#but with my wrist brace I can cut back most of the pain and discomfort

[goozeghost]

finally able to draw again and I'm going insane. I'm not responsible for my actions, the dam has been broken and the flood is COMING

[angelatsumu]

so yeah. I'd like to request Sugawara with m!reader who is a shy and soft person. They usually just kissing and cuddling, but today Suga asks reader about doing more intimate.

Also.. can you make the reader has praise kink, but doesn't realize because it's his first time?

Thankiee

i have been milling this over in my head for some time, so i hope this turns out as well as i've planned. <3

softdom!suga + m!virgin!reader

warnings: praise kink, nsfw, might be tooth-rottingly soft.

nsfw under the cut

suga's the most attentive partner you could ever imagine. from the early morning breakfast in bed to gentle displays of affection while in public, he's constantly searching to satisfy your emotional needs and make it clear how much he cares for you.

at times, he can get caught up in work and making lesson plans that he may let his time with you slip a bit, but he always catches himself and for that you couldn't be more grateful.

suga's favorite form of affection is being wrapped all in you, feeling the warmth of your body curled up into his as you snuggle the morning away. he loves to press gentle kisses into your shoulder blades and the nape of your neck, appreciating the scent you have.

being this close to you brings him comfort, but he can't help but let his mind wander at times into more intimate forms of affection. right now, being curled against you with his chest pressed to your back had him reeling.

you were so cute like this, still lazily awaking and stirring ever so slightly against the straining hard-on against your back. he let out a groan, mostly out of frustration for himself. he knew you felt it, and his cheeks burned at the thought of making you uncomfortable.

"g'mornin' sleepyhead," you grinned, slotting your hips backward into him before turning over onto your stomach. he lazily drapes his arm over your waist, eyes crinkling as he smiled sweetly at you. "morning sugar, did you sleep well?" his voice is like honey, still dripping with remnants of slumber; it has your knees weak. you nod sheepishly, placing your hands on his chest and sliding up to kiss him softly.

koushi leans into the kiss, pulling your body closer to his as his lips move in time with yours. the plushness of your skin under his fingertips grounds him in the moment as he pants softly against your lips. his tongue slides over your bottom lip and you grant him permission to slide it into your mouth. your tongues move in sync against one another as you slide your body over his, and his arms encase you, pulling you even closer.

koushi breaks the kiss, panting softly as he stares lovingly at you, causing a blush to form on your cheeks. "such a pretty baby," he grins at you, and you hope he doesn't feel the swell of your cock against his thigh. he does. "do you wanna kiss some more, honey? there's plenty more where that came from, hm?" you give him a shaky nod, and go to part your lips but stop yourself.

koushi notices the uneasiness in your eyes, like you had something more to say, so he waits patiently. he peppers kisses along your wrists and fingers, and your cheeks warm at the familiar attentiveness of your loving boy. "whatcha thinkin' about pretty?" you sigh, head falling to avoid the eye contact. "how about I take care of you, baby? i can feel you getting hard for me. is that okay? can i take care of you?" you nod slowly, and his fingers slip under your chin and lift your head so that your eyes meet. with a cheeky smile he says, "use your words like a good boy." you blush deeply, confirming that you wanted him to touch you.

suga moves you to sit next to him, and he slowly slides your legs apart. he takes place between them, leaning forward to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. as your tongues move with one another, his hand snakes between you and slides over your inner thigh, inching closer to where you needed him most before moving away. with each stroke, you sighed into his mouth and it was music to his ears. "you're being so good," he muttered against your lips, hand halting right over the outline of your cock.

his hand slowly traced the outline as he began to pepper kisses down your jawline and along your neck, leaving kitten licks just below your ear with each slide of his hand. your hips moved to work with his hand, and he gave you a warning nip of the neck as a sign to behave. your hip movements stopped briefly until he picked up the pace, gliding along your hard cock at a more teasing pace. "take these boxers off, baby," he smiled against your neck, fingers slipped into the waistline and tugging them down.

the whine that left his lips when he saw your swollen tip oozing precum was embarrassing. "such a pretty boy, my good boy," he whispered softly as his hands ghosted over your thighs once more. his eyes met yours again, and he wore that charming smile you fell in love with. "you twitch each time i call you pretty baby. you like being praised, hm? like being called a good boy," he's teasing, but he means well. he lowers his body down yours, face becoming level with your cock. "s'pretty baby," he grins, tongue peeking out of his mouth as he swipes a drop of precum onto his tongue. the lewd action has your stomach turning, and you feel your body growing hot.

koushi lowers his mouth onto your throbbing length, being sure to watch the euphoric expression on your face as you bottom out in his throat. you whimper softly as he begins to bob his head rhythmically, and your hands tangle in his hair. "please," you moan softly, hips moving to meet each lowering of his mouth against you. he moans against your length, right hand moving to cup and massage your balls. "ngh, koushi, please~" you blush at the lewdness of your whines, hips moving on their own with the intensity of the pleasure. his eyes never leave you as he continues to bob, soft throat coaxing you closer to release.

koushi stops himself, wanting you to cum with him inside you. he pulls of your cock with a pop, wiping his sloppy mouth with the back of his hand as he grins at you cheekily. "so good for me, hm? d'ya want me inside you? wanna go all the way? remember, baby, you can say no." you nod eagerly, desperate to feel the stretch of him inside of your hole. your eyes track down his abdomen to his straining cock in his boxers, and he stops your hand before you can get a hold of him. "this is about you, lovely. i'll be right back," he grins.

koushi returns with a bottle of lube, and he blushes when he finds you on your back with your legs spread for him. "so good for me, y/n". he makes his way over to you, slather some lube onto his fingers, and then onto your puckering hole. "such a cute little hole, hm" you twitch at the comment, whining at your nonchalantly lewd lover. he giggles at your shyness, and rubs the back of your thighs lovingly. "gonna prep you first," he warns, sliding a finger into your tight hole. the feel of your walls clenching around his finger has him groaning and straining against his boxers. "so tight, y/n." he says sweetly, gently rubbing the back of your thighs to encourage you as he slides a second digit in.

you wince at the stretch, letting out a strangled whine. "'m sorry baby, I know it hurts," he whines, watching as your hole swallows his fingers with each thrust. he's mesmerized by you, by your softness and your willingness to trust him with your body in this way. koushi presses gentle kisses to your inner thighs as he continues moving his fingers in you, curling them gently to increase your pleasure. you whine again, feeling the familiar bubblings of an orgasm approaching. your cock twitches slightly at the feeling as your body begins to overheat once more. koushi pauses his movements to add another fingers, stretching you even more in an attempt to simulate his girth. your back arches, and you writhe under the pressure of being stretched so full, and he coos at you lovingly.

"you're close aren't you pretty? good boy," he smiles sweetly, laying his head on your inner thigh as he works his fingers for moments longer before pulling out sliding down his boxers. his cock springs free, pretty and heavy with desire. he hisses as the cool air hits his swollen tip, and your mouth waters at the oozing pre-cum. "baby, it's gonna sting a little," he warned, moving to slide his body between your legs, pressing your legs up slightly into your chest. you nod softly, bracing yourself for the sting of his cock splitting you open.

"three taps, and I'll stop, okay," he studies your face for a response and he sighs sweetly when he sees you nod so cutely. "please," you moan, hips moving up to brush his cock against your ass. he shakes his head softly at you with an adoring smile on his features. koushi coats his cock in lubricant and then your hole once more before lining up with his tip.

he presses in just enough for the tip to stretch your prepped hole, and you inhale sharply, hands moving to clutch his biceps. koushi's head falls back at the warmth, a helpless groan leaving his lips as he stills himself as you get comfortable with the stretch of him. he leans forward, pressing your legs slightly further inward so he can place gentle kisses as your cheeks and forehead. "doing so good, pretty boy," he praises, left hand moving to cup your cheek and smooth it over lovingly with his thumb. you whimper, keening into his touch as he moves his hips further into you, cock stretching you a bit more. you wince, tightening up at the burn of his girth, and he pauses once more, eyes scanning your features for any signs of pain or discomfort. he sees your eyes screwed shut, tears threatening to surface, and he places more reassuring kisses to your cheeks and forehead, praising you once more. you nod, pulling on his shoulders to bring him closer, force him deeper into you.

he grins against the skin of your neck, huffing at your neediness to be full. "such a good baby," he grunts, pressing the rest of his cock into you and you let out a cry at the fullness, back arching into him as your chests meet. he stills himself, groaning at the plushness of your walls, clenching around him as you pant beneath him. "please koushi, please," you beg, and he obliges you with slow, gentle thrusts. he leans his body up, propping it on both arms as he looks down at you sweetly, watching your face contort from sheer pleasure. you whine and moan with each thrust of his swollen tip against your insides, pushing you closer to that fuzzy feeling you'd been teased with earlier. koushi grunts softly with each movement, rolling his hips into you at a skilled pace that has his tip hitting your spot each time.

you strangle out a whimper of the closeness of your release, and he praises you once more for using your words like a good boy and replies that he, too, is close. your walls clench tighter around him as your cock twitches, and he feels himself about to paint your insides, hips colliding with yours at a faster pace that has you seeing stars. without warning, your release comes crashing down like a tidal wave, washing over you as you cum all over your abdomen. with each good boy baby your cock twitches through your orgasm, spurts of white coating your body as you feel the warmth of suga's release coating your insides. he lets out an animalistic grunt with the remnants of his release before he slowly pulls out of you, cum oozing from your stretched hole.

he places a kiss to your inner thighs once more, licking up the cum from your abdomen, before placing a kiss to your lips. "such a good baby, now it's time for a clean up," he smiles as you sigh softly.

[bitchfitch]

Okay, so we know that you do amazing artwork FAST. Because you are a professional and all. But how do you protect your arms/wrists from repetitive strain injuries being so prolific? I can't art every day or else my arms feel like falling off.

like im going to be very honest, i cant feel the fingers on my left hand most of the time due to an rsi. and a big reason its not worse, or in my right hand, is that im only 21, and have a genetic condition that makes my ligaments so stretchy that they cant put pressure on the nerves, or get tense enough to cause injury. they do however like to lock up and get out of place if i dont look after them,

but like, heres my Hot Tips for preventing further damage

Five minute break every 25 minutes. this is the Minimum, ten minute break every 20 if you dont have a deadline. ten every ten for non work art. stretch out your hands, wrists, shoulders and back. Stand up and pace a bit. check and replenish your beverage and snack levels.

work art gets a Maximum of five hours, not including breaks and non art work tasks, of your day, five days a week. Especially if you are working for someone else. Your body and long term joint health are more important than money, and if you can swing it, limit the amount you do to the minimum you can. i schedule four hours for four days, but due to the nature of client work that ends up averaging out to that 5/5 number, with most days going long.

and when the rsis come bc those are a fact of life in this field, check if theres something called Airrosti near you. I will swear by this shit until i die, its hurts like a bitch, and that is coming from someone who is notorious amongst my doctors for having an extreme level of pain tolerance, but i swear there is no better treatment for rsis than someone forcing the ligaments and muscles to chill their asses out and then giving you some light physical therapy to do.

if theres not an airrosti, regular physical therapy can also help, so can wrist braces and splints, i dont currently use one due to having very small baby wrist apparently so i cant give advice on good ones.

and im putting my hands on your shoulders, the moment an rsi starts rearing up, the moment you feel your fingers getting tingly, put the pen down. its closing time. go stretch, take a hot bath if you can, watch a movie or show, do anything that doesn't excessively use your hands for the entire rest of the day. when you wake up in the morning, if there is still pain/discomfort, Go To The Doctor. do not let these things fester, they will take your ability to use your hands at all if you arnt careful. Art isnt worth not being able to hold your own spoon or cut your own food in 10 years.

also final note, we live in a horrible capitalistic nightmare hell scape. Artist as a job title isnt immune to all the fun problems that causes. If you do pursue art professionally, you Always need to be prepared to jump ship if the rsis are getting severe. Especially if you are working at a studio, they will run you into the ground and then fill your seat with another bright eye hopeful while your fingers are turning blue in the er waiting room. There is no shame in leaving the field, you arnt giving up on your dreams by recognizing when a situation has gone too far south to be salvageable.

its better to be an accountant by day and an artist by night than it is to be an artist by day for a few years, and then never drawing again.

[babbushka]

A December To Remember

Lawyer!Kylo Ren x Reader 

4.1k, cw: Possessive behavior; name-calling; unwanted advances from another man; NSFW (Rivals/rival relationship/enemy lovers, PIV, fingering, semi-public sex/office sex)

Available on AO3

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

When the elevator doors open, Kylo has to physically brace himself. He had heard the music blasting from seven floors away, his discomfort only growing bigger and bigger as the elevator ticked up up up to Gwen’s lobby. His hands clench into fists in his leather gloves, refusing to take them off.

He wasn’t going to be here long, he promises himself as a conga line of santa hats nearly steps on his Allen-Edmonds; he just needed to show his face, have a drink, and get out. The office is all geared up for Christmas, Kylo walks through the winter wonderland of flocked trees decorated in white and gold, garland wrapped around support poles, big faux presents arranged nicely. There’s a live band and although they played well, the music is a bit much, as are the people singing along. Kylo tunes it out to the best of his ability, on a mission, a hunt.

One thing he can at least appreciate, was that this was a cocktail party, which meant everyone was dressed up nicely. Kylo loves an excuse to bring out his expensive suits, Burberry sitting nicely on his broad shoulders. No one could say he didn’t try to be festive – he had put on a black tuxedo made of soft mohair wool, that happened to have a saucy lapel of black satin for some holiday flair.  

As he walks through the crowds of attorneys who Kylo has never seen laugh and smile so much in his career, someone hands him a peppermintini. It’s not long before he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he nearly spills the cocktail by whirling around, thinking that at last, he’s found you.

He has half a mind to smile, but whatever he had thought of saying goes out the window when he sees it is not you, but rather it’s his friend Gwen. She’s gorgeous in a silver slinky number that dips down her muscled back very low, and Kylo leans in to press his cheek against hers in greeting.

“Well well well, look who actually decided to show up.” Gwen nearly has to shout to be heard over the volume of the party.

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, takes a sip of the offending holiday cocktail – where the fuck could a guy get some whiskey around here?

“I was invited, wasn’t I?” Kylo replies, even though he’s not really looking at her. Gwen is probably the only person he knows who is as tall as him, and tonight she’s wearing heels which make her actually a few inches taller.

“Yes, but I’ve seen the stack of unopened invitations sitting on your desk.” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, drawing his attention back to her for the time being as she raises a platinum blonde brow, “Let’s not you and I pretend that you’re here because you want to enjoy the cheer of the holiday.”

The both of them exchange a little huff of laughter, because really she was right. Kylo is here because he had heard through the grapevine that you had RSVP’d, and there was nothing that could have prevented Kylo coming to see you if that were true.

“I’ve been informed that it is appropriate to make appearances now and again, even brief ones.��� He sighs into his drink, nose crinkling at the sheer minty-ness of it.

“You can’t leave you just got here!” Gwen groans, “Stay for a little while, there’s some people who want to talk to you.”

“Whether or not I stay is contingent to one thing.” He shakes his head with a grimace, and at this Gwen’s sharp eyes sparkle with the light of knowing his secret.

“I last saw her over by the buffet.” Gwen sips her own cocktail, speaking lowly enough so that only he can hear, not like anyone is listening.

“I don’t know who you mean.” Kylo’s palms immediately begin to sweat inside his gloves, and he fixes the wall a hard stare to avoid that knowing look in her eye.

“Between you and me, I’m surprised she showed up just as much as I am that you did.” Gwen scoffs, and that at the very least was something Kylo understood.

As difficult as it was trying to pin Kylo down for something as unsavory as a Christmas party, you were notoriously hard to convince to come to anything for the holidays if you didn’t feel like it. It was one of the things that Kylo appreciated about you – not that Kylo liked you, or anything.

He shakes the thought away from his head.

“But you’re sure she’s here?” Kylo asks, an intensity to his question that has Gwen laughing.

“Yes – and do try not to make a scene.” She pats him on the back, before sauntering away to go entertain.

“What’s a Christmas party without a little scandal?” Kylo mutters to himself, trying to figure out which way the food was.

He recognizes people from six or seven different law firms as he tries to cut his way through the party. Gwen hadn’t been joking, about a dozen men in suits shake his hand and introduce themselves, congratulating him on winning his most recent case. Interns have stars in their eyes when he passes, and Kylo tries his best not to be such a grinch to their faces.

At this rate, he’s starting to get frustrated and irritated, he still hasn’t found you. The peppermintini was long finished, and he didn’t ask for a refill when he passed the bar. The entire outing was shaping up to be a waste, and Kylo is about ready to give up when he finally catches a whiff of your perfume.

“…That’s nice.” He hears your disinterested voice pipe up from a spot on the other end of the lobby where he has wandered, and Kylo lets himself be led to you, using his height to search for you in the jovial crowd.

Some schmuck is trying to herd you in the direction of where a big sprig of mistletoe has been tied under a doorframe, and the minute Kylo sees it happening, jealousy and rage simmer up straight up his spine.

“Isn’t it? I got the sonofabitch off a ten-year sentence. He was absolutely guilty but, that’s not my problem anymore.” A handsome pretty boy with perfectly straight teeth that are practically fluorescent from how white they are tries dazzling you.

“Uh huh.” You sound like you could not care less, and that for some reason only makes Kylo angrier – couldn’t this boy see that you weren’t interested?

Kylo tries to say his excuse me and his pardon mes, as he winds through the lobby on his mission to you. It’s difficult, because you won’t stay still for fucks sake, so every time Kylo thinks he’s just about gotten to you, you take a sharp turn to try and lose the boy’s unwanted attention.

“So anyway I was thinking to celebrate, maybe you can come back to mine after this shindig gets wrapped up.” He says, slipping an arm around your waist.

Kylo’s blood boils.

“Excuse me?” Your tone shifts dramatically, from uninterested to offended at his presumptions. Your body stiffens up at once, and that arm drops from your waist like he’s been electrocuted.

“I brought my own car and everything, we don’t even have to take the subway.” The boy tries to impress you, but you’re having none of it.

“I don’t think so, I have no intentions on going anywhere with you.” You shut his advances down, “Tonight, or any night.”

This angers the boy, which in turn makes Kylo see red, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s literally shoving himself in between happy couples and groups of cheerful friends to close that last bit of distance between you and him.

“Well then what the hell have you been doing this entire time, leading me on like this?” The boy reaches out to grasp harshly around your wrist when you try and make your leave, “Hey – !”

“She said no.” Kylo’s voice is dark and dangerous as he appears behind the boy, who drops your wrist at once.

“Kylo?” The sound of his name on your lips is enough to keep him from killing this boy in a blind rage, and his eyes flick to you in a very curt greeting.

“Listen to me -- and listen to me carefully.” Kylo looms over this lesser attorney, casting a shadow over the boy’s face from the sheer breadth of him, “I am going to close my eyes and count to three. If you are still here bothering this woman when I open them again, I will reach down your throat and rip your lungs out through your mouth and I will make it look like an accident. Understand?”

“Y-yes.” The boy stammers out, nearly chokes.

“Yes what?” Kylo sneers, jaw clenched.

“Yes sir!” He squeaks in terror -- Kylo doesn’t even have to close his eyes before the boy is scrambling away, and everyone around you is snickering at how he’s gone bright red in the face as he leaves the party entirely.

Now that that was taken care of, Kylo holds a hand out for you, which you take automatically. He would never admit to it, but the feeling of your palm against his has him calm almost at once.

“You have to stop doing that, you know.” You say, as Kylo leads you away from the crowded party of the lobby, and out towards the big balcony.

It’s cold outside, the past few days bringing a light dusting of snow, but you don’t seem to mind. You’ve got a fur stole wrapped around your shoulders to keep you warm. Even out here has been decorated to match the Christmas spirit, with twinkling lights covering every available surface.

“Oh but it’s so fun to watch them squirm.” He smiles, pulling you close to him as the two of you rest against the railing.

“No, not that,” You shake your head, “I mean rescuing me. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, but again, where would be the fun in that?” Kylo only winks, and you lightly smack his arm.

You’re about to say something, when you notice that dangling above both of your heads is a bit of mistletoe, tied together with a red velvet ribbon. It spins ever so gently in the slight breeze from being so high up, and you nudge Kylo’s hand on the railing with your own.

“Look.” You whisper, and Kylo looks up too.

“Now who put that there…?” He grins smooth as ever, as he ducks his head down and kisses you.

Kissing you was rapidly becoming one of Kylo’s favorite pastimes. It was too bad you were such a fucking pain in his side most of the time, if you weren’t so stubborn and difficult, he’s sure you’d spend a lot more time kissing each other.

But then again, you are stubborn and difficult, and you have no intention of stopping. Kylo hates that about you, hates how upset it makes him. No one gets under his skin the way you do, and so he pays you back by giving you the best kiss of your life – that’ll show you.

Your mouth parts for his, eyes closed. Your breaths come out in little sighs, and Kylo feels his body reacting to it. He hasn’t been able to get a good look at you all evening, but when he does, he loves what he sees. You’re wearing a dress in a color that perfectly compliments your skin, in a shape that fits your body exactly how you like it to.

His hands grasp at your hips a little too tightly, making you nip at his lower lip with a teasing smirk.

Christmas has never been something Kylo cared remotely about, but he’s big enough to admit that the lights really do wonders for making you look like a goddamned movie star. You both pull away enough just in case someone were to look out the window or come onto the balcony and see – neither of you could really have that, it was bad enough that there were bets about you through the different firms, the last thing you needed was to let any one side win.

“It’s criminal, how good you look.” Kylo tugs on the fabric of your neckline, “Someone ought to do something about it.”

“Hmm, like what?” You play along, your hand reaching down down down and grasping a hold of Kylo’s cock, ever so briefly, giving in a squeeze.

“Bend you over and fuck you hard, just the way you deserve.” He presses his mouth against your ear, he can practically hear your heartbeat picking up.

“Too bad you scared off poor Mike,” You say with a tsk of your tongue against the roof of your mouth, “I bet he would’ve loved to do the honors.”

Mike, that was the schmucks name? Kylo had almost forgotten entirely about him, about the way he had put his hands on you without your permission. He would make a couple calls, get the kid fired.

Or demoted, at the very least.

He wasn’t sure yet.

“You want to get me mad, is that it? And here we were having such a nice time.” Kylo looks around again, makes sure no one is seeing anything that’s happening out there on the balcony as he snakes a hand up up up your thigh.

“Maybe I like it when you’re mad, maybe I know you’re going to show me a real good time.” You smirk, and Kylo is reminded why he hates you so much, you’re so spoiled, getting whatever you want whenever you want it.

“Such a fucking brat.” He snaps, hand reaching for your and tugging you back through the doors with a, “Come with me.”

Kylo is faced with the party once again and is trying to find the best way to get the fuck out of there, when you pull him in a different direction.

“No – I know a spot, this way.” You bite back a pleased grin, and Kylo has to roll his eyes, letting you lead the way.

Deep deep deep in the bowels of the office, far away from the lobby and all the festivities, the music sounds a million miles away. You’ve tugged Kylo into a conference room with big glass walls and a glass door, like a little zoo enclosure. It’s nearly pitch black, none of the lights are turned on. The only illumination is from the city outside, the ambient glow of New York beginning their celebration of Christmas. The Rockefeller tree shines brightly a few blocks down the road, a perfect view from this conference room.

Fleetingly, Kylo has half a mind to ask you to go ice skating, but then you’re hopping up on the table and spreading your legs, the skirt of your dress hiked up around your hips. You’re not wearing any panties, a pair of thigh garters holding up your stockings – and Kylo’s mind goes blank.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks, immediately pushing you farther up the table, wanting a better view of your pussy as your thighs rub together from being so exposed.

“Yes,” You admit licking your lips, “But you’ll warm me up, won’t you?”

Kylo groans, bites off his gloves with his teeth, wastes no time in trailing his fingertips through your folds. You squirm at the touch, wanting to be filled by him, any way you could get it. He dips them deeper between your legs, nothing but the sound of your breathing filling the quiet of the room.

“Slut, god what a fucking slut you are – look at you, pussy already wet for me.” Kylo grits out between his teeth, his cock filling out in his expensive trousers, straining against his briefs.

His fingers seek the wet heat of your cunt, and he pumps them in and out slowly while he tries undoing the buckle of his belt. Your hands help him, your legs falling open farther as his fingers bury themselves in your pussy. The stretch is beautiful, and you moan, leaning back until you’re resting on the table fully.

“Are you going to talk? Or are you going to fuck me?” You challenge from your spot on the table, your hands rubbing up and down your stomach, hips lifting so he can finger you a little faster.

“Both, I can do both, fuck you’re sexy.” He huffs, unbuttons his suit jacket, shucks down his trousers and briefs enough to pull his cock out and give it a good few strokes with the hand that’s not thrusting in and out of your cunt, blunt nails dragging against your walls.

“I know.” You’re full of yourself – full of Kylo – and you moan from the thought, “Hurry up, someone could catch us.”

“No they can’t, I locked the door. It’s just you and me sweetheart – thaaaat’s it.” Kylo replaces his fingers with his cock, your folds swallowing him down, oozing and dripping slick all over your thighs.

He shoves in roughly once he’s got the head in, pushes into you in one fluid motion that has your back arching. Kylo grabs at your legs, is careful of your heels as he pins your ankles together and tucks them against his shoulder, your body pressed together as he begins to thrust in earnest.

“Yes! Fucking finally,” Your palms smear sweat on the polished wood of the conference table, and before he knows it, you’re pulling one hand up to lightly smack at his arm. “You know I’ve been waiting here for you for two fucking hours, you asshole.”

Only you could give him such an icy glare while also pushing your tits up for him to play with. Kylo reaches out to pinch hard at one of your nipples, and you whine, your thighs trembling just a little from being held up like this.

Kylo’s big fat cock stuffs you full, your pussy even tighter from having your legs pressed together like this. Normally he likes to look down and watch his dick disappear into you, but he can barely see your face as it is in the dark of the room, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, he can feel you – can feel the way you throb and pulse around him, how you flutter and clench, and it’s enough.

“If I had known – damn you’re tight – you’d be here – fuck (Y/N) – I would’ve come earlier.” Kylo latches himself to your neck, bending you nearly in half as his hips speed up, his balls smacking against your ass as he pushes you up up up the table.

“I – ah Kylo be careful,” You warn him when one of your shoes falls right off your foot and lands on the wood with a thud. He rips the other one off and throws it to the floor, leaving your legs in nothing but the stockings and garters. Your hand tangles in his hair as you press him back down to your throat, where he sucks and bites at your skin. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just fucking call me back. We – oh yes, yes harder come on – we could’ve avoided all this bullshit.”

“You’re the one who hung up on me last time!” Kylo pulls himself more upright, scowling down at you as he grabs your face, gives your jaw a little shake.

“Oh!!” Your body tenses up unexpectedly, his cock accidentally slipping out and pushing back in wrong.

Kylo fumbles just a little bit in the dark, lets your legs fall as he tries to fix the angle, tries to get himself back inside your pussy as quickly as he can. It just feels wrong to not fuck you, it feels wrong to not be joined with you as completely as possible. Even when you’re scowling at him and he’s glowering right back at you – maybe especially then.

“Relax for me?” Kylo strokes your hip with his thumb, and your body gives way for him once again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pushes back in and continues fucking you exactly like you like it, “There we go, anyway you wouldn’t have answered me.”

“Could’ve – faster Kylo, you could’ve left a voicemail.” You hiccup, and he hates that you’re right.

He hates it as your body opens up for him, takes him, takes the fucking. You’re such a fucking princess you make him do all the work with a big smug grin on your face before he shifts his hips just right in a way that’s got your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth dropped open. He grabs your jaw again and makes out with you, wants his tongue on yours, wants your teeth scraping against his.

“Sure – fuck you, ugh fuck, I’m – ” Kylo can barely get the words out, kissing you and fucking you in the dark and quiet like this, while everyone enjoys the party just beyond the locked door of the open floor plan of cubicles.

“Me too,” You nod, desperate for him, wanting to come so badly that you twine your fingers into his hair and tug sharply, voice breathy and high and panting as you demand, “Kylo more – !”

He gives it to you, plows his cock into you so hard that he pushes the table askew, makes the chairs on their rolling wheels move all over the place from the effort of it. He bites down hard onto your neck and rubs your clit, rolls it between his fingers while his cock forces itself as deep as it can go, shallow thrusts to fill you up all the way, pushing right up against your cervix, making you yelp out your orgasm.

Feeling your cunt throb and gush for him, Kylo comes soon after, pumping himself in and out mindlessly, the both of you reveling in your pleasure. With a weak shaking hand, you tug down the sleeves of the bodice of your dress, let it fall away from your breasts. Like a moth to flame, Kylo is drawn to your cleavage, and he wastes no time pulling one of your tits out of the pretty lacy bra you’ve got on.

He sucks and kisses at your flesh as his cock pulses and spills more come into you, the both of you trying to catch your breath. He spares a glance up to you, pleased to see you’re fucked out nicely, eyes closed, lips parted and drooling just a little onto your cheek as you’ve got your face turned to one side. Kylo lets his eyes close too, mouths at your nipple until he’s sure he’s emptied himself inside of your wanting cunt.

Then, when he pulls you to sit upright on the table, instead of helping you with your clothes or even cleaning up the mess between your thighs, he stays buried inside of you and fishes his phone out from the inside of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” You ask with a nosy frown, trying to lean around his big hand and see what he’s pulling up on his phone.

Kylo just kisses you quiet, dials the phone and puts it up to his ear while it rings.

“Calling the car to come pick us up and take us back to my place,” He murmurs against the corner of your mouth, before cracking the joints in his neck and grumbling, “Unless you’d rather mingle with a hundred boring nobodies like Mike instead.”

You just scrub a hand down your face with a smile, try to start fixing your hair back to something less mussed.

“I’m starving, can we pick up takeout on the way?” You stretch, wincing when Kylo finally does pull out of you, the feeling of being empty making you grimace just a bit.

He chuckles and kisses you again, lets your arms slip around his neck without any protest.

“Whatever you want.” Kylo kisses your cheek, diverting his attention to the phone call once his driver picks up.

Though the holidays had you at one another’s throats like rabid vicious dogs most days, Kylo wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Because for all the bitching and bickering, there were moments like these. Moments in the dark where you both let yourselves have what it was that you wanted.

And who knew, maybe the new year would bring about a whole new set of opportunities and possibilities, you’d just have to wait and see. One thing was for sure though, Kylo thinks as he helps you off the table and you both search for some tissues or something to wipe up the mess you’ve made, it certainly was a December to remember.

[buckysgoldenheart]

Unexpectedly Bitten

Vampire!Henry Cavill x Reader

Summary: Your ex gets into some trouble with Vampires, and his mistakes lead the bloodsuckers back to you. After seeing you, one vampire gets a little attached and he’s taking his time deciding what he plans to do with you, but whatever it is, you’re not afraid. In fact, you might just be a little attached to him too.

Warnings: cursing, smut, violence. (Count on spelling mistakes or repeating words too often. it’s very likely.)

Notes: Folks I did my very very best. I am so bad at chaptered fics, it’s insane. But I tried. As always,  Let me emphasize this: there is little rhyme or reason to the way this story is broken into parts. 

This is a Vampire!Henry x Reader story where each chapter, while chronological, is a different conversation or event during the course of their evolving relationship. 

Words: 1606

Part 7: Change

You were breathing. That’s what Henry kept repeating in his head when he relived that horrible night in his sleep. His body would shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat, and he would have the agonizing thought that he failed. But then he would look to his left, and there you were. You were breathing.

His days were filled with watching you to constantly reassure himself that he hadn’t lost you forever. Every time your breath hitched in your sleep, his did as well. Every time he nearly dozed off in his chair, he shook himself awake for fear that the change hadn’t fully taken hold; that maybe he was too late after all.

“She doing any better?” Henry nearly leapt from his seat at Chris’s voice. His friend walked over after shutting the door quietly behind him.

Henry ran a hand down his face. He needed to relax. He was getting jumpy. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Chris pulled another chair up to Henry’s side and joined in monitoring the rise and fall of your chest. “Are you alright? It’s been a while.”

“This is my fault,” Henry rubbed at his brow with a groan. “I cut it too close. It’s taking too long for her to heal.”

“Do not hate yourself for this, Hen,” Chris said, lightly slapping his friend on the back. “She’s alright. I would’ve done the same if I still had a pretty little human I was so desperately in love with.”

“She’s not human anymore.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

Henry shook his head, denying his friend’s answer to feel the full weight of disappointment in himself. “Elias seemed to think the same, but…not from the same perspective.” He took a deep breath as he remembered the look in the Lord’s eyes right before he broke your neck. There was pity there; acknowledgment of a loss he knew Henry would not get over for centuries, if at all. “He didn’t think I would turn her. He left her body there, knowing I could turn her before it was too late, but he was so sure I wouldn’t. Why, do you think?”

“Henry,” Chris whined with irritation. “Don’t start—”

“Because we don’t subject the ones we love to this life,” Henry said as he stared at you, then he looked to Chris. “You never turned Amara. You loved her as a human until she died because you knew she would be miserable if she were like us.”

Chris swallowed the pain; the discomfort in his gut at the reminder of the woman he would’ve crushed mountains into rubble for. “I agree, this is not an ideal life, but…take it from me. When you’re in love with a human, there is nothing more painful than seeing them age without you.” The blond cleared his throat, and his voice shook slightly as he continued. “I couldn’t give Amara a normal life. I couldn’t marry her or give her children untainted by vampire blood like she wanted. So, I honored her wishes and let her go on to find that human she married. But don’t think for a second that if someone killed her when she was mine, that I wouldn’t have bitten her to save her too. It’s not wrong to save the ones we love, Henry.”

Henry grunted like the stubborn mule both you and his friend knew he was.

“Look, Amara is not Y/N,” Chris said, pushing his friend to see the best in the choices made the day you died. “Y/N was the first human to love a vampire in centuries. She saw you as more than what you are. Do not take advantage of that gift. She is now like us. You can have her forever. There was a time when I would’ve given anything to have the same.”

Henry rose an eyebrow. “So, I’m being an unappreciative prick, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Chris smirked, taking a drink from his glass, and standing. “But I won’t hold it against you.”

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

You woke with a massive arm draped over your abdomen. It felt like a heavy brick and you couldn’t get enough air, so you blindly shoved at it until lifted. The bed shook as you deeply inhaled, swallowing oxygen the way you would if your head just broke the surface of the ocean and you could finally feel the air on your skin.

“Oh, thank fuck,” You heard whispered from your left as two massive hands cupped your cheeks and turned your head. “Open your eyes, baby.”

You tried and winced when the tiniest bit of light seeped in, slamming them shut again to avoid the headache.

“It’s ok,” The voice said. “It’s ok. Try again, just take it slow.”

You did as asked, bracing yourself for the pain of it but powered on, blinking a few times until your view came into focus. “Henry?”

Your voice was gravelly and felt itchy in your throat, but by the way Henry’s face lit up, it might as well have been the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Hey,” He smiled, running a hand over the top of your head. Tears welled in his eyes; the blue orbs darting all over your face as he stroked your hair. One of the droplets fell on your cheek and Henry quickly kissed it away.

His lips were warm, and you sighed into the feeling, suddenly sinking into the curve of his body as it lay against yours. “I feel like I died and rose again,” You groaned as you stretched your limbs the best you could, testing their limits to alleviate the stiffness.

“You’ll feel better soon.” Henry kissed your forehead. “It just takes a little time.”

You tilted your face back from where it was pressed against his hard chest to look up at him with pinched eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

He grew uneasy, averting his gaze and shifting his body awkwardly without removing his arms from around you. “The, uh…transformation takes—”

“Transformation?” Your torso rose, surprisingly not aching the slightest.

Henry leaned up as well and cupped your cheek, savoring the feel of your skin in case you tried to kill him. You would have the strength for it now if you planned your attacks strategically. And if you hated him, he would accept your decision. He was selfish, after all, but he couldn’t let you go.

“Baby, you…you did die.” Your eyes widened and Henry internally cringed. “Elias killed you, and I bit you on, um…” He grabbed your wrist and brought it up to your face. “I bit your wrist. I changed you”

And sure enough, there were two faint dots on the inner side of your wrist; the marks shimmering to perfectly match the small cut on your finger.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

You looked at him. “Why?”

Henry moved to lay on his back. You could tell he was avoiding your eyes; that he was scared of your reaction to his next words. Crawling on top of him with unexpected ease, you straddled his waist and planted your hands firmly on his chest. You pressed down lightly, giving him a little jolt, when he had still hadn’t answered.

His eyes locked with yours and he wrapped his fingers around your forearms to keep your steady above him. “I just didn’t want to lose you. I’ve never been that scared in my life, and it made me—"

“No.” You shook your head. “Not why did you do it. I meant, why are you sorry you did? You want me, don’t you?” You didn’t ask for reassurance. You knew how he felt, but you wanted him to see that changing you was the only option if he wanted to be with you; and him wanting to have you would never be something you could punish him for. Being like him did not terrify you. It didn’t shock you into silence. Honestly, you didn’t feel all the different.

He sat up until you were face to face and wrapped his arms around your waist. One hands fingers trailed up and down the length of your spine. “More than anything.”

“Henry, I had nothing for me in that life,” You said as your hands settled on his shoulders. “Nothing.” Tipping your head down, you connected your lips and he moaned so deep his chest vibrated against yours.

“You’re really ok?” He asked when you pulled apart.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” You said.

A small laugh came out in the form of a puff of air, then he tucked his head down until his cheek was resting against your left breast. He sighed, but it came out more like a moan. “I love that sound.”

“You can still hear it?”

“Only when I’m this close,” He said, nipping at the skin and nuzzling into your chest. “You’ll just have to tell me how you feel about me from now on.”

You smiled, but then your face fell serious. “Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“What now?”

He pulled back as he took in a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “Now the change fully takes hold. Your eyesight will increase, you’ll get stronger every day, your fangs will come in soon, and you’ll hate it because you’re going to be biting your tongue fifteen times a day for about a week.”

You grimaced, but chuckled.

“There are a few other things, but we’ll deal with them as they come, not now. Other than that, not much else,” He said, framing your face with his hands. “You’re mine now, baby. And I’m yours.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.” He grinned and pressed his lips to yours.

---

Tags:  @agniavateira​ @tumblenewby @forthebrokenheartedthings​ @summersong69​ @starlite13​ @mstgsmy​ @purplelove75​ @defffcc​ @the-soot-sprite​ @kissthatlifeaway @atomicpaperhairdouniversity​ @aquariuslavenderhoney​ @harrysthiccthighss​ @the-problem-of-leisure​ @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair​ @readermia​ @angelofthorr​ @itmejado​ @caro-jean​ @raven-black102​ @itty-bitty-dancer​ @grungeisntmything​ @wolfiepirate​ @scuzmonkie @heartfullofl @wanderlustkitkat @maan24​ @furievonalexandria​ @posiemax​ @sweetybuzz25​ @iamthetwickster

[darthkruge]

Hi! I've seen that in your recent post you've been trying to make characters more gender neutral which I think is awesome! I'm gonna try and make my request gender neutral as well! I was wondering if you could do a criminal minds imagine (I'll let you choose the character that you wanna write it for cus I love Morgan, Hotch, and Reid equally) where the reader was taken by the unsub but they found her right before the unsub tried to (tw) k!ll the reader. If possible can the end be kinda fluffy♡

Spencer Reid x Reader ~ Maybe

Summary: The classic kidnapping fic where the reader is taken by the unsub and Spencer finds them. Fluffy, comfort-filled ending <3

Warnings: Angst, language, violence, blood, guns, knives, torture, near-death experience, kidnapping in general, (happy ending I promise)

Words: 2.2k

A/N: Hey!! I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me for taking so long to get to this!! And thank you for making your request gender neutral, too! That’s so thoughtful and sweet! And I decided to go with Spencer, although I also love them all. And yes the end will definitely be fluffy, as the angst with a happy/fluffy ending is basically my brand at this part. Thank you for requesting and, again, I’m so sorry for making you wait, I hope you like this!

You woke up and could only register pain. Well, pain and cold. Mind numbing, cuts to your bones, pierces your brain, cold. You tried to look around and get a sense of your surroundings but it was so dark; you could barely make out the shadows in the room, let alone any defining details.  

Judging by the old, dirty smell, you guessed you were in a barn or shed somewhere. You had no idea where; the asshole must have knocked you out. You’d been working the case for weeks. The team thought they found some DNA and were tailing the guy, but it didn’t pan out and, since then, the trail had basically been cold. But then you finally figured out what number to trace, cracked his encoded router, and got a license plate and ID. George Craig. On your way to tell the team, he had messed with your car and was able to jump you. Fuck, you hated him. 

Even so, you refused to give up. You had faith in your team and, most of all, you had faith in Spencer. Your brilliant, gorgeous boyfriend. You loved him more than anything and there was no one in the world you’d want on the case more than him. You knew the team was already looking for you, as it was only 10am when he got you and it was probably at least 7pm now, judging by the temperature and darkness. 

You tried to move your arms but your shoulders screamed in protest. You felt the chains around your legs and the handcuffs binding you to a pole above you. Judging from the pain, your shoulder was almost definitely dislocated. You were sitting at an awkward angle and could already feel your joints tightening. The frigid air definitely wasn’t helping, making your muscles contract and body stiff. 

“Hello, Agent L/N”

Your entire body stilled at that moment, sheer panic running through your veins. Stay calm, Y/N, stay calm. You tried to will air into your lungs, forcing deep breaths even though the terror was screaming at you to close up. You knew this man fed on fear and, thus, your best chance of survival was to pretend you were unphased. Even so, the logic felt severely discomforting with him standing above you, knife and gun in hand. 

“George. What the fuck do you want from me?” Your voice was venomous, the pure hate for him clearly pictured on your face. You decided that if an emotion was going to show, you preferred hate to fear. 

“My, my, my, look at you! I thought you were supposed to be smart. Or is that trait left for your boyfriend. Agent Reid, was it?”

Your blood ran cold. “Leave him out of this.”

“Ohhh, looks like I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?” The man had a horrifying smirk on his face, clearly enjoying your struggle. 

You glared at him. “You never answered my question”

“Oh, yes!” George chuckled, “What the fuck do you want from me?” He said, mimicking your voice mockingly. “To kill you, of course. To take you away from Spencer, from the team. To make them feel the pain of losing someone, just like I lost-” 

He trailed off and you saw his eyes burn with anger. And under that anger, you knew there was pain. Even so, you couldn’t feel bad for this man, regardless of who he’d lost. You knew that at the slightest hint of your empathy, he’d take advantage of it and kill you on the spot. 

“You know what? Death would be too easy for you. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to put you out of your misery. Then, and only then, will I shoot you. I will watch the blood run out of the bullet hole and smile, knowing the pain I caused you and your precious team.”

You wanted to cry, the fear pulling at you. Once again, you pushed it down and channeled your rage. Rage because you were in this situation. Rage because this man had ended so many lives. Rage because you were powerless right now. Rage because holy fuck your shoulder hurt. Gathering the fury, you spat at him. 

George’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he brought his leg up and slammed it into your chest. You heaved, the wind knocked out of you. Before you could grasp the air you so desperately needed, George kicked you again. And again. And again. You could feel the bruises forming, your ribs throbbing painfully.

He pulled his fist up and pummeled it into your cheek. Your left cheekbone busted open on impact and your lip split as he backhanded the other side of your face. He slammed the butt of his gun into your temple and your vision swayed, body crumpling as far in on itself as it could, given the restraints. 

He kicked at your legs repeatedly, both of them twisting at painful angles. You felt yourself start to black out, the pain unbearable. Every inch of your skin was ablaze, every muscle felt like it had been sledgehammered. Your bones ached, your body numb from his onslaught, the freezing cold, and the restrictive bonds you’d been in for hours. 

Finally, he took a moment to stop. He looked at you, at your barely conscious and recognizable state. You were beaten to a pulp, your face and body bloodied and broken. You could feel yourself wanting to give in but forced yourself to stay. For yourself, for Spencer, for the team. For that future you always talked about with him. For the house you were saving for, for the dogs and cats and animals you might one day get. For the family you might decide to have. For the idea of peace, you fought. 

George picked up the gun and pointed it at your head. A shot rang free and you braced yourself, a single tear running down your cheek as you realized you would never see your love again. Your ears rang and you felt like time had slowed. You knew the bullet would hit you. Until-

“Y/N, Y/N!” Your name was being called, the gentle yet panicked voice cutting through the ringing in your head. You tentatively opened your eyes and saw George’s body on the floor, blood oozing out of him. You slowly moved your eyes around, trying to take in your surroundings. 

Everything was overwhelming. Nothing was registering properly in your brain. It was just sounds filtering in an out, vision flickering. You felt like you were floating through the ringing in your ears. Tears ran down your cheeks as you shook. You didn’t know why you were shaking. The cold. The shock, you reasoned. Both seemed likely. It was like there was an overwhelming sense of calm. Your body was shutting down. Somehow, this gave you understanding. 

You felt the handcuffs around your wrists release and your arms dropped limply. You knew you should feel pain from your dislocated shoulder but, instead, you just let your eyes closed and felt your body fall. The last thing you remembered was coming into contact with a Kevlar vest, messy brown hair, and a familiar sense of warmth. 

When you awoke, you felt yourself being gently jostled. Your eyes slowly opened and you took in him. Spencer was looking at you, concern evident on his features.

“Hi.” You said, voice hoarse. 

“Hi, angel. Let’s get you inside, alright?”

You nodded, allowing him to help support your weight as you stepped out of the car. You leaned heavily into him, your legs badly injured. Spencer wrapped his arm snug around your waist as the two of you slowly but surely made it into your shared apartment. 

He helped you sit on the couch before moving to join you. 

“I’m surprised they let you take me home. I thought I’d wake up in a hospital, for sure.”

“They did take you there, love. You were at the hospital for a few hours but you were in and out of consciousness. You’ll heal, don’t worry. A few broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, severe bruising, sprains on your legs and ankles.”

“Plus a busted face” You add drily.

 Spencer wasn’t amused by your attempt at sarcasm. Instead, he just pushed your hair behind your ear and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should have gotten there sooner, I should have been with you! If I was there, if I was quicker-”

“Spencer, please don’t blame yourself for this! No one could have known. Besides, you saved me. And I’m not just talking about that in the literal sense. When he was beating me, when I was broken down, I thought of you.  I thought of our future, our dream. Holding onto that is the only reason I didn’t give up.”

Spencer’s eyes were filled with tears as he went to gently cup your face. He couldn’t find the words to express the love and relief he felt. “I’m just glad you’re back in my arms” 

You moved to hug him but winced. Even though the doctors had patched you up pretty well, the soreness and pain lingered and probably would continue like that for at least the next couple of days. 

“Hey, it’s alright. Let’s go to bed. I think you’ll feel better once you lay down, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.” You followed him into the room, holding his hand the entire time. Spencer noticed but didn’t mind, he knew you were just looking for comfort, exceedingly normal for what you’d just gone through. 

You laid down, settling against the pillows and fluffy blankets Spencer had prepared for you. 

“Do you need anything, baby?”

“Water?”

“Of course.” He smiled at you before moving to get up but you quickly grabbed his hand, panic overtaking you at the thought of being alone. You looked at him helplessly, hoping your gaze would convey the words that died on your tongue. 

Spencer nodded knowingly. He helped you out of bed, pulling you along with him as the two of you went to the kitchen. He wordlessly got you the drink, making sure to keep touching you the entire way. Finally, you made it back and the both of you crawled into bed. You laid on your uninjured shoulder, placing your cheek on Spencer’s chest. His arm came around you, holding you to him and drawing soothing circles into your skin. 

You closed your eyes and were immediately sent back to the shed. You tensed, pulling back. Spencer caught on and looked deeply into your eyes. “You’re safe now, Y/N. He can’t get to you anymore.”

“I know. Rationally, I know. But my brain won’t shut off. It’s like, whenever I’m not actively thinking about something else or looking at something else or hearing something else, it just comes back. Spence, I can’t- I can’t sleep. I just, I’m sure it’ll come back to me tonight.” Your voice broke, tears spilling onto your cheeks. “I don’t think I can handle reliving it and I’m so fucking exhausted. But I can’t rest because I can’t escape the nightmares.”

Spencer wanted so badly to comfort you but didn’t know what he could do. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take the pain away. He wished he could put the trauma onto himself but, unfortunately, he was powerless. Thus, he offered understanding. He gave validation. He gave kindness and pure, nonjudgmental love. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you and I know that doesn’t do much right now but I am. I’ll be here when the nightmares come and I’ll be here when the flashbacks try and drag you under. I’ll be here when the trauma starts to fade but suddenly reappears and I’ll be here 20 years from now, when the memory will still be real and painful but not all-consuming. I’ll be here forever, I’ll be here always. Please, tell me what to do to help you.” Spencer begged, hoping beyond all hope that there was something he could do to ease your suffering.

“Read to me?”

“Wha- what?”

“Read to me.” You repeated, more assured this time. “I’m thinking that if I can hear your voice, maybe it’ll drown out my brain. Or something. I don’t know. I just want to hear your voice, it’s soothing. Please?”

Spencer was taken aback. He didn’t think something so simple could help you. He didn’t know his sheer presence brought you that much serenity. “Yeah, of course. Of course! Yeah, any preference?”

“Not really. Whatever’s here?”

“Okay, love.” Spencer picked up his current read and began in the middle. You felt the rumble of his chest, the vibrations of his voice and felt more at ease. The anxiety was still there, the panic never far away. And yet, curled into him, his breath tickling your ear, his body warming yours, it suddenly felt alright. Like maybe you hadn’t gone through some life-altering trauma. Or maybe you had but your life wasn’t over because of it. Maybe you’d heal. Maybe, if you could find a moment of peace now, you’d find more later. Maybe? Yeah, You thought. You could work with maybe.

--

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tags: 

@saltybreaddream

[elriell]

i love your meta posts and would really like to see your thoughts on nessian and maybe the next book in detail?? thanks

Thank you, I enjoy doing them. As usual this will be rather long especially with quotes but there is so much Nessian goodness to discuss so bare with me.

[MY FULL THOUGHTS ON NESTA]

We will get in to the good, the bad, and everything in between but let’s start with their future and them being mates. This is not an unpopular belief to my knowledge but let’s talk about it because I feel this will be a part of their arc next book, especially since ACOFAS was kind of setting up the bridge for the spin off.

So take a look at these quotes from ACOFAS,

“Cassian’s face turned uncharacteristically solemn, and he remained quiet for a moment before he said, “I get jealous sometimes. I’d never begrudge you for your happiness, but what you two have, Rhys …” He dragged a hand through his hair, his crimson Siphon glinting in the light streaming through the window. “It’s the legends, the lies, they spin us when we’re children. About the glory and wonder of the mating bond. I thought it was all bullshit. Then you two came along.”

“What about you?” I asked, pulling away after a moment. “Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.” A halfhearted answer.”

I believe this is just a little teaser for his future with her, there is so much foreshadowing about both of them being mates but also becoming something powerful, especially Nesta.

“What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.”

Cassian’s golden-brown face had drained of color, his wings tucking in tight. “What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?”

He is described as a leader, a prince and a god a few times but the foreshadowing for Nesta becoming a Queen/Leader is unparalleled. I know quite a few people are not fond of the idea but to be honest with all the written breadcrumbs I cannot imagine it going any other way... It is mentioned so often.

“Nesta was waiting at the head of the table, a queen ready to hold court. ”

“But she turned to Cassian, looked him over as if she were a queen on a throne, and then declared to all of us,”

“How lovely she is—new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter sunrise.”

“And proud as any queen, Nesta took Elain’s arm and led her from the guardhouse. Mor trailed behind,”

“A queen without a throne. That was what I’d call the painting that swept into my mind.”

“She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. “I’m not.”

“Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

And I feel it will obviously be something to do with the Illyrians, as that is what is being set up. I believe they will become leaders of the Illyrians in a new way not currently present.

Mates

“And what about Cassian? He’s entangled—and enabling this nonsense.” A wry smile. “Cassian is going to have to decide some things, too. In the near future, I think.” “Are he and Nesta …?” “I don’t know. Until the bond snaps into place, it can be hard to detect.”

At this rate I do not even think it is questionable but let’s pretend we have to prove it, here are some key pieces of evidence,

Exhibit A)

Feyre painting the stars for her Mate, and her painting flames for Nesta.

“Nesta,” I said, starting on the other wing, “I painted flames for her. She was always angry, always burning. I think she and Amren would be fast friends. ”

“There was something rough-hewn about his features—like he’d been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.”

“A matching one lay atop his left hand; and twin red stones adorned Cassian’s gauntlets, their color like the slumbering heart of a flame.”

“So at odds from the male who had gone head to head with my sister, unable to resist matching himself against Nesta’s spirit of steel and flame.”

Exhibit B)

First potential scenting of it/Paralleling Rhys.

“He bowed at the waist, those wings vanishing entirely, and had begun to fade into the nearest shadow when he went rigid. His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, and his nostrils flared. Shock—pure shock flashed across his features at whatever he saw on my face, and he stumbled back a step. Actually stumbled. “What is—” I began.” [Rhys] “But he did take a step closer, bracing a hand on the mantel, and leaned in close enough to breathe in that scent of hers. It hit him in the gut so hard her could barely focus, and it took five centuries of training to make himself meet her eyes rather than let his own roll back in his head, to keep himself poised there instead of burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, to keep from moving closer, from… touching.”

“Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.”

Exhibit C)

Feeling each others pain/worry without being there.

“He’d followed. She’d known it in her bones, her blood. He’d kept high in the skies, but he’d followed until she’d entered the building.”

“CASSIAN.” Amren reached for her, but Nesta roared, “CASSIAN!”

“Nesta had known. She gaped up at me, terror and agony on her face, then scanned the sky for Cassian, who flapped in place, as if torn between coming for us and charging back to the scattering Illyrian and Peregryn ranks. She’d known where that blast was about to hit. Cassian had been right in the center of it. Or would have been, if she hadn’t called him away.”

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.” [...] But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.” I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

“Nesta’s screaming was the only sound. Cassian blindly lurched toward it—toward her, moaning in pain.”

“I whipped my head to Nesta as she went silent. The Cauldron righted itself. Cassian again stirred, slumping on the floor—but his hand twitched. Toward Nesta.”

“You’re hurt.” Rhys snapped to attention at that. [...] Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing— “You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely. “I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance. I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.”

Underrated Moments?

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.”

I feel like this is such an underrated moment between them, there is so much care and comfort in these moments I love it.

“Is she a witch.”

“She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.” LOL

“Nesta listened to the low-level Illyrian soldiers whispering about how Cassian had thrown that spear, how he’d cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat, how he’d fought like Enalius—their most ancient warrior-god and the first of the Illyrians. [...]

Nesta watched, and listened to it all, while the camp was built around us.”

This part of ACOWAR when she is settling in, helping out and listening to the tales of Cassian I think will come to parallel in ACOTAR 4. I love the idea that she just sat around listening to the legend of warrior gods...

Parallels

“Why do you bother, Cassian?”

His hazel eyes shuttered as we smoothly landed. And I thought he wouldn’t answer, especially not as we heard the others already in the dining room beyond the veranda,[...] But Cassian said quietly as we headed for the dining room, “Because I can’t stay away.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. “Go! ” he barked at her. “I can’t,” she breathed, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

*cries*

“But Nesta was glancing between us all, her back still stiff, mouth a thin line. “Where is he?” “Who?” Rhys crooned. “Cassian.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer. As if she was worried.

“I was almost at the door when Cassian said, “Is …” He swallowed. I spared him the discomfort of trying to mask his interest. “Both sisters will be at the house. Whether they want to or not.” Cassian’s eyes flickered. “How is she?”

Rhysand just stuck in the middle probably thinking these fucking idiots ahaha

“Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.”A halfhearted answer. I’d have to work on that, too. Perhaps there were threads to be pulled, woven together.”

“Perhaps you should get a place of your own, then.” “I have one in Illyria.” “I meant here.” Cassian lifted a brow. “I don’t need a house here. I need a room.” [...] I chuckled again, but held in my retort. My suggestion that he might want a place of his own. Soon. Not that anything was happening on that front. Not anytime soon. Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.”

had felt that way plenty

HAD FELT THAT WAY PLENTY.

HaD FElt tHAt wAY PLenTY

Perhaps this is really why they sent her to Illyria? Is this them weaving? Not sure how I feel about that really, but we shall see.

She only said, “Go home, Cassian.” He could count on one hand the number of times she’d used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one.”

“Cassian.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one.”

Their reactions to each other currently.

“No matter that she could scarcely stand to be around him. No matter that she had once, long ago, in a mortal body and in a house that no longer existed, let him kiss her throat. Being near him made her want to shatter things. As her power sometimes did, unbidden. Secretly.”

“But from the moment he’d met Nesta, the cold fire in her blue-gray eyes had been a temptation of a different sort. And now that she was High Fae, that inherent dominance, the aggression—and that piss-poor attitude … There was a reason he avoided her as much as possible. Even after the war, things were still too volatile, both within the Night Court’s borders and in the world beyond. And the female before him had always made him feel like he was standing in quicksand.”

Training

Quite a few people do not want her to become a epic warrior, and while I understand that especially after her quote in the books about there being other ways to be strong... but after SJM interviews and so forth I definitely think they will go in that direction...

“You’ll what?” Cassian crooned, trailing her at a casual pace as she stopped perhaps five feet from me. He lifted a brow as she whirled on him. “You won’t join me for practice, so you sure as hell aren’t going to hold your own in a fight. You won’t talk about your powers, so you certainly aren’t going to be able to wield them. And you—”

“Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes. I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there. “Care to join?” Cassian purred. Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

“Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …”

Morrigan

Alright let’s move on to Mor, I am sure there are a lot of opinions on her/and her relationship with Cassian. I am going to try not to get in to detail about her personally and keep it too Nessian because I feel like that is a whole other can of worms...

“And then there would be the matter of explaining it to everyone.

To Mor. His blood chilled.”

This is a big reason for why I need both of their own POV’s because there is so much we are limited to being inside of Feyre’s head. But one thing is clear and that is that there is something wrong here, ^^^ that response is not normal for a “friend” to find out you like/whatever someone.

It is not a healthy dynamic at all, I am sorry.

I believe it also alters and changes the way Nesta perceives things, we as readers may know nothing is currently going on between them but as an outside party she would not know that and some of their scenes have got to raise alarms.

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Case and point, this was a rather cold and heartless thing to do especially given that she is finally trying to help him and open up. Imagine being Nesta in this situation, it is sure to raise some alarm bells...

“Rhys chuckled. Cassian, however, didn’t smile, every pore of him seemingly fixed on Nesta and Mor.”

I really hope they expand on why he is so afraid of her reaction.

“Just what I always wanted.” He held up a pair of what seemed to be red silk undershorts. The perfect match to her negligee. With Nesta pointedly preoccupied with flipping through her new books,”

“Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead. Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.”

“The general of the High Lord’s armies stuck out his tongue. Mor returned the gesture. Amren scowled at Rhys. “You’d be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble.” His face was indeed controlled, but—a hint of surprise twinkled there. Wariness, too, but … surprise. I risked another glance at Nesta, but she was watching her plate, dutifully ignoring the others.”

I think it is very interesting that SJM put these scenes in here because as readers again we might laugh and enjoy the banter between the circle but she is making it a point to show that Nesta is bothered/has a reaction to these moments. I wouldn’t even call it jealousy per-say but rather wariness over someone she considers a player flirting around, raising red flags.

Especially getting matching underwear with someone, as an outsider how would you perceive that?

“Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.”

I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it.

“He’s busy.” I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy.

Mor said flatly, “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.”

“I tried not to look too obvious as I glanced at Cassian.They had not seen each other since Adriata.But the warrior only gave her a cursory once-over and turned toward Azriel to say something. Mor was watching both carefully—the warning she’d given my sister ringing silently between them. And Nesta, Mother damn it all, seemed to remember. Seemed to rein in whatever words she’d been about to spit and just approached me.”

“So you’re alive.”Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin, wings flaring slightly. “Were you hoping otherwise?”

Mor was watching—watching so closely, every muscle tense. She again reached for his arm, but Cassian angled out of reach, not tearing his eyes from Nesta’s blazing gaze.

I don’t agree with her at all, especially since she is a hypocrite because if anyone brings up her relationship with Azriel it is unacceptable and not their business. You can be a friend, you can be protective, as I am sure Az also is but you can keep it to yourself, or Cassian.

Her not wanting to loose her buffer is not only selfish but cruel to him.

“Your Solstice present.” “I don’t want one.” Cassian continued past her, tossing the present in his hands. “You’ll want this one.” He prayed she would. It had taken him months to find it. He hadn’t wanted to give it to her in front of the others. Hadn’t even known she’d be there tonight.”

This isn’t directly linked to Mor but it kind of falls under the same theme of him being shy/embarrassed(?) in regards to her, for whatever reason it doesn’t put things in the best light. We can only speculate about what was inside it, and boy do we, so we can’t say if it was personal or private but the idea that he didn’t want to display any... sentiment towards her publicly must rub her the wrong way especially since only Elain got her a present.

Touch

Not much to analyse here I just want to quote and appreciate these moments.

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.”

“Nesta was standing there, arms around herself, eyes wide. Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.”

“She let out a small, animal sound—like some wounded stag—as she saw him. As he landed so hard his knees popped. He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching—”

“Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated. Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before. Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back. And I marveled at the touch she allowed—marveled at it as much as I did the mud-splattered hand she held out. The concentration that settled over her face.”

“Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.”

“Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. “You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.”

“Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. “Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

Watching

“He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.”

“When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well. I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister. The sorrow. And the longing.”

“Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.”

“Cassian had named about two dozen poses for Nesta at this point. Ranging from I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast to I Don’t Want Cassian to Know I’m Reading Smut. The latter was his particular favorite. Suppressing his smile, Cassian gestured to the pretty piles”

“But Mor waved him off and moved to pass Cassian his gift; but the warrior didn’t take it. Or take his eyes off Nesta as she undid the brown paper wrapping on the box and revealed a set of five novels in a leather box. She read the titles, then lifted her head to Elain.”

“What are you?” Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.”

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.” Lord Devlon, for once, nodded his approval. I wondered if Cassian noticed it—if he cared. His face revealed nothing, not as his focus remained wholly on my sister.”

“She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering—impressed, even, by the strange, simmering woman before them. I didn’t have the words in me—to convey what was in my heart. Cassian seemed the same.”

“I do not want to be remembered as a coward.” “No one would say that,” I offered quietly. “I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. ”

“Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room.”

“Nesta had been beautiful as a human woman. As High Fae, she was devastating. From the utter stillness with which Cassian stood beside me, I wondered if he thought the same thing.”

Nesta blurted, “You didn’t come to—” She stopped herself. The world seemed to go utterly still at that interrupted sentence, nothing and no one more so than Cassian. He scanned her face as if furiously reading some battle report. Mor just watched as Cassian took Nesta’s slim hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. As he folded in his wings and blindly reached his other hand back toward Mor in a silent order to transport them. Cassian’s eyes did not leave Nesta’s; nor did hers leave his. There was no warmth, no tenderness on either of their faces. Only that raging intensity, that blend of contempt and understanding and fire.”

Can someone tell them both there are other people in the room? I don’t think they know...

Protect

“Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, “Watch it.” Tamlin looked between my sister and Cassian—his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. “Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.”

“Cassian had stationed himself by the doorway, I realized, to be closer to Nesta. To grab her if Amren decided she didn’t particularly care for where this conversation was headed[...] Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order. Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

“Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.”

This is a personal favourite of mine because when it is truly dangerous she trusts and relies on Cassian completely. Also just the imagery of her peering over his shoulder is golden.

“Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.”

“I don’t think even the Carver knows what Nesta is. But I wanted to see—just in case.”

“Why?”

“I want to help.”

“How do I fix it?” she asked. Her hair had been tied in a loose knot atop her head earlier in the day, and in the hours that we’d worked to ready and distribute supplies to the healers, through the heat and humidity, stray tendrils had come free to curl about her temple, her nape. Faint color had stained her cheeks from the sun, and her forearms, bare beneath the sleeves she’d rolled up, were flecked with mud.”

Despite any vicious words or silly mistakes they both care for each other, the second anyone becomes a threat or a problem to their counterpart a deeper more hidden feeling emerges. A protective instinct.

Brooding

“He very rarely allowed himself to think of her, anyway. It usually didn’t end well for whoever was in the sparring ring with him.”

“He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled that box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he’d blown open. As if it, and the present. had never been.”

“Cassian shut out the words. Shut out the image that chased him from his dreams, night after night: not Nesta holding up the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy; not the way her father’s neck had twisted in Hybern’s hands. But the image of her leaning over him, covering Cassian’s body with her own, ready to take the full brunt of the king’s power for him. To die for him—with him. That slender, beautiful body, arching over him, shaking in terror, willing to face that end. He hadn’t seen a glimpse of that person in months. Had not seen her smile or laugh.”

Understanding/Compassion

He may have his slip ups but thus far he has proven to be rather compassionate when it comes to Nesta and understanding where she comes from.

“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. “You think we can just take over her family’s house, demand that of them?”

From before they even met he showed understanding to their beliefs about the fae.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

I think they both have their positive and negative attributes to face but overall they genuinely try their best for each other.

“Dresses aren’t good for flying, ladies.” Nesta didn’t reply.

He lifted a brow. “No barking and biting today?” But Nesta didn’t rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. “I’ve never worn pants,” was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian’s features. But he brushed it aside and drawled, “I have no doubt you’d start a riot if you did.”

No reaction. Had the Cauldron— Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

The beautiful thing I love about Cassian is that he loves her wholly and without concern of her abilities, her walls.

“Would you be frightened of her, if Nesta was—Death? Or if her power came from it?” Cassian was quiet for a long moment.

He said at last, “I’m a warrior. I’ve walked beside Death my entire life. I would be more afraid for her, to have that power. But not afraid of her.” He considered, and added after a heartbeat, “Nothing about Nesta could frighten me.”

I swallowed, and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

These idiots are both as stubborn and silly as each other, “oh you didn’t say anythign to me!” “well neither did you” honestly, these donuts will be the death of me but I love them anyways.

“And you didn’t say one gods-damned word to me the entire night.

Not that he’d said a word to her. She’d made it clear enough in those initial days after that last battle that she wanted nothing to do with him. With any of them.

He understood. He really did. It had taken him months—years—after his first battles to readjust. To cope. Hell, he was still reeling from what had happened in that final battle with Hybern, too.”

But again he acknowledges her pain, her inability to cope and return to normal after her trauma. Which I dive in to a lot more in my Nesta post, but in short my frustration lies with him saying he understands but then in moments she is suffering he seems to forget occasionally and snap.

Funny/Little moments

“I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.”

“What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring. “Is it Nesta?” “Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

“Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

“Neither of us missed Cassian’s barked, filthy curse, though we didn’t deign to comment. Cassian was a general—the general of the Night Court. Surely Nesta wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.”

“Ready for some flying, Nes?” “Don’t call me that.” The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.”

“Nesta in a pale gray gown that brought out the steel in her eyes, Elain in dusty pink. Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

“Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say.”

“He knew about the drinking, about the males. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself he didn’t want to know who the bastard was who had taken her maidenhead. Told himself he didn’t want to know if the males meant anything—if he meant anything.”

Ownership

“His eyes widened, but the scent of his fear remained—not at her, but at who he’d heard at the front door. As he remembered who she was, both in the court, and to Cassian. She chucked his white shirt to him. “You can use the front door now.”

I think this is a big rub for Nesta, this feeling of ownership. I truly belive she knows and has felt the bond for a little while, for sure after ACOWAR. As we saw with her reaction to Lucien “claiming” Elain as his mate she is not here for this sense of entitlement fae males have.

It doesn’t further help when those around her and in Velaris all treat her as if she is his now. And she is most certainly not.

“Starting with the first male she’d taken here, who had no idea that her maidenhead was intact until he’d spied the speckled blood on the sheets. His face had gone white with terror—pure, ghastly white. Not for fear of Feyre and Rhysand’s wrath. But the wrath of that insufferable Illyrian brute.”

Is this Cassian’s fault? NO. But it probably will not help the situation for her.

“Yet as far as anyone was now concerned, the events of that last battle had bound them. Her and Cassian.”

Promises & Mistakes

“Cassian shook his dark hair out of his eyes, slightly longer than the last time I’d seen it. “I don’t think Nesta will ever forgive me for what happened in Hybern. To her—but mostly to Elain.”

“Your wings were shredded. You were barely alive.”

For that was guilt—ravaging and poisonous—in each of Cassian’s words. What the others had been fighting against in the loft. “You were in no position to save anyone.”“I made her a promise.” The wind ruffled Cassian’s hair as he squinted at the sky. “And when it mattered, I didn’t keep it.”

It is so sad that he feels that way when it clearly was far beyond his control, but I am glad that Nesta doesn’t really hold it against him and when it comes to it later on she trusts him yet again to protect her.

“It goes both ways,” Nesta murmured, as if my mate’s words moments before had triggered the idea. “He doesn’t know how much I took. And if … if I make it seem like I’m about to use his power … He’ll come running. Just to kill me.”

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled. Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

noooow for the scene we probably all equally cringe over...

“Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.”

He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn’t keep him from saying, “Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do. If you can’t be bothered to try for my happy little circle’s sake, then at least try for them.”

A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void.

Other than simply being hurt and frustrated I cannot for the life of me understand why he would say that of all things, it is such a hurtful but also random thing to say especially since he seemed to find plenty to like about her prior.

But again they are both akin to make mistakes, saying things they shouldn’t, Nesta certainly cannot complain as she can be very bad for it.

ICONIC.

“Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he’d hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. “Get up,” she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. “Get up.” He tried—and failed. “You’re too heavy,” she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armor. “I can’t—he’s coming—” “Go,” Cassian groaned. Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.” She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could[…]”

“And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise—surprise or some … feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian. And covered Cassian’s body with her own. Cassian went still—then his hand slid over her back. Together. They’d go together.”

“Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?”

Cassian’s brows rose—little amusement to be found now. “Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.” My face began heating, and I opened my mouth. To say what, I didn’t know. “Your sister died—died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make—and insult my people in the process.”

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely. Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.”

Nesta

“Nesta is different from most people,” I explained. “She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield—like the ones Rhys has in his mind.”

“Against what?”

“Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

And I think that is what makes one of the last things we hear from her in ACOFAS where she admits she isn’t feeling anything at all, a stark contrast from before the war. She is traumatised. Unfeeling,

“Until she drew her knees to her chest and stared into the dimness. Still the silence raged and echoed around her. Still she felt nothing.”

"Nesta struggles a lot with her mental health, with facing her past, with healing herself and learning to love herself and open herself up to other people." -Sarah J Maas

As for the next book I think it will be about both of them learning to heal, to grow, and face all the unspoken things between them. I personally cannot wait for both of them to do so, I love them both equally.

They are both flawed and complicated characters but that is precisely what I love about them.

As usual I say, I am always open to discussions and opinions, I love to chat but lets keep it calm and respectful. Everyones opinion is valid ♥️

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Part 4)[Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted, look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Logan’s statement did not appear to go over well with the small assassin. He went still and curled over into himself as though to protect his more vulnerable areas. Honestly, Logan thought agitated, Logan hadn’t threatened any bodily harm. He’d even prefaced the statement with an apology even though he didn’t feel as though he had anything to apologize for! Just like father had taught him!

Patton shot him a glare, telling him he was somehow in the wrong despite the fact that he’d been the one who was almost assassinated. Logan grumbled and returned to quietly sulking in the background while Patton cooed at the assassin, trying to cajole him out of the ball he’d wrapped himself into.

Logan did have to admit the situation was odd. He was young. He didn’t even know anyone trained assassins so young. His kingdom did have a guild of trained assassins/spies, but one couldn’t even join the military until one was of age (though they could start training at 16 with special permission) and all assassins must have at least a year of military training before being considered. It would be years more before they were sent out on actual missions.

So, where had this young boy came from? Surely, he wasn’t acting of his own volition, especially considering his age and temperament. What was his or whoever had sent him’s greater purpose? One didn’t attempt the risky act of regicide without some reasoning. Why did he only have one weapon? Most hired killers would be provided with a backup at the very least and more than likely an arsenal. Why was he acting so skittish? It was a strange attitude for a trained killer.

He had piqued Logan’s curiosity and Logan wanted answers.

“There, see?” Patton was saying. He was hand feeding more of the cookie to the assassin who looked just as startled by this fact the second time around as the first. “How about a compromise?”

Logan eyed him suspiciously. He was willing to let Patton lead since Logan was well aware of his own shortcomings when it came to tact, but his friend also had a bit of a bleeding heart. Logan refused to let him put himself at risk.

Ironically, the assassin seemed to be on the same page as Logan. His eyes tracked Patton distrustfully. “Compromise?” he echoed.

“Yes!” Patton said, unconcerned with the blatant discomfort in the room.

“We’ll ask you a question and you answer it,” Patton said. “Then you can ask a question and we’ll answer that. Then we can keep going back and forth like that.”

The assassin seemed unsure about this, but he slowly nodded. “What’s your question?” he asked.

Patton looked back at Logan and inclined his head. Logan took a step forward. “Who are you?” Logan asked. The assassin hesitated.

“Maybe a more specific question,” Patton suggested. “We’ve got plenty of time and ‘who are you?’ is a bit of a big question. There are so many different answers!”

“Very well,” Logan agreed. “Let’s start with, what’s your name?”

The assassin considered him, looking overly cautious for such a mundane question. “It’s Virgil,” he said after a moment.

“Last name?” Logan prompted.

“I-” he hesitated, looking distressed. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?” Logan asked.

And… he was curling up into a ball again. “Sorry,” he said softly. He started to cry again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, hey,” Patton soothed. “That was good.”

Logan frowned. It was not ‘good’. It had given them basically no information. “Why-”

“It’s Virgil’s turn to ask a question, Logan,” Patton said. Logan almost groaned. This was going to take forever, wasn’t it?

Virgil’s eyes bounced between them. “Why haven’t you called someone to take me away yet?” he asked.

“We wanted to ask you a few questions ourselves before getting the castle guards involved,” Logan answered.

“Are…” he shut his mouth, likely realizing he’d have to wait for his next question.

Logan considered him. “Why do you have no last name?” Logan asked.

Virgil looked away. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know who my parents were, and no one bothered to give me one.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” Logan acknowledged. “And your question?”

“Are…” Virgil said. “Are you going to torture me if I don’t answer something right?”

Patton let out a little pained exhale.

“Why would we do that?” Logan asked.

“Why wouldn’t you do that?” he replied.

“Where the hell are you from where that’s a question?”

“Why the hell should I tell you?”

“Why the hell would you be defending a place that makes you think that’s a normal question?”

“What the fuck are you even on about?”

“Okay,” Patton cut Logan off before he retorted in kind. “I think that’s enough of the question game at the moment.” He stood up and walked back over to the plate of cookies.

“He-” Logan started to grouse and got a sugar cookie pushed into his mouth to silence him.

Logan frowned around the cookie as Patton went back and offered the other cookie to Virgil. Virgil turned his head away from it. Logan’s eyes watched the assassin as Patton thought for a moment and then tore a bit of the cookie off. He ate the bite himself before offering the cookie again. This Virgil was a suspicious thing, Logan thought as the boy slowly ate a bite of cookie.

It made Logan’s curiosity itch even more, but at this rate he wasn’t going to get any answers. He polished off the sugar cookie and then walked over to sit on the floor next to where Patton was kneeling.

Virgil watched him move and Logan met his eyes. “No, by the way,” Logan thought to answer. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

Logan tried not to bristle at the disbelieving look on his face. Logically that distrust had nothing to do with Logan personally, but with whatever his experiences were before this.

Logan tilted his head at him. “Why the one knife?”

Virgil blinked at that. “What?”

“The knife,” Logan reiterated. “You were clearly here to use it, but you only have one. It seems odd.”

“Uh…” Virgil said. “I don’t know. That’s all they gave me.”

Logan nodded. “Me or my dad?” he asked. “Or both?”

Virgil clearly didn’t want to answer. “The king,” he said.

Logan nodded, and it suddenly hit him exactly what would have occurred if he and Patton hadn’t happened to be awake. Virgil seemed to see the realization on his face. He braced himself as though expecting to be struck. Logan felt suddenly nauseous, the idea of a dead father hitting a bit too close to home after…

“And the guards?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t,” Virgil rushed to say. “Just a light sleeping potion. They probably didn’t even notice anything happen.”

“Okay,” Logan said. “Good.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Virgil asked.

“We’ll hand you over to the guards,” Logan said. “They’ll figure out what to do with you from there.”

He nodded, looking small, and Logan refused to feel guilty for it. Virgil had come here with the intention of killing Logan’s dad! Logan had no reason to feel guilty about turning him in. Besides, it wasn’t as though any of them were going to hurt or kill a literal child. Dad would never let them anyway. He’d be fine! There was no reason for his sad eyes that seemed almost too big for his face to make Logan want to squirm uncomfortably.

Logan sighed. “Are you still hungry?” he asked. “We do actually have more than just cookies in spite of Patton’s efforts.”

“We don’t have any more jam though because of Logan’s efforts earlier,” Patton said sweetly. Logan pursed his lips but didn’t deny it. Instead he just walked over to where they’d stored their extra snacks.

“How about some cheese?” Logan suggested, “and perhaps some milk to drink?”

“Why are you trying to feed me?” Virgil asked.

“Because you look hungry. Are you?”

He bit his lip and nodded. They split up the cheese between the three of them which seemed to soothe Virgil’s worry of poison. He ate what they offered him without complaint and drank most of the milk.

Logan managed to squeeze a few more answers out of the boy, but nowhere near enough to satiate his curiosity. Eventually, morning came, and Logan sighed. “We should probably…” he said, “turn you in.”

The boy looked like he might burst into sobs, but he just hung his head. Another stab of that unfounded guilt shot through Logan and the frown on Patton’s face just made it worse.

“I’ll talk to my father first,” Logan promised. “He’s a kind man. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Virgil clearly didn’t believe him, but Logan knew it would be okay in the end.

“We should probably hide him before we leave though,” Logan told Patton. “Just in case.”

Patton nodded and looked around. “Closet?”

“That will be adequate,” Logan agreed. He turned to Virgil. “Those bracelets make your arms stay in place as you have seen, but I can move them at will. I’ll take your arms and guide you to the closet. You walk behind me. Understand?”

Virgil nodded and Logan picked up both of his wrists, pulling his arms in front of him and then using his grip to help the boy stand. He didn’t resist being pulled to his feet or led to the closet.

“Alright, let’s go,” Logan said. Patton had on his unhappy face, but Logan did his best to ignore it. This was the correct decision. He and Patton left his bedroom and crossed to his dad’s room. Logan knocked. He’d expected that he’d have to wake his father since it was still very early in the morning, so he was surprised when the door opened before Logan had even finished knocking.

“Logan,” Father said. “I was just coming to see you.” He was already dressed, and Logan raked his brain for any early morning appointments for today and came up blank.

“What about?” Logan asked.

“There’s been word that Lamir’s new Queen may be considering an alliance with Mocnejsi. Seeing as I knew her mother fairly well, I’m hoping I can talk her out of it,” he said.

“What should I do?” Logan asked.

Father turned back into the room. “You’ll stay here and oversee things while I’m gone,” he told Logan over his shoulder. “I’ll only be gone for three weeks and there is nothing major that will need to happen. Just make sure everything runs like usual.”

“You’re going to be gone for three weeks?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” Father confirmed.

Logan glanced at Patton who had turned to him, hands clasped and was shooting him his best pleading expression. “Okay,” Logan said, “have a nice trip.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 5

[trashscenariihxh]

Phinks x fem!reader Smut/Almost Hate sex

It had started out as a bet made over drinks in your hotel room.  A stupid bet really, born of alcohol and petty boasts.  It devolved into a series of juvenile competitions: who could toss the most consecutive paper wads into the trash, who could finish their beer the fastest, who could go the longest without talking during a second-rate horror film.  Fun, but not at all proportional to the stakes.

To your surprise, you won the majority of the little contests, so you set the terms.  They were simple, really: Phinks had to let you ride him.  Simple, except for the fact that the man had never let you ride him to completion before.  

He’d agreed, which is why you were in your current position: straddling Phinks’ waist while pumping his cock with languid strokes.  To ensure his compliance, you’d taken the extra step of tying him to the bedposts.

“Fuck, _____, hurry up,” Phinks gritted out as he strained against his bindings.  “How long does it take for you to sit on a dick, god fucking damnit!”

“Be patient,” you coo at him, giving his cock a few more pumps before scooting back to kneel between his legs.  “You agreed to this, after all.”

“Only because I didn’t think you’d be so fucking slow- ah!”  Phinks cut himself off when you dipped down to take him into your mouth.  You laughed around his cock as you began to bob your head up and down, tongue dragging along the shaft and licking at the tip.  

Phinks grunted and cursed when your lips sealed around the head of his cock; you had to hold his hips down against the bed to keep him from thrusting up into your throat.  You continued to tease him with your mouth, licking and sucking with varying degrees of intensity depending on his reaction.  Phinks gave you a warning growl when you ran your tongue along the length of a vein on the underside of his cock.  “____, if you don’t get on my dick right now, I swear I’ll--” 

“Hm, what?”  You pulled away from his now achingly-hard cock and smiled down at him.  His jaw was tensed and his brow furrowed as he glared up at you with furious eyes.  A strange feeling, a cocktail of excitement, anticipation and fear began to form in the pit of your stomach, and your eyes flitted over to the rope that bound Phinks to the bedpost.  Seeing that the knots were still-secure bolstered your confidence, and you threw him a smirk before straddling him and pressing yourself against his cock, which had sprung back to rest against his stomach.

“You want me on your dick, Phinks?” You ask sweetly, lowering yourself to rub your slit against his cock.  “Like this?”

“Fuck, _____.”  Phinks clenched his hands into ineffectual fists.  “You know what I mean.”  He lifted his head up from the bed as far as he could to glare up at you.  When you only smiled and rocked your hips against him he snorted in frustration and let his head fall back down.  “Bitch.”

You tutted at him.  “Watch your language,” you chided, lifting off of him slightly so you could line his cock up with your entrance.  “Or else I might just leave you here.”  You slowly sank down onto him.

“You wouldn’t -ah! Dare.”  Phinks gasped when he bottomed out and felt you tighten around him.  The muscles in his arms tensed and flexed as he strained against the rope.

“Wouldn’t I?” You began to move, making lazy figure eights with your hips.  “Don’t test me, Phinks.  I don’t need your cock to get off.”  You clenched your inner muscles around him and felt a surge of triumph when he groaned in frustrated pleasure and squeezed his eyes shut.  You gave a hum of satisfaction and reached down to run your fingers over his face, down his neck and over the muscular plane of his chest.  He was starting to sweat.

You decided to show the poor man some mercy and began to pick up your pace.  Phinks seemed to approve and relaxed a little, though his jaw remained just as clenched as before. “You like that?” you asked as you angled your hips so he could brush against your g-spot.  There was a slight breathlessness in your voice despite your best efforts to sound noncommittal, a detail that Phinks picked up on immediately.

“I knew it, even like this you’re a slut for my cock.”  He sneered up at you as he pushed his hips up to meet yours.  “Just admit it, ____.”

You felt a small twinge of annoyance at his cockiness, so you decided to make things difficult for him.  Your movements ceased and you glared down Phinks from your position astride his hips.  “I told you to watch your language,” you admonished. Phinks only fixed you with a smoldering glare.  “Move.”

You shook your head.  “Ask me nicely.”

Phinks frowned.  “I will not,” he replied in a husky, hoarse voice.

“Do it.”

“____...” There was an undertone of warning in his voice that, had you not been so heady with dominance, you would have noticed and heeded.  “Move.  Now.”

“No.” You threw him an imperious glance as he pulsed inside you.  “Maybe I’ll just stay like this awhile, until you ask me-”

Snap.

In one fluid motion, Phinks jerked his fists forward, snapping his bindings as if they were nothing.  Before you could fully comprehend what was happening Phinks grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over so that he was on top of you, his cock buried impossibly deep.

“You have a lot of nerve, talking to me like that,” he growled, dipping down to savage your neck with hungry kisses and bites.  He slammed into you repeatedly, each time drawing back until only the head of his cock remained inside you before ramming back in, causing sparks to dance across your vision.  He entered you again with one sharp thrust, hilting himself within you and stilling as you whined and struggled to get used to the feeling of having him so wondrously, painfully deep; you felt him nudging against your cervix.

With a whimper you reach forward to press against his shoulders in an effort get him to let up just a little so you could have some reprieve, but Phinks seized your wrists and pinned them above your head.  While you fruitlessly struggled against his grip, he slipped his free arm underneath one of your legs and pushed forward to fold you back against yourself.

It was too much.  He was so deep inside that you could feel every thrum, every pulse of his cock.  A small rock of his hips caused you to squirm against him as he stared triumphantly down at you.  Something about the way he was smirking whilst bestowing such delicious torture upon you made you snap.

“So are you going to fuck me, or just stay like this all night?” You emphasized your words by squeezing him with the muscles of your cunt, causing him to exhale sharply through his nose.

Your words earned a hand to be clapped over your mouth as Phinks settled down to brace himself against the bed with his elbow, his weight bearing down on you.  “You want me to fuck you, huh?” he hissed.  “I can do that...”

You will never know why you did what you did just then.  In a moment of unfathomable stupidity, you bit his hand.  Hard.

“Fuck!” Phinks drew back.  “You stupid fucking slut!”  

You’ve always been aware that Phinks can be a scary man, but the look he gave you then made your blood run cold.  For a split second you thought he was actually going to hurt you, or worse, but instead he released his grip on your wrists and planted his palms on either side of your head, caging you in.

Without warning he began to fuck you relentlessly, his hips driving forward and jostling almost painfully against your thighs.  He still had one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, and shifted to do the same to the other. 

Folded back against yourself like this, you were utterly at his mercy as his cock drove into you repeatedly, forcing your tight muscles to loosen around it.  The depth of the penetration teetered on the edge of pain, but you were losing yourself to pleasure all the same.

“Phinks... please... oh, fuck!”  Words failed you as the first warnings of your impending release coursed through your core, causing your overused pussy to twitch around his cock.  You reached up to clutch at his shoulders as each thrust made your entire body shake.  The discomfort of having him so deep inside had given way to pure overwhelming ecstasy; your eyes rolled back in your head as incoherent babbling flowed from your lips.

“You gonna cum for me?”  Phinks pressed forward, folding you even more until your knees rested against your shoulders.  “You gonna cum on my cock?”  When you could only whimper in response he chuckled before leaning forward to capture your lips in a searing kiss. 

The sheer force of him thrusting into you would have been enough to get you off, but the unexpectedness of the kiss made the final thread of your self control snap and you gave way to roiling pleasure.

“Shit, ____,” Phinks gritted out, his rhythm not slowing in the slightest as you spasmed around him.  “Were you really so desperate for my cock?”  He drove in and out of you a few more times before pushing in as far as he could and groaning.  He trembled on top of you for a few moments as he filled you with his release before pulling back to allow your now-sore legs to slip from his shoulders and rest on the bed.  A few moments later he collapsed forward onto you, his face buried in your neck as his chest heaved with exertion.

“You okay?” He murmured into your skin, nuzzling your neck as he reached down to stroke your thigh.

“Y-yeah.”  You swallowed thickly, still far too exhausted to form a coherent sentence.  Your thighs and pussy were beyond sore, but it was a pleasant,satisfying soreness.  You wondered if you’d have bruises later.

A deep rumble of laughter vibrated through Phinks’ chest as he rolled off of you.  “Gods, ____, you’re totally fucked out.”  A cocky smile spread across his face when you give him an exhausted look.  “Good thing I went easy on you.”

“That was going easy on me?” You sit up onto your elbows, groaning with discomfort and grimacing when you feel his release start to leak out of you.  “You were trying to split me in half.  What happened to letting me ride you?”

Phinks shrugged.  “I’m not a man of my word.  Sorry.”

You snorted with disapproval and gingerly rose from the bed.  “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Want company?”

“That’s definitely not a good idea,” you respond, wincing.  You probably wouldn’t be able to be fucked again for at least a week.  When another laugh erupts from Phinks as you limped towards the bathroom, you made a mental note to seek out stronger rope for next time.

[null-whump]

Whumptober Day 6

Continuation of day 5. Cutting it a little close, but I managed to make the deadline! And oh boy, we have all the whumpy goodness in this one.

Warnings: Cutting/knives, broken bones (specifically fingers/hands), whipping, brief mention of past branding, torture in general, Avis not knowing what personal space is

Word Count: 1,686

Whumptober Prompt 6 – Get it Out | No More | Stop, Please

––––––––––––––––––––––

I hadn’t thought there was anything worse than Varren’s punishments, earned or not. Two days of Avis trying to pull information out of me had been bad, but not as bad. I was starting to fear, however, that Varren and Avis put together might be worse.

“It’s a good thing I haven’t touched your back yet,” Avis said when we arrived. “That’ll give me plenty of room to work with!” She observed the room Varren had reserved for punishments, taking in the stone walls and lack of furnishings. “You always were a minimalist, weren’t you?”

Varren pushed me forward onto the floor, then leaned casually against the wall. “And you were always overly extravagant.”

I went to push myself onto my knees but was stopped when Avis dropped down beside me and pushed her knee into my back. “No need for that,” she murmured, leaning uncomfortably close to my ear. “We’re going to have so much more fun now that I don’t have any restrictions.” Her hand found my right arm and twisted it behind my back, while her other hand tangled through my hair. “I may not have access to all of my…tools, but I’m not going to let that stop me.”

I bit my lip in an effort to remain silent. She hadn’t even hurt me yet, but my heart was pounding in my ears.

“Relax,” she said, loosening her grip on my hair to switch to stroking my head, which was somehow more discomforting. “This is going to be fun!”

I shut my eyes. Avis laughed quietly and gently eased off my back. I heard her stand but didn’t try to move. “Where should we start?” She asked brightly.

“You’re the expert,” Varren said scathingly.

“Don’t be like that Varren. He’s your pet, surely you know what he’d hate the most?”

Varren scoffed. “It doesn’t matter what you do, he’ll be begging you to stop in no time.”

“How about a game then?” Avis nudged me with the toe of her boot. “Boy, how long do you think you can last without begging?”

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Varren said. He addressed me. “One hour – for however many minutes are left when you break, you’ll get that many lashes, on top of whatever Avis has planned.” He grinned. “Sound fun?”

It sounded like hell, but I wasn’t going to say that.

“Lovely!” Avis crouched down next to me again. “We’ll start with something simple, yes?”

I caught a glimpse of her knife and flinched as she brought it close to my skin, only for her to cut away my shirt, cold blade brushing close against my skin. I clenched my hands, trying to steady my breathing as I waited for the first cut to come. I heard movement and a sound like she was opening a bottle. Then the knife came, cutting a line down my left arm.

I gasped, shutting my eyes against the pain. At first, it felt like any other knife wound I had suffered, but then the cut burned – it felt like acid was being poured into my veins and it didn’t stop – I screamed through clenched teeth as the knife seemed to burn through my skin, the pain continuing even after the knife retreated.

“How’d you like that?” Avis asked triumphantly. “A special potion I concocted myself. Works like salt in a wound, but worse.”

I felt the knife brush against my arm again and couldn’t hold back a whimper. Avis leaned closer as she pushed the knife in, and I felt stray hair not caught up in her braid brush against my face. “Fifty-seven more minutes,” she whispered, while dragging the knife through my arm again. “And I’m just getting started.”

I tried to keep track of the time, but it was impossible with the intensity of the pain Avis was causing me. The knife returned, again and again, each time worse than the last. It felt like an eternity had passed when she finally put the knife away. She grabbed my right hand and twisted my arm behind me again, and I felt tears spring to my eyes at the sudden pain the movement caused.

“There are so many things to be done with hands,” Avis mused, stroking each of my fingers individually. She traced her finger down to my palm, stopping at the brand in the center. “Of course, you already know that.” She tightened her grip until it was painful. “Do you know how many bones are in the human hand?”

I shuddered, pushing down memories of the last time I had been asked that. “T-twenty-seven,” I whispered.

Avis laughed. “Varren already pulled that one with you, did he?” She shifted her grip to my first finger. “Oh well, this is still fun.” She twisted my finger sharply, and I cried out as I felt the bone snap. Another twist and more pain shot down my hand.

I tasted blood in my mouth and realized that I had bitten my tongue, but the pain was a dull ache in comparison to the rest of my body. Avis moved to my next finger, and I braced myself for the two sharp cracks that followed. I whimpered as she moved on to the next one, pain already radiating down my hand. Three more fingers and she had finished with my right hand. My eyes were screwed shut as I tried to focus on breathing through the pain.

“Halfway there,” Avis said happily, dropping my right hand, then reaching for my left. “How about a different method for this one?”

She placed my palm flat against the ground and drew her knife. I panicked, sure that she was about to cut off one of my fingers, and tried to pull my hand away. She kept a firm grip on my wrist and moved to push her knee into my back, so hard that my breathing became difficult.

“Hold still,” she ordered, before raising the knife and slamming the hilt down onto my hand.

I couldn’t hold back my scream as pain blossomed in my hand, radiating through the tips of my fingers and down my wrist. As I gasped for breath, I saw that she had aimed for my first knuckle, which was turning an awful shade of purple. Avis raised her knife again and I choked down a whimper. It hurt more when it came down the second time, so close to the first break that it might as well have been on top of it. Then again, and by the final fifth time I was sobbing brokenly, unable to feel anything in my hand other than a mass of pain.

“Well, Varren?” Avis said, breaking through the haze of pain over my mind. “How is he doing? Think he’ll last the whole time?”

That’s right, I remembered. I was still on a time limit. Surely it couldn’t be much longer – surely.

“You can’t really expect him to,” Varren replied. “I know my pet. He’ll give in before much longer.”

“Think so?” Avis brushed her knife lightly against the edge of my neck, then moved it slowly up to the tip of my spine. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

The knife pierced my skin and she began dragging it slowly down the length of my spine, pulling another scream from my ragged throat as she pushed it deeper, and the cut burned like it was on fire. She had reached halfway down my back when I finally broke.

“Stop, stop, please!” My voice broke over the words, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel relief when the knife was raised. I knew what the cost was. “Please,” I whimpered, holding back more sobs. “Please, no more, please…”

Avis sat back on her heels. “Looks like you were right,” she said to Varren. “How much time was left?”

Varren paused before answering. “Twenty-three minutes.”

My head spun at the number. Twenty-three. Twenty-three. I had only lasted seven minutes past halfway.

“A good number,” Avis decided, standing to her feet. She nudged me in the ribs. “Up now, onto your knees. You know what’s next.”

I couldn’t move without pain, and it was an excruciating process to get my broken hands underneath me and push myself onto my knees. I thought I might pass out from the pain, or from the fear of the additional pain about to be inflicted.

Varren walked around to stand on my left side, still several paces away. “Don’t pass out,” he ordered. “I would hate to have to do this over again.”

I shook my head frantically. I couldn’t do this again. I couldn’t even think of it. Avis pulled my wrists above my head and secured them with a rope, not paying any mind to the broken state of my hands. I felt like I couldn’t breathe as she moved behind me, trailing the whip she had selected on the ground after her.

The first strike landed across the knife wound on my back, and my vision went white with pain. I’m sure I screamed, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to be aware. The second strike was the same, if not worse, then the third, then the fourth, until I lost count. When no more lashes came, I was on the edge of consciousness, only kept awake by the fear of what would happen to me if I passed out. Varren and Avis were speaking to each other, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than how much pain I was in.

I flinched when a hand came near my face; Varren, who gripped my chin and tilted my head up to face him. “I suppose you’ve earned a rest now,” he mused. “If only so you can recover naturally.”

Avis must have loosened the ropes holding me up, because I fell forward, only to be caught by a hand around my arm. Avis pulled me to my feet, though I was entirely supported by her grip.

“I’ll bandage him before he bleeds out,” I heard her say before I slipped away, finally, into peaceful rest.

––––––––––––––––––––––

Tag list! Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed, or if I somehow missed your name.

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog @shameless-whumper @whumpity--whump--whump @whumpitywhumpwhump @nervous-writer @this-zombie-will-eat-you @abyssshifter @whumpersworld @whatwasmyprevioususername @scared-and-crying @whatwhumpcomments @blackrosesandrhyme

[shebeafancyflapjack]

First Strike

One last mini-fic before it’s back to work for me. Inspired by something @cecret-with-c said months ago about if Chris revealing himself had been more intense. It’s been a while since I wrote some whump as well.

What if Chris had done more than punch Eleanor in the face? (Sort of a sequel to Let Me In).

Once again, Michael is grateful that he was given a human suit with such long legs to help him sprint in such far strides. He’s had to do more running than he ever expected to do in the past couple of years and the only time he was ever ‘caught’ was when he willingly gave himself up, not that he counts that time as a loss.

He races across the town, ignoring the heads of the Janet babies who turn in his direction out of vague, programmed curiosity, making his way towards the most dull-looking beige bungalow on the corner. It’s the house of the grandmother no kid ever wanted to visit because all she did was sit in her armchair and forbid laughter while she ranted about the noisy ‘illegals’ living next door.

The door is closed. From the outside, there’s no obvious sign of distress. 

And of course, every resident’s home is made to be sound-proof in the interest of privacy (a feature Tahani pushed on when Janet revealed the ‘surveillance’ feature of Michael’s previous experiment. They weren’t happy about that). It explains why the others are all going about town as normal despite being close enough to hear any sort of ruckus.

He braces himself before rushing forward, finding the door unlocked as he turns the handle.

“Eleanor?” He calls, immediately. 

What awaits him inside is as bad as he predicted, furniture turned aside, a few smashed vases and torn, hideous flowery wallpaper. But at least nothing is on fire. Michael feels that’s always a plus to be counted in most situations.

He stumbles in, almost tripping over the leg of an upturned side-table. 

“Shirt...Eleanor?!” Michael tries again, looking down the hall, the house seeming like a small bull just charged through the place.

“I’m here.”

He follows the dejected voice to the living room, finding her sat on the one half that remains of broken sofa. The tiny bit of relief he feels at first to see her in once piece shatters when she raises her head up from her hands.

An uneven pattern of swollen bruises decorate her face, tearful eyes shining between the puffy lids, blood still dripping from a cut on her lip and to the side of her left eyebrow. There’s marks on her throat, her hands and where her jacket has been torn on her arm as well.

One would think Michael had seen enough beaten up humans in his existence for it to no longer affect him, but the sight of Eleanor in this state cuts deep.

“Shirt...”

She braves the smallest smile; “You should see the other guy.” She then winces, possibly regretting speaking.

“Linda?!” He still can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense!

He’d been leaving his office to head over to Tahani’s when he’d bumped into a furious Janet, frog-marching a pissed off looking Linda in her grip. Before Michael could ask what the fork she was doing, Janet simply ordered him to get over to Linda’s house, for no other reason than ‘Eleanor is there’. He didn’t need more than that.

It was only after he’d left he smelled the blood on Linda’s hands. Eleanor’s blood. The same that is sprinkled around the room in its destruction and still leaking from her fresh wounds.

“Turns out Linda’s not as boring as we thought.” Eleanor scoffs, raising one of her blackened hands and cringing in further pain; “Fork...”

He puts aside the issue of Linda for a moment as he goes to kneel in front of her.

“Here...” He gently takes her wrists, cradling what looks to be an almost crushed set of fingers, delicately; “It’s okay...”

He snaps his fingers.

Eleanor hisses again, in discomfort more than pain this time, as the bones reset and fuse, her cuts seal up and the bruising settles down, hopefully taking the pain away with it. She lets out a deep sigh, now simply looking pained with exhaustion. 

“Thanks, bud...” 

He stays kneeling before her, eyes full of concern.

“What happened?” He asks, carefully; “Why didn’t Janet do that?”

Eleanor shakes her head, “Y’know what? It’s crazy. I don’t even remember...I just came here, wanting to try again with Linda, see if I could have a talk and understand her...For a few minutes she was just quiet, sitting and sucking on her mints while I did all the talking...And then out of nowhere...she got up and...”

She clenches her fingers on her lap, clenching her jaw to the point Michael hears her teeth grind.

“Take your time.” He tells her; “What did she do?”

“Not she...He.” Eleanor smirks again, annoyed; “Suddenly Linda was speaking in a guy’s voice...Calling me an annoying little bench, raging at me about how he got so sick of having to ‘play nice’ around me, and put up with me, when all he wanted to do whenever I opened my mouth was...Well. You saw for yourself.”

Michael takes a breath. He saw the result. He dreads to imagine what actions the clearly-not-human took to leave Eleanor looking like that.

“I just kinda blacked out, I guess. At first it was almost funny...this little old woman picking her chair up and throwing it at the radio, that was kinda neat. Then he started throwing things at me and I wasn’t ready to get out the way. And then, when I tried to call for Janet...his hands were on me and...” 

It might be more terrifying than the scene he walked in on, to see Eleanor Shellstrop this shaken and struggling to form a sentence. 

He flips the coffee table back upright and slides it close so he can sit and take Eleanor’s healed hands in his. He cages them safely in his own, rubbing them warm.

She laughs again, tears spilling; “Fork, Michael....I dunno what’s wrong with me!”

“You just took ten rounds from a demon, no one is going to judge you for not being yourself.” At least, that’s what he’s assuming. If Linda isn’t a human then angel is also very improbable, which leaves one last option. 

“I’ve dealt with ashholes on Earth trying to cup a feel when I wasn’t interested and I had no trouble handling myself or knowing how to get help. But this...” She trembles in his grip; “I was so....frozen. Like I couldn’t do anything! It was only when I thought he was gonna throw me through the window, I managed to call for Janet. She did offer to fix...” Eleanor gestures to her face; “But I just told her to get that motherforker out and somewhere secure...And I asked for you.”

She...wanted him? That causes a selfish little ball of light to glow inside of him, that he was the first one she wanted, out of the others. 

Then he reminds himself that he’s the only one out of them with magic to heal.

“You said this guy talked about having to put up with you before?”

She nods; “Yeah, I can’t remember if he was in those memories I saw...He might have been at that bar in Canada, I don’t remember. Might be the concussion.”

“Ah...I think I know who Linda might be underneath. I...put you with a lot of demons who posed as your fake soul mate and...one of them kept coming to me with a lot of complaints by the end because he was sick of it. It was only because he had the most handsome skin suit out of them all, he claimed I was being objectifying.” Michael waves off that bit; “His name was Chris.”

If he was working for Shawn to infiltrate them, posing as one of the humans, did he agree to it purely for the chance to finally get to physically hurt Eleanor like he always begged Michael permission for? He feels sick at the idea that he contributed to this in a way. 

“Well I’m glad Chrissy got it out of his system, now I know how guys really feel after having to put up with me.” Eleanor lightly jokes.

“No guy who’s been close to you would ever dream of hurting you like this.” He says that, earnestly.

Even before he changed sides, no matter how crazy Eleanor drove him, no matter how often she foiled his designs, he never wished physical hurt on her. Just to make her miserable by pranks and mind games. Nothing like this.

This was the last thing he ever wanted.

“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” He brings one of her hands to his lips, “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not, dude.” She says, tired; “I should’ve waited for you to be done at Tahani’s before we checked on Linda...We agreed to do these things together...”

Damn, will he and Janet have to chaperone all the humans now until this is over, in case something else threatens them?

“I’m just pissed that we didn’t see through Linda’s whole boring schtick. Tahani even said something was up with her but I ignored it.” She groans and rubs her head.

“Does it still hurt?” Michael frowns. It shouldn’t do, if he did it right.

Eleanor shakes her head; “No...Not from the fight, just...all of this. I was so sure I could handle it but this...I wasn’t ready for...”

“Blame me. You wouldn’t be in this position if I hadn’t had that break down at the start.” Michael tells her, feeling twisted with guilt.

“You didn’t make me choose to take this on, Michael. Stop it. None of this is on you...I’m just glad you’re here now.”

“Of course.” He gets to his feet and offers her his hand; “C’mon. I think we better call Shawn and tell him we’ve got something of his. And the Judge too while we’re at it.”

Eleanor looks up at him and gives a smile, then a nod, before taking his hand and standing up.

They’re half-way to the door when there’s a sudden tug on his hand.

Michael turns, frowning, seeing Eleanor standing motionless behind him. Her fingers are gripping his with such ferocity, his fingers would probably crunch if he was human, while her shoulders tremble, the smallest wince of panic on her face.

“What is it?” 

Her bottom lip wobbles, her eyes on the ajar pink door; “I...I dunno, I just...I d-don’t wanna go there yet.”

“Eleanor, he’s restrained. Janet’s way stronger than any demon, remember? And I wouldn’t let him touch you agai-.”

“I know that, dude, all right?!” She raises her volume, frustrated; “I don’t need your forking rational argument - I know that he’s all chained up and I’m safe and, whatever, because I’m a sexy badash who doesn’t get scared of anything so, fork you, this isn’t because I’m scared because I’m not! I’m fine! You’re the one who’s scared, I’m just protecting you, got it?! So lay the fork-.”

Once Michael has pulled her into his arms, she shuts up. It’s hard for her to keep babbling once her face is smothered into his chest. He waits for the resistance, to be shoved back, but nothing comes. Instead she stills, before her knees buckle, and her arms slip around his middle to cling to him. He places one hand on her neck and the other on the top of her head, stroking gently.

He just holds her tight for a moment, closing his eyes to stop his senses from seeing all the clear signs in the mess around them of what that deckhead did to her. How there’s a dent on the wall from where she was clearly thrown, or how that particular drop of blood stained on the carpet must have come from a blow to her mouth.

“Michael...Bit too tight, bud, you just fixed these ribs...” Eleanor sniffs against him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He loosens a little, still keeping her close, for as long as she clings to him. He pulls back after another minute to touch her face, searching for those green-blue eyes; “Listen. I know you, remember? No one’s aware of what a badash bench you are more than me, okay? But I also know you’re still human...And humans break, that’s what you guys do, it’s what makes you so amazing. That you can be so spunky even when you’re so stupidly fragile.”

And the more vulnerable they are, such as the small woman in his arms, the more courage they seem to hold to compensate. 

“I know how often you’ve wanted to break down when things got tough but you always had to put up a front to save face. You don’t have to do that with me, remember?” He whispers, softly, his thumb brushing a tear from her face; “You were there for me when I collapsed like a Tahani being told she has to fly economy. You trust me to be still be there for you if you do the same right?”

She sniffs again, nodding.

“It’s not just you, bud. God can’t be seen weeping, can she?” She japes.

With a wave of his hand, the blinds close and the door shuts.

“God can have some privacy. You’ve earned it.” Michael smiles at her and brings her back in again, letting her curl into him, one of her hands grabbing at his jacket; “Take as long as you need. I’m sure Janet can have fun with Chris while he waits for us. Make him sweat. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

Perhaps he’ll ask Janet to have some ‘time alone’ in a quiet room with Chris, even after they’ve called Shawn and the Judge. He might not be Chris’ boss anymore but he still feels the need to offer some ‘managerial feedback’. Which is a euphemism, by the way, he plans on eviscerating the forknut.

He hears the smallest hum.

“Thanks, bud. I dunno what I’d do without you.” Eleanor whispers, still shaky, clinging onto him; “We should’ve known they’d be too dumb to use something like a Michael-suit and instead they pull a stunt like this that gives them away. Forking idiots.”

He chuckles with her, resting his cheek on her head as he keeps her close.

“They’re no match for us. Say it with me...We’ve got this.”

“That’s my line.”

“Our line.” He jostles her a little, delighted by the sound of her laughter, more so when she smiles up at him, that fire slowly starting to ignite in her eyes again. 

Michael moves a strand of her hair away before planting a kiss on her forehead. Only fair, as she kissed his cheek last time, and it had felt...oddly pleasant. 

She sighs, “Fine. We’ve got this.”

He looks down at her, feeling ready to burst with admiration. There she is. Eleanor Shellstrop. Holding it together after taking a pummelling from an immortal being. 

Unstoppable, as always. 

Better luck next time, Shawn, old pal. But try to lay a finger his humans again and there will be Here to pay.

[velkynkarma]

Happy April Fools Day! The fool is me for not thinking of a prompt when I had a chance. I'd like to see Ryou getting nabbed by a bounty hunter who mistakes him from Shiro. Dark results or humorous, your call :)

Of course :) It took me a while to decide which direction to go in, but I got there eventually.

——

A ringing noise fills Ryou’s ears, off key and inside his head more than something he’s actually hearing. His vision is blurry and unfocused when he finally manages to open his eyes, and they feel thick and heavy, like they’re full of sleep. The taste in his mouth is rancid, and his tongue is uncomfortably dry. 

Damn it, he thinks to himself, and his own thoughts swim awkwardly in his head. I’ve been drugged. Again. 

Again. Of course it was again. Nobody should be this used to recognizing the signs of being drugged into unconsciousness. The fact that he was so acquainted with the basic symptoms was all kinds of messed up. And yet, here he is.

In a way, it’s useful. He’s so used to identifying the issue at hand that he can already bypass the shock of being drugged into unconsciousness, and go straight to figuring out how, why, and when it happened, and even more importantly—where the hell he was now.

Where was I before this? 

It takes a bit for his struggling, drug-addled mind to shake off the remains of the chemical effects enough to access the memories, but they come eventually. The celebration festival on Takarsis. The Takarites had reached out to Voltron for protection. Ryou had set up the arrangements and been there when the Takarite queen had officially signed the Coalition agreement, aid for protection. There had been a feast afterward, and a whole party throughout the city, one team Voltron had been encouraged to attend. 

Ryou hadn’t been with anyone at the time he’d disappeared. He’d gone off on his own to check some of the farmer’s market produce, and see if there was anything he could add to his garden. He’d seen most of the festivities after a spicolian movement on Takarsis and was more interested in shopping. Not even Shiro had argued with him going off by himself—the Takarites weren’t really fighters, and nobody thought they could pose much of a threat.

Apparently they’d been dead wrong about that. Then again, grabbing somebody from behind while slapping a drugged rag over their mouth was hardly fair, or even a fight.

Okay. Not a great start to his situation, but it could be worse. The team might not notice he’s missing for a while, with the party in full swing. But they will come looking eventually, once it’s over and Ryou doesn’t come back to the Castle of Lions. They all would search, of course, but Shiro will focus obsessively on nothing else until then, and Keith will be right there next to him, both hellbent on finding Ryou and damn the need for sleep. They’ll probably both be wondering if Ryou somehow managed to wander off and forget how to come back, but Ryou can deal with that annoyance when the time comes.

That’s the ‘when’ and ‘how.’ ‘Why’ is going to be a little harder to figure out without doing some investigating. For now, ‘where’ is far more important. 

Ryou blinks his eyes a few times, trying to clear his vision. Gummy spots of sleep slide uncomfortably out of his line of sight, but at least it’s not as clouded as before. Not that it helps much. The room he’s in is dark, and most of the available light comes from a square hole with bars that’s cut into the door on the far side of the room. The room itself has nothing else of interest in it.

Lovely. A prison cell.

A few of Shiro’s memories take strong objection to this newfound discovery, bubbling up to do their best to remind Ryou about all the awful, terrible things that happened to him during his time in the Galra prisons. Ryou shoves them to the back of his mind as hard as he can. It doesn’t feel personal, like it happened to him, but he doesn’t need any reminders of what could happen to him in his current situation. He needs to focus. Shiro’s memories do not allow for much focus.

He takes stock of himself next. His head is clearing rapidly now, so whatever they’d used on him had been short-term at best. He can live with the headache. He’s sore all over, which is probably from being man-handled while unconscious, but he’s had far worse in his short lifetime. There’s strain in both his shoulders and his arms, though, thanks to the fact that his wrists are tied together above him over his head. 

“Deja vu,” Ryou mutters under his breath. His tongue still feels a little thick in his mouth, but he can talk at least. 

His arms present more of a problem. Why do people always restrain him like this? Don’t they know it hurts? 

At least he’s sitting, this time, wedged into the corner with his legs splayed out in front of him like a discarded doll. That means his full weight isn’t suspended from his wrists, which is a relief at least. When he tips his head back, he can just barely make out the chains tying his wrists together and bolting them to the wall. 

So he’s not going to bounce himself out of this one, like he had when Remdax and Vakala had caught him. He’ll just have to find another means of escape. 

He slowly and carefully pulls at the chains above his head, testing their strength and sturdiness while trying hard to not make any noise. His captors, whoever they are, don’t appear to have left a watch. He doesn’t want to alert them to the fact that he’s awake unless he has to; every tick he has to try and work out his escape without scrutiny is precious.

But when he moves his arms, his right forearm sends a bolt of excruciating, stabbing pain through him. He clenches his teeth shut, but not before a strangled, smothered scream escapes him, despite his best efforts.

What the hell was that? 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, breathing through his nose and staying perfectly still. Once he stops moving, the pain tapers off, until he feels nothing again. 

Blinking his eyes open, he cautiously—very cautiously, so as not to move his arm again—tips his head back once more to find the cause of so much unexpected pain. 

There’s some sort of band on his arm. It’s dark colored and has a few blinking red lights on it, and is bolted securely around the white paladin armor on his forearm. It looks a bit like the cuff Vakala and Remdax had put on him to suppress his Galra arm, back when he’d first been allowed to ‘escape’ the Galra. 

Ryou frowns. Something like that shouldn’t work on his Olkari arm. Olkari engineering was unique, using a biomechanical plant-based system, and it required very specialized biomechanical technology to integrate with it. Regular electronics wouldn’t have any affect on his arm.

Then he spots the thin crack on the armor, bordering the foreign band. Very cautiously, Ryou twists his right arm, nudging the band just a fraction with his left. It sends another bolt of excruciating pain through him, but he knows it’s coming this time and braces, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw cracks but suppressing another scream. This time, now that he’s paying attention, he’s aware of something digging through the paladin armor into his biomechanical arm, tearing at the synthetic muscles as he moves.

No wonder it hurts so bad. There’s a spike puncturing his arm—or more than one, from the feel of it, studding the inside of the band. His Olkari arm doesn’t integrate with regular tech, but it does have synthetic nerves, and while that gives him a sensation of touch it does come with the tradeoff of pain as well. It’s still rudimentary, which means if he doesn’t move his arm and doesn’t aggravate the nerves, he doesn’t get the feedback of discomfort. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to move a lot if he plans on escaping.

Priority two is getting that thing off, Ryou determines. Right after priority one, getting out of these chains. 

On the plus side, his right arm is mechanical. The sensation of literal stabbing pain is unpleasant, but unlike a real human arm, there won’t be long term damage and he can’t bleed out. Ryner had made upgrades recently to make his arm better at self-repairing all but the worst injuries; that was probably one of the reasons the band was hurting him so bad. The arm was trying to fix itself around it. If he can just get it off, it should repair enough that he won’t hurt too badly after, and the wounds definitely can’t kill him.

Ryou takes a deep breath and prepares himself for some inevitable pain in his future as he maneuvers the chains. But before he can try tugging on them again, he hears a voice outside, and a shadow passes in front of his thin rectangle of light.

“I knew I heard something!” the voice snaps. “He’s awake. Knew we should’ve dosed him more.”

“Congratulations,” a second voice growls back, obviously irritated. “You want a quiznaking medal? Get off your ass and make sure he’s secure.”

“We all go,” a third voice says. “This is the Black Paladin Shiro, after all.”

Ryou whips his head around to watch the door. Whoever they are, they think he’s Shiro? That’s unexpected...although it does suddenly explain the band on his arm. If they thought they had Shiro, they probably thought they were suppressing Galra technology, not Olkarian. 

Things have just gotten a lot more interesting.

“Chorek, get another dose of that drug ready,” the third voice continues. “I want him out when we move him.” 

“Please. We could take him,” a fourth voice says.

“You wanna die, feel free. I’m not taking my chances against a gladiator champion. I got a revolution to plan.”

“Ugh, fine. Josil, you’re no fun.”

“No fun, and planning to live.”

Four voices. Four opponents. Four people who were interested in taking Shiro somewhere. And something about a revolution. Ryou doesn’t like the sound of that, and decides to hang tight, just for a little while longer. For intelligence gathering purposes. 

The door cracks open, and several aliens file into the room. One immediately turns a blaster on him, and Ryou’s been around long enough by now to recognize its make as something off the Unilu black market, not Galran. 

The alien holding the gun isn’t Galran either. He’s Takarite, same as all the others—blue-green skin, short stature, squarish features, thick hands, and with two sets of curled antennae in place of ears. Their eyes are multi-colored, more like constantly changing prisms, and more angular and multi-faceted than Ryou is used to. 

“Where am I?” Ryou asks immediately. “Who are you? And why am I restrained?” 

“Silence, Champion,” the largest of the Takarites snaps. He’s not the one holding the gun, but Ryou immediately recognizes his voice as the one that had been giving the orders. Josil, if he’s right. “You remain quiet, and we won’t have to get mean.”

A lie, obviously. Ryou had just overheard them talking about drugging him, so they plan on enforcing compliance rather than bartering it out of him with good behavior. He doesn’t argue the point.

He doesn’t correct them about ‘Champion,’ either, although that is a lot more puzzling to him. It’s not the first time he’s been mistaken for Shiro, but he hadn’t actually been trying this time. The team had been encouraged to wear their Voltron armor for the festival, and Ryou had been out in his green variation, and had never switched the colors to his imitation Shiro setting. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so his graying hair didn’t match Shiro’s either. He’d even brokered the agreement between the Voltron Coalition and the planet as Ryou, not Shiro, so people knew there were two of them. 

Then again, the Takarites had struggled to tell the difference between most of the paladins of Voltron all day. It wasn’t polite to ask, but Ryou suspects Takarite biology and vision simply wasn’t designed to identify human facial features. As far as he can tell, they identify each other through different means—scent, vibration, and maybe some other sense humans and Alteans simply don’t have. They definitely didn’t see colors on the same wavelength that the paladins did, which meant they couldn’t tell the difference between the lions outside of general shape. 

They’d figured out their own ways to identify most of the paladins in the end at the formal ceremonies. But they had struggled with Shiro and Ryou, probably because the two of them were functionally identical in every aspect the Takarites considered significant. 

So maybe it’s not all that surprising to be kidnapped as ‘Shiro’ even if he wasn’t actually trying. At the end of the day, he can definitely play the part to perfection, and that’s all that matters.

“You have no right to kidnap me,” Ryou says, forcing a note of command into his tone. “We’re your allies. Voltron is here to help you.”

“Voltron is here to ruin us,” one of the other Takarites snaps back. “The queen was a fool for signing our freedom over to a giant robot overlord!”

“That’s not what happened at all,” Ryou says, frowning. “There was an agreement. The Voltron Coalition provides protection—”

“—in exchange for slavery,” Josil interrupts, oddly angular eyes glittering darkly with anger. “We won’t have it.”

“It’s not slavery,” Ryou says, incredulous. “The Coalition is a team effort. Planets that have agreed to provide military support for you and other non-combatant planets are willing to defend you. But that extension of their military aid means less manpower for creating necessary food and supplies to sustain them. Non-combatant planets like Takarsis agree to shoulder that burden in exchange for not needing to participate in combat. Everyone benefits.”

“It’s a load of quiznacking shit, is what it is,” the Takarite holding the gun snarls. “It’s slavery with a pretty name.”

“And where’s the great robot overlord in all this?” the fourth Takarite adds. “Not doing any of that stuff you said.” 

Ryou’s eyebrows raise. “Voltron fights at the heart of the Galra empire,” he says. “We literally take on the biggest and toughest opponents so you don’t have to.”

“That’s what you say,” the gun-toting Takarite growls. “But where’s the proof?” 

Ryou can’t believe it. He’s been captured by insurgents and conspiracy theorists. It’s almost embarrassing. 

But he schools his expression to remain as calm and neutral as possible, and says reasonably, “If you have grievances, I’m sure you can bring them up with officials. I can get you an audience with the queen; I have some pull in the palace, now. Kidnapping me isn’t the answer.”

“It’s exactly the answer,” Josil says, taking a step forward—but still, notably, remaining carefully out of range. “Kidnapping Champion means Voltron’s got no head. We handicapped the Coalition in one stroke. And once we turn you in, we’ll have the funding and the support to free ourselves from your tyranny.” 

Ryou’s blood runs cold. “Turn me in?”

One of the unnamed Takarites smiles. It’s a surprisingly toothy, unfriendly look. “Didja know you got a bounty on your head, Champion? You’re worth a lot to the Galra. Lotta money to fund the revolution.”

“And the military power to fight back the Coalition,” the fourth Takarite adds. “They’ll owe us a favor, for handing over their missing Champion. They’ll have to help us liberate the planet.”

Ryou’s heart thuds heavy in his chest. Shiro’s memories bubble to the surface again, frantic and panicked at the thought of going back to them, to her, but Ryou shoves them back. 

This time, it’s harder, mostly because it tangles with his own very real memories and feelings. He doesn’t want to go back to them, either. He knows what Haggar will do if she gets her hands on him again. He knows he won’t ever come back from that, mentally or physically. She’ll strip his mind bare, drain it of every confidential detail she can use against the Coalition, and leave him with a broken self and an empty husk. Every part of himself that he forged anew, she’ll break and toss away. If she’s feeling generous, she’ll kill him quickly. More likely, she’ll let him die of his own failsafe, as punishment for not being a good little sleeper agent.

But it’s not that bad yet, Ryou tries to calm himself. You still have options. The team will look for you once the party is over. If you’re forced, you can still call out to the Black Lion, and get a message to Shiro that way. Things aren’t hopeless yet. 

And fortunately, he has one other thing working in his favor to suppress his panic: anger. And the more ticks pass, the more of it he has. 

“You’d sell out your entire planet to the Galra?” Ryou asks, his voice cold. “Do you know what they do to planets like yours?” 

“Free them from overlord scum like you?” the gun-toting Takarite counters, scathing.

“They are the overlords,” Ryou says. He tries to keep his voice calm and unaccusing, still, but he can’t quite keep the fury contained. “They strip-mine entire planets for resources. Literally enslave the populations, putting them in camps and forcing them to participate in destroying their own homes. When they’ve taken everything they can, they drain the planet and everything living on it of quintessence. All that’s left is a broken shell of a planet. If you do this, you are consigning your entire race to death, and destroying your home.”

“Better than false slavery and servitude for the rest of Takarsis’ existance,” Josil says. “I’d rather have died fighting for something I believed in than get taken in by liars and thieves that destroy our sense of self. Takarsis forever!” 

There’s no reasoning with these people. It’s disgusting. Ryou abandons any pretense of diplomacy getting him out of this mess. He needs to get out, and report this as soon as he can to the Takarite queen. Even when he does escape, and these guys don’t have the leverage of ‘Champion’ to work with anymore, that won’t stop them endangering the whole planet.

It seems like that’ll all be on him, though. Short of calling for help through the Black Lion—and hoping Shiro’s in the pilot’s seat at the time—it doesn’t seem like anyone can hear him. Even without wearing his helmet, he should have an open channel to the rest of the team in his armor. The fact that there’s been no response yet means these idiots are blocking signals somehow. It would also explain why nobody is tracking his location; that signal is probably blocked as well. 

Assuming anybody even thought to look to begin with. If the party is still going on, nobody is going to believe anything is wrong yet. 

Ryou’s still running through his potential options when one of the Takarites checks a device in his hand, stuffs it back in his pocket, and says, “It’s time. The fireworks display’s going off in twenty doboshes. If we get to the ship in time we can take off in all the noise and nobody will hear.”

“Good,” Josil says, nodding. “Chorek—drug him. I don’t want him causing a ruckus while we move him.”

“You got it,” the Takarite on the far right says. He’s got a bottle and a cloth in his hands, and as Ryou watches he liberally douses the cloth in the liquid. A faint chemical smell taints the air, and something dark and cruel in the back of Ryou’s head tickles at his brain, looming dangerously. He shoves it back with everything he has. He’s not sure if that one’s Shiro’s or his, but he can’t let it control him. Not now, not when it’s so important to be aware.  

The effort leaves him shaking slightly. The Takarites must mistake it for fear, because the one with the cloth chuckles knowingly. “Sisret’s gonna keep that gun on you while I come close,” he warns. “You’re gonna play nice, or we’ll put a few extra holes in you. Might make your first arena match a little tough, if you know what I mean.”

For a moment, Ryou’s mind goes completely blank, like the words don’t process right. His numb mind slowly gains feeling again as Chorek’s words sink in and gain meaning, and then he says slowly, “You’re sending...me back to the arenas?”

He’d almost said him. They’d shocked him so badly he’d forgotten for a moment what he was doing here. He’s never almost broken character that badly before. 

“Sure,” Sisret drawls, as he steadies the gun on Ryou. “I hear the arenas never had another fighter quite like Champion. They’re eager to have you back, and they’ll pay a lot of gak for it.”

Ryou stares at him. In his mind, the floodgates are broken, and all the arena memories of Shiro’s he’d ever managed to rediscover come pouring in. They all feel distant, like a film he’s experiencing of the terrible things Shiro went through, but there’s so much of it. Difficult battles. Awful wounds. Emotional struggles. Hunger. Sleeplessness. Pain. 

This time, Ryou lets them. This time, they aren’t a distraction—they’re fuel for the fire.

“Do you know what that place does to its prisoners? Do you understand what it’s like?” he asks. Slow. Careful. Dangerously soft. He keeps his eyes trained on Sisret and the gun, ignoring Chorek and his cloth dripping with drugs even as he comes closer. Sisret actually shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of the stare, although he’s smart enough not to drop his gun.

The fourth, unnamed Takarite actually laughs at the question. “Yeah. A quiznacking good time!” he chortles. “I won ten thousand gak betting on you, once. Think you could give me the insider information on the next fight? I bet I could double the bounty we get off you!”

Ryou sees red. 

Forget escaping. Forget calling for help. These sick bastards would put Shiro back into that hell without a second’s hesitation, and had the gall to think about profiting off of it. Every single one of them is going to die. No one is ever going to know what killed them. 

They think Champion is dangerous? They caught something even worse—an ambush predator built for silent kills that no one ever suspects are coming.

It takes barely any concentration at all for him to activate his Olkari arm. He doesn’t doubt for a second that it will work, and his faith in Ryner’s engineering pays off. His hand glows pale green as the energy coalesces in his palm, still yanked above his head by his chains.

Sisret’s eyes gleam brighter, and his mouth opens in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise, before he gathers himself. “He’s—”

Too late. Ryou drops his fingers to point at Sisret, and fires.

His aim isn’t great, considering his arms are wrenched over his head and tied together. But the nice thing about having a hand that’s also an energy gun is that his aim doesn’t have to be great at this range. The blast hits the wall next to Sisret’s head, sending stone shattering everywhere, but it’s more than enough of a distraction to force the gun-wielding Takarite to throw himself to the ground for cover.

Before any of them can react, Ryou twists his wrist backwards, and fires at the wall and the bolt holding the chains to it.

At this close range, the blast hurts him, too. The concussive force as the wall shatters is enough to send another lancing stab of pain through his arm as the useless restriction band is jarred. He holds his scream back through sheer force of will, reinforced by a lot of fury. Chunks of stone shower around him, coating him in dust and bouncing off his armor, as the wall cracks.

Ryou barely notices any of it. He’s already moving, ignoring another protesting stab of pain in his arm, as he yanks his arms down. The chains are still secured to his wrists, but they’re free of the wall. He moves from the sprawled sit they’d put him in to an aggressive crouch in ticks, swinging around with the chains until they wrap around the approaching Chorek’s throat.

The Takarite makes a throaty squeaking noise as the chains pull taut. He drops the bottle of chemicals, and tries to flail out with the cloth, but it’s easy enough to dodge. The scent of trailing chemicals sails past Ryou’s shoulder harmlessly and splats on the stone floor. 

With a cold, efficient twist, he wrenches with the chains. A sharp, meaty snap-crack fills the air, and Chorek sags bonelessly, eyes suddenly devoid of any color.

“Quiznak!” one of the Takarites shrieks. Ryou dislodges the chains from Chorek’s neck in time to spin and catch Sisret shakily coming to his feet, raising his black market issue blaster. 

“Don’t kill him!” Josil barks. “He’s not worth anything dead!” There’s enough authority in his voice that Sisret listens, but that voice shakes with sudden fear, too. He knows he’s screwed up.

Good.

Sisret’s hands jerk as he tries to adjust his aim last minute, trying to find a non-lethal shot. Ryou has no such compunctions. He raises his still-chained right fist, letting the agonizing pull of the restricting band fuel him, and charges his fist again. 

At this range, it’s impossible to miss. The pale green blast cuts a burning, bloody hole through Sisret’s torso. The Takarite collapses, gun clattering across the floor, and stares at the damage in bewilderment before the color fades from his eyes.

In the shocked silence that follows, Ryou takes the time to blast the chains off both of his wrists. The cuffs are still there, but the chains aren’t liable to trip him up anymore. He can work on getting them removed once the threat is contained. 

“Are you having a good quiznacking time yet?” Ryou asks, as he glares coldly at the unnamed Takarite. 

He whimpers, both sets of antenna drooping, and huddles farther back into the corner. 

“No?” Ryou asks. His voice is low and calm, but unquestionably dangerous. “You mean it’s only fun to watch the slaughter when you’re not a part of it? Too bad.” His eyes narrow. “You’re a part of it now.” 

“You—you can’t do that!” Josil yelps, voice high in his panic. His multi-colored eyes flick to the gun Sisret had dropped and then back to Ryou, but the gun is on Ryou’s side of the prison cell, and clearly neither of them like the idea of getting too close anymore. Not when he’s unbound and pissed. Cowards. “The inhibitor band—”

“Oh—you mean this?” Ryou taps the band on his forearm, and then casually reaches around until he finds the latch. With his hands free, it’s easy enough to unclip and remove. It’s agony to do so, like pulling knives out of his arm, but he channels that pain into his expression as he glares across at the surviving extremists. Once the spikes are out, the pain immediately lessens, as they stop aggravating his synthetic muscles and nerves. 

He gives it an idle glance. Little wires and blinking bits adorn the four two-inch-long spikes on the interior of the band. They were probably intended to burrow into the Galra arm and lock up all weapons functions, movement, and anything else that might prove problematic for a kidnapping. All in all, a real nasty piece of work. He drops it on the ground, and crushes it under his boot heel. “Yeah, that doesn’t work on me.”

Josil’s the first one to move. He bolts for the door and slams it behind him, leaving his companion behind. There’s an audible sound of a lock clicking, and footsteps as he runs for freedom.

The unnamed Takarite slams against the door, cut off mid escape, and pounds on it frantically. “Josil!” He wails. “Josil, you can’t leave me in here with him!” He pauses mid-pound, and whirls to face Ryou, eyes glittering brighter in his panic.

“Remember when I asked you if you understood what the gladiator arenas were like?” Ryou asks, calmly. The Takarite whines in answer, and claws at the door. 

“It’s like this,” Ryou answers, when his kidnapper doesn’t. “They lock you in a room with someone else, and only the one who lives gets to leave. It’s not fun, is it? Terrified and facing down somebody who’s a lot stronger than you, with no way out? And you would have sent Shiro back to this just to make an extra buck.”

The Takarite swallows, and then says confusedly, “But...but you’re Shiro—”

“No,” Ryou says, as he charges his Olkari arm. “I’m really not.”

The Takarite blinks, but then his eyes widen in sudden understanding. “The brother—”

Ryou’s shot takes him in the eye, and that’s as far as he gets.

He doesn’t spare time for mercy, or for regrets. This nameless bastard didn’t deserve any. He would have consigned Shiro back to the arenas and his entire planet to a long, torturous death, out of his own ridiculous sense of pride and false patriotism. He deserved it.

And there’s still one more.

Busting the door open isn’t hard. Two full blasts from his Olkari arm and he’s free, and pounding down the hallway at top speed. He can see Josil in the distance at the end of the hall, and there’s no way he’s letting the bastard escape. 

Fortunately, he’s got range on his side.

At this long distance, accuracy is difficult, and it’s even more difficult moving. Ryou raises his fist and takes the shot anyway. He misses, in that he doesn’t hit Josil, but he does startle the Takarite into skidding to a halt when the blast hits the wall ahead of him. He whirls, spots Ryou, and shrieks. “How did you—”

Ryou’s second shot hits him in the stomach. The Takarite lets out a shriek of pain as he clutches at his wounded abdomen, and collapses to the ground.

Ryou jogs up to him easily, now that Josil is nothing more threatening than a squirming bit of jackass on a floor rapidly becoming drenched in dark green blood. Josil moans pathetically as he clutches at his stomach, and his eyes glitter in fear when he catches Ryou approaching.

But he forces a weak, rictus smile as Ryou approaches, and chokes through blood-stained teeth, “This isn’t the end.” 

“Oh?” Ryou asks.

“There’s more of us,” he wheezes. “We’re not the only cell. We will liberate Takarsis.”

“You’ll kill everyone, you mean,” Ryou says. “I think the queen will be interested in hearing that.”

“I’ll never talk.”

“Oh, I never meant you,” Ryou says. His voice is colder than ice as he glares down at the last of his kidnappers. Josil must feel it, because he shivers. “You planned to send Shiro back to the arenas. He’s suffered enough, and you deserve to pay for even trying.”

Like his nameless companion, Josil frowns in confusion, laced with pain. “Shiro? But you’re—” And just like that, his eyes gleam brighter as he, too, realizes just how badly he’d screwed up. “The brother. The diplomat.”

Ryou doesn’t say anything at all; merely raises his hand to start charging it again.

Josil eyes the growing pale green brightness of Ryou’s right arm nervously, but he chokes through his bloodied throat, “You negotiated the agreement that sold our souls to Voltron. You deserve to die too, you quiznacking bastard.”

“But as you’ve seen, I’m a lot harder to kill than I look,” Ryou says. “Trust me. Smarter people than you have tried.” 

“Takarsis for—”

Ryou shoots him. The strangled cry falls abruptly silent. Ryou shakes his head. “Liberate Takarsis? You would have killed them all out of greed. Good riddance.”

And he turns, and leaves the body behind.

———-

A little exploring reveals that Ryou had been taken to a warehouse on the far end of the city. It’s barely been a varga and a half since he’d been taken, and the party is still in full swing. It might have been vargas more before anyone had even noticed he’d disappeared.

That’s good, since it gives Ryou plenty of time to act. A quick exploratory search of the warehouse reveals stockpiled weapons and chemicals; this had been a regular nest for a set of insurgents. It’s something the local authorities will definitely need to know about if they intend to protect their people from Galra invasion. Josil had said there were more people belonging to this group. 

So he’s quick about removing any evidence of having been there, including the inhibitor band that was supposed to be used to restrain Shiro. The last thing he needs is that kind of technology getting out. He finds the keys to his cuffs, too, and pulls them off before melting them into slag with his Olkari hand.

Once he’s removed himself from the evidence, he calls in an anonymous tip to the Takarite police, notifying them about both the den and the ship that’s supposed to be turning him in to the Galra. They can handle things from there. 

Ryou himself is a little more of a challenge. He’s covered in dust from the wall, and while his ranged attacks meant he hadn’t gotten too bloody, there is some pretty visible damage to his arm. His Olkari arm is repairing itself reasonably well, now—it hurts less every time he moves it—but there’s nothing he can do about the punctures in the forearm of his armor. 

He has no interest in causing a panic with the team, though. They deserve to be able to enjoy their party without having to concern themselves with him. More importantly, Shiro deserves to not be bothered with the full details of what had happened. Why be assaulted by those memories, or by the threat of going back to the arenas, when he’s not in danger of that anymore?

Because he won’t be. Shiro is still at the party, but Ryou had only been taken because he’d gone off on his own. He doubts Shiro would be able to get away with that, not as the Black Paladin and leader of the Voltron Paladins. He’s safely in the middle of thousands, and not even Josil’s ridiculous extremist group would be able to pluck him out of the middle of that crowd to take him back to the Galra.

Besides, Ryou doesn’t want to deal with his overprotective fussing. He’s dealt with it enough as it is, without admitting to being kidnapped in Shiro’s place. The last thing he needs is Shiro refusing to let Ryou out of his sight. Or Shiro feeling guilty about Ryou being taken in his place. Ryou doesn’t regret that at all—if Shiro really had been taken, Josil’s little coup might have been successful. They’d obviously planned for him. This was one of the reasons Ryou had decided to be Shiro’s double to begin with.

No, Shiro’s got enough on his plate. He’s not going to be bothered with this. 

So Ryou cleans himself off as best as he can, breaking into a closed restaurant for their public bathroom, and washing away the dust and blood. He doesn’t have any visible wounds on his person—thank goodness he’d only been knocked out with drugs, and not a blow to the head, which would have left a nasty lump. The puncture wounds on his armor aren’t too obvious, as long as he angles himself right, and underneath the armor his Olkari ‘skin’ already looks smooth and undamaged. 

It will do, as long as nobody inspects him closely. He doesn’t intend to let anyone.

Getting back to the party is easy, and now that he’s outside the extremist next, his comms are no longer blocked. “Back from the farmer’s market,” he announces. “But I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in a little early, if nobody minds?”

“It should be quite alright,” Allura says. Ryou can see her up on the raised platform in the middle of the wide clearing being used for the majority of the feast, sitting next to the Takarite queen. “I can handle any additional negotiation that is needed, although I hardly think there is any. You did an excellent job.”

“Thank you,” Ryou says, smiling despite himself. 

“Did you get the plants you wanted?” Shiro asks. Ryou picks him out easily too, close to the raised platform to be backup for Allura on the off chance that something goes wrong, not that anybody expects it to. He’s safely surrounded by dozens of Takarites and within full view of Allura, Keith, and Pidge, which means he definitely won’t be disappearing without a fuss. 

“No, unfortunately. They didn’t have anything I was interested in,” Ryou says. “I was mostly just curious, anyway. We don’t really need anything.”

He’d never even made it to the farmer’s market, and he had been genuinely curious in one of the fruits they sold here. Oh, well. The safety of Shiro and the planet was far more important than that. He can swallow his disappointment and live with the lie if he has to.

“Too bad,” Hunk says. “I was looking forward to cooking with something new.”

Ryou hums noncommittally, before saying, “Alright, then. I’ll just be back in the Castle. Call me if you need me.”

“Rest well,” Allura says over the comms. And just like that, Ryou’s avoided any and all suspicion. 

Ryou doesn’t rest when he’s inside. He changes out of his armor to civilian gear after taking a quick shower, just in case. He sets the armor in one of the machines used for repairs, and for creating new equipment. He snags a holopad and brings up the coordinates of each member of the team, even Matt’s rebel tracker, like he would when coordinating a mission from the sky. And he watches the party for the rest of the entire night, keeping track of every single blip on the screen, to make sure nobody disappears.

It’s not until they’re all safely back in the Castle that Ryou finally lets himself relax. Everyone’s safe, nobody is in danger, and there’s no cause for panic. Things are finally okay.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

———

The following morning at breakfast, Allura announces some shocking news.

“The Takarites have warned us to be cautious,” she says. “Apparently, last night their police force received an anonymous warning regarding a terrorist organization. It’s a group the queen tells me they’ve struggled with for years, but apparently the recent agreement to join the Coalition has them...particularly riled up.”

Shiro frowns, immediately attentive. “Do they need our help?”

“The opposite, actually,” Allura says. “They reported that this group is particularly aggravated by Voltron, and suggested the paladins may be targets. They asked if we would be terribly offended if we cancelled some of the additional festivities while they deal with the situation, but do not want to put us in unnecessary danger.”

“Takarite festivities can go on for as long as a spicolian movement,” Ryou points out, ever the diplomat. “If they want to cancel them, this must be serious.”

“Agreed,” Allura says. “They beg us to please be careful while remaining on Takarsis while taking on supplies and planning our next course of action. But they assure us they have things well taken care of. It seems one of the cells of this organization has already been dealt with by some sort of...vigilante. They gleaned plenty of information for finding other cells from the anonymous tip.”

Shiro frowns. “Sounds like they have things in order, but we’re still willing to help if they need it. In the meantime—” he turns to look around at each of the other paladins, “—nobody goes off-ship alone, and I want everyone to be cautious.” 

“As if they could take any of us down,” Lance says confidently. But he wilts under Shiro’s stern look, and backpedals meekly. “Right, right. Staying put. It sucks, though. We were gonna get that parade today...”

“We don’t know what they’re capable of. It’s best to listen to the locals. If they want our help, they’ll get it—otherwise, we take their advice,” Shiro says. “Is that clear?”

The irony is, they would have been capable of taking Shiro. If it really had been Shiro they’d captured, and not Ryou, they would have won last night. 

Ryou hates the thought of it. Shiro could have been in a Galra prison cell again right now, agonizing over the next opponent he’d be forced to face. 

But that hadn’t happened, and it never would. And Ryou can’t let on that he knows anything about it at all, or risk showing his real thoughts on the matter.

So instead, he just says, “It won’t be so bad, Lance. We can work on that next level in Killbot Phantasm III if you want.”

Lance brightens immediately. “Oh, yeah! That’d be cool. I can’t read it without you.” Shiro shoots Ryou a grateful look, and Ryou nods back, understanding.

This is the way it should be. Everyone safe. No one the wiser, no one guilty, no one worrying over nothing. This is what he’s good at, and this is what he’ll do with those skills, to protect the universe, his friends, and Shiro however he can.

Whatever it takes.

[chrysalispen]

(these are the things) i can do without;

Holy shit y’all this is so NSFW lmfao

uhhhh. nero/wol, light bondage, breathplay, warning because this is consensual but not safe or sane. don’t try this at home, kids.

NSFW below the cut, as always. AO3 link is here.

======

As per usual, Nero Scaeva had only himself to blame for his current predicament (pleasant though it was).

Name your price and I will pay it, he had said, and he really ought to stop making such impulsively magnanimous gestures in order to get himself out of hot water every time he crossed the eikon-slayer's temper. Particularly on those occasions when it stood a fair chance of ending poorly for him-- which, he owned, was somewhat often.

In his defense, he had expected that fulfilling a 'favor of her choosing' would have something to do with one of her adventurous impulses. He simply hadn't considered the possibility that this might be the sort of adventure on the table. Table- or bed, as it happened. In this case the four-poster in her bedroom to which he had been bound. 

Aurelia sat on her mattress alongside his prone form with her feet tucked primly beneath her knees, clad in only a short chemise and a pair of smallclothes as she studied her knotwork (and really, whomever had taught the most objectively terrifying woman on the godsdamned star entire how to tie strips of vanya silk as if they were nautical rigging on a Limsan frigate could get buggered as far as Nero was concerned), looking for any weakness in her technique. 

"Really, sweetling, all this over one broken alembic, and one barely worth the name, at that. Was your plan simply to frustrate me into submission?"

Nero was a born contrarian. He had prided himself upon that fact since boyhood, had pontificated upon it during his various clashes with one Cid Garlond, and very often had relied upon it to win arguments with Livia sas Junius on more than one occasion in his less-than-illustrious past. He was, in short, what an army recruiter might politely term ‘spite-motivated.’ Or perhaps he simply had the perverse urge to find out to what extremes she might be driven should he ever manage to push all of Aurelia’s buttons. 

Although that particular remark, he allowed, might have perhaps been a step too far. She leveled upon him a stare that could have frozen an industrial forge. 

"All things considered, I really should do just that," she retorted. "I can if you like."

"By all means, please continue."

The Warrior of Light was not a woman given to displays of ill temper. That said, perhaps she might not glower in the precise same way that Garlond did, but hells bedamned if the last time Nero had seen this exact look on her face hadn't been right before she proceeded to wreck every toy in his Castrum Meridianum laboratory and wipe the floor with him for good measure.

His grin was a challenge, a silent gauntlet tossed at her feet. It did not go unnoticed.

"Your willingness to cooperate does you great credit," she said with false sweetness. "I assume you won't mind if I take my time, then, as I'm certain you shall find it no great task to remain still-- and silent."

The Warrior of Light answered his insolent smirk with a smile of her own and leaned forward with one slender hand braced upon his chest. 

Overeager fool that he was, he dropped his guard. His jaw went slack, anticipating the plush softness of lips pressed against his and the velvet heat of a tongue to slide against his teeth.

Instead, he received a mouthful of silk for his trouble. 

He tried to curse in surprise, but all that left his mouth was a muffled growl of annoyance before the gag was pulled taut -- not enough to hurt or to chafe, but it ensured that the use of his words would be too much effort for him to bother. Still, that was harmless enough, and Nero supposed he should have expected it when she had told him exactly what sort of favor she intended to have him grant. A light slap, a bite or ten, perhaps (though he sincerely doubted it, knowing her) a bit of dirty talk. 

Charming if rather pedestrian, in his personal estimation, as far as such things went-- but one had to start somewhere.

She did none of those things. She touched him with light, tickling trails of her fingers from collarbone to navel, showering a line of tiny kisses along his hairline and then his brow and cheekbone, traversing a warm, sweet path downward. Amused at the notion that such a delicate touch would have any real effect on him, Nero allowed himself to relax and enjoy her soft attentions, lulled into lazing contentment right up until the moment her teeth nipped at the soft skin just beneath his jaw. 

He hissed his discomfort around the gag, at the tiny, sharp pinprick of pain amidst the warmth, and then there was another, and then another as she made her slow and unhurried way along his neck, one side, then the other. At the fleshy juncture that met the plane of his shoulder, she latched onto him in earnest, suckling gently through the sharp sting of her teeth, tongue flickering over the bruise she left behind as if to soothe. 

Nero did not need a looking-glass to know what he would see: violet-red marks blooming like flowers upon the canvas of his flesh from ears to the base of his throat, marks that would be clearly visible even above the high neckline of his work doublet. 

Violence thoroughly leashed beneath that soft and ladylike exterior, he thought, how very strangely apropos for a killer of gods. 

The thought set his nerves alight. Heat and tension flickered through his stomach, tightening like the bonds that held him trapped, and beneath it he felt the twitching of his cock, nudging against the barrier of his smalls with slowly escalating insistence. He exhaled through the corners of his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut for a handful of moments.

What she had traversed with fingertips she now traced more intimately, dragging the damp softness of her mouth over every sensitive spot she knew he had. Tiny bites across his collarbone, barely openmouthed kisses along his sternum that seemed to sear him with each touch of her lips, a saucy flicker of her tongue over a puckering aureole, and the maddening tickle of her hair trailing close behind, warm and golden as it tumbled over his chest. 

His limbs trembled as though he were - at thirty-four winters! - the callow schoolboy he had once been, breaths coming in quick and shallow sips through his nose by the time she pulled herself upright. 

Her fingertips traced the border of flesh and cloth just below his waist, ruffling the wiry curls that peeked slyly from the waistband of his smallclothes, her nails ghosting in light and careful strokes over the firm ridge of his erection through his smalls. Nero’s hips surged upwards, trying to find something, anything to grind against-- only to meet resistance in the flat of her palm pressed against his stomach. Gods damn it-

“If you can be a good boy and stay still for me,” she said, “then I’ll let you talk again.”

A stab of alarm curled through his gut when she moved back towards the bedside and turned away from him -- surely she would not be so brutal as to make good on her threat to stir him and leave him to suffer -- and then he felt the shimmy of the mattress, saw her hands at her hips as they slid down her flanks. She was not leaving but merely removing her smallclothes. 

He sucked in a soft breath through his nose. The heat below his waist had increased steadily with her teasing, and when her fingers brushed against his trapped cock in the process of reaching for his waistband he uttered stifled curses in Ilsabardian into his mouthful of silk, blunted nails digging into his palms enough to hurt. 

Forcing himself to still his hips while she worked the laces loose, while she tugged his smalls down his hips and freed his length from their confines, aching and heavy: that was a uniquely exquisite agony. 

She extended one of those lovely, powerful legs to straddle his waist so that she knelt astride him like a riding chocobo. Embarrassing as it was he couldn’t stifle the helpless groan he made at the sight of damp honey-gold curls hovering mere ilms above him, radiating palpable warmth. 

“Don’t move,” she whispered, and braced one hand upon the neatly carved edge of her headboard.

The other wrapped about his flushed and throbbing cock, adjusting the angle with achingly slow precision until the head nudged at her entrance. His eyes were open enough to see the intense focus on her face as she began to lower herself onto him, and in that same instant he was all but lost in the sensation of soft, wet heat enveloping his crown, a desperately desired friction that felt even more of a shock to the senses with his control wrested from him.

He observed her silent expression of bliss in open fascination: the slow backward tilt of her head, the delicate arch of her neck, her soft and breathy sigh, nails dragging light furrows into his flanks as she took him into herself. Sliding smoothly into liquid heat until he was swaddled in it, from base to tip. 

The sensation was almost enough to break his resolve. Almost---but not quite. 

Nero grunted against the gag that bound his tongue flat against the floor of his teeth, and his forearms twitched, the tug of his wrists insistent against the restraints of silk that bound them to the posts. But he remained still, bent his entire being on it, even as he wanted more than anything to move, to thrust, the very thing she had said she would not yet allow. 

At last she had settled carefully atop him, as soft and warm without as within, the plush curve of her rear cushioning her weight against his hips. She reached out to hook one index finger in the fabric and tug it free from his mouth, and he wasted no time in opening it.

"I am fairly certain," he began, his voice laden with sarcasm, “that this novel method of yours constitutes torture beneath imperial jurisdiction.”

"Don't be so dramatic."

He released a resigned sigh- a short, soft huff. "Sweetling," he said, plaintively. "You are cruel to me. Cruel."

"And you are altogether too accustomed to getting what you want when you want it." She kissed each corner of his mouth. "You willingly surrendered yourself to my tender mercies and I intend to enjoy every second of it." 

"Something tells me 'tender' might be debatable." 

"And you are quite clearly enjoying this."

"Perish the thought,” he smirked, though that too was quickly becoming an effort. Her hand left the headboard to stroke the planes of his torso, tracing lines of old scars and muscle, following the path of golden filament curls downwards to their joining at the base of his belly. 

"Perish nothing. I'll wager you dreamt about this plenty of times before we even met." Aurelia nipped at one of the bruise marks she’d left on him, and the resulting moan buzzed against her lips as they trailed down the column of his throat. "Nero tol Scaeva, the right hand of the Black Wolf, bound to the eikon-slayer's bedposts whilst she rides him-"

"Left."

She clenched around him, a rippling squeeze as thrilling as it was diabolically deliberate. “Hmm?”

"Left," his back arched like a shortbow strung too taut, knees flexing and heels digging into the mattress, "his left-hand man, darling, I'm left-handed-"

"Pedantic and filthy? Truly, I have won Garlemald's greatest prize." Her laugh was a whisper against his collarbone, laden with tolerant amusement. "Though I must allow that you are quite charming when you’re this desperate." 

"And I will neither confirm nor deny-" She rocked atop him with a thrust and his breath stuttered to a halt before he hissed out an oath, "-confirm nor deny the contents of my fantasies, no matter what you do to wring them out of me, you thrice-damned temptress." 

"Goodness, you are so complimentary tonight. Perhaps we ought do this more often- or at all."

"Let me move.”

“No.”

“So help me, I will chew through these," he cut himself off with a howl of growing exasperation when her teeth sank into a nipple, “buggered bits of godsdamned frippery if I must.”

"Will you? But say the word and I'll relent." She sat upright. The curve of her grin was teasing and triumphant. "Perhaps."

"You think to have me beg you for release?" 

She did not answer but instead set herself to work unlacing the neckline of the short undergarment she still wore. Though Nero was well aware it was a show for his benefit, he was unable to look away as she coaxed the knots to unbind and eased the leather strips through each opening. 

Once she had judged the laces loose enough, she grasped the hem with both hands and pulled her last article of clothing over her head in a single fluid motion. Muscles shifting in deceptively powerful thighs, the long waves of her hair curling in graceful honeyed patterns over smooth skin flushed and dewy with sweat, she leaned forward to brace her hands along either side of his torso. Gravity tilted the soft swell of her breasts forward in kind to slide over his chest: just enough of a taste of her to torment. 

"Once I've freed myself-" 

The threat died on his lips when her fingers tangled in the thick curls at his nape. He growled in frustration. "You won't."

"Don't tell me what I won't do." The grip on his hair tightened as if she were scruffing a kitten. "Aurelia, I will break this bloody bed," he hissed. "Do not tempt me."

“I suppose that is one way to get what you want." He'd hoped he might provoke her temper, give him an upper hand. Instead, Aurelia smiled at him, soft and winsome, her grip on his hair relaxing and her fingers descending to trace the shell of his ear. He stared at her, unable to maintain even playful belligerence in the face of this new distraction, feeling suddenly and unaccountably flustered. "You can also have what you want if you just ask me nicely."

“You mean if I debase myself enough to beg you for the privilege.”

"If you ask nicely," she stressed. "And say it like you mean it."

Nero was fairly certain he was in trouble. The sting of those bites and the sensation of his hair pulling against his scalp left him with far less care for his pride than he might otherwise have owned, and the near-glacial pace of her hips was quickly eroding what remained of his willpower. But he did nothing in half-measures and he was not going to give in without at least a token resistance. It simply wasn't in his nature.

"Dearest hero," he purred. He dipped his chin so that his lips brushed against hers and in the softest and most conciliatory voice he could muster, he whispered: "Make me."

The grin he gave her was the widest, most shameless, most infuriating, most insufferable he could possibly muster, and Aurelia---

Her answering smile was as bright and hard as an uncut diamond. 

Seven hells. He was definitely in trouble. 

Nero was bracing himself for some sort of retaliation - perhaps she would grasp another handful of his hair and pull, or bite, or deliver a blow to his flank - so when she instead rested her cheek upon his shoulder, lips gently nuzzling at his neck and hands stroking his sides in a light and careful caress, he was left at something of a loss.

"Are you certain?" she murmured. “You would rather fight me?”

That low and husky whisper jolted its way straight down his spine. 

Refusing to answer, he caught his lower lip between his teeth. Her lips drifted about his earlobe, and with a torturously slow roll of her hips, she drew it into her mouth and tugged with the barest scrape of her teeth before releasing him. A groan welled deep within his gut, made almost nasal by its escape from the depths of his throat. Her nails scraped over his stomach, just enough to raise gooseflesh as they drifted down to his hipbones, then inward until her fingertips stopped at the space where they joined.

There was nowhere left for them to wander, and he grit his teeth when she circled the base of his cock with index finger and thumb in slow strokes.

"Well, 'tis a terrible shame you can't bring yourself to be aught besides stubborn." She was touching herself now; her fingers trailed over the folds that had spread open to accommodate him and kept moving until the heel of her palm rested perhaps an ilm below her navel. Her index and middle fingers curled in, very gently- once again, just enough to tantalize him, to torment. "I could force you to lie there and watch me pleasure myself- if that is really what you'd prefer."

"Aurelia," he began, wetting his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. 

She said nothing, only smiled. Sweat rolled down his temples from the crushing effort he exerted to not only remain still beneath her ministrations but to appear unaffected by them. It was a fight he knew full well he was losing; when she leaned toward him again it was like watching a hunter approaching to see what fantastic creature she had caught in her snare.

Her other hand trailed a fair expanse of collarbone and shoulder, bruise-mottled and flushed, paused at the soft hollow of his throat, then carefully wrapped about his neck. She applied no pressure, but her thumb tracked in idle lines over the rhythmic throb of his jugular. 

She might as well have squeezed, in truth. The sound that emerged from his own mouth was something strangled and desperate, and on its heels before he could stop himself-

"Please-"

-came surrender. 

Nero swallowed, the sound a very audible click. A large part of him was mortified at just how quickly he'd acquiesced to her teasing the moment she’d dared to grip him thus, but he was painfully hard and he was trying not to think about how much of it was directly related to that soft hand and the remembered warmth of it as she closed it around his throat.

Movement along his neck at last: her hand, sliding back into his hair. He felt something akin to disappointment before she gave the curls at his nape a cheeky little tug.

"You have permission to move," she whispered.

His soft sigh was the only warning she received before he flexed his legs just enough to brace his feet for traction and bucked. 

The sharp upwards thrust tore a high-pitched cry from her lips. She released her hold on his hair when the motion unbalanced her, slamming the flat of her palm back against the headboard hard enough that they both winced at the cracking sound of its impact. He gave her exactly enough time to regain her balance before he repeated the movement, and she doubled over, tucking her head beneath his chin. A third repetition, a fourth, a fifth: slow and savage thrusts that left her writhing atop him.

Unable to resist the opportunity to tease even through the haze of his own lust, Nero grinned at her.

"Lost control of your steed, have you?"

Rebuttal took the form of a fierce kiss, one he accepted with a low and greedy moan into her mouth. When she relinquished him to take air, her mouth damp and slightly swollen, her dark violet-blue eyes shone with that hard, determined expression he secretly so loved to see.

"If a racing chocobo cannot unseat me, tribunus," she breathed, panting audibly, "I harbor serious doubts that you will fare better."

"I have put that particular chapter of my life behind me. That said, if you mean to have me put your riding skills through their paces," his smile took on a feral cat's curl, "I am told my testing methodologies trend towards the rigorous."

His motions eased as he taunted her, just enough to savor his riposte; it wasn't as though he were entirely in possession of his faculties, after all. 

Aurelia took only a moment to consider her response before she lifted her hips perhaps an ilm or so; he clenched his teeth at the friction of it. Honey-blonde hair draped about his face like a curtain as she loomed over him, ragged breaths fanning against his brow with each shallow inhale and exhale. There was the slightest pressure of her lips just along the lower rim of his third eye: a tiny kiss that was sweet and almost maidenly, at stark odds with the deep rosy flush that had settled into her skin.

Her other hand abandoned its ministrations to trace the expanse of upper chest and collarbone--fingers damp with her slick, but almost unnoticeable with the heat and sweat that clung to them both-- until he felt light and careful pressure once more, the sensation of her palm stroking softly from ear to shoulder. It felt as though he had invited a predator in heat to brace its maw about his neck, either to claim him as her mate or to crush his trachea beneath her bite.

His breath stilled for that one moment, trembling and trapped, and the smile the eikon-slayer bestowed upon him was incandescent.

"Well," she whispered, "one can only hope."

Her thighs clenched to hold herself fast against him, knees digging firmly into his ribs as she met his thrusts with a roll of her hips-- moving with him so that she would not harm him, he realized (that quip about racing chocobos had been no idle jest, it seemed). The bedposts made an alarming cracking sound, but the bonds held fast despite the tension.

His hands clenched into fists so taut that his knuckles went white and his forearms strained; he wanted her to make good on that promise, wanted to feel her fingers closing around his throat- 

His next words seemed to wrest themselves free of his lips of their own accord. He wasn't actually certain she'd heard his request at first until, without stilling the motion of her hips against his, she adjusted her stance.

Her hand grasped the curved outer edge of the headboard she'd carved for purchase until her weight rested against the forearm she had braced against the stained rosewood, slim shoulders rising and dropped with shallow breaths, flushed the same lovely rose as her cheeks as she peered down at him.

"Nero, I don't-" a particularly deep thrust wrenched a stifled whimper from her lips and her reflexive clench knocked the breath from his lungs in a glorious gut punch, an echo of that earlier thrill, "I don't want to hurt you-"

"You won't." The warmth of her touch, the weight of battle-calloused fingers and palm, threatened to slip away with her hesitation. He didn't want her to be gentle. Not right now. "I promise."

Doubt lingered in her eyes but she leaned towards him. Golden hair fell forward in a soft shower, the shining locks loose and curling from the heat between them, space somehow silent and filled all at once as she sighed--

--and relented. Her thumb rolled over his pulse, carefully applying pressure. 

The engineer's breath escaped him in a harsh and painful gasp.

Fingers closing about the straps of cloth that bound them to her bedposts, he strained and writhed beneath her, reveling within the twin cages of her hand about his throat and her cunt about his length. His hips snapped forward and up in rapid strokes, renewing and increasing his pace, seeking end in whatever form it might take.

Starbursts of color prickled at the periphery of his vision, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was acutely aware of his heartbeat, throbbing through the length of his body from his compressed throat to the engorged tip of his cock, the sound of it muffled and distant as though he were underwater. His prize was the most intense orgasm of his life; the wager against it, his mortality. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. 

As the heat and pressure ratcheted upwards, self-inflicted strangulation coiling into the tension of approaching ecstasy, he felt increasingly certain that one of two things would happen: either he would lose consciousness or simply expire betwixt the eikon-slayer's thighs. Coming and dying at the same time. 

Well, Scaeva, you could certainly choose worse ways to go, he thought. 

A choked laugh sputtered past his lips but he had no time to give the matter either regret or further consideration. Liquid fire seemed to settle into the base of his spine and sear itself into his bones like a branding iron. His entire being was consumed by mindless sensation, a tempering with a single base purpose, and cogent thought failed against it.

Moments later her constriction eased just enough to relieve the growing ache in his chest. Climax and relief came so close on the heels of each other that time itself seemed to collapse inward; he could not tell where one ended and the other began. The scrape of air against the burning brand of his throat faltered, stuttered into a cracked and desperate moan at the same instant he felt the heat of his own release spilling into the grasp of slick heat and smooth muscle. 

His vision faded to black at the edges for long moments and his pulse throbbed through his temples, and he kept moving, the motion of his hips slowing by increments into eventual stillness as euphoria began to fade, heat and sensitivity bordering upon overstimulation.

Nero could perceive the withdrawal of her palm from its place about his throat, the trail of her fingertips at their ingress, the impression of movement just above. Her knuckles brushed slick flesh and the wiry hairs at his base and on the edge of consciousness he felt her shudder, thighs rigid and shaking; she cried out wordlessly and her fingers stilled. He groaned as she spasmed around him.

For some few moments the pair were locked in exhausted stasis; the only sound that passed was inhale and exhale, hot and labored. 

Her hands returned to the back of his neck and then his wrists, one at a time, tugging and plucking, and he realized she was loosening his bonds. His arms fell limp and half-numbed to the sheets as she gathered the silk and discarded it somewhere between the bed and the side table. He managed to summon enough strength to move a few ilms, then grimaced at the protesting ache in his shoulders and the overflow that had made it onto his hips and belly and into the sheets.

"Stay there," Aurelia panted, sounding as broken as he felt, "stay there, just let me-"

She braced her weight one last time against the headboard and eased herself up to roll her weight out of the low-slung cradle of his hips and onto the mattress, fingers clasped securely between her legs as she did so in a valiant (but ultimately futile) effort to contain. Nero happened to catch her eye right as she made the exact same face he did - a wince that was somewhere between discomfort and distaste - and laughed weakly. 

Aurelia blinked at him in momentary confusion, then her expression eased into a rueful, rather embarrassed smile. 

"...I can't bloody believe I did that."

"Well," he ran a hand through sweat-soaked curls, "I did ask you for it."

His smile, largely unrepentant, lingered as she exhaled with a deep heave of her chest and reached for the pitcher on the side table. "I was worried I might have hurt you. I could have hurt you."

"But you didn't." There was no response, only the sound of pouring water. He leveraged his weight onto his elbows to try and sit up and was shocked at how much effort that single act required. "However, point taken. Discussion later when we're both a bit less scrambled?"

"Agreed. Here, drink this."

He felt the warm whisper of her breath on his cheek and a brief press of her lips before the tin cup was pushed gently into his nearest hand. The water was cold and clean and tasted sweet. He swallowed slowly, letting it ease the rawness of his throat. 

She poured water into the small bowl on the table and wrung out a hand-towel and Nero watched her face as she tended to herself before selecting a second cloth to do the same for him. Her expression was once again calm and pensive, though her flush remained, her hair softly disheveled. Ignoring the ache in his arm he reached up to tuck a damp forelock out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.

"Do you think," she began, then caught herself, "Never mind."

"Hm? No, go on."

The wet cloth idled upon the mild rise of his hipbone at his encouragement. Her cheeks seemed to bloom almost crimson with self-consciousness, dark blue gaze listing towards the edge of her pillow before shyly flickering upwards to meet his own periwinkle blue in a half-lidded, hesitant little smile that should not have felt so appealing as it did, not so soon- and then she said:

"....I, ah. I think I would not... be entirely opposed to doing this again sometime. If you like."

"As chance has it, I think I would very much like." His eyes drooped shut. Seven hells, he was actually worn out. "...some other time."

She let out a small chuckle and kissed him again, ruffling his hair as she did so. Nero felt the weight on the mattress bounce slightly as she slid off the edge and onto the floor.

"Where are you going?"

"To powder my nose." Aurelia bent over and snatched a piece of cloth off the floor. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She slipped past the partition; he could hear the weight of her footfalls as she climbed the stairs. Wearily he shut his eyes again, telling himself it was only for a moment or two. He didn't realize he had lapsed into a doze until a hand tapped his shoulder and he saw her standing there wearing nothing but the oversized drape of his shirt. She held a large plate in her hands. 

"I realized I was hungry and I thought you might be too," she said, smiling. "Sliced sourdough with Thanalan goat cheese. And those fig preserves I put up last week."

"...We're going to get crumbs all over the sheets, you know."

"That's for future me to worry about. Come on, sit up."

Nero did, leaning back against the pile of pillows, and found the plate shoved into his hands while she crawled back onto the mattress and flopped comfortably next to him with a tomestone in one hand. He set the plate on his thighs, tossed an arm around her shoulders, and selected one of the slices she'd laid out as she curled against his chest. They ate in companionable silence as she flipped through the contents of the tome with her thumb. 

"What's that?" he said around a mouthful of bread, cheese, and sweet fig. After their recent exertions, it tasted ambrosial. "Don't think I've seen this type of stone before."

"An 'irregular' tomestone, whatever that's supposed to be. I thought since I happen to have one of the most brilliant engineering minds of the current age at my disposal, he might be persuaded to stay in bed with me and sift through some really choice Allagan data. What do you say?"

"My, eikon-slayer," he drawled, "but you are cold when it suits you. Tying a man to your bed just to use him for his translation services?"

She cast a coy little smirk over one shoulder. 

"I had to tempt you to stay somehow."  

"A most unorthodox approach - if one to which I find myself quite reconciled. Did you make Garlond the same offer?"

"...I see that near-asphyxiation has done naught to lessen your cheek." She tweaked his ear, then rocked forward on her knees to reach for the empty plate. By some miracle, only a few crumbs had made it onto the coverlet. "You're using me for my wine cellar. I'd say it's a fair exchange."

"Then the answer is no, I assume?"  

"Answer?"

"You did not, in fact, make the same offer to Garlond."

Aurelia scoffed, turning her back to reach over the washbasin, and set the plate down in the open space on the far side. "Obviously not."

"Ha! Then you admit you think me the expert."

"Cid would have translated it for free," she let out a loud and very unladylike yelp of laughter when his arms wrapped around her middle and dragged her across his thighs, "Wait, Nero, wait-"

"We have discussed these bloody comparisons of yours before-"

" 'Twas a jest!" Aurelia managed between helpless, girlish snickers, squirming beneath the arm that pinned her and the fingers that mercilessly tickled her sides. "Seven hells, that could not have had a more perfect outcome had I contrived-"

"Surely you didn't think you were going to get away with that, you little minx."

Rather than offer further resistance to continue their tussle, she rolled beneath the press of his hand onto her back, arms draped gracefully over her head. The high ruffled neck of his doublet undershirt was unlaced and the open neckline plunged towards the edge of her sternum, hem rucked up far enough by their wrestling that it brushed the outer curve of her breasts in a way that kept catching his eye. 

His scowl eased and his hands stilled, and Aurelia saw she’d successfully disarmed him. 

"Actually," she grinned and tugged upon that single untameable forelock, curling it around her finger as her other hand circled about the nape of his neck, "I had rather hoped that I would not."

She coaxed him to close the distance. Her smile was as bright and unwavering as the sun. Another defeat at the eikon-slayer’s hands, he thought-- but hardly one he minded overmuch. 

Battles like this one, after all, were well worth the loss.

[citrinekay]

My friend Jen (genuinesnoof on AO3) doesn’t have tumblr, but she gave me a prompt for Holden hiding an injury from Bill post-Atlanta so I will still post it on here as well as on the archive! 😊

Fractured

They’re trudging down the muddy, rain-slick slope that leads to the river’s edge where the body had been dumped when Holden’s feet go out from under him. The storm the previous night had swamped the hillside, dislodging rocks, and creating a wet minefield of loose dirt and gravel. One misstep, and he’s tumbling forward, right hand outstretched to break the fall. The pain that shoots through his arm on impact hurts worse than the humiliation of wiping out in front of the other detectives and CSU techs processing the scene, but he swallows back the immediate rush of agonized tears as Bill and the detective rush to his side. 

“Are you okay?” Bill asks, one hand clutching Holden’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Bill’s tone is worried.  

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Holden replies, hurriedly, clambering to his feet. 

The initial shock of the fall keeps his blood pumping with adrenaline for the half hour it takes them to look over the scene and take notes. Unfortunately, most of the rain from the previous night had washed a lot of evidence away, leaving them with the bare-bones details of ligature marks and strangulation bruises on the body. 

They drive back into the town, and Holden stops off at the hotel to change his clothes. As he strips out of his shirt, the slight arch of his wrist incites fresh, shooting pain all the way up his forearm and into his elbow, urging a wounded sound against the back of his throat. He shoves the pain down, takes some pain killer, and goes back to work. 

The rest of the investigation spans three days, and is too frenzied for Holden to spare a thought for the tender, aching pain in his arm. He figures he just sprained it, and if he takes enough anti-inflammatories and ices the area it will be fine by next week. Besides, he doesn’t want to slow down the investigation by having to visit the doctor for something a brace and pain killer could fix. He can live with it.

It isn’t until the following week when they’re called out to New Jersey on a new case that the pain he’s been waking up with every morning since the fall intensifies into a constant distraction. Yet, the turn-around between the two cases is so tight that he doesn’t consider getting his arm looked at before they head out of town again. Instead, he spends the trip cradling his arm against him, swallowing down Ibuprofen, and clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain. 

I can handle it. I can handle it. The thought is growing tedious, but kids are dying, and it’s his job to quickly analyze and create a profile to narrow down the suspect list. People’s lives depend on him, and his own health can wait. 

They’re all gathered in the conference room discussing the details of the case when the discomfort he’s been dealing with the past week overflows. Bill makes some point about the killer’s signature, and Holden is too distracted with his throbbing arm to reply. Then, Bill reaches over and nudges his arm to get his attention. The slight contact sends fiery pain cutting like a knife up through Holden’s arm so fiercely that he can’t swallow back the grunt of pain. He clutches his arm against his belly, and presses his eyes shut as nauseated waves of hot and cold roll through. 

“Yeah.” He says, past clenched teeth. “I think you’re right.” 

He can feel everyone staring at him. Slowly, Holden opens his eyes to glimpse Bill gazing worriedly at him. He swallows down the acid taste of bile singeing the back of his throat, and arranges a calm expression on his face. 

After the conference, he slips away to take another few tablets of Ibuprofen. When he comes back to their desks, Bill looks up from his paperwork. 

“Hey, is everything okay with you? You look a little peaked.”

“I’m fine.” Holden says, “I’m feeling a little under the weather, but nothing some Ibuprofen can’t fix.” 

Bill’s gaze tracks Holden’s movements as he sits down at his desk, and tries not to make it obvious that he’s avoiding the use of his right hand. The task is difficult since so much of their work is on paper, requiring him to grasp a pencil, and make use of a typewriter. 

He suffers through the rest of the day before they return to the hotel. By this point, the constant pain has dulled to an overall burning sensation that’s easier to deal with than the sharp shooting pain he’d been experiencing earlier. 

As the elevator goes up, Holden feels his stomach sway. The tiniest jolt of the elevator in motion urges that knife-like pain back to the fore. He leans into the wall as a wave of dizziness hits him, and instinctively reaches for the railing with his dominant hand. The second his fingers wrap around the railing and his body weight leans into his arm, the pain is so intense that he nearly falls to the ground. 

“Holden!” Bill’s alarmed voice cuts past the roar of blood in his ears and the prickle of stars at the corner of his eyes. 

Holden stumbles into Bill’s chest as Bill catches him by the elbow. He tries immediately to pull away, but Bill’s other hand clutches his waist. 

“What’s the matter?” Bill asks, his tone brisk with worry. “Are you going to be sick?” 

Holden lowers his head, and squeezes his eyes shut as another wave of dizziness passes over him. As it eases, he realizes that he’s broken into a cold sweat, and he’s breathing in shuddering inhales. 

“I .. It’s my arm.” He whispers. 

“Your arm?” Bill echoes, confused. 

Holden nods, swallowing back a raspy moan. “Yeah, I …”

The elevator doors open at their floor, and a pair of middle-aged women shuffle into the elevator, casting them bewildered glances. 

“Come on.” Bill says, sliding his arm around Holden’s waist, “Let’s get back to your room.” 

Holden doesn’t have the will to argue as Bill practically drags him out of the elevator, muttering his apologies to the two women. They make their way to Holden’s room, and pause in the hallway while Holden fumbles in his pocket with his left hand for the key card.

 Once he gets the door open, Bill carries him inside, and sets him down on the edge of the bed. 

“What happened?” Bill asks, gazing down at him with a stern yet concerned gaze. 

Holden swallows hard, fighting back the stinging in his eyes. “I think I just … I think I sprained my wrist when I fell last week.”

“You mean in Washington?”

Holden nods. “Yeah, it’s been hurting ever since, but not like today.

Bill sits down on the edge of the bed beside him.  “How bad does it hurt?” 

“Pretty bad.”

“On a scale of one to ten?” 

Holden presses his eyes shut, inhaling a slow, steadying breath. “Bill, it’s not that bad. Really. I’m okay. I don’t want to slow down the investigation. I-”

“Take off your jacket.” Bill says, his tone brooking no argument. “Let me see.”

Holden silently refuses for a long moment, keeping his gaze focused on the floor. The last thing he had wanted was for Bill to glimpse this weakness, yet another failure following everything that had happened in Atlanta. Maybe it would be fine if he was injured in the line of duty, doing something heroic, but he’d simply been clumsy; and now he’s encumbering the current investigation with his pain. 

“Holden.” Bill says, firmly. “Show me right now, or I’m taking you to the hospital for a doctor to look at it.”

“Fine.” Holden says. He carefully shrugs out of his jacket, and lets it slide down his arms. Bill pulls it off his wrists, and tosses it onto the sheets behind them. 

Bill releases a slow, steadying exhale as he takes Holden’s limp arm in his hands. Holden turns his face away, hiding the grimace that crosses his face when Bill turns his hand over to unbutton the sleeve of his shirt. 

Bill rolls the sleeve up out of the way, letting cool air breathe across the inflamed skin. Holden peeks down through misty eyes to glimpse the flushed skin of his forearm slightly puffy and irritated. 

 Bill’s fingertips slide down the inside of Holden’s forearm until they reach his wrist, and though the caress is gentle Holden’s entire body stiffens at the sharp pain that cuts down the length of his arm. He draws in a hissing gasp past his clenched teeth, using all of his willpower not to yank his arm out of Bill’s grasp. 

“That hurts?” Bill asks, his gaze reaching up anxiously to find Holden’s.

Holden’s vision is fuzzy as he opens his eyes, and raggedly whispers, “Yes.” 

“It feels swollen.” Bill says. “Is it just your wrist or up farther too?” 

“All of it.” Holden says, his voice dwindling to a pained rasp. 

Bill’s frown deepens as he clutches Holden’s hand, and slowly turns and rotates his wrist. 

“Fuck.” Holden cries, grabbing onto a handful of the sheets. Tears rush hotly to his eyes, unstoppable despite the clench of his jaw. 

Bill doesn’t say anything except for the quiet “hmm” in the back of his throat, coming to the conclusion that what Holden is dealing with might be more than a sprain. The thought pops up in the back of Holden’s own mind as Bill moves his arm at the elbow from side to side and up and down causing the pain to intensify.  

“Ow, that hurts.” He groans, pulling his arm out of Bill’s grasp. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, “I think this is worse than a sprain, Holden.”

“No.” Holden whispers, struggling to get the rapid pace of his breathing and the stinging tears under control. “No, I’m okay. We have the case. We can’t-”

“To hell with the case.” Bill says, “You’re walking around with a broken arm. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“B-because …” Holden sniffs, his voice wavering on the verge of a sob. 

“That’s it.” Bill says, “Come on, I’m taking you to a hospital.” 

“But, the profile-”

“Can wait. You’re in serious pain.” 

“But-”

“No ‘buts’.” Bill says, strictly. “You’re going whether you walk down to the car of your own volition, or if I have to hog-tie you and throw you over my shoulder.” 

Holden draws in a hitched breath, and swipes at his eyes with his good arm, succeeding only in smearing the tears across his cheeks rather than drying them.

“Well, which one is it going to be?” Bill asks. 

Holden lifts his chin, and climbs to his feet. 

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, nodding towards the door. “Let’s go.” 

Holden follows him back down to the elevator, his gaze focused on the dated, floral carpet under his feet. 

A part of him is still clinging to his denial, telling himself that they’re going to get to the hospital only for the doctor to say it’s a simple sprain and his pain tolerance is just that low. He’d created a bigger problem while they were here trying to solve a different one. And next time, for the love of God, he needs to pick up his damn feet. The doctor might say everything in front of Bill; and that idea, more than anything, is what he fears. 

~

With the clock hovering somewhere around dinner time, the ER waiting room is half-empty. After Bill helps him fill out the paperwork, Holden is given a bed and a nurse within half an hour. She does a quick exam and takes vitals before letting him know the doctor will be in soon. 

“I’m gonna go back out and call the precinct.” Bill says, “I’ll let them know you’re sick, and won’t be in tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” Holden protests. 

“I’m pretty sure your arm is broken.” Bill says, “Even if they can just patch you up with a cast, you need to get some rest. You’ve been walking around like that for a week.”

“But …” 

“But what?”

“What if it’s not?” Holden whispers. 

Bill looks skeptical, and doesn’t try to argue. He’s already made up his mind. 

“Stay put.” He says, and leaves the room without giving Holden a chance to protest further. 

By the time he comes back from the phone call, the doctor arrives to do a quick examination. Holden is forced to go through another painful bout of turning, rotating, and palpating at the doctor’s hands before the man says he’s going to prescribe some pain meds and order an x-ray. 

“Do you think it’s broken?” Bill asks. 

“More than likely.” The doctor says. “We just need to confirm where, and how badly. Most of the time breaks in the forearm require surgery.” 

Holden feels the breath go out of his lungs. The doctor, entirely lacking in bedside manner, offers no further reassurance before leaving the room. 

“Surgery?” Holden whispers, casting Bill a worried gaze. 

“He said ‘maybe’.” 

“No, he said ‘most of the time.’” Holden says, letting his head drop back against the pillows. “Fuck.” 

His denial begins to slip away, lost inside the knife-edge grip of fear. He’s never had any major operation besides the removal of his tonsils so long ago that he barely remembers the experience. The thought of being cut into and his bones rearranged releases a swarm of nauseated butterflies into his belly. 

Holden opens his eyes when Bill puts a hand on his leg. 

“I can’t believe you were going to let me have you walk around with a broken arm for another week or two.” Bill says, “Come on, Holden. You’re smarter than that.”

“Am I?” 

“Yeah, a lot smarter. What were you thinking?” 

Holden slips his eyelids open to meet Bill’s probing gaze. Under the severe, white lights of the hospital, his eyes are pale blue, almost transparent. They have the ability to make Holden both bloom with warmth as if dappled in sunlight, and shudder as if under the severity of a thunderstorm. Right now, he can’t tell which one it is because he’s disappointing Bill - just as he had tried hard not to do - but he wouldn’t want anyone else here at the hospital with him. 

“I know it was stupid of me.” He whispers, focusing on his lap where his injured arm is laying limply across his thighs.  “I should have done something about it when we got back from Washington. I just … I was afraid that you’d think that-”

“That I’d think what?”  Bill asks, incredulously. 

Holden closes his eyes against  the prick of fresh tears. “That I wasn’t doing enough.”

“What do you mean? Not enough?”

“For the case.” Holden whispers, and now that he’s saying it aloud it sounds silly and ridiculous. 

Bill lets out a low sigh that matches Holden’s thoughts. “You’ve been walking around with a broken arm for a week because you thought I wouldn’t find that kind of injury a valid reason for you to slow down and step away from work for a minute?” 

Holden presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, quelling the wet, stinging glaze of overwrought, agonized tears. Every part of him wants to fall to pieces in this hospital bed, but he can’t do that. A broken arm is bad enough. Bill doesn’t need to be bothered with his dramatics, too. 

Holden’s eyes dart open again when Bill’s palm settles against his cheek. His fingers dip gently into Holden’s nape, ensuring he can’t escape as he draws him closer; and Holden doesn’t have the will to resist as Bill’s gentle, yet firm grip guides Holden’s forehead to his shoulder. 

“I know it’s been a lot.” Bill says, his voice soothing like a deep, steady rainfall. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress, with Atlanta and everything else. We’re carrying more responsibilities than we should, but that’s why it’s important for all of us to be in good health.” 

Holden sniffs, keeping his forehead pressed to Bill’s shoulder so that the tears traveling miserably down his cheeks aren’t visible. 

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” Bill asks, softly, giving Holden’s shoulder a nudge. 

Holden nods. 

“I need you out here on consult with me. And I need you healthy.”��

Holden nods again, not trusting his voice to conjure a proper reply. 

“Okay.” Bill says. He gives Holden’s back another stern pat before guiding his head back from his shoulder. 

Holden slowly looks up at him, afraid he’ll see annoyance or disappointment in Bill’s gaze, but Bill is half smiling despite his frustration. 

“That said, if you ever do this again, you’re going to get worse than a talking-to.” Bill says, offering a faint chuckle. 

Holden laughs against the knot of tears in his throat. “Understood.” 

“Good.” Bill says. 

He goes back to the chair in the corner, and sits there like he’s standing guard. He doesn’t move from that spot even when the nurse comes to take Holden down for the x-ray, and he’s still there when they come back. By the time the radiologist reads the x-ray and the doctor comes back with the news that Holden had gotten quite lucky and the fracture is isolated to the ulna, a few hours have passed. But he doesn’t complain, or check his watch. He stays close while the doctor puts the cast on Holden’s arm, and gives him instructions on care and follow-up. 

It’s almost ten o’clock by the time they get out of the hospital. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Bill says. 

“Yeah, I could eat.” Holden agrees. 

They stop to pick up pizza at a hole-in-the-wall spot just off the highway. The neon sign above the wood-shingled roof bathes the patio picnic table and deserted parking lot in alternating flashes red and green while the mild breeze coming off the water carries the distant hum of traffic on the highway. They’re quiet, not discussing Holden’s arm any longer. Holden can’t think about the fading pain as Bill’s eyes, washed in neon, shift from mellow rainclouds to the flash of lightning. In the distance, the Ben Franklin Bridge glistens under the light of a thousand stars, leading somewhere in the direction of home.

[numba99]

Fatal Attraction - Part 7

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Summary: When a mysterious man shows up at your job, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to him - and him to you. But behind the beautiful face is the dark lifestyle of a man who has made his wealth through becoming the most powerful drug dealer in the city. Word count: 2.9k

Song: Ultraviolence // Lana Del Rey

Warnings: like getting hit/physical stuff, mentions of blood. There will be some Russian in this ill include the translations next to it if you’re curious typed like this

A throbbing pain in the back of your head pulled you out of a dreamless sleep. If you could even call be knocked out sleep. Your body stiffened, your head snapping up (your head screamed in protest at this movement) trying to figure out where you were and what happened. Your heart was thudding in your chest as you realized you were bound, your hands tied behind your back around a beam in the center of the room. 

You were scanning the room, desperate for any clue at where you were and, more importantly, how you could get out. It was all barren, though. The lighting was dim, which was good for your head but not for your escape. From the looks of it, you were in some abandoned warehouse in the city. At least you hoped you were in the city. There were no windows, no clock, no way of telling what time it was or how long you’d be knocked out. Panic was creeping in.

“Well, well sleeping beauty finally wakes,” a thick Russian accent chirped from the left of you. You craned your neck and your stomach dropped when you found the source. It was Dimitri.

“What do you want?” you choked out, not realizing how dry your throat was.

Dimitri laughed as he approached you, “Oh sweetheart, let’s not play stupid. It will be a lot easier for you. Less painful too.” You’re not sure you did too well at hiding the fear on your face. Mika hadn't given you dirty details about Dimitri, but even from what he was willing to share you knew he wouldn't spare you because you were a girl.

“What’re you-”

“When’s Mika’s big shipment coming in?” Dimitri cut you off.

“I don’t know,” you replied. It was the truth, Mika never told you. Even if he did, you wouldn’t tell Dimitri anyway.

“I’ll ask you one more time nicely,” Dimitri said, voice dripping with feigned nicety. “When is Mika’s shipment coming?”

“I don’t-” Before you could even get the words out his hand came down and struck your cheek. You gasped, shocked by the pain that spread through you face. Dimitri knelt down so he was eye level with you. He gripped your jaw, thumb digging into your stinging skin.

“You’re a pretty girl, y/n,” Dimitri growled. It sent a chill down your spine that he knew your name. “It would be a shame if I had to mess up this pretty face. Mika wouldn’t like his little play thing anymore, now would he?”

“Fuck you,” you spat, besides your best judgement. Dimitri gripped you tighter, pushing your head back against the beam. It hit the spot you’d been hit before and you practically saw stars.

“Feisty, I see why Mika likes you,” he snarled a twisted smile, “I don’t wanna hurt you, honest. Just tell me when it’s coming and I’ll return your safe to Mika.” Looking at Dimitri, it unsettled you just how dark his eyes were. There was no life behind them, not even a spark of kindness. You didn’t have to know him to know that was a bold faced lie. He didn’t intend to return you. You doubted he even intended to keep you alive. 

“He never told me,” you replied, trying to stay calm. Dimitri slapped you again. It hurt, but at least this time you were ready for it.

“I don’t believe you, y/n,” Dimitri said back.

“It’s the fucking truth,” you snapped, “And I wouldn’t fucking tell you if I did know.” He didn’t like that. He hit you again, hard. Your lip caught your teeth and you could taste the coppery tang of blood in your mouth.

Dimitri reached back, pulling a pocketknife from his waistband. You didn’t miss the gun tucked beside it. God how the hell am I going to get out of this, you thought. 

Dimitri flicked open the pocketknife, pressing it to your throat. “You’re making me angry, y/n. Tell me when it’s coming,” he was losing his composure, anger creeping into his voice.

“I don’t know!” you groaned. He slashed the knife against your upper arm, creating a little gash. You cried out, feeling the sharp pain. You were finding it hard to breath as panic was gripping you tighter than before. He might actually kill me right here right now, you thought. You were starting to lose focus. All you wanted was to see Mika’s face.

“Last chance before I start cutting things off,” Dimitri growled.

Your eyes brimmed with fearful tears, spilling over your cheeks. You didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. You had nothing to tell him and he refused to believe you. You tried to focus on bracing yourself for what was coming next, for the pain you were inevitably be in. 

“So that's how it’s going to be?” he replied, leaning ever close to you, knife out. “Maybe we cut off an ear, yeah? Mail it to Mika so he knows he needs to teach his women to listen better. How does that sound?” He asked as if you had any say in it.

You were breaking into a sob as the blade got closer to your skin. Just as you were sure you were about to feel the pain of the first cut, yelling in Russian broke out. Dimitri stopped, his head whipping towards the door. A man rushed in, beaten and bloody.

“Mika здесь,” he cried out. You didn’t know what he was saying, but you caught Mika’s name. You perked up with hope. Could it be Mika? Was he here to save you.

“ты можешь удержать его?” Dimitri shot back. can you hold him off

“Его люди уже убили большинство наших парней.” his men have already killed most of ours. Whatever he said pissed Dimitri off. He threw down his knife and yelled out a Russian curse. Gunshots got closer and Dimitri bolted out of a door that you guessed was behind you. The other guy ran back out the other way in what you guessed was an attempt to hold off whoever was coming, but it didn't work.

“Mika,” you cried out, overcome by joy when he rushed in. He lowered his gun, tucking it away when he realized it was just you in the room. He ran to your side.

“Sweetheart oh my god are you okay?” he checked you over, looking for serious injury. It felt so good to have his loving, gentle hands on you instead of Dimitri’s. 

“Yes please just untie me,” you sniffled, wanting desperately to be free. As Mika worked on the rope around your wrists, Chris ran in.

“Where did he go?” He questioned, looking between the two of you. There was some blood on his shirt, but he didn’t look hurt. You realized it wasn’t his.

“He left though the other door,” you told him. He nodded and ran out in that direction. Finally, the ropes fell from your wrists and you spun around, flinging your arms around Mika. He held you so tightly and you didn't care that you could barely even breath. You tucked your head into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent that managed to usher in some calmness into your body.

“Fuck I can't believe this happened,” Mika said, still holding you tightly. You could hear he was trying not to cry. Before you could respond, Chris came back in.

“He's gone,” he reported.

“We have to find him,” Mika snapped, finally pulling away from you, “We have to find him and I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Mika we ca’t go after him that’s what he wants,” Chris reasoned with him, “You’d be playing right into his hand.”

“I don’t care, I want him dead for this,” Mika replied.

“Mika, Chris is right” you replied, placing a hand on his face to calm him. Honestly, you wanted Dimitri dead right about now, but in this moment you just wanted to go home with Mika. “Please, Mika, can we just home now?”

Mika soften under your touch. “You’re right, fuck, I’m sorry y/n. We need to get you taken care of, that’s what’s most important now.” Mika put his hand on your arm as he spoke, accidentally touching the gas created by Dimitri. You gasped at the sting of pain from the contact. Mika frowned, looking a the source of your discomfort. 

“Fuck you’re bleeding baby.” He ripped of the sleeve of his shirt without a second thought, tying it tightly around the wound. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You insisted you were okay to walk, but Mika wasn’t hearing it. He scooped you up and you didn’t protest. It honestly felt really good to just wrap your arms around his neck and tuck your face close to him.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Mika told you as he walked towards the door, “I don’t want you to see... the mess.” You did as you were told, keeping your face nuzzled against his neck. You knew what he meant by “the mess,” and you weren’t so much scared or disgusted as you were just exhausted. You were pretty much at sensory overload for the day and didn’t want to take in anymore violence. Plus, you knew Mika hated you seeing this side of what he does, you didn’t want to make him feel any worse about this whole situation. 

“Should I call the doctor?” Chris asked when you finally made it to the shelter of the car. 

“Please. Tell him to meet us at the normal hotel,” Mika replied, buckling you in. He still held you close, gently rubbing your head. It was still pounding, but his touch provided the first sense of relief since you woke up.

“Hotel?” you questioned.

“We need to meet him at a mutual place. Plus it’s not safe for us to go directly home right now, they may still be watching,” Mika told you. You hid your disappointment behind a simple nod. You understood why you had to go to the hotel, but you wanted nothing more than to just be home. 

Mika proceeded to explain to you that the doctor, known only as that or Doc, wouldn’t give his name and that you shouldn’t give him yours. No personal information was to be shared except what pertains to your injury. The purpose was simple, if he didn’t know our names he couldn’t give us up to Dimitri or any of Mika’s foes. If we didn't know his name, we couldn’t put his medical license at risk if Mika was ever investigated. Having the private doctor kept Mika and his people safe without having to create a paper trail at a hospital or something.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed or how far you went, you kept your eyes closed the entire ride, but you finally made it to the hotel. It wasn’t the fancy Mika-esque hotel you were imagining, but you guessed the higher end places would question two people coming in as disheveled as you looked. It wasn’t a dump, though, Mika still had standards. 

Mika pulled out a duffle bag out of the back seat and yanked out two hoodies for you both to wear to cover up, well, everything. He pulled the hood up over your head and kissed your forehead gently before leading you out. Chris had went before you and go the room key, so you were able to go straight up. 

You practically collapsed onto the bed. It wasn’t Mika’s bed, but it was sure as hell better than being bound to a beam by some crazy Russian dude. Mika crawled next to you, gently rubbed your back. He was quiet, which wasn’t completely uncharacteristic of Mika, but you knew he was upset. You didn’t like the look on his face, like he was thinking about saying something you wouldn’t want you to hear.

Before you could ask him what he was thinking about, there was a knock on the door. Chris got up from the armchair across the room and let him in.

“What’s the problem today gentlemen?” he asked looking between Chris and Mika. He was an older man, hair peppered gray.

“We’re fine, she needs the attention,” Mika informed him, “She might have a concussion and she’s got a bad cut on her arm.” The doctor nodded and came over to you, setting his duffle bad down next to you on the bed. He asked you a series of questions about how you were feeling. Your head was hurting, but you weren’t nauseous, which was good. He had you do a few tests, like following a light with your eyes and touching your fingertip to your nose. 

“Well you’re extremely lucky, it seems you may have avoided a concussion. I want you to take it easy, though. Avoid bright lights or anything that will strain your eyes for the next day. Mika I want you to reevaluate her in the morning and tell me how she did. If all is the same, she should be in the clear.” Mika nodded intently and then the doctor moved his attention to your arm.

You winced a little as he removed the make-shift bandage Mika had created. The doctor quickly came to the determination you needed stitches, which he brought supplies to do. You guessed he did a lot of stitching up for Mika in the past. Mika held your other hand as the doctor sutured up your wound. It stung, definitely, but at this point it wasn’t really phasing you. After he finished up, the doctor gave you some Tylenol for your head and left.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you said forcing optimism. Mika still had that sick, stressed look on his face, though.

“Chris, do you mind giving us a minute?” Mika asked, though it definitely was not a question. Chris nodded, stepping out without question. Your stomach churned wondering what Mika was about to say, but to your surprise he started to cry.

“Mika, honey, what’s wrong?” you questioned, rubbing his back.

“Look at yourself, yn. Look at all the pain I caused you,” Mika sniffled. It was an angry, frustrated cry.

“You didn’t do this to me Mika,” you replied.

He shook his head, “But if you weren’t with me this never would have happened. You’re not safe with me.”

“What are you saying?” you questioned, not wanting the answer.

“I just... I don't know if I can be with you knowing this what could happen to you,” he sniffled.

“No,” your heart sunk, “No Mika, you don’t get to make that decision for me. Fuck you can’t just- after everything I just went through? Fuck Mika no, no you can’t leave me. Neither of us want that, it’s what he wants. I won’t fucking let you leave me out of fear.” Tears spilled out of you as you spoke.

Mika pulled you in, hugging you tightly. After a long silence, he spoke, “I’m sorry y/n, you’re right. Jesus I’m just mess right now I don't even know what I’m saying. This was just so fucking horrible. God when I realized you were gone, that Dimitri of all people had you - fuck - I was terrified. I thought I was gonna lose you.” 

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” you admitted. It was scary to say, to acknowledge that you really were close to losing your life. Dimitri would have done it eventually if Mika hadn’t gotten there, you knew that for sure. “But you saved me, Mika. I’m here because of you, you can’t overlook that. I owe you everything.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he shook his head, “I’d do what I did a million times over to get you back safe. I should have never left your side yesterday, I should have known that was all a set up to get to you.”

“Please stop blaming yourself,” you urged.

“I know, but it just feels that way. It feels awful,” Mika replied, “One things for sure, I’m never leaving you unprotected like that again.”

You nodded, you weren’t too keen on going anywhere on your own right now after all that. It was scary, but at the same time you felt safe with Mika. You knew he was going to do everything to protect you and that brought you comfort.

“Is now a bad time to tell you I want to move in? I wanted to make it special when I told you, but I feel like that’s sort of gone out the window,” you told him with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

To your delight, Mika cracked a small smile too. “Nows the perfect time because either you were moving in with me or I was moving in with you.”

You laughed, “I sorta would love to see you trying to live in my tiny ass apartment.”

Mika laughed lightly with you, but in the silence he became more serious. “I love you y/n, and I’m never going to let this happen to you again. I promise,” Mika told you. Your heart nearly stopped at the L word. You felt it too, you knew you loved Mika, you just never put the word to it. In any other relationship you would have thought it was crazy to feel that so fast, but with Mika everything existed on a different plane.

“I love you too, Mika,” You replied, squeezing his hand, “I know you're going to keep me safe.”

Mika kissed your hand, “I will, and that’s why I’m going to kill him.”

You took Mika’s face in your hands, kissing him deeply. You pulled away after a few seconds, looking him right in the eye and said, “We are going to kill him.”

[hurt-care]

Lying Low

Part of my great migration of fics over here to Tumblr :) 

Remus/Sirius sneezefic, set after Goblet of Fire. This was a Secret Santa for Zwee

----

If there was one thing Remus Lupin was certain of, it was that Albus Dumbledore always seemed to have a really shit sense of timing. He'd hired Remus to start the school semester the morning after a full moon almost two years ago and now this.

He stared at the letter, scanning the loopy handwriting one more time in disbelief.

Remus,

I know you were eager for a new companion and I think I found a lovely dog that will suit you nicely. He'll be on his way soon so please keep an eye out for his delivery. I suggest you prepare your home for his arrival and that you stay there to allow him time to adjust. Best keep an eye on him -- he tends to wander off and find mischief.

Best,

Albus Dumbledore

Scrubbing a hand wearily across his face, he stood up from the sofa with a soft groan of discomfort and went into the kitchen to make tea. He'd need it to get through the day.

With the kettle on, he sat at the kitchen table and ran down the list of wards and protective spells he'd need to complete on the house before Sirius arrived. The house was already warded to warn him when any Animagi passed within a certain distance, so he'd know in advance when Sirius finally turned up. With Peter still on the loose, the spell protected him from the rat watching the house too closely.

There were various other spells on the house to keep people away (especially during full moons) but the they would need refining. The protective spells were difficult spells to manage on his best of days, but on the day before a full moon he'd be lucky to get them all done before he resigned himself to being locked up in the back shed.

Since his resignation from Hogwarts, Remus had no access to Wolfsbane again and the transformations seemed more taxing than ever. Perhaps the brief respite from the nights of fighting and biting himself had made him forget how terrible it had been before. Now, it sometimes took him several days to fully recover.

The kettle whistled and he folded up the list of spells, pocketing it in his trousers and going to pour himself a cuppa. Mug in hand, he went out to the back of the small cottage in the Welsh countryside and raised his wand...

---

It was late afternoon by the time he'd completed the work. Wobbly-legged, sweat-soaked, and utterly exhausted, he deposited his mug in the sink and went into his room, stripping off his t-shirt and trousers. It was approaching six and the late spring sun was dipping low in the sky. He put on a pair of loose, threadbare pyjama pants and gripped his wand in his hand before heading back outside and down the path to the small shed at the rear of the property.

It looked like nothing more than a standard garden shed, but it was heavily protected and reinforced. Remus muttered the entry spells under his breath, opening the door and shutting it behind him after he was safely inside. His wand went into a protective cubby hidden high in one of the walls and he took off the pyjama bottoms, folding them carefully and wedging them into a corner. He hoped the wolf would spare them from a good shredding.

And he waited. The moon rose slowly over the Welsh farmlands and Remus remembered no more.

---

He woke shivering in the cool spring morning, sore and tired. A gash on his arm was bleeding slowly and another dribbled down his face where he'd managed to slice open the bridge of his nose. Taking stock of his other extremities, he was relieved to find no major damage beyond the normal aches. He cleaned and healed the cuts with sloppy but efficient healing spells before struggling to his feet and pulling on his pyjama bottoms, which where thankfully still whole as well. Wand in hand, he limped slowly back home and climbed onto creaky mattress of his bed, tucking a quilt over his head and welcoming the utter resignation of sleep.

---

To the north, a lone black dog sat tucked against the back edge of a speeding railcar. Sirius was desperate for sleep but riding the rails guaranteed him the most efficient journey to Remus'. And that unfortunately meant remaining awake or risking a fall onto the dangerous tracks below.

He was barely holding on as his paws gripped the narrow ledge on the end of the caboose. Mud and stones shot up from the tracks, spattering his fur and leaving him soaked and sore.

Above, the full moon was gone from the sky and the early morning sun was slowly peering through the clouds. He'd started his journey south by the light of that full moon, traveling with a head jumbled by thoughts of Remus and Harry and that poor Hufflepuff boy...and how the hell was You-Know-Who back?

Body rocked by the swaying of the train, he felt his eyes drifting closed before he snapped himself back. Remus. He was going to alert Remus.

Remus, who he'd left utterly alone that day fourteen years ago. Remus, who looked so much older then any man of thirty-four possibly should. Well...any man who had avoided Azkaban. Sirius wasn't sure how old he looked, but it was surely older than Remus. He'd happily avoided mirrors since his escape.

Mirrors and baths, he thought as the train sped through a puddle and more mud pelted his face. He was not going to arrive as the most clean houseguest.

---

It was well into the afternoon before Remus woke briefly. His limbs were heavy with the dull aches of fatigue and the intense strain of the transformation. Barely lifting his head from the pillow, he squinted towards the clock and read the hands marking five past three before relaxing back down with a sigh.

Eyes closed, he lay still, slowly surveying his body. Beyond the aches and the pounding of his head, there was a strain in his lungs and throat that he identified as the marker of either a particularly vocal night as the wolf or an impending head cold. He feared the latter after a testing deep breath turned quickly to a hoarse cough.

Rolling to his side, he tucked his legs up and braced against the spasms. His ribs shot searing pains with each pained bark as he tried to get the coughs under control. Slowly they died away and he lay boneless, exhausted by the brief fit.

It wasn't long before exhaustion overcame all his ills and he was back in the quiet respite of sleep.

---

The sun was starting to dip in the sky by the time the train rolled into the station at Abergavenny. The stowaway dog leapt from his perch at the rear and trotted along the tracks before disappearing into the shelter of the high grasses alongside the station.

Padfoot lay down for a moment in the soft weeds, licking his sore paws where they'd dug into the hard metal grate of the caboose's back platform. It was a battle against exhaustion when it came time to stand again, but he'd endured far worse. Limping slightly, he began the trek alongside a dirt path with his nose to the ground, following the unmistakably familiar scent of Remus Lupin.

He tracked the smell north, confirming his path with the visual markers provided by Dumbledore. After an hour of walking he came to a broad expanse of pasture boarded by a crumbling stone wall. The land rose up into a hill and as he crested the top, a sudden pressure stopped him and he felt his legs unable to move forward. Scanning the distant landscape, he spotted the slight shimmer of a disillusionment spell where Remus' house stood.

---

The blast of the alarm spells woke Remus from a deep sleep, sending his heart beating near a million kilometres a second. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to catch his breath and steady the shaking in his limbs.

With care, he stepped to the ground and moved to the window, peering out into the night. He lived so far from the local village that not a single light illuminated the surrounding countryside, save for the beams of the waxing moon. In the distance, a large black dog stood on the hillside, waiting.

Remus grabbed his dressing gown, suddenly invigorated by the sight of his friend. He wrapped the thin robe around himself and tied it at the waist, grabbing his wand and hurrying to the sitting room.

He'd need to remove the Animagi spells before Sirius could approach safely. Raising his hand, he concentrated on the spell and swung his wand down, reciting the first incantation. There was a faint shimmer outside the windows as the ward fell. He flicked his wrist, intent on performing the next counter-spell, but a quick distraction from his nose prevented him from speaking he incantation. He sniffed a little, trying to quell the sudden itch, but it built to a peak and he was forced to raise his wand arm to shield his nose with the crook of his elbow.

Hurrr-GSGHHTT!

The harsh sneeze tore at his throat and forced a few weak coughs. He sniffled again and pitched at his nose in frustration. Though he was often prone to colds after transformations, they always seemed to present at the most inopportune months.

Picking up the spell work where he'd left off, he performed the final few counter-spells and heard a bark in the distance as the last ward broke.

The resistance in the air suddenly disappeared and Sirius moved forward, tail wagging reflexively. Below, a small cottage appeared with a cheery light coming from the front room. The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted by the glow.

Limping down the grassy hillside, Sirius reached the door and sat at the feet of the thin man leaning against the frame, looking as if he might topple over at any moment.

“Well, are you coming in?” Remus asked. His voice was hoarse but held a note of humour in it.

Sirius crossed the threshold and before he could stop himself, he was collapsed in a heap on the living room rug. Remus crouched at Padfoot's side, stifling a groan as he lowered himself to the floor. Suddenly, where there had been a dog there now lay a man.

“What a pair we make,” Sirius rasped. “I think I'm bleeding on your rug, Moony. Sorry 'bout that.”

“Can you get up?”

“Maybe in a minute...”

“Just stay there then,” said Remus. “I'll fetch some water and bandages.”

Sirius gave a small nod and contemplated the fibres in Remus' worn carpet as he lay with his feet and hands tucked against his body in an attempt to spare the rug from his wounds.

Remus went off to the bathroom for gauze and bandages, gathering up the supplies in the pocket of his dressing gown before going to the kitchen for a basin of water and a glass for Sirius to drink.

“Here we are,” he said quietly, returning to his friend's side and setting the bowl and glass down before lowing himself to the floor. “Let me see your han...ehh..n'GHSHT!”

He tucked his nose into the crook of his elbow to shield Sirius from the violent-sounding sneeze.

“Christ, Moony,” Sirius said, pushing himself up on one elbow and finally getting a look at the man with human eyes. “Go back to bed. I can take care of myself and we'll talk in the morning.”

“It's fine,” Remus said with a small sniffle. “It's just a cold and I've rested all day. Let me see your hands.”

Sirius sat up fully, leaning back against the bottom of Remus' armchair, and extended his hands. The palms were raw and chapped from the journey. With a slightly shaky touch, Remus cleaned the small stones and splinters from each palm and applied a salve before bandaging them up. Sirius watched in quiet contemplation, his mind still racing with the events of the past week.

“What was so important that you've torn up your limbs to get here?” Remus asked softly as he turned his attention to Sirius' feet.

The man looked up sombrely and shook his head.

“He's back, Moony. He tried to get to Harry and Harry saw him return to...well, to a more human form again.”

Remus' breath caught in his throat and he coughed harshly into his shoulder for a moment before he regained control.

“Is Harry okay?” he asked. Harry had to be okay. Otherwise, Sirius wouldn't be here.

“He's as well as can be expected,” Sirius replied. “Physically unharmed. There was a casualty...a Hufflepuff student. Cedric Diggory.”

Remus set the washcloth down in basin and lowered his head.

“I remember him,” Remus said. “Bright boy.”

“Won't be the last,” Sirius replied bitterly, reaching for the gauze and clumsily bandaging his own feet. “Dumbledore sent me here because we'll have to alert the old crowd. Or at least you'll have to...I imagine I'll be a later revelation.”

Remus nodded wearily.

“I don't want to go through this again,” he said. “It was hard enough the first time.”

“I know,” Sirius replied. “But we'll talk more in the morning. Go to bed, Moony or you'll get sicker.”

“You can have the bed if you like,” Remus offered. “The couch is fine for me.”

“I'll sleep as Pads,” Sirius countered. “The couch is perfect. Far better than a cave floor.”

Remus gave his old friend a wan smile and pushed himself to his feet.

“Bathroom's just there,” he said, pointing. “Bark if you need anything.”

Sirius nodded and transformed back to Padfoot with one swift motion. The dog stood on gauze-wrapped paws and gingerly stepped up onto the sofa, curling up and lowering his head onto a cushion with a long sigh.

Remus went into his room and climbed into bed, burying himself under the layers of blankets. He lay still with his eyes shut but no sleep would come in spite of his exhaustion. Instead his mind raced...Cedric dead, Voldemort back...the nightmare was happening all over again.

And his blasted nose was leaking....

He reached out for a handkerchief from his nightstand and put it to his nose, giving it a good blow. It did little to clear the clogged feeling from his head and only served to irritate his rapidly reddening nostrils.

And then there was the tickle...it began high behind his eyes and spread down his nose in increasing levels of irritation. He pitched at his nostrils with the handkerchief and gave his nose a good wriggle, but the tickle remained and built towards a peak. Quickly his breath began to hitch and he pressed the soft cloth to his nose in preparation.

Ehh...hehh...heh-TSGHH! Nhh...heh'TSGHTT!!

The sneezes scraped at his throat and left his head feeling dizzy. He gave another soft blow into the handkerchief and closed his eyes again, trying to surrender to sleep.

When it finally came, he only slept fitfully, tossing and turning and sniffling and snorting and coughing and wheezing. Sometime in the early hours he woke with a gasp and found his pyjamas damp with sweat.

The bedroom door creaked open and a soft whine could be heard in the dark. For a moment, Remus' heart hammered in his chest and he reached for his wand before he remembered...Padfoot.

The dog sprang up on the bed and looked at him with tilted head as if to ask 'are you alright?'

“I'm okay,” Remus wheezed. “Sorry if I woke you.”

You were crying out Sirius thought as he nudged a warm, wet doggy nose against Remus' hand. Bad dreams. I have them too.

Ehh-NgHTTT!

Remus' hand flew to his face to block a sudden sneeze and for a moment it remained there in anticipation of a second.

Heh-tsh'GHTT!

Padfoot whined in sympathy and lay down with his head on Remus' thigh. Remus' mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. More than once Sirius had snuck into the hospital wing post-transformation and kept him company this way.

“D'wanna stay then?” Remus asked as he wiped his nose with a fresh handkerchief from the bedside table.

Padfoot huffed a small sigh and gave a thud of his long tail.

“Alright,” said Remus. “Don't hog the quilts.”

He slid back down under the covers and lifted an edge for the dog to snuggle under. Padfoot curled up against his side with a comforting, warm bulk that quickly sent Remus back to healing sleep.

Neither dreamt again that night.