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kyber-kisses · 5 years ago

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I Know

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: character death, angst, cursing, mild descriptions of wounds and torture.

Summary: almost a year after the readers death, Dean finds himself at the mercy of a witch who knows one of his only weaknesses. You.

A/n: because I’m slowly dying of boredom I decided to do Bad Things Happen bingo. Please send in your preference for the next square!

Fucking Witches. Dean Winchester was officially done with their shenanigans and messed up thought processes. It was like they had a flare for the dramatic. If they were so into killing folks. Why couldn’t they just do it quickly?

Finding himself bound tightly to the old chair in the rundown house the witch had been residing in, Dean for once wished he had dragged Sam along with him on this case. If Sam was here there was no way the witch would still be alive.

Instead here he was. Tied in place and basically steeping in thick silence. How this bitch has got the drop on him was still beyond him. The last thing he remembered before waking up here was driving to one of the witnesses house. He didn’t remember getting out of the car or being tied up. It was almost as if it had all happened in the blink of an eye.

He had already tried struggling and pulling at his restraints but to no avail. The ropes were probably laced with spell work along with the chair, seeing as he couldn’t even shift the price of furniture across the floor. Either that or it was bolted to the floor.

“Son of a bitch-“ he hissed, slightly out of breath from pulling on the ropes. His head whipping around in hopes of finding something to help him get out, but the room was empty of everything except himself.

“Well look who decided to wake up.” It was like she was waiting for the perfect moment, because not a second later the young witch stepped out from beyond the shadows, her black hair hanging in ringlets as her lips twisted into a bright red smile.

Going through his choices quickly, Dean chose to go with the playing dumb act, pretending he had no idea what was going on. Maybe, just maybe he could somehow gain the upper hand.

“I feel like there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t have a clue as to what is going on.”

“Oh but I think you do. You're a hunter.”

“A what? I don’t know what that is. I was just in town to meet up with some old friends.”

The witch smiled again, stalking closer to the bound Winchester, a small hexbag gripped in her freshly polished nails, the polish reflecting the orange candle light slightly. “Oh don’t play dumb with me. You're not just a hunter. You're Dean Winchester.”

Oh for fucks sake. Of course this witch knew who he was. Could he ever catch a break?

“Oh well, ya caught me.” He gave in, flashing her a grin. “Now you want an autograph or something?” Time to think of another plan. If he had enough time to that is.

“Oh no, I thought we’d have some fun first.” Her white smile becoming more menacing as she stopped in front of him, tilting his chin upward and fully catching his gaze.

“No offense Sweetheart, but I ain’t interested.”

“Oh I know. You only ever had eyes for miss Y/N Y/L/N, isn’t that right?” She cooed, her smile widening when his face hardened, his mouth snapping shut, eyes blazing. “Oh struck a nerve did I?”

“How do you-“

“How do I know about her? Oh well that’s easy. I’ve been watching you Winchesters for quite sometime.” She explained, moving to tuck the hexbag into one of the inner pockets of his canvas jacket. “Dean and Y/N. Friends to. . .- well not quite lovers. You were too late for that, weren’t you?”

Everything in him wanted to lash out at her, make her regret ever saying your name, but once more the ropes restricted him from doing so. His struggle barely doing anything to loosen the binds. “So help me if you don’t shut up I’m gonna rip your tongue out.” He growled, feeling the pure white hot rage crawl up his spine.

“Must have been painful losing her, especially when you loved her so much. Only- you never did tell her that did you?”

“I said shut the hell up!”

She was toying with him. Pulling at all the loose strands of his soul. If people really knew Dean Winchester they would know that the key to fully unraveling him was to bring you up. You death had crushed him in more ways than one and now this bitch was using it against him.

“Like I said before, Dean. Let’s have some fun.” She smiled, tapping him on the nose before muttering an incantation under her breath, backing away slowly.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

The hunter was met with silence as she gave him a wink, disappearing around the corner. “Just having some fun and games. Good luck, pretty boy!”

And just like before he went back to struggling against the bindings, the thick rope burning his wrists as he twisted and pulled. He had to get the hex bag off him before it- before it-

It was like a switch had been pulled because not a second later he felt his eyes get heavy and his shoulders slumped, pulling him head first into unconsciousness. When he opened them again he found himself no longer in the rundown house but on a darkened hillside,the moon being the only source of light across the black landscape.

It took him a minute before he finally realized where he was. His eyes falling shut in hopes of finding himself anywhere but there. This was where he had found you, your blood caked body sitting limp and cold against the lone tree not too far off.

This was the night he lost you.

It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped down the back of his shirt as memories came knocking into him like bricks. It was just some fight. You had yelled yourself hoarse after Dean and Sam had returned from a hunt they decided not to tell you about. You had been furious and scared when you didn’t know where they were. And Dean ended up yelling right back, saying things that to this day haunt him. He was trying to keep you safe- and yet everything back fired right in his face. You had stormed off in a rage only for some vamps to find you and—

He clenched his jaw, battling down the memory. He had to figure out how to get out of this magically induced nightmare. He couldn’t live through this again. The first time nearly killed him.

“Dean.”

At the sudden voice he felt his body seize up. No. No this wasn’t real. It wasn’t you.

“Dean.” This time there was more force in your tone, and Dean let himself turn, his breath leaving his lungs as the sight of you.

When he woke up he was gonna gut that witch six ways from Sunday. That bitch was taking evil to a whole new level.

Sure enough, there you stood. Your hair framing your hollowed face as you bore into him, your throat covered in gashes and cuts littered your arms and legs. You looked exactly the same as when he had found you.

“Y/N-“ struggling to speak, he inhaled.

“Words, Dean. Use them.”

“How is this-“

“Witches Dean. C’mon use your damn brain for once. “ your tone becoming menacing as you stepped closer, your bare feet moving heel to toe as you moved through the grass. “But it’s me.”

“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” He sighed, jade eyes glazing over with unshed tears as he watched you. He had so many things he needed to say and yet? They were caught in his throat, a part of him still telling him you were just a hallucination conjured up by the witch.

“Slightly, yes.”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I never should have yell—“

“Don’t.” You raises a hand, silencing the hunter in front of you. “You don’t get to be sorry. I’m dead, Dean.”

“I know. And I never should have let you walk out of the bunker after that fight.”

“That was the whole reason for the fight in the first place!” You yelled, eyes widening. “Because you wouldn’t let me go on the damn hunt! You put me on lock down without telling me! Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and find the people you love the most gone without a word? And then you said you were keeping me safe!” You paused, sucking in a breath. “ Im a hunter, Dean! Or was. Either way you stopped me from helping and doing my job!”

“I know that now, and I am sorry.” His voice breaking as he looked at you. You didn’t deserve this. You deserved so much better. “I loved you too much to risk putting you in danger.”

Your jaw clenched, eyes on the verge of creating tears. “Then why didn’t you tell me that when I was alive?”

“Because I didn’t know how. And you can hate me all you want but I need you to know that I am sorry.”

He could practically see the anger draining from your face- only for it to be replaced with heartbreak and tear stained cheeks. “I bet you are. And do you want to know what the worst part of it all was? I died alone and I died scared.” You own voice wavering as you looked at the older Winchester, successfully shattering his heart all over again. “I died thinking you hated me.”

That. That was what he had always feared. Ever since he found you he had wondered what you had been thinking. With those six little words you broke the remaining pieces that had somehow managed to stay together inside him. He could never make this right. It was too late.

“I think we’re done here. You better wake up.” You have him one last glare before turning on your bare heel, walking off into the dark, the moon casting stark shadows across your frame.

“Y/N, wait!”

With one more blink he found himself back in the falling apart house. He expected to be looking up into the eyes of the witch but instead he was met with the worried cobalt blue eyes of a certain trench coated angel.

“Cas?” The words coming out confused as he felt the hallucination induced tears slide off his face. “What the hell happened?”

The angel tilted his head as he began working on bindings around the hunters wrists. “You prayed earlier. I came.”

“What about the witch?”

“Dead. When I killed her it broke you out of your trance.”

Slowly rising from the chair, Dean rubbed at his tender wrists. “Shame.”

“That I saved you?”

“No, thank you for that by the way. Shame that she’s dead. Would’ve liked to end her myself after what she did to me.”

Heading towards the door, Cas was hot on his heels, curiosity easily getting the best of the celestial. “What did she do?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done with.” Digging through his coat pockets, Dean produced the keys to the impala, his new mission already set in stone inside his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I have yet to visit in a while.”

“Would you like me to come with?” Cas spoke, knowing exactly where Dean was headed without him having to say so. Whatever the witch had made him see it was the final push Dean needed.

“Nah. It’s alright.I need to do this alone.” Throwing open the driver side door, Dean paused to flip the keys in his hand. “But thanks man. You know for coming and pulling my ass out of the fire. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

*. *. *. *. * .

Even if the numbers on the dashboard read 1:30AM, Dean still found himself putting the impala in park at the edge of the cemetery on the outskirts of Lebanon. Moonlight curved around headstones and the grass was still damp from the earlier rain. Lampposts still lit up the space partially with orange light as the hunter weaves through the headstone, stopping in his tracks once he found yours.

He and Sam had given you a hunters funeral but he still insisted on getting you a headstone. It gave him a place to visit- even if he had yet to until this moment.

“I know it wasn’t really you in the hallucination.” He breathed, hands stuck deep into his pockets as he stared down your name carved into the piece of granite. “But it didn’t hurt any less. That- that illusion of you said some things that in truth made some sense to me. Things I have been telling myself ever since I lost you.”

A soft warm breeze ran through the cemetery, ever so slightly tickling his skin. It was easier to find words here. It was quiet. It allowed him no worries over who else might be listening. You used to say that the dead speak to those who listen. He was listening as best he could.

“If you really died hating me I am so sorry. I should never have held you back. If I hadn’t we never would have gotten into that fight and you never would have stormed out. In the end it was still my fault.” He paused.”I could never hate you.” He could feel the hot tears gathering in his eyes again as he inhaled, bringing his gaze skyward in hopes of keeping the tears in. “I think I was just scared. When I realized I loved you - that I was in love with you. I just wanted to tuck you away and keep you safe from the world. But that’s not how those things work. It took me too long to realize that and I’m so sorry.”

His eyes went back to the granite headstone, the moonlight catching the polished rock just right so that your name shone.

Please be listening.

“I should have told you. I should have told you and not tried to bury it.” His voice cracked. “I love you Y/N. Always have and always will.”

And with that he kissed his index and middle finger, pressing it lightly against the cool granite that was the last piece of you on this earthly plane. It would be the closest he ever came to kissing you.

As he turned to walk back through the cemetery another warm gust of wind went past him, ruffling his hair and he swore- even if it sounded insane out loud that he heard your voice interwoven through the breeze.

“I know.”

End.

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#bi-danvers0 #dean imagine #dean winchester angst #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #spn x reader #supernatural

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batdaddies · 6 years ago

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Madreperola

warnings: explicit content, violence

pairing: orm x reader

about: im rusty, been AGES since my last time writing, tried to post this into orm tag for three times now, hope now works, after you are done and still want more, leave a prompt at my askbox, i need some more orm around, patrick wilson killed and now i should write kinky smuts about the ex-king of atlantis, this is not that kinky yet, kinda wanted, kinda dont, whatever, the whole Y/N looks funny because I made it into a scenario in an extra page on my tumblr that you can actually insert your name into it, but it wasnt working so yeah, i just wanted to post it so i can write another one. You are not a surface dweller, you are a badass atlantis warrior, a lot of canon made by myself, sorry. Enjoy!

MADREPÉROLA - MOTHER OF PEARLS

Orm is made out of duties, ideas, strength, pain and pieces of a man who once thought he could die alone.

EYES

They were cheering, loud within the dense water, they had music, excited with drums and bubbles around the instruments. Atlantis was painted of those sparkling jellyfishes all around, all the citizens with hands up, waving. Happiness was a strange feeling, how deeply it was, he had been going around for some minutes now, and everytime his eyes flashed around the faces of his people, the smiles were pure, how could they not notice the way his father’s hand on his mother was a little too hard? Were they not seeing through, was it too dark? How could they not see their smiles didn’t match their eyes?

He could sense on his skin, the hair on his arms, right under his royal armour, his hands holding the ropes with a tiny shake. The image of his mother yelling, back and forth with his father had been disturbing; he could hear from the corridor, a strong impulse and he was by the door, opening just to see her beautiful form on the floor, the silver trident on her hands, pointing into his father’s neck, who had his own trident against her belly. They all shared a quiet stare between, his mother soon being the first to give up, she had called his name, throwing the trident behind her, a sign of peace for the time, she didn’t try to explain anything, instead her long arms circulated his torso with care, love. But he was stuck with the situation, with his parents obviously fighting, hard, to the point of fists. His father spoke first.

“Tell him, Atlanta,” the voice husky, dark, capable of investing fear in any being under the seas. The wrinkles on his eyes showed the age, showed the tiredness, the madness, and the hard pupils, they were black unlike his own, his traces only from his mother. A trembling hand came for his mother's back, holding her to protect her, to protect both, specially himself from that tone. “Tell him about your time in the surface…”

His mother pulled him out of the room in that same minute, feet pushing the water, mouth rushing his concerns, not that she actually could, however she tried, whispered what she normally did. Don’t listen to your father. You know he is out of his mind. I love you so much. A help with his hair, a kiss on his head, and they were separated for the parade. He watched his father soon joining him with the soldiers behind, the tridents on hands, watched how he whispered something into her ear before impulsing her trident to her hand so she could have, they all sat down on the animals. He had a shark for once he was young, small, only a prince. His father and mother in front of him, on a pedestal on top of a tylosaurus.

The parade was for pride, the kingdoms together for the solemn purpose of existing after the Great Fall. The royal families, the respected generals and war heros, all lined up to celebrate another year. Atlantis was first of course, the Xebellians behind, followed by the Fishermen, and the Brine. The occasion was peaceful, for what Orm wasn’t in peace at all, he wasn’t a man yet, couldn’t understand the factors of marriage, couldn’t let go of the incident, he was smiling at least, because at some point his father turned behind to take a look, and his lips moved. Smile. As his king wished, he did, an order he wasn’t exactly fulfilling, the white teeth where showing, his mouth opened, but it was crooked, and fake. So lost inside his own head, inside his own thoughts.

Focus! Focus! The voice inside yelled at himself, what kind of Prince he would be if he couldn’t complete his duty? When he finally took his eyes off his father’s grip on his mother’s hands, they averted to the side, searching on the crowd a will to go through all that. All the faces, all the shouts. Nothing. He felt nothing. Until his head moved up, and there, far away, on the higher platform for important, high-borns families, on the privilege views. Someone who had the same serious face as him, unbothered gaze, hair swimming, adorning the shape of her cheeks like a crown with a gold ornament on the side, the lips closed on the rigid line of her jawline. She wore purple and suited her well.

Orm tried to recall when he had seen her before, failing. A strange face. But she was sitting somewhere he would known everybody. By the sides, a man and a woman, he also tried to recall their faces, nothing yet. She entertained his stare until the platform was left behind, until his neck couldn’t turn anymore to watch her.

Seemed there were actually two sad atlanteans that day.

EARS

Once, the worst part of his birthdays was his mother, not herself. Not her caring, soft hands, or her hugs, or kisses. Not her smile. Not her blue eyes. Not the blond hair swinging in the entire room in pretty waves. Her absence. The first year without her presence was disturbing, the second was awful, and the third was fading. It was a shame to say, Orm didn’t remember her that well, now. Some years had passed, along memories, and longing. Sometimes he was ashamed to say he didn’t think of her that much, the grieving had a funny way with him, he was locked away in his own room for days, yet no tears. His father had kept the secret until the very last moment, he didn’t know what was happening until the trench was close enough, besides the entire kingdom knowing, he was oblivious, seemed his father had even funnier ways to mess with him.

Forced to look, forced to watch, and fight against his own mother being sacrificed, she had shouted for him, and Orm had yelled back, but his father was stronger, he was right there, holding him still, hands on his biceps, face on his ears, like a spirit from the past, he felt the lips on his earlobe. A bastard. He stopped immediately, shocked, body failing to keep fighting. The bastard. His senses numbed as she was slowly disappearing from his sight. She had a half-breed, treason.

For months, he didn’t know if he was grieving his mother, or her secret. A powerful queen like herself, to subjugate, accept, cohabit with a human… She had lost her mind, yet the more he thought about it, the more he lost his. The thin line of love, and obeying was starting to fade. The King’s speeches were beginning to make sense, the new ideas of a different future were settling right inside his brain, almost able to recite them one by one, the strongest was the King’s wish to make Orm Marius the best yet. The whole attention, devotion and energy should be spent on his training, on his lessons, on Atlantis that had been suffering with the surface for decades. It was showing then, Orm was becoming the man his father wanted him to be, who took pride on the pure-blood son one day not being only a great king, but a dangerous threat to his enemies.

That year was even decided there was no party, Orm needed to train, needed to study; the only thing it happening was people bringing gifts. He didn’t want that neither, but the King said this costum couldn’t stop, it was necessary. They needed to be spoiled, they needed to be known, to be superior. Vulko was on his right, while the King was on the throne, he was just floating in the warm water in the room, his hands together in front of his torso that was getting bigger, a shape of broad shoulders. He wasn’t small anymore, maybe still young, but not that young, not that innocent. If anything, Orm’s blue bright eyes had a colder shine, the traces on his skin starting to look more like his father than his mother.

“And this is the family of Y/L/N,” Vulko’s voice was distance, low, only for him to hear. “Their ancestors served the crown once, before the second war, they were habitating in Xebel, but decided to come back to Atlantis now the patriarch is dead.”

A woman and a girl were swimming close, stopping to greet. Who he judge as the mother was carrying a box with an aquamarine as lock, the attire of same shade, silver bracelets and a kind smile.

She was placing in front of him with the pile of many others, but he never saw her doing so, instead, he was intrigued by the weapon the daughter was holding, dark grey, utterly curvy on the edges which were five, the handle adorned by arabesques circulating until the extremes along the battle marks, seemed old, however powerful. The girl held it with a straight posture, a warrior. Different from what he reminded, but it was her, he was sure. Purple dressed her too well. The hair had four or six braids floating around her face, much like a halo, adorning the cheekbones, the still rigid jawline, and still hard lips. Her eyebrows were up high, pearls on top of them, matching the color of her eyes. And this time, the purple was tight, admitting both of them had grown up, the cleavage was revealing her popping clavicules, the extra skin of her breasts, the curves continuing to her waist, and hips. Almost a completely woman. An attractive woman.

“You bear a trident,” he stated to her, blankly, forgetting to thank for the gift. His face with no emotions, but it didn’t mean the shiver he felt in his spine wasn’t there, a trickling feeling on his skin that Orm couldn’t name it. It was somehow disrespectful, like a question, taking off her right to carry it.

Her left eyebrow lifted even higher, pearls sparkling along in shades of green, purple and yellow, the trident suffered a whirl, and a thug on the ground, sound echoing, “it belonged to my great grandfather, he fought in the war, died for Atlantis.”

The voice match her looks, daring, a reckon, the water danced on her tone, which meant she was not intimidated by him, ready to prove she was worthy of carrying it. A strong presence with a strong sound, even she was smaller than him, not passing his chest for a fact. All the lessons of reading the opponent was handy in a moment like this, her body language was of someone always alert, someone confident, her breathing was calm, indeed not caring who she was facing. The Prince Of Atlantis. She’d be a good adversary.

“Were you trained with it?” the question now didn’t have any second intentions, rather just curiosity. His face finally moved, just a curl of lips, a blink of lashes, and the feeling stopped by his neck, where his hair was standing on the ends.

“By my own father who had it before me,” she said, noticing his icy eyes were staring down at her, a little movement of her feet, floating higher to fix it. They were on the same level, in an uncomfortable silence, if any noticed, the others accompanying them were alert.

“Good,” Orm said, with a nod of his head. “One day may Atlantis need you as a soldier.”

“My honor, Your Highness,” her tongue hit the back of her upper teeth when talking, which he saw slowly, the feeling going down his shoulders, under the armour, to his hands, the tip of his fingers. It didn’t fade until she turned and left the room, legs swinging in the water with her mother by her side.

The day remained boring, nothing pleasing Orm, neither the training later, or the studies, for what his mind couldn’t stop remembering itself of a purple attire, a trident, and a ringing voice.

My honor.

My honor...

Your highness...

NOSE

The passages of his life were made of deaths, every critical decision, every choice given, every chance made only after losing a life. Queen Atlanna had been sacrificed, only then he was able to decide who he wanted to be, a traitor like his mother or a powerful king like his father, he decided to be none, to be better, to be the best in every way he could. Accomplished. The King Orvax had died, only then he was able to rise to his purpose, finally giving him the freedom of being just a Prince; the chance of serving his people, of succeeding his plans for the future. For what, Orm wanted to great, a legend perhaps, there was no insecurities for the throne, no doubts of himself, he knew he could, he knew he would, Atlantis wouldn’t know a better King.

Sometimes, Orm would even forget he was a man of needs. Yet the truth always found a way to slap his face, shouting to be recognize, yelling louder than he ever could.

It wasn’t a subject his father spoke with him about, he was just given a wife and nothing else. Mera, the xebelian. It was a deal, an arrange, and Orm had grown up with her for far too long to know he wasn’t able to love her, he could respect, offer his loyalty, be a good husband, but never love. She was beautiful, he knew, he always did, since they were kids in the adventures through the oceans, when the lights hit her just right, her long red hair waving, she was pleasing to look at, but something was lacking, something was off. Love wasn’t made of attractive faces or colorful hairs. Indeed, Orm believed he wasn’t capable of love. His biggest duty was to Atlantis, to its preservation, to its protection.

Mera felt the same, he knew. She would never love him. They had consideration for each other, it was even good on a side to have her as a future wife, he wouldn’t pretend to be somebody to gain her admiration, she wouldn’t force herself into a unhappy marriage with somebody else. At least, they were friends when young, and time only could help them to have an heir, as he hoped. Because it was issue he decided to mind after the marriage, after the ceremony, when it in fact happened, not now when they are only betrothed: touching her. She didn’t excite him. He didn’t fantasized about her. Rarely were the times he actually fantasize about a woman, even when it happened, his body curling in his bed, the water dense on his torso, thick on his lungs, and the spasms asking for it, there was not a face, or a body, it was just the feeling. Sometimes he would close his eyes and think of purple. Sometimes he would force himself to fight the feeling away.

Vulko tried to talk to him about that subject, voice taken back, an apprehension on how to approach such matters. Orm stopped him, noticing what that was about. “I am not an animal, this alone should be enough for your concerns.”

It did had a toll on him lately, when his young years were gone, and Orm was what others would call proper age. His body at its peak, his physical appearance established, and the looks it brought to him. The servants passing by, their pupils heavy under the lashes, not reaching his own gaze because that would be reaching, but piercing through the armours, on his neck, and lips. They would be intense when it was time to train, when his body was left to feel the water without barriers, they usually had his armour on hands, or food, or bars when it was time for a new lesson. His feet felt the ground under, his torso circulated in cold water, fighting. The muscles lines were changing according to his moviments, too many of them, back, abdomen, arms, chest, all the stares on him. Orm felt he was giving a show, not training. When it was time to try the bars, the servant came with a bowed body, delicate hands offering the new instruments of battle, and his hand lingered against hers to get it. She moved her head to him, the hair moving in the way, able to cover her entire face but an eye. Desire.

That night had been hard to get through, he wanted it. He needed it. Skin twisting in his bed, the water gaining a new temperature his body failed to adjust to, his neck couldn’t even shallow it properly. It was the first time desire won against him, he thought about searching for her, but what humiliation would be for a Prince around hallways, impulsing himself to seek a servant for satisfaction. He couldn’t sleep, the pain on his lower abdomen asking for release, for the torture he putted himself through, his mind didn’t focus on any other matters besides an atlantean’s body.

His journey through this path had been somewhat disturbing after that, women knowledge his presence, his beauty, his appeal of a sleek blond hair with big, blue eyes, a straight nose and a rigid jawline. He discovered what he liked as well, what made him ask for more, not many times, maybe just three or four, enough for him to be satisfied for months, or years, they were usually high-borns, discreeted, not interested in stealing him for his duty, rather having a night with Prince Orm while they could. He always felt bad after, dressing himself and his mind going for Mera, felt like a betraying act. Guilt overcame pleasure easily after.

But the ironies of life were much deeper than his oceans, even with his future wife by his side, so close to him, sensing the water running through her mouth, nose, and lungs, he couldn’t control the desire when it drowned him, it started as an impulse in the back of neck, growing into a itching on his palms, to a tightness on his stomach. The surprise made him lean forward, eyes wide, a predator watching.

She came dashing in whirls, the bubbles forming a tail behind her feet, the tip of her trident ripping the water, and she stopped, arms opening, trident rising on top of her head, the armour was composed of hard golden scales on the shoulders falling through her breasts and hips, her feet had the protection boots coming to her knees, under of course, as usual, the purple hugging her curves. The braids on her hair this time were the ones for war, from the roots of her forehead to the back where they were loose, no helmet, but a huge choker on her neck, with pointed ends curling out of her face. She shouted with the crowd, they cheered for her, they loved their champion. To savour her congratulations, the body swag around the platforms, trident in circles, everybody had their hands up, and she was rising. Until she stopped again, higher, close to the Royals.

Orm regretted missing the battles, he had better matters to attend to, but his presence in the deliver of the medal to the champion was important, only he could deliver it, when his vizier said the champion that year was a she, he never thought that she was the one, he should have known, all his years and she was the only he could recall who had a trident, and was willing to take it to battle. Also, he regretted not participating that year, he would be very pleased to fight against her, test to see what she was capable of. Of course much, for what she had won.

Closer, it was easier to see the scratches on her armour, only a glove on her right hand, the left with blood floating in tiny bubbles, the bruise on her cheek, a line of red between purple and green, but she was fenomenal, the posture straight, not losing the high class, her beauty had grow older just as his. The traces of her nose and lips were softer, those are a shade of red almost purple, and her eyes batted against the top of her cheeks in long, thick curtains of lashes, the height hasn’t improved though, still smaller, and Orm couldn’t describe exactly what he felt when she entered the platform, pushing herself to the ground, kneeling with her entire being, trident resting on both hands, and hair in waves. It was desire, so much desire the water around him became heavy, a pressure on his shoulder he hadn’t ever felt before.

“Your Highness,” she greeted still bowing for him, fulfilling his memories of her voice, Orm had dreamt of it once, or twice, perhaps more times he wanted to admit, and the electricity inside his veins almost choked his voice out to answer.

Mera or Vulko none existed by his side, or the crowd, or the cheering. Only the atlantean kneeling for her King, offering him her trident, paying her respects. Orm held the medal high, swinging his legs to stop by her front.

“My champion,” his voice was raw, and she looked up to his cold eyes, an abyss of darkness, her lips twisted, but in what he identificate as his effect on the opposite sex, and Orm knew right away he could touch her face and she would let him, but he didn’t, not because he didn’t want to, but because she had the right to obtain what she came for. His hands switched quickly and the pearls around the medal fell from her head into her neck, until it rested between the choker and the armour. “Congratulations.”

She finally stood up, and Orm had been so close, the threads of her hair waved close to his face on the movement, almost a caress on his nose, she smelled of the deep currents when they pass the lava and the texture of both were meet in the fire and water, of fresh seaweed in the old city, sweet like battle, like duty. He was private, he was against any public touch, yet the King himself drowned in that smelled and wished to take her right there, uncover her curves, learn about her flesh, and listen to the graceful music her sounds would be on the water. He didn’t fantasize, yet he was, flashing question of what she liked, of how she was once nude, if she had another men in her bed, lost in the color of her eyes, in the halo of her hair, in the fierce beauty. Behind her glory class, he also saw the imagination flowing, of him, his lips, his hands, his body.

“I must know your name,” his upper lip, slightly meatier than the lower, moved and caught her gazing. For the Gods, Orm wanted her.

“Y/N, I—” she whispered slowly, fixed on the mouth, but was interrupted by Vulko, carried the King’s trident to him, Orm woke up from the tantalizing moment when the cane was presented.

“It was one of the best battles I've ever seen,” he said, cheerful, letting the heaviness of the trident fall on Orm’s hands.

“Thank you,” she bowed again, and Orm wished she didn’t, not for anybody else, only himself.

“Go present Atlantis your medal, champion,” he sent her away with good intentions. Go feel your glory. To what she nodded, with a last look at her handsome King, heavy lids, heavy heart, then Orm smiled, a malicious manner, corner of his lips rising, no teeth, superior to all.

Y/N circulated in the ocean, the trident shining, the crowd cheering even more with the medal adorning her neck, and Orm was left with his vizier, with his betrothed, and the unspoken understatement, both knew what it meant, and it was enough. She would come back for him, he just had to wait.

That night, desired had won, and Orm didn’t fight against it, closing his lids and thinking of the smell of her hair.

MOUTH

Orm would never forget the first time he laid his lips on hers, Y/N had a tight grip on his golden armour, nails crawling up between the scales to find any piece of skin she could, it was more a press than a kiss, strong for what both wanted to feel for too long, desperated. They were soft, so soft, and so eager for him, there was no space for anything else as he held her head with his both hands, prisioning the hair between his gloves, pulling her closer if possible. But Orm wanted more, always.

His life was made of conquering, of ruling, they were his first extinct. The times in the past when the shivers in his spine passed through when seeing her were nothing compared to the hammering urge to own her. To be owned by her.

Y/N had parted the lips, her tongue advertising between in hunger, licking his mouth, and inviting his own to taste it. Her flavour was of warm waters, of longing, of desire, and pleasure. Of betrayal, of treason, of unloyalty, and guilt. A perfect mixture of everything Orm had been craving for his life. They kissed as two creatures, humming into each other as battling for more, for survival, knowing they didn’t have time to go slow, to take it somewhere. They only had that moment, and it had to be enough. His teeth came for her lips, crashing down on the lower one as his hands pulled her head back, wanting to both have her and destroy her.

I am not an animal, he had said to his vizier. But the lines of desires were blurred, Orm couldn’t recognize himself when his teeth bit into her neck, the flesh gently bending over, the veins pumping blood under his mercy, and she moaned, body pressing on his armour, pushing her into his torso. Orm lost it then. The first sound of her was the same as winning, the thrill of it. He was addicted to that, to devour her. He knew he whispered something into her ear as his hands helped her to strip himself from the armour, from the crown, groaning when her fingers ran on the muscles on his back, unplugging the attire, that fell on water and then the ground. Her purple attire was torn before she could have the chance to undress herself to him, Orm had grabbed the sides and pulled hard, for he couldn’t wait to touch her skin.

The curves were a sight to touch, the rough hands squeezing her being with want, too fast to remember, enough to feel, they filled with her breasts, then her hips, and his mouth joined, kissing and biting the way down. He had her laid on his own bed, the King’s bed. Almost a Queen. He drowned under her, on the edge of the bed, his tongue discovering her real taste as she wished. Orm could stay there forever, watching her swishing her hips harder on his face, the warrior strength forcing him deeper. Her moans were delicious, outraged, feeling his tongue entering, her eyes had searched for him, watching his tongue licking all the way from the crack, to the entrance to the point of pleasure. Orm sucked her intimacy with his opened, and was also able to watch the effect it had on her face, the eyebrows high, the flashing of color on the cheeks, and the pearls adorning their bones, sparkling. His thumbs seeked into her, opening the lower lips for more. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

The orgasm took a time, showing Orm both she had been done this before and she was not shy. Her feet stopped on his back, the jewelry on her ankles scratching his muscles, serving the support to thrust her hips toward him, and she rolled them many times, moaning his name, sucking water, loud and needy. Orm ate her up, helped her to the limit, took her there and admired the beauty in an atlantean’s cry. Her back curling, hands messing the bed and chest expanding His arms held her entirely, thighs, waist, ass, the skin hot, delicious. Y/N grabbed him immediately by the shoulders, eyes blinded by carnal thoughts, and kissed his lips, impulsing herself into his lap. They were sitting the floor then, and she cried again, the suffocating stretch for her King. He was big, thick, pulsing. Clutching into her back as the groan left his throat, she was tight, and wet; different from the sea, dense, heavenly.

No rhythm, no nice and easy pace. Orm groaned on her lips as rode, hands squeezing her back, pulling her hair, eating her moans, and cries like he had been starving. The breasts rubbed on his chests, the nipples hard, the thighs hitting against his own, and tides of water circulating them. At some point, he took control on the moviments, stiffening her body still, thrusting up into her. Y/N had let go then, nails digging behind on his knees, and back curled in the way her breasts followed his control. A hand came for her neck. Orm gave it a light thug to make it noticed, and didn’t know who enjoyed it more. Him, feeling her veins and the shape of it, or her, rolling her eyes and crying for her King.

Beg for me. He managed to let out, between all the mixture of emotions, all the creatures actions. Beg. And before she could, his feet pushed the floor, they ended on the wall, Y/N was turned and her head rested there. Give me the pleasure again, Your Majesty. She said, overwhelmed by him, their legs circulated together and they held on the glass. The sea outside with the purple and pink lights, gardens of seaweeds, corals, and Y/N inside offered herself to him, a tilt of waist. Make me worthy. Orm invaded her again with power, hitting her hips on the glass with a sound overflowing the room. He held her neck, disappearing his face into her hair, smelling the freshness, the sweetness, taking her from behind with the same strength he used to fight with. She accepted, she wanted it, she could take it. Muffed pushes into the wall with their many others noises, the fleshes of both collapsing into each other, easily mistaken as they could become one, and Orm never felt like that before. Fulfilled. Her lips caught him in ways he had never been kissed before, her body engulfed him in ways he had never been touched before; she was a beast of domination, and the track of who was the one in control faded, of course he gave orders and she listened, however how could he be sure she wasn’t exactly doing what she needed to do to make him follow the path she wanted?

They had each other for hours, and hours, Y/N had been bending for him in every position, and Orm had worn himself out in her arms. Their bodies floated around the room, back to his bed, Y/N on her knees and elbows, on the table with holographic lights that reflect on her skin in colorful maps and letters as she once again managed to get on top, terrifyingly holding his neck, laying on water, on the ceiling, soaring on the sides, clapping on the white material. He had come undone four times with her that night, stamina dripping from the pores, dancing between them in the drift, and Y/N wasn’t done, not yet. Laid on his chest, kissed his muscles and let his fingers entry her core, there was nothing left to do, but watch the perfection of how luxury stripped on her face. It was the moment he saw the future of wanting it again, searching for her again. And for the first time in a night of betrayal, Orm didn’t feel guilty. Instead, he felt peace, closed his lids and explored dreamlands.

Many were the nights Orm passed through the guards on the palace and dived into the dark, using the ruins of the Old City to arrive at her home, more times than he would like to admit. His emotions were always the same, every time seemed the first time. Y/N would greet him into her chambers, they would kiss and succumb into each other greatly, like warriors waiting for battles. She would wear purple, blue and even white; some nights the pearls on her face were on top of her cheekbones, highlighting the sea, some nights on the back of her hand, embellished into the dress, some nights her hair was braided from the roots, not letting him touch it, some nights she would wear diademas of precious stones, and gold. And some nights Orm wasn’t a creature, neither was she. Some nights he would trace her features with his finger tips before a kiss, some nights he would talk, of the throne, of Atlantis, of destiny, of her.

She was far more interesting than he could imagine. Her family came from a line of high borns since before the Great Fall, her great grandfather became one of the King’s vizier at his lifetime, but died in the second war, the trident was a gift passing through generations, her descendants were always proud of it, making the tradition of every heir being trained, guided to, when the Crown needed, they would fight by again. Her mother was from Xebel Royalty, what could and would explain when her fingers moved in circles creating bubbles and weak currents, however not always, she was quite unsure of it. Y/N was trained and educated there, coming to Atlantis when her father died, and her mother insisted she finished her training where he finished his own. His last words were be brave, and never ashamed. Before that, the only time she had been to Atlantis was on the celebration, the parade, many years ago when Orm remembered as the first time he saw her, sadness locked on her lips. He enjoyed the opportunity to ask why then, and her words trailed off, confessing she had an older brother, who by right, would be the one trained with the trident, and he was until he decided to swim too close to the surface, and never came back, Orm remembered his mother for a second, and it faded. Y/N was filling his space when the trident were passed to her, at the beginning, never seemed good, her father pushed to much, compared too much, she preferred the spells, preferred learning about the water, plants; after his death was the moment she stopped practicing the gifts from her mother, to honor him, it was her passion now. That night, they didn’t have any intimacy, Orm slept on her chest with her fingers curling his blond hair, most of his armour still on. A feeling easily to get addicted to.

“13,” her voice was quiet, as if telling a secret, the ringing a massage on his ears, he turned his face and felt her soft lips touching his cheek, they formed a smile. The fingers on his rib cage were gently tracing a scar there, the skin was rough unlike the rest of his torso, the muscles flexed in a shiver when only the long nail finished the drawing, obviously she referred to it. “I counted, you have 13.”

Silence.

It had been one of those night, where just lay together was enough, the warmth of somebody else’s body to press against was what he craved. He was nude for what Y/N had took his armour off piece by piece, unplugged his attire from behind and left a trace of kisses his spine. Orm floated on her silky sheets and she sat by the edge, admiring his bare beauty.

“Kiss me,” Orm said, his tone the same husky, grave, intimidating kind he used to give orders to General Murk, on his eyes, there was an abyss of coldness, the blue not transmitting any emotion, however his upper lip curled, asking for hers, and Y/N trailed off to accomplish, wondering if it was the closer her King ever got to ask for something.

She sealed his mouth with a first peck, then a second, and a third when the ends of her hair decided to play along his cheeks, until Orm had with her games, the tip of his tongue coming to line the shape of her bottom lip, calmly entering between the teeth, licking the inside inviting her to follow, and Melissa did, kissed him like promising to break him into pieces.

MIND

The yells came from outside, not perceived exactly what, seemed more of roars of sea beasts, and soon, knocks on the walls, loud thugs happening closer and closer to the entrance, then guns, the shots took always echoed of metal on the end causing everybody in the room alarmed into a group of protection, the guards pointing and waiting for the riot reach them while Murk and Vulko impulsed into a barrier for their King, who, for the sake of his own good, wielded his trident, and floated in a higher level, the black cape hem waving in water, covering the vision of Atlantis behind the huge glass. A final thug when the last guard outside bumped into the ground unconscious and, with the body light, stopped into the water, arms opened.

When she came, which he expected her to, she wasn't the type to be tamed down, her trident came first, the five edges crushing the fiber the door was, her body seen finally, the curves wrapped up in a gray suit, the boots had the famous scales of an armour, in the same of shade of white she cared on the scales of her shoulders, her hair whipped with the strength her arms up her head, the fingers were interlaced holding the weapon on the middle; the usual pearls where forgotten in the bubbles, disconnecting from the skin, her jawline was a rigid line along the lips, showing the ranger of her teeth, and the eyes… Oh, her eyes were revenge, demanding blood, they were never this insane before. Her biceps recoiled with the trident, and from her throat, they all heard her roaring, when in a first succeed try, the prongs breached the fiber isolation.

“Do not let her pass!” Murk shouted, sword ready to be used, but before the guards could follow, the trident entered the hole, twisted into a straight line and pulled back, having both of their heads bumped against the walls by the necks on the cane. The general was about to attack when, the last three remained noticed the same eyes asking for war were red, and bubbles of tears formed in the threads of her calm path to the middle where they were found.

Y/N stared at him, trident ceasing by the side, loose on her palm. She stared at his blond hair free in the water with the crown of a King, at his rosy lips that had no smiles for that specific moment, at the broad shoulders carrying the whole kingdom upon, and at the blue eyes, where she found nothing, no care, no compassion, no pity, no empathy, just a freezing immensity the Seven Seas could envy its depth. His posture was unbreakable, risen up above her, taller, stronger, with no mercy.

Orm saw on her face the confusion going through her ideas of to say, he knew when she was thinking, her lids blinked fast, he saw her sucking of water through the mouth, she was also out of herself. It wouldn’t be easy to invade a royal ship, all the degrees to finally reach him would cause even exhaustion on the most praised soldier, what was impossible in fact for her was just another task. He had to admit though, he expected her to come to him alone, somehow in private, not that way, not in an one atlantean crusade.

Her hand unlocked a plug from her silver belt, throwing it at his feet, the object a red flashing message. It had been sent last night, at her home, right at her by a soldier who didn’t identify as anybody, simply leaving it and going away.

“A year,” she started, voice trembling in both anger, and sadness, minding not at all Vulko or Murk glaring at her. “A full year and can’t my King at least deliver the news himself with me?”

There were seconds of anticipation, and waiting, when Orm spoke, it was in a misery. “I do not wish to see your face no more. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Orm…” she pleaded, intimacy wearing off in her, the old, caring way she’d greet him at her chambers, waiting for talks, waiting for kisses.

“Your Majesty!” she was corrected by Murk, who snarled with the scar on his face twisting in disgust.

Y/N left a single sick laugh, from the redness of her eyes, bubbles kept falling. “Of course, Your Majesty. I demand an explanation.”

“Leave,” Orm commanded, tone higher, mouth opened in anger, the teeth rangering, and his trident touched the ground under his feet in a warning. The shock on her eyes was not mistaken, she was about to pronounce herself again, but he stopped her, “Leave!”

It was her turn to impulse herself up, eyes on the same level as his, separated only by the vizier and the sword pointed at her waist, and her trident gave the same thug on the floor, for now her face were only anger. “I will not!”

Orm swimmed through the barrier of the two in a motion of arms and floated by her front, close enough he could see there were only three pearls left on top of one eyebrow, and only one on the other, the shine of her cheeks, the beauty of her traces which were harsh at glaring back at him, and could almost feel the softness of her lips. He was glad she came this way, it was easier to send her away in front of others.

The edge of his weapon trinkled in the movement of elapsing it to her neck, a real threat.

“It was an order,” his tongue clicked in every word, unforgiving, the voice raw and collected again.

Y/N blinked slowly, looking down at the edges on her trough, not being able to hold the strong posture any longer, when her pupils stared back, defeated, she whispered. “What was I to you?”

Orm didn’t expect it, there was not something he had prepared for before, his lungs had a tighter grip on their own, the water was too thick for the second, and he gulped, not answering.

Everything.

It was the real reason he had to leave, not for the lack of interest, or for what she could possible think of, no. Not at all. By the Gods, Orm didn’t wish for it. But, six nights ago, when he found himself between her arms and legs, gaining her comfort, he longed for what he didn’t know what.

A lie, he did. Orm longed of her eyes every morning, staring back at him on his bed, longed of her voice calling his name in the afternoon, longed of her smell when he was sitting on his throne, longed of her lips, kissing him at nights. He longed for her profoundly, feeling home only into her arms, feeling freedom only when she was close. It was new, the seconds counted to meet her, to lost himself into her, the way his body begged for her in the nights he was away. In that same moment, Orm thought for a minimum amount of time of a life with her, of how could be to have her as his Queen, present her as his, and valued as hers. Fantasized about not only for that, but much more. Showing her the other kingdoms she didn’t know, allowing her study knowledgement available only for a Queen, swimming the rest of the seas together, helping Atlantis to grow.

The day next to when it happened, Mera and her father had been with him for a mere hour, to discuss matters of Xebel. Her red hair coloring a guilt, a mirror Orm saw his own reflection as his mother. Treason, he repeated at himself. Traitor, he accused himself. Because he was ready to break the deal with the King Nereus, for his own sake, forget the huge plans he had for his people, for their future, he did not wish a betrothed, and he was ready to put his own kingdom at risk for it. Then he knew he had to leave Y/N before doing so, even if in the back of his mind, the vision of his father and mother fighting each other flashed non stop.

What was worst? A loveless marriage or two kingdoms splitting to fail the Rise of Atlantis?

Loveless.

Orm thought he was not able to, he thought it would never come to him, however there were her, the prove. He didn’t know sadness like that until she gave up, trident floating by itself in front of him and left, swimming away. In his chest, a heart he had dedicated only for Atlantis, arching.

His life had never been the same since then, but a Great King would never let life distract him from the duty.

HEART

“Orm,” his mother called, the long hair a whole wave of blond in the very clean room, her voice sweet and delicate. It felt strange in the beginning, it seemed more of a mirage, a memory lost in years, the point between dreams and sleeping where it was blurry to tell the difference, until her hands came in a gentle touch, to hold and hug, it was when the point of real reached higher than dreams and she was there. There. Alive and well.

He was quiet, not for ignorance, but for the animal on the other side of the glass, the small turtle was the first to appear that week, it was the season of year the higher water changed the temperature and fishes were claiming for the warmth, traveling from another part of the sea. It was utterly tiny, and it swang in a circle, legs clapping bubbles, definitely showing off to him for what he was close, the fingertips touched where the turtle was, in an attempt to reach it somehow. A small sound to communicate with him, and it spinned again. There was envy spreading inside his chest when seeing it, floating free beyond those clear walls where he was trapped with only a bed to rest, and a view to mourgue.

“Orm,” she called again, still calmly, noticing what had happened. Months had gone by since the last time he was able to swim in open sea and of course, he would miss it. Her son turned his head, ears in her direction, but not the eyes, still locked with the friendly turtle, one of the only companion he had in days.

Of course, Atlanna would come almost everyday to see him, informing when she would be gone for more than two days, she didn’t say the reason, yet it was obvious it had to do with the human on the surface. Mera came twice only, said very little, for what her eyes had a sense of shyness when seeing his state, then she had come to say sorry, and was asked to never come again, pity was not something he wanted to hear. Vulko came after a long time, both not having any words for each other, it was out of consideration for before, when he was young and knew better. Arthur never came.

“Yes, mother?” Orm profered, quietly. Hand falling at his side, and feet switched in, slow, almost not moving, small inches above the floor. The boots he wore were black, a special shade reflecting the coral lights, and on the ends by his calves, a detail in blue contrasting with the white suit adorning his body, no hardness of armour, no jewelry on the shoulders, the ordinary kind, the ones that, when the light hit right, sprinkled baby blue on the scales texture.

“I took liberty to go into your bedroom,” she started, cautiously, making him turn complete at her over his shoulders, the once rough features of his face were nothing more than plain now, emotionless like the last months had dragged the life out of them, they were still ever so breathtaking, just lacking even the slight feeling to prove he was not dead inside.

As a mother, she wanted to find something, could be anger, could be pain, could be failure, anything she could use to help him heal, would be easier to know what Orm was thinking and feeling when she wanted to talk, but he was a barrier, one of the strongest, like the bridge outside Atlantis, surviving decades with no moving, in the ruins of once a empire. She had heard stories of Orm as a King, not about the war against the surface, the other ones, how he helped the technological advance in their soldiers, the study of the new plants presented in the capital, and news philosophies for their culture, the people had an enormous respect for him, an intimate relationship for what he was always watching his kingdom close. His ideas of change, of growth was supported by them all, Atlantis joined him in the attack on the Brine without second thoughts, and there were the whispers around.

King Orm. King Orm. The real King Orm. He still had support, for what Arthur had the Atlan’s trident, however was oblivious in a degree to Atlantis, to the people, and the costumes, for what Orm had grown up in those waters, under the kingdom’s eyes, won championships with them as a crowd, built new places, expanded the homes and knowledges, and gave a hope of saving their children, once for all. She wondered if Orm knew he was forgiven, not by the Fishermen, but by Atlantis and Xebel, and by his brother. Wondered if he knew the agitations presented in the few last weeks outside his cell was not just guards yelling at each other by another prisoner’s fault, it was in fact a failed attempt of freeing him.

Little they knew, Orm didn’t wish to be rescued, at least that Atlanna knew, because when she brought him some spare suits and some holograms to read through, he dismissed, saying he was just like any other in those prisoners cells, then shouldn’t be treated specially. The only favor he accepted was the window to the depth of the sea, to remember, to still have the contact with the land he was trying to protect. And to remember, that part of him who failed, lost his throne, hundreds of soldiers, his betrothed, and his glory.

“Mother, I told you I do not want special treatment,” he said, the last bit of hoping of making her understand, he wasn’t rude, however definitely bold.

“I found the trident, Orm,” Atlanna stood from the bed, body hovering up in the middle of the room, the crown on her head rather small than he remanded from his young years, when she would play with him, and put it on his head, promising he would be great. From the way she spoke, she knew somehow, though Vulko, the only one present in that room who didn’t die or vanished, Murk was gone, never came back from the surface, and he didn’t tell.

Actually, it was a part of the beginning of his reign, Orm kept locked deep inside the back of his mind to never remember again, a hard task he had fulfilled like any other until months ago. It began with a struggle, when his hand closed around the trident left behind, the silence of the room sucked him into an abyss of despair, there was no need to excuse himself, Orm left right away, feeling the bubbles of her impulses breaking on his cheeks for she had been in the same path not long ago, but he went straight to the palace, two tridents and only one heir; he knocked her weapon down under his attires, under the studies on the tables, where no one could see, cracked the wall and hid there, the only vestige of its existence was a scratch on the material being taken off and placed back again. It hunted him like a spirit in nights, when his body arched for her, painfully, and he still felt the taste of her mouth on his, nightmares invaded his sleep, the weapon shaking the cabinet, shining through, it would break it at some point, align on his neck and take his life, Orm always woke almost drowning. He had missed her in the morning, for when he had opened his eyes for her smile, the curve of her lips an enchantment of their own, he had missed her in the afternoons, her voice of talks, of stories about her life, of Xebel, of her mother and father, and gone brother, how many details she could give when describing what she thought Atlantis could improve. He had missed her, completely, even losing in rare occasion the control of himself, opening the crack on the wall and staring at her trident. He doubted it was capable of calling her into the Seven Seas, calling her back home. He never tried, pulling the wall back into place and scolded himself to never even think of doing it.

And love didn’t fade like that, he grieved her for her death to him, and suffered quiet when he saw pearls, when he saw purple. Tried twice harder, and harder to forget her, focusing on his kingdom that was worth the sacrifice, for only years later, he was able to push her back into the darkness his brain made just for her to dwell, a coffin of black arabesques and red scales, her name adorned on the visior. Yet, Orm, with an extend acquaintance in atlantean behavior, should had know that kind of happiness simply wouldn’t be replaced like that, didn’t matter how much he succeed in his duties, that kind of happiness not even Atlantis could bring back.

The irony was the sacrifice he offered to the Gods passed by as nothing, for there he was with nothing left on his palms. Nothing.

Atlanna saw what that did to her son, saw the eyebrows falling, the lower lip curling, the pupils longing into the ground, and an awful sigh leaving his mouth. What did on his body, sinking into the floor with heaviness, the broad shoulders falling in an inferior posture. The first feeling coming from him. It was sorrow.

“Please, mother,” he begged, trembling. “Leave.”

She didn’t, instead went for him, staring at the ghost of a warrior who had no strength, she smiled in grace, empathy, denying with her head. “The writtens on it allowed me to find its owner. She is back in Atlantis, my son.”

Orm widened his eyes, heart skipping a beat with the revelation. “No, please, mother…”

“Yes,” Atlanna nodded then, careful with the words, whispering into his cheeks, the same ones her hands came to hold, to not let him shatter across that depressing cell. “Do you wish to see her?”

The mere thought of her in front of him, seeing his state, what he came was a shame of its own. Gods, the things she must heard of him already, the fallen, miserable thing he had become, locked away in a prison, no crown, the humiliation it brought to Orm was a reason to never leave there again.

He finally broke, shattered around, his blue eyes red of insanity, pushing his own mother’s arms away, impulsing himself into the ceiling, where his back hit with a loud thug, the roar leaving his throat was enough for the whole building to hear, if not, outside too. No! He impulsed to the glass then, hitting with his left shoulder in a chance to escape that room, go to the Trench himself and be gone, there was no way to bear the emptiness the news created inside. Orm wanted to disappear.

Atlanna yelled in his behalf, trying to get him, calm him down when he tried to divide the glass again, shouting with all his being. The guards outside were moving already, to contain him. Orm didn’t care, he kept trying, again, and again. Until he stopped all of the sudden, his senses captured the attack seconds before, and his body shifted to dodge it. It was no plasma, no shot, just five curved edges piercing the glass. He was definitely drowning when his neck betrayed his commands and followed from where it came from.

As the sun that long ago shined through Atlantis, Y/N was found by the entrance of his cell, hovering like a goddess ascending, if years had any affect on her beautiful traces, the only difference able to be shown would be her hair, longer than before, a big halo around the face, her own crown of braids dancing between the threads. The attire was purple, scales trickling green and blue, defining the curves of a body he knew like the lines on the palm of his hand in the past. Her wrists contained silver bracelets, a match to the silver boots up high on her thighs, where the ends branched gills. And, as the memories, on top of her high eyebrows there were the pearls, the biggest one between them, and the smallests following the shapes, her pupils under the thick lashes were harsh, the same superior posture she had when she was gifting in his birthday, the lips in burgundy color. She didn’t seem happier, neither sad. Neutral.

Orm was speechless, stuck. Emotions he had buried deep down forcing their way up against the barrier he built to protect himself, the water in his lungs missed the automatic suck and felt like he wasn’t breathing at all, he was drowning in everything she was and represented. How lower he had to reach to be enough?

“Orm,” she called his name as a firm song from the Fishermen, tenting to a side, speeding to enter the cell and hovering by this presence. It was a clue for every guard and Atlanna withdraw for privacy. He still couldn’t believe she was in his front, judging his defeat as the rest of his people was, the disgrace he had fallen into, the strongest burden any could carry.

He retracted without noticing, to the corner, head low, his voice tried to get out, ask her if she had any pity left for him, she would leave. Melancholy, his legs curled, and he knelt on the floor, cheek resting on the surface, not capable of looking into her direction. Her shadow engulfed his being demonstrating she was not leaving, her soft hands came soon later, to his face, the palms pulling gently his cheek back. When Orm felt the scales of her attire on his face, realised it was true, relived the nights and nights her chambers were an escape, and before he knew, his eyes closed in a sob, his hands implored around her, grasped her hips, clutching closer, supporting his weight on her stomach, where he ultimately cried, tears mixing in the ocean.

Y/N hugged his head, caring, letting him lament all his lost, to assume him that, in the end, there was still hope.

#orm marius x reader #king orm x reader #orm marius #king orm #orm marius imagine #aquaman #dc #dceu #gabs writing #finally

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