#their sinews and their tall frames and their hands (do not get me started on the hands) and their piercing eyes and their strong jaws

[victorianpining]

You gotta give it to Doyle, he sure does know how to describe a man.

[mithrilwren]

I really, really wanted to contribute something to Essek Week​, but unfortunately with two essays and a novel chapter due by Monday, I didn’t have the time or mental energy to write anything new. Cue me remembering that I’d actually started working on an Essek-centric shadowgast Pirate!AU last summer, that never saw the light of day! Though I did a whole bunch of research for it, summer ended before I could get farther than the first couple chapters. Still, I’m very fond of the premise, and I’d like to finish it one day. I can’t guarantee I will (life’s too busy to commit myself to another Big Fic Project atm) but in the meantime, here’s a little taste in the form of the first chapter.

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For @essek-week Day 7: AU

Courts of Silk (Chapter 1)

Essek startled from his trance to the crackle of blistering thunder overhead.

Mind bled of all drowsiness in an instant, he unfolded his legs and slid off the berth, drifting to the center of the room and tilting his ear towards the boards above. 

A storm…  but the skies were meant to be clear for days, and he trusted Avus to know it. Could the weather have turned so–

Boom.

Essek’s eyebrows flew up as the deck visibly lurched below his feet. 

Not thunder.

Cannon fire.

More sounds now, hurried ones – an erratic tempo of feet pounding through the corridor outside his little room, the floorboards creaking dully under the weight of the crew scrambling over the deck above. He flinched as a louder noise pierced through the commotion: the rattling of a heavy fist falling against the door of his cabin, hard enough to shake the wooden frame. 

“We’ve been boarded!” Zel’ra’s guttural shout startled him out of his confused stupor, and he flew to the door and flung it open. The quartermaster stood outside, her snarling jaw dripping with whitish battle foam, the kind that bugbears of Rosohna so seldom have occasion to sport within city walls. “Come on, magic boy, time for you to earn your– Shit!”

Then she was gone, and Essek was left staring dumbly at the empty corridor, as Zel’ra raced back the way she came. A moment later, there was a yelp, and the grisly crack of metal hitting bone. Then there was no sound at all, save the rocking of the ocean’s pulse against the hull, and the thump of confident, unfamiliar footsteps, coming closer and closer to his open door.

He had only a few moments to make his decision. The fight might still be going on above deck, but if intruders had already made it below, there was little hope of a favorable outcome for the crew of the Barren Bow. He hadn’t thought the Empire would be brazen enough to attack a diplomatic ship in open waters, but there were soldiers of all ilks on the open sea, and no government to hold them to account so far from land. He would not put it past a Dwendalian crew to sight a Dynasty flag on the horizon and decide to take the matter of revenge in their own hands. If so, there was no telling what treatment they might expect at the hands of their attackers. Rage was rarely tamed by abstract rules of engagement, and he doubted anyone would care to ask what the nature of their mission was, once the killing began.

But perhaps…

Quickly, Essek drew aside his sleeve and materialized the leather–bound contents of his wristpocket into his hands. His spellbook lay beside precious components in their embroidered fold, and there, at the bottom of the pile: the folio. He whispered a quiet word and the paper folded apart, revealing its damning – and perhaps, in the right hands, lifesaving – contents. 

The letters. 

If the tides were so unfavorable that he could not fight, perhaps that might be enough to–

He vanished the whole affair back into the ether as two shadows fell across the door. 

From the darkness of the hallway, two figures stepped over the threshold. In front was a young woman: human, with swarthy skin made darker still by the weathering burn of long days at sea. Her hands were tucked beneath bare arms and her hip turned out to an unconcerned jaunt, adorned by a sash of deep blue. Behind her, and looming so tall that she had to hunch to fit through the frame of the door, was a giant of a woman. Taller even than Zel’ra, her bare shoulders glistening with rippling muscles and sweat, pale as moonlight – or as the steely glint of the broadsword at her back. The younger woman swept him over with piercing eyes, her confident grin not quite masking the focused gaze beneath. Though she bore no weapons, Essek could feel the stain of threat in every taut sinew of her body. He held still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Her eyes finally paused, centered on the floor beneath his feet, and her grin dropped into something more like a startled ‘oh’. Too late, he realized his mistake – that his levitation, as natural and instinctive as standing on his own two feet, had just given him away. 

“Mage!” she sputtered, and her hand was gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back before he even realized she’d moved. Essek dropped the levitation spell, hoping to get enough leverage from the sudden height difference to slip out of her grasp, but before he could so much as shuffle to the left, the taller woman was at his right, clutching his other arm with a grip strong enough to break bone. 

“Shit,” the first woman spat as she stepped back, allowing the second to take both of his arms into custody. “Who the fuck did we just board?”

Essek kept silent, staring at her, searching for any sign of weakness and finding less than nothing. If he had just had his hands free for a moment longer… but that didn’t matter now. There weren’t many spells without a somatic component at his disposal, and cantrips wouldn’t save his neck, should the giantess move quicker to snap it than he could speak. 

Without a means of immediate escape, he looked next for any way to identify his captors. They were human, but their loose, subdued dress – for the younger woman, a vest of blue cotton, the other, a braided grey tunic, and frayed ribbons in both their hair – was nothing like the silver and crimson finery of the Righteous Brand. 

If not from the Empire, who were these people? Hired thugs? Mercenaries?

“Are there more of you skulking down here?” 

He didn’t ask the woman to clarify, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking. More drow? Yes, but he was not about to reveal the nature of the delegation travelling under his protection to her. More mages? No. As always, he had convinced the Bright Queen that his effort alone would be sufficient. For the first time in a very long time, he wished he’d been a little more conservative in estimating his own skills. Given the current situation, someone else’s power at his back might actually be welcome, rather than distracting. 

Her burning gaze made it clear that he had to say something, and soon, but for once, the right words did not come. The truth did not matter: he knew that any unfavorable answer would be taken as a lie.

Still, Essek would not panic. The only way to regain control of the situation was by carefully gathering information, finding something that he could use to shift the balance of power at a more advantageous moment. That was his particular specialty. 

“I do not know,” he answered coolly. “For I do not know who is above and below deck at all hours of the day. I can only speak for myself.”

“Beau! Fjor– fuck– Captain Tusktooth wants you on deck!” A new voice, its timbre high and grating, like glass against cold iron, echoed from around the corner. The woman – Beau, he filed away – turned her head and shouted back out the door. 

“Just a second, we’ve got one more!” Then, “Tell him to get Caleb over here, we’ve got a goddamn mage to deal with!” 

The giantess at his back leaned down, so close that her dreaded locks nestled amidst the silver chains that hung from tip to base of his pointed ear. “You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?” she murmured, and despite every ounce of training he’d undergone for exactly this sort of intimidation, he still couldn’t help the way he shivered at her dark tone. There was a deep quality to her voice that sung of violence, for violence’s sake, and though he wasn’t yet truly afraid, he had no wish to provoke her.

“How could I?” Essek gently flexed his arms in her grasp: not enough to challenge, but enough to reassure her of his helplessness.

Her lips curled back, and… yes. There was a little fear gathering there, in the back of his throat. A good kind of fear – the prudent kind. It would keep him alert, and focused, and ready to strike back when the moment was right. 

When she started pushing him forward, he followed her lead willingly, and the two of them shadowed Beau into the corridor and up the steps that led back above deck. Essek winced as the bright noonday sun slipped into view, already anticipating the stinging burn that was sure to follow. He’d managed to avoid the deck for most of the voyage, much to the chagrin of the Assarian crew. He was not born into a body made for manning rigging, and certainly not under an unrepentant sky determined to scorch his face and hands and neck and leave him itching and miserable for days without relief. His better use was below deck, planning for the engagement ahead, and his hours of fresh air better taken in the evening, when the gentler light of the moons was merely a prickle beneath his skin, rather than a flame. 

Everywhere he looked, he saw mismatched bodies. Though Essek hadn’t met the entire complement of the Barren Bow’s crew, he had to assume most of the scattered orcs, goblins, and bugbears belonged to their side. Most of the ones on their feet were being held in the shallow recess at the centre of the deck, where great cannons might have been lodged on a more modern ship. A handful of unremarkable humans, each equipped with a rapier – or, in one man’s case, a salt-encrusted retort – stood above them, keeping watch. Amidst all that humanity stood a wild–eyed goblin in a blaring yellow dress, hefting a crossbow composed of whirring gears and levers of an intricate make that rivaled Waccoh’s own craftsmanship. She was currently in the process of shouting threats down across the heads of his cowed compatriots. Some were clutching broken arms or wiping blood from contusions and burnt welts. Lying at the center of the group was an unconscious Zel’ra, the goose egg at the back of her skull already angry and red. 

Finally, he spied the remainder of the drow contingent clustered by the ship’s rail. Diplomats, all of them, bound for a parley at sea and not trained for conflict beyond what it took to hold a dagger right-way up. He was the only one among them battle-tested, and even then, his means leaned more towards subterfuge than outright combat. Theoretically, the Assarian crew was meant to be their main line of defence in case of attack. Clearly they had not proven up to the task. 

Essek would be filing a very unfavorable report with their commanders upon his return, if any of them survived the day. 

“Captain!” Beau shouted, and a tall half-orc stepped away from the railing, his wide-brimmed hat only partially disguising the many scars that littered his face. 

“Weather’s turning,” he said, casting his eyes towards the – as far as Essek could tell – clear horizon. Those same yellow eyes flickered up, above Essek’s head, and for a moment seemed to narrow before turning back to Beau. “You finished clearing the hold yet?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Beau jerked her head, and Essek was thrust into the sunlight all at once. The glare was blinding, and apparently not just to him. The giantess’s hands jerked around his arms, like they wanted to fly up and shield her eyes as well. That was all the opportunity he needed. 

With one quick motion, he jerked his arms from her grasp and drew his hands together, tracing familiar glyphs out of nothing but muscle memory as his mouth uttered an incantation, and the world exploded around him. The giantess was flung back against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath her weight, and both Beau and the half-orc slammed into the deck and began to hurtle towards the side of the boat. Forcing his eyes to stay focused amidst the chaos and the harsh light, Essek caught the glitter of a cutlass skittering along the boards as he took stock of his position on the newly reborn battlefield.

Nearly all of the boarders were in a concentrated area in front of him, and the rest of the Assarian crew were protected by the lip of the recess in the deck. The terrain could not be more advantageous. Essek allowed himself a small smirk as he raised his hand and prepared a vacuum blast that would level the whole of the upper deck, and deliver them all to safety in one swift stroke. 

How arrogant, that this petty group of mercenaries thought they could capture–

“Counterspell.”

The magic sizzled and died in his hand, and Essek whirled, searching for whoever had spoken behind him. Thugs he could handle, but it was always best to deal with a mage first, when they could do such infuriating things as what had just occurred. But once he turned, he found himself facing an empty doorway, and an empty deck above that. No trace of whoever had cast the counterspell. 

The giantess was gone as well.

He heard the click before he could parse what cold and heavy thing was tugging on his wrist, but he was horribly aware of what was happening by the time his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and small hands clasped the second iron band shut. A stomach-churning wave of exhaustion passed through him from scalp to toe, and he staggered, only barely holding on to consciousness. Head lolling towards the floor, he saw two soft-soled boots landing lightly on the deck in front of him.

With great effort, he managed to drag his head up from his chest, and found himself staring into blue eyes and dusty freckles, lips pressed into a thin line, all framed by tangles of copper-red hair. 

“Good work, Nott,” the man said. His accent was one Essek had only heard once before, though through the mire of exhaustion he could not remember where.

Behind Essek, the half-orc groaned and pushed himself up off the deck. “Next time you have a brilliant plan for subduing the prisoner, maybe let’s try not putting us all in the line of fire, hm?” 

The man ignored the sarcasm, still looking all too carefully at Essek.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, and though his body was lithe, his soft voice sung of as much violence as the giantess’s darker growl. 

With a sigh, Essek let his shoulders drop. He could still feel the pulses of magic coursing through the iron bands around his wrists. Even if he got his arms free again, the cuffs would not be easily slipped, or broken. These people, whoever they were, came equipped to handle wizards like himself. Was that what they were, then? Assassins in disguise? Privateers? The blunt instrument of some government or another?

Not that it made much difference now. Whoever they were, he was at their mercy. 

“Spin him around.”

Essek felt himself being maneuvered away from the man’s incisive gaze. Through bleary eyes he caught the looks of frustrated disbelief from the four drow delegates, lamenting their crushed hope in silent, huddled unity. He was meant to be their protection. Now that Essek was taken, what else could save them? Not one of them was brave enough to attempt it themselves. A shiver of disgust ran through Essek, as heady as the self-recrimination it concealed at having allowed himself to be captured so easily.

The half-orc strode up to Essek, the sword in his hand now replaced, though Essek hadn’t seen the man move to retrieve it. It was a silver cutlass, fine enough to cleave a person clean through and leave one half still propped up on the other. Too rich a prize by far for a simple mercenary – he must have come by it dishonestly, or been given it as boon or bribe. Neither prospect boded well. 

The hand that gripped the sword told an equally foreboding story, for only the thumb was composed of green flesh. The rest of the fingers were severed at the third knuckle, and replaced by metal imitations fixed to the wrist by a harness of leather cords. Still, he held the hilt with all the confidence of a trained fighter, and the surety of his grasp left Essek little doubt as to its effectiveness, mechanical augmentation or no.

“My name,” said the half-orc, “is Captain Tusktooth.” A hint of bright teeth flashed from below the wide brim of the hat. “And this ship is mine now. Its cargo, mine too.”

The answer about the identity of his captors, at last, became clear, for what little good it did him.

Pirates.

“By whose authority?” Essek shot a harsh look at the foolish dignitary who had chosen this moment to find their courage, but Tusktooth only grinned harder.

“By my own.” Behind Essek’s back, Nott and Beau slipped back through the splintered doorframe and down into the depths of the ship once more. “Now, my crew is going to finish taking a look through your cargo. I trust that your captain has been honest about the contents of your hold. Are there any other surprises I should be warning my people of? Anybody else looking to make trouble?”

Would that there were. “You will find little of value to take. We travelled light.” He spoke the truth, having no more useful lie at his disposal. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and another wave of exhaustion teased at the edges of his mind. He fought it with all the strength he had – which was growing less and less by the minute.

“So your captain told me. But that wasn’t my question.” Tusktooth’s voice grew as keen as the blade in his hand as he lifted it and placed the edge to the shallow of Essek’s throat. “Are there others like you aboard?”

He did not flinch. Torment and torture were old friends: his own cherished instruments. He did not fear what this man would do to him, any more than he feared death itself. At least, that is what he told his errant heart, as sweat began to bead at the nape of his neck.

“No.”

Tusktooth stared him down for a minute longer, and Essek held his gaze as best he could with the sun still searing his eyes. But at last, the sword withdrew, and Essek’s breath came a little easier. “Then let’s call this an exercise in… mutual trust.” He smiled once more, and Essek returned the expression with a vague twitch of lips.

The tense exchange was followed by ten excruciating minutes of silence, during which Essek did his best not to fidget in his heavy robes, even when his exposed skin grew so heated he felt liable to burst into flames. As they waited, the redheaded man pulled Tusktooth aside for a private conversation, and Essek sweated, and watched, and tried to formulate a plan.

The pirates would find nothing of value to steal. The Barren Bow had provisions for the voyage, but anything else aboard was the purview of the Assarian crew, who had planned to head back towards the shores of Igrathad as soon as the parley concluded. There were no scheduled stops for trade, and thus, no trade goods in their hold. There weren’t even guns to offer. Essek would never dare to admit it aloud, but the Dynasty lagged sorely behind the rest of Wildemount in outfitting its fleet with the relatively new technology of cannonry, at least of the type that lacked a magical component. Firearms had only entered the sphere of weaponmaking some thirty years prior, and with Xhorhas primarily landlocked, the navy hadn’t been high on the priority list for refurbishment. 

His best hope was that some of the crew had hidden stashes of coin in their quarters. Otherwise, there would be nothing for the pirates to take, and without anything to satisfy them, well… he did not want to be in manacles when that news was delivered to a man who’d already put a sword to his throat. 

If only to convince himself he was not totally beaten yet, Essek watched Tusktooth and the redhead carefully, seeing what he could glean from body language alone. Their conversation was hushed but tense, and every few moments the redhead would turn his eyes towards the drow delegation, and then to Essek himself. He made sure to drop his own eyes before they could meet again, not wanting to spark another confrontation by appearing insolent. As for the pirate captain… there was confidence, yes, but the unwavering edge of confidence seemed to drop away from his shoulders as he spoke to the other man. His arms moved more wildly; his words were more rapid, and at a higher pitch. Perhaps his earlier confidence was not so unshakeable as it at first appeared.

At last, Beau and the goblin re-emerged from the staircase. “We got shit all,” Beau said, tossing down a half-empty sack by Essek’s feet. He winced as a few bruised tubers rolled out across the warped deck.

“...Shit.” Tusktooth ran a hand over his mouth. “Shit. Nothing?”

“Nott and I checked every inch of that hold, the crew quarters, everything. No money, no timber, no – fuck, I don’t know – fine silks or–”

“No cannons,” Nott added mournfully. “No black powder.”

“We went through all this for nothing?”

“Maybe someone’s holding out on us,” Nott said, brandishing her crossbow. “I could make ‘em talk for you, Captain. Make them squeal–”

“Oh–kay, Nott,” Tusktooth said, “let’s take it down a notch.” But despite his placating tone, his look was thoughtful. Again, he turned to Essek. “You never never did say what you all were doing out here, so far from home. You don’t look like a sailor to me.”

“Yes, friend,” said the redhead, stepping up to Essek from Tusktooth’s other side, alarmingly calm, and placing altogether too much emphasis on the second word to be trusted, “what is it you do here?” Essek took a half-step back, not liking the feeling of being pressed in from all angles, and walked himself straight into the chest of the giantess. 

Nowhere to hide. And with his hands bound behind his back, no way to levitate up to a level where he didn’t feel every inch of height his captors had over him. Which, at his firmly average height for a drow, was many.

Focus, Thelyss. Focus.

“Why should I answer your questions,” he sneered, “when you have not done me the same courtesy? Who are you, to board a vessel commissioned lawfully by the Bright Queen herself?” It was a dangerous ploy, but a considered one – a hastily calculated risk. If the pirates could not be convinced there was nothing of value to be found, they might decide to punish the crew for concealing their rightful prize, and when even a beating couldn’t drive his compatriots to forfeit non-existent gold, the pirates might well scuttle the ship and leave them all to drown at sea. He doubted simple brigands would care much for the particulars of a diplomatic mission if there was no treasure involved, so there was little harm in broaching a subject that might be far more dangerous to discuss with more educated captors.

But apparently, some aspect of Essek’s logic had failed him again, because the redhead immediately shot a wide-eyed look at Tusktooth, before looking back to Essek. “The Bright Queen?”

Essek gave a little bow. His head swam as he dipped back up – the handcuffs, no doubt, though it could just as easily be the beginnings of heatstroke – and he had to swallow twice to find the fortitude to speak without slurring. “Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty and ambassador of the realm.” The last part was an… embellishment, and if he chanced a glance over at the true ambassadors, he imagined there would be many offended looks. But thankfully, all attention was solely focused on him. “I assure you, you won’t find the prize you’re looking for on a diplomatic vessel, gentleman. Your friends have already given you proof – we carry nothing beyond our own provision. Unless you have a particular taste for the delicacies of Xhorhasian fashion, I’m afraid we have little to offer you.”

Nott snarled, but the redhead put up a hand. “Captain,” he said slowly, looking at Tusktooth. “Might I… make a suggestion?” 

“You may.”

“It’s not something I’d usually propose, but times being what they are…” Tusktooth nodded grimly.

“We haven’t got many options left.”

“Precisely. I believe that our friend Mr. Thelyss here has lied to us.” He could laugh for the irony of it all; this was the most truthful Essek had been in years. “There is indeed something very valuable aboard this ship.” His blue eyes pierced through Essek, and it was only his determination to keep the – now violently pitching – contents of his stomach where they belonged, that stopped him from speaking up in his own defense.

“And that is...?”

“Himself.”

[love-dreams]

dreamcatcher

pairing: wonwoo/reader

genre: angst, fluff (bittersweet)

content: therapy/doctors, dream weaving, 3rd person

wc: 1.3k

note: i wrote this for school lmao so that’s why it’s in third person. also dr. aleia is a personal creation of @woozisnoots​ and @leftandright​ ily both so much enjoy this one :)) next on my to-do list would be karol’s requests and the joshua fic!

“So,” she started, looking down at him over thinly rimmed glasses. “What was it about this time?” 

Wonwoo stared up at the chalky, white ceiling, laying on the cot motionless. His face was blank, lacking any hint of emotion; his eyes were cold and dead, void of the fiery flames that had danced in them a few months ago. He had purple eye bags hanging under his eyes and chapped, pastel lips, signs that he clearly wasn’t taking care of himself. His face also looked hollow, evidence that he had been skipping meals. 

He willed his mouth to open, only to close it without any idea of what to say. 

His therapist, Dr. Aleia, scratched something onto her clipboard, sighing, “Let’s start at the beginning, okay? Who and when?”

“It was the day we went stargazing,” Wonwoo hoarsely replied immediately, his deep voice vibrating in his chest. “I think it was around a year ago, I’m not really sure.” 

Dr. Aleia nodded, hopping off of her chair and dragging it with her so that it was next to Wonwoo’s body. “I want you to close your eyes,” she murmured in a low voice. “Go back into your dream and tell me what happened? Where did it go wrong?”

Before the doctor could even finish, Wonwoo’s eyes were already falling shut, his conscience disassociating from his body. He started losing feeling of his body, allowing himself to relax and dream once again. The feeling had started to become second nature to him after all the sessions he had. 

Just this time, he thought, This’ll be the last time. 

“Wonwoo?” a mellifluous voice trickled into Wonwoo’s eardrums. 

When Wonwoo opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the doctor’s office anymore. Instead of the dimmed lights and standard hospital chemical smell, a warm, bright light flooded his vision paired with the delicate sweet smell of flowers. He groaned and sat upright, blinking furiously at the bright light. Wonwoo stared at the scenery before him; he was sitting in a field of life, one full of wildflowers and tall grass. His mouth fell open in astonishment and wonder, the colors were so bright, it almost felt… real. 

Wonwoo felt a tapping sensation on his arm, causing him to turn towards another person. He gulped and swallowed anxiously.

“Woo? You fell asleep, haha, I went to get us some lunch.” 

Wonwoo dazedly nodded, eyes following her as she bent over to set down a bag of food. Even after the countless sessions he had, Wonwoo couldn’t get over the authenticity of his dreams. He could smell the tartness of sweets and the freshness of vegetables wafting out of the small paper bag’s opening. The warmth of the sun’s rays enveloped him in a pleasant aura and suddenly, Wonwoo couldn’t help the deep yearning aching in his chest. 

Wonwoo hesitantly tried shifting his weight to one arm, finding out, pleasantly, that he had full control over his limbs, from the sinews in his forearms to the small nerves in his fingers.

“Are you going to eat anything?” she asked, blinking innocently in the afternoon sunshine. 

Wonwoo couldn’t help but let his gaze linger on her, his brain kept telling him that it was only a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Wonwoo couldn’t help his dancing heart. 

It had been so long.

He nodded, a smile gracing his features. His mouth moved on its own accord, “Sure, what’re we doing after this again?”

She giggled and Wonwoo felt his heart pirouette. “Silly you, we’re going stargazing, remember? Isn’t that the whole reason we drove all the way to the countryside?”

He nodded along, unable to hold back the huge grin tugging at his lips. Her smile was like a happy virus, infecting everyone around her. Wonwoo never told her, but the reason he drove them all the way out to the countryside was really that he was just sick of the city, of all the hustle and bustle and the noise. He just wanted to escape. 

But she knew that, of course. She knew everything about him. 

Wonwoo sighed, leaning back on his palms to let his face soak in more of the warmth of the sun. “It’s beautiful here.” 

“That’s why I chose this spot,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food. “It’ll be even prettier when the sun sets.” 

Wonwoo turned his head along with his body so he could see you with his own eyes, a flutter of adoration bubbled in his gut. He leaned forward, bringing his thumb up to gently rub away some of the sauce from the sandwich she was eating, grabbing a pristine white napkin to wipe it off. She blinked, startled by the sudden show of affection. The initial shock quickly morphed into delight though, as her cheeks became colored with blooms of pastel pink.

“That’s better,” he hummed, drawing back, his signature sleepy smile present on his face. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears shyly, feeling her heart pulsate erratically in her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured softly, taking another hesitant bite. Wonwoo grinned, leaning back on his forearms to observe her, wishing to prolong this moment in his memories as long as he could. “Oh, you haven’t eaten anything yet! Here try this one.”

Suddenly a small package was shoved toward Wonwoo, her dainty fingers wrapped loosely around it. She looked at him expectantly with her lips pouting cutely, “C’mon, if you don’t eat anything you’ll get hungry when the shops all close!” 

Wonwoo reluctantly took it from her, sitting up to unwrap the strings and wax covering. Inside was a delicate strawberry pastry, topped with white, fluffy whipped cream. It glistened with crystalized golden sugar, almost too pretty to eat. Wonwoo hesitantly let his long fingers wrap around the dessert, bringing it up to his mouth. He looked up to see her staring at him with wide eyes. Chuckling, Wonwoo extended his arm towards her, “Here, I can’t eat with you drooling over my food like that.”

She pouted, accepting his offering anyway. “Hey, I can’t help that it looked so good. And it’s not your food, I bought it, anyway.”

“Do you want me to pay for it? I can if you want me to.”

She huffed, crossing her arms and scrunching her eyebrows, “So not the point.” 

Wonwoo’s heart filled with jubilance, he had missed these conversations with her. They seemed mundane and basic at the time, until they didn’t exist anymore. “Come here,” he whispered forlornly.

She nodded and set down her food, dusting her hands lightly on her skirt. Wonwoo let out a small exhale, the dream just felt too real, he was almost impressed with Dr. Aleia’s talents. He could see the speckles of gold in her eyes and the rose-colored pigment in her lips, he could see the fine hairs of her eyelashes and the small freckles dotting her skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said breathlessly. 

She looked surprised. “You don’t say that very often,” she mused.

“I should say it more,” he replied.

She tilted her head, asking matter-of-factly, “And why’s that? I already know you. And I know that you love me.”

Wonwoo sighed, wrapping his long arms around her delicate frame, resting his head on her shoulder. He felt a strong rush of courage along with impulsive adrenaline encouraging him to continue on speaking, “You know me so well but… what do I know about you? I’m so selfish, I didn’t even notice how much you were hurting too.”

She opened her mouth with a confused lilt, but Wonwoo didn’t hear a word. He kept his arms around her in the same position, but the dream was already swimming past his vision, blurring the colors together. 

“Come on, Wonwoo. You know the drill.”

Wonwoo didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he was back in the doctor’s office. The chilliness of reality burned into his bones, scarring his flesh with goosebumps. He felt himself being pulled upright by strong arms along with issued, sharply-voiced directions.

“Wonwoo, you need to open your eyes.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to go back into the dream where everything was normal, happy. “Wonwoo, you must open your eyes. She’s not here anymore, she’s gone.”

At that moment, Wonwoo’s eyes snapped open, tears swimming in his vision.

“I know,” he rasped, “I know.”

[venusxxlangdon]

Michael Langdon x reader x Roman Godfrey headcanons

warnings: polyamory, smut, double penetration, oral, edging, mentioning of blood and face fucking, cum eating, daddy kink, soft dominance 

words: 5.2k

A/N: thank you guys for 1.1k followers, here are some hcs for one of my favorite pairings. Some of y’all’s asks have been answered here as well. Honorable mention of @micheallangdons who plotted these hcs with me    

moodboard by @micheallangdons

Before Roman met Michael and Y/N his life as a newly born upir had been nothing but an endless battle with his demonic nature. Days full of self-loathing and helpless attempts to tame his hunger had gone by before he gave up and quenched his thirst for blood, much to his mother’s triumph. She was so proud of him while he felt nothing but utter disgust and a deep abyss in his heart. Her praise seemed nothing but mockery. She could dance on his bones and still preach about her good intentions.

He did not want to admit that she had won the battle. Roman felt like he was falling deeper into the dark void. Was he going to spend the rest of his life like that? Abandoned and scared of hurting everyone he knew? These questions kept him wide awake in the middle of the silver nights and made him drown his sorrows in cognac and cigarette smoke.

He felt like an addict, storming from one bar into another, looking for hookers to feed on and then sending his people to hide the victims’ bodies. Eventually, it all turned into a regular routine and he mastered the art of draining every drop of blood from humans necks without even staining his always perfectly ironed shirts. He decided that if he turned into a stone-cold machine with no feelings and the slightest idea of attachment he would feel better. Having focused on his parents' empire, the Godfrey Institute, he became a business tycoon: ambitions, cunning, manipulating. Unfortunately, it was calm before the storm. His mother always knew what buttons to push to make him snap and lose the strings of control over his ruthless guise.

It was the night when everything went downhill. Blood was hammering in his temples, fingers gripped onto the sterling weel as he was driving to a familiar location, a bar where he was a frequent visitor. A passing car flashed the headlights, illuminating Roman’s jet black eyes. The usual forest green hues with bluish spots were swallowed up by the unbearable hunger. He could feel the roof of his mouth starting to itch, his heart beating faster.

Factitious self-control wafted around his tall figure when he entered the club. He looked out of place dressed in his black dress shirt and matching tailored slacks, the look on his face intense like an upcoming thunder, electrifying in the thick air. 

Something felt different at that time. His nostrils flared, breathing in the mix of expensive alcohol and smoke. He looked around scanning through the crowd of dancing bodies. It felt like hundreds of needles were piercing through the tips of his fingers; he gulped heavily, listening to the sound of crimson blood flowing through the people’s veins. There was something else. Something he could not quite catch. It was seeping through his fingers making it difficult for him to get a hold of it. He turned around on his heels, ignoring a confused look some girl shot at him and froze to his spot. What if his hunger caused these fantom feelings? The sensation became stronger. Godfrey turned his head in the direction of the far left corner of the spacious room. Something about it drew him closer to a big leather sofa where there was someone whom Roman had met before.

“Michael Langdon,” he breathed out, a bit too surprised. It was funny how he had not recognized his vibe immediately. They had met only once but it was something Godfrey would never forget. The blonde Antichrist had the most unique, alluring aura that would suffocate you if you did not know how to handle it. Even for Roman, who was only half-human, it was quite a challenge.

Michael was splayed out on the sofa with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Godfrey mentally rolled his eyes at the Antichrist’s outfit, ever so extravagant: a navy blue velvet dinner jacket paired with a white shirt, his neck adorned with a big burgundy bow made of the finest silk. Long, luscious locks flowed down his shoulders, curling slightly on its end. Two blue sapphires of his eyes were narrowed, studying Roman’s figure curiously. Godfrey would never admit it, but he felt very uncomfortable under Michael’s mischievous gaze. He instinctively wanted to straighten his back to look more confident, to show Langdon who was the boss. But the pretentious smirk ghosting over Michael’s lips indicated that the Antichrist could care less about the boy’s attempt to look powerful.

“Enjoying the evening, Mr. Godfrey?” He took a sip and swiped the tip of his pointed tongue over the corner of his mouth. Michael cocked his eyebrow at Roman, clearly being aware of the upir’s hunger.

“Quite a lot,” Roman sneered and moved his gaze at the girl sitting next to Langdon with her legs that were barely covered with a short dress hooked over his lap. She was looking at Roman through the thick fan of long dark lashes framing her eyes beautifully. There was something detached in the youthful beauty of her blush and a shy smile painting her lips. For some reason Godfrey found himself embarrassed and even looked away, meeting the mocking stare of Michael’s blue eyes.

“Care for a drink?” He asked, swirling the glass in his long fingers, the metal of his rings clicking against the cut. “You look...thirsty.”

Roman gritted his teeth, the sinew on his neck pulsing.

“How sweet that it’s the matter of your concern,” he muttered, still eyeing the girl from the corner of his eyes. She smiled and hid her face in the crook of Michael’s neck, her fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt. She braced one of her slender arms around his neck and brought her face to his ear.

“What was that, kitten?” Roman clicked his tongue disapprovingly at the pet name, suddenly feeling out of place. He looked around, searching for a new victim. He spotted a girl who was sitting alone at the bar and thought that she could be a nice option. Y/N’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.

“He’s the one,” she whispered in Michael’s ear, but it was audible enough for Roman’s hearing to catch it. He snapped his eyes back at her, noticing that she was looking at him again. Whatever she had meant, it was something that did not make Michael happy. He shifted in his seat and put the glass aside on the table.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” he asked, the threads of concern lacing into the tone of his voice. He gently took her chin between his thumb and index finger, slightly turning it to the side. “You can have anybody...think twice, sweetheart.”

Roman felt as if he had become an unwilling witness of something he could wish to have never seen. It all felt too intimate. He coughed and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, wondering why he was still standing there. It seemed like the girl’s heavy gaze pinned him to the floor. Michael was frowning, tapping his fingers against the knee impatiently.

“Well, if you excuse me...” Godfrey started awkwardly and shoved his palms into the pockets of his slack, brushing his thumbs over the fabric. The girl was still whispering something into Michael’s ear. He looked so concentrated that for a second Roman thought that Langdon would not even notice if he left. God knew how long he had been standing there like a fool before Langdon finally spoke to him.

“Why don’t you join us, Roman?” He suddenly offered, and the girl giggled, playing with the blonde strand of Michael’s hair. Roman watched her twist the silky locks around her fingers and let them cascade down Langdon’s shoulders. He licked his lips nervously. “I believe I haven’t introduced you to the love of my love yet, and I’m dying to fix this little omission.”

The corners of Roman’s lips twitched in amusement.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Langdon,” he shrugged, ignoring the fact that Michael had addressed him on the first-name basis. “Hence I’m afraid we won’t have time to discuss the latest gossips.” He noticed the way the girl’s face sulked and how she slightly pushed her bottom lip forward in a pitiful pout. For the reason unknown to him, his heart swelled and suddenly he wanted to do anything to erase the sad expression off her doll face. “But I’ll be more than glad to get introduced to a beautiful lady next to you.”

She smiled and extended her hand to him which he eagerly accepted, slightly squeezing her fingers. Her palm was soft, it felt like his large hands were wrapped in the finest, pearly silk. His whole body jolted up as soon as he touched her. A shiver ran down his spine, and he looked at her with wide eyes. By the devilish sparks in her eyes, he knew she had felt it too.

“Y/N,” She said, and her voice turned out to be much lower than he had expected. “Y/N, Y/L/N.”

He smiled back and bent forward at the waist to bring his face closer to her hand and leave a quick kiss on her delicate skin.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N. I’m Roman Godfrey, a CEO of the Godfrey Institute,” he answered proudly.

It was the beginning of something bigger than him, bigger than all of them.

A quick conversation with Langdon and his little pet, that was how Roman referred to the girl in his head, had managed to distract him from his hunger only for a short time. Soon enough he found himself apologizing for having to leave so soon.

He did not waste any time when grabbing the girl he had spotted earlier by the elbow and dragging her out of the club. Luckily she was way too drunk to care. He flashed his best smile at her, and she followed him to the car, giggling every time she stumbled on her heels.

Roman did not pay any attention when she put her hands on his crotch and tried to rub him through the fabric of his slacks, his eyes focused on the road. He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the sudden tremor in his body. He was seconds away from stopping the car and sinking his teeth into the girl’s neck. She smelled like vodka and a subtle hint of her fruity perfume. He turned his head at her and she whimpered at the animalistic gaze of his now onyx eyes.

“Oh my God,” she mumbled, and suddenly her face turned into sharp features of Michael Langdon. Roman almost instantly hit the brakes.

“You look thirsty,” Langdon mocked. Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty echoed in Roman’s head, and as he pressed his head into the back of his seat, Michael’s face got distorted into a smirking grimace. What the fuck? Beads of sweat covered Godfrey’s forehead.

“Get out!” He yelled and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw a confused face of the girl who had instantly sobered up from his cry. She was looking at him with her big eyes resembling a fish, and at that moment all he wanted her to do was to leave him alone.

“What?” She asked, adjusting the straps of her dress to let him see a full view of her cleavage. He rolled his eyes.

“You heard me,” he hissed. “Get. The fuck. Out.” He did not care if she had to walk alone in the dark.

Roman drove his way home in silence, hungry and frustrated. He slammed the door of his car shut and stormed into a big mansion. Numerous thoughts were buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees. He headed straight to the shower, hoping that it could help him clear his mind.

He was too tired and tense to care about anything but the burning ache in his bones. Roman let out an inhuman cry when the streams of hot water hit his shoulder blades. He wished they could wash every cell of his disgusting being off the face of the earth. He hugged himself and dug his fingers into his skin as if he was going to rip it off. His plump bottom lip was trembling as he let his anger unwind. He didn’t want any of this, any of this life. He hit the wall with the fist and rested his forehead against the cool tile, sobbing brokenly. Fucking hell.

When he finally crawled out of the shower and reached for the towel to wrap it around his hips, he suddenly got glued to the spot. His nostrils flared. The waves of very powerful energy waged over him bringing the feeling of deja vu. His stomach did a flip at the thought that he was not alone in his mansion and what was even worse — his intuition knew the names of the intruders. Roman did not even care to dress up before he left the bathroom and made his way into his bedroom. His heart skipped a beat when he heard two low voices behind the closed door. No, it could not be true. He wrapped his fingers around the knob and turned his wrist to the left, pushing the door open with his hip.

Frankly speaking, now when he thinks about what happened that night, Roman is thankful that he did not kill Langdon and Y/N the second he saw them sitting on his bed. He remembers the shock and confusion. He thought he was hallucinating.

Langdon took his time to explain why they were in his bedroom while Roman was standing before them with his eyes wide open and his whole body unable to move. Y/N had been having the same dream over and over again: she was saving a young man from something she could not explain. The only thing she knew was that they needed to find him. Michael had never been into charity but he was ready to indulge the wish of the love of his life. Little had he known thar eventually she’d come to him and say that the stranger should have become a part of their relationship. Well, that was too much.

Michael did not understand the urge. Possessive by nature, he was not going to share her with anyone. “I’m not a fucking saint,” he shouted in her face while she was looking at him with her eyes full of tears.”And I’m definitely not a fool.” 

They had spent days fighting over that matter until she won. Langdon did not know what exactly made him change his mind: the sadnesses that flooded his lover’s mind and became unbearable for him to handle or the unknown force within himself.

“Let’s see who’s the one needing our help first,” he said through gritted teeth, secretly hoping that Y/N would drop that idea soon enough.

To find out that it was Roman Godfrey being the one in need of help was similar to being punched in the face. When he and Y/N were following the upir on his way home, Langdon tried to do his best to talk her into choosing someone else.

“He’s in pain,” she begged, turning her head at him, “don’t you feel it, Michael? I know you’re aware of how torturous his hunger is.”

“And why should I care?”

“Because I do,” she protectively crossed her arms, “and you care about me. He’s special, Michael. He needs help.”

“Fuck, remind me to ask my father why he chose a fucking angel as my eternal partner,” Langdon rolled his eyes and sped up the car.

He did not believe that any of them would ever turn this into a relationship. He was sure that Y/N would drop the idea as soon as she would see how fucked up Godfrey was. He refused to admit that at that moment jealousy was boiling in every fiber of his body.

When Roman started spitting the curses out, and the subtle hint of doubt sparked in Y/N’s eyes, Michael was celebrating his triumph. However, his content didn’t last. Y/N had this weird talent of persuading people, and eventually, both men fell victims to her charm.

Neither of them knew how to act. Michael couldn’t overcome the feeling of disdain he felt toward the younger boy and he was determined to treat him as such until he would prove that he was worthy of his respect.

On the other hand, Roman didn’t understand why she had to “win” anyone’s trust when it was Langdon and Y/N who had broken into his house and decided to make him “a proud member of their relationship”.

“You two,” he pointed his finger at them, “are fucking insane.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t done anything worse than this,” Michael scoffed, “I’m sure impregnating Letha was far less moral”

Those words nearly brought the entire venture to its end.

Roman realized that he really needed help, Langdon’s help, when the Antichrist had soothed his thirst for blood. Using his magic, Michael subsided Godfrey’s desire to kill and for the first time in what it seemed like forever, the upir could breathe.

Y/N made him believe that his kindhearted human nature was still within him. Of course, it took her months to persuade Roman, but the result was worth it. He desperately wanted to be good. All those sleepless nights he had been punishing himself for his victims were gone, and finally, he found someone who could turn him to the light. Well, technically they had found him.

Funny, how salvation came from the Antichrist and his lover. They moved from Roman treating the affair among the three of them as just sex to a deep, serious commitment.

It took Roman a lot of time to realize that he wasn’t alone anymore. The three of them took care of each other.

The turning point happened when Roman had another breakdown. He had been dealing with his hunger relatively good thanks to Michael and Y/N’s influence, but then he went on a business trip and just snapped. 

He rested his head in his hands, trying to keep breathing, but it felt like the air had suddenly got thicker. He rushed to a small fridge in his hotel room, looking for a bag of blood that he had stored in case of emergency, but the shelves were empty. He growled in frustration, his senses becoming more acute. His thirst, an obsession with blood, always put him in a weird, dizzy state where he could barely control himself. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. A white fog covered his eyes and enveloped his brain like a thick blanket. He couldn’t think straight.

“Heeeeelp!!” A loud, animalistic scream of a man he was holding in his arms, pulled him out of the trance. Godfrey opened his eyes and faced the dreadful look on the poor man’s face. He had no idea who it was and how he ended up there, in a dark alley far from anyone’s eyes. He tossed the man’s body aside like a useless puppet and looked at his hands covered in blood.

“What are you?” He snapped his head at the man who was on his hands and knees, looking terrified. Roman inhaled sharply, his body trembling as if he had a fever.

“You better fucking run,” he managed to bark. Panic rose inside of him like a tsunami, flooding his mind with a bitter aftertaste of fear and despair. He was scared of himself. He instinctively reached for the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and pressed one button of a speed dial. Please, pick up the phone, please, pick up the-

“Yes?” A familiar soothing baritone responded.

“Langdon, please...” Godfrey sobbed, feeling ashamed of his weakness. He fell to his knees against the dirty stone wall and squeezed his eyes tightly, but it didn’t prevent a couple of crystal tears from falling down his sharp cheekbones. “Help me, I’m begging you, Langdon.”

Michael did not need any explanation.

“Think of the place where you are at now,” when he spoke his voice was ringing with ice and calmness. Roman let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll come get you.”

“Okay,” he whispered and concentrated on the scenery he needed Michael to see.

Langdon was there in no time.

Something about Y/N kept Roman glued to her. Maybe this nagging feeling in his chest was aroused by the radiant warmth that surrounded her like a halo. “How does she even handle you, Langdon?” He once teased Michael.

The dynamic between her and the Antichrist was amusing as well. Roman did not like to admit it but he had been fascinated by Michael’s protectiveness over her since that time when he met them at the club. He thought that such a delicate flower as Y/N deserved nothing but the most careful guidance.

“Is she your little girl?” He asked, folding his hands over his chest and watching Y/N make her way toward Langdon and taking her seat on his lap, wrapping her arms around Michael’s shoulder.

“She’s my girl,” the blonde man answered, his palm cupping her bum and gently squeezing through a flimsy fabric of her dress, “but she’s not little. She does need me to take control when we’re intimate, but it’s never about age regression.”

Dominant by nature, Roman wanted to take care of the gorgeous girl, sitting on Michael’s lap, too. He missed the moment when he had started dreaming about her calling him daddy and letting him touch her wherever he wanted. He desired to learn every inch of her body because Michael seemed to had known where to touch, pet, and lick in order to turn her into a pliant mess.

She looked angelic in her pink and white set, her body splayed out on the expensive sheets, hair tossed around her head as Michael worked his tongue between her parted thighs (her panties were pulled aside), making her tug on his blonde locks and moan his name out loud.

“You need to earn the privilege to make her feel this good, puppy,” Langdon said, using the back of his palm to wipe Y/N’s cum off his full, glistening lips, looking extremely pleased with himself.

And Roman did. He was a bit rougher than Michael at times due to his impatience and youthful maximalism which worked perfectly in tandem with Langdon’s soft dominance. Secretly, he thrived off of bossing Roman around and telling him what to do. He loved holding the younger boy by his neck and burying his face between Y/N’s legs, making him feast on her pussy.

“Good boy,” Michael mused, letting go off of his grip. Roman was panting heavily when he pulled away from her throbbing core. He inhaled sharply and his body jolted forward back to her center when Langdon slid his hands down the younger boy’s torso, encouraging him to continue.

Godfrey found himself addicted to this romance. The obvious competition for Y/N’s attention was making his blood boil but it was different from what his hunger had been making him feel. Ardor electrified every sense in his body and made him feel alive.

She indulged his panty kink like nobody else. Y/N always wore the pretties undergarments, and to pull her panties down and off her legs with his teeth was Roman’s favorite thing to do. He loved dragging the lacy piece down while looking her in the eyes, making her watch his every move. She looked the prettiest when lying against Michael’s chest, while the blonde man was playing with her nipples, caressing them with featherlight touches.

Roman often found himself in a reverse position: blindfolded and gagged with her lacy thong. “Keep riding him, doll,” he moaned at Michael’s command and the increased pace of Y/N’s hips moving in sync with his hammering heartbeat.  

Thanks to Michael and his training, Roman became more patient and grew to enjoy edging their girl for hours. He and Michael would have her on her back, hands and legs bound to the bed and with a vibrator pressed against her clit. She looked ethereal, all desperate for his and Langdon’s cocks. The delicious stretch that both cocks made her feel was indescribable. She felt so, so full and worked up, but most importantly — she felt safe and taken care of.

Sometimes, as a part of her punishment, they would not let her cum for days. Prohibited to touch herself, she was suffering from the overwhelming arousal flooding her body. She’d try to clench her thighs, to rub herself against the armrests of Michael’s chair, to hump her pillow, but it seemed like the two men always knew what she was up to. They were always there to hush her and remind that if she continued “acting like a bratty slut” they’d have to extend the period of punishment. Godfrey and Langdon knew what buttons to push. One day when she was on her third day of edging, Roman came up to her when she was washing the dishes and slowly started peppering her neck with kisses. Being impossibly horny, she instantly leaned into his touch, hoping that her punishment was over. He fingered her until she turned into a whimpering, pleading mess, begging his to free his cock that she could feel against her ass from the confines of his slacks and fuck her right there on the kitchen counter. But the upir only laughed and pulled his hand out of her panties, leaving her on the verge of tears, wanting more.

Langdon loved eating her from behind while she was on her knees before Roman and sucking his cock, letting the mix of his precum and her saliva drip down her chin and breasts. She would cup the two mounds in her palms and smear the liquid all over her nipples, twisting and rolling them between her fingers. She could feel Michael’s hair brushing over her thighs every time he brought his mouth to her center to bury his tongue into her heat.

The men loved spoiling their girl. Her closet was full of the most beautiful designer dresses and the prettiest underwear. Roman adored when she put on a little show for them every time they’d buy something for her.

“Sit back and enjoy, daddies,” she’d tell them, and Michael and Roman would wait for her to come out of the bathroom in the new see-through set adorned with ruffles and pearls that matched her angelic personality but also showed off her spicy, devilish side. They nearly choked on their whiskey when she took a couple of elegant strides toward them and bent over to demonstrate how deliciously the sheer fabric of the panties hugged her bum, a purple jewel of a butt plug poking through the lace.

Michael’s blood ritual was something Roman always looked forward to. The first time he witnessed it, the younger boy thought he was going to lose his mind from how erotic it looked. That was when he tasted Langdon’s blood. His silver tongue glided over the Antichrist’s smooth, porcelain skin, leaving burning imprints in its wake. Michael’s chanting in Latin was mixing with the sound of Y/N’s moans and the obscene slapping of  Langdon’s flesh against her thighs. The men’s eyes were as dark as cosmos, illuminated by the light radiating from the candles that were put in a circle around their entwined bodies. There were no green and blue, only dark, deep emptiness of the supernatural creatures.

Michael know what big stress the ritual was for Y/N, thus he always made sure to take care of her afterwards, and Roman was always there to help. They’d carry her upstairs and run her a bath.

Speaking of bathing together, Godfrey loved when she rode him and Michael in the tub. The used a water-based lube, so it would not be uncomfortable for all of them. Plus, doing anal in the tub where everything was nice and clean was a lot easier. Roman adored the view of her breasts bouncing before his face as she kept moving on his length up and down, her wet hair clinging to her face.

Aftercare was the most important thing after making Y/N cum, of course. Especially if sex was rougher than usual. Sometimes the mood would strike for forceful face fucking, slaps across her tender cheeks and a cum shot all over her pretty face, but Roman and Michael always made sure to tell her how good she was for them.

“We’re so proud of you,” Langdon whispered against her cum-stained lips, and she smiled so wide, feeling happy and satisfied with how she had taken him and Roman. Every inch of her body was sore, muscles burned from overstimulation, but the pleasure that had come beforehand was worth it. She could still feel the mix of Michael’s and Roman’s cum seeping out of her, so she indulged the temptation to snake her hand between her legs to collect the pearly essence and lick it all clean.

When it was getting darker the following scene was very common for their mansion: Y/N was curled up on Roman’s lap while he was absentmindedly playing with her hair, threading his fingers through the soft strands. Michael usually worked till his eyes would get tired, so after a while, Godfrey and Y/N came up with an idea of how to get the Antichrist’s attention. Roman wouldn’t take his eyes off the tv as he slowly dragged his palm down her body and rested it on her thigh, his fingers barely swiping over the hem of her pj shorts. She looked up at him and shifted a bit, pressing her body against his torso. Roman toyed with a little bow on her waistband and slightly pulled the ribbon to untie it and slip his fingers under it, frowning when he touched the fabric of her panties. He looked down at her and mouthed “Why are you wearing them?” She shrugged and smiled, her breath was already uneven and heavy. She had to bite her knuckles to suppress a needy whimper threatening to fall from her lips. She wriggled her bum and parted her legs, letting Roman properly touch her. He cupped her pussy in his palm, outstretching the fabric of her already wet panties and shorts, starting to massaging her clit in slow, lazy circles.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Michael said in a sing-song tone, making Y/N nearly jump out of her skin. She looked at him with her eyes wide open and instinctively covered Godfrey’s hand between her thighs with her palm.

“Get back to work, Michael,” Roman mewled, ignoring Y/N’s attempts to close her legs. He smeared her arousal all over her folds, earning a loud gasp from her.

“It’s hard to concentrate when I can fucking smell her,” Michael drawled, gripping on the pen with such force that he nearly broke it.

So yeah, Roman’s plan always worked.

They loved traveling together. Eating fresh croissants in France, tasting every sort of pizza in Italy, buying the best vine in Spain, and walking down the narrow street in Monaco. Even though Roman and Michael were busy they always found time to take their girl, who looked good in white summer dresses, with her skin glowing and lips dripping with juices of ripe fruits, somewhere nice. 

tagging those who expressed their interest in this pairing: @divinelangdon @littledemondani @ms-mead @emmyrosee @mega-combusken @lvngdvns @wroteclassicaly @michaelsrighthand @hecohansen31 @1-800-bitchcraft @saturngirlz @desidia-1 @langdonsdemon @kaigitana @peachesandfern @livanka @lovelylangdonx

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 20

The room they wound up in seemed to breathe. The walls moved in a moist, rhythmic pattern and the space was lit with a low purple bioluminescence. Tommy stumbled for a few moments on the spongy, uneven floor, fighting off a wave of nausea as he supported himself on something that was like a pillar. While the portal spat out the rest of the team behind him, Tommy cast a look over their new surroundings.

This place appeared more organic, the colossal ribcage of an extraterrestrial whale. There was not a single item from Earth in sight. The walls glistened with a sheen that was like oil on blacktop. He paced the room, unsteady and observant, as a bright flash of light heralded his companions’ arrival.

“Hello, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer said, just barely staggering to his feet as the man in question landed on the other side.

Gordon groaned. “Hello. Hello,” he said, voice thin and weak. “I’m sick of teleporting. I don’t wanna do it again, man. I don’t wanna d-”

“Teleportation sickness is a common side effect,” Coomer interrupted, sighing heavily as he gained his bearings.

“How do you know that? He’s... we don’t-”

Bubby offered Gordon a hand through his speculation and pulled him to his feet. “Hello, Gordon.”

“Hello,” he responded. “Where’s Tommy?”

Tommy angled his chin at the sound of his name and rejoined the others. “I’m right here.”

Gordon gave Tommy’s hand a light squeeze of acknowledgement as soon as he was within reach. Tommy was slow to return the gesture - he was studying Gordon’s face, which was steadily growing uneasy as he took in their surroundings.

“Look - look at what I found,” he said, releasing Gordon’s hand to indicate the ribcage of spires. “These look like, ah, huge columns that they use for construction for their fucked up alien construction technology.”

Gordon fidgeted as he passed a glance overhead. “I don’t care,” he said, then quickly clarified, “like, like I’m not saying that to you, Tommy, just - I just don’t-” Gordon sighed in frustration. “I wanna be out of here. This is all a fuckin’ scientific marvel, and we can write notes about it when we get home later, but now-”

“Look,” Bubby interrupted. “This all reminds me of the time that-”

He vanished.

Gordon, Coomer, and Tommy exchanged a perplexed look.

“What? Oh, what is happening?” Gordon wondered to no one in particular.

Bubby manifested as quickly as he’d disappeared. “And then I - Where did I go?” He cut a glance to the three men staring at him.

“Where did you go?” Gordon asked. “What did you see?”

Bubby paused, gears turning in his head while the room breathed around him. “...Shit’s fucked, man,” he concluded uneasily.

Gordon’s shoulders shook in a nervous chuckle.

“The rules of this place are different from ours, Gordon,” Coomer deduced. “They - oh.”

He hunched over suddenly, clutching at his chest. The breath hissed out of him in an agonized whine, and then his joints rearranged themselves in a sickening series of cracks. The scream Coomer uttered made Tommy’s blood run cold. He rapidly averted his eyes.

“D-Doctor Coomer?” Gordon whispered.

The scrambled collection of limbs that was Dr. Coomer rebuilt itself with a heavy crunch. “So we need to be careful,” the boxer finished brightly, as if nothing had happened.

“What w-” Gordon’s sentence crumbled into a panicked, stuttering sound as his eyes went round. “Shit. Nothing means anything anymore.”

As he said this, both Bubby and Coomer folded in on themselves in a horrifying collapse of pained cries and impossible contortions. Gordon, panicked, darted a glance at Tommy, as if he thought he might deteriorate into this agonizing meaninglessness, as well.

Tommy returned his gaze with a tight-lipped grimace. He could feel the intent of this alive place, how hungry it was to pull him apart piece by piece, but he’d be dead in the ground before he let himself become interdimensional roast pork in Benrey’s homeland. I’m not going anywhere, his eyes told Gordon.

Gordon returned his stare to the other scientists. “What is happening to you two?” he barked.

Bubby quickly righted himself, flicking his usual cool look between Gordon and Tommy. “I want to get moving,” he said. “Let’s go, Gordon.”

“Why do you keep making those sounds?” he persisted.

Coomer rolled his neck like he was just waking up from a nap. “Come along now, Gordon,” he said, beckoning for him to follow Bubby into a nearby hallway.

Gordon looked to Tommy again, and after a few seconds of contemplation, he gave a hesitant nod. Perhaps Bubby and Coomer would lose themselves here. If that were the case, it would be sad and unfair, but in the end, they still had to push forward. In the end, Tommy still had Gordon’s back. In the end, they were still going home.

His expression was tortured, but Gordon nodded back. They headed out.

---

It was the same song they knew so well by now, but Xen put it in a different key. Run, hide, shoot, watch your buddy’s back. Grapple with the horrifying ordeal of imminent mortality. Wipe the goo off your shoes. Tommy shouldered his rifle and his own fragile heartbeat as well as he could in the belly of this beast, but Benrey’s watching eyes made the whole trip that much more nightmarish.

The entity was toying with them, phasing in and out of the walls in increasingly unrecognizable shapes as he followed them through Xen. Tommy latched onto his own annoyance so that fear couldn’t override his nerves, but ignoring Benrey was much more difficult now that he was ten stories tall and threatening to eat them alive. He tried to keep an eye on Benrey, the aliens, their deranged teammates, and Gordon all at once and found himself coming up woefully short.

Not to mention he had to watch out for himself, which was something he still wasn’t used to. The latent static in his body that signified the blood in his veins hadn’t wavered since passing through the portal. He kicked himself with the reminder over and over. He could die, Gordon could die, they all could die out here. Keeping it in mind while trying not to dwell on it too much was proving more difficult than it seemed. Benrey was practically licking his lips in anticipation.

At least Bubby and Coomer seemed relatively stable after their initial breakdown at the start of this trek. Their surefire aim and superhuman instincts pressed them down the path at a decent clip. Forward. Always forward. Climbing ramps and clearing gaps and dodging arcs of electricity. This place was organic-adjacent; almost alive, almost watching them, and Tommy wasn’t sure whether the stray gunfire they popped off mattered or if it was just making their environment more enraged.

His brain grasped for context and he contemplated how this place came to be. How long had it been here? Was it older than Earth? If Benrey called Xen home, were there other denizens here like him? Lost in his thoughts, he nearly missed Gordon losing his footing and slipping into a vat of caustic green fluid.

He hurried belatedly to haul him out of the stuff, struggling until Coomer joined him and grabbed the man’s other arm. To Tommy’s ire, he couldn’t quite bend the laws of physics in a plane where physics was busted beyond repair. He was glad he could rely on the boxer’s strong hands to help him pull Gordon free.

He emerged, coughing and spluttering, and Tommy steadied him by the elbow until he was able to right himself. “I thought you guys had left me for dead,” he panted.

Tommy wiped slime off on his slacks. “No,” he stated flatly, because there was no other response to an assumption so preposterous.

Dr. Coomer slapped the man’s shoulder congenially, spraying them both with the green liquid. “We’d never leave you, Gordon,” he assured him.

As Gordon turned to fish his glasses out of the vat he’d fallen in, Tommy idly voiced his thoughts. “I can't believe this is what life would be like if - I - if… If mammals evolved with moon shoes,” he guessed.

“Yeah.” Gordon murmured after a pause, flicking the water off of his frames with preoccupation. He passed a questioning look to Tommy, no doubt wondering if he could clear his lenses like he’d done so many times before, and Tommy had to give an apologetic shake of his head in return.

Not here. Not now. He felt so fucking useless.

Bubby reemerged from the hall he’d been exploring, beckoning to them ardently. “Over here,” he urged.

“And to think,” Tommy went on as he fell in line with the others, “that if gravity was just a little lower on our planet that all - we would live like this.”

He wasn’t even sure if it was something he’d logically concluded or if his mind was just cobbling together some kind of sense out of glue and thumbtacks in an attempt to right himself. It felt kind of silly, saying it out loud. But perhaps the silliness itself was a comfort.

Gordon, at least, acknowledged him. “Our brains would develop different,” he agreed, pulling up short when the hallway emptied out to a chasm. The walls were ringed and red like a trachea, and Gordon grimaced with distaste. “Aw don’t tell me this is another portal - oh shit what is that?”

The team collectively followed Gordon’s horrified stare to the creature descending on them through the ceiling. Benrey was no longer lurking, now, and he defied the structural integrity of what made up a human body in a grotesque pinwheel of bone and sinew. Tommy wasn’t even sure he’d recognize the thing as Benrey if it weren’t for his familiar, grating voice echoing through the chamber.

“Yo, friend! Welcome!”

Quickly, they took cover from the entity’s sharp, flailing limbs, pressed hard against the walls of the vertical structure despite the wetness. Tommy racked his rifle, even though he knew the hollow points were worth jack shit at this stage, while Gordon hissed out a repetitive, “What is that? What is he? What is he? What is that?” through his teeth beside him.

Coomer angled a sharp nod at Tommy and the two of them leaned out from the corner to take aim at the entity. Benrey disappeared as quickly as he arrived with a dark, echoing chuckle.

“Where’d he go?” Gordon asked. “You guys saw that, right?”

Coomer sighed and lowered his weapon, looking sick. “Oh, I’ve seen a lot of things I’d like to forget here, Gordon,” he muttered.

---

Higher up in the column that breathed around them, conveyors of colossal blue barrels rolled past. Tommy was reminded vaguely of a production line, though he dreaded to think what sort of creatures were being assembled at this organic factory.

“Look Gordon, barrels!” Coomer pointed out helpfully.

“Oh thank god, something familiar,” Tommy murmured. “They have barrels, just like we do.”

“It’s not - that is not like any barrel I’ve ever seen,” Gordon answered. “That’s like a barrel out of Donkey Kong times twenty.”

Tommy snorted. Of course Gordon was thinking about video games even in this nightmare. Gordon flashed him a brief, cheeky grin of acknowledgement - a burst of humor and then back to business. Tommy wished it could last.

Benrey continued to play cat and mouse with them as they traversed the cathedrals of Xen. They squeezed themselves through a network of vents that made Tommy feel like a blood cell in an artery, emerging on the other side to meet a yawning hole of darkness that hummed at their presence, hungry.

“Aw fuck, another one of these portals.” Gordon grumbled. He paused, eyeing the rectangle of starlight, before checking with the others. “You guys ready?”

Bubby shrugged. “Yeah?”

The man’s voice went quiet. “Okay,” he said, almost inaudible.

Coomer piped up cheerily in an attempt to reassure. “As long as I’m by your side, Gordon, I’m ready for anything.”

“Same to you man,” Gordon replied gratefully, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

The walls reverberated with Benrey’s heavy contradiction. “That’s a lie.”

It was a spine tingling, teeth-chattering declaration, but Tommy couldn’t help but dwell on how wrong Benrey was. He would follow Gordon into hell - had been doing so this whole time - and no amount of interdimensional horrors were going to change that now. The entity had been so consistently off the mark about all of them, he wondered if he was living in his own version of reality as well as his own plane of existence. Was he just throwing darts blindfolded at this point, or did Benrey actually have a plan?

Didn’t change the fact that he was large enough to crush them in one fist, but it was something to think on.

Gordon’s blood was chilled all over again. “Where was he?” he demanded, eyes darting. “Where was he?”

With a scoff, Bubby fiddled with the trigger of his firearm and jerked his chin toward the portal. “Well, I’m good either way.”

Gordon ignored him. “Why is this not freaking you guys out? How are you keeping your cool during this?”

“Now, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer reasoned, “it’s only fair you know I am freaking the fuck out!”

A genuine laugh startled out of Gordon, ringing through the hallway in the lovely, bell chime way, and Tommy felt his throat go tight to hear such a comforting sound.

“I’ve read no books that have talked about any of these things, Mr. Freeman,” he said, smiling faintly.

Gordon met his eyes, playful. “That must scare you more than anything, Tommy.”

“And I’m stronger than anything here.” Bubby declared, snapping the fingers of his free hand impatiently.

“I… don’t believe you,” Gordon replied haltingly.

“I believe him,” Coomer said with confidence, and Tommy caught a brief, wordless exchange between the two older gentlemen.

There was no point lingering. The four of them filed in.

The sickening feeling of rearranging atoms passed through Tommy and he emerged, reeling, on the other side. The way ahead was patterned with stepping stones like a galactic rock garden, leading them leap by leap to a haunting structure up ahead. Spires soared like a chest cavity cracked open, cradling the ragged heartbeat of a fuschia rift in space. The hair on the back of Tommy’s neck stood up just laying eyes on it.

“Whoa,” Gordon breathed. “What is that?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dr. Coomer echoed.

In the distance, through the haze and the space dust, Benrey lurked. His reflective cat’s eyes were tracking their every movement, and Tommy made a point to shoot a frown in his direction. We see you. At least he was no longer a knotted shoestring of muscle fiber, returning to his four-limbed, human-adjacent form to loom just out of reach.

Gordon noticed, too, raising an arm to point. “Look over there,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Coomer uttered quietly.

The entity watched, but didn’t draw any nearer. Tommy kept his grip tight on his rifle and wondered what he was waiting for. Gordon surveyed him suspiciously out of the corners of his eyes, gauging the threat level for a few moments before turning his eyes to the jagged wound of a portal that awaited them.

“Alright guys,” he said. “Let’s go take a look and see what that is.”

They began their unsteady hop to their destination, navigating the low gravity with care. Tommy’s blood sang with discord the nearer they drew to the rift, and he shook his hands out as if it could dispel the feeling.

“It’s like a - ah, a castle,” he commented.

“I don’t know if I’d call it that, bud.” Gordon sighed. “What on god.” He made the final leap, landing solidly on the chalky rock, and stared. “Holy shit.”

Tommy cleared the gap behind him. The thing was even worse up close, flanked by jets of scalding steam, warping and twisting and folding in upon itself in a way that was a headache to parse. He rubbed at his temples with his free hand and squeezed his eyes shut. The other two scientists landed nearby with a light crunch of gravel.

“Is this Benrey’s?” Gordon asked, flinging a look over his shoulder at the unresponsive entity.

“It’s beautiful,” Coomer commented in awe.

Gordon nodded. “It kind of is in a weird way.”

Bubby was completely dazzled, swirls of crimson and magenta pulsing in the reflection of his glasses as he stared. “It fills me with a joy and energy I’ve never known,” he said.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Benrey shrieked distantly, and he winked out of sight.

Tommy had no doubt the entity fully intended to. In all likelihood, Benrey was on the other side of this rift now, waiting for them to walk willingly to their doom. He wanted to discount the threat like he had so many times in the past, but… Jesus, he really could kill them here, couldn’t he? The rules were different, the turf a different color, time ribboning around their necks in nooses to hang themselves with. He eyed the portal with trepidation, standing on the edge of a conclusion.

Dr. Coomer turned suddenly, attention rapt. “Gordon?” he asked, while space debris drifted past.

He lifted his brows in acknowledgement. “Huh?”

“Gordon, do you like video games?”

“I…” he paused, mouth pulling into a distracted frown. “Yeah, man. You know, that’s - the whole Justin TV thing. Kane & Lynch 2.”

“I’ve never been keen on them myself,” the scientist went on. “I believe I’ve told you this before, but there was one from my childhood when I was younger that inspired much joy in me. It was Super Punch Out, for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System.”

That faint smile reappeared on Gordon’s mouth. “I love Punch Out,” he said fondly.

Coomer grinned fully at the recognition. “It’s a wonderful game about a boxer overcoming all odds to become a champion.”

Tommy listened to their exchange passively, cutting a quick glance to a disinterested Bubby and back. Coomer sounded wistful in a way he’d never heard before, picking Gordon’s brain about life and reality while the other man gave him slow, thoughtful answers. There was a vulnerable deliberation to their words, a quiet consideration, almost as if they were saying…

Goodbye.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Gordon asked.

Dr. Coomer exhaled heavily through his nose, looking away with a shiver, swallowing past an unseen lump in his throat. “Gordon, I don’t think there’s any turning back from this point,” he said quietly.

“No,” Gordon agreed. “You guys ready?”

Was he ready? It was such a simple question, one Tommy had been ruminating on since they wound up in the intestines of Xen, but facing down the portal made him hesitate. They were all so small and fragile and painfully mortal, and what lay on the other side was an eldritch monster with murder in his heart. Was this martyrdom? Was this suicide? How did they kill the unkillable? Tommy felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

He shook out of his fog in time to hear Gordon checking in with their other teammate.

“Bubby? Let’s do it.”

The prototype nodded and gave a nonchalant thumbs-up. “Yep.”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Gordon had been speaking to him just now. Possibly for the last time. Tommy’s stomach dropped and he stepped toward him with an outstretched hand.

“I couldn’t hear you through this gas,” he blurted in a panic.

Gordon turned slowly in his direction, a complicated look on his face. There was something in his eyes, a deep sadness, a razored fear he was fighting so hard to hide. He was just as marrow-deep afraid as Tommy was, putting on a hero’s front because that was what heroes did, and Tommy thought that maybe he was a little bit in love with him.

Gordon met Tommy’s approach with a tight grip on his shoulder, right where his neck met his collar, touching his skin just barely, and Tommy ached.

“Okay,” he affirmed, his voice only shaking a little. His hand was so warm, even through the glove he wore. “Listen I’m gonna c - can you hear me now?”

Bubby pivoted away, putting a respectable distance between himself and the two of them. “Those fumes can’t be good for you,” he muttered under his breath.

Gordon ignored him. “Can you hear me?” he repeated, like it was the most important question in the world.

Tommy’s face was mere inches from Gordon’s. There was no way he couldn’t hear him. “Yeah.”

“Thank you for being there for me.”

Tommy exhaled painfully. “Gordon…”

This sounded like a goodbye, too, and Tommy's heart ached to hear it. Perhaps it was goodbye. Perhaps this was the last time they’d be able to have this, to speak with one another in this way. What did he even say ? Where did Tommy find the words for the churning sea inside him, here on the edge of the end?

He brought his hand up to cup the side of Gordon’s face, fingertips brushing over the stubble of his jaw. God, he was gorgeous like this, bathed in the magenta light of the portal, eyes wide and dark and locked on him. How had they become this? Four days had passed since they met and Tommy already felt that Gordon Freeman was knitted to his soul.

There was no time to grieve the loss of what could have been. They didn’t have space for long, drawn out confessions, though Tommy wasn’t even sure he’d be able to string together the right words if he had an eternity in this moment. Gordon was staring at him with an unspoken longing, lips slightly parted, and Tommy knew he was right there with him.

He begged the universe to give him one last sweet thing and leaned in.

It was a brief kiss. A last ditch, now-or-never, end of the world kiss. Gordon’s mouth pressed against his with a fervent hunger, fingers digging in tight where he gripped Tommy’s shoulder, pleading wordlessly for more, more, more that Tommy wished desperately he could give. He would stand here and kiss Gordon forever if things were different, eyelashes fluttering shut and gentle heat blooming in his stomach. What a tragic miracle. Tommy kissed him like his heart was about to stop.

When they broke apart, Gordon was rosy from ear to neck, and Tommy guessed from the warmth in his face that he was a mirror to the man in front of him. The portal hummed with impatience as they hesitantly let go of one another, but the eye contact Gordon maintained was as intense as the sun.

“We’re gonna get out of here,” he told Tommy with newfound certainty.

Helplessly, Tommy nodded. “Okay.”

“If it wasn’t for you I would have died back at Black Mesa,” Gordon said. “I’m not throwing that away. We’re gonna kill this fool and we’re gonna go home.”

Tommy could only nod again. He was afraid to let himself hope, but with his mouth still burning in the afterglow of that kiss, he realized he believed him.

Another beat of silence passed, which Gordon eventually broke. “Alright.” He took a step back and surveyed the cathedral of knives that awaited them, then shot a quick glance to Coomer and Bubby, who nodded confirmation that they were ready.

Gordon Freeman, bold and lovely, didn’t hesitate. “Let’s get it!” he called. “Let’s do this!”

They all stood back and watched as their messiah charged into the portal’s hungry mouth. A brilliant flash of light seared their retinas, and as Gordon disappeared, the team moved to follow.

“Let’s give them a good show!” Coomer declared.

They plunged in.

Chapter 19 <-----> Chapter 21

[renaroo]

Super Brothers (1/12)

Disclaimer: Superman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Child Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, PTSD and Anxiety, Character Death Rating: T Synopsis: Jon Kent knew he pretty much had the perfect family life, but something still felt wrong with himself. At the height of feeling like an alien in his own skin, however, his world got turned upside down when his parents took in a troubled child who embodied everything he felt he lacked. However, becoming a brother ended up being the smallest of the trials brought by adopting Christopher Kent. And being best friends with Damian Wayne has not exactly helped keep a neutral perspective on the matter.

A/N: I have made no secret over the last few years just how disappointed i’ve been by the treatment and reintroduction of Chris Kent, aka Lor-Zod, in DC Comics. This little guy is one of my favorite comic book characters in existence, and it feels so dirty to see what has become of him. For a while, I’ve wanted to do a story that really tried to rectify the Rebirth version of Chris and the continuity at large with the core of the character I love, so this story is my attempt at that. I can only hope that I bridge that gap gracefully.

On the other end, I didn’t want to erase Damian or Jon and all the positives I have seen with their relationship and additions to the DCU at large. For their parts in this story, I want to focus on being in the middle school age range, all the confusion that entails, and open a dialogue about issues of gender and acceptance. 

Obviously, these are a lot of heavy topics, and I am certain that despite my intentions, there can and will be things I mess up. My hope is, when that happens, you all can keep an open dialogue with me on the subjects. I want to learn and better myself and my portrayal of the issues. 

That being said, please pay attention to the warnings throughout this fic. I will touch on dark subjects, and I don’t want anyone to read and feel unprepared for the subjects broached, which is part of the reason I chose to make an opening scene that is rather dark and disturbing on some levels. It won’t be ALL dark and uncomfortable, but I want to make this plea now rather than later. 

I hope the story is still worth your read <3 Thank you for your time!

Chapter One: The Cost of Friends

Jon hates this.

At the absolute worst of times, his tiny body reminds him of just how unreliable it is. He can’t count on it, it’s not consistent — it’s not a Superman body no matter how hard he tries to fit it in as one. His limbs are gangly, his bones poke through pale kin, and his messy black hair curls untamed out from around his ears. It’s not good it doesn’t do what he needs it to do.

And at that moment, Jon’s terrified that it’s about to get himself and his best friend killed.

Ordinarily, being half-Kryptonian, Jon would easily burst through chains and bindings without a second thought. And he’s still strong, he tore through the ripe around his waist like it was taffy, but the chains keeping his legs and neck locked to the floor aren’t budging. And Jon’s getting progressively tired.

There’s something strange about this macabre carnival where he and Damian take the center ring. Of course, there is, because it’s Professor Pyg and he’s the stuff of nightmares. But beyond even that, the spotlights on them show with a heavy red glow that is making Jon sluggish and weak.

So weak that he’s less than a circus ring away from Damian and he still can’t get to him.

“Come now, come now, wait your turn,” the grotesque villain squeals in delight toward Jon. “Little Bat has been scheduled for this appointment for such a long time! You must be patient, my little bird. So patient. Everyone has their time with the professor.”

“Superboy!” Damian snarls from where he is tied up, flat and without his utility belt. He’s laying on a gurney that looks far from sanitary and, if Jon didn’t know better, it might even look like Damian is actually concerned. “Focus! Red sunlight radiation shouldn’t dull your brains as much as it does your strength!”

Blinking, Jon looks up to the spotlights again and can see, with what vague telescopic ability he still has, that there is something unusual about the spectrum of light coming from them. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small but filled with relief all the same.

“Oh, my, I cannot, must not, pass an opportunity to educate my subjects, inform them of their peril,” Professor Pyg pantomimes his way from the circus ring with Damian toward the center stage with Jon.

Immediately, Jon feels his body stiffen on instinct. He looks warily at the flabby, disgusting pig mask as the rest of the pudgy and unkempt professor makes his way toward Jon. He knows he should be focusing on getting free, but it’s a difficult thing to do when he’s being approached by unmitigated evil and brutality.

He isn’t sure how Damian gets his suit on every night if this is what Gotham patrols are really like.

“It is your body,” Pyg snorts and chortles.

A cold splash washes over Jon. “My body?” he repeats with wide eyes.

“Get away from him, Pyg!” Damian roars, his gurney shaking and rocking with struggle.

“It isn’t right, doesn’t fit on your bones,” Pyg bemoans, jerking out his hip and slithering his own arms around his chest and waist. He sways back and forth on his feet with a sashay of his hips. “It misses the shape of your spirit, the delicate frame of your face. And it’ll only get worse with age.”

Despite himself, Jon feels his struggle slow to a complete stop. His eyes widen as he looks at Pyg. There is a chill that travels from the base of his spine up, standing all his hair on end.

Deep inside of Jon’s chest, muscles tighten and his heart thunders. He feels a shiver move from his core. No oh no oh no oh no. HIs guts churn, his jaw trembles.

“Oh, you feel it, don’t you, that deep deep down,” Pyg continues, approaching. “You’re in the last years of it being passable, of being acceptable. Before your bones grind and the sinews snap into shapes thick and unbecoming of your gentle nature. I see what you are, in that deep deep down, because I am an artist who shapes and molds my subjects out from their souls.”

“You’re a monster,” Jon whispers, his voice giving up halfway through.

Pyg’s eyes shine with something dangerous through the outsides of his mask. He reaches forward and cups Jon’s cheek with his itchy gloved hand. Jon doesn’t even know when he got so close; when he started towering so tall over Jon.

“You’ll be one of my finest Dollotrons,” Pyg promises, rubbing his thumb just under Jon’s eye. “But your clay’s too strong, have to soften you up, get you nice and fleshy, then I’ll shave and I’ll cut and I’ll shape you right up.”

It doesn’t come off as a promise, so much as it does a threat, one that terrifies and unsettles Jon deep down within himself.

Jon’s mind draws a blank, his eyes wide and unfocused and he attempts, desperately, to come up with some intelligent response. But he can’t, not while a fear racks his every nerve and turns his muscles to stone.

It takes Jon completely and utterly by surprise when a familiar whoosh in the air flies overhead before glass crashes and electricity sparks. He catches a glance at the familiar shape of a Batarang lodged into the spotlight directly overhead.

He’s instantly overcome with relief.

Pyg releases his cheek and steps back wildly, looking around. “No! Not now! My art is not ready!” he cries out before letting loose some piglike squeals and sobs.

Looking toward Damian, Jon expects to see his friend released but is surprised to see Damian still trapped. He squints, uncertain of what’s happening when a second then third Batarang plunge into the remaining red sun spotlights.

“Batman?” Jon wonders out loud.

“Ugh,” Damian lets out in frustration before struggling with even more force against his bindings. “Overdramatic, sanctimonious, can’t believe—“

Dollotrons are racing onto the tent floor while Professor Pyg whines and bemoans his ultimate fate, but as the lights extinguish one by one, the shadows take on a new form.

She moves like a dancer, each step and hit against the army of zombified victims perfectly paced and timed. She is all in black, save for her golden accents and bat, and she spares not a single motion. A kick becomes a launch for a leap becomes a smack becomes a twirl becomes a fist to the face of the blubbering Professor. And each and every movement grows in its momentum.

Jon has never seen anything like this outside of super speed, and he certainly hasn’t seen it using the shapes and silhouettes of the shadows like a comforting show curtain. He has so many questions and so many concerns that he forgets himself and getting free. Even if he could, with his body still unresponsively slow and dulled from the radiation.

Damian, at the least, is in motion, finally getting one of his hands free and using the points of his gauntlet to slice through the leather of the other bindings. He is muttering to himself, annoyed and embarrassed based on the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a rare sight but it is unusual for Jon to see Damian this way around one of his multitudes of siblings.

The shadowy bat launches into a final attack, knocking out the last of the Dollotrons before pouncing on the escaping Professor Pyg like a hungry lioness.

With her full weight on Pyg, the Bat narrows her eyes and for the first time can really be seen by Jon as she reaches over and yanks Pyg’s disgusting mask off of his face. Her lips curl in displeasure, but it doesn’t take away from her fair features or the delicate, smooth control she has over her body.

“Wow,” Jon hears himself say as Damian reaches his side and begins pulling out a small blowtorch for the chains. “Is that your sister?”

“SHH!” Damian hisses.

Jon strains to listen to whatever is being said between the Bat and Pyg, but it gets him nowhere, only words at a time coming in clearly as his powers remain in flux. Regardless, Pyg is squirming and blubbering too much for it to matter anyway.

“Took her damn time,” Damian snarls, letting Jon lean on him as he glares toward his sister.

“She saved our lives,” Jon reminds him.

Damian’s nose curls. “Tt, debatable.”

Cassandra apparently finishes whatever minor conversation she was having with Pyg and flips him over, handcuffing him swiftly. She’s powerful and strong without losing her leanness or size, it mesmerizes Jon in a way. By the time she looks up at them, her expression has completely changed.

“You okay?” she asks them both.

“No thanks to you,” Damian says at the same time Jon gets out, “All thanks to you!”

Something approximating a smile crosses her face before she gets to her feet and reaches up to her ear. “Oracle. Done.”

Looking at Cassandra, Jon feels like he’s found yet another new hero. “Whoa, your sister’s awesome. And cool. And so in control,” Jon tells Damian, his strength returning. “You’ve got so many siblings, can I have your sister?”

“Father would be displeased, otherwise I’d say yes,” Damian huffs in that way that Jon cannot tell, for the life of him, if it’s sarcasm or not.

***

Damian watches as his friend flies off.

It took the better part of an hour as well as a stop at Big Belly Burger for Jon to feel up to the task, but the half-Kryptonian flies home after departing from them and Damian watches him go.

Cassandra, as it turns out, is also there. She leans back against her motorcycle — a sleek but redundant design, like any of the numerous other bat-themed motorcycles or vehicles any of their extended family has access to — and watches Damian more than Jon.

They haven’t had much time with just the two of them. Their paths rarely intersect. And Damian is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

His cheeks are still on fire from the embarrassment of being rescued by her.

“I would have gotten out,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “Pyg was distracted and far away from me. I was working on my restraints.”

She tilts her head at him, a frown tight on her face. “Distracted you, too,” she points out.

And Damian knows she’s right about that, he was distracted. Just the look on his friend’s face, the growing horror and dread. Jon isn’t used to the types of villains that Gotham can throw at people, the psychological toll it takes. Damian is, or at least he likes to think he is, but Jon still can be scared and surprised.

But what looks crossed Jon’s face at that moment were unexpected even to Damian. He had never seen anything like it. Jon had been soaking up every word and phrase like it had been ripped straight from his dreams.

It was enough that it frightened Damian for his friend, and he didn’t even know why.

Over the course of an hour and a Big Belly Burger, Jon had refrained from mentioning a single thing about it.

That, too, was very unlike Jon.

Such things could be dwelled on at another time, though. Damian had the pressing matter at hand of his own reckoning. And his so-called sister.

Without looking up to meet Cassandra’s gaze, Damian kicked at the ground. “What are you going to tell father about tonight?” he asks.

“Truth,” Cass answers unhelpfully.

Gritting his teeth, Damian looks back at her, eyes narrowed and angry. “That’s not fair, you know,” he growls at her. “You never come around, never work with any of the rest of us, and then you pop in and judge us from on high. No wonder father speaks highly of you. You’re just like him.”

Her brows come together in a way that wrinkles her forehead. It’s hard to read her expression, even with her modified mask and hood. “I’m not,” she says. Her words sound final, but she apparently thinks better of them and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Judging you. I’m not.”

Damian looks her over. She hasn’t moved from her bike but her arms have dropped to her side. She is looking at him rather intently and it makes him want to squirm in his combat boots.

“Tt, sure you’re not,” he finally snaps back. “You’ll still tell father that I was captured by Professor Pyg.”

“Yes,” she said too casually.

“And that I let Superboy get captured, too,” Damian glowered more at that one, his eyes rest on the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicked again.

Cassandra paused slightly longer with that one.

When her hand snaked its way onto his shoulder, Damian flinched bodily. He slapped her hand away and twisted around to get away on instinct. He hated that — no one should be able to sneak up on him. He was trained by League of Assassins, he had been prepared since before he could speak to be on guard.

But Cassandra had, too.

She looked at him passively. “Not your fault, happens,” she said, in reference to Pyg.

“That’s not what father will think,” Damian snaps.

“I’ll tell him,” she promises.

Damian stares at her for a moment, sizing her up and considering all the ways he could make her more respectful to him. But it fizzles out quickly. He knows, as much as he resists the thought, that he isn’t upset with her.

He’s upset with himself.

“In the League, they trained us that there is a cost to every relationship formed,” Damian informs Cassandra like she doesn’t intuitively know from her own history. “Partnerships, even necessary ones, would cost you heavily. They could be deadly. And more relationships than strictly necessary should be avoided. All this family and friendship that is just around me all the time now. I don’t want to pay the cost for them.” He looks to the skies where Jon once flew. “I don’t want my friend to pay for them either. It’s not worth it.”

Cassandra stays quiet, but she places her hand on Damian’s shoulder again. He doesn’t attempt to knock it off this time.

“Sometimes it is,” she tells him.

But Damian isn’t so sure. Especially not hearing it from her. Cassandra does not work with others to the same degree as the rest of their family. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t join teams outside of father’s pet projects. She doesn’t operate in a daily partnership like Damian has with Grayson or father.

She seems to be living by those lonesome standards that the League taught Damian. And all anyone can do is praise her.

What sort of lesson is Damian supposed to learn from that?

***

Jekuul feels oppressively hot outside of the crystal palace.

Lor has watched his parents stand, looming in the skies, over the land’s natives as they constructed the palace for them. He watched as their eyes glowed threateningly each time the native population faltered, and he remembered how easily their bones cracked and snapped when corrected by the general and his lieutenant. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to witness.

Inside the palace, things are smooth and temperature regulated. The pantries are stocked with foods far greater than anything Lor had tasted within the Phantom Zone, but still foreign and sometimes unexpected.

If he questions what was on his plate, he is quickly reprimanded.

So he doesn’t ask.

It should be easy, if not simple, to follow the rules at this point. Stay in the palace, eat when told without questions, listen to his lessons from the Sunstones without fault.

He is the Last Son of Krypton, and he is supposed to inherit everything the universe owed them for their lost greatest civilization. All he has to do is stay in place, not ask questions, don’t be, don’t move.

But he was not born on Krypton, nor was he born on Jekuul — New Krypton, by his father’s declaration — he was born in the perilous depths of the Phantom Zone. A prison.

Inside of the Phantom Zone, there was no movement, there were no questions, there was not being or doing or screaming or aging — that had been the only thing he’d ever existed and it was torturous.

Outside of the Phantom Zone, he thought, things are supposed to be different. He is supposed to move and change and grow, he thinks.

So even though there is every reason not to leave the palace, Lor-Zod leaves in the oppressive heat and feels the sun against his Kryptonian skin as he flies under the two yellow suns.

As he moves across the lands, the violet skinned natives of Jekuul fall to their knees and avert their eyes. They whisper and whimper in a tongue completely foreign to Lor-Zod and it feels, well. It feels good.

Lor-Zod knows that they react this way to his parents, but to have even adults of the alien race fall in reverence to him, he feels more powerful. He feels like the Last Son of Krypton that his father insists he is.

He wonders, vaguely, if it is something his father would like to see.

Deep down, Lor hopes so. Because it is easy for Lor to imagine what his father would think or say when he doesn’t like something Lor has done. He has no concept of what would happen when he makes his father pleased.

He is nearly at the end of the primitive village when Lor’s eyes fall on an unusual sight.

One of the Jekuul natives, a young female no older than Lor and having not yet earned her yellow stripes, stands and stares up at Lor. She doesn’t drop to her knees or avert her eyes.

For a few seconds, Lor continues flying, arching his head back to watch for the girl to finally do as she is supposed to but she never does.

Aggravated and surprised, Lor turns in his flight path and descends, landing promptly in front of the girl.

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asks before his feet are even secure.

She stares at him, head tilting. Her black eyes are large and reflective, Lor can see himself in them.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms like he has seen his father do so many times before. “Don’t you speak Kryptonian?” he sneers.

After a quiet moment, she scratches at her head and looks around. That seems to answer Lor’s question for him.

“You’re supposed to kneel,” he groans. “Look, like this,” he says, bowing down to one knee and lowering his head. He’s seen so many others do it before.

Then he hears laughter.

Lor looks up and sees the girl covering her mouth as she giggles before she gets down on both her knees and dips her body down in a silly, teetering display. A mockery. Then she gets back to her feet.

“No!” Lor snaps, getting back to his own feet and grabbing her shoulders.

At first, she stiffens, surprised, and looks at him wildly. Her hands grip onto his wrists and she seems afraid.

“Like this,” Lor repeats, then pushes down on her. He dips with her, down to the ground on their knees. But when they both lower their heads, they immediately smack foreheads.

It feels like nothing to Lor, but for the girl, she jolts back and begins rubbing at her skull.

Instinctively, just like he follows his parents’ motions, Lor reaches up and rubs at his own head. They stare at each other as they both sit there on their knees, rubbing their heads.

Then, despite himself, Lor giggles.

The girl giggles.

They both giggle.

Once the giggles subside, they are both sitting on their knees in the dirt and staring at each other expectantly. They don’t speak the same language. They aren’t remotely the same and, yet, Lor has never felt more of a need to communicate with someone in his life.

He points at his chest, at the house emblem emblazoned on his armor. “Zod,” he tells her. “Zod,” he repeats.

For a moment, the girl is quiet, absorbing his words, then she points at her chest and the purple skin. “Jekuul,” she says.

“No, not what you are,” he mutters, catching on quickly. “I’m not…” He is a Zod, though. Maybe more than he is a Kryptonian, if only in his own mind. He sucks in a breath and tries again. He points at his face. “Lor,” he tells her.

Understanding fills her expression and she points at her own face. “Ti’ahl.”

And, maybe for the first time, Lor feels a wide smile cross his face.

From that moment on, their afternoon is filled with delight.

Ti’ahl points at every structure, every creature, every plant with words and phrases that will not stop saying until Lor repeats. Repeatedly, Lor picks Ti’ahl up easily, flies her from location to location, lifts up every boulder and animal they come across as she claps in delight.

It’s thrilling — and Lor laughs more than he has ever laughed before in his life.

By the time the second sun begins to set, a chill quickly crosses the lands, and Lor can see Ti’ahl gain a shiver. It makes Lor feel bad to see Ti’ahl uncomfortable in any way.

“Hold on,” he calls to her at one point, slowing her run through the grass. He reaches up and carefully unclips his cape from his armor. Grinning, he floats toward Ti’ahl and drapes her with the heavy fabric.

After Lor ties the cape closed over her neck, Ti’ahl looks down and touches the knot. A funny look crosses her face and she looks at Lor.

Ti’ahl leaps onto a nearby rock, standing tall and crossing her arms. “ZOD!” she declares herself.

Realizing what is happening, Lor giggles and drops obediently to his knees. “I kneel!” he laughs.

At first, Ti’ahl joins his laughter, but then she becomes strangely quiet.

Confused, Lor looks up at her. “Ti’ahl?” he asks before realizing that a shadow has crossed over them both.

Heart sinking, Lor twists around and sees his father, arms crossed, standing over them both. He looks displeased.

“Father,” Lor gets out, voice thin.

“Is this how I find the Last Son of Krypton? Kneeling before his lessers?” the general snarls. He drops his hands to his sides as Lor begins to stand up and easily kicks Lor back down. “If you lower yourself in the dirt for a mongrel child, you will stay there for your leader, do you understand?”

Breath catching in his throat, Lor nods. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“To the palace. Immediately,” General Zod orders, his gaze carrying over to Ti’ahl. “There will be a price to pay for this, Lor-Zod. Let us see if you are grown enough to pay it.”

Lor cannot bring himself to look at Ti’ahl as he leaps to his feet and takes off in the air. His blood is rushing to his ears, tears building up in his eyes even before he reaches his top speeds of flight.

It isn’t until he was home that he realized he had left his cape.

[dorms-fic-archive]

EreAni 30 Day OTP Challenge -  NOT SFW REBOOT [2/30, trial and error in miniature]

Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin, because I hadn’t seen anyone else attempt this with the pairing. [Ao3 | FFNet.]

a/n: I literally only did this to see if I could make it feasible. I’m not sure whether it was a mistake, but it was pretty fun to write. Titan!Eren is a nightmarish monstrosity, so turning him into something more familiar was the challenge here.

edit: changed rating on tumblr to mature to fight the tumblr bots. This does not mean the chapter is anything below a pretty hard r. Tread lightly.

.02 – Half-Dressed, New Position

Rating: Mature

The fight has ended, and Annie Leonhardt claws her way from the remnants of her own crumbling shell into silvery light. The morning sky is a gloomy grey where it's not obscured above the mesh of gigantic trees, and the air carries a chill; ideal conditions for a Titan transformation.

Stumbling to her feet is an act that rends countless threads of reddish sinew, quickly disintegrating. Her head tilts back as rain impacts in little pinpricks up and down her skin. Steam emits from the body discarded and permeates beneath her clothes, drawn into her lungs with each breath.

She's left a boot and her jacket behind—a rookie mistake—and she scowls; but these are replaceable.

She is not alone for long. The shadow of the beast looms overhead, offering a hand. Annie clambers into the outstretched palm without hesitation or fear, lifted up to eye-level, shielded from the elements by a mass of dark, shaggy hair.

"I can get out on my own, you know."

Though her voice is stable, she's shivering involuntarily from exposure, and quick to collapse.

The Titan makes a worried noise. Its fingers close beneath her, like cupping water.

"I'm fine, Eren," she insists, hand raised in an attempt to dissuade him. "Just—give me a moment."

The Titan's expression has taken on something like concern. When you've hung around a bunch of Shifters for years, emotion becomes easier to discern—never-mind the fact that Eren couldn't be more obvious if he tried, Titan or not.

"How are you holding up?" she calls. The Titan huffs, emitting a little puff of steam through flat teeth. Annie allows herself a tiny smile, but he probably can't see from here.

She makes an effort to relax as they start moving. That's never something she's managed to get used to—at twelve or sixteen, it still unnerves her to feel the weight of each thunderous footstep, lurch by lurch. She draws her knees up to her chest and bows her head, breathing in, out.

The Titan's skin is like a pyre that does not burn. Her manoeuvre gear weighs on her frame, the metal shockingly cold, the straps digging into flesh, and the pallor of the sky and the verdant trees contrast visually, disorienting her further.

But Annie isn't in any immediate distress, merely incommoded. (There is some vague recollection in her mind that Reiner and Bertholdt would oftentimes look out for one another after their transformations, but they were already close; she would never tolerate that nonsense….)

Her grip on her sleeve tightens. Through the thin cover of her rain-drenched clothes, there is a misconception of nudity; the harness constrains her while heat spills out beneath the skin. Unable to stand it any longer, she unbuckles her remaining boot before making an effort to remove the harness.

This is hardly simple, given the constant movement, compromising her dexterity. She grits her teeth, searching for the buckles. Her fingers scrap leather, then the metal framework, and in about a minute she has managed to free her arm, only to be thrown off-balance by the ODM gear weighing her down. Annie refuses to be discouraged, and sets about unbuckling the other arm. She's gotten all the way down to her abdomen before she realises they've stopped moving.

When she raises her head, the Titan is watching her curiously. It makes another sound, like a croon, lower than animal or human.

"It's hot," she says bluntly, but her voice comes out uneven. "I can't stand it."

Annie is aware she has never complained about this before. She must sound idiotic, and besides, the Titan holding her is not truly Eren. But Titans don't look at people the way it—he?—is looking at her; alarm giving way to puzzlement, perhaps intrigue.

(Commander Hanji would probably have a field day with this notion, but Annie decides to stop reflecting what Hanji would or would not do from this point onward, before she completely loses her nerve.)

She's already freed from her shirt, currently working her trousers down her legs until the straps impede her progress. Annie curses, trying to pull them back on, but between her soggy clothes and the restriction of the half-discarded harness she can only really reach her knees. She's not going anywhere.

"I guess I'm stuck for a bit," she admits, slightly abashed. Then she looks up at the Titan, smirking, and adds, "Don't take that the wrong way."

The Titan continues to gaze at her steadily. Relax, she tells herself. He's not an Aberrant, he's just….

Abruptly, he tilts his hand just-so and she finds herself curled on her back, still tangled up. The metal canister and its framework dig uncomfortably into her shins.

"The hell are you doing?" she spits out, trembling for a couple reasons.

The Titan grunts, the expression on its face somewhere between abashment and concern. Perhaps he's forgotten his strength? That seems unlikely.

Annie tries to regain her composure. "I don't suppose you're going to take advantage of this situation?"

The Titan snorts as though offended. Annie relaxes, though she doesn't show it.

"That's good." She pauses. "But… we don't have to go back yet, you know."

The Titan blinks. Suddenly Annie is far too aware of how vulnerable she has made herself.

"I mean, you're—" she exhales, flustered. "Maybe I want you to take an advantage sometimes, you know?"

There is a period of silence where Annie sorely wishes Eren was not currently fifteen metres tall, and he could respond verbally rather than watch her stumble around words, self-conscious.

She's about to call her own bluff when the pad of a massive finger ghosts over her abdomen with far less pressure than she was anticipating. Trying to vocalise her terror, she can only emit a muted gasp.

A telling glint affects the Titan's eyes. Pressing her down again with the same finger—demonstrating a disconcerting amount of control—only to travel up her belly and breasts, stopping just short of her chin. She tilts her head away with a shudder, utterly confused when he draws back.

"Have you changed your mind?" she grouses.

Titan makes that crooning noise again and Annie remembers whom she is dealing with.

"Fine…" she mutters, laying down in an effort to quell the jumble of emotions building inside of her, "I guess I trust you not to kill me."

There is a pause, while Eren studies her with an indiscernible expression.

"Just—just bring me over to you," she continues, sitting up and reaching for him.

The Titan emits another plume of steam, thicker than before. It presses its head forth slightly, like a great cat, and descends. Annie jolts at the movement, catching hold of its face. Tentatively she leans up, pressing a kiss to his nose.

"I'm not sure what you're waiting for…" she says, falling prone against his palm, "unless—" she smirks despite the nerves, "—you'd like to watch?"

His attention comes back to her face, albeit a little hazily. It's bizarre to recognise these familiar quirks upon the Titan's otherwise grisly features.

Killing faceless soldiers seems like a much easier task to what she's about to do. Yet Annie's fearless—ostensibly—as her legs fall open and her hands wander. Already slick to the touch, unsure what she wants from him. The eyes are more like twin searchlights, and it's a little unsettling; but as she arches up, head lolling, the Titan makes a strange keening sound, like a groan.

The sound reverberates through the air and within her chest, her bones. She figures it must be torture to be stuck in there, wrapped-up seamlessly inside layers of stifling, bloody tissue, maybe with a hard-on and nothing to do about it; the idea is so ludicrous that Annie wants to laugh. She instead offers a rare grin, drawling: "Did you need something else?"

The Titan growls, eyes narrowing. About half-a-metre's worth of tongue unfurls from the flat and lipless maw, closer to grey than pink. Annie stops, unable to breathe.

"Jesus. A-are you—?" She can't finish the thought. The Titan draws back slightly as though gauging her reaction. Without taking her eyes off his mouth, she stresses: "Come here. Slowly."

The Titan bows and extends a few more metres of tongue. Instinctually Annie shies away, but there's really no-where for her to go. She reaches out in a panic and touches the thing. It's slimy, hot in the tolerable sense—probably too large to offer anything besides messy frotting.

This relieves her, somehow. Annie sits back, legs folded, and fingers herself for a bit, morbidly intrigued at how wet she is.

The Titan gets her attention with another low noise, closer to a growl.

She looks up at it and reminds herself that it's only Eren in there, and yes, this is probably a little fucked up, and never mind that an ordinary human would be lucky to walk away from this with severe burns, let alone survive—

"So, what are you going to do with that?" she blurts before she can think twice.

The Titan's ears perk. But he does not advance until she bids him to. Contact is searing and sinuous, causing Annie to yelp. The tongue moves like it's got a mind of its own, frighteningly powerful. He somehow misses her face—trying to be careful, she's sure—and the rest of her front is quickly daubed in saliva, which is… not as appealing as she thought it would be half a second ago.

A frustrated groan escapes her throat, and then his finger pushes her down and she prays to God he doesn't accidentally kill her before he eases her legs apart.

Annie knows in her head what he's about to do without fully accepting it, petrified until they lock eyes and the intent, the eagerness, is unmistakeable in his expression. Her cunt throbs. She bites back a groan.

"O.K. Let me—" fumbling at her chinos again.

All of a sudden he dips his head and there are teeth snapping a hair's breadth from her body, and before she can ask what the hell he thinks he's doing he draws away, baring her to the elements. Well, one leg is bared, anyway.

"Goddam it, Jaeger," she hisses, because she only has a couple pairs of trousers and one harness, but at least she's free, and the Titan is remarkably content as it lowers its head again.

The heat alone is almost too much stimulation to process, and there is so much of him, all-at-once against her legs and belly and—she mangles a cry, hips jolting pre-emptively; he pins her without effort. Before he can pull away a third time, she gets fists in his shaggy hair.

"No," she groans stubbornly. "Don't leave me like this…."

The Titan emits a new sound, jagged and chirpy. Laughter?

Annie tugs at him, every inch of her fraught with tension. "Just do somethi—ah!"

Her voice cracks. Eren merely rumbles as though amused, or aroused. It's a little hard to discern. Annie feels it reverberate all the way up her spine from the point of contact and almost comes despite her lingering terror.

"Fucking hell," she hisses, fist rapping clumsily on his head with nowhere near enough force to harm him. "Be careful with that—" cutting off once a good half-foot of muscle surges against her. Shaking, she closes her legs around it in the vain hope of regaining control.

Eren must sense her unease, because he pauses before retreating. Annie whines at the loss, but he huffs, prodding her cunt again.

"Don't fuck with me," she growls, having somehow surpassed fear and now just exasperated.

The Titan grunts, muffled by trailing tongue, and jerks its head slightly, pointing first to her and then beckoning upward. Light-headed, Annie tries to stand and nearly falls on-all-fours, catching herself upon his palm in the nick of time.

The Titan makes a concerned noise. She bites her lip, face-to-face with the beast. This is like trying to fuck a wall. Or being fucked by—why is she trying to rationalise this?

Annie pushes her forehead against him, convinced she's going to fall again before he slips between her knees. In a fleeting moment of weakness she begs: "Slowly."

He obeys, but he won't let up with her, manipulating the organ so she's perched on her toes to remain upright, slanted against the face.

Then he starts to undulate. She cannot stop trembling even as he croons against her, trying to keep some sort of pace with her hips, fist pressed hastily to her mouth while the other hand curls against the plane of skin that is his cheek.

"E-Eren!" she gasps, shocked at how close she is already. "I—" Her fist impacts him without harm and she cries out hoarsely.

Half a minute later she's still coming down; her nerves are frayed, and the Titan is the only thing keeping her upright.

She feels the tip of the tongue shift under her knee, realises with a start that Eren's turning her around, perhaps trying to accommodate her. She panics, slouching back, her elbows knocking his teeth as he starts to push.

He can't get inside, but it soon becomes apparent he isn't trying to once the tip of the tongue slips upside her belly, poking at her breasts. Annie is emotionally overwhelmed, already sensitive to the point of overstimulation. She can't speak and instead bucks against the muscle, gets two fists in his hair as he meets her halfway.

"Fuck, that's it," she grits, shaky on her feet, "that's a good boy…."

The Titan makes an elongated, jagged noise like a sigh, panting with her.

Pretty soon her legs give out. He's still pushing her, and Annie reckons that maybe he aims to make her bend before she breaks.

"Jaeger," she shudders. "I can't. Not again."

The Titan laughs, slowing pace, propping her up with a swell of the tongue as if to say: Once more.

"You're goddam stubborn, d'you know that?" she breathes.

The Titan snorts, blasting her with breath that is torrid and scentless, making her whimper involuntarily.

"Prove—prove me wrong, then," she croaks, wriggling about in his clutches, "make me come for you."

The tongue flicks and they're back at square one. He's hardly precise, but he doesn't need to be when she's doing most of the work.

It takes twice as long for her to come. She's built up a tolerance to the sheer heat of him; even so, it's a fine line between pleasure and discomfort after a couple rounds, but Annie is unable to articulate much past helpless little noises.

It's a violent sort of relief when she finally does spend, mewling hoarsely, dizzy with heat. As soon as the Titan revokes its tongue Annie crumples to the ground, and Eren is there to hold her.

She's drifting now, the air full of steam, rain-fall a perpetual, subtle hiss in her head. Delirious, Annie raises the back of her hand to brush his jaw. "Said I trusted you," she mumbles.

Relief floods its grim visage. Annie can't help but laugh.

"Oi," she breaks off somnolently, almost shy, "d'you think you can come out of there now?"

The Titan blinks. She grins sleepily.

"Put me up somewhere," she mutters. "I'll wait."

He puts her up in one of the nearby trees. She's cognisant enough to gather what remains of her gear and clothes before settling against the rough bark. Her heart is still thudding along, but her limbs are lead-heavy.

She closes her eyes for a second, unable to fall asleep but still delirious, and concentrates on conserving energy. She can probably Shift one more time without fainting. They're not so far away from camp….

Abruptly, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Opening her eyes, Eren comes into her vision, wide-eyed and sticky with gore. "Oi. You awake?"

She blinks a few times, raising her head. He looks relieved, and says: "That was pretty dangerous, y'know." Annie nods vaguely to show she is listening. "You had me worried for a bit," he mutters, brushing her hair from her face. "Did it—I mean, did I hurt you at all?"

"No."

"O.K. And—shit, sorry about the mess, I…" he trails off as though flustered.

"I think I'll manage," says Annie evenly. "Besides, I didn't know you were so dexterous." Eren looks conflicted with himself. Annie snorts. "Anyways, I can't go back looking like this."

"Hunh? Oh, shit, your clothes!" As if just now realising their situation.

She'd be annoyed, any other day. But there's something so ridiculous about Eren fretting over her when he's covered in blood and clad in gear, as though on the battlefield.

"I guess you owe me, then." She catches his shoulder. "You can explain this—" she motions to herself "—to the other soldiers."

He shrugs. "Yeah, all right." His apparent lack of concern intrigues her. He backs away from her, peeling off his cloak, which is still warm, a little bloody (she's surprised he managed to preserve it), and offers it to her. "Put this on, for now. We can tell 'em you burnt through your clothes or something."

It's such a transparent lie that she chuckles before accepting the cloak. "You can tell them. I wasn't the one who took advantage of the situation."

Eren looks indignant. "You said you wanted me to!"

"Yeah. What about it?"

He shudders a little. "Can we get back to the base first?"

"Fine. But how do we get down from here?" She notes he still has his gear, and hers is right beside her. "Unless you plan to wait around for someone to come bring us down, I suppose one of us will have to transform again. I don't mind." She knows he's about to protest and catches his hands on her shoulders. "You can't carry two people with your ODM gear. I can handle this."

He searches her face for a long time, frowning. Annie remains stoic. Squeezing her lightly, he departs with a sigh. "All right. We'll go when you're ready."

a/n: I hope this wasn't too overboard. I'm not entirely convinced, but I did have a lot of fun seeing what I could touch on. Next chapter will be much less outlandish.

[beauty-and-the-bookish]

Highland Crown Excerpt

By: May McGoldrick

Cinaed looked up into a woman’s face. Fine black eye- brows arched over brown eyes that were focused on his chest. Thick dark hair was pulled back in a braid and pinned up at the back of her head. Intent on what she was doing, she was unaware that he was awake.

Her brow was furrowed, and lines of concentration framed the corners of her mouth. The grey travel dress she wore was plain and practical. She was not old, but not young either. Not fat, not thin. From where he lay, he guessed she was neither tall nor short. She was beautiful, but not in the flashy way of the women who generally greeted sailors in the port towns. Nor was she like the eyelash-fluttering lasses in Halifax who never stopped trying to get his attention after a Sunday service. He didn’t bother to assess the pleasant symmetry of her face, however. The “brook no nonsense” expression warned that she wasn’t one to care what others thought of her looks, anyway.

But who was she?

The last clear memory he had was seeing a flash from the shore. The next moment his chest had been punched with what felt like a fiery poker. Everything after that floated in a jumbled haze. He recalled being in the water, trying to swim toward some distant shore. Or was he struggling to reach the longboat again?

Cinaed didn’t know what part of his body hurt more, the fearsome pounding in his head or the burning piece of that poker still lodged in his chest.

“Where am I?” he demanded. “Who the deuce are you?”

Startled, she sat up straight, pulling away and scowl- ing down at him. In one blood-covered hand, she held a needle and thread. In the other, a surgeon’s knife that she now pointed directly at his throat.

“Try to choke me again and I’ll kill you.” “Choke you? For the love of God, woman!”

His ship. The reef. The explosion.  He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to clear away the fog. Everything he’d been through struck him like a broad- side.

The Highland Crown was gone. He’d detonated the powder himself. Where were his men? He’d climbed into the last longboat. They’d been fired at from the beach. He’d been shot.

Cinaed grabbed the knife-wielding wrist before she could pull it away. “Where are my men?”

An ancient woman in Highland garb slid into his line of sight behind the younger one. She was making sure he saw the cudgel she had over one shoulder.

“This one is worth less than auld fish bait, mistress,” she taunted. The crone was ready and obviously eager to use that club. “And thankless, too, I’m bound. I was right when I said ye should never have saved him.”

Should never have saved him. He released the wrist, and the hand retreated. But the dark-haired woman didn’t move away. As if nothing had happened, she dropped the knife on the cot, out of his reach. The brown eyes again focused on his chest, and she put her needle back to work.

He winced but kept his hands off the woman.

By all rights, he should be dead. A musket ball had cut him down and knocked him into the water. He should in- deed be finished. Someone on shore had tried to kill him.

But he was alive, and apparently he owed his life to this one. Gratitude flowed through him.

“Want me to give him another knock in the head?” the old witch asked.

“Last stitch. Let me finish,” she said in a voice lacking the heavier burr of the northern accent. “You can kill him when I’m done.”

A sense of humor, Cinaed thought. At least, he hoped she was joking. She tied off the knot, cut the thread, and straightened her back, inspecting her handiwork. He lifted his head to see what kind of quilt pattern she’d made of him. A puckered line of flesh, topped by a row of neat stitches, now adorned the area just below his collarbone. He’d been sewn up by surgeons before, and they’d never done such a fine job of it. He started to sit up to thank her.

That was a grave mistake. For an instant, he thought the old woman had used her cudgel, after all. When he pushed himself up, his brain exploded, and he had no doubt it was now oozing out of his ears and eye sockets. The taste of bilge water bubbled up in his throat.

“A bucket,” he groaned desperately.

The woman was surprisingly strong. She rolled him and held a bucket as his stomach emptied. She’d been ex- pecting this, it appeared. However horrible he was feeling before, it was worse now as the room twisted and rocked and spun. Long stretches of dry heaves wracked his body. “Blood I can deal with,” the old woman grouched from somewhere in the grey haze filling the room. He heaved again. “By all the saints!”

“I’ll clean up later. Don’t worry about any of this. Go sit by the fire, Jean. You’ve had a long night.”

Cinaed felt a wet cloth swab the back of his neck and his face.

Jean mumbled something unintelligible about “weak- bellied” and “not to be trusted” and “a misery.” When he hazarded a glance at her, she was glaring at him like some demon guarding the gates of hell.

“Does my nephew know that yer a doctor?” she asked, not taking her eyes off of him as she snatched up the knife and handed it to the younger woman.

A doctor! He lifted his head to look at her again. She was definitely a woman. And a fine-looking one, at that. He was still breathing, and she’d done an excellent job on whatever damage had been done to his chest by the bullet. But the possibility of any trained physician, or even a surgeon, being here in this remote corner of the High- lands was so implausible. Male or female.

“John knows.”

“But ye say yer not a midwife,” Jean persisted, a note of disbelief evident in her tone. “And not just a surgeon, in spite of all them fine, shiny instruments in that bag of yers.”

“I trained as a physician at a university. But I’m finding that my abilities as a surgeon have more practical uses wherever I go.”

University trained. Cinaed stole another look at her. She had an air of confidence in the way she spoke and acted that convinced him that she was telling the truth. And for the first time since the Highland Crown struck that reef, he wondered if his good fortune was still hold- ing, if only by thread. Lady Luck, apparently, had sent him Airmid, his own goddess of healing.

Long-forgotten words, chanted over some injury, came back to him from childhood. Bone to bone. Vein to vein. Skin to skin. Blood to blood. Sinew to sinew. Marrow to marrow. Flesh to flesh . . .

From the floor, she retrieved a bowl containing bloody cloths. A musket ball lay nestled like a robin’s egg on the soaked rags. By the devil, he thought, his admiration nearly overflowing. She’d not only stitched him together, she’d dug the bullet out of him.

The deuce! He’d never seen anyone like her. Frankly, he didn’t care if she came from the moon to practice medicine here. He owed his life to her.

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[aliaisonfanfiction]

Chapter 49

  Soft fingertips traced their way delicately along her sides as she lay there before him, her head resting on her arm, her raven hair strewn across the pillow beneath her. The braziers were lit, giving the tent an auburn glow and warmth as they cuddled closer, their skin prickled with sweat from their previous passion.

  Tracing his fingers gently through the waves of her hair, he pulled her head closer to press his lips upon her forehead. With his touch upon her, he could not help but begin to weep, a deep guilt and regret filling his heart.

  Adlanniel’s eyes widened then as she moved back to look at him in surprise.

“Meleth nin, what beseeches you so?” She asked, concern filling her voice.

  “I am a fool Adlanniel, for feeling like this.”

  “Like what Legolas?” She tried to search his eyes, but he lowered them from her.

  “You must return home to the safety of the palace, that is for certain. Your pregnancy is progressing and it is all too dangerous here, especially now with the snows. We still may be attacked by groups of orcs lurking in the forest, and perhaps by other things from the plains. I cannot risk you staying here any longer. And I need someone I trust to take care of my adar. You are the only one I can trust with this besides your own adar, but he is needed here.” Legolas took in a deep breath and sighed dolefully. “Despite this, my selfishness begs for you to remain here; remain here in my tent to comfort me and console me and give in to my carnal needs and desires. To be here only for me…”

  His words troubled her, for she wanted nothing but to stay there as he wished, and to be there to do his will. Yet deep within her twisted heart she was glad to be returning to the palace with the king, to be alone with him once again.  

 “Do not worry, my beloved, for I will await your return eagerly at the palace. Please do not despair.”

  Drawing her to him once more he kissed her passionately, and it felt like an age had passed before he let her go again. “And I will anticipate our reunion once more, meleth nín.”

  She too began to weep, for reasons she could hardly bare to face. So strong were her emotions she could barely speak, but she held him tightly and took in his warmth. As she rested her head upon his chest once more, she could hear that thumping sound that so often comforted her. That strong thumping sound that resembled the life that flowed through her prince. Still, she wondered how tightly his heart were caught within the web she had woven and if he had already realised that it were.

  When she next awoke, the prince was sitting opposite her, pulling up his boots, his hair still in tangles from the previous night’s passion. Her hair too did not fare well, and Legolas chortled at her when he turned around.

  “Your hair's a mess.”

  “As is yours, meleth nín.” She chuckled lightheartedly.

  He blew a tuft of his hair from his face and flopped back onto the bed, then looking over her naked frame that she was partially hiding with a bed sheet.

“If I knew what was good for me I’d have myself unclothed and upon that beautiful, pregnant body of yours again.” He purred.

  “If you knew what was good for you, cund vuin, you would brush that mop of yours and allow me to dress myself.” She teased.

  Pouting, he rolled onto his stomach, being careful not to squash his bad arm. “I prefer you with no clothes on.” He stated with an air.

  “Go brush your hair!” She ordered firmly.

  Rolling his eyes at her, he did as he was told.

“Well, we both better prepare as your journey starts this morn.”

  “Do not remind me…” She muttered bitterly.

  “Little dove, please…I did not mean it in a negative light. It is just that I will be able to rest easy knowing you'll be caring for my adar and safe in the palace. You'll be able to see Gwendalyn again. I'm sure she'll be ecstatic to see you.”

  “Or angry.”

   Legolas kissed her upon the forehead. “Don't be so sour. Now get yourself ready before I decide to keep you naked.”

   “Can I not?”

  Legolas laughed heartily at her. “No.”

  As Adlanniel made her way out of the prince’s tent, she was surprised to see so many out, despite injury and the biting cold, to wish them farewell. The human prince of Gondor was present as were all his entourage and most of his remaining joint forces. If humans outnumbered elves then, she could not tell. It were a once in a lifetime chance for any human to watch their elven counterparts farewell or welcome brethren of high importance. Now forces of men had turned out in respect.

  She continued to carry as many of her belongings as her arms would allow to the armoured carriage that she and the Elvenking were to share. That is when she saw him being carried to the carriage. She had often visited him with Legolas or her father but it still pained her deeply to see his tall, yet limp frame, half mummified with bandages due to the poison having weakened his strength enough to reveal the horrific scars from the battle long past.

  “Thranduil…” Her voice choked as a tear trickled down her cheek. His name had barely left her lips when a strong hand gripped her shoulder.

Almost dropping her things, she spun around, Glorfindel taking her gently so that she would not stumble.

“Uncle, do not scare me like that!” She exclaimed, breathless from the fright as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “That was not entirely my intention, pinig.” He teased as he kissed the crown of her head.

“Try not to weep so, my dear, for all will be well now.”

  “I wish I could believe that, uncle.” She muttered. “But there are still so many obstacles ahead. And a darkness which I feel is seeping back into the world. It all worries me.”

   “As it does me, dear Adlanniel, but we only can do what we can day by day. Now, let me take these heavier items for you.” He began, not allowing her to disagree as he took most of what she had been carrying. “A pregnant elleth should not be carrying such heavy things.”

  Adlanniel rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I am fine, uncle. Besides, it is not as if I am human.”

  “Still…” He shot her a look. “I will not allow it. Now come along before the carriage leaves without you. We cannot have you running through the forest again now can we?”

  As with all formal departures, it was past an hour before they were able to set off after having farewelled everyone that needed to be farewelled.

  Hugging her prince tightly, she nuzzled her face into his golden hair, taking in his musk, relishing in his presence whilst she still had the chance. Departing from him a second time was just as painful as the first, if not more so.

  He had reminded her of the old saying, “The battle is over, but the war has just begun.” There was still a lot of work to do and possibly more skirmishes and battles to fight before they would be able to get the Dark forces to submit. Then the process of ‘cleansing’ what the enemy had tainted. Only the Valar could know how long that would all take.

  “But I swear to you, I will return to be by your side by the time the flowers begin to bloom in Spring.” Legolas promised as he took her gently by the chin to kiss her softly on the lips. “And when I return,” He kissed her again, “I will officially make you my wife, and these silver rings, we wear shall be exchanged for gold.”

  “I look forward to that day with much eagerness, meleth nín.” She wept as she kissed him for the last time. It was a deep, lingering kiss, their tongues entwined like vines upon a tree. Yet sadly it had to be broken, and Legolas gently pulled away.

  “Guren nallatha nalú achenin le.” He whispered to her, embracing her tightly once more.

  “Unad nuithatha i nîr eguren nalú aderthad vín.” She replied. With those last words, Legolas led her to the carriage and helped her step up inside.

  “Take care of my adar, and of yourself my little dove. I will write to you as often as I can.”

  “I will expect nothing less.”

  The cold air bit at her face as she watched the prince disappear from view, being replaced by the denseness of the surrounding Greenwood. She reluctantly pulled herself back into the carriage at the request of one of the guards of her entourage. Sitting down on the emerald velvet sofa with its silver brocade, she looked over at the Elvenking, appearing lifeless on his cot, his flaxen hair hanging loosely over the edge. His breathing was weak as she watched his chest barely rise and fall, and the breath that escaped between his dried lips was harsh and rasping.

  Lifting up his arm closer to her, she began to unravel the bandage encasing it, the horrific scar of melted flesh and sinew revealing itself, reminding her once again of that disturbing dream she had had. Yet, she were brought back to her current task when Thranduil groaned.

  “Hîr vuin?” She questioned, hopeful that he may have regained some form of his conscious self. Alas her hope for was for naught as he continued to lie there still. Sighing inwardly, she continued to replace the bandages with fresh ones, being very careful and precise with her delicate undertaking.

  A beautiful polished mask veiled the side of his face that had been scarred. Slowly she began to trace her fingertips over the golden vines that decorated it, her mind drifting into another world. Adlanniel had barely noticed the hand that now stroked her cheek, the unseeing eyes that looked up at her.

  “Silveth...my beautiful Silveth, bereth vuin...Veleth e-guil nîn…” His voice was almost a whisper as Adlanniel looked down to him, wide eyed, unable to speak, only her hand finding its way to his that cupped her face. With his touch a vision came; an insight to the world beyond, a part of the gift that ran in her family, and had evidently passed from her grandmother to her.

  The figure she now saw was so beautiful, a beauty to rival that of Luthien of old. Her hair as golden as the sun, her eyes shimmering like sapphires freshly hewn and polished from stone. Silveth, the Queen of Greenwood, the long lost Shining Light of the Oropherion family. Her son Legolas was a striking resemblance to her.

  Yet her features were still, just as the marble statue, carved carefully and with love, hidden deep within her tomb. The light seeping from her was unnatural yet warming, soothing.

  “What are you doing, Thranduil?” Her lips were barely moving.

  Suddenly, his touch upon her cheek became cold.

  “I… wanted to feel something…” He whispered. “A hint of what we had… anything to abate the pain… of losing you.”

  She was looking at him, a hint of pain hidden deep within her shimmering eyes. “What we had was sacred.”

  “Díheno nin...” His voice choked with painful sobs. “I have broken our sacred love...and for what? My selfish need.” Tears trickled down his good eye, making Adlanniel stifle a sob of her own. Could it really be his queen, or was this a delirious dream?    

  “You are alone, Thranduil. You have been alone for so long…” Her hand stretched towards him, sliding a mere whisper above his golden mask.

  “Because I had been a fool… a fool to have let you go there… if only… you would still be here with me…”

  She smiled fondly. “I am not here, melamin. It is not me who you are looking at.”

  “I see you within her… every time I lay eyes on her… you and she are the same...” His voice trailed off with a silent gasp, sweat forming on his brows.

  Sadness crossed her features then. “Your seed is growing within her. Your daughter once again to be reborn under the heart which should have been mine…”

  “Yes… it should have been you… it should always have been you.... and I hate myself for my decision that day. You could still be here… with our daughter... and perhaps more.” His voice was choked with painful sobs, and they wracked now at Adlanniel also.

  She let her hand travel from his face down to his chest, lingering above his heart. “You do not love her, Thranduil. Let her go. Let our son keep his happiness before you burn his heart in your hatred and selfishness. You once were a good father. Find that within yourself again.”

  “You are right… I do not love her…You know nothing within the heavens can beat my love for you, melamin…”

  She once again smiled, fondly yet knowingly. “You have always been such a sweet liar… As sweet as your Dorwinion wine.”

  “I cannot lie about such a thing… I would never dare to, my beloved wife… my love has always been for you, ever since I met you… and it forever will be for you. Please believe me.”

  Her gaze travelled to something only she could see, something far, far away. “A wolf among the sheep, a viper among lilies. Your tongue is silver and your words are poisonous. You claimed a young innocent and you are ready to leave her to be consumed by thorns. The darkness which is tainting our ancient forest has seeped through your veins, clouded your judgement, entangled with her light.”

  “Yes…I have done this to her, to him, to you. I will gladly meet my punishment if it means I could reverse it all. Please, bessig, tell me what I should do…” By now, his voice was shaking, and Adlanniel’s sobs were unforgiving.

  “Fill the Chalice of Truth.” Was her only answer.

  Thranduil thought about it for a short moment. “The truth will destroy him… it will destroy her…. it will destroy their relationship and perhaps the lives of the children. I know it is I to blame… but if I tell him, then we will all be consumed by thorns.”

  Yet she insisted, her gaze still pinned to what lay beyond seen and unseen. “Without the Chalice to be filled, no Light can be spread again.”

  Thranduil nodded, though his head moved only in that world beyond. “The light cannot spread again if I do not tell him… but how can I bring myself to ruin her further… to ruin him further? I just wish you were here.”  

  “To build a house, you have to excavate the grounding. To build a home, you have to light a fire in the hearth.”

  He had to brood about what she had just said. They had played games like that; Silveth always coming with a statement he had to decipher and after doing so, always rewarded him with a smile, a touch, or an intimacy shared between them deep in the farthest aisles of the library.

  ‘You have to build a house.’ She said once. ‘A house which would cover only the two of you.’ It was her advice after he had admitted his struggles with building a bond with his newborn son; an issue many fathers endure. The house to be built was nothing else than their relationship; a father-son bond which no other person could create.

‘He trusts you.’ She had said, stroking the soft golden hair of the elfling. “Let yourself trust him.’

  Thranduil’s heart sank after he realised the meaning. His relationship with Legolas had always been based on their mutual trust which he had shredded into pieces with his betrayal and his lies. Could the spoken truth rebuilt that trust? Surely, it would light the fire that might burn all of them, but on the other side, could the ashes of their souls be reborn again as the Fiery Bird once was? Could the truth open the door to Legolas’ forgiveness…?

  Thranduil swallowed the bile that kept growing in his throat. “And what of the unborn children?”

  “They will be deeply loved by their parents.”

  “I will not bring them into this turmoil any further… I cannot… I wish you were here Silveth… so this would never have happened.”

  “Not all of our wishes are granted to us. Not all the destruction is meant to ruin.”

  “I know… but without you by my side is ruining me… forgive me Silveth… I am so sorry.”  

  “Have faith Thranduil. The little leaf was born to a vigorous spring. His heart is strong. It would take a hurricane to tear him from his branch.” Her light started to fade then.

  “Please do not go Silveth…” He pleaded desperately.

  “I belong to the past, you belong to the future melamin. Cherish the moments we had together. Look forward for we will meet again. Not today, not tomorrow, but the day will come. The light will spread once again.”

Adlanniel’s eyes burned with tears, as Thranduil’s arm fell limp once more.

“Díheno nin, bereth vuin. I am just as to blame as he.” And with that, she fell against his body and wept.

Elvish - English

Adar - father

Meleth nín/ melamin - my love

Cund vuin - beloved prince

Pinig - my little one (informal)

Elleth - elven maiden

Guren nallatha nalú achenin le - My heart shall weep until I see thee again

Unad nuithatha i nîr eguren nalú aderthad vín - Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion

Hîr vuin - my lord

Bereth vuin - my Queen

Veleth e-guil nîn - love of my life

Díheno nin… - forgive me…

Bessig - wife

[wordsturnintostories]

2/ Nothing in the Mirror

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Masterlist

Summary:  A lot can happen on a late spring day, especially on a bus. A lot more can happen if the ride ends before you've reached your station.

Warnings: confused people in a tower

Word Count: 1635

_Author's Note: Second chapter - yay! As promised, not much fluff left. Special thanks to both @buckyslion (who is the cutest friend ever) and @aubzylynn, who is such a great listener. Have fun!

Soft sun tickled your face, but you couldn’t really enjoy it. Your head was giving you a massive ache. Sitting wasn’t as easy as it was supposed to. You stayed down and enjoyed the soft pillows in your neck. Just now you realized they smelled very… masculine. This was not your bed. Where were you? Did you belong here? Your head felt like a scrambled mess and you had to hold onto the bed’s wooden frame. There was not a single thought you could hold onto. They all buzzed in your head like wasps. What happened? Panic slowly invaded your veins. What were you supposed to do?

The room looked like a bedroom. It was very clean and painted in relatively neutral colors. You spotted blue with cappuccino and white tones. On the wall hung a big plate that looked like a frisbee with different colors. There were rings on it and a star in the middle. It looked heavy too. Who would hang something like that in their bedroom? Suddenly, a door opened and a tall, blonde man stepped in with a smile. „Hey. You’re up. How do you feel?“ You mustered him for a few seconds. Who was he? You were sure you’d never seen this man in your life before. Did he kidnap you? His smile faded and creases of worry appeared on his forehead. „Are you okay? I still don’t know your name…?“ Your name. Your name. Oh. You would’ve liked to tell him that because he did seem nice. He cared. If you could just remember. Tears started to fall on your cheeks. There was a dull pain in your chest as if someone had ripped you out of your heart. It was gone. It was all gone. „Buck? I think we’ve got a problem.“

After a few hours of crying and these two men comforting you the best they could, you still felt terrible, but at least you could slip into a restful sleep, leaving behind all the pain and the confusion. One of the men, the brunette, the blonde had called him Buck, had given you his hoodie, because crying makes you feel cold, after a while. After that, he just held onto you, crawling into bed, right next to you to hold your shivering body and play with your hair. „Where am I?“, you’d whispered at one point. The blonde, Steve, had huffed. „In our apartment, in the Tower. We’re still in New York.“ „Oh. Is that - good? Like, do I belong here?“ 
He exchanged a look with his friend. „We hoped you could tell us that. We just met you on a bus. But you didn’t tell us about yourself. We don't even know your name.“ „Oh“, you said again. Oh, because what else was there to say? New York was big, but was it home? As long as you didn’t know that, you couldn’t do anything. „What happened? Why can’t I remember?“ Buck’s low voice next to you was soothing. „We had a - let’s say, unqualified driver. You fell and your head crashed against my arm, full force. You were unconscious for a couple’a hours.“ „Your arm?“ He nodded, propping his elbow up. „It's a… a little different.“ He took his shirt off and you weren’t sure what he thought he was doing. But almost half of his chest was silvery and there were scars, many, too many scars. But his arm was different, yes, that was a good way to describe it. It was artificial. Plates shifted around every time he moved it. Your eyes were wide. For a moment, you asked yourself if maybe, you were still asleep and just dreaming. But no, Buck put your hand on it and smiled when the metal captured your attention so much. „It’s kinda special“, you whispered, cautious of any judgment in his eyes, but there was none. He nodded, smiling. But there was more, in his eyes, emotions buried but never forgotten. So you just rested your head on the pillows again. It didn’t take long to fall asleep.

The next time you woke up, everything was dark. Only in the distance, far behind the windows, were hundreds of lights, the New York that was awake at night. You shot up. You had forgotten everything, but there was something like an itch in your mind, telling you to get the hell out of here. Instincts. You shifted, noticing the silvery gleam in the bed, next to you. Okay, go slow. Don’t wake him. You still wore the hoodie Buck had given to you earlier and your sports bag was placed next to the bed. You grabbed it, your naked feet brushing the soft carpet with every step. In it, you found your long sweatpants and you pulled them on in a rush. If Buck or Steve woke up, they wouldn't let you go. It was night and you just had to leave, you couldn't stand it any minute longer in here. The door let you to the living room, where you spotted a big body on a couch, with it’s back to you. Good. There was a glass of water on the counter that you chugged down. Two of the apples and a banana from the fruit basket landed in your bag as well. Then, you quietly pulled your shoes on and opened the door to leave. Outside was a hallway, a fancy one. And it looked way too long, stretching far to both sides. Looking straight ahead, you could see a long shaft in which elevators moved, accessing many different levels. Suddenly, one came up. And there was someone inside, a man with a …bow? His head was in your direction and you stepped back into Steve's apartment real quick. Your heart pounded fast now, had he seen you? Okay, then find a different way out, you told yourself. Steve was tossing around on the couch and you knew you’d have to be fast. If that other guy in the elevator was coming, he’d definitely wake Steve and he would ruin all your plans. So you ran to the windows, checking them for open ones. You could see you were pretty far up, but your hands were just moving on their own. There was no rush of adrenaline when you stepped out, into the fresh air, securing your feet in the joints of the facade of the building. Against your expectations, your head was clear and your eyes sharp, noticing every little gap in the wall, the next place to step your feet into.

You’d actually gone just a little way down yet when you could hear yells and a loud boom followed. Okay, hurry up. You were surprised to feel the muscles moving under your skin like that was what they’d always done, what they were always supposed to do, without tiring. Maybe you were an athlete or something. The people upstairs seemed to have noticed the window had been left slightly ajar and stuck their heads out. The light turned on, too. You automatically leaned closer to the building’s relatively smooth surface, hoping they would stay where they were, or even better, not see you and just leave again. But Buck had sharp eyes, apparently, because he called out to you, his voice carried away with the wind, only delivering a desperate „Doll!“ to your ears. But you couldn’t turn around, not now, not ever, your mind told you to run and not stop. So you moved downwards, becoming quicker after a while. Only Buck’s head was left upstairs and in relatively fast and regular intervals, level after level was lit up and windows were opened. But you were ahead of them, always finding new places to step your feet into. Slowly, your arms felt the strain of your weight and your bag, but you knew you’d make it. Why and how - you had no idea, but your body just knew. Suddenly, a voice appeared right next to you, almost making you lose your grip. Your head whipped around, the wind pushing all your hair into your face. Nobody was there. It spoke up again. „I'm sorry to interrupt your midnightly activities, Miss, but you are required to step back inside the building.“ Either you were going completely insane or you weren’t even awake. You decided the ignore the voice that came from no direction in particular. Steve stuck his head out the window one story above you and you cursed silently. This had been a distraction, he was hot on your tail. So, the next thing you did was gripping harder into the stone and using both your feet to shatter the next window with them. He’d think you had slipped inside, but you would go in through the next one. And you did, actually finding a window that was open on the next level. You jumped in, landing on your feet with a smile. You weren't sure how your body had managed to hang off this incredibly high building without any issue, how you’d known how to climb like that. Now, you just needed to find a way out. Suddenly, the light turned on. A redhead stood opposite from you, blocking the door, the only other exit than the window. She had a gun pointed at you and looked very professional doing so. 

„You“, she spat. „Thought we wouldn’t find you. You’ll pay for killing the ambassador.“ What was she talking about? When she moved towards you, kicking fast and pretty hard, your knee shot up, in a controlled, fast movement. Your mouth’s corner twitched upwards. Blood rushed in your ears, clearing your head, focussing your eyes on the sleek woman. Every muscle, every sinew of your body was ready. 

Your body knew what to do. You were coming alive.

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Tags: @buckyslion , @aubzylynn , @inappropriatepirate , @naenae87, @xllxni

[thesassybooskter]

HIGHLAND CROWN by May McGoldrick: Excerpt & Spotlight

NOW AVAILABLE / ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

Scottish pride, persuasion, and passion—this is Highland romance at its breathtaking best. 

Inverness, 1820 Perched on the North Sea, this port town—by turns legendary and mythological—is a place where Highland rebels and English authorities clash in a mortal struggle for survival and dominance. Among the fray is a lovely young widow who possesses rare and special gifts. 

WANTED: Isabella Drummond A true beauty and trained physician, Isabella has inspired longing and mystery—and fury—in a great many men. Hunted by both the British government and Scottish rebels, she came to the Highlands in search of survival. But a dying ship’s captain will steer her fate into even stormier waters. . .and her heart into flames. 

FOUND: Cinaed Mackintosh Cast from his home as a child, Cinaed is a fierce soul whose allegiance is only to himself … until Isabella saved his life—and added more risk to her own. Now, the only way Cinaed can keep her safe to seek refuge at Dalmigavie Castle, the Mackintosh family seat. But when the scandalous truth of his past comes out, any chance of Cinaed having a bright future with Isabella is thrown into complete darkness. What will these two ill-fated lovers have to sacrifice to be together…for eternity?

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    Excerpt

Cinaed looked up into a woman’s face. Fine black eye- brows arched over brown eyes that were focused on his chest. Thick dark hair was pulled back in a braid and pinned up at the back of her head. Intent on what she was doing, she was unaware that he was awake.

Her brow was furrowed, and lines of concentration framed the corners of her mouth. The grey travel dress she wore was plain and practical. She was not old, but not young either. Not fat, not thin. From where he lay, he guessed she was neither tall nor short. She was beautiful, but not in the flashy way of the women who generally greeted sailors in the port towns. Nor was she like the eyelash-fluttering lasses in Halifax who never stopped trying to get his attention after a Sunday service. He didn’t bother to assess the pleasant symmetry of her face, however. The “brook no nonsense” expression warned that she wasn’t one to care what others thought of her looks, anyway.

But who was she?

The last clear memory he had was seeing a flash from the shore. The next moment his chest had been punched with what felt like a fiery poker. Everything after that floated in a jumbled haze. He recalled being in the water, trying to swim toward some distant shore. Or was he struggling to reach the longboat again?

Cinaed didn’t know what part of his body hurt more, the fearsome pounding in his head or the burning piece of that poker still lodged in his chest.

“Where am I?” he demanded. “Who the deuce are you?”

Startled, she sat up straight, pulling away and scowl- ing down at him. In one blood-covered hand, she held a needle and thread. In the other, a surgeon’s knife that she now pointed directly at his throat.

“Try to choke me again and I’ll kill you.” “Choke you? For the love of God, woman!”

His ship. The reef. The explosion.  He  closed  his eyes for a moment and tried to clear away the fog. Everything he’d been through struck him like a broad- side.

The Highland Crown was gone. He’d detonated the powder himself. Where were his men? He’d climbed into the last longboat. They’d been fired at from the beach. He’d been shot.

Cinaed grabbed the knife-wielding wrist before she could pull it away. “Where are my men?”

An ancient woman in Highland garb slid into his line of sight behind the younger one. She was making sure he saw the cudgel she had over one shoulder.

“This one is worth less than auld fish bait, mistress,” she taunted. The crone was ready and obviously eager to use that club. “And thankless, too, I’m bound. I was right when I said ye should never have saved him.”

Should never have saved him. He released the wrist, and the hand retreated. But the dark-haired woman didn’t move away. As if nothing had happened, she dropped the knife on the cot, out of his reach. The brown eyes again focused on his chest, and she put her needle back to work.

He winced but kept his hands off the woman.

By all rights, he should be dead. A musket ball had cut him down and knocked him into the water. He should in- deed be finished. Someone on shore had tried to kill him.

But he was alive, and apparently he owed his life to this one. Gratitude flowed through him.

“Want me to give him another knock in the head?” the old witch asked.

“Last stitch. Let me finish,” she said in a voice lacking the heavier burr of the northern accent. “You can kill him when I’m done.”

A sense of humor, Cinaed thought. At least, he hoped she was joking. She tied off the knot, cut the thread, and straightened her back, inspecting her handiwork. He lifted his head to see what kind of quilt pattern she’d made of him. A puckered line of flesh, topped by a row of neat stitches, now adorned the area just below his collarbone. He’d been sewn up by surgeons before, and they’d never done such a fine job of it. He started to sit up to thank her.

That was a grave mistake. For an instant, he thought the old woman had used her cudgel, after all. When he pushed himself up, his brain exploded, and he had no doubt it was now oozing out of his ears and eye sockets. The taste of bilge water bubbled up in his throat.

“A bucket,” he groaned desperately.

The woman was surprisingly strong. She rolled him and held a bucket as his stomach emptied. She’d been ex- pecting this, it appeared. However horrible he was feeling before, it was worse now as the room twisted and rocked and spun. Long stretches of dry heaves wracked his body. “Blood I can deal with,” the old woman grouched from somewhere in the grey haze filling the room. He heaved

again. “By all the saints!”

“I’ll clean up later. Don’t worry about any of this. Go sit by the fire, Jean. You’ve had a long night.”

Cinaed felt a wet cloth swab the back of his neck and his face.

Jean mumbled something unintelligible about “weak- bellied” and “not to be trusted” and “a misery.” When he hazarded a glance at her, she was glaring at him like some demon guarding the gates of hell.

“Does my nephew know that yer a doctor?” she asked, not taking her eyes off of him as she snatched up the knife and handed it to the younger woman.

A doctor! He lifted his head to look at her again. She was definitely a woman. And a fine-looking one, at that. He was still breathing, and she’d done an excellent job on whatever damage had been done to his chest by the bullet. But the possibility of any trained physician, or even a surgeon, being here in this remote corner of the High- lands was so implausible. Male or female.

“John knows.”

“But ye say yer not a midwife,” Jean persisted, a note of disbelief evident in her tone. “And not just a surgeon, in spite of all them fine, shiny instruments in that bag of yers.”

“I trained as a physician at a university. But I’m find- ing that my abilities as a surgeon have more practical uses wherever I go.”

University trained. Cinaed stole another look at her. She had an air of confidence in the way she spoke and acted that convinced him that she was telling the truth. And for the first time since the Highland Crown struck that reef, he wondered if his good fortune was still hold- ing, if only by thread. Lady Luck, apparently, had sent him Airmid, his own goddess of healing.

Long-forgotten words, chanted over some injury, came back to him from childhood. Bone to bone. Vein to vein. Skin to skin. Blood to blood. Sinew to sinew. Marrow to marrow. Flesh to flesh . . .

From the floor, she retrieved a bowl containing bloody cloths. A musket ball lay nestled like a robin’s egg on the soaked rags. By the devil, he thought, his admiration nearly overflowing. She’d not only stitched him together, she’d dug the bullet out of him.

The deuce! He’d never seen anyone like her. Frankly, he didn’t care if she came from the moon to practice medicine here. He owed his life to her.

  About May McGoldrick

Authors Nikoo and Jim McGoldrick (writing as May McGoldrick) weave emotionally satisfying tales of love and danger. Under the names of May McGoldrick and Jan Coffey, these authors have written more than thirty novels and works of nonfiction. Nikoo, an engineer, also conducts frequent workshops on writing and publishing and serves as a Resident Author. Jim holds a Ph.D. in Medieval and Renaissance literature and teaches English in northwestern Connecticut. They are the authors of Much ado about Highlanders, Taming the Highlander, and Tempest in the Highlands.

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HIGHLAND CROWN by May McGoldrick: Excerpt & Spotlight was originally published on The Sassy Bookster