#let her tend to your injuries and bathe your wounds with water from a sweet and fast flowing river

[ga1adriel]

know that personally, galadriel would love to slay every single one of your demons

[comfortless]

Everything you write leaves me breathless <333

Sorry in advance for my English

I was thinking about König, (maybe in an ancient rome/Greek settling) being so alone and desperate for connection that he turns to religion: one day he's walking in the woods, deep in thought, when he finds an abandoned temple. The inside is small but lavish, with a life sized statue of what must be its goddess. He sees this lovely sculpture, abandoned and alone and sees himself in her. He becomes a dedicated, fanatic and soso lovestruck worshipper. Unknownly to him his goddess, woken by his prayers, has been watching him and listening to him. One day while he's praying in front of her her statue moves and talks and now his deity is in front of him. Looks like he has an opportunity to worship her like she deserves ;)

granting you ten million kissies for this prompt and your sweet words! your English is perfect, little wisp! <3 also… giving me an excuse to write more loner/loner and mutual worship?! you have spoken to my heart…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical/myth au; vague time period, brief mentions of violence, fluff, pining, not very explicit smut, mutual worship.

The spirit of the temple feels disorienting, though the architecture is a still, white marble, the floor riddled with leaves and dirt, creeping up the sides of the building as if river water had washed the entire thing ashore… Something feels very alive here, feathered out on the air, a pulse of thunder, the breeze beneath dove’s wings, enthused and yawning. Hungry.

It only becomes more apparent the closer he steps to the statue.

She is unlike any he has ever seen before, carved with the same skill, but so much smaller than the other statues in their temples, so much more lifelike that he almost thinks to greet her. She’s been painted unlike most, a perfect vision bathed in color where she stands out amidst the sea of white and green surrounding her. The temple has not been stained with blood, no offering strewn before her bare feet, left for the rot or dragged away by the dainty hands of this very goddess. No maidens sit in prayer, no men lower there swords to her…

There’s nothing to tell him just who she is, either.

Despite his better judgment, his hand does find her side, a swift draw up from the vision of her thigh peeking from her robe upward to curl over her hip. Her beauty is unmatched, impossible to describe and the call seems almost tangible, shrieking at him in whispers to bend a knee and let her in. So, he does. He prays to her in the silence, alternating between whispers and his own thoughts.

He tells her of his struggles: a soldier brought in from a small tribe up north, robbed from his parents as a boy, how all he knew now were the Roman ways yet could rarely comprehend their customs and deities. Maybe she could offer him some counsel or solace…? Make the weight of his blade feel less heavy as he struck down men that could very well be his own brothers? Give him something to return to when old wounds reopened and he bled, hurt with no one but himself to tend to his heart or his injuries.

The goddess only blesses him with silence: the wind does not pick up outside, there is no disembodied laughter, no sudden thought of an offering or new words to speak to her. She is void of an answer just as the very temple she waits inside is empty of all else.

This does not dissuade him from returning.

Returning to the city after another battle some months later, his first thought is to return to her, to leave the things he’s taken from dead men at her feet, to paint the temple with the blood lingering on his weapon. There is honey, wine, meat and jewelry made of stones from the sea. There is brittle, dried flakes of blood polished from his blade and left to settle onto the floor like the leaves of late autumn. He presents these things to her with a grin, thinking that assuredly this goddess would call back to him then, grant him with a love so consuming that all of the evasion and emptiness cursed upon him would be untwined.

He kneels before her statue, presses his cheek to her thigh, sighs content at the feel of cold marble against the ever-burning of his flesh, gazes up at her like an adoring dog.

Assuredly, if this temple were built for a being that did exist at all she would know just how she was all that this lonesome soldier had, would know the way that he loved her and waited with bated breath and heartstrings pulled taut for her to love him in turn. A greedy, begging muzzle that utters his prayers, words he’s never spoken to anyone whether deity or mortal, only to her in the quiet of the forest.

It’s not madness that provokes him, but the gentleness of her face and the tender look in her eyes, an expression that no other had ever offered to him, no one but this little forgotten goddess. Whether pitying or loving, he did not know. It was only enough to keep him returning: for many days, his path from the city led straight to her feet, even some nights were spent lying upon her floor, finding peace finally being able to sleep next to something apart from lonely walls.

The sun rises and sets each day where he sits and speaks to her as though she were a living, breathing woman. Occasionally he reads aloud to her in the stillness, cheekily tells her when another goddess’ name is brought up within the lines of poetry that they could never hope to compare.

It’s ridiculous when he does not even know what purpose she serves, but this silent figure is his only companion, the only thing that sets his heart ablaze and mind focused in battle because above all else, he has to return to her. Though she can not share his words, he knows somehow that she shares in his loneliness.

Finally, he thinks to ask her the question that has been burning at the tip of his tongue for weeks and months. One, that he has tried to hold back, display a patience that he lacks. It’s after a night of sleeping on cold marble, an ache in his neck from its hardness and his own refraining from bringing a cushion from his own home in his desperation to return to her.

“Why won’t you speak?,” he asks, somber as he makes his way to leave the temple, only halting in place to cast her a fragile look from over his shoulder. He has read the epics, heard the stories and seen the blessings of other deities… Yet no matter what he does or how often he tethers himself to her leg and dotes upon her, she still meets his devotion with nothing but her silence in return.

König is left with the thought that his gifts are not enough, that he, himself, is not enough, even as her sole devotee. To keep his mind preoccupied, he keeps to the city for a time. The bed is cold, the people still see him as a barbaric outsider, and the horrible coil wound around his heart only seems to tighten its grip further. He feels as though he has left a part of himself out there in the forest within the four chalked walls of her temple.

This loneliness does not feel like one he is forced to swallow down, it feels like a vicious sort of ache, the twisting of a dagger beneath ribs to sink in and steal away what little of a life he does have.

He returns to her the following night, with a furrowed brow and a grave look upon his face. There’s an intent to demand she free him of her, that this longing finally pass, but as his sandals reach the entrance to the temple, those thoughts fall away from his mind like droplets of rain, a cool drizzle that begins to fall outside the very moment he is sheltered.

The statue— the goddess moves.

She tilts her head and inspects him fondly, the perfect mouth he has envisioned speaking to him so many times prior tilts upward in the gentlest smile as her bare feet move to carry her body forward.

“A test,” she explains as though answering his question from only the past day, almost saddened by her own words as her gaze lowers to the space between them.

König’s heart does not roar then, it only melts with the knowledge that someone like her has been left alone for so, so very long that she felt the need to prove to herself that he would return to her side. He would. Time and time again he would. When she raises her head to look him in the eye, her own clouded and misty, he only silently prays that she could see such a vow upon his face.

“I am worthy then?,” he questions, forcing himself to remain rigidly in place despite the call- the urge, to circle her, just once, drop at her feet to then feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. Anything. Even an assurance would be reward enough, but there is always a greed in the hearts of men, one he feels burning a hole through his very being even now.

Her lips press to a line and her gaze seems faraway, lost in her own thoughts that must be as mighty as Olympus itself. After a time, she only answers in a soft whisper, “It is I who am unworthy of you.”

All discordance in his chest pulls to a halt at this, all apprehension and sadness are whisked away when she instead comes to kneel before him. She curls her arms around his leg, presses her cheek to his thigh as he had done so many times before. The goddess gazes up at him with not just affection… but reverence, as though he were the strongest warrior of myth, deserving of even the love of something only as ethereal and sweet as she could provide.

His breath catches for a mere moment before he lowers himself at her side. The stares exchanged from both are full of an unspoken wonderment, all of the things that words alone would fail to speak in truth.

He waits out the rain there, sat beside her with the air surrounding them charged with such a great and unspoken affection that even Venus would taste a bitter envy on her tongue should she pass by to see.

She tells him she can not recall what she was the goddess of… or if she was ever truly any goddess at all. The marble surrounding her was put up for a purpose, but she’s never seen the Elysian Fields or climbed Olympus on her own. Her memories are scattered blurs, and she confesses that she feels tired when she tries to parse things together in a way that he will understand.

He listens while he tends to her by offering the honey and dried meat left in offering for her here, then fetches fresh water from the stream that brooks several yards away and returns to her side with a face both damp and flushed.

König tells her of his life too, how during every battle since stumbling upon this sacred place he has kept her in mind; he has no wife to return to, no other women to bed, that since their meeting his life has become hers. He confesses he had the intention of returning only to force a curse upon this madness that had enveloped him, but… he could never have brought himself to do so, even if she had not appeared to him warm and breathing.

Her laugh then could have prompted waves of flowers to bloom and birds to sing in tune, whimsical and so precious he only begins to feel himself fall, truly. Not out of sheer desperation, but with genuine affection.

When her exhaustion does take her, she does not mind the way his arm curls around her middle to tuck her body closer to his own. The goddess has no fury within her, only mirrors his own feelings with a fluttering of lashes and a soft sigh.

So she sleeps, pulled close to him like a lover rather than a stranger. When dawn breaks, when König knows he’s to be called back to train and fight with the other soldiers, have dull talks about what land to cross and take for their own next, she tells him she will wait there for his return.

He can not concentrate as well on his training this day. The plans for future wars and battles do not send flurries, hot excitement through him. The world is an endless gray, reflected above with darkened clouds threatening further rain. There is only one place he wishes to be, one that yearns for him more than his own home or the women waiting on the street for coins the other men readily supply. When one, a native Roman, does ask him why he does not just venture to the brothel to put himself in better spirits, König only grits his teeth to still his hand from quieting him eternally. These men knew nothing of the love he feels, and certainly they didn’t deserve to.

The temple is no different from how he found it the night prior. The goddess sits with her hands curled in her lap, smiling just as fondly at him as she had before. His heart shatters at the thought that she had sat there waiting for him in such a way all day. He swears to her that he will have a proper bed made for her, bring her the softest of furs and cushions stuffed with downy feathers to lie upon. For now his offering is only fruit and wine, things that she shares with him while she shushes his concerns with quiet words and gratitude that he had returned.

She lowers herself again before him after pulling her robe free and lying it upon the floor. It is no proper bedding at all, but she swears that it is enough, that his own warmth is just enough for her to be sated and comfortable. His head swims when she kisses his thigh, drags her lips up from his knee to rest there with that reverent look in her eye. Mortals coupling with deities was not unheard of, but to think it could happen to him…

She is a goddess. How is he supposed to… How could he ever dirty her with himself? He thinks to refuse her before she tugs away the barrier of fabric between them and takes him into her mouth. Stunned, he only watches her, feels her in a way he has never felt a woman before until he finds his voice again.

“Lie down,” he breathes, shaky and tentative as he rests his hand upon her cheek. She complies, giddy and content when she’s splayed out on the white robe beneath her, legs parting immediately and her arms reaching upward to invite him into her hold.

There’s no tact when he lies atop her, feels the warmth of her thighs around him and her arms curled over his neck. His forehead is pressed to her own when togetherness is found, and when she sighs so soft as she envelops him in full, his mouth descends upon her own.

She doesn’t praise him, doesn’t need to in words, because the muffled sounds and cries that leave her lips are more than enough to spear him onward. König, however… he babbles ceaselessly, overwhelmed and overcome by such a profound joy, he can not keep himself from reciting every word that comes to mind, whether vile or pure.

“My goddess,” he whispers into her hair, eyes half-lidded and dazed with each shallow thrust. “We could have had this for a season… you have made me wait so long, hm?”

The way she feels is unmatched, he thinks, when her breathing shudders and she only seems to constrict him further. To think he could bring a goddess to ruin… the grin that crosses his face when he pushes his head against her neck is bordering on both ecstatic and cruel.

“I will give you a demigod,” he hisses against her throat, not at all subtle about just how far he was willing to go to keep her here. With him. More than Olympus, she belonged beneath him, and the tremor that wracks her form then is all of the confirmation he would need.

She sobs his name when the tension becomes too much to bear, fingernails graze the flesh of his shoulders as she shudders, falls into such bliss that her words of praise come incoherent and weak. He follows her to a saccharine abyss with a guttural groan.

The aftermath is softer than any other moment he has shared with her. There are an abundance of kisses pressed between them, littered across her flesh and his own with whispers that leave his mind cloudy. Her worship is subtle by comparison to his own, coming in honeyed stares and such words he would never dare to repeat, no lowly poet deserved to ever hear them, their voices could never compare to her own.

The goddess holds him close, bumps his nose with her own and makes a promise; she tells him for as long as he shall live that this temple was as much his home as it were his own. That even when this body of his does die, she will seek him out in the Elysian Fields, lie at his feet as he had done her own; that no matter what may come, they will never be apart.

[inkykeiji]

Girl please stop writing alastor, if I cum again I'm gonna throw up 😭❤️ you're too good at writing himmmmm I think the way you characterise him is *exactly* the way I imagine him to be... he definitely makes you undress at night too, he sits there with a mug in his hand, watching you strip, he makes a fucked up ritual for everything. He probably bathes you himself while tending to your stitches cuz why would he ever let you do that? You won't do it right, not the way *he* does it....

OH OH OH and I've been meaning to ask you for the longest while: is the cut he gives reader during "make a mess of me" the one that tends to in the short piece where reader ripped open her stitches while wearing white?

I hope you feel better soon, and I hope this month's period is easier on you ❤️

AHAHAHA oh my gosh anon!!! ◟( ˃̶͈◡ ˂̶͈ )◞ you’re so sweet aaaah thank you so much, that is SUCH a huge compliment!!! i really love writing alastor and exploring him as a character, i find him super fascinating and rly fun to write!! <33

omggg you are absolutely right, he 100% turns your undressing + bedtime routine into some sort of sacrament he controls; after he’s brushed your teeth and washed your face and tended to your hair, he picks out your pjs, watches with that smug satisfaction as you pull off the outfit he assembled for you this morning and slip on the cute lil nightie he’s selected for tonight. there’s a certain type of pride glimmering in his eyes, barely dimmed by the steam curling up from his tea; something sharp and bright that flares with each of your obedient actions, something that glows with the potency of such powerful ownership. and then, when you are finally finished and ready to curl up in the fluffy lil bed that sits in the corner of his room right next to his writing desk, he allows you to kneel at his feet, chin resting on his thigh as slim fingers tenderly unfasten that precious collar, still weighted around your neck <3

oh, of course! tending to your wounds—his wounds—happens to be his favourite ritual; well, right behind gifting you those injuries, that is. he always forces you into the clawfoot tub, even if you don’t necessarily need a bath; always makes sure the water is just a hint too hot, so he can devour that adorable little wince the moment the water stings your skin; and always cleanses your body head-to-toe, paying special attention to the gashes and bites and scratches he’s etched into your flesh—new and old. he revels in the sweet little gasps he pulls from your throat when he presses a touch too hard, the precious little hisses spit from between clenched teeth when he grinds soap into a fresh cut, murmuring out in that syrupy tone, oh, does that hurt, sweetheart? <3

ah good question!!! it is not the same wound, no (though u could read/interpret it that way, if you want to!), in my mind they were two completely separate incidents hehe c: aw thank u so much! uGH i spent most of today in bed writhing in pain >.<

[isolemnlyswearpevensie]

The Magic Inside of Us Part 4 | Edmund Pevensie x Reader

Warnings: slightly dark themes, mentions of weapons, mention of war, curse words

Time/Era: Deathly Hallows/Prince Caspian, Y/N and Edmund are 6th year/16 years old

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: War falls across Narnia quickly, pulling Y/N into the heat. 

Request: Narnia x Harry Potter crossover. 

A/N: Sorry for the delay lol. One more part after this! Woohoo!

| previous part | 

masterlist | series masterlist | edmund pevensie playlist | read on ao3

“Hold still,” Y/N held Edmund’s face in between her fingers. There was a large, deep gash striking across his left eyebrow. “This is going to hurt.” 

“Oh great! Exactly what we need-” 

“Episky!” Y/N cut off Edmund with a wave of her wand. The wound immediately began to close, but Ed let out a harsh grunt. 

“Blimey, Y/N!” 

Y/N stood and made her way to Susan to do the same thing to her injury. “You’re welcome, Pevensie. Be glad you’re not bleeding out anymore.” 

Y/N’s voice was stern and cold. She felt silly being upset; this wasn’t her world and it wasn’t her friends. But, at the same time, she knew this would happen. 

“How did you learn how to do that?” Susan asks, holding her arm out towards her friend. 

“I’ve had a lot of practice at school. When one of your close friends is Harry Potter, you get used to everyone being a bit banged up.” Y/N smiled sadly and observed Susan’s skin. “Now, hold still. Yours shouldn’t hurt as bad.” 

Susan’s wounds healed and she observed her arm. “Who’s Harry Potter and why does being friends with him mean you’re injured?” 

“What do you mean? Harry Potter is the-” 

Edmund clears his throat and sends Y/N a pointed look. “He’s a boy a year above us. He plays quidditch.” 

“That’s the magical sport right?” Susan’s voice wavered with uncertainty and she looked towards Y/N for validation. 

“Right, yeah. Yeah, my best friend Ginny plays too.” 

~

“So, you like to keep secrets,” Y/N bit into an apple as she leaned against a marble pillar. It was unlike any apple she had ever tasted before; it was a dark purple color with a certain plumpness that made your mouth water. As one bit into it, juice that was as sweet as candy dripped down your chin. “That’s interesting.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Edmund grunted, his gaze fixed on the small dagger he was sharpening. It appeared to be Lucy’s. 

“Mmhm, what don’t they know?” 

“Pretty much all of it. I don’t want them to worry.” 

Y/N laughed curtly and took another bite of her fruit. “Ah, I see. So you thought keeping them in the dark about everything wizard related would keep them safer? Now I understand why you don’t like doing magic in front of them.” 

“I don’t like your sarcasm.” 

“I don’t like secrets, Ed.” The girl walked over to the tomb opening and tossed her apple core into the distance. “Knowledge is power, you know. It would probably be nice to inform them that the entire wizarding world is at war.” 

“They’ve had enough war in their lifetimes, love. They don’t need to get wrapped up in another one; especially one where they are practically defenseless in.” Edmund looked up at Y/N then back down to the weapon in his hand. It was now much sharper and it caught the torchlight. 

“I suppose,” Y/N sat next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “Was the invasion bad? Peter and Caspian seemed, um, tense.” 

“Bad sure is a word for it.” 

The two were talking in hushed whispers now as they watched everyone tend to the wounded and prepare for a potential attack. 

“A lot of your soldiers didn’t return,” Y/N felt Edmund wrap an arm around her waist. “You don’t have to explain what happened. I know how hard death is.” 

“I’m fine, I suppose. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Edmund’s chest rose and fell with a sigh. “Peter’s planning another attack, though. It’s like he has something to prove.” 

“To who?”   “Us, Caspian, himself. He’s a bit hardheaded.” 

“Guess that runs in the family.” Y/n giggled, trying to brighten the mood of the conversation. “Would that Aslan figure be able to help? I mean, you and your siblings speak so highly of-” 

“I’m not quite sure,” Edmund interrupted, his fingers pressing into Y/N’s side. “Maybe.” 

“Is there a way to contact him?” 

“If anyone has a chance, it’s Lucy. I don’t know, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

The pair looked towards the small girl. She looked to be having a deep conversation with Peter, nodding every other word spoken. Y/N leaned into Edmund and rested her head against his shoulder. 

“I’m sure all will be well, darling.” Her voice sounded alongside a sigh. 

~

“Now’s not the time for chivalry, Peter!” Edmund shouted, one hand gripping the handle of his sword, the other Y/N’s hip. Peter stared into Miraz’s eyes as he kneeled before the young king. The two share some more words before Peter presents his sword towards Caspian. 

“I can’t watch,” Y/N whispers before turning her head. 

Her body flinches as Caspian screams and everything starts moving quickly.

“Run!” Edmund yells, grabbing Y/N’s elbow and pulling with full force. Her body jerks in his direction, but her gaze stays forward. Hundreds of soldiers were marching towards them, making Y/N’s entire body grow hot. 

Y/N had never been in actual battle before; while the wizarding world was in a war, she had never seen it first hand. So being forced into it head-on was bone-crushingly terrifying. Arrows whizzed by her head, armor clashed, swords were drawn, and suddenly, the air became thick with blood and screams. 

“Stay here,” Edmund breathed, pushing Y/N behind a large boulder. 

“Are you mental?! I’m not just going to let you-”

“This isn’t your war, sweetheart.’ A sad smile crossed his face before he leaned down and pressed a haste kiss to her cheek. “I’m not going to let you risk your life fighting for us. It’s not fair.” 

“Life’s not fair, Pevensie,” Y/N stood and drew her wand. “Protego!” 

A stone-strong barrier came over the two sitting ducks right before a Telmarine soldier drove his weapon into Edmund’s shoulder blade. 

“I’m not defenseless! I just don’t have a sword!” Y/N’s voice is loud now. “They won’t know what’s coming!” 

“For the love of merlin, Y/N!” Edmund gripped either side of her shoulders. “I’m not letting you get hurt.” 

A smile plastered over Y/N’s cheeks, “Who said I’m getting hurt?” 

~

Edmund sat on the grand steps of the palace, now freshly bathed and dressed in new clothes. His muscles ached and his shoulders drooped with every breath; the blisters on his palms burned in anguish and his jaw cramped from the stress of battle. Edmund was exhausted. 

“Hey,” Y/N grinned, freshly dressed in her own clothing. “I was wondering where you were. Everyone is gathered by the weird looking tree.” 

The boy grinned ear to ear when he saw Y/N. She looked gorgeous dressed in formal Narnian clothing, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander the long expanse of her dress. 

“There she is,” Edmund stood. “I was waiting for you to find me.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Silence overtook the pair. It was an odd silence; both of the teens had grown used to the white noise of armor clanking or swords being sharpened. Now, the sounds of battle were replaced with birds and running water. It just sounded… odd. 

“Thanks by the way,” Y/N said after a few moments. “For the whole ‘trying to protect me’ thing. It was sweet.” 

“Sweet? That’s all I get?” Edmund scrunched his nose playfully. 

The girl wrapped her arms around his middle and looked up at him. “Sweetest thing anyone’s done for me, that’s for sure. Showed you care.” 

“Of course I care, Y/N.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

They giggled awkwardly. 

“What do we do now?” Y/N broke the ice once more. “I mean, you’re King of an entire fucking country- or is it a world? I still don’t understand your title.” 

“Well, There’s a lot of things we can do. We can explore that whole finding each other attractive thing we briefly mentioned for one.” 

Y/N hummed, eyelids hooded. “Mmm, could we now?” 

“I’d like to, at least.” Edmund tucked a piece of hair behind Y/N’s ear. “And I think you do too.” 

“Me? Date a royal? Isn’t there rules against that?” Edmund snickered, “Love, I make the rules.” 

“Oh, right. I forgot about that-” 

“Y/N?” 

“Edmund.” 

He smiled and leaned in, “Shut up for once, will you?”  ~ The Magic Inside of Us Taglist: @pillowjj @lumoscharlie @crumpets-are-better-with-jam @urbankaite2 @oldschoolkiddo @whothefuckstolemykeds

[emybain]

Heroes In the End

me, posting unedited fanfics after reading supernova and Not Being Okay:  renegades fandom come get yall fics!

SPOILERS FOR SUPERNOVA 

SPOILERS FOR SUPERNOVA

SPOILERS FOR SUPERNOVA

   Hot water ran down from the faucet above Nova’s head, sending tingles down her scalp as she stood inside the shower. Adrian’s shower. Another tingle ran down her spine. She raised her head up, letting the near-scalding water hit her face. It was a feeling she couldn’t quite describe, but it made her never want to get out. 

    In all her almost-seventeen years of living, Nova couldn’t remember a time when she had a shower, much less a hot one. There were the ones she had during her time in Cragmoor, but she preferred not to think of that place. In the apartment from her early years, she had vague memories of her mother bathing her in a tiny bathroom in lukewarm water. Sometimes, when there were clean water shortages, as there were often, Nova would sit in a dry bathtub as her mother used a sponge and a bucket full of soapy water to wash her. In the subway tunnels and even in the row house on Wallowridge, Nova had taken to a similar method, washing herself using a bucket of cold water and a sponge and cheap soap. 

    Now, she stared at the rack in the shower that held two different brands of tubes that were a shampoo and conditioner combination, a bar of soap that looked unused, and a tube of body wash. Upon inspecting the tubes, she noticed how they all smelled of Adrian, sending her heart skipping. 

    After what seemed like an eternity, Nova turned off the water and stepped out into Adrian’s bathroom, her bare toes stretching on the squishy mat beneath her feet. She reached for a clean towel that sat folded on a shelf above the toilet, wrapping it around her body and almost melting at its softness. Sweet rot, Adrian was spoiled. 

    Drying her hair with the edge of the towel, Nova’s eyes wandered around the fairly sized space, landing on a pile of clothes resting on the counter next to the door that were not there before. Her breath came short as panic rose in her throat. She must’ve forgotten to lock the door. What if Adrian had seen her? She was instantly mortified, but forced herself to calm down. Adrian wasn’t like that, and besides, how much did Nova really care? She was exhausted and sore and drained; the boy she may be in love with seeing her butt naked should’ve been the least of her worries. The clothes were placed carefully right beside the door, so she bet he had just reached a hand in and set them down for her. Embarrassment was quickly replaced with endearment. Nova had just planned on throwing her old clothing, her Nightmare uniform, back on and dealing with it, but this wonderful, amazing boy brought her clean clothing. 

    It was nothing special, just a pair of gray sweatpants that were way too long for Nova, even though she could tell they were old from the small holes here and there and the fact that they were too short for Adrian’s long legs, and a plain navy blue hoodie that had a faded logo. Getting dressed, she rolled the pant legs up until they rested comfortably at her ankle and pushed up the sleeves of the hoodie, ignoring the way that it was loose around her neck. It was quite possibly the most comfortable Nova had ever felt. The hoodie was softer than it looked, the fabric brushing Nova’s back and providing a cozy warmth. 

    It had been....a long night. After the events at the cathedral, Captain Chromium forced Adrian, his team, Max, and Nova straight to the nearest healers who were already attending to wounded Renegades. It seemed that there had been a hiccup in their work due to Max and the supernova that had occurred, but when Adrian and the others showed up, they were hard at work. Hugh and Simon refused to stay with them, along with the other surviving Council members, insisting that they had their own duties to attend to, people to speak with, and media to answer questions for. The destruction caused by her uncle had been reversed by Max, yes, but Gatlon was still shaken and hurting from his attack, and Nova had a feeling it would take a while for the city to fully recover from the trauma of one night. 

    The healers got to work on their misfit group, fixing cuts and bruises and tending to the more serious injuries, such as Adrian’s mutilations, Max’s sprained ankle, and the stings that peppered Nova’s arms. She had asked about a concussion, head throbbing, and was surprised when their testing results came back negative. It must’ve been the vitality charm’s work. There was no other explanation for how she was fine, well, about as fine as she could be, after being thrown twenty feet by Ace. 

    It had seemed like forever before they were allowed to leave, Max receiving a piggy back ride from Adrian, his ankle thickly wrapped in bandages and barefoot. Nova remembered noticing the lines of exhaustion on Adrian’s face, remembered how his muscles moved slowly from soreness, but he seemed elated to be able to carry his brother. 

    They were sent away by the Council, told that everything was under control and they needed to go home and rest. After a bit of complaining and arguing, they finally caved to the Council’s request. Danna, Oscar, and Ruby parted ways, only Oscar and Ruby bidding Nova goodbye. Nova had eyed them suspiciously as the three had walked away, noting that Oscar and Ruby were holding hands. 

    It was when she was left alone with Adrian and Max, who had already passed out and had his head lolled on Adrian’s shoulder, that Nova had realized she had nowhere to go. The house on Wallowridge was gone, the subway tunnels were out of the question. There was the pawn shop, but the thought produced a sour taste in Nova’s mouth. Adrian must’ve understood, for he nodded his head, saying there was plenty of room at his house. Nova, grateful and undeserving and too tired to even argue, had followed him. 

    It was now in the early, early morning, but Nova could tell from the noises outside that Gatlon was not asleep. Every half hour or so, sirens went off. Car doors could be heard slamming from the neighbors. 

    She felt ten pounds lighter as she stepped out of the bathroom and into Adrian’s dark room, welcoming the soft carpet on her feet. She was clean, truly clean, having let more than just dirt and dried blood go down the drain during her long and needed shower.

    A sweep of the room showed her that Adrian was not there, probably upstairs with Max who had insisted on sleeping on the second floor, curiosity overcoming his tired body at what was up there despite Adrian warning him that it was haunted. As if summoned by her thoughts, Adrian padded down the stairs, a glass in water in his hand. He stopped when he saw Nova, lips quirked up as he eyed her attire up and down. Compared to just hours before, Nova was probably the least intimidating thing he had seen. 

    He had showered too, evident by his clean face and fresh clothing. Nova cleared her throat, breaking eye contact to gesture to her clothes. 

    “Thank you for these.”

    “Of course.” Adrian shrugged. “I figured you didn’t have something else to sleep in.” He paused, and even in the dark, Nova could tell his cheeks reddened. “If you, uh, want to sleep, that is.” 

    They both fell silent. It was the first time that night that they had been alone together, truly alone. No one was about to come running in, threatening to kill one of them, no one was within earshot of their conversation or could see what they were going to do. 

    “How’s Max doing?” Nova asked, remembering how the kid had tiredly protested when Adrian had tried to give him Adrian’s bed, refusing to close his eyes until Adrian took him back upstairs. 

    Adrian chuckled. “Asleep, finally. He was determined to talk, so I figured I’d let him until he had nothing left to say. Hopefully, he won’t wake up for a while.” Nova hummed in agreement; she doubted he would, not after the events that had taken place. Adrian cleared his throat, shifting his weight onto one leg. “So...do you plan on sleeping?” 

    Nova thought about it, thought about her aching muscles and the weight on her eyelids and how curling up under a warm blanket for hours was so, so welcoming. “Yes, but only with you.” When his eyes widened in surprise, Nova quickly added, “if that’s okay.” 

    Before she knew it, he was right in front of her, burying a hand in her wet hair and leaning down to kiss her. It was short, lasting only a few seconds, but the sensation still sent chills crawling down Nova’s neck. When they separated, Nova surprised herself by wrapping her arms around his neck, reaching up on her tiptoes and pulling him down to her height. Her head buried itself in the crook of his neck. She breathed a sigh of relief when his arms went around her, the one staying buried in her hair and the other wrapped tightly around her waist. 

    He was here, in her arms and safe and still wanting her, despite everything she had done. Still trusting her, despite her mountain of lies. She supposed when he was right when he had said back in the cathedral that they had nothing else to lie about. Nova wasn’t even mad about the Sentinel, not anymore, at least. This was Adrian, the boy who had fixed her bracelet at the parade, something that seemed so long ago. The boy who never gave up on Nova, even when she had held a gun to his forehead. 

    They were each other’s nightmare, each other’s archenemy. At least, they were supposed to be. It was what they were wired and designed to be by their opposite upbringings, despite them having similar desires for the future of their world. 

    “What would you think if...if a villain happened to fall in love with your son?”

    “To be honest, I’m not sure there are such things as villains anymore. Maybe there never really were.” 

    For once, Nova agreed with Adrian’s father.

[lostinfantasies38]

14 Days of DA Lover’s - Day 8: Patching Up

@scharoux @14daysofdalovers

Pairing: Lace Harding/F!Lavellan  

If you are enjoying my work and want to catch any stories you may have missed, here is the series on AO3

Tending You

A moan sounded behind them, instantly spurring her team to snatch their discarded weapons. Alys stole on soft feet, trying to avoid the deep mud that threatened to capture her boots and throw her face first into the muck. The elf reached the outcropping where the noise emanated from, expecting to find a walking corpse they missed in the original skirmish.

“Lace! Creators! Bull, help me!”

The qunari snatched the smaller woman and raced her back to base with the Inquisitor hot on their heels. Alys tried not to think of Lace’s usually lively cheeks devoid of color or the gash in her abdomen stained with blood under the dwarf’s hand. Tents were useless in the Fallow Mire, so the scouts commandeered the nearby cabins for shelter and they tumbled into the nearest one.

Dorian beat them back to camp, clearing off the lower bunk to allow the warrior to lay the woman on the mattress. The mage gingerly peeled back the woman’s sticky leathers, apologizing for his part in causing her pain when she hissed at the movement. Sighing in relief, Dorian smiled reassuringly to the anxious scout.

“A flesh wound. It has damaged nothing vital. It needs to be cleaned and stitched, but with a healing potion and daily applications of a poultice, it will heal.”

Dorian lifted her soaked armor to remove it and Lace stiffened, her green eyes flicking from the Inquisitor to the men hovering in the room and a protectiveness roared within the elf. “Men, out! This is for women only.”

Her companions blinked at her in wide-eyed surprise, only rivaled by the dumbfounded expression gracing the scout’s freckled features. Alys stepped closer to the bed, hands on her hips, ignoring that her usual imposing stature was less so in her saturated state. Iron Bull glanced between the women and smirked, tapping Dorian on the shoulder, tossing his pack on the table as they left.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alys turned to Lace with a warm smile. The dwarven woman fidgeted uncomfortably. “Inquisitor, you-you don’t have to tend to me. One of my scouts can do it. We’re used to helping each other in the field.”

“Lace, please. Let me take care of you, for once. And what did I say about calling me Inquisitor?”

She blushed, smiling shyly at the elven woman, “It’s a tough habit to break, Alys. If I get too comfortable, I’ll start name dropping among the scouts and give them the wrong idea.”

Alys’s stomach twisted, even as she smiled in the quiet room and eased the dwarf out of her ruined armor. Outer layers removed, leaving her in breast band and smalls, she tucked the woman under a blanket while she set up her tools. Shucking her own drenched clothes, Alys pulled on a dry sleeping tunic, so she could work without polluting the wound and snatched a kettle to boil water for cleaning the area. Digging in Bull’s pack she found the kit that held the needles and catgut for stitching and the numbing cream, a recipe from her clan, that came in handy for field suturing.

With the water boiled, she quickly washed her hands and her tools before pouring the remainder in a clean basin with some elfroot and prophet’s laurel to disinfect the wound. Locating her clean cloths and bandages, Alys kneeled on the rug peeking underneath the bed, smiling tenderly at the dwarf as she set up her materials.

Rolling back the blanket, she breathed in relief as she fully examined the wound. A gash in the ample flesh of her right side, but dwarves carried an extra layer of padding on their physique, shielding her muscles from injury. The edges were jagged and would probably scar, but Lace would live and that was all she cared about.

“You’re too quiet. It’s making me nervous,” the dwarf whispered. She hummed appreciatively as the elf’s warm hands danced along her skin. Alys murmured a soft apology at her gasp with the sudden temperature increase as hot water bathed her tender flesh.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s hot, but it’s not deep. Just a few passes to clean it out.” Alys’s free hand tangled with one of Lace’s freckled ones, and the dwarf didn’t protest, instead clinging to it as an anchor against the flushing of her wound. Every tug and lavage of the injury pulled small gasps from her lips that almost broke Alys’s heart. When she finally set aside the basin, the dwarf was not the only one trembling.

“I’m okay. It’s okay. Y-you did what you had to…I don’t blame you,” the scout panted, sweat dotting her brow. “I just couldn’t swear…not in front of the Inquisitor.” She gave a strained laugh at the elf’s eye roll.

“Fuck, Lace. You know I’m the last one who gives a damn about propriety or being the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ Drop all the curses you want. I’m sure yours are quite inventive, traveling the world with a bunch of mouthy soldiers.”

Her bark of laughter was robust, full-bodied and heady, like one of Dorian’s vintage wines and Alys’s pulse increased in response. Releasing her hand with regret, she produced a health potion from her materials and gently lifted the dwarf’s head so she could drink it. Alys held her breath as Lace’s lips puckered around the edge of the flask. Her gaze flicked to her bright green eyes and found them locked on her.

She no longer heard the rain pouring outside or the crackling of the hearth nor saw the cozy one room cabin. All her focus was on the woman she thought she might lose and hadn’t yet told how she felt. As Lead Scout, she was the first to arrive in new regions to set up a base of operations and make sure it was secure for the Inquisitor. How many near death experiences had she had that Alys didn’t know about? Would she have told her? Had she ever asked?

“Lace…”

“Alys?”

Setting aside the empty flask, Alys cupped Lace’s face in her slender hands and leaned forward to press her lips to the rosy, pillowy ones that were a constant source of fascination for her. The dwarf froze. Mentally cursing herself, Alys pulled back, an apology on her tongue, when Lace grabbed her tunic and snatched her back with a blissful sigh. Relaxing into the kiss, Alys languidly caressed her full lips, savoring the sweetness under the bitter tang of elfroot and wondered why in the Creator’s name she had waited so long.

When they finally separated, panting after months of pining realized, she smiled at the glazed expression of her patient. Touching her forehead reverently, she kissed the tip of Lace’s nose, pulling a surprised giggle from the dwarven woman.

“I’m sorry. I should be tending to you, not –“

“Fuck, Alys,” she teased, mirth shining in her green eyes. “You are tending to me.” The elf flushed slightly at the insistence in her tone.

“Still, let me finish getting you patched up, okay? Once you’re bandaged, we’ll bundle you in one of my tunics and blankets so you can rest.”

A gentle brush of fingers against her cheek halted her retreat and she turned her wide eyes to the dwarf. “I’ll only rest if you stay with me,” she murmured shyly. With a soft kiss of her lips across Lace’s hand, Alys nodded with a tender smile.

“For you, I would do anything.”

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Masquerade, Part 3

(The following is an original work composed by myself with consideration given to the OC’s involved.  Please enjoy this as much as I & We enjoyed plotting it out and creating it.   [Mild Violence, Language, & Tones] . )

“This is it. . . “  murmured the voice of the Confessor. “No going back now.”

Two months since Kun-Lai. . .

A pair of pink eyes were watching carefully to the scene as it was unfolding before them.  Marseille; the Shal’dorei Shade of the Inquisitor was poised behind a counter which was assembled just on the north side of the lavish ballroom.  His apron and clothing very under played and toned down for the occasion.  In his hand was a serving spoon; not his weapon of choice, but it would do if he needed to extract an eye or two.  An occasion that was in full regalia and the utmost noble prestige.

Around the entire room, candles and tapestries were sent aloft from vaulted ceiling to the hand carved marble floor.  Flecks of gold and crimson to match the colors of the Sin’dorei were placed within the sealant that gave the stone work a beautiful glimmering shine, while also the perfect amount of tread. 

Markers of the House of Honeywell were hung across the ceiling like a banner to represent how gracious the host had been.  It was the most painfully obvious interpretation of the name as well.  His house crest was quite literally a honey pot shaped like a well, with a bucket.  It was sickening.  And right below that, the crest; all be it slightly lower and less exuberant, was the marker of Sunwood.  Its banner was nothing shocking, a sun rising over a tree.

The room was filled with every single luxury that money could buy.  Nearly one hundred heads would be attending.  There were buffet tables set out at every corner of the room, fresh food being cooked to order by a staff of nearly double what was needed to feed the guests.  Wine stewards, waiters and busers.  Butlers and handmaidens to cater to the need of anyone who was fortunate enough to be there.  And a list of exotic desires that would cause even the most well versed pallet to wither in envy, there was not a single expense spared.

A top the stage which was positioned in the very center of the ballroom; which of course was intended to hold full court meetings of the Magistrate if need be, was a band.  And not just any band.  This band would never need to stop.  They would never need to take a break, and their music would play on continually as the guests arrived one by one, until the point in which they would leave.  The mechanical animotronics were all keeping the mood light and up beat by offering a delightful waltz to set the affair off in a whirl of dancing and excitement.  On the bottom ring of the stage; hung by a beautiful violet and crimson tapestry was the label, “The Miraculously Marvelous Mechanical Minstrels of W.W.M.D”. 

The music swirled and danced around couples who were enjoying their time, and being entertained by such a fabulously gracious affair.  The gratuity of one who was considered to be one of the most ass-kissing members of high society, Magister Aloysius Honeywell Esq. 

He was a fop of a man.  Barely able to tend to his own affairs let alone tend to anything outside of his comfort zone.  He had a staff of nearly twenty to tend to his every desire, his every need, his every waking moment.  And at the top of that list was one very selective individual. 

The Compellor.  Sennaris Dal’talah had infiltrated his estate almost a year to the date.  Part of a plan that Lazarius had been trying to institute at the height of their power.  Around the time when her injuries were sustained fending off the elemental within Grim Batol.  They had tried to come up with a way to utilize her empathic powers of suggestion to attempt a more coup-de-ta approach to eliminating their enemies.  As opposed to causing her the anguish of more burns and wounds.

Honeywell trusted Sennaris with every matter.  And why wouldn’t he.  She was the perfect fit to his house.  Obedient, and polite, she was humble and timid.  She served her master well.  And he was quite taken by her.  A benefit of being so suggestive with a single touch is she could easily sway him one way or another; thus her influence over the simple man was as basic as a flick of her wrist.

It was Sennaris who planted the bug in the ear of Magister Honeywell.  It was Sennaris who was the conductor of this orchestrated rouse.  She had masterfully manipulated the powers that be and forced this event into full swing.

“M-master. . .”  Sennaris spoke every so softly, in that sweet alluring tone of hers.

The golden eyed man was soaking in an elekk ivory tub; carved from one of the largest that Nessingwary ever hunted.  It was made from its tusk and turned into the bathing vessel, he spared no expense.  As he soaked in the simmering hot water with petals of rose and jasmine surrounding his submerged body and the scent of fresh honey lofting through both flora, he opened an eye just barely to give the standing maiden a glance.

“What is it Sara.” groaned the man as if he was exhausted having to glance at her.

“D-do you recall last we hosted a gala, you had said I c-could arrange another if I behaved.” it was clear that she was under this alias to prevent the man from every knowing her name, and so she responded in her meek tone.

“Unnnng.” he groaned, of course remembering and hardly caring. “What of it girl.”

Sennaris bent at the knees and curled against the edge of the soaking mans arm as she whispered softly against it.

“Might we have another. . .” she begged innocently.

“Unnnggggggg” he groaned louder.  It was no lie that he did enjoy hosting these events, but enjoyed it even less when having to organize them.  By which he did literally nothing but say that he wanted to organize one.

“M-master, I have been so good. . .”  her voice sang out. “So very g-good. . .”

But again there was just the grumble of tones and gurgling of groans.

“It would p-please my M-master to know that it would be a most gracious g-gift celebrating my birth.”  she would try again, but this time her scarred blackened fingers would lightly press against the golden tones of his forearm as it rested along the edge of the bathing vessel.

“Your birth. . .” he repeated almost feeling a sense of euphoria wash over him. “Another gala. . . “

“It would be the perfect time to do so.  I was speaking with the lady in waiting within house Sunwood, she says that something had developed concerning your arrangement with Lord Magister Dawnseeker.”  she forced onto him the information that was being used to plot their course.

“Sunwood, that pompous prig.  How is he within the good graces of Dawnseeker.”  Honeywell hissed as his eyes remained shut, and his tone slowly mellowed again with her touch.

“She says that Magister Sunwood has a gift for him.  She says he is planning to bring to his wine tasting at the end of this month, Master.”  Sennaris swayed him again, placing the bait which he would have no choice but to take.

“A gift. . .”

“The young Miss Kash’ebahl.”  Sennaris said in a hushed tone quietly letting it sink in.

Honeywell lay there in his hubris, soaking in the lavish liquids of his wealth as he wondered what this would mean for his future.  His place within the hierarchy that Dawnseeker was trying to construct within this group of magisters.

A darkened thought of fear then slowly washed over him.  Contemplating the existence of his own house.  Wondering when the time would come that Dawnseeker and the rest would consider the House of Honeywell to be expendable.  If they were so quick to unify and eliminate Lazarius and extort him for what he was worth, it would mean that he too was on the chopping block.  Lest he was able to cling to the right hand of the powerful man in charge. 

His panic was stricken with thoughts of loss and the anxiety of having to flee the city state.  Go into hiding or something far worse, service within another house.  He would near go insane trying to banish the fears from his mind, hoping that the salvation would come if he could only some how remain within the graces of his lord.  Somehow if he was able to only. . .

An epiphany.  Honeywell’s eyes came to life as he peered toward the innocent girl sitting beside him.  His mind was aflame with an idea burning to be released.  And in his joy of realization; sat forward and gave his maiden the answer she was seeking.

“Send word to Magister Dawnseeker that it will be I who is going to host this months event.  In celebration of his lordship and success over the House of Kash’ebahl.”  Aloysius smiled widely.  His golden honey hues falling on the now smiling Sennaris.

“Right away Master.” she nodded several times, still kneeling beside the vessel.

“And inform Magister Sunwood that I would be overwhelmed with joy to give him center stage in presenting his quarry to our lord, and that this event will also be to commemorate his success.  It will be the house Honeywell that appears the most humble of all as we honor those around us for their success, but giving praise and celebrating a victory for us all. . .”

Sennaris bowed her head and slowly rose from the side of the tub.  She quickly rushed from the side and made for the exit where two other hand maidens were currently waiting to dry their Master.

“I will deliver your decree immediately.  And see to the preparations myself. . .” she said as she cowered and fled from the chamber. 

And as she strolled down the hall, righted her stance and elongated her spine in a walk of success.  A smile of confidence to match her swagger. The seed had been planted, and already sprouted a fruit baring tree.

By the far side of the last catering service was the Delightful Delicacies stall.  It was there where the Confessor and Shade were posing as simple servers.  Verzatea had made a name for herself in Silvermoon City, competing in the battle for bakery of the year.  Her little shop that Lazarius had helped to fund was the perfect way for her to remain within the city but still maintain a presence in the underworld. 

As the owner, she could freely make deliveries and organize little business meetings which would ultimately help her to funnel any information back to the order.  But not only that, the bakery was a wonderful way to launder money back into the pockets of the Kashebahl family.  Since a large portion of their fortune was lost due to the war, and other unforeseen circumstances; Lazarius was benefiting from two separate forms of income.

The first being “Curiosities & Collections” which was the small antique and rare good boutique he ran with Brox Sulfin in Old Town; Stormwind City.  The prime source of moving their rare items around and profiting on whatever they could to continue to to support their order.

The second source was pushing money from illegal activities through the bakery.  Money that was produced by selling the drug “Io-Cerebellum”.  A drug that catered to the higher society nobility and was worth every copper to the people who were using it.

Lazarius had discovered that the residue being burned off from the Void Forge was actually an unaltered and ninety six percent pure form of straight magic.  It was in this crystallized form that Doctor Whistletorque and the Inquisitor would purify it further by reducing it down; burning off whatever excess remained and combining it with a few other choice ingredients. 

The first being his own blood.  The addictive substance that pumped through his veins was teeming with a parasitic life form that had merged with his genetics.  By killing the entity in only a small vial of his blood, and heating it to a ridiculous temperature, they found that they could utilize the mind alter effects the blood had when entering someones mouth; a result of the parasitic being, and not have it traced back since it was nearly destroyed in the process.

The result of the pure uncut void energy, the hallucinogenic property and mind altering serum of his ichor and liquefied Azerite was all combine to make one of the most additive and potent substances the community looking to have the magical high could find.  In the end “Io-Cerebellum” was a profit they needed. 

Lazarius would push the rock salt like drug through his connections within the nobility in Stormwind.  And using a careful system of laundering, eventually move that money back through the Bakery in Silvermoon City, and keeping the profits funding the war efforts of The Nine.

He wasn’t proud of this, the drug was not in production for very long.  They’d only made enough from one vial of his blood, but it was enough to sell for at least several months now.  Though in his absence, the push for making money was far less; Lazarius would have been proud that despite all that had happened, not a single thing had gone out of place and the order remained strong because of these remarkable people.

Guests continued to pour in through the front vestibule and greet one another with playful words and boisterous laughter.  In that calm little corner, Verzatea stood beside the other Sin’dorei who were casually chatting with guests and serving items out on the floor. 

Marseille was busy trying to pretend he knew what he was doing, but the man was terrible at cooking.  His mind was never purely on the task at hand and in most cases, the disguise wearing Shal’dorei was only giving the appearance of actual work.

“Do not take your eyes off of her.”

To be continued... In Depths Below:Masquerade,Part 4

@siidaraykashebahl

@pyravari-kashebahl

@daltalah

@zalraazurestar

@whatadarkbitch

@suncrest-legacy

@lady-poeta

[baskingintheinsanity]

Devil Devil

A/n: I don’t really know where this came from…I started this during the summer and kind of got swept up in school and graduate school applications. Oh, and Game of Thrones. I started Game of Thrones. Apologies this took so long. This was originally supposed to be much darker but…eh, have some tender smut.

Do not try me devil devil,

Cannot buy me devil devil,

What makes you so special special

to think I would ever settle

for that devious dance between you and me?

“How did you know where I was?”

There’s a lilt of suspicion in her voice, even after his retrieval of her life mere minutes ago, as they walk along the side of a sandy street in Karachi.

He chooses to ignore it. After all, she’s just been kidnapped, likely dragged through a desert, and very nearly decapitated. He can understand the paranoia.

“Mycroft is not nearly as astute about keeping government secrets from me when he assumes I believe the subject of said secrets to be dead.”

She turns her head and looks out into the desert as she attempts to hide a wince. She gained a sprained ankle in her brief stint being tortured. She tries to hide her minute impressed smile while she is facing away from him, “Is it a safe bet then to assume that you hacked into his files while he was out to lunch?”

He doesn’t meet her eye, but she can see the side of his face lifting in a smirk as he answers quietly, “He’s been taking longer and longer lunchbreaks as of late.”

“Any idea as to why-“ she cuts off as she winces, accidentally falling into his side slightly. He catches her weight like it’s an instinctual response in his amygdala, as breathing is.

He tuts at her, almost a scolding, as his own concern for his well-being fills his lungs like a heavy gas, “When I asked you if you were injured, I got a cold look and evasion. I’m guessing I should have asked again.”

She rolls her eyes at they start to enter a little town on the outskirts of the actual city of Karachi, street lamps lining the dirt road, “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Trademark inquisitive eyebrow raise from Sherlock.

“Act like you couldn’t already tell I was hurt. While I am sure it is aimed to make me feel less pathetic, it is rather patronizing when I already know how quick you are. You probably noted me favoring one side within three seconds of us beginning our walk.”

Sherlock continued to aid her, letting her lean into his side as they made their way to a small run-down motel.

His mouth tensed, one of his tells indicting guilt, as he spared a brief glance down at her face, checking for how much pain she was in, “Two actually…”

She let out a mirthless laugh, despite her ungodly situation, at the mere fact that she had landed herself here, in the middle of a war-torn country, running for her life, with this man of all people. This brilliant, ridiculous, socially inept man.

“I expected no less from you, Mr. Holmes.”

               He surprised her in the next few seconds when he did not ask how she was injured. She figured he knew it was not her own doing. He most likely did not want to know the details of her torture. What sweet sentiment lives within this man.

“There’s a small motel up at that street corner, right by the last streetlight,” he nodded to the shabby, tan building that -despite its less than pleasing aesthetics- looked like the Ritz to her after being submitted to less than humane conditions for the last week or so.

“Mm, Mr. Holmes, are you propositioning me to share a bed with you?”

Her seductive tone went to waste, causing an unintended effect, as he cut his eyes to hers tiredly, “Irene, I would be shocked if even you were in the mood for dinner after our recent adventure.”

This tone of his voice was seldom used, and only around the Woman- he was exhausted, very human, and on some level seeking mutual comfort. Neither of them would admit it, but they needed each other more than physically in this situation.

“’Even me?’” she scoffed, “Is that meant to imply that I have an unusual sexual appetite? Is Sherlock calling me a whore?”

He simply looked at her, passed the point of frustration, and slid his arm around her side, pulling her close, “Please be quiet, Woman.”

He stroked his thumb softly against her hip- a single, miniscule movement that expressed an intense desire to pull her suffering out of her wounds.

She blinked, astounded, and hesitantly laid her head against his shoulder as they walked silently to the motel.

               After Sherlock checked them into the hotel-which consisted of him telling the man at the counter their aliases and handing him the Karachi equivalent of 20 dollars- they walked up to a little room on the second story. Sherlock helped Irene sit down on the bed and immediately walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Irene laid down on the queen sized bed, relaxing into the surprisingly clean sheets as Sherlock puttered around in the bathroom.

“What on Earth are you doing in there?” she managed to rasp out, noticing a soreness in her throat once she stopped moving.

Unsurprisingly, he did not answer. She figured he was just concentrating on a task he deemed important. She had noticed some of his personal peculiarities over the last year or two, having spent several sporadic days with him every couple months.  She had learned that when he is very interested in a task, his ears tend to turn off without him knowing.

She opted to ignore his odd behavior and relax on the bed, not noticing the thin layer of sweat forming on her forehead. Irene had started to fall asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. About five minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom.

“I prepared a….” he spied her dozing on the bed and let out a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes, “The one time I attempt to be compassionate…”

He walked around to her side of the bed, staring at her for a couple of seconds, debating whether to pick her up or let her rest. He hesitated awkwardly, thankful that she was not awake to mock him for his nerves.

He decided on carefully sliding his arms under her sleeping form and scooping her up. He noticed with slight chagrin that she was very light, very easy to lift. She had lost weight. A significant amount and she was a thin woman to begin with. She stirred when he lifted her, mumbling.

“Where are you taking me, strange man?” she slurred.

Sassy even half-asleep, apparently, he thought.

He repressed a small smile as he walked them both into the bathroom, “Shocking as it may appear to you, I was trying to do something nice for someone else. You.”

He nodded his head towards the bath, the steam filling the room and easing her raw throat.

She glanced over to where he nodded, watching the bath like it was an oasis in the desert.

She blinked in shock, an emotion she was very unused to, “You drew me a bath?”

He nodded and frowned at her, probably trying to discern whether she was mentally impaired by her injuries or not, “Yes, I thought that obvious…”

She managed to pinch his arm weakly, “Hush. I was processing. It isn’t like you, after all.”

He nods, “I know that. But you’re unwell. And it’s not just your ankle. You’re sick, Irene. You have a fever, you’re losing your voice, you’re exhausted, and you’ve lost at least two stone since the last time I saw you….” He hesitated, speaking slowly which was her hint that he was very nervous, “I figured that….you needed this. And I wanted to-“

“You wanted to give me what I needed.”

He simply nods.

She smiles, hoping it comes off as an amused smirk. She’s not sure it was a good enough effort to convince him she wasn’t a little touched. He slowly placed her in the hot water, her sigh of relief music to his ears.

She leans back against the ceramic of the bathtub, letting the hot water ease the tension in her aching muscles. She closes her eyes and relaxes for a second or two before something hits her. She opens her eyes languidly and lifts her somehow sultry gaze to his face.

“I’m sorry, are you not going to join me, oh man servant?”

He did not even flinch at her slightly insulting quip, so accustomed to her sharp humor he was. She was slightly disappointed that she could no longer easily get to him.

 He lifted a hand to his mouth, rubbing his lips.

“Quit with your pondering look-you won’t hurt me if you get in the tub with me. I’m not that fragile.”

His mouth opened, obviously agitated and a little startled that she had read his mind, “I wasn’t thinking that.”

He walked over to the tub and slid in on the other side, facing her. She threw a chuckle at him, “Liar,” she whispered under her breath.

He gave her a slightly prickly look, but other than that, ignored her.

She dropped her head back against the tub, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before she closed her eyes again. She sighed pleasurably, trying not to fall asleep right there.

Seemingly without thinking about it, Sherlock picked up Irene’s injured ankle and sat it on his knee. He began to softly message the strained muscles, suspecting it was a sprain and not an actual broken bone. He pressed down very gingerly, feeling the small bones in her foot and ankle, inspecting.

She made a small annoyed sound under her breath, his fingers causing slight pain in her foot, “Sherlock, stop playing doctor. It’ll heal. If it was really broken, I wouldn’t be able to walk.”

“Well, you do have an unusually high pain tolerance…”

She opened one eye and glared at him lazily, “Do you feel anything broken?”

He paused, “No.”

She grinned, having won, “Then put my foot down and enjoy this bath with me.”

He smirked evilly and shook his head, relaxing into the bath, “I don’t think I will.” He started to message her ankle, knowingly avoiding the strained muscles. He pressed his thumb expertly into the contour of her ankle, watching her face react.

She smiled with her eyes closed, letting out a satisfied groan, “Well, I’m okay with that decision.”

“Thought you might be.”

There was a warmth in his voice that only ever appeared when she did. She continued to enjoy his impromptu foot massage, his fingers knowing the spots to rub to relax her cramped and tensed up muscles. The relaxation was starting to spread up her leg and for some reason, this one spot he touched on the sole of her foot shot straight to her core, causing heat to rise in her stomach. She didn’t notice the sexual undertone of her next moan, but he definitely did.

He tried to ignore it and simply let her heal and rest. He really wanted to just give her time to recover. But something in her voice when she moaned entered his blood stream. Damn that sound. His body started to react, blood rushing between his legs as the sound of her voice immediately queued up memories of their lovemaking in his head. He couldn’t stop seeing her face when he first entered her.

He tried to continue the massage for her sake, but she could feel the timing of his fingers  beginning to grow awkward and slower. She opened her eyes to peek over at him and had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying anything. Sherlock may pride himself on his poker face on cases, when around clients, and even on John, but it never worked on her. She could always read exactly what he was feeling plainly on his face. He wanted her. She could see it in the way he wouldn’t look at her face, glancing at the wall behind her, pretending to think. She could it in the furrow of his eyebrows, his mind working to contain emotions. She could read it in the way he was almost imperceptibly gnawing on his lower lip.

But even if she didn’t have the advantage of being able to read him, she did have eyes. And that was enough. The water was clear, so as she glanced down between his legs, she saw him rising slightly.

“I genuinely love how easy you are to rile,” she laughed, “It’s very flattering.”

His cheeks did not redden and she was very proud of how comfortable he was becoming discussing this subject, “I would bet that most men would be aroused by the sound of a beautiful woman moaning erotically like that.”

“Yes, but with most men, I focus on hitting the lust centers of their brain. They purely desire the physical. But I could rile you simply by saying something clever in a certain tone.”

He rolled his eyes, “And what tone is that?”

“The ‘I want Sherlock’s cock’ tone,” she grinned wickedly, knowing her bluntness might make him sputter.

His eyebrows shot up, pupils widening, but to his credit, his mouth did not fall open this time, “And just how often do you use that tone? What exactly does it sound like?”

Oh so he is playing the game, throwing the ball back to me.

She loved this side of him, the mischievous one that liked to play games. She thinks that’s secretly why he likes detective work. Obviously, deep down inside, he has a desire to help people. But she thinks he also just loves the thrill of the game, putting together a puzzle, manipulating people, and seeing what extremes he can accomplish.  

“Oh I don’t know….two or three times a day when we’re together,” she pulls up one side of her lips, “And don’t you recognize the sound of  it by now?”

He nods very purposefully, “I do.”

“And what does it sound like to you?” she asks curiously.

He answered without hesitating, not at all shy, “I can’t tell you what it sounds like, but I can tell you exactly what it feels like. Like someone tugging me towards you. Like someone pouring an opiate into my veins.”

Her body responded to his words in kind; it felt like the steam in the air around them osmosed into her body, her blood feeling almost molten. She could feel her nipples harden at his words.

He grinned wide at that, noticing her nipples emerging from the water. He gave her a look that silently communicated that he was glad he wasn’t the only one feeling it now.

“Please,” she scoffed, “I could be reacting that way because I’m cold.”

“Irene,” he held back hysterical laughter, “We are in a steaming bath. You’re not cold,” he shook his head, letting some of the laughter spill from his lips.

God, I love that grin, she thought. He so rarely fully smiled like that. She almost felt lucky that she was one of the only people to get to see it. It was so damn beautiful. Sherlock was certainly not the type of person that radiated sunshine. But when he smiled like that, it was like gravity around them shifted and she felt lighter. Of course, she would likely never tell him this.

“Ok, so I’m not…” she replied lavishly, slowly starting to creep towards him.

He groaned, the logical part of his brain kicking in again, “Woman,” he started, annoyed at her for starting this, “We both know that we can’t do anything. You can’t even stand on your own. You’re so tired, you might fall asleep halfway through. And you will definitely get me sick. Not that I truly care about that last one.”

She laughed out loud, “You’d be okay with getting my fever and sickness if it meant you could fuck me?”

“Yes,” he replied automatically, as if she were being slow, “Of course I would.”

“You are hopelessly addicted.”

“I could debate that point,” his voice was husky.

“You would lose.”

He snickered, his eyes dark and his voice relaying his arousal, “As contrary to my character as it is to admit this, you are right, Irene.”

“We both already knew this,” she whispered, slowly sitting herself in his lap, moving her mouth an inch from his, “Do stop talking, Sherlock.”

“Do you ever listen to m-“

She interrupted him with a fierce kiss, laving her tongue over his bottom lip, “No.”

He bit back a moan, accidentally biting her lip too as he put a hand up to her chin to hold her back, “Irene, please. Don’t make this more difficult,” he lifted an eyebrow at her sharply, “You are broken.”

She giggled darkly and leaned further into his personal space, breathing against his lips, “Only physically.”

She smirked in victory when she leaned back slightly and he followed her mouth with his, staying close.

“Sex in a bathtub is quite dangerous even when both parties are well, I presume.”

Irene hummed in consideration, watching the way his pupils expanded as he glanced down at the drops of water slowly sliding down her chest, “I suppose it is. But what is your point in mentioning this?”

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, praying for patience before he opened them. There was a slight upwards tilt to the set of his mouth, “My point was that perhaps we should relocate to the bed.”

“Ah,” she was surprised, leaning back against the tub, “So you’re listening to me now. New. But I like it.”

He rolled his eyes, “I’m a quick learner. Not to fight you when you’re serious about something is a lesson I learned a while ago.”

He stood and stepped carefully out of the tub and she let her eyes linger over his body as she started to stand up herself, “How did you know I was serious about wanting you?”

He tsked at the back of his throat and put a gentle hand on her shoulder, “No. Don’t get up.”  

She frowned in confusion briefly before he scooped her out of the tub and rolled his eyes,” you’ve been glancing down at my body about every ten seconds since we got into the tub.”

She shrugged as he walked them back to the bedroom, her in his arms “Well you better not get used to this. I am not an invalid.”

“Don’t state the obvious, woman. It’s not becoming,” he chuckled while he laid her down on the sheets.  

She tilted her head at him and gave him an indignant look, “Don’t be a tease to the naked woman on your bed. She might leave…”

At her mention of her naked body, his eyes were drawn to it. Her hair was still up in a bun so that it wouldn’t drag in the bath water. The ends of it were moist, curling on her neck. Her eyes were warm, molten somehow, despite the cold color. Her lips were a siren song, the smirk calling to him. Her nipples jutted out proudly on top of her breasts, husky rose. He could smell a faint hint of something sweet in the air and he had no idea what it was, but it was coming from her. He climbed onto the bed, crawling over her wet body and being careful not to put too much weight on her.

He put his left hand beside her head and stroked her cheek with the right, “I don’t believe you would go anywhere right now even if you could stand.”

She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a wicked grin, “Darling, if I was feeling better, I’d be the one teasing you. Until you screamed.”

He hummed, starting to drag his lips down her body. He pressed a tender kiss to her breast and then closed his lips around her nipple, flicking his tongue once before he sucked. A bolt of indescribable sensation shot through her as she moaned.

“Perhaps I can make you scream tonight instead,” he looked up at her though his dark fringe of lashes, electric blue burning her inside and out.  

She closed her eyes and wound her fingers into his hair, pushing his head further down her body, “I will certainly let you try, Mr. Holmes,” she sighed as his lips brushed her hip, “I know how much you like a-oh!” a loud moan escaped her as his lips found her core, aching for touch.

She used to do this sort of thing for work all the time, yet he was the only one that actually made her ache for attention, without much work at all. She couldn’t figure it.

As he listened to her sounds of pleasure, his tongue lapping at her sensitive bundle of nerves, he felt his body grow impatient. God, how he loved to hear her moan. Her voice, mixed with the taste of her on his tongue and the feel of her soft skin under his hands had his cock swelling painfully. He was tempted to dive into her, thrust into her at that moment. He wanted to forget all the reasons that it was a bad idea. That she was a bad idea. They were obviously in danger. And she was hurt. Not to mention, she would inevitably slip from beneath his fingertips like a wayward wind in a day or two. But he didn’t mind that tonight. They say giving into temptation means you’re weak, but all he felt was strength rushing through his veins.

He channeled that strength, ignored all his hesitations, and lifted his body back up to align with hers. He didn’t think. He laid his hand softly on her cheek and tilted his head in curiosity as he looked into her eyes, “I have never understood how you do this to me, but honestly…”

“Honestly what?” she smirked up at him wickedly as she slid her fingers into his curls, tugging him closer to her.

“Honestly, I don’t care,” he grinned, something strange alight in his soul as he lifted her uninjured leg to wrap around his hip and thrust his body into hers. And so he was lost. There was nothing like being inside of her. Of course, he had only ever been with one woman-her. So perhaps it wasn’t the most accurate declaration. But once again, something about her. About her ivory skin sliding against his. About her heated flesh wrapping around him and squeezing until he could hardly breathe...Something about Irene Adler, mind and soul, made Sherlock throw logic out the window.

As his body drove into hers, over and over again, he listened to her ragged sighs and bossy directions, “God, Sherlock, there!”

His body was on fire, burning for her, but he would not yet say her name. It was a sort of game between them. Whoever called out the other’s name first lost. And even though she seemed to have forgotten they were playing this game, Sherlock’s ego was such that he would not give her the satisfaction of him moaning her name. Not until the very end.

He groaned and rested his face on her shoulder, lightly biting where it met her neck. All of his neurons were firing at once. His senses were overloaded. But he managed to pull back and look at her expression, just for a moment, as he entered her again, slowly this time. Her mouth dropped open and her head tilted back as a moan erupted from her throat. She was magnificent really. She opened her eyes for a moment, sensing his gaze, and looked back at him.

If you look into the abyss long enough, the abyss looks back into you. That was what Nietsche said. He never understood the true meaning of that, metaphorical philosophy always seeming to escape him. But when he looked into Irene’s eyes in the dim light of that motel room, the gaze that met him seemed to sear through him. It was as if she could see everything he was or could be, everything inside of him. He felt as if he were exposed, open to be judged and-if found guilty- condemned. But if this was his damnation-getting lost in her-then he was not entirely against the idea.

A/n: So this got a lot more poetic and lot less sexy than I intended. I apologize for any typos. I edited this very quickly at 1 am. Still, if anyone would like a sequel of the morning after, let me know! “We never really did get a proper bath, interrupted by lust and all.”  Or you know, hit me up with more Adlock sexytime prompts and hopefully it’ll be steamier than this. Also, if anybody has ideas for my multichapter Adlock fic, More Than Kin and Less Than Kind, please please tell me!

[saintheartwing]

May the Force Be With You, Part 1

I’ve been meaning to do a story with my character Kendall for quite some time now, and at long last, I finally got a chance. So here’s the beginning of my little story. Enjoy!

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The noose is tight and heavy around his neck, feeling like a heavy snake constricting harder and harder with every passing moment. Jeers fill the air, foul, rotten smiles, disgusting-looking grins on face after face. How can a smile make someone look so, so much uglier? And it kept getting harder to breath. His lungs were burning, it’s as if someone stuffed newspaper inside them and set them on fire, and now they’re just slowly watching him die...and, well...they are. They tore off his beautiful blue jacket when he tried to run, and not a single one of them stopped to ask why someone like him had so many scars and cuts on his body.

Why would they? People like them...even some OF these “fine folks” had given him those ugly marks on his frame. He’d almost made it into the house to close and lock the door when someone got lucky and actually lasso’d him, yanking him down the front steps, and now...now they were hanging him in front of his own home. If this was only just a month ago maybe his father would be rushing out to save him, but no he’s on his own. He was vulnerable, and he had made it clear to others in his community he was gay. 

This was something they couldn’t accept. To them, it meant he’d been born morally blackened. It went against their beliefs in a just, fair God. And so such a blackened thing had to be gotten rid of. HE would have to be gotten rid of. God forbid his very presence make them question their faith a little. And God forbid some of them perhaps found the red-haired young man attractive, with his well-built frame. They had to kill their shame. 

Kendalll can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t...breathe…

Can’t...head...swimmy...spots...flaring up...before his...eyes…

Is that...a barbeque he smells…? Something’s cooking nearby? Why does it feel so much hotter all around-

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” 

The red-haired young man awoke with a horrific start. His hair was a mess, even more fringe flopping over his face than normal as he groaned and held his head in his hands, taking in deep, long breaths, trying to calm himself down. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth, and think of some calming scenery. A beach, long sand, the ocean stretching out before you. A huge, grassy valley. Fields of flowers. A soothing clearing in a deep forest with cute little woodland critters.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

“Okay...okay...okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.” 

Zachary Archimedes Cadence Kendall reached across from his bed, his thick, grey and white comforter blankets he slept in utterly soaked in sweat from his body as he grabbed hold of a bottle of water on a nearby bedstand, and a small bottle of pills. He popped the top open of both, and tossed a couple of little, tic-tac-sized, pastel blue pills into his mouth and sloshed them around with the water before giving a loud gulp. Then he put both the bottles away and stood up, walking to the bathroom and deciding to pour himself a relaxing bath.

He tossed in a “bath bomb” from the little cupboard he kept his medical and bathroom supplies in, and the bath began to fill up with soothing blue crystals as the water finished pouring and he eased himself in, taking a deep, long sigh. He felt disappointed in himself. He was sure he’d had the PTSD symptoms under control, he’d been taking the medication every single night and he hadn’t had a dream like that for months now. 

But...evidently not. He supposed that it was a relapse. He didn’t know what he expected, an attempted lynching wasn’t something most people would get over, not ever. But he should look at himself as lucky, he was alive. And despite the many scars and cuts and worst of all, the ugly, FOUL garroted ring around his neck that made it clear what had befallen him...he was alive. He was ALIVE.

And he had a big day today. Today, at long last, was his first day as head nurse at the free clinic on Nar Shadaa. 

He let out a yawn as he rose out of the bath and got himself dry, getting his clothing on. His favorite dark blue jacket, big and thick and kinda floppy, his camo pants, black shoes, he looked himself over in the mirror, his blue eyes a-shining. His kind, Logosian, were very similar to humans, save for the rather unusual shine in their eye. A white geam that faintly brimmed around the pupil, and when the light caught it, it seemed to make the pupil itself turn white. There were, of course, other advantages to being Logosian, including a tremendous control over every single part of your body in a way few others had…

It was that control that made him such a good nurse and a great assistant to Dr. Morgan, who ran the free clinic. Kendall was soon making his way down from his apartment, and down the street, the towering, dark structures of the back alleys of Nar Shadaa rising high around him. Occasionally a window would gleam as a light turned on, but for the most part, it was early morning and all was dark, almost like night itself. The streets were a dark grey color, only a few people walking around as hovercars soared overhead, streaking like small, gleaming little boxes.

The clinic was in a building a block away in a rounded-top little place, with a large sign that read “Morgan Medical Clinic” on the front in bright neon during the night. When the day came, it switched to a slightly gaudier color scheme, but it got people’s attention all the same. Through the revolving door Kendall went, passing by a few people in the waiting room outside, the secretary sighing as he looked over a chart that a black-eyed, green-skinned alien with small spikes a-jutting from his head and bulbous-tipped fingers had given to him. The secretary got a small pair of pince-nez glasses off his desk with a tentacle, the rather octopus-esque being examining the chart.

“Okay, this all looks good. You should be warned though sir, Rodanian medicine isn’t Dr. Morgan’s specialty.” “Luckily I know a lot about them.” Kendall remarked aloud as he stopped and turned back to pat the patient on the back. “I’ll be happy to help you, sir, once I get my uniform on.” He nodded and turned to the secretary. “It’ll be fine, Orville, I’ve got it.” The Rodanian’s tubular-esque mouth turned into a smile as he sat down, Orville giving Kendall a nod of his big, slightly rubbery head. Orville was a really sweet guy who’d worked at the Hutt palace for a good decade before losing his job because he was caught sneaking snacks the Hutts were allergic to into work. He’d been lucky to get away with all his tentacles intact. Now he worked for them, and thankfully, none of the nursing staff nor Dr. Morgan were allergic to “Poofy Bites”. 

Eager to get to work, Kendall headed into the small closet, getting on his uniform. Nice white gloves, shirt, pants, a facial mask, gloves, the whole shebang. And, of course, his little nametag. “Hi! I’m Kendall!” And TODAY...underneath that…

“Head Nurse”. Not “Nurse Practioner”. Head. Nurse. 

“I got a good, good feeling about today.” He thought to himself as he walked back to let the Rodanian from before come on inside the clinic officially, into one of the patient rooms. Dr. Morgan waved at him from across the way, in the next room. He was, at the moment, tending to a normal human teen who had some very unpleasant wounds. Luckily, the Killik doctor was very skilled.

Like all Killiks, he was insectoid in appearance, looking like a mix of coleoptera and hymenoptera. Big sort of beetle-esque backside, a faintly hornet-esque head with a mandibled maw, four arms with sharp claws, several antannae sliding back from his skull and with deep orange eyes with dark black pupils as he looked the brown-haired young woman over. “These are some very unpleasant wounds indeed, how did you say you got them?” He asked aloud. He couldn’t “speak” with his mouth, like most Kiliks, he communicated with a mixture of methods, inlcuding pheremonal and electromagnetic transmissions to similar aliens to his kind, and outright telepathy to others. “I...fell in the shower.” The woman mumbled. Dr. Morgan knew she was lying through her teeth. You didn’t have to be psychic to know when someone was lying. He had seen this sort of injury many times before. It was, without a doubt, abuse. But since she was so young, being only 13, he had to ask. “Is everything alright with your parents?” “My mom isn’t handling my father’s death well.” She said quickly. “He got killed at those protests a while back, the Dyad��s men found him at work and...look, can you just patch me up?” 

“It would appear you actually have some internal injuries, based on the scans. I will have to take more time than a simple application of Bacta.” He told her. 

Luckily for Kendall, HIS patient didn’t need internal surgery. He smiled at one of the other nurses, Nurse Therra, who helped him get the Rodanian into the chair in the patient room, the twi’lek’s floppy head tentacles sliding down past her red-skinned cheeks as she adjusted the chair. “There. Is that good?” “Yes, it feels very nice.” He said as she took the Rodanian’s temperature and Kendall looked over the chart the patient had.

“Okay, we’re going to do a simple blood test.” He told the Rodanian. “We’ll find the right dosage depending on the results we get back.” He added as he held up a small injector that would take a little blood from the patient just by pushing it onto his skin. “Now, you’re going to feel just a little PINCH. Are you ready?” He inquired softly.

The Rodanian nodded as Kendall patted his shoulder and then knelt down and applied it to his arm. Soon he was analyzing the blood as Dr. Morgan called Therra into the room with him, as well as Nurse Jane, “Painkiller Jane” as Kendall liked to think of her as because she was so good at applying anesthetics, and Nurse Lomi, another Gran like Jane. The two almost coulda been twins, it was scary how much the multiple-eye-stalk-having aliens looked alike. Nice, big, muscular build, same smile, they even wore similar clothing. 

It was a good thing that a lot of people came to the clinic lately. It showed a real need existed, that their work here was important. Especially with those awful protest injuries. People exercising their most basic of rights, the right of free speech, had been attacked. They’d first done meetings in the privacy of their own homes, then loosely organized gatherings, then finally in Nar Shadaa, out in the open. But the reactions from those who ran Nar Shadaa weren’t really pleasant at all. In the Outer Rim territories, dissent against people like Grakkus the Hutt or his compatriots was not tolerated. 

It didn’t help that the place was already a haven for outlaws who were just fine with the Hutt Clan offering money to basically beat the shit out of unarmed protestors...or to kill them. Hey, if your money was good...free speech, schmee speech. Luckily, most of the protestors had gotten away, much to the local commandant’s embarrassment. But just because most got away it didn’t mean they got away scott free, a lot of them had been very badly hurt.

Thank goodness for this clinic, and for Dr. Morgan. It was good work they did there, Kendall thought to himself. Had he still been on Logos, his people might have said he was doing God’s work, but Kendall didn’t much believe in God at all. He never really had, and never really would. Kendall put no real stock in things he couldn’t truly verify, be it a god, be it the Force, be it the innate goodness of people. He put his trust in those who earned it, and Dr. Morgan had earned his ten times over by being a wonderful employer and just a great, decent person. 

That wasn’t to say that Kendall didn’t sympathize with the protestors and their causes. He understood the philosophy of nonviolent resistance. And the strategy tended to work in the long run. The problem was the “long run” could take years, maybe even decades, and millions could die in the meantime. Yes, nonviolent resistance required more courage than combat, but honestly, armed resistance would be, in the end, what brought people like the Hutts and their compatriots, the “Dyad”, down. Kendall sometimes wondered if he should contact the resistance directly and get more involved, but he had a pretty good job here, and he was doing good work. So if it wasn’t broke...don’t fix it. 

“Okay, based on the results of the blood test, you definitely have a mild case of Nobliar’s Syndrome, so here…” Kendall began looking through the cupboard up above the table in “Patient Room 3”. “You’re going to want to take several of these. Two a day ideally, if you feel even worse, three.” He handed the Rodanian a bottle of pills and nodded. “Now listen, these will combat the symptoms and, also ideally, will allow your body to fight Nobliar’s Syndrome off. But if it gets worse, we’ll have to bring you in for a hardcore Bacta bath, and we’ll take the next necessary steps.” Kendall told him as he showed off a small little tank of Bacta, the colorless, viscous fluid slopping about in the tank. “What’s IN bacta anyway?” The Rodanian wanted to know as Kendall beamed, his eyes practically glowing.

“Oh, it’s fascinating! It’s a mix of red alazhi and kavam bacterial particles. You mix them together with ambori, and the particles seek out wounds and promote rapid tissue regeneration while preventing the emergence of scar tissue. It really is astounding.” “Miraculous, really.” “Nah, just science, my friend.” Kendall chuckled. “The “miracle” of modern medicine and thank goodness we use it over kolto. Kolto’s less effective, takes far longer to heal you. A kolto for your cuts, sure, but no more than that.” 

“Have you ever considered trying to get your throat healed with bacta, sir?” The Rodanian asked Kendall as Kendall inwardly cringed. He knew that, when people asked about his throat, most of them meant well, and were just legitimately concerned about what appeared to be a really awful, horrible injury. The tenets of the Logosian way of life had stressed that to forgive was divine. God, if you were willing, forgave all your sins. Well...he wasn’t God. So he didn’t have to forgive those motherfuckers who’d lynched him. 

“Thanks, but...I actually want to keep it. Sometimes you want the scars.” He remarked as he led the Rodanian out of the room, and down the hallway to the waiting room, noticing something very odd. Orville was slightly quivering in fear and emanating a clear sense of nervousness, all the other patients were gone, and a slightly irritated-looking human woman with brown hair tied back into a small ponytail with dark brown eyes and two earrings in her left ear was standing there in the doorway. She had her hands on her hips and she looked very impatient indeed, and was wearing a white shirt with a dark brown vest, a pair of pants that didn’t reach all the way down to the top of her darker boots, a thick belt loaded up with various pouches, and a small pack on her back. She had armbands on as well, the same color as her dark brown belt, and she tilted her head a bit as she looked at Kendall. She looked VERY familiar, and yet, Kendall couldn’t quite place her. He was good with faces, but not with names, a problem he’d had for years and years.

“You’re a nurse? Ah, Head Nurse. Can you let the doctor know I need to see him immediately?”

“Oh, uh...he’s rather busy with a patient who has internal injuries. I can treat you though, depending on the nature of your injury, ma’am.” Kendall offered as the Rodanian headed out the door and Orville gulped.

“Kendall, she really, REEEEAAALLY wants to see the doctor.” “Indeed. Still…” The woman looked him over. “You might suffice. I happen to have my own internal injuries, I was regrettably badly wounded in a fight and my stomach feels as though it’s on fire.” She said, her voice having a faint, almost fancy-sounding accent to it. Kendall thought, very faintly, he could feel a strange, weird tingling sensation in the back of his head, that was creeping over his fingers as he led her into the patient room. She put her little pack down as she sat in the chair, and he began to scan her over

“Oh my, this is terrible!” He proclaimed, looking mortified. “Yes, your...your stomach and your intestines are…” Kendall was positively stunned. “However are you still alive, ma’am?” “I’m a very skilled healer in my own right, Logosian. Its not a miracle, it’s my own skill. But I can’t do THIS, unfortunately. I could only keep myself alive through sheer...well, I suppose you’d call it willpower. But there’s a limit even to that. So, I need your assistance posthaste.” She insisted as Kendall nodded and quickly got out an anesthetic from the closet. “No. No, no, I want to be AWAKE for this.” “Ah, I wouldn’t call it a miracle, ma’am. I don’t believe in the like. As for the medicine here, I can...ease the dosage so it doesn’t knock you out, but you’ll still feel a lot of pain even with the dosage level.” Kendall admitted. “I mean, if I don’t use a full dose, it’ll feel like your insides are being squeezed and kneaded...because, frankly, I’m going to have to do that to get them back in their proper place!” The woman looked surprised that Kendall was atheistic, most of the galaxy knew the Logosian people as ridiculously religious. This was very unusual. But before she could ask about this oddity, the pain flared up in her anew as she cringed. “No higher dosage. I want. To be. Awake.” She insisted as Kendall nodded and held up the injector, giving her a smaller dose of the anesthetic. The woman’s eyelids fluttered as she laid back in the chair, Kendall quickly getting his facial mask on, and pulling out tools from the nearby drawer built into the counter to his left. 

A laser cutter would be what he’d use to open up her body to begin repairing the internal injuries. He bit his lip, carefully, slowly making the proper cuts as the woman chewed on her own lip, gripping the handles of the chair tightly and cringing. “ERGH...k-keep it up…” She insisted. “I can...take it.” The stomach was soon opened up, layers of flesh peeled back. It was truly terrible, obviously someone had tried to stab the woman and as a result of her attempt to heal the injury, her organs were where they shouldn’t be. It was as if she was trying to stop the bleeding by making a tourniquet within her very body. This was going to be immensely tricky. 

He got his Bacta ready as he began slowly, carefully unwinding the intestines, spraying Bacta every once in a while. His grip was astoundingly steady, his eyes slightly narrowed as he peered into her insides. Gently does it, he thought to himself, her frame shuddering as she cringed, sweat dribbling down past her cheeks, her forehead. She was moaning in pain, and trying in vain to hold back the clear tears she wanted to shed. 

Luckily, he was nearly done, after what seemed like HOURS, he’d finally gotten the organs in their proper place as he applied the Bacta spray again, and then pulled out the clear culprit...a knife, foul, twisted and with little spikes atop the blade. Ah ha, that’s what had done it. “C-Careful, it’s got a trap on it, don’t hold the handle close to the bottom-” The woman began to say. Kendall let go of the knife, but too late! SPLORGHK! A foul, wet nose rang through the air, his hand had been cut...cut right off! The woman stared in surprise, Kendall cringing, gripping his stump as he looked down at the ground and the ugly trick knife, an extra blade popped out of the end. “It got me that way too.” She muttered.

“Oh my, look at that, that’s no good. Hold on. You may want to look away.” Kendall said as he held up his stumpy hand section, the woman stunned. It...it wasn’t bleeding. The wound was clearly open, but neither the arm nor hand were bleeding. Kendall focused a bit, and the hand  then “walked”, skitting over to the knife, “kicking” it to the far side across the ground. “I’ll pick it up later.” He remarked as the hand leaped up, onto the chair, then THWUMP! Attached itself back onto his arm. 

It was as if it had never been cut off. The woman stared as Kendall smiled back at her. “I’m from the planet Logos, ma’am. An advantage to our bodies is that, if someone cuts a body part of, well, we can control such parts, and force them right back to us. It’s quite helpful, really.” He told her. “I’ve learned how to do operations and the like with one hand whilst the other goes to get supplies from the next room or tends to Dr. Morgan.” “Very intriguing.” The woman said as she cringed and rubbed her forehead. “At any rate, I need to be going. I seem to be just fine at the moment and I need to meet my girlfriend at a restaurant to celebrate our anniversary together-” She looked up at the clock on the wall. “Oh shit. OH SHIT. I’m going to miss brunch if I don’t get there NOW!” She yelled, immediately bolting out of the room, down the hall and out the door, Kendall sighing as he began to take off the gloves and to wash his hands, removing his facial mask before noticing that the woman had left behind her little pack. She had taken it off when she’d sat down. 

Maybe she had her wallet in there, some way to identify her so he could give her things back. At the same time though, it was his break! He’d been working at the woman for a long time and he could finally take a little break. He peeked outside…

Ah, Dr. Morgan was still hard at work. Guess he would be eating alone. Kendall took the bag with him after he took his uniform off in the bathroom nearby, and he entered the little lounge room, going to the replicator they had to order himself a little something for brunch as well. He sat down with his usual mixture of eggs, a fruit or two, some strips of bacon and a few nice slices of cheese but then he felt that odd, strange, tingling sensation rise in him.

He turned, looking at the little dark brownish/black pack the woman had had. Hmm. He was so tempted to look in there right now. Then again, the woman would probably be back once she realized she’d left it behind.

...maybe just a tiny peek. Just in case she didn’t come back. He wasn’t going to rob her, he’d never do anything like that. He’d just look for her wallet, maybe she had a phone in there and he could call her girlfriend up from that and say “Hey, your girlfriend left her stuff at Dr. Morgan’s clinic”. So he reached inside the pack, and-

He stiffened. He felt something. Something in a specific shape, a shape he had read about, seen in books, seen on the news and in movies and in plays and in games. A very, very familiar shape that was positively legendary. 

Kendall slowly lifted the dark black cylindrical thing out of the pack. It was about...30 centimeters long, a pommel cap at the bottom, a ringed top, a silver streak going down the middle of the cylinder, with an activating button, an adjuster for the length of the blade and for the power, and when he turned the thing on...out it came. A distinctly reddish blade of pure power. This was not a knife. This was not a simple sword. 

This was a lightsaber.

He held, in his hands, an actual lightsaber. He could feel a sense of real, true energy pulsating off of it, a reddish glow that coalesced and danced around the blade, and...the humming. It was faintly humming as he held it, almost...in a musical way? Such a strange note it was holding, strange, but not...not a bad sound. Just...different.

He felt so...strange holding it. He felt...good. He felt real good holding it. At peace in a way he’d never been before. It was as if he was hugging an old friend.

Then he realized what he should have thought of five minutes ago. A red lightsaber meant one thing and one thing only. This was not a Jedi weapon. This was a Sith weapon. He had unknowingly treated a Sith, and had probably saved her life. And he was damn, DAMN sure she’d be back for this lightsaber. She may have been in a rush to see her beloved, but no Jedi or Sith worth their salt was going to just abandon their lightsaber by accident, once she realized it was gone, she would come back for her pack, and her weapon, especially. 

What was he going to do? Maybe he should just put it back into the pack, put it back where it had been, and pretend he’d never gone into it. Maybe he should give it to the secretary, have Orville give it back to her, be all “Oh, you left this in our office, here’s your pack back” and she wouldn’t be the wiser-

Then he heard a distinct voice yelling loudly. “I know I left it here, where is it?”

Oh crap. 

She was here.

Crap. Crap. CRAP.

Kendall tried to calm himself as she raced into the room she’d been in, looking around before turning to see him, holding the lightsaber up. She stared at him, her mouth agape. 

“I just...thought I’d take a peek inside for your phone to call you up and…” Kendall trailed off as the Sith’s eyes narrowed and her mouth became taut.

“You’re going to give me that lightsaber NOW, and then you’re going to take that knife and stab yourself in the eyes. I know it can’t REALLY hurt you, but you need to be punished anyway for picking it up. And then you’re going to forget you ever saw me!” She said as a sensation of deep, hard crushing weight seemed to barrel down on his skull for a brief moment before Kendall spoke up.

“No.”

The woman stared at him. Now her furious, sinister visage was one of sheer, dumbfounded stunned surprise. “...I SAID...you’re going to give me my lightsaber, stab yourself with that knife on the table, and then forget you saw me!” “...no.” Kendall said again. “No, I don’t think I will.” He remarked as he frowned a bit. “...what the hell are you talking about?” “...so you’re immune to mind tricks.” She murmured aloud. “...well...that changes things a bit. Yes...yes, I can tell, you’ve got a distinct Force presence in you. It’s...rather marginal compared to me, really, but...it is most definitely there.” She intoned as she shook her head, and then she held up her hand. THWOOSH! Everything in the room that wasn’t bolted or nailed down in some way now was floating up! 

Kendall could no longer treat the Force as just a legend. While he knew some species were telepathic and telekinetic, finding the lightsaber and this sort of power, combined with that odd sensation he’d had on his skull and how he’d been feeling since he found the saber now made him more prone to believing that all he’d heard about the Force was real. And he needed to do something, and quick, if he wanted to survive against someone who could use the Force so easily.

She flung all of the objects at him, and it was as if all of time stood still. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears as he let loose a loud, terrifying, furious roar, and suddenly there was red slashing and slicing all around him with a swift series of motions. The humming melody from the saber throbbed in his ears as he felt his heart pumping all the more swiftly, and then, an instant later, the Sith was gazing at him in sheer, absolute shock.  

Every single thing she’d tossed at him had been cut into pieces. Now there was a real sense of fear faintly visible in her eyes that glimmered a bit, but her mouth became a taunt line as she reached into her vest, pulling out...another saber. 

With a KRSSSH noise that rang through the air, she activated the red blade and held it up at him. “So you’ve got some blade skill. Not bad. But let’s see how you handle against a true Sith!” She proclaimed as she launched herself at Kendall. Kendall barely got the lightsaber he had up in time to block her blow, a loud SSSSSSZTTT sound ringing through the air as the two sabers met.

They tried to force the other back, both Kendall and the Sith cringing, gritting their teeth, circling around each other. They broke the lock of blades, then swung again and again! Over and over the blades met each other, loud, hissing cries echoing as the lightsabers struck one another. The Sith did a backstep, flexing with one hand, trying to yank Kendall towards her, but his resistance extended even to that, he cringed hard, biting his lip as he held his ground. 

She kept trying to yank the blade out of his hand, it was as if Kendall was straining against a mighty tornado that was trying to yank him off his feet! But it wasn’t working. Then all of a sudden he sliced at the floor, and sent sparks flying up. She reeled back to avoid being blinded, and he leapt through the air, spinning, landing and doing a kick to knock her off her feet.

The Sith leapt up, avoiding his leg sweep, slashing with her saber. “HA!” She cried out, slicing his arm off, but then she remembered, a moment later, after a brief fleeting sensation of triumph slid into her…

Logosian.

His free hand grabbed hold of the nearby chair and he swung it at her as she, in turn, sliced down to cut it in half...as his arm, still holding the saber, tossed the lightsaber. SCHA-THWUUULPP!

It soared right through the air, stabbing her clear in the shoulder, and she let out a howl. It was the same shoulder on the same arm she held her current saber in,and Kendall leapt up into the air, catching the thrown saber, holding it up at her face as his arm hopped on back to him, and reattached itself with a faint POP. “A good thing these sabers cut so good and clean. I didn’t even get a BIT of shock from losing that off my body.” He remarked aloud. “Now. You’re...going to get out of this clinic. You’re going to leave. You’re going to forget you ever saw me. And you are never, ever going to come back.” “Oh, I don’t need to come back.” The woman snapped as she headed for the door. “...I can have my associates do it for me!” She proclaimed, as Kendall wiped his brow, his chest no longer feeling like his heart was screaming to leap free of his ribcage. Kendall made his way back to the waiting room, Orville fearfully looking over in his direction.

“Kendall...do you not know what you’ve done?” He inquired softly.

Kendall stared. “I know she’s a Sith. But I don’t think she’s going to come back. And if she does and with help, I’ll just report her to the authorities, I’m sure they’re not interested in Force wielder shenanigans causing trouble in their little corner of the galaxy, being a threat to their authority. After all, most Hutt HATE force-wielders.” “Not the Dyad!” Orville squealed as Kendall turned pale, and it felt like an icy knife was stabbed into the back of his spine. “Kendall, that was one half of the Dyad! I recognized her from when I used to work at the Hutt palace in the capital! She used to call me “Fishbait” and everything!” He squeaked out, covering his head in his many tentacles and groaning. “She’s Darth Raize! She and Darth Furiosa are the Dyad Sith that control Nar Shadaa along with the Hutts, and you just...you just tossed her out and stole her stuff, man! She’s going to come back with a whole squad of troopers and they’re gonna MURDER US!”

Kendall looked down at the lightsaber in his hand. So THAT was where he’d seen her. What a moron he’d been. What a total brain fart, how did you just FORGET the Dyad, he thought to himself. And now what?

The answer came in an instant.

“...well. Then I guess I’m just going to have to do something about the Dyad.” He decided in a quiet, scary tone, as a glint came to his eyes that had never been there before...

[milesofkeeffe]

Healing Arts

Kíli huffed and plopped down once more on the edge of the cot in the medical tent. Dammit, where was Óin? He had insisted Kíli meet him here after the noon meal so that Kíli could get the dressings on his back changed and the wound cleaned. Yet Kíli had been here nearly a quarter of an hour without sight nor sign of the deaf old medic. Meanwhile, he was missing out on all the excitement as his uncle and Fíli and Daín began the preliminary treaty talks with the men of Dale under Bard’s command and with Thranduil of Mirkwood.

Kíli would have simply left the tent already and come back later except that he knew he would get a severe tongue lashing for not having his injury tended. Honestly, it was a small cut, requiring only three stitches, but apparently everyone thought he might puff up and die if he wasn’t utterly coddled.

He sighed and pushed up restlessly from the cot, and at the same moment, the tent flap behind him was drawn open and someone stepped in.

“You crusty old goblin, where’ve—” Kíli nearly choked when he saw it was not Óin, but Thranduil’s lovely red-haired captain who stood looking at him, her eyes bright with something that might have been laughter.

“Tauriel! I’m sorry! I thought you were Óin.”

“I know.” She smiled then. “Fíli said your healer was delayed, and asked if I’d look to you instead.” She had a basin of steaming water in her hand.

“Oh.” So Fíli wasn’t trying to discourage his little brother’s attachment to an elf. Interesting. “Thanks. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

Tauriel’s eyes registered slight surprise. “This is no trouble at all. You should know that by now.”

He nodded, warmed at her unspoken acknowledgment of all she had already done for him.

She set the basin on the table by the bed, glanced over the clean bandages and salves arranged there, and gave a little nod to herself before looking back to him.

“Off with your shirt,” she said with the easy authority of one used to issuing orders.

Kíli grasped the hem of his shirt and then looked up at her, his cheeks burning. It wasn’t that he disliked the idea of allowing her such a personal glimpse of him. He wanted to let her close, both figuratively and literally. But he was keenly aware that she might not find him very attractive, at least not yet.

He’d seen a number of elves in the healing tents over the past few days and was fully aware that, physically, he differed quite a bit from their slender grace. Not to mention elves’ whole bodies were apparently as smooth-skinned as their faces. What would she think of his own shaggy hide?

Oh, he was optimistic that the more time he spent with Tauriel, the less she would care that he looked nothing like an elf, but he felt that it was surely too early in their acquaintance to show her quite how different he was.

The corner of Tauriel’s lip twitched up. “Kíli, I have seen naked men before,” she said, a hint of amusement coloring her tone. “I am in the king’s guard, you know.”

“Right.” Kíli gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m not used to being around—” He paused awkwardly. He had been about to say girls, but that word certainly did not do Tauriel justice. What were female elves called? he wondered.

He finally did as she had asked. As he shook mussed hair back from his eyes, he looked up to Tauriel with a self-conscious grin, only to see that she stared at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He thought she looked alarmed, and it took all his self-control not to draw his discarded shirt back over himself. Mahal, was he really that unappealing to her?

“Kíli, what—” Her brows were narrowed now in what appeared to be...sympathy? “What happened to you?” she asked tentatively.

“Wha—?” This was not at all the response he had expected. He had some bruises, yes, but the bandages wrapped about his waist were clean and tidy, and his only real wound was out of sight, on his back.

“Those markings. On your skin.” She gestured weakly at his shoulder, and Kíli suddenly realized she meant the angular knotwork tattoos that wound around his right upper arm and halfway across his chest.

“Um... I got those when I came of age,” he said. Clearly elves didn’t wear such markings. Did she think them hideous? “It’s something a lot of dwarves do.”

“Then... You weren’t tortured?” she ventured weakly.

“What? Of course not.”

“Ah.” She paused, her eyes flitting nervously from his tattoos to his face. “I’ve only ever seen orcs mark their bodies like that.”

“But surely you’ve noticed Dwalin’s tattoos.”

She nodded. “I thought perhaps he had once been the orcs’ prisoner.”

“Oh,” Kíli said slowly, hoping his disappointment was not painfully obvious to her. He dropped his eyes. So she found him unlovely, marred like some savage orc.

After a long, embarrassing silence, Tauriel said softly, “I— I can see now; these designs are far too intricate and thoughtful to be made by orcs.” Her voice trembled slightly, and looking up, Kíli saw her face was as red as his own. “I am not used to such ornaments, but I do think they suit you. I mean, they convey both the warrior’s strength and grace.”

Kíli’s face relaxed into a smile. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

She gave him a self-conscious smile in return and settled on the cot beside him. “Now, let me see your back.”

Kíli turned, and Tauriel proceeded to unwind his bandages and then bathed his cut with the hot water. At first, she seemed very cautious to touch him, her fingertips barely skimming his skin as she worked. Yet necessity seemed to wear off her shyness, and by the time she had bound him up with a fresh bandage, her hands lingered over him in a gentle caress that felt far more soothing and medicinal than any salve from Óin’s medical chest.

When he shifted back to face her, Tauriel regarded him with a curious, shy look.

“May I?” she asked, her fingers hovering over the lines of ink on his arm.

Kíli nodded.

She slid her fingers over his shoulder and then, lightly, began tracing the woven line of the knot as it wound over his upper arm, along his collarbone, and down over his chest. Her fingertips still on him, she looked up into his eyes. Her pretty green irises were so mysterious and deep, and he knew that he ran as much risk of getting lost in them as he had in her native forest.

With a little sigh, he leaned into her, and she returned his pressure, her hand flattening against him in an exploratory caress.

“Tauriel, may I kiss you?” he whispered.

She made a soft, affirmative sound and tilted her mouth to meet his. Her lips were sweet and just barely cool, like the touch of a flower’s petals. They moved tentatively at first, and Kíli wondered if perhaps she had never kissed anyone before. He did his best to answer her gently, holding his own eager ardor in check. She was so innocent and lovely, and he was afraid to offer her more than she wished or expected.

Kíli felt her fingers close around a handful of the curling hair at his chest, and she drew her mouth from his, laughing softly.

“Kíli, you’re very strange,” she admitted. “But you’re perfect.” Then she set her mouth against his again, her lips open this time and clearly inviting fuller contact. He drew his kisses deeper, tasting her soft lips and her warm, teasing tongue. As he combed his fingers through her hair and brushed the tip of her ear with his thumb, she gave a happy moan.

“Ah, Kíli, I’ve never—”

“Smaug’s diamond waistcoat, laddie! What in Durin’s name—”

Kíli froze in terror at the sound of Óin’s voice. What was the old badger doing here? Hadn’t he sent Tauriel in his place? He pulled away from the elf to stare at the dwarvish physician.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he stammered.

“I see that, young master.” Kíli thought he saw a glint of humor in the old dwarf’s eye.

“Prince Fíli asked me to look to his brother,” Tauriel said, her voice even, if a little breathless. “I’ve redressed Kíli’s wound, and I assure you it is healing well.”

“Aye, I expect so.” Óin’s eyes swept over the discarded dressings on the side table, confirming her deeds. “Well, thank you for your help. I’ve had everything to do tending half the camp this morning, and I'm glad for the extra hands. Once again, it has been most instructive to witness some of your elvish healing arts.” His tone was dry, but he winked at her.

Kíli saw the stiffness go out of Tauriel’s back.

“Now, if you’ve nothing left to administer to the patient, I expect you’d best let His Highness—that’s Fíli, I mean—know I appreciate his kind thought sending you to check on his brother but that next time it might be more helpful if he told me, too. It would spare me walking back across camp for no reason.”

Read this on AO3.

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Bruises and Questions

Chapter 2 of Inshêt Zahrar

There was pain. Thorin wondered if dying was really supposed to hurt this much. In fact, seeing the blade-wielding orc coming to cut his head off had reassured him that he would feel little. He had had time only to spare a thought for his nephews and lament that they would watch him slain as he had watched Frerin – helpless to stop the coming death and screaming in denial. Dwalin’s face swam in front of his eye and he smiled at his fierce scowl. Dwalin would never forgive him for his reckless sacrifice, but he would understand the need for vengeance for the fallen. Orcs had killed Thrór, sparking the war that killed so many of their already diminished kin, orcs had been responsible for his brother’s death. Bright happy Frerin, who resembled Fíli so closely that it hurt to look at the nephew at times, remembering the one who should have been with them. A flash of red crossed his vision, but Thorin paid it no mind among the black spots that were already dancing there. He knew that his lungs were not working right, the lack of oxygen making him see things. That was the only explanation for the hallucination of their sweet little hobbit standing over him, snarling fit for an orc and waving his small shining blade. Distantly he heard the roar that could only be Dwalin in the grip of battle-rage, and he smiled. So often, that sound had been the sweetest music on the field, knowing that the one he called amrâlimê was near. Dwalin’s wild eyes, his fierce snarl, his loving smile, followed him into the darkness.

“Shosh, mahabbanûnith[1].” The words were soft as a whisper, and Thorin thought he could hear the voice of his amad. More words followed, gentle as ripples across a pond, but they meant nothing to Thorin. Warmth spread through his body, making the pain recede slightly. A hand was on his forehead, the other pressing softly against the side the warg had chewed. The darkness drew back, leaving brightness behind. The figure shone, chasing away the shadows.

Thorin blinked.

Around them, the Company drew a collective sigh of relief as their leader’s eyes focused on Gandalf, kneeling at his side. Bilbo’s strange elf girl removed her hand from the dwarf, moving across the flat plateau to speak lowly with the eagles. Her hands scratched into the neck-feathers of one of them, making the grand bird preen and nudge her happily.

“The…the Hobbit?” Thorin’s voice was halting, as if he expected his lungs to fail at pressing the words across his lips. He winced slightly. No longer suffering broken ribs and his lungs were in working order, but Thorin ached. There were definitely still cracked ribs beneath the heavy bruising that made itself known with each move he made.

“He’s fine, Bilbo is just fine.” Gandalf smiled, waving towards the little creature in his stained red dinner jacket. Thorin got to his feet gingerly.

“Zantulbasn mazannagûn.[2]” The growled Khuzdul reached Bilbo’s pointy ears at the same time as the injured King.

  Gandalf led them along the stream that ran alongside the Carrock until it widened into a shallow river, where they spent a few hours bathing and tending injuries before bedding down for the night. As the only one who had managed to keep hold of her supplies, Ilsamirë shared what lembas she had left with the dwarrow around her. Glóin and Ori looked at the leaf-wrapped breads suspiciously, but were eventually convinced by their rumbling stomachs to at least try a bite. The young princes ventured to share a slice, and then darted back to the company of their Uncle, swarming around him like worried chicks. Gandalf’s magic – plus whatever the strange peredhel had done – had helped some, but the dwarf was still in poor shape.

Thorin stalked along the riverbank until he reached Geira, washing her face and splashing cool water on her neck. He wanted answers.

“Who are you?” he asked harshly, reassured when he felt Dwalin’s solid bulk take up position at his back.

“A friend,” came the soft reply. “I have many names, Thorin Oakenshield, but for now, accept that I wish no harm to you or yours.” And once more, Thorin found himself gaping at the audacity of one of his travel-companions, watching her walk away from him, mithril braids swaying with each step. He growled, but Dwalin’s hand on his arm stayed the harsh words he would have shouted after her.

“I want to know who she is Dwalin and how she came to be here. Why is she following us?” Thorin ranted, something about her deeply unsettling to him.

“I don’t know, Thorin, but she does not seem to want to hinder our purpose. She fought the Orcs alongside us, and she saved Bilbo from Goblins. For now, I think she may be right to call herself our friend…” Dwalin trailed off. Thorin remained unconvinced. The Guard-Captain sighed. “I’ll get Nori to ferret out some answers for you, my King.” Thorin nodded, but he was not appeased, and he cast about for another source of the answers he sought. The safety of the entire Company was his responsibility, and allowing a complete stranger to travel with them for an unknown length of time did not seem wise.

When Thorin finally managed to corner Gandalf by the riverbank, his temper was roiling in his blood and all he could think about was demanding some answers about their newest travel companion

“Tharkûn! Who is this dam? I’d call her dwarrow except she’s clearly an elf! She’s got Elf ears.” He hissed in low tones, the accompanying gesture aborted with a wince of pain.

“Her story is not mine to tell,” the wizard said calmly, stuffing his pipe and looking pensively at the spectacle that was Kíli trying to dunk his brother under the water. “She is Lady Ilsamirë of Lothlórien. She would be your friend if you let her, but if you want to know more you will have to ask her. I will promise you that she bears you no ill will, however, and she could be of great aid to your quest. I had not thought to ask for her aid, for Lothlórien is far out of our way.”

“How does a dwarrowdam become a Lady of an accursed Elf forest?! For that matter, how did she end up looking like one?” Thorin felt a little woozy still, only sheer stubbornness had allowed him to get down from the Carrock without fainting from lack of air, and he could still only breathe shallowly. He did not have broken ribs, but a few were definitely cracked if he was any judge, and the bruises marking most of his torso did not make breathing any easier. He scowled at the wizard, whose face gave away no answers.

“As I said, Master Oakenshield, you will have to ask her for her story.” With that, Gandalf apparently felt the conversation had ended, for they grey-robed Maia got to his feet and left Thorin by the water’s edge to gape incredulously after him. Someone he didn’t know was moseying her way into his Quest, and the dratted wizard would not even tell him who she was? Thorin was not pleased, and his frown only grew when he caught sight of their newest member chatting lively with Bilbo.

The river had provided an opportunity to wash and take of their most pressing wounds, but the howl of a warg soon had them moving again. The Eagles had taken them far from the cliffs by the Misty Mountains, but wargs were fast and the Company had no desire to tarry over-long. Dwalin was never far from Thorin’s side, a mighty scowl pasted on his face. Thorin wisely focused all his conversation on the wizard. When the Guard-Captain had that expression on his face, everyone – from the newest guard recruit to the oldest noble – left him alone. Thorin hid the minor winces his painful wounds produced, trying to deflate Dwalin’s anger by playing down his injuries. When the haze of rage had left him and he’d caught sight of the grey pallor to his beloved’s face, Thorin could feel only shame for his actions. He had not even considered what his death, which had been a certainty if not for a certain Hobbit, would do to the Company, let alone the Dwarf who loved him. The thought of his nephews’ worried face and their present need for comfort only added to the shame.

The newcomer had spent most of her time in the company of Bilbo, discussing the merits of different Hobbit pipe weed and ale, something that could easily take up hours. Bilbo almost felt like he was back at home in the Green Dragon. The rest of the dwarrow seemed to take their cue from their leader and avoided her as much as possible. Bilbo was beginning to see how they had done the same to him, when the Quest had first started. She did not seem to care overmuch, however, content to walk in silence if no one spoke to her or sing softly to herself in words Bilbo did not understand. He thought his mother had managed to teach him passable Sindarin – and he had tried out a few phrases successfully in Rivendell – but this girl did not speak recognisable Elvish, Bilbo thought. It was obviously some form of Elvish, he could tell, but nothing more than that.

  As the group walked ever onwards, Ori lost his hesitant shy-ness and began asking questions of their newest travel-mate. She freely told stories of her home in Lothlórien and even a few tales of Mirkwood and her friends in both places. Ori soaked up the tales like a sponge; a few of them might make for nice reading in the official Book of Erebor’s Reclamation – which would need a catchier title, Ori realised – even if she only travelled with them until they reached a crossway where she could return to an Elven Realm. His fingers itched for his quill-pen and ink-bottle, but unfortunately those had been in his pack and were probably broken by the Goblins. He still had the sketches he had already made, as well as his notes, saved from wanton destruction only because he kept the pages tucked under his tunic, even while he slept. In return for her stories, Ori wove the tale of their Journey from the Shire and up to the point where they had killed the Goblin King. Ilsamirë was a good audience, gasping at the right places and chuckling at the parts he made seem far funnier than they had been to experience. The story of Bilbo’s role in the Troll Incident – definitely deserving of capitalisation in Ori’s mind, as a defining moment of the Quest – was taken over by the Hobbit himself, who proved to be a gifted storyteller. Ori wondered if Master Baggins might like to help edit the rough drafts of their story some day, though it would have to be the Westron version, as outsiders were not permitted to learn Khuzdul.

The day warmed slowly. The Dwarrow, who had to admit that the silly Elf-bread did stave off their hunger – after the night of Stone-Giants and a full day inside the warren of Goblin Town, hunger had more than set in by the time Azog’s band of Orcs caught up with them. It did not mean that they trusted the one who provided the odd food, but it meant that Nori did not interfere while Ori was asking questions, simply remaining in the background gathering observations and bits of insight into this Ilsamirë’s character.

Ilsamirë pointed out various plants to the attentive eyes of Ori and Bilbo, teaching them the uses of herbs that were unfamiliar as they walked. This led to a lively discussion with Óin about healing arts in general and Elven skills in particular. Their debate was made more entertaining – in Nori’s watchful but silent opinion – by the lack of Óin’s ear trumpet. Eventually, the healer resorted to a fairly rude sign in Iglishmêk, making Dori huff with disapproval. The elleth simply laughed and signed back an even ruder miner’s sign. At that point, Bofur intervened with a lecture to the interested Bilbo about miner’s sign language and the strange girl – by far the least injured – disappeared into the trees and bushes, returning with a selection of early summer berries and a few plants which Óin had particularly lamented the loss of. The old healer anticipated great need for pain- and fever-reducing teas once they finally got to a place safe enough to tend to their injuries properly. The treat was shared equally and the herbs were tied into bunches and stored in her pack. A few quick steps had her walking at the head of the group, next to the wizard and the Dwarf Prince.

“You’re bringing them to Beorn’s lands, Mithrandir?” She eyed the old wizard shrewdly, glancing with a slight frown at the dwarf beside him, who was – successfully with regards to Dwarven eyes, but not so to her Elven sight – trying to mask just how injured he truly was. Thorin bristled at her scrutiny, taking it as disdain. He was used to being disrespected by Men and the few Elves he had met in person had not improved his view of that race either, but it galled him that someone who claimed his kinship would hardly even acknowledge his existence.

“Yes. Radagast mentioned him to me once.” Gandalf replied lightly.

“And did Radagast tell you anything about the man?” Mirth was flashing in her eyes, but the old Maia shook his head. “You do know that Beorn has very little fondness for Dwarrow…perhaps it’s best if you let me talk to him. As much as he dislikes the Children of Mahal, he is usually happy to see me when I come by on my journeys. When he hears that you killed the Goblin King, he may be more sympathetic to your quest. Beorn has no love for orcs or goblin and hunts them ruthlessly when they trespass onto his lands. He will expect fair payment for his aid, if he chooses to give it.” Thorin scowled again, thinking of their rapidly diminishing coin purses. Most had lost their purses along with their packs in Goblin Town, and he would be surprised if any of the Company had more gold than that which they had sewn into their clothes as insurance.

“I did know that he doesn’t like Dwarrow, I was planning on only arriving with Bilbo at first. Lead up to the full Company, so to speak.” The wizard revealed, with a motion that Thorin would have called a negligent shrug on anyone else.

She laughed.

“You have always been wily, my friend, but I doubt Beorn would appreciate that.” Once again Thorin felt the eyes of the Elf-girl roam across his battered body. He did not appreciate the sensation. “He is not a man who accepts dishonesty in any form. It’s part of the reason he secluded himself here rather than join a settlement of Men somewhere. Beorn prefers the company of his animals.” Gandalf nodded, considering her advice.

“Perhaps you are right, dear one. I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the man.”

Ilsamirë smiled, “Thank you, Mithrandir. I would also recommend you cause no harm to any of Beorn’s animals. Even the bees are under his protection.” She shot Thorin a look and continued, “I know your Company are hungry for meat, but you will find none here, and I recommend you do not hunt any beasts who roam these lands, unless you wish for a swift and painful end. It is unwise to antagonise Beorn.”

Thorin’s deepening scowl convinced the flighty elleth to re-join the hobbit at the back of the group. Her reappearance sparked a whole new series of questions from Ori, who had had ample time to come up with new thoughts about the stories she’d told earlier as well as finding a few flowers that hadn’t been pointed out.

Thorin glowered all the way to Beorn’s house, where his annoyance was ramped up further by the skin changer happily greeting this Ilsamirë girl and practically adopting Bilbo, while the rest of the Company were barely tolerated until Beorn had verified their story about the Goblin King.

  “Mellon-nîn. I am afraid I must trespass upon your hospitality.” Ilsamirë stopped outside the gate and spoke softly to the giant man who was copping wood in front of his house. The giant turned slowly, grasping his axe firmly. His eyes roamed across the Company, who were standing behind the elleth.

“Pethril.” The giant Man spoke slowly, his deep voice oddly soothing, “You have brought dwarrow to my lands. And a bunny, it seems.” He looked to Bilbo, “That is not a Dwarf. The rest of your party are Dwarrow. I don’t like Dwarrow. They’re greedy creatures, and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. They care nothing for those weaker than themselves.”

“These dwarrow are good people.” Ilsamirë replied with equal calm, looking at the Company and gesturing broadly towards their exhausted and rather grimy appearances. “I give you my word they will cause no trouble in your lands, old friend. They slew the Goblin King. Orcs are hunting them. Will you grant them sanctuary so they may rest and heal before the next step of their journey?”

The man growled and took three swift steps until he was looming over the elleth. He reached out one massive hand and grabbed her arm. The dwarrow gripped their weapons in readiness, shaking off their fatigue and taking a step towards the two. The giant man growled again, but Ilsamirë just smiled and reached her hand towards his face. His free hand grasped hers, bringing her palm to his nose. He sniffed loudly. The Company gaped. The elleth laughed, obviously expecting such treatment. A few of the Company looked askance at each other; just what was this giant?

“You smell of fire and blood and Orcs,” he growled menacingly, “you bring dwarrow to my land who are hunted by orcs, yet you claim they will bring me no trouble? For you, Pethril, I will not kill them, but you will owe me a tale or three,” he rumbled loudly. She nodded. The man let go of her hand and picked her up in an easy hug that brought her over the low gate. “So be it. They may tell me their story, and I will decide if they can stay. If they truly killed the Goblin King, I will even feed them.” He set her down gently and opened the gate. The dwarrow slowly traipsed past the foreboding giant. Even Gandalf seemed nervous, a reaction that wasn’t helped when Beorn stopped him easily with a hand wrapped around the wizard’s arm. “Who is this.” The question was not directed at Gandalf, though the wizard replied, slightly shakily. Beorn’s grip was not crushing, but it had potential to be so, which was clearly felt.

“Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.” The wizard chuckled nervously.

“Never heard of him.” Beorn scowled.

“I’m a wizard. Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague, Radagast the Brown? He lives in the south of what was once the Great Greenwood.” Gandalf tried, but the mention of Radagast did nothing more than let Beorn release his arm without reply.

The bear of a Man looked at the Company. “And who are you all?”

Each dwarf introduced himself, but Beorn showed no reaction until Thorin said his name. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes.

“My story, Pethril,” he said, while herding the Company closer to his house, “how did you get involved with the one they call Oakenshield? Him I have heard of.” The giant gestured towards the house, where his dogs had laid out a meal on the long table. Beorn took his seat at the head of the table, waving his large hand towards the seat beside him. Ilsamirë sat gracefully, accepting a heaping plate from the animals and began to spin her tale of meeting Bilbo under the Misty Mountains. The least injured dwarrow joined them for the meal, and Óin took himself off to look at those who needed tending. Nori’s tender ribs were rewrapped and Thorin’s bruised and battered torso was revealed.

“I have medicines in my pack that will help.” The elleth had moved silently behind Óin, staring over his shoulder. She flitted across the room and returned with a small earthenware pot. Handing the salve to the old healer, she bounded back to Beorn’s side, quickly taking up the thread of her story once more. Óin carefully sniffed the salve, before deciding to use it. After all, the girl had proven knowledgeable and he had lost his own kit in Goblin Town, so he didn’t have much choice. The old healer knew that his King would not complain of his pains, even if he should, but anything speeding up his recovery would be appreciated. He slathered a goodly amount across Thorin’s chest, making the dwarf hiss in pain. The company spent the night quietly mending whatever gear they had left, and snacking on the large spread Beorn’s sheep and dogs had provided. When Ilsamirë – or Pethril, as Beorn called her – had finished the tale of her meeting with the Company, Balin had taken the task of relaying the story of their journey since Bree, assisted by Ori’s many sketches, which the lad had somehow managed to keep hold of.

  “What were you thinking!” Dwalin began angrily. Thorin could only shrug, knowing better than to interrupt the irate Dwarf. “You would have been killed, Thorin! What did you think would happen to our family if you died?! Not to mention the Quest. Mahal’s beard, you know you’re needed for that if nothing else!” Dwalin’s temper was so frayed, he could hardly keep his thoughts organised, let alone the disjointed rant that came out of his mouth. “And the lads… Thorin, you have scared me that badly before, but think of what you would have done to Fíli and Kíli! And Dís! M’imnu Durin! She would have my beard, if not my head, sending me off to the Halls myself to scold you for such utter idiocy!” The bald Dwarf paced in the large bedroom Thorin had been allotted. The Dwarf-King could only sit on the tall bed and watch as his Kurdel’s temper found release. He idly wondered if it was wrong to think a Dwalin angry beyond words was as sexy as Thorin was currently thinking. His foggy thoughts – no doubt influenced by Óin’s medicine if not by the Elf’s salve – could just sing with admiration for his fierce lover. This had been building since the Carrock, where Dwalin had been too consumed by worry to brood on his anger. Thorin winced as Dwalin’s voice reached hitherto unknown levels of volume.

“Amrali astû, amrâlimê.” Thorin felt a little loopy. Dwalin simply stopped speaking to stare at him incredulously. “Afsâlul,” Thorin mumbled, “Dwalinimê.” He nodded.

Dwalin’s rant came to a sudden halt when Thorin began speaking. His words were slurred and Dwalin could see a line of drool making its way down his chin. Thorin just grinned loopily at him. “Óin!” Dwalin bellowed, panicking, proving that the Company had been listening at the door when Óin came stumbling through the door within seconds. Dwalin pointed at the lolling King, who was now talking to the ornately carved bedpost. The wooden bear did not answer.

“Halwmugrê…” Thorin mumbled, patting the bear carving. Óin’s long years of experience was all that let him keep his composure. Thorin had never acted like this on poppymilk nor on any of the other common pain medicines he could dispense.

“What’s wrong with him!” Dwalin pleaded with his eyes for Óin to tell him that their King’s mind was not permanently addled.

“Dwalin… c’m’ere.” Thorin slurred, reaching for a point slightly to the left of Dwalin. “Two of yes and no kisses for me,” The King’s mien was turning decidedly pouty. Dwalin gaped, but made the mistake of moving in range of Thorin’s grabby hand. “My Dwalin. My bear. Not that bear. That bear doesn’t kiss me. You should kiss me,” Thorin said solemnly…to the carving. He kept pulling on the speechless Dwalin, however, and the burly warrior followed. Óin finally lost the battle with his laughter, but managed to make it outside the door before he let loose with a barrage of great guffaws that almost scared the rest of the Company. Óin was laughing so much he began wheezing before he could manage to explain his amusement. From behind the door, the sound of Thorin’s increasingly childlike demands for kisses could be heard until Dwalin managed to shut him up. None of the other Dwarrow were brave enough to go find out how. Instead they all turned to stare at the elleth who was still sitting at the table talking to Beorn in a low voice.

“What was in that salve, Mistress Geira,” Óin asked. A grimace crossed her fair face, but she replied in a friendly tone.

“Please just call me Geira or Ilsamirë, Master Óin. The medicine is one of my own making, it renders the patient unable to feel pain almost completely. Far more effective than poppymilk, though harder to dose.” She explained. Óin paled slightly underneath his beard.

“And what happens if you… overdose the patient?” he asked in no more than a whisper. No one spoke, however, so his question was heard by all, as clearly as the happy voice of Thorin behind the closed door.

“Ah…” Ilsamirë flushed slightly. “In Elves it tends to produce a predilection for speaking in verse, as well as fixation on colours. In Dwarrow? I would hazard a guess at a spike in the amorous inclinations of the patient. This is the first time it’s been used on a Dwarf.” She kept a straight face, even when Thorin’s soft moan ended her sentence. Silence reigned in the main room.

“So…Who is hungry?” Beorn asked, breaking the spell. Each Dwarf was instantly busy with some task or other, speaking loudly enough to drown out any possible sounds from the King’s sickroom.

 [1] Hush, little avenger.

[2] Courageous Hobbit. (Zantulbasn is the common for hobbit(not rude) and mazannagûn means he who continues to show courage)

you can find the rest of the story here

[anaomynous]

Jon Snow P3

The night we had finally decided to execute the plan, I was so nervous. I stared at myself in the mirror, my face still black and purple, my skin almost healed. Osha came into my room and smiled “Okay, I am off to get him to fuck me, wish me luck, my lady,” She stated as she smirked at me. “Not that I will need it, he’d fuck a hole in the wall,” she laughed, closing the door behind her. I sighed, praying that she would be Okay, Theon’s cruel nature made me so sick.

Much later that night, I was awakened, by Osha barging into my room. She revealed the keys, jingling them in front of me “Let’s Go, my lady. We haven’t much time!!” She exclaimed. I got right, not even wasting time to put on shoes. We got Bran, Rickon, and Hodor out of the dungeons, and into the forest we ran, as we could. We hadn’t gotten that far, when we knew Theon was after us, and had figured out we had escaped during the night. “Osha, we need to hide in plain site. He isn’t the brightest man, they will find us out here in the open.” “What do you suppose we do, my lady?” I thought for a moment, Then the idea came to me. “Hide them in the tombs,” I said with a smile. Osha just stared at me “They’ll find us there,” Stammered Bran. “No, they won’t. Trust me. One of us can lead them off track,” and in a split second I knew exactly what needed to be done. I listtened in the distance, as the wind carried Theon’s men’s voices, and the sound of the hounds. “I’ll let them find me, it will set them off track,” “No! You CAN’T !” Yelled Osha “Yes, Theon loathes me, seeing me will distract him from anything else. Take them to the tombs,” without waiting for a response, I ran off towards the sounds, and poorly hid myself. Allowing myself to be found. When Theon found me, he smiled widely “Of course, it would be you I find. Little, woman, bastard, slut.” He spoke, grabbing my arm. “Oh, Jewel Snow. Trying so hard to be a noble’s daughter, when no one will tell you who your real father is, he could be a commoner for all we know, your mother a whore most likely, Ed feeling mercy on you when they found you,” He said with a smile. “Catelyn is such a rotten cunt. How it must have felt, to feel her wrath every day,” He had me tied with rope, and held onto it, practically dragging me, alongside his horse. “My Lord, what about the Stark children?” “We’ll worry about them later, this is good.” He said, tightening his hold on me. We got back to the courtyard, where he stood me in front of all the people who had adored me. Out of fear, not wanting to do anything. “This, this treasonous cunt, is one of them who escaped. I will show you, what happens to misbehaved, little sluts.” I kept myself composed, waiting for whatever it was he thought to do with me. My heart pumping, though I appeared calm. I trembled at the idea of him possibly raping me. I prayed, anything, just don’t let him put his, disgusting cock in me. He knelt me over a wooden crate, untying my dress from the back, Please, don’t rape me, I said repeatedly in my head. He placed some of the rope into my mouth, and tied it behind my head. He pulled me up by the back of my hair, wrapping it around his wrist. “I’m going to really fucking enjoy this,” He whispered into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You’ll regret kicking my in the balls all those times,” he left me go, and stood there. One of his men handing him a nine tails whip, with barbs around each piece I sighed with relief, he wasn’t going to rape me. He swung it, hitting it down on my tender, bare, skin, on my back, the first time was not so bad, stinging for a few moments, my back welted, where the leather strips hit my skin. He swung it again, this time more painful, I winced, my eyes watered, and my mouth lay opened, not knowing how to handle it. He whiped me again, again, again, again, I lost count of how many times, my legs shook, and my knees buckled. I screamed loudly, each time the strips of leather hit my skin. Feeling wounds open, my flesh tearing, raw, and bloodied. He kept going, til there were multiple, gashes on my back. My whole body shook, and Theon pointed to me “See? What happens when you fuck with Theon Greyjoy?” He spit on me, and handed the nine tails off to one if his men. He made me stand, my legs shaking, trying to balance myself. He had whiped my ass, and the tender skin on the back of my thighs as well. Maester Luwin came to assist me, but Theon shoved him away. “You, are not to heal her again, I liked her better with a broken nose.” He pulled me up the stairs, and pushed me into his bed chambers. He slammed the door behind me, locking me inside. I had no idea what was going to happen next. I could sit on the floor, because of how badly it hurt, I could not kneel, could not lay down, everything hurt. My hair was dried with my blood, as was most of my body. I knew this was part of the torture process, I just needed to fight through my desire to sit. For days I went like this. Covered in my own shit and piss, humiliated beyond belief, not having eaten for days. That’s when I heard that Winterfell was surrounded by Bolton men. I looked out to see them all crowding, while the entrances were blocked off. I had hoped Osha had listened to me, and was able to make her escape. They began to play a horn, over and over again, which was mind numbingly annoying, and loud. Everyone, was going mad. Especially Theon. He opened the door to his chambers, scrunching his nose. “You smell bloody awful,” He looked me up and down and handed me some stale bread, with water. He untied me, as I went down on my hands and knees, eating the bread and drinking the water, as if I was a ravenous animal. He watched me with disgust and scoffed. “You repulse me, Snow.” He said as he sat down on a chair. The horn playing again and again, he was clearly, agitated beyond belief. “We need to kill all of these fuckers. I was supposed to have more men!” He yelled stomping his foot down. I watched him, and wiped the food off my face. Maester Luwin ran into the room, wanting to tend to me. “I told you to leave her the fuck alone!” Theon screamed, “My Lord, please, she will get the rot if I don’t. She’s covered in feces. She’ll die!” He pleaded. Theon angrily allowed him to take me. Maester Luwin drew a bath for me, putting herbs and the same liquid he put on my nose into the bath. “This may hurt, but only for a moment.” I was humiliated as I washed myself, a grown adult, messing themselves like a child. I hugged my knees as he tended to my back “I had no idea how terrible these were,” He said softly, “It must have been so painful.” I didn’t say anything, while he helped clean and dress my wounds, sewing some of the pieces back together. “It looks like there is a minor infection here on some of the cuts, but the bath water should have cleaned it out. ” He said, trying to reassure me it would be okay. He got me a robe, and got me clean clothing. I felt so much better now, my skin not hurting so much and just the fact I was clean; it was more than enough to brighten my spirits. I hugged Maester Luwin who appeared surprised. “Thank you,” I said in tears . He hugged me back, being careful not to hurt me. “Of course, my lady. Get dressed now.” After he left me to change, I looked at the horror that was my back, my ass, and the back of my thighs. Covered in horrible bruising, cuts, stitching. I knew I would have scars everywhere. Even more of a reason that no one would wed me aside from being a female bastard. I wept at the sight of my body, and covered myself in the dress he had brought for me. The very next day, Theon wanted to try and attack Bolton’s men, when everyone pleaded for him to just surrender. Screaming out “What is dead may never die!!” As loud as he could, before someone knocked him out, I went to go outside, to see what was going on. Maester Luwin, being the kind man he is, attempted to stop what was going one, before being speared by an Iron Born. “NO!” I screamed, running down in an attempt to help him. “Get off him, disgusting bastard girl.” Yelled the man, kicking me off him. I ignored him, still trying to stay by his side, but it was very apparent he was gravely hurt. “I said get off him!” He kicked me this time, as hard as he could in the head, knocking me out cold. I woke soon, in Theon’s chambers. In a panic, I stood straight up “Maester Luwin!!” I cried, trying to get out of the room, the door was locked, and the windows wear barred. I screamed, banging on the door for someone to let me out. The door then opened, a beautiful man, looked at me with a smile “My lady, you are awake,” I gave him a confused look “ Who are you?!” I demanded. I looked passed him, seeing different men than before, it was clear, that these were Bolton men. My heart pounded “W-where’s Theon, and Maester Luwin? Is he okay?” I stammered. “Theon will be punished accordingly, I heard he did terrible things to you, my lady,” He said, sympathy in his eyes. Something about him, though appearing sweet, and so handsome, made me leery. “You’re covered in bruises, even on your pretty face,” I flinched when he tried to touch it. “I won’t hurt you, hush now,” he cooed. I tensed up, as he touched his fingers to my face. “You poor thing,” I looked away from him. “Maester Luwin,” I said the man lowered his head “My lady, I am so sorry to be the one to say this, but he succumbed to his injuries.” My ears began to ring like they did when I heard of Eddard, and my knees shook. I held onto the door frame for support. Fucking Theon, this was all his fault… I wanted him dead. I started to sob, covering my face with my hands. All of the shit I had gone through, was overwhelming. What was going to happen to me now. “My lady! I’m so sorry, allow me to console you,” he said, hugging me tightly, “Ow!” I yelled out, flinching back, and holding onto the tender skin on my back “Oh… My apologies,” he pulled down the back of my dress to see the torture I had endured. “I see now. Well, let me try that again,” He hugged me again, this time more gentle , being mindful of my injuries. He walked me back into the room, sitting down with me, on the bed. “What is your name?” He asked with a smile. “ I’m Jewel Snow.” He appeared shocked “Are you a bastard?” He asked in confusion. I nodded and looked down, waiting for the ridicule. “I’m Ramsey Snow, also a bastard.” I looked up at him “Really?” He nodded, “Yes, so we already have one thing in common,” He smiled sweetly “You really are so beautiful.” I didn’t know how to react to him. I barely knew him, and something was not quite right with him, but he was saying such kind words… also revealing he was a bastard too. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. “I wish I could take away what Theon did, but I will be sure he pays. I would love if you joined me for dinner,” I nodded slowly, not ever being asked to dine with someone before. He smiled “Okay, how about tonight then?!” He exclaimed. “Okay,” I responded with a smile. He excitedly got up “alright, my lady! Come down and join me tonight, I will wait for you,” He winked at me and walked out, closing the door behind him. This was so incredibly odd… Like I felt like I was a fly and he was a spider, I had no idea what was going to happen, but I needed to get out of here quick.

[mysmesomefluff]

Saeran tending an injury Mc got (this Mc is a big cry baby when it comes to pain) also may I just say your writing is amazing and I just haven't read a one shots like your in along time and just reading them wow, keep up the great work! I'm so glad I found your blog!

A/N: Aww, you’re so sweet anon! :) Thank you!! Hope you like this one!

Tears prick your eyes, threatening to slip out from the corners to mix with the perspiration trickling down the sides of your face. You bite down on your lip and hold your breath as you try to ignore the sweltering heat and the painful sting of the angry red abrasion stamped on your knee.

It’s hard to ignore, however. You’ve never had a decent tolerance for pain. Injuries and scrapes like these have been one of your greatest fears growing up till now, and you shudder at the thought of having to bathe later. You absolutely abhor the idea of having anything come into contact with your raw, bleeding wound. Just the thought alone is enough to make you wince, and maybe it’s purely psychological, but you swear the sting on your knee worsens a little.

“It’s just a small scrape,” you hear Saeran comment. He’s squatting next to you, head hovering above your knee as he examines your fresh injury with a blank face. It’s nothing to him, and you’re not that surprised. Considering the ordeals he had been through in the past, this is far too trivial, and your state of panic laughable and pathetic, at best.

Still, you can’t help the quickening of your pulse when you feel tiny droplets of his perspiration drip onto your leg, perilously close to your wound. You want to tell him to move away, or to wipe his sweat off first, but you daren’t release your teeth from your lower lip for fear of losing control over your tear ducts at this point.

He clicks his tongue, and then removes his bag pack, opening it and sieving through its contents. “We’ll need to wash this before it gets infected,” he remarks.

The sight of him pulling his large water bottle out of his bag is enough to make your blood run cold.

You back away immediately, your moist eyes meeting his confused ones.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s just a little water. It’s not going to hurt.”

Yes, it will, you all but scream in retort in your head. It’s going to hurt, maybe not in the way driving a knife through your leg would, but… it’s going to hurt. A lot.

Saeran, however, doesn’t get the signal you’re sending him with your eyes, and inches towards you, open bottle in hand. He reaches out to grab your leg, preventing you from moving away from him and then he slowly begins to tip the bottle sideways.

In you desperation, you try to kick him off, which earns you a pointed glare and a sharp instruction for you to stop moving and let him get this over and done with.

You know there’s no arguing with him like this, and you know that you should be disinfecting your wound or it could get worse and hurt even more than it does now.

But still.

You screw your eyes shut, and you feel the cool liquid from his bottle splash onto your calf before it slowly moves up towards your knee, where the abrasion is.

You squirm again, this time reflexively, but his grip is stronger now, and he manages to hold you in place with his knee resting on your shoe to meet your toes so you can’t kick him off again.

The resulting sting when cool water meets raw, bleeding flesh is instantaneous. Your eyes begin to water and soon they’re brimming and overflowing, your tears flowing down your cheeks and whimpers escaping you. You can’t breathe for a while, willing in your mind with all your might for the pain to subside as soon as possible.

Of course, it doesn’t. And soon you’re a sobbing mess, with a completely baffled Saeran staring at you as if you’ve finally lost your senses. You only realise how worried he actually is when you notice the skin on his forehead crinkling as he releases your foot and shifts forward so he’s closer to you, his eyes wide and apologetic as he hesitantly cradles you in his arms.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You okay?” he asks, voice right by your ear. “Does it hurt?”

You nod, clutching the hem of his shirt and resting your chin on his shoulder. “It hurts…” You sniffle, trying your best to stop the tears but they just won’t stop. They just keep gushing forward with every pulse of pain that hits you, and you hate that you have to show this side of yourself to Saeran – the crybaby that you are when it comes to anything related to pain. Some people make fun of you for it, or get irritated when you get like this because you’re a grown-up, and grown-ups are supposed to be better at dealing with pain and injuries.

“There there… Pain, pain, fly away…” Saeran mutters as he runs his hand over your head, stroking it as if he were comforting a child. The words are like a little charm or spell, repeated over and over in that soothing, tender voice of his. You’re not sure if there’s really a magical effect to his words, but soon enough, you feel the pain begin to ebb away, while your tears gradually stop flowing. Your grip on his clothes loosens, and you sit there in his arms, conscious of how your breathing is starting to go back to normal, and how the pain is gradually fading into nothing more than a little pin prick.

It’s strange, you think. Perhaps Saeran is a wizard of some sort.

He notices when you’ve calmed down, and slowly he pulls away from you, still holding you by the shoulders. His concerned eyes find yours as his hands move up to cup your cheeks and brush away the stray tears on your face with his thumbs.

“Feeling better?” he asks carefully, seeming afraid of making you cry a second time.

You nod, offering him a tiny smile. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.

His lips curve upwards slightly in response, and then he chuckles as he brushes a thumb over your right eyelid  “I didn’t think you’d cry so much from that,” he remarks with some amusement, and you begin to feel some of the self-consciousness from before return, lighting a small fire in your cheeks as you avert your gaze.

“It hurt a lot, okay?” you huff indignantly, lightly smacking him on the arm.

“Sure. Feel better now?” he inquires once more, the teasing note in his voice disappearing, replaced with genuine concern again.

And this time you offer him a true smile, one that touches your eyes. “I do. Thanks to that little chant of yours. I felt like a kid,” you add wryly. “Where did you learn that chant from, anyway?”

“Oh, that?” he mumbles, suddenly darting away from your gaze and looking bashfully to the ground. “It’s just… something Saeyoung used to do whenever I cried over my bruises back when… you know… in that house…”

You do know. You feel your heart start to ache again at the thought of the young Saeran backed up against a corner, swollen ankle bound by a thick, coarse rope when his mother was in another of her drunken tirades. You still cannot bring yourself to accept that someone could be so cruel to a boy as sweet and good and kind as Saeran.

But another part of you feels warmed by it, and you find it cute that Saeran would use Saeyoung’s little chant on you when he was at a loss for what to do earlier.

You are overtaken by a sudden urge to hug him, so you do.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling a surprised gasp from his lips as you crash his body to yours, squeezing him as tightly as you can (while making sure to keep your knee clear out of the way in case it knocks against his side by accident).

“Thank you,” you giggle. “Would you do that again for me the next time I cry over a scrape?”

Saeran is still for a moment, and you guess that he’s unsure as to how he should react to you.

But then you hear him emit a breath of laughter as his arms snake around your waist, his head snuggling against yours while his chin rests on your shoulder.

“You’re such a crybaby,” he answers with a chuckle. “Alright,” he agrees, before pulling away and standing up.

“We should get home now so you can take a shower and wash the dirt off your leg.”

Dismay washes over your face at his words. “But you just washed it!” you protest.

“It was just a rinse. You need a good shower to clean it off. Let’s go,” he instructs, holding a hand out to you so you can get up.

Stubborn as you are though, you refuse to go home right now to deal with more pain than you already had just now. You need a break.

The only thing is, Saeran doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

Before you can even make a sound of protest, your legs and butt are no longer on the ground. Saeran hoists you up in the air bridal style, hooking one arm under your knees while careful not to touch your abrasion, and the other holding your shoulder.

“Wha..! Saeran, put me down! I don’t want to go home yet! I don’t want to take a shower!” You’re throwing a kid’s tantrum now, but you could care less about that.

“Well, you don’t really have a choice," he counters, arching a brow, unamused by your whining. “You could try struggling, and risk falling and getting another abrasion. But, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“That…” The confident retort that had been on the tip of your tongue just seconds ago evaporates entirely, and you’re left speechless in the face of his victorious smirk. “Loser,” you can glean from the haughty look in his gleaming eyes.

And so without another moment to lose, Saeran begins the walk home from the park, carrying a very, very unwilling patient in his arms who dreads her imminent doom in the shower.

A/N: I’m about to sleep so I didn’t have time to proofread, I hope there aren’t any glaringly stupid mistakes in here. >

[xxthe-ice-reaperxx]

Clockwork OC Hunger Games: Outcome and Results

Time to announce the Show the Results of the Clockwork OC Hunger Games!

((I tried to do this earlier...TWICE...but I kept f*cking up and posting it too early before I was done...sorry about that QQ)) Anyway Onward to the outcome! !Warning: This is a Long Post!

Before We begin, let’s look at our lovely contestants~! http://xxthe-ice-reaperxx.tumblr.com/post/163154229975/clockwork-oc-hunger-games ((The Link is to show which oc belongs to who))

Ah, what a lovely contestant we have among us today~! (they the groups are all randomized) ((I had funny comments for each contestant, but I fucked up and they’re gone now. I can’t remember them QQ )) We have our contestants, Let’s begin the Games!

+ Winston and Jocelyne decide to take the smart route and run right off the bat! smart choice! + Freddy and Miss Mpoe fight over a bag, but lucky for Freddy Mpoe seems to give up on the bag right away.  + And the first blow is made by Nemisalu against Mr. Daniel! Don't worry Dan. It hurts now, but hey, at least you’re alive!  :D

+ OH LORDY! THE SECOND BLOW IS THROWN BY MISS RYAN LANE TO YOUNG WORM OVER A BASKET OF DELICIOUS BREAD! Damn, Ryan...was the bread really worth punching a child for it?...oh who am I kidding, this is the hunger games! Of Course, it is! + Melty managed to get her hands on some useful weapons! nice! + While Emma and not me Hail flee

+ Oh wow! Lonely Babineaux Family Butler, Joey, gets himself some knives!...I still bet $10 he doesn’t last... +Audrey and Timothy dont take any chances though and run out of there while-- + OH SHIT! FIRST BLOOD IS DRAWN BY MISS WILLOW AND TAKES OUT EVELINE, BELINDA AND QUENTIN! Good Game, Willow. Well Played.

+ The Explosion must have really spooked the other contestant because they all flee into the woods. All that is, except ballsy Angus! Who manages to snag himself a canteen of water! well played! Wow! what a way to start these games off with a....BANG! :D  ...Now onward to the First Day

+ Freddy makes a wise choice not looking into smoke. That shits bad for you, little dude + Oh dear. Looks like Daniel, Matches, Willow and Daphne have grouped up and robbed Timothy blind while he’s away. It’s because he somewhat looks like Gaz isn’t it + Ryan seems to take to stalking to Punchy now...dear god, dont tell me that punching Worm gave her a desire to punch all catacomb dwellers now O_O;; + Meanwhile, Audrey gathers wood for a fire.  

+ OH! IT SEEMS WE’RE ON THE ‘WE’RE GONNA ROB EVERYONE BLIND’ STAGE OF THE GAMES.  +Oh well, at least Mpoe avoids death by Alien and Arlie’s builds herself a nice home.... + Oh and Jocelyne killed a poor Baker. JOCE WHHHHY!? Before we continue, let us honor the First Fallen Tributes

(Like my elimination icons? xDDD)

Night 1

+ Aries tries to sing herself to sleep while I assume coping with her father being DEAD now + awww, Joey tends to the wounds of little Worm. How sweet ;w; + Melty does some star gazing  + and Punchy is now armed and dangerous

+ Welp! Seems everyone; Minus Winston who is cooking, Audrey whose staying up all night...can’t blame her, and Out cold Nemisalu; is camping out with each other! How nice...those Emma, Freddy, Tim, and Matches telling each other ghost stories at a time like this is concerning.... Now let us move on to Day Two

+ Whoa, not cool, Emma! Nemi was sleeping!  + AUDREY NO! DONT CHASE THE CHILD! I know he’s a lil shit, BUT STILL!   + Well at least Daniel and Punchy are staying sane....I think...

+ Daphne and Melty both doing all they can to stay safe and sane....though Melty seems to think she’s King Neptune now...O_o;; + Timothy and Aries are on the war path now (and who can blame them, Aries lost her dad and Tim got robbed by two of his friends!) + Joey! Don't you know it’s rude to run from your crush employer’s daughter!? so unprofessional!

+Arlie got some medical supplies...thats good....buuuut + JESUS H. CHRIST Winston, Mpoe and Ryan caused a blood bath! My lord! also Ryan...Ryan....YOU AND CATACOMB DWELLERS, BRUH.  Bow your heads to the Second Round of Fallen Tributes

Night Two

+....ah, what a peaceful night this way (except for poor Tim)....and Emma, Winston, screams will not help you here. Sorry. Day 3

+ Mostly peacful day too, nice....minus Daniel getting stabbed. GDI, Emma.  Fallen Tributes, Round 3~

Night 3

+ Another peaceful night, and no one died this time....though Punchy, Daphne and Ryan singing cheerful songs to each other is a little concerning... Day 4

+ Punchy and Daphne work together while everyone runs away from eachother...this is fine. 

+ Winston collect food, Audrey goes on the war path, and Jocelyne picks flowers...for some reason...okay. Nothing wrong here-- + GDI, MELTY! THAT WAS THE LAST CHILD! WHY!? Fallen Tributes Round 4

.....well....at least it was only one this time??? Night 4

+....me things some people are starting to lose it *cough*Winston and Mpoe*cough* Day 5

+ War path for Daphne now, Winston trying to sleep, Emma hurts herself and... +JOCELYNE. BRUH. HOW DID YOU EVEN GET THOSE INJURIES???? THE FUCK???

+ Aw, how nice. you got medical supplies, Joey....COULD HAVE HELPED JOCELYNE WITH THEM! #WorstButler + Arlie tries to sleep too +Stalker Ryan returns?? ...well at least its not a towards a catacomb dweller this time. 

+ Aries seems spooked by everyone now +annnnnnd Punchy now has bombs, GDI, GUYS! Well besides Jocelyne kicking it from injuries no one knew she had... At least it was only one person again-- Oops...spoke too soon, here comes the Acid Rain!

+ Well at least the Butler lived (love how it’s not explained HOW Joey survived xD) + tfw one self-insert betrays another self-insert and kills them O_o + Wow....WOW....that’s bad Karma right there.... RIP Audrey and Ryan.

+ Poor Aries...at least she’s with her father again.... ;-; +Thats just cold man... +and on this day there was no honor among Catacomb Dwellers....GDI, PUNCHY! Now Gaz has to recruit new smugglers! I hope you’re happy! Fallen Tributes Round 5 ....thats a lot of dead people

Night 5

+Mpoe gets food, Daphne has nightmares likely about her dead sisters, Melty and Punchy gossip and Joey is left cold tonight....noob. Ooo! another Arena Event! The Feast! I wonder what the surviving contestants will--

Oh.... (Mpoe dodged a bullet there) Day 6

+ Punchy....YOU KNOW HOW TO MAKE A FISH TRAP! WTF ARE YOU DOING!? + ....only NOW do you question your sanity, Joey? then again you did just snap a poor girl’s neck O_O;;; + Mpoe seems to be chill though... Fallen Tributes round 6

Night 6

+ well they both lost their dear friend Jocelyne....$10 they cried into each other all night.  + Mpoe is still chill though...depsite what happened... Day 7

+ All seems fine here.....though....PUNCHY USE A F*CKING FISH TRAP! GDI WOMAN!....or at least aim better! Night 7

+ Punchy is now a creeper + Aww, Mpoe tends to poor Joey....start of a beautiful friendship??? Day 8

+ DAY 8! NO ONE DEAD YET And now for another Arena Event Monkey Mutts

+ OWCH what horrible ways to go. So Close.... Final Fallen Tributes

Rest in peace-- wait...Joey wasn’t mentioned in there.....No way.....no fucking way.... HOLY SHIT

JOEY BLAISE! THE LONELY SERVANT OF THE BABINEAUX FAMILY IS               THE WINNER OF THE CLOCKWORK OC HUNGER GAMES!

(shame he’s most likely going to die when he gets back to the manor for what happened to the Babineaux Siblings owo;;; )

Here are the placements in all!

Joey Blaise Wins the Clockwork OC Hunger Games! Though Willow Steeple also wins for having the most kills! That was fun! thank you for those who volunteered their poor OC(s) for this!

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 15

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. 
Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ credits go to the lovely ladies at Tom-Hiddleston-Imagine.Tumblr.com. Link to the imagine here…. http://tom-hiddleston-imagines.tumblr.com/post/158156795440/gif-lokihiddleston-imagine-thomas-spying-on-you
 Chapter number: Chapter 15 Author: Punk-in-doc Triggers/warnings: Angst. Wounds, graphic mentions of past abuse. poor Vianne, she’s really having a rough time of it. Thomas, as ever, is lovely. And Dr. Erik Harriden proves himself a worthy ally.

Dr. Harriden stalked, in long strides, along the hotel corridors. His mood was somber, and his temper was shadowed with both concern and rage in equal measure. His arm was braced tightly downwards with the heavy weight of his medical bag. His rude awakening he had considered slightly less so, when the messenger told him that Sir Thomas Sharpe had sent the missive. The frown was wiped off his face completely when they mentioned it said Vianne was in dire trouble. Suddenly, he didn’t care that it was quarter past two in the morning. He was awake now. Riddled with a dark, sickening black worry for his work colleague.

When he comes to the prince of wales suite, he stands, rigid, and knocks sharply on the door. Even the unmusical, impatient tones of his knock sounded rich with strife.

Almost instantly, the door is wrenched open from the other side, and the dire face of the man who summoned him appears. It was a handsome face, he thought. Ravens hair, stark white skin, and the garish vermillion of a tear stain of a scar. Made all the more careworn by the black bags of anguish sitting heavily under his eyes.

“Doctor…” Comes the dulcet, somber tone from between the mans thin lips. This man looks as if death it’s very frightening self, was looking over his shoulder. Harriden can see, plain as day, the mans suffering was all due to the incertitude of Viannes current condition.

He widens the door, and the doctor sweeps silently inside. In the wake of the shutting door, Harriden turns as they are enclosed in the half dark, half candlelit extravagance of a formal sitting room. Decorated flawlessly. Huge, arched windows, framed with honey gold light from candelabras. This was the room of not only a man whose pockets were plentiful and deep. But a man who oozed wealth from every pore of his being. Comforts to make up for the fact his life before had been ripe with penury, scrounging about for capital, and debt wherever he could struggle for it.

Harriden could see this man, only in breeches, boots and a white shirt. His dark waistcoat hung at his sides. Smeared with blood. Smudges of it on his pale upper arms, exposed by the rolled sleeves. He stood wearily. Near exhausted by worry.

“I’m sorry to have called you out at such an ungodly, unsocial hour Doctor. But you are the only one I’ll trust to.. Tend to her.” He speaks lowly. Harriden nods in complete understanding. In this dark, odd mixture of half light and murky darkness that crept in at the edges of the room. Harriden can also sense a strange aura of guilt radiating from the man before him.

“How was she harmed? Mr. Sharpe? Who by? Who would wish her harm?” Harriden asks her gravely.

“I don’t know… And that terrifies me.” Sharpe answered in a angered growl. Clearly shaken. Harriden could see his pale hands trembling.

“This way…” He explains, leading the good doctor quickly through the large suite. Pressing open the bedchamber door. Harridens eyes go instantly to the figure prostrate on the large bed. Bundled under the bedcovers. One oil light casts honeyed light from the corner. But save for that, the room was unlit.

Thomas had covered her up so she wouldn’t get cold. And placed a moistened cloth on her arm, he had been burned numerous times before from his many inventions. He knew what the stinging burn could feel like, but hers looked a thousand times worse than any wound he’d suffered. The raw, weeping wound nearly covered the entire lower half along her left arm. Just below the elbow, and ending at the wrist. She was barely conscious, ebbing in and out. And when she did wake, she only made whimpering sounds of pain.

Harriden got to work immediately. Shedding his jacket, he sat on the side of the bed, and gave her a preliminary examination. She was very clammy, and he was worried about the state of the wound. Whatever caused it hasn’t been sterilised and he would have to bathe, and disinfect it. With regular injections to keep infection at bay.

“Fetch a cool cloth for her head. She’s very warm. If this wound is infected, I don’t want her to start presenting a fever.” He instructed Thomas. “Give her as much fluid as she can manage. Keep her cooled, she needs as much medicine as she can take for the pain and that nasty burn.” He tells. Thomas nods, scattering for the en-suite. He wrings a wet cloth under the ice cold tap. It was then he noticed how hard his hands were shaking. Fumbling all the more in the cold. And his reflection awaiting him in the mirror is a frightful one. His face was stark, sallow, pitted and he recognised that feral look of deep rooted sorrow, and fear in his eyes. Lingering, simmering in his chest ready to pounce and choke him if he was weak enough to let it.

He wrings out the ice cool cloth, and paced back through. Harriden was leaning over Vianne, her slim arm in his hand as he bathed the wound in something, getting the foreign dirt out of it so it could heal safely. He watched the water drop and twist down off her arm, into the excess bowl below. All the while she just lay there. Her breathing shallow and uneven. That’s what pains him most. The mere fact she was only just conscious, dipping in and out, able to just feel the pain. Not unconscious enough to allow her to feel nothing. It was torturing him.

He walks back across, and puts the cloth on her forehead. Watching her frown, clearly wincing in her drugged daze at the wound being cleaned. Thomas twines his fingers in her hair. Stroking it as he cups her clammy cheek in his hand and crouched by the head of the bed. His free hand clutching her right arm. Linking through her pale fingers. He can do nothing. Nothing, but paltry pastimes to try and ease her agony. And that hits him the hardest of all. Worst if all was that it makes him feel so horribly inadequate.

“Hold her tight. Mr. Sharpe. She may squirm.“ He forewarned him.

She thrashed all the more when Harriden applied said salve to the wound. She cried out.

“Don’t take them. Don’t let them take them away from me. Don’t…I love them. They’re mine! They should be with me! Please!” She cries. Thomas frowns over at Harriden in confusion. Begging for an explanation.

“She’s been drugged. She could be hallucinating…” Harriden explained.

Her body writhing around under the sheets. She fought, struggling against the source of the pain. Thomas clutched her close. Soothing her with gentle, calming words. Stroking her hair and holding her near. Clutching her close to his chest. Looking across anxiously to Harriden. Who gave him, in return, an empathetic look.

Harriden angrily grit his teeth. Dabbing still at her arm. Thomas saw the angered profile of his incensed expression. His dark eyes somber.

“Who could do this? She’ll be scarred with this injury for the rest of her life… The pain will have been… Unimaginable. Unbearable. What kind of man could do this? cause this amount of harm to someone as kind and sweet as her?” He asked Thomas.

He looked down at her, tenderly stroking her face before he answered the man.

“They were Monsters. Not men.” Thomas tells him.

He then gently lifted her good hand to his lips and kissed it. He watched her face all the while, before reaching back for the cloth and dabbing at her head once more. Her head lolled back into the pillows. That pale throat, stretched back, beaded in sweat. As was her forehead. Catching in the sparse gaslight there was to be had in the room.

“She spoke of you, you know…” Harriden spoke up. After Thomas finished watching him bathe, dress and pin the white bandage securely around her wrist. The immaculate dressing reached from elbow to palm. He was carefully laying her arm down straight when he spoke up.

Thomas blinked, startled, across at him. The revelation slowly dawning on him. Harriden saw it was the look of a man caught unawares. As if he didn’t deserve such a nice thing. Which the Doctor couldn’t believe for a second. Most married couples he attended on home calls, the husband waited outside the room, with cold indifference. And didn’t want to hear any singular intimate detail of his spouses condition. And the women were very uneasy, mortified, over having their anatomy discussed with a man who was not their husband. But this man, he hadn’t left her side. He mopped her brow, he calmed her down. He held her close, loved her. Kissed her hand. Looked as if he was being driven out of his sane mind with worry for her.

“She did?” He asks quietly. Still unbelieving. Harriden nodded a kind smile. His warm brown eyes melted, crinkling at the corners.

“More than St. Clair. Often. She told me about, your inventions, how you liked Bach, William Blake poetry, Rodin’s sculptures. How she met you at a Ball like it was any other night… But how she felt, so enraptured. How she joined you, on a picnic, when it rained afterward. To museums. To Guy Fawkes night, just for a stroll in regents park. She told me once that the scent of roast chestnuts, and bonfire smoke on cold, November air, would always remind her of you.” He told. Smiling as he sorted his various medical vials and bottles back into his monogrammed, cracked, leather case.

Thomas looked down at her, squeezing her hands.

“… Of course. When she spoke of Henry St. Clair, there was, some, affection. But it was… Colder. Words and memories of you fell freely, and fondly. I could see it, Mr. Sharpe, she had to force herself to smile when she thought of him.” He explained profoundly.

“… And then that night.” He paused. Angrily exhaling, shaking his head. Sharply rolling down his sleeves after having scrubbed his hands harshly, with a nail brush, in the enamel bowl of clean, warm water on the other bedside. The severe, hiss and scratch of tough bristles against skin made Thomas's teeth set on edge and his skin crawl.

“The night?” Thomas asks.

“Do you, know about… How he used to…treat her?” He asked carefully. Treading on eggshells.

Thomas’s heart was in his mouth. So he nods. An odd mixture of rage, guilt and sadness churning around in his stomach.

“I was the one who stitch her up. That night. Tell me, Mr. Sharpe, have you ever dislocated your shoulder?” He asks kindly.

“I have been blessed never to have gone through such a pain.” Thomas told.

“There’s no pain like it. It’s the most intense agony of any injury there is. He threw her down those stairs. And even with a separated shoulder, she caught a hackney cab halfway across London, to the royal. All the while she was loosing blood fast from the cuts in her back. I can’t pretend to know how excruciating those injuries were. She climbed five flights of stairs with a sprained ankle, to get to my office. Lord help me, I’ll never forget the sight that greeted me that night…” He told truthfully. Because he never would.

The lecture theatre doors had burst open, whining, shrieking, and Vianne tore through them. Limping, making her hobbling way through the seats. Sobbing Harriden’s name. But not his surname. His doctors title. No. She cried out his first name. Erik. He had burst out his office to get to her, and she collapsed in his arms. Weeping. Her eyes tear stained, makeup seeping down in dark trails over her cheeks. Her eyes red raw, and he could see blood dripping down her shoulder. Blossoming through the back of her dress. Her hands cut to ribbons, and a bruise flowering over her eye. She scrambled for his arms. Pleading, crying through the agony, meeting his eyes. Making him swear, on his life, that he wouldn’t let anyone know she was here because a man had beaten her. He agrees. And then he can tend to her wounds. Biting his tongue. Not able to say what he truly wanted too.

Thomas sat, enraptured, eyes glistening tears as he listened through his story. Clutching her hand.

“Mr. Sharpe. I’ve stitched her up, over six times. I can recall every injury. Every black eye. Bruises on her neck, her back and shoulders that she didn’t let out a word about. I will not stay silent and let another man torture her. She has been through hell because of that, savage. If I can avoid any more harm coming to her, I will do it with all the might, fury, and every fibre of my being.” He promises the man.

“I assure you, Dr. If any harm comes to her, it most certainly shall not originate from me. I would give my life in defence of her well-being. I adore her. I love her. Love is my religion and I could die for that.” He speaks clearly.

Harriden crooked a smile. “Keats. Very noble.” He smiles.

“But… Your gallantry is wasted. Sharpe. No man gets a wound like the ones slashed across your stomach, and bashed across your knuckles, if not in defence of someone else’s life and safety.” He told him, with easy, well learned, medical confidence.

Thomas looked down his front, dismayed to see his wound from the alley altercation was seeping through the bandages he’d wound across his torso that very morning before getting dressed. His shredded, black and blue, sore, swollen knuckles grated with white pain when he moved his hand to pluck at his shirt front. He smiled wryly.

“I wasn’t trying to insinuate you are under any sort of blame… But, you find out who did this, to her. You find them, and make them pay for the both of us. For doing this to someone whom we clearly both care a great deal about…” Harriden pressed. Thomas could see the affection he had for his colleague. On the serious gleam in his eyes, that had previously been so soft, and welcoming. The hard, unamused lines on his face that belied his bone deep anger, rage, at seeing her in such a state of agony once again.

Thomas smiled. Safe in the knowledge that apart from the ugliness of their separation, and Henry abusing her, she had found some good people to align herself with in this world. People to keep her smiling, to keep the pain, and darkness at bay.

“She told me how when she started at the Royal, you took her under your wing from her first day. She was terrified of making a mistake, or hurting someone. And she said you came in, all smiles, jokes and put everyone at ease. She wasn’t so scared after that. She deserves that… She deserved someone good, like you.” He complimented.

Harriden smiled at the jerking of that memory. He remembers her first day too. Her eyes full of wonder, her longing thirst for knowledge. "You know she pointed out early signs of gangrene in a patients foot ulcer. Not even matron, or the other surgeons had picked up on that. Her observations were remarkable… She is a nurse down in the very marrow of her bones.“ Harriden told him. Thomas smiled warmly. It was the first time all evening the Doctor had seen Sharpe’s frosty blue eyes thaw. In fond recalled memories of his Vianne.

"That sounds like her… She told me as a girl and was always the one taking in wounded birds and healing them, setting them free again. She has a nurturing touch… Everyone who knows her, knows how caring she is.” Thomas told him. Harriden beamed, nodding in agreement. That was Vianne all over.

“Anyway. I’d best be going… It’s late and the both of you need your rest. She must keep the dressing clean, and dry. And apply salve before any sterile bandages to stop the wound sticking. She’ll know the rest when she wakes… But she should be alright for now. She’ll sleep. And she may take whatever she needs for pain relief when she wakes…” He tells the man. Moving to the end of the bed. Shirt righted once more. Neat as a pin. Standing proud, imposing, with his arm taut holding his heavy medical bag. The professional, smart doctor once again.

“Thankyou. Again, Doctor. So much, for attending her.” Thomas speaks warmly. Reaching across to shake his hand. Thomas fingers were cold, and rigid. And Harriden felt his hands jolt, too swollen to properly grip back.

“Did I need to see to those hands?” Harriden asks. “You must be in pain. Sir..” He asks. Eyeing him, scrutinising for the obvious symptoms.

“I’ll heal fine. I just wish the same could be said for her arm…” Thomas spoke in perceptible distress. Going back to Vianme, holding her pale hand in his again. Re-wringing out the cloth to make it cooler. Placing it back on her heated forehead.

“Give it time.” Harriden said. “I know it's…horrible. But it will fade. Eventually.” He sighs. Thomas nods. And in that nod, Harriden could see his determination. If he needed too. He’d sit up all night, by her bed. Attending her every need. Easing her pain.

“I’ll see myself out. And you write me personally, again, if you need any shred of help. I am a friend to her, and to you. If you need one.” He explained nicely. Disappearing around the doorframe. Out of sight.

Thomas nodded. Retaking his seat. Listening as the Doctors footfalls grow hushed, then quiet. The noise of the door shutting in his wake echoes through the dead silence of the hotel room. All he could hear now, was the spit and crackle of the fire, the the noises of gaiety outside on the pavements, feet clacking, carriage wheels and hooves rattling, drifting up to the window.

He looks down over her. Watching her chest rise and fall. He toys with a lock of curled red hair. Winding it round his finger. Looking with anger on the bruise that had been bashed on her temple. Now turning a violent purple. A crescent shaped dent in the centre a stark shade of vermillion where it had broken the skin. He pulled the covers up to her chest, making sure she kept warm. His cool, swelling fingers reached around the back of her neck, cupping her slender nape, feeling her temperature that was just above normal. Her hot skin branded his icy fingers.

In the silence, his tiredness suddenly creeps in. Now he can feel the grating bones of his hands, swelling painfully. The strain of his hunched shoulders, aching cheeks from blows in the fight. And the wound on his torso was starting to sting. His eyes feel incredibly heavy, and he is fighting just to keep them focused and alert.

He stifles a yawn. And after reaching for the heavy eiderdown pushed to the foot of the bed, he ensures she is covered, content, and happy. Before pouring himself a small, stiff drink from the crystal cut decanter in the parlour area, crossing back to the bedchamber, he chucks the drink back. Crosses to the short settee, and reclines his legs on it. Stretching out. His long limbs uncurling out, finally able to relax. The door he’d bolted. The windows were all locked. For tonight, they were safe.

He watched her, feeling the firelight taint the side of his face. Warming him. His eyes go fuzzy, the rooms blurs. And he falls asleep by the time the whiskey hits his stomach.

~

It’s the coolness that wakes her, she shuffled, moving her head. Her eyes stir. And when she peeks them open, she feels that it actually wasn’t her moving her head, but a calloused palm pressing down a cool, wet cloth to her head is what rouses her in the end.

“Thomas?” She asks, letting her eyes adjust to the cold blue light of the ceiling up ahead. She didn’t recognise the room before her. The unfamiliar bed, window and decor. She whimpers his name.

When her hooded eyes slither open, she squints, before the blurry focus of him comes into view. Those piercing eyes the same shade as the midnight blue room about them, that dark hair swinging in his face. He soothes her, smiling down at her, stroking her soft, cold forehead.

“I’m here. Vianne. My love. I’m here…” He tells her.

“Have they gone?” She rasps. His heart breaks for her. He nods.

“They’ve gone. They won’t come back. They won’t get to you, or us, anymore. I promise.” He assures her.

She shifts over in bed, trying sitting up, hissing at the splintering pain shooting through her eye sockets. She feels him startle as she moves so vigorously. He places a hand over her good one.

“Easy. Slowly, darling…” He tells her. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.” He adds. She was caring, but she was headstrong.

“Where are we?” She asks, hoarsely. Frowning bewilderedly at the unfamiliar place. He scatters from his chair. Making a beeline for the side table. He pours her a cup of slightly cooled tea, stirs in milk. And walked it back over to her. He held it close, helping her with her good hand to drink it. She’d been asleep for hours, she was bound to feel parched.

“The Ritz. My suite. I didn’t want to take you back home. Just in case it wasn’t safe. They knew where you worked. I didn’t wish to take the risk.” He explains.

She nods, sipping the tea. The wet heat of it was bliss. It may have been the worlds best cup of tea. It certainly tasted like it. It stung her teeth, and branded her throat. But it was heaven to the sticky, dry chasm of her parched lips. She moans gratefully. Draining the cup dry in one quick gulp.

He smiles at her ravenous appetite. Glad to see she was getting better already. It had scared him earlier. Her writhing and twisting in agony and in a drugged haze.

“Harriden said you should drink as much as possible. And, get to your feet again slowly. When you want too. Not to overwhelm you with strain.” He tells. After getting her another cup of tea, handing it to her good hand. She took it gratefully.

“You must be getting tired of saving my skin.” She tells him. Her eyes having swept over the swelling in his hands. The new bruises by his eye, and on his knuckles.

He smiles. Patting her knee softly under the covers.

“The lovely skin is more than worth saving.” He awards her. She is sure she blushes. Then she asks the question that had been echoing in her head all night. Rattling back and forth like ball bearings in a tin can.

“How did you know where to find me? How did you… Get there before they managed to do something worse than this…?” She asks. Lifting her poorly arm to show him what she meant.

His face fell. And she watches his jaw grit together. He averts his eyes. Wets his lips. And then he meets her eyeline once again. Looking apprehensive.

“Your not going to like it…” He tells her in a quiet hush.

“Thomas, who was it? Who told you?” She asks keenly.

He didn’t want to tell her. But he had too. He owes her that much. However strange and frightening her evening had been. It was all the more terrifying hearing the following name sail out of his lovely lips.

“Rosamund Price.” He says stiffly.

 ~