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drabbles-mc · 2 years ago

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Ashling you don't understand how hyped I am for this. Drown me in it.

you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón -> this mental image. Love.

But the good food aside, you’re still so alienated and bored that when a fistfight breaks out in the club, it come as a welcome change of pace. -> CACKLINGGGGG she's so fucking valid for this lmaoooooo. You know what this party needs??? VIOLENCE.

So you fall back on a motley bag of street fighting tricks, plus what you learned from a misspent summer at a boxing club, mostly just trying to stay upright and get your licks in where you can. -> INSTANTLY i want to sit with this woman and share a drink with her. Iconic. Adore.

A punch would’ve been fine, but this? -> okay no but this is so real. I always say I would rather be punched than slapped. There is something so disrepectful about being slapped across the face that a right hook just doesn't sting my ego quite as much lmao

Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied. -> I want her.

No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death. -> LETSFUCKINGGOOOOOO

“I have every intention of eating you whole” -> my eyes have been replaced by SAUCERS ��👀👀

With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do. -> AND WHO COULD BLAME HER????? WHO WOULD B L A M E HER?????? I'm insane rn I'm absolutely fucking unwell

He got on his knees like it was his first choice. -> sweating over this

You close your eyes, because you don’t want to see it, don’t know what the hell to do with it, and choose instead to sink deep into the sensations in your body as he wrings you out. -> no but WHYYYYY am i absolutely salivating over this sentence. I'm losing my mind!!!!!!

when it’s over and he has his chin propped up on your thigh, both of you looking exhausted, neither of you done, you get the weirdest urge to push his sweat-damp hair off his forehead -> FUCK OFFFFFF (affectionate, complimentary) I CANNOT HANDLE THIS!!!!!! i refuse to try and remain normal under these conditions!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm slamming my fist into the wall!!!!!!!!!!!

The message is: I owe you one. -> i am currently the human embodiment of heat feral chomping emoji. I'm losing my fucking MIND. I just. I need to sit and stare at the wall for a minute.

blood on vacation

David Barrón/F!Reader

written for @narcosfandomdiscord's smut alphabet, namely the July 2 prompt blood

tags: fistfight, absolutely unhinged preoccupation with bloody knuckles, fingering, oral sex

warnings: blood, probably unsanitary, reader is an OFC (Sabrina Tanaka), violence, this was not beta read and it kind of sucks ngl

length: 1.8k words

You’ve only been Mexico City for a week, and you’re already all vacationed out. It’s not Marcela’s fault. The two of you make no sense as friends—she, the trust fund kid formerly known as Marcelo who initially met you at your dad’s jiu jitsu academy, currently partying her way across the globe with an increasingly dodgy set of cousins, exes, and assorted other rich vagabonds, and then you, the standoffish sparring tutor forever known as Mr. Tanaka’s kid, with an unhealthy penchant for taking your skills to street wanderings, just to see if you could. She was whimsical and merry, spiritually curious and given to bouts of dangerously committed romantic pining, and you were stolid and practical and highly suspicious of anyone as eager to please as a car salesman, much less a preacher or supposed future lover. The one similarity between the two of you is that you both were born and raised in São Paulo, and could both kick hard enough to break bones. But the rest? Pure opposites attract chemistry.

She’s been generous on this trip, doing the rich girl thing in splendid style, and footing the bill for your part completely. She translates for you whenever she sees you getting lost—Brazilian Portuguese is similar enough to Mexican Spanish that you can kinda sorta understand what people are saying if they’re saying it slowly and doing overtime with the nonverbal cues—and does it naturally, not like it’s a chore or an opportunity to show off. She introduces you to her club kid friends with excitement, like she’s showing them someone really cool. She’s a sweetheart, Marcela is, and you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón. But the good food aside, you’re still so alienated and bored that when a fistfight breaks out in the club, it come as a welcome change of pace.

There’s broken glass on the ground—Ramón’s older sister smashed a bottle over somebody’s head, good for her—so no ground fighting for you. And there’s too many people around to dedicate yourself to a hold. So you fall back on a motley bag of street fighting tricks, plus what you learned from a misspent summer at a boxing club, mostly just trying to stay upright and get your licks in where you can. It’s all fun and games until one of them slaps you, open palm. A punch would’ve been fine, but this? You hit his nose with the base of your palm, driving up to break it, then follow that up with a jab. Not satisfied yet, you sweep one of his feet out from under him, shove hard, and finally get him on the ground (broken glass be damned) in a hold that has him gasping fruitlessly for oxygen, his neck in the crook of your arm, his body trying to wriggle round and find an angle at which his elbow shots to your ribs will actually mean something. Unfortunately for him, when you’re pissed off, you could take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care. Fortunately for him, nobody there actually wants anyone to die, so after a bit, several people pull you off him. One of them is Marcela, so you give it up. The fight has died down anyways; both sides are separating into bloodstained, wary-eyed groups.

Keeping steady eye contact with the man who slapped you, you lift your bloody-knuckled hand to your mouth, part your lips, and lick a long stripe of his blood off your skin. Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied.

As you turn to talk to Marcela, ask her where the bathrooms are so you can clean yourself up a little (Ramón is already yelling about partying the whole night through, and Marcela seems completely unruffled, so you doubt you’re all about to leave now), you catch a glimpse of something. Everyone here is preoccupied with their injuries, or other people’s, or the retreating crowd of interlopers, except for one man who seems to have witnessed your last threat. He’s dressed a little different than the others, in an oversized polo shirt. You remember getting a glimpse of him in the fight, thinking you might need to take him on next and grimly assessing that prospect as a dangerous one before he easily elbowed a guy who was heading for Ramón’s brother. So he’s not useless, and he’s not easily cowed. Just now, he’s looking back at your challenge of a glance with a flat-eyed expression that you can’t quite parse.

Hm.

No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death.

Inside the club bathroom, he hooks his fingers over the top of your jeans and tugs you forwards a couple inches. Commanding, but not a threat. Not trying to make you stumble, just getting you that much closer.

Regarding him with a curious, almost lazy look, you’re almost inclined to let him have his way, but then, as he goes to unbutton your jeans, his knuckles smear blood along your stomach. You close your hands over his wrists, and he pauses.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, slow and clear, lave as mãos. And he gets it.

You know he gets it, because he looks down at your hands, your bruised, swollen, bloody hands, and then back up at you in a way that makes his blank expression rather pointed. Oh, does the international man of mystery have a sense of humor after all?

“Do it,” you say, faça isso. That must not be close enough to Spanish, because he frowns a little. You give up.

You pull his hands out of your jeans, feeling a shiver go through you at the friction, and then you let go of him, walk over to the sink, and turn on the tap. As you lean back against it, the countertop digs into your thighs, suggestive. The dull pulsing thump of the club music outside gives the tiny bathroom a cloistered, cocooned quality. His dark eyes meet yours evenly.

You don’t move, don’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Silent. Yeah?

Yeah. He takes a couple steps forward and washes his hands, and as he does so he mutters something to himself in yet another language, English, maybe. As he dries his hands, he smiles. It’s a wry, private smile.

Two can play at that game. In your mediocre, third-generation Japanese, you say, “I have every intention of eating you whole” in exactly the same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy.

As he steps towards you, you could swear he says something that sounds like gostaria, dangerously close to I would like that, almost like he understands you.

You decide: no more talking.

Zero to a hundred. He tastes like beer and you, unfortunately, can’t get enough; your hands cup the back of his head, his neck, fingertips digging in as he finally unbuttons your jeans and shoves them and your panties down your thighs in one impatient motion. You could hop up onto the countertop, but why do that? This way is so much better, his wet hands gripping your ass, the swift coolness of droplets sliding down the back of your thighs, the low grunt he makes when he lifts you.

“Sorry, was that hard for you?” you say, but he’s two steps ahead of you. Got his palms warm on the inside of your knees, spreading your thighs and catching sight of just how wet you are for him. It’s his turn to be smug, clearly, but you can’t even be mad at it when he wears that smile so well.

He gets on his knees.

You should’ve known it’d be like this from the second you caught his eye in the aftermath of the fight. You really should’ve known, but it still punches an unwanted sound out of you, a small sound in the back of your throat, when he gets his face between your thighs in seconds, no hesitation, and starts to lick your cunt like it’s ice cream and he’s starving.

With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do. With your fingers sunk into his hair and your eyes half-lidded, you feel like you could melt and slip right down that drain. For his part, he’s got you just how he wants you, with your legs parted wide to accommodate the width of his shoulders, his right forearm a bar across your belly. You have no fucking idea how or why he’s doing this—men who see you gone full destroyer don’t usually think to themselves, I want to make her feel good, they tend to think along much darker lines. They want to dominate you, and you get what fun you can out of the process of denying them that. But this? He got on his knees like it was his first choice. You do not know what this is, but you’ll take it. He slips a finger inside you, and you’re so wet that it barely burns at all. Two fingers. Fuck. He leans his weight into your stomach, across your thighs, to stop you from bucking up into his mouth, and that’s—that’s fair. It’s all you can do not to whimper, and your heavy panting sounds desperate enough. Three fingers and you do whimper.

He looks up, and you’re already bracing yourself, but no. There’s no sneer in it; there’s something else. All night, this nameless man has been quiet, unnoticeable, and then, once noticed, mysterious, but now you see him. The first look is caution, but the second? The second is all appreciation, like he could drink the sight.

That look hits you hard. You close your eyes, because you don’t want to see it, don’t know what the hell to do with it, and choose instead to sink deep into the sensations in your body as he wrings you out. A wave of euphoria hits you as you come, and it’s just the body, you know it’s just the body, but when it’s over and he has his chin propped up on your thigh, both of you looking exhausted, neither of you done, you get the weirdest urge to push his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Little killer, you want to say. Damn near affectionate. (It’s just the body.)

The cops arrive at the club before you can manage to return the favor, and Marcela hates all interactions with the cops with a flaming passion, so you have to get her out even though in all likelihood Ramón will just have to flash them a medium-size wad of bills. Later, though, when you can, you confess all (most) of the strange encounter to her, and she gets the message out to him. Through which of the tiny terrors, you don’t want to know. Probably Ramón, a thought that does not fill you with confidence. But he gets the message anyway.

The message is: I owe you one.

#David Barrón #nffalphabet

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

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Days of Splendour

Sequel to Marriage of Inconvenience, Acts of Atonement, and Memories of Misdeed

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, marital discord/neglect, cheating, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You face the fall out of your confession.(Regency AU)

Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne

Note: You can imagine any Bruce you want. I hate Affleck so I went for Christian Bale in my head but to each their own. I pictured Cavill because uhhhh yes, but hey if you wanna go with Brandon Routh that’s chill af, or Tom Welling.

And here’s the unexpected sequel.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Humpty Dumpty love falling off walls. Take care. 💖

Bruce stares at you. The confusion that glimmers in his eyes startles you, dismays you. Your heart clenches tightly as you can hardly stand on your own. You could bear the years of neglect stabbing into you like a dagger but you cannot bear any hurt you could cause him.

“Tell me,” he utters in a brittle tone, Kent’s laughter tapers off into raspy snorts.

You gulp and quiver as you cross your arms, not comforting yourself, bracing yourself. You must tell him. To be done with it. So that you may face his wrath and your fate as a fallen woman.

You sniff and bring a glove up to wipe your nose, your other hand firmly on your elbow. “The night of the fair…”

“Oh go on, regale him with how I thrilled you,” Clark bolsters from below, a smooth strike with the shove snaps his head back. You wince at how his skull hits the floor and he groans into a slurred grumble, “Wayne, you…”

He does not finish as you sway, staring at the silver shovel, almost hoping he swings it at you next. You fold your hands over your chest and shudder as the memories swells in your stomach, threatening to revolt as bile rises up your throat.

“Upon our journey back to this manor, Lord Kent… I… in the carriage we… were unfaithful,” you push the words out with a breath and cannot inhale again, dizzy as you stumble, turning to press your hand to the window and stay upright, “I’m sorry, husband, I am unworthy of you and all you’ve provided me.” You press your hand to your stomach, the tight stay making it hard to take in air, “I only ever want to please you but I have committed a crime which no wife could be forgiven–”

A soft nudge quiets your sobs, you wiggle your nose as you glance over, Bruce stands in smeared hues behind the wall of your tears. He stops your hand as you go to flick away the droplets from your cheeks, instead wrapping your fingers around the shovel. He steps close, so close you can smell the citrusy scent of his cologne.

“Go on,” he urges.

“What–” you quiver as you try to pull away, try to release the shovel but he holds it in your grasp.

“He deserves it, and you should be the one to deliver it upon him,” Bruce’s deep timbre sinks into you. You’ve never heard that tone from him before. It’s dangerous and dark. “So go, lay upon him the wrongs he’s done to you.”

You swallow and sniffle, more tears spring out in your shock. You shake as you reach for his other arm. “Please, husband, I cannot–”

“Why?” It’s a genuine question, as if the thought of violence would be natural.

“I… am not… cannot…hurt him. Or anyone…” you flutter your lashes as you try to see him clearly through your lashes, “it is I that is owed castigation.”

He sighs and turns his face away, blinking long in irritation. He shakes his head as he draws away, taking the shovel as he spins to face Lord Kent. The other man sits dizzily on his knees, gripping his head as his bright blue eyes flash up to face his adversary.

Bruce points at him with the shovel, “I should cave your head in with this, I should stain this carpet with your blood, I should make you beg until no breath can rise from your lifeless chest,” he snarls, “but I shall not. Unlike you, I have honour, so I will allow you your life…” your husband pauses and glances at you, “so long as you are away from my estate at once. So long as you do not tarry and goad me further for I do not know how much longer I can withhold my vengeance upon you, sir.”

He grips the shovel and prods Kent’s chest as he bends to meet his gaze, “go now and never lay eye or hand on my wife again. At the risk of my fury, you will not so much as think upon her. For the next time I shall not think to fetch a shovel but my pistol.”

He shoves Kent with the shovel and takes a steps back, pointing with the long silver handle towards the door. Kent’s eyes wander towards you and the gleam of the shovel quickly deters him. He stands with a stagger, gripping his knees before he can set himself on his own weight. Blood trickles from his nose and the cut along his cheek.

No words pass between the men in the stolid stalemate. Bruce stands unmoving but for his eyes as they follow Lord Kent out the door. Alfred’s voice greets him from the corridor, no doubt the loyal butler has heard it all and is ready to see the man from the premises.

You shiver and your legs buckle and fold. You collapse into a heap and catch yourself on the heel of your hands. You weep freely as all strength abandons you on the cold floor.

“I am so sorry, my lord,” you quaver, “please, I do beg of you to forgive me. I will do whatever you wish. Should you wish me to go–”

Your voice lumps in your throat as the shovel clatters to the floor. You reluctantly look up with a trembling lip as Bruce stands staring at the floor, one foot kicked out as he grips one hip. His face is lost in shadows and sets in you a new fear.

You think for a moment he may do worse to you than Kent. You will not resist if that is as he wishes. What more do you deserve?

He drags his foot around as he turns. You wince as he nears you with heavy steps and bends his knees as he brings himself to your level. He puts his hands on your arms and slowly rises, bringing you up with him. You stand uneasily, legs quaking as he holds you up.

You can’t look at him but suspect he can’t either. He pulls you against him suddenly, you squeak. He holds you there, you hear the beating of his heart, arms tight around you, body stiff. His embrace slackens and at once he is scooping you off your feet.

You latch onto his shoulder as you smother a gasp. He stares ahead, determined, as he turns and carries you across the room. The house is empty and silent as he comes out into the corridor, the staff scattered from the discord.

“Br– Lord Wayne,” you murmur as you place your hand on his chest.

He does not answer as his long strides continue into the foyer and the ascent is slower, jarring you with each step. He proceeds past your door as you squirm in his arms, uncertain and afraid. He is your husband, your master, he may punish you as he sees fit. As his wife, you must heed his will.

He pauses, shifting you as he bends to turn the knob on his bedroom door. You hold your breath, tears dried up with anticipation, with dread. He continues within and kicks shut the door behind him. Your fingers curl into his vest as you steel yourself for what comes next.

He goes to the bed and lays you down gently. You’re surprised as he straightens and tugs at his stock, freeing it from his neck. He works at unbuttoning his high collar, nose flaring with his thoughts as his dark eyes dilate. You stare at him, witless.

He unbuttons his waistcoat and disposes it. His attention drifts away from his own attire as he comes closer to the bed. He bends and reaches around you, pulling at the knot behind you that holds your silk belt in place. The thick ribbon with the opal stone at the front drops into your lap.

“You are my wife still,” he says, looking you in the eyes, “you will ever be my wife. It is I that have failed you,” he retreats and continues to undress, “that I sent you off with that cad, exposed you to his perversions–” he shakes his head at himself, nearly ripping his shirt as he yanks the tails from the top of his breeches, “it will not happen again, ever. I will see that it does not.”

“My lord, it is not your–”

“Not my fault?” He puffs as he faces you again, his chest tense as it peeks out from beneath his open shirt, “do you think it your own?”

You blink at him. You can’t say it aloud but you do.

“No, that… beast, that creature,” he snarls and hits his hand with his fist, “he has preyed upon a married woman, he has defiled my own wife, and– and you are too gentle to hold an ounce of anger for him. So let me, let me carry that flame and let it burn me from the inside. For you deserve better, you deserve vengeance.” He clicks his tongue and shrugs off his shirt, tearing it off in frustration, “you deserve better than I am and better I shall be.”

He nears you again and you barely keep from wilting before him. He takes your hands and urges you to rise. You do, quivering, and he follows your sleeves up your arms and his fingers dance over your shoulders. He tickles your neck and cradles your face, his own body shaking.

“Ready for bed, blossom,” he bids as he hovers his lips over yours, “so that I may hold you close and safe in my arms.”

“My lor–”

“Bruce, your husband,” he insists as his thumb brushes your cheek, “yours, as you are mine.”

He crushes his lips to yours fervently. You let him as his hands frame your jaw firmly, squeezing as he touches you with an intent you’ve never felt in him again. So raw and rabid, all rigidity tossed away. His tongue pokes into your mouth demandingly and he edges you back against the bed.

You fall and he descends with you. He parts as he holds himself over you, his breath washing over you hotly. He pets your face and traces your hairline as he marvels at you, “there has been much excitement, wife, and I wish only to have you in my arms and sleep. So that you may rest, that you may recover.”

Your eyes wet and you wiggle your nose, “m–Bruce,” you caress his bare shoulder, “you are too generous, too forgiving–”

“You needn’t my forgiveness and he shall never have it,” he hisses, “but I will ever have you, until eternity, my blossom, as you swore to me and I to you.”

💔

The warmth is sweltering. Bruce lays flush to your back, his arm snaked around you to keep you close, as if to trap you there. You have no thought of escape as you wake gradually, the chill of the chamber creeping in over the top of the eider.

You pull the blanket closer to your chin as your husband shifts behind you. He grumbles into your hair, the heat of him seeping through the measly layers of linen. Your shift is a poor shield to the early morning cold and the man behind you.

He untucks his hand from under you and drags it up your stomach. He covers one side of your chest, fondling you as he purrs and wiggles against you. His fingers crawl up and pluck at the laces across your chest. He loosens them enough to slip beneath your shift, toying with your nipple as it hardens against his touch.

A ripple flows through you. You could cry again. He wants you still. Even after a night to think, he desires you. He does not blame you, though you cannot say the same. The guilt lingers and nips at the nape of your neck.

He nuzzles the back of your head and hums, edging down the slender sleeves of your shift to bare your chest completely. He gropes you, playing with you, tweaking strings deep inside you. You moan and nestle into him, welcoming him.

His hand trails up to your shoulder and he moves, leaving you cold as he pushes you onto your back. A rush of air flows in beneath the blankets as he lifts himself over you, edging your legs apart with his knee. He bends his arm around your hand and leans in to kiss you.

You breathe into him, letting all the tension, all the worry drifting away. You touch him shyly, fingers fluttering over his side, making him twitch. You feel the strength in him, relish in it, feel safe in it.

His mouth slips across your cheek. He kisses along your jaw and neck, doting on you, exploring as if it’s all new again. His lips make you giggle as they meet your throat and he rolls his thumb over your nipple, stirring another flicker of elation.

Your hand brushes along the top of his short drawers and he groans. He wants it, you want it to. You push down the linen and he shifts his hips to help you. His fingers walk down your stomach and trace the line of your pelvis. He slips between your bodies and along your folds. He rubs you cloyingly as his shorts catch around his thighs.

You moan and twine your hand into his dark hair as he nibbles along your collarbone. He teases your tender bud as his mouth follows the curve of your breast, pinch the skin between his teeth as you squirm. He takes a nipple between his lips and sucks, another strike of pleasure pings up your spine, arching you against him.

“Bruce,” you rasp as you grasp his shoulder, “please…”

He purrs and it rolls through you. His fingers tease your wet folds as he coaxes your body. You bend your legs around him, ready, impatient.

He slips his hand away and his mouth leaves a wet smear up your chest. He raises himself over you, guiding his tip along your cunt. You bite your lip as you bring your hands along the sides of his neck, the tendons straining as he prods along your entrance.

He thrusts into you all at once. You cry out as your hands fall to his shoulders and you dig your nails into his flesh. He does it again, harder, the sudden urgency surprises you. You gasp and press a palm to his chest as he ruts once more.

“Bruce,” you whisper.

He pushes his legs up, shorts stretched between his thighs as you bend your knees around him. He snarls as he snaps his hips again and you curve your spine deeper to take him. He’s never been like this. Before, those few times in the early days of your marriage were dull and dutiful, and since, soft and fond. Now, he’s rough but not unloving. Desperate, almost.

He kisses you, swallowing up any protest you might muster. He rams into you, over and over, flesh slapping loudly between you. The pressure, the friction of his pelvis against yours, tingles over you, coiling within, tight until fraught.

You whine into his mouth and hook your arm around his neck as you cum. You spasm as your walls twitch around him, succumbing to his demands. His lips part from yours as he chuckles, tickling your side as he thrusts as deep as he can.

He frames your chin and turns your head harshly as your arm slips away from his neck. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “you will never again be lost, blossom, for you are exactly where you belong.”

He shoves himself up, sitting back on his heels as the bed jostles with the movement. He runs his hands along your thighs and grips your hips, pulling you further onto him. He watches the joining of your bodies as he sinks deeper and you whine.

You reach back to clutch the pillow as you grit your teeth. He rocks, growling as his eyes cling to his long strokes pushing in and out of you. He rams his hips up until you're full and you exclaim. He does it again, just as hard, and you squeal. He smirks, keeping the deliberate tempo.

He drags his hand away from your hip and presses his thumb to your clit. You writhe as he tilts his hips, rubbing you as he fucks faster and faster. All control flies away from him as your voices rise and mingle in the frigid air, now damp and smelly with your sweat.

“Oh, blossom, I know you can do it,” he taunts, “yes, only for me, yes?”

You puff as another climax piques in you, shaking you to your core as you bend your legs around him, begging for more. He grins and slides his hand beneath your knee, then the other, pulling your legs up his torso, spreading his hands across your thighs, fingertips poking into you sharply.

He hangs his head back as his tempo quickens, hammering into you as he growls at the canopy. You moan and sink your nails into the pillow as his needs ripples through you, enthralling you, melting you to a quivering mess.

He snarls and grunts, snapping his hips several times before stopping, holding himself at his limit as his body twitches. He’s breathless as he caresses you from thigh to foot and back down again. He lets your legs fall around him and bends over you, kissing your fiery cheek.

“My wife, my blossom,” he coos as he runs his thumb over your lower lip, “I promise you, there will never again be any other but me for you.”

“Husband,” you exhale wispily, “I–”

He hushes you and pecks your lips, “do not be sorry, ever.”

💔

You can almost forget Lord Kent’s disastrous visit, yet Bruce’s new ardor is a constant reminder. A reassurance almost as he chips away at the guilt still hard as a stone in your chest. His insistent presence and attention are a pendulum between soothing and suffocating. He is your husband, however, and you swore to serve him.

That day, he is in his study. A rare occasion in the weeks since the revelation. He has not gone to the parliament more than once a week and spends much of his time with you, whether it be with your books or his bed. More than his habits, his manner has changed. He is more intense, more insistent. As if he is afraid, and other times, he seems enraged. Not at you, but at some unspoken threat.

You’re at your vanity when the knock comes. Ester helps you with the ribbon you thought to tie around your hair as you call for the visitor. Bruce enters, dressed simply in dove grey and navy, his eyes sparkling as you peek over from the looking glass.

“And what is the occasion?” He wonders as his footsteps pad over the floor.

“Housework,” you chuckle, “I suppose a ribbon isn’t needed.”

“Housework?” He rests his hand on the edge of the vanity, you feel his gaze on you, “is that not what the staff are employed for?”

“I like to help,” you shrug, “I mostly say where to move the furniture when I do not like the arrangement.”

“I did wonder why the settee keeps wandering,” he muses, “but I’m afraid I must put a pin in your plans.”

“Oh?” You look up at him as Ester sighs and lets the ribbon fall limp again.

You know you’ve been moving overly much, your restlessness worse with each day. That cause of which is hard to determine as it befalls you at unsensible times. And the sickness that keeps you from finishing your morning meals, sometimes those later in the day. You wonder if the winter has brought an ague upon you.

“The seamstress has come,” he declares as if you should know why. Your confused look affirms that you don’t, “so that you may have a new dress for the yule celebration.”

You tilt your head at him as Ester pulls back, “forget the ribbon, Ester, apologies,” you wave her away and turn to Bruce, “a new dress?”

“Did I not mention it?” He gives a crooked smirk.

“You know that you did not,” you smile as glee erupts in your stomach. You’ve not had a new outfit since before your marriage, a whole trousseau left neglected in your isolation.

“Consider it a surprise,” he offers his hand, “I’ve come to escort you, lady.”

“Well, aren’t you the gentleman, this day,” you tease as you take his hand and rise.

“As I am every day, though we shall not mention the nights,” he winks and you give a glance to Ester as she barely hides her amusement.

“Husband,” you tap his arm in reprimand.

He laughs and leads you to the door, “you do not counter the point, however.”

“This is not The House, sir, thus I needn’t entertain your debates,” you reproach.

“Oh, how you entertain me in other ways,” he hooks his arm through yours.

“My, you are naughty,” you chide, “what has overcome you, husband?”

“Only your beauty,” he leans over to kiss your hair.

You giggle and shake your head at him. He leads you downstairs to the sunroom, the windows shrouded behind the thick winter curtains as rolls of fine fabric are displayed before them, the fireplace burning amber, as a woman in a plain grey dress stands patiently beside it. You cannot believe the scene.

“Madam,” she greets with a nod from Bruce as he lets you go, “I am Marigold, I am here to take your measurement back to Monsieur Lammeau.”

“Lammeau?” You bat your lashes, “why, he resides in Paris.”

“Monsieur is vacationing in London presently,” Marigold explains, “and is eager for the many commissions he received for the king’s yule ball.”

“Why, I…” you look at Bruce as he strides to a chair and sits smugly, “sir, you are a scamp.”

He smiles over his knuckles as he leans his chin in his hand. You are surprised further that he remains but don’t let it affect you. You are much too excited at the site of silks, brocades, and muslins.

“Shall we review the fabric first, lady? Then I shall close with your measurements,” Marigold directs.

You accede to her suggestion and go to tall rolls. A tailor would often travel with pocket-sized swatches but you suspect the extravagance is at your husband’s insistence.

You peruse the many options before you. The teal and gold brocade is much too springish for the season, the violet muslin too presumptuous for court, and the black silk too drab. You don’t mind the burgundy velvet with small gems set into it in an even pattern but you think of the expense, the plain blue might be preferable in cost, and the emerald satin is simple enough for most patterns.

“Hmm, I cannot decide,” you tap your lip, “I wonder what the other ladies have chosen.”

“The other ladies’ options have been removed from the catalogue, madam,” Marigold says, “they do seem fond of muslin despite the cold however.”

“What about the red velvet?” Bruce offers, “you seemed to linger on that.”

“Yes, but… it seems rather ostentatious, perhaps without the gems,” you mull.

“I think it suits you,” he insists, “wouldn’t you say, Marigold?”

“The red is a fine tone for your complexion and would take only a simple cut,” Marigold offers, “but of course, it is the lady’s preference that matters.”

“I do like it,” you twiddle your fingers, “might I ask the price?”

“You may not,” Bruce interjects, “that is a matter I will attend to, lady.”

You give an abashed, tight-lipped smile, “yes, husband.”

“Is that your decision, madam?” Marigold prompts.

“If I don’t decide on it now, I don’t think I should be able to choose,” you say, “yes, I will have the velvet.”

“Very good,” she takes out a small notebook, “Monsieur will arrange a visit to consult about his designs, but for now, I will take your measurements. It would require, madam, to be done with only your shift.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose, that would be necessary,” you glance at Bruce who is unmoved at the suggestion.

“I’ve seen less than the shift,” he shrugs as he sits back.

You’re taken aback for a moment by his impropriety. It was once that this man seemed averse to anything not stamped into him by years of etiquette. You cannot be displeased by it, though it does confound you.

“Shall we call for Ester?” Bruce wonders, “to assist.”

You agree and wait as the maid is summoned. She helps unlace your layers, secured less than an hour ago, and you stand in only your shift and slippers. It feels odd being in such a state anywhere beyond private chambers.

You raise your arms and stand still as Marigold does her work. You watch the scribbles she makes in her notebook, distracted only by Bruce’s intractable gaze. He squints at you for a moment and you wonder what he is thinking of.

You peek at the numbers again before Marigold closes up the pages. She thanks you and declares her job done. You give her a half-minded courtesy as your mind strays.

The numbers are not as they were at your last fitting. It has been some time and you have noticed your stays are tighter. It isn’t unexpected to gain some weight, especially in the winter months. Still, you can’t help but ponder.

Bruce stands to thank Marigold as you dress. You subtly brush your hand over your stomach as Ester ties your laces. A speckling heat spreads beneath your shift and sweat beads on your scalp. You feel suddenly out of breath.

“Are you well, miss?” Ester asks quietly as you turn to her, your husband’s voice droning as he assures Marigold he will have the staff assist with her carriage.

“Yes, I am only a bit…”

You can’t finish the sentence as you don’t know what you feel. Fear, anxiety, hope? You can’t figure which is the strongest as you try to recall the last time you had your monthly bleeding.

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thedreamsmith · 2 years ago

Text

Forged in Dragonfire (Chapter 5)

Summary: Aemond’s attention is caught by a noble lady with an unusual hobby. Lady Edeline is nothing like anyone he has ever met.

Please note: this chapter includes a moderately explicit description of female masturbation

No others had challenged her in the training yard that day, instead watching warily as she resumed her usual drills with the prince. Her fallen foe had beat a hasty retreat from the scene of his lost dignity, the jeers of his comrades nipping at his heels.

He had not been a good swordsman, Prince Aemond had told her, using the goldcloak’s poor example to once again impress upon her the necessity for good structure and proper footwork. He only let her finish training for the day when her arms were shaking too badly to hold her sword aloft.

‘Once more.’ The prince’s voice was firm, the toe of his boot unyielding as he used it to poke her in the side. Edeline groaned, the cold earth was divine against her bruised and sweaty skin. Her legs had buckled, setting her firmly on her ass, and that was where she had stayed.

‘I cannot. Leave me to die.’

‘Are all noble ladies so dramatic? Or is it just the blacksmithing ones?’ Aemond had mercifully ceased his leather-clad assault on her ribs, but from the way he was holding his training sword, she knew it wouldn’t be long before he switched his torture implement of choice.

His verbal jab, however, was enough to force her upright, despite the way her exhausted muscles screamed at the motion.

‘Me?’ She heard her voice rise several octaves, drawing the attention of a nearby cluster of soldiers. Edeline winced, her attempts at clinging to some scraps of dignity were failing in truly spectacular fashion. ‘I am not the one marching all over the Red Keep in a dramatic leather coat, swishing my hair around at every opportunity!’

‘No, no and no.’ She pointed her sword up at him, eyes narrowed. ‘I am done for today, your highness.’ She set her jaw; chin tilted up defiantly. There was straw in her hair.

‘Wilful creature.’ The prince huffed, but offered her his hand nonetheless. With a hard swallow she hoped escaped the prince’s notice, she reached up to grasp his hand, her fingers scraping over the callouses on his palm. Even after several hours of training, and her own far-from-slight frame, Prince Aemond hauled her to her feet with no apparent effort, a feat that sent a peculiar warmth down her spine.

His touch lingered even once she was back on her feet, sliding forward to cup her elbow, steadying her.

‘I will send a maester to your family’s residence to tend to your aches.’ The prince seemed to remember himself, withdrawing his hand to rest on the pommel of his sword. The bastard blade she had forged had remained sheathed at his hip every day since she had given it to him, but she had yet to see him draw it. The raw sapphire gleamed from within the folds of his cloak, thumb stroking over the gem’s rough surface as he oversaw her training.

‘That truly is not-‘

‘I insist.’ She watched as his tongue flicked over his bottom lip. ‘You must look after your body just as much as you do your weapon.’ Seven Hells… And didn’t that conjure truly sinful images? Though she sincerely doubted that the prince spent any time thinking about her body, unless it was to correct her posture while she was drilling.

‘Very well.’ She sucked on her bottom lip, worrying the wind-chapped skin between her teeth. The prince’s eye flicked down, drawn by the motion.

‘After all, you cannot give yourself more scars than you can plausibly explain to your future husband.’

‘You sound like my mother.’ Edeline rolled her eyes as the prince chuckled quietly. ‘Most men do not care about the state of a lady’s skin, so long as her tits are bare.’

Aemond’s mirth disappeared at once, replaced by a curiously queasy expression. ‘Not all men are such base creatures, my lady.’

She swallowed hard, rendered mute by the sudden shift in the tone of their jesting. Delicacy was needed here, that much she knew.

‘I am a rare and lucky woman to have never been intimate with the kind of cruel men I know to exist in this world.’ Her answer seemed to satisfy the prince, for his expression relaxed a fraction. He did not ask what sort of men, precisely, she had been intimate with in the past.

Half of her was glad he had not. The other half wanted to let her wildness show.

They fell into their post-training routine in comfortable silence, the quiet shushing of oiled cloth over steel the only sound as they sat at the edge of the yard. The sweet, musky scent of the oil surrounded her, mixed with the salty tang of sweat and the crisp edge that came with winter mornings, even this far South.

Once they had tended to their training weapons, Aemond started on his bastard sword, the live steel blinding in the winter sunlight. There was truly no reason for her to stay any longer now, but for the love of the Father she could not drag her gaze away from the steady stroke of the prince’s hand over the metal. The blade forged by her own hands.

‘You have yet to use it.’ It is not a question, and Prince Aemond knows better than to question her expert eye. The blade had nary a scratch or nick marring the gleaming edge, and even the best squire in the Seven Kingdoms could not keep live steel in such pristine condition.

‘It is a masterwork.’ His jaw worked silently, his gaze never leaving the blade as he continued the rhythmic motion. ‘It would not be right to use it for something as mundane as training.’ The platinum curtain of his hair almost obscured his face, a stark contrast to the dark leather of his jacket.

‘I did not mean to disobey your wishes, your highness.’ Edeline stuffed her hands into the depths of her cloak, the chill creeping into her bones now that she was not moving. ‘I know you asked for an unadorned blade, but the sapphire was truly a wonder to behold - I could not deny the urge to include it in the piece.’

Only then did the prince raise his eye and their gazes met, unbidden. Heat filled her face at the truth she had unwittingly revealed, unspoken but hanging between them, as delicate as spun air and sharp as steel.

‘You crafted my blade as you saw fit, I could not have asked for more.’

She dipped her head, accepting that she had not angered him, but unsure at how to respond. The prince had returned to oiling his sword, which she took as a sign of dismissal. So with a muttered thank you for the day’s training, she hurried from the yard, the blood still burning beneath her skin.

The prince had kept his word, and not two hours after she returned home, a maester from the Keep had appeared at the door, bearing all manner of tinctures and salves for her aching muscles. The wizened scholar was taciturn and efficient, much to her relief. He briefly examined the rapidly forming bruises along her arms and ribs before explaining in a whispering, papery voice how to apply the medicines he had brought.

Later while reclining in a tub before the hearth in her chambers, Edeline resolved to soundly thank the prince for his kindness. She had rarely known this kind of relief; the complete lack of burns, aches or bruises she had come to expect from her covert line of work.

As the fire crackled and the evening grew later, she found her thoughts wandering more and more towards the younger Targaryen prince, setting her blood simmering even as the bathwater cooled.

A quiet groan slipped past her lips as she let her hand wander down her body, forgoing the light, teasing touches she so enjoyed inflicting upon herself when taking her pleasure. She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, appraising, burning, as she laid the young goldcloak low.

It would have been impossible to tell how damp she had become whilst submerged, had she not been acutely aware of the wetness between her thighs since that morning. Water lapped at the edges of the wooden tub as she lazily circled the pads of her fingers at the apex of her thighs.

She sighed softly as the exquisite heat in her core grew, and her imagination transformed her own touches into a swordsman’s long, calloused digits; the warm air brushing across her skin into tender kisses.

Her neck and spine arched, night-dark hair tumbling over the side of the tub as she pictured Prince Aemond standing over her, pale and regal, mouth parted and eye dark with lust as he watched her come undone.

She hovered on the brink for one exquisite, unbearable moment, every muscle drawn taut like the string of a bow.

With a whimper, her climax shattered through her, and Edeline bit down hard on her lip as to muffle her cries. It would not do for one of the servants or, Seven forbid, her family, to investigate the sound.

Waves of pleasure continued to crash over her, even after her fingers stilled on her cunt, and it was a long while before she came down from the high, drowsy and limp.

Almost boneless with satisfaction and exhaustion, Edeline climbed from the now-cold bath before collapsing into the downy comfort of her bed, her skin still dripping onto the thick furs.

It was not long before sleep claimed her; the imagined scent of dragonfire and sword oil curling around her like the arms of a lover.

@mswintersoldier @deadbranch

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

#aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond fanfic #aemond fanfiction #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #oc #ofc

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bodycountgame · 3 years ago

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Of the ROs that would look back, what's their reaction to seeing that their Eurydice was there the whole time?

GODDDD anon are you trying to kill us all for real

okay so..............

---------------- arthur:

for a moment, only a moment, it’s like his heart stops beating altogether. just like theirs.

“they were here all along. they followed.” he says to no one in particular, voice ragged, broken.

“yes. they were.”

and then it’s silent as arthur stands still, hands balled into little fists, unmoving, unbreathing. his eyes are fixed on the spot where they had stood.

where they stand no longer.

“oh.” he whispers, after a very long time.

---------------- atticus:

he knows as soon as he turns his head, but he can’t stop himself from moving once he’s started. so, he keeps going. he lunges forward, reaches for their hand, anything to keep them here.

it’s too late. he’s too late. they’re gone.

but he can’t just take that for an answer, can he?

so, atticus runs. as fast and as far as he can, until his lungs burn, until he tastes metal on his tongue, until he can barely hold himself upright.

“you can never reach them.” he is told. “they are gone.”

and he doesn’t answer, because he knows it’s true, and who is he to argue with fucking hades. but when he comes to the doors, he pounds against them until his knuckles split, until his voice is gone, until he is delirious with exhaustion.

and it doesn’t feel like enough.

because it isn't enough. it's unsalvageable. he's irredeemable. it's over - nothing left to fight for.

---------------- ellis:

ellis just shakes their head, lips twitching up into a little smile. they hope that their eurydice will know what it means – that they will know all of the things that this brief look is trying to convey. they hope, desperately, that they will know all the things that ellis themself had doubted, just for a second.

a second too long, it turns out.

and then they are gone.

ellis waits for a long time. they remember, and wonder. then, when they are ready, they speak again.

“i think that i am ready to go.”

“back to the surface?”

ellis turns slowly to hades, controlled, calm. they have already failed. that much is done. it cannot be fixed, it isn't a problem to solve.

this is just what comes next.

“no.” they hold his gaze. “i want to join them here. to stay.”

---------------- griffin:

their eyes meet, and he smiles. wider than he has smiled in weeks because he sees them, and they see him, and they’re both here.

then their mouth makes a little o, and they disappear. griffin is left standing alone, hands stretched out in front of him where he had already begun to reach out to them. they fall back to his sides, limply.

“where did they go? bring them back!”

“that wasn’t the arrangement. you looked back. you broke our deal.”

“you did it once. let’s do it again. we can do it again. i can do it.”

“that isn’t how this works.”

and then his voice cracks, his hands shake, he realises.

“so that’s it?” griffin looks up at the demon beside him, face open, lip trembling. “that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

“i had to look back. i had to see them. i had to.”

the demon does not answer again. they just look at each other as the realisation settles further, into his bones.

“i had to.”

---------------- imogen:

“i’m so sorry,” she cries, and then they are gone, and she is alone.

imogen covers her face with her hands, falls to her knees, shakes with sobs. “i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry.”

it doesn’t bring them back. nothing will.

but she won’t leave.

she’ll wait. she’ll waste away if she has to. anything to see them again, to apologise, to try to deserve them. because they had followed her through hell, and as long as they aren’t on earth, she doesn’t belong there either.

when she tries to think of a thing that she would not be prepared to do to earn back their love, she comes up blank.

---------------- nyra:

nyra was sure. she was so sure. because if she wasn’t sure, if she had thought that there had been any possibility at all, then she wouldn’t have looked back.

but she did look back, and there they are. she barely has time to take a breath before they are gone, ripped away from her all over again.

then she kicks herself for not looking at them, really looking, taking them in. it was the last time she would see them and she barely even looked, too busy reeling from her own failure to capture them, savour them.

even in failing, she manages to fail double. she can’t help but laugh. bitter. angry. she laughs until the tears come. she presses her hands to her face, like she can barely believe that they have.

on a normal day she might try to fight them, bury them, bury it all. but fuck it! there isn’t anyone to do that for anymore, is there? she did that.

#ch: arthur #ch: atticus #ch: nyra #ch: imogen #ch: griff #ch: ellis #sorry this is NONSENSE but i COULDN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT THEM #thanks orpheus anons my life is over #the orpheus saga

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thefanficmonster · 3 years ago

Text

All The Colors

Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Colorblindness, Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Romance, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: The colors are not always seen but rather felt. Just like Y/N feels the colors through their best friend and boyfriend Corpse. That’s how they realize that what they can’t see is the most beautiful and genuine feeling in the world. The feeling of knowing something and someone so deeply.

Requested by my dear friend Lulu, who you might have known as greenieofshield. Unfortunately she’ll never get to read this fic and I’ll never forgive myself for not putting it out sooner but I’ll also never forgive the universe for being so cruel as to take her away so early. She was one of the best people I’ve ever met, always so full of optimism, always there to brighten up my day and make me smile. Always so strong and brave, never falling victim to the hate she received despite not being deserving of it. The world lost an angel the day she died and I as well as so many other people will forever miss her.

Love you and miss you with my whole soul and hear, Lulu. Hope they’re treating you right in heaven ❤

For what it’s worth, Y/N has never asked people to describe the colors to them. In their eyes that seemed like the equivalent of poorly patching up a wound: they could hear thousands upon thousands of descriptions of each color and still wouldn’t be able to imagine it. The descriptions would only make that worse to them. So to avoid feeling even more like they’re missing out they never asked.

However, that doesn’t mean they haven’t developed their own way to ‘visualize’ and imagine colors throughout the years. They’ve tried loads of different methods, few of which stuck around and not for long either. That is exactly why they frequently used to tell their friends: “You can’t paint me a rainbow with black and white and shades of grey and expect me not to feel like I’m missing out on something. Paint me the gloomy sky on a rainy day and only then we’ll be even cause you’re seeing the same greys I am.”

Little did they know how drastically their logic was about to change in the following years.

Speaking of said following years - they met Corpse who became one of their best friends in practically no time. And within just a few months of that friendship’s blossoming, a romance sparked. A romance their friends would jokingly refer to as ‘romance of a lifetime’. Maybe it was said jokingly but Lord knows they weren’t wrong in saying so because the two were completely head over heels for one another -s till are to this day - and never shied away from showing it.

Y/N and Corpse met through Rae who Y/N was staying with while on a little vacation to Los Angeles. To be even more specific here, the two met through a game of Among Us, the game responsible for many wonderful friendships since its release.

“Guys, guys, guys.“ Y/N said after sparking up a bickering session for falsely accusing ‘blue‘ of faking a task in Navigation during the final round for the day, “Here’s a little rule of thumb for whenever we play together again: don’t trust me if I accuse a color instead of a name.“ It’s safe to say that statement rose a few eyebrows in the Discord call, the confusion serving as amusement to them before they explained themself, “Oh, why that is? Hm, I don’t know, maybe cause I’m colorblind.”

Rae who was in on the scheme the whole time and was struggling to hold in her laughter finally snapped while the rest of the players were left processing the information that had been dropped on them.

“But you practically kicked our ass every single round?!“ Corpse said, amazement and confusion in his tone.

“Expect the unexpected from this schemer, take it from someone who’s known them for a decade now.“ Rae said, winking at her friend from across the room. Not failing to notice the blush on their cheeks while doing so though.

“Corpse, are you calling me a good liar?“ They poked a stick at him teasingly, desperately avoiding Rae’s gaze which widened the second she realized why her friend was so flustered by Corpse’s remark.

“Practically a con artist.“ He replied to them with a laugh, earning one from them in return.

And so they practically conned him into falling in love with them with their quick wit, sarcasm and cuteness. If someone is to ask Corpse if he expected to fall for Y/N, he’d probably say yes.

“They were like a magnet the moment they entered the lobby and started talking.“ He said once on a live stream in response to a question he received in the chat regarding Y/N, “It wasn’t hard at all, falling for them. What took me a while was realizing it. While I was referring to them as ‘best friend’ all my friends were rolling their eyes and going ‘Sure, bud.’ Just took me a bit to realize why.”

Luckily, it didn’t take him too long to grasp what his heart was actually screaming at him. Good thing they came to terms with it so soon too, otherwise they would’ve driven their friends insane.

Anyway, enough about what happened and what could’ve happened under one circumstance or another, what matters is the ‘here and now’ of their relationship. And trust me when I say it has never been better and it keeps getting better every day.

The beauty of what those two have is in the tiny every day things that they do for each other, the good morning texts even though the other person in probably just in the kitchen making breakfast while the other cannot find it in them to get out of bed; or it’s laced within the calls between them when neither of them are home or at least one of them is out and about, busy with a task they’ve probably been putting off for far too long. Don’t get me wrong though, the romantic gestures aren’t rare either. Random gifts are exchanged by them on regular intervals but one consistent and super romantic gesture that repeats a few times every year (of the two years they’ve been dating) is Corpse giving Y/N a bouquet of flowers.

A detail Y/N couldn’t help but take notice of was the fact that the bouquet was always made up of the same flowers with only small changes to the arrangement of them and maybe some tiny ones added too. Unfortunately, they aren’t artificial so they couldn’t have kept them thought they wish they could’ve. That being said, it goes without saying that those flowers mean the world to Y/N, the gesture actually - they know flowers are a common gift to give but anything they receive from Corpse is so special and makes them feel like the only person who’s ever received such a gift.

And so they got curious, they had to ask. They had to ask the question they never thought they’d actively ask considering their view of the topic. But they still did.

“Hey Corpse.“ Y/N spoke up out of the blue, breaking the silence that had fallen over them while they watched the movie they were only partially interested in given how exhausted they both were from devoting themselves to their respective tasks and responsibilities throughout the last few days.

Corpse hummed in response, the arm wrapped around their waist doing a little motion as if encouraging them to continue, his gaze immediately traveling down to his partner.

“What color are the flowers?“ They asked, gazing at the bouquet - a gift they had received from him for their birthday a few days prior - in the vase on the dining table.

They waited a few seconds but when they didn’t hear nor feel any sort of response from him they couldn’t help but look up at him. Upon doing so, they saw his small smile as his eyes too remained on the bouquet. “They’re black and white.“ He replied eventually, “Black roses and white daffodils.“ His gaze wandered away from the vase and down to meet theirs, “I don’t want you to think I’m seeing them in their ‘full beauty’ while you only see them in black and white. You are seeing them in their full beauty and not missing out on anything. They are absolutely beautiful black and white as they are.“

As a response to his answer, Y/N couldn’t suppress the growing smile on their face no matter how hard they tried. So they didn’t try at all, they let the smile lighten up their face before speaking up: “You’re a wonder, Corpse.” They said, pushing themself as upright as they could to be able to kiss his cheek. “However, you’re wrong.” They say when they pull away, smirking up at his confused expression, “My world was black and white until you came into it. You’re all the colors, Corpse. Your love’s red, joy’s yellow, sadness blue, chaos green. Love red. You’re all the colors and out of all the people that have tried to describe to me how they look, you have managed to do that just perfectly without even trying.”

Little did they know that’s exactly what he thinks of them - their world is black and white because all the colors live within them. Because they are all the colors.

And maybe they both are, seeing as how they came into each other’s lives exactly like the rainbow after the pouring rain.

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the-kingshound · 4 years ago

Text

The third Arch Deleted Scene

The snippet here is a bit rushed at the beginning and in some other parts, as I did not want to go into even more spoiler territory. If you want to send me asks about this please be sure to advertise them as spoiler at the beginning, since not everyone will want to read them.

SPOILER

TW: blood, injury, poisoning, strong language.

3rd Arch – the seventh Trial

Your stomach was knotted by dark swirling anxiety from the moment Arthur announced the diplomatic visit. You were familiar with the House, it kept being, after all, one of the most influent beside yours before and after the Emperor’s fall. This did not mean anything, though. Your homeland was beautiful but deadly, ready to swallow anyone whole to quickly digest them.

You promised yourself you were going to be at Arthur’s side at all times, and that’s precisely what you are doing now.

Four days in, and the only major threat has been the amount of people wanting to interact with you. For the most part, Arthur smoothly deflects them to himself, for which you are endlessly grateful. You’re not in the mood to socialize, instead you keep on high alert, especially against the House leader and formal Ambassador.

You do not think he will pull anything while you’re here, after all you grew up together and you respected each other deeply, but one cannot be too cautious when the King is concerned – as demonstrated by the multiple scars that litter your body. You would go through all of it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping your King safe, but all you can do for now is stay by his side and keep the risks at minimum.

For this reason, when the Ambassador proposes a meal together with both yours and his knights, you are instantly weary.

“I don’t like this one bit, Arthur.”

“Me neither,” agrees Evaine, all the while lazily making their dagger spin on the table.

“I don’t deny that is not an ideal situation. On the other hand, a wrong move on their part would jeopardise their own negotiation,” counters Arthur as Morien finally snaps, blocking Evaine’s wrist with a tight grip and hissing an irritated “stop fooling around, for God’s sake!”

Evaine pouts. Yniol ignores them in favour of the matter at hand “they are certainly going to outnumber us, but if they wanted to attack us head on they would have done so before now, there were better opportunities. MC?”

You really think it through before answering “I wouldn’t put it past the Ambassador to try something, direct or more subtle, while we’re so exposed and out of our physician. Lania is not the head of his House for nothing, but aside from that he was always particularly attached to the Empire. We can’t afford to underestimate him.”

“Yes, yes” interjects Morien, having by now freed Evaine’s hand and left the table, dismissing themselves from the meeting “I’ll be prepared in any case. I swear you manage to hurt yourselves everywhere we go.”

And so dinner begins. It is a boring affair, but you won’t let yourself relax until it’s over. You sip on your wine, closely inspecting the hosts for any sudden or unusual movement. You find none, but you stiffen and your brows furrows. There’s something strange in your mouth, something strangely… bitter.

Time seems to freeze in front of your eyes. With an uncoordinated, panicked movement you jerk on the table and bat away Arthur’s cup, spilling its content on the table.

You place your hand on the table to support you as you rise, your dilatated pupils numbly fixed on the red liquid that’s quickly staining the tablecloth. It feels like an hour but actually only a second has passed before you regain your senses.

“Seize them.”

Arthur and his Knights are no longer seated by now, but the Ambassador’s men have drawn their weapons as well and pointed them to your delegacy, effectively halting their movements. You see icy red and do not spare another glance at the man now placed on your back while you snarl in the envoy direction.

Placing your fingers on the hilt of your sword, you hiss an enchantment to track the magic residue and the culprit is revealed in front of your eyes. Ignoring the taste of iron on your tongue, you spit out another enchantment and the room’s door is locked close with a lout snap. They will not get away.

Unfortunately, you lack the ability to free Arthur and the Knights, you are now surrounded and painfully outnumbered, but you know they can hold on until you have taken care of the threat at hand. You cough blood and half crash on the floor, but you ignore the alarmed voices of your Knights and crawl in the Ambassador’s direction.

How dare he. How dare.

“My, Lord…”

“Let them,” a voice says to your back “they will not go far.”

“How dare you” your breaths are ragged, your intestines raw and burning, your voice rough for the acid that invades your throat. The Ambassador’s face is a mask of contempt and stony resolution. He watches, halting his men while they try to block you, as you half-crawl to him, gripping with iron strength the wooden chairs to keep yourself upright.

“I have the upper hand, King Arthur. I’m afraid you are in no position to make such demands.”

“Release us, and call a physician for my spouse, and I will consider letting this incident go without consequences.”

Arthur’s voice is steady, calm and there is only a hint of something sharper, at least for now.

You can’t see your King, but the sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. They tried to kill him. The House you grew up to respect is full of nothing more than vile traitors.

As your strength start to waver, you lose your balance and crush to the ground with the chair you were pushing your weight on. Still, you get up again and you and fix your gaze on the second born, now Ambassador and traitor “I’ve had enough of you.”

You take a shuddering breath, your lungs filled with blood that’s now spilling over to your lips as you speak, but the pain you feel is nothing compared to the hot, blinding rage that’s consuming your every thought. Still, your voice is, as ever, cutting cold “you invite us here, offering a pacific discussion, and all you provide are poison in our drinks and weapons against my Knights and my King’s throat. You’ve exhausted my patience, Lania.”

You see him flinch at the use of his name. You remember a time long gone when you played together as kids, swearing you would be the ones to restore the Empire uniting your two Houses. Now these are broken promises and rotten friendships.

“MC,” the Ambassador says, “it’s over, you have to understand that.”

“Oh, you just wait,” interjects Evaine, almost immediately silenced by the Ambassador’s men.

You cough and choke on blood, and you can feel the physical weight of Arthur’s and the Knights’ worried eyes on your back, but you exhale and grip tighter your sword’s hilt. A wave of raw power invades your body and you are able to focus again.

“You know what I’m capable of, what I am willing to do for my King,” your voice is almost devoid of intonation, save for unforgiving hardness. His gaze falls on your non dominant arm and then on your throat, scarred by a thin horizontal line “I will gut you and feed you to my hounds. You’ll die like the backstabbing coward you are.”

They know as well as you do that you don’t make empty promises. There is a rustle around you that culminates in a sharp sigh from the Ambassador and swords pointed at your neck.

“Must we really do this, MC? I cared for you once, but you know that I will not hesitate to strike you down if you give me reason to do so.”

You don’t draw black nor move a single muscle, your eyes find Arthur’s blue ones and you find the King is dangerously immobile, his fingers brushing against Excalibur’s hilt in what could be mistaken for a soothing caress. When he speaks, his voice bears nothing else but firm command “you will not do that.”

Lania cocks his head to the side, appearing quite unbothered “oh?”

“How is your sister, Ambassador?”

At the same time as Lania stills, you blink. A violent cough than shakes your chest, and when your senses are fully back and you can breathe again Arthur has kept going with the same calm, calculated demeanor “I want to remind you that together with the Lord the wedded she’s now head of the Merthian feud, the nearer one to the south-eastern border.”

“What does it-“

“I am the one in control of the knights tasked with their protection. As per the arrangement we signed weeks ago, the border is under Camelot’s defence. But if I die, or if my spouse dies, my knights will retire, Ambassador.”

Oh, Arthur is not King for nothing. He is striking where it hurts the most – family – without even an drop of blood shed. You don’t hide a proud, feral smile at this. Almost immediately, blood invades your throat again, you can feel its taste on your togue, but you shove the pain back where it started in your burning stomach. You shiver. You love and hate seeing your King like this.

Lania swiftly unsheathe a long, curved dagger and you are immediately ready to bolt– swords to your throat be damned, you’ve had worse – but he makes no move in Arthur’s direction for now.

“Figured you had to hit low to get a reaction.”

“Release us,” Yniol commands, standing tall near the King.

“No” spits out Lania, his composure now fully broken “you stole our independence and our pride, Pendragon, you humiliated us and stripped our Houses of the opportunity to unite again. You are every bit of your father’s blood!”

He then turns to you, his eyes frantic, his expression pained and almost feral “I thought you were on my side!”

Blood rushes to your ears, a high-pitched whistle the only thing you’re able to hear at the moment. You feel sick. Sicker than before – sicker than what you’ve felt in years. You spit blood on the floor, your answer is weak and unnaturally subdued, “it was a- a long time ago.”

“We were like siblings!”

You can’t say anything, you only choke on your words. All that you manage to do is keep yourself upright only thanks to your sword.

“They are right, you really are your King’s hound, nothing more than Camelot’s bitch,” he tries the next word in his mouth like they were both foul and inevitable “the haghàn bajek*.”

Your vision is overcome by whit spots, your skin hot and freezing cold.

“Kill them all.”

You force yourself to focus. Protect your Knights. Protect your King.

After that it is pure, unbidden chaos. You tighten your grip on your sword, assessing where you’re needed the most. With the corner of your eye you spot Arthur, he’s a beautiful fighter, he is no match for – Lania.

Your magic flares alongside most of your nerve endings as you sprint in his direction, interjecting his blow with your own weapon. Unfortunately, the Ambassador is a skilled opponent and you’re already considerably weakened, all you can do is channel in your arms the strength of your steel determination to not let him reach your King.

“Stop trying to defend an enemy, MC!”

“Stop trying… to kill him.”

You are barely managing to defend yourself when Lania strikes back. You catch the dagger with your arm, it pierces through your skin just over your elbow but it won’t reach its intended target. No one will hurt your King while you’re still breathing. No one.

Pain paralyzes your arm, your breath is stuck in your throat together with a blood clot that feels intrusive and that fills you with panic. The finishing blow never comes, though. As you inhale again, you refocus on the room’s occupants and notice how Arthur’s Knights have the clear upper hand.

“Ah, and you thought you could beat the Round Table so easily,” Evaine all but purrs in a knight’s ear “that’s precious.”

“Stand down” Gawaine commands “you’re surrounded.”

You can hardly distinguish the shapes of your own knights, you’re nauseous, your stomach and throat are on fire. You fall down on your knees, exhausted and hurt. You feel like you’re going to throw up–

“MC’”

Where is Lania, where is –

“Wh-where…?”

“Kai, get Morien here, please.”

Arthur’s voice is soothing, as ever, but tainted with worry. You can’t make his face out. There are arms supporting your weight, not his but equally familiar – Yniol?

“It’s going to be alright, dear.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the world goes black.

*haghàn bajek = [REDACTED] traitor

#deleted scene #SPOILER #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:poisoning #tw: strong language #I was quite happy with it as I wrote it #but now not so much I'm having second thoughts #if it's deleted by tomorrow you know why

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

Are very, very old friends

My Masterlist

Your heart and my heart (first part of this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A second part to Your heart and my heart, where Ivar and Reader were childhood friends (and pretended to get married when they were children) and got separated by circumstances of life, only to meet again on a battlefield in Wessex.

Word Count: 9.8k (I am so fucking sorry, holy shit)

Warnings: My unwavering state of denial over Aslaug’s death, mentions/descriptions of injury/battle, allusions to sex (nothing graphic), and my terrible writing lol

A/N: I hope you are no longer surprised by how I seem to be able to focus only on the stuff I need to focus on the least, bc here we are. Writing has been very difficult lately, so I am not so sure this is any good, but I still hope you enjoy.

As a reminder: In this universe the brothers (minus Björn) are in Wessex with the Great Heathen Army but Aslaug isn’t dead (Lagertha never took over). This is an almost 6a in age Ivar, but of course a different canon where he has stayed raiding in England. And Princess Blaeja (who was briefly mentioned in the previous part) is engaged to be married to Sigurd.

Your eyes cannot move fast enough to take in the field ahead of you, trying to check every trap and every barricade. Even if you were to find a fault, you remind yourself, you wouldn’t be able to change anything.

Hlíf comes to you, brisk pace that you can still see the exhaustion in, and stands at your side, shield with your colors and your symbol. It looks heavy.

“They are coming, Dane.”

“I know,” A deep breath, and you signal with your head to the center of the camp, “Go back, you’ll lead them to hold the second line. The Saxons will breach the first one.”

“You are not staying here.”

You don’t meet Hlíf’s gaze, instead meeting the eye of a few shieldmaidens that stand tall ahead, waiting for the Saxons to come. They nod their heads once, they know what they are agreeing to.

“We are.”

The forward scouts sound the horns, and before long the marching feet of warriors makes the unfamiliar ground tremble under your feet. Your hands tighten on the handle of your sword, and you take a breath.

Hlíf steps closer, but her gait ins anxious, “You better retreat to us when the time comes, Dane. You are not allowed to die here.”

“Says who?”

Hlíf grunts a curse, but retreats behind the second line of spike barriers.

You’ve been hounded by this group for weeks, ever since you and your warriors departed for York back from a successful raid. You aren’t sure if they are from that city or sent to intercept you from somewhere else, but they are bloodthirsty and determined.

Making camp was a necessity, especially with the wounded and weakened you have in your group, but the years have made you ingenuous, and the months you’ve spent with the Great Army have taught you to use the surroundings in your favor.

Your warriors dug ditches and laid spikes within them, much like you remember hearing Lagertha did when she assisted Aslaug in defending Kattegat, and while you didn’t have the defenses of walls, you made sure to draw passageways with the placement of the tents, to lure the Saxons to follow a path you know by heart when they came.

And now you stand, restless in your spot, waiting for them to get close enough for your archers to thin their numbers, for the frakka’s of those closer to you to take down the stronger ones.

It is not enough, but you never expected it to be.

Once they get close enough, you shout the command to march, and your forces and theirs clash.

The sound of battle deafens you, shouts in two different tongues and death in the same language echoing around you. Still, you seem to hear the faintest of rustles, and you lift your shield as you turn, stopping the downward strike of a Saxon.

Pushing back while you bend your knees, you unbalance him, slashing at his thighs before you plunge your sword in his chest. He meets your eyes, and spits blood in your face before his strength leaves him.

So, it is personal then.

You keep moving, blunt hits of your shield and quick strikes of your sword, taking down as many as you can, worrying more for injuring them and weakening them before they reach the more vulnerable in the camp more than for killing them.

Maybe that is your mistake.

The sword slashes at your leg, the pain sharp and weakening, and your stance buckles. You turn around with a raised shield to try and defend yourself, but you are too close to the ground and the warrior puts all his strength behind his kick and forces you to the ground.

Scrambling to turn on your back and grabbing a discarded axe, you stop the advance of his sword, but your arms burn under the strain, and his snarling face reminds you of a chained dog too close to breaking free.

It isn’t enough. You have no choice.

Releasing the strain of holding him back, you are able to swing your arm back and hit the side of his neck with the hand axe, but not before his sword pierces your shoulder, drawing a scream of pain from you.

Pushing him off you, you stand on uneven ground, trying to make sense of the battle around you and keeping your defenses against the Saxons that are still very much after your blood.

Your shield once again on your hand, you stop the attack of a younger warrior, slashing his chest with a move of your arm that feels weaker and trembling even as you manage to deliver a fatal blow.

Another manages to get close enough to bit the edge of his shield against your wounded leg, and his sword slashes at your side, drawing blood and blinding pain in its wake. He is taken down by a snarling shieldmaiden that comes to stand at your side, and your eyes scan the first line of the camp’s defenses already breached.

You are outnumbered, you are not going to win. Not like this.

“Through the east!” You call out in your own tongue, not waiting for any of the few that remain able to fight to acknowledge your command before you dart for the passageways you can make use of.

You are close enough to the second line of barricades to cross it if you wish to, but your mind is made. The Saxons trailing after you and the few others that still stand, they make quick work of your shieldmaidens soon enough, and you grit your teeth at the screams of pain you can do nothing to stop.

Most of them were foolish enough to think you were retreating, and they trailed after you and the remaining warriors.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, you turn around, standing on shaky legs and lifting one hand. Breathing past the pain is proving difficult, and there’s black at the edges of your vision, but you can still make out the shapes above you, and those that stand next to you.

You close your hand into a fist, meet the eyes of the Saxons that seem to hesitate to approach. They will always fear a heathen woman that smiles while surrounded by blood and death, the fearful -faithful- will call her a monster and insist she is not human.

They fear, they hesitate. And that is enough.

And you drop your hand, the weakest of smiles on your lips as you give one last command,

“Loose.”

____

The first thing you can sense when you awaken is the pain, and the weight keeping you down. Awful, but at least you aren’t dead.

You open your eyes slowly, half expecting to see the murky forests of the Isles towering above you after having been left behind by the Saxons to bleed out slowly and painfully; half expecting something with women on winged horses and a lot of golden shades.

But all that greets you is wood.

Inconsequential, unimpressive, mediocre wood. Yet, your body is filled with such a relief you almost give in to the temptation to doze off again.

Still, you force your body to answer and you sit up on the cot, breaths ragged as the wound on your shoulder sends pain like lightning through your very veins. And slowly, painfully, and with more curses than your mother would like out of a princess, you stand up.

Just when you are considering what the plan after standing up actually was, a woman barges into the room.

“Oh, you’re standing,” She says, and you lift your eyebrows but say nothing. She tsks her tongue, and approaches, her eyes focused on your upper chest, “You shouldn’t be.”

“I would think it was a good sign.”

“Which is why you do the fighting, not the thinking,” She quips, a quirk of her mouth as she glances at you. Quite mean, for an old woman, but still you offer a smile as well. Her palm presses lightly against your shoulder, before going to your side. “You’re not too hot.”

You pout, “Aw, shame.”

“And you seem to be in good spirits.” She chuckles.

You meet her eyes and lean closer, asking quietly,

“That will change soon, though, won’t it?”

“You are the reason a lot of people are angry, yes,” She confesses, before stepping back, “You also are the reason a lot of people are alive as well. Make sure they remember that, and you may keep your head.”

With a non-committal gesture you step past her, a hand on the doorway keeping you upright as you meet the gaze of the expecting shieldmaidens. They call your name and a few expletives in greeting, some in anger, some in welcome, but all in relief.

“While I love seeing you all alive and well, I…have a feeling at least one of you is here under specific instructions.” You state, a quirk of your eyebrow when one of the younger ones stands up, and slips out of the house quietly, with a murmur of being glad you are alright.

You sigh, and though one of them offers you a seat you highly doubt you’ll be able to stand if you sit down, so you wave away her offer, and lean on the doorway.

“Did the rest make it?”

“Most of them, yes. The injured are going to be escorted back, they couldn’t make it on their o-…”

The words die in a gasp as the door to the humble home is kicked open, and a tall shieldmaiden strides in, eyes blazing and set on you.

“You mad Dane bitch!”

“I have a name,” You quip as the shieldmaiden advances towards you. “It is a very pretty one, my mother chose i-…”

She shoves you forcefully, stopping whatever it is you were going to say.

You stumble back but catch yourself before falling, and you can’t help but let out a grunt of pain as your side is pulled tight by the sudden and forceful movement. The healer quips from the room at your back something about not injuring the already injured further, but you both ignore her it seems.

Hlíf still pushes on, “Of all the hare-brained, reckless, st-…”

“Hey!”

“You don’t scare me, Dane,” She huffs back, stepping forward until the shieldmaiden towers over you. “Half dead as you are because of your stupid decisions, you aren’t a threat to anyone, least of all me.”

In the back of your mind, a voice that sounds so alike your brother’s, always calm and collected; begs you not to do this.

You were never good at listening to him, though.

Headbutting one of your oldest friends wasn’t high in the list of things you wanted to do if you ever came back from the dead but…here we are.

Hlíf stumbles back, holding her nose and setting incredulous eyes on you.

Strangely enough, the tension seems to slowly ebb away with the unexpected action.

“I like proving people wrong.” You tell her around a shrug, slowly betraying a smile that she returns, even if there’s a resentful sort of relief in the way she approaches again and presses her brow against yours.

“You are so lucky you’re injured.”

“I wouldn’t call it-…”

“I would. I’d be knocking your pretty ass to the ground if you weren’t,” She promises, and scoffs a laugh that sounds like a reprimand, “You scared me, Dane.”

You meet her eyes, study the dark circles under them, the haggardness on her face, the stubborn tremble in her voice; and realize maybe you weren’t the only one to believe you’d die in that forest.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a week since we made it to York.” She tells you, motioning for a seat, and motioning again when you refuse it. Stubborn.

You carefully sit down before the fire, narrowing your eyes at the girl that attempts to cover your legs with a fur. You are injured, but you’re far from an old woman.

Though you do accept the awful-smelling brew of herbs the healer presses into your hand before scurrying off back to the room where you were sleeping.

Watching the herbs swirl in the cup, you mumble, “You know, I did the right thing there.”

Hlíf’s kohl-lined eyes narrow, “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

You gesture with the arm of your good side, “I wasn’t the one leading them! For once I followed orders and we got stuck, it isn’t my fault!”

Hlíf’s eyes only grow bigger and bigger in affront and fury at your insistence, and you decide to shut your mouth.

“You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“When you put it like that of cou-…”

She interrupts you, her tone cold and imposing as she repeats, “You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“I heard you the first time.”

She offers a side smile, head tilted to the side, “Huh, you listen. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“That is uncalled for, come on.”

Hlíf looks at you, blinks slowly two times, and takes a breath.

“You defended when you could ha-…” She starts again, but you interrupt her with a shove of her good shoulder and a huffed laugh. She does have a point, however insistent she is at repeating it.

“I panicked, I…I needed to give you more time to leave safely, without Saxons trailing after you. I needed to stall them.” You confess quietly, fidgeting with your fingers, elbows resting on your knees, ignoring the soreness on your side as your position strains at the healing wound.

“You agreed to retreat if you were outnumbered, but you didn’t.”

“There were still some traps that hadn’t been used, I could lure them to the east side, and it worked, the archers made work of the thick of their numbers.”

“You were half-dead by the time that happened.” She insists, biting.

“All that matters is that most made it out. It was the right call.”

“If I hadn’t insisted we go back to find you, you would be dead,” She argues, though her voice quietens as well. “You’d be alone in that damn place, we wouldn’t even be able to bury you.”

That is not something you want to think much about, and with your gaze on the flickering flames you press quietly, “Do you want me to apologize, is that it?”

“No.”

“What do you want then?”

“I don’t know, Dane. What do you want?” At your confused frown the shieldmaiden shrugs, “Coming back from the dead and all, figured I could grant you at least one thing.”

“Those Saxons that hunted us down strung up on a tree?” You ask, only half-jesting. Hlíf doesn’t laugh though, she only presses her lips together.

“Can’t do that, Dane. They have been handled already.”

You really shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Still, you ask the question to which you already know the answer,

“Ivar?”

“Poured melted crosses onto their heads, left some alive after it too. Gruesome thing,” She explains, and you nod your head with a hum, wondering how long ago that was and trying to imagine how exactly they were captured so quickly. Hlíf watches you with growing worry, “I don’t know if I should be concerned about your reaction, or…lack of it rather.”

“You get used to it after a while.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, “You do.”

After a few breaths of silence, Hlíf calls your name quietly. She usually calls you ‘Dane’, a habit that never left her since the first days you were fighting together, when you first were able to call yourself a shieldmaiden.

When your attention turns to her, she says, “I’m sorry for shoving you.”

You look into her pale eyes, offer a smile and a nod.

“You should be.” You quip, and after an incredulous breath Hlíf heaves a sigh.

“You could say you’re sorry too, Dane.” The shieldmaiden chuckles, still oddly fond in her defeat.

“I’m not, though.” You reply around a shrug, sharing a smile with her.

The conversation ebbs away as you hear a voice distantly shouting commands, a voice you know well.

“Where is she!?”

“Oh, great.”

Furious stabs of a crutch on the hard ground, and the door opens just as many shieldmaidens scurry away, making way for Ivar the Boneless. His eyes meet yours with a fury you have never seen before, a snarl on his lips and tension coiled around his body like a vine.

When he speaks, though, his voice denotes none of that. His voice is carefully even, dangerously still, reminding you of a beast stalling its breath before it strikes.

For a man as explosive as him, calmness is never a good sign.

“What. Were. You. Thinking.”

Your nose furrows, and you offer with a grimace, “I…wasn’t?”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know. I’m the one that almost died, remember?” You prompt, but he doesn’t answer. You nod your head, not really sure what to do, muttering to yourself, “Serious business, dying.”

Hlíf lets out a choked groan, before advising, voice low, “You should really just shut your mouth, Dane.”

Ivar turns to her, the sharp focus of his pale gaze making the shieldmaiden straighten in her seat.

“Get out.” He orders, voice low. You see it in her, the pride insisting on resisting and the instinct pleading to obey.

Instinct wins, and after sparing you a look Hlíf stands up, and motions with her head for the other shieldmaidens to follow, leaving you and Ivar alone in the small home.

It feels even smaller as his gaze returns to you, it even feels almost suffocating as Ivar takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders but says nothing.

You clear your throat, and start what you hope will be a conversation and not a screaming match.

“I am not apologizing for the choice I made.”

An angry breath leaves him through his nose, sharply. His eyes remain on you, quiet intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Of course you’re not,” Ivar bites out, before shaking his head at himself, “I can’t believe you’d be so-…”

“It was the right call, Ivar.”

He wrenches his gaze from you, looking straight ahead. For a moment you wonder if he refuses to look at you because he thinks he can hide anything from you. Because he should know better, because he should know by now you are aware of the way his jaw tightens, of the way his breaths are intentionally -forcefully- even, of the way anger and pride are the only thing keeping his control from slipping.

“You could have died.”

“And?”

His focus returns to you, and you snap your mouth shut.

Wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say.

Ivar’s eyes widen in anger, and when he takes a breath he seems to be twice as tall.

“And!?” He repeats, voice thundering, “You almost died! You…” His nose curls in anger, but there’s something more fragile in his wide eyes, something like fear, “You spent days in that damn bed, they told me it was in the hands of the Gods whether you survived or didn’t.”

A pit of worry forms in your stomach, and you quieten your voice, trying to offer reassurance, “I pulled through, I-I am alright.”

But it falls on deaf ears.

“You were there, dying, and there was nothing I could do,” A sharp breath, but it sounds choked, “You would have gone where I can’t follow, I-…there was nothing to do, nothing I could-…I c-couldn’t-…”

“Ivar…”

He turns to you, accusing, “I was unable to do anything while you died, while you left me.”

“I didn’t die, I am alright.”

“You almost did.”

“That’s-…”

His lip curls into a snarl and your eyes are drawn to the scar on the right side of his mouth, the scar you are responsible for. The process of healing from the deep cut you left that first day you were reunited was a slow one for him, especially because of how much you insisted on finding ways to make him smile and then grumble at the sting of a reopened cut. And now your eyes are drawn to that scar, watching it follow the movement of his mouth as it curls in anger.

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” He interrupts you, a gesture of his hand. “You made the wrong choice. You put yourself in danger when you didn’t need to.”

“If I hadn’t, most of my shieldmaidens would be dead now. We couldn’t fight them directly, Ivar, we had too many wounded.”

He walks past you, the stabs of the crutch on the ground still more forceful than they need to be, and pours himself some mead in one of the unused cups, his back to you.

A deep breath, and before he drinks he offers, “You should have left them behind.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You move to walk forward, but putting too much weight on your injured leg makes pain shoot through you. You falter, and you try hiding it but you know Ivar notices, judging by the way his eyes narrow.

Still, you insist, slowly walking closer, “What is a few shieldmaidens against all the people we went there to aid? It is a sacrifice we all were willing t-…”

He gestures with his free arm, stopping you, “Well it isn’t a sacrifice I’m willing to make! Not if it costs me you!”

You are stunned into silence, whatever words that were to leave your mouth dying on your lips with a gasp.

Ivar glares at you as if you were somehow responsible for him saying something he hadn’t meant to, a twitch of anger that makes his furrow his nose and his lips press together in a line.

He moves to one of the chairs by the fire, taking a few breaths through his nose that you are sure are meant to be calming but sound equally as angry as before.

You still have nothing to say, no words to leave your lips.

There’s a part of you that never let go of him in all those years you spent -grew- apart, and in these months you have spent with the army, leading your own forces under Ivar and his brothers’ commands, learning from them -from him- many things and offering a few tricks of your own, conquering new lands and fighting new battles; your foolish heart has started to speak of hopes that could never be, has started to feel light like it never did before, as if it and his own heart recognize each other even after all the years and the scars.

Ivar takes a breath, discarding the crutch on the chair by his side.

“I…I never forgot you, you know. Not when you left Kattegat, not when father died and we came to England, not-…I never forgot you,” His eyes linger on yours for a moment, before Ivar turns his head and looks back ahead, clear tell of gritted teeth as he confesses, “I kept an eye on you, through the years. I had men near Ribe when you and your brother fought for it so that they could tell me the outcome of the battle.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you slowly take a seat by his side.

“I…I never knew.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” He retorts without missing a beat, hesitating before continuing, “I always hoped we’d meet again. With what I’ve done, with what I’ve accomplished, I hoped that maybe I’d find you again and I could give you enough reasons to stay this time.”

Quietly, you offer, “I never wanted to leave.”

“I know that now,” He assures you, the slightest of movements of his head that you think was supposed to be a nod. Ivar’s eyes lift to yours, and he says, so low you almost miss it, “I just found you again, I can’t…I can’t lose you.”

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to put into words what his words are doing to your foolish heart, to the heart that has always been his.

“Ivar…” You start, not certain of what you’re trying to say.

But it doesn’t matter.

Ivar leans forward surprisingly quickly, pressing his lips against yours. The touch of his lips on yours is urgent and hurried, shaky and inexperienced; leaving behind wide blue eyes that look into yours as if desperate for an answer to a question that isn’t a question at all.

You sigh shakily, but your mouth trembles into a smile, and with barely a moment of hesitation, you cross the distance between you again and kiss him, this time deeply, this time eagerly, this time ardently.

There’s the desperation of having lost too much time without this in the way his hold on you is tight and frantic, there’s the anguish of having thought lost you forever in the way your name leaves him in a choked gasp when you part for air, there’s the relief and the elation of finally having you within reach in the way he doesn’t let your lips part from his for any moment, a faint sound of protest from somewhere deep in his chest whenever you pull away.

You finally part but don’t move too far, it seems both of you unwilling to let much space come between you. Breaths labored, you whisper,

“I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

“You have?”

In any other man the question would be a blatant seeking of praise, and maybe it is in him too, but there’s something else too, something more fragile, something more vulnerable. Like some part of him never ceased to be the boy you kissed before you were to leave Kattegat, like some part of him will never truly believe how wanted he can be, how loved.

“I never forgot you either, Ivar,” You confess quietly, lifting the hand you can and tracing the side of his face, the scar on his cheekbone, the scar you claim of your own over his lip. “I could never forget you.”

His smile is awed, and softer than you ever thought it could be, and more boyish than it should be allowed to be for the sake of your foolish heart, that skips a beat in your chest.

With the crackling of fire and the feel of him under your hands, you forget the passing of time, you forget the soreness of your body, you forget everything except him.

You exchange secrets and promises in the shape of kisses that linger always in between adoration and hunger; and after a while, with your fingers trailing absently over the scar on his mouth, you offer your regret.

“I was reckless,” You tell him, resisting the urge to curl the hand on the side of his face into a fist when you notice how much it trembles. “I…I should have retreated. I am sorry.”

“I was…I was stuck here, unable to do anything. I couldn’t go fight with you, I couldn’t go search for you,” There’s the familiar resentment -at the world, at Fate-, and you say nothing, but your hand moves towards the back of his neck and tries to offer a soothing caress. Ivar continues, “I can’t will my stupid legs to work as they should, but I can…I can keep you safe. You have to let me keep you safe.”

“You cannot keep me from death, no one can,” You remind him, before acquiescing, “I promise I…I will be more careful, I will not make pointless sacrifices.”

Even if it wasn’t pointless to you at the time, it is the best way you can word it.

And, judging by the faint and almost shaky nod Ivar offers in acceptance of your words, it was the right thing to say.

____

Ivar had planned to make the journey back to York and raid from there one more time, while matters about his plans to settle in the Isles are solved, and originally you were planning on going with him.

However, he insists you need to rest and heal so he won’t let you fight, and you insist being bedridden will only make you go mad, so you reach a compromise. You and Ivar discuss the details of the agreement as the healer checks the wound on your shoulder, and when he is to leave you notice the way he hesitates before he does, eyes travelling to your lips before meeting yours.

You smile, but then his pale eyes travel to the woman that is cleaning her hands with her back turned to the both of you, and you understand the question.

Being Ivar the Boneless’ woman is not something you would ever feel shame for being, or wish to hide, and though you do have your reservations about what it would mean as a commander of your own share of forces within the Great Army to be so close to one of the sons of Ragnar, you know no fear of rumors is with making Ivar believe you are ashamed of being his.

Instead of voicing your answer to the question he doesn’t ask, you just tilt your chin up, eyes on his.

Ivar’s smile is a tad on the shy side, a tad overwhelmed, but he still dutifully leans down and captures your mouth in his, promising to meet with you again after you’ve spent time with your warriors.

He leaves, and before long, as the healer changes the bandages on your leg and shoulder, you hear the familiar sounds of your friends settling again in the small home. It makes a pang of what you refuse to call regret go through your heart, at the thought of how easily accustomed they are to spending time at this home, waiting to know if you would survive or not.

You take a breath, and walk out to meet them.

Vígdís, one of the elder shieldmaidens, doesn’t even look up from the piece of chicken she is carefully pulling apart with her fingers as she states dryly, “I was betting he would kill you.”

“I’m glad you gals are on my side, really.”

Hlíf swallows a mouthful of chicken and points the drumstick at you, “Hey, I bet you’d kill him.”

You look at her with a frown before conceding, “Actually, that’s flattering.”

She offers a toothy smile, and encourages you, “Yeah, you could take him!”

Vígdís scoffs, “Oh, she wants to,” At your glare the older woman only shrugs one shoulder, “Or the other way around. You don’t have a preference, do you, Dane?”

“Anyhow,” You drawl out, turning to the others, “I suggest you prepare your belongings and say your goodbyes. We won’t raid with Ivar and Hvitserk in these lands, our forces are needed elsewhere. We will be travelling to East Anglia in a fortnight.”

Hlíf scoffs, “One hell of a spat you two had, huh?”

“Wh-…? You know, I really don’t want to hear it. Just…do what you must.”

“I’m just saying, your love life is taking us all over England, Dane.”

“Shut your mouth already.” You grumble, but Hlíf’s brazen laughter resonates in the small home.

____

In the days that go by -way too quickly for your liking- before you are to depart to East Anglia, you find yourself drunk on the foolish happiness of having within reach what you never truly thought you’d have.

It is three nights before you leave that in the quiet of your shared room Ivar presses his lips to yours with a softness that is jarringly unlike him, and breathed over your lips the most hushed I love you.

It was that same night that you tangled your fingers in his hair and drew him back against you, not able or willing to resist the temptation to flick your tongue over the scarred side of his lip to make one of those choked little sounds leave his lips; and when he kissed you back hungrily pulled back to promise the same, just as softly even if you vowed it fiercely, I love you.

And now you are to depart. Standing in the stables and watching as your shieldmaidens and warriors finish loading their belongings and the supplies for the road.

Ivar is next to you, leaning against a wall with an arm secured around your waist and allowing you to rest slightly on his chest.

“Take some of my men with you.” He insists, for what must be the thousandth time since you made the agreement to part until the last month of the spring.

“I don’t need protection,” You remind him, leaning back a bit so you can see his face, “If I remember correctly, and I do, last time it was you who needed help from me.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“Of course not, love.”

Ivar takes a deep breath at your mocking tone, choosing instead to insist, “Just take those men with you.”

“No.” You tell him, one last pat of your hand on his chest before you turn to walk away.

Before you can pull away his free hand grasps yours, and you easily give in to the slight pull, turning back to met him and stepping closer again.

Ivar tilts his head down so he can look you in the eye, something dark and tempting shining through his expression as his mouth curves into a crooked smile.

“I thought wives are supposed to obey their husbands?”

Your heart does a foolish thing in your chest, beating out of rhythm as if trying to leave your chest and burrow into his. Still, you stare him down with your head tilted to the side, and all the answer you offer is a dry reminder,

“‘Countless sons and daughters’, Ivar. If we are holding each other accountable for those promises, we ought to start there.”

He wants to argue, you know he does. And you aren’t entirely convinced some of the warriors that join your forces because they want to aid Ubbe are there at all for him, but you have no evidence, so you shut your mouth and just make sure to keep an eye on them.

As you expected, they act as your bodyguards, no matter how much you try pushing them away.

And so time passes, and in your time on the road towards Soham you are able to heal well enough, slowly getting back to training with Hlíf and Vígdís. And by the time you reach Soham, where Ubbe awaits support to hold on to the city, you are able to fight once again.

And how you dearly missed it.

Time becomes a blur after that. Soham proves to be more difficult to hold than expected, and so your forces remain a while longer before moving to Dunwich where you manage to take over relatively easy, since the Saxon forces retreated from the coastal city.

The years made you capable, and the Gods made you arrogant.

Which is why, as the warriors from Dunwich start retreating, following their Lord’s commands, you, standing still close enough to the edges of the frontlines that Saxons scurry around you, take a knee and pretend to catch your breath.

The footsteps behind you are predictable, and you tighten your hold on the shield. When the warrior gets close enough and tries striking, you lift your shield, catching his arm on the edge of it as you stand up.

You twist your arm holding on to the shield, feeling the strain in his own and hearing his surprised scream of pain.

It snaps out of place under the strain, and satisfied, you let go of him with a push. He stumbles forward and tries grabbing onto a dropped sword with his uninjured arm, and you let him.

Readying your stance, you notice two others refuse to retreat as well now that their countryman is fighting, but make no notice of them as you stride forward, driving your sword through him, ignoring his pitiful attempt at deflecting it.

You approach the other two, shield tightly grasped, and push back against the strike of the first one against your shield, deflecting the sword of the second one with your own.

Making use of your smaller size, you quickly spin in your place and slash the neck of one of them, lifting your shield just in time to stop the attack of the second one.

But he lets out a grunt, falls down before you can kill him. The Saxon falls on his face, an axe protruding from his back.

You lift your eyes to meet those of an unfamiliar warrior, who stands proudly and offers you a nod.

“You’re welcome.”

Walking past him and not bothering to hide your distaste, you insist, “I didn’t need any help, and certainly not from you.”

He proves to be more insistent than you would have thought, and for too many nights you have to bear him sitting close by to you, trying to impress you with one tale or another. The man is unbearably persistent on either bedding you or courting you, and as the days go by after the fight for Dunwich, he proves to not be the only one.

Until, eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

____

“I’m going to need an explanation for that.” Hlíf asks, a broad smile on her lips and eyes shining with mirth.

You grit your teeth and start walking away, but of course she follows.

The winds of East Anglia are biting, and the ground under your feet is still softer and so different than that of your home, but in the time that has passed since you and your warriors joined the Great Army you have learned to be as familiar with this foreign land of England as you once were with your own.

Granted, the incessant waves at the coast and the ever-present sea salt in the air that characterize Dunwich are not something you are planning on getting used to any time soon. You really just want to get back to York.

“I shouldn’t have saved her ass at Soham.” You mutter to yourself, even if you know you don’t mean it.

“I heard that!”

“You proved you have ears, congratulations.”

She skips the few steps she was lagging behind, walking at your side and matching your stride with a wide grin that you choose to ignore.

“Thank you, but I’m married,” She quotes, the mirth coming through in her voice, and she laughs to herself, “Gods above, Dane, what kind of answer is that?”

“He was insistent, and I couldn’t exactly fist fight one of Ubbe’s trusted men,” You explain, your voice a grumble when you add, “Tis not my fault if the prick heard I was a princess and suddenly decided he needed to have me.”

“You sure it was your title? After seeing you fight when we took this city, I’m not surprised so many want you.”

“Hey, I appreciate the compliment, don’t get me wrong,” You quip, sparing a glance to her, “But if you’re trying to court me, I’m afraid it will go as well as it did for Olvir.”

On her lips grows once again the mischievous and devilish smile, and the shieldmaiden tilts her head to the side as she says, “Oh, I know that, because you’re married.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie.”

“If you think you’re making sense, prepare for disappointment.”

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s…complicated.”

“Well, the whole camp will soon hear about you telling Olvir you’re married, so we might as well get the story right: are you taken, Dane?”

Blunt, and to the point, not that you expected anything different from Hlíf.

You consider your words before answer, slowly, “Yes.”

She chuckles, shoulder knocking against yours playfully, “Ah, so who is the fool that has your heart but isn’t staking a claim?”

“He has, you just haven’t noticed.”

She stops walking, and so you too stop, turning to look at her wide eyes and offering a shrug of your shoulders again.

“You mean…” You nod, and past the surprise she finds it in her to laugh, shaking her head in amazement, “Oh, you really are a mad woman, aren’t you?”

“Well, we are technically married. I can’t turn my back on a bond before the Gods, right?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle, “So that is why you have been so insufferable, you miss York. I just thought you really hated East Anglia.”

“I really hate East Anglia.”

“Of course, Dane.”

____

You return to York as dawn breaks, and you don’t have time to get off your horse before Hvitserk is standing there, arms crossed over his chest and leaning with one shoulder on the entrance to the stables.

He offers his older brother a nod of his head as greeting, but Ubbe passes him by and Hvitserk keeps his eyes on you.

He blurts out, “You are married?”

“Hello to you too. I am glad to see you alive and well, dear Hvitserk.”

“You are married.”

You look at him, at his smug little smile and his warm eyes shining with mirth, and take a deep breath.

“You should know, you were there at the wedding.”

His sniggering laughter follows you as you walk away, but you forget your irritation quite quickly as you find Ivar in the rustle of movement, determined and uneven steps carrying him towards you.

Your smile is wide and lovesick and foolish, but you do not care for hiding it. His is quieter, more secret, but it doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest.

Ivar’s free hand grasps at the back of your neck once you are close enough, bringing your mouth to his with urgency, quickly letting the kiss become passionate as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Your hands find purchase on his hips, and more than ever you hate the armor that doesn’t let you feel him his warmth, his strength- under your fingers.

“I missed you.” You whisper quietly when you part, your brow pressed against his.

He blinks his eyes open, more than a little dazed, and the look in his eyes -the need, the adoration, the everything- makes a pang of heat go through you, threaten to set you alight with only a look.

“And I you.” He finally tells you, quiet voice rough.

You barely have time to be alone with Ivar before obligations pull you apart, a feast to welcome back the forces Ubbe and the Princess of Ribe, a reunion to exchange tales of victory and be together with those that were missed in the months apart.

Granted, that means that they don’t let you be together with the one you missed the most in those months apart, but you don’t have it in you to complain. Except you do, but that is not the point.

The night dies down and you roll your eyes at a few pointed toasts in congratulations for your marriage, but remain sitting at your place beside Ivar, pretending not to notice his hand on your knee or his arm around the back of your chair.

You grab his hand when it starts trailing up your leg and making you feel the effects of his touch like lightning crawling over your skin, and you could swear the smug bastard chuckles at the way you have to stop him.

“Eh, sister!” Hvitserk calls out, and with gritted teeth you turn to look at him, sitting by Sigurd’s side with an arm over his brother’s shoulders, “I am glad you are back, truly.”

“Thank you, Hvitserk.” You tell him, immediately feeling like you are about to regret accepting he doesn’t mean to tease you any longer.

“If only because I cannot stand my brother’s moping any longer. Who would have thought a son of Ragnar would be so loyal to his wife?”

You dismiss him with a gesture, but you cannot help but chuckle alongside the others.

Ivar turns his head towards you, nose almost nuzzling at your hair as he moves closer to speak by your ear,

“Why did you tell people you’re married?”

You don’t lift your gaze from your joined hands, following the trace of your fingers as they trace over the back of Ivar’s hand, “So that they would leave me alone.”

“No one is leaving you alone now that they think you are my wife.”

You spare him a look, glancing up, “The men that insist on either bedding me or courting me will, and that is enough for me.”

Ivar, of course, clings only to part of the words you speak, and his voice lowers, expression hardened with what you would swear is jealousy -pointless, unfounded, stupid jealousy- as he asks,

“Who are these men?”

Your eyes narrow, you honestly cannot believe this man.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I just want to know who they are.”

“I-…” Running your free hand through over your face, you bite back a groan, “Everyone thinks we are married now, shouldn’t you be worrying about that?”

He shrugs, “You were the one that told them you are married.”

“You are the one that I told them I’m married to!” You tell him, exasperated. He says nothing, and in the two blinks that he offers you somehow find it in you to be even more offended, “You truly are not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

Slowly, you remind him, “We are not actually married, Ivar.”

He shrugs, “We could be.”

“But we aren’t.”

“But we could be.” He insists easily.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, taking a moment to bite back irritation, you love him, even when he is being intentionally insufferable.

“Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

“You seem to have done that for me already,” He replies instead, raised eyebrows and another shrug of his shoulders that only makes you angrier. “You seem to have done more than that.”

You sigh, and shake your head at his mocking, only to make him chuckle at your reaction. Gods, he is infuriating.

Ivar’s smile loses the mocking edge as he leans even close, pressing a soft kiss by the side of your mouth in an attempt to make you stop pretending to be angry.

“What’s the harm in that, hm?” He asks, eyes falling from yours to your lips when you finally turn your head to face him, “They know you’re mine now.”

You almost want to argue there’s no way they wouldn’t know judging by the way the two of you have been joined at the hip since you returned from Dunwick, but you won’t deny a part of you grows darkly proud at knowing everyone knows he is yours and yours alone.

“And you are mine.” You remind him lowly, the beginning of a smile on your lips. His eyes linger on the curve of your mouth, lids growing a little heavier at your words and tone, and you have never felt more powerful.

Ivar nods his head,

“I am, wife.”

____

As you come down from both of your highs you find out Ivar is as unwilling to relinquish the closeness as you are, and in between soft touches and breathed presses of lips on heated skin, you find a kind of peace you never realized how much you missed.

“I was thinking,” He starts, and you cannot stop yourself from teasing him, so you let out a soft, uh-oh, and he scoffs, biting down on the side of your neck in retaliation, “We will be settled in the Isles by next winter.”

Ivar pulls back to look at you, holding himself up on one of his arms. At the strange expression in his pale eyes, you reach up with one hand and caress the side of his face under the guise of moving his hair back.

“We will.”

“Let’s go back to Kattegat,” He tells you, a tad rushed, “For this winter. Let’s spend one last winter in Kattegat.”

“Are you homesick, love?” You drawl, a side smile that he rolls his eyes at.

“What do you say?”

You search his gaze, because something tells you there’s more to the question, more to the action of spending your winter in Kattegat.

You won’t lie and pretend you haven’t missed the town, you won’t lie and pretend the memories you made there aren’t still with you, kept safe by some nostalgic and soft part of your heart.

Fate has a funny way of working, you’ve learned, and time brought you back to the side of the boys you made so many of those memories alongside of. Time brought back to you the cadence of Sigurd’s voice as he hums in par with his oud, time brought back to you Ubbe’s easy companionship as you train together, time brought back to you the secret smiles you share with Hvitserk over a joke only the two of you know of. Time brought back to you the one you’ve loved since before you even knew what love was, brought back to you the heart that your own finds itself familiar with.

But there is a part of you that misses Kattegat and always will, the sinuous streets of your childhood, the foreign scents and sounds of the bubbling market.

Instead of giving your answer outright -you always did like making things harder than they have to be-, you muse aloud,

“Having married you when we were children should keep me safe from your mother’s wrath, shouldn’t it?”

“Wrath?”

You let your fingers trace over the scar over his lip, the one you are very much responsible for. In these last few months, you’ve grown quite fascinated with it, with how it stretches when he smiles one of those big and crooked smiles, and especially with how Ivar trembles when you run your tongue over it before kissing him.

But that is not the point.

The point is you are very much responsible for at least one of the new scars Aslaug’s youngest son bears, and she will know, and she will look at you in that way you remember from your younger years. It is enough to make a grown woman shiver.

Ivar chuckles as he understands your hesitation, “You don’t need to fear her.”

“Easy for you to say.” You scoff.

“And if I tell you she still remembers fondly that childish wedding? Will you agree to come then, hm?”

“No,” At his frustrated sigh you tighten your fingers on his hair in silent reprimand, “Now I know you’re just saying that to appease me.”

“I would never.” Ivar mocks, earning another tug of his hair that he breathes a laugh at. You don’t fail to notice the way the laugh stutters a bit past his lips, you are very much aware of your effect of your hands on him.

Said effect is very much evidenced in the way he doesn’t resist the temptation to lean down and steal your breath with the slowest of kisses, his nose nudging against yours softly before he speaks again, voice low,

“What if it wasn’t just that wedding?”

“W-What?”

His eyes open to look into yours, an edge of anxiety, of hesitation, that he -of course- pushes past anyways, clearing his throat and asking, “What if there were something more…permanent than that wedding from our childhood?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“A second and last time.” He vows, a quirk of his mouth that speaks of jest but does nothing to hide the apprehension that shines in his eyes.

There was never anyone else, not for you and not for him.

Your answer leaves your lips in a breath that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to taste against your lips, with a gentleness that speaks of adoration and desperation, stealing your breath much in the same way he stole your heart.

____

Aslaug almost wants to laugh at the irony that it was the youngest of her boys that was the first one the be married, not once, but two times. And, surprising only those that don’t know him well enough, to the same woman both times.

Older but still holding that arrogant pride at the announcement -the same pride she saw in him when you walked Kattegat’s streets with your hand in Ivar’s- Ivar sat down in front of her and told her he had found a woman he wanted to marry.

And her heart felt a surge of a warmth she had long since missed with all her sons fighting their wars and their father’s across the sea; not willing or capable to hold back the wide smile that blossomed in her face.

Her hands cupped her son’s face, and the small, almost shy smile he offered her reminded her so much of the boy he once was. She promised her blessing and vowed how proud she was, and in silence, as she looked into her youngest son’s eyes, she thanked the Gods for being allowed to live to see this, to see him happy.

She knows there are so many twists of Fate that have let this happen. She knows -like she knows the streets of her kingdom- of the paths their son’s life could have taken, almost took. She knows of yours, and what could have been.

Even if she hadn’t heard of your close encounter with death in England, she would have the moment she was forced to see in her dreams what had happened across the sea, she would have the moment she saw the way it still haunted Ivar today.

For almost two weeks she dreamt of her son’s voice, the same repeated pleas to the Gods -to whatever would listen- said so many times his voice grew ragged and broke. Still, he did the one thing he could, and pleaded with the Gods for more time, for anything other than this.

He needn’t know she went to the Volür and they all made a sacrifice praying with the Gods to give a Dane shieldmaiden strength and health. He needn’t know, and he won’t.

Because it is past now, and you have healed and learned, and he has healed too. And there is no use in resurfacing pain in an occasion such as this.

Kattegat is lively even as winter approaches fast and cruel, the flurry of motion increased even more now that a Prince is to get married.

Your smile is the same mad little smile she remembers from your younger years in Kattegat, and Helga’s hands are more worn and her smile is a tad dimmer, but her fingers are still nimble and gentle as they braid the wedding crown of winter flowers.

Aslaug feels the pull of emotion when Ivar cups your face between trembling hands and kisses his wife for the first time, she feels the tears prickling at her eyes at the lovesick smiles on your faces as you remain in that moment after a kiss for a few breaths, eyes locked together and futures intertwined.

Ubbe stands tall as he watches his younger brother get married, and Aslaug’s heart grows warm at the easy smile that curves her son’s lips. She still cannot help herself, and finds herself hoping before winter is over and her sons are to depart from her side again, that she can see him with a woman by his side as well. For too long Ubbe carried a burden he shouldn’t have, shouldering the brunt of the world for the sake of his brothers, a boy trying to stand as tall as the man that left an absence in his place after Paris. Even if she once argued she cares not if they find love as long as they find a good woman to breed and form a family with, she holds the secret hope that she can see Ubbe happily settled with someone that he can love.

She hopes the same for Hvitserk, who watches the ceremony with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, but she knows better than to expect him to settle anytime soon. Before the celebratory feast is halfway over, he has teasingly held a young girl to his side and exclaimed, mother, I am getting married as well, three times, with three different women. She doesn’t hold much hope he will settle soon, and has to bite her tongue and tell herself she is happy for him even if he insists on sleeping his way through Kattegat.

Reluctantly, she admits it is Sigurd who might follow in Ivar’s footsteps and marry next. He and that Christian girl have been promised to one another for years now, and the excuse of war and distance has kept them safe from their obligations to marry. But Aslaug knows it is a matter of time. For all her demure and shy nature, Blaeja’s eyes shine with something like amazement as she takes in the wedding ceremony even if a faint blush covers her face at yours and Ivar’s displays of affection. And she won’t pretend she doesn’t notice the way Sigurd lingers close to the princess, irradiating that gentleness of him that Aslaug is still regretful for having made so fragile in her carelessness.

Winter lets her have all her sons with her, though she knows it is probably the last time. Ivar has plans to settle in the Isles, the title of king and the promise of advantageous positions for his war against Alfred enough of a lure to keep her son across the sea; Ubbe has intentions to settle and take families with him to England even if he has to wade through blood to do so, Sigurd won’t stay too long away from his princess anymore, and Hvitserk will nevr bear to stay apart from his brothers.

But she has this winter, and it is enough. She will sit with her sons and have dinner while they talk and argue and laugh, and she will hear Ivar and Sigurd go for each other’s throats as if they haven’t spent these years fighting side by side, and she will watch you and Ivar get drunk on nothing but each other, and she will thank the Gods for all of it.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I apologize if this isn’t very good, I tried my best. Love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar

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meganwritesfanfics · 3 years ago

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Fresh Bruises (Josh Lyman x Reader) Part 6

“Ok, now the republicans will want us to give in on this reform bill, but you see I don’t think they understand how absolutely stubborn I am.” Josh said pencil in his mouth as he sat in his usual spot, one hand gripping his notebook the other holding Y/N’s. “You know, I could get into a lot of trouble for telling you all of this. This is top secret government material here, there could be secret service agents here in a second ready to whisk me away.” He laughed as he took the pencil out of his mouth, setting down the notebook next to the bed. “And you would laugh, I know you would. You would say “Josh, you did this to yourself you know, you really shouldn’t go around sharing top secret information with unconscious girls.’” His smile quickly faded as he pulled his chair even closer to Y/N’s bed. “Baby, you gotta wake up ok.” He said his voice cracking. “The doctors are getting really worried, they keep telling me if you stay asleep any longer that there is a chance you might not wake up. I told them that when you do wake up you are going to be quite upset that they gave up on you so easily.” He laughed sadly. “But don’t you worry darling, I’m not giving up on you, not now not ever. If you could wake up sooner rather than later that would be great too, I don’t know how much longer the hospital staff is going to be able to put up with me screaming over my phone.”

Josh’s attentioned switched to the heart monitor that kept the room from being plunged into total silence. Some nights he was grateful for the noise, it kept him from going crazy listening only to his thoughts. But other times, it was a haunting reminder that at any moment, it could stop. And if it did his world would come crashing down around him. Just thinking about it made him start to cry and he quickly wiped the tears away.

“You know what I was thinking about, we never talked about kids. I mean we have talked about it in passing, but we have never really talked about if we want kids. I know that you work with a lot of kids at your job and you always talk about wishing you could just take care of them or adopt them, but what are your thoughts about us having children. I’ve never really thought about it, of course I’ve never really been in a relationship with someone who I could see myself spending the rest of my life with, let alone having children with. But with you Y/N, I want whatever you want. If you want to get married, let’s get married, if you want children, lets have kids. I do really love the idea of having little Y/N’s running around.”

Josh smiled as he pulled Y/N’s hand up to his mouth kissing it softly.

“God, if we had a girl with your eyes, I wouldn’t get anything done, I would be at her beck and call, she would have me wrapped around her finger for sure. And I don’t know if I could handle a boy who was like me. I think that would be…”

“An absolute handful.” A voice said and Y/N turned around to see Dr. Bartlett.

“Dr. Bartlett,” Josh smiled wiping the tears out of his eyes.

“How are you holding up sweetheart.” She said as she hugged him tightly.

“I’m ok, I think the hospital staff probably hates me by now.” Josh laughed.

“Have you been sleeping here all this time?”

“I couldn’t leave her Abby I just…” He said his voice cracking hard as he tried to keep himself composed.

Abby quickly grabbed Josh’s hand squeezing it tightly. “I understand Josh.”

The two made their way over to the side of Y/N’s bed as Abby sat down on the bed grabbing Y/N’s hand.

“I’m surprised you haven’t woken up just to tell Josh to stop talking your ear off.” Abby smiled as she turned back to Josh who laughed.

“She’s used to me talking nonstop.” Josh smiled as he stood at the foot of the bed. “She always would listen no matter how long I droned on.”

“You two are quite a beautiful couple, you know that.”

Josh looked down at his feet tears in his eyes once again. “Have you talked to the doctors?”

Abby sighed as she looked at Y/N brushing some hair out of her forehead.

“Yes, and I fully disagree with them.”

“What?”

“I know Y/N personally, and she is not just going to give up. She is a fighter. Y/N is not going to leave you, she loves you far too much for that.” Abby made her way over to Josh once again as she grabbed his shoulders. “But she would also hate that you have put your entire life on hold for her and you know that Josh.”

“I know.”

“So, here is what we are going to do. You can spend tonight here at the hospital, sleeping on the couch, because if I see you sleeping in that chair one more time Joshua I will drag you out of here.” Abby laughed. “And then tomorrow, you are going to head back to your apartment, you are going to get dressed for work, and then you are going to go to work Josh.”

“But…”

“No buts, when she wakes up the hospital staff will call you, you will be the first to know. I know its hard, but you cannot keep doing this, it isn’t healthy, plus the West Wing is falling apart with you there.”

Josh smiled as he nodded. He knew she was right, plus his back was hating him for having slept in a chair for two weeks.

“Thank you Abby.”

“Of course sweetheart. Now get some rest its late. And I will see you tomorrow at the White House.” Abby gave him one final hug before she left the room.

Josh sighed as he picked up his files from the floor next to the bed and he made his way over to the couch stretching out. He flexed his hand feeling strange not being next to Y/N holding her hand. It wasn’t long before Josh had fallen asleep the files splayed out across his chest.

“Josh.” A voice called but the young man didn’t stir. “Josh.” It called once more.

Josh groaned, tossing a bit in his sleep. He recognized the voice, but it was one he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Josh,” It called to him again. “She is awake. Y/N is awake.”

“Joanie!” Josh called as he sat up looking around the room. It was just as empty as it was when he fell asleep. “Great, so I’m going crazy, now I’m hearing my dead sisters voice.” Josh thought as he looked over at Y/N, she still lay unmoving, her eyes closed. Josh sighed as he stood up stretching before he made his way over to the chair again.

He grabbed her hand pulling it up to his lips. “But God, I wish she had been right.” He said tears in his eyes. He laid his head down on the bed keeping her hand on his face as he cried.

It was at that moment he felt her fingers move. He laid there for a moment, not breathing, seeing if they would move again or if he had just imagined it. But when they did he bolted upright looking at her face, watching as her face scrunched up as she closed her eyes tightly before she slowly blinked them open.

“Y/N, oh my god.” Josh sobbed as he leaned forward kissing her forehead over and over again. Looking up to the sky he thanked his sister.

Y/N looked at Josh confused as she set her hand on his cheek. He leaned into her touch letting out a sob. “I love you I love you so much.” He just kept repeating over and over.

It wasn’t long before the nurses came rushing in, a look of surprise on their faces. They quickly checked on Y/N, taking the tube out of her mouth and giving her fresh bandages on her healing wound. The minute they were out of the room, Josh was back at Y/N’s side holding onto her hand tightly.

“I knew you would wake up, I knew it, the doctors they thought that you weren’t going to wake up, but I kept telling them that you would. I told them you were far to stubborn to go that easy, plus Abby said that you wouldn’t leave me and…” Josh rambled as Y/N laid her fingers over his mouth smiling as she tried to quiet him.

“You need to shave.” Y/N said hoarsely and Josh laughed tears still streaming down his face.

“Baby, I missed you, I missed you so much.” He sobbed. She quickly put her hand on his back trying to pull him forward. He complied as he carefully moved towards her. Grabbing onto his collar she pulled him into her for a gentle kiss and as they broke apart Josh rested his head on hers.

“I’m so sorry I should have…” Josh started but Y/N quickly placed her hands on either side of his face.

“No,” She spat as loudly as she could. “Don’t you dare blame yourself Joshua. I’m here baby. I’m ok, we are ok. That’s all that matters.” And she pulled him into her once again enveloping him in a hug. “I told you, you won’t ever lose me.”

She shifted in the bed so that there was enough room for two and Josh laid with her holding onto her as tightly as he felt he could without hurting her. Y/N rested her head on Josh’s chest. Almost instantly Josh felt asleep, the exhaustion he had been trying to keep at bay for the last 2 weeks hit him at once, and he slept.

Y/N smiled as she listened to the sound of his heartbeat knowing that she was safe.

Would you guys like to see more continuations of this story. The rest of the West Wing finding out Y/N woke up? The aftermath of the attack? Y/N and Josh discussing having a family? Let me know if you want more.

#josh lyman #josh lyman x reader #west wing #fanfiction #imagine

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master-sass-blast · 4 years ago

Text

Care and Trust: Chapter One.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Summary: "The shockwave hits second.

You’re strolling through Avatar Korra park, out on your lunch break. It’s a beautiful, late winter day; with the sun shining high up in the sky, it’s warm enough that you aren’t shivering like a frightened kitten as you amble along the plaza.

Several people gasp, and you look up in time to see a fireball pluming up over the docks.

And then the shockwave hits.

It hits your chest like an armadillo tiger; the explosion roars through the air, making your ears hurt. You go down, grunting when you hit the snow-covered knoll behind you.

You stand with a groan, brush yourself off, then start booking it to the nearest hospital.

Shit like this always demands all hands on deck."

AKA Plot Finally Happens.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: T.

Word count: 2.1k.

The shockwave hits second.

(But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.)

Several people gasp, and you look up in time to see a fireball pluming up over the docks.

And then the shockwave hits.

It hits your chest like an armadillo tiger; the explosion roars through the air, making your ears hurt. You go down, grunting when you hit the snow-covered knoll behind you.

Cries pierce the air. Screams of panic, exclamations of disbelief, exhortations to call the police.

Yeah, you think as you eye the thick, black smoke that belches into the air, something tells me they didn’t miss that.

You stand with a groan, brush yourself off, then start booking it to the nearest hospital.

Shit like this always demands all hands on deck.

***

As predicted, the injury count is high.

You run the halls of Yue General, triaging the more serious patients until things slow enough that you can start checking the ones not actively dying. It’s a non-stop frenzy of gauze, saline, and bandage wraps until you can see the blue glow of your healing whenever you close your eyes.

By the end of it, your feet are practically dead and it’s nearly four in the morning.

You drag yourself onto one of the trams and let the teeth-shaking rattle keep you awake until you’re on your block. You count your steps until you make it to the front door, then let out a sigh of relief when you step into the building lobby.

“Elevator Out of Service. Please Use Stairs.”

You stare at the placard in front of the elevator bay in disbelief, then groan. Fuck my life.

***

The climb up to your floor is agony.

You’re huffing and puffing by the time you make it to your apartment door. You lean against it as you slot the key into the lock, then push inside.

Some distant, responsible part of you manages to turn the deadbolt before your brain shuts off entirely. You kick off your shoes, drop your purse on the ground, then shuffle over to the couch and flop down face first on it.

When you lift your head again, sunlight’s streaming through your living room window.

“Fuck.” You wince, then peel yourself gingerly off the couch. You cringe as your body protests, and rub your hand over the back of your aching neck. You glance at the clock, but the gurgle your stomach makes is more than enough to tell you that it’s past lunch time.

You sit up, then frown when you get a whiff of yourself. Antiseptic and B.O. Not a good combination on anyone.

You need a shower. And food. And a good round of stretching.

Nice, long, hot shower. You smile as you shuffle towards the bathroom. And then take out. Narook’s. With extra squid ink noodles. Your stomach rumbles again. And maybe Golden King’s… mmm, extra summer rolls… with sweet and sour dipping sauce. Yum.

***

You feel more human after showering. You change into sweats and a loose shirt, put in delivery orders at Narook’s and Golden King’s, then flip on your radio before dropping down onto your sofa.

It’s too early in the day for mystery shows, but the disc jockey’s still playing music requests. Smooth jazz --something with a rolling beat and brass--pipes out of the speakers, swirling around your apartment until the mental grime of the previous day starts to fade.

You sink back into your couch and hum along. You sigh and stretch, relish in the ache in your legs as tension leeches from your sore muscles.

The radio hums, then crackles. “We interrupt this broadcast for an announcement from the Republic City Police Department.”

You roll your eyes as an announcer rattles off a report about the explosion yesterday --site is secure, no risk of further fire or explosion, the city police are hard work, stay clear of the site, blah blah blah--then relax when your music starts playing again. Thanks for telling us what we already know. You close your eyes and let yourself drift. Why do they always shove that into every single press release? ‘We’re working hard to serve Republic City and ensure the safety of her citizens--’

Lin.

You gasp and bolt upright; she would’ve attended the scene. Hell, for all you know, she was one of the responding officers.

It’s probable, given her propensity for “hands on police work,” for not staying above the grime and grunge her officers have to work on.

Hell, it’s even likely. Given what you know about Lin, you’d be solid money that she’d rather work the explosion site than deal with the panicking politicians.

Is she okay? You chew on your lower lip as the thought circles your mind like water in the bathtub drain, swirling down and down into blackness.

You blink, and then your phone’s in your hand, and there’s hold music in your ear as the operator makes the connection. You gulp and palm your phone once the music stops and the ringing starts. Please don’t let this be a mistake, please don’t let this be a mistake, please don’t let this be a fucking mistake…

“Chief Beifong’s office. This is her assistant, Ryu, speaking. The Chief is not available at this time, but I can take your message and deliver it to her later.”

You blink at the sound of her assistant’s voice. “Uh… hi…” You swallow, then rattle off your name and callback number before Ryu can hang up on you. “I’m a, uh, friend of Lin’s. I was just calling because --y’know--the explosion--”

“I’m sorry, but the Chief cannot comment on an ongoing investigation--”

“I’m not calling about that,” you interject, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m her friend; I just want to be sure she’s okay.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and when Ryu speaks again, she almost sounds… pleased? “Chief Beifong’s not in right now --but I’ll have her call you back as soon as she’s available.”

“Is she hurt?” you blurt before she hangs up on you.

Another pause. “As far as I know, no.”

“Okay.” You nod, gulp, then nod again. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Have a nice day.”

You eke out something similar, then put your phone back on the hook when the line goes dead. Your heart thuds uncomfortably hard in your chest, and you have to blink a few times before your brain starts working again.

You head back to your couch and jazz --but long gone is your relaxed, exhaustion induced stupor. Anxiety claws at your chest, threatening to snap your ribs and leave you bleeding. You inhale deeply through your nose, then force yourself to let it out slowly so your body calms down. She’ll be fine. She’s got, what, thirty years on the force? This is old hat for her. She’ll keep herself safe.

Still, if you spend the next couple hours watching your phone, that’s no one’s business but yours.

***

Your phone rings around seven in the evening --right as you’re shovelling leftovers from lunch into your mouth.

Go figure.

You half-scramble, half-try-to-not-choke over to the phone; you pick up the phone, try to swallow, then tuck the food in your cheek like a hamster when it’s apparent you’ve got too much in your mouth to swallow. Mom always said I ate like a pack of polar bear dogs. “Heffo?”

There’s a dry huff of laughter on the other end of the line. “I take it I caught you at a good time.”

“Lin!” You cover your mouth with one hand (even though she can’t see you) and alternate between chewing and swallowing. “I --I was ea’in ‘inner.”

“Sounds like you decided to do it all at once.” She chuckles when you grumble, then moves on. “My secretary said you called?”

“Yeah, around lunch time,” you say as you finally get your mouth clear.

“Where I’m presuming you had your mouth full of that meal, too.”

“Fuck you.” You grin when she laughs, then lean against the wall and cradle the receiver against your shoulder. “I just… wanted to check on you. With the explosion and all.”

“You heard about that.”

“The whole city heard it, Lin.” You sigh. “I worked the triage team at Yue General until four in the morning.”

“Shit.” Lin groans, and you can hear the creak of her leather office chair as she sits. “I thought you only did massage therapy?”

“They call everyone who passed a healing course when stuff like this happens,” you explain. “Besides, I had to pass an intensive injury treatment course to get my rehabilitation certification. I’m licensed to assist surgery teams, if need arises.”

Lin hums. “That’s a nice feather in your cap.”

“It pays the bills.” You manage a smile when she lets out a huff of laughter, but the anxiety that’s been circling your brain descends to your stomach. You swallow, then ask, “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” When you don’t respond right away, her voice softens. “I’m fine. A little banged up, but nothing that won’t heal. I wasn’t there when the explosion went off.”

“Okay,” you murmur. You let out a shaky breath, then mentally kick yourself to stop acting like a worried girlfriend, dammit. “Well, if something doesn’t heal, you know where to find me.”

Lin grunts, then chuckles when you laugh. “Get some rest, kid.”

“Already am. You should do the same.” You roll your eyes when she starts grumbling again --about overtime and press conferences and departmental cooperation with the city’s fire brigade--then say, “Call me when you want to keep me up all night again,” and hang up before she can react.

It’s easy to picture her reaction. Open-mouthed, wide-eyed, with that hint of a grin that she hides by smirking.

You bite your lower lip; something warm and smooth settles in your lower gut. You laugh quietly to yourself, then turn and head back for the sofa. Alright, leftovers. It’s just you and me.

***

You’re in the midst of changing the sheets on your massage table when there’s a knock on the door. “Come in.”

The latch clicks, the door swings open, and the receptionist for the Northern Moon Physical Therapy Facility pokes her head into your “office” (which is really just the room you work out of, but it’s yours, and that’s what counts). “A call came in for you.”

You straighten, frowning. “Me?”

She nods. “A request for on-site treatment.” She looks down at the slip of paper in her hand and recites the information from the call. “Republic City Police Department, at one this afternoon. Long session booking. A woman named Ryu called it in.”

Your heart sinks into your shoes. Fucking dammit. “And my other appointments…”

“We’re redistributing them to the other therapists. It was an urgent request.”

Shit.

You sigh, then nod and grab your carry bag off a nearby office chair. “Let me pack up, and I’ll catch one of the trams.”

“They’re sending a car for you.” The receptionist smiles politely, then steps back and starts making her way back down the hall. “It’ll be here in fifteen minutes!”

You run your tongue over your teeth and do what you can to tamp down the aggravation simmering in your stomach. Well, on the bright side, I don’t have to carry the table the entire way.

***

Ryu meets you in the parking garage attached to the police department. She’s sleek, dressed in an impeccably pressed navy blue suit, and there’s not a hair out of place on her head.

In your loose slacks, pale periwinkle blouse, and slapdash braid, you can’t help but feel a bit… frumpy.

She shakes your hand --she’s got a strong, professional handshake--then escorts you through the garage. “Thank you for coming.” She opens a heavy metal door stamped with the police department’s emblem for you. “I’ll take you up to Chief Beifong’s office.”

Your jaw flexes as you follow her down a hall with an immaculately polished slate tile floor. “How’s she been? What kind of pain has she been in?”

Ryu looks at you over her shoulder for a long moment. Her eyes narrow contemplatively, but she turns back around before you can make anything of her expression. “I’ve been asked to let Chief Beifong explain things to you directly.”

Yeah, that tracks. You shift the strap of your carry bag onto your shoulder, then watch the floor counter as the elevator slowly rattles upwards.

#sass writes #lin beifong x reader #this one got cut into multiple pieces due to length #also we have plot now!#five fics into the series dslfjdlfkjdslfkjdslfj #legend of korra #the hands that heal

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