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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!

Word count: 7.4k

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Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.

Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.

This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.

“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”

Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.

“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”

“The Red Keep.”

“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.

Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”

There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.

“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.

An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”

“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”

Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”

“She isn’t.”

“She can’t travel by dragon.”

“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”

Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”

“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”

And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.

“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”

He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.

“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”

But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.

“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”

“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”

“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”

You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.

Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?

Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.

Do I dream of it now?

No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.

After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?

Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.

You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”

She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”

“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”

“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.

She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”

“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.

“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”

“So she wanted to know that I bled.”

Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”

The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.

“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”

She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”

“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”

“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”

She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”

“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.

“Do you embroider or sing?”

“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.

Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”

Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”

Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”

“I can collect them.”

“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”

“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”

Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”

You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”

“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”

You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”

You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?

One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.

Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”

It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”

Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”

“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.

“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”

Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.

“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.

“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.

He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”

“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.

He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”

“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”

“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”

“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”

“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”

“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.

“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”

You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.

Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”

You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”

Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”

You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”

“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”

You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.

Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”

“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”

He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”

“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.

He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”

“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”

You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.

Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.

“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”

“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”

You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”

Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.

“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.

“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”

“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”

You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?

“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.

You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.

Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.

That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.

“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”

You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.

He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.

You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.

Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?

“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.

Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?

You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.

When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.

“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”

“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.

“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.

Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.

He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”

The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”

“Well…he didn’t agree.”

This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.

“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”

We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.

“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”

“For me?”

Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”

You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”

“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”

You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”

“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”

I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”

Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”

“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”

“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”

“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?

“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”

You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”

“He’s my family too—”

“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”

One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.

“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.

Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.

Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.

“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.

Pregnant with Jace’s child?

And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.

You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.

Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.

Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”

Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.

Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?

Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #jace x you #jace velaryon x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #jace velaryon

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blackdollette · 4 months ago

Text

"AMERICAN WEDDING!" ᝰ rafe cameron

♬.ᐟ now playing: american wedding. - frank ocean

synopsis: after getting wrapped up in a drug quandary, rafe has two options: accepting defeat and inevitable exilement, or screwing up the life of the first pretty woman he sees amidst the chaos. having the choice, rafe picked the painfully obvious superior...

⊹₊⋆ pairing: drug dealer!rafe x stripper!female!reader

⊹₊⋆ word count: 5.3k

⊹₊⋆ contents: drug usage, mention of drugs, kidnapping, sexual implications, violence, slight sadism, gun usage, marriage, slight stockholm syndrome, loosely inspired by buffalo 66

“fuckin’ probation, man. can you believe that shit?” rafe takes a sharp drag of the sparked blunt tucked between his fingers. topper and kelce couldn’t hear the low mutter of his voice, but the blonde’s suppressed belligerence spoke volumes that they didn’t wish to provoke.

the music in the club was booming, so much so that rafe could barely hear his own thoughts. that seemed to be working in his favour currently, because those were the last things that he wanted to pay attention to. he had come for an escape but as the itchy craving for the sweet euphoric release became ever-present in the man’s mind, he realized had dug his own grave deeper than he thought.

the boy thought he could escape karma, dealing drugs in every nook and cranny in figure eight. it was a messy industry, in which he found himself staring down the muzzle of a steel black gun every other week. the deeds he committed were fueled by unethicality and dripped with immorality. he would never admit it out loud, but he enjoyed it. he lived for the thrill of having rich, coke-addicted bastards right at his mercy just because he was the only dealer that could give them their fix for miles. and nothing got his adrenaline pumping more than sticking a bullet in the skull of any one of them that tried him. he wanted them to test him wrongly, to give him a reason to show them all just who they were fucking with.

he was on top of the world, running an underground empire that would only flourish more with time. but as long as he was under daddy cameron’s thumb, it would soon be nothing but a bittersweet memory. ward had found out about his son’s little “shitshow” just 4 days ago, having stumbled across the debaucherous amount of hard drugs and cash stored right under his roof. the last thing the cameron’s needed in their family was another addition to the ever-growing rapsheet they had accumulated. this was the final straw.

rafe’s fist slams down on the bar’s marble counter. his head was beginning to pound, the foreshadowing migraine accumulating between his brows making him all the more triggering. his fuse was sparked. he needed something, anything to get his mind off or fix the current mess he’s gotten himself into.

“...goddamnit. i need to get the hell outta here… gotta come up with a plan or something to get myself unfucked.”

his statement went heard by his “friends”, to which the brunette to his left asked him what the point of plotting any further was. at this point, the best thing would just be to lay low until the whole probation thing blew over. rafe wasn’t having that. not a damned bit. and he was well near to cussing out everyone in the establishment just for the hell of it.

“the point is, dipshit, that i need any kind of reprieve i can get. c’mon, man. think about it.” his tone carried the amplitude of his growing distress, his shaking hand carrying the joint to his lips before he took a hasty hit. “if i don’t get myself out of this shit pronto, my dad’s gonna bust my ass and cut me loose, a’ight? he says i need to grow up, show him that i’m not gonna fuck around anymore. and, shit… if i don’t he’s gonna go to the police or somethin’, kick me out of the house. then i’m off to the fuckin’ cut with all the pogues n’ shit.”

rafe’s voice dropped an octave at the mention of that. despite how low the blonde had stooped in many aspects of his life, there was a line he would never cross. they might as well have been the scum of the earth. it was ironic and he knew it, considering his history and all. he couldn’t bring himself to care, not even a little bit.

“you goons are useless. fucking hopeless. i need another smoke.” he mutters lowly under his breath. he slips out of his barstool, running a hand over his buzzed head as he exhaled a deep breath. the stress was beginning to get to him, and he knew it. he could feel the remaining shreds of his sanity slowly slipping out of his feeble grasp like sand.

a storm was brewing within him, and he so badly wanted it to break free. he wanted to unleash its wrath in a way that would force everything to be okay again. but then again, that was exactly what got him into this disaster in the first place, letting his damn temper cloud his conscience. but he wasn’t ready to let go of that anger just yet. no, not by a long shot.

his heavy footsteps thump against the club’s floor as he storms out of the establishment, pushing the door open with an ample forearm. his feet hit the pavement with quick steps, only slowing down once he reached an alley. dark. concealed. with a shit-ton of trash around to make him feel less shitty about himself. perfect.

rafe leans back against the cold bricked wall, concealed by the night’s darkness as he dug into his pocket, retrieving his half-empty box of pre-rolls and lighter. he tucks the weed’s end between his lips, flicking on the lighter with practiced efficiency and wasting no time taking a long drag. he plucked it from his lips and exhaled a thick ribbon of smoke, muttering lowly to himself. “...fuck.”

he recollected his father’s words. he made no mistake in realizing their severity. as if the older cameron had ever cracked a joke in his life. rafe had no more than three days to prove himself. to demonstrate an act that displayed him as more than the volatile bastard he had painted himself to be. to put on a facade and show that he wasn’t exactly that.

his thoughts grew stormy once again almost instantly. he huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head slowly as he took another hit of his blunt. “...’grow up’. what a fucking joke.” he speaks the words out loud into the crisp coldness, the air having just enough bite to it to rationalize his thoughts, even if only slightly.

if running a drug empire all on his own for months on end without a thread of suspicious from anyone wasn’t him “growing up”, then he didn’t know what the hell would be. he had done things that men twice his age would dream of and get sick to their stomachs. he was as grown as they came. that was the problem.

his blunt went out with a sheer sizzle, the slightest breath putting it out. that damn near did it for him. cursing with an impulsive punch to the wall’s exterior, he tossed the lifeless roll to the ground and stomped on it with his blackened boot. it was moments like this that made him feel like the entire world was against him, from his own family right down to the wind. he felt the thin fibres of self-control within him snapping away quickly. he didn’t know how much more he could take.

his lighter had given out, too. the last bit of fuel had been wasted on that joke of a pre-roll. and he still needed another smoke. grumbling sourly, rafe shoves his fists into his pocket, stomping intently out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.

the streets were cast with a deep blue as the moon shone from above. its beauty was not lost on the man, but it was hard to enjoy the little things in life when he hated every last thing about his. his steps grew quick and rash, the only ones treading down the blackened street. there was no reason at all to raise his head and look where he was going.

it all happened in the blink of an eye. the man had crashed into you, eyes downcast and disposition sketchy enough for you to get that natural instinct to run in the other direction. you were walking up the street, clutching your skimpy disgrace of a jacket to your chest as you made a beeline for the club. it was shameful, the way you had to arrive at the place at 11pm sharp to strip on a pole for men with trust funds and ironed polos just to earn barely a buck per hour. but it was all you could get, and damn it all if the thought of a quick, cheap fuck didn’t seem appetizing right now. your head had been down, gaze glued to the ground to avoid showing your face. your steps were quick and soft, his were loud and bustling. no wonder he didn’t notice you.

his burly body tips you off your balance instantly. you hit the ground with a quiet “oof” your knees and palms grazing the rough sidewalk. rafe stumbles and nearly hits the ground right on top of you as he trips over your outstretched calf.

“fucking watch it!” his booms, hastily regaining his balance as he dusted himself off, as if he could smell the “slut-stains” right off of you. that quick glimpse he caught of you was all he needed to determine how you deserved to be treated: like all the others whores that roamed the streets freely when they really deserved to be… elsewhere. his already hardened expression darkens further as he glares at you beneath him, his demeaning gaze glued right to your ass, exposed by the thin fabric of your satin slip shifting away.

his words hit you like a tug to the hair, not necessarily painful but damn annoying in terms of basic courtesy. like all other men you encountered on a day-to-day basis, he just had a way of making you feel even more shitty when you thought you were already at your lowest.

you hiss softly, grimacing as you pick yourself up off of the ground. your knees were raw and scarped, but were nothing in comparison to the crime scene that laid right in your palms. the were scraped down to a red mess, little bits of pebbles and debris clinging to your exposed nerves. as if shit couldn’t get any worse for you.

you mutter a curse under your breath, your displeased gaze snapping up to meet the face of the man in front of you. “excuse me? watch your mouth and apologize. you bumped into me.” you tried your hardest to make your tone sound as authoritative as you felt, but the spreading pain in your hands and knees made your finicky confidence all the more fleeting.

rafe opened his mouth, a barrage of words more than ready to spill. but as much as he wanted to cuss you out, his sentence fell short as he did a double take, now truly looking at you. and, god, did he wish he had taken a moment to see you before opening his mouth the first time.

your expression was contorted into a pained snarl. your makeup looked like it was the remaining residue from the night before. your attire consisted of skimpy clothes and shoes that looked like they were lent to you from an ex-boyfriend. your erect nipples poked through the silken fabric of your satin slip. your stockings had little rips here and there, the largest ones now being in place of your bloodied knees. you looked like you hadn’t had a meal for a few days at minimum, surviving solely on whatever shitty scraps the pennies you made from stripping could get you.

you were a damn mess. you were perfect. the very thing, or rather woman, who could...

rafe had to think quickly. the idea flowed into his head like a waterfall, the very thing that could get his ass out of this. how the hell hadn’t he thought of this sooner? it was a flawless plan, almost too perfect. and in the mind-clogging haze that he was in, he knew he had to act quickly.

his daze doesn’t get broken for a long moment, his gaze glued to you as if getting a read on your soul until you turned around. your pace returned as normal, if not a little quicker the second you realized the man was following you. your stealth steps turned to frantic strides as his presence behind you grew more evident instead of disappearing.

you knew you were fucked by the time your walking turned to running, with him effortlessly gaining on you with his long strides.

“...w-wait..! hold on one second!” rafe called out, reaching out to grab you by your hood but just missing by a hair. you were hardly two feet out of his grasp. he could’ve caught you easily in any other situation, but that first encounter was still messing with him. “...shit. i… i’ve got some gauze and, uh, alcohol in my car! i can clean you up before you get infected or whatever!”

your feet carried you wildly right into the alley that he came from, but then you stopped. your pathetic excuse of running gradually slows down as you hear his latter sentence. it barely took him a second to catch up to you, bumping into you slightly from behind.

you felt your heart beating in your throat, the rapidness of it making your blood run cold as you slowly, hesitantly turned around to face the man. once you were face-to-face, you slowly began to regain your breathing. your eyes fell on his face, his slight panting causing his chest to rise and fall.

he looked rough, to say the least. but you knew that you were in no place to judge. he pulled off the homeless look quite naturally, though there was something about him that screamed “old money”. a pit formed in your stomach the second your eyes locked on him, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

before your system had time to react, he had taken your hand and was now inspecting it closely with what seemed to be the eye of an expert.

“...looks, uh… looks pretty bad… shit could get infected pretty fast if you don’t do somethin’. so, uh, how ‘bout i make this whole thing up to ya’, huh? got a first aid kit in my car ‘nd everything.”

his voice. it was grossly different than the one that had boomed at you barely a minute prior. the way he spoke, the way he so gingerly held your hand like you were a wounded fawn. like you were art…

your eyes remained wide, stunned by both the escalation of the situation and how quickly the man had flipped the switch. you opened your mouth to reject him, but a shooting sting snapped through your exposed veins as the slightest breeze grazed your eroded flesh. after a long moment of hesitation, you nodded slowly, gaze not leaving his moonlit face for even a second.

with that, he began to lead you out of the alley, back onto the street as he kept you close to him. a muscled arm came you wrap around your shoulders, the gestured unexpected and unwelcome in this circumstance. you glance up at his face as that sickening feeling in your gut only continued to blossom. you couldn’t tell exactly what graced his face at the moment he had begun walking you out of the alley, but it appeared to be the ghosting hint of a… smile..?

not the kind of smile a friend would show a friend, or that a stranger would show another stranger during a regular act of compassion. no. this smile wasn’t compassionate or clean at all. a leer was what it was. incarnated malice right in the flesh.

no. your instincts were screaming at you. telling you that something was off. pleading with you to walk away and not look back. you could barely speak but when you did, your voice came out a meek murmur. “...a-actually, sir… i-i’ve got somewhere to be. i can just get patched up when i get there. thank you for the offer, truly.”

as quickly as the words left your mouth, you were off and walking in the other direction. you tried to keep your steps as controlled and normal-seeming as possible, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling that the state of your life had shifted. like nothing was ever going to be the same again.

your quick striding feet didn’t slow for a single second. but then they had to, halting at the exact moment an unmistakable sound clicked at the back of your head. the echoing click of a cocked gun.

you felt the colour drain from your face as the muzzle pressed against the back of your head, the same voice that had spoken to you so timidly sounding once again, nothing like what it had once seemed.

“it’s your move, bitch...” rafe had experienced madness before, it was practically a constant in his life considering his profession. but, damn, did this feel right. he felt you freeze up right in front of him, at the mercy of his bullet as your body began to tremble.

grow up. grow up, his father had said to him. rafe had had bitches lining up at his door for miles, begging for a taste of him and basking in the drops that he’d scatter among them. but if that wasn’t mature enough, he’d take it up a step.

he was going to get married. he was going to get a goddamn wife and have a wedding as big and flashy as he wanted to show them all that he was as grown up at they came. it was a perfect plan, formulated in the most deranged part of his mind with every last detail planned. except for the fact that he was missing the most important thing of them all: his bride. but that problem had solved itself just as quickly as it had sprouted. rafe couldn’t help the twisted little grin that lit up his face as your bloodied legs quaked.

“...yeah… didn’t fuckin’ expect that, did you?”

you couldn’t move. you were frozen on your feet, praying to whoever was up in the clouds to make sure that this wasn’t how you died. if it was, you were surely burning in hell the second your heart stopped beating.

“...p-please… please, i-i’ll do anything, okay?…” you stammer out, making that sick little thing inside of him that seemed to feed on despair spark with what could only be delight.

“damn right you will, bitch. and you can start by walking exactly where i tell you to. walk too fast, walk too slow, and go as fucking far as even thinking about screaming, i’ll blow your brains out and make sure no one even notices that you ain’t around anymore, do you understand?”

his face was buried in the crook of your neck as the hot breath of his slow words sent goosebumps pricking all over you. you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed by any means, but you knew better than to test out if his words were just a threat. you did no more than nod slowly, his finger just itching to pull the trigger if you did anything wrong. but when you complied so simply, he hummed deeply, taking a minor step back from you.

“...good girl.“

his instructions were flat and sardonic. you would walk to his truck parked in the specified area acting as if it were your own. then you were to get into the passenger’s seat and buckle yourself into it, sitting patiently until he arrived and hopped into the driver’s seat right next to you.

you followed his rules to the last letter. feeling like a shell of a human as he stuck his keys into the ignition and started the car. as he pulled out of the parking lot and sped off into the night, you wanted nothing more than to break into sobs right on the spot. but you didn’t. you sat there silently, forgetting to breathe as you stared blankly at the caked up blood on your hands and knees.

rafe had pulled up his hood, concealing his ice-cold stare and leaving only his angular nose and structured lips visible. you couldn’t lift your head to face him, but you could feel everything. you were seeing him in his true light now. and to keep things brief, it was terrifying.

rafe hands remained on the steering wheel, his disposition stone cold as the streets he drove on became less and less familiar to you. by no means did rafe believe in “higher powers”, especially not while his life was a shitshow playing on live. but as he looked at you, taking in your suppressed squirms and bound up limbs in the passenger seat, he knew that you were nothing short of a miracle.

“...i-i… i have a boyfriend.” you internally curse yourself for opening your mouth to speak. you continue anyway. “...he’ll pay you as much money as you want. j-just don’t hurt me. i’ll give you the address and you can drop me off there and yo–”

“god-fucking-damn. you just don’t shut up, do ya?” the snap of his demeanor makes you jump in your seat, instantly shutting up. hm. submissive. rafe thought to himself. already displaying a desired quality in a wife.

an uncomfortable silence fell over you two, the only sound being the low whir of the vehicle on the road. though he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. no, he was… relieved.

“that fuckin’ ‘boyfriend’ of yours,” he put drawled emphasis on the word. he had only just met you and he could already tell when you were lying. “isn’t gonna be too pleased when he hears what’s gonna happen to you in two days. but the fucker is more than welcome to come to the wedding if he wants to see how a real man treats his woman.”

your eyes widen at least twice your size. the second your open your mouth to stupidly ask what he means, the truck comes to an abrupt stop, halting on the side of a house larger than you’d ever seen.

rafe parks the car before grabbing the headrest of the passenger seat. he gaze landed down on you, taking in your apprehensive expression, your blood-crusted body, the shaky breaths that rattled your lungs ever so slightly, the slow rise and fall of your peeking tits…

“listen to me and listen good, y’hear me.” he speaks lowly, leaving not a second of room for response or confusion. “as of right now, you are my bitch. you’re goddamn my fiancee, and you’re completely fuckin’ in love with me. you do everything i say, you call me ‘baby’ ‘nd all that shit, and you act right and do everything i tell you. our wedding is in two days. i’m takin’ you out first thing in the morning to buy a dress. a white one, a clean one, one that i bet your whore-ass isn’t used to.” he pauses for a moment, wishing that he’d swallowed those last words. if he wanted this to go well, it probably wasn’t the best idea to screw this up with petty insults so quickly. shit. “you got a name or somethin’?” he asks flatly in a vain attempt to “break the ice”. you left his question unanswered, deeming it safer to stay silent for as long as you could.

he clears his throat, letting his stare slowly fall down to take in your… qualities. you were a pretty woman, no doubt about it. underneath all the blood and junk, you were nearly everything he looked for in a wife. and all he needed to get his slate cleaned.

“you can, uh, pick out any dress you want. i don’t give a damn how expensive or long or… poofy, or whatever. just… shit, don’t fuck this up for me, okay? i’m in deep shit right now and you could really help me out if you just cooperate. and i won’t hurt ya’ either.” he grabs the gun that he kept under his leg, shaking it loosely in the air before tossing it in the backseat. he was trying to prove that he wouldn’t hurt you. as fucked up as this entire night was, every word he said sunk in. as far as you were concerned, you were going to be a married woman.

slowly, hesitantly, rafe extends a bruised, calloused hand to you. a pathetic request for a handshake. a request for peace. your mind curses your body as i reluctantly extend your swollen hand to his, letting him take yours and trying to ignore the burning sensation that arose as he squeezed your raw skin. you assumed that you were imagining the slight flicker of pleasure that arose from him at that moment. but in the darkly lit atmosphere of the truck, it was hard to tell.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

you didn't think it was possible to plan a wedding as extravagant as this one within 48 hours, but here you were, standing right in front of the glittering chandeliers and flambouyant paraphernalia. two days had passed and came faster than you could process, and you could hardly recognize the man who stood in front of you, dressed to the nines in that pressed black tux.

the church’s organ played grandly in the distance, the pews filled to the brim with kooks seated on the right and pogues expelled to the left.

“do you take rafe cameron as your devoted husband from this day forward?”

the priest’s deep voice boomed through the glass walls of the dark church. you swallowed hard, the gazes of all those in the audience cloaking you in a cold blanket as the question rang out in your ears.

you didn’t miss the shit-eating grin that was plastered on rafe, your soon-to-be husband’s face as everything began to set in stone. just last night, after he had forcibly gotten you into bed with him in what was meant to be a romantic night between future husband and wife, he had told you everything as his calloused fingers stroked slow circles onto your bare hip. the tragic backstory, how he had fucked up life up royally, and why he had to do this. he said it all with such chilling monotony, like it was the most typical thing in the world, that you were trapped between hating the man’s guts and liking him just a twinge because of how… real he was.

rafe locked your bandaged hands with his, staring down at you with a gaze intense enough to freeze blood. there was little he could do to make himself presentable. but he just had to do something for his wedding. he let you pick out what champagne he sprayed on along with the black dress shoes he had on. he had even offered to let you select which boxer briefs he had on, though you weren’t too keen on the prospect of that just yet. in a matter of seconds, life had just become serious for you. his calloused fingers massaged slow circles onto your lightly trembling hands, the anticipation of your answer coming in palpable waves from all around.

“i do.”

your voice broke through the thick tension, relieved sighs coming from a few. it wasn’t too late for you to run. you just make a dash for it and leave this man on the alter all alone, free to find a woman just as insane as him to fit his narrative instead. but as rafe nodded ever so slightly, tucking a stray lock of your hair into your neatly packed bun, you felt that lump that had been in your stomach since he abducted you dissolve, slowly but surely.

the coolness in the room dissipated, your body being replaced with an overwhelming sense of heat, despite your arms and chest bones being exposed in your wedding dress. it was constructed of white velvet, with a train that slithered behind you with every step you took. it was studded with diamonds that made you shimmer under the beaming light that shone in from the window.

it was a highly modest dress from the side but from where rafe was, it gave him just a sneak peek into paradise, your breasts being pressed up by the cinched corset at the waist. in the span of two days, he had already become obsessed with you. he wanted to know everything about you, contrasting how he had never cared enough to get to know anyone before. he wanted to look at your pretty face all the time, he wanted to touch your pretty body in ways that would confirm him as yours. and he would the second this ceremony came to a close.

your intestines felt as if they were knotted into tight strings as rafe eyed you, the priest’s ongoing proclamations turning to nothing but white noise. until he uttered the words that you had been dreading.

“...you may now kiss the bride.”

your blood ran cold. in a blink of an eye, rafe scooped you into his arms, his hands grabbing onto your ass as he wore your legs as a belt around his waist and kissed you hungrily on the lips. your shock was bone-chilling, but it seemed to disperse into nothing as you let your eyes flutter shut, accepting his greedy tongue into your mouth.

what the hell were you doing? accepting this absurdity in stride. he had kidnapped you for fuck’s sake. hurt you in ways you didn’t think were possible. the handsome devil did it all without a shred of remorse in those oceanic eyes. you didn’t know how a man could be so blatantly malevolent, but you couldn’t deny the euphoria you felt after he dubbed you “his woman” for the first time.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, your dark eyelashes fluttering against his pale cheeks as he deepened the kiss significantly. he was so desperate to taste you, like a starved dog that had been deprived for years. he forced your mouth open with his tongue, your teeth clicking together as your tongues fought a silent battle. no one else existed right then. just you, and the man you were now bound to for eternity.

he kissed you like you were the woman he had been searching for all his life. like you were the real-life manifestation of his life-long desires. it was so incredibly lewd. the way his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, the way his hands dug into the plush flesh of your ass, nearly tearing your dress. he detached his lips from yours, your swollen mouth panting for air as he trailed a sloppy string of kisses down your neck, leaving a red stream of your smudged lipstick in its path.

the embrace was interrupted by the priest gently clearing his throat, your public display being far form appropriate. rafe held on to you for a second too long, as if daring you to walk away after he’s put you down. he’s got you hooked, and he damn well knows it. you had let him have you for an intense 30 seconds, but you wanted more. damn it all to hell, you found the last bits of your animosity numbing into nothing. you wanted to give yourself to him completely, to give him what he had been waiting for. and now, you finally could.

“i pronounce you, husband and wife.”

rafe basked in the sound of the applause that rang through the church. he was despicable and he damn well knew it, but it couldn't possibly have been a bad thing if he had executed such a plan so flawlessly. he glanced down at your face, the sight causing a sizzle of something to simmer below the belt. "...my woman." rafe drawled low enough to only be heard by you, his hand locked with yours as your expression began to shift. gone was the apprehension you had been feeling all along.

rafe thought he was bad, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was getting into with you.

#𝐥𝐢𝐯 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬! ─ 📓#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe obx #obx #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe fic #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe fluff #frank ocean #american wedding #drew starkey #buffalo 66 #vincent gallo #christina ricci #layla buffalo 66 #blackdollette

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plounce · 7 months ago

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my awesome heavensward rewrite thoughts

how loyal aymeric is to the church could be in more doubt (although he's always Handsome And Nice) until we bring him evidence of the history rewrite and he reveals himself as a good guy through and through. we hear rumors of him being the pope's bastard, and that playing into the uncertainty how deep in the church's pocket he is?

there should be very little time between haurchefant's death and confronting the pope - or at least the heavens' ward. if we got a dungeon or a trial where we fight our way through the pope's boys all powered up, and then either 1. we go into primaled-up pope as a trial right after 2. he flees to elsewhere and we pursue - that's where we meet tiamat, maybe?

there is very little reason for haurchefant to be stuck at camp dragonhead for most of hvw. no job/class quests there involve him as a speaking role (or really mention him at all). he should be way more present in ishgard and as a member of your "party."

i feel that stronger connections could be drawn between the gnath/vath and ishgard/heretics (indoctrinated believers of the state religion vs free-thinkers ekeing out an existence on the fringes)

more development of "heretical" beliefs and practices. i feel like we couldve used a cutscene of like... a guy giving a monologue, drinking dragon blood, and then transforming

tbh i don't know what purpose dusk vigil serves for the plot. i think it might be a 1.0 reference, definitely in its story - maybe the location too?? i need to find out more about coerthas in 1.0. i think that dusk vigil could instead be replaced with a dungeon that expands upon "heresy" more - either in what heretics believe/do, or the ways ishgard creates heretics. freeing "falsely accused" people from an ishgardian black site? the ishgardian military being of two arms: the church police being in charge of rooting out heresy while aymeric's temple knights focus on the dragons. inside vs outside.

ysayle... more ysayle backstory... it wouldve been cool if we met someone who knew her before she got brain-blasted with shiva's memories (in tailfeather? giving that town more of a story purpose?).

iirc ysayle's crisis of identity just sort of happened, she left the party in the churning mists to freak out, popped up in ishgard to stop a heretic/underclass uprising (let them revolt!!), and then she kills herself without like speaking to you again. you don't really get to meaningfully say goodbye. i feel that her and haurchefant's deaths could been more of a one-two punch (if she Has to die).

i think ysayle could have not died. i think she could have just run away to try to become Nobody. and then she could return later. i think her deathierves a "well... guess she must redeem herself through death...." which: boooooo. boringggg.

to be frank i don't think the sea of clouds as a location is essential to or really serves heavensward's story. i feel that somewhere else would have been more beneficial. perhaps a map that includes the ruins of ferndale (estinien's hometown)? maybe that's been taken and re-settled by "heretics"?

i think that haurchefant should have been a more consistent party member. he could be used to provide two different perspectives: 1. someone who has lived within and understands ishgardian nobility 2. an ishgardian who is open to the outside world and has had regular contact with outsiders. i feel that we don't really get a sense of his own personal beliefs outside of "i'm in ishgard's military" and "im on your side my angel!!". it would be nice if we got more reactions to msq events from him - like alphinaud (our buddy) but with the ishgard perspective

if the uprising in the brume was actually allowed to happen... ok earlier in the expansion we meet hilda and she's like hiiii. buzz off ♥ [more children throwing snowballs at us] and then later on we return to ishgard from the churning mists, new lore in our minds, to a city in chaos (ysayle has faked her death & her followers think she's been assassinated, they launch an uprising? there's been an order for mass conscription, the poor have had it and don't want to die en masse?), and we actually have to INTERACT with a class uprising with hilda as a leader of the poor. and then negotiations are being made, haurchefant and alphinaud are trying to handle it - aymeric is like hey. you guys seem really strange. what's going on. and we tell him ishgard's true history, and then.... whew! he's like Oh Fuck. i need to go confront the pope (my dad). don't let talks disintegrate, i'll brb. and then in the middle of things, one of hilda's agents and lucia break down the door - LORD AYMERIC IS BEING HELD HOSTAGE BY THE POPE, DEMANDING THE HOUNDS STAND DOWN! maybe hilda gets kidnapped too...? idk theres a lot of ways you could order these things bc ishgard could be suuuuuch a powder keg.

haurchefant should have been killed in full view of the ishgardian population so that he's the people's martyr as well + more reason for ishgard to turn on the old ways

alphinaud should have had equally strong relationships with estinien and with ysayle. for a game with a blank-slate protag you can't count on every player thinking about their character forming those connections with either/both characters, so alphinaud works well as an audience substitute. and seeing this littleboy care about them may also bolster the audience's feelings toward them - i only cared about estinien for most of the game because alphinaud cared about him.

so in that way i do think it's good for him to go on the camping trip. plus it's good for his character arc to have to learn camping. gather sticks, boy. also, hvw is the alphinaud expac where stb is the alisaie expac - if we keep one, we keep the other. i like the balance of that.

alphinaud also keeps us tied into our character's history in ARR - it would be kinda weird if we got an entirely new cast of core characters, and it helps us remember the scions and kind of worry about them in the back of our minds. plus we instinctively want to protect him.

the dravanian hinterlands only play into msq in that "we have to go get the doodad from matoya to break into azys lla!" which is stupid. it's VERY important in the patches though so we gotta keep it. i would add an aetheryte though. stares.

i also think idyllshire serves a good purpose of showing "here's a different way of living - here we are, living with people who are different from us, and getting along." compare to the various ways in which ishgard, the heretic settlement in ferndale, and tailfeather live. it's a nice spot of hope.

my restructuring thought is that we get into the hinterlands via a secret route that heretic rebels reveal to us because we're following thordan's aether trail or whatever. azys lla is hidden directly above new sharlayan/idyllshire - that's one of the reasons why the forum decided to settle there, matoya reveals to us.

we hear from our contacts in idyllshire (who we know from our friends among heretics and outcasts) (also, idyllshire as an outpost for people escaping from the war?) that there's an old witch guarding the entrance to the tower that can help us breach azys lla. it's matoya!

y'shtola's body recently appeared in matoya's cave. she won't wake up. matoya's been taking care of her. we learn about their relationship. matoya being sad about yshtola's current state mirrors our grief over haurchefant. matoya agrees to help us and let us through the first of the barriers to azys lla because we're shtola's little friends.

sharlayans keeping secrets, reaching high into the sky (HEAVENSWARD, EVEN - it would be cool if almost every dungeon had you going up in some way) (and then low into the ground, in the patches). a tower that is the way to azys lla, but many barriers exist to keep intruders out.

great gubal library is such a weird fuckin second-to-last dungeon - it takes place in between the vault and ARF!! what? huh? we're breaking up that high?

the first part of the dungeon is just the sharlayan defenses, but... something's kind of weird. and then you're fighting the first boss, a mammet, and halfway through it gets killed by a member of the heavens' ward! who took over the tower, and heard you when you came in! and then rest of the dungeon is fighting through them in the ruins theyve made of sharlayan stuff - something something 'the church destroying history and knowledge to retain its power'.

finally we reach azys lla. tbf i don't think the empire needs to be there. cut the garleans. some leavings of sharlayan are around, though.

thordan has activated some allagan defenses, we deal with those as we navigate through the zone. shouldn't take that much time. the important thing is that we talk to tiamat, who is also grieving and hates what that grief drove her to do. that's such an important conversation. also leaves a bit of potential character stuff for the player's brain, if you choose to draw the connection between your wol and tiamat - is this how your wol will process grief? are they grieving?

we confront thordan - estinien is so fucking mad that the cause he's been fighting for, the war that ruined his life, has all been a lie meant to prop up this man. the anger overtakes him, he transforms, he flies off.

we left alphinaud back at the sharlayan tower - he's been trying to fix the controls so we can get back down (and, if you were defeated, to call for help) btw. estinien does fly by him and he's like NOOOOO ESTINIENNNNNNN and estinien SLICES HIM WITH HIS SPEAR and alphinaud FALLS DOWN AND IS BLEEDING!! this is a cutscene, the wol isn't there, but YOU see it and it adds to your stress. :D

thordan's like "oh so sad... you don't have any friends... WELL I DO HA HA HA" and then he brings out the ascians he's been conspiring with!! the first half of the fight are lahabrea/igeyorhm combined into ascian prime (you defeated me as one... but can you defeat TWO ascians??), and then when you finish them - cutscene. thordan eats them for power. mwa ha ha ha!! PHASE TWO. we fight him, we kill him. he doesn't bring his boys out but does some crazy dragon-blood shit - kinda like golbez - and maybe some ascian stuff.

alphinaud's okay - he patched himself up. he should probably see a doctor though. you limp away, having won and survived, but with lots of rebuilding and healing to do...

the post-credits cutscene montage, in no particular order: y'shtola's eyes opening. thancred appearing in the dravanian forelands - we don't know it's him by sight. we don't see his face or identifying markings. niddstinien Lurking Around. people leavings flowers and votives at The Grave Of Lady Shiva - ysayle is assumed dead by her followers. (she is not. she is comatose in a small isolated village in dravania where non-ishgardian elezen have been carrying on pre-dragonsong war beliefs and practices.)

#chirps #robffxiv #ffxiv

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fangirlingpuggle · 10 months ago

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Bio billford alt au (Stanley ends up through the portal but the experiment box with Mabel and dipper also goes with him with no one noticing)

So while Ford has a mental breakdown about his brother.

Stanley is going through what he has that went with him and ends up with the 2 demons almost fully developed but not quite. Give or take a few months.

Stanley noticed his bros drunk handwriting and instantly grew attached to these kids.

The twins grow up with Stanley traveling the multiverse until they somehow end up back at the shack. ( Either Ford reworking the portal, or the twins powers)

And Ford find out his kids and brother is alive.

This makes ford 100 times more protective. So he has all 3 wear tracking devices and protective charms 24/7.

Also Mabel and dipper are not use to so little chaos. Stan is just tired and really wants to loose it on Ford but the kids are still adjusting so it will have to wait.

Oh wow, that AU would be really rough for Stan stuck in multiple dimensions with 2 tiny demon babies, and if Bill found about them... constantly running away from demon who wants his kids.

Stan just running away holding tiny chubby demon babies cursing Ford like 'Ford when I see you I am punching you in the face and then lecturing you for your choice in guys!'

Ford desperately trying to get his brother back and then relief of Stanley being back and then... surprise your also a dad... and now not only is dimension at risk but Bill knows about these kids and he wants them... Ford was already in crazy protective mode for getting Stanley back and keeping him safe but now it's turned up to the extreme.

Ford has all protective wards and has 110% tried to inject tracking chips into them.

Stan has definitely torn into Ford silently mouthing at him over sleeping twins. Very silent fights and also 'SIXER YOU COULD DO SO MUCH BETTER? WHY THAT TRIANGULAR BASTARD?'

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rnn11203 · 2 months ago

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My various thoughts about istvan toth

It’s so interesting to me how dejected Istvan is towards god, being a man from his time ofc, I mean it’s not exactly unwarranted. But fascinating nonetheless, did he lose his faith when the Turks came for his family? Or was it after? Sometime later in the pits of poverty? Had he begged for gods mercy? And no one heard his call? I’m unsure how old he was when orphaned but I do love the idea that he was younger than both Erik and Henry when they had lost their own families. In kcd2, when he’s speaking to Erik after the torture scene, he remarks that he almost feels sorry for Radzigs bastard. I wonder if part of him views Henry as naive. Ištván himself had no “true” father to scoop him up and take him in as his ward. No, he struggled alone. I wonder if he thinks Henry had not yet known true suffering, or true war, that’s why he taunts him with “have you finally learned?” Etc..

Istvan looks at suffering as something sort of profound, unending, everlasting and undeniable. The stronger dog fucks the bitches, huh? But I wouldn’t say he desires the chaos, I’m sure he’d love a life of regular noble duties.. but this is the life he was given, and he was determined to make something out of it. If his home and family had burned so be it. So would others. Much like his choice in clothing his soul had been dipped black, only illuminated by gold. (Unlike Erik’s armor, pure white but easily stained).

It hurts me to think about what could happen to little istvan, how can a child grow into a man like himself? A man like that is only born from hurt. How had he fed himself? Where did he sleep? Does he remember his mother’s hands? His father’s voice? The warmth of his now ashen home? How old was he when he first killed a man? When did he become the stronger dog? How long had he been the bitch?

Did you see the way Erik tried to press his cheek against istvans hand? Looking for it? Had istvan done that often? The sincerity in Erik’s voice when he asked Istvan if he worried for him, the instant reassurance that he hadn’t needed to.. the sadness in his face as if he wanted Istvan to say something he hadn’t. Did Istvan often worry for him? Did he say it? Or was the stress just clear on his face? It’s a bit pitiful, their relationship, because istvan really believed that he was teaching Erik how to survive, no, thrive. The stronger dog fucks the bitches, he believed that fully, entirely. Yet he begged for Erik’s life anyways. Such a good villain, nuanced, complex, compelling. Fantastic storytelling with him.

#i love you istvan toth #istvan toth #i hate istvan toth #kcd2 istvan toth #kcd2 istvan #kcd2 erik #kingdom come deliverance 2 #kingdom come deliverance #isterik #istvan x erik

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slowburnmuse · 6 days ago

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Date Night

Marshall Ward x gn Reader

Summary: Marshall’s going back home after being stood up by his date when he (literally) runs into you and things get heated

cw: bad meet cute? you guys insult each other a lot

a/n: I’m unable to tell what enemies to lovers is outside of fantasy/dystopian genres but here’s this lol. I just think Marshall would find himself in a situation where he “hates” someone so much it turns into obsession/love (or maybe that’s just me). Hope you enjoy wtv this is!

Okay, now this just fucking sucked. This had to be the seventieth date Marshall had been on. Or, more accurately, the seventieth date Radiant Black had been on.

He had been having much more success with matches on Raya than Marshall Ward ever had on Tinder, Bumble, or Hinge. Though Radiant Black was just as successful at landing a second date as Marshall was. Which was never.

Dressed in a gray suit he ironed the hell out of to eliminate all wrinkles, and a helmet with white-blue eyes that betrayed his expression, Marshall sat at the circular table. Drumming his fingers against the white cloth that covered the wood, he pulled back the collar of his shirt.

Was it the shirt? Was the blue leaf pattern a turn off? He thought it was white enough. Maybe he should start wearing ties.

Clean plates, cups, napkins, and cutlery were set for two, and unused. Empty, like the chair across from him where his date should’ve been sitting. He should’ve been wooing them with epic stories of how daring and badass he was, as the superhero who saved Chicago and the world itself.

And his date would’ve laughed and oo’ed at it all, finding him irresistibly charming. He had been waiting for said date for forty five minutes now.

A waiter walked by Marshall, giving him another sympathetic look as he couldn’t help but notice how the big upturned shapes on Marshall’s black visor were furrowed. Others in the restaurant had begun to look over their shoulders to sneak a peek at the lonesome hero, either pitying him or thinking to themselves, ‘Serves him right, the bastard.’

As much as Marshall hated it, their pure disdain for him, he knew that deep in his heart he couldn’t blame them. It didn’t matter if the other Marshall wasn’t him. In their eyes, he was responsible for the lives of hundreds, thousands even. And in this timeline, he was responsible for the damage that had impacted Chicago.

He was at fault for the current chaos and strain put on people and what he had done to their lives. Homes were lost. People were lost. He wouldn’t be surprised if one day, they would track him down, tie him to a stake, and watch with a sick satisfaction as he was engulfed in flames.

One part of him wondered if his mother would be one of those people. The woman thought Radiant Black was the antichrist for fucks sake.

But another part of Marshall wondered if he would even try to stop them. If he would just allow himself to burn.

Marshall sighed and stood up, leaving the restaurant once he saw the waiter whispering to his coworker. He hadn’t been stood up since his college days. He rubbed the back of his neck, one hand in his pocket. Looks like he’s having kraft mac and cheese and cheap beer for dinner tonight. Alone.

Well unless Eva was at home. Then again, she’d make a portal straight for Paris once she saw his meal of choice. She always got a bit repulsed by his diet.

He thought about flying back, but decided to walk. The restaurant was only a half hour from the apartment anyway. And tonight was surprisingly peaceful. The sky was pitch black with dark misty clouds, and faint stars that looked like specks of paint on an old mural. An airplane was flying high above the tallest buildings.

Marshall remembers that when he was a child, he used to think those airplanes were shooting stars. And he’d wish for so many things.

For the scrapes he got from falling off his bike to heal by morning. For the neighbourhood kids to play with him instead of avoiding him like the plague. For his mother to take him to the movies like old times. He stopped making wishes when his father left them.

Fuck. He did not want to get sentimental on the sidewalk, especially when he was still donning his helmet. He looked to his right to see one of the stores he was walking by sold churros. He went inside and came back out with a white takeout box full of the sweet fried dough. He got them drizzled in caramel.

Marshall could feel how warm they were in his hands, pleasantly hot without causing a stinging sensation in his palms. He was so focused on the soothing heat that he didn’t notice the person walking right in front of him until they collided. He heard a startled sound and quickly used his powers to stop you from falling on your ass on the concrete, and to save his churros.

“Woah, sorry I-” Marshall started, but paused seeing you. You looked as if you were on your way to a date, or back home from one. Either way, you were clearly dressed for a special occasion.

But Marshall couldn’t help but stare for some odd reason. As if the jewelry you wore, or how the city lights shone in your eyes were hypnotizing him. A siren’s silent call. The spell was broken once he heard a short yelp and he realized he had forgotten to take into account the paper coffee cup in your hand.

Before he could even blink, a rush of rich, chocolatey liquid splashed down your front, neck, and back of your hair.

Once looking quite expensive and chic, you were now a wet and sticky mess, with whipped cream and chocolate chips imprinted on your attire. Marshall winced. “Oh shit.” He said. “Um- fuck.” He brought you back to your feet. “I am so sorry I-”

“You asshole! Do you even realize what you just did?”

Marshall blinked at the way you snapped at him, not expecting such hostility, but managed to stammer a response. “I, uh, I ruined your clothes?”

You huffed. “You just cost me three hundred dollars. I didn’t just pick this off the rack, genius!”

Fuck. Now Marshall felt like even more of a dumbass. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, before looking through his pockets for a handkerchief or a napkin. Anytime he tries to be a gentleman the odds are against him. “Believe me when I say I really am sorry, but it’s not like it’s irreplaceable. I could buy you a new one.”

“You can’t. I got it years ago. It’s not sold anywhere anymore.” He paused his action to study your expression.

You were livid, ready to tear into his helmet and poke out the eyes that kept widening each time you spoke. And yet despite this fact, he couldn’t bear to look away, even if it was out of discomfort. It was as if Marshall was digging his own grave each time he tried to make it up to you.

“You gotta be kidding me.” He said.

You rolled your eyes at his disbelief. “Figures you’d screw up.” You didn’t even know why you said that.

You never even had an encounter with Radiant Black before, and personally you didn’t have anything against the hero. But you were having a shitty day yourself and felt the need to take it out on something. And that ended up being the man who spilled half a cup of the hot chocolate you were so excited to have all over your outfit.

The outfit you were supposed to flaunt yourself in while on a hot date. But you ended up leaving early due to your date being a stuck up jackass.

Marshall narrowed his eyes in offence and annoyance, crossing his arms. “Hey. I said I was sorry. You don’t get to act like an ass over a mistake I made.” He said in a low tone. A part of you knew you were overreacting. But you were so sick of the day you’ve had and just wanted to retaliate.

“What are you gonna do? Arrest me? Give me a smack on the wrist for getting a little antsy? Sorry not all of us have the patience for your bullshit.”

Marshall clenched his hands into fists. “Watch it.” He snapped. A warning.

“You watch where the fuck you’re going!”

“If you wanna act like a goddamn brat, go right ahead. But if you’re gonna whine about something as idiotic as your clothing, you should try acting less pathetic. Maybe someone will actually bother caring then.”

You’re silent after the harsh insult he dished out. With anyone else, you might have just snapped back or not put too much thought into it. But his tone was so cold, pure ice. As if he intended on giving you frostbite from his words alone. But that only filled you with even more spite and frustration, your anger bubbling over the surface.

The way those eyes stared at you with such resentment. It was as if he was staring into your very soul. Your heart began to race, working faster than your brain.

Marshall felt something wet and hot spread suddenly across his torso and chest, his skin only protected by the thin material of his shirt. He made a surprised sound, yet didn’t back up. “What the fu-” You had tossed the rest of your hot chocolate onto him.

You threw your cup in a nearby recycling bin and stomped off, calling over your shoulder. “There! We’re even! Have a good fucking night!”

His knuckles were turning white, shaking. “You…You…” He growled out. The part of his shirt that had gotten wet stuck to his skin. Some of the whipped cream and chocolate chips had even landed on his helmet, rolling down the visor slowly and blurring his view.

Marshall exhaled and stormed back home, transforming back to his civilian form in an alley where the cream and melted chips had now slathered onto his face, as his helmet no longer protected him. “I’m gonna fucking kill somebody.” He grunted as he took the elevator, ignoring the stares he got from everyone until he made it to the apartment.

He opened the door, and immediately groaned at the familiar beat of ‘15 Minutes’ and his roommate’s off key singing. “Eva, I swear to god if I have to witness another one of your karaoke parties one more time I’ll-”

She groaned dramatically as she turned the music down. “You act as if I’m screeching at the top of my lungs or something. You’re not gonna get tinnitus by-” Eva stopped once she saw the state of Marshall and his foam covered skin. “What happened to you?”

He grumbled, shutting the door behind him as he grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped the gunk off. “Eh. Don’t feel like getting into it right now. I just wanna take a shower and go to bed.” He balls up the towel and throws it in the trash. “Oh, and I got churros for you.” He said as he slid the white box onto the table, heading to the bathroom.

Once Marshall locks the door, he drags a hand over his face and groans. How the fuck did a night of what should have been him smooth talking his date over Mediterranean cuisine, end up in some shithead dousing him in sugar and cocoa? He turns the handle of the shower up and strips off his clothes.

He sighs as he steps onto the surface of the bathtub, feeling the warm water hit and roll down his bare body. The tension in his muscles had begun to unravel already. He needed this. He really needed this. Yet despite the newfound peace he was finally having after the shitty day he had been through, his thoughts kept trailing back to you.

He knew he shouldn’t be so stuck up over a spill of all things. People had said worse, done worse things to him. Much bigger, tougher, and meaner than you could ever be. But something about your fiery attitude and the flames in your eyes ignited something deep within him. And now Marshall had only two questions on his mind.

One, who the hell were you? And two, how was he going to find you again?

a/n: I like to think eva sings obnoxiously loud in the apartment knowing she’s not the best at it just to tick marshall off (he is being harassed with sabrina carpenter songs lol). But anyways, yay second fic done! I hope you enjoyed it（╹◡╹）♡

#radiant black #radiant black x reader #marshall ward #marshall ward x reader #gn reader #female reader #male reader #massive verse #comics #image comics #fanfiction #fanfic #marshall ward my loml #my man my man my man #I am obsessed with him #i need him

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inkandarsenic · 7 months ago

Text

Ok, so expanding on this post for @heartofmortis, meet my newest oc, Nymeria Targaryen

- youngest daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, born in 283 AC, like a month or so before the sack of KL

- conceived as soon as possible after Aegon, just before the maesters declared Elia unable to have more children and Rhaegar subsequently ran off with Lyanna

- named Nymeria because Elia knew Rhaegar would’ve wanted her named Visenya, but Rhaegar ran off to have a third child with the Northern girl before he could even be informed of this pregnancy, so Elia decided to name her daughter after the legendary warrior Princess of Dorne (call it rebellion if you will — this pregnancy so soon after Aegon’s nearly killed her, and he decides he needs a daughter with the Stark girl? Fine. Elia will name her daughter from her culture, not his. Let him get his Visenya elsewhere.)

- Smuggled by her wetnurse through siege tunnels out to where Rhaella and Viserys were evacuating to Dragonstone. in the chaos after Rhaella’s death, only Viserys and Daenerys are smuggled off of Dragonstone. Stannis arrives to find a terrified nursemaid and a screaming infant less than a year old.

- Raised by Stannis Baratheon, who heard how his brother laughed at the two dead children of Elia, and refused to hand over Nymeria — Stannis is many things, but he isn’t a child-murderer yet

- She’s his ward, and technically also a hostage to keep Dorne from rising up over Elia and her children’s death — Nymeria is the last link to Elia Dorne has.

- Uses Martell name when introducing herself. Tries to distance herself from her Targaryen lineage — was raised on stories of all of the bad parts of the Targaryens as her bedtime stories and history lessons, and doesn’t like them at all.

- Oberyn and Doran work it out with Stannis so that Nymeria can be visited — under supervision, and mostly Oberyn as Doran is busier ruling Dorne — on Dragonstone by her mother’s family, and when she’s a bit older, she often spends a few months each year in Dorne. (You can pry reluctant friends Oberyn and Stannis out of my cold dead hands.)

- Robert tries HARD to get Nym betrothed to Jon — in his mind, Ned’s bastard son is more than deserving of a former princess, and what better way to keep the Targaryen spawn from rising against him than marrying her off to the son of his best friend? To his endless frustration, this goes nowhere — both Stannis and the Martells (who are actually responsible for Nym’s marriage prospects) refuse the idea — Stannis because Jon’s a bastard, the Martells because they very much do not like Robert — and Ned also refuses with no real explanation (“Jon is free to choose his own wife, Robert” when really it’s because Jon is Nym’s half brother through Rhaegar)

- Likes to help out Stannis’ maester and takes an interest in healing — both Stannis and Oberyn agree that this is a useful skill, and let her learn all she can.

- Rides out with Stannis when he goes to war; Melisandre keeps trying to convince Stannis to sacrifice her, and after Renly dies, Davos convinces Nymeria to leave, for her own safety.

- She originally intends to go south to Dorne, but comes across Catelyn and Brienne first. Upon hearing how Renly died and recognizing the account of Melisandre’s work, she realizes Dorne would be the first place Stannis would look for her — whatever Melisandre so desperately wanted Nym sacrificed for cannot be good — and she decides to go with Catelyn and Brienne to Robb’s camp instead. You can never have too many medics in a war.

- Our boy is WEAK to the pretty healers, weak I tell you, and this one is Westerosi, highborn (a princess, technically— rightful heir to the Iron Throne) and she’s a politically advantageous (the princes of Dorne would surely be on his side if he married their niece) match to boot??? He doesn’t stand a chance.

#game of thrones #robb stark #robb stark x oc #da da da new oc!#inkandarsenic #ink writes #eventually anyway #targaryen oc #martell oc #reluctant friends Oberyn and Stannis is actually something that can be so personal

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miifu666 · 7 months ago

Note

You mention you had facts about Suklha awhile back XD love to hear about them please

Annoonn hii ♡♡♡ 🤩🤩

I do i do!! Heres a few Fun Facts ♡♡

Suklha likes to dress in brightly colored garments and thick layers, this is mainly because i was inspired by some centipedes who have vivid colours to warn predators they may be poisonous to eat!

Ive put Peking Operas as the main inspiration for Suklha's garments. This is because centipedes are known to move swiftly through almost leaves and rocks and more. To imagine an Opera actor who wears thick garments yet still moves so swiftly and naturally athletic without any problems is mesmerizing to me! I believe Suklha would be like that too!!

Part of Suklha's clothes are inspired by traditional Tibetan and mongolian clothes, not fully but definitely some of it.

Suklha is inspired by Hundun! A faceless being in chinese mythology who is believed to be the central of primordial chaos. Actually, I wanted to make that fact as part of Suklha's story- so spoiler ig

Given the title "Bastard of Immortality" by the celestials, is also a reference to a chinese slang "Filthy egg". A small note to how Whatever is her origin, its most likely primordial enough to be connected to the cosmic egg

Suklha loves to riddle!!! So much! She might even deprive Wukong from any affection till he answered her correctly lmao

She has a sweet tooth!! And an iron stomach!! Which means she loves both sweet and spicy things, Shes eating best of both worlds fr fr. She doesn't like bland food though, like one look is enough to make her disagree from coming into a place.

Has a habit of taking too long to shower, her bodycare routine is like a wholeass scripture. She always smells good atleast.

The main reason why Suklha wore Yunjian (Cloud Collar) is because Wukong had enough of her indecent "chest exposure." (He's dramatic) Not because he's afraid, he believes if she isn't fully clothed, it'll give the sign that she's open for marriage. Now, monkey king does NOT like that. And such he always helps design her cloud collar from now on.

Suklha doesn't particularly like it. Made her broad ish shoulder looks bigger. But damn if she doesn't appreciate Wukong's effort to design one

The markings underneath Suklha's eyes are scars from her deal with some guardians in the underworld that went south. A permanent reminder to her that while she has more power, her own body and vessel still belongs to the world.

If you hurt Suklha enough, more Centipede like limbs and traits will show. She won't be able to keep her humanoid physique while being badly injured.

I have a habit to add more details to things i KNOW not many people will notice, but here is some things in their design.

Replica! Suklha. color palettes consist of White (Signify her death, since chinese people use white as a funeral garment), Purple (Signify her Immortality after death), Gold ( which is Wealth, power and prosperity, a symbol of her omnipotent strength also as a place of yellow is a representation of freedom and entering Buddhism), Red (Opposite of original, color to ward off evil, good luck, sign of happy ending), Gray (Wisdom, Calmness, unassumingness)

Original! Suklha, color palettes consist of Blue ( Strategic and thoughtful nature, calmness, security and trust), Gold ( wealth, power, Prosperity, Symbol of omnipotent strength) , Red (Makeup, Good luck) Gray (Wisdom, Calmness, unassumingness)

Original!Suklha has a much more realistic Centipede attributes in her tails and antennas, while Replica!Suklha is much more tamed. This is because the energy flowing through the vessel is different, one is dark energy and the other is new enlightened energy.

#¿ — ask #Suklha #omg i need to talk abt them more #jdhdjdjdkd SEND ASKSS #kms #i actually love answering asks #i say as i answer this in the middle of a meeting

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thelov3lybookworm · 2 years ago

Note

I’ve been loving Lucien lately too! I have a request but I’m not sure how to word it so I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense. 😅

The reader and Lucien have a child. The reader is from the night court (possibly Rhys’ sister) and is away. Lucien panics through the bond because the child has suddenly developed night court powers and he doesn’t know what to do. Like maybe they keep making themself disappear into darkness or something. 😂

Dreams and screams.

Summary: Y/n's mate is about to have a panic attack due to their daughter creating chaos.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: it does make sense, don't worry darling. Also, I love your brain so much for this brilliant idea, I adore the idea so much 😏❣️Also, this has no right to be this funny😂. Oh poor Lucien 💀

Also, I was thinking of posting a sneak peek, but the fic was done, and I didn't want to keep anyone waiting, so here it is.

Enjoy! ❣️

•○🌑○•

A wave of panic slammed into Y/n from the other side of the bond, making her suck in a sharp breath.

What the hell?

Her brother looked up from stirring his cup of tea, his mouth open mid sentence. He frowned.

"You okay?"

"I don't know–" She cut off as a relief emanated from the other side of the golden string connecting her to her mate.

Rhys nodded solemnly. "Makes sense." And then the bastard went right back to stirring his tea.

She gaped at him. "You– piece of–" Another wave of panic made her gasp, and she was stopped from the pleasure of calling him a very inappropriate name.

He grinned, glancing at her. "Is it Lucien?"

She nodded, rubbing at her chest, feeling a little relaxed before panic again gripped her.

What the hell is going on?

"He seems panicked."

Rhys furrowed his brows. "Do you think it's something about Astrid?"

"It could be." While they spoke, the sudden bursts of panic and relief continued.

"Are you going then?" He asked as she stood up. She nodded. He pouted but she simply kissed his cheek, hoping to get back to Day Court. He stood too before placing a peck on her forehead, pulling her in for a hug and squeezing her tightly.

"We'll meet soon. I'm so sorry." He shook his head, letting her know it was alright as she sprinted out the door.

Y/n had been visiting her brother for their monthly family meeting, where she spent some time alone with Rhys before Lucien, with their daughter Astrid and the inner circle joined them for dinner. Lucien had a lot of work to do, hence he only joined them for dinner, and her daughter, being her father's daughter, was always stuck to his side, wherever he went, even tagging along to court meetings.

Y/n didn't mind.

She rushed through the gates of the Palace in Day court, only able to winnow in front of them due to the wards around the place.

All the time that she was trying to get to her chambers as fast as possible, she continued to wonder what might be going on. The Royal chambers, where she and her mate lived with their daughter, was just a huge room with different rooms attached. One was their daughters room, one for the two of them, a library and an office for Lucien.

She opened the door to her daughter's room, poking her head in.

There she found the father and daughter in the middle of what she could only describe as chaos. The state of the room almost gave her a panic attack.

Astrid seemed to be crying as Lucien crouched in front of her, gripping her face in his large hands as he tried to calm her down.

At the sound of the door opening, Lucien glanced up, a relieved expression crossing his face. Astrid also noticed, and she started crying again, running up to Y/n as she stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her.

"Mama–" Astrid hiccuped, clinging to the front of Y/n's dress. "I am a very bad girl." She continued sobbing.

Saying Y/n was confused would be an understatement.

"Why would you say that?" Y/n glanced up at Lucien, who sighed.

"She seems to have inherited your daemati powers, as well as winnowing."

Y/n grinned, a sudden feeling of happiness and pride spreading through her for her daughter. But she needed to calm Astrid first before she thought more about it.

"How does that make you a bad girl my love?" She questioned, trying to get out of Astrid's grip so she could pick the four year old. But children seemed to have the best grip, as Astrid didn't budge.

"I hurt daddy!" She wailed, clinging harder onto Y/n's skirts.

Y/n looked at Lucien questioningly, and he shook his head slightly.

He walked forward, caressing Astrid's head and pressing a kiss to his mate's cheek before whispering in her ear. "She's been winnowing random objects and her toys around the room without noticing it, and one of her toys hit me in the head. She thinks I got hurt. She's also been screaming random stuff in my head, like cookies and chocolate and candies."

Y/n had to force her laugh down at her mate's tired state. He looked thoroughly worn out. Poor guy.

Y/n finally managed to get out of Astrid's death grip on her legs, and knelt in front of the little girl. "Baby, I didn't think you hurt daddy. It's okay."

Lucien also went to his knees next to his mate, wiping at the fat tears rolling down Astrid's round cheeks.

"You did not hurt me, my little sunshine. You always say daddy is very strong, right?" As he spoke, he slowly tugged Astrid closer, which she didn't seem to realise as she went, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes, nodding along.

"Daddy did not get hurt, I promise." He tugged her into his chest, placing a kiss on her little head, and Y/n's heart swelled with love. The two of them were adorable together, especially because of the size difference. Lucien seemed like a giant in comparison to Astrid, and him being so gentle with her made her happy.

Astrid glanced up at her father, her eyes going wide, her lips parting in awe when he smiled at her.

DADDY'S SO STRONG. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH.

Y/n winced as she heard Astrid's voice screaming that in her head. Her voice was so loud that it penetrated the thick walls around Y/n's mind. She glanced at Lucien, who barely hid his wince, giving her a knowing look. Y/n grinned.

"Darling, how about we go to sleep?"

"No mommy, I want to play with daddy."

"Daddy has work to do. How about we go to sleep, then we can play with daddy whe you wake up?"

Astrid shook her head, but when Lucien said the same thing, asking her to sleep, she reluctantly agreed.

When Astrid and Y/n were settled in bed and Lucien had taken a seat next to the bed, Y/n began explaining to their little girl what was happening.

•○🌑○•

"So you see, your powers are developing. You will have to learn how to control them, and when you do that, you will become powerful and strong. Just like mommy and daddy."

The little girl stared up at her mother with wide eyes, gripping onto the blanket that was on her chest tightly. "Really?"

Y/n smiled and pressed a kiss onto her head. "Really. Now, I want you to go to sleep so you can be rested and relaxed when you wake up, and then you and I can start your lessons on controlling your powers. Is that okay?"

"Yes mommy!" Astrid squealed happily. Mere moments later, she was already drifting off, the uncontrolled use of her untested magic having taken a toll on her little body.

Y/n smiled at Lucien, getting up and walking closer to where he sat.

"It'll be a long journey teaching her." Lucien mumbled, pulling Y/n into his lap.

"It will be." She glanced at Astrid to make sure she was asleep. "Maybe it would be better if we got a teacher for her. They might be able to teach her better."

Lucien immediately shut the idea down. "No. What if the teacher we get for ther is strict and makes Astrid cry? What if they hit her? No. No teacher."

Y/n laughed at her mate. He truly was a protective father, at times unreasonably so. Looking at him scared about a teacher made her wonder what he would do when their daughter started taking lovers. It would only be a matter of time till then, and it would surely give Y/n a headache.

But for now, she would enjoy what she had, and try not to complain too much.

Suddenly, a image of the three of them playing in the largest and most beautiful garden in the palace flashed through her mind, and one look at Lucien gave her the confirmation she needed. He was seeing the same thing she was seeing.

Astrid was dreaming, and she was sharing the image with her parents unconsciously.

Y/n shook her head, grinning.

It certainly would be a long journey.

•○🌑○•

General Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless

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theprinceofliones · 1 year ago

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Tristan has always been scared of the dark.

It's a fear he's never been able to shake ever since he was little. Not being able to see what surrounds him, not being able to anticipate what would come next---it terrified him to no end.

Arthur Pendragon must be aware of this, as wherever Tristan is being held now is as black as night with no entrance or exit in sight.

His hands and legs have been wrapped in chains that obviously nullify his magic, his goddess wings have been strung to the floor, open and unable to move. He's on the stone concrete floor below, unable to muster the strength to lift any part of his body as they're weighed down so heavily. He keeps his eyes closed, attempting to focus on his breathing so he doesn't have to open his eyes to darkness.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, doesn't wish to know. He just wants to go /home/.

Suddenly, after what felt like hours, the door, entrance, opens wide.

Tristan's eyes snap open and they adjust to the light now spilling into the endlessly dark cavern that is this dungeon, and when they do, their he finds the man behind it all.

Arthur Pendragon smiles at him sweetly, head titling.

"Are you comfortable?" He asks. "Little prince?"

Tristan glares at him and his fists clench behind him. He doesn't say anything, choosing to keep his last remnants of dignity that he can muster to keep to himself.

The false king grins wider. "Shy now, are we?" He chuckles. "A shame. You were quite mouthy last time we met."

"I'm gonna kill you," Tristan suddenly seethes and Arthur laughs.

"There it is!" He cheers and claps. "Such /rage/. You look just like your father when you glare at me like that," He chuckles again and sighs. "I don't know why everyone says you look like your whore mother, Elizabeth---to me, you are a carbon copy of your monstrous father and all his demon kin."

At the mention of his sweet mother, Tristan /snarls/. "/Don't speak her name, bastard/!" He screams as he shakes with rage. "Else I'll rip your fucking tongue from your /throat/!"

Arthur just scoffs. "I will admit, you're either quite brave or quite /foolish/ to insult me when you're in the position you're in now," He says nonchalantly. "All alone, away from home. You poor thing, you must be so scared."

Tristan wants to claw the bastard's eyes out, rip out his vocal cords and shove them down his throat until he chokes and dies.

He's never felt such rage before---a wrath taking over him like nothing ever has.

"Well," Arthur sighs with a devilish grin as he turns around and away from him with a wave of his hand. "I hope you enjoy your stay here, little prince, because you're going to be here for a /while/, I'd wager. Who knows, maybe you'll even come to like it here? Perhaps you will one day come to lick my boot---"

Tristan doesn't even realize he's able to move until he's near inches away from Arthur's face.

Chains stops him, tugging him back and away from the bastard.

Tristan cries out as he nearly loses his footing and pain floods his senses as the brackets around his wrists and ankles nearly pull his skin off. His goddess wings attempt to flap uselessly and he nearly /screams/ in frustration.

Arthur rears back, obviously not expecting Tristan to be able to move with the magic wards and drugs in his system flooding his senses to make him dizzy and drowsy.

Tristan tries to get as close as possible, shrieking in rage as he can't get any closer and Arthur stares at him in complete disbelief before he begins to laugh, as though he were in shock and awe.

"Wow!" He gasps. "I shouldn't have expected any less! The fact that you're able to get past my wards at all is---"

Blood spills from a cut on his cheek and the God of Chaos stumbles.

Tristan pants for air and his one /freed/ wing floats beside him, feathers sharpened to the same sharpness of steel /blades/.

Arthur is stunned into silence.

"/I/ am Tristan Liones," He begins, gasping as he stands up as tall as he can. He can feel his magic flowing through him, as little as the wards allow. "I am the son of Meliodas and Elizabeth Liones, the Crown Prince of Britannia, the Four Knights of the Apocalypse of Pestilence, and, when I escape from here, I will take your /head/."

The only sound that can be heard is Tristan's gasps for air and the sound of chains rattling and Arthur's lips part as their eyes remained locked.

After several moments of silence, Arthur just smiles again, tiny scar and droplet of blood gone as he heals himself.

"I look forward to your meager attempts, sweet prince," Is all he says before he turns around and leaves the dungeon before he shuts the door.

Thus, encasing Tristan in a darkness that will now, unfortunately, become his home for a long, /long/ time.

#nanatsu no taizai #mokushiroku no yonkishi #the seven deadly sins #the four knights of the apocalypse #tristan liones #lancelot #meliodas #elizabeth liones #arthur pendragon #king arthur #4kota #nnt #nnt manga #4kota anime

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loboto-bear · 9 months ago

Text

As promised, following from this post and this art, I present to you a little exploration of Franco/fem!Easterman, because something something Mommy Doctor - enjoy!

——————————————————————————

Easterman’s office was a sacred place. A myth, almost. A place few had entered, and fewer had returned from. The Doctor rarely graced her subjects with her presence, save for her shadowy visage on a screen or calm, demanding voice over a speaker. As a result, actually getting to see her- to be in her presence- was a monumental event, for both patient and doctor.

The low-lit quarters had been thoroughly cleaned, top to bottom, in preparation for the Doctor’s upcoming visitor. After all, it was only polite to tidy things up before indulging a guest, especially someone so… important. Easterman loved all her patients like they were her children, but even the best, most loving caregiver has favorites. The Prime Assets were the Doctor’s pride and joy, her greatest achievements aside from the Sinyala facility itself. Three hand-selected experts in pain and torment, each with their own methods to employ and baggage to exploit; their brains, perfectly malleable. Yes, Easterman loved all of them, but even they weren’t immune to her preferences. Gooseberry and Coyle were undeniably brilliant displays of the Doctor’s prowess, and they had both had time as her golden children, but they were too far gone; too lost in the world their ward had given them. It made them thrilling to watch, but agonizing to interact with.

Then there was the baby.

Despite being the newest Prime Asset, Franco had already caught Easterman’s attention for his performance. At first, the Doctor assumed his skill, his brutality, would level out the same way the others’ did, but much to her surprise he only got better. While he wasn’t the most graceful executioner, every kill Bambino performed was more gruesome, more purposeful than the last. Initially, it was theorized that this was because of his weapon, his Lupara as he called it. The raw, psychic energy of Franco’s ‘pacifier’ was undeniable; the Doctor had spent many a night studying it intimately. However, it quickly became clear that Franco’s motivation was a little more straightforward. While the others were children in the figurative sense, Franco was literally a child, craving love and validation that Easterman was more than happy to provide- if he behaved well, of course.

It was a rare occasion, but the Doctor wanted to speak with her new favorite. She had spoken to him before, albeit indirectly through one-way glass or over the tannoy. Seeing him face-to-face would be a new experience.

She sat at her desk, legs crossed and hands folded in front of her, listening intently to the sound of chaos emanating from the hallway.

“Get the fuck offa me!” She heard her subject bark. “The fuck you tryn’a do, huh?! I swear, if I had my Lupara, your ugly mug would be paintin’ that fuckin’ wall, pal- AGH!” The sound of him getting hit by one of the guards brought the Doctor no joy, but it didn’t dissatisfy her either. As the door opened, Easterman felt herself grow excited.

“Here he is, Doctor,” the security officer grumbled. “Whiny bastard was giving us a lot of trouble.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Franco retorted. “Wouldn’ta been so difficult if you just told me what was goin’ on.”

A guard was about to hit him again, but Easterman raised a hand, prompting him to stop. “You may go,” she said.

The men exchanged glances. “Ma’am, do you really want to be alone with him? He’s-“

“I’m not repeating myself,” the Doctor affirmed. “Leave. Now.”

Begrudgingly, the security guards left the room, looking back over their shoulders a final time before closing the door behind them with a loud clunk. The office fell silent, the air growing thick with tension as Easterman and her patient stared at each other. The longer they remained quiet, the more Franco’s stature began to shrink; twiddling his thumbs and tapping his foot, unable to keep eye contact.

“Hello, Franco,” the Doctor began. “It’s nice to finally see you in-person. Well, in-person with no bulletproof glass in the way, at least.”

The young man stayed quiet, his bulging eyes twitching in their sockets, flitting from each corner of the room, analyzing every object. His new demeanor was a far cry from the volatile gangster he embodied during the journey to the office. The leather of his gloves creaked as he wrung his hands behind his back. His heavy, labored breathing was audible, creating a soundscape of anxiety. Easterman had read his file and observed his behavior enough times to understand why he was suddenly so diminutive, but she could play along. It would benefit her more that way.

“What’s all this about…?” He finally stammered. “Am I in trouble or somethin’?”

How cute.

“No, no, not at all,” Easterman continued. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve brought you here because of your exceptional performance.”

Franco’s ears pricked up. In an instant, his half-worried expression melted away into something more arrogant. A wry smirk split his unpleasant face. “Oh really?”

“Yes, so there’s no need to worry, I can assure you,” the Doctor affirmed. “Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to the chair in front of her desk, and the small table next to it with a glass perched on top. “I’ve even taken the liberty of preparing some Wolf’s Milk for you. A little treat from me to you.”

While there was still reluctance in his movement, Franco eagerly strutted over to sit himself down, taking the glass of foul liquor into his hand. He seemed far more relaxed, satisfied even. He was always the easiest to win over.

“As I said, Franco, your performance in my trials recently has been beyond my wildest expectations,” Easterman continued, pride oozing from every word. “You really are talented.”

The young man slicked his hair back, swirling his drink. “Naturally,” he snickered. “I’m a businessman at the end of the day, Doctor. Gettin’ my clients what they want and takin’ out rats who get in the way is what I do best.”

Easterman watched as he took a long, uncomfortable swig. “You view me as just another customer then?”

“Oh, no, never,” Franco insisted, picking up the dissatisfaction in her voice. “You’re much more important than that. I promise.”

“Is that so?”

“A’course.” Franco chuckled anxiously. “I, uh, value your feedback.”

There it was. Exactly as expected. The Doctor smiled, leaning forward slightly. “Positive reinforcement is a valuable tool. Even the most hard-hearted individual can be swayed with praise and appreciation.”

She paused for a moment, observing her Asset’s body language. It was fascinating how steadfast his bravado was when he put it into action. The second the guards left he was like some trembling schoolboy being sent to the principal, but now he was his usual cocky self, downing his cocktail as if nothing had happened. Easterman had seen that switch flip so many times, but seeing it physically in front of her was a new experience. It was time to tear it down.

“I give you such positive evaluations, Franco, because-“ The Doctor tutted dreamily. “- well, because you’re my favorite.”

The young man froze, mid-sip, almost choking on his beverage. “What was that?” He spluttered, clearing his throat.

“I know, I know,” Easterman continued, raising her hands in acknowledgement. “It’s terrible to have favorites, but I simply cannot help myself. You’re a skilled killer, Franco, and you’ve adapted to my tests so beautifully.” She turned her head slightly, feigning bashfulness. “And knowing that you’re doing it all for my praise- why, it makes my heart swell.”

Shaking, Franco placed his glass on the table, swallowing heavily. “T-thank you.” His face twitched between emotions, unsure whether to settle on concern or a rare burst of appreciative humility. Either way, the mask was slipping. The Doctor gave her patient time to process her words, hanging on every slight movement he made, every expression. The only thing better than building someone up was breaking them down, only to build them back up again as something new. Better. It was practically Easterman’s speciality.

“It means a lot to hear all that. That I’m… good,” Franco uttered. “You- You know I’d do anythin’ for you, m-.” He stopped himself. “… Doctor.”

Instinctively, Easterman squeezed her thighs. That’s what she liked to hear. Franco truly was an ideal torture toy. Just enough pride to make exposing and exploiting his abysmal self esteem exceedingly satisfying. An ample vessel for love and affection, humiliation and contempt. The equally frightened and thrilled look on his ruptured little visage told her that much.

“As you can imagine, I have more patients than I can count here at Sinyala,” Easterman purred. “All of them try to gain my attention and approval, and most of them fail miserably.” She stood, tracing her fingers along the edge of her desk as she moved in front of it. “But not you. You’re special, Franco. Near perfect. That’s why I wanted you here.” The Doctor paused for a moment, basking in her Asset’s crooked, ecstatic smile and pleading, worshiping gaze. Literal child’s play. “With the others, I can say ‘jump’ and they’ll jump, but with you, I can say ‘jump’ and you’ll ask-“

“How high?!”

Franco practically leapt out of his seat to interject, only held back by his gloved fingers digging into the arms of the chair. His already loud, almost pained breathing had grown frantic. It took him a moment to realize what he had done before he settled back down.

“‘H-how high’,” he murmured. “I-I would ask ‘how high’… right?”

He scrunched up his face, almost as if he was expecting his superior to strike or shout, but she didn’t. Easterman just continued to stand there, looming over him; a smug, pleasured look on her shadowy face.

“That’s right,” the Doctor cooed. “You’re my little ‘How High’.” Gently, she reached out a hand, keeping it just inches away from Franco’s flushed face. As she expected, he took the first opportunity to lean into it, nuzzling and whimpering against her palm. She smiled wider. “Yes… Mommy’s little How High.”

Easterman stayed there for a while longer, watching her Asset squirm beneath her, all just from offering her hand. His desperate, childish murmurs were beyond pathetic, but they were valuable. A demonstration of Franco’s dependence and loyalty.

“You’re going to keep trying harder for me, aren’t you? For your mother. For your… mommy.” She moved closer, encouraging him to push his cheek against her stomach as she moved her hand to the back of his neck. “You’re going to keep doing better and better just for me, and maybe you’ll even help my patients ascend to your level-“

“Fuck that.”

Easterman scowled. “Excuse me?”

With an infantile huff, Franco wrapped his arms around the Doctor’s waist, forcing himself further against her. His grip was strong, but not crushing, suggesting some awareness of what he was doing- or rather, who he was engaging with.

“I ain’t trainin’ up your lab rats,” he snarled. “If I’m your favorite, I’m your favorite, mommy. I’ll take out as many of those stupid roaches to prove that.”

The Doctor couldn’t help but chuckle. Little did he know how much killing reagents was part of the process, but she was happy to let him live in ignorance- especially if it produced such promising results.

“I know you and your other doctors are watchin’ me when I’m out there,” Franco continued. “Just know that all my kills are for you, mommy. I’ll make sure you’ll see my effort. Th-that I’m good.” He nestled his face against her abdomen, right where her womb would be. “A-and if I’m not good, you can discipline baby as much as you want,” he whimpered. “I gotta keep bein’ mommy’s favorite.”

Easterman sighed, starting to rub at her Asset’s shoulder. It was hard to believe that Franco was like this even upon arrival. Usually, it took months of training and experimentation to get a reagent even close to this, but no. Franco was practically born for this. Reborn, even. It made the Doctor beyond proud.

“That’s right,” Easterman purred, “I have special plans for you, Franco. Very special plans. You’ll always have an opportunity to earn your mother’s love.”

#the bear writes #franco barbi #dr easterman #doctor easterman #fem!Easterman #the outlast trials #outlast trials #please look at the linked posts for context if you haven’t already #suggestive

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myloveforhergoeson · 2 months ago

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Unique Reaction (Amidst Universal Chaos) - Ch 3

Find me on wattpad + ao3!

Sulfur ~ 2.6k

Hisui couldn’t remember when the black ball Chrome created from the “sulfur” - as Senkuu called it - material in their hut had made its way into their life, but she noticed it tucked under his arm as he descended the ladder into the clearing from their home once more. The sun had long since been right over their heads, now slowly plunging in the west behind the two small islands where the rest of the Village was settled.

If he was bringing it out now, she knew that this would likely be his last resort to ward off the other sorcerer in battle. The ugly, smelly sphere was a creation that sat collecting dust on their many shelves, only brought by one sibling to annoy the other during arguments.

Two winters ago, Chrome had discovered that different amounts of wood in their fire could have an effect on the materials he burned due to their dwindling stock of tinder. The new knowledge gained from this incident led to the formation of the strange rock; After Hisui traded Kaseki, the village craftsman, for some lacquer-making materials, she’d snagged another one of his small pottery vessels for her brother to melt down a new batch of their foraged materials.

It had been her fault for dropping the hot vessel when he’d handed it to her without warning, but when it hit the dirt at her feet and shattered, the black ball inside remained intact. Their shock had been startling when Hisui had picked it up, swiping as much of the dust from the ball as she could before accidentally bumping into Chrome, sending a swift burst of sharp pain against the site they’d touched.

The same ball he held now, proudly in front of Senkuu and their fellow villagers as though it were his best creation yet, vigorously rubbing his palms over the dark surface. Silence fell over the clearing, nearly palpable with how thick it was hanging between the sorcerer and the scientist, as the girl brought the tree tablets she was holding to her face, unable to watch whatever was about to ensue.

He’s so out of ideas…

What followed - A sound like a snapping twig and Ginrou’s shriek when Chrome touched his nose, along with Senkuu’s subsequent explanation of what the ball was using a whole lot of words Hisui had never heard before while rubbing animal hide along the surface - was even worse than she could have ever imagined.

The snapping sound followed once more when Senkuu reached out a fist to touch Chrome’s exposed arm and her brother let out a yelp of pain as he leapt away from his opponent.

For the first time since the battle began, Hisui felt her stomach flip, watching as Senkuu’s spiky hair magically floated apart. Strands of white to green seemed to repel each other as they circled his head while he continued to rub the sphere with his leather wear.

Dropping her tablets, the girl ran over to her brother, reaching out a hand to his shoulder as he blinked a few times, trying to register the strange sight of his opponent before him.

“Chrome, I’m not sure this is going how you anticipated…” Hisui breathed, trying to find her next words carefully. Her brother wasn’t an idiot, but he was stubborn - Always willing to see something through to the very end, no matter that. “He doesn’t seem to wish harm on any of us, so if this battle were to end now-”

“That bastard!” Chrome cut her off, glancing over to where Ginrou and Kohaku were now holding the sulfur ball the stranger had handed them, hair repelling similarly to Senkuu’s in a gigantic mess of blonde waves. “I’ve got one last bad trick up my sleeve. It’s sure to stump him good.”

Had she not been so confused at the exchange between the villagers and Senkuu before them, she might have been able to come up with another way to convince Chrome to back out of the fight, but seeing two of their fellow tribesman willingly interact with an invention of sorcery sent waves of heat licking up her spine.

Once Senkuu handed it over, they were willing to test it out themselves?

If her brother had brought something like that to the table, the villagers were usually quick to write off his sorcery.

Chrome appeared to be interested in the increased reaction as well, considering once he took notice, he practically bolted away from where he stood with Hisui, reaching his hands out toward the sulfur ball the other two held, wanting to experience the strange hair phenomenon himself.

I shouldn’t have expected anything less…

At this point, she was less sure Chrome was interested in winning the battle. Judging by the grin on his face as his hair began to rise, he’d likely come to the same conclusion she had; This stranger knew far more advanced sorcery than he did. Which could be a good thing, if he was willing to share his knowledge, and likely what Chrome was banking on, considering his ever-optimistic outlook on things.

Hisui was unfortunately not the same type of thinker. If he knew more about sorcery - or science, whatever he wanted to call it - the power imbalance was far too great to make her feel comfortable. Even if Kohaku and Kinrou were exceptional fighters, the element of sorcery might level the playing field in a way that made her chest squeeze so tightly she nearly choked on her own lack of breath.

So there she stood, watching from across the fire pit, catastrophizing, as Kohaku’s laughter arose at the sight of Ginrou’s hair, reaching hands up into her own blonde mess to feel the strange effects of the sulfur. The presence of her smile calmed Ginrou, who had been in a perpetual state of panic after touching the sulfur, leading him to try and keep the ball from Chrome when he reached out for it again, causing a small fight to break out between the two.

Senkuu stood near them, though his focus didn’t seem to be on the reaction at all. Neck craning upward, he took in the state of their hut, round and elevated from the ground with the thickest tree trunks the siblings had been able to find during the building process. It wasn’t perfect or as immaculately put together as the ones inside the village were, but it was their home regardless. Full of materials, full of memories, full of everything Hisui held dearly.

“They are far too comfortable with him.”

Kinrou was beside her now, hand clutching his spear like someone was trying to take it from him, observing the scene unfolding in front of them.

A breeze swept through the clearing, tossing the branches of the trees around them. The last time she’d spoken to him like this, the weather had been nearly identical.

Slowly, she nodded, turning her head the opposite direction from where he stood. “It’s expected of my brother, but for Kohaku and Ginrou? Not what I would have guessed.”

Gravel crunched underfoot, hesitantly. “She told us that Senkuu saved her life.”

“From what?” She whipped around so fast she felt the strain in her neck, mind filling with endless answers to her own question.

An animal? A landslide? A cave in? A person?

Her frazzled movements were quick enough to overcompensate her pivot, twisting her left knee slightly and causing a breath of discomfort to pass her lips.

In an instant, Kinrou’s left arm reached up to stabilize her, from years of experience seeing her stumble before. The corner of his mouth twitched as she raised her palm to him, signalling she was alright, just sore, before his hardened features set once more as if nothing had just happened.

“Keeping him out of the Village was more important than figuring out the details.”

“Ah,” Hisui sighed, remembering the importance of rigidity in his daily routine. “Of course.”

Kinrou and Ginrou had grown up into their guard duty; It was all they had ever known.

Train. Watch. Protect.

Not, gather necessary information about outsiders.

Even at that, though, Kinrou had never been one for details anyway. Always vigilant, always quiet, and besides his brother, he’d never been focused on idle chit chat when there was a job to be done. It was a waste of breath, merely a distraction to the task at hand.

However, being the first point of contact for anyone trying to enter the village meant they were the last faces anyone leaving would see on the way into the forest. And for two young adventurers who had once lived across the bridge they protected, the guards were important people to share their planned outings with, just in case of an emergency.

Hisui had forgotten that most of the brothers’ knowledge of the inner workings of personal relationships came from one another, considering most of their days were spent isolated by each other’s sides.

When Kinrou didn’t respond to her statement, Hisui cleared her throat, taking a small step toward her brother before she faced the guard. “Let’s hope he’d saved her from something rather than someone.”

It wasn’t her words that had caused a slight tick in his jaw, it was what hadn’t been said.

If one person could show up out of the blue and magic his way through their front line of defense, who’s to say there weren’t others out there capable of doing the same?

Kinrou grumbled something under his breath, but Hisui was halfway to Chrome by the time he’d stopped huffing.

Her brother was still busy trying to get the sulfur ball back from Ginrou to notice her approach or Senkuu’s comment about “children’s science lab experiments.”

He was only called from his concentration when Senkuu regarded their home once more, asking aloud, “Chrome, did you think up all this stuff by yourself in this backwards little village? The useful looking minerals and scientific materials in that hut… Did you and Hisui collect them all on your own?”

The questions caught Kohaku and Ginrou off guard as much as they did Hisui and Chrome, who was able to swipe the sulfur ball back into his own hands before turning toward the newcomer. “You bet we did!”

Though she hadn’t been asked herself, Hisui pointed to one of the bags they’d brought up from the beach while the sound of her name in his mouth rang in her ears. “We’ve collected everything around us since we were children.”

“It’s a good system - Hisui catalogues it, and I smash them together, mix them up, burn them… and when something really crazy happens, that’s what we call sorcery. What else could it be?”

Judging from their interactions with the stranger for nearly half the day, Hisui figured he’d have some sort of snippy answer to that, but the boy held his tongue. They’d been told Chrome’s work was sorcery for so long, it might be nice to have a fresh and new title once they figured out why Senkuu was really here. Why Kohaku had chosen to ally herself with him.

The scientist’s unrelenting gaze was locked in on Chrome as he answered, but something about his features softened, like he was able to take a breath for the first time in ages. The edges of his mouth snaked up, brow unknitted, before he put his hands on his hips and leaned closer to the other boy.

A low chuckle erupted from his chest, contrary to his look before and scary enough to give the villagers pause as they took in his next words.

“Lemme tell you something, Chrome. At this rate, you two are some of the people ten billion percent sure to be killed by Tsukasa.”

Hearing the words “Chrome” and “killed” in the same sentence was enough to send Hisui’s mind spiralling as she reached out for one of the hut’s support beams to stabilize herself on. As if the day hadn’t been stressful enough, she had a stranger threatening her and her brother and suspicions of more people in the area had all but been confirmed. Her brain was screaming, hand itching to clutch her sharpened reed and write down the name “Tsukasa” on a blank tree tablet but her legs were frozen in place, sturdy as two trees with their roots sinking into the ground.

Senkuu’s narrowed red eyes were staring right into Chrome’s, blown out and widened as large as the moon. A bead of sweat ran down her brother’s temple, mouth hanging slightly agape as he tried to formulate any kind of response to such a statement.

The scientist beat him to the punch however, affirming, “The only way for you two to survive is if you join our Kingdom of Science.”

Our…?

Hisui was able to pull her vision away from her brother to take note of Kohaku’s proud smile at Senkuu’s words, and recognize the same looks of confusion from Kinrou and Ginrou.

She knew every single question racing through her mind was racing through her brother’s; They needed to learn more about this Tsukasa person as soon as possible to determine if he was truly the threat the stranger was making him out to be.

“I’d love if you’d join forces with us!” The boy added, helping himself to the ladder leading up to the hut Chrome and Hisui called home, while the two of them were distracted as they tried to piece every bit of information together. “And lent your shed of science to the cause!”

Senkuu simply inviting himself into her home was a sobering enough sight to get Hisui to temporarily snap out of her terror, turning to the two guards man - or more accurately, their long range weapons - as her brother's screams of “Get your ass down!” filled her ears.

Simply by being near him, she could feel the tension radiating off of his body, and judging by the way he was white-knuckling the sulfur ball in his hands, she could sense that whatever was about to come out of his mouth would be damning enough for the both of them.

“Wait-” She tried, moving to bridge the gap between them so they could talk a new solution into existence, but after jerking her knee earlier, Hisui’s actions were far too slow.

“I challenge you to one final duel! Face me, one-on-one!” He yelled up at the scientist, loud enough to catch his attention before making it through their front doors. “If you lose, you’ll leave the village after you bow to me. If you win, take everything in the shed and I’ll work for you!”

“Chrome! Stop! Just think for a second-”

Hisui wasn’t loud enough to drown him out. “I’ll show you things you’ve never seen, because I’m the greatest of all time!”

There was value to follow through, especially in their small island village, and the young girl had always admired her brother’s resilience and determination to seek out exactly what he was looking for. For as long as she could remember, he was relentless in seeking the truth, seeking out anything and everything to get him close to the result he wanted. It was an admirable trait, one of the things she loved the most about him.

Until he’d gone clear off the cliff, sinking so far down into the ocean he couldn’t see the sunlight anymore, gasping for air when there was none.

He was about to seriously destroy their entire life’s work if he didn’t choose his next words incredibly carefully.

Hisui held her breath, eyes squeezing shut as she hoped and prayed he wasn’t about to say what she thought he would.

“Arithmetic! Fight me in a battle of numbers!”

Shit, the girl thought, he can’t even multiply double digits yet….

#unique reaction (amidst universal chaos) fic #dr stone #dcst #dr stone oc #dcst oc #ishigami senku #dcst chrome #dcst kohaku #dcst kinrou #dcst ginrou #original character #anime oc

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cienie-isengardu · 9 months ago

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Bi-Han and: Sareena, Shang Tsung or Sektor

I’m pretty indifferent* when it comes to the romantic aspect of shipping Bi-Han with Shang Tsung, Sareena or female Sektor but if there is one thing I like about all those potential relationships is how the theme of freedom and/or being freed is something those three ships have in common.

Bi-Han and Sareena? In Mythologies: Sub-Zero, the demoness asked Bi-Han to take her away from Netherrealm as she wished to escape this place for a long time:

Sub-Zero: Why did you help me? Sareena: You are still mortal... that means you can escape the Netherealm. Sub-Zero: There won't be anywhere to go if I don't get the amulet back. Sareena: Take me with you... I've waited an eternity to escape. Sub-Zero: You don't understand. I can't leave without the...

Bi-Han couldn’t leave Netherrealm without the Shinnok’s amulet because if he failed to steal it back, Earthrealm would be destroyed. We have no idea if after fulfilling mission Sub-Zero would take Sareena with him or not, as the demoness was killed by Shinnok.

But then in Mortal Kombat X, Sareena joined Special Forces against Quan Chi and on mission confronted Revenant Kitana:

Sareena: "It is possible to escape Quan Chi, Kitana. I can aid you as Bi-Han aided me." Revenant Kitana: “You became too familiar with Bi-Han. Allowed emotion to corrupt you." Sareena: "Emotion freed me!"

And though we have no idea if demoness talked about mortal Sub-Zero or Noob Saibot from between MK9 and the current game, she associates Bi-Han with escaping Quan Chi (freedom).

I have talked before how past timelines' Bi-Han and Shang Tsung share similar theme of reputation vs reality and despite how dangerous or cunning or skilled they are, they are pretty much enslaved characters, as both were bound one way or another to their merciless masters (with the difference that Sub-Zero actually could left the clan if he had enough money, as was implied by his original ending from the first Mortal Kombat game). Noob Saibot and Shang Tsung have also in common patience to bid their time to overthrow their masters and rise to power, as was suggested by their various endings (mentioned here). So though power is associated with both men, the theme of enslavement and freeing themselves is also vital to their characters.

And with Mortal Kombat 1 (2023) we have Bi-Han wanting to reject centuries-old tradition of Lin Kuei servitude to Liu Kang and Earthrealm and even saying to his brothers how father’s teaching (tradition) should guide them, but not shackle. Only to be seen literally shacked and by allying himself with Shang Tsung, being (visually and symbolic) freed from it by no other than Shang Tsung himself.

(And then NRS was a bastard and completely ignored Sub-Zero after dueling with Scorpion for the rest of the game).

This leads us to female Sektor, who shares Bi-Han’s vision of rejecting Lin Kuei servitude. In her BIO, Sektor is called Bi-Han’s kindred spirit and both are willing to go to great lengths to achieve their goal. At the end of Khaos Reings, Noob Saibot was seen put in coffin and taken to Temple of Elements,

where Liu Kang was supposed to undone the effects of Chaos Magic that influenced Bi-Han’s mind. In Sektor’s ending, Bi-Han is freed by her from being “imprisoned”:

Sektor:Though I had returned to the temple after Titan Havik's defeat, I remained livid. Livid with Bi-Han's foolishness, Kuai Liang's betrayal, and Cyrax's defection to his Shirai Ryu. So when Quan Chi arrived to parley, offering to eliminate the upstart clan, I listened... For his services, Quan Chi asked that I retrieve an amulet that was locked away in the Temple of the Elements. No small task, given its wards and guardians. Though one worth understanding, if it would finish the Lin Kuei's rivals. But before I could find the amulet, I found Bi-Han. There he was, imprisoned and forgotten, when Liu Kang had promised to restore him! As I rescued Bi-Han, all thought of retrieving Quan Chi's treasure was quickly forgotten. I will never forgive Liu Kang for this betrayal. That he is a god will not stop me from seeking vengeance."

And I must say, there is something interesting about how three so different ships involving Bi-Han seem to share a similar theme of being freed. That, and the how Sareena, Sektor and Shang Tsung are all named on S.

*By indifferent, I mean I don't care one way or another, as Bi-Han is my precious aromantic & asexual cryomancer that I ship with freedom before any other character XDD

#mortal kombat #bi han #sub zero #sareena #sektor #shang tsung #no seriously what is with bi han and characters whose names start with S?#bi han x freedom is the most legit ship lol #but on serious note i do like how freedom/being freed/escaping being trapped is so vital to all three different relationships #i bet bi han is shipped with other characters but i'm here for the freedom theme

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kariachi · 5 months ago

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There's been a story idea in my head for a while but I don't have words so fuck it

Everything is fine, life is great, a newly appointed Magister requests Ben come out to his sector and root out a crimelord that's been making trouble and feeding off his predecessors' corruption for ages

Of course Max goes 'sure I'll send him' and of course Ben goes, it's one little crimelord, he's Ben 10, it's fine

He goes out there, finds the crimelord's base of operations, sneaks in and starts looking for the big boss, wary of how easy it seems to be- until a voice tells him to stop and he physically can't disobey

And lo, an Erinaen steps forwards- not the first he's seen in the building- looking oh so pleased

Just so pleased to see him, or more so pleased to learn that the greatest hero in the galaxy has died and come back unwarded, a Plumber Golden Child, there to be pat on the cheek and informed that he's going to tell her so many interesting things

Cut to days into the situation, Max and Rook are concerned, Ben has gone radio silent, something isn't right, and so they call in the normal backup of Gwen and Kevin, fill them in on the situation, including who Ben was going after

Gwen wants to go look for him

Kevin loses his fucking shit

He has met Ari, he knows what she is capable of, Gwen is not going anywhere near her, all of the others are staying exactly where they are, he's calling Argit

Cut back to Ben, who has had all the valuable information he possesses ordered out of him like a series of appetizers, and whose stomach drops out of him when ordered to do whatever Vilgax requests of him so long as it doesn't impede Ari in any way

Because she's been around a while, and now that she has this info, Ben and the trouble the Omnitrix attracts, the risk of Vilgax slipping out from under her thumb if they come into conflict, simply aren't worth the hassle in comparison to how much more firm her grip on the bastard will be when she gifts Ben to him, with just a little tiny request

Congratulations, Ben, we apologize for the trauma of not only everything before this, but also being gifted to your mortal enemy so long as he promises to use you to set a trap for your cousin, who would be more valuable to Ari than you ever could

Cut back to Earth, where Argit has arrived at the base and is also losing his fucking shit, because who sends someone who hasn't been warded after a damn necromancer, who considers letting another unwarded person go after them, why would you even think about bothering his ma, don't you know there's a reason he and Kevin avoid that chunk of space

In the midst of he and Kevin chewing people new ones and freaking out, news comes in- Ben is running around a planet causing absolute fucking horror chaos

Cue various forms of 'fuck' and Kevin and Argit demanding Gwen be moved somewhere safely random while they go handle shit because Argit knows how his ma thinks

And so we eventually end up with a big fight between a Ben who isn't in real control of himself and a Kevin who is trying to keep him from doing any more damage and back up Argit at the same time, while Argit tries to overpower the magic his ma used on Ben despite being very unpracticed due to having too much trauma around this shit to do more with it than he absolutely has to

Cut to Ari, watching this go down with Vilgax and, upon realizing that the trap didn't work and Gwen isn't there to succumb to her powers, just fucking cuts her losses and leaves as easily as if this was a sports event she wasn't particularly interested in, with nothing but a nuzzle and a 'you tried, keep the hero, good luck' to Vilgax

Kevin and Argit manage to win, because of course they do, technically only freeing Ben from Ari's control by putting him under Argit's control, but Argit's control consists of 'whatever she told you, don't' it's a better deal, and so the three of them turn around and kick Vilgax's ass, the day is saved, yay

Everyone returns home, Gwen is collected, and Argit wards she and Ben whether they like it or not (Ben is all for it, Gwen is more wary but isn't getting a choice anymore), freeing Ben from his control and ensuring neither of them is at risk of getting controlled by a necromancer again

There's some clues that Ari sent somebody to find and capture Gwen while her back-up was distracted, but between her being hidden and Argit warding her ass as soon as he could, they have to leave unsuccessful

Think this is the sort've thing that would serve as a good proper introduction to Ari. Showcase how dangerous she is, how much none of fuckers around her matter to her (how she plays Vilgax, complete lack of acknowledge of Argit), how quickly she changes plans, lets others do her dirty work. Plus, making sure that out of the heroes only Ben gets to see or interact with her within the story? Not only isolates him, adding to the tension and drama, but also ensures that his friends, even he, never gets any sort of closure so far as her actions.

On top of that, it's not exactly common that a villain in Ben 10 ends their story scot-free, nonetheless coming out of the whole mess ahead of where they started. Normally even if they win a few times by the end of things they lose, but here? Ari doesn't get Gwen like she wanted, but she gets information that she can use later, she strengthens her ties to Vilgax, and she learns how firm in getting rid of her the new Magister in the area is. And not a punishment, narrative or otherwise, in sight. Without question, even if she doesn't get everything she wants, Ari wins here.

And by having her win, we also retroactively make Argit more impressive, because we already know that he managed to sell her once in the past and after seeing what she's capable of the audience gets a read of just what sort of accomplishment that is.

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aspen-the-novelist · 29 days ago

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a world so vicious, so cruel | aspen blackwood

chapter 1 | for reasons wretched and divine

You waiting for devotion,

I need that shit too

──────.·:·.☽✧ ☆ﾟ ✦ ☆ﾟ ✧☾.·:·. ──────

They won the war.

They brought everyone back… almost. The cavern in Steve’s chest seemed as if it would never completely heal, even as one year became two since the universe poked holes in his pack, his family. Natasha was gone, Clint and Laura were down a member of their triad. Her bite adorning their wrists faded into their skin to never again pulse with life whenever Nat was near. They lived with scars on their hearts just as much as Steve did, even if their bond was different. Natasha grew to be an even closer friend during the blip than she already had been. He might have even considered her a sister, not that he would have ever told her. Maybe he should have, maybe he should have told her just how much she meant to him. Then perhaps the soreness radiating from between his ribs wouldn’t take up so much space in his thoughts.

Tony, the cocky bastard, Steve thought fondly, had been in a coma for two seasons during the initial year after Steve returned the stones to their proper place, their proper time. Strange was beside himself with worry. Steve always stayed clear of the other alpha when his scent flared at Steve’s presence during visits to the medical ward at the Avengers compound. The magician had no reason to respond in such a manner, he and Tony’s relationship was work-related at the very least, almost friendly at the most. Their pack bond never completely healed from the chaos that was a direct result of the Sokovia Accords. Still, he did try his best to be present as a gesture of his willingness to become friends again. Honestly, Steve never quite understood how Tony and Strange grew to love one another so quickly when it took the two of them ridiculously long to become friends. He didn’t know what happened between them while they were all in space. What he did know was how painfully alone he felt as he looked around to find his broken pack paired off in some way. Everyone had someone to call their own, to help them cope with the devastation left in Thanos’ wake.

Have you ever been to New Orleans? He remembered the concerned glimmer in Sam’s gaze as he packed up a simple go bag and loaded it onto the back of a new motorcycle. You know you’re welcome to stay with us, Joaquín wouldn’t mind at all. My nephews could always use another uncle around too.

A wry glint had peaked through the thousand yard stare that marred Steve’s features that day. He didn’t want to impose then but maybe he should have taken Sam up on his offer. He would be down there shootin’ the shit right now, surrounded by the happy and pleasant scents of those he knew considered him more family than friend instead of aimlessly steering his Harley down the Eastern Seaboard. He knew Sam wouldn’t approve of him roadtripping to avoid his problems, it was a giant coping mechanism that barely worked but he had already passed through Philly, D.C., and Norfolk. There was no turning back now. Cutting through the backroads settled something primal in him that needed to be amongst the wilds of nature for a time, the scenic views soothing the need to smell the grass, see the ocean off in the distance.

That distance grew smaller and smaller the closer he got toward the Carolinas. He kept driving without a true destination in mind until it became clear that there was something pulling him forward. Something luring him closer to the coast as he crossed bridge after bridge. Soon he was surrounded on both sides by the crystal blue of the Atlantic in the heart of the Outer Banks. He breathed in the sea salt that seemed to be infused into the air as he drove through the unfamiliar area. Quaint boutiques lined the streets on both sides with quite a few Mom and Pop shops in between. It wasn’t until he stopped at a red light that he realized he was unconsciously rubbing his chest, just over his heart.

As if the wind grew limbs, the cool air gently caressed his cheek and pulled it toward the left. There, at the very corner of the street, stood a sleek structure nestled in between a bank and a restaurant. It looked like a studio with its large, glass, windows covered in a dark grey tint. If not for the name painted in elegant, ice blue, script, he would have thought it to be an office space. The words Winter Tattoo Studio seemed to knock something loose from his subconscious, a wisp of a memory really. A single image that had been ingrained in him since he was a young adult clinging to the last tethers of his mother who had passed decades ago. As an artist himself, tattooing wasn’t the mode of expression that necessarily appealed to him. Especially after everything, the serum mainly. Marks never had any staying power in regards to his own flesh, but as the years since the ice passed him by, as trends came and went, he found that his artistic eye had become drawn to body art. Once his interest was sufficiently piqued, he knew it would only be a matter of time before he ended up trying a tattoo for himself.

It could be said that fate was pulling him toward that tattoo shop on the corner as the light shifted from red to green. The gentle tug on his heart guided him into a parking spot in front of the building. Almost as if he was in a daze, Steve disembarked from the motorcycle and headed toward the entrance.

The interior of the studio didn’t seem to resonate with the name on the front at all. He expected varying shades of blue and decor to match the winter theme but instead the establishment was dripping in greys and silvers with black trim and hints of deep, blood red. Definitely an intriguing color scheme but Steve still found beauty in the uniqueness of it. Walking up to the unmanned front desk, he took the time to peruse through the portfolios laying on the tabletop. The artwork was exquisite. The style was bold in the simplicity of the line-work and the strokes were very fine. He almost couldn’t believe the artist was able to achieve such highly detailed images with that method but the evidence was there laying before him on the page.

“May I help you?”

The softly spoken words seeped into his ears, they made Steve shoot up straight. Natasha would be berating him if she could see him now. Your lack of spatial awareness is appalling, Rogers. You call yourself a super soldier? He bit his lip to keep from answering back, she wouldn’t be able to hear his reply anyway.

When Steve finally got his wits about him, he glanced across the front desk. He was taken aback. The man before him had a piercing gaze, one that mirrored the ocean at his back. The longer he looked, the more he could tell that those eyes held more than just the color of the seas, there were smatterings of grey there too. Steve just knew that if the sun were to hit just right, he would be able to see even more than that. His nape length dark, brown, hair seemed to sway in the air conditioning that blew lightly around the front room. It was lush and all Steve wanted to do was run his hands through it. He just knew it would be softer than the voice that captured his attention in the first place. Then there was his nose. Steve had no idea how a nose could be cute but it was true. He found that he was at war with himself. He couldn’t just reach over and bite the man on his very cute nose. No, he would have to work his way up to that. He didn’t dare look any lower. If he was about to lose it over the guy’s nose, there was no telling how he would react if he stared any longer and got wind of what had to be a soft pair of lips. He hadn’t even greeted the guy yet.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, sorry, um hi!” He stuck his hand out wildly, almost knocking the portfolio he was looking through to the ground as he did the unthinkable. He looked directly at that mouth. What a pretty mouth it was. Hell, it was all around a pretty face. Clean shaven, sharp jaw that could cut even his durable skin, a full bottom lip that pursed slightly into a delicious pout. Don’t even get him started on the dimple that sat prettily in the center of the man’s chin. Steve was a fool. How was he supposed to function now? How was he supposed to tell the pretty man that he wanted a tattoo? His body had now clenched up tightly and the only thing he could do was gesture his hand wildly like an idiot.

“Hi…”

That voice was going to be the death of him. So soft, but that baritone timbre had an intensity that Steve knew could convince him to do anything. Think, Steve, think! Say something other than hi!

“I want a tattoo!”

“I gathered that.” A slow smile pulled at the pretty man’s lips. Steve locked his knees so that he wouldn’t swoon like a maiden right then and there. “Did you find something you like?”

Steve followed his line of sight back to the portfolio in between them. “Actually, I have something in mind already.” He pulled out a worn piece of paper that he had been carrying for awhile now. Unfolding it, he handed it over to Mr. Pretty. He should really figure out what to call him in his head instead of that. Oh here’s an idea, ask him his name!

“A Celtic Knot.” Mr. Pretty hummed. “This is really detailed, where did you find this picture?”

“I drew it actually.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, he felt the heat rise on his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “It helps me remember my ma.”

Mr. Pretty whistled in approval. “This is amazing, you sure you don’t want to tattoo this yourself?”

“I wouldn’t even have a clue as to where I would start to do that.” Steve scoffed. “‘Sides, I can’t put this on my own chest can I?”

“Oh you’d be surprised what people can accomplish when they put their mind to it.”

Steve looked up and just caught a hint of a smirk pulling at one corner of Mr. Pretty’s lips before it vanished like it was never there. The mischievous glint in the man’s eyes however, stayed. Steve looked, really looked. It was then that he realized he was scenting pretty obnoxiously and tried to rein it in. The blockers he had on weren’t doing shit. It was then that he also realized, his was the only scent he was smelling. It left him wondering even more about the man before him. Was he an alpha too? Did he have on blockers? Was Steve just too blinded by rose tinted lenses to pay much attention to anything beyond a pretty face? Probably. That pretty face began to take on a rose hue of its own. Mr. Pretty was blushing. It was almost as if the guy could hear Steve’s thoughts, but he knew everything was written plainly on his face. He was acting so obviously smitten, anybody could walk in and whack him on the head. He probably wouldn’t even realize it. He would probably take the hit graciously. Nat would absolutely be having a field day. He really needed to get a grip on himself but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t recall someone ever having such a strong effect on him like this before.

“Why don’t you follow me and we can talk more about the design you’re wanting,” Mr. Pretty said as Steve watched him turn and start to walk away. “I have full confidence I can recreate the knot as is but I do have a few ideas that might pique your interest.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. He was so stuck on Mr. Pretty’s face that he did not take into account what the guy was wearing. The tightest black tee shirt known to man seemed to be painted onto his torso. The fabric was clearly blessed by the old gods because even as it strained to keep Mr. Pretty’s muscles under wraps, it did its job, which was to give Steve heart palpitations. He thought he was over those but clearly not. The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back was seeing that robust figure thicken before Steve’s eyes as his gaze traveled from that shirt to see Mr. Pretty was wearing a black mini skirt with a matching pair of heavy boots. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“You coming?”

“Uh— uh yeah!” Steve almost tripped over his feet in his haste to follow Mr. Pretty toward the back of the studio.

The swish of that skirt, the sway of those hips, the thickness of those creamy thighs, seemed to take hold of Steve and place him squarely in the realm of uselessness. As he followed behind Mr. Pretty in what could only be likened to a teenager’s hormonally induced trance, he missed the hissing sound that arose from directly in front of him. He missed the shift in the atmosphere. What he did notice was that the walls leading toward the back rooms were lined with artwork. High quality paintings that took him by surprise. How did someone in such a small town even own such visually pleasing aesthetics. He kept walking only to be surprised once again. Startlingly life-like sculptures lined the corridor as Steve followed the pretty brunet. He could see the bumps peppering the stone skin of one figure as if the cool air permeating the hall had the capability of making even the inanimate appear to exude life.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

Steve came to an abrupt stop. He came chest to chest with the brunet and just barely stopped himself from grabbing at the man.

“It’s, uh— Steven. Well, Steve.”

“Okay Steven, well Steve. I’m James,” Mr. Pretty— James said. “But I usually go by Bucky.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, it’s a long winded story but I won’t bother you with the details.” The giggle he let out struck Steve in the chest. Christ, how could a laugh make him want to do very bad things to a pretty stranger. “Here we are, though. Make yourself comfortable on the chair. I’ll be back with a few more supplies.”

Steve glanced toward the room Bucky was directing him to. The tattoo area wasn’t overly large but it and the room matched well with the rest of the studio. Grey walls, black chair and equipment, blood red and silver accents, once again he was entranced with how everything just worked for him. He didn’t know what it was that was making him feel this way. He made his way over to the chair and plops down into it. It hissed slightly at his weight but once he got settled in, the sound stopped. The overhead lighting was dim in a way that highlighted the shadows in the room. There were a couple of filing cabinets lurking in the dark corners, a small storage unit, and a glass case stood right next to them as well.

“You know you’ve got to take your shirt off right, big guy?” He looked up at the voice to see Bucky was back, having seemingly popped back into existence. A helpless smile graced his own features as he pulled the shirt over his head. “I took the liberty of sketching your design out onto some trace paper but…”

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“Well, I drew out a secondary sketch too.” Bucky placed both in Steve’s hands. “I added a few lines to the outside of the knot that I think you will really like. Of course, there’s no pressure, I just thought I’d show you.”

The hopeful look in Bucky’s eyes was what did him in. How could he not take the additions into consideration. He was no slouch in the art department himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t admire the work of others and use the inspiration received to inform, to evolve his own. He glanced down at the page. The Celtic Knot that Bucky had sketched was leagues better than his own. It made his look like a rudimentary doodle. He was in awe. The line-work reminded him of the portfolio he was looking at earlier. The fineness of the strokes made the knot appear as if it was coming alive right there on the page.

“This is amazing, Bucky. You took my design and did it more than justice, truly.” Steve was just brimming with excitement. He couldn’t help but clap Bucky on his shoulder. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“I’m glad,” Bucky said. His winsome smile was contagious and Steve found himself beaming in return.

“Is there a side you’d like to go with? I’ll have to start with a shave to get the best application…” Bucky trailed off.

Steve let out a choked noise from the back of his throat. “Oh, I totally forgot about that part. I would have waxed but this was kind of a spur of the moment decision when I saw your studio. I mean, I’ve wanted to get one for a while but the time never just seemed to be right for it.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I usually shave clients myself depending on the location of the tattoo anyway,” Bucky explained. Steve watched as he gathered a small toiletries bin with disinfectant soap, a spray bottle full of water, and a razor. “Waxing can cause irritation and ingrown hairs if the skin isn’t properly taken care of before getting a tattoo. It’s better if I do it this way so I can get a close shave to ensure the area is prepped well.”

“Sounds good to me,” Steve said. “I think I want to do the left side, over my heart.”

“Let’s get started then.” Bucky said with a smile. “I’m going to lean your chair back a bit so it’s easier for me to work.”

Steve settled into the seat while Bucky worked. His hearing was so sharp because of the serum, the sound of Bucky carefully removing the hair from the left side of his chest was what he focused on most. It was slight, as if someone was rubbing paper together. The strange hissing from earlier intermingled with it as well. Looking up at Bucky through his lashes, it was not subtle at all, he watched him work. It was then that he also finally caught sight of Bucky’s own tattoo. The finely lined strokes reminded him of the portfolio he was perusing through earlier. The style was so similar, he took it to mean that Bucky designed the art that covered his entire left arm himself. He could see the ink as it climbed up beneath Bucky’s short sleeve. The image that caught his eye the most was the extremely detailed portrayal of Medusa. The outline of the snakes for hair, the shading around the edges of the gorgon’s skin, he wondered just who the hell managed to do that tattoo for him. Bucky couldn’t have done it himself, could he?

“You a fan of mythology, huh?” He asked, gesturing to Bucky’s arm.

“Yeah.” Steve swallowed the drool that threatened to spill from his lips at the sound of Bucky’s voice. It was thicker for some reason, he didn’t know why he reacted so strongly to it. “Somethin’ like that.”

The scent of peaches simmering over a roaring fire seeped into his nose then, making them flare. The aroma had such a strong effect on him, his own scent pushed its way through the glands on his wrist and behind his ears. He pants started to tighten. He tried to think of something egregious and disgusting to rein his own responses in. It was like he was back to being an unruly teenager. The sight of Bucky rubbing his own legs together made his dick jump. Bucky must have noticed too because he jolted just a tiny bit, the action causing him to nick Steve right over where the apex of his heart sat beneath his skin. A hiss at the sensation slipped past Steve’s lips and one answered him back, startling him. He wondered just what the fuck that was about.

The wound on his chest was surprisingly deep. He watched as his own blood had begun to pebble before it seeped from the cut.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry Steve.”

“Nah, it’s alright Buck—

When he looked back up, he noticed that Bucky was staring at his chest. He cocked his head then. He could swear that some saliva was pooling at the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Bucky?”

He gasped, stunned at the abrupt way Bucky had darted forward. He groaned when he felt Bucky licking the blood off of his chest. That warm tongue lapping at his skin had his dick pulsing in his pants, his knot reacted the same. His heartbeat was rapidly rising with the hormones flooding his system now.

Fuck, not now! The sentiment rang about in his head, as if there were a million little Steves in his brain running around yelling the same thing. He grabbed onto the back of Bucky’s neck then. His eyes rolled into the back of his head at the sound of the man keening against his chest. The hormones still pouring into his blood, made it heat to hotter than normal. It told him what he already knew. He was going into rut. The peaches and that fire seemed to answer the call as they too rose into the air, penetrating his nose again. The last thing that he heard before his vision faded was Bucky’s whimper as he pressed his fingers into the scent glands on that sweet boy’s neck.

chapter 2 | coming soon

also available on ao3 | sqwa

#a world so vicious so cruel #for reasons wretched and divine

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