really hate using this, but... Oh, who am I kidding? I love doing this! (Goes full Fall Maiden, Leaps at Shadow)

Shadow: (Barely backhands her to normal)

Cinder: ...So much for teamwork.

Shadow: Well, all that's left is to destroy the rest of your world.

Ashe: Sorry, but that's not happening!

Shadow: Who in the hell are you?

Ashe: (Plays sick battle theme)

Shadow: What the... What the hell are you doing?!

Ashe: Distraction, bitch!

Ruby: FUUU

Weiss: SION!

Ruby/Weiss: HAAAAAAAAA!

Reissy: (Brimming with silver-eyed glyph power, Wags her finger)

#rwby #devilartemis #sonic the hedgehog #cinder fall #jaune arc #ruby rose #weiss schnee #shadow the hedgehog #rwbabies

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palindrome-mystery · 4 months ago

Text

Nico has... death touch? Insta-kill? Just grabs someone and they deteriorate to a skeleton and die... that is terrifying and cool in equal measures.

Also Nico just constantly showing up to save his boyfriends dad.

Oh, we need to get away from these cows? I'll shadow travel you away.

We need a way in to Nero's tower? Let me introduce you to my 'friends' who are so under the radar even you a former god thought they were myths.

Let me just appear out of nowhere and corpse-ify that guard that was about to kill you.

Hi, I brought a dead bull that's completely under my control to help you in this fight.

Let me just try to slice through this minor god because you asked me to - oh that did not work ...

Will treating Nico after he just got backhanded by a minor god: What were you thinking?!

Nico, still dazed: Do you think I'm making a good impression with your dad?

Next on the "I know I'm late to the PJO train"

Still making my way through the Trials of Apollo series and went to order the Sun and the Star.

Made the mistake of reading the synopsis.

The very first line:

...losing his friend Jason during the trials of Apollo...

THE HELL?!

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theres-an-impulstor-among-us · 3 years ago

Note

I know you wrote a drabble where Scott is almost sacrificed at Dogwarts and wanted to ask if you could write a version of that where he actually is sacrificed.

okay so this one is an alternate ending to this one, so it’ll start off the same and branch out into a different ending. read it first/save it for after if you want a happier version lol

author’s note: due to my severe discomfort surrounding decapitation, i’ve altered the method of killing slightly

lives at the start of this fic: Jimmy - red, Scott - green, Ren - red, Etho - yellow, Martyn - green

cw: blood, strangulation

just a reminder: please do not tag as shipping :)

…

Scott is starting to regret letting the Dogwarts trio take him and Jimmy back to their base, but he can’t exactly back out now. It’s his own fault, really, for asking if there’s anything else he can do to support Dogwarts from a distance, rather than putting up their banner.

He shoots a sideways glance at Jimmy, who seems even more nervous than him. Scott resists the urge to reach out and take his hand.

Finally, they arrive at Dogwarts. Scott is more than worried to see that a new platform with torches surrounding it on all four corners has sprung up in the middle of the carrot field. It looks innocent enough but something about it gives it an ominous vibe.

Unfortunately, this is exactly where Ren leads Scott.

“What is this?” Scott asks warily, putting one foot on the step up.

“This is the Altar of the Black Heart,” responds Ren ominously. “For Dogwarts to truly achieve full power, it requires a sacrifice. The blood of an outsider.”

Scott’s eyes widen as he realises what this means. “Whoa, whoa, hold on a second!”

He backs away a few steps but bumps into Etho, who takes hold of him in a surprisingly strong grip.

Jimmy starts forward with a gasp but Martyn grabs him and pushes him down, holding him in place. “Scott!” Jimmy cries uselessly.

Ren stands on the hill just above the altar as Etho drags Scott into place and tries to hold him down. Scott struggles against Etho’s grip, causing Etho to backhand him across the face.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Jimmy screams. “SCOOOOOOTT!”

Blood trickling out the corner of his mouth, Scott coughs and tries to fend Etho off again.

“I’d stop resisting if I were you, Scott,” comes Martyn’s cold voice.

Scott glances over at him. His heart freezes as he finds Martyn holding a sword to Jimmy’s neck. “No!” he gasps. “Don’t!”

“Then hold still.”

After a moment, Scott squeezes his eyes shut and falls still, letting Etho push him to his hands and knees in the centre of the altar.

“Scott…!” croaks Jimmy. “No…!”

Scott forces himself to meet Jimmy’s terrified gaze. “It’ll be okay, Jimmy,” he whispers, just loud enough for Jimmy to hear. “Just stay strong for me, okay? Stay strong.”

“A sacrifice must be made!” announces Ren, spreading his arms to the skies. “Do the honours, Etho.”

Etho nods and raises his axe.

Jimmy looks away, starting to hyperventilate. He can’t watch this.

Scott closes his eyes.

The axe comes down hard and buries itself in the small of Scott’s back, the tip piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

Smajor1995 was slain by Etho

Jimmy starts to scream and doesn’t stop. His eyes are fixed on the spot his husband just was seconds before, tears streaming down his face. Tears of terror, of grief, of anger.

Something snaps inside him.

“Take Solidarity to the dungeon,” Ren orders. “We’ll deal with him later.”

But as Martyn starts to move, Jimmy reacts lightning fast and kicks him in the stomach with unbelievable strength. Martyn staggers back in shock and pain, allowing Jimmy to snatch his sword and slice cut after cut in his former friend’s body, not stopping despite the screams. His lust for blood has finally been awakened and he WILL avenge his husband.

InTheLittleWood was slain by SolidarityGaming

He spins round to find Etho charging at him with the axe that had killed Scott. Seeing his husband’s blood still dripping down the blade sends Jimmy completely over the edge.

His swing has so much force behind it that it knocks the axe cleanly out of Etho’s hand. Before Etho can recover, Jimmy shoves him to the ground and kneels on his chest, his hands wrapped around Etho’s throat. His eyes are so flaming red that they’re practically glowing, teeth bared in an animal-like snarl.

THIS is the person who killed his husband. Jimmy will make him pay.

Someone is trying to pull him off Etho but the bloodlust increases a red lifer’s strength and stamina, and they can’t budge him. The smell of blood is making Jimmy dizzy and disoriented, but all he knows is that he wants to kill. No, he NEEDS to kill. His desire to maim and murder is so strong that it’s all-consuming, growing inside him like lava escaping a volcano, rising up until it’s about to explode outwards and destroy everything in its path.

“STOP!” Ren’s voice yells desperately.

Jimmy doesn’t. He can sense that Etho is almost dead, and every instinct in his body is driving him forward to finish the job.

“Jimmy!”

This voice causes Jimmy to freeze and slowly release Etho, blinking against his red vision as he looks around wildly for its owner.

A hand touches his shoulder, then hugs him from behind. The cool, smooth arms… the scent of strawberries… the gentle heartbeat…

“S-Scott?” Jimmy croaks.

“It’s me, Jimmy,” whispers Scott. “I’m here.”

Jimmy slowly turns around and finds Scott’s face looking back at him. It… It really is him.

He pulls Scott into a tight hug, clutching him like his life depends on it. All the pain and anger and terror melts away, leaving only love.

Still holding Jimmy tightly, Scott carefully moves him away from Ren and a freshly-yellow Martyn as they dash to the semi-conscious Etho’s side.

“We’re even,” he says firmly. “A life for a life. There’s no need for further bloodshed.”

Ren glares back at him, but his expression softens slightly as he registers what Scott’s saying. “Really? You’d be satisfied leaving it like this?”

“Well, of course we’d still be enemies,” responds Scott. “But I want to call a temporary truce. I don’t want anyone else to die, not even any of you.”

After a moment, Ren glances over at his right hand man. “It’s your call, Martyn. You’re the one who died.”

Martyn considers Scott’s words on his own for a moment, before glancing up and happening to make eye contact with Jimmy. All traces of the bloodlust in Jimmy’s gaze are gone, replaced only with the eyes of the person Martyn used to be close friends with all those years ago.

“I accept your olive branch,” he says.

Ren nods and addresses Scott and Jimmy: “Then you two may leave this place in peace.”

“Come, Jimmy,” Scott murmurs. “Let’s go, quickly. Before they change their mind.”

Jimmy dithers as Scott takes hold of his hand and starts pulling him towards the exit. “S-Sorry, Etho,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry, Martyn.”

“Come on.”

Scott practically drags Jimmy to the gate and out of Dogwarts, only slowing down once their walls start to appear in front of them. Jimmy stays silent, letting his husband lead him.

Finally, they get into their base, which is where Jimmy takes the lead and pulls Scott into the former’s house, shutting the door for privacy.

“Jimmy, what-,” Scott starts.

“Let me see the scar,” says Jimmy seriously. “Please.”

After a moment, Scott turns around and lifts up the back of his shirt. A clean, straight mark running down his back shows Jimmy exactly where the axe entered his body. He gently traces the line with the tips of his fingers.

“I told you this would happen,” he says hoarsely. “I said they’d do this to you but you didn’t listen!��

Scott huffily pulls down his shirt and takes a few steps away. “I know, Jimmy. TRUST ME, I know! You’re just lucky they decided to go for the green lifer, not the red.”

“LUCKY?!” cries Jimmy. “Did you SEE me back there?! I murdered Martyn and nearly choked the life out of Etho!”

“Yeah, I did! I set my spawn right outside the walls before we went in and it’s lucky I did or you might’ve kept going and gotten yourself killed in the process! I can’t believe fear for your own life is what finally triggered your bloodlust.”

“What?!” Jimmy stares at him with wide eyes. “You think THAT’s what happened?”

Scott frowns at Jimmy’s reaction. “Well… I DID, but…”

“There’s a reason I’ve stayed back and tried not to get involved in any of your stupid conflicts, you know! I NEVER wanted to kill. EVER. But when they sacrificed you right in front of me, I felt the desire to rip Martyn and Etho apart like a predator with its prey. THAT’s what triggered my bloodlust, Scott! They killed you and I wanted them to suffer like they made you suffer!” Jimmy’s voice breaks and he dissolves into tears. “My bloodlust was triggered by the need to avenge you. And to make sure they never hurt you again.”

His heart breaking, Scott pulls Jimmy into another hug, letting him cry into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I never considered how traumatic that whole thing must’ve been for you. How are you holding up?”

Jimmy coughs, trying to clear his throat. “B-Better now. Please promise me we won’t ever go there again, though.”

Scott rubs Jimmy’s back soothingly, feeling Jimmy’s heart still pounding in his chest.

“I promise.”

#3rd life smp #3rdlifesmp #solidaritygaming #smajor1995 #vaunna’s requests

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blackteaandbones · 4 years ago

Text

This scene has been rattling around in my head as part of a grander fic for ages, and tonight, out of the blue, I got the irresistible urge to write it down. It’s very rough and mostly unedited, but I had fun writing it, so I’ll share it here in case it might be fun for anyone else. No idea if I’m going to do anything else with it or not yet.

Clarke/Lexa

Winged Clarke AU - Basically, what if the sky people were actually sky people (genetic experimentation, mutation, whatever, this is rough, okay?) and instead of leaving Earth, had formed their own clan, loosely allied with the mountain.

*******

The commander was leading another hunting party.

Clarke watched her from the safe vantage point of a very tall, very leafy, tree. Trikru hunters had a bad habit of shooting trespassing Skaikru on sight. Their bows were small, but the arrows were poisoned. Even a scratch could kill. Clarke shouldn't even be here. The boundaries were clearly marked, and the penalties for crossing them well known.

But Clarke had a problem, and that problem was going to get her killed.

“You know she's going to shoot you, right?”

“Shhh!” Clarke hissed at Wells, perched on the branch beside her. They would have been sitting ducks if not for the protection of the canopy. Wells' wings were black against the silvery bark and green foliage and Clarke's were bright white and gold. Neither of them were dressed for camouflage either. The light, tightly woven fabric of their smocks and trousers was perfect for lazing around in their mountain-top aerie, not so much for sneaking around in Trikru territory. Clarke would have worn something more appropriate, but then she would have had to explain why she was in scout gear, and that wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with her mother.

“This obsession is embarrassingly one-sided. She doesn't even know you exist.”

That wasn't exactly true, but it might as well have been, and they both knew it.

Wells was the only person Clarke had ever told about the unexpected storm that had blown her off course when she was barely fledged, and the Trikru net-trap that had snared her when she tried to land. The last thing she had expected from the scrawny, big-eyed child who found her hanging helplessly from a tree in a tangle of knotted rope was mercy. Trikru were the monsters in every story their parents told them about the ground. Clarke had been sure she was about to die, but instead of killing her the girl had used her tiny child's knife to cut Clarke free and let her go.

Clarke had flown away with her life and a hopeless crush on a nameless stranger who grew up to be the feared and ruthless Commander of all twelve land-bound clans.

She doubted the other woman remembered their one meeting as fondly as Clarke did. Or at all.

“If you really want to die today, there are less pathetic ways to do it.”

“I agreed to let you come,” Clarke reminded him.“I didn't say you could talk.”

Wells snorted. “You didn't agree to anything. I followed you.”

“You're free to leave at any time.”

“And let you die alone?” Wells shook his head. “Sorry, I need to be there to say 'I told you so' right before she skewers you on that fancy sword of hers.'”

“Hah, ha.”

The Hunters were on the trail of a pack of Reapers. Clarke and Wells followed at a safe distance. If Wells had actually asked, Clarke would have struggled to explain why she kept coming back. Skaikru wasn't directly involved in the war between the Land-bound clans and the Mountain, but their treaty with the Mountain meant the other clans had condemned them as traitors and spies. Clarke shouldn't be anywhere near Trikru territory, but she could never stay away for long.

They smelt the Reapers before they saw them. Reapers fought in a pack, but beyond that very little of what made them human remained. The commander's group outnumbered them, and they were experience hunters. It should have been a rout, but before they could fall on the ragged group, an ominous horn blared in the distance.

Everyone froze.

And then a second pack of Reapers came boiling out of the trees, followed by a rolling cloud of poisonous green smoke. Clarke and Wells took off in a flurry of feathers. Acid fog was the Mountains weapon. Skaikru may have been their allies, but the fog didn't discriminate, and there shouldn't have been any Skaikru in that part of the forest. They rose to a safe height above the tree tops, and Clarke backwinged in place, waiting for the Hunters to break cover. The acid was coming from the North, and the Reapers were in the East. There wouldn't be time to fight through them before they got caught in the fog. South was the cliffs. So their only way out was back the way they came, to the West.

A second horn belled through the trees, and another blanket of fog started trickling in from the West.

Wells doubled back when he realized Clarke wasn't following him. “Clarke? We have to go, now!”

Clarke didn't answer him, searching the trees below them for any sign of the Commander.

“Clarke!”

There. A small group ran out of the trees towards the cliffs. Clarke swooped down before Wells could stop her, landing in a tree at the edge of the forest. She couldn't leave until she knew she was safe. There was still a way out, a rapidly narrowing path West along the cliff, between the forest and the drop off.. The Commander's group was nearly there, but then more Reapers fell on them from the trees. Clarke watched with her heart in her throat as the commander put herself between her hunters and the Reapers, drawing their attack down on her and leaving the others a clear path while she was forced back, step by step towards the cliff until the fog rolled in and cut her off.

First one Reaper, and then another fell under her sword. She took the last one out with a backhand cut across the knees and then kicked him over the edge. But by then the fog was all around her and closing in fast. One one side, Trikru, on the other, Reapers, and neither of them could get through the acid to save her or finish her off. Clarke could see her evaluating her situation, and when she looked thoughtfully over the cliff edge, Clarke knew exactly what she was thinking.

Wells landed beside her, turning her around to face him with a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, there's nothing you can do now.”

Clarke shrugged him off. “She's going to jump.”

“So what?” he snapped. “Clarke, I know she saved you once, but that was over ten years ago! And you were kids! You don't owe her anything.”

Clarke ignored him.

The rest of the hunting party was shouting and pointing, trying to find a way around the fog bank that had separated them from their leader. The reapers were jeering and laughing from the other side, shaking their weapons and stamping their feet, sharpened teeth bared in sickening grins. Clarke's stomach turned. She couldn't watch this.

“Hold this,” she unbuckled her small travel bag from the belt at her waist and shoved it into Wells' hands.

“What are you doing?”

Clarke opened her wings with a snap. “Don't follow me.”

“There's nothing you can- damnit Clarke!” Well's wild grab for her missed, and Clarke threw herself out of the tree before she could change her mind. The wind blowing down from the mountain lifted her up above the fog, but the rising gas still burned in her nostrils. She pulled her scarf up over her nose and flew higher, heading for the cliff.

The Commander was still there, balanced on the edge where the crumbling ground met the sky. She was nearly obscured by the fog, but her cloak was a bright slash of red against the acid green that surrounded her. Arrows sliced through the sky. The reapers had spotted Clarke. She heard a whistle and a thunk, and one of them dropped like the stone that had smashed into his temple at terminal velocity from a well-aimed sling.

Wells still had her back.

Clarke was going to owe him big time after this.

She flew faster. There was no time to take evasive action. Her only choice was speed. She took a deep breath of clear air and dove through the encroaching edges of the fog, hoping she could make it through this with most of her skin intact. It was, without a doubt, the stupidest thing she had ever done. And she didn't care.

She couldn't let her die.

She wouldn't let her die.

Burning feathers had a very distinctive smell. Almost there. A spear tried to skewer her, and she tipped her wings to avoid it, losing precious time. There was a shout from the hunters. Clarke heard the word Skaikru, along with what she could only guess were several variants of let's get her!

She really wished they wouldn't. She was trying to save their infamous leader here.

The last thin curtain of fog cleared and then she was staring into familiar bloodshot green eyes that widened in disbelief in the split second before Clarke folded her wings and dropped, reaching out to catch hold of whatever straps and edges of leather armour she could wrap her hands around before slamming into the commander and carrying them both off the edge of the cliff.

It wasn't falling. Quite.

Clarke beat her wings against the added weight; trying desperately to slow their decent. Her shoulders and back burned, and pain shot through the muscles keeping them aloft. Even the biggest and strongest Skaikru couldn't fly with more than a light pack or the smallest child. They just weren't built for it.

Clarke wasn't particularly big or strong, but she was stubborn.

Her passenger only struggled for a moment before going limp. Clarke appreciated that. This was hard enough without flailing limbs to contend with. She really appreciated the lack of a knife in her gut too. Stabbing your ride when you're several hundred feet in the air might be a stupid idea, but there was no accounting for instinct in life or death situations, and Clarke was the one who'd done the grabbing. She was very glad the commander wasn't that dumb, and not only because it was currently keeping her insides knife-free.

She would have been really pissed off to find out she was in love with an idiot.

The ground was coming up a good deal faster than Clarke liked. She ignored the aching protest of her wings, flaring them out to catch the air in a last, agonizing bank before they hit the dirt together and rolled, landing in a tangled mess of bruises, burns and broken feathers.

#clarke/lexa #clexa fanfic #Clexa #My writing

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holylulusworld · 4 years ago

Text

Where you belong

9000 followers celebration - sequels

Summary: We learn how Dean’s relationship with his non-hunter girlfriend developed.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Characters: Jo Harvelle, Charlie Bradbury, Sam Winchester

Warnings: angst, language, comforting, fluff, injuries, blood, light smut

Words: 2k+

Divider by @writeyourmindaway

Sequel to: Out of place

One year later…

“That fucking asshole,” storming down the staircase of the bunker, a box with your belongings in your hands you curse under your breath. “Six years, all for nothing. That fucker!”

“Sweetheart,” Dean rushes upstairs to take the box out of your hands. “What happened, babe?” Dean pecks your lips, looking at you, expecting an answer. “Y/N?”

“I got fired, Dean, that’s what happened.” You stomp your foot before you sigh deeply, sitting onto the cool step of the staircase.

“What? I thought everything was good at work,” Dean looks at you, wiping a single tear off your cheek. “Tell me what happened and who I have to beat into a pulp or kill. Depends on what that son of a bitch did.” You chuckle before your face falls.

“I asked for a week off and he offered I can stay home for the rest of my life. We argued, I may or may not called him a son of a bitch and at the end of the conversation the security guard had to part me from my boss.”

“What did you do? I mean, you never get aggressive.” Dean gasps, hearing what you did.

“I tried to strangle him after I kneed his crotch.” You grin, proud of yourself. “He whined like a dog.”

“Damn, sweetheart,” Dean grins, sitting next to you. “What will you do now, doc?”

“I thought you’ll hire me,” you pout, leaning your head against Dean’s shoulder. “I live here for free, have spared some money, and know-how to hunt now.”

“No way, Y/N,” you whine, tugging at Dean’s plaid. “I will not let you hunt! I trained you to make sure you can defend yourself when I or Sammy are not around, not for you to go out there and hunt monsters.”

“You have no problem with Jo, Charlie, or Jody hunting monsters! Charlie was a tech-nerd and Jody a Sheriff before they started hunting, just like Donna. Hell, Claire slices vamps’ heads like it’s the easiest thing to do.”

“No more talking to Claire,” your boyfriend grunts. “I don’t want you to get hurt or worse, baby girl. We will find a task for you. How about research?”

“I want to slice a vamp head off,” you poke Dean’s thigh, giving him your puppy dog eyes.

“Over my dead body, Y/N. I mean it,” Dean pecks your lips, cupping the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. “I promise we will find a way you can help us. I never had someone stitching me up but Sammy. A doctor would be handy.” He smirks, letting his lips linger on your soft pillows.

“Please, D’. I will do as you say if you let me come with you next time. I want to be useful,” you snicker when Dean mouths ‘no’. “Can I not change your mind?” Your hand creeps toward his crotch and you grin as you know, Dean cannot say no to you…

“Not fair,” Dean pants, watching your slide your hands over his chest, a seductive smile on your lips. You batt your eyelashes, slowly rocking your hips. “Baby,” he purrs feeling your warmth surround his aching cock.

“I’ve missed my boyfriend,” you hover over Dean, claiming his lips whilst you roll your hips, hoping you can seduce Dean to take you with him on the next hunt. “I missed his cock too.”

“You’re a bad liar, sweetheart,” he grips your hips, guiding you up and down his length. “I know what you are trying to do here, Y/N.”

“Fucking my boyfriend to make me cum?” You grin. “I wanted to feel his thick length split me open, make me go insane on top of him.”

“Bad girl, lying to the man she loves,” flipped onto your back you giggle. Dean has his arms around your body, holding you close to his chest. “I love you too much to let you join me on a hunt. I want you to stay innocent.”

“Dean, I want to be with you. I accepted your ‘job’, or rather the family business. If you want me to be a part of your life, let me be a part. I promise to stay behind if you tell me so,” you run your hands over his back, loving the way he slowly moves his hips, moaning your name.

“You’ll stay behind, do as I say,” you nod eagerly, cupping Dean’s face to plant soft kisses to his freckles. “I mean it.”

“Yes, Mr. Winchester, Sir…”

“I hate it,” Dean grunts, watching you talk to Charlie. “I don’t want my girl to get hurt. What if the monster wants to hurt her to hurt me?” The hunter paces around the bar, glancing at you now and then.

“Dean, calm. It is a simple salt ’n’ burn. Jo is here, Charlie too. I asked Charlie to stay behind with Y/N. If you want me to, I stick to Y/N’s side the whole time,” Sam offers, knowing his brother is beyond worried.

“You will?” Sam nods whilst Dean tries to swallow the fear down. “It’s a ghost, not a Wendigo. Right?”

“Right, Dean. I promise to stay behind. Y/N wants us to show her the ropes, not hunt the ghost on her own. We will show her how to do it.”

“Okay, you’re right, Sammy,” sighing Dean walks over to you and Charlie, a soft smile on his lips as you lean into his embrace. “Sam said he’ll show you the ropes whilst you watch me kill the evil ghost.”

“AWESOME!” You squeal, turning in Dean’s embrace to crush your lips onto your boyfriends. “I promise to stay behind, be good, and watch my sexy boyfriend kill the ghost.”

“I can stay behind too, take care of Y/N. Sam and you can kill the ghost,” Jo offers, and you wonder why she suddenly acts as if she cares about your safety.

“I’ve got this,” Charlie exclaims, glaring at Jo. “I hunted monsters before too, even followed Dorothy to Oz. No need for you to ‘help’ us.”

“I think Charlie and I are good. I will be careful, use my knowledge and training. Thanks for the offer, tho,” you do not trust Jo but in case she meant well, you stay polite but cautious.

“I am here if you need me,” Jo sips at her beer, ogling Dean when he runs his hands over your back.

“Sam, it’s not one ghost, it’s a goddamn nest or something,” Dean pants running downstairs to find you. “We need to get Charlie and Y/N out of here!”

“I know,” Sam shoots another round of rock salt at three ghosts. “Shit, I should’ve stayed by her side, Dean.”

“We believed it’s a walk in the park, Sammy. Now let’s hurry and not lose more time.” Dean runs faster when a scream let his heart clench in his chest. He can hear Charlie call your name, followed by another scream and a gunshot.

“Y/N!” Panicked Dean jumps down the last steps, running toward Charlie’s position. “Sweetheart,” he falls to his knees, watching blood seep out of a wound at your arm.

“What happened?” Charlie adds pressure to the bleeding wound while Dean checks on you. “Baby girl?”

“Jo happened, that stupid bitch,” Charlie spats, and Sam’s eyebrows shoot up at his friends’ harsh words. “I told Y/N to stay inside the salt circle I drew at the lobby and to not leave it,” Charlie explains. “I gave her the iron rod.”

“How did she end up in the hallway when you told her to stay at the lobby in a salt circle?” Sam watches Jo run toward the hallway, a scared expression on her face. “Jo – why is Y/N here?”

“I kinda called for help,” Jo shrugs, acting as if she didn’t almost get you killed. “I was surrounded by three ghosts, another was getting closer and I remembered Y/N has the iron rod. I believed I can fend the ghosts off and bring Y/N back to the lobby in time, I was wrong.”

“Interesting,” Charlie gets up to backhand Jo. “Why is the rod in Y/N’s hands if you asked her for the weapon? Why is she here alone if you need help?”

“Dean,” coughing you look up at Dean, cupping his cheek. “You are safe, thank goodness.” Drifting back into unconsciousness you don’t feel Dean picks you carefully up.

“Sam, Charlie, I need one of you in the back, the other takes the front. Jo, just don’t die,” Dean orders, rushing down the hallway to bring you out of the house.

“Over there,” Charlie fires another round at two ghosts threatening to get close to Dean. “Sam, to your left…”

“I am a warrior now, a real hunter,” you grin, looking at the bandaid at your upper arm. “Look at me, Dean!” Dean paces around the room, worriedly looking at you sit on his bed at the bunker. “D’, I am fine.”

“No, you are not fine, Y/N. I got you hurt,” he sighs, sitting on the bed to take your hand, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles. “What happened while I was away?”

“Charlie heard you and Sam fight the ghosts. She said something is wrong and that she’s worried.” Dean nods, watching you crawl onto his lap to wrap your arms around his body. “Charlie drew a circle with salt, gave me the iron rod, and told me not to leave.”

“But you left,” you nod, sniffling silently. “Why, sweetheart?”

“I heard Charlie shoot a ghost, calling Sam’s name. Then there was a loud bang, I assumed you or Sam fought with a ghost or more. I was worried, torn between leaving the circle and offer help or staying inside the circle to not break my promise.”

“What happened, Y/N? I need to know why you risked your life.” You hear the worry in Dean’s voice, so you cup his face to press your lips to his jaw. “Please.”

“Jo, she called my name. At first, I wanted to stay inside the circle but she screamed for help, telling me she needs the rod,” you shrug, looking at the scar at Dean’s chin, sliding your thumb over the fine line. “I left the circle, followed the direction she gave me but when I arrived in the hallway, she wasn’t there but three ghosts were.”

“I will kill her,” Dean grits out. “I swear she’s dead.”

“The ghosts wanted to attack me, so I hit one with the rod, and another but the next, he hit my arm with a knife or something. I stumbled and crawled away. The other ghost, she threw the rod at me and I do not know what happened after.”

“Charlie found you, drew another salt circle, and protected you until Sammy and I arrived. I am so sorry for leaving you alone, sweetheart.”

“Dean, it’s not your fault, I left the safe place to help Jo. This wasn’t the plan, okay.”

“I love you, Y/N,” Dean presses his lips to yours, holding you tight enough to make you feel his strength. “I will never let you out of sight again, like ever.”

“I love you too, Dean.”

“Did you want to kill my girl?” Dean is angrily clenching his jaw, pointing a finger at Jo. “I am asking you one more time!”

“No, okay! I wanted to show her she has nothing in common with you. She’s a scared girl, not a hunter. I wanted to scare her off but the ghosts were faster than I,” Jo swallows thickly watching Dean storm toward her to wrap his hand around her throat, slamming the blonde into the wall.

“I should kill you,” he threatens. “If not for Ellen you would be dead.”

“Dean, don’t,” you walk into the library, shaking your head. “I think she learned her lesson. You are my man, not hers. No matter what she tries, you love me.”

Dean drops his hand, watching Jo slump to the floor. “I love Y/N, Jo. If I ever get to know you tried anything to hurt my girl again, even if it’s only a nasty look, you will feel my wrath.”

“Fiancè,” grinning you wiggle your fingers in front of Jo’s face, meeting her angry eyes. “I will become Mrs. Dean Winchester soon,” you say.

“In your face, bitch,” Charlie exclaims. “Y/N is Dean’s girl, not you. Now move your treacherous ass out of the bunker and never come back.”

“My words exactly,” Sam nods, helping Jo up, grabbing her bag on his way to guide her out of your home.

“When did you get engaged? Was the proposal romantic? Did he tell you how much he loves you?” Charlie looks at the ring, squealing in excitement. “In her face!”

“He proposed at his room, holding my hand,” you swoon, watching Dean nervously rub the back of his neck. “It was romantic, he had a single red rose, kneeled and all.”

“I had to show Y/N this,” pressing one hand to his heart Dean smiles, “is the place where she belongs.” Charlie sighs deeply when you jump into Dean’s arms, kissing the hunter fiercely.

Dean looks at you in his arms, watching you touch his heart. “Where I belong…”

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

Dean/Jensen Forever Tags

@spnfamily-j2

@supernatural-bellawinchester

@negans-lucille-tblr

@deans-baby-momma

@thefaithfulwriter

@squirrelnotsam

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@rosalynshields

A/N: If your name is crossed out Tumblr won’t let me tag you.

#Out of place sequel #Where you belong #dean winchester #dean x reader #angst #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester SPN #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester one shot #9000 followers #9000 Followers Celebration #Lulu's 9000 followers celebration #ligth smut

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the-hoarse-bard · 3 years ago

Text

We emerged from the bunker by moonlight. Veronica looked like she was about ready to give the door guard her power fist straight through his skull. We headed back to Caesar's tent. It was time to deal with Benny properly.

Caesar was waiting up for me to return, "I felt the ground shake a while ago. I'll take it that means you did your job." Good, I didn't even need to lie to him, "There are rewards for doing as I command. Today your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies. Go to Benny, and tell him what you decide. My praetorians will carry out what you choose, unless you'd rather do it yourself." I looked over at Benny and asked, "I suppose I can't say I'd rather let him live?" Caesar scoffed, "You need to work on your bloodlust. We won't speak again until Benny is dead. Walk away if you want, but if you do, he's going up on a cross. You'd still be making a choice."

I walked up to Benny, and he asked, "So baby, what did you find down there?" I told him, "Hundreds of Securitrons, all upgraded now, just like Yes Man told me to do." He shook his head in disbelief, "So, the old man had a whole army on layaway? Clever player. Just imagine Baldie's face when those securitrons come pouring out. I'd pay to have that bronzed... So, now it's all up to you and Yes Man. Make Vegas a town I would've been proud of, baby. Let it swing."

I told Benny, "So... Caesar says I get to decide how you'll die." Benny suddenly looked serious, "I see. And how's that gonna happen?" I thought for a moment, before saying, "What do you say we finally get a fair fight? One on one, no tricks, no traps." Benny smiled, "Machetes at twenty paces, huh? Alright then, I accept. You're a class act, baby. Don't go thinking that means I'm gonna go easy on you, though." With that, Benny was stood up and escorted out the tent, with me following close behind.

Benny was first into the arena. I had been outfitted with special ceremonial armor by the praetorians. Benny was still in his suit, smoking on the other end of the arena. He noticed me and took one long drag before tossing the butt to the ground, "Welp. It's been a long, winding road, baby. Looks like we're finally at the end of it."

Benny made the first move, rushing me with speed I hadn't expected of someone dressed like he was. I clashed my blade against his. He'd clearly only used smaller blades before, I threw him off easy. I counterattacked, giving him a slice across the cheek. Benny cursed, and swung his machete at me backhanded, catching me off guard and leaving a nasty gash in the breast plate I was wearing. In response, I tackled him with my full weight, knocking him to the ground, his machete skittering to the other side of the arena.

Benny looked up at me shocked, his nose bleeding, "Do it baby. It's all I deserve doing what I'd done. Just know that what I did wasn't personal against you." I nodded, "I know. It's just business." I raised the machete up and struck down on Benny's neck, severing his head. The legionaries watching us cheered.

After the deed was done, I noticed something had fallen out of the inner pocket of Benny's jacket. A beautifully ornamented gold-plated pistol, the pearl grips decorated with an image of Saint Marry. I checked the magazine. It was full. He'd managed to hide it from the Legion. Maybe he'd been planning to shoot his way out if he'd won. Maybe he'd been planning to give me a second helping with it. A joker to the end. I took his jacket with me as well as the gun. I'd find something to do with them that was much more respectful than whatever the Legion had planned.

#story post #fallout new vegas #Will #benny gecko #caesar's legion

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anon-natalia-romanova · 3 years ago

Text

Waking up with a tube down my throat might be the second most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever endured. It’s not painful per se, but the constant want to gag is overwhelming. A few minutes after I’ve pressed the button to call the nurse, the doctor shows up and checks me over, lets me know that I’ve been in a chemical induced coma for six days while my lungs repair themselves. My first thought is of him, how his face looked simultaneously accepting of his fate and terrified as they tazed him over and over like livestock.

I remember how his hand felt against my rib, searing hot touch bringing me back from the endless fog right before he – he saved my life. That realization sends my heart monitor chirping at a rapid pace and the doctor patting my arm, telling to me to calm down.

Madame B follows the doctor in a few hours later and I can tell by the way her hands are tucked behind her back and her nose is upturned that I’m in deep shit. I scramble up as much as I can, a show of respect by trying to sit up as straight as possible. “Госпожа, мне так жаль ...” (Madame, I am so sorry…)

My body pitches to the right when I’m struck with a solid backhand, my lip splitting and filling my mouth with blood. “Ты больше не будешь говорить.” (You will not speak again.) My eyes water and my hands turn to fists in my lap. The only person I’ve found that hits harder than she does is the Soldier, but he has a metal arm and she’s in her late sixties. I don’t wipe the tears from my face, I just meet her condescending glare.

She stands proud again, her hands clasped in front of her. “Солдат назвал тебя лучшим. Как только вы выздоровеете и вернетесь, вы двинетесь дальше. Вы будете таким же солдатом, как он. Его товарищ.” (Soldier has named you as the best. As of your recovery and return you will move on from here. You will be a soldier just like him. His partner.) My eyes go wide in confusion. When they said that I would be graduating, I didn’t know that I would be graduating to Hydra. It feels like I’ve been dropped into freezing water and I can’t find my way back to the surface.

“Госпожа, пожалуйста ...” (Madame, please…)

This time she puts more force into the hand that meets my face. Fist steeled like a mace and the sickening snap of my jaw has me grunting. It sits at a grotesque angle, the pain near blinding as I try to hold on. Try not to crumble in front of her. “Считайте эту практику разговором только тогда, когда к вам обращаются.” (Consider this practice for only speaking when spoken to.)

She turns on her heel and leaves the room. I watch as the doctor punctures the line to my IV and injects a drug. I feel the heaviness settle in my bones again, and as I lay back the memory of the soldier being tazed plays over again in my head. Only his eyes start to look a lot greener, and his hair starts to look a lot more red.

-------

The next week I return to training and because I can’t do anything strenuous, Madame B has me doing rudimentary ballet practice. She’s always claimed that it kept girls strong in all the parts of the body they were weak, while also keeping them flexible and focused. Satin ribbons tied over my ankles, en pointe and moving in a near trancelike state. My body says soft and sweet, but my face holds a silent rage with the want to die on the spot before Hydra takes me.

It must have occurred to you by now. You weren’t training anyone important, other than me. Everything from here on out might as well be fucking summer camp and team building exercises. We weren’t learning anything; you were choosing a new partner. And you’d condemned me.

You walk in that day with three handlers instead of four, and even though my cheeks are puffed from where metal fuses my jaw shut, there’s a smirk of satisfaction that plays at the corner of my lips. I’ve been fantasizing about killing them all for days. I know that in my black shorts, satin point shoes, leotard, and feeding tube strapped to my face, I don’t look intimidating, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to slice through every single one of them with my glare.

@fallen-winter-soldier

#winterwidow #i thought shit was gonna get real last night #but in fact #i have deciced #that it will get real right now

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callboxkat · 4 years ago

Text

The Truth

Fandom: Supernatural

Author’s note: I chose to begin the story with the scene in Billie's library. That part mostly aligns with canon, but I feel it provides important context for the confession. Most of the dialogue comes from this transcript: http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/15.18_Despair_(transcript)

Summary: The confession scene between Castiel and Dean ends a little differently.

Warnings: death, violence, injuries

Word count: 3764

Writing Masterpost!

...

“I'll let you in on something,” Billie says, her hand just barely keeping her own scythe away from her throat. She stands pressed against the wall of her library, where endless bookshelves stretch in either direction, each one containing hundreds of tomes, each one detailing someone’s death. She seems unconcerned by the blade’s closeness—and she has reason not to be. She focuses on Dean, ignoring the angel behind him. “When you cut me… that little nick? It was fatal.” She grimaces. “Something I can't survive. See for yourself.”

She reaches with her free hand and pulls aside her coat—or rather, peels it back from where it sticks to her flesh, which has turned a necrotic green, visibly rotting away. The ugly wound has spread from the cut on her shoulder across part of her chest, stretching down under her sleeve to an unknown extent. The infection seems to spread even in the moment before she allows the coat to fall back into place.

Dean falters slightly. Because Billie is right. That wound does not look survivable—that wound is death itself. Dealt by a blade that the previous Horseman had once said could reap God Himself. But he keeps the scythe at her throat—dying or not, Dean knows better than to lower it.

He may have made a mistake, coming here.

Billie places her other hand on the scythe, glaring.

“You killed me, Dean. So yeah, no. I don't care about your friends. I don't care about your family. But seeing you here has reminded me of something.” Her grimace of a smile widens, and she inhales sharply. “There is one thing I'd like… one wish, before I go. I'd like to see you dead.”

Dean’s expression hardens.

Billie suddenly shoves the scythe aside and surges forward, backhanding Dean with her right hand. Cas lunges forward to catch him. They both move towards Death—to do what, against her, neither knows—but Billie has already taken hold of her scythe and stands tall, powerful even as she grows closer to her end. She slices the scythe, Castiel and Dean barely lurching back in time to avoid it. Both men’s eyes are wide. This is not going to plan, not at all.

Billie smiles.

She thrusts out a hand and the angel and human are flung back, flying between two stark gray bookcases to land harshly on their backs. A single book on one shelf falls over, opening to blank pages.

Castiel and Dean struggle to their feet, Cas with one hand on Dean’s arm. He doesn’t seem to realize having done so, and keeps it there. Dean does notice, but he doesn’t mind. He reaches for Cas, as well.

Billie waits for them to get back up, standing there with her scythe. She is in no rush. She has a little time, for this. Maybe she’ll even kill the pet angel, first. Make Dean watch, before she claims him, too.

“I'm so glad you came.”

She stalks leisurely forward, amused as Dean and Cas dash down the row of bookcases, trying to get away. Yes, revenge is the perfect way to spend her final moments. Their fear alone is quite satisfying to watch. She follows her targets, smiling.

They manage to make it back to the door they’d so foolishly opened to reach her, and dash through the portal. It blends seamlessly back into the normal wall of the library as they close the portal.

No matter, Billie thinks. The chase is half the fun.

…

Dean and Cas run through the door, Cas slamming it shut behind them. The wall returns to regular brick. They are back in the bunker.

“Come on,” Dean says, reaching for Cas, already walking. Cas follows closely behind.

They know they are still not safe. Billie isn’t called Death, a Horseman, for nothing. Very few things can get in this bunker uninvited, but Dean is sure she is one of the ones that can.

Dean makes it to the map room, walking agitatedly. Because anything is better than just standing there, waiting for her to come. Dean spins around as he walks, searching for something, anything that can keep Death itself at bay. “Come on, Dean. Think, think!”

As Dean continues walking, searching, Cas speaks up, holding his hands out to the sides.

“Dean, where are you going?”

“I—I don’t know!”

“You know she can find us anywhere.”

Dean turns to him, desperate. “I know, I know that! I just....” He paces, then pauses opposite the angel. His voice quietens. “What do we do, Ca–“

Dean gasps, cut off by a shock of pain in his chest, like something has clawed its way inside and has sealed around his heart like a vice. There is a roaring in his ears, electricity in the air. The temperature drops several degrees.

Billie is here.

Dean groans, dropping to his knees, clutching his chest. Castiel stares in shock.

Billie stands behind him on the balcony above, one hand holding her scythe, the other held up, slowly clenching into a fist. She watches as Dean writhes. She is doused in shadow, but her satisfaction is palpable. Castiel knows she is smiling.

“Billie,” Cas says aloud. He looks at her, then drops to Dean’s side, taking him by the shoulders and trying to help him up.

“My heart—” Dean gasps, his voice gravelly with pain. “My heart. I can feel her.”

Billie, on the balcony, smiles wider. Her rotting, gnarled hand clenches further, trembling. The power it takes to do this, to kill even this one human slowly, is draining her—she is quite close to the end now—but it is worth it, worth edging to her grave that much faster. Oh, is it worth it.

“Come on, Dean, we’ve gotta go,” Cas says. He can’t stop Billie, not right now, not like this. He has to get Dean out of there, somewhere they have time to think, to come up with something. He will not let Dean die like this. “Come on.”

He gets Dean on his feet and bears most of his weight as he guides the man down the hall, away from Billie, moving as fast as they can. Dean continues to groan in pain, but he is just as determined.

Billie, meanwhile, steps lightly down the stairs, taking her time, her injured hand still outstretched. Bits of bone are visible now. She seems not to mind. She simply follows, relishing this moment.

“It's you, Dean,” Billie calls. “It's always been you. Death-defying. Rule-breaking. You are everything I lived to set right. To put down. To tame. You are human disorder incarnate.”

Cas and Dean hurry on, passing by the tables, the useless telescope, the books upon books of lore that probably wouldn’t have helped even if they had time to search for something, anything, that would help.

Billie clenches her hand again and Dean collapses against a wall. Cas touches his shoulders, worried, terrified. They are briefly hidden from Billie’s view by a row of bookshelves. But she continues forward, relentless. Castiel looks over his shoulder towards her voice and the sound of her all-too-calm footsteps.

Cas heaves Dean up and they disappear downstairs, Cas now practically carrying Dean through the halls of the basement level. Dean still clutches his heart. Neither of them knows how much longer he will last if nothing changes.

“I’ve got you,” Cas says, half to himself.

Billie follows them here, too. Her scythe taps on the floor with every other step, almost like a cane. Small cracks appear in the floor each place it touches. Even the concrete, infused with warding magic as it is, is not immune to its power.

“Come on, Dean,” Billie says, her voice echoing down the hall. “You can't escape me.”

She drags the blade of her scythe against the tile wall. Cracks and an ashen color spread from the tip of the blade, like a spreading infection. Sparks fly, flaring in the dimness.

Ahead of her but still far too close, Castiel and Dean hurry on, the grinding of the blade against the wall grating on their ears. Dean would cover his ears, but he can only manage another wince, one arm wrapped around Cas’s shoulder, the other clutching his chest.

Billie is having fun, toying with them. She strolls further forward, ignoring the infection clawing its way further up her chest, spreading like ink in water up her neck. “Don't you think it's finally time? Time for the sweet release of Death?”

Cas and Dean make it into the main storage room, and Cas slams the door shut behind them. Dean, released, stumbles to the side, only to be quickly steadied by his companion. Still, Dean doubles over, coughing, wheezing, holding his chest, leaning heavily on one of the shelving units. Billie’s vice grip continues to tighten. His vision is filled with black spots.

Cas finds a pocket knife in Dean’s back pocket—he knows his hunter well, and Dean would never be without one—and uses it to slice into his own palm. He then paints a bloody sigil on the door. It flares with light as Castiel finishes drawing. There is no such thing as warding for Death itself, but this is the closest and most powerful sigil he knows. He can only hope it will work. It has too.

As the glow of the sigil fades and its magic takes effect, Dean’s shoulders slump; and he takes in a deep breath, the pain fading. He straightens, leaning on the shelves.

“Thank you,” he gasps.

“It worked?” Cas asks, hardly believing it.

Dean swallows hard and nods once.

“It blocked her grip on you,” Cas observes, relieved, but not relaxing just yet.

Billie slams her fist into the door. It shudders, but does not yield.

Cas turns to look, and seeing that the warding is holding, looks back to Dean. He looks to one side, then the other, thinking. “Dean, she said that wound was killing her. Maybe we can wait her out.”

Dean drops his hand from his chest and levels a look at Cas. “Yeah, and if we can't?

Cas sets his jaw, his angel blade appearing in his hand. “Then we fight.”

Billie’s fist slams into the door again. The warding flares with light. Not quite so bright, this time.

Dean notices, and shakes his head. “We'll lose.” He looks around the storage room, at the solid walls, the single exit. He wanders over to the devil’s trap laid into the floor, and runs a hand along the back of the chair there. “I just led us into another trap,” he says, not needing to gesture at the literal prison they stand in.

Slam. The warding flares. Weaker.

“All because I couldn't hurt Chuck. Because I was angry, and because I just needed something to kill, and because that's all I know how to do.”

Cas takes a step forward, his heart breaking, because that’s not true at all. “Dean...”

Slam. Weaker.

Dean scoffs, his gaze darting to the door and back to Cas. “It was Chuck all along. We shouldn't have ever left Sam and Jack. We should be there with them right now.” His voice breaks, and his eyes are shining now, only making Castiel’s heart ache further. “Everybody's gonna die, Cas. Everybody. I never… I never even got to apologize to Jack. The kid probably still thinks I hate him. And Sam—I’ll never see Sam again.” He shakes his head. “I can't stop it. She's gonna get through that door.”

Slam. Weaker still.

Castiel’s angel blade disappears. He looks down. “I know,” he admits quietly.

“And she's gonna kill you, and she’ll make me watch. And then she's gonna kill me.” Slowly, he didn’t need to add. And everything, everything, is going to just… end.”

Slam. Weaker still. Cas looks over his shoulder, thinking. A part of him tells him that Dean is right, that this situation is hopeless. It might be different if he still had his wings, if he could take them somewhere, anywhere else, just for a little more time, enough to wait Billie out. It would be different if Jack was there, and if Jack still had his powers. There was a time when he was powerful enough—but their failed attempt to kill God has left Jack nearly powerless. His grace seemed barely strong enough to keep him alive.

Slam.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, a desolate resignation in his eyes.

But a thought has occurred to Castiel: Jack.

He pauses, staring ahead, thinking. “Wait, there is.... There's one thing she's afraid of. There's one thing strong enough to stop her.” He looks up and sees Dean staring at him.

Dean Winchester. Beautiful as ever.

Cas takes a breath, steadies himself, and decides. He looks Dean in the eye, suddenly strangely calm.

Slam. Cas barely hears it.

Dean senses the change in tone and frowns, waiting for Cas to continue. Which he does.

“When Jack was dying, I… I made a deal, to save him.”

Dean is taken aback. Of all the things he might have expected Cas to say, this was not one of them. “You what?”

He looks at Dean, almost pleading. This is the moment, he knows. “The p—the price was my life. When I experienced a moment of true happiness, The Empty would be summoned, and… it would take me. Forever.

Dean stares for a moment, processing. A moment they do not have. Billie’s fist slams, again, into the door.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Dean asks. He has a bad feeling about where this might be going, and he does not like it.

Cas smiles, tears already collecting in his eyes. “You know, I always wondered… ever since I took that burden, that curse, I wondered… what it could be? What my true happiness could even look like. I never found an answer, because the one thing I want... It's something I know I can't have. I’ve always known, I think. But I think I know... I think I know, now.” He smiles, a tear rolling down his cheek. His voice breaks. “Happiness isn't in the having, it's in just being. It's in just saying it.”

Dean doesn’t know how to even begin to process this. “What are you talking about, man?”

Behind them, Billie continues her attack on the warding. But it holds, for now. And neither Cas nor Dean notices her anymore. Not really. This is their moment, not hers.

Castiel steps closer, looking at Dean earnestly. Willing him to understand, to believe him. “I know. I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you. You're destructive, and you're angry, and you're broken. You're “daddy's blunt instrument.” And you think that hate and anger, that's... That's what drives you, that's who you are. It's not. And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for this whole world for love. That is who you are. You're the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.” Castiel smiles. He’s crying, and he doesn’t care. “You know… ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of Hell... knowing you has changed me.”

Dean blinks hard and looks down at the floor.

“Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack... I cared about the whole world, because of you.” He takes another step forward. “You changed me, Dean.”

Dean clears his throat and speaks, quietly. Because he knows, he knows what is happening, and he knows what Cas plans have happen. But he asks, anyway. Because he doesn’t want to believe it. “Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

Cas just gives him a soft look. “Because it is.”

Dean takes in a breath, to say what, he doesn’t know, but Cas cuts him off. He’s practically radiant with joy, at finally saying it. At speaking his truth, after all these years. Because even if he can’t have Dean, Dean will know.

“I love you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

Dean’s mouth opens. Closes. He stares. His voice is choked. “Cas, I… Please, don’t do this.”

Time has run out. Behind Dean, the spine-chilling sound of the Empty grows, black goo squeezing through the bricks of the wall, tendrils branching out into this world. Dean’s mouth opens as he turns to stare at the rapidly opening portal, all too aware of what this means. There are tears in his eyes, now.

Castiel knows, too. He is still smiling. Still joyful. Radiant. Because he’s finally said it. After twelve years. He spoke his one, deepest truth. He is ready.

Dean’s mind is running a million miles a minute. “Cas….”

Billie has broken through the warding. The door swings open, and she steps through, grinning. The necrosis of what were once small wounds has spread, eating away at her arm, her chest, her neck. The hand that was cut by the scythe is practically skeletal, now. What is visible of her chest is little more than bone, gaps visible between them and ribbons of gray-green flesh. Yet her grip on her scythe remains steady.

She hasn’t seen the Empty, yet.

Cas ignores both entities, focused only on Dean. His eyes shimmering with tears, he steps forward, and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

But Dean isn’t quite ready for a goodbye, yet.

“No!” Dean says. He grabs Cas’s hand—the cut one—and shoves Cas aside. Cas is so surprised by the turn of events that it works, and he stumbles, not quite falling, staring at Dean, confused, now. There’s a bloody hand print on his shoulder, just where the now-faded mark was on Dean’s shoulder, from when Cas raised him from Perdition.

Billie steps further into the room. And then she sees the Empty. Her expression falters, her head tilting to the side. “Oh….”

She doesn’t finish. The black slime of the Empty slams into her, climbing and crawling and consuming until nothing is left but a ball of blackness; and then Death herself is sucked into the Empty.

Gone. Forever.

Cas smiles at Dean, a small, knowing smile. One of relief that Dean is safe, but also resignation. Because the Empty is still here to collect its prize. Because nothing has changed.

Except that it has.

Billie’s scythe remains. It falls, its owner gone, blade swinging down to the ground.

Dean catches it.

In one sweeping motion, before Cas or anyone else can react, he swings the weapon around and sinks the entire blade into the Empty, just as it begins to surge towards Cas.

This blade could kill Death itself with one little cut. Death, the old Death, had once said that this scythe could reap God Himself.

The Empty… stops. It freezes, still reaching out towards Cas, but goes no further.

It pulses.

Dean lets go of the scythe, steps back, towards a stunned Castiel, and grabs the angel’s trench coat in one hand without looking at him. His face is slack with shock as what he has just done. With fear that it won’t work.

The scythe turns black. A black so dark that it’s like a hole in the fabric of the world—just like the Empty.

The Empty pulses.

Cracks begin to spread, radiating from the sunken blade. The cracks seem to leak a faint, fragile light.

And then the Empty explodes.

…

Dean is alive.

He is pretty sure of this, at least. He doesn’t think his head would hurt so much, if he were dead. Unless Chuck thought it would be funny to send him back to Hell, or to Purgatory. Which is a distinct possibility.

So, perhaps pain doesn’t rule out death as much as it might for anyone else. But Dean really doesn’t think he is dead.

He hears a cough, from somewhere nearby. Dean opens his eyes.

He is lying on the floor of the bunker’s storage room, dust motes drifting in the air. His head pounds. His ears are ringing. He slowly sits up, feeling faintly punch-drunk.

The Empty is gone, as is Billie. The shelving units, lore, and supplies of the store room have all been blown back by the force of the explosion, and lie crumpled against the walls, bottles broken, precious artifacts crushed, pages strewn across the floor.

Dean is not alone in the room.

A body lies on its side beside him, clad in a trench coat, facing away from him.

“Cas?!” Dean asks loudly, his voice cracking.

Castiel groans. He shifts, and Dean feels relief—and anger, and so, so much more—wash over him. He rushes to Cas’s side and turns him onto his back, searching his face.

They’re alive. They’re both alive. Billie is gone, the Empty is gone, and they are both alive.

Cas blinks up at Dean from the floor, blue eyes wide. Dust and a bit of blood are streaked across his face. “Dean?”

“Cas,” Dean sighs. He looks around the demolished room.

“Are they… gone?” Cas asks. He seems oddly distant. Dean can relate.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so. Come on—get up.”

Dean and Cas both struggle to their feet and dust themselves off. Dean pats away a bit of dust from Cas’s lapel, and Cas watches the gesture, silent.

Then Dean jabs his finger into Cas’s chest, hard, and fixes him with a hard glare. Cas looks down at the finger, then stares back up at Dean, dumbfounded.

Dean’s voice shakes with anger. “Don’t you ever—ever—do something like that again! Do you hear me, damnit?”

Cas stares, his mouth slightly open.

“…Dean, I…”

“Did you really think I was going to let you do that? Just—just drop that on me, and—and die? How could you something like that to me? That is not okay, Cas!”

Cas continues to stare.

Dean stops, scoffs, and lowers his hand. He looks Cas over for a moment—living, breathing, Cas—thinking. And then he swallows, and nods. “We are not done talking about this,” he promises firmly.

And then, because today has gotten crazy enough, pulls the angel forward, and kisses him.

Dean releases the stunned angel a second later. “Now let’s go find Sam, and our kid.”

They still had a God to defeat.

...

Thank you for reading!

One additional tidbit I want to make clear: This alteration does, in my story, mean that Dean doesn't die on a piece of rebar. Cas goes with on the vampire hunt-the vampires do not, by the way, wear weird skull masks-and while Dean does get impaled, Cas is able to save him. And when Jack has time, he returns to visit his fathers. (Dean still has a dog, because Miracle was the best part of the episode.)

#spn #supernatural #castiel #dean winchester #spn fic #my writing #spn 15x18 #spn 15x18 rewrite #destiel #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #billie the reaper #the empty #spn season 15 #the truth fic #spn s15x18

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emachinescat · 4 years ago

Text

Between

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 17 / alt. 4 - identity reveal

Summary: When Uther finds out about Merlin’s magic, Arthur has already known for some time – and Arthur has no intention of letting his father kill his servant.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Uther

Words: 3,680

TW: None

Note: This takes place in early season 4, but is probably considered AU since Uther is not as obviously broken as he is canonically at the beginning, and is still actively ruling Camelot.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Uther Pendragon’s voice sliced sharper than a finely honed sword and pierced deeper than a ranger’s arrow. His words were stone and ice, and they took Prince Arthur’s carefully constructed world and turned it on its head, plunging the prince into a state of barely-contained panic.

“The boy must die.”

Arthur stood in front of his father, tall and bold, fighting valiantly against the full-bodied chill that stole his breath and curled his gut in on itself. His feet had merged with the floor, his knees locked as tension oozed throughout his body like his blood had turned to sludge. The prince forced himself to maintain eye contact with his father, but he could feel Merlin’s presence burning in his peripheral vision.

He knew what he would see if he did glance over, could still see the scene in all its terrible detail in his mind’s eye: his servant, the idiotic, self-sacrificing, smart-mouthed, secret sorcerer, hands bound behind his back, gagged, clothes rumpled, a red bruise blooming on his cheekbone, shoved to his knees, a guard’s hand gripping the back of his neck and forcing him to bow his head. He’d be trying to look up, anyway, Arthur knew, and his eyes would be wide and scared, laced with regret and only just hinting at the power just beneath the surface.

Arthur had known that Merlin had magic for quite some time now, so the revelation that the servant was actually a sorcerer had not shocked him the way it had his father. The fact that Merlin had been saving the king’s life when he was spotted with his eyes burning gold mattered little to King Uther, and he had ordered the servant��s arrest the second the assassin’s body hit the floor. Anger flared as Arthur thought about how roughly Merlin had been treated since his arrest – he had not fought back at all, had remained docile and subservient, and yet he had been hit and tied up like a common criminal.

Now, Uther, Arthur, a couple of guards, and the painfully subdued Merlin were congregated in the throne room. The king sat on his throne, spine stiff, chin raised, a dark fire nesting in his eyes.

“Father,” Arthur countered the death sentence, striving to keep his voice as calm and dispassionate as he could. From past experience dealing with his father, showing emotion would almost certainly be seen as a sign of weakness, or worse – a sign that Arthur had been enchanted and was not in his right mind. At this point, Uther did not know that Arthur was already aware of his servant’s magic, and the prince preferred to keep it that way, if at all possible. It would be simpler like that, less messy. “Merlin may have performed magic, but was it not to save your own life? How can you so easily condemn a man for risking his own life to save that of a king’s?”

The hardness in the king’s eyes did not give. “Magic is evil, Arthur, as I have told you many times before. As you have seen with your own eyes, time and again. Those who practice it cannot escape its corruption.”

Maintaining a level tone proved increasingly difficult, but Arthur managed to keep most high emotion out of his next words: “If Merlin were evil, or corrupted, as you say, then why would he use magic to save the life of the man who hates those like him? What possible motive could he have for saving you, if not out of selfless good will?”

Uther considered this for a moment, and Arthur thought – prayed – that he had struck a chord of logic somewhere deep inside of the bitter king. Then the king shrugged and said, “We all know that the boy has never been very bright.”

A strange snuffling noise came from the sorcerer beside him, barely audible. Arthur whipped his head round in disbelief. From the way Merlin was being forced to look at the ground, he couldn’t get a good look at his features, but Arthur could have sworn that Merlin had snickered through the gag. Well, at least someone was amused. To be fair, though, Arthur had himself reached the point of exhaustion where if he didn’t laugh, he would probably start to cry. This was ridiculous.

“I won’t deny that Merlin can be an idiot at times,” Arthur conceded carefully, thinking fondly of all the times he had bestowed that particular insult upon his servant. “In fact, you may well be right that it was idiocy that caused him to save your life.” Uther’s eyes glittered dangerously, but Arthur plowed forward. “After all, he had no obligation to save your life. His life would probably be a hell of a lot easier if he’d let you die.”

“How dare–”

“But,” Arthur interrupted, knowing that he was taking a risk, walking a very thin line. He could feel the eyes of everyone pressing into him from all sides. The weight of them was enormous. “Despite that, despite how easy – and convenient – it would have been to sit back and do nothing, he acted. Not only that, but he acted knowing that this would be his thanks, getting arrested and humiliated and dragged off as a prisoner instead of lauded as a hero.” Now that he had started speaking, the words poured out, chasing each other easily in the kind of eloquence that only true passion can produce.

“Tell me, Father – if it had been anyone else, anyone without magic, who had saved your life, how would you have repaid them?” When Uther glared but did not respond, Arthur answered his own question. “They would have been given a feast, a position in the royal household! But Merlin went out of his way to save you, and just because he used magic, something he was born with, he’s to be executed like he was the one who tried to kill you in the first place! Do you not see how little that makes sense?”

But Uther had caught on to something else Arthur had said, something that had slipped past his defenses in his fervor. “You knew.” The voice crackled with furious energy; the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stood to wary attention.

He tried to deflect. “Did you not hear what I said, Father? Merlin had no reason to risk his life for you, but he did. How can you kill him for doing the right thing?”

Uther was not to be deterred. The prince was used to this from his father; the king was very good at latching onto one particular detail that benefited him instead of seeing the bigger picture.

“You said that your servant was born with magic. A lie, of course, but the only reason you would think that is if he had told you himself. This means that you have been hiding him, keeping him from me. You have flouted the laws of this kingdom, made a mockery of your king, and put everyone we have sworn to protect at risk!” The scariest aspect of his speech was that he didn’t yell a word of it. The cold expression on his face stayed the same. But his eyes screamed.

Arthur couldn’t contain himself anymore. Irritation bubbling forth, he snapped back, “The only mockery here is your attempting to execute a good man for saving your life.”

Uther stood, the motion abrupt and violent. Arthur forced himself not to take a step back at the rage emanating from his father. As he watched, however, the king’s eyes softened, only just. Realization had dawned, and it was not a good one, either. “He’s enchanted you, my son.” Uther reached out his hand to touch Arthur’s cheek, and the prince slapped it away impatiently.

“I’m not enchanted,” Arthur countered firmly. “You are just very, very angry.” No one in the room breathed.

“Yes,” King Uther said slowly. “I am.” And he wheeled around to face the servant kneeling before him. The guard let go of Merlin’s neck and stepped back, but the warlock got no relief. The king’s gloved hand meshed itself in dark hair, yanking Merlin’s head back with such ferocity that Arthur feared he was trying to snap the servant’s neck. He saw Merlin’s face, scrunched in pain and steeped in terror, wrenched to the ceiling. He watched in horrified fascination as the Adam’s apple darted across the pale, extended throat.

Uther leaned into Merlin’s face, so close that their noses nearly touched, and spat, “Undo it.” Arthur saw each individual drop of spittle land on Merlin’s face. Unable to speak, Merlin returned the king’s stare, and after a long moment, his hair was released. Uther backhanded him, hard, across the face. Merlin’s head snapped to the side.

“Father, stop!” Arthur ordered, rapidly losing any control he might have had over the situation – and himself.

And then the king drew his sword.

Arthur’s own anger culminated in that moment – he had had enough. His father had finally crossed the line. Even as the king drew his sword, in his anger preparing to kill Merlin then and there, Arthur shoved himself between his father and his servant.

The sword hit home.

At first he didn’t feel anything. He watched the blade sink into his gut in an entranced, detached sort of way. In slow motion, he saw something inside of his father wither away, saw the horror manifest itself at the realization that he had done the unthinkable – he had killed his son.

Then the pain hit, and he knew he was dying. He fell.

***

Up until the point that Arthur had thrown himself in the way of the sword, Merlin had been letting his master handle the situation. Merlin was powerful enough to escape on his own, easily, but he had to let Arthur try to appeal to his father. This was something the prince needed to do, for himself. Merlin had known from the start that it wouldn’t make any difference. Probably Arthur had too. But he’d had to try.

And so Merlin had dealt with the arrest, with his arms being twisted painfully behind his back, with the gag and the manhandling and abuse. He’d allowed himself to be shoved to his knees, subservient to a man who stood for everything he hated, because he had dared to save this man’s life. He hadn’t stopped the assassin for Uther, of course. It had been for Arthur – it had all been for Arthur, everything he had ever done. So naturally, when Arthur took it upon himself to throw away all of the hard work Merlin had put into him over the years, Merlin was more than a little miffed.

The moment that the king’s blade connected with Arthur’s flesh, Merlin exploded out of his bonds. His eyes flashed gold, his irises burned like dragon’s fire, and a gentle wind stopped Arthur from hitting the ground. Merlin surged forward, still on his knees, and caught the gasping, bleeding, dying prince in his arms and pulled him close. Arthur’s blue eyes were glazed, not unlike a pond iced over during winter, losing light, losing warmth.

A hot tear wandered down Merlin’s face, dropped off his cheekbone, and reappeared as a small splash on a death-pale face. “Arthur,” Merlin breathed, and the grief was alive, bubbling, frothing, whipping his magic into a frenzy of pain and purpose.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was kind, barely a whisper, and pain coated his servant’s name, making Merlin sick. A shaking, pale hand reached up, cupped the back of Merlin’s neck with the gentlest of touches. Merlin leaned forward to hear what Arthur was trying to tell him. What he heard exasperated and amused him in equal measure: “You need … to run.”

Merlin shook his head, another tear dropping onto Arthur’s face. “I’m not going to leave you,” he promised, then looked up at the king, who hovered above like a broken god.

As soon as their eyes met, the king jolted back to life, but a mockery of himself, as if he were playing a part. Still, his gaze was earnest as he stepped forward, and he implored, “Save him.”

Merlin glanced down at Arthur, who was fading fast, and wondered if he had what it took to heal the prince. Healing had never been Merlin’s specialty; it was a precarious branch of magic, anyway, dealing with life and death and the law of equal exchange. And yet … and yet, Arthur was his destiny. The Great Dragon had said so. Arthur couldn’t die now; they still hadn’t built their Albion together.

Wait – the Great Dragon. Hope flooded into Merlin’s veins, strengthening him, fueling his magic.

The king must have taken Merlin’s pause for hesitation, and he crouched down so that he was eye-level with the man he had been about to kill. It was a nice change to being looked down upon, but Merlin barely registered it in the moment. His only concern was Arthur. “I will give you whatever you want, sorcerer.” He closed his eyes, opened them, and amended, with difficulty, “Merlin.” He glanced down at his son, then back at the sorcerer holding him. “Save his life, and I will pardon you. I will spare your life.” When Merlin didn’t immediately answer, he tried again, “I will reward you splendidly. I will let you stay in Camelot, if that is what you desire – I will do anything. Just save my son.”

Merlin didn’t know if Uther meant anything he had just said, or if he would go back on it as soon as Arthur was healed. But it didn’t matter. And he told the king such. “I don’t want anything from you,” he stated simply. “I’m not going to save Arthur so that my own life will be spared. I don’t give a damn about my own life. I’m saving him because it’s the right thing. And... because I love him, and the world we are going to build together, someday.” He looked down at the unconscious prince in his arms, allowed his eyes to glow gold and pretended he didn’t see the king flinch. Merlin knew he couldn’t do it all himself – he would need the help of an old friend – but he had to at least slow the bleeding, fix what he could until he could get Arthur to Kilgharrah.

When he had finished, the strength had drained out of Merlin, but the bleeding had all but stopped. He knew, however, that the bulk of the internal damage had not been mended. He needed to get Arthur out of the castle, to a clearing, away from Uther and prying eyes. He looked at the king, gaze steady, and when he spoke, his words radiated power and brooked no argument.

“If you want Arthur to live, I have to take him away for a short time. I will bring him back, alive.” Merlin didn’t care whether Uther approved of his plan or not. He was taking Arthur either way. A slight hesitation, and Merlin promised, “You can trust me. I will not let him die.”

***

Three Days Later

Arthur glanced up from the report he was reading as his servant entered the room without knocking, as usual. The prince laid the scroll on the table in front of him. “Merlin,” he drawled, his sharp eyes taking in the great purple bruise on the sorcerer’s cheek. Otherwise, Merlin had recovered from his arrest – physically, at least. Arthur had some real concerns about Merlin’s mental state after all he had been through, from his secret being discovered, to being arrested, threatened with execution, abused, and ultimately having Arthur all but die in his arms. The prince noted with concern that Merlin’s face was worn and drawn, but he was smiling. The grin was genuine, and infectious.

“How are you feeling, Sire?”

Arthur considered this for a moment, his hand briefly resting on the scar hidden beneath his tunic. He’d looked at it this morning; it was an ugly thing, long and white, but it looked months old, not days. It barely even hurt anymore. “Much better,” Arthur finally answered, and Merlin’s smile doubled in size. “Handy thing, having a dragon to heal you when you’re sick or injured.”

Merlin’s face flushed, and he clasped his hands together awkwardly. When Arthur had first discovered Merlin’s magic, he had made his servant tell him everything, and Merlin had – including the fact that he’d released the dragon from beneath Camelot, causing all the chaos of the attack on the citadel afterwards. It had taken Arthur a long time to come to terms with that particular piece of knowledge, and even now it was one of the few topics neither master nor servant brought up, as it came with too many painful and difficult memories. “Well, Kigharrah doesn’t exactly like being used as a healer. The only times he’s ever done the same for me is when I’ve been at death’s door – like with the Serket sting.” He’d told Arthur about that, as well.

“Well, I’m thankful, nonetheless. Despite our … history, I now owe him my life.” He reconsidered. “Well. Seeing as he’s already tried to kill me once before, maybe now we’re even.” He regarded the servant carefully for a few extended moments, then motioned for Merlin to join him at the table. “Have a seat.”

Merlin did as he was told, unnaturally quiet, and waited for Arthur to speak. “I need to say – thank you,” Arthur said, leaning forward in his earnestness. “Even if the dragon was the one who healed my wound, it is because of you that I am alive at all.”

Merlin flashed a fleeting, but heartfelt, smile. “I couldn’t let you die.”

“I know,” Arthur acknowledged, and let the words hang in the air.

“How are you really doing, Arthur?”

The question wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it took the prince off-guard anyway. He shrugged. “If I am being honest, I don’t know that I have entirely come to terms with… well, everything yet.” He gestured vaguely to his own torso as he spoke. Everything mostly consisted of being stabbed by his own father after the man had tried to kill his best friend. “I will be fine, though.”

Merlin nodded, as if he hadn’t doubted that for a second. “How’s your father?” he asked, almost timidly.

A weary sigh escaped from Arthur’s lips. “I think he’s still in shock,” he admitted. “Obviously, he didn’t mean to stab me, but still … he almost watched his only son and heir die by his own hands. Especially after everything with Morgana, I’m … concerned.” Arthur tapped his fingers nervously on the tabletop, trying to decide if he should acknowledge the thought that had been skulking in the back of his mind ever since he’d woken up in a clearing with a healing sword wound in the gut, with a great golden dragon looming over him. In the end, he said it, because Merlin was perhaps the only person in Camelot he could speak so frankly with. “I’m worried that he is no longer fit to rule. I’ve had my doubts since Morgana’s betrayal, but now…” His voice wavered the tiniest bit. “I think he’s broken, Merlin.”

Merlin didn’t speak, but he did reach across the table and place a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. Arthur gave a weak smile in return.

“Well, at least one good thing came out of this whole travesty,” he said after a silent, comfortable beat.

“What’s that?”

Arthur looked at Merlin like he’d sprouted a third arm in the center of his chest. Was he making a joke, or was he really that stupid? “You’re free.”

A corner of Merlin’s mouth lifted slightly. “I suppose.”

“Merlin, what the hell are you so glum about? My father knows about your magic, and he’s allowing you to stay in Camelot! Just avoid doing any kind of magic around him, and he’s going to let you be. This is huge.”

“I suppose,” Merlin said again. Then – “At least until the next magical attack happens, and he’s reminded once again how evil all sorcerers are.”

“If he even tries it, I’ll show him this scar again,” Arthur retorted fiercely. “I’ll remind him of what his hatred nearly did, and that the only reason he still has a son is because of you.”

A bit of hope softened the lines between Merlin’s eyebrows. “It may not be enough.”

“I won’t give him a choice.” Arthur’s voice, authoritative and unrelenting, was that of a great king about to turn the tide of battle. “I won’t let him go back on his promise.” A moment of charged silence. “And if he tries anything, I will protect you.”

Merlin laughed, and the sound was a balm to the prince’s aching soul. “It’s my job to protect you, you prat! And on that note, if you ever try to die for me again–”

“Who’s the prince here, Merlin?” Though Arthur’s words were annoyed, his tone held only affection. “Now, get off your lazy arse and go clean something.”

“You’re the one who told me to sit,” Merlin grumbled, but he obeyed.

“And Merlin?”

Merlin turned from where he stood, long fingers poised over the door handle. “Yes, Arthur?"

"I look forward to the kingdom we will build together, too."

Merlin's ears fumed crimson as he realized that Arthur had heard his words to the king three nights ago. Words of friendship, of promises, of love. Words that spoke of building a brighter future, side by side, a king and his warlock. A better world.

After the silence continued from warm into realms of awkwardness, Arthur snapped, "Okay, get out of here. Don't make it weird."

With a grin and a nod, Merlin scurried out of the room with a lightness to his gait that Arthur had not seen in a very long time.

Despite everything, Arthur smiled.

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