#prompting me to look it up and promptly be slaughtered by it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

silkling · 3 years

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This fic is another ask box prompt from @star-tartlet. They put two prompts in one ask and I like the, both so much that I wrote them both. For organization’s sake, I wrote them as separate posts. This was the prompt:

“What if Sigma 17 were woken up earlier, like halfway through the war when their pod is discovered by an Autobot ship.. mby Blades' brothers are still aware and he can feel them, but otherwise they're just dumped straight into war. Poor bbys.”

(I decided to make it so the Autobot army isn’t quite so scattered and most of them are concentrated on the Ark, but Cybertronians on Earth isn’t really a thing yet.)

———————————————————————————————————

A large starship floated through the vast expanse of space. On board the bridge, a tall blue and red mech stood, a smaller white and red bot at his side. Optimus Prime stood at the massive front viewport of the Ark, the bridge crew working around him, keeping the ship going ever forward. His chief medical officer and one of his oldest friends stood his his side.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded from a terminal to his right. He snapped his attention to the mech manning it.

“Inferno, report.”

“Proximity alarm. Starboard sensors picked up the form of a ship, Sir. A very small one. It’s systems are down but it was detected because Teletraan analyzed it and it pinged back as being Cybertronian. No life signs, but the ship is undamaged and intact.” the mech answered promptly.

“Pull up the visuals.”

Inferno tapped in a few commands, easily doing so, and a screen flickered over the viewport of the bridge, displaying the ship. Optimus frowned as his processor distantly recognized the model, but he couldn’t pinpoint from where. At his side, Ratchet made a choked noise. He shot his friend a concerned look.

“A Sigma….” the medic rasped, optics wide and focused on the image of the ship.

A Sigma? That sounded familiar, but he still couldn’t quite remember from where. It was obviously significant, to have his old friend reacting with such wild shock.

“A Sigma?” That was Inferno. “I’m not familiar with that.”

“Sigma, Tau, Upsilon, and Phi.” Ratchet answered, voice hoarse. “Do those designations jog any memories?”

There was a sharp inhale from the mech beside Inferno. “Wait, you mean-“ Trailbreaker was cut off by Ratchet, the medic’s words making the entire bridge go silent.

“That’s a Rescue Bot ship.”

——————————

Blades came to with a rough gasp as his optics onlined, his systems already whirling with a gentle hum. He stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was wrong with the image he was seeing. Then he remembered. The distress call, the energon eater, going into stasis. He shot upright, the wheels of his altmode spinning rapidly with his distress as he flailed….and ended up tumbling right off a berth. That wasn’t right. If he was coming out of stasis, he should he upright, stepping out of the pod on his own power. If he wasn’t….that meant someone had found them, kept them in a medical stasis, and removed them from the pods.

Sure enough, a hand was held out in front of his face a moment later, and Blades looked up to see an older bot with the medics’s symbol on his shoulders. “Are you alright there, youngling?”

Blades blinked, taking his hand and letting himself be pulled up. “I’m fine.” he said. “Where am I? The last thing I remember is being attacked and going into stasis…” he trailed off, remembering how his brothers had felt his fear across their bond, but he’d been too far from them for them to communicate with words so they’d only sent worry and reassurance his way. His spark ached, as if the bond he shared with his brothers was strained for some reason.

Which…that worried him. The only reason a spark bond would become so strained was distance or time, and as far as Blades knew he hadn’t been so far for it to become this muted, which left…time. That wouldn’t make sense, though. The Rescue Force HQ would have sent out a Priority Prime message to bring the Sigma home once they missed their check in, which should have only been a couple orns after they entered stasis. That wouldn’t be enough time for the bond to become so strained. Not unless…not unless they’d been in stasis for longer than a few orns.

Cold fear seized his spark, and he flinched back from the hand that lifted to brush against his face. Oh, right. The medic.

“Youngling?” the medic asked, voice going softer. “Are you hurt?”

Blades blinked, staring up at the bot for a moment, and then he squeaked and nodded hurriedly. “Yes! I mean no! I’m not hurt. I’m just, I’m confused.” he said a little helplessly. His spark ached. He wanted his brothers. Where was he? Where were they?

The medic nodded, offering his hand out again. “I’m Ratchet. We found your ship floating in deep space. Your team is already up and your leader told us about what he did with the Priority Prime. It was a good idea, though I’m sorry it wasn’t activated before.” he said grimly.

Blades frowned, taking Ratchet’s hand and clapping it in the typical greeting. “I’m Blades. How long were we in stasis?”

Ratchet didn’t answer, just giving him a look Blades didn’t really want to interpret, and then shook his helm and gestured. “Follow me. We’ll explain it when your team is all there.”

Blades followed the older mech to a connected room, smiling nervously at his team and moving to sit next to Boulder. He noticed the large blue and red mech as as Rachet went to stand beside him, leaning up to whisper somehing to him that Blades couldn’t hear. The mech nodded, then turned to gaze at the Rescue Team. Blades rubbed at his chestplate, his spark aching to strengthen and reaffirm his bond with his brothers. He thought he could feel them, faintly. Could they feel him, now that he was out of stasis?

“Rescue Team Sigma-17.” The red and blue bot spoke. “I am Optimus Prime. I apologize that you were not found sooner, but I fear I have grave news.” he rumbled. “I am sure you were aware of the social revolution that was brewing before your mission took you off Cybertron. I regret to say that in the time since you went is to stasis, the revolution broke into War, and as a consequence of that War Cybertron is no more.”

Blade’s spark went cold, and he felt like the ground dropped out from under him.

No.

——————————

Blades followed Ratchet through the halls of what he had learned was a ship. One called the Ark, apparently. His processor was still reeling with everything they’d been told. The Rescue Force was gone. A couple orns after they’d gone into stasis, the revolution leader, Megatron, had launched an attack. He’d razed the headquarters to the ground, and then his army–because he’d grown himself an army of the angry and the beaten–had hunted and slaughtered every team who who escaped or who hadn’t been at the HQ during the attack. Sigma-17 was the last Rescue Team.

What’s more, the destruction of the Rescue Force had only been Megatron’s debut. The attack had earned him and his followers the name “Decepticons”, and he’d followed that act by launching all-out war. It had gone on for many mega-cycles, until eventually Cybertron had been depleted of all resources and utterly destroyed. That was when the two factions, the Autobots who were led by Optimus Prime, and Megatron’s Decepticons, had built massive starships and taken the War off planet. It had been a few vorns since they’d left Cybertron, as they’d been told, and the Autobots were on the hunt for planets where they could mine energon. That was when they’d found the Sigma.

Blades felt sick to his tanks. He remembered Megatron. He’d gone with Groove to one of the rallies. How could he not? Groove was a flyer. He was a helicopter, not a Seeker, so he didn’t have it as bad as he could, but…Blades knew his brother had still faced cruelty and hatred and had been ostracized because he was a flight-frame. Sure, not everyone had done it but it had been enough that Groove had been pretty badly affected by it. His brother had been excited by Megatron, Blades remembered. He hadn’t liked the talks of violence and the way it had all been said, because Groove had always been so peaceful and pacifistic, but the words and message had resonated with him in a way that had made Blades’s spark ache. He’d hated seeing him so beaten down by the way he was treated, and he knew the others had felt the same. They felt the echoes of how the treatment affected Groove through the bond, after all. They’d never faced the hatred themselves, but because of the fact that they all shared a gestalt bond, Blades and the others had very keenly felt Groove’s pain and grief and resignation right alongside him.

So he remembered Megatron. The large gunmetal mech had made him nervous, even from where he was at the back of the rally crowd, but he hadn’t wanted Groove to go alone and the others had been busy with their own training. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was easy to see why so many had flocked to him. He spoke promises of equality, of justice, of being able to live freely without being forced into something you didn’t want and without being hated for something you couldn’t control. The thing was, it had sounded nice. But Blades hadn’t liked how Megatron seemed to insist that the only way to attain that was through violence, and Groove had agreed. They hadn’t gone to another rally, after that. But looking back on that one they had attended…well, Blades wasn’t entirely surprised the revolution had grown to War. There had just been too much resentment amongst the flight-frames and the lower castes, which greatly outnumbered the content upper castes, for the situation not to erupt to something more extreme.

Blades shook himself from his introspection, refocusing on the present. His spark still ached, and he pawed at his chestplates again, frowning in displeasure. If he focused, he could feel the tendrils of the bonds he shared with his brothers, but they were weak and muted. So much so that they probably wouldn’t feel that he’d come out of stasis. He glanced up to notice Ratchet cast him a concerned look, and he quickly dropped his hand.

“Are you alright, Blades?” he asked.

The small motorcycle nodded. “I’m fine!” he assured. “Just, uh…remembering.” he said lamely.

Ratchet looked unimpressed, but he nodded anyway and stopped in front of a door. “This is the Rec Room.” he explained.

Which, yeah. That would work nicely. After Optimus had finished explaining things and Sigma-17 had calmed down, the team had decided to split up. Heatwave, as the leader, would stay with the Prime to work out what the team would need to do to adjust and move forward and what their options for the future were. Chase had been sent off with the Prime’s second in command, a mech called Prowl, to go over the regulations and protocols for the Ark and for the Autobots at large. Boulder would work with the Autobot’s engineers and scientists to repair and upgrade the Sigma, since the ship was still intact and just needed to be better outfitted for potential combat. That left Blades, who Heatwave had tasked with getting in among the rest of the Autobots to begin establishing connections and testing the waters. The fire truck wanted his most sociable teammate to take care of figuring out what the Autobots were like and maybe figuring out how Sigma-17 could possibly begin integrating, in the social sense.

“Right.” Blades straightened, feeling nervous. “Then I guess we should do it?”

Ratchet snorted. “That’s the spirit.” he muttered, and then the door opened and he slipped inside. Blades followed close behind, his slimmer frame mostly hidden behind the medic’s bulkier one.

“Listen up, you collection of glitches!” Ratchet barked. Instantly, all conversation stopped and the room full of mechs and femmes snapped their attention to the medic. “I’m sure you all heard about the shuttle the Ark picked up by now. I know how fast gossip travels on the blasted ship!” he continued. “Well, there were mechs inside. They were in stasis, and we got them out and debriefed. Most of them are working with other officers to get their affairs sorted. One of them came to play nice with you sorry scrapheaps, so try not to scare the brat off.” he finished, the look in his optics promising pain for anyone who didn’t do as he’d asked. Then he stepped aside, and Blades was revealed to the rest of the room.

The motorcycle found his optics sliding around the room, his hands tucked and curled in close to his chest. Primus, the attention was making him nervous. But then, there was the sound of a chair scraping harshly across metal, and Blades’s optics snapped to the source. When he found it, his vents froze and his spark started pulsing rapidly.

His brothers sat together around one table, and First Aid was standing with his palms pressed flat to its surface. They were all staring at him, and all but the small medic had a hand pressed over their chestplates, where Blades was sure their sparks were pulsing as erratically as his was.

“B-Blades?” First Aid’s voice was weak and disbelieving, but also thick and with unbearable grief. “Is that r-really you?”

It took Blades a moment to realize why his brothers were reacting like that to him. Then it clicked. The last time they had sensed him over the bond, they had felt his fear and panic and nothing more, and then he’d gone into stasis. And he knew stasis dampened spark bonds to the point they felt dead. His brothers’ last memory of his presence was his own terror, and then the bond would have gone silent, and only a short handful of orns later the Rescue Force was destroyed and all remaining Rescue Teams hunted and massacred. Which meant…which meant that, for the past several mega-cycles since Blades had entered stasis, his brothers could only have believed that he’d been offlined with the with the rest of the Rescue Bots. For the entirety of the time he’d been in stasis, Blades’s brothers had thought he was dead.

Blades felt his spark roar in agony as the realization struck. Oh Primus, his brothers had spent countless stellar cycles thinking their bond was broken, their gestalt incomplete. The knowledge hurt, even more than learning about Cybertron and the Rescue Force’s demise had hurt. It hurt so much it was almost physically painful, and Blades let out a weak whimper with it.

But First Aid’s sharp, agonized keening drowned him out, snapping him back to reality, and in the face of his younger brother’s pain, Blades did the only thing he could. He uncurled his hands from his chest and took a small step forward, his arms extending just a little.

“Yeah, ‘Aid.” he whispered, but in the dead silence of the Rec Room it carried to every audial present. “It’s me. I’m here.”

That was all it took, because First Aid let out a sharp, piercing wail and then lunged across the room. He almost bowled over a small white and pale blue minibot in his mad dash towards the motorcycle, but Blades didn’t have time to find humor in it. In the next sparkbeat, First Aid crashed into him and Blades stumbled back, but managed to stay upright. Arms wrapped tightly around his frame and First Aid buried his face in his neck, clutching him tightly as if Blades was going to disappear the moment he let go. The Rescue Bot didn’t protest the hold, and instead wrapped one arm equally as tightly around his youngest brother. The other, he held out towards his three older ones.

“Hot Spot, Streetwise, Groove?” he asked, his voice holding a desperate plea he knew only they would understand. “I’m home.” And he was. The Ark wasn’t Cybertron, but as long as he had his brothers he’d always be home.

That seemed to be the key to breaking them from their stupor, however, because in the next moment the last three of his gestalt barreling across the room towards him. He didn’t even have time to brace for impact before three heavy metals forms slammed into him hard enough to send all five brothers crashing to the floor. The five forms were silent for only a beat before they erupted into sound: hoarse, desperate, near manic laughter and heavy, relieved, gasping sobs, broken only by unintelligible mumbles and whispers.

The other bots in the room had startled and started staring when First Aid had stood so suddenly, but now everyone was staring at the scene. There was confusion and concern filling the air from every side, but no mech or femme dared to interrupt the scene they were inadvertently intruding on. No one knew exactly what was going on or who they all were to each other, but they could tell that, whatever this was, it was important.

Blades and his brothers, for their parts, didn’t even notice that they had an audience. They’d forgotten that there even were any other bots around them, too wrapped up in the sheer joy and relief of their reunion. Their bond was already strengthening; the weakened, frayed bonds that had been so silent starting to weave themselves back together as the younglings held each other close. As their spark bond began to reestablish itself, their sparks all glowed just a little more brightly, enough that a very, very faint glow could be seen from under their chestplates.

Ratchet, for his part, was both infuriated and confused. He’d gotten concerned when First Aid had stood so suddenly, about to call out to his apprentice when Blades had cut him off before he’s even spoken. Then the younger medic had launched himself at the Rescue Bot, and Blades had called to the three younglings that usually hung out around his apprentice, and then they were all clutching each other and sobbing. Ratchet could see a very faint glow from their spark chambers under their chestplates, and concern curled in his tanks. He pulled a portable scanner from his subspace, turning it on the messy pile of younglings on the floor, and did a quick scan on them. The scanner beeped back results, and Ratchet found his vents hitching.

The five sparks in front of him resonated with each other. They resonated far, far too closely to be a coincidence. The pieces fell into place. Blades’s rubbing his chest since he’d come out of stasis, First Aid’s reaction to seeing the orange and white motorcycle, the other three’s reaction to Blades calling their names, even First Aid’s insistence on always hanging around three mechs Ratchet had thought he had no connection or relation to before today. All the pieces clicked into place to form a startlingly clear image. Pit, Ratchet was going to strangle his idiot apprentice for not telling him he shared a spark bond with Hot Spot, Streetwise, and Groove, even if they had thought that their fifth member was offline.

“Primus bless.” he whispered reverently, his processor not focused on any of his irritation in the immediate discovery. His quiet exclamation made the nearest bots helm’s snap to him. “They’re gestalt.”

There was dead silence, other than the reunion of brothers on the floor, as that news was passed along the comm. lines of everyone in the room. Then, pandemonium.

Blades, First Aid, Hot Spot, Streetwise, and Groove didn’t even notice, blind as they were to everything but each other. Blades was back, and the five brothers were finally whole. That was all that mattered.

——————————

The Protectobots, as Hot Spot had told Prime that their gestalt was called, had been given a large room to share. It was common procedure among the Autobots for spark bonded mechs to share a room, if they so chose to. Obviously, Blades and his brothers agreed eagerly. The other four moved out of their old rooms, and they were given a very large hangar-like room close to the medbay. It had taken them the rest of the orn after getting things settled with Optimus and his command team before they had finished setting it up. Blades had been touched, but also deeply saddened, to see that his brothers had kept a box of his possessions from their shared home back on Cybertron. It wasn’t much, really. His favorite data pads, some decorative crystals, his music instrument, and some of the handheld puzzles he’d always enjoyed messing with whenever his nerves got the best of him. Still, the fact that they kept it all spoke volumes of how his apparent loss had affected them.

After the mess in the Rec Room, and when Blades and his brothers had finally calmed down, they’d been taken straight to Prime to explain themselves, and then dragged to Ratchet for a thorough medical examination. And then, finally, blessedly, they’d been offered the room and sent off to get settled into it when they’d agreed. Blades had been mortified. The entire experience had been so very nerve-wracking, especially considering that the Autobots were very much military and he very much was not.

But now, the Ark had cycled into the recharge cycle, during which all the lights dimmed and the Autobots not on the night shift bedded down to recharge. Blades and his brothers had managed to shove the five berths together into one, piling it high with all the mesh blankets and pillows in the room. Now they were all sleeping together, tangled and piled atop each other. Blades was almost certain that it was Hot Spot’s pede digging into his hip, and that his own arm was pinned between Streetwise and First Aid. He was also quite sure that it was Groove who was face down on his stomach, but with the dark it was hard to say. He knew to most bots this would look highly uncomfortable, but to Blades it was absolutely perfect. Well, except for the knee digging into his spinal strut, but he couldn’t have everything, he supposed.

As he lay awake, his processor worked sleepily. He knew that his team might want to leave, to try and avoid the War. He understood why. They were Rescue Bots. They saved lives, and staying to fight meant they’d have to learn how to take lives. But Blades…he refused to leave his brothers. Even if he had to leave Sigma-17, he’d stay here. Besides, if his brothers could do this, so could he. They were supposed to have been an Advanced Rescue Team, after all.

Blades and his brothers had come out of the Well with frames already suited for rescue work. And they’d genuinely wanted to do rescue work, so they hadn’t minded. First Aid was a medical responder, Hot Spot was disaster relief, Streetwise was enforcement, Groove was search and rescue, and Blades’s frame had been unique in its adaptability, meaning that he had been able to do a little of all those jobs. His role had been to partner with and adapt to whatever job needed doing on any given rescue.

His brothers hadn’t entered the Rescue Force at first, choosing to do advanced training for their specialization outside of the Rescue Bot Academy. That was probably what had saved them from what they’d called the Purge. Blades himself had joined the Rescue Force from the get go, taking classes in all the specializations so he’d be best able to play his role on his gestalt.

The plan had been that Blades would gain field experience while his brothers finished their training, and then they’d all join the Rescue Force as a gestalt, as the Protectobots. Pit, it had been the Rescue Force itself that had given their gestalt its name. They’d have been an advanced team, taking on missions that were further from home, or in dangerous territory, or with higher risks. Missions that a standard Rescue Team might struggle with. The mission he’d been on before all this, the one with the energon eater, was supposed to have been his last one before he transferred to become a team with his brothers. But that hadn’t happened, and now he was here. His brothers, who had spent centuries fighting in a War. So Blades was certain that he could learn to fight, too. For his brothers.

——————————

It was the next orn when Blades got a harsh taste of what the War was like. They had woken to Ratchet slamming into the room, barking at First Aid that there had been an attack on a team who weren’t on the Ark, and who had returned in need of medical care. The Wreckers, apparently, and they were severely wounded. Blades’s processor kicked into gear as First Aid bolted after his mentor, and he followed his little brother. The other three stayed, knowing they’d be no use where to two youngest of their gestalt were going.

As they headed down to the medbay, Blades spoke over the bond.

:Who are the Wreckers?:

:A highly skilled and elite team of very destructive berserker and melee class warriors. Their missions are highly dangerous. Oftentimes they’re more of a suicide squad because of how deadly their battles can be.:

Blades hummed his acknowledgment, and they both spilled into the medbay. Ratchet whirled, his optics locking and narrowing on Blades. “Unless you’re injured, out! I’ve no time for you!”

Blades cast a quick glance around, and if his processor wasn’t running on rescue protocols then the sight that greeted him would have made him have a nervous breakdown. All the medical tables were filled, and not a single mech on them had a minor injury. There were body parts and energon everywhere. He turned a hard look to Ratchet, shoulders lifting.

“You need me.” he said, voice level. “I’m a First Tier Triage Medic, fully licensed. I can’t completely repair the most severe of the wounds, but I can fix the more minor ones and patch up the severe ones well enough to keep these mechs alive until you or ‘Aid can get to them.”

First Tier Triage medics were licensed to deal with field injuries of any severity, but as Blades said his skills weren’t to repair those wounds fully, just to keep the mechs under his care alive until proper care could be administered. He’d taken his training seriously. He’d even gotten the minor upgrade that let him transform his digits into triage-grade medical tools. He wouldn’t have the same innate skill with them as a sparked medic like First Aid or Ratchet, but he was good enough to save lives.

It seemed that was enough to convince Ratchet, because the mech only stared for a sparkbeat, narrowed his eyes, then nodded stiffly. “In that case, you’ll probably see this place a lot more in the future. Get to work. First Aid, you know what to do.” he said shortly, and then he whirled back to the mech he was working on.

The two brothers split up, and Blades found himself at the berthside of a large green mech. Half his side was torn off, a leg was missing, though thankfully it was laid on a table by the berth, and his helm looked like something had smashed into it. Hard. Blades frowned, expression grim, and his fingers transformed to begin sealing up leaking energon lines and binding the ends of sparking wires. He got to work.

——————————

Over a cycle passed before Blades and First Aid stumbled out of the medbay. They were exhausted, but there was a sense of accomplishment sweeping back and forth across both their sparks. It had been difficult, but not a single mech had died that orn. Every single one of the Wreckers would live and would fully recover. At the end of the whole ordeal, Blades had been about to collapse when Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder and gruffly told him to return to the medbay to further his training. He’d said that it was up to Blades himself if he wanted to become a fully licensed medic like First Aid was training to be, but even if not Ratchet intended to expand on his skills in some regard because medics were precious few in the War and Blades having those skills could prove invaluable. The motorcycle had agreed, though he wasn’t very sold on becoming a fully licensed medic. Still, he did intend to return and learn as much as he could.

Outside the medbay, Blades came to a stop when he saw his team gathered. He blinked, and it only took a klik for him to understand what was going on. He turned to his brother, nudging him with his shoulder. “Head back to our room, ‘Aid. You need rest. I’ll be right there.”

First Aid turned his too-bright visor on him, and Blades knew his optics were wide underneath it. “But-“

“I’m coming back. I promise. I won’t leave you again.” he cut in gently. “I’ll keep the bond open. You’ll be able to feel me, don’t worry.”

There was a pause, then First Aid hugged him tightly. “Alright. Just come back soon. You need rest too.”

Blades wrapped his arms around his little brother. “Love you too.” he mumbled, and then First Aid was pulling away and trudging down the hall.

Blades turned to his team, and they walked to the hangar bay where the Sigma was being kept. They arranged themselves on some crates, before Heatwave spoke up.

“Here’s the deal. I talked to Optimus Prime about our options. One: We stay here and join the Autobots. If we do this, we’d have to go through training and be prepared to fight in a battlefield in the future. I told him we have some combat training, since the Rescue Force knew some missions might be dangerous and require Teams to fight to pull off the rescue. He said we’d be evaluated to determine where we’re at and then have our abilities expanded on from there.”

Blades was silent for a moment, considering. That seemed fair. It was the option he’d already intended to choose, but hearing it all laid out still helped. Chase was speculative, he could tell. Boulder was the most reluctant.

“But we’re Rescue Bots. We save lives, not destroy them.” he pointed out softly.

Heatwave nodded. “I did say that to Optimus. He said we have another option. We can take the Sigma once it’s upgraded and he’ll point us in the direction of a more hidden Neutral settlement. We’ll be able to stay out of the War so long as we don’t catch Decepticon attention, and we could even operate as a Rescue Team on a limited scale on the settlement.” he explained. “The third option was we can take the Sigma and take our chances on our own, though Optimus said he’d give us basic supplies and information to help.”

Chase hummed. “I must admit, I find myself leaning towards the first option. Our duty is to serve and protect, that much is true, but we can still save lives if we remain here. Perhaps, depending on where and how we contribute, we might do even more good here than anywhere else.��

Heatwave nodded. “That’s what I said. I think I’d like to stay, though if you all prefer to go then I’m with you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all in this together.”

Boulder frowned. “I don’t really want to fight anyone. I don’t know if I even could offline another bot.”

“You may be able to avoid that.” Chase offered. “I was told by Prowl that there are some members of the Autobots who rarely face combat. The medics for example, often remain behind at base, but even in the event they are on the battlefield it is always very far back and out of the fight. The scientists and engineers, too, do not often see the battlefield, and spend most of their time away from it. Even more so than the medics, from what I was told.” he hummed. “Of course, all those bots are required to be able to fight at the same level as a standard combatant, simply so they would be able to defend themselves if they are attacked, but they are not encouraged to join the fight themselves. They contribute more by not being active combatants.” he reported.

Boulder blinked, looking contemplative. “I guess that would be okay, and you do have a point. We have useful skills, we can probably help more by staying than by leaving.”

Heatwave and Chase both made noises of agreement, and Blades sighed in relief. “Good, because I’m staying, even if you do go.”

Three helms snapped to him. “Blades?” Chase asked.

“I’m not leaving my brothers. Not again. They already spent mega-cycles thinking I was dead, I can’t do it to them again.” he said softly.

Heatwave was silent for a klik. “So you really are gestalt? Prime told us about you and your brothers.” he said.

Blades nodded. “Yeah.” he said softly. “I love you all, too. You’re also like brothers to me, and I don’t want to lose you. But my spark needs my gestalt. So I’m staying.” he said quietly.

“Won’t you be scared?” Boulder asked.

The motorcycle shot him a sardonic grin. “Of course. And Boulder, a joor ago I had to use a temporary medical patch to seal up a hole in a mech’s spark chamber. I already have at least a small idea of how bad this could all get. But…it’s the right thing to do. That’s what I think.”

They all looked at each other for a long moment, before gazes hardened with determination. Heatwave stood, and the others followed suit. “So we stay?” he confirmed.

“Affirmative.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“We stay.” Blades echoed firmly. He stepped forward, meeting the gazes of his team. “And we fight.”

Looks were exchanged, and then the other three nodded sharply. “We fight.” they said at the same time.

Blades felt resolve settle in his spark, and he straightened his spinal strut. This wasn’t how he would ever have wanted his life to go, but he couldn’t change anything. All he could do was adapt, learn, and rise above the challenge. As long as he had his team and his brothers, he wouldn’t back down.

It was time to fight.

———————————————————————————————————

And there you have it! Sigma-17 has joined the War. Blades has reunited with his brothers, so there is some good, but he’s also been given a taste of horrors of war. The Rescue Bots may have survived the massacre, but in a way Megatron still killed all the Rescue Teams. Only this time, it was because his war forced the last living one to hang up their badges.

This was fun to write! I enjoyed it. Blades had a little more confidence here because his brothers are at his back, so he’s not as nervous because he knows he has their support.

Still, I wonder how this would change the events of Prime, if it would at all? Maybe it wouldn’t, unless one of the Bots ended up on Team Prime in the future. *shrugs*

See you in the next one, folks!

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yourreddancer · 3 years

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The massacre of wounded knee

·Heather Cox Richardson

December 28, 2021 (Tuesday

On the clear, cold morning of December 29, 1890, on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, three U.S. soldiers tried to wrench a valuable Winchester away from a young Lakota man. He refused to give up his hunting weapon; it was the only thing standing between his family and starvation. As the men struggled, the gun fired into the sky.

Before the echoes died, troops fired a volley that brought down half of the Lakota men and boys the soldiers had captured the night before, as well as a number of soldiers surrounding the Lakotas. The uninjured Lakota men attacked the soldiers with knives, guns they snatched from wounded soldiers, and their fists.As the men fought hand-to-hand, the Lakota women who had been hitching their horses to wagons for the day’s travel tried to flee along the nearby road or up a dry ravine behind the camp. The soldiers on a slight rise above the camp turned rapid-fire mountain guns on them. Then, over the next two hours, troops on horseback hunted down and slaughtered all the Lakotas they could find: about 250 men, women, and children.

But it is not December 29 that haunts me. It is the night of December 28, the night before the killing.On December 28, there was still time to avert the Wounded Knee Massacre.In the early afternoon, the Lakota leader Big Foot—Sitanka—had urged his people to surrender to the soldiers looking for them. Sitanka was desperately ill with pneumonia, and the people in his band were hungry, underdressed, and exhausted. They were making their way south across South Dakota from their own reservation in the northern part of the state to the Pine Ridge Reservation.

There, they planned to take shelter with another famous Lakota chief, Red Cloud. His people had done as Sitanka asked, and the soldiers escorted the Lakotas to a camp on South Dakota's Wounded Knee Creek, inside the boundaries of the Pine Ridge Reservation.For the soldiers, the surrender of Sitanka's band marked the end of the Ghost Dance Uprising. It had been a tense month. Troops had pushed into the South Dakota reservations in November, prompting a band of terrified men who had embraced the Ghost Dance religion to gather their wives and children and ride out to the Badlands. But, at long last, army officers and negotiators had convinced those Ghost Dancers to go back to Pine Ridge and turn themselves in to authorities before winter hit in earnest.

Sitanka’s people were not part of the Badlands group and, for the most part, were not Ghost Dancers. They had fled from their own northern reservation two weeks before when they learned that officers had murdered the great leader Sitting Bull in his own home. Army officers were anxious to find and corral Sitanka’s missing Lakotas before they carried the news that Sitting Bull had been killed to those who had taken refuge in the Badlands. Army leaders were certain the information would spook the Ghost Dancers and send them flying back to the Badlands. They were determined to make sure the two bands did not meet.

But South Dakota is a big state, and it was not until late in the afternoon of December 28 that the soldiers finally made contact with Sitanka's band, and it didn’t go quite as the officers planned: a group of soldiers were watering their horses in a stream when some of the traveling Lakotas surprised them. The Lakotas let the soldiers go, and the men promptly reported to their officers, who marched on the Lakotas as if they were going to war. Sitanka, who had always gotten along well with army officers, assured the commander that his band was on its way to Pine Ridge anyway, and asked his men to surrender unconditionally. They did.

By this time, Sitanka was so ill he couldn't sit up and his nose was dripping blood. Soldiers lifted him into an army ambulance—an old wagon—for the trip to the Wounded Knee camp. His ragtag band followed behind. Once there, the soldiers gave the Lakotas an evening ration, and lent army tents to those who wanted them. Then the soldiers settled into guarding the camp.

And they celebrated, for they were heroes of a great war, and it had been bloodless, and now, with the Lakotas' surrender, they would be demobilized back to their home bases before the South Dakota winter closed in. As they celebrated, more and more troops poured in. It had been a long hunt across South Dakota for Sitanka and his band, and officers were determined the group would not escape them again. In came the Seventh Cavalry, whose men had not forgotten that their former leader George Armstrong Custer had been killed by a band of Lakota in 1876. In came three mountain guns, which the soldiers trained on the Lakota encampment from a slight rise above the camp.

For their part, the Lakotas were frightened. If their surrender was welcome and they were going to go with the soldiers to Red Cloud at Pine Ridge, as they had planned all along, why were there so many soldiers, with so many guns?

On this day and hour in 1890, in the cold and dark of a South Dakota December night, there were soldiers drinking, singing and visiting with each other, and anxious Lakotas either talking to each other in low voices or trying to sleep. No one knew what the next day would bring, but no one expected what was going to happen.

One of the curses of history is that we cannot go back and change the course leading to disasters, no matter how much we might wish to. The past has its own terrible inevitability.

But it is never too late to change the future.

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ginger-danica-snapps · 3 years

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The Wolf Queen and Her Crow Prince

By Ginger D. Snapped

Written for @jonsaseasonalbash day 3 - 24 April: crow and little bird/king and queen/stone and snow.

I was out of town unexpectedly for Day Three, but here is my completion for the Jonsa Seasonal Bash, using the prompt King and Queen. This is written as snapshots of the time when the freefolk began to gather and the end of the long night. This is not betaed, so please be gentle.

You can also read on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/30930386

Summary: Sansa knows she didn’t always live beyond the wall. Mance and his wife were not her parents, but she was freefolk to her bones and it didn’t matter who discovered her. She would save her people from the Night King and never kneel to a Southern King or Queen.

Sansa knew there was a time in her life that she didn’t live beyond the wall. She knew the same way that she knew what lemon tasted like and that somewhere there were people who were not always fighting the cold. Where people were fed when hungry and she was loved. The only thing she remembered from that life was her name being Sansa.

Not that she was not loved by her people. Mance and his wife had been good to her. They had even told her some of the truth of how she came to be with the Freefolk. It was not a pretty story and she knew she had basically been stolen long before she was ready to be taken as a wife. Mance had killed the man that brought her beyond the wall, but worried about what would happen if he took her back across.

So, she stayed with Mance and Dalla and learned the way of the freefolk. She became a sister to Val and while she did not have the fighting ability of many of the spearwives, she could hold her own well enough to dissuade any more men who came to steal her away.

Still, she found her way across the great white to peer upon the wall several times in her growing years. She would stare upon the great monstrosity and wonder who beyond it would remember her. Was she missed? Was she loved?

It made her melancholy in a way that was hard to explain, though Val tried to understand.

Something else began to settle into the freefolk’s general attitude towards her in the latter year. She’d been one of them for so long that when she was happened upon by a shadowcat and thought herself dead that she was grateful to have lived free. It was not her day to die, however, as a gigantic beast flew from the rocks above them.

She had scrambled backwards on her hands and bottom, boots scuffling against the ice and snow. Val, Mance, and Ygritte reaching her just as she stood and she leaned gratefully into Val’s own warmth. The cat was now had by the neck with what Sansa realized was a gigantic grey and white direwolf.

They had seen only trackings of the great beasts before and often avoided the area they were found.

When the cat was obviously dead, Sansa pushed Ygritte to the side when the girl went to draw back her bow string.

“NO!” she cried out before she had formed a thought for what she was going to do. Then she was pulling away from Val and rushing forward to the wolf.

She hit her knees as she reached forward, kneeling before the wolf, and realized for a moment she felt a savage joy at destroying the shadowcat and tasted blood in her own mouth, though there was none. The beast leant to her and rubbed it’s humongous face against hers. She let a giggle escape her before she was flinging her arms around the wolf.

“Nothing to be said for it now. The rumours about the Stark girl going missing were true,” Val murmured and Sansa looked up to Mance. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the span of moments. As if he had already not been struggling over their people going missing by the tribes, clans, and societies.

Sansa was not stupid.

If a Stark child had gone missing some years before and now she had a direwolf in front of her who seemed to want to keep her, then by all rational thinking she was this Stark girl.

Amazingly, for the first time in many years, Sansa saw a flash of something in her memory. A grey and white flag with a direwolf upon it.

She wrinkled her nose as she realized what this meant.

She had always known she was born to someone below the wall, but she was not just the child of a kneeler. She was a child of someone that the people kneeled to.

“Child,” Mance’s voice reached her and she looked up with a tilted head. She huffed as she realized he was worried about her reaction.

That was stupid and she told him so. If he, a deserter of the crows, toted her back to the wall they would have thanked him, taken her, and then promptly hung him for desertion. Then it was likely they would have drummed up the support of these Lords and Ladies she was apparently blood kin too and brought an army into their home to kill indiscriminately.

“It is fine, stop being stupid. I understand that it was even more important to not return me if I was...am...this Stark girl,” she finally murmured.

They made their way back to the camp Sansa kept her hand on the nape of the direwolf.

“Whaddya gonna name her?” Ygritte asked eventually and Sansa looked over in surprise. She truly had not thought about it.

She looked at the wolf and then thought about how she hit her knees in front of her. She grinned savagely and laughed.

“Well, I kneeled before her, so I guess she must be a Lady,” Sansa answered and Mance barked out a laugh.

“Lady it is,” he chuckled and they made their way back to their tents, the freefolk around them all giving them wide eyes.

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

It was three moons later when the world went to shit.

Their people, those that called Mance King and those that did not, were being slaughtered by these dead creatures. Sansa had seen three of her milk siblings rise and attack the same as that which had killed them.

She’d cut the head off of one herself with Val thrusting a lit torch against the creature and setting it aflame. They’d barely managed to hold Dalla between them before Lady had returned from wherever she had been hunting. They all clamoured on top of the direwolf, gripping hands into the fur, and Sansa murmured an order for Lady to run.

They’d met with Vance and many of the others who had been hunting and Sansa had to shut her eyes at the cries of those who realized that they had lost all their elderly and the children too young to join the hunt.

“No one is left?” Mance asked quietly as Sansa helped Dalla down.

“No, it was slaughter. We need to be moving,” Sansa whispered back harshly, pushing aside all feelings for the time being.

Mance nodded, “Aye, we make for Frostfangs.”

“This will be happening everywhere, Mance,” Val added as they began to lead their people away.

Mance grunted, “Maybe now they will listen.”

Sansa was sitting before the fire, Lady beside her, working her needle through the last of the seal skin that had come at the same time as the whale blubber that Val was stirring to render over the low flame. There was not much brought by the last traveler and Sansa knew this would be the last they would receive here.

It would not be long until they’d made their bid to make it over the wall. There had been rumors of ill tidings in the kingdom of the kneelers. A king dead, rebellion, and only little Starks in Winterfell.

Over the last moon, Mance had taught her all he could of the world below the wall.

He said just in case, but Sansa could read his wishes between the words unspoken.

In case all else fails, use her name to the best of her ability, and take care of their people.

The tent flap few open and they all looked up, Sansa’s hand automatically reaching for the spear she kept beside her at all times now. Lady was up on her feet as well and lips already pulled back in a snarl.

“Ygritte!” she exclaimed as the girl came in and eyes settled on Mance. Sansa settled back down into her chair when she realized there was no immediate danger.

“What is it? Why are you back?” Mance gruffly asked.

Ygritte hesitated only momentarily before stating, “I brought a crow. Says he has forsworn his vows and wishes to join our people.”

Sansa watched as Mance’s eyebrows raised, “Well, bring him in.”

Ygritte hesitated again, “He has a wolf like our girl. Big old white thing with red eyes. Says it's the companion of members of his family.”

Sansa stood again, her spear dropping to a clatter this time as she grabbed at the fabric of her tunic.

“He’s a Stark?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Ygritte grunted in agreement, “Said something about natural and true, but I couldn’t tell you what his lips were flappin’ about. Seemed to be important to him though.”

“He’s a natural born son of House Stark. The bastard brought back from the war against the Targaryen’s by the Warden of the North,” Mance mused before adding, “Your half brother. I don’t remember his name.”

“Jon,” Sansa murmured as Ygritte answered as well, “Snow, Jon Snow.”

Sansa looked up with wide-eyes. She remembered his name and suddenly a young boy was in front of her young self with dark curly hair and solemn eyes. The same spectral boy she dreamt of on a nightly basis. She had thought him nought but her imagination.

“You should not climb that, Lady Sansa. Your mother would be quite cross.”

Then before she could say another word, a man was coming through the tent flap. Sansa’s breath caught as she knew without a doubt that this was the man from her dreams. This was Jon Snow, her brother, and she realized without a doubt that he was her downfall.

She felt her heart beat faster, her palms growing sweaty, and when his eyes met hers Sansa was lost in the darkness.

“It...it can’t be,” her crow brother whispered as his eyes darted to Lady and back up, “Sansa?”

“Hello Jon,” she responded without thinking and then she could think no more as she was swept into strong arms and she was inhaling deep the scent of her kin.

-----------

Sansa stared at Mance with a gaping mouth.

“Absolutely not,” she bit out.

Mance did not look impressed, “Absolutely so. Every leader, chieftain, and speaker has decided. I have stepped back and you are the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall.”

Sansa shook her head fiercely.

She’d spent the last three days just getting to know her brother. She’d already decided to steal him for her own as soon as the chance arose. After all, he was only her half-brother, and it was not unheard of among the Freefolk.

Menfolk were sometimes in low commodity and surviving had been more important than the sharing of a parent.

Still, Jon was sweet, if a bit naive.

Ygritte had told her of her advances on Jon on the way to Frostfangs and she didn’t quite believe the man was truthful in his defection. This surprised Sansa not one bit. She had already come to that opinion in the three days she’d spent with him.

It was only the wildness in his eyes and the obvious wish for the freedom of her people that burned in him brightly that kept Sansa from truly speaking out about his duplicity. Brother or not, she had an entire people to protect from the crows and those below the wall.

“This is a mistake,” Sansa finally muttered.

Mance shook his head, “No. This is the only way to get most of us past the wall with little to no bloodshed.”

Sansa snorted in derision, “Whether the slaughter happens this side of the wall or once we’ve settled in some nice little field and are betrayed, the kneelers will betray us,” then she sat on a stool and lowered her face into her hands.

“Are we even positive that Jon can help? That he will be listened to?” she asked quietly, at almost a whisper.

Mance made an encouraging noise and sat down in front of her, “They say his brother became a king before dying and that the entirety of the kingdom is at war. We will take back proof of the dead and show the watch. I am hopeful your presence will encourage less hostility. If they decide to be fuckers all around, then I’ll take the people over the wall the way we planned and take the castle.”

Sansa sighed and stood again, “Then I suppose I should explain the truth of things to Jon. I get the feeling he expects to return me to the stone houses to wear pretty dresses and sew little pieces of cloth with no purpose all day.”

Mance chuckled and leaned in and kissed her forehead. She turned and went to join her brother in the tent they’d been keeping him in.

She could not help but laugh when she entered and found Tormund and Ygritte keeping guard. Jon had apparently said or done something they didn’ t appreciate, because he was trussed up like one of the wild boars they hadn’t seen in years.

She pulled her knife from her belt and slipped it through the ropes at his wrist. She gave him a leering smile and watched, pleased, as he turned the same color as her hair.

“Leave us,” she demanded and didn’t bother to look and see if they obeyed. The soft falls of feet and the fabric flapping closed gave her all the answer she needed.

“Will your crows listen?” she demanded and Jon looked at her confused.

She huffed in response, “Your crow people and the southerner’s, will they listen when we tell them of the dead and allow us to give proof. The wall holds for now, but that will not be forever. It will fall and when it does then this is all of our problems. If you leave my people to fall behind the wall then the force that rises will be unstoppable.”

“Sansa, you are a Stark. The last living Stark as far as I know and the Lady of Winterfell,” her crow kin told her and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I am the Queen-Beyond-the-Wall, chosen by my people here, and I will not forsake them for stone walls and kneeling sycophants,” she muttered.

“You're the Queen? I thought Mance…,” Jon began but Sansa held up a hand to stop him.

This time he glared at her and Sansa resisted the urge to snarl back at him.

“I am now the Queen. The people decided just this morning and I will be the one to deal with your people. Now, answer my question and none of this manure about you supporting the freefolk. We are not stupid and you might have the heart to be free, but your mind is terribly chained up,” Sansa demanded.

Then Jon motioned for her to sit. Sansa moved to sit and crossed her legs underneath her and they began to hammer out an accord.

--------

Four moons later, Sansa found herself sitting across from a man with a sterner face than any she’d ever seen.

“You are a Stark and I am your rightful King,” the man said gruffly.

Sansa sniffed, “I choose to be Freefolk and I am their chosen Queen. I cannot be this Stark you want to put in that stone cage and you cannot be my King. We are not married and your wife is unlikely to take kindly to the idea of you taking another one.”

The man called Stannis, who she had taken to just calling the Southern King in her head, was now resembling one of the fish with whiskers that she’d been served since coming through the wall.

“Put my brother in it. He seems to be fond of stone cages,” she added.

“He’s a bastard,” the wannabe king growled.

Sansa barked out a laugh, “You think these Northern people will accept a Stark raised as Freefolk over a bastard raised as a Stark? You must be stupider than you look. Make my brother this Lord Stark and offer my people the right to live below the wall if they fight for you and this chair you want so badly without kneeling. They’ll agree to follow the law of these lands while we are here and will allow Jon to be the direct voice to yourself. I speak for my people to Jon and he speaks for me to you. Problem solved.”

She stated her demands and leaned back in the chair, folding her hands in her lap, and just stared at the man.

“Your father…,” he began again, but she didn’t even let him make another excuse.

Sansa stood and turned to walk out. She looked back over her shoulder before she exited.

“I do not remember my father, nor my mother, nor most of my siblings. Apparently there were two I never even met. Appealing to my sense of familial ties will do nothing but frustrate me. Give me what my people need and we have a deal. Otherwise, there is no reason to send for me again.”

With that Sansa exited the room as calmly as she could. She stopped briefly on the outside and listed as the fire witch spoke to Stannis.

“I believe she is correct. We now know where the war truly is,” the woman said.

Stannis made a noise of derision, “Her brother already turned down my pardon of his vows, legitimisation, and being the Warden of the North. I need to place a Stark back in Winterfell or I will never draw enough support to take the throne. We need the kingdom to fight this damn war you are speaking of.”

“Then do as the fire commanded,” the woman responded.

“Now see here,” the man that Stannis called his Hand, though Sansa did not understand why he needed someone’s else’s when he had two himself that worked just fine, “You can’t just marry a man to his sister, half or prophesied, regardless.”

Sansa wanted to choke. What had her idiot kin done now?

Swallowing hard, she marched off to find Jon.

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

“I made a vow,” Jon was now glaring at her and Sansa was getting rather tired of people glaring at her and speaking to her of words that were someone more important than doing what was necessary to survive.

She gave him an unimpressed look, “So, did the majority of the men in this stone cage currently, but they sure seem to enjoy getting their cock wet with my spearwives.”

“Do you know the whole of what is being asked, Sansa? Or are you going to stand there and lecture me? Marriage, Sansa, he wants us to marry,” Jon growled out and Sansa stood to meet him when he began to move away.

She pressed her hands into his chest and pushed back with all his strength, “You will listen to me, Jon Snow. You made a vow to protect the realm of men. Staying on this stupid wall, freezing, with a bunch of other stupid men is not going to keep this realm safe. You all already apparently forgot who the actual enemy the wall was built to stop was, nevertheless leaving my people as fodder to build an army the likes of which you’ve never seen. Taking Winterfell and Stannis’s offer, regardless of what it is, will protect the realm of men.”

Jon gaped at her, speechless, and Sansa took it as a sign to do something. She stepped closer, not letting him escape her gaze, and pressed her lips against his. He made a sound that reminded her of a dying man’s last breath, before suddenly kissing her back with a fury. Sansa gasped as he lifted her and sat her upon the table.

She had just managed to get her fingers under his leathers and was about to yank at laces when he stepped back with a panicked look on his face. Sansa wanted to scream at his ridiculous morals.

He turned to run from the room, but she stood swiftly and passed him, sweeping her leg under his to send him sprawling down. She slammed the door closed and bolted it. Looking around, Sansa made herself not grumble at the lack of furs or a bed.

Beds were the thing she could grow used to the most. Although Jon had said the beds here were nothing like in this Winterfell. Sansa could not imagine anything softer.

She looked down at Jon and reached behind her to undo her laces.

“Sansa…” he said hoarsely, staring up at her. Sansa ignored the plea in his eyes and let her dress fall from her shoulders.

The dress had been a juxtaposition of painful and enjoyable of being below the wall instead of behind it. She’d run her fingers over the soft material when it had been gifted to her to wear instead of her leather breeches and fur jerkins. She thought Val would have liked it, for all the girl would have argued.

She’d have liked the monstrosity they called a bathtub too.

It all made Sansa incredibly uncomfortable at the reminders of what she had been born into and sometimes, in the darkest part of night, she could see the sweet, innocent, stupid thing she would have been. She both was grateful to not be her and mournful of what could have been.

“Now, if you can truly say you do not want me, then I will redress and walk out of this room. If you cannot honestly admit that, though, then I’m taking you for my husband, you’re taking the offer of this Stannis, and we’re going to let my people behind the wall,” She murmured as she knelt in front of him, her braid falling over her shoulder and brushing against the top of her breast.

She watched his eyes track the movement and grinned at the heat in his eyes. She knew without a doubt that Ygritte had been correct. Jon was definitely a pure man and Sansa ignored the heat that flooded her core, causing her to grow quickly wet, at the thought that he was going to be her man to have.

No one else would have him again, unless she was dead and buried. She’d had lovers before, occasionally a spearwife and at times a man from another clan, but never one she wanted to keep.

Jon was staring at her still, this time with some sort of worshipful awe, when her fingers reached to his breaches and unlaced him.

“Sansa,” he whispered, this time more like whispered words of love.

She pulled him free and pulled herself over him to straddle. Lowering herself slowly, Sansa sat on his cock and groaned at the stretch of his girth. She wondered if these Southern boys compared cocks the way the youth of the freefolk did and if Jon realized how blessed the gods had been to him.

She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was helping him break his vows as it would be a travesty to waste such a cock. She began to move her hips in a languid, smooth motion, rocking against him hard on the downfall to press her button into his groin. She added a longer roll as she grew hotter and hotter.

Then without warning, Jon decided to be an active participant. He surged up, hand cupping the back of her head, as he moved them over. Sansa was pleased to find he had unclipped his cloak and she was now laid out against it. She moaned in pleasure as he immediately set to fucking into her.

Then his mouth was against hers and she was shoving her own hips up to meet his furious pace. Sansa chased the feeling that was building inside of her and she refused to allow his control to stop her pleasure. She grabbed one of his hands and pulled it down to her button and pressed against his palm as she felt his cock inside of her as she ground upwards.

“Sansa,” Jon groaned as she felt herself begin falling.

“Jon!” she screamed as pleasure ripped through her body and she felt him respond to her own cry with wetness flooding inside of her.

She prepared for him to collapse on top of her as most men she’d taken her pleasure from were apt to do. She found herself moved and cradled against him as he laid back on the floor.

“I don’t know if Ygritte explained how this works, but I took you for my husband,” she said succinctly and dared him to argue with her stare.

He sighed and looked over at her, “Our father and your mother will probably crawl out of their graves to kill me, but aye, I accept you as my wife. The North will not love this, but they will accept it to get a Stark back in Winterfell. Now, I can take my wife’s name instead of legitimation from Stannis. That will make them even more accepting. We have to take Winterfell first, though. Without Winterfell we will not be seen as legitimate. They might balk a southern king releasing me from my vows.”

Sansa sighed against him. The man knew nothing of bed talk. Sitting up she pulled him after her. If he wanted to talk business then they should get to it.

Cutting her eyes back over to view his backside before she slid her dress over her head, Sansa also thought that the sooner they finished the business then they could get back to the fucking.

A voice inside her head added, and baby making.

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

They meet with Stannis...it’s about as enjoyable as Sansa had imagined. They reach an accord.

They go beyond the wall and speak to her people about the agreement to help take back the Northern key that was supposed to be her birthright and then the truly southern city where Stannis has his stupid chair. Then Stannis will bring the full force of the kingdom North to handle the enemy beyond the wall. That discussion is even less enjoyable with much yelling and even one clan defecting completely and leaving.

Sansa says a prayer to the old gods that they find their way to somehow burn in one of the red witch’s fires before they join the army of the dead. Stupid fools.

Stannis and Jon both choke when she tells them that there are at least 85,000 fighting men and women. The rest are too old to be an asset or too young to understand how to tell the difference between two living enemies.

They both insist the women don’t fight and Sansa plans to ignore them. If the enemy doesn’t care about killing women, why should they care about fighting them?

Finally, they send ravens. So many ravens and Sansa is astounded how the birds manage to find the people and return with a warg to guide and control them. Jon is astounded to learn that wargs exist and that he has the ability. He does it regularly with Ghost but had thought it was a dream. Sansa and he both begin to learn together with a freefolk skinchanger.

Jon and her marry before the red witch in part of their agreement with Stannis and Jon is released from his vows to the watch and officially becomes Jon Stark. Then they wed again before the heart tree beyond the wall and Sansa imagines for a moment that her forgotten parents are watching.

Mance, Dalla, Val, and Ygritte are there in the flesh though and Mance tells her later, when they are all huddled around a fire, that he is proud of the free woman she is. Dalla and he both ask if something happens to them that she takes care of Val and the baby Dalla has yet to birth.

She drags him back to the heart tree alone and vows before it that she will save as many as she can, but she will watch for Val and the unborn babe with every breath she has.

He is the only father she can remember.

Her people agree, as long as they are allowed to have the truth north back as soon as the final war is over and it not be a part of the southern kingdom. They will not kneel.

Sansa will not give her crown until the war is over and her people are safe.

By then it would not be necessary as her people would have no need for one when they are free in their home and not in danger of the dead.

Jon and she share a bed every night and Sansa is pleased to learn that her husband is a quick study. She also thinks her men are sharing ways to please a woman, because he attacks her center with fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth that is clumsy, but not knowledgeable in the fundamentals.

If she was the type of woman she was born to be, she’d demure her eyes and shyly thank the wives of the men. She’s not that woman though and she makes sure her own clan of people receive three casts of the shit ale the night watch’s call a drink and leads the toast herself. Ygritte claims the majority of the thanks.

She will never tire of Jon’s blush.

Two men and a boy try to kill her husband by tricking him into an ambush, claiming his uncle has survived.

She calls bullshit and when the idiot tries to go rushing down, she draws her blade and motions for the ten men and women she’d chosen to guard her and her husband follow. She’d thought it ridiculous when Stannis told her that she should have an honor guard of some sort since he was recognizing her as a queen and it was only proper.

Her own clan had sent ten forward without hesitancy. Ygritte and Tormund among them.

Ygritte is the one who shoots the boy, her husband’s steward, when Jon cannot do it. He cries into her breast that night and Sansa runs her fingers through his hair and comforts him the best she can.

Tormund somehow decides that her husband should be brought closer to her people after this and begins to heckle him at every opportunity. Sansa finds them fighting in the yard most mornings now.

Jon fits her people more than he wishes to admit. Sansa tries not to think of the day they will send them back beyond the wall.

They begin the march to Winterfell. A winter storm takes them by surprise, but the Freefolk laugh at the southern men in Stannis’s army. Very few Northmen answered their call, but Sansa is not particularly surprised. Jon is only half Stark and she was raised among the Freefolk. Even together they won’t draw the North to them until they sit in Winterfell and the dead is more known.

The freefolk begin to teach the southerners how to best pad their armor and they stop before dusk every night and her people train them how to move on snow and ice. Stannis, his hand, and witch take dinner every night with Jon, Sansa, and Mance.

It’s an odd group, but they make it work.

Melisandre is oddly good at helping keep everyone focused on the real war. She watches Jon in a way that Sansa is not happy about, however. It was on one of the later nights that Melisandre finally addressed whatever it was she had been pondering. Stannis and the others were already abed in their tents and it was only her guard, Jon, and Melisandre left around the fire.

“Your mother, do you know who your mother was?” the witch asked and Sansa resisted the urge to scratch her eyes out when her husband almost immediately became sullen. It was a particular talent of his.

“No, My Lady, Lord Stark never deemed it the time. He promised he would the next I saw him, but you know what happened with that,” Jon said quietly.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed as Melisandre stood and asked for his hand. Jon, the stupid fool, didn’t hesitate and then yelped when Melisandre obviously pierced him in the palm. She was sopping the blood up with a scrap of fabric before he could move back and Sansa stood angrily.

The witch just held up her hand and walked to the fire with the fabric before anyone could say anything.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the witch murmured and tossed the cloth in.

Sansa could not help but find herself intrigued as the fire almost doubled in size and suddenly there were images. Jon and a short, blond woman standing before huge beast’s that could only be dragons. Jon wearing black and red and flying on the dragon. Then nothing.

She looked to Melisandre, who looked back at both of them before sighing.

“I fear that I might have misinterpreted the flames in regards to Stannis,” the woman said as if announcing what she wanted for breakfast, “It’s you who is our prince or the girl.”

“Who was that woman?” Sansa asked.

Melisandre sat and began to draw in the sand a rudimentary symbol of three creatures wrapped around one another.

Jon whispered, “House Targaryen. That is their sigil.”

“Yes, Jon, and the only interpretation left to us is that you are a member of said house, or atleast of their blood. That woman was Daenerys Targaryen, the lost Targaryen Princess, who swears to return to Westeros with fire and blood to reclaim what she says is hers.” Melisandre finished.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Well, don’t be telling Stannis that. You’ve told him that he was the promised one or some other rot. Best to let him keep thinking that.”

“Lyanna Stark is my mother,” Jon whispered and Sansa looked at him in confusion.

Jon swallowed hard, “Lyanna was your father’s sister. They say Rhaegar Targaryen took her away and our Uncle Brandon and Grandfather went to King’s Landing to demand her back. Aerys...oh gods, he was my grandfather...burned them alive before demanding that Jon Arryn bring him the heads of your father and Robert Baratheon. It’s why they went to war and deposed him...deposed House Targaryen.”

“Deposed or not, you are Targaryen and Stark, the culmination of the song of ice and fire,” Melisandre said, “Your blood is the blood of kings, the blood of the dragon.”

“I am not a dragon,” Jon snarled and stood with such a quickness and fury that Sansa found herself preparing for battle, “I am the bastard of a deposed house that holds no right to anything in Westeros unless this Daenerys Targaryen returns to conquer it again. It will not be me.”

Melisandre hummed under her breath and Sansa watched the witch consider his words with a sense of trepidation. Sansa reached into her skirts to put her fingers on her knife. If the witch made to do something that would expose her husband, then Sansa would slit her throat before she could speak it.

“Yes, My Lord Stark. You have married into the house of wolves and therefore, I suppose, you are not a dragon any longer. There would be no reason to discourage King Stannis from battle and if Daenerys Targaryen returns, R’hllor will bless the one who is supposed to sit the Iron Throne,” Melisandre finally said and with a quick dip of her own skirts, she moved to head back to her tent.

Sansa let her fingers fall from the hilt and went to stand before her husband and cousin. This made her think of something and so she reached up to cup his head.

“Now you don’t have to worry the Gods will strike you down for fucking your sister, cousin. Do these southerner’s marry cousins?” she said with a smile and grinned when he choked in surprise and met her eyes.

“You do realize your still in the north beneath the wall?” he asked incredulously.

Sansa snorted, “The North is not a place, it’s a people, and those people are the Freefolk. There might be some among the kneeler’s whose heart is Northern and for that they are more my people, than Stannis’s or this Dragon Aunt Lady.”

Sansa tartly turned and made way back to their tents.

-----------

They were crossing beside a large lake when Sansa thought to ask.

“How did this Theon Greyjoy take Winterfell if it is as large a fortress as you say it is?”

She was sandwiched in between Stannis and Jon, riding a grey garron that was older, but sturdy. Melisandre, Mance, and Davos behind them.

“Trickery,” Jon muttered, “He had a force attack a nearby vassal and when Winterfell sent the majority of their fighting men to stop it, Theon led a small group over the wall and took the keep.”

Sansa hummed, “And this Dreadfort, the Bolton’s own keep is not but a bit over 100 leagues from here?”

“Yes…” Jon said cautiously and Sansa could see that he recognized something in her face, “What are you thinking?”

Sansa thought of her men and the number they said were at Winterfell. There could not be many left at the Bolton’s keep, but these southerner’s seemed very attached to their stone houses.

“Could we not do something similar? Surely this Roose and Ramsey have heard of our army marching, but they might not know it is made up mainly of my people. They probably assume it to be your own army and one not used to fighting battle in this terrain. Send a group of my own to take this Dreadfort and draw these pretenders from Winterfell. They would easily be taken care of by ambush on the journey between Winterfell and their own ancestral stones. Then we take a smaller contingent and take back Winterfell,” she said aloud and tried to ignore the way Jon was staring at her.

“You would have us be as dishonorable as a filthy ironborn?” Stannis said incredulously.

Sansa could not help but roll her eyes, ”I’d see as few of our combined men and women die as possible so that we may better survive the long night, but call it what you will. I care not for your southern ideals of morals beyond a night’s enjoyment of listening to pretty songs and fables.”

“Lord Stark was honorable, Robb was honorable and it got their heads cut from their body and practically destroyed the North. I say we go with Sansa. Roose Bolton broke guestright and his own oath to his King, he has no honor to be dishonored,” Jon quietly said.

Stannis was quiet for a bit and Sansa wondered what demons of his own he was fighting in his head. Then he turned and looked at Jon, before sighing.

“Select your men that will go to the Dreadfort, Queen Sansa. I will do the same among mine. You know Winterfell best, Lord Stark, so you select the contingency that will take the keep once the men are gone,” Stannis gritted out as if being forced to say the words. Then he turned and galloped back.

----------

It was nearly a moon more when a large number of the Bolton forces left Winterfell and marched towards the Dreadfort. There were forty of her people with her and several men Jon had chosen hiding among the thickness of the recent snow. They made way carefully at the hour of the wolf.

It took no time at all to catch the walls with their hooks and scale the wall.

Sansa took great amusement in the idea that they were taking back her ancestral home the same way they had originally planned to scale the wall itself. She watched amused as Jon kept her behind him and they made their way further in.

Her people made quick work of all watchmen that came near before they began to move into the keep that Jon pointed out. It was when they were in what appeared to be the living quarters of the family that Sansa had her first moment of recognition. A woman with hair a similar shade as her own was standing in front of Sansa and curly haired boy and waving her finger. Sansa knew it was her mother and she could almost hear a soft, singing voice in the back of her head.

Shaking herself out of her memory, Sansa stopped at the end of a hall and motioned for two of her people to go forward and kill the men standing guard in front of a specific set of chambers. They made quick work and the men did not even have a chance to raise an alarm of any type of sound.

She stood by Jon, who had drawn his sword, as their people busted through the double doors.

A rather pretty, but thick woman jumped from the bed as an older man did the same. His hand went immediately to a crossbow, but Tormund threw a blade to pierce at the palm of the man.

“Who the…” the man began but was pressed into the floor onto his knees.

“Take the woman and find a place to secure her until this is over,” Jon ordered as he stepped forward with Longclaw. He looked at the man on his knees and then around the room. His hand reaching out to caress the wooden bed frame. Sansa realized it was a carved wolf and she wondered if this had been her parent’s chambers.

“Do you know who I am?” her husband asked as he stepped forward into the light of the moon shining through a window. The man glared and took him in from head to toe.

“You must be the bastard. You're too old to be any of the others if they had been still alive. Did you break your vows to the wall to be here?” he said in a low voice.

Sansa finally just laughed, the dramatics of everything was too much.

“He is Lord Stark, but you should be more worried about me,” she said with a light voice as she stepped forward.

“Stannis named you Lord and legitimized you. The north will never follow a bastard,” the man ignored her and continued to stare at Jon. Sansa narrowed her own eyes as responded again, not giving Jon a chance to speak.

“My name is Sansa Stark, Lord Bolton, I presume?” she icily demanded and when the man’s eyes widened.

“Good,” she answered at his obvious identity when the man refused to speak, “I was planning to let Jon just cut off your head since he thinks that's the way to do this, but I think we might see how you’ve been treating the people here that served the Starks. Let’s see if your House has lived up to its words. You see, even my people, go around your lands when escaping the land of always winter. I think after we discover the worst of what you have done here, then we will do the same.”

With that Sansa stepped forward one more time and brought her foot down hard against his face. Roose Bolton fell to the ground in a heap.

“Secure him until we finish sweeping the keep and clearing it out of Bolton men,” Jon ordered, “And open the gates to the rest of our people.”

Hours later, Sansa and Jon stood facing one another in the rooms that had been her parents. Staring into her eyes, Jon pulled her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers in a fevered kiss.

“Winterfell is yours, Lord Stark,” Sansa whispered against them.

Jon made a noise of discouragement, “No, My Queen, Winterfell is yours as is my heart, now and always.”

-----------

It was almost three years later when Sansa stood before her father's statue in the Stark Crypts. It would not be long now till her husband and herself would return to their people beyond the wall. They still called her queen and Sansa would honor their choice everyday of her life. Jon's responsibility to the North would soon be over and they could be free. Between bringing the North the heel in time to prepare for the dead, Jon and her people attempting to help Stannis take the throne only for him and many of his people to be blown up on ships, and reminding a dragon queen that it really did not matter if the North knelt or not since the dead were coming for them all. Sansa grinned as she remembered Jon standing before the black glass throne and telling it to the woman's face that she was welcome to take her people back across the sea if she wanted to wait to die where it was warmer.

Then the green dragon slamming in front of Jon and putting his wing down and the secret being blown. Thankfully the dragon queen had played nice till after the long night and when Sansa refused to kneel to her, Jon took to the skies with Rhaegal. By the time the fight was over, both Drogon and the dragon queen were dead and Jon encouraged Daenerys's people to leave with Rhaegal. They were not happy, but they did as they were bid, except for the Dothraki left. They seemed to think that Jon's battle meant that he was their new Khal. Jon and Sansa just combined them with their own people and sent them beyond the wall.

Then the great rebuilding began and continued until the day a raven came that announced that Cersei Lannister was dead, along with the remaining Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, and several other members of the small council.

A crunching noise drew her attention back to the present.

“When the snows fall and white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

The girl that spoke to Sansa was a brunette with short cropped hair and she held a small sword and wore breeches. There was a familiar look in her grey eyes and Sansa tilted her head as she considered the strange girl who had come upon her in the crypts of her bloodkin.

Ygritte stood back in the shadows and Sansa knew she had her bow out with an arrow knocked, but Sansa held her hand out to stay any sudden shots.

The girl laughed.

“I will not hurt your freefolk guard, although this place is for Starks and Stark blood alone. You are the lost Stark daughter, arrived home as the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall. Do you know who I am?”

Sansa felt herself smile, probably showing a little too much teeth, “Grey eyes as serious as a widow made five-times-over having her sixth husband die mysteriously, what appears to be more brashness than commonsense, and a wild look about you that reminds me of my husband’s fury when his aunt tried to kill us after the long night?”

She paused and stepped closer, “That would make you my supposedly dead sister, Arya.”

The girl tilted her head and considered Sansa, “You are not what I expected. The septa always said I was never enough of a lady and it was a shame that you had disappeared as you were nothing but a lady.”

Sansa barked out a laugh, “There’s not room for ladies beyond the wall. Welcome home, Arya. My husband, your cousin, will be glad of your survival. Bran came home before the long night and Rickon was brought home by a fat lord from the sea.”

“Lord Manderly, I heard. I’m sorry I didn’t make it home before the battle that happened. I did not hear of it until it was over and I was in King’s Landing,” Arya murmured as they turned and made way from the crypts.

Sansa’s eyebrow raised, “What were you doing in King’s Landing?”

“Killing a queen. That last name on my final list before coming home,” Arya said as they climbed out and into the coolness of the spring night, “Is it true that Jon and you are going back beyond the wall once Rickon is settled in as King in the North with Bran as his regent?”

Sansa startled at her sister’s knowledge, “Aye, Jon and I will be returning North to settle our people now that the threat is gone. It seems that enough of the old guard died that we will perhaps be able to establish some sort of relations beyond the wall and North Westeros.”

“Can I come with you?” Arya said as they entered the keep.

Sansa smiled as a shout came from the head table and her husband began rushing forward.

“I think I would like that. Who better to help the bond between the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall and the King in the North than a sister of them both,” Sansa managed to answer as Arya was immediately swept away from her side and into her husband's arms.

#jonsaspringautumn #jonsa fic #jonsa centric #stark strong #freefolk #jon x sansa #sansa stark #jon snow #not daenerys friendly #anti daenerys #jonsa

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

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eeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! Would be awesome if you continued the nmj&wwx sworn brothers fic! I'm not good at giving plot prompts, but I really would just love to see your take on nmj's character, and how he would interact with wwx. I found it interesting that wwx in the untamed was really respectful of nmj when they met, not like how he was in Cloud Recesses. I wanted to see more of how they might interact if they had closer relationship. (Of course also hoping that changes things for the better!)

sequel to this

Wei Wuxian hated to admit it, but being Nie Mingjue’s sworn brother made a world of difference.

People looked him in the eye now, no matter what sort of atrocities were ascribed to him; there was still fear in their gazes, but now it was more like respect – and even more like confidence. He hadn’t realized how many people looked at him as a child, lashing out wildly in all directions, maddened like a rabid dog in his search for vengeance, nor how relieved they would be to know that his sins could be answered for by someone universally viewed as capable enough to keep him down.

It wasn’t just that most people would put money on Baxia against just about everything else – Wei Wuxian counted himself among that crowd – but also, just…Nie Mingjue.

Nie Mingjue was a stern man, short in both temper and speech, but he was straightforward and decisive. He had listened to Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng lay out the benefits of their position, taken an evening to consider, and accepted promptly the next morning; the ceremony had been held at a convenient moment a few days after that, and then he’d invited them both to dinner – Wei Wuxian, as his new brother, and Jiang Cheng as the brother of his brother.

At first, Wei Wuxian couldn’t quite put his finger on what changed after that – it was similar to the way Nie Mingjue had treated them both before, when he was their general and they his lieutenants, but also significantly different. He was still harsh, still fiercely opinionated, still straightforward as ever, as generous in words of discipline as he was sparse in words of praise; was it only that his eyes were softer? That he sometimes felt free to put his hand on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder? That he listened to him, was open to interruptions no matter what time of day or night, asked him for meaningless favors and did them for him in return?

“It almost reminds me of shijie,” Wei Wuxian told Jiang Cheng. “If she were as tall and strong as a bear, and a lot more willing to correct me…almost like Madame Yu, but not as bitter. Yet there’s something of Uncle Jiang there as well: he trusts me to do things, but he’s also there to keep an eye on it – not in an offensive way, you know? Just there in case something goes wrong…it’s very reassuring, somehow. Like having a mountain at your back, keeping you steady.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jiang Cheng said. “All that – you’re just saying he’s acting like he’s your big brother.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him.

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks were red and his eyes averted. “Don’t you know you’re just the same to me?” he muttered, and shoved Wei Wuxian’s shoulder briefly before fleeing, and Wei Wuxian felt a glow of warmth that filled his entire body from head to toe that kept him floating through the next week.

He’s never had a da-ge before, which was probably why he was so slow on the uptake. Nie Mingjue doesn’t so much as blink an eye when Wei Wuxian started calling him that – warily at first, like a bit of mischief that he could play off as a joke if he was rejected, and then quickly enough with confidence, smug and arrogant the way he’d been before the war started, when he’d still had the Jiang sect to hold up the sky for him no matter what he did.

After all, who would dare get in his face with Chifeng-zun at his back?

Nie Huaisang’s frivolity suddenly made a great deal more sense. He was just spoiled!

Jiang Cheng benefited as well, which he wouldn’t have necessarily expected but perhaps should have. Wei Wuxian came across them talking, late one night, and sits in a tree to listen the quiet stories they shared – the burden of being Sect Leader, of needing to honor one’s ancestors and keep their traditions alive while also preserving the lives that had been entrusted to them in this lifetime; the crushing emptiness of realizing that the task for which your entire life has been a preparation had suddenly arrived and there was no one else for it but you; the need for vengeance against those who had robbed you of your parents and childhood all in one go.

Even the struggles Wei Wuxian hadn’t known anything about: the lack of respect from elders who thought they knew better because they still saw you as a child, the need to play politics with small sect leaders eager to take advantage of weakness now to benefit later, the isolating realization that almost everyone you met wanted something from you.

“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian said to Nie Mingjue, after, his face solemn in a way it rarely was. “He’s holding up a corner of the world, all by himself, and I didn’t know how to help him.”

Nie Mingjue nodded; he didn’t shrug things off the way Wei Wuxian did, always took things that were meant to be serious as seriously – it had been such a shock when Lan Xichen had mentioned off-handedly that he was only seven years older than they were; he’d been Sect Leader for as long as Wei Wuxian could remember. If someone told Wei Wuxian that Nie Mingjue had been carved from stone rather than born, he would have believed it, excepting only that his heart could not have been stone.

“It’s something I can do, so I did,” he said, meaning that it was nothing when it was everything. “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me what it is that I can do for you.”

Caught, Wei Wuxian gaped, then tried to turn it into a joke, but Nie Mingjue just patted him on the shoulder and went his own way.

He never pressed, never asked, just accepted things as they were. As long as Wei Wuxian’s demonic cultivation was used for righteousness and killing Wens, Nie Mingjue would let him keep any other secrets he might have, pursue any aims, let him do as he liked.

And yet it was that permissiveness that led Wei Wuxian to start to wonder if maybe he should tell Nie Mignjue what he’d done, the choices he’d make, the sacrifices – he didn’t think Nie Mingjue would judge him harshly for it. He might even understand it, especially when the only thing that made the man smile were Nie Huaisang’s occasional letters complaining about having to do all the paperwork back at the Unclean Realm where he was safe.

He still wasn’t sure, though, so he didn’t, holding himself back, and then one evening not long after he had finished forging the Stygian Tiger seal – Jiang Cheng had banished him to Nie Mingjue’s side at once upon realizing the appalling power of it, knowing as well as Wei Wuxian did that the cultivation world would be terrified if they didn’t believe it was firmly under control – Nie Mingjue told him about how his father had died. Not the part that everyone knew, his saber sabotaged, broken during a night hunt, the spiritual effect rebounding on him to drive him six months later into a qi deviation long before his time; but why the sabers were so important to the Nie clan.

The foremost mission of the Qinghe Nie was to suppress evil wherever they found it: to uphold justice and abhor that which stood against it, to strike fearlessly against it no matter what they faced, whether wind or lightning. But such a mission required blood to be spilled, blood and blood again – like the executioner who took upon himself the duty of sending criminals onwards, allowing the rest of the community to sleep untroubled, those who took on such a duty invariably became targets of resentful energy, the final vengeance of the evil they slaughtered to save the innocent.

Invariably, there were times – times of war, as there was now – when it was necessary to wield violence in pursuit of righteousness. For the Nie, unlike other sects, violence was a virtue, and it could not be purged through a retreat from the world, the application of countless treasures and cleansing rituals inaccessible to most; their philosophy did not allow them to close their eyes and ears to injustice.

And so they did not rest. They killed in the name of justice and righteousness, killed and killed again; they cultivated their sabers as spiritual weapons, letting them absorb the resentful energy from beasts and monsters in order to better defeat evil that other sects could not, and at last cultivated the saber spirits, rich in resentful energy of their own but devoted only to defeating evil. The saber spirits were nourished by the cultivation of their chosen master, their resentful energy filtered and cleansed and purified, but that process was a burden, sparking the infamously short tempers of the Nie clan, with both temper and saber spirit held tightly in check only by their iron discipline.

The Nie sect leaders, who bore on their shoulders not only their own karma but that of those who followed them – their lives were a sacrifice, always balanced on the edge of a blade: the need to always control the saber spirit, to appease it and tame it, made them more susceptible than most to qi deviation, and absent one of them breaking the seal of cultivation or some accident, that would be how they would die.

Wei Wuxian touched the Stygian Tiger seal, hidden beneath his clothing in its two halves: he’d only used it once so far, causing a gigantic massacre that had taken down an army nearly entirely on his own. As soon as that had finished, he’d known that the seal was too much for him, even after he’d broken it in two to weaken it – it obeyed any master that would have it, so full of resentful energy that it needed only the barest excuse to break free to kill without discrimination. His demonic cultivation used resentful energy the way a Nie saber spirit did, his soul directly exposed to human evil, not merely animal; he risked possession, corruption, or worse, and only his skill and his determination was enough to control it – that he’d thought was enough to control it, until he’d made the seal.

The seal pulsed angrily under his hand, seething with resentment, hungry for blood, and then unexpectedly there was a response: Baxia, held in Nie Mingjue’s hands to be sharpened, gave a pulse as well, fierce and unyielding spiritual energy rippling out from it like a rock dropped into a lake, and for the first time the seal went quiet, as if momentarily cowed.

“Has my cultivation affected my temperament?” Wei Wuxian asked, considering the possibility seriously for the first time. Lan Wangji had told him several times that demonic cultivation harmed both the body and the heart, but he’d disregarded it – he felt fine, he didn’t frenzy; so what if he was angry? Wouldn’t anyone be, after suffering as he had? How could Lan Wangji ever understand?

(If Wei Wuxian thought about it too long, he might think that Lan Wangji would understand, could understand, did, but that thought was too painful to tolerate. In his heart, he still hoped that Lan Wangji would live untouched by the pain of the world, even if he knew that it was far too late for that.)

“Yes,” Nie Mingjue said simply, and his unshakable simplicity was more troubling than a thousand of Lan Wangji’s pleas. “My Nie clan sacrifices the second half of our lives for the power to make a difference in the first; I find that trade worthwhile, but it is all for nothing if we do not control ourselves. That it is easier for us to become monsters is all the more reason for us to always put righteousness first, personal interest second; our instincts will lie to us, inflame us, and we must be unyielding and strict, trusting in tradition and law to guide us where our instincts will fail us. If you persist in your path, you will need be twice as cautious as you were before: quicker to anger is quicker to act – but once the act is done, it cannot be taken back. Whether that is a sacrifice you are willing to make remains up to you.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught in his throat like a sob.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d tell Nie Mingjue everything, and get his advice on what to do.

That night, they received word of a temporary gap in the Wens’ defenses in Yangquan, an opportunity to destroy one of their stockpile while the guard was changing; the source of the information was Lan Xichen, who they all trusted. The opportunity was limited by time and the need for secrecy: Nie Mingjue took a small detachment of Nie cultivators to launch a night attack, with Wei Wuxian following at a distance to capture anyone who ran into the forest to escape Nie blades.

He waited patiently in a tree, Chenqing spinning idly in his hands, his mind more than halfway thinking of ways to refine the compass of evil he’d been working on; he wouldn’t let them escape.

He waited, but nothing happened.

No one came running.

The Stygian Tiger Seal abruptly pulsed again, suddenly active in a way it hadn’t been since Baxia had suppressed it, and a pit formed in Wei Wuxian’s stomach. He stood up at once and abandoned his position, rushing forward – and yet he was still too late.

Yangquan was a trap. Wen Ruohan himself had been there, with all his most trusted soldiers, vastly outnumbering Nie Mingjue’s small force; they had been easily overwhelmed.

Watching from a tree not far from the brightly lit center camp, Wei Wuxian bit his fingers until they bled to keep from screaming: he wouldn’t be able to bear it if he had to do this again, to stand by as a mute witness while the Wen-dogs laughed triumphantly over the bodies of those he knew and loved. The Stygian Tiger Seal was hot under his clothing, resentful, wanting to kill, and he wanted to use it – but the first time had come so desperately close to going out of his control that he didn’t know if he could risk it.

What if he lost control? What if he killed those he wanted to save?

Wei Wuxian was accustomed to arrogance, to confidence, to recklessness even – but Nie Mingjue’s warning was so fresh in his ears that for what might be the first time in his life, he wavered, hesitated.

He had just about decided that he would use the seal, and damn the consequences, when someone in the Wen sect dragged Nie Mingjue forward: he had been very badly beaten, his body twisted in unnatural ways and his head cut open, blood blinding him and Baxia nowhere in sight, but against all odds he was still standing – it was almost a desecration in Wei Wuxian’s eyes to see the Wen cultivators put their hands on him the way they had put their hands on Uncle Jiang, on Madame Yu, on all those Jiang cultivators he’d lost at the Lotus Pier.

The way they had hurt Jiang Cheng, so badly that it still haunted his shidi’s nightmares, a hurt so bad that the only way out was for Wei Wuxian to –

He couldn’t let it happen again.

He didn’t have another golden core to sacrifice. If they were going to execute Nie Mingjue right now, in front of him, he would –

“Take them all back to the Nightless City,” someone ordered, instead, and Wei Wuxian’s fingers, which had wrapped around the Stygian Tiger Seal without him noticing, abruptly relaxed in relief. There was still time to make a decision about whether or not to use the seal, or to see if he could rescue Nie Mingjue and the others without it.

The entire troop moved out.

Wei Wuxian followed.

#mdzs #wei wuxian #nie mingjue #jiang cheng #my fic #my fics #this is the one #this is basically a fic already #guess we'll see if I get more prompts #i like the idea of Wei Wuxian having an overprotective big brother #I also like writing out my version of the Nie saber spirits #this should really just be a fic #Anonymous

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ghost-in-the-hella · 4 years

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If you are still taking prompts, and were so inclined, 47 for Gideon the Ninth!

I am always so inclined. Enjoy this... this thing. Gets a bit rude because, well, Gideon.

47. “You look like hell.”

---

“You look like hell.”

Gideon startles at the sound of Coronabeth Tridentarius actually speaking to her. She sounds more intrigued than judgemental, as if hell were an exotic travel destination she’s not yet been to but is eager to learn more about. Gideon is, not for the first time, grateful for her affected vow of silence as all possibility of coherent thought abandons her tongue. She would surely be a stuttering gay mess if she tried to speak to a woman as beautiful as this particular princess of Ida. With her feigned vow, she can still pull off the “strong but silent” affect and at least somewhat salvage the impression of being a suave badass who’s great with the ladies.

Or she could if she weren’t currently a panting, heaving, sweat drenched, bone dust coated, blood smeared, tattered mess.

It figures that Harrow doesn’t even have to be in the same room with Gideon to have completely ruined her game. Gideon draws herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders - fighting the urge to slump into an exhausted heap on the floor - and straightens her crooked aviators. She hopes that her face paint is still a badass skull and not a runny mess of gray; they’re not big on mirrors down in the facility. Her spine stiffens as Coronabeth steps toward her, smiling like they’re sharing a secret, and brushes one perfect hand lightly at each of Gideon’s shoulders, scattering fine chips of bone onto the floor.

“Poor thing,” Coronabeth purrs, locking Gideon in place with intense eye contact even through her shades. “Your necro’s really running you ragged, isn’t she?”

The last thing Gideon wants to talk about while a beautiful woman is touching her - actually touching her! Okay, touching the shoulders of her robes, but still! - is her screeching ferret of a necromancer. Her distaste must show in her expression even through the caked on layers of sweaty paint because Coronabeth chuckles prettily and squeezes her shoulder - Gideon tenses her sick delts reflexively, desperate to please - and gives her a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s alright. I won’t ask you to divulge any forbidden secrets about the Ninth House or the trials.” She runs clever fingers around the hem of Gideon’s hood - a rumpled heap around her neck, having fallen down as she heaved herself up the ladder from the facility in a hurry to get herself to a sonic - and winks suggestively enough that Gideon swallows hard. “She really must be putting you through the ringer. You know, I feel quite sorry for you cavs sometimes. So much is asked of you, and you get so little in return…”

Gideon has passed out. Surely, this must be what has happened. She’ll wake up in her nest of black blankets with a dirty magazine glued to her face by skull paint and drool, completely covered in sticky notes blackened with Harrowhark’s vitriol. Because it sure as hell feels like Coronabeth - Coronabeth Tridentarius, crown Princess of Ida, hottest necromancer this side of the funny books - is flirting with her. With her. Gideon Nav, indentured servant of the Ninth, perpetually demeaned cavalier primary to her lifelong nemesis, hottest cavalier in history to never touch a boob that wasn’t her own. With her stupid, itchy black robes that still smell faintly of Ortus Nigenad’s flop sweat no matter how many times they’re laundered, with her overgrown and uncombed hair all full of cobwebs and bone dust, with her half-melted face paint of a creepy fucking skull not quite concealing her latest acne outbreak. So there’s no fucking way that this isn’t some delightful dream inspired by too many titty mags before bedtime.

Coronabeth’s hand slides down from Gideon’s shoulder, gliding down the length of her arm - trailing over the firm roundness of her deltoid, the jaw-dropping perfection of her biceps, the corded extensor muscles of her forearms - down to seize her calloused hand with her own surprisingly strong one. “I think you deserve something in return. Don’t you?”

Okay. New thought. Maybe Gideon hasn’t passed out, but she’s probably going to if Coronabeth keeps touching her like this.

Gideon nods very carefully, trying not to let any drool drop from her mouth.

Coronabeth’s smile is as bright as Dominicus. She tugs Gideon’s hand and leads her down an unfamiliar hallway. Gideon follows obediently despite her necromancer’s warnings ringing in her head, shrieking at her to trust no one. Well, Gideon figures, if she’s a lamb being led to the slaughter, at least she’ll die happy. A girl’s holding her hand! Flirting with her! Smiling at her! Touching her muscles!

Much to Gideon’s surprise, she is not promptly jumped and flesh magicked to death upon entry to the Third’s quarters. In fact, as far as she can tell, she’s alone in them with Coronabeth. Sure, she had to offer up a bit of blood to the gross ward on the door, but she’s already bleeding a little bit from her adventures in the facility anyway so that’s no biggie.

She’s relieved to note that there are two big, ostentatious beds in addition to the smaller (but no less ostentatious) cavalier bed at the foot of one. If by some miracle she does get laid today, she’d really rather it not be in a bed that Ianthe Tridentarius has also slept or - God forbid - boned in. Coronabeth hustles her past the beds (dang) toward a large and opulent bathroom. “Here, get washed up.”

A fluffy purple towel is thrust into Gideon’s hands, there’s a gentle shove at her shoulders and the click of a door shutting, and suddenly Gideon is alone in the fanciest bathroom she’s ever seen. It’s even more ridiculous than the one in the Ninth’s quarters. She catches her own reflection in the mirror and finds that she looks every inch as confused as she is. “What the fuck?” she mouths to herself.

“I don’t hear washing happening!” comes Coronabeth’s mellifluous voice sing-songing through the door.

Gideon Nav fancies herself a remarkably strong person, the kind of person who could move mountains barehanded if she set her mind to it. Apparently, she has one fatal weakness: a beautiful woman telling her to do, well, literally anything. So Gideon obligingly scours the paint off her face - Harrow’ll be furious, but Harrow’s always furious and her paint’s a mess anyway - and inspects herself once more in the mirror. Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous. Little bit of acne at the hairline and around the left nostril, bit ruddy-cheeked from over-scrubbing, but still a flawless masterpiece of hotness.

She sniffs her armpits. Pretty sweaty. Are chicks into that? If they’re going to bone (please, please, please) then won’t she get sweaty again anyway?

Wait, are they going to bone? They are, right? They’re alone in Corona’s quarters, her terrifying sister and their insufferable cav have clearly been sent away, and Corona’s super hot and bossing her around and dragging her into her bedroom (well, through her bedroom to her bathroom, but still). If this were one of Gideon’s magazines she'd already be up to her wrist, or at least majorly winning at tonsil hockey. This is literally a textbook scenario for boning.

Okay, then. It’s on. So now what? Should she brush her teeth or something? Her breath’s probably pretty rank after the morning she’s had. Should she, like… shave stuff?

“You may draw a bath, if you like,” Corona calls through the door again. “Ianthe and Babs will be gone for hours. And something tells me that you have never been pampered.”

And so Gideon ends up taking the first ever bath of her life in the gilded bathtub of the Third. She can’t bring herself to fill the tub more than a couple of inches, even though from her skin mags and her comics she knows a bath is usually filled until the person in it is all but drowning, or at least until the bubbles are tastefully covering the good bits (comics) or just barely not covering them (skin mags). She does throw in several of the weird perfumy things hanging out around the tub at Corona’s urging. By the end of it, she’s pretty sure she’s dirtier than when she stepped in except that now she’s filthy with scented soaps and salts and glittery “bath bombs” (surprisingly not that violent but also surprisingly messy) instead of sweat and blood. She scrapes and scrubs at herself and then gives her body and her clothes a good shake out in the sonic for good measure. She borrows some toothpaste and uses her finger as a toothbrush, then rinses with borrowed mouthwash.

There’s a fluffy purple and gold robe that smells a bit like Corona’s perfume and seems the right size, so even though it’s a million miles off from her usual aesthetic she consents to shrug it on. It’s impossibly soft and warm and smooth. Stops a bit short on her thighs, but presumably that won’t get any complaints.

When she steps back out into the Third’s quarters, Gideon feels strangely vulnerable without her protective layer of filth. She smells like a stranger, and her fingertips and toes are wrinkled in a weird way that she assumes has to do with the bath bombs or maybe with how hard she was scrubbing. That, or she’s picked up some freaky skin disease from the Third’s bathtub. She hopes she’s not about to die or something.

Corona looks beyond delighted to see her emerge, ruddy and steaming, from the bathing chamber in her ludicrous little bathrobe. It’s a shame that it’s short on the leg coverage and heavy on the arm coverage, since Gideon’s legs are fucking awesome but not nearly as impressive as her guns. She wants to ask what Corona has planned for her now, but her stupid oath to Harrow stays her tongue. If all goes well, Coronabeth might have a better use for her tongue than words, anyway. So instead she stands there trying to look impressive rather than panicky and overstimulated.

“Come here,” Corona beckons with an elegant finger, her eyes glittering like shards of polished amethyst. Gideon’s pretty sure that Corona’s not using any necromantic tricks on her - she knows what that shit feels like by now, and it’s vastly unpleasant - but she follows her gesture as inexorably as if Corona were looping a leash of thanergy around her throat and dragging her closer.

And then Coronabeth Tridentarius is touching her. Like, pretty much everywhere. “Hmmm, let’s see,” she murmurs thoughtfully as she palpates what feels like every trembling inch of Gideon’s being (apart from the good bits, but maybe this is what foreplay is? she’s heard of it, but her magazines usually skip straight to the main event). Instead of trying to think, Gideon focuses on feeling, which is much more in her wheelhouse.

Corona’s nimble fingers carding through her damp red locks (they could stand a trim), fingernails sending tingles through her scalp as they scratch gently against skin that’s never been touched in kindness before. Fingertips trailing down the strong line of her jaw, gently seizing her square chin and turning her face to every possible angle, her gaze as palpable as her fingers. Strong hands (how does the Princess of Ida have actual calluses on her fingers?) testing her muscles, examining her hands and paying particular attention to her fingernails (they could also stand a trim).

“You look good in my robe,” Corona announces, taking a step back and allowing Gideon to breathe for what feels like the first time since she set foot in her quarters. “Gold suits you.” She locks eyes with Gideon and quirks her lips into a subtle smirk. “Gold suits you very well.”

Gideon swallows hard, trying not to gulp audibly and concentrating on not sweating through her borrowed robe.

“Much better than black. Not that you look bad in black, mind you, but there are other colors that would be much more flattering for your lovely complexion.”

She takes Gideon by the hand and leads her over to an over-decorated table that Gideon observes is overflowing with cosmetics. “For example… Hmmm… Plum?” Corona holds up a tube of something that’s a deep, bruised purple, examining its contrast with Gideon’s skin. “Or perhaps mauve…”

Coronabeth is insatiable. Gideon is left exhausted. When she finally emerges from the Third House’s quarters (very much not laid), hours have passed and she feels as if she has run a marathon. Not from any outward exertion, but from the effort of holding still and keeping silent throughout the whole ordeal.

She is perhaps the most sexually frustrated she has ever been in her life, having never been touched by a woman (and what a woman!) so much before, or really at all before unless she counts herself or the shriveled crones of the Ninth.

She is also… well. Made over. Her hair has been combed and styled, and it reeks of hair gel almost as badly as Naberius Tern’s does on an average day. Her nails have been trimmed, filed, and buffed smooth before being painted a soft lilac and accented with shimmering gold. Her face has been rendered utterly unrecognizable; Harrowhark would likely envy the sheer amount of makeup on it if only it were in the design of a skull rather than whatever peacocky nonsense Coronabeth’s done to it. She is, at least, in her own black robes despite Coronabeth’s best efforts to get her to borrow some of Babs’s gaudy frippery.

She suspects she has, in fact, been fucked by the Third after all.

She slinks down the hall as stealthily as she can manage, thanking her lucky stars that her necro is probably half-dead in a bone or buried up to her pointy little goblin ears in ancient books or possibly both rather than being a normal, decent human being who might give a fuck where her cavalier has vanished off to for hours on end with one of her greatest rivals. She’s hoping that everyone else in Canaan House will be equally preoccupied and that she’ll be able to return to the safety of her chambers with her dignity at least partially intact when she rounds a corner and nearly faceplants directly into the solid mass of Camilla the Sixth.

Gideon draws herself up to her fullest and most imposing posture and tries to mask her humiliation as best she can. Camilla observes her cooly, but Gideon swears her fellow cav is just barely holding back a laugh.

After a small but excruciating eternity in limbo, Camilla steps aside to let Gideon dart gratefully past. Camilla casts a few words over her shoulder as Gideon passes, and they follow her burning ears all the way down the hall and back to her quarters: “You look like hell, Nav.”

#prompt fill #prompt fic #ghost writes #prompt ghost #postfuguestate #gideon the ninth #GtN #gideon nav #coronabeth tridentarius #fanfic

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chris-evans-indian-fanfic · 4 years

Text

Merchant of Death

One-Shot

Description: Mob!Thanos is a collector of the most precious things in the world. But what happens when his eyes upon you?

Warning - Mentions of violence and beheading

Words- 5400~

This one-shot is my entry for @sweater-daddiesdumbdork 's writing challenge. I used the following image prompt. Check out this link to participate in the challenge!

My Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but Tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

…

Nobody knew his real name. Nobody cared. Named after the Greek God of death himself, Thanos was modern day's omen of slaughter. Being the leader of one of the oldest mob families in New York, Thanos commanded a certain level of respect amongst his peers. It wasn't just that his heritage was daunting. His towering height, broad shoulders, vast expanse of muscled torso and legs were enough to intimidate even the toughest of the fighters. Always dressed in an impeccably crisp suit, his bald head, sharp eyes and a strong, set jaw easily gave the impression that he was the owner of a multi-billionaire corporation.

It wouldn't be wrong to call his drugs and weapons empire a well-oiled corporation. His 10 fingers were dipped in blood in multiple countries throughout the seven continents, yes even in Antarctica.

Thanos was a well-known figure. Everybody knew who he was, knew what he did, but nobody, not even the law authorities, could ever connect him with any illegal activity, be it harbouring and selling of illegal guns and drugs, or smuggling goods to his centres across the globe.

For all his wrongdoings, Thanos did donate 10% of his revenue to the poor, the homeless, the downtrodden. Almost like a twisted version of Robinhood, where he ripped off the rich with highly priced drugs and paid a part of the amount to the poor.

For this reason, there were two sides of him which were portrayed in the media, those who earned his favour called him Messiah of the Poor, while the others who had witnessed his ire addressed him as the Merchant of Death. But in both the iterations, it had been made ample clear that nobody could make Thanos bleed.

That's why it came as a shock when the Chief of Police, Steve Rogers, had managed to shoot Thanos in an encounter. Looking at their leader fall to the ground, Thanos' men commenced their feral attack on the protectors of the law, driving them back.

The bullet had pierced his left forearm, but hopefully hadn't made it far into his body, thanks to the bulletproof vest sewn into the jacket.

His men rushed him to the nearest hospital as he put pressure on the wound.

...

Being the night of 31st December, the ER was more crowded than usual, with drunk idiots involved in car accidents, accidental weapon discharges, or some even sustaining injuries by bursting fire crackers at a close range.

You silently cursed yourself. Yeah saving lives was noble and all, but spending the entire New Year's Eve in the hospital, surrounded by blood and equally bloody cries of their families and friends really got on your nerves at times.

You steeled yourself as you entered the operation theatre (OT) for another surgery. This moron's druggie friend had shot him in the chest because he thought he was someone else. This would be a complicated surgery, as the bullet was deep inside the muscle, almost touching the heart. One miscalculation could result in more complications.

Halfway through the surgery, you heard a commotion outside the OT. Furrowing your head, you tried to concentrate, but the noise grew louder. You focused your mind on removing the bullet. As if choreographed, your instrument touched the bullet just as a gun was fired right outside your door.

Your colleagues jumped, but you set your concentration on removing the piece of metal from this man's body.

The doors to the OT were kicked open as a tall, thin man entered weilding a gun, asking for you. Your staff promptly pointed at your bent figure.

You were still focused on extracting the bullet when the gun cocked next to your ear, "C'mon out Doctor, we need you to treat our boss," Maw commanded you.

Ignoring him, you carefully pulled the metal upwards, looking at the live scan feed on the screen for direction.

"I don't think you heard me Doctor. Leave this man and come with me. Our boss needs you. I will not repeat myself," warned Maw, his venomous voice laced with concern for his boss.

You did not move.

When he pressed the gun to your forehead, your staff gasped in terror, but you refused to budge.

As soon as the damned bullet was out, you dropped it onto a tray along with your gloves, instructed your staff to stitch up the wound, and wordlessly looked at the greasy-haired Maw.

He beckoned you to follow him into Thanos' room where he was being prepped for surgery. You saw Dr Yellowstone tending to him as you approached. "I am sorry Doctor, I told them that you were in a surgery but..." you brushed him off, asking to see the preliminary reports. Dr Yellowstone explained that the bullet wound wasn't deep, and that a simple surgery headed by him would have sufficed, but they were insistent to get you to do the surgery.

"Of course," Maw's sickeningly smooth voice was back in your ear, "We wanted someone who's the best for our boss. And you are the best surgeon in the entire state, aren't you Doctor?" he asked with a sneer.

You continued to ignore him, coordinating with your staff. As Thanos was put in a wheelchair, Maw pulled out his gun again, cocking it near your forehead, "Our boss better be able to move that hand again miss, or tonight will be the last time you use both your hands."

That threat pushed you over the edge. All evening and night of dealing with insensitive jerks like this guy over here had finally made you snap.

You turned towards him, looked at the barrel of his gun and slapped him right across his cheek.

Whether it was the force of your slap, or the fact that your assault had been completely unexpected, nobody could tell, but Maw staggered backwards, his free hand resting on his long reddening cheek where you had struck him.

Thanos jerked in attention at your action. His pain seemed forgotten as he looked at you. Your plump figure stood tall as you glared at Maw.

"Put that gun away or there's more where that came from," you warned him spitefully.

"Nurse, take him to the OT. Dr Yellowstone, coordinate with the blood bank, we might need extra blood. I will see to it that the anesthesia is ready to administer," you left the room after instructing your team. As if you were going to wait around to witness the reaction of Thanos's right-hand man.

In the OT, you saw Thanos' large figure laid on the bed. You approached him with the anesthesia, but he held your hand with his uninjured arm. "Don't," he spoke in his thick voice. "It will hurt. The pain might lead to further complications," you explained. "No. I want to feel your touch," he said simply.

You rolled your eyes and cringed on the inside.

As the surgery began, Thanos kept his dark eyes on you. Neither once did he wince with pain, or avert his gaze. Ignoring him, you set about to remove the bullet from his arm, a quick procedure.

"Dr Yellowstone," you said from behind your mask, "stitch the wound and dress it."

"Where are you going?" Thanos asked you plainly, as if you both were sitting in a coffee shop. You ignored him and removed your gloves as Dr Yellowstone approached the patient.

Thanos moved his arm, "No. You will not. She will," he nodded towards you.

Audibly groaning, your assistant helped you in wearing a new pair of gloves.

Finally, with the wound stitched and dressed, you left the OT to tell Maw the good news.

…

3 hours after the surgery, Thanos looked at your file while resting on his bed. Compiled by Maw, this file had every detail of your life, no matter how minute. You had captured his attention unlike anything else, anyone else. He flipped through the pages, learning more about your family, friends, hobby, and profession.

His member twitched when he saw your images from social media. Beneath the doctor's coat, you were plump, curvy and thick, just the way he liked his women. He paused, drinking in your appearance in a swimsuit. Placing a finger on your face, he slowly traced your outline, his finger respecting every bump, every bend till he reached your covered mound. He pressed it, as if hoping to see you react, but you kept on smiling in the image.

Eyes heavy with sleep, he looked around his room. His quiet quarters screamed with opulence. Decorated with the world's most expensive marble, motifs covered in 24k gold, diamond chandelier and Persian rugs, his room paid homage to some of the priceless wonders of the planet. But looking at them now, Thanos realised that none held a candle next to you.

As he settled in to sleep, he smirked. You would make a nice addition to his room.

…

A week later, Thanos surprised his men by driving himself to your hospital. He had taken an appointment, afterall, his wound needed to be checked.

He knocked on your cabin door, entering only when you said to. He smiled warmly at your startled expression, standing patiently next to the chairs across your desk.

"Dione," he interrupted you, "Please call me Dione."

You gathered yourself quickly, "Mr Thanos I-"

He smiled cheekily, he knew he had struck at the right place, at the right time. Extending his arm, he reached out for your palm, holding it gently in his. "Please come in. You must be tired," he said, leading you into your own house.

You squinted your eyes. You remembered reading the strange name on your list of appointments today. "What can I help you with Mr Dione?"

Thanos smiled. He liked the way his name rolled off your lips. "May I take a seat?" You nodded.

Thanos barely fit in the chair, his vast thighs almost bulging out from the sides of the chair. "I think my wound needs to be redressed."

"I thought Maw said he had the best doctors at your beck and call," you spat at him.

"I owe you an apology," he said slowly, "Maw's behaviour that night was appalling, to say the least. I have never hurt or intended to hurt healthcare workers. I regret his actions. Please accept my sincere apologies."

Thanos or Dione, surprised you for the second time that day. His acknowledgement of his staff's misbehaviour left you dumbfounded.

He cleared his throat, "As I was saying, I think my wound needs to be redressed." He turned to his side as much as he could, and displayed the bloodied bandage on his arm.

You asked him to sit on the patient's examining bed in your office and unwrapped his bandage.

"Does it bleed everyday?" you asked.

"No, it started bleeding today. As soon as it did I thought I should visit you."

Thanos looked at you closely. He studied every contour of your face. His right hand fought the urge to cup your cheek and pull you closer to him.

You traced the wound on his left arm and straightened your back, fully aware of his intense gaze on you.

"Mr Thanos…,"

"Mr Dione, please," he interrupted you.

"Mr Thanos," you asserted, "This wound has been reopened by a knife. And judging by the angle of the cut, I think it was you who did it," you stared at his eyes.

He whispered your name, "I just wanted to see you again."

"It's Dr (Y/N) for you," you spoke sharply, "I will fix this wound now. But if you inflict harm upon yourself again, then I will not be able to help you."

Thanos saw you grab your kit and come near him, "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

"I don't think there was any foot involved, Mr Thanos. The only things that were involved were a gun and my palm on Maw's cheek."

He chuckled softly at the memory. He loved the fire burning in your eyes. He wanted to see what would you look like burning up on his bed, riding waves of pleasure with him.

"Let me make it very clear, because people like you need to get everything spelled out for them," the venom dripping from your words brought his attention back to you, "I do not want to be involved with you Mr Thanos. I have no intention of being a mobster's trophy girlfriend. If you are really thankful for what I did, then you will leave me alone and never set a foot in this hospital again. Have I made myself clear?" you stared at his hungry eyes as you finished bandaging him.

Nobody on the entire planet, not even the President himself, dared to speak with Thanos in that tone. And here you were, staring him down as if he was worthless. It only made him hungrier, knowing that claiming you would be the sweetest reward he can give himself.

…

The rest of the week was thankfully uneventful for you. On Saturday night, you slowly climbed the stairs to your floor, feeling relieved. At least you had the whole of tomorrow to relax.

Reaching your apartment, you found the door unlocked. You stepped backwards, deciding to call the police from your building's security office.

Just then, your door swung open and a smiling Thanos cheerfully greeted you, "Welcome home doctor! Dinner is almost ready. Why don't you take a relaxing hot bath? I have already filled your tub with warm water."

After the exhausting week you had, you had never expected to find Thanos in your home, cooking dinner and preparing a bath. All you could do was stare at him with your mouth open, his black pants draping his thighs perfectly, the blue shirt hugging his muscled arms and torso as if second skin and to top it all, he was wearing your apron, the one with the cute pandas on it. The apron didn't even cover the distance between what you guessed were his nipples.

"I am not Thanos. I am Dione," he voice sounded sincere, "You asked Thanos to leave you alone, not Dione."

You barely felt his touch as he held your palm, again astonished at how gentle this huge beast of a man can be.

He locked the door behind you, took your purse and coat and knelt to untie your shoelaces. You jumped back at that gesture, finally coming to your senses. "What… what are you doing?" you managed to ask.

He looked up at you, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable if your shoes were removed?"

"No."

"No?" Thanos asked.

"Yes, I mean no. No, I meant what…"

Thanos shook his head, amused as he reached down to untie your shoes, ignoring your protests. He got up slowly, his body a mere inch away from yours. He held your eyes with his as he reached behind your head, unclipping your hair. He stood mesmerized as your hair fell down your shoulders, his hand massaging the spot where they were bunched up on your scalp.

You purred at his ministrations, your eyes suddenly widening as you heard the sound escape your lips. He let you move back as you held his gaze. Why did he have to be so goddamn attractive?!

You closed your eyes. No he's a mobster. You cannot be involved with him. No. No. No. Control yourself.

After that evening, you saw Thanos, (or Dione, you didn't really care) everyday in your home. You saw him first thing in the morning as he cooked you a hearty breakfast, and the last person for the day when he made dinner and tucked you in your bed.

You opened your eyes. You can do this. "Thanos and Dione are the same person. I don't want to be involved with you. Leave. Right now," you half-heartedly snarled, reaching for the door. But he put a hand on the lock first, stopping you.

"They aren't the same person. Thanos would never cook for anyone, even for himself. He wouldn't tolerate your disrespectful tone and arrogance. But I am. I want to-"

"Excuse me? Arrogance?" you cocked an eyebrow, "Do you realise the amount of shit I have had to go through after I operated on you? The FBI, CBI, Police and God knows what came pounding down my doors, accusing me of harbouring and aiding a criminal."

"I am well aware," he admitted tersely, "I have made sure that you will not be bothered again."

Your eyes widened as his words sunk in, "Did you kill them?" you whispered, your hands immediately flying to your mouth.

"I didn't," he stated.

A frown formed on your face as you tried to unpack his confession. "Did Thanos get them killed?" you asked with purpose.

Just then, the oven's timer chimed. "Ahh, dinner is ready. I made your favourite lasagna. There's also garlic bread and a cucumber mint salad. Do you still want to take a bath before dinner?" he asked casually as if he hadn't murdered a squad of officers.

Sensing your hesitation, he came over to you, and stepped in your space, "Give me a chance," he urged, "I am not the monster they paint me to be. Allow me to show you who Dione is. Let me cherish you. I promise, as long as I am with you, I will not indulge in any criminal activity. Please. Give us a chance," he finished earnestly, taking both your palms in his hands.

You slowly raised your eyes to meet his, breathing in his luscious, musky scent. His hand caressed your cheek, weaving through your hair as he pulled you closer, delicately. His soft exhale on your lips weakened your knees. But he stopped. The handsome bastard was waiting for you to come closer.

"I will walk a 1000 steps to reach you," he whispered quietly, "if you just take one towards me."

His other hand started a torturous journey up your arm, his touch feather light. His thumb slowly traced the outline of your bottom lip, coming to rest behind your head.

For a second, you were lost in his ministrations. For a second, you wanted to give in to the stillness of the night.

But a loud crash, and a woman's blood-curdling scream interrupted your peace. You jumped, looking in the direction of the noise. Thanos followed your gaze and smiled. He hummed with satisfaction, "Where were we?"

You shook out of his gentle grip and headed towards the direction of the commotion. As you peered down your window, you let out a scream. Down on the road, the body of a SWAT agent was sprawled on top of an indented car. It seemed as if he had fallen off the top of your neighbouring building.

Coming up behind you, Thanos vowed, "I would never engage in illegal activities when I am with you. But Thanos will destroy the world if that's what it takes to protect you."

…

Breakfast in Milan, luncheons in Athens and late night hot chocolate in Paris was enough to sway even the most heartless of the human beings. But you were still on your toes, waiting for this dream to turn into an ugly nightmare.

That wasn't all. He started buying you groceries, and even basic amenities like toothpaste and hairbrush. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you saw that he had even replenished your tampons.

For all his drawbacks, you couldn't ignore the fact that he never touched you without your consent. He treated you with respect, and cared for you as if you were made with glass. Some nights, when you came home unbelievably late, he was ready to massage your aching feet, while patiently listening to you rant about your day.

The time you spent with him almost felt domesticated. But you knew it was borrowed. Time went by and you started accompanying him on his trips as he refused to let you stay behind. You saw very little of Maw on these trips. Instead his other henchwoman, Proxima, was assigned to you.

"What is holding you back?" he asked you one day, as he brought dinner to your room in Venice, overlooking the city. "I have expressed my love for you in as many ways as I could," his eyes roamed over your body, "I think I have managed to strike the perfect balance between Thanos and Dione. I have done good on my promise to make sure you never see the ugly side of my business. Then why do you still refuse to come to me?"

You looked at him with a frown, "What makes you think I do not see the ugly side of your business? Do you know the amount of drug overdose cases we get in a day?"

Thanos looked out the window, "All those people are aware of the ill-effects of drugs. If they still choose to take it, then how does that make me the villain? Somebody else will sell the drugs if I don't."

"Really? That's your justification? So you owe nothing to the people whose lives are destroyed by your drugs and guns? What about the poor? The young who are addicted to your substance?" you argued in an accusing tone.

"I donate 10% of my earnings to them. But I can't help everyone," he justified.

Thanos chewed in silence as he considered your words, "Will you give yourself to me if I donate half of my wealth?" he looked at you after a few moments.

"10% is not even a dip in your ocean of riches Dione. You want to talk about striking a balance? Then donate 50% of your wealth to those who actually need the money. Auction off your antiques, your collectibles. Build schools, donate to NGOs, be good and help the people, the portion of the society who needs you the most," you tried to convince him.

You softly pushed your plate away, "No amount of charity can justify the killings Dione."

As Thanos gripped his fork tighter at your words, you swore you saw the metal bend. "I have to do what needs to be done to protect you. Even if it means spilling the blood of a few agents of the law. Do you think they will protect you from me? You are nothing but a source of information for them. As soon as they are done with you they will toss you aside like useless garbage. Your identity, your entire life will be erased from the record. You don't want me to protect you like that? Okay. Then what would you have me do?" he demanded an answer.

You met his gaze, your silence filling the conversation with words.

"I cannot just quit. I have spent my whole life building this empire and I am not about to give it up," he claimed through gritted teeth.

"But what did it cost you?" It was your turn to surprise him with your question.

"Everything," he admitted, "and more. But this was all I have ever had. There was no reason for me to leave this-"

"You do have a reason now," you interrupted him.

You dragged your chair towards Thanos and sat beside him. Placing a hand on his heart, you kept your eyes on him. "You have a reason now," you repeated in a whisper.

You saw a myriad of emotions cross his eyes. Taking advantage of his astonishment, you kissed his shoulder and rested your forehead on it. You felt his heart beating faster.

Thanos was glad your head was on his shoulder, as he didn't want you to see the tears in his eyes. This was the first time you had initiated any form of affection towards him. He held your hand, the one on his heart, and kissed it with a promise.

…

Officer Natasha Romanoff hurried towards Steve Rogers' office. She entered without knocking.

"Hey there! Knock before you-" Tony Stark, the Weapons Contacter tried to speak before Natasha cut him short.

"Steve, you need to hear this," Natasha looked at him.

In the last few months, thanks to Steve's bravery in the shoot-out with Thanos's men, he had been promoted to the highest ranking covert field agent at the FBI.

Steve nodded, requesting Tony to reschedule the meeting. As soon as they had the privacy, Natasha filled him in on the news. "Thanos is donating 50% of his wealth to charities and NGOs across the country. He's moving with his girl to Mauritius."

"He's building a new base there?" Steve cocked an eyebrow.

"No, he's retiring. If he gets on that plane then we will lose him forever."

"Hmmm," he considered her words, "I have a plan."

…

Thanos had advised you against going back to your apartment, arguing that all of your stuff was already packed and on the way to the flight. But you were relentless. You had to go back to retrieve a piece of your legacy which you were sure his men must have missed.

He watched in amazement as you removed the photo frame from your wall and tore the wallpaper, revealing a cavity inside.

You retrieved a box, wiping the dust off of it. Walking towards Thanos, you opened the box to reveal 6 rings. "These belonged to my grandfather. He always believed that there are six traits that make a man. He gave me these rings on his deathbed, and asked me to pass it on to the man who I deemed worthy." Pointing to the ring with the purple stone, you recited your grandfather's words, "Be with a man who commands Power," yellow stone- "But make sure he has a kind Soul," orange stone- "He should be able to read your Mind," green stone- "However, he must know the value of Time," red stone- "He should be able to accept his Reality," and lastly, the blue stone- "But, he should give you the world, the galaxy, the entire Space, if need be."

Holding out the box for him, you presented him with the rings. You smiled indulgently as you wiped his tears. He took your hand in his, kissing your fingers, your palm, your wrist. You laughed as he hugged your hand, "This is the second most precious gift I have ever been given."

You tilted your head, puzzled, "What is the most precious gift?"

"You."

…

Steve saw you and Thanos exit the building, hand in hand like two lovestruck teenagers. "Team Alpha, if you have a clear shot take it. But do not fatally wound him. We need him alive. I repeat, we need him alive. Team Omega, standby for the extraction. Team Beta, grab the First Aid Kit as soon as the Patient is hit" he commanded into the walkie-talkie using their codewords for you and Thanos.

"You still haven't told me where are we going," you pouted slightly as you walked towards the car. "Patience love, all in good time," Thanos smiled down at you. "This is White Wolf Team Alpha, firing in 3...2...," Bucky spoke in his earpiece.

"Wherever we are going, I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you," you spoke. "...1." You suddenly turned to face Thanos, and started walking backwards, your hand still in his.

The bullet pierced the space above your heart, before colliding with Thanos's bulletproof vest. Gunshots reduced to dull thuds around you as you collapsed in Thanos's arms, your blood staining his shirt.

You didn't notice when he carried you to the car. You didn't notice the speeding car coming to a halt. All you could hear was his panicked voice, and feel his pounding heart.

"Maw why are we stopping?" Thanos screamed at his henchman.

"Sire, there is a traffic jam ahead. We can't take any other route. There are rows of cars behind us. We are trapped," he said regretfully.

"I don't care! Kill them all, clear the road with explosives. She needs to get to a hospital NOW!" Thanos's voice boomed as panic gripped his heart.

"Sire we can't use explosives, the road might cave in. Proxima is arranging for a mobile hospital as we speak. They should be here soon," Maw spoke with hope.

Cradling you in his arms, Thanos pushed your hair back from your face, "Stay with me. Please stay with me. Don't leave me now. Please… no…"

"Hey," you managed to say in a cracked voice as tears escaped his eyes, "Dione," he looked at you, "I will... always be with you... my love," you struggled to caress his cheek as he held your arm.

"Please please please no," he pleaded.

You gasped as a new jolt of pain ran through your body, "I… I love you… Di… Dione," you smiled.

A heart-wrenching scream escaped Thanos as he held your lifeless body. His anguish lost in the traffic of vehicles blaring their horns.

…

"Sire," Maw's voice broke Thanos from his reverie. He turned to look at the box in Maw's hand. In the dim light of his room, he opened the lid to see the severed head of James Buchanan Barnes.

"Steve Rogers has gone underground sire, but we will soon find him," Maw promised.

"He is not the real problem Maw," Thanos turned back to the window, "Do you remember what the doctor had said? If we would have gotten her to the hospital in time, she would have been alive today."

He paused, looking down the crowded city before him, "She died because we couldn't get her to the hospital earlier. What had caused the traffic jam?"

"Two cars had gotten into an accident, which caused a pile up on the road," Maw explained.

"That pile up wouldn't have occurred 10 years ago. In the last 2 decades, there has been a population boom which has ended up putting a strain on resources. Governments across the world are refusing to tackle this problem and in fact, are boastful of the increase in their population." As if on cue, he saw large groups of people fill up the sidewalk as hundreds of cars poured onto the road, everybody eager to reach home after their workday.

"What do you mean sire?"

"The scales of the world have been tipped unevenly, Maw. Balance needs to be restored to the order of the planet. The rich can't have an endless supply of luxury while the poor scramble for basic sustenance. She was right, we need to help the poor, but we can't wipe out those in power completely."

Thanos looked at the setting sun with determination, "It is time to kill half of humanity."

Maw inhaled sharply, "Sire! How would we manage-"

"The drugs," said Thanos simply, "50% of our cargo will contain lethal drugs till we achieve our target. Distribute it randomly throughout our supply chain for the next 6 months."

Maw paused for a moment. The severity of this crime left him dumbstruck. "Sire," he spoke at last, "She wouldn't have wanted this."

Thanos looked at the 6 rings on his fingers. "She wanted to live Maw. But she couldn't. She always tried to help people as much as she could. This is the only way we can fulfill her wish, by helping people across the globe."

"By killing people across the globe," Maw meekly argued.

"You kill everyday for a living Maw. Why has this idea turned your silver tongue into a knot?"

He could only gulp in response.

"The world needs correction Maw. Now more than ever. The lethal drugs should be shipped from tomorrow onwards. I would find it unpleasant to feed your body to our dogs, if you fail your duty," Thanos' thinly veiled threat hung in the air like a sword.

Maw bowed down, "As my sire wishes," and left the room in quite a hurry.

Thanos walked towards your painting on the wall opposite to his bed, the only ornamentation in his otherwise desolate room.

"You will see my love," he cooed, "we will see the sun rise on a grateful world together."

__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__

Permanent tag: @donutloverxo

Taglist open!

#Thanos #mob!Thanos #thanos x reader #Thanos x you #thanos x y/n #avengers au #Avengers mob au #sweatersanyficchallenge #plus sized reader

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capri-ramblings · 4 years

Text

Yikes,I know there's bound to be questions but trust me, chapter 3 will answer most of them. Aha,I'm sorry if this chapter is kinda confusing at first,I'm not good at planning out thoughts or stories systemically,it kinda makes it harder for me to write whenever I try to. But here,the second chapter of Raptured! Thank you for reading! ( ꈍᴗꈍ) ♥️

[ R a p t u r e d ]

Chapter 2: Banter

In the moment Riddle had finished telling his brothers what conspired with their human captive, the first to speak up was Azul.

"They offered what?" His words were a mix of shock and amusement, gaze fixated on Riddle who seemed almost flustered from how red his cheeks were.

The red haired sighed, sending him a narrow eyed glare before crossing his arms.

"The head of their own brother"

"By their own hands?" Kalim asked aloud, his features scrunched up worryingly. "Isn't that bad? Why would anyone want to kill their own brother so suddenly?"

From the chaise across the room,Leona let out a scoff, lips upturned into a smirk.

"What are you? A five year old? If you give a herbivore the chance of freedom,they'd leave their entire fleet open to make sure they survive. Humans aren't so different."

"Indeed" Vil joined in with a smile of his own. "Humans are very fickle things, they live out their life struggling and as a result they stink of repulsion."

"They can barely even stand on their own.." Idia added thoughtfully and as the gazes of his brothers turned to him, the flames on his hair flickered and he looked away.

"Maybe the isolation's got to their head?"

Riddle let out a scoff, his lips upturned in a sneer almost too vicious to be formed on such a delicate looking face.

"The cottage they were in was secluded from the rest of the village,they were already a reclusive. Why should it bother them now?"

"Maybe Idia has a point" Kalim interjected then "Before they were on their own by choice...and they weren't exactly trapped in a tower either"

"It's all the same" Leona snapped " Damn herbivores will always be too fragile."

"Though, our soft-shelled brothers have a sound reason" Vil's lips curled in an effortless smile,his ever sharp gaze glinting like jewels.

"At this rate our small hare is going to die before the homage from her brother, and that makes all of this pointless."

The room went silent then. Each males having their own thoughts wrapped around the situation.

When they came to a decision to face the hunter who killed their family beast, he was nowhere to be seen and left tending to his cottage was none other than their captive human, a young sibling unaware of what their fool brother had committed. They opted it was easier to simply kidnap them and have their brother come looking since neither one of them wanted to wait around. There was also the fact that the death of the beast had affected their Mother's health greatly, and all seven brothers fumed with rage.

"Our methods doesn't matter anymore" Riddle spoke up, "What's done is done. We can't exactly just put them back where we found them."

"I agree" Azul said "Though if the human dies in our care now, when we're fully able to change their situation, I fear the price of that loss would be great."

"What? Are the humans going to chase us around with pitchforks?" Leona sneered,his sharp fangs visible as he leaned back into the chaste. "You saw how further in their cottage was, chances are the herbivore doesn't even go down to the village often enough for people to notice them missing."

"They can't die." Idia drawled the words out this time,his gaze sharp and harsh as he stared down Leona who all but grinned at his brother.

"Why? Because you like them?" The laugh that barked out from Leona was cruel and Idia flinched.

"Go ahead and save the poor herbivore then,Prince Idia of the lands of burrowed moles. You think they'd ever look at you fondly?"

"Enough." Riddle came between the fight with his own ire and before he sent a glare towards Leona, he let Idia catch the solace in his.

The situation was getting worst. They needed a decision quick.

"You're not a five year old as well,Leona, so keep that tongue of yours tamed"

"What are you? Suddenly playing the role of the Eldest when you can't even reach his height?" Leona scrutinized Riddle with an aggression that seemed ready to claw him in the face, but Riddle kept his own spite and promptly choose to ignore his brother.

Instead,he turned to Azul.

"The hunter should've came back and see his sibling gone, you even sent those eels of yours to make sure he got the hints. Why hasn't he made a single move? It's been two months."

"Maybe he's forgetful?" Kalim chipped in, eyes glowing. Riddle wanted to tap the side of his face and gently tell him to shut up but Vil patted his head instead.

"A forgetful hunter managing to kill a wild beast is unlikely, mein bruder"

Azul crossed his arms,gaze narrowing.

"They've sent word that they have information regarding our human and the whereabouts of their brother"

"And?" Vil prompted.

"I told them to come meet us as soon as they can, which shouldn't be long."

The moment those words were uttered, a dull thud came from the would-be-entrance of the tower, and a familiar voice calling out.

"My Princes! Open the door please!" The urgency of the voice had all the present Princes turning their head, though the one who seemed genuinely surprised and concerned was Kalim.

"That voice..." He said, turning to Azul "Is that who I think it is?"

Azul's lips curled into a knowing smile and with a flick of his fingers, the sound of a door being swung opened then slammed shut could be heard within the tower itself,followed by light rapid footsteps approaching them.

Out of breath and desperately panting, a young girl made a hasty bow as she came before the Princes, though the way her legs slightly trembled suggested that she was near collapsing.

"It is her!" Kalim's eyes grew wide with familiarity, the worry in his voice replaced with joy as he came up to place his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"The last time I saw you, you were still learning how to walk!" Kalim's loud voice seemed to make her flinch but the girl met his gaze with warmth before she bowed her head again.

"Pleasure to meet you again,Prince Kalim." She's heard stories of him, the Prince Fae known to give out bits of his treasures to those who come wishing at his well. It seemed odd to act as if she's known him, but she knew better than to put logic before courtesy. He was one of the seven Princes after all. Acting too smart with them was a fool's mistake.

Before Kalim could say anything else, Azul stepped forward and the girl promptly met his side with a suddenly serious demeanor.

"I'd ask you for the information I had you fetch but I wonder why you were running in the first place?"

The girl laughed dryly if not nervously.

"Floyd wanted to see who could win in a race in getting here,your Highness."

Azul frowned, internally sighing.

"Why on Earth did you agree to that?"

Again, the girl laughed. "He terrifies me,my Prince."

Riddle couldn't place where he's met her, but hearing her words had him internally sympathising her. Azul's leeches were a pair he'd gladly avoid for eternity as well.

"So,you got a changeling to be at your beck and call as well,Azul?" Vil sounded amused as he turned to Azul, but the degrading glance he gave the girl bellied the smile coyly sitting on his lips then.

"She's indebted to us anyway" Azul stated simply "Why not put her to work?"

His gaze returned to the girl.

"What do you have about our human then?"

It took a full ten minutes for the young changeling to inform them of what she's managed to compile on their human and hunter. Turns out they aren't related by blood but by marriage. Apparently most of the villagers knew of the hunter but rarely saw the younger sibling as they took more liking in staying indoors. There was also talk that their relationship with one another was never close and answered Riddle's question as to why he hadn't showed up yet.

"So, he's just going to leave his sibling at our mercy?" Kalim asked,he had his expression scrunched up with worry and pity again but Leona shared none of it and only growled with distaste.

"There won't be mercy if they're left with us a second longer"

Riddle caught the flicker of Idia's flames and instantly reacted.

"Threaten to murder our captive one more time and I'll have your head,Leona."

"Hah, you're trying to scare me,Riddle?" Leona sneered,fangs glistening with malice. He's been irritated by the whole situation since the beginning. Taking in a human in hopes that another would appear to save them, it was all a damn fairytale. Leona knew humans were selfish, his brothers should've had that piece of common sense drilled into their heads as well. No one was going to play hero for their captive.

Riddle gritted his teeth and again instead of lashing out senselessly, he swirled around to face the changeling. Every bit of his anger flaring in his grey gaze.

"Where's the hunter now?" He asked,though it sounded painfully like a death threat.

The changeling bowed her head.

"He's at the human King's palace,Prince Riddle. King Aothor ...of Nostorne"

The words sent the entire room tilting, and Riddle would've gripped her by her neck if Azul hadn't stepped forward.

"King? Since when did the humans have a King?" The last time they came to the world,their mother's shrine was built almost everywhere to acknowledge her ruling. Had times changed so drastically since their absence?

"Yes. It's been this way for years now. A dukedom raised after Her Most Divine's departure from the human realm and ever since then a lineage of human nobles have taken the throne as the Human ruler."

"My, how futuristic, and here we were in the guise that we still sat on the top of their world" Vil was laughing but his words cut into the tension of the room like a blade coated in venom and the changeling girl shifted uncomfortably.

"It seems like the order of the slaughtering was made by him and ultimately fulfilled by the hunter. His name is Cyril and he's being celebrated by the King for his bravery."

Leona heaved a heavy sigh,leaning once more into his chaise. He looked ready to fall into a deep slumber already but his irritation kept him awake.

"So,we have information. Now what's the plan?"

***

Jade and Floyd,two of Azul's trusted companions came into the situation while the Princes were sorting out their thoughts and opinions (Which all greatly contradict one another) and brought word that their hunter had refused to save their sibling in a conversation Jade overheard him had with another hunter right before he was called on by the King.

"He said he knew of the Fae's trick and that by taking something of theirs as his own, he'd gladly give anything they took from him as compensation." Jade explained in his usual matter-of-fact tone,his mismatched gaze still and knowing.

Riddle clicked his tongue, brows furrowing. Idia's was the most sympathetic along with Kalim while Leona and Vil seemed ready to send a fleet of their army to storm into the human villages.

"I'm not really surprised though" Floyd spoke up lazily "He seems like a guy who'd do that kind of thing anyways"

"But now the Princes are stuck with keeping a human captive in their care", Boe,the young changeling from earlier, pointed out grimly.

"What if we sent you to negotiate with him in our stead?" Idia suggested which earned a rather hasty look from the girl.

"Human royals don't take too kindly to my kind,Prince Idia. I doubt he'd even let me enter"

Leona let out a menacing growl. One that reverberated through the tower walls.

"This is going nowhere. Riddle, go up to that damn herbivore and have them beg their brother come and pay his homage so we can give them back."

Riddle frowned.

"You heard the changeling,Leona. If their relationship with their brother is as bad as we've heard, do you really think they'd beg for him to come save them?"

"Couldn't you talk some sense in them?" Azul had eyes turning once more to the young changeling who all but reluctantly slumped her shoulders.

"I don't see how me being the one talking will get them to cooperate..."

"Clamshell,you should at least try,right?" Floyd's smile was sickly sweet and when he attempted to sling his arm over her shoulders, she avoided the outcome by shifting close to Jade.

"What would you want me to say to them?"

"The offer they gave" Riddle said "Have them elaborate more on that. I'm not going into a deal without knowing why it was proposed in the first place."

There was hesitation in her eyes but it was swiftly changed to a silent resolve as she nodded her head.

"I'll see what I can do."

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst mc #twst wonderland yandere #twst riddle #twst azul #twst idia #twst kalim #twst vil #twst Leona #twst jade #twst floyd #twst fanfic

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kryde · 3 years

Text

Prompt #5

say they’re dancing together, still trying to hide their feelings for each other, and because of that, avoiding eye-contact, the best they can, to ensure that the other character doesn’t notice how attracted they are to them

Ships - Cryde

Characters - Craig Tucker, Clyde Donovan, (Mentioned) Kyle Broflovski, (Mentioned) Scott Malkinson

Fandom - South Park

Things are different when they hit the ice, the cheer of the crowd around them and the scrapping of skates filling the frigid air mounting the already building tension between them and instead of avoiding it they have to face it head on, just as they have to face each other head on for the sake of their team.

It’s the moment their gazes catch one another out here that they spark to life, both beginning to gravitate toward each other in ways that mimic a dance. It’s a routine they both know well and work best in, considering they’re both on defense for the Denver hockey team. The team’s been up against Cloud state for hours now and with the clock counting down it’s their last chance to score one more point to win.

They’re quick to flank either side of the goalie as Cloud State’s team is rocketing the puck toward them and they’re determined to beat them, both making brief eye contact with one another before charging forward, fighting with all they have to gain back the advantage.

They’d been sure they had it, but just as they gained the upper hand it was swiftly stolen by Cloud’s left wing, Broflovski, with such a powerful swing of his stick that the puck went flying. It happened before anyone saw what was coming, their dance suddenly splintering under the weight of such force and careening to the side before promptly hitting the ice too hard to be normal.

“Craig?” The words are whispered almost too quietly to be heard amongst the noise of the crowd gasping in horror as Craig’s crumpled form slides along the ice with blood gushing from his face and the sudden blow of a whistle. Clyde was shaken by being torn so quickly from his mindset, the energy the two had shared seemingly building higher inside of him now that Craig was no longer there to withstand half of it, but seeing his best friend and crush laying there on the ice only made it worse.

Pumped full with so much adrenaline Clyde charges Broflovski, throwing his gloves to the ground and decking him. Broflovski punches hard but he can’t feel a thing, his entire being only focused on one thing at that moment, protecting Craig.

He isn’t sure when he feels three of his teammates pulling him off the other man, but it brings him out of his head long enough for him to realize Craig isn’t on the ice anymore. He looks around desperately until he sees a medic guiding him toward the locker room and he’s quick to follow once his teammates release him.

When he enters he finds Craig alone, holding a rag to his face with a deep set in scowl. He comes over, patting Craig’s shoulder before sitting down beside him, allowing silence to fill the air momentarily as he tries to decide what to say.

He’s surprised when Craig speaks first, although muffled by the rag, “You didn’t have to attack the guy, it was an accident.” Craig’s always looking at the logical side of a situation, never considering others feelings or even his own.

“He hurt you.” Clyde states, matter-of-factly, in return before glancing at the side of Craig’s face. “Is your mouth okay? There was blood all over the ice out there, it looked like he tried to slaughter you.”

“It was still an accident. Why would you bother attacking him over me anyways?” Craig turns his head, properly facing him for the first time outside the rink in months and Clyde’s suddenly struck with how much he missed staring into his deep grey eyes.

Clyde swallows thickly, attempting to find an excuse and falling short. He saw what happened, he knew it was an accident, with any other teammate he would’ve checked on them and moved on, but Craig just wasn’t any other teammate. He was his best mate and more.

Craig watches him flounder for an answer for several moments before sighing and pulling the rag from his face to show Clyde the damage instead. He was missing a few teeth, but otherwise seems fine. There was still blood running down his face but not nearly as much as before. Was it odd that Craig looked so kissable right now to him? Looking like this?

Clyde doesn’t give it much thought as he leans forward, grasping Craig’s chin and pulling him forward to get a closer look, but it’s all a façade for the way he’s eyeing those bloody lips and he has a feeling Craig can tell. He was brighter than people gave him credit for. Clyde finds his breath shaking, thinking of backing out and playing it off as his nerves begin to get to him, but Craig moves forward first before he can say anything, pressing their lips together.

At first it’s just a simple peck, both pulling back to look at each other before coming together again to kiss, which soon turns into full on making out. Clyde tries to be gentle but Craig’s rough, taking what he wants just like he does on the ice and making Clyde work to match his pace.

It isn’t until they both need air that they pull back, both panting and refusing to look at one another.

Clyde runs his hand over his helmet, voice losing some of its steadiness as he speaks this time, “You have to be more careful out there or they’re going to end up replacing you with Malkinson for the rest of the season. This is your fourth injury this year.”

Craig snorts, bringing the rag back to his mouth while raising his middle finger, “Fuck you.”

#One Shot #South Park #Clyde Donovan #Craig Tucker #Cryde #Krydes

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 years

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Oscar Howe: Wounded Knee Massacre

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

December 28, 2020

Heather Cox Richardson

I will fill in today's news tomorrow, because there is nothing that cannot wait, and today, and tomorrow, are anniversaries....

As the men fought hand-to-hand, the Lakota women who had been hitching their horses to wagons for the day’s travel tried to flee along the nearby road or up a dry ravine behind the camp. The soldiers on a slight rise above the camp turned rapid-fire mountain guns on them. Then, over the next two hours, troops on horseback hunted down and slaughtered all the Lakotas they could find: about 250 men, women, and children.

But it is not December 29 that haunts me. It is the night of December 28, the night before the killing.

On December 28, there was still time to avert the Wounded Knee Massacre.

In the early afternoon, the Lakota leader Big Foot-- Sitanka-- had urged his people to surrender to the soldiers looking for them. Sitanka was desperately ill with pneumonia and the people in his band were hungry, underdressed, and exhausted. They were making their way south across South Dakota from their own reservation in the northern part of the state to the Pine Ridge Reservation. There, they planned to take shelter with another famous Lakota chief, Red Cloud. His people had done as Sitanka asked, and the soldiers escorted the Lakotas to a camp on South Dakota's Wounded Knee Creek, inside the boundaries of the Pine Ridge Reservation.

For the soldiers, the surrender of Sitanka's band marked the end of the Ghost Dance Uprising. It had been a tense month. Troops had pushed into the South Dakota reservations in November, prompting a band of terrified men who had embraced the Ghost Dance religion to gather their wives and children and ride out to the Badlands. But, at long last, army officers and negotiators had convinced those Ghost Dancers to go back to Pine Ridge and turn themselves in to authorities before winter hit in earnest.

But South Dakota is a big state, and it was not until late in the afternoon of December 28 that the soldiers finally made contact with Sitanka's band, and it didn’t go quite as the officers planned: a group of soldiers were watering their horses in a stream when some of the traveling Lakotas surprised them. The Indians let the soldiers go, and the men promptly reported to their officers, who marched on the Lakotas as if they were going to war. Sitanka, who had always gotten along well with army officers, assured the commander that the Indians were on their way to Pine Ridge anyway, and asked his men to surrender unconditionally. They did.

By this time, Sitanka was so ill he couldn't sit up and his nose was dripping blood. Soldiers lifted him into an army ambulance—an old wagon-- for the trip to the Wounded Knee camp. His ragtag band followed behind. Once there, the soldiers gave the Lakotas an evening ration, and lent army tents to those who wanted them. Then the soldiers settled into guarding the camp.

And they celebrated, for they were heroes of a great war, and it had been bloodless, and now, with the Lakota’s surrender, they would be demobilized back to their home bases before the South Dakota winter closed in. As they celebrated, more and more troops poured in. It had been a long hunt across South Dakota for Sitanka and his band, and officers were determined the group would not escape them again. In came the Seventh Cavalry, whose men had not forgotten that their former leader George Armstrong Custer had been killed by a band of Lakota in 1876. In came three mountain guns, which the soldiers trained on the Indian encampment from a slight rise above the camp.

On this day and hour in 1890, in the cold and dark of a South Dakota December night, there were soldiers drinking, singing and visiting with each other, and anxious Indians either talking to each other in low voices or trying to sleep. No one knew what the next day would bring, but no one expected what was going to happen.

One of the curses of history is that we cannot go back and change the course leading to disasters, no matter how much we might wish to. The past has its own terrible inevitability.

But it is never too late to change the future.

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

#quotes #Heather Cox Richardson #Letters From An American #Pine Ridge #Wounded Knee #Native American #history #story #tragedy

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moral-turpitudes · 4 years

Text

Deal with the Devil: Ch. 5

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Divorce.

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Isla Maxwell (OC)

Word Count: 763

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | *7* | 8 | 9 | 10

Thomas paced his office silently as he stared out his window, the children running around on the dark streets and play-fighting with each other, reminding him of his brothers when they were younger. It was often he thought back to those time, wondering why the world had been hell-bent on changing him. Yet no matter how many times he reminisced, his present dilemmas gnawed at him, making him wish he could turn back time.

It had been one week since he’d sent the last letter. Making him a bit uneasy as he’d been used to getting a prompt response back. Knowing that the writer’s delivery man had been around more often now than before, Thomas figuring he probably had a bounty on his head if he didn’t do things promptly.

Along with business matters at the forefront of his mind, his anxiety only grew as he thought of his recent plight of officially agreeing to call off his marriage to Lizzie. His wedding band feeling like a weighted chain more than a promise as more time passed. As he wrestled with the recent split and the noise in his head, he continued to pace in his office with a cigarette in hand as he read the newspaper, the headline soon garnering his full attention.

“4 Men Shot Dead, 1 Elderly Man Beaten to Death: Suspect Unknown”

As he read, he knew his mysterious writer had something to do with it. Seeing as the details in the column mentioned the latest victims being part of Mosley’s party as well.

“You read that Tom? Mosley better watch out aye?” Arthur asked, loudly walking into his room and snagging a glass of whiskey.

“Mhmm.” Thomas muttered, the smoke escaping his lips as he turned the page.

“That persons fucking with your head, Tom. Did they send anything?” He asked.

“No. In fact, I haven’t heard anything since this happened. What if they’re dead Arthur?” He asked, leaning back on his desk.

“Well if they were it would be a damn shame. We’d be out 300 pounds mate...” Arthur said.

“I’ll give them a week, but nothing more. When Mosley finds out his men have been dropping like flies, he’s going to lose his mind more than he already has.” Thomas said, putting his cigarette out as he walked towards the door.

“You told Pol and Michael yet? Arthur asked.

“What?”

“About your plan...? Jesus you have to tell them before we all get slaughtered again.” Arthur said, remembering how the assassination fell through, the majority of them coming extremely close to death.

“We won’t get slaughtered, brother. I know we won’t.” He said, more so trying to reassure himself rather than Arthur.

“Right, well when you’re done plotting our demise with this mystery writer, I’ll be in the other room. Family meeting’s about to start Tom.” He said, slamming the door behind him.

It had been a week since she placed the letter on her desk. Reluctantly reaching for it as she sat the newspaper down, still reeling over the headline. She didn’t get caught, which was the good thing. But she left the bodies, knowing it would pique Mosley’s interest. It was a perilous mistake though, knowing she should’ve hid them. But after seeing her dads friend beaten to death, her mind was clouded. A wave of sadness growing each day as she realized she was actually alone.

As she glanced at the paper, she tore the envelope open, pulling out the fancy letter and immersing herself in its brief content.

“Greetings “I,”

I hope this finds you well. In the envelope you’ll find a check for the 300 pounds you requested as part of the deal. I look forward to doing business with you, but first I’d like to offer something. As part of naming my price, I would like to meet. Seeing as we’re partners now, I’d like to be able to discuss our plans more easily. Just tell me where and when to meet you and I’ll be there.

- T. S.”

She never trusted talking by phone, knowing unknown operators were on the other end, but she trusted her men sending her letters and so she knew she had to do something and fast, knowing from reading the stolen papers that one of his largest rallies were coming up. This was her only chance to go after Mosley, and it was a risk she’d have to take. Even if she’d have to face Thomas herself.

With a furrowed brow, she began writing. Knowing of only one safe place to go.

#peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x female!reader

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chierafied · 5 years

Text

All According to Plan

Written for the SessKag Valentine’s Big Bang!

Partnered with my darling @jafndaegur without whom organising this event would have been so much more difficult.

Go check out her lovely companion piece for this fic here!

At first, Sesshoumaru had been furious. But by now, only weary resignation remained as he watched the hopeful demoness tilt her head to bare her throat to him.

Sesshoumaru pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn’t sure how much more he would be able to take, how many more demonesses he would be forced to shake off.

He needed it all to stop, but he knew only too well that his mother would never give in until she would get what she wished.

And to Sesshoumaru’s ire and consternation, his mother’s heart was set to see him mated.

Why his mother had been struck by such a fit of lunacy, Sesshoumaru did not know.

What he knew, however – without a shadow of a doubt – was that he was not even remotely inclined to go along with that nonsense.

And he did not appreciate this parade of willing and eligible female youkai seeking him out.

He looked at this more recent candidate and swallowed his sigh.

“No,” he told her, in a voice that brooked no disagreements. “Leave, now.”

The demoness’ lips pinched, but she bowed her head and left.

Sesshoumaru watched her go, grateful that this one at least hadn’t presume to argue with him.

Some of the other youkai sent to him by his mother had not accepted his rejection as gracefully.

Weariness overcame him.

How many more candidates would there be?

How many more until his mother would wear him down?

Because it had happened before.

In a battle of wills against his woefully obstinate mother, Sesshoumaru seldom emerged as the victor.

If he was to have any hope of winning against his mother, Sesshoumaru would need to find a way to fight back.

Reasoning would not work; he’d already paid his mother a visit and demanded she cease the ridiculous affair but it had been to no avail.

He supposed he could start killing whatever candidates his mother presumed to send his way but they were innocent in all this, caught in the web of his mother’s latest scheme.

Besides, it would not be worthwhile; while such slaughter would undoubtedly send a message to his mother, it would require too much effort on his part.

His mother likely would not be deterred in any case.

No, from what Sesshoumaru could guess, the only way to halt his mother’s efforts would be to…

He paused. Frowned.

The only way to force his mother to stop sending any more candidates his way would be to introduce a candidate of his own.

Though that would only be adding fuel to the fire of his mother’s madness.

Unless...

A slow smile spread to Sesshoumaru’s lips.

Finally, he had a plan that would ensure his victory in this matter.

All he would need to do was to produce a candidate of his own – someone who would be so utterly inappropriate to take as his mate that his mother would refuse to consent to the match.

And he knew just the female to suit that role.

------------------------💙 ------------------------

It was a nice and perfectly normal – if unusually productive – morning for Kagome.

She’d been able to get a lot of her regular chores down and had now decided to take on the task of doing some long-neglected mending.

And then Sesshoumaru came for a visit.

That in itself was unprecedented.

Of all the unexpected visitors she may have had, Kagome would’ve put Sesshoumaru on the top of the list as the least likely to show on her doorstep.

Although Kagome liked to think they got along fine these days, she couldn’t in good conscience call Sesshoumaru friendly.

But there he sat across from her, earnestly explaining his dilemma and his great solution to it while Kagome could only sit there and wonder if she might have unknowingly slipped into some alternate dimension where Sesshoumaru had lost his goddamn mind.

She put down the overcoat she’d been mending when he finally finished his spiel.

For a moment she struggled to gather first her thoughts, then to form any words as she frowned at him in growing disbelief.

“You want to bring me with you to meet your mother,” she said at last in a summary of Sesshoumaru’s speech.

Because she couldn’t have possibly been hearing anything he’d told her in the past five minutes correctly.

“Correct,” Sesshoumaru replied.

He was the picture of calm patience, with his hand resting on his knee and his face impassive while Kagome struggled with her listening comprehension.

“And pretend we’re in love with each other,” she said next, this time with a slight, shameful squeak.

“My mother would perceive infatuation an obstacle not easily overcome,” Sesshoumaru said.

His tone of voice was reasonable, the words themselves anything but.

A cold, sinking feeling weighed down Kagome’s stomach.

He couldn’t really be serious about all of this. He couldn’t.

“Sure,” she replied, making no effort to hide her dubiousness.

In a vain attempt to calm her badly frazzled nerves, Kagome tried to pick up her mending again but promptly stabbed her finger with the needle.

She hissed, and stuck the finger into her mouth before she spilled any blood on her overcoat.

From bad to worse, Kagome thought, sinking into a gloom as she sucked on her sore finger.

Sesshoumaru, unfazed with her grim incredulity over the whole situation, carried on.

“If there is any way I might repay you for imposing on you with this request, please inform me of it.”

And that didn’t improve her mood the slightest.

“You’re already certain I’ll agree to this, aren’t you?” she muttered.

He deigned to rise one imperious eyebrow.

“It is not in your nature to refuse a request for your aid.”

Kagome sighed. “No, I guess it’s not.” Damn it. “But just so you know, I think this is a terrible idea.”

Sesshoumaru, of course, disagreed. Any sense he may have once possessed had clearly deserted him long ago, probably around the same time he had come up with this ridiculous plan.

“I do not mind that as long as it will work,” he told her.

And therein was Kagome’s biggest problem with this whole thing.

For one last time, she tried to plead with the glimmer of sanity that might still be hiding somewhere deep, deep down Sesshoumaru’s labyrinthic mind.

“I do feel for your… situation,” she said, trying to sound as earnest as she could. “I just don’t know if lying to your mother is the best way to resolve it.”

“That is because you have not met my mother,” Sesshoumaru deadpanned.

True enough. But that would soon be remedied, because it didn’t seem like Sesshoumaru would be swayed by something as inconsequential as reason.

“And you’re sure she wouldn’t want us to be together?” Kagome prompted, because in her opinion, this “grand plan” was full of holes the size of Toutousai’s cow.

“She does not think very highly of humans,” Sesshoumaru said.

What a surprise, Kagome thought wryly.

Although it did take her aback that Sesshoumaru appeared less than happy about the fact.

“Besides,” he continued, “she would think that the fact you are a miko would make you wildly unsuitable.”

“Of course she would,” Kagome grumbled, this time unable to keep her comments to herself.

“You need not have any qualms,” Sesshoumaru said. “I will not behave dishonourably towards you. And I will only need you to follow my lead.”

He was trying, she could admit that. It was almost sweet.

But she did have qualms, many of them, and would not be so easily reassured.

Sesshoumaru’s possible behaviour towards her was the least of her concerns; the entire plan was terrible.

Kagome was neither an accomplished actor nor liar, and she wasn’t so sure about how convincing Sesshoumaru could be either. Pretend they were in love? Would Sesshoumaru recognise love even if it bit him in the ass?

Kagome tried to picture Sesshoumaru being loving.

She failed miserably.

Yeah, they were gonna be so screwed.

“I’m less worried about that,” she replied, “and more worried about everything that might go wrong.”

But Sesshoumaru was nothing but stubborn and enviably overconfident.

“Fret not,” he declared. “Everything will go according to plan.”

------------------------💙 ------------------------

Sesshoumaru landed on the stone steps of his mother’s floating castle with graceful ease. His hand steady at the miko’s back, he set down her warm and surprisingly light weight. She straightened herself, then offered him a wide smile. Her dark hair was tousled by the wind, her blue eyes were bright.

Though it had not been the first time he had taken flight with her in tow, the miko had not shown any fear as he had presumed.

Quite on the contrary, she’d appeared to be exhilarated.

That would serve them well, Sesshoumaru thought. Perhaps his mother might mistake that sparkle in her eye for something else, of more romantic a making.

“Come,” Sesshoumaru told the miko, and started up the stairs.

There was a small part of him that wished to dawdle here a while longer, and that was precisely why it was best to go right away and get this sordid business dealt with.

The miko fell into a step beside him and Sesshoumaru silently approved.

The fact that his mother would disapprove of the miko had not been the sole reason why Sesshoumaru had decided to approach her with his request; that fearlessness and strength of character would serve her well when facing against his Lady Mother.

The stairs ended all too soon. Ahead, on its dais, the giant throne loomed.

And there, his mother sat in her usual, regal manner.

No going back now.

Sesshoumaru reached for the miko’s hand, entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her along.

Her hand felt warm and small engulfed in his own. And at the same time, oddly reassuring.

He did not bow and scrape as he stopped before the throne.

He met his mother’s assessing gaze, his head high.

“Sesshoumaru. What an unexpected pleasure,” his mother spoke. Her golden eyes flicked to the miko, then back to Sesshoumaru.

“Mother,” he replied with a curt nod. “I have come to ask you to cease your meddling.”

“Oh?” One elegant eyebrow rose in a show of surprise. “And what meddling would that be, then?”

“This quest of yours to find me a suitable mate,” Sesshoumaru said, barely keeping himself from gritting his teeth. “You had best to abandon it.”

His mother tilted her head. Her attention was now fully focused on the miko.

“Because you have found someone you deem more suitable than any of the fine demonesses I have sent your way. I assume this human is your pick, then?”

To the miko’s credit, she calmly met his mother’s gaze. The only outward sign of her nervousness was in the way her fingers trembled in Sesshoumaru’s hold.

“Yes. She is the one my heart has chosen.”

His mother turned to regard him. “Your heart? My, that is truly unexpected. But perhaps I should not be so surprised; you are your father’s son after all.”

Sesshoumaru clenched his jaw as he stared down his mother.

His mother carelessly shrugged a shoulder, then with her clawed fingers beckoned for the miko to come closer.

“Come then, let me see you, little human.”

------------------------💙 ------------------------

Kagome was not sure what she had expected Sesshoumaru’s mother to be like, but she was awed by the demoness before her.

She was poised and elegant, but there was a glimmer in her eye, a twist to her lips she simultaneously found both intriguing and alarming. And the youki, coiled in the air around her, was staggering.

Kagome took a step forward, to do as she was bid, but then realised that Sesshoumaru still hadn’t let go of her hand.

She looked back to him.

His golden eyes boring to hers, he raised her hand to her lips, brushed a swift kiss across her knuckles before he released her hand.

She wasn’t sure if it was the look in his eyes or the unexpected gesture that had her heart trembling in her chest.

Heat fanned Kagome’s cheeks and she pulled back her hand, her nerves much more jittery than they had been just a moment ago.

She walked over to the throne quickly, all too aware of Sesshoumaru’s presence looming behind her.

Kagome stopped before the dais and bowed her head.

One thing was clear to her – this daiyoukai on the throne was every inch a lady.

Strong fingers tipped with deadly claws grabbed her chin in a firm grip and jolt of alarm shot through Kagome’s body. Her reiki flickered in response, coolly licking at the demoness’ fingers.

Behind her, she sensed the shift in Sesshoumaru’s youki. He felt tense, poised to attack.

The grip of her chin gentled and then Sesshoumaru’s mother tilted Kagome’s head and their eyes met

“Ahh, I see. She is a miko.”

Kagome stared back at her, silent but defiant.

“What an interesting choice you have made, my son,” the demoness said. “Compared to the human of your father’s choosing, this one lacks the beauty.”

Irritation flashed in Kagome’s eyes before she had a chance to rein in her temper.

The red lips of the demoness curved up immediately.

“But it would seem your pick has more spirit,” she pronounced, glancing at Sesshoumaru. “That is good, she shall need it.”

Kagome wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

She suspected that sort of confusion was a common experience when dealing with Sesshoumaru’s mother.

“We do not need your approval,” Sesshoumaru said, his voice terse. “I am determined to go forth with the courting regardless of your opinions, mother.”

“I am sure you are, if your heart is involved,” the demoness replied.

She let go of Kagome’s chin.

Kagome breathed a little easier.

But the examination was only beginning.

“What is your name, little miko?”

“Kagome.”

“And have you accepted my son’s offer of courtship?”

“I have,” Kagome lied.

The demoness lips twisted and Kagome thought she was displeased of her answer.

A moment later, she realised the expression she’d just seen flit on Sesshoumaru’s mother’s face had been amusement.

Somehow, that terrified her more than the daiyoukai’s displeasure.

“And has your heart chosen my son, as his has you?” she asked.

Kagome swallowed, fighting an urge to squirm. She wondered if there was some meaning lurking behind the formal words she did not recognise, some significance youkai gave to the phrase.

Her heart hammered in her chest, silent of any choices to make.

Oddly enough, it was Sesshoumaru’s youki, wrapping around her shoulders like a warm cape that calmed her down, reassured her.

Her stomach still felt heavy with the weight of the deceit, but she managed to get the words out.

“It has, my lady.”

“Hmm,” was the demoness’ noncommittal reply.

They studied each other a moment longer in silence.

Then, the demoness leaned back on her throne.

“You may address me as Lady Kidoku,” she told Kagome.

Kagome bowed her head, unsure how to respond to that.

“You may step down now.”

Kagome quickly retreated back to Sesshoumaru’s side, feeling relieved.

She flashed him a victorious smile.

Unbelievable as it was, it looked like his hare-brained plan had worked.

But Sesshoumaru didn’t return the smile. His eyes had narrowed, and he was regarding his mother with suspicion.

His hand came to rest at the small Kagome’s back, but it didn’t feel like he was putting a show for his mother’s benefit. His fingers were pressing in, belying his agitation.

Kagome set her hand on his arm, hoping the gesture would help reassure him, as his youki had her.

“Well,” Lady Kidoku said at last, regarding the both of them. “A miko is not what I would have chosen for you, my son. But in the matters of the heart, the only choice of significance is one of your own making. In the end, my dearest wish is not seeing you mated to a suitable demoness, Sesshoumaru, but your happiness. And so, though you said you would not need it, I give you my blessing to proceed with your courtship.”

Kagome gripped Sesshoumaru’s arm. Her head was whirling. Had this insane plan really worked so well that it had now completely backfired on them?

Sesshoumaru was bowing his head, and Kagome quickly followed his lead.

“Thank you,” Sesshoumaru said, the words stiff.

Then, he turned and pulled Kagome away with him.

------------------------💙 ------------------------

Safely back on the ground, on clearing at the edge of Inuyasha’s forest, Sesshoumaru brooded in silence while Kagome babbled, trying to settle her rattled nerves.

“Well, that didn’t go as expected,” she said. “But I guess it could have been worse.”

“Worse?” the word came out as a snarl, but used to Inuyasha’s foul temper Kagome didn’t as much as flinch.

Even when Sesshoumaru whirled around, his glowing golden eyes trained at her.

“Pray tell me, miko, how that could have gone any worse than it did.”

Kagome blinked.

“She believed it, didn’t she? The lie? If she had found us out, it would have only added fuel to her fire. She would have kept sending you candidates, likely doubled her efforts.”

“Hnn.”

“But because she thinks we’re in love, she’s going to leave you alone now. So in the end, your plan worked.”

Kagome smiled.

Sesshoumaru glowered.

“The plan backfired splendidly,” he growled. “And you have met my mother now, Kagome. Do you truly believe she will leave me alone, now that she believes I have a worthy prospect?”

“I…” Kagome faltered. “...guess not,” she finished in a mutter, and bit her lip.

She understood the predicament they were in now, and why Sesshoumaru was so glum.

But Kagome wasn’t so easily defeated.

“Okay then, new plan,” she told him. “We play along for your mother’s benefit but the courtship will fail. I can be the bad guy, turning you down, so your mother can’t blame you.”

Sesshoumaru shook his head. “If the courtship would fail my mother would be sure to find fault with me. And then she would once again start trying to find me matches. No, that is not an option.”

Frustration building up, Kagome propped her hands on her hips and glared right back at Sesshoumaru.

“Well what do you suggest we do then? It’s not like we can just go and proceed with a courtship.”

Sesshoumaru didn’t reply. He was looking at her, his head slightly tilted and his gaze piercing. Assessing.

The bottom of Kagome’s stomach sank and her throat was suddenly all dry. Her hands fell from her hips, their strength gone.

“Sesshoumaru?” she said. “Please tell me it would be totally ridiculous to go ahead with the courtship.”

“It would not be a choice I would have considered making before,” he said at last. “I would have preferred not to take a mate at all. But if one is forced to choose between the only options available, he will take the most appealing course of action.”

Kagome swallowed.

Her heart was racing and she couldn’t really tell if that trembling in the pit of her stomach was from building dread or something else entirely.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, clinging to the fraying threads of calm.

Sesshoumaru stalked forward and somehow Kagome managed to stand her ground, even though her knees felt frightfully weak.

Sesshoumaru stopped in front of her. He reached forward and caught a strand of her dark hair, wound it around his finger.

“It would seem,” he spoke at last, “that this Sesshoumaru is going to court a miko.”

------------------------💙 ------------------------

Lady Kidoku propped the stem of her pipe against her smiling lips and inhaled the sweet smoke.

She had been glad to see her obstinate son taking some initiative at last, though it was laughable to think that he believed his little charade with the miko would have been able to fool her.

Lady Kidoku blew out smoke and chuckled.

No, her oblivious son would not know love even if – or rather, Lady Kidoku suspected, when – it would sink its sharp teeth deep into his behind.

Even so, her son’s visit with the delightful little miko had left Lady Kidoku hopeful.

Knowing her son, it would probably still take quite a long while until she would see him happily mated.

But pretending though they had been, Lady Kidoku had detected something real.

In the way her son had been obviously protective of her and deeply offended when she’d remarked the miko’s beauty had not been on par with that of his father’s hime. In the way the miko had blushed at her son’s unexpected gallantry.

Lady Kidoku had seen it all; especially that spark. Small and tentative, perhaps, but unmistakably there. The start of something great, or so she hoped.

And she hoped, that by granting the two her blessing, she might have likewise given them the first nudge into the rest of their lives together. End.

#sesskag #sesskag valentine's big bang #sesskag fic #fake dating #chie writes #fic: sk

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