#rip sy you could have been like this had i had more patience and a better grasp of where to divide chapters

[cheswirls]

started this au last year n wrote close to 5k in notes and then blazed thru almost 20k in 2 or 3 days and then tabled it past adding more notes bc i couldnt. idk. mental roadblock. more interesting things.

anyway i picked it back up the other night n ended what i would consider pt 1 at 25k and completely reignited my passion + drive for it so instead of switching drafts ill prolly steamroll into pt2 and see where it takes me

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 19: Debridement

Characters: Captain Logan “Sy” Syverson, Shane Benton (OFC), various other original supporting/secondary characters

Summary: Shane begins to process life after her trauma, and Sy delivers the news of her safety to the people that matter most to her…but there is pushback on a few aspects of his report.

Romance and Smut Abound HERE!

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Mostly fluff, but with mention of Shane’s trauma in the cellar. Not graphic. 

Author’s Note: My darling readers! Thank you so much for your patience as I deal with seasonal stress, fatigue, anxiety, and some depression. It was my goal to have all chapters of this story done by the end of this year. I don’t think I’ll accomplish it, but I’ll do my very best to get at least one more chapter up by the 31st. 2020 has been a totally shit year, but I will forever owe it some remarkable things. This story, which has been an amazing escape from real life, the friends I’ve made from all over my country and the world, many of them because of this story, and a long overdue shift in my work hours starting next week. I’ll be glad to see the back of it, but the year has really opened me up to new ideas and some major soul-searching. I think, mentally, I’m actually more myself than I’ve ever been, despite some blue times. You can all take some credit for that improvement, because many of my moments of clarity have arisen from brilliant and profound posts here.

The title of this chapter seemed appropriate for a few reasons. Wounds are cleaned and cleared of damaged tissue during debridement. This is one of the steps usually required for a large and/or traumatic wound to heal. We see Shane beginning this process here in this chapter, and in a sense, Sy, as well. The cleansing of Shane in both the literal and figurative sense was so interesting and satisfying to write. And Sy’s bit at the end was a fun puzzle in which I had to figure out how to have Sy give the same news to four different recipients without sounding repetitive. I hope that landed, and if anyone has any suggestions, please let me know.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism. This is an original work by me, Hannah. Please reblog if you wish to share. Please do not repost either in whole or part, as the work of anyone but myself. Thanks so much for reading!

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If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Shane still felt as if her head was floating above her body, like a balloon on a long string. The combination of meds in her system had helped many of her symptoms. The pain she felt, the physical pain, had been alleviated. Her troubled mind had been put at ease, more or less. But that was a long time ago. And unfortunately, the side effects weren't wearing off at the rapid rate of the intended ones.

As she sat in the SUV--the escape vehicle-- parked outside a large building the size of a small airplane hangar, she tried not to think about what Sy and his pals were discussing just outside the vehicle. She tried not to reflect on the past few days that she had convinced herself would be her last. She tried not to think about what -- or, really, who -- was inside that building.

She thought about seeing Elliott again. The man who had planned to kill her, and almost succeeded. A part of her wished he had, because she wasn't sure she knew who she was anymore. She was a stranger to herself. And living like this seemed so much more difficult than a quick painless death. She couldn't bear the thought of being in view of him.

But another part of her wanted to go in there and end his life herself. That part of her could pull the trigger on a gun aimed at his head. That part of her could bury a knife in his kidney, or sever an artery. Her anatomy and physiology courses could serve her well here. She had dangerous knowledge. Maybe that's why doctors often seem so full of themselves. They possess the knowledge to end life, and yet they choose to save it. It sort of puts things into perspective. Maybe they're justified in their hubris.

Still one more part simply wanted to go home, clean up, and lay naked in her soft sheets with Sy wrapped around her. Warmer and more comforting than any blanket had ever been. She had remembered missing him so much. She thought now about his gentle, loving hands on her, his mouth tasting her so delicately, his…

But then her mind was ripped from the sensual thoughts of Sy and back to her horrific memories from that cellar. The hands of strangers, rough and hateful, their mouths full of words like bile or the grunts of their own violent fulfillment.

Her nightmare of a daydream was abruptly interrupted by the opening of the back passenger door. She jumped, and looked at the source of the noise with wide-eyed terror. It was only Sy, but she couldn't school her face into a softer expression, even after realizing she was safe.

"Oh, Sunshine, I'm so sorry I startled ya! You okay?"

She said nothing, just let out her held breath woefully.

"Let's head home. I'll get your purse and bag of clothes here."

"I don't want those clothes. Throw them away. And these shoes are going in the trash as soon as possible, too."

"Okay. I'll toss it. You sure?"

"I never want to see that bag again. I'm positive."

He nodded, grabbed her purse, and went around to help her out of the vehicle.

One of Sy's friends approached them from the building.

"You guys okay? You'll make it home alright?"

"Yeah, Matt, we'll be okay. I'll be in touch soon about next steps."

"You got it, Captain. Anything you need, let us know."

"Will do. Thanks for everything you've already done. I owe ya."

"You don't owe me a thing, brother. You don't owe any of us. Not after everything you've done for all of us…for everyone."

Sy just nodded at Matt, and turned toward his truck, steadying Shane all the way to the passenger door.

The drive to Shane's house was quiet. Sy kept one hand on the wheel, holding hers in the other. She felt safe, but she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling inside her. Like the other shoe would soon drop, and her love would be taken away again.

When they were safely parked in her driveway, Sy took her keys out of his pocket, apparently having gotten them from his friend who'd drove her car from Elliott's to the airplane hangar place. He walked around to get her, and helped her to her door. She kicked off her shoes immediately when she stepped inside her shadowy living room. She had left the same lamp on that she always did, but it was dimmer now, having been on almost a whole week.

"Bath?" Sy asked. Shane nodded slowly. She would need a long soak to erase this feeling.

Sy got the bath water ready while she found some clothes to put on after. She laid her comfiest lounge pants and her favorite sweat shirt on the bed and walked toward the bathroom. She was soon hit with the comforting aroma of lavender, chamomile, and vanilla as soon as she stepped through the doorway. He had used her favorite bubble bath and salts.

"Check that water temp. I think it's about right." he requested. It was perfect. She started to peel off the stiff paper scrubs she was still wearing, but he insisted on helping her. As she stood before him, even though he'd seen every inch of her body before, she felt more naked and exposed than ever. She looked at him, noticed tears welling in his eyes, and dropped her gaze to the bath mat under her feet. Her skin, typically immaculately clear, olive perfection, was now peppered with dozens of bruises. She felt like a dalmatian, covered in spots. She chuckled inside herself at the thought of one of her favorite Disney films featuring the breed most heavily.

Sy's strong, but gentle hands landed softly on her upper arms. His lips lit tenderly on her forehead. "Ready?" he asked. She nodded and stepped into the large, garden tub full of steaming water. It stung her feet, ankles, and calves, but she still bent to sit, wincing as her tender petals and behind met the medicinal broth. Sy held her hand as she stepped in and guided her down. She closed her eyes at the soothing pain of the hot water and did not open them until she felt the water level rise. Sy had stepped in with her, wearing just his boxer-briefs, and was sitting on the side of the tub. He reached for the hand shower, and turned the water back on, slightly less warm, but still soothing and soaked her hair, directing the water away from her face. He had thought to grab her shampoo from the shower, as well, and was lathering some up in his hands to apply to her wet strands. It felt like heaven to have his fingers in her hair like this. Relaxing and soporific. He kept at it until she was certain he must be getting pruney, not to mention tired.

After carefully rinsing her hair of the coconut-scented lather, he grabbed the lavender foam bath she loved, and worked it up in one of the wash cloths he'd brought from the linen caddy between the sink and shower. He massaged the suds into her tired and injured skin over her back, then requested each leg in turn, kneading her calves and feet as she took another of the cloths and washed her face with the rich cleanser she kept by the bath, typically using it only on her "spa days" but feeling that it would nourish her battered cheeks and nose better than anything else. Sy's ministrations filled her with a kind of blissful contentment. She couldn't help but wonder if she deserved him. She always had thought she deserved the best things in life, even though her romantic past didn't tend to pan out that way. She'd worked very hard and often allowed herself to invest in quality. But now…she felt broken, in spite of herself. She'd have to tell Sy all that happened to her one day, and when that day came, he'd probably realize how damaged she really was, and he'd leave. Just like everyone else always did. She knew the conversation needed to come sooner rather than later, but couldn't bring herself to break the spell yet.

Sy let her soak for as long as she was comfortable until the water grew tepid. She looked up to him, sitting on the side of the tub, legs now outside, his gaze like twin seas met hers. He had been watching her, it seemed. As if worried that she would dematerialize if he looked away. Her bath robe was draped across his lap, as was a large bath towel. She moved to stand from the now chilled bath water, and Sy was immediately up to aid her rising. He held her hand as she stepped out of the tub and dried her top half before helping her don the robe, then continued to dry her bottom half.

"Go on in there and get comfortable, Sunshine. I have a few phone calls to make. I wanna let your folks know you're okay and I wanna tell Detective Clarkson you've been found. Anyone else you want me to get in touch with?"

"Umm, do you know if my brother and sister know what's happened to me?"

"They do. They should both be at your parent's house by now from what I gathered when I visited."

"Okay, so mom or dad will let them know. I guess you should call Susan, and let her know that I'm alive but won't be in this week. On my fridge, there's a phone directory for everyone in my department. But first, call Heather. I don't want her to worry any longer. Call her right after mom and dad. And tell them all I'll have them over tomorrow, but I can't tonight. I'm…"

She didn't even know what she was. Tired, sore, depressed, hopeless, and angry. A combination of so many feelings and emotions coursed through her.

"I'll work it out. You get in bed, and I'll be back in when I'm done with these calls, okay?" she nodded. He continued, "I love you, darlin.'" and wrapped his arms around her, making her feel almost whole again.

"I love you." she replied. Holding back tears until he had left the room.

~~~~~~

Shane realized she hadn't brushed her teeth in…far too long. She donned her sleeping clothes and went into the bathroom again to complete a comprehensive oral hygiene routine.  Sy had been gone for about a half hour, during which time, his absence felt like a noose around her neck. Or an anvil on her chest. It made it feel like hours had passed rather than mere minutes. She was fidgety. When he finally re-entered, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do you need anything, sweet pea?"

"Just you."

Sy crawled under the covers with Shane to spoon her, arm laying over her rib cage. She winced, as the bruises on her torso were disturbed at the contact, but she didn't ask him to adjust. Despite the dull pain, this was what she needed. Sy's protecting arm around her.

"Did you get a hold of everyone?" She asked, sleepily.

"I did. Your family are eager to see you, but they understand your need for rest. Heather says that you better let her come over soon, because she's holding your phone hostage until you pay her in hugs. They all send their love."

"And Susan?"

"Yeah, that woman is a piece of work, I know, but I think she's going to come through for you. She's going to have them hold off on scheduling patients with you until you're better, and put both weeks in as vacation. She said you have plenty of it. But also, if you need more time, she can work out some…family medical leave…thing? She said she'd get the ball rolling on that, and will let you know what you need to do on your end."

"Oh, good. Yeah, she can be an asshole, but sometimes she does right by her employees. What about the detective?"

Sy paused there. "I, uh, I talked to him for quite a while and he said a lot of things. Let's go over the finer points tomorrow at breakfast. Or, rather, today." He said, looking at the blue numbers on the glowing digital clock on Shane's nightstand that indicated the wee hours of the morning were running out. "I'm sure we're both tired enough to grab a few winks, ain't we?" He asked, and she hummed her ascent as she tucked herself closer to his warm, monolithic chest.

As Shane drifted off, she thought she felt a warm kiss, and a whisper at her temple. It sounded like a tearful prayer. She was too far into her sleep to comprehend the words being said.

"Thank you God," Sy whispered. "I know I'm not your most faithful servant, but I am truly grateful that you've kept this treasure of mine alive and brought her back to me. Thank you for reuniting me with the woman I mean to spend the rest of my days with, if she'll agree to it. Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About Thirty Minutes Ago-

Sy left the bedroom and began scrolling through his phone for the Benton's number. He pressed the call button with joy.

"Sy?" John answered frantically, just as he did the first time Sy spoke to him.

"John, is everyone there?"

"Yeah, we're all just watching a movie in the family room. Do you have news?"

"I do. You may want to put me on speaker, because everybody's going to want to hear this."

"Okay." and after a brief struggle with the speaker button and help from two younger people Sy presumed were Ethan and Gabby, John was back with the whole family. "Okay, Sy, we can all hear you. What's the word?"

"Oh, it's a very good word, guys. I found Shane and she is alive, and now safe." Cheering from what sounded like a stadium full of fanatics resounded from the ear piece of his cell phone.

"Sy, this is Gabby, Shane's sister. Can we come see her now?" Gabby's tears were evident in her voice. He wished he could tell them yes. But Shane needed her rest.

"I know she would love to see you, Gabby, she'd love to see all of you, but I think what she needs right now is rest. She's been through…a terrible ordeal. I took her to the Emergency Room to get checked out, and she just had a bath and is about to go to bed. She'll want to see you all tomorrow, though. Maybe around lunch time?"

"That sounds good, Sy. We'll bring some of this food over." John said.

"Are you sure we can't come over tonight? I…I want to see my daughter with my own eyes." Margaret said, weepily.

"I truly wish I could tell you yes, Peg, but she's hardly slept the last week, and just had her first full meal since she was taken this evening at the hospital. I really think it's best for everyone if you guys wait until tomorrow when she's more herself and rested." Sy reiterated.

"What about the people who did this to her?" a male voice he didn't recognize asked, assured to be Ethan. "Any leads on them?" He wanted to tell them that most of the men had been dealt with using lethal or nearly lethal force, and that the perpetrator of Shane's misery was locked up in Matt's shop bathroom until they decided just how to take care of him. But he needed to disclose what he knew to as few people as possible.

"The less y'all know, the better. For your own good. At least right now. Just know that whatever justice has not yet been served, it will be very soon."

"That's good enough for me." John offered, in an apparent attempt to bring Ethan on side.

"Thanks, John. I'll take care of her tonight. I won't leave her side. I promise."

"Thank you, son." John replied. Sy appreciated the tender address, but wondered how Ethan felt about his father referring to someone else as his son. Probably not that great. He couldn't worry about that now.

"It's my sincerest pleasure. I want you to know that. She's my world now. I won't let anything else happen to her."

"We know, dear." Peg added.

"Good night. And we'll see y'all tomorrow."

Four incoherent replies rang out before he ended the call. Next was Heather.

"Hello?" she answered in sleepy confusion.

"Heather?"

"Who'sis?"

"It's Logan Syverson. Sy? From PT. Shane's boyfriend."

"Sy! Oh, it's good to hear from you! Any news?"

"The best news, darlin.' Our girl is alive, and home safe." he smiled ear to ear saying the words, but it quickly turned into a wince when Heather shouted for joy in his ear. It was fine. Not like he didn't already have mild tinnitus.

"Oh my GOD! I'm coming over right now!"

"No, Heather, she's resting. She told me she'll see people tomorrow, but I don't think anyone but you and her family should be allowed in right now. She's…well, she's been through seven levels of Hell, and when I look into her eyes, I can still see the fire."

"Shit. Anything I can do?"

"She'll be thrilled to see ya. But tomorrow."

"She better. I have her phone and the ransom is a thousand hugs."

"That's a steep debt." Sy chuckled.

"She can owe me for a while." Heather laughed. "Is she okay?"

What a loaded question. Physically, she was injured, but would heal. Emotionally, that would be more of a journey.

"Honestly, Heather? Not really. The physical stuff is more or less superficial, but…I'm worried about her mental state."

"Poor thing. Please let me know if I can do anything. Anything at all. She's like a sister to me."

"I will. For now, keep the news and the details quiet. I'm gonna call Susan next, and I don't think she'll like it if you know before she does. Just a hunch."

"An accurate one. She'd be furious. I'll keep mum. Thanks so much for putting my mind at ease, Sy. Take care of her."

"I'll do my best. See ya."

He was dreading talking to Susan the most. More than Clarkson. He couldn't quite pinpoint why, but she'd really pissed him off every other time he'd talked to her, and he really didn't think too much of her.

"Hello, this is Susan."

"Hey, Susan, it's Logan Syverson. Shane's boyfriend." He made sure to put the label in there. Remind her that her policy had not been enough to keep them apart.

"Mr. Syverson. Hello. What can I do for you?" her haughty tone was softened a measure with concern for her employee. Even though she didn't ask about her in so many words, he knew that she was wondering.

"Nothing. I just wanted to let ya know, Shane's okay. She's been hurt, and won't be in this coming week, at least. She's in some pain right now, of both a physical and emotional nature."

"What happened?"

"She, uh, hasn't given me a lot of details." Not a lie. "She just escaped from her captor and we found each other." Misleading, but mostly true. "We just got home from the ER." Perhaps a lie by omission of the stop off at Matt's. "They said she'd be okay, but to follow up with her primary for more tests."

"Okay, I'll make sure her schedule is cleared. She has plenty of PTO for these two weeks, but I'll call the FMLA office in charge of family medical leave and short term disability and let them know she'll need some more time off, and see if we can get that going. I'll get with her about the details, and what she'll need to do. I'll text her sometime this week. How's she doing?" Sy thought he heard genuine concern from this dragon woman.

"About as well as someone who's been kidnapped, tortured, and assaulted for a straight week can possibly be, I'd say." Sy's words were civil, but tinged with venom. Even though she was being decent right now, he knew the kind of person she could be.

"Dear God." Susan gasped, shocked at the statement, and Sy wasn't sure whether it was due to the events themselves, or the blunt way he'd told her about them. "Well, I'll do anything I can to help her though this on my end. She's one of my best. I can't…I really don't think I could replace her."

"I'm glad you don't have to try, Susan. Have a nice evenin.'"

"Thanks, Sy, you too."

Sy took a deep breath as he pulled up Clarkson's number and called him. He honestly wasn't completely certain how he was going to explain things, but he'd figure it out. He was good at flyin' by the seat of his pants.

A gruff voice came from the ear piece. "Clarkson."

"Detective, this is Captain Syverson. We spoke about the Benton case a few days ago?"

"I remember you, Sy. What's up?"

"Oh, uh, well, wanted to tell ya you could close the case. I found her." It was the coming conversation in which he would really have to bend the truth or lie altogether.

"Really?! Oh, that's great, man. Where'd ya find 'er."

"I's drivin' 'round, hopin' to come across some lead or sign of her. I was a few miles down highway 100 when I saw a slumped form in one of the ditches. I pulled off at the next drive and went back to check, and it was her. She was hurt, but once she recognized me…I dunno, everything's kind of a blur after that. But I got her checked out at the ER, and brought her home now." Most of that statement was false…but not the recount of them seeing each other for the first time. That was a very real and true fact.

"Highway 100?"

"That's right. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I heard about a terrible, two-vehicle accident on Highway D tonight. No survivors."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." He wasn't. "I hope there weren't any kids involved." He knew there weren't.

"Nope. All adult males, aged 30-40. Couple of SUVs. One ran off the road, and another…well, it's almost like it was blown up on purpose. Happened just a few miles from town."

"That sounds horrible, but what does an accident on Highway E--"

"It was D. Highway D." Sy knew it was, and had said the wrong thing on purpose.

"My mistake. My question though, is what does that…tragedy have to do with my finding Shane on Highway 100?"

"That's what I'm wondering, myself, Syverson. See, there was some…evidence that suggests military involvement in this incident."

"Well, I'm retired."

"Are you though?  Is anyone ever really retired from the armed forces. No veteran I've ever talked to can seem to shake off the war shackles."

"Well, I ain't shackeled, detective. I'm proud of my time serving my country, but I got no cause to relive it or hang on to it. Especially now that I have Shane. She's my life now. That part of it’s over."

"I guess I have to take you at your word, captain. Got no evidence so far that ties you to the scene. Just…be careful. If you do anything retaliatory to Miss Benton's captor or captors, I won't be able to protect you, no matter how I feel about your actions. Or how justified they might be."

"Understood. I will keep that in mind should I decide to take matters into my own hands." he tried not to let the smile on his face show in his voice.

"Right, well…is she okay?"

"I, uh…I think she will be…eventually. She hasn't said much to me about what happened, but I know it was torture, or akin to it. "

"Well, I hope she recovers quickly. I'll want a statement from her before I close the case."

"Sure thing. As soon as she's ready to talk."

"Great. Thanks for the call, Sy. I'm glad she's safe now. That's all that matters, really."

"Agree. Have a good night, Clarkson."

He ended the call and rubbed his face as head in frustration with his free hand. They'd have to come up with a story. A good one. Close enough to the truth that Shane could feel comfortable telling it, but far enough of a departure that they weren't incriminated in any kidnapping, murder, or manslaughter charges.

But for tonight, they’d rest. And just be glad to be together again.

Up Next: Chapter 20-Second Assist

[honestsycrets]

What She Really Wants III: Doppelganger

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk encounters a surprise when he meets his long lost love.

❛  warnings | verbal arguments, explosion, fighting, single family, broken family. 

❛ sy’s notes | here is the next segment!

For those brief few seconds, your mind is racing. 

Magnus doesn’t call you Mor, and so you know it’s not Magnus. It’s your little boy. Your grown-up Mads who just opened that creaky door and found his absent father standing there in the hall. Your little Mads whose body is quivering as much as his voice was at the sight of a man who looks… so familiar. If he were fifteen years younger, they might have passed for one another. Except for certain looks of yours he inherited. 

“Mor--” he calls out in a question of a statement. You drop your sopping cloth, rushing around the corner. 

For those brief few seconds, Hvitserk’s mind is racing too. 

A little punk in your home. He thought he ran one off. Did you really have two little fuckers you were fucking? But as the door shut behind him, he realized something was off about this one. His eyes were flecked with green and shaped like delicious little almonds. His cheeks were full. Clearly well-fed, and his lips were slender, puckering as those eyes widened so deeply in recognition. 

Neither of them knew each other. But both knew.

“Far?” he whispers. 

It stings. It fucking-- it fucking stung him harder than any bee, hornet, or even that snake in India. You grip the edge of the breakfast bar a few seconds too late. Mads swallows a dry breath when his father fists his t-shirt, pulling him into his face.

“What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you?” 

“Mor!” he shouts.

“Don’t give me that Mor fuckin’ bullshit you li’l rat--” 

“Hvitserk stop! He’s your son.” You hear yourself say. You take a few wide steps up to Hvitserk, grabbing his shoulders. That’s enough to make him pop off. 

“My son?! My son is dead!” He spins around, shoving your neck into the wall. A sharp pressure digs into your throat from his curling fingers. Mads lurches, and yet, you will him down with a hand. “You told me he was dead.”

But he’s not. You don’t need to say it.  

“You-- you fuckin’ bitch.” Hvitserk holds your frightened eyes for minutes. Then, leaving your throat, his hand slips off to your shoulder, balling up to punch just beside your head. His knuckles crack, smacking the same spot with each pained word. “You lied to me!”

“Don’t disrespect my mor like that! You’re the one who left!” Mads dares say, stepping to the side of his father. He grabs Hvitserk’s shoulder and whirls him around. His words punch the anger straight of Hvitserk’s stomach. “You left me.” 

Your skin crawls. It was your mistake to go with that lie. No, not your lie. Your mother’s lie. Except she was dead, in the cold cold ground. His face sears with hate you’ve never seen this close. You were told things. That Hvitserk’s fury unchecked could result in a beating. 

“I didn’t fucking leave.” Hvitserk thumps his head on the wall, as opposed to yours, holding himself back. His strong and intent expression shifts, looking at you through the corner of his eye. If you were carved of wax, you would have melted in your shame. “I was fucking pushed out. You think I’d leave my kids? My fuckin’... my fiance.”

His eyes grew heavy with the thought. As he thought of that day, fifteen years ago, Hvitserk finds himself tremoring. Your shattered family, his phone going off, surgery-- you called it. You had surgery. And that night. 

His jaw works as if he tries to hold back the words that curdle in his mouth, his shoulders tense with knots. He steps away from Mads, slamming in his steps to the door. Mads steps in front of it. 

“Move,” Hvitserk says, tapering in anger while reaching around him. 

“No!” Mads shoves him back, hard enough with his palms that he has no choice but to stay there rather than claw past his new-found son. One of them was going to lose control. It was only an issue of which one.

“Mads, let him go. I know you’re angry but--” you stop. Feel your body tighten up. A part of you knew that both boys wouldn’t understand why or how you made the choices you did. 

“He has shit to explain!”

“Mads Nikolaj—“

“You called him Mads.” Hvitserk throws his hands behind his head. He grins like a savage, feral thing as he walks away from the door and deeper into your house. “You knew what you were doing that night.” 

You were planning it all out. Leaving him… it hadn’t been some spur of the moment decision, no. You planned to leave him. 

To take his son away from him. 

All fifteen years of him. It takes all of his effort to simply stare at the clock, to pretend like a pendulum of his patience wouldn’t strike into an explosion. Mads looks askance at you, and then to his father, eager to ask him something new. 

“Go to your room.” 

“But Mor I have questions--” 

“NOW Mads.” 

The shuffle of footsteps tells him that Mads has gone to his room. Wherever that was. All your secrets, out in the open. Lies. Lies is what they were. Ones to placate Mads in the easiest way how. By blaming Hvitserk, making him the scapegoat. Maybe it did not matter. 

Hvitserk’s hands are still raised behind his head when you turn back to him, the muscles of his back tense. “It wasn’t safe for him. After far’s death and our little baby—“

He winces at the mention. 

“He wasn’t safe with you. Mor thought I should…”

He turns around, whirling to face you. He digs in his wallet, ripping out a film. When you look down to it, you realize what it is. 

A sonogram. Of the twins. 

“I want my paternity established.” Hvitserk says without another word, stepping around you. The door closes shut with a slam. You exhale a breath. It’s not of relief. In the other room, you had a grown son that was looking for answers. How long had he gone on thinking his father did not want him? Years too many. But… Hvitserk was here now. He wanted to be in his life. 

You owed him that at least. 

“Mads?” your knuckles clack against his hollow door. 

With no response, you push in. He’s sitting on his bed, his long hair over his shoulder out of the tight bun he usually kept it in. His shirt has been thrown off somewhere, the floor littered with his clothes. You pick up his clothes as you come in, gingerly setting them in his white laundry basket. Mads sits there with his basketball in his hands, flicking it around while his eyes stare off at his light grey walls. 

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Mads asks, calm but with a sense of hopelessness to his voice. He heard his father leave. He wondered if he would come back. The bed creaks under your weight as you sit beside him. You study his face, tracing out just how enraged he was with you. Unlike his father, though. The heaving of his chest results in harsh shuddering breaths. He’s not mad, you acknowledge, he’s so impossibly hurt. 

That’s worse than being mad. You hand him the laminated sonogram that Hvitserk had shoved at you, leaning in against his shoulder. The basketball falls from his fingers with a dribble, rolling away toward his connecting bathroom and the walk-in closet to the right of it. 

“Two sacks?” he asks. 

“This is you… and your sister.” 

“I have a sister?” Mads asks, staring down at the young ultrasound. The last one before the accident. If you could dispense the memory of that event, you would. 

“She didn’t make it.” You say, running your tongue over your lips. Mads’s lips press together. 

“The accident?” 

“After it, Mormor thought it would be best if… we didn’t tell your father. He’s a Ragnarsson and-- his ex caused it. She thought you would be in danger and,” 

“But that doesn’t explain why you lied. You-- I could take it, you know Mor. Just… if you talked to me. You didn’t have to lie to me.” Mads sucks in his breath, garbled. Your boy with his calm demeanor, wide smiles, and limited interest in anger. He sets the sonogram aside, clenching his eyes together. His fist migrates to his mouth, biting his knuckle with force. “It would’ve been better than thinking my Far abandoned me.” 

“No, baby-- no.” You reach out, lowering his bitten knuckles from his face. “He loved you. More than anything.” 

“But he isn’t gonna come back.” 

You dip down to fall to your knees in front of your son. You pull him close, pressing your lips to his forehead. “He’ll come back,” you say. “For you. He wants you in his life. We’ll establish paternity and…” 

“I ruined it,” Mads whispers, the wetness of his tears falling over your skin. You reach up to clear his skin of the tears. You think you’ve covered it all but his knowing. He’s a witty, smart boy. He must have known why he was there. “Mikkel said-- he said he was coming back to be with his family, that he loved you, and he’d only be in the way and I thought that I could see him and thought-- thought--” 

“It’s okay,” you wrench him close, off the bed. His soft cheek presses against your chest through the tears. 

“It’s not your fault,” you kiss the top of his hair. Wet sobs wrack through his body, shaking from his hands to his fingertips. Through the tears, he cracks a laugh, one with no humor behind it. “I wanted a family.”

That, you fear, is now out of the question.

Me

Contact sent. 

Mads’s number, be gentle with him.

The message sent reads early evening. While you send it some time ago, you had been busy coaxing Mads out from his grief. You fell back onto your bed in little more than the silky white slips you always used to wear. The ones that Hvitserk would glide his hand under your ass, give you a mean squeeze and… or spank you. 

With Mads fed and doing school work before bed, you had nothing to do now that the sun was set over the horizon. The locks were locked twice over, the security system set. Everything was peaceful and should be perfect but… there’s no Mikkel, there’s no Hvitserk. These nights are the hardest. Your fingers ghost over your stomach, empty and barren. Mads was a good son. If you only had him, you would be fine. You doze off, descending into sleep. A buzzing on your nightstand doesn’t wake you.

Hvitserk 

Thanks.

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[secret-engima]

Snippet of Deleantur (pt2)

(continuation from later on in this one-shot that continues to spiral out of control. Friendly summary is that Deleantur is a time-traveling Noctis who went back way further than he intended, but that’s okay since it just meant he saved the world in time to save Ardyn too. Of course, he’s the only one who knows about that time-travel bit, so other people are Very Confused at times)

     Somnus was genuinely overjoyed when Deleantur finally expressed interest in fishing at a large pool they stumbled across. Because as boring as it was to wait around while Deleantur tirelessly hunted down fish with his rod and line, it was a sign of the young man he, Ardyn, and Aera had been coming to know —a sign of the brother Somnus and Ardyn were coming to love as fiercely as they ever had each other—.

     Somnus even made an effort to demonstrate as much by sitting next to Deleantur on his chosen rock, watching the ripples in the water as Deleantur patiently reeled in his line again and recast in hopes of a bite, “You have a lot of patience for this.”

     Deleantur hummed, “I like it.”

     Somnus huffed, “Yes, but-. You aren’t this patient with other activities. It’s …” unusual, strange, interesting, “different.”

     “That’s because it doesn’t hurt.”

     Somnus stilled and behind him, Ardyn and Aera did too, “…Hurt?”

     Deleantur gave a low noise as he adjusted his grip on his fishing pole, “Yeah.” Deleantur paused, like he was considering something, then continued, “When I was a kid, about … eight years old. I … couldn’t do a lot of stuff. It hurt too much and I was already constantly tired from the medication and the physical therapy. I didn’t want to go outside, even though they said sunshine and fresh air would help me. I didn’t want to … play or run or jump, but books were boring and heavy. So Dad took me out one day and … taught me to fish. He showed me his fishing rod and his line and his lures, taught me how to hold the rod and throw a line, then we sat there together and waited for a fish.”

     Deleantur’s tone was nostalgic and Somnus didn’t dare speak, because this was the first time Deleantur had ever truly talked about his father or his childhood. Deleantur fidgeted with his reel, “I think if I’d been any other kid, it would have been boring. But it was outdoors, and I had a perfect excuse to sit still in the sunshine for hours, and … and Dad was there. Dad was teaching me. So I practiced, and I begged to go fishing whenever I could because I knew he’d come with me to show me how it was done and eventually I … loved it. It reminds me of those days. Before…” Deleantur’s voice trailed off, and breath hitched with sadness.

     Ardyn, who had settled silently on Deleantur’s other side at some point in the story, asked, “Why was it so painful for you to move? Did your father not know the recipes for your powerful healing draughts?” Because potions and elixirs did not require the magic of the Crystal they’d learned, just careful selection of ingredients and even more careful preparation.

     Deleantur did that gesture with his shoulders that he used so often, “Potions and elixirs only work so well. Especially when it’s … serious. If I’d gotten one as soon as it happened, maybe it would have worked, but I didn’t, so I had to recover the slow way.”

     “Recover from what?”

     Deleantur looked up from his fishing, considered the two of them, then reached back with one hand to tug his tunic hem up just enough to show the small of his back and a bit of his spine. Ardyn sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the old scars stretching along the small of Noctis’s back, each at least as wide as two of Somnus’s fingers. The scars disappeared under his clothes in both directions, hinting at a size and damage larger than they could see and Somnus winced, because even he could tell that whatever had left those was … bad. They also looked distinctly like blade scars. Or possibly claws.

     Ardyn reached out with a shaking hand and it was a testament to how far they’d come in earning his trust that Deleantur didn’t flinch away from the gentle touch, just went back to his fishing with a quiet, “A daemon attack. Ripped open the car. Killed the bodyguards, then took out the woman trying to get me to safety. I’m not sure if it was aiming for me that time, or if my getting caught in it was just an … accident. It was going to finish me off when my dad and his guards showed up and drove it off, but by that point the damage was done.”

     Ardyn was still tracing the scars with a reverent touch, “It’s a miracle you survived this. It’s a miracle you can walk. I can only imagine-.” Ardyn stopped and went very quiet. So quiet Deleantur lowered his rod and twisted around to look at Ardyn in concern. Ardyn looked over his shoulder at Aera who was watching from a polite distance with a vaguely horrified expression, then looked back, “You are in pain, aren’t you? All the time. That’s why you limp, why you sleep so often and yet you-. All of this travel, and battle, and hard labor. Why?” Why would you do that to yourself?

     Deleantur sighed and slipped his fishing rod back into armiger with a flick of his wrist, shifted to face them, “It’s my duty.”

     Aera finally joined the conversation, settling down on the grass just behind their rock as she whispered, “You’ve mentioned duty before. What duty drives you to such lengths? No one knew you were of royal blood until a few months ago. Have you not already done enough?”

     Deleantur shook his head, “No. No it’s-. It’s not over,” his expression folded briefly, weary and old again before it smoothed out, “it’s never going to be over. I made a promise. I’m going to fulfill it.” He shook his head again, like a man trying to clear away an inner fog, “Besides, it’s not so bad. I’m … used to it. And it’s better now,” blue eyes glanced at them through thick lashes, “I’m not alone anymore.”

     Aera didn’t smile like she usually would have, just reached out her hands like Ardyn was already doing, “Can we-? May we try? To ease your pain?”

     Deleantur waved their hands away, “Don’t waste your time. The scars are … old, and I’m used to them.” He blinked at their expressions and insisted, “Seriously, I’m fine. I’m used to it, and if Sy- if the healers couldn’t fix it when it was fresh, you aren’t going to be able to fix it now.”

     Somnus watched the two healers of the group fuss and pout, Ardyn going so far as to wax on in a poetic way that was supposed to make Deleantur guilty enough to let him have his way, and tried to fit the newest puzzle pieces of Deleantur into place. Deleantur’s … father —not sire, because that would be Ardyn’s and Somnus’s father— must have been nobility. Deleantur had mentioned servants and guards and what must be one of his strange words for a carriage —Car? Car sounded like it was short for carriage, and Deleantur had a lot of strange words and even stranger ways of using existing words to mean things Somnus would never have associated with them—. Probably the noble of another kingdom, one of the neutral or far away ones, which would explain why Somnus’s father had never caught wind of Deleantur before now.

     But that didn’t explain some of the other things he’d said previously. Or how Deleantur’s mother had met Somnus’s father if her native kingdom did not interact much with Somnus’s. That wouldn’t explain why Deleantur was traveling around here instead of his home country —and Somnus would have heard if an entire kingdom fell in the months leading up to the Wave wouldn’t he?— or who Noctis was, the mysterious King of the Crystal Deleantur had only ever mentioned once. Ardyn had brought up the possibility of Noctis being Deleantur’s elder twin brother, which might explain that part, but that still didn’t explain how they’d learned to purify the starscourge or why Deleantur hadn’t returned to his home kingdom to help out the peasants there rather than the ones here.

     Not that Somnus wanted Deleantur to leave. He’d gotten attached to his mad, unexpected sibling.

     Somnus’s thoughts were interrupted by a startled yelp from Ardyn and a sudden splash of water rippling up onto the rock. Somnus looked up in mild alarm. Ardyn was missing from the rock, Aera was smothering laughter into her hands and Deleantur was grinning, honest to Astrals grinning, like a child who had successfully stolen something from under the cooks’ noses, and Ardyn was-.

     Resurfacing from the pond water, sputtering and sulking, violet red hair hanging in front of his face like a soaking curtain and his precious embroidered white tunic —the only royal garb Ardyn had refused to part with— already turning see-through from all the liquid it was absorbing. Somnus took several long seconds to process that Deleantur, mad, broken, usually too-serious Deleantur had just pushed Ardyn into the pond just to make him be quiet.

     If it had been Somnus that had suffered such a fate, Ardyn would have immediately moved to help him out like a dutiful older brother should, checking for injuries and fussing about possible illnesses brought about by the cold water and the diseases of the pond weeds or some such nonsense. Ardyn would have smiled like a lunatic, but politely refrained from outright laughter until after Somnus was safely ensconced on dry land and dressed in fresh, dry clothes with a possibly a cup of comforting wine in hand.

     Somnus, being the shamelessly cruel little brother that he was, sat there for a good two minutes pointing at Ardyn’s misery and laughing until his sides hurt.

     Ardyn, who could have swum to the sloping, pebbled section of the bank and climbed out on his own at any time, chose instead to tread water and pout at them the entire time, whining melodramatically about cruel siblings and horrible fates and all the things he could fall ill of here in the water —the silly grin on his face gave it all away for the show it was—.

     Ardyn eventually splashed water at the rock and Deleantur scooted to his feet to escape the assault. Somnus just snickered and leaned away from the stray droplets before finally crouching at the edge of the rock and holding out a hand for his brother, “Come on then, Brother, can’t have you suffering a watery demise just yet.” Ardyn reached out a hand and took Somnus’s and then-.

     Water.

     Somnus resurfaced with a spluttering squawk, flailing against Ardyn’s chest as his brother tried not to be shoved under by Somnus’s sudden submersion, “De- Deleantur!” Somnus had done nothing —much— to deserve being pushed in like that-.

     There was a watery, coughing laugh just to his side and Somnus blinked past the wet hair in his eyes at … Deleantur. Treading water next to them and looking just as surprised as they were.

     All three Lucis Caelums looked up to the rock … at Aera, who stood on the rock with a serene smile worthy of temple statues on her face as she fluttered her eyelashes and asked if the three of them were alright. A picture of holy innocence and decorum and kindness the filthy little liar. As if her shoulders weren’t shaking with suppressed laughter and her hands weren’t still outstretched from pushing Deleantur into Somnus in such a way as to make them both topple into the pond at the same time.

     Deleantur broke the brothers’ stunned silence  first, laughing so hard Ardyn and Somnus had to hold him up for fear he’d stop treading water and sink right to the bottom. They dragged each other out of the water, Deleantur still giggling helplessly like a child, and though Somnus scowled and swore revenge against Aera for her treachery, they all knew there was no real bite to his words, not when Deleantur was laughing louder and freer than they’d thought possible.

[maximumneon]

Conflicting Concerns

Just an oc conflict feel free to ignore.

”Derek grab your keys.”

The man in question lowered his Time magazine and looked up at the teen in surprise. Derek’s eyes widened behind his reading glasses as he studied the other. If he didn’t know any better, he could say with confidence that Syrus looked perfectly collected, but after years with the boy he could tell how quickly he was caving under his impatience and anxiety. But for what was the question.

He folded the magazine shut and laid it on the coffee table. He uncrossed his legs and took off his glasses just as slowly, as if any quick movement would startle Syrus into bolting. With Pico in his grasp, he very well could without worrying about his lack of sight. “Sy,” He started calmly, “We don’t have anything planned for the evening. Why are you wanting to go out now?”

Derek watched as Syrus inhaled and shrugged with all of the power of a teen avoiding the question before letting out his breath in a sigh. “So, I kinda met this kid online.”

Derek sat up, a smile beginning to form on his lips. “-Like this really young kid.” His smile faltered a bit in his confusion.

“And their dad or fucking whatever kinda left them alone.”

A frown began taking its place.

“And now I said we would get them so they can stay here with us for awhile, yknow? So can we go now? Where are you keys-” Syrus muttered, gently directing Pico’s head around to sweep the room with their shared gaze as he searched for Derek’s keys.

Derek was still soaking in the information that he had just been doused with. Granted, it left more questions unanswered and growing rather than solved and diminished. He snapped his head toward Syrus at the sound of keys jingling before standing up abruptly. “Syrus Emery Elstone.” Derek spoke with a tone that had the blonde freezing in his steps toward the door. “Explain yourself better or we go nowhere. Now.”

Syrus was facing away from him, but Derek could see his rising temper in the way his back tensed and his hand gripped angrily on the keys. He didn’t have to see his face to know he was already barely holding back his distaste at having to wait even more. “Three days.” Derek blinked. “What?” “Three. Damn. Days.” Syrus snapped, suddenly turned on his heel, his face scored with annoyance and frustration. Worry etched itself across his expression like cracks in glass. “Cas has been alone for three days in some fucking apartment because this asshat decided he needed to go right some wrongs that shouldn’t have needed righting in the first place and- Oh I don’t know. Fuck up doing so? Now can you please get the damn car and dri-” “Now, listen here.” Derek started slowly. “One, you come down here with little to no explanation about some kid that needs rescuing and demand me to understand without so much as a preamble to the situation. Two, you wait three days to tell me?! Do you not understand what could have happened in three days? You should have called the authorities as soon as you-”

He wasn’t prepared for Syrus to bristle so visibly. “No.”

“No?” “No!” Syrus replied, stronger this time. “No, I wasn’t about to call the cops on this fucking kid when I knew we could help them a lot more than they ever could. Fuck, I can’t even imagine how they would feel being ripped away before they were ready especially with them being blind like me-” “Blind?!”

Syrus paused, frowning as if he expected Derek to know that before realisation hit him that not all details had been shared. “Yes, blind. Can we go? Now?”

“I cannot believe you think this is okay, young man. You can’t just-” What is done is done, and there was really little point in arguing with Syrus while the boy looked ready to snap under the smallest addition of pressure. Derek reached up and rubbed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He grappled with what little patience he had left before looking back up at Syrus. “It was not at all smart of you to keep this from me. I hope you realise the volume of this situation. What could have happened and what will happen now that we are involved.” Syrus’ face fell into a deep frown, nearly a scowl. “I do. I understand.” He muttered harshly. “And believe me, waiting wasn’t exactly a walk in the fucking park. Knowing how terrifying being alone can be and being scared something completely horrific would happen to them, but Cas wanted to hold out for the useless fuck, and who am I to deny them at least some time for that?” Syrus swallowed thickly and turned his head away. Derek watched in a moment of shock as Syrus reached under his thick shades and rubbed at his eyes. “I just didn’t…Look, you can yell at me all that you want when we get back, but right now all I care about is getting over to where Cas is and bringing them back here where it’s safe. I don’t want them there alone anymore so please- If you say no then you better hope Pico’s training is solid because I will drive myself then.” He cleared his throat. “Can we please just go?” He finished, the strength leaving his voice. Derek looked at Syrus for a long moment before shaking his head and walking past him, taking the keys from his hand as he went by. He stopped at the doorway, pointing a finger back at the teen. “Do not think we are done talking about this yet.”

Syrus nodded urgently and Derek felt his resolve melt a bit. He reached forward and ruffled the other’s already unruly hair. “Let’s go, Sy.”

[honestsycrets]

A Woman, Not a Demon

❛ pairing | king alfred x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | sick of the reader, bjorn hands her down to alfed-- who has yet to prove himself to bjorn.

❛  warnings | verbal arguments, whipping, bad!alfred, dark!alfred, dark!bjorn, dark!reader, slavery, hatesex, angry words, verbal abuse, beating, 

❛ sy’s notes | i wrote this fic a while ago but i just didn’t have the balls to post it until right now with coaxing. i was in a mood just last week and wrote this then. 

He buries the Bishop Heahmund. He buries his memories of his father with them. Cold in the ground, his memories disassociate from him as he walks past through the halls his grandfather once walked. He steps into his throne room and finds that there stands Bjorn, the back of his blond head unmistakable.

“Bjorn Ironside,” he calls.

Bjorn shifts, tugging with him a smaller body. The candlelight reflects off of the smaller one, outlines more delicate features. A girl. No-- Alfred comes to a stop at the base of the stairs. A woman.

“Who is she?” Alfred sways to a stop, his hands folded carefully in front of himself.

“This is (Y/N) Flokisdottir.”

Alfred looks her over. It means nothing to him.

“Does that mean something to you?” Alfred asks.

“It means she is the daughter of a certain boatbuilder,” Bjorn says cryptidly. “You’ll keep her.”

Alfred trudges up the steps. The usual Alfred-- the one that was careful about Bjorn, might have quivered. The Alfred that has lost so much in such a short span of years grasps the dirty woman by the straps of a sheening silk dress, yanking you upright. You fight back, slamming your head into his with a wet crack. Alfred staggers, catching himself on a step. His eyes widen bright and wide, the whites of his eye visible. For your effort, you fell down the stairs.

“That woman! She’s a-- a--”

“Demon?” Bjorn finishes, stepping down the steps and hauling you back up to your feet. He grips the fine collar of Alfred’s clean tunic and rushes him up to his feat. You stand on your bare toes, blood coursing down your eyebrow over fluttering, bloody lashes.

“A demon,” Alfred affirms, glancing over the strap that has migrated off your shoulder. The bud of your nipple is visible, causing him to stir a bit. A frisson of concern over the guards watching washes over him then leaves. They are outside the door. Bjorn leans in, lingering there. Ubbe has taught him many things. Alfred is in no way afraid of Bjorn Ironside, but its not so simple.

“No, not a demon. She’s a woman. One that knows you’re a weak man.” Bjorn releases her, eyes flickering over Alfred’s dress. He could never imagine putting on a frock. A frock of fear. In his eyes, he might have seen a flash of pity. Bjorn releases him. “As do I.”

Bjorn starts for the door, confusing Alfred whole heartedly. You shift onto your knees, getting your bearings to stand upright. He stares off Bjorn yanks the door open. Stop, the word caught in his throat. It’s too slow. Bjorn shuts the door behind him. It leaves him lost, scanning the stony ground in confusion. He steps away, looking to the letters marking his grandfather’s grave, a sodden body below.

ECBERT

“He’s right,” you say, twisting your wrists in rope with no give. “You are weak.”

Alfred turns back to you, blood dry on your eyelashes. The ground is hard on your knees, even with this simple but lavish dress. Alfred looks back to you, the symbol of everything he’s lost. A beautiful Norsewoman. The picture of beauty for your people. Long hair, a trim body meant to murder like the best of your men.

“You’re held down by stupid ideologies, Christian.”

The spite on your tongue. He’s heard it before-- not from anyone here. He’s heard it from the tales of the Norsemen that his mother told him of. Floki, the boatbuilder. That was it-- the boatbuilder.

“Just like your stupid father, traveling about anguished for his gay love of Ragnar and his stupid devotional love for his god.”

Alfred turns, walking up to you in a great and quick stride. His voice is darkly smooth, running over you as if you were bathing in dark wine. You meet his eyes, threatening him to continue.

“What did you say?” His lips curl when he’s mad. You notice something. Despite the hardness of his face, his eyes almost glisten.

“Are you going to cry?”

Alfred fists the silk, yanking it off of your body as if it really meant something to you. Modesty. A Christian trait. A Viking one? Perhaps, Alfred debates it momentarily. Your warm breath pulls over his face. A rictus of a smile that is all teeth widens, foully speaking.

“I said-- you’re a bitch.”

It breaks the remnants of his patience. As sick as he was, as kind as he could be; both flew out the window when he dug his hand into a handful of your hair, dragging you across the floor to his throne. Your teeth gnash, grabbing onto the arm of the throne.

Alfred turns to find the item of his interest. It’s a whip-- you make note when it cracks upon your back, causing you to grip the arm a little harder. It tears down into muscle, leaving long cracking welts up your back. Another blow to your back leaves you breathless, struggling back the urge to scream. No Norsewoman screamed. At least, not for a forigner.

“Had enough?” Alfred yells in a bout of his rage.

“Are we punishing in holy numbers? Is there some Saxon mysticism?” You say back to him, looking over. A wild, loose pleasure filling your face when Alfred comes close. His palm is flat over your throat, pulling you back against his chest. That’s quite enough of your tongue, you think Alfred’s had enough. He drags a ripped piece of cloth around your head, tying with a force none too gentle.

A shuffle of fabric behind you reminds you of your sex. The king forces you to bend over his throne, prickling you in excitement when the head of his cock nudges your hold. It’s been a while. Your hands grasp the arm, moaning into the cloth when none too gently, and with way more oil than was needed, Alfred slams his cock into your cunt. It burns.

Alfred forms a ponytail from your hair, pumping his hips forward. Your breath swipes away, pleasure beating you with every slam. Your hands cling onto the throne, raunchy slaps of skin filtering through the heavy wooden door.

“Mmph!”

“Shut up,” Alfred says, the words distant and strange on his tongue. Alfred yanks your hair back, just for the hell of it. It causes your cunt to squeeze his long, earnest stroke. His hips judder, shallow and quick. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry subjected to this feeling. The way that Alfred brought you pleasure, being bent over and taken raw, oh-- he might have thought it to be a punishment. But from the way you cling to his cock, he knows it isn’t.

“You,” the king says, leaning back as far as his tip. He lurches forward, your ass jiggling against his hips. Your legs shake. Incredible-- Alfred thinks. For all his efforts, the beating-- the whip. It seems to have made you soak in pleasure. The filth is dripping down over his curling pubic hair, soaking him down. You’ve cum over him.

“This is a game to you.” the king makes note. “You’re a jokester.”

The sound of slaps in the room hasten. Waves of pleasure build upon him, building up and threatening to overflow. Your body thrums when the king makes a pleasured cry that almost sounds too effeminate off his lips. He draws out of you, dropping to sit in his throne.

“Come, whore,” he calls out to you.

You crawl as obediently as you can over to him. He makes no other command, wondering what you might do. Your lips center on his sac, suckling wet juices off of them. He’s soaked in his taste of you, his balls heavy with the need. Alfred beats his fist over his cock, until he’s certain he is moments away.

“Sit on me.” He pants, holding back. You crawl up his body as best as you are able. The king grasps your hips, holding you steady and thrusts forward back into your hole. On the throne, he makes short and shallow thrusts, pumping into your cunt with such force that you shout in pleasure, losing yourself in the moment. Alfred yanks you back, faltering in his thrusts to fill you. You yank up, wanting nothing to do with his seed-- but he pushes you back down and forces you full of his seed.

Alfred lays back, the rage burnt out in his stomach. Your back is still bleeding over his shirt, your cunt dripping and still stuffed with his Saxon cum.

“Gotten it out of your system?” You ask.

“Yes,” he pants. “Yes.”

“Good,” you return. “Now get out of my pussy, that hurt.”

Alfred pushes your hips up, obeying and setting you back onto his thigh. Yes, he laughs to himself. You were something much more than a demon. Much worse. You were a heathen woman.

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