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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction.

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you.

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee.

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women.

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy.

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be.

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal.

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be.

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men.

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum.

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops.

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.”

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh.

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth.

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy.

And it’s not right.

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips.

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward.

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!”

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not.

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?”

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood.

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #cod x reader #könig fluff #könig smut #historical au #Roman soldier!König

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frostbitebakery · 7 months ago

Text

LOUD.

a Jedi Shadow!Obi-Wan AU

“Each of us, every single clone, is a one-man army. And yes, I am… I’m so proud of them. We protect the Galaxy, we die fighting for the Galaxy and its peoples. We are not made for peace times, Obi-Wan.”

The cynical part of Obi-Wan wants to ask why Cody is so steadfast in his belief when everywhere the clones go they’re confronted with people dismissing them, equating them to the droids they’re fighting.

He understands, though. Jedi are only welcome where people know about the help they can provide. The Order is looked down upon, the Jedi just as easily dismissed, more often than not when it comes to it.

And still. And still. The call to protect people is too strong to ignore. He doesn’t want to ignore the call. He can help so he does.

So yes, he understands Cody and his need to fight.

He watches as Cody self-consciously rubs the back of his neck, fingers not halting over the port, so— so used to its presence, as the silence reigns. Cody doesn’t try to further his explanations. He said his piece and that’s that.

Obi-Wan settles down on the floor in front of the weightlifting bench. And Cody.

He crosses his legs automatically, the armor he has to don if he wants to engage in the battles blessedly absent, here. His fingers find Cody’s other hand in his lap, tapping it lightly, glancing by the embedded screen in the armored boot proclaiming Cody as belonging to the 212th.

Commander Cody got his own Attack Battalion. Mace remains the immediate superior but the brass saw Cody’s merit. No Jedi can easily fill the role as war general and Cody is… too brilliant to not be in charge. He and Mace have been flattening the CIS, the GAR is only too happy to spread out their heavy hitters.

“He’s always giving them a chance to surrender first,” Cody had commented on Mace, pride and admiration shining from his whole body. “How he’s able to walk with balls like that is a mystery to me.”

Obi-Wan had politely choked on nothing.

Once Cody is looking at him, apologies in his eyes for being made for war, of war, Obi-Wan signs a simple question. “How would you know?”

Temper makes the scarred eyebrow rise and Obi-Wan continues, undeterred now that Cody’s attention isn’t on misplaced guilt.

“You know nothing but war. You’ve learnt nothing but war. You’ve,” Obi-Wan pauses to swallow the grief, “experienced nothing but war in your life. How would you know you’re not made for peace times when you haven’t even had the chance to live in them?”

A smile, half there and fleeing, cracks, warm brown eyes watch Obi-Wan’s hands. “In my darkest moments I’m not sure I’ll even see them.”

Obi-Wan is against false promises but hope has never left his life’s side and he’d like to share. “We work together and we end this war. We see as many of you and us on the other side as possible.”

“Sounds like an easy first step,” Cody laughs ruefully, and leans down, captures Obi-Wan’s unmasked face, blurred by the unknown, and holds their foreheads together for a long self-indulgent moment.

Obi-Wan ducks his head, mask and scars in place once more. “Is that something you wish? To see me?”

Cody shakes his head, shoulders tight. “I’m sorry. I went too far.”

No, you didn’t, Obi-Wan wants to tell him, I want you to see me.

Soon. Probably. As soon as Obi-Wan has removed the screws from his heart and their doubting pressure.

“I think I can help you,” Obi-Wan signs, bullheading through the burgeoning silence. “But I need your help for that.”

“What do you need,” Cody asks, all Commander now that he’s got a mission objective.

“I want to know how you can communicate neurally and who has access to that channel.” He’s been looking into it for months, always ending in front of a Kaminoan wall. He’s at his wits end and now, now, with Bail confirming Palpatine is shuffling credits to the CIS and it’s still only heresy where a court is concerned…

Kamino confirmed only authorized personnel has access to the comm links in the clones’ heads. What if those include the CIS?

Cody blinks in surprise. “General Windu has access to that information.”

Does he? Obi-Wan is beginning to doubt that fact. “Humor me.”

Shoulders go wide, straight, loose. “Protocol dictates that, in case of emergency in an engagement situation, a High General is able to deploy orders directly to a CC-class clone via the Force after initiating with the correct identification.”

The clones are password-locked. Obi-Wan tries very, very hard to keep his expression neutral. “I assume every Commander knows the identification?”

Cody starts to smile, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, ready to playfully lecture Obi-Wan about confidentiality. Obi-Wan can see that, can feel the intention of Cody to do so. Before his eyes sharpen like the back-up blade in the boot holster. “Is there a leak?”

“Not that I’m sure of,” Obi-Wan hurries to sign. “Cody, please, what is the initialization sequence?”

Cody watches him, tracks his every move and twitch and stillness with keen eyes. Obi-Wan lets him, not able to keep a lid on the worry he’s feeling, the Force hushed in absolute and anticipation. “Every Commander knows those words. No one else does. A High General can request it of his Commander. That is what General Windu knows. A Commander takes the words to their grave if they have to.” A built-in failsafe, based on the clones’ loyalty to the Republic. “And the Jedi,” Cody adds with a soft smile. “Maybe we have been trained to follow you but you have proven yourself over and over again. The initialization is—“ Cody’s face twists into confusion as the Force starts— starts to shriek in warning. “Is…”

Shards of glass hurtle towards Obi-Wan, high-pitched tone piercing his eardrums, hack into his thoughts—

“Who are you?”

Obi-Wan hurries, pulls a hand up and projects “Cody, wake”.

Cody wakes, blinks. Shakes the cloudy remnants of a dream gone wrong off, as stuck on him, burnt into him as some details of it are.

He looks up when he notices the presence by the training salle entry, smiles up at Obi-Wan, feels his eyes go soft, relaxed.

Obi-Wan stares back at him, mask in place which ups the distant, rumbling intensity of his gaze like an incoming storm. “Thank you,” he signs, and Cody can see the tremors in his fingertips. Blue eyes flick up to the surveillance camera in the ceiling, go back to him.

Cody… remembers. Obi-Wan pushing him behind a destroyed tank during battle, one hand covering the helmet camera while the other had signed “need to talk, no eyes” in battle signs.

He looks to the door again but Obi-Wan is suddenly right in front of him, cradling his face so gently Cody can feel tears prick at his eyes, forehead carefully, with no hesitation and too much meaning coming to rest against his.

#loud au #my wips #codywan #commander cody #I love putting him in tank tops

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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can i ask for poly! marauders x reader where reader is really sick and literally hallucinating and they take care of her? 😭

Thanks for requesting lovely! I didn't quite do hallucinations, but I hope weird, feverish dreams are close enough haha

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You seem absolutely miserable, and Sirius wishes he could tell you how adorable you look. He would, if he thought you’d take it well. Your eyes are still half-lidded from the restless sleep Remus had woken you up from a minute before, your cheeks flushed pink, and your expression wide open in the way Sirius so rarely gets to see when you have your wits about you. Your lips are pursed in a pretty little pout as James tries, in his sweetly tenacious way, to coax you into eating something.

“What about a sandwich?” he asks after you turn your nose up at his offer of soup.

You shake your head, and Sirius thinks he can see you swallowing against a gag reflex. James gives you a pleading look.

“C’mon, sweetheart, you gotta eat something.” He sighs. “How about just dry cereal?”

You look a bit sulky about it, but give a reluctant nod. James grins, pressing a satisfied kiss to the side of your head before heading towards the kitchen.

He passes Remus in the doorway, the taller boy on his way in with that plagued indent still solid between his brows. James passes a comforting hand along his shoulder, smiling at him encouragingly. Remus returns it, his features softening like butter in the rays of James’ sunshine.

“Alright, dove,” he says, coming to sit next to you on the bed and uncapping a thermometer, “how are you feeling?”

“Weird,” you mumble, and Sirius pouts at you as Remus holds you still with a gentle hand at your jaw, settling the device in your ear.

“Still feel like you could be sick?” he asks.

“Yeah. And my head really hurts.”

Remus frowns sympathetically. “M’sorry, sweetheart.”

The thermometer beeps, and his frown deepens as he brings it closer to his face, reading the screen.

“What is it?” Sirius asks.

“It’s not great,” Remus replies quietly, bringing the back of his hand to your forehead like he’ll find something different there. “We need to get your fever down, lovely girl.”

“Eating could help,” James says brightly, coming in with a bowl of, as promised, plain cereal. He sets it on your lap, but you only stare at it, looking guilty but honestly like you might be sick, even with nothing in your stomach to bring up.

“Well, don’t let it get soggy,” Sirius jokes after a moment, unsure whether he feels worse for you or James right now.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and you really do sound it. “I’m really not hungry.”

“Just have a few bites,” Remus reasons. “You need to eat something with your medicine.”

“What medicine?”

“The fever reducers I’m about to give you.” Sirius looks over to see him screwing the cap off a pill bottle, shaking a couple into his hand. “C’mon, eat your cereal.”

You look up at him, eyes big and pitiful and surprisingly watery. “I can’t,” you whine.

“Dove,” Remus' voice is firm, but still gentler than he’d usually be. “This isn’t up for debate, I’m sorry. You have to eat at least some.”

You set your mouth in a stubborn line, and Remus cocks an eyebrow.

“No cuddles until you do.”

Your defiance cracks like a shell, your eyes filling with tears quicker than any of your boyfriends can react. “Really?” you whimper.

Fucking hell, Sirius hadn’t agreed to that. Neither had James, apparently, because they’re both at your side in an instant, Sirius wrapping an arm around your shoulders while James thumbs away the few hot, sluggish tears that escape.

“No, angel, it’s okay,” James says hastily. “Why don’t you just have a couple bites of cereal, huh? Just for now.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “This is so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, baby,” Sirius promises you, kissing your temple. The heat that meets his lips is frightening. “You don’t feel well, I’m sure everything sucks right now. You’re allowed to be a little extra emotional when your brain is melting.”

More tears spill from your eyes, glassy with fever and now also filling with horror as you look up at him. “My brain is melting?”

“It’s not,” Remus says quickly, shooting Sirius an exasperated look. “It’s not, darling, that was just an exaggeration. What Sirius means is that you have a really high fever. It’s understandable that you’d be upset.”

“Oh,” you hiccup, and Sirius murmurs an apology, rubbing your upper arm comfortingly. He casts a bewildered look to the others as you sniffle, Remus’ expression lined with exhaustion and James looking dangerously close to laughter.

“How about just three bits of cereal?” Sirius asks softly, scooping a few pieces from the bowl and holding the spoon up enticingly. “Then you can be done, yeah?”

“Okay,” you mumble, taking the spoon from him. Remus murmurs something to James, who disappears into the bathroom.

By the time you’ve finished your three bites, with no sparse amount of praise from both Remus and Sirius, James has returned with a cup of water and a washcloth in hand.

“Attagirl,” he says with a smile, passing you the cup of water as Remus hands over the pills.

You swallow them eagerly, as if you’re anticipating the relief. James folds the washcloth, pushing you gently back into the pillows with a hand on your shoulder.

“Lie down for me, sweetheart.”

You do, and he lowers to a crouch by the bed, smoothing the hair from your clammy forehead and laying the washcloth in its place. Sirius can’t help but think of how pretty the two of you look, James’ curls falling in his face as he brushes a touch over your cheek, you looking over at him adoringly.

“Thanks,” you whisper, as though afraid to disturb the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that’s descended upon the room. “Feels nice.”

“You should close your eyes, dove,” Remus suggests. “Get some rest, give the medicine a chance to do its job.”

You frown, but it’s not the grumpy sulk you’d worn a few minutes before; this is more pensive. It’s almost funny, Sirius thinks, that somber look on your cute, feverish face.

“I don’t think I want to,” you say. “I didn’t like it before.”

“You didn’t like being asleep?” James raises his eyebrows, and you nod seriously. “Why not, angel?”

“Weird, bad dreams.”

Sirius scoots closer to where you’re lying, his knee almost touching James’ chest. He sets his palm idly against your overwarm cheek. “You’ve got to sleep if you’re going to get better, pretty girl,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay with you, if it makes you feel better. Those nightmare fuckers will have to get through me first.”

You do your best to bite it back, but your smile wins in the end, your eyelashes pinching at the corners. Sirius starts there, his thumb smoothing a line from the outer corner of your eye into your hairline. Back again. Over and over, in a nice, slow rhythm. After a few times, your smile fades. Your eyelids flutter, and Sirius can tell they must feel like they weigh a hundred tons each from the way they droop slowly before finally slipping closed.

Sirius thinks you might be asleep, but then you say drowsily, “I know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles softly. Remus echoes it. “That’s alright, baby. If I was trying to be subtle, you’d have no idea.”

You hum like you want to argue, but you don’t speak again.

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kitkatscabinet · 1 year ago

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Whumptober - 09: Human shield/hostage

Simon Riley x gn! reader

You’d fucked up.

It was as simple as that and if you somehow get out of this alive you knew Simon was going to have your fucking head for worrying him. That and he’d make your life a living hell of PT and combat training.

You don’t even know how you’re managing to think about your potentially grim and annoying future when there’s a gun barrel pressed into the back of your neck, digging into the cervical column of your spine.

Your knees sting from the cool cement you’ve been kneeling on for what feels like hours. They’re bloody and scraped to shit and your feet have long gone numb, attempts to wiggle your toes thwarted by the tingling pins and needles.

Your wrists and hands are hardly faring any better, the thick rope having cut off circulation and rubbed the skin bloody and raw from your escape attempt. The one that had earned you the butt of a rifle to the gut so hard you’d almost thrown up.

Sticky blood still drips down your forehead from where you’d been struck, pouring into your eye and rendering you half-blind.

Whatever plans your captors have are derailed when Simon, no, the Ghost barrels into the room, an entity out for blood. He stops the second he assesses the situation, placing his hands up in a surrendering gesture when the muzzle of the captor's rifle digs more harshly into your spine.

To the untrained eye, Ghost looked as calm as possible, seemingly barely phased by the scene in front of him. To you who knew him better than any living person, however, you knew that was far from the case.

You’re glad Ghost is wearing his hood, he’s always had such an expressive face. You’d seen the way his eyes, the ones that always stared at you so softly, had widened in panic before he’d composed himself.

He’s trying to defuse the situation or stall long enough for a sniper to get a good shot, which is unlikely given the incredibly small windows.

It had been nothing short of a miracle that you and Ghost had even been deployed on the same mission (lack of available personnel), and you couldn’t be more thankful if you tried. Not because you thought he’d be able to save you, no matter how much you hoped, but because selfishly it gave you one last opportunity to drink him in.

Desperately you prayed that Simon wouldn’t be forced to watch your brains splatter against the floor, though you can’t help but be glad that the last thing you see will be his eyes. The eyes that keep flickering back to yours to reassure you, though you think it's more for his benefit as he too memorises your features desperately.

It’s also his way of silently apologising for putting on such a cold front. Training indicated he had to pretend not to know you very well, otherwise, the first instance of his true feelings shining through would result poorly for the both of you. It would give the enemy even more leverage over the situation.

You can’t run the risk of nodding along or giving any indication that you understand and trust him more than anything, you just have to let it shine through on your mostly impassive face. They wouldn’t get to witness any of your panic, you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Negotiations don’t seem to be getting anywhere when you finally tune back into the conversation. The situation is incredibly grim and just as you are about to accept your death an ear-shattering shot echoes through the room.

You’d never be able to truly remember the next few seconds if you tried, adrenaline kicking into overdrive when your body hits the floor covered in blood before your brain registers that you are very not dead despite the gunfire.

Everyone turns to the man holding the gun to your head in confusion. One, two, three, four seconds pass as it registers that he had not been the one to fire. Instead, it’s his body hitting the floor with a thud as red sprays from his skull.

Those four seconds are all Ghost needs before he raises his rifle and takes out the other three men with a yell. It doesn’t take another four before he’s sliding onto his knees beside you, taking your head into his hands and pulling you against his chest as he pleads for you not to be dead.

Your eyes open through the blood that’s drenched your upper half and Simon inhales shakily in relief when you finally murmur that it’s not yours. Your face is buried against his neck and his arms ensnare your shoulders, holding you crushingly tight against him as his shoulders shake slightly.

You feel, because you can’t see anything past his vest, his head turn and his nose press tightly to your hairline as his breathing slowly evens out.

“S’ok. I’m ok, you saved me” Your voice is hoarse with unshed tears and stress that finally burst forth as the dam wall you’d been keeping up crumbles. Simon mumbles something but it’s too soft for you to hear, you don’t ask him to repeat it because you understand the sentiment.

His comms flare to life but Simon ignores them in favour of clutching you tighter against him, it takes you gently nudging him to answer for him to relent his grip even a little as he has to pull away a little to answer. Though he’s diving back against you almost instantly, this time he pulls off his mask, letting the bare skin of his nose press against your pounding pulse point.

You don’t make any move to push him away, even as your arms and legs ache from the position because you understand. You don’t doubt you’d be just as clingy and desperate had the roles been reversed.

Chin resting on his shoulder you speak softly and slowly, just for him. It’s a bunch of random nonsense that you won’t remember later but it doesn’t matter. It’s just another way to reassure him and you that you’re still alive and breathing.

That you aren’t going anywhere. Not yet, and if the world lets you have your way, not ever.

#cod simon riley #x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #ghost

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bequeerbehappy · 3 months ago

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OK you see this scene

well here is what they really look like

My life has never been the same since I realized it (it has became even sadder)

Imagine Max, traumatized after the death of her abusive stepbrother. She experiences nightmares and has suicidal thoughts, distancing herself from all her friends. Meanwhile, her mother is sinking deeper into alcoholism. Max learns that a monster has cursed her, and that she will inevitably die soon. This monster gives her visions that force her to relive her worst traumas and fears. She finds herself on the floor, her eyes bloody, screaming that she doesn’t want to die, while looking like this:

Imagine Lucas trying to fit in to avoid being bullied, which distances him from his best friends. He notices that the girl he loves is struggling and pulling away from him. He ends up hanging out with guys who claim that the game he's played since childhood has a satanic purpose and that they’re trying to kill one of his friends. Later, he learns that the girl he loves is cursed by a monster and will soon die, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He watches her float in the air, powerless, hoping that her favorite music will bring her back down. Ultimately, he finds himself holding her in his arms, half-dead, screaming "Erica, help!" knowing that all he can do is talk to her to keep her alive, while looking like this:

Imagine Eleven finding herself in an entirely unfamiliar city, trying to cope with the grief of losing the man she considers her dad, while struggling to fit in after spending half her life in a lab. She has lost her powers, which were an integral part of her. She realizes that the first person to ever show her real affection is unable to say "I love you." To regain her powers and save her friends from potential death, she must confront the greatest trauma of her life, facing the man who robbed her of her childhood. She learns that one of the most important people in her world might be on the verge of death, and she finds herself battling a monster, partly responsible for her deepest trauma, to save her. In the end, she witnesses the scene where Max is on the brink of death, with Lucas desperately trying to keep her alive. All while looking like this:

#I can’t #the lives of these kids are so sad #Just let them have a part of their lives that is happy #Stranger things age accurate #stranger things #elumax #lumax #elmax #eleven hopper #max mayfield #lucas sinclair

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baronessblixen · 18 days ago

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Fictober Day 26: Let's Give Them Something To Talk About

Prompt: "You were the first"

@living-in-unreality sent in this ask: Mulder or Scully overhears office gossip about two other agents being placed on separate teams after their workplace relationship was discovered. Bonus points if it happens when the MSR pining is at its peak and they are still scared to take that leap. Rating: T, wc: 1,580

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober24

Over the years, he’s been the topic of office gossip more than once. So when he sees the huddled group and hears the whispering, his mind kicks into overdrive, wondering what he—or they—might have done this time.

But he can’t come up with anything. He and Scully have been model agents of decorum. So what is it about?

He inches closer, trying not to draw any attention to himself. While most agents know him by reputation, few engage in idle chit-chat with him. Then one of the men spots him and crooks a finger at him.

“Spooky, have you heard?” He decides to ignore the dreaded nickname and lets himself be drawn into the circle. He catches a whiff of entitlement and a hint of contempt. But his curiosity is too strong to step away.

“Heard what?”

“The Anderson and Davis affair.” Mulder has no idea who these people are or what they’ve done. His expression must say as much because the agent continues. Not after he rolls his eyes, though.

“They did the nasty. Hooked up. They were found out and have been put on separate teams. I think if Kersh could have, he would have transferred one of them out of state.” Everyone except Mulder laughs. His ears are ringing. He may not know who these two agents are, and he may not be in this exact situation, but it hits far too close to home.

“It’s like I always say,” one of the other agents says. Mulder is certain he’s seen him before, but can’t place him.

“Don’t shit where you eat and don’t fuck where you work.” Another round of laughter makes Mulder feel queasy. He excuses himself, unsure if anyone hears him or even cares. He himself doesn’t care.

The only thing he thinks about is what he’s just witnessed. A team split up because of a personal, romantic relationship. His thoughts jump to Scully. To their journey toward more than friends and partners. What if this happened to them? God knows they’ve tried to separate them before. He can’t let it happen. He can’t risk losing her.

Scully’s eyes are burning a hole into his temple. They’re challenging him to turn and give her a sign or anything to assure her he’s okay. But he keeps his head and eyes forward. He’s not paying attention to the meeting at all; that in itself is nothing unusual.

More often than not, Mulder and Scully will doodle, share a crossword puzzle, or even send notes back and forth. Like a couple of teenagers. His reluctance to face her has consequences too. Someone elbows him in the ribs and then there’s a neatly folded piece of paper in front of him.

“Are you okay?” Only Scully would send a note like this. It’s so her that he almost smiles. Instead, and with great difficulty, he screws the note up and puts it in his pocket.

He’s so tempted to turn to her and see her expression, but he doesn’t dare. He’ll crumble. He knows he’s on borrowed time as it is; as soon as this meeting is over, Scully will find him. His queasiness returns and he swallows hard.

Once the meeting is over, Mulder grabs his things and flees the conference room. He’s lucky that he’s tall and broad; agents step aside and let him through.

“Mulder.” Scully’s voice is too demanding to keep walking. He freezes and turns to her.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?” It’s the worry in her tone and expression that gets him.

“Not feeling well,” he mumbles. At least it’s only half a lie.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She puts her hand on his forehead and he winces. What if someone sees them? What if they draw the wrong conclusions? He bats her hand away, and the hurt in her eyes is too much for him to bear.

“I’m just gonna- going home. See you.” Her eyes follow him as he stalks off. What the hell is he going to do now?

The knock doesn’t surprise him; he expected it. What surprises him is how long Scully stayed away. He opens the door and there she is, holding a plastic bag.

“Hey,” he says.

“How are you feeling?” He shrugs. “I brought you chicken soup.” That’s his Scully. Against his better judgment, he opens the door wider and she steps inside, walking in under his still outstretched arm.

“I didn’t make it,” she says, unloading the bag in his kitchen. “I wouldn’t want you to feel worse.” A smile flits across her face. It only fades when she sees his blank face.

“Did something happen?” she asks point blank, crossing her arms in front of her chest. In that moment she reminds him of Diana. He’s wise enough not to mention it – even if it would drive her away. He doesn’t want to hurt her. None of this is her fault.

In the past, when no one cared what agents did in their private lives, and when he and Diana could have been Anderson and Davis – whoever they are – she’d close herself off to him just like this. She’d wanted space when he wanted closeness. It wasn’t that either of them were bad people; they had just never worked.

“Mulder, please, whatever it is, we-”

“I heard some gossip today.” That doesn’t faze Scully. What must the gossip mill be like in the ladies’ room? The men are bad enough as it is.

“About us? That’s nothing new, is it? Just ignore it.”

“Not about us,” he admits, biting his lip. “Do you know Anderson and Davis?” Her eyes grow wide.

“I know Agent Davis,” she says. “Why? Did something happen to them?”

“In a manner of speaking. They were caught and split up.”

“Caught?” Scully asks and he realizes that she isn’t grasping what he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“They were more than partners.” The penny still hasn’t dropped. “They were in a relationship,” Mulder explains. “A romantic relationship.”

“So?”

“So? I’m not going to- Scully, they were split up because they’re dating.”

“That’s against regulations,” Scully says, sounding sure of herself. Mulder shakes his head.

“I heard it, Scully.”

“Where?” Her voice is laced with suspicion and her arms are still crossed.

“In front of the men’s room.”

“Oh, Mulder. How do you even know they were telling the truth? Do you know what insane rumors are making the rounds in the Hoover building?”

“But… Anderson and Davis have been put on separate teams. I checked.” He didn’t do it to get proof. He wanted to put faces to their names. For a while, he just stared at their ID pictures. There was nothing particularly special about them; Mulder has probably crossed their path several times in the last few years.

“They could have been split up for a number of reasons. There’s no rule against partners dating.”

“How do you know that?” Scully blushes.

“I checked.”

“When?” He needs to know.

“Recently,” she admits, clearing her throat. “That’s not the point, Mulder. You’ve been acting strange all day. What does this rumor have to do with anything?”

“When I heard what happened,” Mulder says, “you were the first… the first thought that crossed my mind.”

“Me?”

“You and… me. I know I’m presuming things here and we’re not- but we could maybe eventually and I panicked.”

“And instead of telling me this, you thought you’d ignore me, pretend to be sick, and run off?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “I couldn’t – I can’t risk losing you, Scully. That’s all. I couldn’t get it out of my head. What if someone saw us play baseball the other night?”

His most cherished memory, now tainted. Just the thought. He imagines someone keeping tabs on them, waiting for them to cross the line. He had wanted to kiss her so badly. All the stars had aligned – literally. And he’d chickened out. Now he thinks that maybe it was better this way.

“What we do in our private time is our business.”

“Apparently not,” Mulder mumbles.

“Mulder, you don’t know what happened. They might have been frisky while on assignment or at work. And either way, we’re not like them.” It takes him a moment to catch her meaning. They’re not like them. What she’s saying is that they’re not at risk because she isn’t interested in changing their relationship at all. Once again, he’s been misreading all the signs.

“No,” he says dejectedly. “We’re not.”

“No, Mulder, you don’t understand.” She sighs, invading his personal space. “When we- when that happens, we’ll inform HR.”

When – not if.

“What you’re saying is?”

“Please presume things,” she says. She smiles at him before she gets on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his lips. He blinks as rapidly as his heart beats. “I leafed through the regulations last month,” Scully confesses with pink cheeks. “While romantic relationships are not encouraged, they’re not forbidden. All you have to do is disclose them to HR.”

“We can do that,” he says, his spirits lifting. She nods, unable to hide her smile.

“And I could have just told you that earlier, but you decided to play possum.”

“Gotta add some spice sometimes, Scully.” He grins at her. “So, when do you think we should let HR know?”

“Tomorrow.” She’s in his arms, kissing him, and he’s agreeing with everything she says and does.

#fictober24 #msr #xf fanfic #had fun with this one too :)#these last few stories have really been great to write #thank you everyone #my writing #my fic

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rhosyn-du · 3 months ago

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Alternative Education - Dreamling

Square/Prompt: A3 - Dubious Consent for @dreamlingbingo, although the consent ended up much less dubious than I originally planned. But the spanking is arguably dubcon, so I’m counting it anyway

Rating: Explicit

Ship: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: human AU, age gap, tutor/student relationship, tutor!Hob, student!Dream, spanking, face slapping, blowjobs, hand jobs, face fucking, hair pulling, unnegotiated kink, messy af power dynamics

Link on AO3

Summary: Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. If Hob spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how good Dream would sound begging for his cock, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Inspired by this post. Huge thanks to @gabessquishytum and 🪽 anon for the inspiration for this fic and the sequels that make up half my planned bingo fills. This AU has eaten my brain in the best way.

Thank you @karalynlovescake for the beta and tagging help!

Most days, tutoring Dream Aeternum is the easiest money Hob has ever made. Dream is clever, with a cutting wit and a skill for weaving words that Hob is frankly a bit envious of, and when he’s not being a prickly asshole about one thing or another, Hob actually enjoys his company. Plus, Dream’s parents pay him well enough that he doesn’t need to take on any other regular clients this term, just the occasional one-off to supplement his income—nothing less than a godsend when Hob needs those extra hours if he has any hope of finishing his dissertation on time.

It doesn't hurt that Dream is beautiful. As in, model beautiful. Love songs and fucking sonnets beautiful. The kind of beautiful that, if he were a couple years older and not Hob’s tutee (or hell, just one of the two; Hob’s not a saint), would have Hob angling to take him to bed, or at least to the men’s for a quick fumble. But Hob is a professional—or at least a guy who would really like to keep this job—so if he spends maybe a bit more time than is advisable imagining how things might have gone if they’d met under different circumstances, thinking about how good Dream would sound begging for Hob’s cock in that low, liquid-sex voice of his, well, that’s between Hob and his right hand.

Most days, Dream’s tutoring sessions are nothing more than Hob keeping Dream company for a couple hours, and maybe trying to coax a smile out of him when he’s in one of his more sullen moods. Dream doesn’t need a tutor, but from everything Hob’s seen, he could sure as hell use a friend, and Hob is more than happy to be that when Dream will let him, fucked up as it might be that he’s getting paid to be there.

Then, there are days like today, when Hob is sure he earns every fucking penny Dream’s parents pay him.

“It’s a stupid assignment, and I won’t do it.”

Hob sighs. They’ve been through this a dozen times already. “It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.” It is. Hob can’t even argue the point. How Dream’s teacher even got his post with such an appalling misunderstanding of classical literature is beyond him. “It’s the assignment you were given, so it’s the assignment you need to turn in. You’re lucky Mr. Choronzon is giving you the chance to redo it instead of just failing you for turning in something that didn’t meet his requirements the first time.”

“The essay I turned in was good,” Dream protests. “You know it was. You read it.”

“It was,” Hob agrees. There are people in his graduate seminars who couldn’t give that nuanced a take on Ovid. “But it still wasn’t the assignment.”

“The assignment,” Dream snarls, “is stupid.”

Hob folds his arms and leans against one of the ostentatious posts that adorns the foot of Dream’s bed, grateful at least that they’re in Dream’s room today rather than the study, where one of Dream’s siblings might try to weigh in and inevitably make things much worse.

“You said that already.”

“It isn’t fair,” Dream tries. Also, not for the first time.

“No, it’s not. But that’s how things are sometimes. Shit’s unfair and it sucks for a bit and you deal with it, and then you get to move on to the parts that don’t suck.” Hob runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dream, you could be half done with the thing already if you hadn’t wasted the past hour whining about it like a kid who doesn’t want to eat his greens.”

Dream’s eyes flash with indignation, and he tilts his chin up so he can glare down his nose at Hob. “I am not a child.”

“Then stop fucking acting like one!” Hob knows it’s the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth, but he’s too annoyed, too utterly done with this conversation to stop them.

Dream’s lips curl back in a sneer and his eyes narrow to angry slits, a sure sign that he’s started to spiral into a full-blown tantrum. “And what will you do about it if I refuse to bend to your oh-so-exacting standards for mature behavior, Hob Gadling?”

He takes a step forward, directly into Hob’s personal space. It’s a tactic Hob’s seen him use before, though never with him. It’s meant to make him uncomfortable, to give Dream the upper hand.

Hob refuses to let it.

“Will you put me in time-out?” Dream taunts, close enough that Hob can feel the warmth of his breath. “Put me over your knee and then send me to bed without my supper?”

Now that's an image. Hob shakes his head, firmly filing that thought away for later.

“Would serve you right if I did put you over my knee,” he says blandly. “You could do with a good spanking.”

Dream scoffs. “You wouldn’t dare.”

It’s the certainty in his voice that does it. The kind that only comes from a lifetime of wealth and privilege and people bending over backward to cater to your whims. A lifetime quite unlike Hob’s own, and one that means Dream hasn’t the faintest idea how much Hob would dare.

It’s almost comically easy to get a hand around Dream’s wrist and pull him down onto the bed, element of surprise and more back-alley brawls than Hob would admit to out loud giving him the edge he needs to ensure that when Dream lands with a startled cry, it’s roughly across Hob’s lap.

Hob intends for it to be quick. Just a few swats to make a point before Dream wriggles out of his grasp.

That’s not how it goes.

The instant Hob’s hand connects with Dream’s backside, Dream stops struggling. He lets out a strangled, almost desperate sound and then goes completely boneless in Hob’s grasp.

Hob pauses. Then, curiosity piqued, delivers another sharp smack.

This time, the sound Dream makes can’t be mistaken for anything other than a moan, muffled as it might be by the bedding.

Hob sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly and painfully aroused.

He should stop this. If he were to continue, if anyone were to find out...

But. Hob wants. And he isn’t the sort of man to deny himself something he wants when the universe is kind enough to drop it—soft and pliant and plucked straight out of his filthiest fantasies—in his lap.

So he brings his hand down again. And again. And again until Dream is clutching at the duvet beneath them and half-sobbing every time Hob’s palm connects.

Hob’s hand is aching by the time he stops, and Dream is a gasping, trembling mess across his lap. He rests his hand on the small of Dream’s back, waiting.

Slowly, Dream’s trembling eases, and his hands release their death-grip on the duvet. He lets out a long, shuddering breath.

Hob chuckles. “Feeling better, then?”

Dream flinches like the words are a physical blow, and then he’s scrambling to his feet, face flushed, glaring in Hob’s general direction without meeting his eyes. “You’ve made your point."

“Yeah?” Hob challenges. “You’re ready to write your essay, then?”

Dream’s eyes snap up, outrage winning out over embarrassment. “I told you, I will not.”

The outrage probably shouldn’t turn Hob on as much as it does. “That’s the problem with enjoying something that’s supposed to be a punishment. Doesn’t tend to be very effective.”

“You dare to suggest that I enjoyed—”

“I can see how much you enjoyed it,” Hob interrupts, looking pointedly at the outline of Dream’s erection, clearly visible beneath his black skinny jeans.

“Do not mock me,” Dream snarls.

Hob takes pity on him, spreading his legs so his own arousal is clearly visible. “I didn’t say you’re the only one who did.”

Dream stares. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Hob makes a decision.

“Come here,” he says softly.

Dream does, eyes only lifting from the bulge in Hob’s pants as he moves into the space between his legs.

“I think,” Hob continues, reaching out to slide a hand up Dream’s chest and hook it around his neck, “maybe you need a different sort of motivation, yeah?”

“Is that what you think?” The words are haughty as ever, but Dream makes no move to pull away, and his pupils are blown so wide it would be easy to mistake his eyes for black instead of blue.

“It is.” Hob’s grin takes on a feral edge as he feels Dream’s pulse jump beneath his thumb. “On your knees for me, pretty thing.”

It takes only the faintest pressure on the back of Dream’s neck before he’s sinking to his knees with far more grace than Hob would have expected. He looks up at Hob through dark lashes, an unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

“You ever sucked cock before?” Hob asks.

Dream scowls. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Good to know,” Hob says, tracing the sharp line of Dream’s jaw with his fingers, “but not what I asked.”

“Once.”

Hob figures that’s as much answer as he’ll get, but Dream keeps talking.

“Mother insisted that my eighteenth birthday warranted a family dinner, despite the fact that not one of us wanted to be there. When Father sent his PA to let us know he wouldn’t be attending, nearly an hour after dinner was set to start, Mother threw a fit, and I decided I’d rather spend my birthday blowing Father’s PA in the study than listening to my mother’s histrionics.”

Hob is fairly certain his eyebrows have nearly disappeared into his hairline by the time Dream finishes speaking, and he has to swallow twice before asking, “Did you enjoy it?”

“He was very gentle”—the way Dream’s lip curls when he says the word makes it clear it’s not a compliment, and Hob can’t help the way his fingers tighten on Dream’s jaw in response—“and he didn’t last two minutes.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hob croons, moving his free hand to unfasten his pants, “that is a tragedy.”

Dream watches, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, as Hob frees his cock and gives it a few lazy pumps, and then he's leaning in and wrapping those pretty pink lips round Hob's dick like he's absolutely starving for it. Hob lets out a startled groan, and Dream smirks up at him from around his cock.

Hob has the briefest moment of worry that he's not going to last two minutes, and then Dream tries to take just a bit too much, jerking back instinctively as he triggers his gag reflex.

“Easy, pet,” Hob murmurs.

Dream ignores him, sinking back down on Hob’s cock without giving himself any time to recover and immediately choking again.

“Hey,” Hob says, easing Dream back with a firm hand on his jaw. “Much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going like that.”

Dream wrenches out of his grasp and glares up at him. “I thought I made it clear I don’t need you to be gentle.”

“And I’ve got no interest in being gentle with you.” Hob reaches for him again. “Just—”

Dream reacts like an angry cat, snarling and very nearly managing to sink his teeth into Hob’s hand, but Hob’s reflexes kick in just in time to save him from a nasty bite, and Hob uses the momentum to deliver a sharp slap across Dream’s face.

Dream gapes at him, his expression a complicated mix of shock and indignation and raw desire. It’s a good look on him. Hob takes advantage of that shock to get a hand in Dream’s hair, giving it a sharp tug and watching in satisfaction as tears brim in those impossibly blue eyes.

“If you hurt yourself,” Hob explains, preventing any objection Dream might want to make by shoving his cock roughly back into Dream’s mouth, “then I’ll have to wait for you to heal before I do this again.”

He punctuates his point by rolling his hips, fucking into Dream’s mouth until his cock hits the back of his throat This time when Dream gags, Hob’s hand in his hair keeps him from pulling away, holding him in place until the tears gathering in his eyes start to roll down his face. It might just be the most gorgeous thing Hob has ever seen.

“But if you can learn a little patience,” he continues, pulling back enough that Dream can suck in a desperate breath through his nose, “and let me teach you to do it right, then I can fuck your throat as often as a little cockslut like you needs, yeah?”

Dream lets out a desperate sob, and the feel of it around his cock is nearly enough to break Hob’s resolve, for him to just take without any care for whether Dream might enjoy it, except...

“I want to, pretty thing.” I want you, he doesn’t say.

Tears still leak from Dream’s eyes, but his expression is open and wanting as he takes another, shaky breath and relaxes into Hob’s grip.

“There’s a good love.” Dream makes a soft, contented sound as Hob slides his cock in just a bit deeper. “Can you relax your jaw for me, too? Yeah, just like that.”

Dream turns out to be as quick a study in this as he is in any subject he puts his mind to, letting Hob guide him with rough hands and soft words as Hob fucks his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts. Hob is glad to have the distraction of telling Dream what to do, otherwise he’s not sure he’d last much longer than that idiot PA.

As it is, it only takes a handful of minutes before Hob’s instruction becomes a broken string of curses and praise as he loses himself in the eager heat of Dream’s mouth and the sight of Dream’s fucked-red lips stretched around Hob's cock, and the beautiful, needy sounds Dream makes every time he manages to take Hob just a little deeper. Hob only just manages to get a warning out before he’s coming into that perfect mouth, Dream half-choking again trying to swallow it all and somehow still managing to look smug about it even as a line of come escapes his lips and drips down his chin.

“Aren’t you just a beautiful mess,” Hob says, catching the drip with his thumb and smearing it across Dream’s cheek as Dream works him through the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s had in ages.

Dream gives a considering hum and makes a show of releasing Hob’s cock, opening his mouth so Hob can watch the slow drag of it against Dream’s tongue.

Hob lets out a growl and slides off the bed, straddling Dream’s thighs and licking the taste of himself out of Dream’s mouth. Dream kisses him back with every bit of the enthusiasm he’d shown for sucking Hob’s cock, eager hands sliding beneath Hob’s shirt and dragging him close, shamelessly rutting his cock against Hob’s ass.

The angle is terrible for it, and it isn’t long before Dream is whining pitifully into Hob’s mouth, wriggling his hips in a vain attempt to get more friction.

“I’ve got you, pet,” Hob says, working his hand between them to pop the button on Dream’s jeans.

“Yes,” Dream gasps, sounding absolutely wrecked. “Hob, please—ah!” His words bleed into an inarticulate cry as Hob wraps a hand around his prick, jerking him off with practiced ease.

They’re too close for Hob to properly see Dream’s face, so he contents himself with drinking every sound Dream makes from his mouth, greedy for every gasp and whimper, and when Dream comes with a wild sob, he swallows that sound too, letting Dream pant into his mouth until he’s fully spent.

They stay like that for several long moments, Hob leaning back against the foot of the bed, Dream slumped against him, breathing each other’s breath.

Eventually, Dream straightens and, before Hob can say anything, lifts Hob’s come-covered hand to his mouth and starts licking it clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

“Oh,” Hob breathes.

“I wouldn’t want,” Dream says between licks, “to have points docked for failing to clean up my mess.”

Hob huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever questioned your fastidiousness.”

Dream hums in agreement as he sucks the last of Hob’s fingers clean. “But I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your instruction, or that I’m not taking it seriously.” And then he curls himself against Hob’s body, nestling his face into the crook of Hob’s neck. “Patience has never come easily to me, but. I will try.”

It takes Hob several seconds to parse out what Dream is talking about—not the least because he’s also processing the shock of Dream cuddling him—and when he does, he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He’d meant what he said, but he hadn’t really believed Dream might want him to mean it.

“Can teach you patience, too,” he says, bringing his arms up to cradle Dream against him. Fuck. This is such a bad idea, and Hob just...can’t be bothered to care. “There are so many things I can teach you, pet.”

“I have no doubt. Although, I’m uncertain how this is supposed to motivate me to write that ridiculous essay. Not that I’m complaining about your methods.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Hob tells him. “I already know you’ll have it done before our next session.”

“Do you,” Dream says flatly.

“I do,” Hob agrees. “Because if you do, I’ll spank your ass proper pink for you.”

Dream sucks in a sharp breath.

“And if you do it well, I’ll fuck you ‘til you cry after.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which Hob thinks he can nearly hear Dream’s internal debate.

“Perhaps,” Dream allows finally.

It’s enough for Hob to know he’s won. And if he’s wrong, well, he’s got a few days to think up a fitting punishment.

#2024 dreamling bingo #sandman fic #dreamling #my fic #nsft

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suzukiblu · 6 months ago

Text

WIP excerpt for lottie behind the cut; a pocketful of Kons. ( chrono || non-chrono )

“Uh,” Tim says, staring at the Batcomputer’s main monitor and trying not to look freaked out. “Is that . . . ?”

Stud scowls at the monitor and the picture of the man wearing a red cape and . . . most of Superman’s face displayed on it.

Well. Some of Superman’s face, anyway.

“No one knows who he is,” Bruce says. “He appeared three hours ago in Metropolis claiming to be Superman.”

“The costume doesn’t match,” Dick says, glancing at Stud. “And, you know, the cyborg parts definitely don’t match.”

“Pockets reflect the self-image of their owners,” Bruce reminds him neutrally. “Assistive devices and prosthetics don’t always translate. Especially newer ones.”

Red looks unimpressed. Dick grimaces a little.

“I mean, if he is Superman, they would be pretty recent . . .” he says, then trails off with another grimace.

“I guess,” Tim says, trying not to grimace himself. “But he doesn’t have Laney, does he?”

“Or a Robin,” Dick puts in.

“We don’t know when he last slept or if he might be concealing a Pocket somewhere,” Bruce says, looking back to the screen. “And either way, more minor incidents than being beaten to death have damaged Pockets’ connections to their origin points and soulmates.”

Tim really, really hopes Stud came from Supergirl. Even if she accidentally dated Lex Luthor for a while or whatever. That is just way, way preferable a thing to deal with right now. He doesn’t know who this cyborg version of Superman is, but the guy gives him the creeps. Like–just something about him looks wrong.

Maybe he’s just being an asshole with unconscious biases and it’s all the prosthetics and machinery throwing him off, he half-hopes. It might just be that. He could get over that. Adjust. Work on himself a little and figure it out.

He’s never felt unsettled like this looking at Cyborg, though, and he’s seen him plenty of times. He and Dick work together all the time.

So it’s kind of hard to blame the prosthetics and machinery, considering.

“Okay, fair,” Dick allows, wincing a little. “You really think he could hide a Pocket, though? It’s not like you can get that far from them.”

“He has at least two limbs that are fully or almost fully prosthetic and half his torso and head are metal, and we have no idea what’s actually contained in any of those parts,” Tim points out, scanning the accompanying footage on the opposite side of the screen of the man in action. “He could hide a Pocket in a compartment built into his body no problem. Especially, uh–a smaller one.”

Superman never hid Laney before, just dressed her up in a simple little costume of her own, but if this is Superman . . . well, dying can change a lot of things.

But if Lois Lane hasn’t reported Smallville returning to the Justice League . . .

Then again, they don’t know when she last slept either. Pockets only turn up when their owners sleep, one way or the other, and all of human history hasn’t managed to catch one appearing. Cameras short out or blip or just don’t record anything, witnesses get distracted or drift off, and nothing ever gets figured out.

And a Pocket his size would be . . . well. Not that hard to conceal, probably.

Tim can’t imagine a Pocket of himself wouldn’t understand that request, if whoever this is or isn’t made it of him. He’s very intimately familiar with the need for secrets.

If this is his soulmate, though . . .

He really doesn’t know what to think of that idea.

“Two-day go-bags,” Bruce orders shortly, never taking his eyes off the footage on the screen. “Reconvene in twenty.”

Tim glances at Dick; Dick glances back at him.

“On it,” they both say, and take off.

Neither bothers asking where they’re going.

Stud flies after Tim, grumbling to himself in Pocket-talk, but Tim knows as much about what he’s saying as he does about where they’re all about to end up.

Cassie stares down at her phone in confusion, and Cas peers at the screen from his seat on her shoulder. There’s a jerky, erratically-filmed livestream playing on it on her Twitter feed, and that’s . . . Superman?

There’s footage of Superman on Twitter, she means. Live footage. He looks a little different–there’s black in his costume, and his hair is short and slicked back, and he’s wearing a visor–but he’s definitely Superman, big red cape and all.

At least–she thinks he is.

His face is kind of . . .

There’s something . . . empty in his face.

Cassie resists the weird urge to hide Cas from the sight of him, because–well, that’s him, isn’t it? That’s who he came from. The costume doesn’t exactly match, but it’s got black in it too, and they’ve both got the S-shield and cape. And . . .

Well. It has to be him, doesn’t it?

Who else could it be?

The comments are all losing their minds about the footage, and Cassie feels uneasy watching it. The look on Superman’s face is just . . . it’s just really . . .

She knew Superman was coming back, obviously. She’s got Cas, after all, so it’s not like it’s a surprise to see him. The only surprising thing is that Cas showed up before he did.

So she doesn’t know why she feels . . . off, kind of, seeing Superman alive and well. She’d expect to be nervous or anxious, maybe, but not . . .

She’s unsettled, she thinks. It’s–unsettled.

Yeah.

That’s . . . weird.

Superman darts out of the camera’s view in a blur of speed, and Cassie hears something explode in the distance. Whoever’s recording shrieks, and so do a few people around them.

Cas leans further over her shoulder with a frown.

“Cassie?” a voice calls from downstairs, and Cassie instinctively bristles and tightens her grip on her phone. It’s her mom. “Diana’s back!”

. . . fine. That’s–whatever.

Fine.

#lottie #wip: a pocketful of kons

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piecesofreeses · 7 months ago

Text

We've Got You

Nick ignores his mental health in favor of staying on top of work. When his involuntary age regression catches up with him, Matt and Chris are there.

Told in 3rd person limited (like most of my stories) where the reader has access to Nick’s thoughts, but not Matt or Chris’s.

DISCLAIMER:

This is an age regression fanfic! Age regression is a completely nonsexual coping skill and it is represented appropriately and correctly as it relates to my life. Regression can be positive in many circumstances, but not all. If you are struggling with your mental health or involuntary age regression, talking to a professional is always the best choice.

Hate will not be tolerated, nor will it be entertained. I will not give you my attention; your comment will just be deleted! Please don’t waste your time, just take your bullshit somewhere else!

One more note:

This is NOT incestual, nor is it sexual in any manner. The comfort Nick receives during and after his panic attack is purely loving, familial support. Yes! They cuddle! Yes! They hold Nick and rub his back! Yes! They share a bed for the night! No! None of that makes this “weird!”

TWs: Panic attack, descriptions of the physical sensation of a panic attack, avoiding regression, swearing, lighthearted arguing, guilt for enjoying a pacifier

Okay on to the story!

Nick always tries to be the quick witted, loud, strong oldest brother. With the triplets spending so much time in LA just the three of them, more now than ever they have to keep each other in line. And yes, that means Nick has to take care of his brothers even when he doesn’t want to.

Matt may be their transportation as the only brother with a license, but Nick still feels like he’s mothering them half of the time. He’s constantly sticking a hand between his brother's faces both literally and metaphorically. While Nick probably couldn’t love Matt and Chris any more than he does, they’re brothers; it’s impossible for them not to get on his nerves sometimes.

Currently, the triplets are sitting in a parking lot about ten minutes from their house filming a car video. Nick is tired and has been a bit quieter than usual, leaving his quips and comebacks to a minimum, just listening to Matt and Chris rant.

Suddenly, of-fucking-course, the two are arguing again. It’s something stupid about the song that’s playing in the background— no wait— it’s about Matt’s phone? Nick isn’t really sure, he’s just exhausted. It’s not the other boys fault; they can disagree and get at each other throats all they want in the car videos. Nick knows the fans love it, but in that moment he’s just so goddamn overwhelmed.

Nick tries to open his mouth to tell his brothers to shut the fuck up, but no sound comes out. He feels a bit like he’s sinking into the backseat, totally isolated from the argument in the front. Nick knows he’s fine, so why does he want to cry? Why can’t he get his words to come out?

A tear escapes and slips down his cheek. He tries to wipe it away but his arm feels so heavy and his fingers feel so clunky and they’re not moving the way he needs them to. Why is everything so hard?

Without even meaning to, Nick lets a little whine slip past his lips. Even though he hates asking for help, he’s sure he needs Matt and Chris. If nothing else, they need to turn off the camera, but apparently the fighting in the front seat is too loud, because the boys give no indication of hearing him.

Oh no, Nick realizes as his mind gets even fuzzier, I’m slipping.

Nick knows he regresses if stress gets to him too much– his brothers know too, but God, it hasn’t happened in months.

He’s usually pretty good about preventing it by being gentle with himself, but it’s just been so fucking stressful this month. The end of the podcast just ended up being a lot of work and he didn’t have time to cater to his mental health the way he has to to make sure he never slips.

This is the result, I guess, Nick thinks. Because he refused to show himself some goddamn love when he was big, his brain was forcing him to regress. And he didn’t get to pick when.

“Matt?” The oldest choked out.

Still no response. Nick felt like he was sinking into his brain as everything started to feel eerily quiet, like his brother’s voices were coming from underwater.

Maybe I’m the one underwater, he thinks as the whole world begins to appear muted in color. My sensory processing just conked out, didn’t it.

“Chris? Help,” Nick tried again, but it came out even quieter than the previous attempt. Despite his every effort, Nick felt his eyes well up.

Why won’t they stop arguing? I need help! I need help and I don’t know how to get it! Someone please help me. Matt? Chris? Please help me.

It’s all far too much, so he closes his eyes and fights against his heavy limbs, eventually able to pick up his hands to cover his ears. He feels himself shaking gently and the first of his tears begin to flow down his cheeks. Apparently, Nick hasn’t breathed in a while, because suddenly he feels himself gasp involuntary. Fighting the sudden rush of air, his throat catches on nothing and he coughs out, forcing more tears to spill.

Nick’s forearms are covering his cheeks from the way he's trying to protect his ears, and he feels them wet from how hard he's begun to cry. He convulses in a sob and finally, a loud enough sound comes out.

“Nick?!” He hears Matt yell. “Something’s wrong, Chris! Turn that shit off!”

They’re coming. They’re gonna help. Please hurry, though.

“Okay, okay I am. Go get in the back with him!” Chris’s response comes, quieter.

He doesn't even hear the door open, but suddenly Matt’s arms are around him. He’s wracked by sobs as his body relaxes into Matt’s chest.

It’s all okay. I’m okay. They’ll make it okay.

Matt’s arms are rubbing Nick’s back as he shakes and he can feel how his tears have wet the shoulder of his t-shirt. A moment later, he feels the seat underneath them move like another body has sat down, and then he hears Chris’s voice.

“It’s okay, Nick. We’ve got you,” Chris says gently. As Matt keeps touching him comfortingly, Chris keeps talking.

“The camera is off and we can delete all the footage later. I’m so sorry we didn’t notice what was happening earlier. Matt and I are gonna help, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”

“Chris,” Matt whispers, “Take him? I want to get us home.”

“‘Course,” Chris says. Nick whines and holds onto Matt, clearly comfortable where he is, but the boys are still able to switch who he’s sitting onto fairly easily. He's stopped crying and looks up at Chris as he pulls him into his lap. Chris is sitting properly in the left seat with Nick on his lap, back leaned against the door and head on Chris’s shoulder. It's probably illegal, but with the boy no longer crying, they won’t be taking any risks.

As Matt gets out of the back and back into the driver’s seat, Chris haphazardly wraps the seatbelt over the two of them. Nick pulls his knees up and burrows his head into his brother's shoulder. Quietly, he pulls a thumb into his mouth before looking up at Chris as if waiting to be told off. He waits, half expecting to be called gross, even though he knows his brothers don't find his regression gross.

“Oh, you’re small, Nicky. How old are you?” Chris asks with nothing but love in his voice. Nick doesn't respond, just closing his eyes and sinking into the comfort.

“He’s small?” Matt asks from the front. “How old did he say?”

“Didn’t respond. I’d guess one by the thumb and how he was crying earlier,” Chris responds, petting Nick's hair and trying to make sure he doesn't slip out of his lap on the drive home.

Matt sighs, “Okay, we’re only a minute away from home. What do you think we do when we get there? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him regress.”

“Well first get his pacifier, I don’t want his fingers in his mouth and longer than they have to be, but I’m pretty sure he’ll cry if I try to take them out without a replacement. Next… uhh… I don’t think he’s going to be chill with me letting go of him unless I'm literally putting him into your arms, but he seems exhausted. I’d say we all get in your bed and try to get him to go to bed? It’s late for all of us, especially for the baby,” Chris says, looking down at Nick and laughing quietly as they pull into the driveway.

“Alright, I’m going to come and help you stand up with him so you can carry him in. He’s not going to walk himself, is he?” Matt replies, looking back at the little boy curled into Chris with his thumb in his mouth.

“No way.” Chris says, reaching to unbuckle them. Matt steps out of the car and opens the door for Nick and Chris.

Sounding confused, Matt asks, “How are we going to make this work?”

“You just take him? I don't think I can stand up with him in my lap even with your help,” Chris suggests. Matt slots his arms under Nick’s knees and picks him up bridal style. Luckily, there is minimal protest from the little, just a whine and some still watery eyes. With Nick out of his lap, Chris climbs out of the car, shuts the door, locks it and runs up ahead of his brothers to unlock and open their door.

Now that they are standing, Matt carries Nick with ease. Up the steps of their porch and into the house, the lack of strain on Matt’s face makes it appear as if Nick really is a baby. Chris smiles with the thought as he follows the two inside and closes the door behind them.

“I’ll find his paci. Get in bed?” Chris calls out as he tosses the car keys on the kitchen table.

“Got it,” comes Matt’s reply. Chris has no idea where the little’s paci might be, but it’s pretty important that he finds it, so he starts by tearing out the couch cushions to see if it's tucked underneath one of them. With no luck, he heads up to Nick’s room and strips his bed, checking if it might be in there. Unfortunately, the stupid blue thing is still nowhere to be found.

Nick can hear Chris tearing his room apart looking for his pacifier as Matt carries him upstairs.

He’s never gonna find it.

Too small to tell Matt where it is, he just tugs on his sleeve and looks down the hall to his room.

Fortunately, Matt gets the message. “Want to go help Chrissy?” Matt says and turns toward the sound of the rummaging. As they walk into the room, Chris looks at the boys defeated.

“I can’t find it,” he sighs.

“Losat,” comes Nick’s small voice.

Oh no, are they going to think that means I lost it? No no, that’s supposed to be “closet.”

“In the closet?” Matt and Chris respond in unison, walking into the closet and digging through the junk on his closet floor.

Oh thank God.

Matt sets Nick down, leaning his back against the closet wall so he can move his shoes. Underneath, he finds a small shoebox covered in stickers. How promising. Opening it up, Matt discovers the pacifier and a couple small toys.

“Bingo, Chris! It's right here,” Matt exclaims.

“Why’d you hide it away like this, sweet pea?” Chris asks the little boy, scooping him up like a koala. Nick doesn't respond other than a whine and rests his chin on Chris’s shoulder, facing the opposite direction.

The boys walk out of the closet, Matt with a pacifier in hand and Chris with a Nick in… arms.

“I need to wash this off,” Matt says and walks into the bathroom.

“Okay, bring it to us when you're done,” Chris says and hikes Nick up so his legs can wrap around his waist. Nick has one arm wrapped around Chris’s shoulder and neck and the other bent so his thumb can slip back into his mouth. “You ready for bed, honey?” Chris whispers into his ear as he leans over the bed, working to gently disconnect Nick from him. Eventually, he separates them, laying Nick down on his back in Matt’s bed. Chris pulls Nick's shoes off, brushes the little’s hair out of his face, kicks off his own Crocs and crawls into bed with Nick. He drags the covers up over them and pulls Nick closer to make space for Matt to lay on the other side of the boy.

“Okay bub, I’ve got your paci,” comes Matt’s voice. Carefully, he pulls Nick’s hand away from his mouth and replaces it with the blue pacifier, slotting it between his lips.

That helps. That helps so much. Why am I like this? Why does that help?!

Matt slips under the covers and wraps his arms around the boy. “Nick, honey, I can see you freaking out. It’s okay that you like that. It's not gross, it’s not bad, and Chrissy and I don't mind. We love you bubba.”

“Luv yous too.”

#age regression #age dreaming #matt sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nicolas sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #fluff #comfort #sturniolo fanfic #age regressor #sfw #sfw littlespace

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wraithdance · 2 months ago

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Earth signs and the torrid affair I have with you people 🙄

Disclaimer: astrology is not one sized fits all. it’s just a general overview of what traits you may have. Without the complete history of what experiences occurred in your life and made you who you came to be or the combination of signs in your chart, there’s no guarantee you’ll fit every tick on your sun sign.

Taurus: no one wants to know how much you spent on that one specific luxury you can’t let go of!!

Despite my better judgment I love Taurus’ yall are upfront about who you are and usually your stubborn nature leads to getting results. You like nice things a LOT! The sanctity of home and the quality of your things are super important to you. You’re comfortable acting with authority and your wit is out of this world.

The issue is when you neglect to do the internal work you’re a goddamn bully! If this were the titanic you’d throw the rest of us overboard for a second out of the freezing waters! It doesn’t have to be every man for themselves, you CAN believe that the people beside you want what’s best for you too! Also STOP OVERSPENDING!! Learn to budget for fucks sake you don’t need caviar or whatever we aren’t impressed!

I give you: a five week stay in a roach motel, maybe the experience will scare you straight (also sliding you my number because I like that bossy shit- a lot 🫡)

Virgo- messy boots. Shit stirrer. Also some how a creative genius

I can give respect where respect is due. Yall don’t half ass a single thing you’re into. True old souls and music connoisseurs! You’re not everyone’s cup of tea because you can be a bit bitchy just because you hold yourself to a standard that just comes naturally to you. You love a lil gossip, a lil bit of drama! If anyone wants to know what’s going on there’s a good chance you already have your ear to the ground. You’d make a great CIA agent tbh.

But that’s a deterrent to making genuine connections because no one likes to feel like they’re the butt of the joke. Especially if you’re also not offering more than a peek into your own lil world. Learn to relax you’re already so far ahead of the curve and there’s no need to drive yourself to the ground!

I give you: nothing you’ve already got Beyoncé be satisfied with that smfh

Capricorn: taking authority kinks to a new level smfh

You’re very serious about the brand of excellence you put out. You mean what you say 9/10 and like virgos you don’t like to half do anything. You’re probably business minded in some capacity and you really don’t play about your money. Maybe you’re someone who wraps a lot of their sense of self into being successful!

The second there’s nothing on your calendar there’s an itch beneath your skin and an eye twitch. Like Taurus’ when shit hits the fan for you you’re looking out for numero uno because you just can’t trust that anyone else gets the gravity of the situation. Do some internal work. The world won’t end if you rested!

I give you: a shiny penny I found, I’m sure you’ll love it you goddamn bridge troll!!

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sparklingcid3r · 2 months ago

Note

hc that the biggest red herring fight paul and darry got into was when bob tried to fw pony on his way home from school. darry does not play abt his brothers, esp against a soc and pony defs being smaller anyways? paul took bobs side tho

I’d prob call this more foreshadowing in terms of the deterioration of their relationship but YEAHHH let’s talk abt it!! I’ll eat this shit up nom nom nom

It’s funny bc I just read a post abt Paul beating up on Pony w his new fuck buddy and Darry pulling up w Tim Shepard in his bag and OHHH MY DAYS it was like Thanksgiving feast 🙏 Idk if that’s relevant but I wanted to put it out there bc I’ll prob end up taking some hcs from the post so if you read it and see it here yk where it came from lol

Also if we’re doing this whole triangle btwn Bob, Paul, and Darry then ig I should try and establish ages. And bc I could go over how like “oh so bob could be a junior while paul is prob a senior in hs rn meanwhile darry is a year older and spent half a semester at college, so canonically paul and darry were in two different grade levels and bob pulls up to Paul’s side from the underclass” it’s a lot easier for me to point at paul and say “SUPER SENIOR🫵”

this is what i mean when i say im a certified yapper literally noneee of that shit mattered

Alr let’s go‼️

- When Pony came home from school battered to hell Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were just worrying about cleaning him back up and making sure he was alright. Mr. Curtis would prob be the one who wanted to give him the talk abt defending himself but the Missus was having none of it. Life’s hard enough without fighting

- They know who Paul is and have an alright opinion about him, they like that he extends his hand out to Darry the way parents do when their kids are making friends you don’t expect but don’t disapprove of. Darry is the reason Paul doesn’t jump Pony or Soda, he knows he’d be thrown aside in a heartbeat if that were to get back to him, and also Paul’s suchhhh a whore for having all his limbs intact and teeth inside his mouth

- Bob’s more of a masochist yk. But not on purpose bc all he saw was this scrawny little greased up mouse with his head tucked down walking all by himself, both hands on the straps of his backpack and wanted a piece of all the action that other Socs get from jumping the East side’s equivalent of a wet stick

- Pony is the one who rats Bob out to Darry, not because he’s aware that Darry already had his sights locked on Bob’s snake ass from the beginning, but because Darry is Superman to Ponyboy and is always ready to throw hands for his brothers (behind closed doors ofc, he’s not gonna toss away his spot on the football team for just anything r u crazy??)

- Darry might be a little crazy tho, we’ll get to that later trust

- He takes the civil route to start off and talks to Paul abt it bc he just knowwws that Bob’s been Paul’s little sidepiece while Darry and Paul have been drifting the closer they get to graduation, but they’re still close enough that Darry can go to Paul abt shit like this and get him to listen

- Except not really, bc Paul just says he had nothing to do with it and that Darry can’t rlly expect him to have his back when a greaser gets what all greasers have coming

- So anyway Darry pulls up to Bob talking abt “yo wsg robert why don’t u come outside rq i just wanna talk” man JUST SQUARE UP

- I’m playing he doesn’t do that

- What Darry actually does is sneaky bc at his core, doesn’t matter if he believes it or not, he’s a greaser and he can fight filthyyyy

- So catch Darry pulling up to a grad function (with that madras drip on iykyk🙏) and pulling Bob aside for just a little talk, it’ll only take five mins

- When he’s got Bob and his solo cup brimming w that nasty jungle juice alone, all he does it sucker punch him in the face. It’s glorious, no witnesses. The man drops like a cartoon peter griffin style

- And Darry doesn’t even stay. He shoulder checks Paul on the way out and he’s gone with the wind

disclaimer: anon i’m sorry i wrote this at like 3am and am posting it now lmfaoo i’m so sorry if u wanted smth serious 😭🙏 if any of u think that i think this is canon pls don’t🙏🙏 this is just me having fun w an ask that im very grateful for🫶🫶

#the outsiders #the outsiders darry #darry curtis #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders musical #the outsiders ponyboy #paul holden #the outsiders paul #bob sheldon

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 3/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 Part 2 Word count: 9.4 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: König takes liberties with his mouth. Dubcon is at its most dubcon in this chapter so please tread carefully <3 The actual smut happens in the next (and last) part. Long chapter because these two just can't behave!!

The days are getting warmer now.

The sun warms the tent during the day, and the sound of birds searching for a mate threatens to drive you to madness. They sing during nighttime, too, and you miss the sturdy clay walls of your hut that blocked at least some of the sounds from outside. Now you are barely sheltered from wind and rain that beat the tent every now and then and can escape the swelling song of spring and lovesick birds to nowhere. König only snores with steady content as you mull over your strange fate there in his cozy bed, wondering how crazy it is that he never lets you go when he sleeps.

If König has an early council, you spend the morning eating breakfast in bed while studying odd parchments the translator gave you. The old man was quite insulted, not because you asked, but because you showed interest in the documents that, apparently, were of least importance to him.

You don’t care that they’re “only” travel guides because they’re filled with Roman letters and numbers and usually illustrated with pictures of columns. You don’t understand a word they say and how those strange papers could ever be a travel guide to anyone, but you like to trace the letters and pictures with your finger. König clearly understood your fascination with them: he left you this morning with another smile, which told you he only thought you were simply adorable this way. He tried to tell you that the letters represent towns and the numbers tell the distances between those towns, but they still remain bizarre pieces of paper to you.

Men pass by occasionally; you can hear it from how their gears clonk and clatter and swish. You can hear the soft thump of sandals on the dirt, but you pay it no attention because you’ve always trusted that you are safe here. As long as you stay inside the tent, no one will touch you, even if they can currently see you because the flap is left open a wink.

The only times his men witness you are when König takes you out for a walk in the woods so that you can take care of your bodily needs. Everyone can see that your hands are never tied, your face is never bruised, and your posture is still that of a proud, unbroken woman. And everyone looks at you with both hunger and wonder. Apparently, you are an even tempting spoil because you are not yet spoiled.

The special treatment was rubbed in your face one time when you passed by a Roman soldier disciplining his slave, a woman who had shared your fate and clearly was having the worst of it. The other half of her face was unrecognizable, but the man kept beating her, and you stared in horror as whatever deed she had done to anger the man was now being punished far too cruelly.

“Romans very dumb,” König said from next to you without even shedding a glance at the morbid scene. No one seemed to give a shit about what was happening to that poor woman, but you would never have expected such a comment to come from König’s mouth. When you asked him what he meant by that, he only shrugged and said: “That man piss on his luck.”

You wonder if the only reason why you haven’t been raped yet is because you are some sort of a lucky charm to him. The mere thought has the effect of making your blood boil, but some distant, tender voice inside you reminds you that König is not Roman. He does not share Roman customs, even if he fights with and for them. Perhaps slaves are treated differently in his land. Perhaps in there, it is considered an outrage and an insult to the gods to beat a woman, free or not.

Whatever his reasons are for not beating and raping you to death, it was a tremendous stroke of luck that König found you first. You dropped right there on his feet when he was victorious, so of course his men allowed him to take you as his: you were clearly a gift from the gods. But now that time has passed, you understand you are by no means safe if you wander outside this tent. König can protect you only when he is present or when you are safely tucked away in his own personal space.

It’s a false feeling of safety, however, because you soon learn that out of sight is out of mind for these soldiers. Now that you are on display, sweetly and neatly on the bed, a tiny little wrinkle forming between your brows from studying the peculiar parchment, you are like fresh livestock on the marketplace, even inside the tent. You notice that someone else is in here with you only when you hear the sound of munching and turn.

A relatively big soldier is standing in the doorway, eating an apple, watching you like he would rather have a bite out of you.

And you thank all the gods and stars above you, all the spirits and the Mother below you, that he doesn’t even get to take a step before a sword impales his chest.

König kills his own man so casually that all the thoughts of him falling to the gentle side of giants disappear instantly. He even twists the sword inside the broad man from daring to cast eyes on you. And you probably should feel bad for him… But you don’t. Not at all. The apple falls into the dirt and rolls away, but the man slumps into the threshold of the outside world and the safe womb of the tent, like an offering to guardian spirits - or to you.

You look up at König, eyes wide only because you are yet again speechless, but this time because of odd, bashful gratitude.

“No touching,” he says without even blinking – it sounds like a stern explanation.

“No touching,” you agree with a whisper. König only nods, wipes his gladius clean on the dead soldier’s cloak, and carries the body into the woods.

…

You don’t know if he has lost some of the favour he enjoys among the Romans after killing one of their soldiers. You suspect he has not. Actually, you are sure his reputation only soared for it. He just showed everyone that his prize is not to be touched: you are not to be even looked upon. Romans probably respect such a thing.

A few wagons arrive one morning, carrying various supplies for the soldiers. There are many other items too, completely unrelated to warfare but all to do with pleasure and gambling and trade. You assume König gets to pick his favourites among the first soldiers, if not the first soldier, from the abundant cargo that arrived, because he brings his spoils to you with boyish excitement. There is close to nothing there for himself: only a thick, heavy cloak, made of dark wool with lush fur on the shoulders. It looks like something a northern king would wear, and you find yourself quite happy for him, but the other items he’s carrying are clearly all hand-picked just for you.

There is a dress, a pair of sandals, a bone comb, some fruit and a large, round copper dish. It serves as a mirror as you change into the dress – a Roman one, dyed ocean blue – just to appease König and get him off your back. It hurts your heart to see how happy it makes him to see you accept his gifts. He holds the dim, uneven mirror in front of you when you get the dress on, and you’re feeling strangely meek: you’re not even sure if you have put it on properly. The bone comb is milk white and has two horses carved on it – it reminds you of the offering that was never made to appease the Great Mother because it couldn’t have prevented the Titan from coming to your lands. It’s another odd omen: black horses now turned to white, but an omen for what, you can’t say.

And then… he kneels.

König falls at your feet and starts putting the Roman sandals on, tying the strings around your calves so gently that it makes you feel like you’re made of clay. The sandals are not the kind he wears: they’re made for women, apparently, because they’re so skimpy and delicate. The strings reach the upper part of your calf, and when he’s done with you, happy to have now clothed you in Roman garb, he caresses your thigh and presses a kiss above your knee.

And he looks up at you like you’re everything but his captive. He looks at you like you’re a queen. He stares at you like he’s the slave here.

“You like?”

The soft rumble catches you off guard, as does the fond caress he gives your leg. He doesn’t even try to move his hand upwards and under the dress; he just admires you from the ground, looking a bit foolish while crouched there at your feet. You swallow arduously and nod. What else are you supposed to do?

He smiles with his eyes and gives you another kiss. He presses it on the sensitive part where your calf meets the inside of your knee. He even raises his hood to do it, and you finally feel his breath as his lips meet your skin, hot but tender. You fight the urge to shrink from him, and despite it only being a soft peck, a lover’s touch, the kiss leaves a burning sensation on your skin.

Then he tucks your dress down, like a slave who simply stole a little kiss from his mistress. You’re rendered weak and silent before such reverence, but then the playfulness returns as he raises one finger, as if telling you not to say a word because he just had an idea. You look at him with odd curiosity as he crawls on all fours and reaches for something underneath the bed. You panic a little, fearing he might notice that you’ve been there, too: rummaging through his things and throwing the pieces of jewellery back there without caring to ensure that they are placed back in the same position you found them in. But he doesn’t seem to care or notice.

He tries to offer you the golden pendant first, the one that has three discs on it. It’s a little too much, and you shake your head, fearing you will upset him by declining his gift. He tries to offer you a more delicate necklace next: full of cute, filigreed beads, but you shake your head again. He wishes to give you a trinket so badly that you finally raise your hand and graze your fingertips over a leather string holding a few chunks of amber. It also bears the claws of some animal: fox, perhaps. He looks very pleased with your choice and puts your new possession around your neck. You reach for the copper plate yourself this time and hold it up to see how you look in your odd Roman dress and your humble but powerful new necklace.

“Sehr schön,” König says behind you as you take in the wobbly image. He is so, so happy - you have never seen him quite so happy. It looks like he thought this to be the prettiest, most compelling piece of jewellery too; as if the gold and beads were simply currency for him, too. As if it was obvious that you would be interested in bones and sea gold instead of the gold of men. Then he pulls out something from under his tunic: another leather string that has a large hunk of bone hanging from it. He’s presenting it to you like he wants to show how you two are now very much alike.

“What is it…?” You ask, trying to determine whether the bone came from an elk or a deer.

“Bear cock,” he says proudly while dangling it in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a man to carry the penis bone of a bear around his neck. “Makes man strong in battle and bed.”

“I don’t think you need that,” you whisper while looking up at him. It’s your first joke to him, and he laughs. Heartily.

“Kleine Fee. You have only seen me fight.”

He puts it back under his tunic as if it’s his secret amulet now. You really don’t think he needs any more luck in war, or in any other… field. He seems like the kind of man who can pleasure women all day. It’s a bitter thought, somehow, and makes your heart feel heavy. You wonder how many women he has had already when you have refused to open your legs for him.

“We can try how good it works in bed,” he offers, as cheerfully as ever.

Oh.

Oh…

“I’m—I’m hungry. I think I need to eat something,” you summon an excuse out of thin air while raising your hands against his chest to keep him away. As if you could get your breakfast down after him saying things like that…

“Hungrig? I can feed you,” he suggests, still in the happiest of moods. Then he sweeps you off your feet and carries you to the table. He’s ever generous today: you get to sit on his lap as he starts to feed you grapes.

And you didn’t think he’d actually, veritably feed you. But that’s exactly what he does. You get an entire meal: ripe fruits, a thick handful of bread, a fine slice of fat, delicious cheese. Wine to wash it down, and then some more grapes. He holds them gently on your lips until you open your mouth a little so that he can push them onto your tongue. He watches with utter content how you eat everything he offers you. He even gives you a few bounces with his knee, and every now and then, he gropes your tits: just squeezes them and plays around with them while you eat.

It is quite evident that this man really, really likes your boobs. Perhaps that is why he carries the statue of Great Mother around… To your horror, you realize the piece of carved wood is not an idol of worship for this man, just a lewd image he probably digs up and looks at when he wants to stroke his cock.

Gods... This man is even worse than you thought.

You begin to pout again, and he draws you flush against him, seeing that he somehow managed to make you displeased. Unaware as to what could have caused this, he gives you another bounce and tries to find the reason for your sudden change of mood.

“Are you fed now?”

“Yes,” you mope even more as you realize you would very much like him to continue feeding you even if you’re full. To just… do that thing with the grapes again. Just a few more.

“Gut. We have to leave soon.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “To fight.”

The camp is packed up in such haste that you find yourself under the sun in practically no time. You stay as close to König as possible without being glued to him, seeing that the new dress and hairstyle you made with the comb is high currency among the war-torn, lust-filled soldiers. Someone gives you a long whistle, which is followed by a few harsh comments you luckily don’t understand, but all the stares are cut off when König stops preparing his horse, rises to his full height, and wraps his fingers around the handle of his gladius.

You don’t get a single look after that, not even a sideways glance. Everyone acts like you don’t even exist.

The army moves at a slow pace at first, leaving a heavy dust cloud behind. It’s a fine day for travelling because there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. Everyone seems to be having a good time except for the slaves, and König is the only one who is vigilant, watching his surroundings at all times, head turning from side to side, hand never leaving his sword.

You get a horse – his horse – and a lot of hateful stares from the other women, none of whom you have ever seen before. Captive girls from other villages, you presume, and they all hate you now because you get to ride a strong black stallion while they have to march in a dust cloud with their hands bound and their feet full of blisters. Their captors don’t give much thought to feeding or giving water to these poor women, mainly because they’re too busy laughing with each other and having hearty gulps from their wine sacks. You wonder if these men have ever fed these women a single grape during their campaign.

König, on the other hand, marches next to you like he��s your servant. He offers you his waterskin, his wineskin, too, and as the march goes on, an awkward knot starts to form inside your belly.

He’s behaving so oddly. You can’t find any other reason for his behaviour than that he simply has no full understanding of Roman customs because he comes from somewhere else. (Mountains, he said, when you asked him.)

You only now notice that he has servants but only uses them to pack or set up the tent. Other high-ranking officers and commanders have their servants with them at all times, tending to their every need. König is the only one who behaves like a foot soldier: he pours his own wine, gets his rations and supplies himself, lights his oil lamps without help and never lets anyone else touch his armour or swords.

The servant he uses the most is the translator, a slave who’s clearly responsible for teaching König more and more of your words. He also serves as a mediator when König gets ready for another battle. You have naively wanted to forget the reason why these men are here in the first place, and as you see König putting on his full armour the next day, tying the swords on his waist and leaving to search for his shield, you feel like bursting into tears or a scream. You look away as he gets dressed, and refuse to give him a single kind look that morning. You stand with your hands crossed over your chest as he’s finally ready and fetches the old man to the tent again.

The Roman soon stands next to him as König takes a step and falls on one knee before you.

“He asks you to bless him,” the old translator says – weary and bored.

You stop breathing for a second and look at König, there at your feet again, head bowed, leaning on one elbow placed on a strong knee.

Bless him… For going to slaughter another clan? Give your blessing to him leaving people fatherless, childless and homeless?

Is this some sort of a joke?

“Are my words… correct? Master asks that you give him your blessing for the upcoming battle.”

You bite your lip in frustration. You want to put your hand over this proud warrior’s head and send him away with words of might and fortune, but even the thought of wanting to do that is about to make you sick.

“I will do no such thing,” you say coldly and earn a sad, confused stare from König, who raises his head to look at you with a horrifying, pleading gaze. This man doesn’t beg for anything from anyone, and yet here he is, in his full armour, armed to the teeth and looking like the God of War again, asking for a kind word or two. You turn away, not because you deny him, but because you can’t stand to be under that defenceless gaze. The Roman sighs behind you, and from the clatter of König’s gear, you can hear that he has gotten up and is about to leave.

You turn again, only to face his withdrawing back. Tense, and already beaten.

He grabs the satchel, the one that holds his Mother, but stops to look at it like it’s simply an ordinary object instead of a powerful entity. Then he places it back down on the table with a sigh. You look with horror as he leaves for war without taking his amulet, idol, fate, source of luck and joy – whatever the statue represents to this man – with him.

It doesn’t take long before you regret you didn’t give him your “blessing”.

It somehow feels wrong that he left without it. You’re his captive, but he has fed you, clothed you, kept you warm. He has practically done no harm to you except hold you through the night and have a few gropes at your tits, which you haven’t found harmful at all… The least you could do to thank him is to lay a hand upon his head or sword before he left. Just a simple little gesture, not even a true blessing… Just a little something would have sufficed, to help him go into battle with a slightly lighter heart.

Because as much as you loathe this man, you don’t actually want him dead. You don’t want him to march into battle and think you wish him ill. You don’t want König to get careless just for the sake of feeling miserable about the thought that his little slave girl despises him.

Because you don’t despise him.

You just don’t… like him.

And he’s your captor still. Why should he deserve your blessing?

But the image of him cutting through his enemies with sorrow and bleakness in his stare, walking into a spear just because he’s had enough of life and more than enough of difficult, uncaring, ungrateful women, makes your heart bleed. He could’ve taken Mother with him since he didn’t get a good luck’s wish from you, but he chose to leave even Her behind. As if his faith had failed him, as if the few things and people he has ever placed his trust in have now abandoned him.

The night rolls in, and the moon crosses the sky slowly, so slowly, as you wait for his return. The old Roman looks at you sideways every time you peek outside the flap and sigh. Your guard is a weak, old man, but you reckon that if you were to escape, the tired slave would simply follow you out of the camp and tell König which direction you have gone so that he can hunt you down when he returns. The few Romans left to guard the portable garrison would probably seize you and take you as their plaything before you managed to set a foot outside the vallus, and even if König came back to claim you, you could be a bloody heap by the time he returned.

And it’s not even caution keeping you inside the tent. You don’t actually think about fleeing at all.

In the dead of night, you go to his satchel and pull out the statue of the Great Mother.

“Dear Mother... Great Mother. Please let him have his victory. Please let him come home unhurt. Even if he fails, please let there not be a scratch on him as he falls. Please, please, please…”

You improvise your prayer as you go, thinking about something to offer Her while being captive and not having access to most of the resources you would normally go to.

“I’ll give you my next moonblood. I will give you amber and fox claws…”

Your heart hurts, knowing you just promised the necklace König gave you as your sacrifice. But it’s a small gift for his safe return, and you renew your prayer, over and over again, while squeezing the Mother between your hands and pressing Her against your forehead.

You’re not sure if She can even hear you, because haven’t you wished this man dead not too long ago? You return the Mother to her satchel and pace around the tent, about to go mad. When the first horses arrive, you almost run outside to see if you can see or hear him coming. Soldiers march into the camp: there is so much din and racket outside that you know this is the least opportune moment to go outside and show yourself to the survivors who clearly have their morale and cocks up high from the recent battle. You wait and wait and wait, thinking about whether your god is among the wounded, being carried to some other tent where they treat injuries. You go and sit on the bed; you rise up and sit on the table. Then you go and press your ear to the fabric of the tent and try to listen like a fox.

The flap is, blessedly, finally drawn aside, and you hurry to meet whoever has arrived. It’s König – of course – breathing heavy, looking slightly high-strung but primarily unscathed, and you forget yourself completely when running to him.

“Are you hurt!?”

He takes off his helmet and takes in a good breath of air, eyes melting into pure love when he sees you.

“Nein. Not a scratch.”

You swallow your relief – of course no one can get to this man. Your fears have been stupid and ridiculous. But in the deepest chasm of your heart, you thank the Mother three times. You promise to deliver her your sacrifice as soon as possible.

“You fear for me?” He asks, so excited again that you have to dig your nails into your palm so that you won’t go and clutch him and cry from joy. You don’t nod or shake your head; you only stare at him with what must look like a frightened deer stare.

Your giant comes to hug you so tight you can’t even breathe. Then he lifts you into the air, and there is nothing you can do - there is nothing you even want to do but to be there in his stout embrace. You’re so relieved that he is alive and unhurt that there are tears in your eyes, and he sees them, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, little Fee. Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen.” His voice is throaty and parched; apparently, he has shouted his throat raw on the field.

You almost say you’re sorry that you didn’t give him your blessing, but seeing how pleased, triumphant, and gleeful he is causes you to shut your mouth and shut it tight. It’s enough that you have babbled prayers for him all night, praying your knees and tongue sore.

König returns you to the ground and leaves, only to return with ample loot. Two slaves carry in a small but heavy jute sack of coin, a tiny chest filled with honey, two bottles of scented oils, three gorgeous jugs of milk, a beautiful bronze sword, all laid there at your feet.

“Für dich,” he says, throwing a wide arc with his hand to gesture that all this is now yours. You watch all the stunning, lavish, extraordinary gifts, again picked with care just for you. You remember how there was not a single coin in this tent before you were dragged in, no bronze, no gold, no milk nor honey. No fine dresses, no stolen, scented oils. How many families did he have to kill to bring all these fine goods for you?

“I don’t want your loot,” you whisper on the brink of tears.

“What…do you want?” The smile in his eyes fades, and it stabs your heart full of pain. “More sea honey?”

“No, I–”

“Slaves?”

“No,” you step forward. If only you two could have met some other time, in some other place… “I just…I want my freedom.”

“What will you do with freedom…?”

You finally get to see what König is like when he argues. He cannot understand your logic; he can’t understand what more he must do to satisfy you and make you happy.

“Your chief is dead,” he says bluntly, causing your head to feel two times too small for your anger and pain.

“You don’t have to remind me,” you blurt, equally bluntly. Because whose fault is that? This man is a thick-skulled, thick-cocked idiot.

“You have no husband. No village.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why angry?”

“Because you are infuriating,” you almost shriek.

He looks at you, lost and confused, not knowing how to calm you down or make you pleased again. And it must be confusing: some gifts work, some don’t. Other times, you look at him lovely and sweet; other times you sulk and pout. You have luckily stopped your crying, but now you have suddenly decided to yell at him?

He approaches you after seemingly coming to the conclusion that you must want him to either pet or fuck you. He tries to raise his hands to touch you, but you push him away.

“Don’t you fucking dare grope me again!”

He withdraws quickly, now utterly nonplussed. If you don’t even want to be held, then what is he to do? This goes against all the laws of this world: he has arrived, triumphant and joyous from the battle, clearly favoured by all the gods, above and below, and favoured in full. The only one who doesn’t grant him a boon is you. His head tips to the side - it always does that when he’s curious or thinking hard. Then his eyes light up with understanding, and you know you’re about to hear more nonsense coming out of that oafish mouth.

“You don’t want me to fight?”

“I don’t…care what you do,” you scoff.

“Ah. You hate Romans?”

“Yes, I hate Romans. I wish they would all die. I hate their stupid battles and their stupid campaigns. And I hate you too,” your spirit rises with your words, your voice gaining volume and strength as you hurl all your frustration at him.

And he’s shocked. Not at your first declaration, nor the second, not even the third. It’s the last sentence that clearly drives a dagger straight into his heart.

He steps back, nearly toppling a milk jug as he pulls away from you. Then he mumbles something under his breath, something in his own crude language. The words are muffled by the mask as he scratches the back of his neck and leaves the tent without even taking his blood-stained armour off.

His name, the name that sounds so foreign to you, never leaves your mouth. But the following words do.

“Wait, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

Not all of it.

He’s out of the tent by then, and you’re left with your beautiful gifts, your bitter sorrow and regret. You sigh and look up, hoping you could see the sky and whisper your inquiry into the night air.

Why on earth did you two have to meet like this? Why does he have to be so thick-skulled and so… So him?

You calm your racing heart and start to organize the loot he brought you. You have never liked messy places and have done your best to keep this tent from getting cluttered. You taste some of the milk he brought you and inhale the sweet scent of those oils; you dip your little finger inside the honey jar and have a taste. The golden liquid tastes like the food of the gods when paired with milk. You put the blade on the table where König usually keeps his swords and settle to wait for him.

And you have to wait for a long time, so long that you eventually withdraw to the bed, alone and with a heavy heart. When König finally returns, you can hear he has had a drink. More than one, too: he has probably drunk an entire jug of wine alone. He doffs his armour with curses and sighs, and lets it drop on the ground with a sloppy clang that makes you jolt under the furs. He eats something very noisily while throwing his helmet somewhere to the ground too, burps loudly, and sighs again: so deeply that it makes your heart burn. After getting rid of the tunic and his sandals – an operation that takes him more than a while – he crawls on the bed with a heavy breath. Your heart is at your throat as the stench of wine hits you, and his hands are clumsy and stern when he comes under the same fur and reaches for you.

“König—”

Your whisper ends abruptly as you are pulled against a familiar, broad chest. He growls at you for being awake – or at himself for waking you up with a drunken racket.

“I don’t… I didn’t…” you start weakly and have to clear your throat as he huffs against your neck, listening to what you are trying to say.

“I don’t hate you,” you finally whisper.

He grumbles against your back and buries his masked face in your neck. The arm around your middle tightens and tightens, and you hurry to praise his gifts.

“The honey is delicious. And the oils are–”

"Fee… Du machst mich verrückt."

He speaks through gritted teeth while panting laboriously in your hair. You're relieved to hear sorrow instead of anger in his voice, but it’s his body that makes you arch your back and guide your bottom to meet his crotch.

The biggest mistake you’ve ever done, surely, because the whole body behind you grows taut. He gives you a tight roll of his hips, pushing his cock against you with immediate fervour. His balls meet your bottom, tight and heavy: you have gone to bed in your ridiculous Roman dress because you were feeling cold, but you can still feel them. You can feel all of him.

“König… We–We need to sleep…”

You sound like a bitch in heat, not at all like a woman who wants to stop wherever this heated cuddle is spiralling into. König is letting out noises you didn’t even know a man could make, and it makes your cunt wetter than ever before: tight and throbbing and embarrassingly needy. You try to remind yourself that this is not the proper time or way, that you don’t want it to happen like this: with the smell of wine and blood and dirt and sweat surrounding you, with him soon thrusting that cock between your thighs and shooting his seed on the bed before he can even get it in. You don’t want him when he’s drunk, and you don’t want him when he’s clearly a bit angry with you still. You place a weak hand over his, the one currently wrapped around your middle like a bond.

“Please, I mean it…”

“Not the time for sleep, little one,” he rasps on your shoulder, mask dragged aside and mouth breathing hot against your skin. His voice is gentle but his body is not: it turns out he has only been waiting for the slightest little cue to have the permission to take you. Unfortunately for you, moaning and grinding your hips against him is more than just a cue.

“Göttin der Erde... Gib dich mir.”

He grunts odd, boorish words on your shoulder, leaving you breathless with another tight roll of his hips. It feels like a spell or a chant, the way he speaks. You want nothing more than to give yourself to him, and fear that whatever tie has been knotted between you two, whatever shackle has bound your souls together, has also granted him the ability to hear your thoughts. He must’ve heard them, or then he must smell the change in the air, because he rolls you on your back and pushes a knee between your legs.

“Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen,” he mutters more incantations in your neck, broad thigh forcing your legs further apart. He doesn’t even need strength to coax them open: they drag up and aside by themselves.

“Ah–Why can’t you talk like normal people…”

You sigh your silly thoughts out into the night air, and your fierce giant turns his head a little, now right there next to your cheek.

"Normal? Was ist das…?"

Your lips draw into a quivering little smile – you just can’t help it. Him lying half on top of you, asking what the word ‘normal’ means while smelling like an entire wine house just burned down makes your lips and heart flutter. Your soft laugh makes him raise his head a little, drunken, half-lidded eyes now fixed on you.

“The opposite of you?” You offer innocently and try not to laugh, but it’s no use. You start to snicker, then giggle, and the way he growls only makes things worse.

“You little–I will go crazy because of you,” he whispers, drunk as a heartbroken man can be. Your own heart seems to open with a flood.

“Then go crazy,” you whisper back.

And gods… He takes your sigh as a permit to go absolutely berserk. He crawls on top of you and rips your dress apart from the middle with both hands, exposing your breasts to him and the cold night air. There's a weight in his gaze that turns your nipples hard; a gaze of promise, just before he descends.

He attacks you like a starving man, devours and licks and sucks your breasts until you shake and moan on the bed, until your hands come to cradle his head with greed.

“I will make you scream tonight,” he pants roughly on your tits – you can feel the words on your skin. You’re veritably afraid that this man will swallow you before he even gets to the main event, which is no doubt to satiate the need to fill you with potent seed. He doesn’t exactly caress you, no: he gobbles you like your body is an entire feast, the generous kisses almost turning into bites when he reaches your hips.

“No–no teeth, König,” you try to whimper, somewhere on the borderline of tension and lust.

"Fee... I promise I'll fuck you like king. I'll fuck you until you cry.”

Your head goes blank from his words; from terror and love and lust. There's no time to decipher whether you should be afraid, because he scoops up your thighs, grabs you like a wrestling partner, and draws you against his face.

“Wait—What are you–”

Your words are cut off as he drives his nose up your cunt and breathes in your musk like it's divine incense. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered by the skimpy dress he just ripped to shreds: the fabric is so thin that he could be virtually sniffing you through sheer gossamer.

There’s no escape now; he can feel how wet you are. He can practically taste it.

“König—”

You can't understand why he would want to push his face there, so you mewl and try to push him away – very weakly – but he’s immovable, glued to your scent down there, panting into your warm, wet cunt with harsh breaths and starved groans. You're lying there at his mercy, dress torn to pieces and breasts heaving, thighs spread as far as they can go.

It's futile to even try reason with a starved giant between your legs, a cunt-deprived warrior about to finally take what's his. You should've known better than to joke around and play with a man who could snap you in half – either with his hands or with his cock – and Mother was wrong: you're not smart at all, teasing a beast like this. A beast whose teeth are currently bared over your most vulnerable place protected only by a thin veil soaked with your wet.

König lashes his tongue out and presses it flat against your dress, on your throbbing womanhood, and your words turn into an ample, lewd moan.

“A–ah…”

You fall weakly back on the bed, head spinning although you haven’t drunk a drop of wine. The broad body almost trembles there between your legs.

“Ah… You want cock, ja? I can taste it,” he grunts, blunt as ever. The thought of that thing being bullied into you inch by thick inch makes your cunt clench tight. Gods, you want it, but it will never fit, never…

Unless he… Unless that's why he's down there, panting hot inside you, trying to coax you open with his mouth. Perhaps he's not that dumb after all...

“Please,” you beg for him to love you, taste you, take you, your pride melting into copper and gold, pooling somewhere down, down, down…

“Don't worry,” he speaks straight to your cunt like a man intoxicated with something far better than wine. “I will give you cock. All night.”

He lifts the dress with his nose like a dog, nuzzles under your ruined attire like it's his shelter for the night, headed back towards his plump prize. There will soon be nothing between his mouth and your poor, throbbing cunt, aching to be licked and loved by a cruel giant. A giant who brings you milk and honey and grapes and gold in all its forms…

But just when you have finally forgotten that beasts possess teeth, he sinks them into you. He sinks them into your inner thigh, waking you up from the dream with sharp, harrowing pain.

The fucking idiot actually bites you, hard.

“You fucking—Go to hell!”

You push him away in earnest now, using his shoulders to propel yourself away from him. His teeth threaten to pierce and tear skin because he's so reluctant to let go, and the horrors of the battlefield seep into your skin; the safe warmth of the womb turns into a suffocating darkness.

Your kicks have enough power to make him rise from between your legs, and the clear-cut pain in his eyes makes you want to both hug and hit him. You do the latter and hurl your fists at him, not bothering to even try to hit a target or cause pain; you just want him to stop making you afraid.

Of course, he takes your breathless state and lust-filled rage as a cue to leave – and he does precisely that, but not before he has struggled away from you and your fists in an overly dramatic manner. It would look funny in another situation, especially when he's as hard as ever, cock jutting high towards the sky just from having a little taste of your love. Drunken and slightly wobbly, he almost falls when he grabs the tunic from the earthen floor as if his tent is a site of execution where he will soon be stoned.

At the mouth of the tent, he stops, throws his head back, and roars. The guttural, booming rage echoes towards the gods like a furious curse, and you’re quite sure that the entire camp is awake by now. Every soldier nearby must be dying of a scared heart, thinking that there are either bears or Gauls upon them.

You hold your arms against your chest and safeguard your soft belly as you take in all his fury and frustration, then watch him stagger into the night, head hanging heavy between slumped shoulders. You’re left breathing, afraid and alone in the darkness, thinking about what the hell just happened… And spend the next moments in shock. Soon enough, the cold and terror fades, melting into something more palatable. You're shivering and wet, but intact, at least on the outside.

And the oddest thing is that you find yourself missing him. You miss his presence, his body, you miss his dumbness and his jokes. You fucking miss him.

The man who almost raped you.

With his… mouth.

You curl inside the furs and try to get some sleep with a hammering heart, ending up thinking about him all night. You thought he was going to pound you with that ridiculously long cock all night – and wasn't that his threat, too? – but what you didn't expect was that the giant barbarian who rips people's throats open with his teeth would want to lick and lap you into submission. You never would have thought that König wanted to bury his face between your legs, and eagerly at that.

Perhaps you understood his silly words wrong in your half aroused, half scared state. What if he meant to make you scream and cry from pleasure, not pain?

The burning bruise on your thigh reminds you that you are probably wrong, but you still wake every now and then from a thin sleep, glancing around you in despair, only to see that he’s not there. You feel so hollow that you think for a moment whether König has left the camp entirely, whether he is wandering away, towards some other adventure, exhausted with you and the war and the Romans.

The most unbearable thought in your head is not that he has left you for his dogs, however. It’s the thought that has abandoned you. That he has finally had enough. Because you realize… König hasn’t gone anywhere. He simply left to have his fun with some other woman. Perhaps he’ll be back in the morning, but his patience is gone; it has finally ended, your silly little game. A difficult slave girl who won’t even let him lick her cunt is simply no amusement to him anymore.

Just before dawn, your will breaks; it splits in half. You can almost hear it. The sound of cries is muffled in the bed that nowadays has both his scent and yours: both of your scents combined, mixing together into a wonderful haze of love and despair.

…

König comes back when the dawn is already turning into a full day.

He strolls into the tent the same way he left: with a hunched posture and unsteady feet, but the fervent vigour from last night is gone. Actually, you have never seen him so weak. The dramatic sighs, the groping and the bullying have turned into a piercing silence. His muscles have lost their strength, his head is hanging heavy between those once proud shoulders, and his eyes are cast down as if he’s hoping there wouldn’t be such a bright orb in the sky. He drags his feet as he enters the tent; he doesn’t even look your way when he goes and slumps in his chair.

You are so glad to see him that you nearly jump from the bed and fall right there at his feet. You want to kiss his thighs and grab his hands and look up at him, doting and adoring like a good little slave. You want to whimper and beg that he can give you love bites everywhere he wants.

Instead, you snap at him, voice filled with poison.

“Did you have fun raping women last night?”

There are leaves on his mask and dirt on his shins and knees. Even his hands are a little grungy, and the proud red Roman tunic could also use a wash. He sheds you a tired side stare, then sighs.

“Was?”

“Were you with women,” you spell out every word slowly like you’re talking to a child. The venom on your tongue threatens to spill out as froth. And you almost say, 'other women'. Almost.

König raises his head and looks at you with a slight tilt in his head. He’s curious again, so, so very curious. He has clearly fleed the sun into his tent rather than seek your gracious presence, which shouldn’t make you this glum... But what you just said has managed to brighten up his entire day.

“Meine Fee… She’s jealous,” he points out in a far more jovial tone.

“No. Not at all,” you hurry to say, chin drawing back from his stupid accusations.

“You are,” he says with unbridled fascination.

“I assure you I’m not.”

Your cheeks are heating up, and the nervousness inside your belly roils like a snake. How does he always manage to get you into a trap?

König leans back in his chair, now with his usual dignity on those shoulders. He even crosses his fingers loosely in his lap, looking like the conversation he’s about to have with you will, yet again, become another favourite of his. You’re not sure why you always feel like you’re being interrogated on the sly with him because König is the most simple, straightforward, blunt object of a man you have ever met. And still…

“Fucking other women is bad?” He asks innocently from that chair.

“Bad?” You huff. “Yes, if you have to force women under you, you are a brute.”

“And… ugly?”

“Very ugly. The ugliest man in the world.”

"Hm. But who say anything about forcing?"

König looks at you, calmly, as your stomach sinks from his words.

You can only stare at him as the world seems to fall apart around you, crumble into nothingness when there's sun shining and birds singing outside. Kicking him out of the tent – and almost kicking him in the face in the process – because you got afraid when he gave you a fervent little nib seems like the stupidest idea right now. If you were so willing to part your legs for him and moan under his tongue, surely some other insane woman would want to do that as well? Surely there is at least one woman in this camp who would gladly be pleased by this giant who doesn't hit or force women. Who only likes to… bite and squeeze and lick them.

You pout at him, lip almost trembling now, and he’s smiling, so, so very wide behind that mask. Gods damn him.

Then he rises and walks to you, suddenly looking like he isn’t suffering from a hangover after all. He strolls towards you with slow purpose, and you swallow the tears down, trying not to show him how they turn into ice inside your stomach.

“I have not touched women. Only you.”

He towers above you, looking down at you like you are indeed the most adorable thing in the entire world. You are not sure whether his words are to be believed, but something inside you says that this man never lies. As dense and dumb as he is, he is the most trustworthy human being you will ever meet.

“Only sleep with earth last night,” he says and starts to caress your hair. He even weighs some of it in his hand before sweeping it over your shoulder. Like you are simply his precious, silly little wife who has been spoiled too much.

“It was a cold mistress,” he laments, overly dramatic again, like a poor actor in a tragic play. Your heart aches, badly – you swear König is the most annoying man you have ever met, the most insufferable and lovable. You wonder if he has spent his seed on the cold, hard ground too. Given it to the Great Mother, who is a cold lover sometimes indeed… But not as cold as you.

You wonder how crazy it is that you have the power to drive this giant into the cold night from his own tent. König has had to face his hangover by waking up to a chilly dawn. His hand is not as warm as usual, and you start to worry that he has caught the wrath of wind spirits outside, soon rendering him weak and feverish. His skin is not supposed to feel this cold, not when he’s almost always blazing.

“I know a plant that might help,” you say diplomatically. “With your… Head.”

He looks at you, more and more curious by every passing moment. You hope he doesn’t weigh in his mind whether you are trying to poison him when he is weak. But he’s not that clever, perhaps, because he only looks at you like you’re an entire sun now, and very unlike the one that is giving him a headache today. You turn away from his hand – but not too quickly. You’re only feeling shy. And a bit uncomfortable.

“You should eat something. And drink water, not wine.”

“You care about my head?”

Gods… His voice is so, so soft. He’s seeing past all your defences again, and there is nothing you can do about it. You want to curse him but can’t. You simply can’t.

“Just… Eat some fruit, alright? And I need a kettle so that I can boil some water for the herbs.”

You rise from the bed and try to ignore his adoring stare. He doesn’t attempt to touch you again; he merely watches as you go about and eat a little something as if to show that when it is morning, people should have breakfast. Like you’re a mother trying to lead by example or a fussing young wife who is trying to help his husband. Your lips are a thin line as you search for grapes that aren’t too soft and a piece of bread that doesn’t yet have mould in it. You grab some figs: you know they are his favorite, and bring them to him to tell him you’re serious about him needing to eat.

And you feel silly.

You can’t even look at him. You’re feeling so odd, so weak, so warm inside, and it’s not because you’re disgusted; hell, it’s the opposite of being disgusted….

“I have fallen in love with you,” König says as he accepts your humble offering of food. You freeze in the middle of setting them on his palms, held upwards as if content with whatever you give him, even if it’s only a piece of bread and a few figs.

Gods. Mother… Don’t do this to me–

“That how you say it?”

You breathe in and out, calm, collected – you're not going to faint because some crazy giant thinks he's in love. Yes, that’s it… Everything’s alright. He’s just being silly again. He’s just playing his own little plays again.

But when you look at him, there is no actor there, no silly play: he’s just… König. He returns your helpless, cornered stare with warm kindness, reminding you of something, of some Roman or Greek god… Apollo. Yes, that’s it. Laureled sun god Apollo, the one everyone loves so dearly, because he always drives fear and doubt and darkness away. He’s Apollo, even though he doesn’t even prefer a bow.

And has the translator taught König the correct words? Has he memorized them so that he can say them to you when the time is right? Your lip starts to tremble, and you fight to not shudder a sigh. The old seer was wrong: this man will be your downfall.

“I’ll go get that plant,” you whisper, soft eyes wide and chest curled tight.

“Nein,” he says cheerfully, full of life and hope again. “Not alone, little one.”

…

A/N: Please don't send me death threats. Remember, big bang bang next chapter! Huge!!

Translations:

Sehr schön - Very beautiful

Kleine Fee - Little fairy

Hungrig? - Hungry?

Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen - I could never leave you

Für dich - For you

Du machst mich verrückt - You drive me crazy

Göttin der Erde… Gib dich mir - Goddess of the Earth… Give yourself to me

Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen - My Queen... I will make you very happy

Was ist das? - What is that?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #konig x reader #konig x you #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig smut

2K notes · View notes

llflorence · 6 months ago

Text

It's rude to keep friends waiting (M, Dreamling, Painland, Converging storylines)

The tension between them is palpable.

“I don’t believe you.”

Although Hob Gadling is now an upstanding and benevolent human being, it takes real character to earn his trust. Something that Dream understands is partially his fault. Something he’s been contemplating the past five years and working hard to remedy over the last two.

His sister argues it’s regret. Dream has begun to reluctantly agree with her.

They have become friends, he and Robert aka ‘Hob.’ Not the casual, skin deep kind of connection the humans like to pretend they have. This is stronger, with greater reach. Hob has accepted that there is practically nothing that would stop Dream from coming to his aid. And, somehow, impossibly, the same is true in return.

Dream ponders this as he watches with bemused interest the exchange between Hob Gadling and Johanna Constantine. He’s impressed by both of them with how calmly they’re taking to each other. The New Inn is moderately packed for that time of day. It’s perfect cover for a rendezvous between immortals et. al.

Dream had discovered in 1989 that Robert purchased the old Inn the same day he missed their appointment. His intent was to erect low-income housing. That meant they needed a new location to meet. It also brought on the necessity for more frequent — trysts.

Their hundred-year meetings were immediately amended to yearly, and even before reaching that milestone, shortened further yet to monthly.

And where did they meet during the construction years? Hob’s favorite restaurants. Hob’s favorite coffee shops. Park benches and scenic vistas, and several dozen times, the top of a skyscraper in London where Hob owned a ‘flat.’

And then there were the hundreds upon hundreds of trips into the Dream Realm. Hob tended to revisit their meetings while he slept. It was rather confusing; the man’s brain didn’t supply situations with other humans. It was just the two of them, together.

Johanna snorts.

She is very much like her grandmother; those sorrowful eyes, that quick mind and nasty wit. She pushes boundaries, challenges fate. If Dream doesn’t know better, he’d say the magic in her bloodline is one hundred percent grit.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” she bites back, a smile toying at the corner of her pink mouth. She’s in her human twenties, fresh off her studies, bold and brassy in her newly found abilities. She’s recently come into her usefulness, and Dream had made himself known to her as soon as she came of age. One could always do with an occultist who also happens to be a detective.

Hob leans back in his chair and grips the edge of the table with those strong yet gentle fingers. He studies Johanna for a long moment. So long, in fact, he gives Dream pause.

Perhaps it isn’t the right time to introduce these two.

Johanna signals the waitress, one of the poorly college girls Robert has decided to take pity on. The New Inn is only recently opened, and already the emotionally troubled man has employed more than enough student workers. He says he’d much rather work with the ones who struggle more and appreciate wealth than those who struggle less and don’t.

“Another one, Miss?” the blonde girl asks, throwing an unabashed flirtatious look in Hob’s direction. He misses it, of course. He’s too busy parsing out whether Johanna is for real or not.

Constantine’s eyes flit away, and she paints on a dazzling smile. “Yes, please. And why don’t you bring one for Mr. Gadling as well. He could use with a bit of enlightenment.”

“Of course.”

The waitress whirls about and whisks herself away, having only half-acknowledged Johanna, and ignores Dream completely.

Hob continues to frown at Johanna. Constantine basks in it.

After more drinks are served and Johanna downs hers in one go, Hob finally speaks. “Prove it.”

Dream cuts in before things get any messier. “That is not necessary,” he says, low enough so the patrons around them hear nothing. Robert’s warm brown eyes flash to meet his. “There is someone here who can corroborate her claims.”

His friend’s eyebrows shoot upward, and his soft mouth falls open. The vulnerability of the action always does something to Dream. He can never quite put a name to it.

Dream pushes his chair back and stands, rebuttoning his coat before striding across the floor. There’s a table by the window set aside for special patrons. Hob recently watched a moving picture where the play’s protagonist offered a space for homeless humans to have a free meal. The enthusiasm with which he set about recreating this option was yet another example of how Robert Gadling had changed.

The person currently occupying the table is neither homeless nor human.

She doesn’t even lift her head from her steaming stew as Dream approaches to stand beside her. “Come to give a good woman nightmares, have you? Morpheus?”

Dream narrows his eyes, controls his response. “Hettie. I see you have no problem at all taking advantage of your host’s good nature.”

She grunts, rips off a hunk of crusty bread. “I’m watchin’ him, I am,” she growls, inclining her head towards Hob. “He’s not normal, that one. Not normal at all.”

Over his shoulder, Hob is frowning again, trying to make sense of the conversation. He’s died his hair with streaks of gray to keep up the appearance that he’s aging normally. A loose strand crosses his forehead. It makes him distinguished looking. Handsome.

“That he isn’t,” Dream agrees. The circumstances of her visit are amusing indeed. “Would you like to meet him?”

Hettie looks up under her floppy sun hat and hisses, as if it’s a secret to be kept. “You know him?”

Dream answers by offering an arm. He’s not above social niceties, even if she is a cantankerous old hag who never sleeps and thus gives no clues to her questionable motivation.

She smells of brussel sprouts and her well-lined hands are filthy. Dream wonders what animal’s entrails she’s been reading, trying to determine who and what Hob actually is. She totters along beside him, grunting with each step she takes. And when they are close enough, she quite suddenly notices Johanna seated at the table.

“Hettie,” Constantine says, greeting her as if there is a bad taste in her mouth. Johanna goes on smiling in her knowing way.

“Witch,” Hettie snaps back. Dream can hardly contain himself. In a word, she’s both confirmed Johanna’s magical status and her own as well. Although Hettie is technically more a seer than a witch –

“I’m Robert Gadling,” Hob says, not unkindly. His eyes dart between Dream’s and Johanna’s, searching for further information. It’s clear he didn’t expect the two women to know each other. But he’s still just as accepting of the oddness of it all as he was so many years ago when he found out he couldn’t die.

Hettie reaches for Hob’s forearm, grasping it with bony, gnarled fingers. Hob, for all his patience and goodness and empathy, flinches.

“You’re wrong, m’boy,” the hag says in her gravelly, disused voice. Hob is wide-eyed and staring, seeking assistance from Dream with persistence.

The hag chuckles as she works her own brand of magic, squeezes Hob’s arm with unexpected strength. Dream steps between them to prevent further intrusion into his friend’s future.

“He’s older than you, Hettie.”

“Lies,” she hisses, but Dream can see that she’s shaken by what she’s seen. She takes a step back and points an accusatory finger in Johanna’s direction. “You did this to him!”

Constantine laughs, her voice sing-song, like a bell. “A witch couldn’t do that to him. Not even a good one.”

It’s a dig against Hettie, but before she can strike back at Johanna’s boldness and the impishness of youth, Dream gets to the point.

“Hettie. Would you be so kind as to verify Johanna’s status with Hell.”

The hag’s strange smile widens, and she begins to cackle. “Thick as thieves with them, ain’t she? She’ll be requirin’ contracts and blood oaths, namin’ names and dealin’ in souls.” Hettie turns to Hob, points that long bony finger at him next. “You’d be wise to stay clear of ‘er.”

Then she straightens, as much as a bow-backed ancient creature can. She lifts her hairy chin and eyes each of them in return, ending with finality on Hob.

“We’ll be seein’ each other again, you and I. You’ll be known by a different name, but I’ll know you just the same.”

With that ominous warning, she turns and hobbles out of the Inn, door opening and closing behind her without the lifting of one curled finger.

Johanna is looking smug. “Well. Not exactly a rave endorsement, but still useful, nonetheless.”

Hob accepts recent encounters as fact. “So you’re saying my clients —“

“Sold their souls to the devil, yes.” Johanna stands, buttoning her coat. She’s said all she’s going to about the matter, and is hurrying now to return to her work.

She catches Dream’s eye. “About Orpheus —“

Dream shakes his head. It’s much too soon to get his hopes up; she has much maturing to do. “Later.”

Johanna nods and collects her purse, tucks the chair neatly under the table and addresses Hob. “It’s always the good ones,” she laments, showing a brief glimpse of her own inner turmoil. “You think you know someone —“

Constantine shakes her head and turns, following the path Hettie had taken minutes prior. She, however, understands what it means to blend in. She opens the door with a gloved hand and allows it to close automatically behind her.

Dream sinks back into his chair and faces Hob and his questions.

Hob chews on his tongue for a good long while before he drops his head into his hands.

“I trusted those people with all that money! I did research on them! They checked out!”

Dream knows this. It’s why he brought in Johanna to do a little investigation. The humans chosen to carry on Robert Gadling’s legacy were just a little too good to be true. Plus, he’d witnessed their dreams.

“Humans are seldom as they appear to be.”

Hob emerges from behind his hair; the entire front set of bangs have fallen forward, shielding him against the cold harsh reality. His eyes seem redder, his forehead more wrinkled with worry. There was a familiarity about his face. A disappointment that has cut him deep. Something his fellow men have done to him.

It is despair.

His friend is losing hope for humanity, and that will not do.

Dream searches for a way to comfort him. Words that would resolidify his faith. Instead, he does what Hob would do. He gets up and takes a chair much closer. He leans in and stretches his hand out.

Hob’s skin is warm where Dream’s forefinger touches the bristles under his chin, lifting it gently. His eyes are warm, too. Slightly surprised, but pleasantly so. The downturn of his eyebrows are strangely intriguing.

“Do not despair,” Dream hums, low enough that only Hob should hear. “It is not your fault your business partners were less than ideal. Perhaps there is another –”

Hob shakes his head; his whiskers drag slowly across the surface of Dream’s finger. “There’s no one else. At least, nobody I trust.”

Dream realizes his gaze has dropped to Hob’s mouth, to the dimple in his chin that hides behind the hint of beard. He moves his thumb into the space, enjoying how well it seems to fit there.

“There is one – option.”

Hob swallows; the point of his Adam’s apple moves the entirety of his throat. “I can’t think of any – right now.”

Something is preventing Hob from speaking in that clear, confident way. His lips are trembling slightly, and he’s taken to gripping both arm rests as if he’s about to fall out of the chair.

“Mm,” Dream hums again. He swipes his thumb back and forth, allowing it to ride the edges of the man’s cleft. “I believe my company has very recently become interested in making several large investments. Shelters for the homeless are certainly noble enough. I wonder if they could be persuaded –”

Hob finds his voice. “Your company? What do you mean, your company?”

It’s difficult to avoid those deep brown orbs, the ones that always seem so intent on understanding the ‘whys’ and ‘whatfors.’ Dream looks up and is captured by the man’s gaze.

“Why, Dream Industries, of course. How else am I to afford such expensive garments? Our lengthy and, quite frankly, overindulgent meetings at various venues? Did you expect I simply plucked money from a tree inside the Dreaming?”

Hob shakes his head slowly, a smile breaking through the worry on his face. Another slice of gray hair falls across his forehead. Dream moves his hand from the man’s chin to tuck it securely behind his ear.

Dream sits back, allows his hand to fall in his lap, and quite enjoys the reaction Hob is giving him with every inch of his body language.

He laughs, and it’s wonderful. “I will never, ever know what to expect from you, Dream of the Endless.”

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#the sandman #dead boy detectives #dreamling #painland #edwin payne #charles rowland #dream of the endless #hob gadling

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